Hogwarts, School Infirmary
"Harry, how are you feeling now?"
Madam Pomfrey stood by Harry's bedside, holding an empty vial of calming draught. Her voice was gentle, but her sharp gaze scrutinized every detail of Harry's pallid face.
Harry shifted slightly under the blankets, his voice weak but steady. "Much better now, Madam Pomfrey. My head... doesn't hurt as much anymore."
"Harry, mate, you scared us half to death!" Ron burst out, his voice tinged with both concern and lingering fear.
"Yeah," added Seamus, his tone still shaky. "One moment you were fine, and the next—you were writhing in bed, clutching your scar, and screaming like... well, like someone was tearing you apart."
The small group of Gryffindor boys gathered around the bed nodded fervently, their faces pale.
"Quiet, all of you!" Madam Pomfrey snapped, her no-nonsense demeanor returning in full force. "The patient needs rest, not a crowd of noisy schoolboys hovering over him."
The boys exchanged sheepish glances before reluctantly retreating toward the door.
"Back to the dormitory with you lot," she commanded. "Harry needs quiet and sleep if he's to recover properly."
Once the room emptied, Madam Pomfrey's expression softened. She turned back to Harry, her voice once again kind but firm. "Harry, I detected some... irregularities in your soul. It seems to have been affected, but it's stable now. You've nothing to worry about for the moment."
Harry nodded, exhaustion evident in every movement. "Thank you, Madam Pomfrey."
"Rest now," she insisted, tucking the blanket more securely around him.
Before she could finish her next sentence, the sound of hurried footsteps echoed down the corridor.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
Moments later, Professors McGonagall, Dumbledore, and Snape swept into the infirmary, their robes billowing behind them.
"Madam, what has happened to Mr. Potter?" McGonagall's voice was sharp, though worry softened its edges.
"Headmaster," Harry murmured, his weak voice drawing their attention.
"It appears that Mr. Potter has survived another ordeal," Snape remarked, his trademark sarcasm laced with an undercurrent of curiosity.
Dumbledore ignored the jab, stepping closer to Harry's bedside. With a reassuring smile, he gently placed a hand on Harry's forehead, his piercing eyes locking onto the lightning-shaped scar.
"Harry," Dumbledore said softly, "can you tell me what you experienced?"
The weight of his words, laced with a subtle magical pull, guided Harry's thoughts back to the agonizing episode.
Tearing. Burning. Pain beyond words.
In his mind's eye, Harry relived the sensation of his soul being wrenched apart and stitched back together, over and over. He felt hollow, as though something vital had been stolen from him.
Vivid images began to take shape: six dark green phantoms swirled in his vision, their shapes shifting into pendants, a gold cup, and other objects. Amid them, a shadowy notebook blazed with dark green light, eclipsing everything. The pain surged to its peak, and then—a face.
The handsome, youthful visage of Tom Riddle appeared, lingering for the briefest moment before vanishing into the void.
"Tom," Dumbledore whispered, his expression grave.
The name hung in the air like a curse.
Dumbledore's mind raced. Based on the fragments of Harry's memory, it was clear. Voldemort—Tom Riddle—was making his move. Resurrection wasn't just a possibility—it was likely already underway.
"Peace of mind," Dumbledore murmured, casting a calming charm as Harry's trembling intensified.
Madam Pomfrey bristled, her lips thinning in disapproval as she watched Dumbledore delve into Harry's trauma. Without a word, she uncorked another vial of calming draught and pressed it to Harry's lips.
"That's enough for tonight," she declared, her tone brooking no argument. "Harry needs rest, not more questions."
Dumbledore nodded, his demeanor returning to one of serene authority. "Rest well, Harry. We will ensure everything is set right."
As he turned to leave, his gaze lingered on the scar for a moment longer before he strode toward the door.
"Snape," he called over his shoulder, "join me in the Headmaster's office."
Headmaster's Office
The room was as enigmatic as ever, with its many magical contraptions ticking, whirring, and glowing in the dim light. The portraits of former headmasters stirred in their frames, some watching curiously as Snape followed Dumbledore inside.
The soft trill of Fawkes, perched regally by the window, added a surreal serenity to the tension-filled room.
