Chapter 211 - Follower!

{Somewhere in Albania}

{12th July 1991} 

{Tom's POV}

Cold. Always this unbearable, everlasting cold. This feeling has seeped into the fragile scales of my borrowed skin, permeating through bones that are no longer mine, yet somehow must serve my purpose. This cursed, thin water snake, little more than a sliver of flesh and scales, is now the vessel that shelters the greatest wizard of all time.

Me—Lord Voldemort.

Time has become meaningless beneath the chilled waters of this isolated river in Albania. Hibernation has dulled my senses, drawing thick cobwebs of confusion across my mind. My spirit recoils at the indignity, even now. How far I have fallen—hiding in mud and silt, shivering in the shadows, forced into this pitiable existence by the wizarding world's greatest fool, Albus Wulfric Brian Dumbledore.

My thoughts turn dark as memories slowly crystallize through the haze. It had taken all my remaining strength to escape from Hogwarts after the attempt to get the Philosopher's Stone and a new body failed. Quirrell's pathetic body crumbled when I tried to possess the Potter boy in order to mess with Dumbledore, but it ended with me being exposed and desperate. And then Dumbledore—relentless, powerful—had chased me across continents, sensing my usage of dark magic like a hound sniffing blood.

In desperation, I was forced into possessing animals—rats, birds, insects—each leap leaving behind a traceable thread of corrupted magic and broken corpses. Dumbledore had nearly caught up to me countless times. Forced into one final gambit, I inhabited this weak serpent, plunging deep beneath the riverbed mud and into hibernation. The gamble had paid off—but at great cost.

'How long have I slept? Months? Years?' I thought.

At last, summer's warmth begins filtering through the riverbed, stirring me slowly awake. My mind sharpens, returning to clarity even as my borrowed body shudders. The sensations were weak, but even still, any hint of warmth was immediately noticeable. Strength, faint but growing, floods my consciousness. My control tightens upon the snake's sinewy muscles, guiding it upward. Slowly, I push through layers of mud and silt, ascending through dark, murky waters toward the distant promise of the surface.

Finally, my slender head breaches the surface, drawing the first gasp of cold air in what feels like an eternity. The warmth of the setting sun was exhilarating. Carefully, I swim to shore, every movement of the snake's frail body an agonizing reminder of how little power I currently possess. But I am Lord Voldemort, the immortal—the conqueror of death itself. And this humiliation will not stand for long.

As I slide into the darkness of the forest, phantom pain erupts within me, a burning scar upon my fractured soul. Memories surge unbidden, recalling vividly the agony inflicted by the Potter boy. The sheer impossibility of that child, that insufferable infant who has twice thwarted me—first by surviving the killing curse, then defying me again as I sought to inflict misery on the world.

My thoughts churn bitterly. How? How had that boy resisted my magic? My attempts to possess him had brought only fiery torment, searing through my spirit. I hiss softly in agitation, my serpent tongue flicking out to taste the bitter air. It was impossible. There is something about the boy, something elusive I do not yet understand—but I will, right after I ditch this body and find some more...suitable.

'I'll survive, and thrive, I always do'

My musings shatter abruptly as a subtle feeling pulses through me—a magical signature approaching. Instantly, I freeze, my senses sharpening in an instinctive alarm. My serpent form coils silently, prepared for flight.

Yet something halts me—a faint but unmistakable spark of recognition. Familiar magic, weaker than I had anticipated but distinctively connected to me. The Mark. My Mark. I narrow my serpentine eyes, flicking out my tongue to test the air again, tasting a faint metallic tang of dark magic.

Slowly, from the shadowed trees, emerges a figure I know well—Lucius Malfoy, unmistakable in his aristocratic bearing, though he looked like he had seen better days. Pale hair gleams in the thin moonlight, his hand gripping the silver serpent-headed cane, his wand discreetly hidden within. The cane points directly toward me, humming faintly with the unmistakable pulse of a Point-Me charm.

"Where are you, my Lord?" Lucius murmurs uncertainly, squinting nervously into the gloom as his eyes slither over my figure. Fear and confusion radiate from him in waves. Weak as always, but still useful.

Anger—my constant companion—boils swiftly into contempt. I seize upon the tenuous thread linking my soul to the Dark Mark etched onto Malfoy's arm, flooding it with sudden, savage intent.

Lucius cries out, collapsing to his knees, cane clattering uselessly upon the forest floor. His gloved hand claws desperately at his sleeve, agony etched across his proud features. I drink in his suffering, savoring the exquisite release of my own frustration through his torment.

"You dare summon me like a dog?" I whisper harshly into his mind, my voice crackling with wrath. "Did you truly believe yourself worthy, Lucius?"

"My Lord," Lucius chokes, voice strained with panic, eyes darting frantically. "Forgive me—I took it upon myself to find you. I have waited—"

"You have failed..." I hissed, slowly relinquishing my hold on his Mark. I felt satisfaction as his shoulders slumped forward in defeat."...Yet, you may still serve a purpose."

With effort, I slither slowly toward him, my weakened serpent body trembling, but my presence and man powerful enough to invoke awe. Lucius, pale and trembling, remains kneeling, daring not to move as I wind slowly around his ankles and slither over to his shoulders, reveling in his terror.

"I require strength," I whisper and hiss harshly into his ear, tasting his fear like sweet wine. "I require a body—one stronger than this pitiful creature." 

Lucius swallows, eyes wide with a blend of reverence and dread. "Whatever you need, my Lord. My service is yours."

"Yes," I hiss softly, coiling myself tighter around him. "You and your connections—your wealth, your influence. Slowly gather those still loyal, those who bear my Mark in secret. I must rise again, Lucius, and you shall see to it, or suffer the consequences of your cowardice."

"My Lord," he breathes, relief evident in his voice even through the trembling. He likely thinks his punishment is over. "It will be done."

Satisfied for now, I unwind from around his neck, slipping down to nestle toward his pocket. A cold, calculating plan begins forming, each detail sharpening into clear, ruthless focus.

I will return, stronger than before. The wizarding world will tremble again before the name Voldemort. And when I do, the Potter boy and Dumbledore will fall, crushed beneath the unstoppable might of my restored power.

The darkness embraces me as I retreat once again into Lucius's robe, settling into the shadows to plot and wait. My mind is alive again, focused and determined, fully aware of my impending return. With Lucius as my pawn, things would be easier, now I just need to think of a ritual that would not only get rid of my current body but also to nullify whatever magic is protecting Potter from me.

"Let's go, Lucius. It's time to return..."

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AN: And the plot for the second year begins!