Echo blinked, his eyelids feeling heavy and gritty. A dull throb pulsed behind his eyes, and the back of his head ached faintly. He was still on the cold, hard wooden floor of the shed, but the frantic, whirling confusion in his mind had settled into a quiet, desolate emptiness.
He opened his eyes fully. The shed's single window let in a meager strip of grey light, indicating the day had either barely begun or was already winding down. Above him, he saw three faces: Pip, his little green outfit a splash of color, looking down with wide, anxious eyes; Ragnok, his golden eyes narrowed with a mix of concern and assessment; and Shimmer, perched on Ragnok's shoulder, his silvery fur slightly ruffled, his dark eyes fixed on Echo.
Pip's face split into a sudden, relieved grin. "He is back! Mister Echo is back!"
Ragnok grunted, adjusting the Demiguise's balance on his shoulder. "What do you mean, back? He never left, Pip. He just had a mental breakdown and passed out."
Echo slowly pushed himself up onto an elbow, his neck stiff. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes, his hand brushing against his head. The sensation of the short, rough stubble where his long hair used to be was jarring, like touching a stranger. He looked down at the floor, seeing the mess of their few supplies, the shears lying glinting nearby, and the small piles of ashes just outside the open door. The events felt like a dream, hazy and horrific.
"W-what happened?" Echo croaked, his throat raw.
Ragnok leaned in, his gravelly voice low. "How can you not remember, kid? You saw those letters tumble out of your backpack, took them outside, threw them on a tree, and set the whole thing on fire." The goblin gestured toward the open door with a pointed ear. "Then you ran back in here, grabbed those old sheep shears, snipped off every last bit of your hair, had a proper mental breakdown, and passed out."
Echo slowly sat all the way up, his violet eyes flat and empty. "Oh," he said, his voice quiet.
Ragnok's golden eyes narrowed. "'Oh'? What do you mean, 'Oh'?" The goblin shifted Shimmer on his shoulder. "What's 'oh' supposed to mean? And what were those letters that made you go crazy?"
Echo looked out the open door at the still-smoldering oak tree. "They were letters," he explained, the sound distant. "For some of my friends and teachers. For when I or they finally graduated from Hogwarts. But it looks like that's just a long-gone dream now." He looked back at Ragnok, his face hardening slightly. "And those letters were for the people who betrayed and backstabbed me. The Marauders and Professor Cleen."
"Well, it makes sense why you decided to go and burn them," Ragnok grumbled, tapping his clawed finger on his chin. "Shame about that tree, though. It didn't deserve that." He paused, his gaze fixed on Echo's head. "But what was all that with you cutting off all your hair?"
Echo ran a hand over his rough, newly shorn scalp. He shrugged, a gesture of profound weariness. "I don't really know. Maybe a part of myself just got tired of looking at my old face. I'm not the same person that I used to be, and I probably never will be." He sighed. "Besides, even if I hadn't had a mental breakdown and cut all of my hair off in a panic, I probably would have needed to do it anyway. My mood-changing hair would have been a dead giveaway. Most people don't even know what my natural color is."
Pip piped up cheerfully. "His black hair does suit nicely with his violet eyes, Mister Echo!"
A faint, almost imperceptible smile touched Echo's lips. "Thanks, Pip." He pushed himself off the floor, his muscles protesting the sudden movement, and walked over to the shed's single window, looking out into the grey expanse of the world outside.
Echo stared out the window, but the grey expanse offered no solace. The whirlwind of his mind—the Death Eater attack, the betrayal, the flight from his home, the relentless hunting by Aurors—had been an unbearable storm. He had clung to the pain, the rage, the fear, because they were feelings. Now that the typhoon has passed, leaving behind a dead calm. He felt nothing. The hollow, dead space in his chest was worse than the terror. He didn't want to be empty. He wanted to feel the fire again, the desperate need for something, any thought that could cohere into a conclusion. But his body was unresponsive, his brain a slate wiped clean.
With a profound, weary effort, Echo pushed off the wall and stepped away from the window. His newly shorn scalp felt cold in the draft as he started walking toward the door, his steps uneven and hesitant.
"Mister Echo? Where are you going?" Pip's cheerful voice was immediately laced with worry.
Echo did not reply, his eyes fixed on the open doorway.
Ragnok's gravelly voice grew firm. "Hey, kid! What are you doing?"
Echo reached the doorway and paused, his hand gripping the splintered wood frame. He looked out at the rolling, open hillside, the endless green a mirror to the emptiness inside him.
