The scene shifts away from the grand, sunlit stone of Hogwarts, plunging deep into the gloomy, suffocating shadows of a private room inside the Leaky Cauldron.
In the darkest corner of the room, Quirinus Quirrell was on his knees, quivering so violently his teeth clicked together in a frantic, rhythmic chatter.
A thick, suffocating cloud of garlic scent hung heavily in the air. A desperate, pathetic attempt to mask the foul stench of rotting flesh that radiated from the back of his head, hidden beneath a massive, clumsy purple turban.
"Fool... incompetent parasite..."
The voice didn't come from the room, but from within Quirrell's own skull, a wretched, high-pitched hiss that burned like acid.
Lord Voldemort was furious.
The dark spirit thrashed against the confines of Quirrell's mind, sending waves of white-hot agony through the stuttering wizard's body.
"You failed me, Quirrell... You stood before that old fool Dumbledore, and you let him reject you. You let him deny us the defense position!"
The Dark Lord's fury ran incredibly deep, fueled by a decade of lingering humiliation.
This was the third time he had been denied that specific seat of power. Years ago, Armando Dippet had rejected a young Tom Riddle on the grounds of his youth.
Years later, Tom had returned, approaching the castle after Albus Dumbledore had assumed the mantle of Headmaster, only to be rejected a second time.
And now, hidden like a thief on the back of a stuttering coward, Voldemort had been denied once more.
Gradually, the agonizing pressure in Quirrell's head receded, replaced by a cold, calculating stillness that somehow made the Muggle Studies professor shiver even harder.
"Calm yourself, you sniveling wretch," Voldemort hissed, his voice dropping into a dangerous, icy purr.
"The plan for my resurrection will not die simply because Dumbledore plays his childish games. We must salvage this. You will return to Hogwarts, Quirrell. You will humble yourself, crawl back to the old fool, and accept the continuation of your tenure as the Muggle Studies professor."
Inside his shared consciousness, Voldemort loathed the very thought.
To have a piece of his soul tethered to a man teaching about the mundane, magicless filth of the non-magical world was an insult to his supreme lineage.
Nevertheless, the Dark Lord reasoned, the position grants us entry. The plans for my return and my ultimate revenge against that wretched little Potter boy must continue.
A dark curiosity suddenly sparked within the parasite's mind.
"Though I wonder... who did that old fool choose over a brilliant alumnus of his own school? What mediocre, ministry-approved simpleton has he placed in my seat?"
Voldemort dismissed the thought for now, turning his malice toward a grander, immediate prize.
They were plotting in the shadows, but a brilliant opportunity had already presented itself. Just a week ago, while lurking at the Three Broomsticks in Hogsmeade, Quirrell had overheard a foolish, oversized giant getting thoroughly drunk on mead.
Rubeus Hagrid had babbled loudly to Madam Rosmerta about a highly classified, incredibly secret mission Dumbledore had entrusted to him—a special retrieval from a specific vault.
"Let Dumbledore keep his new defense teacher," Voldemort whispered, a sinister, phantom smile echoing through Quirrell's mind.
"Next month, when the calendar turns to August, we shall pay a visit to Gringotts. We will rob the goblins blind, take what Dumbledore seeks to hide, and forge the path to my rebirth right under his crooked nose."
The cloud of ambiguity thickens as the plot of the original story deviates from the original timeline.
---
The plates at the staff table were nearly empty, the silver platters clearing themselves as breakfast drew to a close. The Great Hall was quiet, but the air remained thick with unexpressed tension.
Then, the miracle occurred. Severus Snape, who usually preferred to suffer through faculty meals in venomous, tight-lipped silence actually initiated a conversation.
He set his black coffee mug down with a deliberate, sharp clack against the wood.
"I must question," Snape began, his low baritone cutting smoothly through the ambient noise of the hall.
