The damaged corridor of the underground vault was littered with rubble that shimmered with a golden hue.
Just as Voldemort was about to strike, he suddenly realized that his body—no, Quirrell's body—was becoming heavy and stiff. His senses were dulling, and his joints were growing increasingly rigid.
In his shock, his crimson eyes caught the reflection in Harry's clear gaze.
The ugly green skin on his face was turning into radiant gold!
"Harry, hit him! Grab his wand!" Dudley seized the moment, shouting loudly while raising the Diggle wand he still held tightly, pointing it at Voldemort. "Expelliarmus! Expelliarmus! Expelliarmus!"
This wasn't a case of saying something important three times; Dudley was repeatedly channeling his magic, trying to successfully cast the Disarming Charm.
Meanwhile, Harry, who had been momentarily unsure of what to do, felt reassured upon hearing his cousin's familiar command and immediately acted.
He muttered under his breath, "Strength... strength... boost! Boost!"
With both hands, he struck—one fist smashing into the part of Voldemort's face that hadn't yet turned to gold, the remaining back of Quirrell's head. The other hand clawed toward Voldemort's (Quirrell's) hand, which was gripping the wand, trying to wrest it away.
Voldemort, of course, wasn't about to go down without a fight. His crimson eyes burned with intense hatred and murderous intent as he struggled to utter the incantation: "Avada—"
"Expelliarmus!"
Dudley's Disarming Charm succeeded at the critical moment, hitting Voldemort.
The Alder wand, which Harry had nearly wrested away, flew out of Voldemort's grasp just as a faint green light sparked at its tip. It shot like an arrow into a distant stalactite.
A normal Disarming Charm would send the opponent's wand flying into the caster's hand. Clearly, Dudley's spell wasn't perfect—it was just passable.
But it was enough!
Voldemort had lost his weapon. After all, he wasn't strong enough to perform wandless magic in his weakened state, especially while controlling Quirrell's body.
Even worse, Harry, the Boy Who Lived, protected by his mother's sacrificial love, had touched the enemy who harbored such murderous intent toward him.
"Ah—!"
Quirrell let out an agonized scream. His body began to disintegrate into ash, starting from the back of his head and his right wrist, spreading rapidly across his entire form. Even the parts of his body that Dudley's magical outburst had turned to gold crumbled away.
"Harry Potter! I will return!" Voldemort released his control over Quirrell's body. There was nothing more he could do here; his escape and eventual resurrection were far more important.
"Boom—!"
Quirrell's head exploded completely, an invisible force blasting Harry and Dudley, who had rushed forward despite his pain, away.
The black hood shattered, and a dark purple, garlic-scented turban flew into the air. Close behind it emerged Voldemort's main soul, now a swirling cloud of black smoke.
The dark figure spiraled downward, its smoky tendrils reaching out to grab the fake Philosopher's Stone packet that had fallen to the ground before making its escape.
Dudley, still in pain and not in the best condition, wanted to stop Voldemort. The ugly creature had thoroughly enraged him today!
Lying on the ground, he raised his wand with effort: "Incendio—"
"Finite Incantatem!"
A deep, resonant voice, aged but powerful, interrupted Dudley's attempt to conjure a fire spell.
A blinding burst of bright yellow light tore through the raging Fiendfyre serpent in the distance, striking Voldemort's smoky tendrils with unerring accuracy.
"Argh! Damn you, Dumbledore!" Voldemort's soul let out a barely audible, venomous curse before abandoning any thought of retrieving the 'Philosopher's Stone.' It shot upward, colliding with the falling dark purple turban.
The moment they touched, the two merged into a twisting spiral and vanished.
Clearly, Voldemort and Quirrell had prepared an escape route, turning the turban into a Portkey—and a reinforced one at that. Otherwise, it would have been impossible to escape via Apparition in the heavily warded underground vaults of Gringotts.
"Damn it!" Dudley cursed bitterly, not even glancing at the approaching figure who was calmly extinguishing the remnants of the Fiendfyre while gliding closer.
He struggled to his feet, staggering over to Harry and helping his cousin up. After making sure Harry was unharmed, he rushed to Hagrid, who lay unconscious in a pool of blood.
"Episkey! Enervate!"
Without hesitation, Dudley pointed Diggle's wand at Hagrid and began casting healing spells.
After two failed attempts, Dudley quickly got the hang of the healing charm. A white light enveloped Hagrid, and his wounds began to close.
"Harry, help Hagrid up!"
"Got it, Dudley!"
Harry responded as he always did, casting a strength-enhancing spell on himself before easily lifting the massive Hagrid.
Seeing Hagrid slowly regain consciousness without any side effects, Dudley cast a couple more healing spells on himself and Harry.
"Harry, Hagrid! Are you both alright?"
A white-haired, crooked-nosed old man with a long beard approached, his voice gentle and filled with concern.
Hagrid, still somewhat dazed, nodded faintly upon recognizing Dumbledore.
Harry, however, felt awkward in the presence of the elderly wizard and simply stared, saying nothing.
"Back off, or I'll hex you!" Suddenly, Dudley snapped at the hundred-year-old wizard without even turning around, leaving the greatest wizard of the twentieth century utterly speechless.
Dumbledore's expression froze. It had been a long time since anyone had spoken to him like that—perhaps no one ever had.
Whether it was Grindelwald or Voldemort, whether it was the followers of the Dark Lord or his own allies, everyone had always shown him at least a modicum of respect.
Even with over a century of life experience, it was hard for him to imagine an eleven-year-old wizard being so... brazen.