"Out for a walk," he said, his voice flat. He didn't turn around. "I don't know when I'm coming back, but I will. Eventually."
Then, he stepped across the threshold and walked out into the vast expanse of the world. He didn't close the door, leaving the entrance to the shed gaping open behind him.
Pip, Ragnok, and Shimmer—and even Wick, who had just awoken from her nap behind this shed—watched him go. Echo's slight, newly-bald figure grew smaller against the green and grey of the hill.
Pip turned to Ragnok, his small green face twisted with anxiety. "D-do you think Mister Echo is going to be okay?"
Ragnok grunted, adjusting the Demiguise on his shoulder. "I'm sure he'll be fine. He needs to clear his head." The assurance sounded hollow, even to his own ears.
Pip's wide, anxious eyes searched the goblin's face. "He… he tried to off himself, Ragnok. After Sniffles died. I'm afraid his demons are trying to take over again."
Ragnok sighed, his golden eyes narrowing as he stared out at the spot where Echo had disappeared over a ridge. "I can usually tell when people are going to hurt themselves, Pip. Echo right now… he just needs some space to decompress. This whole thing has been hard on him. Then again," he looked down at Pip, a flicker of genuine weariness in his gaze, "it's been hard on all of us."
Echo walked off the ridge, his steps carrying him forward in a haze that was deeper than exhaustion. Time lost its meaning; the gray light of the day bled into the deep shadows of dusk, but he was unaware. His mind was a void, a hollowed emptiness in his head and body, and he simply walked as if he were in a great chasm of nothingness. He tried to force a thought, a coherent conclusion, any spark of the old fire, but nothing formed. His brain was unresponsive, his body a lifeless shell moving on autopilot.
When the mental haze finally fractured, it was not with a jolt, but a creeping awareness of his physical surroundings. He stopped, suddenly present, yet utterly lost. He had no idea how much time had passed, nor how he had ended up in this place. He was in a forest, surrounded by ancient, towering trees whose twisted forms were swallowed by the encroaching twilight. Then, a shiver of familiarity cut through the last of his numbness. The trees, the sheer scale of the woods, were recognizable. Before he could fully process the implication, the answer appeared before him: standing just beyond the tree line, framed against the indigo sky, was Hogwarts.
Echo thought it was a dream, a final, despairing mental episode, until his foot caught on a thick root and he nearly stumbled. The sharp, jolting pain was real. He had somehow magically—or instinctively—brought himself back to the one place he had sworn to escape. He was hidden away on the edge of the Forbidden Forest, out of sight.
He stared at the castle, a massive, impossible silhouette against the last light. Why was he here? Did he bring himself? Was it his subconscious, or the dark magic he carried, or something else entirely? The questions swirled, but he didn't dwell on them. He just stared, a profound, aching longing settling in his chest until the answer came with a quiet, undeniable clarity.
"Oh, Hogwarts," he whispered, his voice catching in his throat. "Even when I tried to escape you, I find myself right back at your doorstep. Perhaps when I was trying so hard to flee, I never got to say goodbye."
Despite the cruelty, the anxiety, the fear, and the tragedy that had befallen him within those hallowed halls, he had made just as many good memories, even if they were all tainted by the trauma he had endured. He shed a single, silent tear, wiping it away before turning his back on the castle.
"Goodbye," he murmured. "Hogwarts. I knew you well. I only wish I could have known you more and known you in a better light."
With that, Echo turned fully and began to walk deeper into the Forbidden Forest, away from the only place he had ever called home. He walked on, the tears now falling more freely down his face. He made no sound, simply letting them fall and wiping them away as he went deeper, without a map or a plan.
Eventually, Echo found himself in one of the deepest parts of the forest and stopped to collect himself. He breathed deeply, the cool evening air filling his lungs, and leaned his head back, closing his eyes, seeking a sensation of peace to wash away the numbness. It worked for perhaps five seconds.
"Well, well. Well, what do we have here?" a voice hissed, high, cold, and calm.
Echo immediately stiffened. His body reacted like a frightened animal to a potential predator, a feeling he hadn't experienced in a long time. He looked around the twilight forest, but saw no one—no wild animal, no magical creature, only the dense plant life all around him.
"Is somebody there? Who's there?! Show yourself!" he tried to demand, but the fear was raw in his throat. His voice came out weak and fearful, even to his own ears.
Echo looked around the forest several times, his gaze darting from shadow to shadow, until his eyes snapped back to the space directly in front of him. A few yards away, where nothing had been a moment before, stood a figure. Tall and impossibly thin, he was clad in a full-length black robe that covered his body entirely, save for his hands, which were white, long, bony, and ended in claw-like fingers. A deep cowl shadowed his face.
