Stealing Magic: A Darker Hogwarts

"My name is Marwood, and I served Evan Rosier," the dark wizard stammered, his voice quaking. "I worked for you once, but I wasn't worthy to be a Death Eater, nor to call you Lord, Master…"

Sean, hidden behind the oak, studied Marwood. The man's words rang partly honest, laced with fear and a twisted awe for Voldemort. Yet, there was a flicker of doubt buried deep—unspoken but real. Sean's Legilimency LV0 wasn't strong enough to probe Marwood's mind, but his instincts screamed caution. If Marwood realized the "Voldemort" before him was a fake, he'd fire a Killing Curse faster than a rogue Bludger.

Sean tightened his grip on his wand, manipulating the Smoke Rope Curse LV5MAX. The black smoke swirled, maintaining the towering, serpentine figure of Voldemort, its red eyes glowing like cursed statues in a Hogwarts dungeon. Pinching his throat, Sean rasped in a low, chilling voice, "Marwood… I know you doubt me! You think the great Voldemort could be impersonated…"

Marwood's face paled, his knees buckling. He'd only seen Voldemort from afar, never close enough to speak, but he knew the Dark Lord's reputation. Voldemort's mastery of Legilimency could peel back thoughts like parchment. Marwood's hidden doubts—suspecting Sean, a mere Bulstrode heir, was behind the illusion—had been spotted, or so he believed.

In a panic, Marwood bowed low, forehead pressed into the dirt, trembling. "Great Dark Lord, forgive my doubt!" he pleaded. "I was tracking Sean Bulstrode, sent to kill him by my employer. Then you appeared, and I—"

Sean cut him off, his voice a venomous hiss. "So you think I, the great Dark Lord, could be mimicked by a Bulstrode heir?"

"I—I don't dare!" Marwood gasped.

"Liar!" Sean flicked his wand, and a whip of black smoke lashed from the Voldemort figure's arm, slamming into Marwood. The dark wizard flew backward, crashing against a tree and slumping to the ground, groaning.

Marwood didn't fight back. Instead, his fear deepened, his obedience absolute. This was the Dark Lord he knew—merciless, punishing failure with pain. That Sean hadn't used the Cruciatus Curse or Killing Curse made Marwood oddly grateful, his mind ensnared by Voldemort's old terror. Sean watched, a mix of pity and disbelief stirring within. Marwood, like many Death Eaters, was trapped in the Dark Lord's shadow, loyal even to a ghost.

"Great Dark Lord, please forgive my foolish guess," Marwood pleaded, his voice trembling as he bowed low, dirt smearing his cloak.

Sean, hidden in the shadows, manipulated the Smoke Rope Curse LV5MAX. The black smoke swirled, forming Voldemort's towering figure, its red eyes glinting like a cursed Hogwarts tapestry. Pinching his throat, Sean rasped, "Ah… It's fine. Your caution is understandable…" The smoke-Voldemort paced slowly, circling Marwood before stopping behind him. "You've heard of the one who infiltrated Hogwarts, seeking the Philosopher's Stone, haven't you?"

Among ordinary wizards, the Philosopher's Stone was a whispered legend, but dark wizards and pure-blood families knew the truth. Professor Quirrell's plot to steal it was no secret in their circles.

Marwood, no fool despite his fear, nodded quickly. "I know of it," he said respectfully. "Hogwarts' Defense Against the Dark Arts professor, Quirrell, failed to take the Philosopher's Stone. He was… stopped by Harry Potter and Sean Bulstrode…"

Sean's smoke-Voldemort cut him off, voice sharp. "You truly believe a so-called Savior and a Bulstrode heir could defeat Quirrell, guided by me?"

Marwood's eyes widened. "Could it be, great Dark Lord, that you—"

"Quirrell was useless," Sean hissed, the smoke figure looming larger. "Swayed by Dumbledore, he became a liability. I abandoned him and chose Sean Bulstrode instead. Though a Bulstrode heir, he carries pure blood, making him… adequate for my possession. How else could a first-year write a paper for The Golden Crucible? Win duels at Beauxbatons? Defeat Felix Varnholt, a fifth-year, in his first year?"

Sean's words danced a strange line—half-mocking himself, half-praising his own feats. A smirk tugged at his lips. Guess I'm complimenting myself… sort of.

Marwood's mind raced, piecing together the tale. Barnabas's whispers, the rumors of Sean's uncanny skill—it all fit. The Dark Lord had possessed Sean, orchestrating a grand return. Convinced, Marwood's voice shook with awe. "I can serve you, gather your followers! You'll rise again, showing Dumbledore and the wizarding world your power!"

Sean's smoke-Voldemort lashed out, black tendrils slapping Marwood's face. "Fool!" Sean roared, the smoke coiling like a charmed haze. Marwood collapsed, bowing low again, trembling as if doused with ice water. His devotion held, unbroken.

"My defeat came from Dumbledore and Potter," Sean continued, voice cold. "I must stay near them, watch them, find their flaws. Only then will I strike, killing them in one blow and reclaiming my glory."

Marwood's eyes gleamed with understanding. "You're truly the great Dark Lord," he murmured. "I could never grasp your plans."

Sean knew the moment was ripe. Stepping silently behind the smoke-Voldemort, he rasped, "Marwood, your foolishness makes you unfit for a Death Eater's mark, but I'll offer you a chance. Open your mind, your spirit—everything—to me. Prove you're worthy to serve."

Marwood's face lit up, arms spreading wide. "I offer all to you, great Dark Lord!" he declared, voice fervent.

"Very well," Sean said, the smoke-Voldemort's eyes narrowing. "I'm pleased, Marwood. You may call me Master."

"Thank you, my… my Master!" Marwood choked, near tears.

Sean stepped closer, wand raised, its tip aimed at Marwood's head. In a low whisper, he cast, "Imperio!"

The Imperius Curse, one of the three Unforgivable Curses, robbed its victims of free will. When cast, a wave of bliss washed over the target, and a trusted voice whispered commands in their mind, urging obedience. Those with fierce willpower could resist, even break free, but against a caster who'd mastered the curse—like Sean with his Imperius Curse LV2—escape was nearly impossible.

There was one rare exception. If the victim willingly surrendered, opening their heart and soul to the caster, the Imperius Curse took hold seamlessly. Unlike others, who might seem dazed or distracted from fighting the spell, such a victim acted almost normal, their actions fluid, their loyalty absolute. Marwood was such a case. Convinced Sean was Voldemort, he offered no resistance, his devotion complete.

Sean stood before Marwood, the black smoke of the Smoke Rope Curse LV5MAX swirling back into his body, as if Voldemort had melded into him. Marwood knelt, head bowed, unaware of the illusion's end. Sean raised his wand, its tip aimed at Marwood's head. "Legilimens!" he whispered.

A soft glow bloomed at the wand's tip, silver threads linking it to Marwood's mind. Memories flooded Sean's vision, vivid as a Pensieve's glow—fragments of Marwood's life unfolding. Twisting his wrist, Sean sifted through the clutter: Marwood's family, his fleeting dreams, his dark ambitions. He pushed these aside, seeking the memory that mattered—the moment Barnabas ordered Sean's death.

Images sharpened. Sean saw Barnabas, cloaked in shadow, promising Marwood a way to lure Sean from Beauxbatons' region. A contact within the school, Barnabas had said, would ensure Sean's isolation. Sean's pulse quickened. Someone at Beauxbatons was working with Barnabas. But who? A face flickered in his mind—a possible traitor—but his Legilimency LV0 was too weak to confirm.

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