"An ant still dares to be arrogant? Seeking death!"
Voldemort sneered as he gazed at Aragog's lifeless corpse with disdain. Then, he slowly turned, his piercing crimson eyes locking onto the tense and battle-ready Ian, Wanda, and—of course—Harry Potter.
His lips curled into a sinister smile.
"Harry… Harry…"
His voice was low, a demonic murmur slithering through the air like the whispers of the damned.
"I never expected to meet you again."
The way he spoke, slow and deliberate, sent a shiver down Ron's spine. It was as if his words carried the weight of a cursed fate.
"Fate truly favors me. Almost all my enemies are gathered here today."
As he spoke, he ran his tongue over his lips, his expression twisting into something wicked, his gaze dripping with murderous intent.
"Killing you all… will surely make Lockhart and Dumbledore grieve."
The threat lingered, venomous and absolute.
Yet, despite Voldemort's ominous words, Ian, Wanda, and Harry remained eerily composed. Their wands were already raised, magic crackling at their fingertips.
Wary. Focused. And… Excited.
Yes, Voldemort could see it clearly—an unmistakable excitement gleaming in their eyes.
There was no fear.
Not in Wanda. Not in Ian. Not even in Harry.
Instead, there was an eagerness—a thrill at facing him, the Dark Lord.
The only scent of terror in the air came from the little witch standing behind them and the trembling Weasley boy, who clutched his wand as if it could somehow shield him from the nightmare unfolding before him.
Voldemort chuckled.
It was a cold, mocking sound.
"Voldemort," Ian spoke at last, his voice steady, his tone firm. "If you attack us here and now, it will mark the beginning of a war between you, Kamar Taj, and Hogwarts."
Ian's unwavering gaze met Voldemort's.
"Our Headmaster Lockhart and Headmaster Dumbledore will stop at nothing to make you pay the price."
Ian wasn't foolish enough to challenge Voldemort head-on without caution. As the de facto leader of their group, his priority was not to provoke an unwinnable battle, but to ensure the survival of everyone present.
Yet, deep in his heart, a flicker of reckless ambition whispered—if they could push Voldemort to his limits, if they could measure his strength and escape alive, it would be a battle worth remembering.
Voldemort's smile vanished.
"You… are so ignorant," he muttered.
Then, he laughed.
A chilling, hollow laugh—one that carried a tinge of frustration, a flicker of rage.
Even these little wizards dared to speak to him as equals? To threaten him?
Unforgivable.
"Avada Kedavra!"
Without hesitation, he cast the Killing Curse—aiming straight at Ian.
A streak of dark green death shot through the air, its eerie glow illuminating their faces.
But Wanda's eyes instantly gleamed with a dark red hue.
Buzz!
A shimmering, red-hued barrier erupted around them in an instant.
The four moved in perfect synchrony, their magic intertwining, and suddenly—they were gone.
Boom!
The Killing Curse struck the ground where they had stood moments ago, leaving behind a deep, smoking crater.
Voldemort's expression darkened.
They had dodged him.
No.
These wizard apprentices—children—had evaded his Killing Curse.
A blow to his pride. A disgrace.
His crimson eyes gleamed with cold fury as he scanned the area.
Not far from him, the valley still burned—the purple flames trapping the Acromantulas remained strong. Many of the spiders had already been reduced to ashes, while others lay motionless, paralyzed by the poisonous mist.
And then—he saw them.
Wanda, Ian, and the others had reappeared within the cave, their wands raised toward the fiery barrier that had once been their prison.
A moment later—
Whoosh! Whoosh! Whoosh!
Remy flicked his wand, his stance shifting, and the flames expanded outward, surging in all directions.
A blazing inferno, reaching for Voldemort.
The purple fire roared as it approached, growing larger, consuming everything in its path.
Voldemort's face twisted.
A memory clawed at the back of his mind.
Flames.
A skeleton engulfed in eternal fire.
His other self—Tom—wreathed in torment.
His fingers curled tighter around his wand.
"Enough!"
Buzz! Buzz! Buzz!
A wave of blood-red mist erupted from his form, spreading outward like a malevolent tide.
The moment it touched the surrounding trees and grass—
Everything withered.
The lush valley—gone.
In an instant, the once-verdant land transformed into a barren wasteland.
Crackle! Crackle! Whoosh!
The flames surged forward, colliding head-on with the mist.
Fire and blood met in a battle of elements—
And the result was unexpected.
At first, the purple flames pushed back the mist, swallowing everything in their path.
But then—
The mist adapted.
It resisted.
It… consumed.
The flames that had once burned so fiercely began to wane.
Remy's expression tightened.
"Damn it! These things are adapting!" he cursed.
Yes.
They could see it clearly now.
The blood-red mist was not simply mist.
It was alive.
A writhing mass of microscopic, blood-red insects.
At first, the creatures had burned easily, their bodies disintegrating into nothingness beneath Remy's magic.
But now…
Now, they resisted the flames.
Worse—
They were devouring them.
Remy gritted his teeth.
