Chapter 706: Three Failures
At the very instant Voldemort’s murderous intent flared, Harry suddenly swung his wand with a sharp motion.
"Expelliarmus!"
A red flash erupted—yet Voldemort merely flicked his wand with casual ease. The cauldron that had helped him return to life leapt from the ground and blocked the disarming charm head-on.
As the cauldron exploded, Harry dashed forward, throwing himself in front of Wade, shielding him with his body. He shouted boldly, "Don’t touch him! My opponent is you, Voldemort!"
Voldemort slowly turned, his red eyes narrowing into dangerous slits.
"Ah… Potter," he murmured. "I almost forgot—tonight’s main course is you…"
"Fantastic!" Harry shot back defiantly. "I was starting to think the great Dark Lord only bullied children!"
In truth, he wanted nothing more than to flee—or at least shut his mouth before things got worse. But an inexplicable courage surged within him, driving him to speak words he never thought he’d utter.
It was as if the monstrous figure before him wasn’t the most evil wizard in history, but rather Dudley Dursley flanked by a gang of thugs.
Harry could feel the Death Eaters staring at him in stunned disbelief—eyes wide, expressions like those of people witnessing a Mortra Rat suddenly speaking human language.
He glanced quickly behind him. Wade’s round eyes were fixed on him, filled with the innocent curiosity of a child, and the quiet trust of someone who simply didn’t know what danger was.
And in that moment, courage poured from Harry’s heart like a never-ending stream—unyielding, unbreakable.
He knew he might die. Facing Voldemort and a dozen Death Eaters, with no allies, no hope—this was certain death.
Yet his heart held no fear of death. Only one simple thought remained:
He would never surrender to Voldemort. Even if he died, he would die standing—just like his father. He would die protecting the child beside him, just like his mother had.
Harry gripped his wand tightly, his eyes locked onto the grotesque face of Voldemort.
"Hah!" Voldemort laughed, his split lips stretching into a grotesque grin, his neck veins bulging like twisted roots—forming a twisted painting of malice.
Before he could speak, the Death Eaters erupted in a frenzy, eager to prove their loyalty before their master.
"Master, let me teach him a lesson!"
"You insolent little wretch—let me show you the agony of the Cruciatus Curse!"
"Brave words now, Potter—soon you’ll be begging like a dog on your knees!"
Voldemort slowly raised his hand. Instantly, the noise died. Wade turned his head toward the group, his gaze distant and strangely thoughtful.
—These men, even when trying to impress, still masked their voices.
Wade thought to himself: He must be far more patient than I imagined, to tolerate such subordinates.
The boy subtly shifted his wrist, fingers pressing against the armrest. In his mind, he focused intently on the transformation of the chains binding him.
Deep down, he believed it could work.
Just as Voldemort began to speak, Wade felt a faint stirring within. A strange power flickered at his fingertips.
Pop!
Like an invisible soap bubble bursting, the iron ring on his right hand twisted violently—expanding slightly, stretching open by about two inches. Now, with ease, he could pull his hand free.
He glanced at the tattooed woman standing nearby, her golden water kettle cradled in her arms. Then, keeping one eye on Voldemort and Harry’s tense standoff, he turned his full attention to the iron ring on his left wrist.
"Harry Potter…" Voldemort’s voice dripped with cold precision. "You never cease to surprise me. But soon, you’ll understand—defying me is the greatest mistake of your life."
He swept his gaze across the gathered Death Eaters, then paused at the badge lens on Wade’s chest, before locking his crimson eyes onto Harry.
Instantly, the scar on Harry’s forehead burned with searing pain. The agony was so intense he nearly screamed—his retort dissolving into a choked gasp.
"The world says you’re my bane, doesn’t it?" Voldemort’s tone was eerily calm, almost confessional. "Yes… I failed you twice. Or perhaps… three times?"
A ripple of unease spread among the Death Eaters.
They dared not whisper—certainly not in the Dark Lord’s presence—but their shifting postures, the flickers of their eyes, spoke volumes.
In the hidden stands, in the countless homes watching the streaming mirror, the murmurs swelled into a chorus of disbelief.
Everyone knew—Harry’s parents had never defeated Voldemort three times. They had only escaped him three times, which was already extraordinary.
Yet Voldemort made no attempt to hide his failures. He even smiled.
"The first time… you all know it," he said. "The night I lost my magic and my body. I tried to kill him, but his mother stood in front of him—her self-sacrifice shielding him. That gave him protection."
He paused, his pale, slender fingers curling slightly. "I never expected that possibility… I couldn’t touch the boy."
All eyes were on him. Even the Death Eaters who had kept their heads down dared to glance up, captivated by the tale of a night few had known.
Harry’s wand trembled in his hand. His eyes stung, red with unshed tears.
Voldemort looked down at his own pale fingers and continued, voice soft yet heavy with memory.
"When I prepared to kill him… the spell rebounded. Death’s pain overwhelmed everything. My friends… I was forced to shed my body. But my soul remained. I had already conquered death—through a secret, powerful means."
A wave of dread washed over the crowd.
Even Merlin had never claimed to have conquered death. Yet here stood Voldemort—returning from the dead.
Every wizard who cherished peace and quiet felt despair.
How could one destroy a being who could never truly die?
He could fail a hundred times… a thousand times… yet always rise again—stronger, more terrible than before.
And then, inevitably, the world would fall under his terror. Even Dumbledore might not be able to stop him forever.
People began to wonder—was this why Voldemort never tried to hide his failures?
Because each defeat wasn’t a mark of shame… but proof of his invincibility.
"The second time," Voldemort said after a pause, "four years ago. I controlled a Hogwarts professor to steal the Philosopher’s Stone from the school. But Potter ruined my plan again."
(End of Chapter)
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