[Marvel's Hogwarts Professor] Chapter 426 - 430

Chapter 426

Little Hangleton at Night

Long ago, Little Hangleton was a bustling gathering place for wizards, once vibrant and prosperous. The village thrived largely because of its proximity to the Gaunt family, descendants of Salazar Slytherin, one of the founders of Hogwarts.

The Gaunt family had once been affluent and influential, living in luxury and extravagance. Naturally, a wizarding community formed around their manor. But with the passage of time and a series of misfortunes, the Gaunt family fell into decline, edging toward extinction.

Now, Little Hangleton is a shadow of its former self, desolate and forgotten. Most of the houses are dilapidated, with some lacking windows and others secured by doors so shabby that even a thief might pity their condition.

The village is eerily devoid of life. Only a few elderly residents and children remain, with most young people having moved to the cities in search of work.

On this dark night, the village was shrouded in near-complete darkness, save for the occasional flicker of candlelight through a cracked window. The wind whistled through the trees, accompanied by the faint chirping of cicadas and other mysterious nocturnal sounds, heightening the atmosphere’s eerie intensity.

In the stillness of the night, a short, pudgy figure crept cautiously through the village, heading toward its outskirts. His hunched posture and the dark wooden basket clutched tightly to his chest made him appear more sinister. Inside the basket lay a grotesque, gray-skinned baby with wrinkled features and a menacing aura.

“Master, we’ve arrived at the location you described. What should I do next?” Peter Pettigrew’s voice was barely above a whisper, laced with fear and servility as he addressed the creature in the basket.

From within, the baby’s eyes flickered open, and the unnaturally chilling presence of Voldemort filled the air. Voldemort’s piercing gaze swept over the barren field before him with urgency, his small, malformed body floating slightly above the basket.

“Hsss… hsss… hsss…” The sound of Parseltongue, Voldemort’s sinister gift, hissed through the air.

The guttural, snake-like language sent shivers down Pettigrew’s spine. Already timid by nature, the dark and ominous tone made his hands tremble as he struggled to steady the basket.

In response to Voldemort’s incantations, the empty field shimmered as though it were water disturbed by ripples. Slowly, a shadowy black manor emerged, its eerie silhouette taking shape before their eyes.

“This is the Gaunt family’s ancestral home,” Voldemort said in his childlike, venomous voice before retreating into the basket. His current state was frail, and he needed to conserve energy. He knew that the very traps and curses he had left to protect the Horcruxes would now stand in his way.

“Go inside,” Voldemort commanded coldly.

With a quivering nod, Pettigrew clutched the basket and began his cautious approach.

“Take the left path. Move at half speed. Going too fast will trigger the traps,” Voldemort instructed.

“Jump over the stone steps. Do not touch them—there’s a curse.”

“Use a spell to open the door. Do not push it. Wait for the trap to disarm before proceeding.”

Pettigrew followed every command to the letter. Each step brought him closer to the manor, but the air felt heavy with unseen danger. The oppressive aura of death and decay emanated from the ancient building, unnerving him further.

Finally, after navigating the treacherous path, Pettigrew reached a room deep within the manor. On a decayed mahogany table sat a half-open treasure box, inside which gleamed a ring adorned with a dark, black stone—the ancestral ring of the Gaunt family, containing the Resurrection Stone, one of the Deathly Hallows.

As soon as Pettigrew laid eyes on the ring, he felt an overwhelming compulsion to reach for it, his gaze consumed by an almost fanatical desire.

“Idiot!” Voldemort’s enraged voice thundered, and a searing pain erupted in Pettigrew’s arm. The Dark Mark glowed green, sending waves of agonizing torment through him.

Pettigrew collapsed, writhing and screaming on the floor, his body contorting as if his very soul was being shredded.

The pain jolted him back to his senses, breaking the spell of the cursed Resurrection Stone. Voldemort ceased his punishment once Pettigrew regained control, though the man remained trembling and drenched in cold sweat.

Ignoring Pettigrew’s pitiful state, Voldemort floated toward the ring. The curse protecting the Resurrection Stone was his own creation, and he knew how to dismantle it.

Dark mist emanated from Voldemort’s frail form, shrouding the ring in a sinister aura. His hissing Parseltongue incantations filled the room, each word infused with magical power.

“Hsss… hsss… hsss…” The tone was both melodic and menacing, resonating with an ancient, forbidden energy.

The black mist surrounding the ring writhed violently, cracks and faint pops echoing as the curse began to unravel. After what seemed like an eternity, the mist dissipated, leaving the ring free of its protections.

Voldemort reached out his small, deformed hand, sliding the ring onto his finger. A shiver ran through his body as a rush of soul-nourishing energy flowed from the Resurrection Stone.

The Deathly Hallows held immense power, and the Resurrection Stone was no exception. Beyond its ability to summon the images of the dead, it possessed a unique capacity to strengthen and amplify magic tied to the soul. For Voldemort, it was a vital tool to regain his strength and fuel his dark ambitions.

Voldemort, while absorbing the Resurrection Stone’s soul-replenishing energy, seemed to recall something. He turned his cold gaze to Peter Pettigrew, who had finally managed to stand upright again.

“Go outside and wait for Barty Crouch Jr.,” Voldemort commanded, his tone sharp and icy. Without waiting for a response, he resumed channeling the Resurrection Stone’s power to restore his soul.

