Deep within the damp, oppressive underground passage, the pale white glow that had illuminated the corridor only moments ago twisted into something far more sinister, an eerie emerald light.
It was the Killing Curse.
This is a spell Ian had cast on instinct, his wand steady despite the jolt of panic in his chest.
There had been no other choice.
The moment his eyes locked onto the grotesque figure ahead, he knew exactly whose face was leering at him from atop that twisted, malformed body.
No-nosed Tom.
Voldemort.
In a duel, hesitation meant death, and Ian had no intention of giving this remnant of the Dark Lord a chance to strike first. Even in such a pitiful, wretched form, Voldemort was still Voldemort, a wizard who had defied death itself.
Who knew what kind of dark, insidious magic he could still command, even as a fractured, clinging fragment of the soul?
Ian had never expected this to be his first encounter with a living, sentient piece of the Dark Lord.
"Avada Kedavra!"
The incantation rang out, sharp and decisive.
The jet of green light carved through the air in a perfect arc, like the sweeping blade of Death's own scythe, carrying an inevitable finality. It hurtled straight for the deformed creature and the sliver of Voldemort's soul bound to it.
For a moment, the Dark Lord's lingering consciousness stalled in disbelief.
He had intended to possess a young wizard, slip undetected into Hogwarts, and uncover how much of his legacy had been destroyed. Instead, he was greeted with his own signature curse.
A Killing Curse.
From a student.
A half-grown Hogwarts student.
"How many years have I been gone?"
For centuries, wizarding duels at Hogwarts had revolved around Expelliarmus and Stupefy, children played dueling like it was a friendly sport. When did they start opening with Avada Kedavra?
Could this be a half breed disguised as a boy? A short-legged professor with an unfortunate Goblin ancestor?
"Hiss—"
Voldemort's remnant soul had made a fatal mistake.
He hadn't even considered defending himself.
After all, he thought he was facing some clueless little wizard who might, at best, manage to cast a Tickling Hex. By the time he realized the spell was real, the curse was already upon him.
The monstrous form he inhabited had nowhere to run.
The misshapen creature, sensing imminent death, convulsed in terror. Its bloated limbs twitched wildly, attempting, uselessly, to shield itself from the rushing emerald light.
But the Killing Curse did not yield.
Fate had already been decided.
Even as the curse struck only a limb, death spread like a venomous web, latching onto flesh and soul alike.
The spell burrowed deep, unrelenting, merciless.
Perhaps, in a way, the creature was grateful.
Being possessed by a fragment of Voldemort's soul was an agony beyond comprehension. Its body had already been warped beyond recognition, its skin blistered with unnatural swellings, etched with twisted, runic scars— an abomination clawed straight from the depths of a nightmare.
And then—
"Boom—!"
The raw power of the Unforgivable Curse roared to life.
The creature— large, monstrous, unnatural— never even had the chance to scream.
It hit the ground with a sickening thud, a vast pool of foul-smelling liquid splattering across the dirt floor.
Ian, his reflexes sharp, snapped up the small enchanted umbrella in his free hand, blocking the spray just in time.
"Phew—"
His breath came out in a slow exhale.
The eerie green glow still lingered, curling through the air like wisps of spectral mist.
Then—
A dark fog began to rise from the creature's corpse.
A thick, rolling mass of shadow, heavy with the weight of malice.
Voldemort's remnant soul had used the creature's dying body as a final, desperate shield.
The black mist seethed, coiling like an inky tide, saturated with something ancient, wrong. It radiated an unspeakable darkness, an unnatural void, as though it had no right to exist in this world.
And buried deep within it—
"IMPOSSIBLE!"
Voldemort's voice.
A whisper that carried across the chamber with a rage that boiled into disbelief.
"A KILLING CURSE?! YOU'RE NO HOGWARTS STUDENT!"
There was no strategy, no time for any counterattack.
The moment his soul tore free from its vessel, Voldemort fled.
His survival instincts, finely honed from years of playing chess with death, screamed at him to run.
And yet—
Something was wrong.
Because the Killing Curse that had ended his temporary body had not faded.
"What is this—?"
His fragmented consciousness recoiled.
Something strange was happening. The lingering green light did not dissipate into nothingness— it gathered.
A web of emerald magic, silent and waiting.
Voldemort knew this curse better than anyone. It killed instantly, it did not leave traces, it did not linger, it simply was.
So why—
Why was it still here?
"WHAT HAVE YOU DONE TO THE KILLING CURSE?!"
Terror was not something the Dark Lord often experienced.
But this?
This was wrong.
Something ghostly and unfamiliar had unfolded in this forsaken underground passage, something that even his vast knowledge of magic could not explain.
He barely had time to think.
Because the moment his soul attempted to slip away—
The web snapped.
And like a net catching its prey, the curse struck again.
This time— directly at him.
In less than two seconds, emerald light was all he knew.
"Hōng lóng!"
Seeing the eerie green light streaking toward him again, Voldemort's remnant soul no longer dared take it lightly.
Without hesitation, he manipulated the swirling black mist around him, commanding it to slam into the underground passage's walls, toppling the stone and mortar in a desperate act of defense.
The deadly green light crashed against the collapsing debris, dispersing into a web of eerie patterns across the broken surface. But this time, the energy didn't recoil and reassemble; it simply faded away.
"Good, good… at least my research into chaining Killing Curses has only just begun," Ian muttered, his pulse still thrumming.
He wasn't the only one shaken by the encounter. The Voldemort remnant, though fleeing in blind panic, was clearly unnerved as well.
From that brief exchange, Ian had gleaned something crucial.
Voldemort's soul fragment, though still a terrifying force of dark magic, was nowhere near his former strength.
Otherwise.
He wouldn't be this pathetic, dodging a single Killing Curse like a spooked rat.
In this weakened, half-existent state, Voldemort's spectral form might only be capable of subtle manipulations, tricks that didn't require significant magical reserves.
That was Ian's best guess.
And it only stoked his hunger for magic further.
He had already missed two opportunities to expand his magical capacity before. There was no way he was letting this one slip away.
This time, he would use the extraordinary power of the Soul Furnace.
What was that old wizard saying? Something about a house-elf conveniently bringing you a blanket when you're cold?
Voldemort was practically delivering an opportunity gift-wrapped.
His lack of raw magical reserves had been a frustrating obstacle lately. But if taking a calculated risk meant confronting the most feared Dark wizard in modern history, well— wasn't that a fair trade?
"Don't run, Tom! We grew up in the same neighborhood, didn't we? No need to be shy! Let's have a little chat!"
Ian called out with a grin tugging at his lips as Voldemort's shadowy form receded into the distance.
(To Be Continued…)
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