Dumbledore frowned as he looked at Voldemort and the Demon Lord's Sword clutched in his hand. After a moment of silence, he lifted his wand with a gentle flick.
That single motion marked the beginning of a battle between Dumbledore and Voldemort—a battle that had never occurred fifty years ago.
Seeing the movement, Voldemort instantly braced for an attack. But Dumbledore did not unleash any dark curses.
He used Transfiguration.
Without even chanting an incantation or making a deliberate flourish, the stones on the ground seemed to gain life. They fused together, forming a mighty lion of stone, its surface still carrying the rough texture of rock as it roared and lunged at Voldemort.
Transfiguration was one of the fundamental spells of wizardkind—but also among the most advanced. From first through fifth year it was mandatory, and only those with excellent O.W.L. scores could continue studying it into sixth and seventh.
Such an important branch of magic had power not to be underestimated. In the hands of a skilled wizard, Transfiguration became a battlefield-spanning weapon of terrifying versatility.
And Dumbledore was a legendary master of Transfiguration—he had once been the professor of the subject himself.
Faced with the charging lion, Voldemort's eyes filled with wariness.
At first glance, its stony texture might suggest an incomplete or clumsy transformation, but in truth this was an advanced form of the art.
Not only did it possess formidable combat power, but it also had extraordinary resistance to many kinds of magic—especially the Killing Curse. Ordinary Death Eaters might fail to destroy it even with three attempts. Only Voldemort in his prime could have hoped to obliterate it with a single strike.
Such constructs were similar to the stone guardians of Hogwarts—they too were born of Transfiguration, and their strength was immense.
But no matter how strong, stone was still stone.
As the lion pounced, claws ready to rip him open and fangs poised to crush his bones, Voldemort ignored the imminent danger. With his right hand he swung the Demon Lord's Sword. A cold flash of light tore through the air.
The proud lion froze like a statue. Dumbledore's expression tightened—he had lost control of it.
Boom!
The lion collapsed into rubble, its cut surface smooth as glass.
Voldemort's face lit with wild joy. He hadn't imagined the sword in his hand truly lived up to Dio Brando's words—it cut through anything!
Dumbledore steadied himself, Elder Wand sweeping rapidly. Spell after spell shot forth—incantations classified as harmful curses but not dark magic—each aimed at Voldemort.
Voldemort seemed to flip a hidden switch. Wielding the Demon Lord's Sword, he moved like a sword saint incarnate, slashing every spell in half with ease.
The sword's "cut through anything" was not limited to the physical. Unless faced with a unique enchantment like Harry Potter's protection, nothing could misdirect its edge.
The reason Voldemort could not kill Harry was not that the sword was stopped, but that the protection diverted all attacks originating from Voldemort back onto Voldemort himself.
In direct confrontation, there were virtually no spells that could withstand the Demon Lord's Sword.
That protective magic on Harry Potter—even Dumbledore himself could not replicate it.
"Hahahaha! Dumbledore, I told you, you can't kill me! But I can kill you! Right now I am invincible!" Voldemort's face flushed with manic excitement. For the first time, he realized—maybe he could kill Dumbledore, eliminate the only wizard who still threatened him!
He suddenly charged, brandishing the Demon Lord's Sword like a berserk warrior gone mad, swinging it recklessly as he rushed at Dumbledore.
His swordplay had no technique at all—like a peasant waving a fire poker—but with the blade that cut through all things, it was still lethally dangerous.
Dumbledore, however, remained composed, as calm as a general commanding armies. Every flicker of spelllight at the tip of his wand was like a loyal soldier under his command.
"Useless! Useless! Useless!" Voldemort howled, face twisted, as he reached Dumbledore. The sword swept in a deadly half-arc, a crescent of cold light like a moon slicing toward him.
Swish!
The Demon Lord's Sword cleaved through the wall effortlessly. But Dumbledore, who had stood there a heartbeat ago, was gone.
Gone too was Quirrell's soul.
Voldemort froze. He knew Hogwarts had anti-Apparition enchantments—but Dumbledore had cheated.
He'd carved out an exception for himself!
"So you really are as shameless as you look, Dumbledore!" Voldemort snarled, hacking apart a Disarming Charm with his sword. "You preach that Hogwarts forbids Apparition, but you use it freely. If you've got any courage, stop running and let me kill you!"
His voice dripped with murderous bravado, but beneath it he was already thinking of retreat.
Against a Dumbledore who could Apparate at will, he had no chance of victory.
"No matter. I am immortal. Even if I can't kill Dumbledore, he can't stop me from leaving." Voldemort's grip on the sword restored his confidence. He raised his wand and fired a flash of sickly green Killing Curse straight at Dumbledore.
Dumbledore did not take it lightly. With a lift of his wand, shattered stones gathered into the shape of a massive eagle, which dove into the Killing Curse head-on.
Boom!
The curse blasted the eagle apart, sending dust billowing through the hall, blotting out all sight.
A perfect chance!
Voldemort spun to flee—but before he got far, Dumbledore's incantation rang from behind him.
"Quick, but pointless. No matter what spell it is, I won't fear it!" Voldemort sneered, Demon Lord's Sword twitching eagerly as he turned to cleave the magic apart.
But this time, the sword's cut did nothing. The spell's effect remained.
A crashing wave surged forth, engulfing Voldemort and trapping him inside a vast sphere of swirling water.
"Water? You're using water!?"
Realization struck him. The sword might cut through anything solid, but how could it sever formless water?
No blade, however sharp, could slice water. Wasn't that the old saying—Draw your sword to cut the stream, and it only flows faster?
He'd grown careless, relying too much on the sword. If he had met spell with spell, at least he wouldn't have been rendered helpless in an instant.
Inside the watery prison, Voldemort's face turned ashen—not just from lack of air, but from sheer humiliation.
When he tried to raise his wand against the sphere, the sly Dumbledore spun the water prison, tumbling him around like laundry in a washing machine, dizzying him beyond the ability to cast.
"You see, Tom," Dumbledore said softly, voice calm as his wand guided the churning prison, "there is no such thing as true invincibility. With the right method, every strength has a fatal weakness."
His eyes glinted behind his half-moon glasses.
"I've caught you."
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