February 12, 2001
In 2001, Hogwarts was shrouded in fear.
For the first time, the Dark Lord stepped into the Hogwarts barrier openly and calmly. The one who cleaved an opening in the protective barrier was the current Headmaster, Severus Snape.
"Traitor! Murderer!" The Gryffindors were angry, but didn't dare release their roars, didn't dare vent their anger with courage; they could only lower their voices, afraid of letting the man in black hear. The Gryffindors, filled with righteous indignation, cursed mercilessly as if cursing like this could benefit them. "Evil Death Eater!"
The Dark Lord could naturally hear it.
He listened to the weak, mindless, fragile cubs yelping resentfully, and almost happily laughed out loud.
In the face of absolute power, justice and evil would prove to be unimportant, and the line between the two would gradually blur.
Just watch.
"And where is your Saviour?" A Slytherin beside them stalked over and smiled maliciously. They were like warlocks from fairy tales, who could destroy people's dreams with spells, and tear their hope with words. "Where is your righteous, meddling Saviour?"
The Slytherins seemed to be amused by the joke and a bout of nervous giggles swept the crowd in fitful waves, the malice and nerves on their faces apparent.
"Three years have passed and the Saviour hasn't saved anyone," the Slytherins sneered loudly, looking happily and twistedly at the almost-pale faces of their classmates.
A Hufflepuff, who had been silently standing on the other side, suddenly stuck out his head, hesitating, "Actually… The Dark Lord never hurt us. As long as we don't support the Saviour, he won't hurt us…"
Oh, what a naive little badger.
Voldemort smiled and sat on the Headmaster's seat, twirling the wine in his glass that possessed a blood-like viscosity. His eyes seemed to hold the same shade as the wine in the glass; terrifying and appalling.
Even the entire Wizarding Community was just as naive, thinking that as long as they surrendered and changed camps there wouldn't be any casualties. This led to half of the Wizarding Community doing exactly that.
Public opinion on the 'Saviour fleeing' had intensified; the cynics who surrendered, the vacillating doubters, and those who were unwilling to give in were regarded as traitors.
Under absolute power, the line between good and evil had long been blurred, had it not?
Human nature was like this - both kind and cruel. As long as evil showed even the slightest inclination to change or regret, people would give way, showing their generous tolerance and submissive acceptance; regardless of whether he was keeping appearances with a pretence or not. He'd be titled with the position of 'rehabilitator'. It was kind and stupid even. But once justice is revealed to be insufficient, people would gather and attack; they'd forget all that he dedicated and raise their fists in indignation to protest, proudly and arrogantly, as if they're punishing some heinous prisoner. It was extremely cruel and ugly.
The Saviour's wound had been torn open, and the crowds were gnawing at it like ants.
The Dark Lord smiled cruelly, optimistic about his success.
"Lord." Snape sat on the Devil's left, his eyes hollow and his head bowed down slightly, waiting for the young man's instructions.
Voldemort glanced at the Potions Master indifferently.
No one could surpass the Dark Lord in the field of Dark magic, not even that German fellow. Being good at Dark magic, he was naturally competent in Defence Against the Dark Arts, although he had always disdained to use it.
Hollow eyes, a dull look, and expressionless facial features.
It's obviously Occlumency.
It was evident that the Potions Master he valued was hiding something.
The handsome Devil grinned, revealing the sharp teeth under his lips, and looked away.
Ah, isn't that what he did with Dumbledore?
The Devil took a sip of wine, the liquid rolling across his tongue; the stimulation of alcohol activated his brain just right, clearing it.
With the fusion of Horcruxes, his soul was slowly becoming whole - his thinking also gradually returned to its original meticulousness and calmness.
How could the Slytherin, with his excellent insight, ignore the anomalies and potential threats around him?
But he didn't care.
He was just a Potions Master.
There was no denying that Severus was very talented with potions, and also excellent at combat, but… In vast Britain, how could he possibly not find a wizard comparable to Snape?
He did need Snape, but Snape wasn't necessary. If unnecessary, then just kill him.
Thinking to this point, the beautiful Devil wearing the skin of his youth turned his head and squinted his eyes, asking, "Severus, what do you teach?"
"Defence Against the Dark Arts, Lord," Snape replied respectfully. "The previous Defence Against the Dark Arts professor died of illness."
The Dark Lord chuckled lightly, his tone relaxed as if he was making a joke. "Do you know why he died? Because this position was cursed by me."
"Severus." Voldemort narrowed his eyes, rubbing his finger on his ring and feeling the power contained within the gem, looking indifferent. "Maybe… Next time, you'll no longer be the Defence Against the Dark Arts professor."
Severus' hands hidden under his robe trembled.
He naturally understood the Dark Lord's meaning behind his words - it was a warning.
Snape always knew the Dark Lord didn't trust him. If he hadn't personally killed Dumbledore, he'd probably already be a corpse by now.
And now, for the Dark Lord to speak like this…
The Potions Master laughed from the bottom of his heart. Albus, your plan… Is about to fail; even your death couldn't win his trust in me.
Snape ate expressionlessly, just like a machine.
"Lord, why did you curse it?" Pansy, who was sitting at the end of the table, asked curiously. The ambitious fledgling girl was spoilt by her parents and boyfriend, and the Dark Lord she followed also appreciated her; she began to relax before this person, whose name she couldn't speak and chattered curiously like a little girl.
