Chapter 136 – Meeting Voldemort
Albus Dumbledore smiled warmly at the scene before him, deeply moved.
Yes—Russell and Tom were different.
Though both were extraordinarily gifted, both raised as orphans, Russell's heart still held something Tom's never had—love.
Harry watched with open envy. He envied how easily Russell joked with Professor Dumbledore. He envied how casually he could touch a phoenix.
Ron, however, had no such thoughts.
He stared fixedly at Fawkes, quietly counting the phoenix's feathers and calculating how much they might sell for.
Growing up poor had left its mark. Ron had only one thought: If I had a phoenix, I could sell a feather every day and make a fortune…
Dumbledore grasped the flames with both hands and pulled them apart.
From the split fire tumbled a black shape that rolled across the floor.
A large black dog.
Its fur was sleek, its eyes bright and intelligent—clearly an excellent specimen.
Russell's eyes lit up.
"Professor Dumbledore, is this dinner?" he exclaimed. "You know what they say—roll the fragrant meat three times and even Merlin won't stand steady. Looks like we're in for a feast tonight."
The black dog immediately rolled its eyes at him.
"Harry… can dogs roll their eyes?" Ron whispered nervously, clutching Harry's sleeve.
Harry began to tremble.
Ever since learning that Peter Pettigrew could transform into a rat, he had devoured every book on Animagi he could find.
Now, a realization dawned.
The black dog rolled once more—
—and transformed into a middle-aged man.
Sirius Black.
He stepped forward and gave Russell's shoulder a firm punch.
"I have no idea what you meant by 'fragrant meat,'" Sirius said dryly, "but I suppose you recognized me immediately."
Russell studied him.
The Sirius standing before them was nothing like the gaunt, haunted figure he'd seen before.
His pale face was clean-shaven, jawline sharp and defined. Grey eyes flickered with living fire. His shoulder-length black hair was smooth and glossy now—no longer coarse and tangled. Perhaps he'd used some sort of fast-acting hair-smoothing potion from the Potter family vault.
It worked well, Russell noted. He made a mental note to recommend it to Snape.
Sirius wore a dark green velvet robe that wrapped elegantly around his tall frame. Beneath it, however, was a brown Muggle jacket—as if the robe had been thrown on merely to appear dignified for the occasion.
The difference was staggering.
He looked alive again.
And Harry could hardly breathe.
Harry's lips trembled.
He didn't know what to say. Worse, he feared that perhaps things weren't what he hoped they were. He had taken a few steps forward—only to stop halfway.
"Harry…"
Sirius turned toward him, his eyes reddening instantly. The once reckless, defiant man suddenly seemed at a loss. He strode forward and pulled Harry into a tight embrace.
"Harry… you've suffered so much."
He didn't seem able to say anything else—just kept repeating it.
"I'm your godfather. Sirius. Perhaps Russell has already told you."
"Godfather…"
Harry was only a first-year, after all. His emotions broke loose. He clutched Sirius and burst into tears.
"What a touching scene, isn't it?" Dumbledore said softly as he stepped beside Russell, a faint sadness in his voice.
"Mmm, you're not wrong," Russell replied with a sigh. "Though because of this, Professor Snape has started looking at me differently."
"That," Dumbledore said with a small smile, "is beyond my ability to fix."
"Snape? That greasy bat?" Sirius snapped at once when he heard the name. He turned sharply. "What's he done to you? I'll sort him out properly."
Before Russell could answer, Ron jumped in eagerly.
"Professor Snape is completely unfair! He's always targeting Harry and constantly docking points from Gryffindor!" Ron said indignantly.
"Did Professor Snape have some kind of grudge against my parents?" Harry asked, lifting his head to look at Sirius. He'd always wondered but never known who to ask.
"Of course. Back then he—"
"Sirius," Dumbledore interrupted gently but firmly, shaking his head.
Sirius sighed. "All right, Harry. It's not time for you to know those things yet."
No matter how Harry pressed him, Sirius kept his silence. Russell privately thought Harry would have better luck asking Hagrid—at least Hagrid's secrets didn't last very long.
