Chapter 602: Ouroboros
Chapter 602: Ouroboros
Intense emotions transcended space, binding their hearts together, descending onto the fierce battlefield.
Voldemort, his murderous intent burning fiercely, waved his wand—
“Bang!”
His yew wand emitted a loud, echoing crack, followed by a surge of thick black smoke from his body.
“Harry Potter!?”
Voldemort screamed in disbelief, certain he had heard the boy’s voice, not a hallucination. He scanned the lingering smoke, as if someone would suddenly jump out from it.
But that was impossible. Before the formal duel, he had set up protective wards throughout the valley.
Voldemort suddenly vanished and reappeared at the edge of the battlefield. The dark magic boiling within him seemed to escape uncontrollably. As soon as it left his body, it betrayed its master, transforming into countless maggots that clung to Voldemort’s robes, hands, and face, threatening to consume him entirely.
But Voldemort paid no heed. The backlash of his powerful magic was nothing to fear. “Come out, Harry Potter!” he roared, shaking his head vigorously. Finally, he detected a shadowy figure lurking in a corner of his mind.
He suddenly realized what was happening and was consumed by rage, wishing he could immediately rush into Hogwarts and tear Harry Potter to pieces for repeatedly disrupting his plans.
But he had finally cornered Dumbledore, and he couldn’t afford to give up now. Besides, his Horcrux was still in Dumbledore’s possession. So, he suppressed his resentment and frustration, trying to expel Harry Potter from his mind.
But he soon realized this was no easy task. The boy clung to him like a stubborn piece of gum, refusing to let go.
The tide seemed to turn against him. He was now simultaneously trapped in three dire situations—Harry Potter had infiltrated his mind and thoughts; the out-of-control magic had turned into maggots; and the greatest threat, Dumbledore, loomed large. Voldemort was infuriated at the wasted opportunity, his hatred for Harry deepening.
But an unsettling worry gnawed at him. The prophecy... the one he had never fully seen... the one who could defeat the Dark Lord was drawing near...
On what grounds!?
Intense anger surged within him, burning fiercely. Voldemort’s black robes billowed, and the maggots clinging to him fell to the ground, transforming back into dark magic.
He inhaled, and the magic returned to him.
Then he quickly set up several mental barriers, barely managing to isolate Harry Potter’s influence. If given time, he could easily drive the intruder out, but he couldn’t spare the extra energy now, so he had to play defense.
Having dealt with two of his problems, he focused on the clearing dust. Dumbledore’s silhouette, now standing, was becoming more visible. Voldemort dismissed it, knowing from their previous battles that Dumbledore was no match for him.
However, it seemed like an illusion, but Dumbledore’s figure appeared taller.
Was he standing on a rock?
“Clang!”
The ominous sound echoed through the valley.
As if provoked, a cacophony of hissing noises erupted—this was a complex spell Voldemort had cast with his yew wand. The omnipresent snake sounds were like curses, ready to attach to Dumbledore at the slightest mistake.
But the spell was now breaking, at least half of it. Two sounds clashed, neither overpowering the other.
“So, this is your trump card, Dumbledore—” Voldemort sneered. “Do you know what just happened? I invited a guest to witness our duel. He barged in uninvited, ready to bear witness to your downfall. Then, I will be very pleased to... repay him for the ‘surprise’ he brought me.”
“Is that so, Tom? I think there’s no need for that. I will thank him personally,” Dumbledore said.
Voldemort’s snake-like eyes narrowed, his slit-like red pupils fixed on Dumbledore, his annoyance making him overlook the slight change in Dumbledore’s tone. He spoke in a high, evil voice, “You’re still as stubborn, Dumbledore. When I have you at my feet, I, I—”
He gasped, his words stuck in his throat as if his neck had been suddenly gripped.
The dust had completely cleared.
Dumbledore looked completely different.
He was originally tall and slender, with a slight stoop, but now his back was straight. Most of his long, silver beard had fallen off, and in front of Voldemort, the last strand dropped. Fine, reddish-brown stubble sprouted from his smooth chin, growing wildly to form a thick beard that matched his hair color.
The deep wrinkles around his eyes and forehead were quickly smoothed out, and his slightly gaunt cheeks became fuller. His nose, broken at least twice, seemed unharmed, straight, and proud. Dumbledore extended his long, strong fingers, and his old wand trembled excitedly in his hand. The whistling sound that had just clashed with Voldemort’s yew wand came from it.
Anyone who saw this wand would recognize its exceptional nature. The magic coiling around it was terrifying, a match for the powerful yew wand in Voldemort’s hand. But Voldemort paid no attention to it, focusing entirely on the face of a middle-aged man.
