Soon, Voldemort realized exactly what was inside him.
How could he not recognize it?
The Killing Curse.
You dare use my own spell against me!
"You even guard against me!" he shouted, pointing furiously at Tver.
Tver gave a casual "Eh?" and brushed Voldemort's finger aside.
"Just a small precaution. As long as you don't try anything strange, that crystal won't affect you at all." He tilted his head slightly. "But tell me—should I call you Voldemort now, or Tom Riddle?"
Voldemort's expression shifted between rage and resignation. His every thought had been laid bare before Tver, and he knew this wasn't the time to resist.
After a pause, he muttered helplessly, "Call me whatever you want. I'm under your control anyway."
Why did that almost sound… resentful?
Tver gave him a strange look before glancing away.
"Well, I can't exactly call you 'Voldemort' in public—that would terrify half the wizarding world."
"And I can't call you 'Riddle' either. Some Death Eaters still remember your real name."
He thought for a moment. "But 'Marvolo,' your middle name, is less known. Let's tweak it a bit—how about Marvolio?"
"Marvolio Fawley. What do you think of that?"
"Whatever," Voldemort—now Marvolio—replied, spreading his hands indifferently, feigning a lazy defiance against Tver's control.
Tver ignored the attitude. Checking the clock, he saw it was already half past eight.
"Stay here quietly and get used to that body. And remember—don't even think about escaping."
He'd arranged with Dumbledore to interview Lockhart at nine o'clock, if time allowed. Perfect. With the Horcrux problem resolved, he could finally go see what made this bestselling author so famous.
...
Before long, he returned to Hogwarts.
Without the chatter of students, the castle under the night sky felt unusually quiet. Yet one troublemaker refused to let peace reign.
"Peeves! If you keep swinging that sword at the armor, I'll tell the Bloody Baron on you!"
Filch chased after the poltergeist, but compared to Peeves' darting, incorporeal form, his pace was hopelessly slow.
"Hold on! Let me take care of this!"
A man dressed like a peacock suddenly stepped forward.
Lockhart twirled his wand through an unnecessary series of flashy flourishes, though it was clear that neither the people nor the ghosts paid him any attention.
Seemingly used to such indifference, he cleared his throat, struck a perfect pose, and raised his wand with theatrical precision.
"Petrificus Totalus!"
...
After a brief silence, Peeves squinted suspiciously at the strange man before him.
"When did you show up? Whoever you are, honestly, your skills are worse than that nasty Filch's—hahaha!"
He immediately hefted the oversized sword in his hands—one far larger than his own body—and hurled it straight at Lockhart.
Lockhart froze in sheer terror, his mouth hanging open as if struck by the very spell he'd just cast. Even Peeves was startled—he had never seen someone fail to dodge a flying sword before.
Though the school tolerated his mischief, Peeves never went so far as to actually hurt anyone. If he did, Dumbledore had plenty of ways to lock him up for good.
But before Peeves could react, the sword stopped midair.
A slender hand reached out and gently caught the hilt. The other hand brushed away the scuff marks left by Peeves' antics.
"Professor Fawley," Filch wheezed as he caught up, out of breath. "What brings you back to the school at this hour? I—I don't mean to question you, I just..."
He stumbled over his words, but Tver simply handed him the sword.
"I've come back to interview the new professor," he said, then turned toward the now-recovered Lockhart. "I assume you're ready, Mr. Lockhart?"
He wasn't expecting much from this interview.
In fact, Lockhart had been frozen by Tver's own spell—a little test to see how capable this "world-famous" wizard really was. The result was clear enough. Tver doubted the man had even sensed the magical fluctuation of the spell that bound him.
The only small comfort was that this honorary member of the Dark Force Defence League carried no items for detecting or resisting dark magic.
Lockhart suddenly broke into a laugh, clapping Tver on the shoulder with exaggerated familiarity.
"I was just wondering how to deal with that sword, and then you stepped right in! Ah, the quick reflexes of youth—but if only you'd used a more elegant method—"
Seeing Tver's polite smile, he faltered mid-sentence. "Right, right! Off to the interview then! You must be here on behalf of the Headmaster to escort me?"
Something like that, Tver thought.
"I'll take you up," he said evenly. "As for you, Peeves—don't pull dangerous stunts like that again."
Before leaving, he glanced once more at the poltergeist, who straightened up instantly.
"Yes, Professor!" Peeves saluted smartly, watching as Tver and Lockhart disappeared from view.
"Didn't think I'd see you get scolded," Filch sneered.
But Peeves' tiny eyes gleamed mischievously. He snatched the sword back from Filch's arms, shot into the air, and swung it gleefully.
"The professor said not to hurt people, but he didn't say anything about hurting armor! Hahaha!"
...
Tver was unaware of Peeves' renewed mischief—he already had enough on his mind.
"I heard that man call you 'Professor,'" Lockhart said with a grin. "But you're so young—just graduated, perhaps? Which house? You must have heard of my legendary exploits when you were a student! Back in my day, I—"
"I graduated just a year ago," Tver interrupted smoothly. "But not from Hogwarts. I studied at Durmstrang."
He turned his head, his smile darkening ever so slightly. The sinister gleam in his eyes made Lockhart finally shut his mouth about his so-called "heroic deeds."
"Cockroach Clusters," Tver intoned—the password to the Headmaster's office.
Dumbledore had given it to him personally so he could bring Lockhart inside.
"These candies are quite interesting," Lockhart remarked after a moment of silence, his habitual boasting quickly returning. "But they could be more realistic. Like those fake rats I created in London—they saved an entire street from trouble!"
Tver immediately regretted agreeing to conduct this interview. He pushed open the office door with a sharp motion.
"Headmaster, I've brought Mr. Lockhart—" He stopped, staring into the empty room. "Where is Headmaster Dumbledore?"
The answer came from a portrait hanging on the wall—it was the former headmaster, Armando Dippet.
"A child used magic outside school and received a warning from the Ministry," the portrait said calmly.
"That hardly sounds like something Dumbledore needs to handle personally," Tver replied.
Every year, a few young wizards accidentally broke that rule, but no one had ever been expelled for it—certainly not under Dumbledore's headship.
"That's not for you to worry about," Dippet's portrait said. "Albus told me you can handle Lockhart's interview yourself. And if he doesn't pass, you'll just have to teach the students alone next year."
"...Can I refuse?" Tver asked dryly.