Tucked deep between a ring of mountains was a village most maps didn't bother marking. It was quiet, surrounded on one side by thick forests and on the other by rocky slopes that turned treacherous with the first rain. Narrow trails led in and out, more known to goats than to people, which suited the villagers just fine. Smoke drifted from chimneys in the early hours, and the fields stretched in neat lines down the hills, green and stubborn against the stone.
The place had its rhythm—slow, steady, unchanging. People mostly followed a set routine without much change. They grew what they could, traded what they couldn't, and kept to themselves.
Agon lived here. A farmer, like most others. Quiet, broad-shouldered, and used to working with his hands. He wasn't young anymore, but he moved like someone who never got the luxury to slow down. His neighbors knew him as dependable, though he rarely spoke unless something needed saying.
He lived alone in a small stone house on the edge of the village, just close enough to see the church bell when it rang, just far enough to miss the gossip. People said he used to have a family once—no one quite knew the full story, and no one asked. That was how things worked here. If you didn't want to talk about something, the mountains kept your silence.
Agon's days were simple. He tended to his goats, fixed his tools when they broke, and planted the same stubborn crops that barely tolerated the rocky soil.
Lately, though, something had begun to shift. It wasn't loud or sudden—just a quiet pull. The forest, dense and old, had always been there, shadowed and still. The kind of place people warned their children about. They said it was haunted, cursed even. That strange lights were seen in the dead of night, that animals didn't return once they strayed too deep. Agon had grown up hearing those stories, and like everyone else, he'd kept his distance.
But for weeks now, he'd been catching himself glancing toward it more often than usual. Not in fear. Curiosity. A low, persistent itch under the skin.
This morning, though, something had been different. The weight of routine felt heavier than usual, the silence around him too still. And before he even knew why, his feet had taken him past the last post of his field, past the crooked fence, and straight into the tree line.
No coat. No pack. No real reason.
Just that quiet pull, and the sound of leaves shifting in the breeze.
He didn't stop to think why.
As he made his way deeper into the forest, the air grew colder, heavier. For a moment, Agon felt it—like eyes on the back of his neck, a prickle just under the skin. He paused and turned slowly, but there was no one. Just trees. Just silence. But the feeling didn't go away.
Then, without warning, the world tilted.
His vision blurred. The forest spun. The ground rushed up to meet him, and everything went black.
His last thoughts, disjointed and slow, weren't of fear—but of the farm. The sound of bleating goats. The smell of earth. Morning smoke curling into the sky.
Then nothing.
Silence.
Then breath—shallow, then steady.
Fingers twitched against cold dirt. Eyes opened.
But they weren't Agon's anymore.
The body rose slowly, stiff like something half-remembering how to move. Muscles shifted under worn skin, unfamiliar and tight. He rolled his neck once, testing the weight of the flesh and the limits of the vessel.
"Crude," the voice rasped—unused, unpracticed—but laced with unmistakable contempt. "But serviceable."
Lord Voldemort had returned.
Not fully. Not yet. But enough.
He flexed Agon's hands, inspecting the calluses and the cracks in the nails. A peasant's body. Weak. Unremarkable. A Filthy Muggle.
He looked around, taking in the forest with new eyes—not Agon's, but his. His mind pulsed with purpose, dark and deliberate. This was a temporary shell, a cocoon while he gathered strength. He had waited years, clinging to shadows, feeding on scraps of magic and memory.
He didn't have much time.
This body—old, brittle, and magicless—was already straining under his presence. The possession was crude at best, a desperate act carved out of frustration more than strategy. The skin didn't fit right, the magic didn't flow. It would collapse soon.
He wouldn't have risked it if not for the growing unease clawing at him from within. A restlessness that had settled in his very soul. It had started subtly, a flicker of disquiet in the corners of his mind. But now it was louder, constant, like a drumbeat that wouldn't stop.
He tried to ignore it, tried to dismiss it as meaningless.
His thoughts drifted, unbidden, to the Horcruxes.
No. That was impossible.
They were safe. Hidden in places only he could know. Layered with protections, veiled with secrets. No one could find them. No one even knew what to look for.
Still… the feeling lingered.
But he had no time to waste on such thoughts.