“Dumbledore?” Voldemort asked hoarsely.
“Please forgive me... the changes are quite significant, but it is indeed me.”
Dumbledore lightly flicked his wrist, and the old wand responded eagerly. The spell it cast was so powerful that Voldemort barely managed to block it, but the aftershock left small cuts on his body like knife wounds.
“This is impossible!” Voldemort shouted, channeling his magic into his yew wand. But Dumbledore suddenly appeared before him, grabbing the yew wand. The tip of the old wand transformed into a sharp blade, slicing toward Voldemort’s chest.
Blood splattered.
Voldemort turned into a cloud of black smoke and reappeared from a distance, shock and disbelief still on his face. Dumbledore’s attack speed was far beyond his imagination, and the transformation was so great that it seemed like a different person entirely.
No, they were two different people!
One was old and frail; the other was in his prime. Few had seen Dumbledore at his peak in this era, but Voldemort had encountered him today. He looked up in panic, seeing clouds and mist in the sky, charged with magic.
The air became thick, pressing down on him from all sides. He felt like a bug trapped in resin, even Apparition becoming difficult.
Before he could react, Voldemort used the Fiendfyre Curse.
Fiery flames condensed into a massive fire serpent, which lunged at Dumbledore. Dumbledore waved his wand, and the soil rippled and sank like a wave, forming a barrier. The fire serpent struggled but sank deeper, eventually disappearing.
Dumbledore’s piercing blue gaze locked onto Voldemort, his eyes sharp and focused. The message was clear: you won’t escape this time. Voldemort was frightened; he had never seen Dumbledore in this state, but he wasn’t willing to leave just yet. He could tell this state wouldn’t last long...
Maybe he could buy some time?
No, he didn’t believe Dumbledore could break his killing curse.
“Avada Kedavra!”
Voldemort exerted all his strength. The blinding green light coalesced, forming a green-robed Grim Reaper wielding a scythe—this was a reflection of Voldemort’s inner self. He considered himself the conqueror of death, the master of death. What better way to assert his identity than by summoning the Grim Reaper?
The Grim Reaper swung its scythe, and a sickly green light erupted, turning the deep valley into a ghostly realm. Birds that had taken flight fell lifelessly. All living things—trees, birds, small animals, even rocks, soil, and leaves—lost their color, as if they had been briefly given life only to be snuffed out.
The green light from the Grim Reaper’s scythe seemed to dissolve everything. The ground where they fought kept sinking.
But it was blocked.
Clouds in the sky were torn apart and swirled around Dumbledore, undergoing a series of complex transformations. Dumbledore waved his wand, and the vivid red clouds were released like a spell, forming a red light that wrapped around the green-robed Grim Reaper, including its scythe.
“You think you can defeat the Grim Reaper with this?” Voldemort roared, pouring magic into his wand. A green chain connected the tip of his wand to the Grim Reaper, providing it with a constant stream of power to help it break free.
The green light intensified, and the red clouds crackled. But then a burst of golden light emerged, like the evening sunset, leaving intricate patterns on the red chains.
This wasn’t just Transfiguration—few realized Dumbledore’s other identity as an alchemy master. Dumbledore then channeled the surrounding clouds into the golden-red chains, which writhed as if alive, eventually extending a thread from the Grim Reaper, following the magical connection back to Voldemort.
Voldemort’s eyes widened as the golden-red thread climbed up his yew wand, and his wrist tensed.
He had lost.
He needed to leave, to Apparate away, but he found himself unable to move. Voldemort looked down to see his feet entangled by rapidly growing green grass, the magic and symbols on the leaves making his heart sink.
The golden-red chains formed by the red clouds wrapped around Voldemort, tightening. His internal magic slowly quieted, and he was forced to release his yew wand, which fell to the ground. The green-robed Grim Reaper, deprived of magic, began to dissipate.
Voldemort lay on the ground, looking at Dumbledore, who was calm despite the drastic change in his appearance.
“What will you do next, kill me?” Voldemort asked fiercely.
Dumbledore didn’t speak, stepping back and sitting on a slender-legged chair he conjured, looking at Voldemort with weariness. His face rapidly aged, wrinkles forming and losing its luster... in just a few minutes, a century seemed to pass.
Voldemort seemed to forget he was lying on the ground, a defeated captive, and watched in silence.
“Was it worth it?”
“It was,” Dumbledore said softly but firmly, “Compared to others, I am much older, with more experiences and less value. Besides—I bear a significant responsibility for your actions, though not all. I am not that arrogant, but I did introduce you to the magical world.”
