Harry memorised the name of that bastard Voldemort, but appeared indifferent to his deeds.
He sounded like just another unremarkable, ambitious British man fantasising about ruling Britain's wizarding world. Unpopular, lacking viable strategy, only knowing simple intimidation and bribery.
He wondered about Voldemort's Charisma.
Crude methods, insufficient power to overthrow order, couldn't defeat Dumbledore, so unable to truly control the government—if he had official headquarters and openly governed, Dumbledore would eliminate him.
Most likely still a failure, since Hagrid mentioned him in the past tense, indicating he was no longer a threat.
Harry was more worried he had already died—then he'd have to find ways to locate his spirit and kill him again...
No, he couldn't just kill him. Harry would torture his soul forever.
If he had to set a time limit, it would be ten thousand years.
To find someone's soul... could the Great Other's divine power accomplish this?
If not, it must be because his power wasn't strong enough!
If he gained more Golden attribute points, Harry would still invest in Divine Power!
Besides strength, other attributes would likely transform significantly after reaching 5 points.
"By the way, how many people has he killed?"
Hagrid shuddered again. "Don't know, nobody counted, many... maybe hundreds!"
"?"
Harry felt puzzled.
Only hundreds?
This was unspeakable terror? The mysterious person whose name couldn't be mentioned?
Sometimes Harry had beheaded more people than that in a single day.
Harry couldn't help wondering whether this was Voldemort's problem or his own.
"Now let's talk about your parents. They were the finest young wizards I knew. They were Head Boy and Head Girl at Hogwarts!"
"Maybe he thought he could win them over... or maybe he just wanted to kill them outright. Everyone knows, on Halloween night ten years ago, he came to the village where you lived. You were only one year old. He came to your house and—and—"
Hagrid suddenly pulled out a dirty, stained handkerchief and blew his nose.
"Sorry," he said. "This is tragic news. I knew your parents—couldn't find better people anywhere—"
"You-Know-Who killed them, and he wanted to kill you too, probably to eliminate all threats. But the inexplicable thing is he failed to kill you.
Many people speculate it's related to the scar on your forehead—that's no ordinary scar. That's from a very powerful curse. The curse that killed your parents and destroyed your home, but had no effect when it hit you."
"What curse?" Harry interrupted, touching his forehead.
"Well, the Killing Curse—Avada Kedavra. Those with weak magical power or no killing intent won't succeed when casting it, won't cause death, but a truly successful Avada Kedavra has no counter-curse. It's a curse that means certain death—one of the Unforgivable Curses. You're the only survivor."
"Dumbledore and the Ministry tested it—your forehead was directly hit by a real Avada Kedavra cast personally by Voldemort."
"I was worried that curse might damage your brain. Seeing how clever you are today makes me really happy."
Harry was somewhat puzzled. Before crossing over, he had no system, was unremarkable, had magic but couldn't use it. Before system enhancement, he was near death without any power surge.
If Avada Kedavra was truly as dangerous as Hagrid claimed, his 2 points of Magic definitely couldn't block it. How had one-year-old him survived?
"Child, you don't know—you've become famous over these years. Anyone he decided to kill couldn't escape doom, only you survived.
He killed some excellent wizards then—the McKinnons, the Bones family, the Prewett brothers. You're the only one who survived."
Very distant scenes appeared in Harry's mind.
As Hagrid's story neared its end, that brilliant green light suddenly flashed, clearer than any previous memory.
Harry remembered other things—for the first time in his life, hearing loud, cold, cruel laughter.
These were childhood memories. So that was Avada Kedavra? That was Voldemort?
Hagrid looked at him sadly.
"I was ordered by Dumbledore to personally carry you from that destroyed house and bring you to these people..."
Harry had many more questions—hundreds, thousands to ask.
"What happened to Vol—I mean, You-Know-Who afterward? Did he die? If he's still alive, where does he live? If dead, does he have a grave?"
"Er... Harry. He vanished. Disappeared. On the very night he tried to kill you. That made you even more famous. This is the most inexplicable part—his power kept growing stronger. Why would he leave?"
"Some say he died. I used to think that was pure nonsense. He probably had so little humanity left that he couldn't possibly die."
"We used to think he was still somewhere, but had lost his power, too weak to cause trouble. Because some power in you destroyed him, Harry.
Something he didn't expect must have happened that night—I don't know what, nobody knows—but some power in you defeated him."
Hagrid gazed at Harry with eager reverence, but Harry felt neither joy nor pride.
If these were truly his achievements and military exploits, he would naturally be proud. But Harry wasn't someone who would claim unearned glory—in this regard, Harry's character was exemplary in military circles, a model for his generation.
Perhaps sufficient power gave him confidence—he knew if he wanted glory, he could take it himself.
But Hagrid grew increasingly excited. Having once rescued baby Harry from house ruins and delivered him to the Dursleys as ordered, the giant who had thought Harry no different from other children seemed to finally solve ten years of confusion:
"...Now I understand, Harry. You were perhaps born extraordinary, very likely defeating You-Know-Who head-on at age one.
That punch you threw—you held back, but to me it seemed like a god descending; even the storm was your weapon. You-Know-Who being paralysed by you and losing all magical power would be perfectly normal.
Like in mythology, Hercules in his cradle—when Queen Hera sent two terrible poisonous serpents to kill the child, to strangle him in his cradle, the infant Hercules strangled the monster snakes instead.
Your situation might be similar.
If you continue growing stronger like this, someday becoming like the mythical Hercules, perhaps You-Know-Who's greatest deed was trying to harm you, leaving a scar on your forehead with the Killing Curse, finally dying under your iron fist."