[Main HP Comprehensive British-American] Lolita

Dolores first questioned what she calls "the art of speaking" when she met their new professor on the opening day after the holidays.

Because sitting on the teacher's chair, the one who was chatting and laughing with Dumbledore was Lord Voldemort, who had been in the limelight recently.

"I shouldn't have said that." Dolores said desperately, covering his face.

"What?" Lily asked in confusion.

"Because I ruthlessly made a vicious satire about an assassination on an old man."

"My God! Lo! You must have the blood of a prophet!" Angela said excitedly, and almost shouted to the whole Gryffindor in her loudest voice: "Lo successfully predicted the new professor during the holidays. It will be Mr. Voldemort!"

Dolores numbly saw Voldemort on the teacher's bench glance clearly in their direction.

Dear Uncle Howard, I feel like I'm done.

In her first Defence Against the Dark Arts class of the new semester, her prediction that she might be doomed was confirmed again.

When Voldemort called her name, there was a pause, and then a low and pleasant voice continued: "Miss Rogers, I heard that you have a prophetic bloodline?"

He really heard the words of that silly girl Angela.

"No, sir." Dolores lowered his head desperately, as if there was something as interesting as Dumbledore's coming out on the desk.

"But you were sure during the holidays that I would be your new professor?" Voldemort persisted.

"I just like to make up lies, especially the more bizarre." Dolores regretted it as soon as she finished speaking. She was so used to going straight that she forgot what a horrible person Voldemort was.

Voldemort laughed. His laughter, like his voice and face, seemed to be a gift from the Creator, and Dolores saw Angela look at him with a frenzy.

"Yes, you are quite right, Dolores, if you will allow me to call that," Voldemort waved his wand casually, closing all their open books, "I believe that from today onwards, more than It's you, and the newspapers will talk about my move. But my political disagreement with Professor Dumbledore doesn't mean I won't be a good teacher. Now, throw away your textbooks and start class."

"Have you seen how handsome Professor Voldemort is? I'd pay anything to touch his face!" Angela whispered excitedly to Dolores as soon as she came out of the classroom.

"He doesn't like his own face, and once wanted to destroy it, but was persuaded by a peerless beauty full of wisdom." Dolores said casually.

"Oh! That beauty is so wise!" Since Angela believed that Dolores had a prophetic bloodline, she began to believe all the gossip she told.

But this time she really didn't lie to Angela, it was true that Voldemort wanted to ruin his face, after all he had abandoned his name. And the one who persuaded Voldemort was her, Dolores.

She and Voldemort were old acquaintances. In the short years she lived, Voldemort contributed most of the memories of pleasure and pain. But now he couldn't recognize her with the changed name and appearance, and Dolores didn't know whether to be sad or relieved for his disguise.

But soon she found it was too early to relax - Voldemort caught up with them from the classroom: "Miss Dolores, can you come to my office?"

Dolores knocked on the door of the office under Angela's envious gaze. Voldemort's office was very close to the Slytherin cellar, of course there was no doubt about it, but Angela was still worried that she would encounter danger on an unfamiliar road. , insisted to accompany her.

"Come in." A voice came from the door.

She looked at the office quietly. The windows were covered by thick velvet curtains. The curtains looked black, but Dolores knew it wasn't. It should be a very rich green. Open the windows when the weather is good. You can definitely see its beautiful texture and color in the sun. The rest of the room didn't have too many decorations, which was also typical of Voldemort. Everything in his room must be very simple and functional, and he wouldn't like all the flamboyant things.

You see, Dolores, even if you run far away, you can't erase the influence of this person on you, and you're even taking the risk of sending yourself to your door now.

"I really thought I'd have a prophetic student, Dolores," Voldemort began.

"I'm sorry, Professor," Dolores replied dryly.

"Why not be casual, Dolores? I guess you're wondering why I called you here."

"As you said, Professor," she said dryly again.

"I just think of an old friend because of you. She looks respectful to me, but she's not afraid of me at all, just like you."

"No, I respect you very much."

Voldemort strode to the wine cabinet, poured a martini into the glass, and a few ice cubes instantly appeared in the glass. Wandless magic. She would probably never reach his magical attainments in her entire life, even if she only conjured ice cubes.

"Have you ever felt that way? Having to start reminiscing about the past because of the slackness of the warm fireplace and winter sleepiness?"

"I'm only fifteen, sir. I don't have much to remember."

"But there's always something, there's got to be something. Why don't you look me in the eye, Dolores?"

She looked at Voldemort subconsciously, and immediately realized his intentions—he was Legilimency, and the precious softness he showed just now was just trying to induce her to recall something for him to refer to.

But he couldn't see anything. Dolores subconsciously touched the necklace on his neck. It was a very old silver chain with a dull silver star hanging in the middle.

Sure enough, Voldemort quickly looked back, she guessed that he might have just seen the life of a girl who was too ordinary to be ordinary, a sad, vulgar life, a life that he didn't care about.

He only likes the most beautiful things, except death, or in other words, except his own, after all, he gave himself such a conceited new name, flying away from death. She might have been the kind of thing he liked in the past, but not anymore. She stood in front of him, and he couldn't even realize that it was one of his collections.

How sad.

"You can go back, Miss Rogers," Voldemort said quietly.

After discovering that Dolores had nothing to do with his "old man", he called her last name back. He was probably annoyed that he was wasting his time on a stupid Gryffindor, Dolores guessed.

"Good-bye, professor." She said goodbye in a polite manner, and left in a hurry.

Dolores found himself missing something after a long time, which was not a good sign. She should spend her life in such a bland way, she should become a mediocre public, and she should atone for her sins.

Howard never agrees with her. He thinks that she can do nothing, but she should love and live happily. What will he say next? Dolores guessed he was going to ramble about freedom, people's choice, some very American ideas, as usual.

But she was never American, she grew up in cold and rainy England, and she was born with that manor and many rules, as if she could never get rid of it.

Dolores was walking alone on the road to Gryffindor Tower. It was almost curfew, and there was no one on the road. She moved forward slowly, hoping that the road would be completed soon, and that time would be longer. slower.

Who the **** are you, Dolores asked himself.

You spit on Voldemort for ditching his name, but didn't you do the same, even stealing the hero's surname despicably.

When Howard asked her what kind of new name she wanted, she gave Dolores Rogers the answer. Steve Rogers is an American hero that Howard has never stopped looking for. In his story, Steve is a tall man, full of youthful and vigorous power.

So she thought that if she could have Steve's surname, she might be able to get a little courage from him to overcome that cowardly and bleak self.

And Dolores, her scarlet letter, her shame frame.