"Master, that child—Harry Potter… he lives up to his name. He's terrifying."
Lord Voldemort was silent, recalling that momentary deterrence he had glimpsed in the boy's eyes. There had been something almost regal there—an aura. The ground Harry stood on seemed to belong to him. The Leaky Cauldron, his palace. The bar counter, his throne. A routine hand‑shaking and a brief, fan‑greet speech acted like a sermon, stirring hearts. The whole atmosphere bent to his will. And just before he left, there was a kingly presence—unyielding, inviolable, divine. Exactly the kind of aura Voldemort had always imagined for himself.
What kind of charisma was this? Voldemort found himself doubting his own senses. Why did he feel that a mere child—Harry—possessed something so terrifying? Even in his own prime, the second Dark Lord had not commanded such palpable power. He wondered if perhaps his perception was flawed.
That child, though. He had noticed something—quick, subtle, not fully formed—which lay beyond Quirrell, beyond the handshake. It was instinctive. And Voldemort hated that he couldn't pin it down. He thought: "Why would someone whom others see as harmless—Professor Quirrell—draw that kind of reaction?"
Or perhaps Voldemort reasoned, it was a test. The kind of test one administers to gauge a professor's strength. Yet, Hogwarts had already been tested by Voldemort's presence in various forms. But then, there was Albus Dumbledore, the one who had taken him, Tom Riddle, under his wing those years ago. A man far above the rest. And now, the boy Harry stood under Quirrell's teaching. Two professors, but worlds apart in reputation and presence.
Young Tom Riddle had a difficult path. Born in a Muggle orphanage, ignorant of his true nature for many years, he discovered that he had wizarding abilities—telekinesis, talking to snakes. He committed misdeeds—stealing, seeking revenge, cruelty—which made him feared and ostracized.
That summer, Dumbledore, then a Transfiguration professor—even then among the strongest wizards—visited the orphanage. He learned of young Tom's cruelty: the hanging of a child's rabbit, the theft of others' possessions. Hoping to steer the boy from evil, Dumbledore compelled him to confess via a burning wardrobe, forcing Tom to face consequences.
From that, Tom learned what Harry had also come to understand after transmigration: Power is the foundation of sovereignty. Those without sufficient power must serve those who are stronger. For decades in Britain, Dumbledore had held that place as the most powerful wizard. That created a wound in Voldemort's psyche—a scar born of comparison and defeat.
Now, in the present moment, Voldemort recognized in Harry something terrifyingly akin to himself in youth—an early but potent reflection of magic, charisma, and influence. Ten years after his fall, Harry's display at the Leaky Cauldron seemed more confident, more radiant. Wizards there, many meeting Harry for the first time, already showed signs of devotion. Some looked like they wished to pledge allegiance, even now.
Voldemort had seen loyalty before—but only among older students or followers tested by time. Here, it was instantaneous, natural. If there was one thing Voldemort understood well, it was that weak individuals sought safety, ambitious ones sought glory, sadists desired cruelty—the kind of people who flocked to a leader able to give them all three. And Harry, whether by destiny or accident, was producing that effect.
How could this be? Eleven years old, yet already he drew power of presence that usually belonged only to ancient kings or legends. Where did he get such aura? Was it something inherent? Something born?
Then Voldemort recalled the prophecy—Snape's whispered prophecy, the one that haunted him:
"The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches… born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies… and the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will have power the Dark Lord knows not… and either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives…"
Yes. It was true. This child was more special than Voldemort had even imagined. Terrible as the prophecy was, it now loomed over him with renewed urgency. According to it, only one of them could survive. Voldemort already believed he had died—that night when his Avada Kedavra had been turned back—or at least blunted somehow. His physical body destroyed, tethered to life only through Horcruxes. Yet the prophecy indicated that Harry survived through something Voldemort himself had not known, or perhaps underestimated.
That Avada Kedavra, once considered the strongest of all curses, now seemed less absolute. No one understood it better than Voldemort—yet someone, that child, had withstood it.
If the prophecy was correct, if Harry could grow like this... Voldemort felt vulnerability not from external enemies, but from this boy. If Harry continued on this path, Voldemort's fate would be sealed—not by Dumbledore, not by the Ministry, but by Harry.
"Master," Professor Quirrell said, voice steadier now. No more stammering. "The moment I shook his hand… I felt like I might be killed at any moment. His hand—small though it is—was strong. Unyielding. The instant it clasped mine, I felt utterly powerless… as if I were the child, not him."
Quirrell straightened, goosebumps on his skin. He did not need to pretend foolishness when speaking to his Master.
Contrary to what Harry might assume, Voldemort was braver, or more reckless, than many believed. After ten years of hiding, recovering, living as a shade, he still dared to manifest himself through Quirrell. To go to Hogwarts under the guise of a teacher. To be present in places where his name alone would terrify others.
While Harry might imagine holy battles or great sorceries, Voldemort had been building slowly, secretly. The Horcruxes, the hidden fragments anchoring him to life, had allowed him this dangerous audacity. He did not fear death in the usual sense—if his body were destroyed, his Horcruxes ensured his return. So he was less cautious now than he had been in times past.
Harry stood in the Leaky Cauldron, watching Quirrell and Voldemort, absorbing every detail. Their confidence, their fear, their admiration of him—all of it was a mirror to his own potential. He remembered the roar of applause, the way people beamed when they saw him. He had expected no such welcome, assumed he would be anonymous. Yet here he was, at the center of something still alive in the hearts of others.
Lord Voldemort's thoughts churned. If Harry was already this formidable at eleven, what would he be when fully grown? And if the prophecy was true, what choices remained? To strike first—or allow the other to strike. Neither could let the other live forever.
Voldemort felt fear. Deep, cold, ancient fear.
Because here, in this innocent place, among admirers, and masked as a friendly professor, this child was sowing seeds of something that would one day uproot everything Voldemort had built—or destroy him.