Harry Potter: The Forbidden Magic Legend Begins with Him

The oversized scarf was pulled away.

Hodge forced himself to channel Occlumency with every ounce of his will, locking the sudden surge of negative emotions deep within his mind.

Quirrell slowly turned around, revealing the bald patch at the back of his head. Where hair should have been, there was a face—like melted wax or a scar freshly swollen from boiling water. The skin on that small patch was paler than the rest, with blood-red eyes and serpentine nostrils.

"Hodge Blackthorn," Voldemort murmured softly.

"I've been wanting to meet you face-to-face," he said with keen interest. "I noticed you during those tutoring sessions. The magical mist of Machu Picchu resisting invaders… yes, a tale of South American native rebellion that nearly shook my servant's resolve. Then you stopped attending. Either Quirrell overplayed his disguise, or… you sensed something was off." His voice carried a faint sneer. "I looked into you. Thestral tail hair? That suggests senses sharper than most…"

"That sharpness let you write a rather well-received paper in your first year—something even I couldn't have done at your age," Voldemort continued. "The technical skill of the paper is negligible, but you tapped into the power of emotions, giving those mediocre wizards a fleeting chance to escape their ignorant, fragile minds. Coincidentally, I too once enjoyed invading others' thoughts—crafting illusions, watching them spiral into madness, begging for release as they broke." His tone grew faintly cruel. "In the end, they always knelt, pleading for me to grant them mercy."

Voldemort's voice was calm, almost detached, as he added, "In truth, I did little. They destroyed themselves. I'm sure you've noticed the… curious similarity in our methods. You only lack a bit of guidance, a broadening of perspective."

"They're fundamentally different," Hodge replied, staring at that grotesque, terrifying face. For some reason, it reminded him of the tiny pumpkin lantern his mother had bought him, and he nearly laughed.

Coolly, he said, "My intent is to help people. Yours…"

Voldemort gave a mocking smile. "You've studied the Imperius Curse, haven't you?"

Hodge met his gaze, one hand quietly slipping into his pocket.

Voldemort didn't seem to care. His red eyes gleamed with excitement, turning almost scarlet. "You see, you've already chosen between power and morality. That's why I admire you." Quirrell's body, still facing away from Hodge, trembled slightly, but Voldemort ignored it, caught up in his own fervor.

He was savoring the game of cat and mouse, relishing the slow unraveling of his prey's hope before despair set in. Only then would he gleefully claim the Philosopher's Stone.

"…Quirrell, that fool, was fascinated by your paper," Voldemort went on, his voice raspy. "He didn't even consult me—just begged for permission to engage with you." There was no anger in his tone, only disdain, though Quirrell's trembling intensified. "But it gave me the perfect chance to observe you, Hodge Blackthorn. And I realized that, beyond my original purpose here, meeting you was an unexpected delight."

As Voldemort poured out his thoughts, Hodge subtly shifted his position, taking small steps to edge closer to Evelina Selma. The confusion in her eyes had faded, replaced by a spark of clarity. She was listening intently to their exchange.

"What unexpected delight?" she asked curiously.

The other two—or rather, three—people in the room ignored her.

"I'm guessing," Hodge said to Voldemort, his tone flat from the effort of Occlumency, "you think you've found another dark version of yourself. So you're planning to personally groom a spy, aren't you, Mr. Voldemort?"

A flicker of surprise crossed the waxen, melted face.

"You know me?" Voldemort asked, his voice polite but laced with menace.

"Is that so strange? You killed my grandparents," Hodge said coldly.

"No, that's not what I mean," Voldemort replied, his red eyes fixed on Hodge. After a moment, he murmured, "Oh, I see. Information from Harry Potter, perhaps? A mediocre boy with an insatiable curiosity. He glimpsed Quirrell's back on Halloween night, and with a little nudge, I redirected his suspicions to Snape."

"If I recall correctly," Hodge said helpfully, "Harry defeated you. As a baby. Quite a few people call him the Boy Who Lived."

Voldemort's face twisted in fury.

"A baby defeated the greatest wizard of all time?" he hissed. "The blood of Salazar Slytherin himself flows through my veins, passed down through his daughter." His voice dropped to a serpentine whisper. "I'll find the answers from that boy myself. Personally…"

Hodge feigned shock. "You want to possess me? Like Quirrell?" He voiced the truth he'd long suspected.

Inwardly, he was ready, though Voldemort's gaze never wavered.

But then Voldemort's blurred face split into a grotesque smile. "I did consider it. But thanks to your paper, I have a better idea. If our minds align perfectly—if your thoughts mirror mine—wouldn't that be as good as me being reborn through you?"

Hodge was genuinely stunned. "That's impossible!"

"Nothing is impossible, child," Voldemort said. "I've walked further down the path to immortality than anyone. That night, years ago, a foolish woman's sacrifice caused my curse to rebound. A Killing Curse—unstoppable, inescapable. Yet I survived, even if as less than a ghost. But still alive."

His face contorted into a wicked grin. "Once I unlock the secret of the Elixir of Life to regain a body, I will return."

"And now," he said slowly, deliberately, "I think I'll linger at Hogwarts. With you, I won't need unicorn blood. I'll draw strength from your body, your soul, your mind—living right under Dumbledore's nose, becoming Harry Potter's best friend. Imagine what a delightful scene that would be."

His snake-like nostrils flared with excitement.

It was time, Hodge thought.

His plan to gain Voldemort's trust through Occlumency had failed. If he didn't act now, he'd leave this room as someone else entirely.

Suddenly, a knock came at the door.

The room fell silent. No one spoke—not even Hodge. He simply stepped in front of Evelina, one hand drawing his wand, the other pulling out the antique Blackthorn family pocket watch.

Seconds passed. Just as Hodge thought the visitor had left, the door creaked open, and Neville's head poked in.

"Hey, Hodge! I heard Harry and the others are looking for you—oh, hi, Professor Quirrell, you—" Neville froze, staring at the oversized scarf on the floor.

Click!

Seizing the moment, Hodge snapped open the watch's cover. A wisp of black mist flickered inside.

Quirrell reacted with uncanny speed, snapping his fingers. Instantly, ropes shot through the air toward Hodge. "Protego!" Hodge shouted, and the ropes fell limply to the ground. He yelled to Neville, "Position seven, Stunning Spell!"

Thanks to their shared battles against Peeves, Neville didn't hesitate. He drew his wand, crouched, lowered his head, and cast in one fluid motion. "Stupefy!" He quickly moved away from Quirrell, closing the distance to Hodge.

At the same time, Hodge flicked his wand. A small crystal vial shot from his pocket, exploding in a burst of red light. A cloud of black mist surged forward.

Quirrell dodged Neville's Stunner, cursing under his breath. With a wave of his wand, the classroom door slammed shut, and a series of spells sealed the room in eerie silence, as if cut off from the world.

Quirrell looked up, venom in his eyes, ready to beg his master's permission to torment the two boys.

But then he froze.

The room felt impossibly crowded. A pair of enormous, glowing yellow eyes stared down at him from above. The creature's every scale glinted with a cold sheen, its razor-sharp fangs inches from his face.

Quirrell recoiled in terror, pressing himself against the wall. From the back of his head came a faint, whimpering sound.

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