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Ian called out with a grin tugging at his lips as Voldemort's shadowy form receded into the distance.
But— well.
There was no helping it. Two legs could hardly compete with something that flew.
Seeing that Voldemort's lingering soul had absolutely no regard for their supposed childhood camaraderie, Ian had no choice.
With a flick of his wand, he conjured a broomstick.
A simple enough magic item— one that required minimal magical output to sustain. More importantly, Ian could adjust its speed based on his understanding of enchanted flight.
And, quite conveniently, he had been deep into research on magical flight recently.
His work on crafting an enchanted flying cloak had left him with plenty of insight into airborne artifacts.
And so—
A broomstick, faster than the yet-to-be-invented Firebolt, materialized beneath him.
Ian even conjured a self-warming cushion for extra comfort.
If his flying cloak prototype had been complete, he would've used that instead. But, alas— he wasn't quite there yet.
Still, he had spent plenty of time "dissecting" the school's broomsticks, breaking down their enchantments piece by piece.
And now?
With some clever Transfiguration, he had briefly turned that knowledge into something functional.
Of course— this was hardly a trick any ordinary wizard could replicate.
"What in Salazar's name is wrong with this boy!?" Voldemort's remnant soul risked a glance back mid-flight—
Only to see the child he had assumed was some kind of dwarfed lunatic now chasing him on a magically-conjured broomstick.
And not just any broomstick.
This thing broke every single rule Voldemort had ever known about broom flight.
The sheer speed of it shattered his understanding of what was possible.
"This… this isn't right! This is completely unnatural!"
"Crucio!"
Ian's wand was already raised.
He had tested this spell on Peeves before, he knew his magic could affect spirits.
And Voldemort's fragmented soul was still, at its core, a spirit.
Another curse shot from Ian's wand, streaking toward the fleeing shadow with alarming speed.
But Voldemort, ever the seasoned master of dark magic, had been watching for it.
The spell missed.
He twisted through the air, his fragmented essence darting away, slipping past the hex with an almost instinctual fluidity.
Of course.
That didn't mean it was easy for him.
"You—!"
Voldemort's soul seethed with fury, his very essence vibrating with disbelief.
"You are not a student!"
The mere thought of being chased like some common fugitive by a boy from Hogwarts was insulting beyond reason.
Grief and indignation burned through his fractured consciousness, but in this pathetic, weakened state, he couldn't retaliate as he wished.
All he could do was keep running.
Faster.
Like some wretched stray, hunted by an opponent who should have been beneath his notice.
Being chased by an Unforgivable Curse was an entirely new experience.
But at least—
At least that bizarre Killing Curse variant hadn't been cast again.
That was Voldemort's one small mercy in all of this.
"Wait— stop! I'll show you my Hogwarts student ID! Really, just trust me!" Ian called out, voice dripping with mock sincerity.
He was trying to cut Voldemort off by altering the environment, collapsing sections of the passage, and blocking potential escape routes.
But the wraith-like form of Voldemort's soul slithered through the gaps in the falling stone with ease.
Instead of slowing him down, the debris only made Ian's pursuit more difficult.
Chunks of stone and shattered pipe clattered from above, along with a fresh wave of foul-smelling sewage.
Voldemort's spectral form, while immune to physical filth, still seemed to register the absolute stench of it.
"Ugh— disgusting! Keep away from me!"
The exit was just ahead.
And Voldemort—
Voldemort bolted faster than he had ever flown in his life. He tore through the opening and shot out into the Forbidden Forest, vanishing into the misted shadows beyond.
He had clearly done this before.
The moment he burst free of the underground tunnel, the swirling black mist surrounding him flared outward.
And then—
The very landscape moved.
Boulders. Twisted roots. Dead, gnarled trees.
All of them lifted into the air at his command, pulled by invisible magic.
And then—
"Boom—!"
A deafening crash echoed through the valley as the entrance to the passage collapsed in on itself, sealing off Ian's path in a thick wall of rubble.
The Forbidden Forest loomed ahead, its depths swallowing Voldemort's remnant soul into its eerie darkness.
The forest glistened, fresh from the storm, as though it had been washed anew.
Raindrops slid from blades of grass and clustered leaves, their soft patter blending with the crisp, earthy scent that followed the downpour.
Voldemort's remnant soul slunk through the shadows beneath the trees, avoiding the sunlight at all costs.
Even in his weakened state, he knew better than to let the light further unravel his already fragile essence.
Of course, he hadn't expected his makeshift barricades to stop the hunter pursuing him.
And indeed, they hadn't.
"Sly Tom!"
A sharp flick of Ian's wand sent debris and shattered stone flying in all directions.
He burst through the settling dust cloud, his self-made broom slicing through the air as he hurtled forward, hot on Voldemort's trail.
Not a single drop of sewage had managed to touch him despite the burst pipes.
Ian felt a twinge of regret; if only Madam Hooch had been here to see this.
He was certain he would've earned full marks for style alone.
"My good brother! That's what I should call you, isn't it? Fate has brought us together once again. Now tell me, what will it take to get you to sit down for a nice, calm chat?"
"Would it take… Imperio?"
Ian's wand twitched, and before Voldemort could react, several Imperius Curses shot out in quick succession. Like guided spells, they veered and curved through the air, sealing off potential escape routes ahead of the fleeing wraith.
Voldemort could feel the magic surging behind him, magic more aggressive, more relentless than anything he had ever expected from a schoolboy.
His very soul quivered.
"This must be Dumbledore's trap!"
The misty remnants of his face twisted, contorted by something disturbingly close to terror.
There was simply no way a mere Hogwarts student had reached this level of power.
No, the only explanation was that Dumbledore had laid an ambush, an elaborate deception meant to lure him out.
"Who are you, really!?"
He was convinced now. The boy wasn't a boy at all.
He is no doubt an old, battle-hardened wizard under the Polyjuice Potion, masquerading as a student.
Voldemort had no time to confirm his suspicions. The Imperius Curses were closing in.
His only option? Sacrifice whatever he could find.
The post-rain air was thick with the scent of damp earth and fresh greenery. The Forbidden Forest should have been brimming with life- tiny, curious creatures peeking from their burrows to glimpse the storm-washed world.
Instead, Voldemort's shadow polluted the scene.
As he passed, he ripped up the creatures in his path, forcing them into his defense.
Helpless Bowtruckles, rainbow stags, even a troll just stumbling out of its cave, all were yanked into the Imperius Curses' trajectory.
One by one, they froze in place, backs snapping straight, hands raised in eerie, obedient salutes.
It was a grotesque sight.
And yet—
Compared to the vegetation Voldemort's soul had passed through, those creatures had been lucky.
At least they had survived.
The same could not be said for the plants that wilted and blackened in his wake.
(To Be Continued…)