British Ministry of Magic, Office of the Minister
"How is this possible? What is the MACUSA (The Magical Congress of the United States of America) doing over there—preparing their meals instead of protecting their school?"
"Grindelwald occupied Ilvermorny? How could they let this happen?"
Minister of Magic Cornelius Fudge paced his opulent office, his robes swishing with each frantic step. Though he tried to maintain a facade of calm authority, the persistent dabbing at his sweaty brow betrayed his growing panic.
"Dumbledore delivered the news himself," Lockhart said smoothly, turning the elegant ring on his finger. His composed demeanor sharply contrasted with Fudge's agitation. "As for MACUSA?" He let out a scoffing laugh, the sound dripping with disdain. "I wouldn't place too much faith in their competence. After all, the so-called 'Saints' who infiltrated Ilvermorny were reportedly allowed to teach there through Congress's approval."
At that moment, Dolores Umbridge, clutching a stack of parchment, interjected with her usual sycophantic tone. "Mr. Minister, there's no need to fret! We have Albus Dumbledore and—more importantly—Lockhart. With their brilliance, even if Grindelwald starts another war, we shall remain unscathed."
Fudge latched onto her words like a drowning man clinging to driftwood. "That's it! Lockhart, you and Dumbledore can handle this, can't you? Surely you can defeat Grindelwald together?"
Lockhart offered a confident smile, the kind that had graced countless book covers. "Rest assured, Minister, Grindelwald is currently in the United States. He won't be stepping foot into Britain any time soon. Dumbledore and I plan to visit Ilvermorny shortly to gather more intelligence."
Fudge visibly relaxed, his shoulders sagging with relief. Lockhart, however, stepped closer, his voice dropping to a whisper meant only for Fudge.
"Minister, you have my word. Even if another war breaks out, you will remain securely in your position."
The implication wasn't lost on Fudge, whose expression flickered between surprise and wary contemplation. We, Lockhart had said. That single pronoun carried the weight of an alliance—a promise of support from Lockhart and the pureblood families allied with him. But Fudge knew all too well that every favor in the wizarding world came with a price.
As these thoughts swirled, Fudge slumped back into his chair. Umbridge, ever the opportunist, placed her documents on his desk with an ingratiating smile.
"Minister," she simpered, "under your wise leadership, Grindelwald wouldn't dare set foot in the UK."
Her fawning grated on Fudge, though he hid his irritation well. While she was loyal to a fault, her sycophancy often bordered on insufferable.
"Umbridge," Fudge said in a measured tone, "don't forget to grant Lockhart's academy the same permissions as Hogwarts. Allow him to recruit potential students among Muggles."
He paused, considering his next words. "This will ensure fairness, of course."
Umbridge hesitated briefly, her eyes widening in surprise, but quickly nodded. "As you wish, Minister."
Satisfied, Fudge leaned back, his confidence bolstered by the thought of Lockhart's backing. With a wizard of Lockhart's reputation—renowned not just as a duelist but also as the 'Father of Meditation'—even Dumbledore wouldn't dare oust him.
The Corridors of the Ministry of Magic
Lockhart strolled through the grand halls, his polished shoes clicking rhythmically against the tiled floor. His faint smile hinted at private amusement. The timing of Grindelwald's move couldn't have been more fortuitous.
He had planned to use Voldemort as leverage against the Ministry, but before he could act, Grindelwald had taken Ilvermorny and the American Magical Congress by storm. The chaos sent ripples of fear through Fudge, leaving him ripe for manipulation.
Perfect, Lockhart mused. The Minister will cling to me even more tightly now.
Still, one question lingered in his mind: Why the United States?
Durmstrang, Grindelwald's alma mater, seemed a far more strategic choice. Was there something in the U.S. that even the Dark Lord coveted?
Hogwarts, Underground Palace
Deep beneath Hogwarts, a chamber bathed in ethereal light stood in stark contrast to the shadowed corridors above. The source of this illumination was a radiant orb, its glow reflected in the polished marble floors and the intricately carved columns that lined the hall.
A massive basilisk coiled near the chamber's edge, its golden eyes narrowing as it observed the man at the center of the room. Lockhart, standing within a complex magical circle, held his wand aloft. His pale blue eyes glimmered with an unsettling crimson light as he focused on the black notebook before him.
From the pages of the notebook, a translucent figure emerged—a young, handsome, yet fragile soul.
"Tom," Lockhart intoned, his voice steady and cold. "I know your potential better than anyone. I trust you'll complete the task I've assigned."
Tom Riddle, or rather the fragment of his soul contained within the diary, seethed internally. He had no memory of his future infamy as the Dark Lord. To him, Grindelwald was the epitome of power, a wizard who could bend the world to his will. Yet Lockhart's revelations about his destiny as Grindelwald's successor filled him with both trepidation and reluctant hope.
"Of course, Teacher," Riddle said, his voice filled with feigned confidence. "You can count on me to succeed."
He hesitated, then asked, "Teacher, when will the resurrection ceremony begin?"
Lockhart studied the spectral figure before him, his expression unreadable. "Patience, Tom. All in good time."
After all, this was still the young Tom Riddle—brilliant but not yet the feared Dark Lord of his prime. His strength, ambition, and mental fortitude were shadows of what Voldemort would one day possess.
But fortunately for Lockhart, he had accounted for this.
The chamber's atmosphere grew tense as the dark green runes etched into the marble floor began to glow. Their luminescence rippled outward like ink in water, converging on the intricate magic circle at the center.
"Call! Call!" The surge of energy was almost tangible as the room buzzed with latent power.
Tom stood in the center of the circle, his arms spread wide as he welcomed the torrent of magic pouring into his fragmented soul. His lips curled into a rare smile, and his eyes fluttered shut, savoring the moment.