Instinct taking over the lingering numbness, Echo's hand flew to his pocket, and he drew his wand, pointing it at the silent figure.
"Who are you?" Echo demanded, his voice trembling less this time, bolstered by the familiar, comforting weight of his wand.
The figure took a slow, deliberate step closer, and Echo involuntarily took a small step back. A cold amusement seemed to emanate from the hooded figure as it replied.
"I have gone by many names over the years. Tom, He Who Shall Not Be Spoken Of, You-Know-Who... But recently, I've been more privy to being called Voldemort... The Dark Lord."
Upon uttering his name, Voldemort raised one of his skeletal hands and pulled the hood from his head, revealing an utterly inhuman face. It was far more serpent-like than human: pale white skin that was almost translucent, ears that were fused into his head, and no visible sign of hair. His eyes, a terrifying, glowing red, fixed on Echo. Where a nose should have been, there were only two serpent-like slits, and a small, thin mouth allowed Echo to just barely see a set of pointed teeth behind it.
The name struck Echo like a physical blow, a jolt of pure, white-hot terror that instantly banished the last vestiges of his mental haze. His expression was one of profound, disbelieving confusion.
"The Dark Lord," Echo whispered, the name a cold, bitter taste on his tongue.
Voldemort slowly tapped one of his claw-like fingers against his chin, his red eyes narrowed in assessment. "Your tone makes it sound as though you know me."
Echo looked at him as if he were insane. "Know you! How can I not know you? You and your cursed title have plagued the last four years of my life. I…" Echo trailed off, his violet eyes widening as a horrifying realization dawned on him. "It was you. It was always you, always behind the scenes. It's your fault. Everything is your fault. My shattered reputation, my demonization in society, my placement in the Triwizard Tournament, the death of my beloved Sniffles."
Echo took a moment to breathe, his gaze darting around the dense foliage, trying to collect his thoughts and control the sudden, boiling rage. He brought his eyes back to the Dark Lord. "Even though Dumbledore was actively watching and testing me, he never directly did anything to me. He only allowed certain things to happen, but not you. It was all you! It's all your fault."
Voldemort gave a cold, thin smile that did not reach his terrifying eyes. "Albus, the greatest wizard of a generation, but he always assumes that he's the only one playing the chessboard. Never aware that another player had his pieces hidden among his own. And in my defense, I wasn't the one directly responsible for what came upon you. I never took action. I merely gave the command to my Death Eaters to enact my plan. And I must say, even though Lucius's methods were a bit sloppy, he still succeeded in the end. And now, here you are."
Echo stared, the sheer audacity of the confession staggering. "Are you trying to tell me that you did all of this just to have a meeting with me? Is that what you're trying to tell me?"
Voldemort gave a cold laugh that was more of a rasping hiss. "Oh, what do you take me for? Some simple-minded squib? Getting you to meet me wasn't the only thing I wanted. I wanted to test you. I wanted to study you, to learn from you. Much like Albus."
Echo looked at him with profound confusion. "'Learned from me'?"
Voldemort leaned closer, his voice dropping to a low, seductive whisper. "Four years ago, when you first entered Hogwarts, when Lucius taught you how to use the Unforgivable Curses and the first time that thing you have inside of you, the Dark Beast, manifested—I wanted to understand it. Wanted to learn how to create one of my own. But even through rigorous trial and error and all my knowledge and skill in the Dark Arts, I could never recreate what you have. You are unique."
Echo's grip on his wand tightened. "The Dark Beast is not some toy," he said in a warning tone. "It's something else entirely, even if it is just my magic given life."
Voldemort gave a dark chuckle. "And that's precisely why I wanted you. Why I wanted you to join me."
"Join you?" Echo repeated the word, his voice incredulous.
Voldemort's voice took on a bit more excitement. "Yes, join me. The reason I did all of this. The reason that I seemingly tortured you was to push you beyond your outer reaches, to see how far your magic and your control could truly go. For you to see the power in dark magic, to see that Hogwarts was full of nothing but small-minded fools. Join me, and I will help you understand your magic and the Dark Arts far better than anyone else will."
Echo didn't know what to say. All he could do was stare at the horrifying, snake-like face of the Dark Lord until Voldemort said, in an ironic sort of way, "All this time, it's like I was your Master and you my apprentice."
