A new day began.
And clearly, it was another day destined for mischief and mayhem.
Skipping over the uneventful and frankly unimportant parts of the morning, the story fast-forwarded to dusk.
The sun hovered low in the sky—about to dip below the horizon, yet not quite gone.
In a shadowy forest clearing, a large group of robed figures had gathered. At the center stood a massive cauldron bubbling atop a bed of burning coals.
Thick steam rose from the mysterious liquid within, filling the air with a strange aroma. It wasn't exactly unpleasant, but it wasn't pleasant either—just… off.
As one black-robed figure stirred the cauldron, the others watched in silence, emotions mixed. Some were visibly thrilled, others filled with anxiety. The return of their Dark Lord was met with both reverence and dread.
After all, more than a decade had passed—some of them had children now. They hadn't even had time to enjoy a proper mug of milk from their newborns, and yet here they were again.
Years of running from the law and living in fear had taken their toll. The fire that once drove them in their reckless youth had long been doused by reality.
If they had a choice, many of them wouldn't be here.
But unfortunately they had no choice.
And so, in this tense silence, time ticked forward.
Swoosh—
From the darkened sky, several streams of white light descended, as a contingent of people appeared on the other side of the clearing—directly opposing the robed gathering.
Seeing the man leading the new arrivals, the figure stirring the cauldron pulled back his hood and sneered.
"Welcome, Headmaster Dumbledore. But I'm afraid you're too late."
He grinned darkly, eyes gleaming. "My master—the Dark Lord—is moments away from complete resurrection!"
Quirinus Quirrell was confident. Unshaken.
The ritual site had been secured long in advance with layers of defensive enchantments. Even if enemies showed up, they wouldn't be able to break through in time.
And in just a few more minutes, the Dark Lord would return in his full glory.
What could Dumbledore do then?
Some of the more aware Death Eaters joined in the jeering, hurling insults and profanities at the opposition, drunk on the imminent victory.
Dumbledore, however, remained silent.
His gaze never wavered from the cauldron.
He could feel it—familiar magical energy, rapidly growing stronger.
Tom Riddle was returning to his peak.
And yet, Dumbledore made no move to breach the magical defenses. He remained calm, composed.
For two reasons:
First, he could tell the enchantments weren't easily broken.
Second, Tom Riddle was a man of pride. Once resurrected, there was no way he'd cower behind walls. He would show himself. Dumbledore only had to wait.
So both sides remained locked in a bizarre standoff.
Exchanging taunts.
But not a single spell was cast.
It was all bark, no bite—for now.
___
Azkaban
Back in his room, Orsaga nodded with satisfaction at the numbers on the blackboard.
Over the past few days, his slower-brained human vessel had only managed to simulate a little over two thousand scenarios. Ranging from bioweapon solutions to full-scale world wars, he'd tested them all.
Some were efficient, some messy.
But he wasn't looking for efficiency.
He wanted fun.
After all, it was just a game. The outcome wasn't the point.
The process was everything.
With his decision made, the heavily locked door creaked open.
A waiting Dementor stood silently outside, holding a key.
Without hesitation, Orsaga stepped out.
The moment he left the room, flames erupted behind him, incinerating everything inside.
Incendio.
Silent. Instant.
Under the Dementor's guidance, he began walking down the corridor.
Inmate after inmate peeked out through their cell doors, curious about the strange procession.
One bald man burst out laughing. "Oi, brat! Those Dementors are gonna break you until you're crying for your mummy! Try not to wet yourself, yeah?"
Orsaga didn't respond.
He simply lifted his wand and flicked it lazily in the man's direction.
"Trip Jinx ×100."
"Levicorpus ×100."
Trip Jinx: Forces the target to fall flat on their face.
Levicorpus: Suspends the target upside down by the ankle.
In just 0.1 seconds, the man slammed into the floor.
"You bloody little—!"
Before he could finish, the next spell activated, hoisting him two meters into the air.
Then he hit the ground again.
Then again.
Over and over—one hundred repetitions of each spell.
"Smack! Smack!"
Bones cracked. Flesh split. Screams turned into gurgles.
Within a second, he was no longer a man, but a misshapen pile of meat.
Blood sprayed across the corridor, spattering the face of another inmate across the hall—an old man who had been about to chime in with his own snide remark.
He froze.
Staring at the grotesque mess across from him, he slowly turned back into his cell.
Wordlessly, he lay down on his bed and pulled the blanket over himself.
In the cold indifference of Azkaban, only his blanket could still bring him comfort.
As Orsaga continued walking, more prisoners tried their luck.
And each and every one of them succeeded in only one thing: dying horribly.
"Hey kid! Off to conquer the world, are ya? Don't come crying when they toss you back in here!"
Another brave soul.
Unaware of what had happened to his fellow inmates.
Orsaga gave him the same courtesy—a lazy flick of his wand.
Transfiguration.
The prisoner's DNA unraveled, forcibly regressing millions of years.
Seconds later, a dazed ape stood in his place.
Scratching its head, it tried to understand why it was in a cage.
---
Moments later, a large group of guards blocked Orsaga's path.
The warden, face grim, stepped forward.
"Orsaga, you stand accused of murdering twenty-two inmates and causing irreversible harm to thirty-seven others!"
Even as he spoke, the corners of his mouth twitched involuntarily.
He'd never imagined this child could be so destructive.
Orsaga didn't flinch.
"They annoyed me."
The warden blinked. "That's it?!"
Orsaga tilted his head. "What, am I supposed to tolerate mockery from a bunch of weaklings?"
His eyes remained as calm as ever. Unbothered. Empty.
The same look he'd had when he first arrived.
Killing seemed to have no more emotional weight than squashing an insect.
This child is a disaster waiting to happen…
The warden didn't hesitate any longer.
"Seize him!!"
Instantly, dozens of spells were unleashed.
"Expelliarmus!"
"Stupefy!"
"Petrificus Totalus!"
A barrage of jinxes and curses flew at Orsaga like a multicolored rainstorm.
They weren't lethal—but they didn't need to be.
Against this many spells, even a fully grown wizard would drop in an instant.
___
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