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Chapter 124 — Shame on the Cub
When Voldemort forced Quirrell to kneel and drink the unicorn's blood, he caught sight of Harry Potter—the so-called Savior Dumbledore was raising.
The boy stood frozen in terror at the sight of him. He couldn't move, couldn't even lift a wand. His spirit seemed to collapse on the spot.
Voldemort had observed Harry for nearly an entire year.
Harry's talent wasn't terrible—but he was certainly no genius.
He had a bit of talent with basic defensive spells, but even simple magic required endless practice before he could cast it properly.
Aside from his talent for Quidditch, Voldemort saw nothing in Harry that could threaten him.
His own cub could crush this child with ease.
Voldemort gave Harry a mocking look. The situation was almost amusing.
Dumbledore was truly delusional—raising a boy like this to defeat him?
Laughable.
Then his gaze fell on a pair of old, wise blue eyes watching from the trees.
Dumbledore.
Was the old man here to kill him now? Voldemort tensed.
Before he could decide what spell to cast, a centaur charged in and kicked Quirrell aside, dragging Harry away.
Dumbledore's doing, no doubt.
That insidious wizard.
He pretended to be a champion of the Light, but Voldemort knew better.
The first Dark Lord had been closely connected to Dumbledore. And according to Voldemort's research, Dumbledore had… a questionable relationship with Grindelwald.
And yet this was the man the world hailed as the greatest white wizard.
Ridiculous.
Voldemort almost laughed aloud.
But he fled instead, disappearing into the shadows of the forest.
Later, when he unexpectedly encountered Darren again, he nearly believed Dumbledore was testing him. But no—it seemed to be a genuine coincidence.
So he pushed Darren away and prepared to leave.
But after a moment's thought, he staged a small scene—pretending to fight the foolish half giant, snapping its crossbow bolt, and then escaping swiftly.
He hoped the act would reduce Dumbledore's suspicion.
He could not allow Darren to become a tool for Dumbledore to threaten him one day.
After that night, Voldemort rarely focused on Darren. His attention shifted to the Philosopher's Stone—how to take it, how to restore his strength.
Until Darren stepped through the black flames.
For the first time, Voldemort faced his cub properly.
The boy's blood was unmistakably pure—his blood.
Yet Darren's appearance was strikingly similar to Lily—a near perfect replica of the woman.
Voldemort prided himself on his own appearance, but Darren was—infuriatingly—better looking. There was an innate warmth to him, an affinity that made others trust him instinctively.
When Darren stood beside Harry Potter, Voldemort felt an unexpected swell of pride.
To push Darren further, Voldemort made the boy reveal his trust in Snape.
He pretended to torture him to force Harry to hand over the Stone.
He fully expected to leave with the Philosopher's Stone.
But everything was in vain.
Dumbledore appeared.
Everything collapsed.
Voldemort fled, humiliated in front of his own child.
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When Darren awoke, he found himself in the hospital wing.
A table nearby was stacked with sweets.
Outside the window, the sunset glowed warm and red.
"Well, you find the scene beautiful too, don't you?"
Dumbledore.
Darren turned his head and saw the flash of spectacles.
"My boy, you have finally woken up. Any later and you would have missed the Hogwarts end-of-term feast."
"The banquet?" Darren rubbed his aching head.
Hadn't he and Harry gone after the Stone with four or five days left before the feast…?
"Yes, yes, no need to count. You've been asleep for over four days," Dumbledore said fondly. "Tonight is the feast."
"Four days?!"
Darren gasped.
After seeing Harry struck down by Voldemort's backlash, Darren had immediately pretended to faint. Snape arrived, poured a potion down his throat… and then Darren had slept straight through.
Really…
Had Snape added a sleeping draught to the potion?
He quickly buried that thought. He wasn't supposed to suspect such things.
He blurted anxiously, "Headmaster—my brother! Harry!"
[Ding! Holy Father Value +80]
"Calm yourself, child," Dumbledore soothed. "Harry is perfectly fine. He woke yesterday morning. He wished to stay with you, but I believed you wouldn't want him missing the feast."
Darren exhaled with visible relief. His pure, grateful expression made Dumbledore's eyes soften.
"Good boy," the headmaster said warmly. "I'm glad you're alive. When Hermione told me the truth and I rushed over, I feared both you and Harry were gone.
"You know, Severus was furious. And the Slytherin students were angry as well.
They were planning to give you the same punishment you received last time once you woke."
Dumbledore winked—clearly hinting he knew about the previous incident with Becky's sabotage.
Darren scratched his head shyly, playing the role of the innocent, embarrassed child.
"Oh, my boy, you are always so kind," Dumbledore said. "But we cannot remain unchanged forever. As long as we have love—this beautiful quality—then even Slytherin can become lovable."
Darren brightened.
Only then did he realize he was still lying flat, staring up at Dumbledore.
Far too impolite. Far too inconsistent with the persona he cultivated.
He quickly sat up.
He felt… wonderful.
Not a trace of soreness.
Snape's potion?
Or maybe Voldemort's spell had triggered some strange effect.
Either way, he felt fully restored.
"I owe you an apology, child," Dumbledore suddenly said, voice low. "For reasons I cannot yet tell you. But allow me to say it nonetheless—
I am sorry… my boy."
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