Voldemort's Return [A Harry Potter fanfic]

After introducing the children, the director led Voldemort to the office.

"So, Mr. Eldrin, what are your impressions of our establishment?" the director asked, a hint of pride in his voice.

Voldemort's lips curled into a practiced smile. "It's... adequate. I can see the effort you've invested here." His words were carefully chosen, but genuine.

"Thank you, we do our best," the director beamed.

Voldemort leaned forward slightly, his eyes narrowing. "Now, to the real reason for my visit. I recently discovered I have a son, and he's under your care."

The director's eyes widened, his mouth falling open. "I... that's... highly unusual. May I ask which child you're referring to?"

"Adrian Smith," Voldemort said flatly.

The director gasped, his face paling. "Adrian? But... how... I mean, the resemblance is there, now that you mention it, but..."

"Indeed," Voldemort cut in, his patience wearing thin. "Tell me about the boy."

The director took a deep breath, collecting himself. "Adrian is... exceptional. Brilliant, really. He keeps to himself mostly, but he can be quite charming when he wants to be."

Voldemort's eyebrow arched slightly. "Go on."

"The staff adore him. He's unfailingly polite, mature beyond his years. When there's a problem to solve, he's always eager to help. But..." the director hesitated.

"But?" Voldemort prompted, a edge creeping into his voice.

"He doesn't form deep connections with the other children. It's as if... as if he's just playing a part sometimes."

A flicker of something—pride, perhaps—crossed Voldemort's face. "His intelligence. Tell me more."

The director shook his head in amazement. "He's far beyond his peers. We've had him skip several grades, but even then, nothing seems to challenge him. It's like... like..."

"Like placing a human among monkeys?" Voldemort supplied, his tone deceptively light.

"Y-yes, exactly," the director agreed, looking slightly uncomfortable.

Voldemort leaned back, steepling his fingers. "What about his mother? What do you know?"

The director's face fell. "I'm afraid very little, sir. He was left here as an infant, on a rainy night. There was a letter, but..."

"But?" Voldemort's eyes glinted dangerously.

"We gave it to Adrian on his sixth birthday. I can't recall the details, but I'm certain it didn't reveal the mother's identity."

Voldemort's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. "I see. And the boy's age when he arrived?"

"Five months, according to the letter."

Voldemort leaned back, his expression unreadable. "I see. This is... unexpected news for me. I'll need time to process this information."

The director nodded sympathetically. "Of course, Mr. Eldrin. It's a lot to take in."

Voldemort's eyes narrowed slightly. "I have a proposal. I'd like to spend some time here, observing Adrian. Not as his father, but as a... potential benefactor for the orphanage."

The director's eyebrows shot up. "A benefactor? That's very generous, Mr. Eldrin. But may I ask why you don't want to reveal yourself to Adrian?"

Voldemort's lip curled into a practiced smile. "I believe it's best to ease into such life-changing news. I want to get to know him first, to ensure I can provide the... appropriate environment for a child of his caliber."

"I suppose that makes sense," the director said slowly. "How long were you thinking of staying?"

"A month should suffice," Voldemort replied smoothly. "It will give me ample time to observe Adrian and evaluate the needs of your establishment."

The director beamed. "That's wonderful! We'd be honored to have you, Mr. Eldrin. I'm sure the children, especially Adrian, will benefit greatly from your presence."

Voldemort stood, extending his hand. "Excellent. I'll make the necessary arrangements. And director," his grip tightened slightly, "I trust you'll keep our earlier conversation about Adrian's parentage confidential. For the boy's sake, of course."

The director winced slightly at the firm handshake. "Of course, Mr. Eldrin. Your secret is safe with me."

After concluding the conversation, Voldemort strode away, his mind churning. A grand children's shop caught his eye, and he paused. With a sneer, he entered, purchasing an extravagant array of clothes and toys to be delivered to the orphanage. Something a benefactor would do.

Once alone, Voldemort's mask slipped, revealing a rare moment of uncertainty. He pressed his fingers to his temples, probing his own mind.

Seven years ago... Nothing. A void where memories should be.

'Who is this woman?' he snarled internally. 'And how could she bear my child without my knowledge?'

Voldemort's eyes narrowed dangerously. He, a master of Legilimency and Occlumency, unable to recall such a significant event? Impossible.

A chilling realization dawned. 'Someone has tampered with my memories.'

