The next day.
As usual, the Azkaban warden responsible for delivering meals pushed open the cell door.
The first thing he saw was Orsaga, standing in front of a blackboard, diligently scribbling down calculations.
The chalkboard was filled with strange symbols and figures. The guard couldn't make heads or tails of it—just one glance made his eyes hurt.
Setting down the food tray, he asked curiously, "What are you working on?"
Given that Orsaga wasn't a criminal and had been brought in under special circumstances, the guard treated him with relative politeness.
Orsaga, still focused on his writing, didn't even look up. "I'm calculating the optimal global population size for planetary domination."
"Pff—HAHAHAHAHA!"
The guard blinked for a few seconds, then burst out laughing.
"Kids these days… what kind of weird hobbies are you all into?"
He hadn't expected such a ridiculous answer this early in the morning, and it sent him into a full-body chuckle. He laughed so hard his stomach hurt.
After a while, he finally managed to straighten up and said, still chuckling, "Well, good luck with that—Hahaha!"
Then he left the room, laughing all the way down the corridor.
On his way out, a few colleagues asked what had him in such a good mood. Between fits of laughter, he relayed Orsaga's response.
Word spread fast.
Before long, the entire prison was abuzz with it, and people couldn't stop laughing—even the prisoners who were usually tormented daily by Dementors and had long since given up on life cracked a smile or two.
Orsaga, still in his room, clearly sensed the amusement rippling through the prison.
But he didn't care.
After all, what did the opinions of ants matter?
They could be squashed or ignored at will. He'd decide based on mood.
No need to dwell on it.
---
Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry
Quirinus Quirrell stood alone, staring down at the object in his hand.
The Philosopher's Stone.
His expression twisted into something between ecstasy and disbelief.
He hadn't expected things to go this smoothly. He'd prepared himself for a long search—perhaps even a year or more—but here it was, delivered into his hands without much effort.
It was almost too easy.
He hadn't basked in his triumph for long when he received a mental signal from the back of his head.
His smile stiffened. Carefully, he stowed the stone away.
Then he turned to the student in front of him.
"The Dark Lord has accepted your request," he said smoothly. "Once he is resurrected, he will personally teach you the Three Unforgivable Curses."
Hearing this, the Purgator—who had secretly feared he would be cast aside after becoming useless—breathed a sigh of relief.
"Thank you for your generosity," he replied politely.
Internally, he was beyond grateful for his current setup.
A pureblood wizard. A Slytherin student. Naturally aligned with Voldemort's ideals.
That was the only reason he'd dared to make contact with Quirrell in the first place—sharing key intel in order to win the Dark Lord's trust.
And he'd succeeded.
With Dumbledore distracted elsewhere, their plan had worked perfectly.
Now, not only had Voldemort obtained the Philosopher's Stone, but the Purgator himself had also scored big:
Side Quest: Assist Voldemort in obtaining the Philosopher's Stone and enabling his resurrection – 4,000 reward points.
Bonus: Personal instruction from Voldemort in the Three Unforgivable Curses.
Compared to the other Purgators who were stuck learning basic spells like Incendio in class, he was going to be mastering instant-kill curses like Avada Kedavra.
It was a game-changer.
Normally, even with his intel, Voldemort wouldn't have gotten the Stone so easily. Dumbledore wasn't senile, after all.
But thanks to Orsaga's chaotic presence, Dumbledore's attention had been significantly diverted.
And the moment they saw an opening, they struck.
The Purgator grinned to himself: 'This is it. This is my rise to the top.'
He'd seized the perfect opportunity—no doubt about it.
All that was left was for Voldemort's resurrection to be completed.
Then the Unforgivable Curses would be his to wield, and the 4,000 points would roll in.
He could practically smell victory.
Quirrell, unaware of the student's inner monologue, received another mental command.
Nodding, he drew his wand and gave it a sharp flick.
"Let's go."
A swirl of thick, black mist enveloped them both, and in the next instant, they shot upward—vanishing into the sky.
The Philosopher's Stone was theirs, but Voldemort's revival still required preparation.
Quirrell needed to contact the remaining Death Eaters and gather the materials necessary for the resurrection ritual.
---
Meanwhile, at the Ministry of Magic…
Dumbledore was in the middle of an emergency meeting when he suddenly paled.
He shot to his feet, voice tight.
"…The protective enchantments have been breached."
He had placed a ward on the Philosopher's Stone. Now, it had been forcefully dispelled.
The Philosopher's Stone has been stolen!
The room fell into stunned silence.
After a beat, Dumbledore turned to the bewildered faces around him and said gravely:
"Ladies and gentlemen… it appears Voldemort's resurrection ritual is about to begin."
The room erupted.
"What?!"
"This can't be happening!"
The council had gathered with the express purpose of preventing Voldemort's return.
And now, without even having time to react, Dumbledore was telling them that the ritual was imminent.
Panic spread like wildfire.
As the room descended into chaos, Dumbledore could only sigh.
His original plan had been to follow the prophecy—to carefully guide Harry Potter through a series of trials and lessons, gradually shaping him into a wizard capable of ending the war once and for all.
He'd even mapped out Voldemort's resurrection and defeat, right down to the timeframe.
Everything had been planned meticulously.
But now?
The timeline was falling apart.
Harry, the so-called Chosen One, was still a child—barely capable of casting basic spells.
To throw him into battle against a resurrected Voldemort now would be suicide.
Dumbledore would have to act himself.
It wasn't what he wanted. It went against his intentions.
But he had no other choice.
He reached down and touched the wand at his waist.
He wasn't too old to fight just yet.
Even if his strength had diminished with age, he still retained two-thirds of his prime power—more than enough to deal with Tom Riddle.
Unless, of course, Voldemort had grown strong enough to rival the peak of the first Dark Lord, Gellert Grindelwald…
But barring that, Dumbledore had no fear.
The title "The Greatest Wizard of the Age" wasn't just an honor—it was a fact.
Over the past fifty years, countless challengers had come and gone, yet none had taken that title from him.
Even if he'd grown older, it didn't mean anyone else had grown stronger.
That was his pride.
His confidence.
And so, with determination in his eyes, Dumbledore thought quietly:
'Tom… this time, I'll end it myself.'
_____
T/N:
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