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Chapter 351: A Composed Voldemort
🕑 Added 2025-04-29 16:36:06 +0000 UTCHogsmeade, wrapped in a faint chill, was gently blanketed by the snowflakes that had suddenly begun to fall.
High above, the drifting snow drew Mad-Eye Moody's gaze to the sky.
"You two, head back on your own. I'll pretend I didn't see anything."
Moody's gruff voice cut through the cold air as he addressed two clearly underage students, no older than third-years.
The two young wizards flinched under the wild spinning of Moody's magical eye. They exchanged a look, nervous but compliant.
"Yes, sir! We're going right now."
Though confusion lingered between them, they didn't pause to ask questions. They turned and quickly dashed off in the opposite direction.
At the same time.
Hermione, having just descended a rope ladder, slipped away from the edge of the residential area and made her way toward the old Bans' Alchemy Shop.
The streets had changed from being deserted moments ago to faintly crowded, bringing some ease to her tense expression.
She spotted Moody from a distance, but after a brief hesitation, she reached into her inner coat pocket and pulled out a bright orange feather.
With a soft chirp, a phoenix—Brighid—materialized on her shoulder.
"Take me back to the castle," she whispered.
With a flare of orange light, the girl and the phoenix vanished into the air.
Moody, still standing where he had been, watched the entire exchange. Once the light faded and Hermione was gone, his magical eye finally stopped its wild rotation. He turned back to the sky, watching the snowfall with a thoughtful expression.
Perhaps he was musing on the lengths young people went to these days.
Back in the small cottage.
A peculiar peace had settled over the first floor—a surprising change from earlier. The atmosphere, at least on the surface, had grown oddly pleasant.
"To what do I owe this visit?"
Voldemort offered a faint smile. Though the expression twisted his already unsettling features into something even more unnerving, there was no denying the elegance behind it.
"Ino, may I call you that? I assume over the summer you had the pleasure of meeting the legendary Nicolas Flamel… thanks to a certain biased professor's arrangement."
He reached into his pocket and drew out a small, three-inch movie mirror. His pale fingers gently traced the delicate carvings along its rim.
"Remarkable invention, truly. If I were your professor, I'd have made the same introduction—one genius alchemist to another."
Ino reclined slightly on the sofa, replying calmly, "Of course, you can call me Ino. But the movie mirror isn't my original work. I merely restored it from history."
There was no arrogance in his tone. Ino knew that everything about the mirror stemmed from earlier artifacts—the two-way mirror, the Mirror of Erised. Even the alchemical inscriptions were repurposed from the spiral-array formulas embedded in the former.
Voldemort responded with a noncommittal smile, choosing not to press further. Instead, he shifted the conversation.
"Since you've met Flamel, I'm sure he told you—most legendary alchemical items are incomplete. Imperfect."
Ino listened quietly. He was beginning to form a clearer picture.
Voldemort hadn't let go of his obsession with immortality. Or more precisely—he'd found new hope.
That could explain the transformation in his demeanor. No longer mad or desperate, he now appeared calm and calculating.
In retrospect, it made sense. Anyone who spent years pursuing the impossible only to find it again—anyone in that position might return from the edge. Even a man as volatile as Voldemort.
Back on the ground floor, Voldemort continued, his tone relaxed and full of contemplation:
"It's not just powerful artifacts that are broken. Even the simplest magical tools—joke trinkets, children's toys—are shadows of what they could be. No one looks deeper, because no one cares to."
"Egyptian pyramids. Pharaohs' tombs. Mesopotamia, the twin rivers. Ancient giants in Albania. The centaurs, the merpeople... Every remnant of history tells the same tale."
He sounded calm, but his words were filled with quiet longing—and a touch of sorrow.
Ino, on the other hand, had fallen into thought.
He didn't doubt the truth of what Voldemort said. Lies were pointless. Any decent Seer's mirror could verify the claims. Even the Philosopher's Stone and Time-Turners—neither were truly complete.
The room fell silent as both wizards pondered their thoughts.
Only the fireplace remained active, crackling with life. The flames danced between the logs, casting shadows that flickered across the walls in warm shades of amber.
For a long moment, the fire became the sole heartbeat of the space.
Then—
"So," Ino said quietly, "did you really come all this way just to tell me this?"
He didn't wait for a reply, continuing with a soft sigh, "To be honest, I don't have much interest in joining any cause. And considering your current... condition, many of your past plans are likely obsolete."
It sounded like a polite refusal. And it was. Ino had spent time thinking carefully.
This version of Voldemort—calm, rational—wasn't someone he wanted to antagonize. Not out of fear, but because it wasn't worth the trouble.
A strange bitterness welled up inside him.
It felt like Dumbledore might genuinely be outmatched this time.
It was like a game of Wizard's Chess. One player—Dumbledore—was moving piece by piece, obeying every rule. The other—Voldemort—occasionally moved twice, sometimes three times in a row, breaking the rules with subtle precision.
And if both players were at the same high level, those extra steps could tip the balance.
Voldemort might be slightly weaker, yes. But not helpless. Not in the least. His appearance in Hogsmeade alone was proof.
It wasn't a stealth operation. He'd let himself be seen. Bought sweets from Honeydukes. Left clues about his revival, all clearly intentional.
"There's a desert saying," Ino thought, "A snake may slither gently, but its fangs hold poison and death."
Though his thoughts raced, only a few seconds passed in the real world.
And then Voldemort laughed.
A strange sight, seeing laughter form on such a terrible face. But somehow, it didn't feel out of place.
"We are true Slytherins. This… is good," he said softly. "Even if you killed the Serpent King—it was just a pet of the House of Slytherin."
Ino didn't flinch at the sudden mention of the Basilisk.
He had stopped being surprised ever since Voldemort pulled out a bag of treacle toffee earlier.
It had been barely five months since summer, yet Voldemort seemed to have uncovered nearly everything—Ino's background, preferences, history. If he mentioned the Basilisk, the cursed notebook wasn't far behind.
But one thing still puzzled Ino.
What exactly was it about him that drew Voldemort's attention?
Why go through all this trouble?
Why not focus on Harry?
Why investigate his past?
Why go so far as to orchestrate Dumbledore's temporary removal—just to speak to him?