Peter Pettigrew, visibly trembling, nodded vigorously. “Yes, Master!” he replied, his voice shaking as he turned and cautiously exited the room.

Being in Voldemort’s presence was an overwhelming burden, akin to a rabbit standing beside an injured tiger. Even in his weakened state, the Dark Lord exuded an aura of terror that made Pettigrew’s heart race.

Outside the decrepit Gaunt manor, Peter Pettigrew breathed deeply, trying to steady himself. He glanced up at the pale moon hanging in the night sky and exhaled slowly. The tension was unbearable, but at least his recent actions had earned him some reprieve from punishment.

For a fleeting moment, he allowed himself to relax. “Sirius is out there hunting me like a mad dog,” he muttered under his breath. “At least by the Master’s side, I’m safe.”

But the momentary calm didn’t last. A nagging thought tugged at his mind. Why does it feel like I’ve forgotten something important?

Suddenly, a faint golden glow appeared in Peter’s eyes, spreading through his soul like a warm current. A golden dragon-shaped mark slowly emerged on his skin, and with it, long-hidden memories surfaced.

Fragments of suppressed thoughts surged into his mind.

“Mentor Peggy Carter. Agent training.”
“Hiding around Voldemort…”
“Leading the confrontation…”

He staggered slightly as the pieces came together.

“I remember… I remember everything,” Peter whispered, bitterness creeping into his voice.

The truth was undeniable. He hadn’t simply stumbled into Voldemort’s service out of fear and desperation. He had been captured by his true master, Gilderoy Lockhart, and subjected to professional undercover training. Lockhart, wary that Peter might succumb to Voldemort’s manipulative influence, had sealed away his memories, guiding him toward a carefully constructed plan.

Peter had executed the plan meticulously. He found Voldemort in his Horcrux state, assisted in creating the grotesque infant form, and established contact with Barty Crouch Jr. Everything had gone as Lockhart had intended—so far.

The mere thought of Barty Crouch Jr. sent a chill down Peter’s spine.

Unlike Peter, Barty’s loyalty to Voldemort was fanatical. Even after being captured and subjected to relentless torture, he refused to betray his master. The ordeal had twisted his mind and soul, rendering him a deranged yet fiercely devoted follower.

Lost in these unsettling thoughts, Peter was startled by a sudden flicker of black light on the nearby plain. Out of the darkness emerged a figure in black wizard robes—Barty Crouch Jr.

“Peter,” Barty said, his voice flat and emotionless as he approached, carrying a large package. “What’s the status?”

“Everything is proceeding as planned,” Peter replied in a hushed tone, trying to suppress his unease.

Barty nodded curtly, his blank expression giving nothing away. Without another word, he gestured for Peter to lead the way.

As they approached the manor, Barty’s demeanor began to shift. His eyes filled with fervent devotion, and a crazed smile crept across his face. The sight of this transformation sent a shiver down Peter’s spine.

If I weren’t useful, I’d be no different from the mindless puppets he creates, Peter thought grimly. For now, his value lay in being a necessary tool for Voldemort’s resurrection.

Inside the manor, Voldemort’s childlike form hovered menacingly, the Resurrection Stone glowing faintly in his hand. His crimson eyes flicked to Barty Crouch Jr., who immediately knelt and presented the package with reverence.

“Master, I’ve brought everything,” Barty declared, his voice trembling with excitement. “When shall we begin the ceremony? I will protect your resurrection with my life.”

Voldemort’s lips curled into a sinister smirk as he regarded Barty. “You’ve done well,” he said, nodding approvingly. Compared to the cowardly Pettigrew, Barty’s unwavering devotion was far more reliable.

The materials had been chosen carefully. The Gaunt family’s ancestral home was more than a sanctuary; it was a fortified haven, its many curses and traps providing ample defense. Moreover, the Resurrection Stone’s presence amplified Voldemort’s connection to his fragmented soul, making the manor an ideal location for the ritual.

“Here will suffice,” Voldemort declared.

Barty wasted no time. He opened the package, carefully unpacking an array of items and materials. At the center of the room, he placed a large cauldron, its metallic surface dull and weathered with age.

With a wave of his wand, Barty summoned water into the cauldron and ignited a brilliant blue flame beneath it. The liquid began to boil rapidly, steam curling into the air. One by one, he added the prepared ingredients, their essence blending into the bubbling mixture. Gradually, the liquid turned a shimmering silver.

Stepping back, Barty raised his wand high and began to chant.

“The bones of the father, unknowingly given, you will renew your son!”

With a loud plop, a fragment of brittle, decayed bone fell into the cauldron. The liquid roiled violently, its color shifting to a deep blue as bursts of magical energy crackled across the surface.

Once the cauldron’s contents settled, Barty continued his chant.

“Flesh of the servant, willingly sacrificed, you will revive your master!”

Peter Pettigrew stepped forward, his face pale but resolute. Without hesitation, he sliced off a finger, letting it fall into the cauldron. The liquid hissed and bubbled, turning a vivid, blood-red hue.

The boiling intensified, the cauldron’s contents now pulsating with raw magical power.

Barty raised his wand once more, his voice echoing with fervor:

“The blood of the enemy, forcibly taken, shall resurrect your foe!”

Chapter 427

Gududu! Gududu!

