Chapter 546

Vaguely—

His body felt heavy, as if an invisible weight had settled upon him. His consciousness grew hazy, teetering on the edge of oblivion. Memories, fragmented and fleeting, surfaced before him like shards of a shattered mirror, swirling in a chaotic dance.

Images flashed—some drawn from reality, others conjured from dreams, and a few born of long-buried desires. They appeared vividly, one after another, weaving an illusion so intoxicating that he struggled to discern what was real and what was not.

He saw Hogwarts kneeling in submission beneath his throne, its proud towers casting long, subjugated shadows.

He saw Dumbledore's lifeless body suspended high above the pinnacle of Hogwarts Castle, swaying slightly in the wind like a grim banner of his triumph.

He saw Lockhart—his most despised enemy—on his knees, trembling, begging for mercy with despair in his eyes.

Everything was perfect. Beautiful.

Yes, it was so breathtakingly beautiful.

He felt himself surrendering to the bliss, letting it engulf him completely, allowing it to erode the boundaries of reality.

This was paradise.

This was his world.

A dream?

No, he was imprisoned.

The realization flickered within him, a feeble whisper against the overwhelming tide of euphoria. But just as it surfaced, the thought was swiftly devoured, swallowed whole by the suffocating embrace of the dream.

He continued sinking—deeper and deeper—spiraling into the endless abyss of illusion.

Tom Riddle stood still, his gaze fixed on the scene before him. His expression betrayed neither joy nor satisfaction, only quiet, calculated observation.

At the heart of it all, Voldemort lay trapped beneath the vibrant, otherworldly peaks—mountains infused with swirling colors that shimmered and pulsed like living entities. A thick, blood-red mist slowly coiled around his motionless form, cocooning him in eerie stillness, as though he were merely sleeping.

But it wasn't just the sight of Voldemort's unnatural stillness that unsettled Tom—it was the expression on his face.

Voldemort looked… content. At peace. Even proud.

A chill slithered down Tom's spine, his thoughts racing.

Lockhart has become even stronger.

If it had been anyone else—an ordinary wizard, even one of notable talent—they would have been crushed, forced into despair, their very sense of self eroded within moments.

But Voldemort was not just any wizard.

He was a Dark Lord.

The notion that someone could subdue him so effortlessly, imprison not only his body but his very spirit, sent an unshakable fear crawling through Tom's core.

And yet, Lockhart had done it.

He had appeared on the battlefield, neutralized Voldemort with terrifying ease, and cast him into a prison of dreams.

And if Lockhart could do this to Voldemort…

Then what could he do to me?

The realization rooted itself deep in Tom's mind like an unyielding weed. He had been striving to escape the shackles of Hellfire, clinging to the hope of freedom. But now, another force loomed over him, one even more daunting than the flames that once bound him.

Lockhart no longer regarded him as an equal.

He looked down on him—just as one would look upon an ordinary wizard.

The moment that thought took hold, it refused to be dislodged.

And Tom Riddle, once fearless, now found himself staring into the abyss of a new kind of power.

But Lockhart had no time to pay attention to Tom's silent dread.

Or rather, even if he had noticed, he simply did not care.

Neither Voldemort nor Grindelwald were his true opponents.

No—his real adversary was something far more terrifying.

World consciousness.

Suppressing and imprisoning Voldemort had been easy—too easy. But it was an illusion of victory, a mere temporary state.

As long as the world's consciousness deemed Voldemort necessary, it would continue to nurture him, empower him, and resurrect him.

Like a protagonist in some grand tale, destined to return stronger after each defeat, Voldemort would keep rising, unyielding, until he could finally challenge his adversary.

Thus, the true battle was not in restraining Voldemort's body.

It was in severing his connection to the world's will.

Lockhart's gaze sharpened.

Now is the time.

With Voldemort still bound, there was a chance to act.

Brilliant, multicolored lights flickered in his irises as his vision shifted. Threads.

Hundreds, thousands of luminous threads appeared before him—each one pulsating with different hues.

Vibrant green threads, symbols of life itself.

Chilling blue and white filaments, carrying the essence of fate's indifference.

Earthen yellow lines, sturdy yet unremarkable.

He ignored them all.

