The Forgotten Legacy

Max observed the object in his hands with a frown. It was an ancient ashtray, made of dark porcelain with almost illegible inscriptions along its edges. His father, Jerry Russo, had handed it to him with an unusually serious expression.

"This has been in our family for generations," Jerry explained. "My father told me I had to pass it on to someone who truly represents the Russo family. Not necessarily the wizard of the family, but someone with our lineage... And now, I'm giving it to you."

Max didn't understand what was so special about a simple ashtray, but as he touched it, a chill ran down his spine. For a second, he thought he saw shadows shifting inside, as if something within it was still alive.

That night, in his room, Max decided to examine it more closely. His fingers traced the cold edges of the porcelain, and with a deep breath, he opened it.

As soon as he did, a dense cloud of shadows erupted from the object, spreading through the room like a dark whirlwind. Max stumbled backward as the figure took shape before him: a tall and slender young man, with perfectly styled black hair, pale skin, and dark, hypnotic eyes. His elegant posture and sharp features gave him a noble air, yet also one of danger. He looked like a young Tom Marvolo Riddle, but with an even more enigmatic presence.

The young man regarded him with a cold smile.

"So, someone worthy has finally inherited me..." His voice was soft but carried a latent power.

Max swallowed hard and stepped back, his heart pounding.

"Who... who are you?" he asked cautiously.

"I was once known as Voldemort."

Max's eyes widened in shock, and his breathing became erratic.

"Voldemort?" he repeated, almost breathless. "The Voldemort?"

The young man's expression grew serious for a moment. His gaze scrutinized Max with intensity, as if searching for something in him that he hadn't expected to find.

"You... recognize me," he murmured, his voice carrying a hint of disbelief.

Max slowly nodded, unable to take his eyes off the figure before him. It didn't make sense, but he knew exactly who this man was. He had heard his story in books, in movies… in a world where magic was nothing but fiction.

Voldemort furrowed his brow and briefly looked away.

"No, nothing. It's just…" he murmured to himself, leaving the sentence unfinished.

A shiver ran down Max's spine. Something about Voldemort's reaction told him there was more to this story than he was willing to admit.

"I was a Dark Lord… but not as history remembers me. I didn't seek meaningless destruction or chaos. I fought for the rights of those whom both the magical and human worlds wanted to ignore. I fought to grant rights to monsters, create laws to protect them, put an end to the absurd competition among wizards, and give a seat on the magical council to psychics and those with special abilities or superpowers."

"But the world wasn't ready for that," Voldemort continued. "Monsters, wizards, psychics, and people with special abilities joined me, but in the end, I was defeated, and my name was erased from history. The Russo family fled Britain because of the war I started, though even they don't remember the truth."

Images flooded Max's mind. Among them, a hidden truth emerged: the Russo family hadn't always lived in New York. In the past, they had been in Britain, but they were forced to flee. No one in the family remembered it, not even Jerry. But now, Max understood the reason—Voldemort's war had forced his lineage to escape, leaving behind their history and any connection to their dark past.

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