"This is impossible!"
"There's nothing impossible about it, Voldemort." Charles looked at him calmly. "No spell in this world is invincible. Every spell has a flaw—and clearly, the flaw of the Killing Curse… is me."
He smiled faintly. "Let me tell you something amusing. I let your curse hit me on purpose."
That wasn't a lie. In fact, Charles had noticed Voldemort's first sneak attack long before it landed. The swirling sandstorm might have blocked a normal person's view, but not his—he had another special trait: Overcoat.
The second time the Killing Curse struck him, his apparent "death" was just a ruse—he was waiting for his Disguise ability to reset.
Voldemort, accustomed to killing in one blow, never bothered with a follow-up attack. After admiring his handiwork for a moment, he turned toward Karkaroff—an act that the battle system deemed as "disengaging from combat." That, combined with the Rainbow Wand's minor healing effect, restored Charles's health to full. His Disguise had refreshed as well, allowing him to take a second direct hit from the Killing Curse.
Two failed Killing Curses were enough to make Voldemort feel as if the very laws of his world had turned upside down.
It was like Isaac Newton being resurrected and discovering that gravity no longer existed—that the world now belonged to his brother, "Newton-2, the Cooler." The existential shock was immense.
Of course, that alone wasn't enough to make Voldemort truly lose composure.
He quickly calmed down. If the Killing Curse didn't work, he still had other spells.
However—
"You said every spell has a weakness? How amusing. Then tell me, what's the weakness of your magic?"
"An interesting question," Charles replied with a curious smile. "But why would I ever tell you my weakness?"
Did Voldemort really think Charles would reveal his secrets? Of course not. He was merely buying time.
Voldemort raised his wand and made a sweeping circle in front of himself. Magic flared from the tip with such force that the wand trembled as if it might snap. If the Killing Curse was useless, then he would simply overwhelm Charles with raw magical power!
He unleashed a dark incantation that Charles had never seen before—clearly a form of powerful Dark Magic.
Charles's experience with Dark Magic wasn't extensive. He hadn't studied much of it at Hogwarts, and while he'd met quite a few dark wizards afterward, none of those lowlifes could compare to Voldemort.
Still, even if he didn't recognize the spell, it didn't matter—as long as it wasn't the Killing Curse, most magic could be blocked.
Not to mention, even the Killing Curse couldn't harm him anymore.
"Protego!"
The black magic struck the invisible barrier, bursting outward in waves. Voldemort poured more and more magic into it, like floodgates breaking open—his power surged forth, pressing down on Charles with unstoppable force.
It had become a pure contest of magical strength.
Which would fail first: Voldemort's stamina, or Charles Gold's endurance to sustain his defense?
Crack—!
The sound of splitting wood echoed in the air, like a board tearing apart at the middle. Voldemort heard it clearly and quickly looked down at his wand.
Good news: his wand hadn't split yet.
Bad news: there was more than one crack.
Voldemort's face darkened. A flicker of panic rose within him. Against a lesser wizard, he'd still be confident even without a wand—but facing a prodigy like Charles Gold, a broken wand meant he'd be no more than a lamb waiting for slaughter.
He immediately stopped channeling his magic and prepared to Apparate away.
As for Karkaroff? Voldemort had no intention of taking that useless fool with him.
"Let's end this for today, Charles Gold," he said coldly, still forcing a veneer of dignity. He wouldn't admit defeat. Using a mismatched wand felt like trying to force water through a clogged pipe—magic still flowed, but nothing like before.
Once he retrieved his own wand, he would overturn this humiliation and kill Charles with his own hands. For now, he would simply leave his enemy's head attached to his neck a few days longer.
Charles didn't stop him. In fact, he looked positively entertained.
Voldemort sneered back and met Charles's gaze with his snake-like eyes.
They locked eyes for a moment—
Then Voldemort froze.Wait… why can't I Apparate?
There was no Anti-Apparition Jinx in place—he was sure of it. When he'd used the Killing Curse earlier, he'd Apparated without issue. There was no way Charles could've cast such a jinx in the short time since. He didn't understand—but that wouldn't stop him from escaping another way.
Fool, he thought. I can fly!
Voldemort leapt into the air—only to spin in an awkward circle like a special-effects-less monkey.
???
Where's my Flight Charm?!
"Pff—" Charles couldn't hold it in. He burst out laughing, giving an exaggerated round of applause. "Magnificent, Voldemort! Truly! If you perform like that outside the Ministry of Magic, I guarantee everyone will love you!"
"You—!" Voldemort's eyes bulged, his face contorted with fury.
And then, for the first time, he felt it—true fear.
"What did you do?" he demanded.
Moments later, realization dawned on his face—followed immediately by rage. Veins bulged, his blood-red eyes widened, and his voice broke into a roar.
"It was that potion! What did you add?! What did you add, you wretch?!"
"You filthy half-breed!" he spat, trembling. "Lower than mud! You dared tamper with my potion?!"
Voldemort screamed obscenities, but Charles merely looked at him with mild amusement. "Honestly, I pity the British sometimes—especially you wizards. You can't get through a sentence without saying 'Mudblood.' It's boring. You sad little outlet plug. Bald, noseless, chased around by Dumbledore like a stray mutt, neither man nor ghost—and in the end, you were killed by a one-year-old baby. Pathetic."
His tone wasn't sharp, but each word struck Voldemort like a dagger.
By now, however, Voldemort didn't care about insults. He just wanted to know—what had Charles added to that cauldron? His magic was gone. Even his consciousness was slipping.
Charles smiled kindly, extending his hand toward Voldemort's head. From the wound on his forehead, he plucked out—
A mushroom?
"I added mushrooms," Charles said gently. "How can you make bone broth without mushrooms?"
(End of Chapter)