His attention zeroed in on the blood-red and golden threads of fate, tangled and intertwined, forming an intricate web around Voldemort.

A puppet.

That's what he was.

A mere instrument wielded by the world's will.

Lockhart raised his wand, his fingers tightening around the handle.

And then—

Bang!

A sharp, discordant sound rang out, like the snapping of a string on an ancient, cursed piano.

A single blood-gold thread of fate was severed.

Yet, even as Lockhart severed one, his expression darkened.

The price was steep.

Pain lanced through his mind as a wave of resistance surged against him. And then, a flood of warnings erupted in his consciousness:

[Warning! Warning! The world's backlash is intensifying. The world's detection power in the surrounding areas has drastically increased...]

[Host is advised to evade immediately and conceal his presence.]

[Alert! Due to excessive world-consciousness attention, it is recommended that the host leave the Harry Potter world within 7 days.]

[Wait for the turmoil to subside before returning.]

A deep sigh escaped Lockhart's lips.

He turned his gaze back to Voldemort—bound, suppressed, utterly helpless.

But instead of feeling satisfaction, he felt only disgust.

Voldemort was like a piece of cursed filth—one that could not be touched, yet could not be discarded.

A nuisance.

An enemy that refused to stay dead.

If he killed Voldemort now, the world would revive him.

If he severed all connections at once, the world's backlash might cripple even him.

But then—

Lockhart's gaze shifted.

Slowly, he turned his attention to Tom Riddle, who stood frozen in place, silent and motionless.

As Lockhart gazed at the nearly identical faces before him, an idea surfaced in his mind, and the corners of his mouth curled up unconsciously.

"Tom, an opportunity has arisen for you to increase your strength. Do you want it?" Lockhart asked with a smile, his voice carrying a teasing lilt.

Tom Riddle stiffened, his instincts flaring with immediate suspicion.

"No," he replied without hesitation, his voice sharp with wariness. "I'm quite content as I am."

Lockhart's so-called "opportunities" never came without a price. Nothing good ever came freely. There was always a catch, always a hidden trap waiting to snap shut.

A gift given without reason was either a deception… or theft in disguise.

Why would fortune favor him now? Why would he be the one to benefit from something truly valuable?

"Really?" Lockhart's tone remained calm, almost casual, as if he didn't mind the rejection at all. "Are you absolutely certain?"

He paused, letting his words settle.

"I have a feeling that the other Tom won't stay locked up for long."

"I'll be leaving here soon."

"And I suspect you might find yourself in a rather… precarious situation once I'm gone."

"I came to help you, after all."

"Are you sure you don't want this?"

Tom clenched his jaw, the pressure grinding against his teeth. Damn him.

The way Lockhart spoke—so effortless, so assured—made it impossible to ignore the warning buried beneath his words.

He was being cornered. Again.

If he refused, who knew what disaster awaited him?

If he accepted, he was surely walking into another one of Lockhart's twisted games.

But—

Did he have a choice?

His fingers curled into fists, nails digging into his palms. The bitter taste of helplessness rose in his throat, but he swallowed it down.

"Fine," Tom spat through gritted teeth. "I want it."

His voice was laced with frustration, but there was no other answer he could give.

"What do you need me to do?"

At that moment, he wanted nothing more than to tear Lockhart apart.

This was no "gift."

This was manipulation at its finest.

And yet—

"You don't have to do anything," Lockhart said, his voice almost lazy.

"Just keep thinking exactly what you were thinking."

Tom's brows furrowed. "What?"

"Yes, just keep it up," Lockhart continued, as if speaking to a child. "Hold onto the anger you feel towards me. Nurture it. Let it fester. Keep thinking about how much you want to kill me."

As he spoke, a flicker of multicolored light danced in his eyes.

Tom blinked. His confusion deepened.

Then, in the next instant, his rage surged.

It was as if his hatred for Lockhart had been dragged to the surface, forcefully awakened and intensified.

A mocking laugh almost escaped his lips.

Was this supposed to be a joke?

Was Lockhart making fun of him?

Mocking his overestimation of himself?

His fingers twitched toward his wand, but he forced himself to still.

No.

He was furious, but he wasn't stupid.