As Barty Crouch Jr. poured a vial of scarlet blood into the cauldron, the fiery red liquid churned violently. The color shifted, deepening to a dark green. A powerful, life-imbued energy surged upward, each bursting bubble amplifying the ceremony’s potency.

Peter Pettigrew stood a few steps away, transfixed by the cauldron’s contents. The dark green liquid radiated an irresistible allure, sparking an instinctual craving for life deep within him. Yet, when he caught the cold, piercing gaze of his master, he immediately looked away, trembling.

Worthless coward, Voldemort thought with disdain as his crimson eyes shifted to Barty Crouch Jr. Unlike Pettigrew, who cowered in fear, Barty remained stoic and focused. Voldemort silently sneered. Loyalty is so clearly defined in comparison.

Despite the ceremony's progress, Voldemort couldn't suppress a flicker of regret. In his original plan, Harry Potter’s blood would have been the ideal ingredient to ensure the ritual's success. Dumbledore’s blood would have been an excellent substitute as well. But circumstances had left him no choice. He had to settle for the blood of Alastor Moody, the fierce and relentless Auror who had hunted his followers like a mad dog.

Hatred churned within Voldemort’s fractured soul. To think that Moody, an ant in the grand scheme of things, was the best he could use as an "enemy" for this ritual was infuriating. The thought ignited an inferno of anger and madness within him, only to be quelled by his razor-sharp will.

Moody will pay for this insult, Voldemort vowed silently. His bones will be ground to dust, and his soul will endure torment for eternity.

Suppressing his fury, Voldemort turned his attention to the cauldron. Without hesitation, he directed his malformed body—frail and infant-like—into the churning liquid.

Whoosh!

Dark green flames erupted around the cauldron. Despite their intensity, neither Barty Crouch Jr. nor Pettigrew felt any heat. Instead, a strange, chilling energy began to coalesce in the room, drawn from the surrounding space and focused into the ritual.

Barty remained still, his expression unreadable. Beneath the sleeve of his robe, a faint golden dragon-shaped magic mark glowed softly on his arm, flickering as it recorded every detail of the ceremony. This was an assignment from his true master, Gilderoy Lockhart, who had emphasized the importance of monitoring Voldemort’s resurrection.

Whoosh!

The flames roared higher, reaching the height of a man. The oppressive aura of the ritual intensified, filling the room with a strange, palpable energy.

And then, without warning—

Boom! Boom! Boom!

The cauldron shattered into pieces, sending shards flying in all directions. The dark green flames vanished as abruptly as they had appeared, leaving behind a single figure standing amidst the debris.

His skin was pale and unnaturally smooth, his crimson eyes gleamed with malice, and his most striking feature—an absence of a nose—lent him an almost serpentine appearance. The aura of evil and darkness that radiated from him was suffocating.

“Master, your clothes and wand,” Barty Crouch Jr. said, bowing deeply as he extended a set of black robes and a yew wand.

A gentle breeze swept through the room, and the black robes wrapped themselves around Voldemort. His long, thin fingers gripped the wand, and as he felt its familiar power coursing through him, he nodded slightly.

Despite his resurrection, there was no joy in Voldemort’s expression. He was keenly aware that his power had only partially returned—perhaps 60-70% of his former strength. The flaws in the ritual and the fragmented state of his soul were to blame.

Most troubling was the presence of the other him.

Another fragment of his soul, severed and independently revived, now posed a dire threat. Voldemort’s eyes burned with greed and resolve. This situation was both a crisis and an opportunity. If he could destroy and absorb the other fragment, his power would not only be restored but surpass its previous peak.

Devour or be devoured. There could be no coexistence.

Pureblood Presbyterian Council Chamber

“Gentlemen, the Dark Lord has sent word requesting a meeting,” said Justo Frank uneasily. “His tone was... forceful and even slightly threatening.”

The gathered wizards of the pureblood families fell into a tense silence. The recent confrontation with Gilderoy Lockhart had left them battered and depleted. Resources were stretched thin, and they were now in a phase of recovery.

The Elder Council’s strategy was simple: watch, wait, and rebuild their strength. Lockhart’s unpredictable actions and the reemergence of Grindelwald ensured that the wizarding world remained chaotic, providing them with opportunities to maneuver in the shadows.

But Voldemort’s return had disrupted their careful plans.

“What should we do?” Vlad Thorn, the council president, asked, his voice calm but heavy with implication.

“Perhaps we should ally with the Dark Lord,” one wizard suggested cautiously. “We could use him to exact revenge on Lockhart.”

“First, we should see what the Dark Lord offers in return,” another proposed.

“No, it’s too dangerous to get involved,” a third wizard argued. “The Dark Lord brings nothing but trouble.”

“Safety comes first. If we stay out of it, we can’t lose,” another chimed in, their voice laced with apprehension.

Vlad listened quietly, his sharp mind weighing their options. The harsh reality was clear: they were no match for Voldemort, Lockhart, or Grindelwald. Strength was the ultimate decider in this game, and they currently lacked it.

“The Dark Lord seems... different this time,” Justo Flint said, his voice cutting through the murmurs.

Vlad’s gaze sharpened. “What do you mean?”

“He appears less erratic, more rational. There’s even a hint of elegance in his demeanor—like the brilliant young man who once served as Hogwarts’ Head Boy,” Flint explained.

