Harry Potter and the Great Old Ones

Chapter 846

“No.” Tom Riddle forced a smile.

"What?" Bridget Baker could hardly believe her ears—

He was ready to hear Tom Riddle's excuses, but the word "no" abruptly interrupted his train of thought.

"So, Mr. Riddle really is Voldemort?" But Bridget Baker, being a shrewd politician, immediately took a few steps back.

At the same time, his gaze drifted towards the audience.

Bridget Baker's men, who were listening to the music and hearing the elegant sentiments, immediately rushed up to the stage and stood in front of Bridget Baker.

The once lively crowd immediately fell silent.

They had all overheard Bridget Baker and Tom Riddle's conversation, so the wizards present not only didn't see Bridget Baker's wary attitude as innocuous, but even took a few steps back in unison.

Tom Riddle didn't react much to Bridget Baker and the wizards present. Instead, he took a step forward, past Bridget Baker, and stood at the forefront facing the voters.

“Let’s get to know each other again.” Tom Riddle first looked up at the sky, then chuckled and drew his wand, quickly gliding it through the air to write three glittering names:
"Tom Marvolo Riddle"

Tom Riddle swung his wand fiercely—

The letters were automatically rearranged, becoming:
"I am Lord Voldemort"

“Voldemort is my past, my present, and my future,” Tom Riddle said slowly.

The wizards below the stage erupted in uproar.

Meanwhile, on the other side of the world, tens of thousands of kilometers away from Bhutan, in the Scottish Highlands of the UK, Hogwarts School, hidden by magic.

The young Voldemort, using the alias "Brendan Carson," was able to stay at Hogwarts for the summer because of his orphan status.

Many other young wizards made the same choice as him.

At this moment, Voldemort, who appears as an eleven or twelve-year-old child with a face full of freckles, walks down the deserted corridors of Hogwarts.

Summer sunlight filters through the patterned glass of the old windows, dappling the floor and reflecting shimmering light. Through the huge floor-to-ceiling windows in the corridor, one can see vast expanses of green grass in the school's open space, filled with the sounds of cicadas, bringing a touch of life to this ancient building that has stood for a thousand years.

Further out, the lake's surface shimmered faintly, and the willows along its banks swayed gently in the breeze, rustling softly. The air was filled with the fresh scent of grass and the moist aroma of the lake.

It was 2 p.m. UK time. The afternoon sun in the Scottish Highlands was much harsher than in London. At this time, most of the young wizards staying at school were enjoying the cool relief brought by the cooling magic in their dormitories.

Even the teachers who stayed behind to look after the students were not many willing to appear in the school's old and stuffy corridors at this time.

Voldemort surveyed his surroundings with unbridled abandon—Hogwarts had once been his home, where he had spent many lonely but free summers, every corner filled with his memories and secrets. He cherished every stone, every window, every patch of grass.

Voldemort was attached to this place, but at the same time—

He also deeply loathed this place, Dumbledore, Tyrell, and the prophetic Harry Potter; the failures and humiliations these people brought him were etched into his very being.

But it's okay, it's okay.
It's all coming to an end.

A cruel smile spread across the innocent and adorable face of the young Voldemort.

Just a few more minutes. Just a few more minutes.
Everything here will cease to exist.
It doesn't matter anymore, nothing matters anymore. Past attachments and glories are all irrelevant.

Because soon only I will be left, the one and only "god"!
Coming soon
The young Voldemort's smile grew increasingly sinister as he paced the corridors of Hogwarts Castle like an eagle.

In Africa, on a volcano in Cameroon, nearly five thousand meters above the ground, in the thin air, sits a person with no hair, no lips, a bald face with only two thin nostrils, fingers like pale spider legs, wearing only a large hooded cloak, on a suspended throne.

The throne appeared to be made entirely of gold, and a flame still burned above its head—a golden flame of the same color as the throne, quietly radiating a flowing light like molten gold.

"Soon...soon..." His voice held a mixture of unease and anticipation, as if he were waiting for some momentous event to unfold. His body appeared unusually pale under the direct sunlight high in the sky, like the skin of a dying man, revealing a morbid beauty.

As time passed, the air around him began to distort, and his entire figure seemed to grow more ethereal, like dissipating smoke. The high throne, the golden flames, and his repeated words all imbued the scene with an air of mystery and foreboding. The surrounding environment was so harsh, the air so thin it was almost suffocating, yet he seemed detached from it all, existing on a completely different level.

Meanwhile, in the highest tower of Hogwarts, in the Headmaster's office, Dumbledore and Tyrell, those two cunning old foxes, were playing chess and drinking tea as usual.

"I can't believe I actually agreed to such a grand plan of yours, letting you wreak havoc on Hogwarts, Bhutan, and even the entire European wizarding world," Dumbledore said with a sigh, taking a sip of tea.

“It’s not that you can’t imagine agreeing,” Tierra said, placing a piece, “but that you have no way of saying no.”

“My destiny is sealed, and I cannot defy fate,” Tiera sighed softly.

“Gellert once claimed to be the Mandate of Heaven,” Dumbledore said with a sigh, then leaned back in his chair. “No one can claim to be the Mandate of Heaven, and all who do will eventually be abandoned by it.”

“That’s why we must strive, strive to evolve,” Tiera said, “until we evolve into Destiny.”

"Is that obsession really that important to you?" Dumbledore asked.

“Important, extremely important,” Tiera said firmly. “The obsession that has plagued us all our lives is precisely what makes us who we are. It is like an invisible chain that tightly binds our souls and is also the barrier that separates ‘who I am’ from ‘who others think I am’.”

“Our obsessions are a perfect mirror, reflecting our imperfections,” Tierra said.

Suddenly, Tiera's hand trembled, and a few drops of the black tea he was holding spilled from his hand and fell to the ground.

“It has begun,” Tierra said.