Anger was one thing. Acting on it in front of Lockhart was something else entirely.

"Yes, that's it. Keep going."

Lockhart waved his wand lightly, his movements almost indifferent.

He was still drawing out Tom's rage, amplifying his fury, feeding it like fuel to a fire.

But that wasn't all.

Beneath Lockhart's vision, the fabric of reality itself shifted.

The power of dreams coiled around them, twisting fate in unseen ways.

It cloaked the subtle changes he was making, masking the shifting connection between Voldemort and Tom.

They had always shared the same origin.

Now, the distinction between them was being blurred.

No—

They were becoming one.

And then—

A thread of fate moved.

A single blood-gold thread detached from Voldemort's bound form.

It slithered through the air, unseen by all except those with knowledge of fate itself.

It drifted toward Tom.

It rooted itself into his soul.

But Tom noticed nothing.

Only those who understood the laws of fate—who could perceive the will of the world—would have sensed the shift.

Yet, the effects had already begun.

Voldemort, deep in his imprisoned dream, stirred.

Something… was missing.

A void formed within him, gnawing, clawing at his very being.

An inexplicable sense of emptiness coiled around his heart.

It consumed him.

He needed more.

More power. More control. More of what had been taken.

But he had no idea that it had already begun slipping away.

The will of the world could never be severed completely.

But that didn't mean it couldn't be misled.

The deception was simple:

Both Voldemorts shared the same origin.

By shrouding the truth in the power of dreams, Lockhart masked the distinction between them—melding their fates together just enough to confuse the world's consciousness.

And so, the world misunderstood.

It assumed that Tom Riddle was also destined.

Thus, in that single instant—

Voldemort lost a portion of fate's favor.

And Tom… gained it.

"Tom," Lockhart said lightly, "the parasite bred within Voldemort's destiny—I've severed nearly half of it and transferred it to you."

Tom stilled.

The words were like a thunderclap in his mind.

He hadn't noticed it before, but now…

Now, he felt it.

A pulse.

A strange, mysterious connection had suddenly formed within him, stretching deep into his very being.

He gave an unspoken command.

And immediately—

A portion of the blood-red mist that had once surrounded Voldemort broke free, drifting toward him, coiling around him like a second skin.

A rush of raw power surged through his veins.

A thrill, dark and exhilarating, curled in his chest.

Yet, before he could fully process it—

Lockhart's voice rang in his ears once more:

"Tom, you should know—most of this power is born from Voldemort's hatred for me."

"So, if you'd like to maintain that hatred—perhaps even deepen it—I won't stop you."

"Just keep doing what you're already doing."

The words struck like a slap.

Tom didn't know whether to laugh or rage.

His hatred for Lockhart had never been a secret, and now—

Now, he was being encouraged to keep it.

No need for pretense. No need for restraint.

Lockhart wanted his hatred. Welcomed it.

Because, in the end, to him, it didn't matter.

Tom clenched his fists, but his anger only grew.

He had always thought that his hatred was significant.

That it meant something.

Yet to Lockhart, it was nothing but a convenient tool.

And as his fury deepened—

He felt it.

His connection to the Blood Abyss Parasite strengthened.

More knowledge flooded his mind.

A strange sensation flickered deep within Tom's soul—something was changing.

Even the hellfire that had long burned within him seemed to shift, its essence twisting in ways he could not fully comprehend.

Lockhart observed these changes closely, his sharp eyes gleaming with interest.

And then—slowly, almost imperceptibly—a satisfaction settled in his heart.

Just as Voldemort had once basked in the favor of the world, Tom, too, was now beginning to enjoy that same twisted blessing.

And more than that…

Beneath the favor bestowed upon him, even the flames of hell seemed to evolve, reshaping into something new.

Tom was becoming a puppet, that much was clear.

But beyond that—

Through the delicate, intricate threads of the dream contract, Lockhart could feel it.

Wisps of the world's original power had been stolen.

A rare smirk formed on his lips.

The World Dream had become increasingly unstable, making it harder to slip through its cracks undetected.

Yet now—

Now, he had managed to siphon even the smallest fragment of the world's power, a feat that had eluded him for some time.

It wasn't much.

Not nearly as much as directly seizing it from the World Dream itself.

