For this reason.
If he were to face a fully restored Voldemort, Ian's chances would not be better than those of Hogwarts' most seasoned professors. He currently relied heavily on a handful of powerful spells.
When he unleashed his strongest magic, few wizards could withstand it. But those who did would quickly discover that Ian's magical repertoire was not nearly as expansive.
A Voldemort free from the limitations of his fractured state could endure and retaliate. Ian had no illusions about that. It was one of the reasons he was determined to destroy Voldemort's remnants before the Dark Lord could regain his full strength.
Whether Harry Potter remained the Boy Who Lived or if the so-called saviors used Voldemort as a test of their resolve was not Ian's concern.
His priority was simple, prevent the return of the noseless Tom. Only then could Ian earn the precious time he needed to build his knowledge and magical foundation.
Yes, all Ian wanted was to study in peace, undisturbed. And if it meant confronting Voldemort now to ensure that peace, he was more than willing to act.
Oh, and of course, he could conveniently use Voldemort's destruction as a boost to his own magical growth.
"Where are you hiding?" Ian muttered, scanning the landscape as he sped across the sky on his broomstick. His conjured Fiendfyre dragons twisted through the air, relentlessly searching for the Dark Lord.
Though Ian had become proficient at transfiguration and controlling Fiendfyre, his skill was far from the mastery Grindelwald had displayed in 'Advanced Dark Magic Revealed'.
The Fiendfyre western dragons Ian summoned moved with his will, driven by the singular purpose of locating Voldemort's shadow. For ordinary wizards, it would be an astonishing feat. But compared to Grindelwald's Fiendfyre, which acted as an extension of his own vision, Ian's control was rudimentary.
Grindelwald's flames were like enchanted mirrors that could reveal secrets, while Ian's were more akin to magically automated beasts, fearsome but blind.
If Ian possessed Grindelwald's level of mastery, he wouldn't have needed to circle back so many times.
Unbeknownst to him, his Fiendfyre dragons had already flown over Quirrell's hiding place three times. Each time, Quirrell had cowered in fear, trembling uncontrollably as the fiery serpents roared past.
Ian's determination to eliminate Voldemort's remnants remained unwavering. The question was not if, but when he would finally corner the Dark Lord once and for all.
"Master... Master... who is searching for us?" Quirrell, trembling like a cornered mouse, curled up in the damp shadows of the cave; his stutter was no longer an act but the genuine result of fear.
"How could I have ended up with such a pathetic servant? Use your brain! Who else could wield Fiendfyre with such skill besides that sanctimonious headmaster?" Voldemort's voice hissed through Quirrell's mind, seething with both disdain for his host and bitter loathing for Dumbledore.
"That... that makes sense." Quirrell's eyes widened as realization dawned. If Dumbledore was truly pursuing Voldemort, everything fit. After all, Dumbledore had long been considered the greatest wizard of the age.
"You dare think I am inferior to Dumbledore!" Voldemort's furious roar echoed in Quirrell's skull, sending a fresh wave of dread through the trembling man. Already consumed by fear of discovery, Quirrell's nerves were frayed further under his master's wrath.
"No! No, Master! I would never think such a thing! I only meant... we must find a way to escape! If this search continues, it's only a matter of time before we're found."
"What a rare moment of clarity from you." Voldemort's voice was laced with venom. Even in his diminished state, he could sense far more than Quirrell's cowardly mind could comprehend. Every shift of magic around them only heightened his frustration.
"What should we do?" Quirrell clutched his wand as though it might offer him protection, though he knew all too well how little good it would do against the likes of Dumbledore.
"Several professors are closing in. Confronting them now would be foolish. Your position as a Hogwarts professor is still useful. We must reach what Dumbledore has hidden. The Philosopher's Stone may already be beyond our grasp."
Quirrell nodded stiffly, but the trembling in his limbs betrayed his lingering panic.
"Master, I am unworthy of your confidence. I cannot stand against the professors. They would overpower me in moments!"
