Marvel's Hogwarts Professor

Buzz! Buzz! Buzz!

A faint, unsettling buzzing sound filled the air, growing louder and louder with each passing second.

The blood-red humanoid phantom trembled violently, its form rippling as if struggling against some unseen force. At the same time, the Hellfire-forged blades embedded in its body began to dim, their once fierce glow fading at a visible rate.

They were being consumed.

Devoured.

Tom Riddle stood a short distance away, his expression unreadable as he observed the battle unfold. Deep within him, he could feel the shifting emotions of Hellfire—a burning hunger, an insatiable thirst for destruction.

Yet, something was wrong.

The flames, once an all-consuming force, were dwindling, being siphoned away at an alarming pace.

It was the Blood Abyss Insects—those infernal, parasitic creatures. Their ravenous instincts were wild, irrational, driven solely by an overwhelming desire to consume and evolve.

And yet…

Instead of fear or concern, a strange gleam flickered in Tom Riddle's eyes. A thought, dangerous and reckless, had taken root in his mind.

A mad idea.

For days, he had been desperate to escape from Lockhart's grasp, to break free of the binding shackles of Hellfire.

But Hellfire could not be extinguished.

It was a judgmental force, an executioner's blade, one that burned endlessly without yielding.

Yet, now, before his very eyes, he saw tiny, insignificant blood-red insects devouring it without hesitation.

They were still dying in the process, yes, but they were adapting.

Given enough time, they would undoubtedly overcome Hellfire completely.

And that meant…

They were the natural counter to Hellfire.

A weakness to a power that was supposed to be unbreakable.

For the first time in a long while, Tom Riddle felt hope.

He had spent countless resources, experimented with endless dark rituals, and endured the torment of Hellfire, all in a fruitless attempt to break free.

But now…

Now he had seen a path.

Yet, as he locked eyes with Voldemort, the glint in his opponent's gaze made it clear—

The feeling was mutual.

He would never help Tom.

If anything, Voldemort wanted the same thing—to consume him, to absorb his power, to devour everything.

And Tom couldn't even blame him for it.

If their roles were reversed, he would do the exact same thing.

Click! Click! Click!

The sharp sound of cracking bones echoed ominously.

In just seconds, Voldemort broke free from his restraints.

His blood-red form pulsed with an eerie vitality, his sinister eyes locking onto Tom.

"Tom, what exactly are you planning?" Voldemort's voice was cold, wary.

He knew something was off.

There was no way Tom had simply let him go.

Some hidden scheme was at play.

And yet, for the first time, Voldemort felt a subtle unease creeping into his mind.

Tread. Tread. Tread.

Tom did not answer.

Instead, he took a single step forward, lifting his right hand—a flaming whip materializing in his grasp.

Whoosh!

The fiery weapon cracked through the air, slicing through Voldemort's body with a thunderous bang!

And yet…

The whip passed straight through.

Tom's eyes flickered in surprise, but he did not hesitate.

Without missing a beat, his left hand, wrapped in Hellfire, shot forward, aiming directly for Voldemort's heart.

Whoosh!

The flames flared violently, as if responding to some unknown fuel.

But once again—

His attack passed through without resistance.

Voldemort simply stood there.

And then—

He smiled.

A slow, twisted, bloodthirsty grin.

Buzz!

The moment Tom made contact, a deafening buzzing sound erupted.

The Blood Abyss Mist surrounding Voldemort lunged forward, surging toward Tom like a living tide, coiling around his arms and legs.

Tom immediately moved to retreat, but an overwhelming force gripped him tightly, locking him in place.

Whoosh!

With a mere thought, the Hellfire around his body erupted, expanding in a violent blaze.

But…

It was too late.

The Blood Abyss Insects had already adapted.

The flames, which once reduced them to ashes, now barely scorched their flesh.

Instead of incinerating them, it merely released a burnt, sickly scent—the smell of charred corpses.

Voldemort's eyes flickered with intrigue.

Why wasn't Tom resisting?

No, he was resisting, but… not entirely.