"I'll be going, Professor Dumbledore," Russell said. He planned to visit Professor Quirrell shortly anyway. There was nothing else for him here.
On his way out, he noticed a copy of The Daily Prophet on Dumbledore's desk and casually picked it up.
"Professor, if you're done with this, may I borrow it?"
At Dumbledore's nod, Russell left the office reading as he walked.
Rita Skeeter had indeed followed his "advice." The article about the senior student was filled with praise—no nonsense at all. In fact, a considerable portion was dedicated to praising Russell himself: young, brilliant, practically a second Dumbledore.
It was so excessive that even Russell felt slightly embarrassed.
Still, he had tipped her off that a major story was coming soon. Whether she could seize it would depend on her instincts—and he had little doubt she knew how to write it.
For various reasons, Sirius's release had been kept strictly confidential. The objective had already been achieved—Barty Crouch's reputation had plummeted. That was enough.
If the news spread too widely, it would create unnecessary turbulence for the Ministry. Press conferences, explanations… troublesome.
---
Russell folded the newspaper and stopped outside Quirrell's office.
He adjusted his expression into one of righteous anger and knocked loudly—so hard the doorframe rattled.
"Come in," Quirrell's weak voice answered.
Russell burst inside.
"Professor Quirrell, what exactly are you trying to do? Get me killed?"
"Fythorne, I don't understand what you mean," Quirrell replied darkly. The boy was becoming far too bold.
"Don't pretend," Russell sneered. "There's a three-headed dog hidden in that corridor room. If I hadn't dodged in time, I'd be dead. Even a Shield Charm couldn't stop its teeth."
"Professor Quirrell, I'm done. Goodbye."
He turned as if to leave—but Quirrell hurried to shut the door.
"This was my oversight," Quirrell said quickly. Just as he was scrambling for a way to keep Russell from walking out—
Voldemort spoke.
"Remove the turban. I will speak to him personally."
"My Lord, but—"
"I have strength enough to speak. Now."
"…Yes, my Lord."
Quirrell removed the turban and turned around.
Russell had never seen a face so hideous, so steeped in evil.
Stripped of Tom Riddle's handsome facade, Voldemort looked like a decayed statue hollowed out by dark magic.
His skin was parchment-pale, stretched thin over bone. Purplish veins writhed beneath it like poisonous vines. His flattened nose was reduced to slits. Scarlet eyes narrowed into reptilian pupils that gleamed with cold, predatory light.
When he spoke, his voice carried a wet, serpentine hiss.
"First time meeting face to face, is it not, Russell Fythorne?" Voldemort said, forcing what must have been intended as a smile—though in his current form, it only deepened the horror.
Even Russell, mentally prepared, felt a jolt at the sheer weight of the man's presence. The evil was not just physical—it radiated from him.
"You are…?" Russell asked, feigning fear laced with confusion.
He wasn't worried about Legilimency. Though he didn't know Occlumency, he had once taken a peculiar potion at the Addams estate that permanently shielded his mind. Even Dumbledore hadn't been able to peer inside.
Voldemort, meanwhile, was surprised. His Legilimency slid off Russell's mind like water off stone. He assumed the boy possessed some anti-Legilimency artifact.
"I am the last true heir of Slytherin's bloodline. The creator of Horcruxes. The Dark Lord whose name ordinary wizards dare not speak. They call me the Dark Lord—or if you prefer… Voldemort."
"That's impossible," Russell said, his face draining of color. "The Dark Lord died. Defeated by the Boy Who Lived—Harry Potter."
"A lie!" Voldemort roared, veins bulging violently. "A filthy slander!"
"I did not fall to him. I fell to an ancient magic—some rare protection that woman used. But Harry Potter… I will see him destroyed."
"Master—!" Quirrell groaned in pain, clutching his head as Voldemort's agitation wracked his body.
"So all of this has been your doing?" Russell asked warily.
"Of course," Voldemort replied, forcing calm. "Do not fear, child. I see your talent. I simply do not wish to see such brilliance wasted at Hogwarts."