The room fell silent as Vlad considered this.

“You’re certain of this assessment?” Vlad finally asked.

“Yes, President,” Justo replied with confidence. “But there’s something else—something unsettling.”

“What is it?”

“In our communication, the Dark Lord didn’t once mention wizarding bloodlines or pureblood supremacy. Instead, he spoke of a new philosophy: ‘The strong rise, and the weak fall.’”

The council members exchanged uneasy glances. This was a radical departure from Voldemort’s previous rhetoric, and it left them uncertain of his intentions.

“In that case,” Vlad said evenly, “I will meet with the Dark Lord myself.”

Chapter 428

Hogwarts, the School Infirmary

"Lockhart, Tom excelled in many fields, but his expertise in dark magic is unparalleled," said Slughorn, lying back on the hospital bed. He bit into a bright red apple, his voice deep and grave.

"I must admit, he’s the most talented individual in dark magic I’ve encountered in my entire life," he continued, pausing before adding, "Stronger than even Dumbledore."

Lockhart took a sip of water, his expression calm and composed. “Don’t worry, Professor Horace,” he replied reassuringly. “Dumbledore and I will ensure your safety.”

Slughorn sighed heavily but said nothing more. Unlike Dumbledore and Lockhart, he had firsthand experience of Tom Riddle’s strength and ruthlessness. Splitting one’s soul multiple times was not something an ordinary wizard could endure. It required an extraordinary lack of empathy and an unparalleled depth of obsession.

The very instability of Voldemort's fragmented soul seemed to amplify his mastery of dark magic.

Slughorn, however, was not one to dwell on grim topics. He decided to shift the conversation. “Lockhart, I heard you’re starting a new school. Congratulations!” His tone lightened with curiosity. “Has the location been decided yet?”

The idea of a new wizarding school in Britain, especially one endorsed by the Wizengamot and the Ministry of Magic, intrigued him. The Ministry’s decision to allow Muggle-born students only added to the novelty.

Lockhart’s face lit up with a smile. “Yes, Professor Horace. The location has been finalized, and construction will begin soon. I hope you’ll attend the opening ceremony when the time comes.”

“Of course,” Slughorn replied without hesitation. “It’s a monumental event—the second wizarding school in Britain after Hogwarts! Though I hear it’s aimed at Squibs…” His voice dropped mischievously. “Will Dumbledore attend? And will your school’s recruitment put pressure on Hogwarts?”

Lockhart chuckled. “If my school gives Hogwarts a bit of competition, that would be a delightful bonus,” he said with mock seriousness. “I’ll do my best to match and even surpass Hogwarts in teaching quality.”

Slughorn laughed heartily, clearly amused. The notion of a brand-new school rivaling the centuries-old Hogwarts was preposterous to him.

“Professor Horace, I’d love for you to come teach a potion class at my school someday,” Lockhart said with a warm smile. “Your expertise is legendary.”

“Of course,” Slughorn replied, chuckling again. “I’ll consider it if the opportunity arises.”

Despite his words, Slughorn had no intention of leaving Hogwarts. It was a sanctuary, and Dumbledore’s protection ensured his safety during turbulent times. A fledgling school for Squibs, with limited resources and uncertain prospects, simply couldn’t compare.

Lockhart, noting Slughorn’s deflection, shifted the conversation toward potions and meditation techniques. Despite the professor’s polite skepticism, Lockhart’s ambitions were clear—his school would need top-tier talent in every field.

Late at Night, Knockturn Alley

The moonlight cast an eerie glow on the grimy cobblestones of Knockturn Alley. Shadows flickered against the walls, and the occasional strange noise echoed through the narrow streets.

Pale figures in tattered black robes moved swiftly and purposefully through the alley. Occasionally, they exchanged glances, sensing a familiar presence, but no words were spoken. Their pace quickened.

Howl!

A wolf’s cry pierced the night, sending a shiver through the group. Nervous, they hurried toward their destination—a nondescript building at the alley’s end.

Inside, the room was far larger than it appeared from the outside, thanks to an extension charm. The dimly lit space was filled with poorly dressed wizards, their attention fixed on the high platform at the front.

At the center stood Fenrir Greyback, the leader of the werewolves. His wild, ferocious appearance matched his reputation, his black leather jacket clinging to his imposing frame.

Howl!

Fenrir’s wolfish cry silenced the murmurs. He raised his right arm, which began to shift before their eyes—gray fur sprouted, and sharp claws extended. His wolf-like transformation commanded the attention of every werewolf present.

“We are all one people!” Fenrir roared, his voice gravelly and powerful. “This world is filled with hatred and malice toward us werewolves!”

He gestured emphatically, his claws gleaming under the dim light.

“We are innocent, yet we cannot hold respectable jobs. We are shunned, hunted, and discriminated against by wizards!”

His voice grew louder, angrier. “Why? Why?”

The gathered werewolves began to stir, their emotions bubbling to the surface.

“I’ll tell you why,” Fenrir growled. “Because we are weak. Weakness is the original sin!”

His words struck a chord. The crowd’s restlessness turned to quiet rage, their eyes glowing faintly in the darkness.

“If we were united, if we were strong, would the wizards dare look down on us?” Fenrir shouted. “It’s not our fault that we turn into wolves under the full moon. Our fault is our lack of unity and power!”

His voice rose to a fever pitch, full of fanatical fervor.

