I became Voldemort

"My dear Minister of Magic~ Cornelius Fudge, I hear you've been telling everyone that I'm dead?"

Voldemort stepped out of the darkness, his icy gaze slicing through Fudge like a knife. The Minister nearly lost his footing, collapsing onto the floor in terror.

At that moment, Fudge wished he could slap himself across the face.

Meanwhile, the towering figure of "Madame Maxime" also began to change. At this point, there was no need for any further disguise. Barty Jr. knew well that Dumbledore and the others had long since seen through his identity. And now that the Dark Lord himself had appeared, why should he bother concealing anything?

"Y-You-Know-Who... and the Death Eaters… Dumbledore..."

The esteemed Minister for Magic now resembled nothing more than a frightened piglet, crying out Dumbledore's name in desperation.

But Voldemort barely spared Dumbledore a glance.

"You will address me properly—as Lord Voldemort!"

His gaze swept across the Great Hall, and in an instant, chaos erupted.

The younger students were terrified out of their wits, screaming in panic with no idea what to do. Some had already scrambled beneath the dining tables, as if that would somehow make them invisible to Voldemort.

The moment Voldemort appeared, McGonagall and the other three Heads of House immediately rushed to shield their students, standing protectively before them like mother leopards guarding their cubs against a deadly serpent.

Of course, Voldemort paid them no mind.

"Silence!"

Dumbledore pressed the Elder Wand against his throat, his voice amplified into a resonant, soothing wave that calmed the panicked hall in an instant.

"You're frightening the children, Tom."

Dumbledore's tone was calm, as if he weren't addressing a Dark Lord but speaking kindly to a former student.

Ordinarily, Voldemort would have scoffed at such sentiment. But this Voldemort—perhaps because of the audience—seemed to slip into an almost schoolboy-like performance, putting on a pretense of courtesy before Dumbledore.

"Call me Voldemort, Professor. You know I never cared for that name—far too ordinary for someone like me."

Voldemort's gaze shifted to Cyrus, and he smiled.

"I'm not the only one who thinks that way, am I, Cyrus?"

"But I must say, the new name you chose isn't all that impressive."

With just a few words, he redirected the entire focus of the room onto Cyrus.

Or rather, someone as powerful as Voldemort didn't need to try—anything he said instantly became the center of attention.

Magic was not only power, but influence.

It compelled obedience.

But that only applied when others lacked the power to challenge him.

At this moment, in response to Voldemort's provocation, Cyrus simply smiled and, with the warmest demeanor, delivered the most cutting remark:

"It certainly isn't as perfect as your name."

Cyrus let out a cold laugh.

"Voldemort—'Stealer of Death.' How brilliant, isn't it? A name that not only perfectly reflects your cowardice and fear of dying but also paints you as a petty thief with remarkable accuracy."

He stood up, stepping around the dining table and walking directly to Voldemort. His golden-red eyes met Voldemort's serpent-like, chilling gaze. He was relentless, staring at Voldemort with an expression full of pity.

"Tell me, defeated one—if you fear death so much, how do you even dare to stand before me?"

Everyone who witnessed this scene was stunned.

Though they had heard that Cyrus had once repelled You-Know-Who, none of them had actually seen that battle. And now, seeing Cyrus openly taunt Voldemort in front of so many people, they felt a mixture of absurdity and terror.

Even Voldemort himself hadn't expected such a response from Cyrus. For a brief moment, he was at a loss for words.

But he didn't grow furious. Instead, after a few seconds, he replied smoothly:

"I do wish you lived up to your name and were a little quieter. You certainly have a lot more to say today than you did back at the Department of Mysteries. What's the matter? Is Dumbledore's presence giving you courage?" Voldemort sneered.

With a single remark, he turned the situation in his favor—implying that without Dumbledore by his side, Cyrus wouldn't even dare to speak.

But today, Cyrus was unusually aggressive—so much so that Voldemort was reminded of Harry Potter and his infuriatingly defiant mouth. That boy would taunt him even when facing death. 

Speaking of Harry, Voldemort's gaze subtly swept across the crowd. 

It didn't take long for him to find his target at the Gryffindor table. 

Harry, sensing Voldemort's eyes on him, immediately averted his gaze, as if afraid of something. 

That one simple, instinctive movement confirmed Voldemort's suspicions—he had guessed correctly. The Elder Wand's true ownership did lie with Harry Potter. Otherwise, given Harry's personality, he would never have looked away. 

Voldemort could barely contain his eagerness to reclaim what was rightfully his! 

But just as this thought formed in his mind, a powerful voice rang out behind him: 

"You-Know-Who and all Death Eaters—drop your wands and surrender immediately!" 

Voldemort turned his head to see a group of Aurors, wands at the ready, surrounding him from every corner of the Great Hall. Their spells were primed, all aimed directly at his heart. 

Leading them was someone Voldemort recognized—Rufus Scrimgeour, a hardened Auror. 

"All Aurors are already on their way. You have nowhere to escape!" Scrimgeour declared, his tone firm, even as he stood on his injured leg.

But… 

"Escape?" 

Voldemort tilted his head as if he had just heard a particularly amusing joke, nearly laughing out loud. "It seems I have been gone too long—long enough for you all to forget my terror." 

It looked as though he was about to unleash his power to prove his words, but in reality, he did not. These pathetic fools weren't worth the effort. 

The ones who took up battle stances were the Death Eaters! 

Dozens of them, clustered around Voldemort, simultaneously drew their wands, forming an impenetrable wall of darkness. 

Clearly, during his time in France—however long or short it may have been—Voldemort had recruited new blood for the Death Eaters. Only a small fraction of them were from his original followers. Most were French wizards. 

"Do not come any closer, gentlemen!" Barty Crouch Jr. sneered. His face was handsome, but his soul was as wicked as a demon's. 

The two sides stood in a tense standoff. 

At that moment, in the midst of the escalating confrontation, a voice rang out—deep and commanding. 

"Voldemort," 

The speaker stepped forward from the crowd—Babajide Akingbade, the Vice President of the International Confederation of Wizards. 

Though aged, there was still immense power within his frame.

He strode forward with firm, resolute steps, stopping in front of the Death Eaters and meeting Voldemort's gaze directly. 

This act clearly angered the Death Eaters—some were already preparing to attack, their wands crackling with sparks. However, with a mere flick of Voldemort's hand, their magic fizzled out. 

"Now, now, no need to be so agitated, my friends. Remember, we must respect our elders and care for the young," Voldemort said smoothly, as if he had forgotten that he himself was no longer young. 

At his gesture, Babajide was granted the chance to speak. 

The righteous old wizard wasted no time in voicing his concern. "I want to know—what has happened to Madame Maxime?" 

As the Vice President of the International Confederation of Wizards, Babajide's primary concern was international affairs. Now that Barty Jr. had publicly revealed his disguise, an ominous feeling settled over him. 

It wasn't just Maxime who was in danger—perhaps even the entire French wizarding community was at risk. 

And indeed, his worst fears were confirmed. 

"Ah, we shall always remember the beautiful Madame Maxime for her… contributions," Voldemort said with a chilling smile. 

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