Within the Sanctum Sanctorum, days turned into weeks.

  To Doctor Strange, Thomas Riddle was an enigma—polite, articute, with a hunger for magical theory that bordered on obsession. He absorbed everything: astral projection, mirror dimension manipution, relic channeling, sigil construction. His learning pace was unnatural, almost… rehearsed.

  But to Voldemort, the experience was more than study.

  It was infiltration.

  In the privacy of his borrowed chamber, Voldemort unwrapped a conjured scrap of his tattered wand—what little he had summoned from his fractured soul upon resurrection. Using spells from his own world, he experimented. He whispered incantations in Parseltongue, testing how the Eldritch energy of this realm bent under his will.

  He discovered strange things.

  MCU magic responded not to incantations, but intent and motion—geometry in motion, channeled through willpower and relics. Yet, when ced with his own incantations, small anomalies occurred. Portals flickered erratically. Floating sigils turned serpentine. A summoned whip of energy once hissed with a voice not his own.

  He was onto something.

  Each night, he wandered further into the Sanctum, cloaking himself from the protective wards with a modified Disillusionment Charm. The Vault of Relics was of particur interest—artifacts humming with raw cosmic power. The Wand of Watoomb, the Crimson Bands of Cyttorak, the Book of Cagliostro…

  But then came Wong.

  The Sorcerer Supreme Emeritus returned from Kamar-Taj, bringing tomes and updates to Strange.

  And the moment he id eyes on Thomas Riddle, his brows furrowed.

  That night, after Voldemort retired to his chamber, Wong pulled Strange aside in the Sanctum’s library.

  “There’s something wrong with that man,” Wong said grimly. “He feels… hollow. Like a memory wearing flesh.”

  Strange tilted his head. “He’s strange, yes. But brilliant. He shows no signs of hostile magic.”

  Wong narrowed his eyes. “It’s not about signs. It’s instinct. The magic around him recoils. Even the Cloak of Levitation avoids him. And his aura… it isn’t native to this realm.”

  Strange folded his arms. “You think he’s not from this dimension?”

  “I think he’s hiding something. And I don’t think we should be teaching him anything until we know what.”

  But by then, it was too te.

  In the dark corners of the Sanctum, Voldemort had already begun fusing his Horcrux knowledge with transdimensional spells. He wasn’t just learning this world’s magic…

  He was rebuilding his empire—one arcane relic at a time.