“Now, we have an opportunity!” Fenrir declared. “The great Dark Lord seeks our aid. Together, we can reshape the world and claim the respect we deserve!”

He paced across the platform, his words igniting the crowd.

“No more hiding in the shadows! No more living like beggars! Every werewolf will walk in the sunlight, marry, have children, and receive an education like any wizard!”

The werewolves erupted in excitement, their faces and bodies showing hints of transformation—fur sprouted, and their eyes gleamed with hunger and rage.

Fenrir seized the moment. “Now, let us meet the great Dark Lord!”

Whoosh!

A flash of black light illuminated the room, and Voldemort appeared on the platform. His black robes billowed as his crimson eyes scanned the crowd. His smooth, pale skin and serpentine features radiated an aura of death and domination.

Chapter 429

Malfoy Manor, Drawing Room

Voldemort sat elegantly at the table, his pale, handsome features illuminated by the soft glow of the chandelier. With practiced ease, he twirled his wand between his fingers, his crimson eyes fixed calmly on Vlad Thorn, the President of the Presbyterian Council, seated across from him.

Vlad felt an unexpected sense of composure under Voldemort's gaze—an unsettling difference from the Dark Lord he remembered.

Justo's words were true. The Voldemort who had returned was not the same as the one who had terrorized the wizarding world over a decade ago. This Voldemort was still ambitious, but his madness seemed tempered, his greed better concealed beneath a mask of composure.

“Your Excellency, the Dark Lord,” Vlad began, breaking the tense silence, “I understand you requested an audience with our Council. Might I ask the reason?”

Voldemort smiled faintly, his tone calm but cutting. “I was curious whether you would continue hiding, as is your custom—waiting until the dust settles before you align yourselves with the victor.”

A flicker of embarrassment crossed Vlad’s face before he regained his composure. Voldemort wasn’t wrong. The Council of Elders often chose to remain neutral during conflicts, stepping in only once the outcome was clear. But this time was different.

Between Dumbledore, Lockhart, and Voldemort, their neutrality was no longer tenable. All three had turned their attention to the Council, and any delay in action might lead to their complete obliteration.

“Your Excellency, I hear you’ve taken a particular interest in cursed contract magic,” Vlad said, steering the conversation to safer ground. “Our Council has some rare tomes and valuable research on the subject that might be of use to you.”

Vlad tapped his wand lightly on the table, and with a small flash of light, several thick, ancient books appeared. Each tome exuded a distinct magical aura—some orderly, others deeply sinister.

Voldemort’s eyes gleamed as he studied the books. With a wave of his hand, he summoned them to his side.

“You have my gratitude,” Voldemort said smoothly, a hint of satisfaction in his voice. “This exchange marks the beginning of a fruitful alliance. Together, we shall usher in a brighter future for the wizarding world.”

Vlad hesitated, wary of Voldemort’s overtures. “A brighter future?” he asked cautiously.

“Yes,” Voldemort replied, his voice tinged with subtle temptation. “I have uncovered the key to a new era.”

Vlad’s curiosity was piqued despite his reservations. “The key to a new era?” he repeated, leaning forward slightly.

“Tell me, Vlad,” Voldemort began, “are you aware of what Grindelwald is doing now?”

Vlad’s expression stiffened. “Grindelwald? Has he…”

“He has returned,” Voldemort said, cutting him off. “He seeks to lead this so-called new era. To that end, he has taken control of Ilvermorny, the American wizarding school.”

The revelation sent a shiver through Vlad. If true, it would shake the wizarding world to its core. The implications were staggering.

“Your Excellency,” Vlad said, his voice faltering, “what exactly is the key to this new era?”

Voldemort leaned back in his chair, tapping his wand lightly against his palm. “It’s something you’ve already encountered, though your arrogance blinds you to its potential.”

Vlad frowned. “You’re referring to the meditation method, aren’t you?” he asked, his skepticism evident.

“Indeed,” Voldemort replied, his tone calm yet commanding. “The newspapers barely scratched the surface of its significance. My own research confirms that the meditation method is not just revolutionary—it is transformative. It will bring about an era of unimaginable change, akin to the invention of the wand or the establishment of the Statute of Secrecy.”

Vlad’s hands trembled slightly. The gravity of Voldemort’s words was impossible to ignore. If true, the meditation method would herald an upheaval unlike any the wizarding world had ever known.

“Your Excellency, the Dark Lord,” Vlad said, his voice hoarse, “this claim… if it is true, it changes everything. But how can we be certain?”

“You already know the answer,” Voldemort said smoothly. “Grindelwald sees the same potential. Why else would he act now? His foresight is unparalleled, as you well know.”

Vlad’s heart sank. He remembered the devastation wrought by Grindelwald during his rise to power. If both Voldemort and Grindelwald viewed the meditation method as a harbinger of change, it was no idle speculation.

“I have studied it in depth,” Voldemort continued, his voice taking on a sharper edge. “Lockhart’s claims are true, perhaps even understated. But there is one truth he has avoided, or perhaps dared not say aloud.”

Vlad leaned forward, holding his breath.

“The meditation method will shatter the Statute of Secrecy,” Voldemort declared. “It is inevitable. Muggle governments will harness its power, and magic will no longer be the sole domain of wizards.”