The thought sent a wave of cold fury through him. Who could invade his mind, alter his memories without him knowing?

'The Society? Rhys?' He can't figure out how and why. But it was an unforgivable violation.

With practiced movements, Voldemort retrieved a vial of Polyjuice Potion. He had shown his true face at the orphanage, a calculated risk. But now, as he prepared to meet with the private investigator, anonymity was crucial.

As the potion took effect, Voldemort's features shifted and blurred.

'I will uncover this mystery,' he vowed silently. 'And those responsible will pay dearly.'

With a sharp crack, he Disapparated, leaving behind only a lingering sense of dread.

....

"Mr. Zenard, is my order ready?" The cloaked figure's voice was cold and imperious.

Zenard's eyes gleamed with barely concealed curiosity. "Ah! Welcome, my esteemed client! Indeed, it is ready. Please, have a look."

Voldemort, disguised by both Polyjuice and a cloak, picked up the envelope filled with files and leafed through them briefly.

"So, what do you think of my work, my dear client?" Zenard's cheerful tone seemed at odds with the tension in the room.

"I'll reserve judgment until I've thoroughly examined the information," Voldemort replied curtly.

"Of course, of course. Do consider us for future inquiries if you find the results... satisfactory."

Voldemort nodded curtly, paid, and left without another word, his mind already on exploring the Veirdent properties in England.

As the door closed, Zenard's cheerful demeanor melted away, replaced by intense concentration. His assistant, Anna, watched him curiously.

"He's... peculiar," Zenard murmured.

Anna sighed, accustomed to her boss's cryptic observations. "How so?"

"That 'anonymous' client is using Polyjuice Potion, yet still concealing himself with a cloak."

"And you know this how?" Anna asked, intrigued despite herself.

"The scent, Anna. A faint whiff of Polyjuice. He must have taken it moments before arriving."

Anna shrugged. "Many clients hide their identities. What makes this one special?"

Zenard's eyes glinted. "Why would someone request information on noble magical families of Europe? Basic, public information at that?"

"Perhaps he's new to magical politics?" Anna suggested.

"Or," Zenard leaned forward, "he's the newly appointed Lord Veirdent himself!"

Anna rolled her eyes. "Why would a French lord come all the way here for information?"

"Not necessarily him, perhaps an agent. With all eyes on him in France, seeking information abroad makes sense."

"So, what's our next move?" Anna asked, curiosity piqued.

"Nothing," Zenard said, leaning back in his chair.

Anna sighed, feeling let down. But Zenard's mind was racing. He wouldn't actively pursue the client's identity - that would be unprofessional. But he could track the use of the information provided. His instincts told him this would lead to something extraordinary, and his instincts rarely erred.

-------------

In the depths of Gringotts, a chamber glittered with the reflection of countless golden treasures. Around a massive stone table, goblins huddled in tense discussion, their voices low and urgent.

Gornuk, a senior goblin, spoke first. "The wizards grow restless. They crowd our entrance, demanding access to their vaults."

"Let them wait," Ragnok, the chief, growled. "Our security takes precedence."

Bogrod, head of security, cleared his throat. "What of our losses? What did these intruders take?"

"That's the peculiar thing," Gornuk replied, his brow furrowed. "Not a single coin was stolen. Yet in the chaos, many wizards helped themselves to whatever they could grab."

Ragnok's fist crashed onto the table, sending tremors through the golden artifacts. "Thieves! We'll—"

The heavy door creaked open, cutting off his tirade. A younger goblin entered, looking pale.

"Speak, Griphook," Ragnok commanded.

"One of our guards has regained consciousness," Griphook said, his voice quavering. "He... he had some disturbing information."

The chamber fell silent, all eyes on Griphook.

"The intruders," he continued, "they were searching for the Lestrange vault."

Murmurs of curiosity rippled through the gathering.

"But that's not all," Griphook added, his voice barely above a whisper. "He believes... he believes the attackers weren't wizards at all."

"Impossible!" Bogrod exclaimed.

"He swears not a single spell was cast," Griphook insisted. "All that destruction, without magic."

A heavy silence fell over the chamber, broken only by the distant clink of gold. The goblins exchanged worried glances, each contemplating the implications of this revelation.

Ragnok's voice, when he spoke, was grave. "If not wizards, then who? Or what? And why target the Lestranges?"

No one had an answer. The silence stretched on, filled with unspoken fears of a threat they didn't understand and couldn't predict.