It was as if he was waiting for something.

And that made Voldemort uneasy.

The Hellfire continued to burn.

The Blood Abyss Insects continued to devour it.

At first, the flames had been an all-powerful force, a divine punishment beyond mortal comprehension.

But now…

Now, they were simply flames.

Still hot.

Still painful.

But no longer lethal.

Voldemort could feel the Hellfire inside him beginning to decay, its power slowly withering away.

A triumphant gleam flashed in Tom's eyes.

Without hesitation, he pushed further, stimulating the Hellfire's last remnants.

He no longer defended himself.

Instead, he surrendered to the flames completely, allowing them to burn freely across his body.

This was a gamble.

A reckless, desperate gamble.

But if it worked—

If he survived—

He would be free.

Whoosh! Whoosh! Whoosh!

Voldemort hesitated.

Something wasn't right.

Tom Riddle was not a man who sought death.

He would never willingly give up.

Even in hopeless situations, he always found a way to survive.

So then—

Why was he letting this happen?

Voldemort shook the thought away, his hands tightening as he commanded the Blood Abyss Insects to continue devouring.

Burn it all.

Consume everything.

If Tom Riddle's body was stripped of Hellfire, then he would be defenseless.

Nothing more than meat for the taking.

And Voldemort intended to feast.

Buzz! Buzz! Buzz!

The maddening buzz filled the air, forcing the Death Eaters to cover their ears, their faces twisted in horror.

Their invincible master—

The one who ruled with an iron fist—

Now stood, ensnared, restrained, his once-blazing Hellfire dimming to embers.

And then—

Their pupils shrunk in shock.

From above, descending like divine judgment, a thin, colorful arm pierced through the sky—

And grabbed Tom Riddle.

In an instant, he was torn free from the blood-red mist.

The colorful hand held nothing but bone, wrapped in the final wisps of Hellfire.

For a split second—

Tom Riddle regretted everything.

The Hellfire had been so close to being completely consumed.

If only he had a few more seconds…

But Lockhart had intervened.

And now—

The chance was gone.

What a pity.

What a damn pity.

He had been so close—just one step away from breaking free of Lockhart's grasp, from severing the chains of Hellfire and seizing true freedom.

But fate had intervened.

At that moment, Voldemort returned to his original form, his twisted, blood-drenched visage fading into the familiar pale features.

His expression was dark, twisted with fury, as he glared at the colorful figure standing opposite him.

"Lockhart!"

Voldemort's voice was thick with venom as he gritted out the name, every syllable laced with resentment.

He had been played—manipulated like a puppet, forced into a desperate struggle against Hellfire, only for Lockhart to appear at the final moment and steal everything.

Had he not reacted in time, had he failed to resist—he would have been nothing more than a puppet, a tool, just another piece in Lockhart's grand game.

He had died once at Lockhart's hands.

And if not for his resurrection ritual, that would have been the end of him.

The end of the Dark Lord.

Whoosh!

Lockhart raised his wand with a lazy flick, and the glowing, colorful arm holding Tom Riddle dissolved into tiny points of light, vanishing instantly.

Tom's body floated down gently, landing next to Lockhart.

Lockhart's expression remained unbothered, indifferent, as if Voldemort's rage was nothing more than an insect buzzing in his ear.

"Voldemort, you recovered quite quickly." His voice was calm, almost amused.

In the darkness, colorful lights flickered in Lockhart's eyes, shifting as he searched through the tangled web of Voldemort's fate.

He was running out of time.

World consciousness was frantically searching for him, tracking his existence, tracing his every move.

If he lingered too long, he would be forced to leave, his connection to this world severed once more.

But before that happened—

He had loose ends to tie up.

And Voldemort was the first.

This madman, once a cunning and brilliant Dark Lord, had unknowingly become a puppet of world consciousness.

His rage, his hatred, his very existence now revolved around one goal—revenge.

Against Lockhart.

Against Kamar-Taj.

And while Lockhart would be forced to leave this time, he couldn't risk Voldemort gaining power unchecked.