The color drained from Vlad’s face. “That’s impossible,” he stammered. “The Ministry of Magic, the Wizengamot, the Statute itself—they will never allow it!”

Voldemort’s eyes burned with intensity. “The meditation method transcends such boundaries. It is universal. Muggles will learn to wield magic, and the current order of the wizarding world will collapse. Chaos will reign, and a new order will rise from the ashes.”

Vlad shook his head vehemently. “No! The Ministry will act. The Statute will hold. This cannot happen!”

Voldemort’s lips curled into a cold smile. “Deny it if you wish. But the wheels are already in motion. The question, Vlad, is whether your Council will adapt to the coming storm—or be swept away by it.”

Voldemort’s piercing crimson eyes locked onto Vlad Thorn, his calm demeanor contrasting sharply with the intensity of his words.

“Vlad,” Voldemort began, his tone measured, “in the past, magic was bound to the bloodline of wizards. Regardless of the Ministry of Magic’s efforts, Muggles could never truly master it—it was beyond their reach.”

He leaned forward slightly, his gaze sharpening. “But in the future, with magic rooted in meditation, wizard bloodlines will lose their significance under the tidal wave of Muggle potential.”

Voldemort’s expression turned cold, his voice hardening. “There’s something I haven’t told you yet. Meditation has the potential to shatter the bottlenecks that limit us. But at its current stage, it is incomplete. It requires refinement—experimentation.”

He paused, allowing his words to sink in before continuing.

“Dumbledore avoids this truth, and perhaps Lockhart hesitates as well. But Grindelwald, myself, and even you—eventually—you will all see the necessity. We will promote meditation among Muggles, using them as subjects to perfect the method. Through their numbers and their trials, we will chart the path to ultimate power.”

Vlad stared at him, his thoughts racing. The implications of Voldemort’s words left him shaken. He despised the idea but couldn’t deny its allure. If meditation truly allowed him to surpass his limits and achieve immortality, how could he resist?

It wasn’t just him. The entire Presbyterian Council would likely embrace such a path without hesitation. Their history was steeped in self-serving decisions, trampling over morality in the pursuit of power.

Voldemort’s voice cut through Vlad’s internal conflict. “Join me, Vlad. Together, we will ride the pulse of the new era and shape our own destinies.” He extended a pale hand, his invitation both commanding and seductive.

Vlad closed his eyes, forcing himself to think clearly. After a moment, he reopened them, his expression calm.

“The Dark Lord honors us with this opportunity,” Vlad said evenly. “The Church is prepared to collaborate with you, If you can help us”

Voldemort withdrew his hand, a faint smile playing on his lips. “Very well. Speak your terms.”

Vlad’s voice grew harsh. “Kill Lockhart. His actions have created irreparable animosity between him and the Church. Moreover, as the founder of the meditation method, he is a threat to both of us. Eliminating him is in our mutual interest.”

Voldemort’s expression remained unreadable as he considered Vlad’s demand. Deep down, no one wanted Lockhart dead more than he did. Yet Lockhart’s death had to wait until Voldemort could sever their magical contract and rid himself of the mark Lockhart had placed on him.

“Agreed,” Voldemort said finally, his tone tinged with a hint of calculation. “But rest assured, someone else will kill Lockhart for us when the time is right.”

England, Seaside

Lockhart stood on the beach, gazing out over the endless expanse of blue water. The salty breeze ruffled his robes, but his expression was distant, contemplative.

“Snape,” he said softly, “given your knowledge, you must be aware of the unique properties of the Founders’ treasures, correct?”

Snape, standing nearby, hesitated momentarily, organizing his thoughts before speaking. “The sword of Gryffindor is unparalleled in breaking curses and defeating magical creatures. Ravenclaw’s diadem is said to enhance a wizard’s wisdom and creativity. Slytherin’s locket possesses profound effects on the soul and curses. As for Hufflepuff’s cup, it’s rumored to contain many magic power Helga put on.”

Lockhart smiled faintly. “Precisely. And tell me, what is the most crucial factor in choosing a location for a magical school?”

Snape didn’t hesitate this time. “Resources,” he said firmly. “Hogwarts thrives not only due to its magical environment but because of the abundant resources provided by the Forbidden Forest. The same principle applies to other schools like Durmstrang and Ilvermorny—they all have dedicated resource cultivation areas. A school cannot rely solely on purchasing materials; it would be unsustainable.”

Lockhart nodded approvingly. “You understand. Now, let me ask you this: What is your opinion of the resource realm of Kamar-Taj?”

Snape’s normally stoic face softened slightly with a trace of nostalgia. “It is unparalleled—a paradise for wizards. The abundance of resources with minimal danger makes it an ideal location. If I had the chance to enter it again, it would be a dream.”

Lockhart’s smile widened. “Then, how would you feel about building our own magical resource realm?”

Snape turned to him, his eyes widening in disbelief. “You’re serious?” he asked. “This isn’t as simple as a space-extension spell. No wizard today, not even Dumbledore, has mastered such techniques.”

Lockhart’s response was calm, confident. “What about the Sorcerer Supreme?”

Snape frowned thoughtfully. “Perhaps… but knowing you, there’s no way you’d allow the Sorcerer Supreme to directly involve themselves in the wizarding world. Even if they shared their methods, do you truly believe you can replicate what was created by a dimensional demon?”

