A certain broken Hogwarts

Chapter 82 Returning to School

The dimly lit, cramped office was silent. The candlelight on the desk flickered slightly, causing the shadows of all the objects to tremble gently. Suddenly, the candlelight shook violently, and two figures in black cloaks, one tall and one short, appeared out of thin air beside it, casting deep shadows on the floor.

"Ha, back on track!" Irving said with the liveliness of a real child. His retina seemed to still hold the spectacular sight of countless spells flying over like dazzling fireworks a moment ago. This feeling of gracefully walking on the edge of death made him both terrified and savoring the experience.

Voldemort opened the box and inspected its contents, saying expressionlessly, "You almost made a mistake, Owen."

"Oh dear, Professor, I never expected that guy had already been controlled by the Imperius Curse beforehand," Owen said innocently, his fingers deftly twirling his wand. "And I certainly didn't expect that when two people simultaneously use the Imperius Curse to control someone at close range, there would be a strange connection between them, as if they were also connected by a curse."

"That was really close, I almost died. Or worse, I almost messed up the task you gave me, Professor..." Owen put on a show of extreme guilt, but inwardly he watched his slightly exaggerated performance with the cold indifference of a bystander.

Voldemort gave him a half-smile and said softly, "I only care about the result. If you fail tonight, without a doubt, you will be punished..."

Irving gave a polite and bright smile and put the wand back in his pocket.

"Of course, now that you've completed my task, I won't hesitate to reward you," Voldemort said. "I've always been fair in my rewards and punishments."

As he spoke, he looked at Irving with a strange expression, as if he were appraising a work of art that he was very satisfied with. He had to admit that Irving's performance tonight had impressed him greatly. Irving's exceptional talent and outstanding temperament, his composure under pressure and ruthless nature, and even his skill in using his harmless appearance and extraordinary charm, all reminded him of his former self.

If the acquisition of the Philosopher's Stone goes smoothly and he manages to obtain a perfect body, he wouldn't mind accepting a young Death Eater.

As the Dark Lord who once instilled fear throughout the wizarding world, and whose name is still feared by wizards to this day, Voldemort never considered whether he could control his subordinates. He was confident that with his unparalleled magic, no one would ever dare to betray him.

In his view, even if Owen possessed extremely high potential for dark magic due to the Dark Lord's protection, it would be impossible for him to surpass him. Even if, decades or centuries later, this little guy were to reach his current level through luck, he would not stop climbing the peak of magic. The immortal Owen would continue to improve, while mortals would eventually decay.

Of course, if things don't go smoothly with the Philosopher's Stone, he wouldn't mind abandoning his current, increasingly decaying body and acquiring a more suitable and easier-to-control form. This would give him greater autonomy, allow him to unleash greater power, and enable him to pursue other means of resurrection. Owen would surely feel honored by this.

Voldemort gazed thoughtfully at the innocent-looking Owen. After a deeper fusion with the Dark Lord, this body was already usable… but not enough. He didn't need an unstable body; he needed to nurture it further. Fortunately, Quirrell's body could hold out for a while longer, and the plans for Halloween were already underway.

"My plan will be fine," Voldemort thought. With the Philosopher's Stone in sight, his gaze began to shift more towards his subordinates than towards Owen.

"It's late now, I'll give you your reward next time." He raised his pale right hand, patted Owen's shoulder lightly, and said with a smile in a low voice, "Welcome to the realm of dark art."

"Thank you for your guidance, Professor," Owen replied calmly and politely. "Is there anything else I can help you with? Like the herbs or the Philosopher's Stone?"

"All the medicinal herbs I need can be found here, including those that you would have difficulty obtaining." Voldemort patted the black box he had stolen. "As for the Philosopher's Stone, I've already made arrangements; you don't need to interfere."

"Okay, Professor," Irving said.

"You need to go back and rest." Voldemort slowly slumped into the chair behind his desk, his expression pale and weary as he closed his eyes.

Owen blinked, then removed his black cloak, which was covered in dust and charred holes from the intense battle. He draped the cloak over his arm, smiled with narrowed eyes, and asked with concern, "Professor, are you alright? Would you like some chocolate?"

Voldemort simply waved his hand without opening his eyes.

Irving gave him a graceful bow with his hand on his chest, then left the office with light steps, gently closing the door behind him.

Walking down the dark corridor, he suddenly tossed the cloak from his arm into the air, drew his wand, and chanted, "Burning Flame."

With a whoosh, the cloak burst into flames in mid-air, illuminating the velvet curtains on the corridor walls and Owen's beaming face. By the time the fireball gently landed on the ground, the cloak had burned completely, turning into a wisp of black ash.

"Heh heh, the great Dark Lord is having a good time. As a responsible subordinate, I should at least teach this slacker who slipped through the net of compulsory education what it means to raise a tiger only to have it become a threat." He chuckled to himself.

"My previous plan was too conservative and boring, and too unambitious. As a magician, such a lack of creativity is unacceptable. It's true that complacency leads to regression," Owen murmured with a smile, pressing his palm to his chest.

Since freeing himself from his dark side and making peace with it, he found that nothing had changed; it was simply a matter of taking that step he could have taken at any time. Having released the shackles of his heart and seen another world, he was able to face himself more freely and sincerely.

"Humans are a collection of contradictions, opposing yet unified," Owen thought to himself, then added with a sneer, "Of course, we still need to find a way to solve the problem of dark magic. I don't want to end up like Voldemort, utterly inhuman..."

Just as he was walking briskly toward the common room, Voldemort opened his eyes and looked at the door that Owen had closed. He raised his hand and rubbed his temples, looking tired and weak.

He'd had enough of this feeling of vulnerability and exhaustion!

With a slight wave of his right hand, the cauldron used for brewing potions flew over from the shelf beside him. At the same time, a locked cabinet next to him clicked open, and a series of herbs and bottles flew out.

He tapped the black box he had stolen that night, and several potion ingredients of various shapes popped out, mixed in with the previous ingredients.

With a flick of his fingers, various potion ingredients were cut, squeezed, and ground in mid-air, finally lining up to jump into the cauldron, which was already glowing red-hot. The series of operations was dazzlingly complex, yet flowed with an elegant rhythm. There was no doubt that Voldemort also possessed extremely high attainments in potions.

Soon, the liquid in the cauldron became clear as water. He added a certain amount of unicorn blood, and the potion danced lively in the cauldron, turning a bright silver color with a hint of eerie dark red.

"The elixir of immortality that can reshape the body is now only missing the Philosopher's Stone," Voldemort said in a low, cold voice. "It's been too long, I've waited far too long... Quirrell, don't let me down."

He closed his eyes slightly, his body suddenly trembled, and then a faint sobbing sound came from inside the office.

(End of this chapter)