Marvel's Hogwarts Professor

Durmstrang, Germany

"Damn it!"

Tom Riddle's voice echoed through the spacious research chamber, filled with both frustration and disbelief. His sharp eyes burned with intensity as he paced around the dark red flames that flickered ominously in the center of the room.

"Why was this never mentioned in history?" he muttered under his breath.

His expression twisted as his mind struggled to grasp the terrifying nature of the entity before him.

"Not only does it directly target the soul, but it can also transform the human body, and—" his voice dropped lower, filled with a mixture of awe and dread, "its lifespan is nearly infinite."

His fingers clenched into fists as he stared at the blazing inferno before him.

"Hellfire... just what the hell is this?"

The fire danced in the air, casting eerie shadows along the chamber walls, its flickering light reflecting in Tom Riddle's cold, calculating eyes.

The quill floating beside him, enchanted to record his findings, filtered out his curses and irrelevant mutterings, leaving behind only the core of his research. But at this moment, his thoughts were anything but structured.

The more he studied the hellfire, the more it gnawed at his sanity.

This power—it was too dangerous, too untamed. Unlike traditional magic, it could not be manipulated by mere force of will. It was parasitic, embedded deep within his very soul. Any attempt to escape its grasp only resulted in searing agony, as though his essence itself was being incinerated.

He shuddered.

The sensation was impossible to forget. It was as if every thought, every ounce of his magical energy, was being consumed as fuel to feed the relentless inferno within him.

Tom Riddle took a deep breath, trying to suppress the involuntary tremor in his hands.

"Damn Voldemort," he spat. "That arrogant fool. If only I had broken free from Lockhart's control—"

His jaw clenched.

If he had been free, he would have risen to heights even Voldemort could never have dreamed of. Together, they could have stood against Lockhart, perhaps even defeated him.

But deep down, he knew the truth.

If he had gained his freedom, the first thing he would have done was consume Voldemort entirely.

Devouring his other self would have granted him unprecedented power. And with that power, Lockhart would have been nothing more than an obstacle in his path.

A wicked smirk curled on his lips at the thought.

Whoosh!

A sudden ripple coursed through the flames, and a warning sensation jolted through him.

Tom Riddle's expression darkened.

Something was happening.

He turned swiftly, his sharp gaze locking onto a house-elf that had just appeared in the room, its tattered robes hanging loosely around its small frame.

"What has been happening at the school recently?" he demanded.

The elf furrowed its brow, its large eyes darting back and forth as it struggled to recall any abnormalities.

After a moment, it shook its head. "Nothing unusual, Master."

Tom Riddle's lips pressed into a thin line.

Dismissing the elf with a careless wave of his hand, he turned back to the fire.

Snap!

With a flick of his fingers, tendrils of dark red flames coiled around him, illuminating the eerie gleam in his eyes.

"Danger...?" he murmured.

Despite its parasitic nature, the hellfire was undeniably useful. It had just given him a warning—one that he could not afford to ignore.

His grip on his wand tightened.

Whoosh!

With a swirl of shadows, Tom Riddle vanished from the chamber, reappearing atop Durmstrang's highest tower.

The air was bitterly cold, the sky stretching above him in an endless expanse of blue. Below, vast fields of white sprawled across the landscape, snow covering the castle grounds and the plains beyond.

The frigid wind howled around him, yet the flames of hellfire flickered steadily in his palm, undeterred by the icy gusts.

Closing his eyes, he focused.

He allowed his mind to merge with the infernal power, reaching out with its senses.

Buzz!

The flames pulsed wildly, reacting to something unseen.

A threat loomed on the horizon.

Slowly, Tom Riddle opened his eyes, his gaze sharpening as he scanned the snowy expanse.

And then—

In the distance, a crimson stain bled through the perfect white landscape.

A trail of blood.

His lips curled into a knowing smirk.

Boom!

With a flick of his wand, a burst of dark green fire shot into the sky.

The air rippled as a haunting image formed above the castle—the Dark Mark, a skull with a serpent slithering from its mouth.

Moments later—

Whoosh! Whoosh! Whoosh!

Black shadows flickered into existence around him.

Death Eaters.

Figures clad in flowing black robes emerged atop the castle, their presence an unspoken testament to their loyalty.

A masked figure stepped forward hesitantly. "My Lord...?"

Tom Riddle did not respond immediately.

Instead, he lifted his wand and pointed it toward the distant red mist.

The Death Eaters followed his gaze.

At first, it seemed insignificant—a mere mark in the snow. But as they focused, they felt it.

A dark aura radiated from the mist, thick with malice.

The sheer weight of its presence sent an instinctive chill through even the most hardened of them.

This was no ordinary foe.

Many of them were seasoned pure-blood wizards, trained in dark magic and schooled in the most dangerous spells. Yet even they could not suppress the unease creeping into their bones.

The blood-red mist loomed closer.

Tom Riddle, however, remained unfazed.

A chilling smile spread across his lips.

"Let's go and greet an old friend."

His words sent a ripple of tension through his followers.

They exchanged uneasy glances. They knew who he was referring to.

The realization made them hesitate for only a fraction of a second—

Then, one of them raised their wand, uttering the incantation for apparition.

Whoosh!

One by one, the Death Eaters vanished into the shadows, following their master without question.

Hesitation was not an option.

To falter now was to invite death.

Outside the Gates of Durmstrang

The battlefield from over a month ago still bore the scars of destruction.

Deep craters marred the frozen ground, remnants of the fierce battle between Voldemort, Tom Riddle, and Grindelwald.

Dark magic lingered in the air, mingling with the embers of hellfire that refused to be extinguished.

Tom Riddle had never cleared the battlefield.

Not out of negligence—but as a reminder.

A lesson.

He had miscalculated once. He had believed that Voldemort, despite everything, would choose pragmatism over betrayal.

That, faced with the mutual threat of Dumbledore, Grindelwald, and Lockhart, Voldemort would compromise.

He had been wrong.

Voldemort had not hesitated to upend the board, throwing their fragile alliance into chaos.

Had it not been for the hellfire, he might have been consumed.

But he had survived.

And this time—

"Never again."

The frigid wind howled.

The blood-red mist thickened, creeping closer.

Tom Riddle extended his hand.

In an instant—

BOOM!

A massive surge of hellfire erupted forth, slamming into the encroaching mist.

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