Before Young Malfoy could scold her, the Dark Lord replied, as if he was in a good mood. "Wasn't there a legend at Hogwarts a few years ago?"
Snape was taken aback. The Dark Lord could actually understand a legend from previous years?
Voldemort quietly removed his gaze from his subordinates and sneered. "Legend has it that Dumbledore rejected my application to teach at Hogwarts, so I put a curse on it."
"Is the legend true?" Little girls who are new to the world would always have such innocent and perfect skin.
The handsome Devil smiled. "Who knows?"
Tom Riddle hated dreaming; Lord Voldemort hated it even more.
Whether it was before or after becoming the Devil, his predatory and overbearing nature made him especially disgusted by dreams that were beyond his control.
And now, he felt a hateful pain towards dreams.
Since his soul gradually became whole, all his sealed emotions returned and memories stored in his brain began to roll, repeatedly exposing the blanks and omissions of his memory, and repeatedly reminding him of his hazy, fatal weakness.
For example, now.
The bizarre image looked like it was from a spider's perspective, distributed in an arc-like network; just by looking at it could make one dizzy.
"...I was wrong, don't go."
A voice spoke. Anger, trepidation and despair… All these emotions suddenly surged up, dizzying the Devil who hasn't felt negative emotions in such a long time.
Stay, stay!
His mind was filled with this word; spinning, clamouring, the excess emotions capable of breaking through his eyes at this point.
"Isn't it good to stay? Don't you like teaching Defence Against the Dark Arts?"
He asked in his dream. His tyrannical mood swings made his voice tremble, already on the verge of an outbreak, yet he still resisted and tried to put on a disguise that could no longer be concealed.
Someone was meant to answer, but there was none. Like a character that had been abruptly erased from a story, he was playing a one-man show alone; terrifyingly abrupt.
"Stay…" He said hoarsely, the sound of his breathing as eerie as Parseltongue. "You must always, always sit in that position."
At last, he couldn't help but suddenly raise his head, his pair of eyes red to the point of black; like blood flowing before gradually solidifying to black.
The seventeen or eighteen-year-old Tom Riddle stared fiercely at the emptiness before him, and delivered the most ghastly curse:
"Otherwise… Aside from you, anyone who occupies that position… Will meet their end!"
The Devil suddenly opened his eyes and returned to the reality of his rule within darkness.
His brain was still buzzing.
The emotions that had been isolated, suppressed, and closed off for more than a decade suddenly assaulted him; even someone as powerful as he was unable to adapt.
Bursts of dark spots appeared before him, the nerves connected to his temples faintly cramping.
The Devil squinted, suppressing his muddled state after two or three seconds; the chaotic language in his dream began to automatically sort and combine, the shocking commands and curses arranging themselves.
Stay. Otherwise, everyone else will not end well!
March 1945 - Auror's Office
"Captain, it still hasn't stopped over in Germany." Alphonse frowned, looking through the folder that had just been delivered, as he walked into Joan's office. "D7234, the black-robed organisation; there's news that they've almost annexed the old Ministry of the German Dark Lord."
"How is that possible?" Joan didn't even raise her eyebrows, her head buried on her workbench and her neat, short hair making her seem extra capable.
"The German Dark Lord isn't incapable to the point where his subordinates are going to turn their backs on him. They're just some minions, don't worry too much about it."
Alphonse froze before laughing optimistically. "Yeah; either way, they're in Germany, across the Strait from us."
"Right," Joan stopped Alphonse who was about to turn around and leave, "Have you found out who's behind D7234?"
Alphonse shrugged. "We haven't found any specifics, only irrelevant information."
"Wait, let me check." Alphonse rustled through the documents in his hands. "Oh, they're called… Voldemort. I've heard that's not their real name."
Even someone as wise as Joan had no way of predicting how much devastation that name would bring to the British Wizarding Community.
She just thought about it, then stretched her eyebrows. "It's just a codename."
Had Harry been there, maybe he'd have put the blockade of that group on the agenda, and extended the time for that child to mature.
Unfortunately, he wasn't there.
Was this a coincidence; an accident? Or was this secretly operated by something?
In 'Pale Fire', Nabokov wrote, 'Time is a spherical prison'; all beings are prisoners trapped in a prison, for nobody can escape the shadow of Fate.
Nobody, no matter if they're from the future, past or present; without exceptions.
At this time, there was only 21 months and 4.2 days before Tom's 20th birthday on December 31, 1946.
So, like, I'm in a bit of a predicament-
When I first began translating where the previous Snow Owl left off, I got a PM on asking whether I wrote fanfics. When I read it, I was like 'hm, well, I've got nothing to do nowadays, so why not?' and in the end, I agreed to write a fanfic for them. And then I became busy, aND iT's bEEN tWO mONtHS, aND dURiNG tHeSe tWO mONtHS tHEY'VE bEEN wAiTiNG fOR mE, bUT i cAN'T-
Would anyone like to help out your favourite HP fanfic translator and take over writing this fanfic? I've only written, like, a chapter and a half sO iT'LL bE eAsY tO iNPuT yOUr oWN iDEaS! If anyone's interested, send me a PM and I'll tell you some more details :,))
Thank you!
