I became Voldemort

But at that very moment, Cyrus suddenly turned around, startling Draco so much that he flinched, almost dropping his wand.

"What's wrong?" 

"No, nothing, it's just a bit chilly," Draco said, desperately trying to hide his panic.

Perhaps it was his mastery of Occlumency that helped him now—Draco showed almost no flaws.

Cyrus glanced at him, seemingly noticing nothing out of the ordinary.

"Harry's taking his time," Cyrus said, once again lowering his guard.

"You don't need to wait with me. If you're hungry, you can head to the Great Hall; dinner should be starting soon."

With that, Cyrus began walking back toward the carriage.

Now his back was turned to Draco, one hand resting on the edge of the carriage. It was a golden opportunity!

This time, Draco couldn't afford any hesitation.

Though fear still gripped him, his mind was completely blank—unable to think, only to act.

At the same time.

Harry, from a distance, saw the scene unfolding.

"Sectumsempra!"

Draco's voice rang out behind Cyrus. In that instant, invisible slashing blades tore across Cyrus's back, and blood bloomed like a flower in front of Draco's eyes!

Reflected in Draco's gaze was the image of that enormous crimson rose, as well as Cyrus's expression of shock and pain.

It worked!

Excitement surged within him.

But Draco wasn't satisfied—since he had already taken action, why not see it through to the end? If he truly managed to kill Cyrus, Draco couldn't even begin to imagine the rewards and praise he would receive from the Dark Lord!

At this moment, his madness entirely overwhelmed his fear. As Cyrus looked at him in bewilderment, Draco raised his wand again—this time, it glowed with green light!

"Avada Kedavra!" Draco shouted at the top of his lungs.

But another spell was faster!

"Expelliarmus!"

The red spell struck Draco's right hand like a bolt of lightning, sending his wand flying.

He turned around in terror, only to see Harry charging at him like an enraged lion, as if ready to tear him apart limb by limb!

"Malfoy!" Harry roared, every fiber of his being bristling with fury.

"How dare you hurt Mr. Cyrus!"

The sheer rage seemed to strip Harry of his reason. His bloodshot eyes burned with intensity as he unleashed spell after spell at Draco like a feral beast.

Without his wand, Draco suddenly regained his composure. Without hesitation, he reached for his Portkey.

Pop!

...

Snap!

Voldemort crushed the lingering memory projection in his hand.

"So, that's how it happened?"

Voldemort asked coldly, his voice devoid of emotion.

Draco knelt weakly on the ground, trembling. Just moments ago, Voldemort had forcibly invaded his mind, extracting every detail of the recent events. Nothing had escaped the Dark Lord's scrutiny.

The experience was excruciating. Draco felt as though his brain had been churned into thick, sticky paste.

"I almost succeeded, my Lord…" Draco whispered weakly.

But deep down, he knew the truth: he had failed.

With his head lowered, tears of fear streamed from his eyes. His frail body trembled and convulsed, and as he looked up at Voldemort, it felt as if a hand had clenched his heart, squeezing tighter with each beat, a grim dance with death.

"No, you are mistaken, Draco."

Voldemort said, his tone suddenly taking on an unsettling warmth. "You were never meant to succeed. Did you truly believe I relied on you—to attack Cyrus?"

There was a sneering mockery in his voice, a scorn that didn't make clear whom it targeted for their foolishness.

"Master, I don't understand what you mean," Lucius said, still with tears on his face, a look of genuine confusion.

Voldemort only smiled without answering, leaving Barty Crouch Jr. to speak instead.

"The memory is indeed vivid and seemingly flawless," Barty explained with a smirk, "but it is not without its cracks."

Draco's recollection of events had been meticulously detailed, seemingly perfect in every aspect. But the one and only flaw, glaringly obvious, was that Draco believed he had almost succeeded—even if Harry ultimately thwarted him in the memory's end.

"Even if Cyrus wasn't holding his wand, you could never have succeeded."

Aside from Voldemort, Barty was perhaps the one who best understood the sheer extent of Cyrus's power.

That night, he had witnessed with his own eyes Cyrus snapping Voldemort's wrist.

Such terrifying physical prowess—ordinary spells could never harm Cyrus.

Yet Draco had managed to injure him through a sneak attack?

It was simply inconceivable.

"From beginning to end, your memory was fabricated," Voldemort said with icy derision.

His words instantly plunged Draco and Lucius into the depths of despair. Their limbs grew cold, and every pore on their bodies felt as if it were being sliced by blades, sharp and unrelenting.

"I… I didn't… I didn't deceive you…"

Draco begged, trembling as he kissed Voldemort's feet.

But Voldemort's voice was colder than ice.

"Lift your head, Draco!" he commanded.

Before Draco could act, Voldemort had already taken control of his body with sheer magical force.

Draco was lifted as if an invisible hand had seized him, his face twisted with terror, resembling a chaotic, incoherent essay with every letter warped and distorted.

Now, Voldemort's magic began to invade Draco's mind.

"Did you conspire with Cyrus to deceive me, Draco?" he asked coldly.

Draco could no longer make a sound.

Draco's spirit was utterly crushed, and all he could do was desperately shake his head, his tear-streaked face looking filthy and disheveled.

For what felt like an eternity, though it was only a few seconds, Draco locked eyes with Voldemort.

Every breath during this brief exchange was an unbearable torment, as if he were enduring a thousand years of suffering.

Fortunately, Voldemort eventually released him.

The frail, pale ferret collapsed to the ground as if all the bones in his body had been removed. Lucius immediately crawled over, cradling Draco in his arms.

"Master, Master…" 

Lucius, devoid of all his usual dignity, resembled a pathetic, white-haired dog, groveling on the ground and whimpering, pleading with his master.

"Master, I beg you, spare Draco… It's not his fault—it's Harry Potter… If not for him, Draco would have succeeded…"

"Don't worry," Voldemort said calmly, intertwining his long fingers as he sat back in his chair. His gaze was half-lowered, his tone relaxed.

"I won't harm Draco."

"You should be proud of Draco, Lucius," Voldemort continued, as if the brief exchange of gazes had revealed everything he wanted to know. "He is as loyal to me as you are."

"The altered memory isn't his fault—or rather, I expected it all along."

Voldemort chuckled with satisfaction.

"I never believed this foolish plan would succeed. In fact, the current situation is exactly what I wanted to see."

__________

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