Malfoy Manor stood in an eerie silence, its once-imposing aura now marred by fear and uncertainty. Lucius Malfoy, head bowed low, led the way through his own home like a servant, his every step measured and trembling.
Behind him followed Voldemort, his black robes flowing with an air of menace. His pale, snake-like face was set in cold indifference, though flashes of murderous intent flickered in his crimson eyes as he observed Lucius's every move.
Lucius had dared to betray him once. Though now back in service, a betrayal was a betrayal, and Voldemort's rage simmered beneath the surface.
Still, his current thoughts were occupied by something far more troubling—his other self.
The young, calm, and calculating Tom Riddle was, in many ways, an embodiment of Voldemort's ideals before his descent into madness. Elegant, ambitious, and controlled, this version of him seemed almost a perfected resurrection.
But Voldemort knew better. His own rebirth had left him deeply affected by the effects of dark magic, prone to bouts of mania and anger. Despite the powerful resurrection rituals he had employed, he remained fractured.
His mind swirled with questions, chief among them: Who is the real Dark Lord?
The answer could only come through bloodshed. To resolve the paradox of their existence, one would have to kill, devour, and absorb the other.
But this was no time for impulsive action. Tom Riddle's strength was equal to his own, and Voldemort wasn't arrogant enough to attack him in his domain without preparation.
Lucius, however, wasn't privy to these musings. His heart pounded as he led Voldemort to the study, each step heavy with dread.
Two masters? he thought with despair. One is already a nightmare. Two... it's unbearable.
He dared not look back. He could feel the malice emanating from Voldemort, a palpable threat hanging over him like a blade.
Opening the study door with trembling hands, Lucius stepped aside, allowing Voldemort to enter.
Tom Riddle stood by the window, his silhouette framed by the pale moonlight. He turned slowly, a calm, almost welcoming expression on his face.
"You're here," Tom said, his voice smooth and measured. "Come in, please. I've been waiting for you." He gestured toward a chair, inviting Voldemort to sit.
Voldemort stepped inside but didn't take the offered seat. His gaze remained fixed on Tom, wary and calculating.
"I don't understand you yet," Voldemort said coolly, his voice betraying none of his inner turmoil. "And I suspect you don't trust me either. Let's not pretend."
Tom's lips curved into a faint smile. "Fair enough," he replied, his tone light, almost amused. "Then let's dispense with the pleasantries. How shall we address each other? Tom? Voldemort? The Dark Lord? Or perhaps Voldemort No. 1 and No. 2?"
The faint mockery in Tom's voice made Voldemort's eyes narrow.
"Titles are irrelevant," Voldemort said curtly. "What I want to know is this—how did you come back to life?"
Tom tilted his head, as though considering the question.
"The resurrection ritual left in the Slytherin Chamber of Secrets could never have produced... this," Voldemort continued, gesturing toward Tom. "I know its workings. I designed it. Even in the best-case scenario, it could restore the body but leave the soul fractured."
Tom's smile deepened, but he didn't answer immediately. Instead, he shifted the conversation.
"What are your plans for the future?" he asked. "You know as well as I do that we're surrounded by enemies. If Dumbledore and Lockhart join forces, neither of us stands a chance."
Voldemort's expression darkened, his tone icy. "Then we join forces," he said simply.
"Do you think Dumbledore and Lockhart can ever truly be allies? Their goals are incompatible. There is no room for two dominant schools in the British wizarding world. Kamar-Taj will only rise by feeding on Hogwarts' decline. The conflict is inevitable. We can bide our time and strike when they're at their weakest."
Voldemort's eyes gleamed with ruthless determination. "That will be the moment I reclaim everything."
Tom listened, his expression calm, even contemplative.
"What if I don't want to wait?" Tom said softly.
The words hung in the air, catching Voldemort off guard.
"Wait for what?" Voldemort asked, genuinely confused. "What opportunity are you referring to? We're in the darkest moment imaginable. Dumbledore controls Hogwarts, the Ministry of Magic supports Lockhart, and Kamar-Taj grows stronger every day. This is hardly the time to act."
Tom's gaze sharpened, his voice carrying a quiet intensity. "You misunderstand. Great changes are coming, changes that will reshape the entire wizarding world. Those who prepare now will rise to power in the chaos. Those who hesitate will be left behind."
He leaned forward slightly, his tone turning conspiratorial. "Meditation is the key. The backlash of dark magic can be resolved through its principles. We need to develop meditation methods specifically for dark wizards—methods that will redefine power structures. The foundations of power are shifting, Voldemort. Bloodlines will wane, and wizards will multiply like never before. The very concept of magic is about to change."
Voldemort fell silent, his mind racing as he absorbed Tom's words.
In the Gryffindor Head of House office at Hogwarts, Minerva McGonagall sat at her desk, her brow furrowed as she read the latest issue of the Daily Prophet.
The new school year was fast approaching, bringing with it the usual bustle of returning students and new staff. Lockhart had vacated his position, and a fresh Defense Against the Dark Arts professor was set to arrive.
But these mundane concerns paled in comparison to the headline in front of her.
"The Ministry of Magic Authorizes Kamar-Taj to Enroll Muggle Students – Initial Semester Expected to Admit 1,000 Students."
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