By the Thames, Voldemort was still pondering Tom's alliance proposal.
He hadn't understood that talk about primary and secondary contradictions—after all, he'd never attended primary school, having been educated solely by the Head at the orphanage.
Yet he grasped Tom's underlying meaning perfectly.
Voldemort weighed his options carefully.
Should he prioritise killing Dumbledore, Lawrence and Harry Potter first?
Or eliminate this version of himself?
After deliberation, the former seemed considerably simpler.
Just as Tom understood him, he naturally comprehended his younger self.
They shared one absolute commonality—fear of death!
Therefore, if Tom dared approach him despite knowing he was outmatched, it meant thorough preparations had been made. Killing him today would be impossible.
Any hostile action would permanently burn all bridges between them.
Then he'd need to contend not only with Dumbledore and Lawrence, but also a venomous serpent in the shadows. He knew exactly how vindictive he could be.
Every wealthy woman who'd ever played with him using steel wool had met untimely ends!
Most crucially, Voldemort recognised his precarious position. He needed a competent ally.
But...
Voldemort's expression twisted with disdain. "You're too weak. What could you possibly offer me at your current level?"
He knew his power had surged exponentially after graduation, during his Horcrux-making world travels.
Back then, he'd plundered countless hidden realms, mastered extensive Dark Magic, and befriended the world's most wicked Dark Wizards.
When creating his first Horcrux, he'd merely been a student.
Skilled for his age, perhaps, but no match for his elite Death Eaters.
During their last encounter, a single surprise Killing Curse had sent Tom reeling.
"A correction—this isn't about serving you, but cooperation." Tom remained calm, unruffled by the contempt.
"My current weakness is precisely why I sought you out."
"Cooperation has conditions."
Voldemort shrugged. "Let's hear them."
Tom stared intently. "Relinquish Slytherin's legacy to me."
"Impossible!" Voldemort's magical aura erupted violently, transforming the tranquil river into raging torrents.
Unfazed, Tom conjured a protective barrier. "We both know what vanished from the Chamber of Secrets. You took it.
"Hand it over."
"Avada Kedavra!"
A serpent intercepted the green bolt mid-air.
Tom smirked. "Afraid?"
"Of what?" Voldemort glowered.
"Then surrender the legacy. You've decades more experience—surely you don't fear me surpassing you?"
"None shall surpass me," Voldemort declared imperiously. "But Slytherin's heir is me alone. You're unworthy—fractured soul."
"Then go die with your inheritance. Within ten years at most, you'll be crushed like an ant by Young Master Lawrence."
"Can you fucking stop calling him 'Young Master Lawrence'!"
"Do you think I fucking want to?!"
The two glared viciously at each other. Voldemort was going mad, desperate to know what Tom had been through to say 'Young Master Lawrence' so naturally.
"Voldemort, give me the inheritance. I can train followers for you, contact the giants, help you take Azkaban."
"I can do that myself."
"But they won't help you hold off Dumbledore... or Young Master Lawrence."
"Stop. Next time, just say Dumbledore."
"Okay."
After more arguing, Voldemort finally agreed.
He considered—Slytherin's inheritance couldn't be fully absorbed in a short time. He could maintain control for a few years yet.
If Tom could just delay Dumbledore or Young Master Lawr... damn it! If he could just keep one occupied, preferably with mutual destruction, it would be worth it.
If Dumbledore and Lawrence weren't dealt with within three years, he'd kill Tom pre-emptively—leaving no chance for him to surpass him.
Nearby, Wayne listened intently. At the mention of Slytherin's inheritance, his heart skipped a beat.
He'd known the Chamber of Secrets couldn't be that simple. Slytherin wouldn't just leave a Basilisk behind.
What kind of legacy was that?
Tom must have acquired knowledge left by Slytherin—and certainly not all of it.
After his famous argument with Gryffindor, Slytherin had left Hogwarts.
No one knew how long he lived afterwards or how he died.
But for a research fanatic, the pursuit of knowledge wouldn't stop.
His later studies must have been far more mysterious and sinister than what he left at Hogwarts.
Just as Wayne hoped Voldemort would reveal more, Tom's eyes suddenly glowed—he was using the Legilimency Spell to obtain the inheritance!
Damn it.
Wayne cursed silently, though it made sense.
To verify the inheritance's authenticity, Tom couldn't just let Voldemort write it down.
Only by viewing the memories directly could he be certain.
But this meant no more helpful information. Wayne could only watch them stare at each other, his frustration boiling over.
He'd come all this way just to hear them call someone 'Young Master Lawrence' a few times?
And they wanted the inheritance?
Screw that.
Wayne opened his briefcase and pulled out a single-use rocket launcher.
Following the manual's instructions, he adjusted the angle and fired.
Both Tom, immersed in the inherited memories, and Voldemort, his mind open, suddenly felt warning bells—a bone-chilling sense of danger.
At the same moment, Wayne's satisfied voice carried across:
"Well done, Tom. You finally lured Voldemort out. I'll put in a good word for you with Dumbledore."
"Lawrence!"
"Young Master Lawrence!"
Voldemort and Tom exclaimed simultaneously.
Voldemort roared in fury: "You're working with them? I'll—"
Before he could finish, the rocket exploded above them. A small mushroom cloud rose as the riverbank shattered, water flooding the surrounding grassland.