He didn't even know when he would be able to return.

Perhaps in the Marvel world, a year would pass, while in the Harry Potter world, a hundred years would go by.

Or perhaps the opposite—

Time was chaotic.

Without an anchor, without a fixed point, everything could be thrown out of sync.

Lockhart had no control over it, no say in how the threads of fate unraveled.

But one thing was certain.

Before he left—

Voldemort had to be dealt with.

For good.

His gaze sharpened as he traced the strands of Voldemort's destiny, searching for the medium through which Voldemort's resurrection was tied.

But before he could find it—

Voldemort moved.

Whoosh! Whoosh! Whoosh!

Blood-red mist erupted, spreading outward like a storm of death.

At the same time, a portion of the crimson mist flowed back into Voldemort's body.

His form shifted, the blood-red armor of the Blood Abyss enveloping him once more.

Tread. Tread. Tread.

With each step, his presence grew heavier, the buzzing of the Blood Abyss Insects mingling with the sound of his footsteps.

He was coming.

Lockhart remained expressionless, his wand rising ever so slightly.

Buzz!

A chilling aura swept through the air as countless ice spears formed behind him.

Their tips glowed with a faint, colorful shimmer, their presence both beautiful and deadly.

Whoosh! Whoosh! Whoosh!

Without hesitation, Lockhart flicked his wand forward, and the ice spears shot through the air like a barrage of bullets.

Boom! Boom! Boom!

But—

Voldemort barely reacted.

With a mere twist of his wand, the blood-red mist expanded, swirling into a vortex of destruction.

The Blood Abyss Insects surged forward, devouring the ice spears whole.

Every last one vanished, consumed like a mere snack.

Voldemort smirked, his crimson eyes flashing with triumph.

He stared at Lockhart, searching his face, waiting—hoping—to find a trace of fear, of concern, of panic.

But Lockhart remained calm. Unmoved.

As if none of this mattered in the slightest.

Tch.

A low chuckle escaped from behind Tom Riddle.

"Lockhart," Tom whispered, his voice carefully measured. "How about I take my leave? I wouldn't want to interfere with your battle."

Lockhart turned to him, smiling faintly, his gaze piercing.

Tom froze.

Had Lockhart read his thoughts?

No, that was impossible—wasn't it?

But that half-smile, that knowing look—it was suffocating.

"No, Tom."

Lockhart's voice was soft, yet it rang with finality.

"Today, Voldemort will repent. In eternal death."

His tone was absolute.

There would be no mercy.

No escape.

Tom swallowed, forcing a neutral expression onto his face.

"Very well," he murmured. "If you require my assistance, do let me know."

Lockhart gave a single nod, but his attention was already shifting back to Voldemort.

Time was slipping away.

The blood-red mist continued to churn, its presence now thick, suffocating.

Voldemort smiled—a feral, twisted grin.

Then—

BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!

Colorful beams of light erupted into existence.

They shot toward Voldemort, painting the battlefield in hues of brilliance and destruction.

Voldemort's face paled.

He recognized this attack.

He had died to this very power before.

And now, it was happening again.

Almost instinctively, he leapt backward, his palms slamming together as he commanded the blood-red mist to surge forward, intercepting the beams.

Whoosh! Whoosh! Whoosh!

The mist wrapped around the beams, attempting to absorb them.

But it wasn't enough.

The beams pierced through, shooting straight for Voldemort's retreating form.

Yet—

Lockhart wasn't done.

His palm lowered slightly.

And then—

BOOM!

A colossal force descended from the heavens.

A massive, colorful palm materialized in the sky, crashing down with overwhelming power.

Voldemort was crushed beneath it.

He struggled, fought, commanded the Blood Abyss Insects to assist him—

But it was futile.

When the colorful palm connected with the earth, it solidified—

Transforming into a mountain.

Golden runes flickered into existence across its surface, glowing with an undeniable, inescapable power.

At its base, a line of words—etched into the stone by Lockhart's will—shone brightly

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