Drawing on what little life the body still held, he channeled its vitality into the Dark Mark—twisting the magic, forcing it to pulse once, a dark flare through the web that still bound him to his followers. A summons.
Not all of them. Only those who could still be of use. Severus was excluded. Hogwarts was too tightly watched, and he hadn't forgotten how the man tried to prevent Quirrell from seizing the Stone. Doubt shadowed Severus's loyalty, and Voldemort had no intention of revealing his movements too soon.
That could be dealt with later.
The moment the call was sent, the body began to fail. Its limbs stiffened, breath rattled in its lungs, and the flicker of magic sustaining the possession sputtered and died.
With no more use for it, Voldemort let the shell collapse.
Like smoke tore free from fire, he slipped back into wraith form, silent and unseen, and vanished deeper into the Albanian forest—his presence no more than a whisper among the trees.
[MC POV]
Ever since he'd gained the knowledge of rituals from Tom—and that quiet, lingering hint about the ring—Harry had been digging through everything he could get his hands on. Books, memories, timelines. Trying to find something. Anything. But there was nothing concrete. No sighting of Voldemort where he'd worn the ring. No mention of it during his rise. Which could only mean one thing—Tom must've hidden it long before he made his move on the British Ministry.
Another thing Harry had started researching—more out of caution than curiosity—was ritual magic. Especially the first one Tom had ever used. It wasn't flashy, but it was clever. Subtle. The kind of thing most people wouldn't even notice unless they were looking closely. On paper, it seemed simple: a ritual meant to refine posture, reshape physical imbalances, and enhance presence.
It didn't give you Veela-like allure or charm. Instead, it nudged perception. Tilted opinions. Made people see what you wanted them to see—confident, capable, trustworthy.
Tom had used the ritual to craft his image with precision—every gesture calculated, every word weighted. It let him manipulate perception, and subtly tilt people's opinions without them realizing it. A quiet edge that helped him build trust and influence.
Harry had chosen this ritual for that very reason. It was the simplest among the ones he'd inherited from Tom's memories, and it offered an advantage—not in raw power, but in presence. And in the kind of war he was preparing for, that mattered.
He'd tasked Dobby with acquiring the ingredients—Veela hair and unicorn hair—both rare, both necessary. The elf had returned with them in less than a day, eyes bright with pride.
Harry spent the afternoon drawing the ritual circle in chalk, carefully inscribing each rune into the stone floor. He double-checked the alignment, the spacing, and the order. Mistakes here weren't just dangerous—they were final.
He knelt beside the circle and traced its edge once more. Ansuz, for clarity of self. Gebo, for balance between inner and outer being. He placed the unicorn and Veela hairs in the center and pricked his finger with a silver needle, letting a single drop of blood fall onto them.
Then, slowly, he began the chant.
"Ego sum perfectus."
"Ego sum perfectus."
"Ego sum perfectus."
The hairs caught fire—not orange or red, but a strange bluish flame that burned without smoke. The runes glowed, first faintly, then brighter, humming with unseen energy.
And then it hit.
A sharp crack echoed in his ears as bones shifted, muscles stretched, and fire raced through every nerve in his body. His vision blurred. Pain unlike anything he'd ever known tore through him. His hands clawed at the stone, breath caught in his throat.
And then—
Nothing.
Harry woke up feeling like he'd been trampled by a herd of centaurs. Every joint ached, every muscle throbbed. Even breathing felt like a task. He lay still for a while, letting the pain settle into something dull and manageable before forcing himself to sit up. His limbs responded slowly like they were being worn for the first time.
It took a while before he felt steady enough to move properly. With a flick of his wand, he conjured a full-length mirror in front of him.
The reflection that stared back wasn't unfamiliar, but it wasn't quite the same either.
He still looked like himself—but refined, sharpened around the edges. His posture was straighter, more balanced like his body had remembered how it should move. The changes were subtle—cheekbones a touch more defined, eyes clearer, shoulders squared with an effortless ease—but the overall effect was striking.
He looked more… assured. More regal. Like someone people instinctively paid attention to.
The ritual had worked.
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[A/N] - For the next few days, chapter releases will be a bit slower as I'm working on a hackathon project—so wish me luck!
Thank you for reading!