Tom Riddle (Voldemort)
Foolish. Utterly foolish.
When that ant—who should have been crushed long ago—used a shoddy Disarming Charm to blow his prized body into dust, Tom Riddle knew that the self-righteous wizards of the magical world would pop champagne to celebrate. But he was wrong; they celebrated far too early. Death was never the end; it was merely a strategic retreat.
At this moment, listening to Professor Quirrell's heavy, nervous breathing right beside his ear and feeling the faint trickle of magical power within this mediocre vessel, he felt an unprecedented wave of humiliation. But he swiftly crushed that trace of emotion, casting it into the deepest recesses of his Occlumency.
It doesn't matter, he told himself. He still had time, the perfect petri dish inside this ancient castle, and a nemesis who didn't even know how he would die.
Since they were so eager to welcome their Savior, he didn't mind indulging these ants in another round of a game called "Hope." Only this time, he would make the rules completely airtight.
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