Lockhart chuckled, waving a hand dismissively. “I’m not aiming for something on the scale of the Sorcerer Supreme’s realms. But I am confident I can create a smaller, self-sustaining magical space—enough to support a school of thousands.”

Snape crossed his arms. “And what do you need from me?”

Lockhart’s expression turned serious as he continued. “I consulted the Sorcerer Supreme on how to construct such a space. The knowledge is secure. As for the anchor treasure to stabilize the realm, I’ve made significant progress.”

With a flick of his wand, Lockhart conjured two objects before them: a glowing blue orb and a golden cup that shimmered with ethereal light.

“This,” Lockhart said, his tone measured, “is a fragment of the Cosmic Cube and Hufflepuff’s Cup.”

Chapter 430

The seaside was serene.

A gentle breeze rustled across the golden beach, carrying the salty scent of the ocean. Waves lapped against the shore, and seagulls soared freely in the blue sky. The scene was idyllic, tranquil—if not for the conspicuous absence of people.

Save for two figures, the beach was empty.

Suddenly—

Buzz!

The space around the two figures began to shimmer and distort, as though reality itself were unravelling. The distortion radiated outward in waves, warping their surroundings. The horizon blurred, the figures trembled, and everything seemed to dissolve into a mosaic of fragmented colors.

At the center of this spatial disturbance was a glowing blue orb—its pulsating light almost hypnotic.

Snape, standing nearby, stared at the orb in astonishment, the reflection of its azure glow dancing in his dark eyes. “Lockhart,” he began, his voice laced with awe, “what exactly is the origin of this… Cosmic Cube?”

He recalled the stories of the Battle of New York. “I heard Rogers mention that the Cube opened a space portal spanning countless light-years. And it didn’t even show signs of weakening afterward.”

Lockhart’s expression remained serene as he gazed at the Cube. “The new world holds wonders far beyond your imagination, Severus,” he replied in an almost wistful tone.

“The Cosmic Cube is the embodiment of spatial power in that world. To control it is to wield the very fabric of space itself.”

Snape’s mind raced. The tales of the Deathly Hallows came to him unbidden—artifacts said to grant mastery over death itself. Could the Cosmic Cube truly be as powerful as the legends claimed?

Before he could respond, Lockhart continued. “The Sorcerer Supreme wields the Time Stone, a treasure on the same level as the Cube. With it, she crushes dimensional demons as though they are mere flies.”

Lockhart’s tone sharpened. “The Cosmic Cube and the Time Stone are of equal magnitude. If one could truly master the Cube’s Space Stone, creating another Kamar-Taj would not just be a possibility—it would be inevitable.”

Snape involuntarily swallowed, his gaze fixed on the orb. The thought of recreating Kamar-Taj, a place revered for its endless resources and mystical knowledge, sent shivers through him.

For a moment, a pang of regret flickered in his chest. The Cube had once been within reach… if only…

Lockhart’s chuckle pulled Snape from his reverie. “Don’t get ahead of yourself, Severus,” he said with a smirk. “True mastery over the Cube is far beyond us. Even S.H.I.E.L.D., in their hubris, tried to use it as a mere power source—and nearly destroyed themselves in the process.”

He paused, his expression growing more serious. “The last person to truly master the Cosmic Cube was Odin, the God King of Asgard. The Rainbow Bridge is a testament to that mastery.”

Lockhart’s voice dropped. “Only when you reach Odin’s level can you hope to control the Cube. Until then, it’s just an unattainable dream.”

With a sigh, Lockhart turned his attention back to the glowing orb. “Such treasures are both a gift and a curse. Without strength to protect them, they invite destruction.”

He hesitated, a flicker of something darker passing over his face. “The Space Stone and the Mind Stone have both passed through my hands. Yet I let them go.”

Snape’s eyebrows lifted in surprise. “Why?”

“Because wielding them would have invited the wrath of Odin and Thanos,” Lockhart said simply. “Surviving such hostility would have left me with no choice but to rely on the Sorcerer Supreme—a position I refuse to be in.”

Lockhart’s eyes gleamed with determination as he tapped the glowing orb lightly with his wand. A crisp ding echoed through the air, and an immense surge of spatial energy radiated outward.

Silver threads of light materialized in the air, dancing like streams of mercury. With precise wand movements, Lockhart guided the threads, weaving them into intricate patterns that shimmered with raw power.

Snape watched, transfixed. The threads pulsed with life, their shimmering forms evoking visions of mountains, oceans, and forests. The air itself seemed to hum with creation.

Gradually, colors began to seep into the patterns. Gold, blue, green, and brown swirled together, representing the sun, sea, forest, and earth. The entire pattern vibrated with an energy that felt primordial, alive.

Snape’s mouth fell open slightly as he took it all in. The sheer magnitude of what he was witnessing defied his understanding of magic. For a moment, he felt as though he were watching the birth of a world.

Lockhart remained focused, his wand moving with meticulous precision as he adjusted the threads. Each movement seemed to shape the space around them, drawing from the natural elements to breathe life into the burgeoning construct.

“This is…” Snape whispered, his voice trailing off.

Lockhart didn’t respond. His concentration was unyielding as he added the finishing touches to the spatial weave. The threads pulsed one final time, radiating a sense of completion.

At last, he raised his wand, and Hufflepuff’s golden cup floated upward, glowing with radiant light.