“Hypocrite,” Voldemort sneered, as a distant howl echoed. “Oh, someone’s coming. Let me guess—Ministry of Magic? Unlikely, you don’t trust them; the Order of the Phoenix? They are weak... Felix Hep?”
Dumbledore shook his head, “I don’t know. I didn’t tell anyone the location of our duel. Let’s wait and see.”
After speaking, they fell into silence.
Dumbledore’s gaze swept over the devastated valley, once a picturesque landscape now ruined, pitted and scorched. He looked down at his old wand, which seemed lifeless, unmoving.
“What’s its name?” Voldemort asked suddenly.
Dumbledore hesitated, then said, “The Elder Wand.”
Voldemort’s expression was momentarily priceless. “I see. I searched for it... but it doesn’t seem very obedient.”
“It craves blood and conflict, and I cannot satisfy it,” Dumbledore explained.
Voldemort’s gaze shifted from the Elder Wand to the calm, detestable face of Dumbledore, and he said maliciously, “You’re wasting your time, you know, Dumbledore?”
“I disagree,” Dumbledore said briefly, shifting in his seat to get more comfortable.
“Aren’t you going to offer me a chair?” Voldemort asked with a sardonic tone.
Dumbledore smiled, “You seem quite optimistic—but I don’t think it’s necessary. You’ll be moved to a new place soon.”
“Don’t tell me Azkaban? I don’t believe you’re that naive,” Voldemort licked his lips, testing the waters.
“I’m not naive, just hopeful about human nature,” Dumbledore corrected, “I once wondered if I had given you more care and less vigilance, would you still be like this?”
Voldemort was taken aback and mocked mercilessly, “Still naive? Dumbledore, you must be about to lecture me on the greatest power—love? I realized the importance of power when I was young, before I met you. It earns respect and obedience from the weak—you can’t kill me, Dumbledore. I will return. Just now, I realized something about our guest, my young friend Harry Potter...”
He suddenly fell silent, his head perking up as a figure descended from the sky.
It was Felix, who landed gracefully, looking around like a traveler who had stumbled upon this place. Then he walked over to the two, his steps light and his mood seemingly good.
“Felix Hep, you’re here,” Voldemort rasped, greeting him like an old friend. “We were just talking about you.”
“Thank you, I’m honored,” Felix said, stepping over Voldemort and gently pushing him back when he tried to sit up. He walked straight to Dumbledore, examining him closely, and asked, “Are you alright?”
“Never better,” Dumbledore joked, his gaze still on Voldemort, specifically his back. He seemed to have noticed something interesting, a smile playing on his lips.
But Voldemort interpreted the smile as mockery, his face contorting.
“It was a coincidence,” Felix explained, “I was with Kreacher, but I didn’t bring him here. He’s a bit agitated.”
“Ah, I see,” Dumbledore blinked, whispering.
“By the way, Albus—” Felix subconsciously furrowed his brow, “You look older, is that an illusion? You have more wrinkles than the last time I counted.”
“You counted?” Dumbledore asked curiously.
“Of course, those are wrinkles on Albus Dumbledore’s face. Important information,” Felix said seriously. Voldemort’s red eyes turned cold and evil, feeling deeply humiliated by their indifference.
“I had more to say, but it seems unnecessary,” he said coldly.
“Yes, I should have known,” Dumbledore said solemnly.
Voldemort glared at Dumbledore, unwilling to admit defeat. Even with his magic bound and his yew wand lost, he could still do one thing.
He laughed coldly, staring deeply at Dumbledore and Felix, as if trying to etch their faces into his soul, then closed his eyes and waited. It wouldn’t be long before he returned, because soon—
He was going to die.
Dumbledore and Felix watched him, making no move. After a few seconds, Voldemort’s eyes snapped open, his snake-like pupils trembling. “What—what did you—”
Dumbledore shook his head, waving his wand. The bindings on Voldemort disappeared.
But Voldemort was not free. Another forcehim. He looked down to see a dark green snake tail piercing his chest, seemingly ethereal and causing no physical harm, but it bound his soul, trapping him in his body.
A flood of emotions overwhelmed him.
Then, Voldemort was lifted from the ground, hanging helplessly in the air, like a Dementor with its hood removed. He struggled to raise his head, seeing a monstrous snake head approaching, its green scales shimmering with different colors.
“A—Patronus?”
Felix nodded at him.
The Basilisk opened its massive mouth, and in the next instant, Voldemort’s world went black.
Dumbledore and Felix watched as the Basilisk swallowed Voldemort, along with its own tail, forming a perfect ouroboros.
(End of Chapter)
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