"Tom," Lockhart's calm voice broke the spell of serenity, "there may be pain. Bear with it."
With a deliberate flick of his wand, Lockhart summoned materials from a space-extension bag. They floated around him in a mesmerizing dance: globules of activated flesh pulsating with dark energy, a ghostly mist of fragmented soul essence, pale white bone wood exuding an eerie vitality, and vials of fragrant, deep-red blood that shimmered unnaturally.
Lockhart's method for Tom's resurrection deviated from the original Horcrux ritual. Not because he couldn't replicate it, but because the risks were far too great. His method, honed through years of experimentation and reinforced with ancient texts, was both more stable and efficient.
"Wonderful clouds and mist blend into the incomplete soul," he intoned, his wand tracing delicate arcs through the air.
The mist swirled, coiling around Tom's spectral form. Bubbles emerged within the ethereal substance, their surfaces gleaming with an unearthly light. Slowly, the mist began to nourish the fragmented soul, knitting together the jagged edges and granting Tom's essence a more tangible form.
Then came the reaction.
Tom's once-translucent shape solidified, becoming visible to the naked eye. He flexed his spectral fingers, watching as the mist rippled in response to his movements.
Lockhart's chanting grew more intense, his voice laced with an edge of menace.
"Independent will grants you the freedom you seek," he said, summoning a wisp of purple gas that merged with the soul mist, imbuing it with a strange vibrancy.
"White bones containing the essence of life shall be the foundation," he continued. "The intoxicating sweetness of blood and the magic-infused flesh shall shape the vessel."
As his incantation deepened, the atmosphere shifted. The chamber filled with a bass hum that resonated in the bones, an ominous melody charged with mystery and the faint stench of decay. Dark green motes of light, heavy with death and darkness, drifted through the air like fireflies in a cursed forest.
Then came the wind.
Cold, biting, and unnatural, it howled through the chamber as ghostly apparitions flickered into existence. Human-like forms, translucent and forlorn, emerged from the darkness, drawn toward the ritual.
Lockhart anticipated this. With a sharp wave of his wand, a dark green barrier erupted around the magic circle, sealing off the ghosts from their quarry.
The basilisk coiled in the corner hissed uneasily, its yellow eyes narrowing as it felt the dark energy in the air. But the barrier held firm, and none of the specters breached its perimeter.
Outside the barrier, restless spirits clawed at the surface, their forms warping as they battered against the protective magic.
Lockhart sneered. "Soul expulsion!" he barked, sending waves of repelling magic into the crowd of ghosts. They scattered like leaves in a storm, and the barrier steadied once more.
His attention shifted back to Tom, who writhed in the magic circle. The soul mist was completing its work, knitting together the fragments of his being. But the process was excruciating.
Tom's screams echoed through the chamber, raw and unrelenting. His soul, torn apart and reforged, endured agony beyond mortal comprehension.
Lockhart cast a soundproofing charm around himself, unmoved by the shrill cries. Pain was necessary—it was part of the process. He focused instead on the physical form taking shape within the circle.
Muscle, sinew, and bone coalesced, infused with the magical materials Lockhart had summoned. Each element played its part in reconstructing Tom's new body, fusing seamlessly under Lockhart's meticulous guidance.
Elsewhere
In Lockhart's office, a golden cup trembled within its enchanted containment. Nearby, other artifacts—a pendant, a ring, a diadem—quivered in sympathetic resonance.
Far away, in the shadowed depths of an Albanian forest, Nagini thrashed violently, her massive coils crushing trees and underbrush alike. The snake's anguished movements suggested an unseen connection to the ritual unfolding beneath Hogwarts.
Meanwhile, in Gryffindor Tower, Harry Potter clutched his scar, screaming as waves of searing pain lanced through his head.
"Resurrection... Resurrection..."
The words echoed in his mind, low and venomous.
"No... No!" a furious voice snarled from deep within his psyche. "Who dares steal my soul?!"
Ron Weasley and other Gryffindors scrambled to Harry's side, their faces pale with fear. Unable to discern the cause, they hoisted him up and rushed toward the common room exit, intent on finding help.
Back in the Chamber
Tom Riddle's soul finally stabilized, the mist dissipating as the fragments reunited. His memories flooded back, piecing together the person he had been—and the monster he was destined to become.
But something was different.
Deep within his soul, lavender runes glimmered, forming a barrier that tempered the flood of emotions tied to his memories. Hatred, ambition, and fury remained distant, as if locked behind a glass wall.
Tom blinked, disoriented. He felt... clear-headed. Rational.
And horrified.
The memories of his future self—his descent into madness, his reliance on fear and violence, his ultimate defeat at the hands of a child—played out like a nightmarish vision.
This... this is what I become?
The thought filled him with equal parts fear and disgust. Where had his cunning gone? The calculated brilliance that had allowed him to rise at Hogwarts?
No, he thought, his resolve hardening. I'll retain my sanity. My reason. With knowledge of my peak and the clarity I now possess, I will surpass even my future self.
But first, there was Lockhart.
The soul melted into the newly formed body, and Tom opened his eyes, a confident smirk tugging at his lips. He began to turn toward his enemy, ready to assert his will—
And froze.
Lockhart stood before him, wreathed in dark red flames. The fire consumed his flesh, leaving only gleaming, crystalline white bones behind.
"Hellfire..." Tom murmured, recognition flashing in his eyes.
Lockhart stepped forward, his skeletal form radiating immense power. Each movement was accompanied by the eerie click, click of bone against stone.
"Look into my eyes," Lockhart intoned, his voice resonating with an almost divine authority.
Tom hesitated, his confidence faltering.
"Let me judge your sins."
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