But it was a start.

A sign that, with the right methods, he could still outmaneuver the will of the world.

But the moment of triumph was fleeting.

Lockhart's senses flared, detecting the expanding searching tendrils of the world's consciousness.

It was hunting him.

His time was running out.

There was no room for hesitation.

Lockhart gave a few quick instructions before waving his wand, vanishing into the distance.

He had seven days left.

Seven days before he was forced to leave this world.

Damn it.

It was like standing beneath a crumbling roof, only to have a torrential downpour begin at the worst possible moment.

As Lockhart's presence faded, Tom turned his gaze toward the motionless figure trapped beneath the mountain of swirling colors.

Voldemort lay there, bound, defeated.

For the first time, Tom allowed a smile to creep onto his face.

You wanted to devour me so badly.

Now it's my turn.

Surely, that's only fair.

Step by step, he strode forward, his every movement slow, deliberate.

The blood-red mist that had once shrouded Voldemort now swirled toward him, responding to his growing connection with fate itself.

And just as he reached forward, ready to claim what was his—

Buzz—

Boom!

Without warning, Voldemort's eyes snapped open.

For an instant, their gazes locked—Tom standing above, Voldemort lying below, bound yet still burning with malice.

Fury ignited within those crimson irises.

Tom barely had time to react before Voldemort's body detonated.

A surge of blood-red mist erupted outward, engulfing everything in its path.

A deafening roar split the air.

The shockwave tore through the battlefield, shaking the very ground.

And in the distance—

The Death Eaters stood frozen in horror.

A crimson mushroom cloud spiraled upward, its eerie glow casting unnatural shadows across the land.

The sheer magnitude of the magical energy released left them breathless.

The Death Eaters had watched everything.

They had seen Lockhart arrive.

They had seen him subdue Voldemort effortlessly—

Three moves.

That was all it had taken.

Three swift, precise attacks, and the Dark Lord had been buried beneath a mountain.

At first, they had felt hopeful.

With someone as powerful as Lockhart on their master's side, their return to England seemed not just possible but inevitable.

Maybe, just maybe, they could reclaim their place in Britain.

Their families. Their legacy.

But now—

Now they watched in stunned silence as the dust settled.

A single figure remained.

As the blood-red mist finally began to dissipate, a lone form emerged from the devastation.

Tom Riddle.

A shield of crimson energy shimmered faintly around his body, damaged yet still intact.

His expression was dark, stormy.

Fury smoldered beneath the surface.

Damn it.

Voldemort had awakened at the worst possible moment.

And instead of allowing himself to be devoured, he had chosen to self-destruct.

Tom's fingers twitched in frustration.

If he had succeeded in absorbing Voldemort, the Dark Lord might have lost the chance for resurrection entirely.

But now?

Now, he had merely delayed him.

It would take time. Resources. But Voldemort would return.

And the timing—

The timing of his awakening was far too convenient.

Far too suspicious.

Someone… interfered.

Someone deliberately ensured that Voldemort awoke just in time to prevent his absorption.

And there was only one possible culprit.

Tom's lips curled into a snarl.

Lockhart.

That bastard.

He had encouraged Tom's hatred. Had even told him to nurture it, let it grow.

And yet, he had sabotaged him.

Why?

Was it simply for his own amusement?

Was he toying with him, playing him like a pawn?

Tom's hands clenched into fists.

Lockhart might have given him power, but he had also made it crystal clear—

Tom was nothing but a tool.

Nothing but a spare piece on the board.

Unacceptable.

His hatred burned brighter, hotter.

And as it did, his connection to the Blood Abyss Parasite deepened.

His power swelled.

And somewhere in the distance—

Lockhart stood far away, watching it all unfold through the veil of magic.

A hint of pity crossed his face.

How unfortunate.

He had hoped to see some casualties from the clash of two so-called "Children of Destiny."

But no.

No one had died.

It seemed fate itself was making it difficult.

Lockhart sighed, shaking his head.

Seven days.

That was all the time he had left before he was forced to leave.

The world consciousness was growing harder to fight.

He could not afford to waste time.

There was work to do.

If he didn't set the right pieces in place before his departure—

Then the next time he returned…

He might not live long enough to see the endgame.

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