Thud!
With a muffled sound, Charles fell straight backward, eyes still open.
The Killing Curse seemed to have no physical impact at all—only his "life" was taken, leaving his body untouched.
"Hehehehe—"
Voldemort let out a disturbingly satisfied laugh at the sight.
"I told you, you would die here!" he said arrogantly, sounding almost joyful, caring little that his audience was now a corpse. "What a pity. A wizard as gifted as you… you could have followed in my footsteps. Yet you chose to die for Dumbledore."
He began pacing slowly, his bare blackened feet pressing into the soft, darkened soil. Reaching Charles's body, he bent down to admire his handiwork, satisfaction gleaming in his snakelike eyes. To offer such a powerful wizard as his first sacrifice upon resurrection—it made his long-lost Killing Curse feel untainted once more.
The only regret… was that no one else had witnessed his might.
Well—perhaps not entirely no one.
He turned his head and saw a rotten, pus-covered hand clawing up from the dirt. Igor Karkaroff, now looking like a diseased toad, bore no trace of the proud headmaster Voldemort had once known.
"My dear, loyal Karkaroff… it seems I've misunderstood you," Voldemort said as he stepped away from Charles's "corpse," his tone deceptively gentle but devoid of true apology.
"M–Master—please—save me—" Karkaroff rasped, his face streaked with tears. But when those tears flowed over the festering boils on his cheeks, they burned like acid, making him sob harder. He fell to his knees and reached a trembling hand toward his master—only for Voldemort to step aside in disgust.
"Don't touch me with your filthy hands, Karkaroff!" he hissed sharply.
"It—it wasn't me—Master—it wasn't me—"
"Ah, of course. Now I know it wasn't you who tampered with the potion," Voldemort said coldly, pressing his long fingers to the tip of his wand. "But because you failed to notice, you nearly ruined my resurrection. So this little curse of yours is your punishment."
"You should be grateful for my mercy—for I did not kill you outright. Those who did betray me…" His voice dropped to a cruel chuckle.
Surveying the ruined graveyard, Voldemort prepared to summon his followers with the Dark Mark.
But before he could act, Karkaroff suddenly froze in terror. His eyes bulged as he stared past Voldemort, his entire body shaking. He opened his mouth to speak, but the curse had already spread to his throat—his tongue was rotting, swollen, useless.
"You dare look at me that way, Karkaroff?" Voldemort frowned. How dare his servant look upon him with such a gaze—of defiance, even contempt!
Even in fear, they should bow their heads before him!
Yet Karkaroff didn't look away. On the contrary, his trembling arm rose, pointing—not at himself, Voldemort realized—but at something behind him.
What could possibly terrify him so much?
Could it be… Dumbledore?
Voldemort's heart skipped. He spun around quickly—but what he saw was not the old wizard he both feared and hated.
And perhaps for that very reason, his face twisted in shock far beyond what Dumbledore's appearance might have provoked.
There, amid the still-settling dust, stood a tall young man brushing dirt from his coat with the back of his hand.
"Charles Gold?" Voldemort said, his expression almost blank, as if he doubted his own eyes.
"That's me," Charles replied, smiling pleasantly. "What's the matter, Lord Voldemort?"
"You… you're still alive?"
"What else?" Charles spread his arms wide. "I think your eyes can be trusted."
"You took a direct hit from my Killing Curse—and you're alive?"
"I must admit," Charles said with easy admiration, "that spell of yours is truly impressive—very refined work."But his relaxed manner betrayed no real concern. To Voldemort, the message behind that calm smile was unmistakable:
Nice curse. Shame you only managed to dirty my clothes.
"Impossible." Voldemort's serpent-like pupils narrowed, straining to pierce the secret behind this man.
He knew Charles possessed a protective charm capable of blocking a Killing Curse—but he hadn't seen it activate. The spell had struck true, of that he was certain. And yet here Charles stood, unharmed.
Had he been mistaken?Perhaps the chaos of their earlier clash—the blinding surge of magical power—had made him misjudge. Maybe the curse had missed, deflected at the last instant…
Because the alternative—that someone could survive a true Killing Curse—was simply unthinkable.
This was no half-hearted spell from trembling Hogwarts students. This was his spell—the curse cast by Lord Voldemort himself!
His last failure had been… well, over ten years ago. And that one had been destiny.
But this boy? Charles Gold was no "Chosen One." Just a talented upstart—nothing more.
"It seems I was mistaken," Voldemort sneered. "You truly are gifted—to create magic capable of resisting the Killing Curse. But—"
In the next instant, he raised his wand again, fury snapping across his pale face.
He would not be mocked by this insolent whelp.
"AVADA KEDAVRA!"
Boom—
The curse struck Charles square in the chest.
A brilliant green burst erupted, blooming like a flower of death.
Voldemort's eyes widened—he saw it hit, clearly this time!No shield.No interference.Nothing in between.
This time… Charles Gold was finished.
A delighted smile crept across Voldemort's lips, childlike in its glee.
"I told you, you would—"
"Would what?" Charles tilted his head slightly, voice calm.
This time, he didn't even bother to pretend. He simply walked forward—right through the shimmer of green death—forcing Voldemort to freeze mid-spell.
And the reason he could do so…was his Ability—
Disguise.
(End of Chapter)