Marvel's Hogwarts Professor

Buzz! Buzz! Buzz!

The blood-red mist pulsed with a faint, eerie buzzing sound, vibrating with an almost sentient intensity.

Whoosh! Whoosh! Whoosh!

The scorching waves of Hellfire surged forward, their heat distorting the air as they crackled ominously.

Two figures stood unmoving amidst this hellish battlefield, positioned between the encroaching blood mist and the raging inferno.

They shared an uncanny resemblance—both young, elegant, and exuding an aura of dark refinement. Yet, despite their similar appearances, the differences between them were stark.

One was clad in a blood-red wizard's robe, emanating a scent that reeked of decay and slaughter. The other, while also donned in red, bore a darker shade, akin to the very Hellfire roaring behind him—blazing yet chilling, despairing yet filled with a twisted sense of judgment.

"I didn't expect you to recover so quickly," Tom Riddle murmured, his voice carrying a hint of grudging admiration.

"Hmph. There are many things beyond your comprehension," Voldemort replied coldly, his slit-like eyes narrowing as he gazed at his former self.

"To be frank," Tom continued, his expression unreadable, "had you not been so hasty, we would have been allies soon enough." His voice carried a subtle lure. "Of course, it's still not too late."

Even as he spoke, Tom Riddle remained alert, his mind working rapidly. He could feel the ominous threat emanating from the blood-red mist surrounding Voldemort. The dark power at his enemy's command was palpable, shifting like a living entity.

If he hadn't returned, he would never have willingly given back the box—not without extracting something useful first.

If the opportunity presented itself, he might even consume Voldemort, assimilating his strength and, perhaps, breaking through the infernal flames that had entangled him for so long.

However…

As Tom scrutinized the blood-red mist, his gaze sharpened. The dense fog wasn't merely an abstract force. It was made up of countless microscopic creatures—tiny, writhing red insects. They continuously burrowed into Voldemort's body, wriggling beneath his pale skin like parasites.

Even with his formidable mental fortitude, a chill ran down Tom's spine.

What in the name of dark magic has this man become?

At the same time, the Hellfire behind him flared. The infernal flames flickered violently, as if reacting to something—some unspeakable sin saturating the air.

The scent of blood, suffering, and unatoned crimes was so dense that even the flames of damnation seemed to recoil for a moment before surging forward with renewed intensity.

This was not just any sin.

This was a massacre.

A massacre of tens of thousands—an evil so profound, so vile, that it threatened to destabilize the already chaotic battlefield.

Under the influence of this dreadful aura, the Hellfire roared, expanding wildly.

Tom Riddle's face darkened. His fingers twitched around his wand as he muttered bitterly to himself.

And this… This is exactly why I want to escape Hellfire.

It wasn't just about the opponent in front of him.

No, the true horror was that this cursed power, the Hellfire, judged darkness without mercy.

It burned sinners indiscriminately, consuming even him, once the Dark Lord who ruled without fear.

For the first time in his life, Tom Riddle—Voldemort's past self, one of the most formidable dark wizards to have ever existed—found himself cast as a hunted man, a condemned soul facing the flames of judgment.

It was a humiliation unlike any other.

And yet, as much as he loathed this power, he had no choice but to use it.

With a resigned sigh, Tom relented to the call of Hellfire echoing within his soul. His grip on his wand tightened before he loosened it, releasing his last shred of resistance.

Whoosh!

Instantly, the infernal flames surged forward, wrapping around his body with eerie enthusiasm.

The fire twisted, reshaping itself.

In the next moment, standing in Tom Riddle's place was a burning skeletal figure, cloaked in Hellfire.

The spectral Flaming Skull donned a fiery wizard's robe, its surface engraved with dark-red infernal runes, pulsating with ancient power.

The entity's voice emerged—deep, hoarse, and dripping with ethereal authority:

"Sinner, look into my eyes."

Tom Riddle's now glowing, hollow sockets locked onto Voldemort's gaze.

For a brief moment, Voldemort's face flickered with an odd emotion—excitement.

Yes…

This was exactly what he had been waiting for.

Buzz! Buzz! Buzz!

Without hesitation, Voldemort opened his mouth, releasing a thick torrent of blood-red mist. It shot forth like an arrow, surging toward the Flaming Skull that Tom had become.

Whoosh!

Hellfire exploded outward as the Flaming Skull raised its right fist, countering the mist with a wave of scorching flames.

To an outsider, the battle might have appeared eerily silent—no grand explosions, no excessive theatrics.

Yet, it had already entered its most ferocious stage.

Sizzle! Crackle!

The Blood Abyss Insects within the mist shrieked as the flames scorched them, their tiny bodies bursting into ash.

And yet, for every insect burned, another took its place.

Tom Riddle's skeleton-like visage twisted in frustration. The Hellfire should have incinerated these creatures completely… yet they continued to multiply, feeding off the very flames meant to consume them.

His expression darkened.

Then, he understood.

The Blood Abyss Insects weren't just numerous—they were adapting.

The longer they fought, the more resistant they became to Hellfire.

If this continued…

Tom Riddle's thoughts sharpened like a blade.

Capture the leader, destroy the army.

If he couldn't wipe out every single insect, then he would cut off the source instead.

Tread! Tread! Tread!

The Flaming Skull strode forward, its skeletal feet clanking against the scorched earth.

With a single motion, its right hand tightened—and in a burst of flames, a blazing longsword materialized.

Without hesitation, Tom lunged.

The sword whistled through the air, its arc swift and deadly as it bore down on Voldemort.

Bang!

A blood-red arm rose, intercepting the strike.

Voldemort's eyes gleamed coldly. The crimson hue from his arm spread rapidly, engulfing his entire body like liquid armor.

A blood-drenched entity now stood in defiance of the Flaming Skull, the two figures mirroring one another in an eerie contrast—Hellfire and Blood, Judgment and Sin.

Whoosh! Boom! Boom! Boom!

The flaming longsword clashed against the blood-red mist, waves of heat and corruption colliding in a deadly dance.

Voldemort weaved through the attacks, dodging when possible, enduring when necessary.

Each time his body was sliced apart, new flesh formed from the Blood Abyss. His regeneration was near-instantaneous—what should have been fatal wounds were nothing more than minor inconveniences.

Meanwhile, the Hellfire flickered.

What once burned the insects with ease now struggled.

Tom Riddle's soul wavered.

Then—

A subtle ripple of soul energy emerged.

The Flaming Skull's gaze sharpened.

Without hesitation, the flaming longsword fragmented, transforming into multiple infernal daggers.

Whoosh! Whoosh! Whoosh!

Each dagger found its mark, piercing Voldemort's form—head, shoulders, limbs…

For the first time, Voldemort froze.

Tom's hollow sockets gleamed.

Victory was within reach.

But then…

Buzz! Buzz! Buzz!

The blood-red mist behind Voldemort surged forward—as if enraged.

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