The fire had begun to falter.
He could feel it—his own magic being drained, eaten away by these insidious creatures.
The air crackled with magic, thick with tension as the battle unfolded.
At first, the purple flames had dominated, burning everything in their path, consuming the blood-red mist with ease. But now—things had changed.
The crimson haze no longer shrank away from the fire. Instead, it fed on it.
The transformation was visible—where there had once been overwhelming purple fire, now more and more red mist churned and expanded. The flames, once all-powerful, were shrinking.
Even as Remy poured every ounce of magic he had into maintaining the inferno, the Blood Abyss Worms grew more frenzied, their resistance strengthening with each passing second.
They surged forward, eagerly devouring the fire, absorbing its power, and multiplying.
From the distance, Voldemort watched with amusement, a faint smirk playing at the edges of his lips.
Yes.
Magic is the most exquisite nourishment.
He had known this well—but tonight, this encounter confirmed it.
And to his pleasant surprise, the magic of these young wizards was delicious.
Richer. More potent. Even better than the wizards he had encountered in France.
His red eyes gleamed with intrigue.
It would be a waste to end this battle too soon.
Instead, he would let his Blood Abyss Worms feast—squeezing every drop of magic from these foolish wizards before crushing them.
After all, these creatures were part of his secret weapon—his trump card against Tom and Lockhart.
With that thought, he subtly commanded the Blood Abyss Worms to slow down—to keep draining more magic before devouring them completely.
Let them struggle. Let them fight.
Let them despair.
But then—
"No! I can't hold out much longer!"
Remy's voice rang out, his body trembling from exhaustion.
He could feel it—his magic draining rapidly. His control slipping.
His flames were rebelling against him.
It was as if they, too, wanted to run.
Wanda, standing beside him, instantly sensed his weakness.
Her mind raced.
Should I take over?
With her power fully unleashed, she believed she might be able to counter Voldemort's blood mist.
Just as she was about to step forward, Ian's voice rang out.
"No!"
Wanda looked at him in shock, but Ian remained firm.
And then, he did something unexpected.
Lifting his wand, he projected his magic outward, amplifying his voice so that it echoed throughout the battlefield.
"Professor Credence, it's time for you to act."
His tone was calm, yet commanding.
He wasn't looking for a fight to prove himself.
He wasn't here to be reckless.
As captain, his duty was to ensure the survival of his team.
Even though a part of him yearned to test himself against the Dark Lord, pride had no place in leadership.
And he knew.
Credence was here. Watching. Waiting.
If Voldemort was truly a threat to them, then it was time for their hidden protector to intervene.
If he didn't—then Ian would make him.
The moment Ian's voice rang out, a powerful surge of magic erupted from the shadows.
The air crackled.
A presence, one that had remained concealed until now, was forced into the open.
At that same moment, Voldemort turned his gaze toward the west.
A slow smirk curled across his lips.
"So that's where you've been hiding," he murmured, amused.
Yes, he had suspected that Credence had followed these wizards from the beginning. But he hadn't been able to pinpoint his presence.
Not until now.
But with Ian's bold gamble, that uncertainty was erased.
Voldemort's expression darkened.
A fatal mistake.
Because now, Credence had no choice but to act.
Ian, however, merely smirked.
"Checkmate."
From the shadows, a figure emerged.
A tall man, clad in dark robes, his eyes cold yet sharp—Credence Barebone.
Voldemort raised his wand—
And with a simple flick of his fingers, a vast swarm of Blood Abyss Worms surged toward Credence, morphing into a rolling tide of crimson mist.
The Blood Abyss Fog had not yet reached its full evolution.
It still needed more sustenance.
Much more.
And Credence, oh, he looked absolutely delectable.
A powerful wizard, overflowing with raw magic, who had hidden in the shadows for too long.
"Perfect," Voldemort whispered, licking his lips.
This would be a feast.
"Tch."
Credence let out a sharp breath, eyes narrowing.
Without hesitation, he whipped his wand forward.
Black mist exploded outward, surging toward the Blood Abyss Fog like a wave of shadows.
For a moment—just like Remy's purple flames—his attack overwhelmed the mist.
For a moment—he had the upper hand.
But then—it started again.
The blood-red mist adapted.
Resisted.
Then—began to consume.
Within seconds, the black mist was faltering—the very magic Credence wielded was being devoured.
His expression darkened.
He could feel it—his magic draining rapidly, the same way Remy's fire had.
Damn it!
Voldemort was no easier to deal with than Grindelwald.
The blood mist was a nightmare.
Then—
"Lockhart, if you don't act now, your students are finished."
Credence's voice cut through the battlefield, ringing out clear and sharp.
Silence followed.
And then—
A ripple in the air.
Above them, the sky shifted.
A figure appeared.
Floating mid-air, his wizard robes shimmered in seven colors, reflecting the hues of powerful magic.
Gilderoy Lockhart.
The moment he arrived, his gaze sharpened—not on Voldemort, but past him.
Then, he spoke.
"Grindelwald, come out."
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