...

Years of planning and struggle, all falling to the whims of a mere child — how could the proud Voldemort accept such a fate? It was only through immense restraint that he hadn't acted already.

Harry stood awkwardly, clueless as to why he was being singled out with all these questions, unaware that he was teetering on the edge of danger. As he glanced at the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor, who now had a cold, calculating look, he couldn't shake the strange feeling that this was eerily similar to how Snape would behave.

After a brief moment of mental gymnastics, Harry finally spoke, his voice barely above a whisper, "I-I'm sorry, Professor. I don't know."

"Don't know?" Voldemort, hidden behind Quirrell's identity, was momentarily taken aback. How could this boy not even know the basics? Did he not even understand how his own parents died? His suspicions grew.

"What's the definition of dark magic?" Voldemort pressed, his patience running thin.

"I... I don't know, Professor."

"How many types of curses are there?"

"...I don't know."

"What are the conditions necessary to cast a spell?"

Again, Harry could only shake his head, "No... don't know!"

Each response was like a slap to Voldemort's face, and it left him dumbfounded. Was this truly the child destined to defeat him? The boy who had caused his downfall? The boy who didn't even know the basics of magic?

The shame of being defeated by someone so profoundly ignorant struck Voldemort deeply. He could accept losing to someone powerful like Dumbledore, or even to Grindelwald in his prime. But Harry Potter? A child who knew nothing of magic?

At this point, Dyroth, seated nearby, struggled to stifle his laughter, burying his head to avoid Voldemort's suspicious gaze. Harry had been raised by Muggles, after all — what knowledge could he possibly possess of the magical world?

Voldemort, who had been away from the wizarding world for so long, had never taken the time to learn about Harry's upbringing. He had been too consumed with his own survival, first existing as little more than a wretched spirit, parasitizing on rats and other creatures, before finding Quirrell. In his mind, Harry, as a famous wizarding figure, should have been protected and trained by Dumbledore.

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"Mr. Potter," Voldemort finally spoke through gritted teeth, "five points from Gryffindor for your ignorance. Now, sit down."

Harry returned to his seat, feeling confused and unjustly punished, as though ever since arriving at Hogwarts, someone had always been out to get him.

With Voldemort's temper rising, the rest of the class passed in a tense, awkward atmosphere. Once the lesson concluded, Voldemort stopped Dyroth as he prepared to leave.

"Mr. Grindelwald, please wait a moment."

Dyroth shot a wary look at Voldemort, quickly motioning for Draco and the others not to wait for him. He couldn't afford to have them caught up in whatever Voldemort had planned.

"Professor Quirrell, what can I do for you?" Dyroth asked, his voice polite but cautious.

"I remember mentioning that we would meet again soon," Voldemort said, the faintest hint of a smile playing on his lips. "So, will you refuse my invitation this time as well?"

Before Dyroth could respond, Voldemort's eyes darted to Draco and his friends standing not too far away. "Perhaps you'd like to bring Mr. Malfoy and Mr. Nott with you? After all, I'm sure their curiosity about magic would make them eager to join."

The message was clear: come with me, or I'll involve your friends, and they won't have the mental defenses to protect themselves like you do.

Dyroth, his mind filled with irritation at the blatant threat, forced a smile and bowed slightly. "It would be an honor, Professor."

...

Voldemort led Dyroth to Quirrell's office, a place devoid of the usual pretense of the timid professor. As the door closed behind them, Voldemort dropped any façade.

"Mr. Grindelwald, with your intellect, I'm sure you've already guessed who I really am."

Dyroth played along, unwilling to reveal his foreknowledge. "You're not Professor Quirrell. Who are you?"

"My name is Tom Riddle, but you may call me by my other name… Voldemort."

Dyroth's face remained composed, showing none of the shock that Voldemort might have expected. He simply met the Dark Lord's gaze with calm indifference.

"I see now," Voldemort remarked, impressed. "You're one of the few who hear my name without trembling in fear."

Of course, Voldemort reasoned, as the son of Grindelwald, the last Dark Lord, Dyroth wouldn't be intimidated by him.

"Is that all you wanted, Professor?" Dyroth asked coolly. "Just to tell me who you are?"

"Of course not." Voldemort leaned back in his chair, a predatory smile creeping onto his face. "You carry the blood of a Dark Lord. Are you really content to spend your time here, playing schoolboy games with Mudbloods and half-breeds?"

"Join me," Voldemort continued, his voice dripping with temptation. "Swear your loyalty, and I'll take you to heights you can only dream of."

Dyroth said nothing, simply watching him with calm eyes. He had anticipated this moment ever since Voldemort revealed his identity. Voldemort coveted his talent and influence over the saints, just as Dyroth expected.

"I'm afraid my loyalty isn't so easily bought," Dyroth finally replied, his voice even. "Compared to your Death Eaters, my situation with the saints seems far more favorable, don't you think?"

Voldemort's expression darkened, but he didn't lose his composure. "Everything your saints have is built on your father's legacy. But how long do you think that will last? Three years? Five?"

Dyroth's gaze turned cold, a faint blue light flashing in his eyes. In an instant, he drew his wand, a red light bursting forth.

"Expelliarmus!"

"As easily as I knew you would attack me but__!" Dyroth smirked, already prepared for Voldemort's treachery.

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