"The sudden, alarming degradation of Hogwarts' hiring standards. To appoint a complete stranger, an alien to our society with absolutely zero records in the Ministry, no visible achievements to her name, and a history that apparently begins and ends in the Forbidden Forest. Is a move that lets me severely questions the sanity of our current .... Headmaster."
Dumbledore didn't take the bait. He merely let out a soft, patient chuckle, leaning back in his golden chair as if Snape had made a witty joke about the weather.
Before the Headmaster could offer a diplomatic deflection, however, Karacule's voice glided across the table. Her tone was remarkably calm, laced with a smooth, poisonous sweetness that perfectly weaponized her diva persona.
"Ohohohoho... you bark so loudly for a creature who lives in a basement, gloomy wizard," she purred, casually swirling a forkful of fruit.
"You demand records? You demand achievements? Let me make this exceedingly simple for your fragile, and narrow mind. I do not have records in your little world because your world has done nothing grand enough to merit my history. You question Albus's sanity, yet you fail to see the glaring truth sitting right in front of you."
She leaned forward, her glowing eyes locking onto his with absolute, dismissive arrogance. "You are simply not on my level, Severus. Not in intellect, not in prestige, and certainly not in power."
The insult hit Snape like a physical blow. His dark eyes flared with an immediate, white-hot competitive spirit, his jaw clenching so tightly a muscle jumped in his cheek.
He opened his mouth to deliver a scathing counter, but his mind was left completely baffled by how utterly ridikculus the moment became next.
"Words are cheap, and frankly, your brooding is ruining my morning appetite," Karacule stated, rising effortlessly from her seat.
"So, let us have a proper demonstration. I propose a duel. And because I am a benevolent sovereign, I wouldn't want to make it unfair for you."
She swept her gaze across the left and right flanks of the table, a provocative, teasing smile playing on her lips. "I challenge the four Heads of House. Simultaneously. In an open area of your choosing."
A collective gasp echoed down the staff table. McGonagall's tea stopped halfway to her mouth, and Flitwick nearly fell out of his booster seat.
"Please, do not hold back," Karacule encouraged, her tone dripping with dramatic flair.
"Bring your absolute specialties to the field! I look forward to testing Filius's celebrated proficiency in the dueling arts. I expect to see Minerva's deadly, precise art of transfiguration turning the very earth against me. And Pomona, by all means, bring forth your most vicious, cultivated magical plants to see if they can even scratch my robes."
Then, her eyes darted back to the Potions Master, her smirk turning downright wicked.
"My only real concern lies with you, Severus. I am terribly afraid that if you face me for real, you might end up tragically disfigured... or worse, dead. And it would be such a shame to lose the castle's resident sour lemon so early in the summer."
Before anyone could shout an objection, the theatrical diva persona vanished instantly.
Karacule stood straight, her spine pulling into a rigid, imposing posture. The ambient temperature in the Great Hall plummeted, and the air grew heavy, thick with the suffocating, unyielding gravitational weight of her supreme magical core.
The playful tease was gone; in her place stood the ancient, dignified authority and the regal royalty of a Fairystar sovereign.
Her gaze was unblinking, iron-clad, and absolute. She was a Sacred Pillar of a fallen world, and she was commanding them to stand and face her.
The four Heads of House reacted with their own distinct personalities.
Professor Sprout blinked, her motherly demeanor completely frozen in sheer shock.
Professor Flitwick's jaw hung open, utterly baffled by the sheer audacity of a four-on-one challenge, though a tiny, suppressed spark of a former dueling champion began to twitch in his wand hand.
McGonagall's expression hardened into a mask of severe, aristocratic indignation—no one, goddess or not, insulted the dignity of the Hogwarts staff and got away with it.
And Snape? Snape's hand was already resting firmly on the hilt of his wand beneath his robes, a lethal, anticipating glint in his eyes.
They were shocked, they were profoundly insulted, but above all, they were fiercely looking forward to bringing this haughty, reality-warping sorceress crashing right back down to earth.
To be continued.