Chapter 10
Inside the shadows of Quirrell’s body, a presence stirred. Voldemort’s soul, weak and fragmented, quivered at the subtle tremors of magic that reverberated through Quirrell’s weakened form. This year, he had clung to this broken body, possessing it, using it to survive, but he was far from whole. His mind was more a whisper now than the powerful force it once was.
He had felt it the moment Harry Potter had entered Hogwarts. There was something about the boy that stirred him, something different. Voldemort had known the boy was important, had always known, even before the prophecy had been spoken. But now... now he could feel it with greater clarity.
At first, Voldemort had dismissed the sensation as curiosity. Harry Potter had always held a peculiar, almost magnetic presence, when he was a baby, but this was different. This felt... darker. It felt wrong. And when the boy had walked into the Great Hall that first night, with his innocent demeanor and his untamed, unknowing darkness, Voldemort had felt it with a force that shook him to his very core.
A flicker of recognition flashed through his mind—a distant memory of the power he had once wielded, the same power that had allowed him to kill, to dominate, to control. But this... this was something else. It was deeper, more ancient than the twisted magic he had used to fashion Horcruxes. It wasn’t just dark magic—it was unnatural.
In the stillness of Quirrell’s mind, Voldemort’s consciousness tried to focus, to zero in on the source of this disturbance. The boy’s power—it was as if it wasn’t entirely his own. It felt as if something else, something far older and darker, was entwined with him. As if the boy was wrapped around by something beyond mortal comprehension.
Voldemort's mind recoiled. He had always considered himself a master of dark magic, but this—this force that radiated from Potter—it was beyond his grasp. It was a magic that made even his fragmented soul tremble. The Horcruxes he had created were nothing compared to this. No, this was more ancient, more primal. This was something that shouldn’t have been.
He had felt it first during the Sorting, when the boy had crossed the threshold of the Great Hall. The Hat had hesitated, as though it were aware, too, of the unnatural power that the boy carried. Voldemort had been able to sense the flickering, trembling energy as the Hat sorted him into Ravenclaw—Ravenclaw, of all houses—but it was the dark whispers that lingered in his ear, like a serpent coiled tight, that held his attention.
The boy had become a part of this world, and yet... Voldemort could feel the very air around Harry Potter rejecting him. It was as if the universe itself knew that something was wrong. The very fabric of magic hummed with a discordant note whenever Harry was near.
Voldemort felt the power growing, swelling in the boy like an ancient storm gathering on the horizon. The Rosary Beads—yes, those were important. They carried a magic that resonated with the darkness he had once wielded, but it was more than just that. The beads were tethered to something else. The magic emanating from them was far more terrifying than any of his Horcruxes. This was a curse, a deep corruption that Voldemort could not comprehend. It was as if the beads had opened a door—one that led to a dark, twisted place he had never dared to venture. A place so dark, it chilled him even in his fragmented state.
The boy was a mystery—a riddle wrapped in shadows, wrapped in a past that Voldemort couldn’t access, not yet. But he would. He had to. For the first time in years, the Dark Lord felt fear. Fear of something he couldn’t control, couldn’t bend to his will. Fear of a force that wasn’t bound by the laws of magic he knew, a force that seemed as ancient as time itself.
Harry Potter was not just the boy who survived, Voldemort realized. No. He was the boy who was entwined with something far worse than Voldemort’s own twisted existence.
The boy was an enigma.
And Voldemort would unravel him—sooner or later.
He had to.