Inside a dormitory piled high with Christmas gifts—
As the Boggart slithered back into the shadows, Ino's tense expression gradually softened.
The parcel wasn't cursed or hexed as he had initially suspected. In fact, it only carried a faint trace of dark magic—just a lingering aura rather than an actual spell.
With his concerns dismissed, Ino casually unwrapped the parcel.
The final layer of parchment revealed a black-covered book—
"Cutting-Edge Dark Magic Revealed."
"Now this… is interesting," Ino murmured, intrigued.
Receiving a book like this for Christmas? It was leagues beyond those petty love potions others liked to send.
But just as he began wondering who would have the guts to send such a gift, a magically concealed envelope slowly surfaced from the book's cover, its presence gradually revealed.
A sophisticated book on dark magic, combined with a letter hidden by enchantment—this already ruled out about 95% of wizards.
Among those he knew, only two people could easily accomplish something like this: Albus Dumbledore and Nicolas Flamel.
But both men, given their personalities and principles, were unlikely candidates. Such a gesture felt too… calculated.
Still, a letter was a letter—no point guessing when he could simply read it.
The moment he picked it up, however, something felt off.
Not magically—but physically. The envelope was thick. By the feel of it, at least five pages were inside.
Fifteen minutes later—
Ino set down the last sheet of parchment.
His expression, once relaxed, had grown serious—solemn, even.
"He gave up on Harry… and chose Barty Crouch Sr. instead?"
The letter was from Severus Snape—lengthy, yes, but not a word of it wasted.
It revealed everything.
Voldemort had returned.
But unlike the story Ino remembered, he hadn't used Harry's blood.
More importantly, he hadn't summoned the Death Eaters, nor had he stormed Azkaban.
Instead, Voldemort had done something far more unsettling: he chose to lie low.
This… wasn't like him.
Looking at Voldemort's life as a whole, Ino felt a gnawing unease.
A brilliant youth, an ambitious prodigy in his early years, and then a mysterious decade of traveling after graduation…
Madness before death, and an erratic, almost deranged behavior after resurrection.
Ino found himself slipping into the rhythm of Voldemort's story, trying to piece together the fragments—attempting to simulate his state of mind.
Truth be told, this new development was… unnerving.
Because the idea of a Voldemort who could wait, who could plan, who could endure—
That was a Voldemort Dumbledore might not be able to stop so easily.
Dumbledore's greatest weakness had always been his sense of principle.
And this weakness? Voldemort had likely recognized it decades ago.
The death of Myrtle Warren had been the first real sign.
She died within Hogwarts.
Dumbledore couldn't possibly have had no suspects.
And yet, what should've been resolved with a simple Legilimens spell was left untouched.
Instead, he'd allowed Hagrid to take the fall, even go so far as to have his wand snapped.
Why?
Because Dumbledore had a line he would not cross. A rule he would not break.
Was he right? Or just foolish?
Muggles might call that kind of restraint stubbornness. But for a wizard, especially one of Dumbledore's caliber, letting even a single thread of self-restraint unravel could lead to disaster.
Sometimes, even the smallest tear could cause the entire fabric to collapse.
And perhaps, that was the truth—
If Dumbledore had used Legilimency back then, maybe he would no longer have been Dumbledore.
But Ino's mind drifted back to Voldemort.
Someone capable of manipulating even Dumbledore while still a student—
Would he really fall victim to a simple scheme?
Would he really lose his mind so completely?
Sure, dark magic corroded the soul. That much was known.
But Ino felt that Voldemort's descent into madness was not just because of the dark arts. Something had to have happened during his years abroad—
Something that changed him.
Gradually, Ino's thoughts settled into a strange kind of clarity.
An image suddenly drifted through his mind.
A static portrait, floating before his eyes—
Isaac Newton.
The famed Muggle scientist.
Thinking carefully, Ino realized: Voldemort and Newton were… oddly similar.
Both were prodigies. Both contributed immensely to their respective fields—Newton in mathematics, physics, astronomy, and natural philosophy.
Both were geniuses recognized by the world.
And both, in their later years… went mad.
Theories explaining Newton's breakdown varied—overwork, personal loss, mercury poisoning, or religious fanaticism.
Ino, however, wasn't convinced by any of those.
He preferred another theory.
What if, after reaching the pinnacle of science, Newton discovered something—
Something hidden, something that shattered all his earlier beliefs?
What if, after devoting his life to truth, he found only meaninglessness?
Such devastating irony would drive even the sanest man to madness.
And with that perspective, Voldemort's downfall began to make sense too.
Brilliant. Gifted. Peerless.
And yet, in the end—mad and broken.
"What was he really after…" Ino muttered.
Sitting on the floor, hand under his chin, he let the quiet of the dormitory wrap around him.
Purity. Power. Control. Glory.
Each of those ideas flitted through his mind—
Only to be dismissed one by one.
And then, his eyes fell once again on the book Snape had sent.
"Cutting-Edge Dark Magic Revealed."
Suddenly, it clicked.
"Horcruxes… immortality."
The realization struck like lightning.
"How could I have missed it? That was always the goal…"
With Voldemort's ambitions clarified, Ino's thoughts turned to someone else: Nicolas Flamel.
They had met in France not long ago. Flamel had told him he was already 665 years old. Though Ino hadn't met Perenelle, it was reasonable to assume she was of similar age.
Judging by Flamel's condition during their meeting, he likely didn't have many years left.
And yet, something curious emerged from this comparison—
The number seven.
Flamel and his wife, despite relying on the Philosopher's Stone, probably wouldn't live past 700.
Voldemort had seven Horcruxes.
Two paths to immortality—
One through alchemy, the other through soul magic.
Neither broke past that threshold.
But where Flamel had achieved actual longevity and learned to accept death, Voldemort had pursued it in desperation, only to find it a dead end.
And perhaps that realization—
That his dream was an illusion, his goal forever out of reach—
Was what drove the brilliant Tom Riddle into becoming the monstrous Lord Voldemort.
"Even if he's been resurrected… shouldn't he be more reckless?"
Ino frowned, rubbing his temples.
It didn't make sense.
Someone that broken—so consumed by obsession—shouldn't be capable of restraint.
Even if he had returned, his dreams shattered, his mind broken, he should be a madman bent on destruction. Like before.
Not this… calculating silence.
He briefly considered another possibility, only to laugh and shake his head.
Seven.
The most mystical number in the magical world.
Maybe, just maybe, it wasn't coincidence.
Maybe it was a kind of rule—
A ceiling that not even the greatest could break.
Because in the long history of magic, there were too many dazzling figures.
Rowena Ravenclaw alone was an insurmountable peak.