"Albus," Snape began, "what is this about? Has Potter suffered irreparable harm?"
Dumbledore, seated behind his cluttered desk, studied the Potions Master with a contemplative expression. Instead of answering directly, he asked, "Severus, has there been any change in the mark on your arm?"
Snape stiffened, his mind briefly flashing to Lockhart's dragon-brand magic. But he quickly realized Dumbledore meant the Dark Mark.
"The Dark Lord's brand?" Snape clarified. "No, there's been nothing unusual. Why do you ask?"
Dumbledore leaned back in his chair, his eyes momentarily flicking to the Pensieve on his desk. "The Dark Lord is stirring, Severus. I have reason to believe he may already have been resurrected."
Snape's expression darkened, though he remained composed. "What evidence do you have?"
"Harry's memories," Dumbledore replied gravely. "He experienced visions—phantoms of objects tied to Voldemort, including the diary we destroyed years ago. I believe these artifacts are connected to the Dark Lord's survival. And, more troubling, I suspect a deep connection between Harry and Voldemort."
Snape's face betrayed a flicker of surprise before he schooled it into neutrality. "A connection? What kind of connection?"
Dumbledore hesitated, his trust in Snape battling against the enormity of his suspicions. Finally, he spoke, his voice heavy with foreboding.
"I fear Voldemort may have found a way into Harry's mind. Through this connection, he could influence or even harm him. We cannot allow that to happen."
Snape's expression hardened. "What would you have me do, Albus?"
"You must teach Harry Occlumency," Dumbledore said firmly. "It's the only way to protect him from intrusion."
Snape nodded, though his thoughts churned with unease. He would obey, of course, but the implications of Dumbledore's words were troubling.
As the conversation ended, one thought lingered in Dumbledore's mind, chilling him to the core.
The six dark green phantoms from Harry's vision—each tied to Voldemort's fragmented soul—hinted at a terrifying truth.
The pieces are in motion. The storm is coming.
"I'll teach him," Snape said stiffly, his voice carrying the weight of reluctant duty.
Deep down, Snape knew his reasons for agreeing were not entirely altruistic. While Harry held some importance as Lily's son, his feelings were complex and layered with resentment. But now, with the possibility of saving Lily—even in some small, symbolic way—he was willing to set aside his bitterness.
Meanwhile, in the Underground Palace hidden within Hogwarts, Lockhart stood silently before Tom Riddle. His sharp gaze lingered on the young, resurrected wizard, processing the message Snape had sent through the magical mark.
"The Dark Lord is most likely resurrected," Snape's voice had said in Lockhart's mind, echoing through the magical connection.
Lockhart's expression betrayed nothing, though the news intrigued him. He hadn't shared all his plans with Snape—not yet. The existence of this version of Tom Riddle, brought back through his experimental methods, was something Snape wasn't ready to know. But now, it seemed inevitable that his former ally would have to be brought into the fold.
Sending another message to Snape through the magical imprint, Lockhart returned his attention to Tom.
The young Riddle flinched under Lockhart's gaze. Despite his composed demeanor, the memory of Lockhart's terrifying power during the resurrection ritual was seared into his soul. The aura of death that had radiated from Lockhart—the chilling, skeletal form cloaked in hellfire—had left a mark on him deeper than any scar.
"Tom," Lockhart said softly, his voice as smooth as silk, "you are an independent entity now. You are no longer bound to the shadow of the original Dark Lord."
Tom nodded, his expression darkening.
"You are smarter, more controlled, and have greater potential than Voldemort ever did," Lockhart continued. "I believe that you will triumph in this battle for supremacy—this contest for the soul's orthodoxy."
Tom's eyes narrowed at the words, his lips curling into a thin smile. "With your guidance, I will ensure that I kill him."
His voice dripped with venomous determination, but beneath the surface, doubt festered.
The resurrection Lockhart had orchestrated was far from what Tom had envisioned. Unlike the Horcrux-based ritual he'd planned, this method had restored him to a state of heightened rationality, dominated by the version of himself from his fifth year at Hogwarts. Gone was the unhinged darkness of his peak, replaced with cold, calculating logic.