“A secret realm needs a core,” Lockhart murmured. “For the Sorcerer Supreme, it was a dimension demon. For me, it will be this.”

The golden cup hovered at the center of the rune pattern, its brilliance intensifying as it aligned with the spatial threads.

Boom!

A deafening roar echoed as the cup settled into place. The surrounding space trembled violently, cracks appearing in the fabric of reality itself.

Then—

Buzz!

The beach, the sea, and even the air seemed to fold inward, vanishing into the void. In their place was a massive crater, its jagged edges littered with fragments of rock and soil.

The seawater, disturbed by the sudden displacement, surged forward to fill the void, reshaping the coastline in the process.

Lockhart stood still, his eyes closed, attuned to the fledgling secret realm. He nodded slightly, a faint smile gracing his lips. The framework of the secret realm was complete, a skeletal foundation ready for refinement.

Forests, fertile lands, and oceans couldn’t simply be conjured from nothing—that would demand an unsustainable amount of power. Instead, these elements would need to be drawn from the outside world. The current realm was like a body with bones and a beating heart; it now required flesh and blood to come alive.

Lockhart’s mind wandered to the next steps: how to enrich this secret realm, how to arrange its core, and, most importantly, how to ensure it could sustain wizards and magical beings.

After a moment of reflection, a confident smile curved his lips. The solution was already forming in his mind.

Lockhart raised his wand once more, summoning the Hufflepuff Gold Cup—the artifact that served as the heart of the realm. Its golden glow radiated as it hovered before him.

“Snape,” Lockhart said, his tone calm yet firm. “I need your assistance now.”

Snape, who had been silently observing, snapped to attention. Lockhart rarely spoke without purpose, and this time was no exception.

“What do you require of me?” Snape asked, stepping closer.

“I need the Death Eater mark on your arm,” Lockhart replied, his gaze fixed on the glowing golden cup.

Snape stiffened slightly, his expression shifting to one of guarded curiosity.

The Hufflepuff Gold Cup, he knew, had once been corrupted as one of Voldemort’s Horcruxes, housing a fragment of the Dark Lord’s soul. Lockhart had left it intact, and now its corruption had a role to play.

Lockhart elaborated, “The Death Eater mark on your arm is intimately tied to Voldemort’s soul. Of all the Death Eaters, your connection to him is among the strongest. It’s a natural conduit for the curse I intend to cast.”

Snape’s sharp mind churned with questions, but he nodded without protest. He understood the magnitude of Lockhart’s plans, and he would follow them through.

Rolling up his sleeve, Snape revealed the dark green mark etched into his skin: the infamous skull entwined with a serpent.

Lockhart moved closer, his wand extended toward the mark. Magic surged from the tip, and as it touched the Death Eater mark, the symbol began to writhe and twist, as though alive.

The skull’s jaw opened and closed, and the serpent coiled and uncoiled, writhing in silent agony.

Whoosh!

A chilling, malevolent aura filled the air, making the surrounding space feel colder and darker. Lines of dark green energy began to spread across the surface of the Hufflepuff Gold Cup, pulsating with an eerie light.

Lockhart’s voice was low and commanding as he uttered the curse:

“Dark Lord Voldemort, I curse you.
Let your soul erode. Let your magic fade.
Let the weight of your sins pull you into the abyss…”

Little Hangleton, Gaunt’s Old House

Voldemort sat cross-legged on a faded futon, his crimson eyes closed in meditation. He focused on Lockhart’s widely meditation technique.

Since its introduction, the meditation method had become a phenomenon in the wizarding world, sparking debates and igniting curiosity. Voldemort, ever calculating, saw both its potential and its dangers. He approached it cautiously, studying it for every advantage it could offer.

The Dark Lord was also intrigued by its creator. Lockhart’s invention of such a transformative method spoke volumes of his intellect and ambition.

If it were me, I would have suppressed such a creation, Voldemort mused. To think that someone unleashed this chaos voluntarily…

Suddenly—

Whoosh!

A cold shiver ran through his body, and his connection to the fragments of his soul was disrupted. Voldemort’s eyes snapped open, and his pale face darkened. A moment later, he doubled over, coughing violently as blood dripped from his lips.

“What… is this?” Voldemort rasped. His magic faltered, and his once-powerful aura wavered, as though something was clawing at his essence.

“A curse…” he muttered, his expression hardening. “Someone is targeting me through the Death Eater mark.”

Rising to his feet, Voldemort waved his wand. One protective spell after another erupted around him, creating a shimmering barrier meant to isolate and contain the malicious energy.

Yet, the curse was relentless. Black tendrils of mist slithered through the barriers, reaching toward their target like sentient predators.

“Damn it,” Voldemort hissed, his mind racing. “Who is behind this?”

The curse was potent, far stronger than anything Voldemort had encountered in years. It could only have been drawn from an artifact of immense power—and one closely connected to him.

The Horcruxes…

The realization struck him like a thunderbolt.

“Someone has weaponized one of my Horcruxes against me!” Voldemort’s face twisted with rage and desperation as he poured more magic into his defenses, searching his fragmented soul for answers.

And then he saw it—brief but undeniable.

“Gilderoy Lockhart!” Voldemort roared, his voice echoing through the decrepit halls of the Gaunt house.

His crimson eyes burned with fury as he screamed, “I will make your life worse than death!”