John observed Harry carefully from the corner of his eye, his gaze was sharp and calculating beneath lowered lashes.
Harry, meanwhile, acted as though nothing unusual had happened at all, his posture was relaxed and unsuspecting. He focused intently on the book in his hands, occasionally nodding lightly at its contents, his lips were moving as he read particularly interesting passages.
Seeing this complete lack of suspicion, John breathed a small sigh of relief. The tension in his shoulders eased slightly.
It seemed Harry hadn't noticed anything amiss. His disguise could continue for now.
No, perhaps it couldn't continue much longer after all.
John looked down at his left hand, still concealed within the folds of his dark robes.
The crack that had appeared earlier had begun spreading at some point during the past few minutes, crawling relentlessly up his arm like a spider's web of death, branching and fracturing across his pale flesh. The fissures were deepening, widening, revealing glimpses of something beneath that wasn't quite flesh and wasn't quite bone.
The ashen aura of death flickered beneath his skin, barely visible in the warm firelight but undeniably present.
Three days at most, he estimated, examining the progression of the cracks with detachment.
No, perhaps not even three days if the deterioration continued at this rate.
If it were Dumbledore observing him, he would notice the abnormality by tomorrow morning at the latest. Perhaps even tonight, if they happened to cross paths in a corridor.
At this sobering thought, John exhaled slowly through his nose.
So, this is where it would be exposed, after all. All his careful planning, all his patience over the past months, undone by the simple failure of this borrowed flesh.
Still, he reflected, this might actually be a good opportunity, perhaps even better than his original plans.
The Room of Requirement was a miraculous place, after all. Whatever happened here, sealed within its magical walls, the outside world would never know.
He turned his head slowly and glanced at Harry, who remained completely absorbed in his book, utterly unguarded and vulnerable. The famous Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, was sitting few feet away without the slightest awareness of the predator sharing the room.
John smiled faintly, though the expression held no warmth, only a cold, unfriendly satisfaction.
Then, moving slowly to avoid startling his prey prematurely, he drew his wand from his waist. He pointed it toward the door with a gentle, almost casual flick of his wrist.
A stream of pitch-black mist poured from the tip of his wand like smoke from a funeral pyre. It coiled around the doorframe like a living serpent, weaving itself into the wood and stone, sealing the exit completely with dark magic that thrummed with malice.
The temperature in the room dropped several degrees. The shadows in the corners seemed to deepen and stretch.
Harry naturally noticed John's unusual behavior.
He set down his book carefully, marking his place with one finger, and turned his head in confusion. "John, what are you doing?"
His voice carried genuine puzzlement rather than alarm. Not yet understanding, still trusting.
John rose slowly to his feet; his movements were fluid and controlled despite his body's deterioration. His wand remained aimed steadily at Harry's chest,.
An almost twisted, exaggerated smile spread across his young face. "Harry Potter, the game ends now. Pick up your wand and let me see what you're truly capable of, what makes you so special."
Harry froze in place, momentarily bewildered by the sudden shift in tone and demeanor.
What had gotten into John? Was he planning to duel him here?
This wasn't even a scheduled meeting time for their DADA study group.
He frowned deeply, his mind struggling to resolve the threatening stranger before him with the quiet, helpful boy he thought he knew. "What are you talking about?"
"You really are pathetically stupid, savior," John's voice suddenly became hoarse and sinister, dropping an octave into something that rasped like dead leaves, as if he had become an entirely different person which, in truth, he had. "Haven't you recognized me even now? After all this time?"
A wave of malevolent energy radiated out from his small body, making the air itself feel heavy and contaminated. The magical pressure was immense, far beyond what any first-year should possess.
Harry shot to his feet with an instinctive surge of adrenaline, his wand was instantly sliding from his sleeve into his palm. His combat training kicked in automatically. "Who are you really?"
He already had a terrible suspicion forming in his mind. Because just moments ago, without any warning, the scar on his forehead had suddenly begun to burn with familiar, agonizing pain.
This scar, which had faded considerably over the past year, becoming little more than a thin lightning bolt of pale tissue, was now throbbing violently.
He knew all too well what that meant.
"Voldemort—that is my name," John said, or rather, the thing wearing John's face said with cold satisfaction. "My true name."
Voldemort began pacing back and forth before Harry with calm, predatory composure, moving like a caged serpent finally released.
He spoke as casually as if making polite conversation at a dinner party. "Before we begin this long-overdue duel, do you have any last words you'd like to speak? Any prayers to whatever powers you believe might save you? I think we can spare a few minutes for such courtesies."
It was a posture of supreme, arrogant confidence.
As if his opponent were already trapped prey with no hope of escape, the outcome predetermined and inevitable. And of course, he had every reason for such confidence, every reason to believe himself untouchable.
Even a body on the verge of complete physical collapse, cracking and dying around him, was more than ordinary wizards could possibly handle. More than enough to kill one teenage boy.
Harry gripped his wand tightly, sweat was slowly trickling down his temple to track along his jaw. His heart hammered against his ribs.
He forced himself to steady his breathing, counting silently keeping his gaze locked firmly on his opponent without wavering. "When did you start impersonating John?"
"John? What a dreadful, common name," Voldemort curled his lip in contempt and disgust, as though the very sound of it offended him. "Call me Lord Voldemort, or the Dark Lord, whichever title you prefer. I'm not particular. As for when it started..."