Wayne flew over and wasn't particularly surprised to find no severed limbs or even blood on the ground.
This was purely meant to disgust people. Killing Tom and Voldemort would require more than a single rocket.
You'd need hundreds or thousands of them, ploughing the earth thoroughly.
Followed by a small tactical... that would be more reliable.
...
Spinner's End.
A dark figure suddenly burst into Snape's home, startling him awake.
"My Lord!"
Seeing the shadowy figure before him, Snape immediately bowed his head, inwardly horrified.
Why had Voldemort come to him so abruptly?
"Snape, prepare potions for me." Voldemort rasped out a series of potion names. Without hesitation, Snape immediately set up his cauldron and began brewing.
"My Lord... what happened to you?" While preparing the potions, Snape didn't miss the opportunity to gather information.
Voldemort's current state was highly unusual—his hood tattered, the black half of his body seemingly liquefied and constantly eroding the white half.
Green mist swirled around Voldemort as he struggled to suppress the power of the black half, maintaining bodily equilibrium.
Had he encountered Dumbledore? Had they fought?
"Lawrence!" Voldemort's eyes snapped open as he growled, "Damn Mudblood! One day, I'll extract your soul and burn it in cursed flames for millennia!"
Snape felt a chill, sensing Voldemort's fury, and quickened his movements.
In less than an hour, he'd prepared all the potions Voldemort required.
After drinking them, countless rotting parasites fell from Voldemort's body, filling the room with a vile stench. Yet Voldemort seemed unaffected, nodding in satisfaction instead.
"Snape, your potion skills have improved considerably..."
This was why he valued Snape. Competent subordinates were hard to find, especially in such highly skilled fields as potion-making.
Even knowing Snape had been close to Dumbledore for over a decade, making his loyalty questionable, his treatment of Snape differed entirely from how he treated Lucius Malfoy.
"Thank you for your praise, my Lord," Snape replied evenly, his face showing appropriate concern. "You mentioned Lawrence earlier... he couldn't possibly be your match."
Voldemort snorted coldly, eyeing him meaningfully. "I'm in a special condition now—my magical power is unstable. You could say I'm several times weaker than when I first resurrected.
"Lawrence ambushed me, using Muggle firearms. That's how he gained the upper hand."
Snape showed no unusual reaction, instead displaying righteous indignation as he cursed Lawrence vehemently.
Observing his expression closely, Voldemort's wariness towards Snape lessened slightly.
This didn't seem like acting—he appeared to hate Lawrence even more than Voldemort did.
What Voldemort didn't know was that this required no acting at all.
Over the years, Snape had lost count of how many times Wayne had extorted him. This was all genuine emotion.
...
Elsewhere, in a hidden valley, Tom materialised, his hair now completely curled and reeking of burning.
"AAAAAAAAARGH!"
"Lawrence! You bloody bastard!"
Tom raised his head and let out a furious roar, hating Wayne to the core of his heart. If Wayne were standing before him now, he'd be greeted by an endless stream of green light.
He'd finally managed to persuade Voldemort to become his ally, only for this alliance to be destroyed within minutes by a single sentence from young master Lawrence.
He knew all too well how suspicious 'he' was. Even if things were explained later, Voldemort's distrust of him would never fade.
What made Tom want to vomit blood most was—how did Young Master Lawrence know about their meeting today and pinpoint their location so accurately?
Had Voldemort collaborated with him?
Tom's heart skipped a beat. This location had been chosen by Voldemort—his own agreed meeting point had been outside the old Wool's Orphanage.
But soon, he dismissed this thought.
Voldemort wouldn't do such a thing. Either it was sheer dumb luck, or Lawrence had some method to track their movements.
Tom warily surveyed his surroundings—even the silent valley now seemed unsafe in his eyes.
It felt like Lawrence could leap out from any of those bushes at any moment.
Not daring to linger, Tom Apparated repeatedly, fleeing Britain and heading north.
He couldn't return here anytime soon. Without finding a way to conceal himself, he absolutely mustn't come back.
'Just wait... I'll return one day!'
...
Paris.
Back at Nicolas' manor, Wayne remained unaware that he'd become a bush camper in Tom's mind.
Today's efforts had borne some fruit—he'd learned about Slytherin's legacy.
Judging by Voldemort's violent reaction, it clearly contained significant secrets. When reviewing the memories earlier, Tom's mouth had twisted into a Nike swoosh.
The tricky part was how to extract information about this legacy from both Tom and Voldemort.
Moreover, a new question arose in Wayne's mind.
If Slytherin left something behind, what about the other three founders?
Especially Gryffindor.
Though all four were great, the most powerful should have been either Gryffindor or Slytherin.
Ravenclaw had academic prowess but no remarkable battle records, while Hufflepuff was more of a support player, focusing on life-enhancing magic.
Though Wayne already possessed numerous legacies, he wouldn't mind acquiring more—it might help him gain insights through analogies.
"Looks like I'll need to return for Harry's trial," the young man murmured.
He'd originally planned to stay longer before returning to Britain, but Dumbledore would surely testify then.
As Headmaster and the greatest white wizard of the century, if even old Dumbledore didn't know about it, then there'd be no point wasting effort searching.