Yet Tom knew that the ritual had also triggered the resurrection of his darker self—the version of Voldemort at his most terrifying and powerful.
Though they shared the same memories, the older Voldemort's mastery of dark magic was unparalleled, woven into the fabric of his very being. Without external aid, Tom knew he would likely be outmatched in a direct confrontation.
The stakes were clear: only one could survive. The victor would consume the loser's soul, becoming a more perfect embodiment of Voldemort's legacy.
Lockhart, of course, had planned for this.
"Remember," Lockhart said, his tone laced with subtle menace, "to make good use of the fire I left within you. It's your key to survival in the battle ahead."
Tom inclined his head in acknowledgment, but as he lowered his gaze, a flicker of resentment passed through his eyes.
Lockhart noticed but pretended not to. Instead, with a practiced flourish, he conjured a glowing green crystal. The object radiated a strong, soothing energy that seemed to pulse with life itself.
"This," Lockhart said, presenting the crystal, "is the Light of Life. It will stabilize your soul further and extend your lifespan. Consider it a gift."
The gesture was calculated, a mix of reward and reminder. Lockhart understood the importance of balancing control with incentive.
"Follow me, Tom," Lockhart said, his voice softening. "Stay loyal, and the rewards will exceed your wildest dreams. Eternal life, greater power, even ascension to godhood—these are not mere fantasies. They are within your reach, as long as you remain useful."
Tom's mind swirled with the imagery Lockhart projected into his consciousness: visions of cosmic battles, encounters with beings like Dormammu and the Sorcerer Supreme, and glimpses of gods that transcended his understanding.
The power Lockhart hinted at was intoxicating, igniting a flame of ambition in Tom's heart.
"I understand," Tom said finally, his voice steady.
"Good," Lockhart replied with a faint smile. "Now, proceed according to plan."
With a faint hum of magic, a portal shimmered into existence.
"Professor Lockhart," Tom said as he approached the swirling gateway, "you can trust me. Everything will go as you wish."
Lockhart nodded, watching silently as Tom stepped through the portal and disappeared. With a wave of his wand, the portal vanished, leaving the underground palace cloaked in eerie silence.
Deeper in the Chamber
"Little snake, come to me," Lockhart commanded.
The basilisk slithered obediently to his side, its massive form gliding silently across the stone floor.
Lockhart approached a wall at the chamber's far end, its surface adorned with serpentine carvings.
"Hiss... hiss... hiss…" (I command you, open.)
The ancient Parseltongue words rolled off his tongue, their sinister tone resonating in the still air.
With a low rumble, the wall split open, revealing a dark, narrow passage.
Lockhart conjured a glowing orb of light, sending it ahead to illuminate the way. Without hesitation, he stepped into the passage, the basilisk trailing close behind.
Slytherin's Portrait
At the end of the corridor, Lockhart entered a chamber dominated by an imposing portrait of Salazar Slytherin. The painted figure stirred as Lockhart approached, his sharp, calculating eyes gleaming with recognition.
"Lockhart," Salazar drawled, his voice as cold and serpentine as his legacy. "We meet again. What brings you here this time?"
Lockhart smiled, his tone disarmingly pleasant. "Good news, Mr. Salazar. I have discovered a way to resurrect beings like yourself—ghostly entities trapped in limbo. Imagine having a physical body again: the ability to taste, create, and experience the world anew."
Salazar's expression didn't waver, but Lockhart could sense the flicker of interest beneath his façade.
"Bold claims," Salazar said dismissively. "But if true, it would indeed be impressive."
Without another word, Lockhart raised his wand and conjured a silvery sphere of information. The orb floated toward the portrait, its surface shimmering with secrets.
Salazar absorbed the orb without hesitation, his painted features tightening as he processed its contents.
Five soul-reforging rituals, each more complex than the last, and detailed accounts of Voldemort's resurrection.
"What do you want in return?" Salazar asked, his voice calm but edged with barely concealed excitement.
Lockhart's smile widened. "Fifty years of service. In exchange, you will receive resources befitting your status—and more. Access to the most powerful sorcerers, knowledge beyond imagination, and even the potential for immortality."
"And gods?" Salazar murmured, his tone almost reverent.
Lockhart nodded. "Even gods."
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