A mocking gleam flashed in his crimson eyes as cruel as fresh blood. "From the very beginning, of course. That pathetic fool called John ceased to exist before the school term even started. His body proved to be quite useful."
Harry maintained his composure on the surface through sheer force of will, keeping his expression controlled, but couldn't help feeling a chill spreading through his chest like ice water.
Voldemort had been lurking at Hogwarts for an entire year! Walking the corridors, attending classes, sitting beside students in the Great Hall, befriending him.
This was the most brazen, audacious provocation against Hogwarts and Dumbledore imaginable!
"Angry?" Voldemort raised an eyebrow mockingly, clearly savoring Harry's concealed horror. "It seems our great savior has finally realized who he's been dealing with all along, who he's been sharing secrets with, trusting."
Harry didn't reveal much emotion externally, keeping his face blank despite the turmoil below.
He knew that Voldemort was deliberately trying to provoke him, to make him angry and reckless.
Right now, there was only one thing to do: delay for time.
Or rather, that was all he could realistically do given the massive disparity in their power levels.
Cold reason told him that unless absolutely necessary, unless his life was literally forfeit otherwise, he must never engage Voldemort in direct magical combat.
His chances of victory were miniscule, so small as to be nonexistent. He knew his own limitations.
While Voldemort was talking, clearly enjoying the sound of his own voice and the fear he was stirring, Harry quietly slipped his hand into his robe pocket. His fingers found the small wooden amulet that rested there. He crushed it with sudden, desperate force, feeling the wood splinter and crack beneath his palm.
This was an emergency contact item Professor Westeros had given him.
Moreover, this amulet had a tracking function built into its enchantments.
Once shattered, Adrian would immediately receive the magical signal and rush to his aid. At least, that was the theory.
As Harry waited tensely for reinforcements to arrive, his heart was beating with desperate hope,
Voldemort suddenly burst into unpleasant laughter.
"It's useless," he sneered, his eyes were glittering with malicious amusement. "Did you really think I hadn't noticed your pathetically obvious little trick? In this room, properly sealed as it is, no message can be transmitted out. Nothing can penetrate these walls."
Only then did Harry remember with sinking dread that this was the Room of Requirement.
This magical space inherently possessed the property of isolating inside from outside. And combined with Voldemort's additional dark enchantments layered over the door, it could indeed completely block any distress signal from escaping.
His heart sank like a stone dropping into dark water.
But he couldn't give up yet.
Surrender meant death, and probably worse than death.
He could only pray desperately that someone outside would notice something was wrong here that someone would realize he'd gone missing, would search for him, would somehow perceive the danger.
Though the possibility was extremely small, almost nonexistent. Who would think to check the Room of Requirement?
In any case, he had to continue delaying, keep Voldemort talking, buy himself precious minutes.
And from Voldemort's demeanor, from the way he was savoring this moment, he didn't seem in any particular hurry to finish this either. He was enjoying himself too much.
Like a cat toying with a captured mouse, savoring every moment of the victim's futile struggle before the inevitable kill.
"Why did you come to Hogwarts?" Harry asked, forcing himself to remain calm and keep his voice steady despite the fear coursing through him. "Just to kill me?"
"Kill you?" Voldemort let out a scornful laugh. "That's merely incidental, a pleasant bonus. I have far greater purposes."
Perhaps having suppressed himself for too long, playing the role of a meek first-year for endless months, he actually lowered his wand slightly.
He began explaining at length, clearly relishing the opportunity to finally speak freely about his plans. "Do you understand, Potter? For a wizard, the soul is the most important thing, the very essence of our being..."
Harry suddenly recalled the book he had seen John holding earlier.
"...No matter what fatal injuries a wizard suffers, no matter how completely their body is destroyed, as long as their soul remains intact and anchored, they can live forever, resurrecting infinitely from death itself."
Voldemort's voice carried a kind of fervor, an obsessive intensity that made Harry's skin crawl. "Magnificent, isn't it? The ultimate achievement—true immortality!"
Harry hesitantly nodded with a small jerky movement of his head.
Ah, don't misunderstand—it was just that the atmosphere seemed to call for some response, a mere nod to go along with the madman's rambling.
Anything to keep him talking rather than casting.
He certainly knew what Voldemort was talking about. Adrian had also explained to him the existence of Horcruxes before, the darkest of dark magic.
He understood the terrible consequences of splitting one's soul, the loss of humanity, the degradation, the madness.
"However, that's simply too wasteful! Too crude!" Voldemort suddenly became agitated, his voice was trembling with fury and frustration.
His hands clenched into fists at his sides. "Split the soul? Fragment it into pieces? That's a desecration of my perfect soul! Why would I destroy something so precious through division? What I want is a complete, eternal, most powerful soul—unified and transcendent!"
Madman—that was the only thought in Harry's mind at that moment, watching him rant and gesture.
So, what exactly had Voldemort come to Hogwarts to do, if not to create Horcruxes?
Search for fragments of his soul he'd already hidden?
Could it be that a Horcrux Voldemort had created years ago was somewhere here at Hogwarts, hidden in the castle?
Voldemort suddenly calmed down as abruptly as he'd become agitated, his composure was returning terrifyingly in an instant. His gaze refocused on Harry with intensity, all madness was vanishing behind cold calculation.
He licked his dry, cracked lips with a gray tongue and raised his wand once more to point at Harry's chest. "Time's up. Enough talk. Now, let us begin this long-awaited duel, Harry Potter."
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