"Useless Weakling! How unfortunate that I must rely on a servant such as you!" Voldemort's rage pulsed through Quirrell's mind, a reminder of the Dark Lord's frustration. He had returned for the Philosopher's Stone, yet before he could even approach it, Dumbledore's interference had left him cornered.
"I... I..."
Quirrell's voice cracked as tears welled in his eyes. The weight of his pitiful existence pressed down upon him. He had once sought power and knowledge. Now he cowered in the shadows, a puppet to a master who offered only threats.
"Fool! Apparate away! Now! That cursed meddler is drawing closer!" Voldemort's voice lashed out in alarm, the surge of approaching magic unmistakable.
"I... I can't." Quirrell's frail voice barely rose above a whisper as he instinctively huddled further into the recess of the cave. The thought of facing Dumbledore, or worse, enduring Voldemort's inevitable wrath, paralyzed him.
This pathetic retreat caused his back to scrape against the rough stone floor, dragging Voldemort's spectral face along with it. The Dark Lord's twisted visage contorted in furious indignation.
"Imbecile! Do you find delight in humiliating me?" Voldemort snarled, his seething rage echoing in Quirrell's mind as the terrified man whimpered softly, reduced to a trembling heap on the cave floor.
He did not notice and continued to explain, "Although this is just the Forbidden Forest, we are already beyond the castle's protective wards... but Apparating from here is still particularly difficult."
"My magic... my magic is very unstable right now," Quirrell stammered, not daring to blame Voldemort directly. However, the truth was undeniable: Voldemort's invasive presence had undoubtedly worsened his condition.
If it weren't for the fear that his unstable magic would splinch him, scattering his body across the forest, Quirrell would have surely attempted to Apparate the moment he sensed the dragon's presence.
"Roar!"
A deafening dragon's cry echoed from outside the cave.
Sensing the immediate threat, Voldemort's voice snarled with frustration. "You are the most useless of all my servants!"
Desperation gave him strength. Even in his weakened state, Voldemort forces his parasitic soul to take control of Quirrell's body.
Before long, Quirrell's contorted face twisted further, as though molten wax were bubbling beneath his skin. Voldemort's grotesque visage, pale and noseless, seemed to emerge from the back of Quirrell's skull, fusing unnaturally. The result was a monstrous duality, their faces merged in a horrifying spectacle.
"I've merely suffered a setback!"
Through Quirrell's eyes, Voldemort glared at the fiery blue form of the western dragon circling outside the cave. Controlling Quirrell's trembling hands, he raised the wand. The air cracked with unstable magic as the Dark Lord forced a surge of power through their shared vessel. With a loud whoosh, the surroundings twisted unnaturally, dragging them through a haphazard Apparition.
"Swish!"
They didn't travel far. Voldemort's depleted state left him with only a fraction of his former prowess. Instead of a distant sanctuary, Quirrell reappeared in the shadowed alleys of Hogsmeade.
"Avada Kedavra!"
A voice thick with malice erupted from Voldemort as a flash of green light illuminated the dim alleyway. A startled wizard, who had unwittingly witnessed the scene, collapsed lifelessly to the cobblestones.
"Bang!"
Voldemort's twisted satisfaction pulsed through Quirrell. Yes, this was the Dark Lord's true power, to command death with a single curse. The terror of his name, the unwavering dominance, it all thrilled him once more.
"Return to the castle. Act as though nothing has happened," Voldemort's voice hissed with authority.
Quirrell nodded, trembling, but Voldemort's presence suddenly weakened. As the face on the back faded, Voldemort's essence was meant to retreat. However, something went horribly wrong.
Instead of slipping to the back of Quirrell's skull as usual, Voldemort's spirit seemed to sink downward, dragged like a lead weight. A strange force tugged at him, anchoring him somewhere unexpected.
(To Be Continued…)
You can read ahead up to 110 chapters on my Patreon: https://www.patreon.com/darkshadow6395