Echo stared at Voldemort, his mind utterly blank, the monumental weight of the confession—the four years of cruelty, the orchestrated demise of his life—a crushing pressure he couldn't process. His wand, a second ago held firm, slowly lowered, his arm going slack at his side. His violet eyes, moments before blazing with rage, glazed over, then began to shift, a toxic, sickly evil green seeping into the irises, pushing the violet away.
He looked back up at the Dark Lord, a soft, chilling chuckle escaping his throat. The chuckle evolved, twisting into something manic, hysterical, and utterly broken—a full-blown, blood-curdling, *mad* laugh that echoed through the ancient trees of the Forbidden Forest.
Voldemort, momentarily taken aback, quickly recovered. He was not entirely sure what was happening, but the boy's reaction was extreme, and in his mind, extremity meant success. Assuming he had broken Echo's mind and won the boy over, a cold, rasping laugh began to bubble up from the Dark Lord's own chest, joining the boy's. They both laughed together in the deep, growing twilight of the forest, two figures of darkness united in a moment of mad, shared hysteria.
At the crescendo of their combined, maniacal laughter, Echo's face snapped from mirth to an expression of pure, concentrated hatred. Without even a moment of hesitation, his wand whipped back up, his voice tearing from his lungs in a guttural, desperate "AVADA KEDAVRA!"
The flash of brilliant, sickly green light shot from his wand—faster than thought—straight at the Dark Lord.
Voldemort reacted instantly, his own wand flicking out and a shimmering, translucent shield erupting between himself and the boy. The Killing Curse, however, did not strike the shield. Instead, the Dark Lord's spell slammed into a nearby massive, moss-covered boulder, instantly causing the ancient stone to crumble into dust, taking the full impact of the spell. The dust cloud settled, and when Voldemort looked back at Echo, the Dark Lord's eyes were narrowed, his face a mask of pure, calculated fury.
Echo stood rigid, his wand raised, the sickly green still burning in his eyes, though fresh, hot tears streamed down his face from the sheer force of his rage.
"Join you?" he yelled, his voice raw with pain and betrayal. "You want me to join you? You want me to be a part of your little club? You tortured me for four years—four years—all for that? And yet you have the audacity, the gall, to stand before me and say that you're my Master!?"
He gave a short, hysterical sob that was choked off by his rage. "You're absolutely wrong about that. We are not master and student. We are Dr. Frankenstein and the creature. And now," Echo's voice dropped to a terrifying whisper, "I think it is far past time that the monster killed the Creator."
Voldemort sneered, his thin lips curling back from his pointed teeth. "You think you can stand against me, boy? Do you have any concept of who I am? Do you not understand the kind offer that I give you?"
Echo gave a short, sharp bark of a laugh, an insane sound that held no humor. "I know exactly who you are. A dead man walking."
Voldemort's sneer vanished, replaced by an expression of cold, focused malice. He flicked his long, white wand, and the first spell, a searing crimson bolt of pure destructive energy, shot toward Echo.
"Crucio!" Echo roared, the green in his eyes flaring as he met the curse with a jet of blinding, purple-black energy. The spells collided mid-air, a soundless explosion of light that scattered the forest shadows and sent a shockwave of magic crashing against the ancient trees.
The duel began in earnest. Echo fought with the wild, unrestrained fury of his deepest betrayal, his spells powerful and delivered with savage intent: non-verbal Blasting Curses that tore chunks of earth from the forest floor, Dark Jinxes that twisted the air, and a volley of Stunners laced with his strange, corrosive magic that struck Voldemort's shields like acid. The sheer ferocity of his attack was startling.
But Voldemort was a Master. He moved with a chilling, fluid grace, his black robes barely shifting as he deflected every blow. His counters were clinical, precise, and utterly ruthless. Where Echo cast ten spells, Voldemort cast one, and that one was always perfectly aimed to dismantle the defense, expose a weakness, or cause maximum pain. A wordless, bone-breaking curse shattered the trunk of an oak tree near Echo, showering him in wood splinters. A well-placed *Impedimenta* slammed into Echo's chest, making him gasp and stumble backward.
Echo was strong, but Voldemort was experienced. The Dark Lord pressed his advantage, his voice a low, sibilant taunt that cut through the sound of the colliding magic.
"Furious, but so slow," Voldemort hissed, deflecting an Incendio that became a swirling vortex of shadow-fire. "You have such a magnificent gift, boy, a boundless ocean of darkness inside you, and yet you choose to fight like a frustrated child. You scratch at the surface! You have no concept of true power! Your 'Dark Beast' is a caged animal, and you keep the key!"
The force of Voldemort's next curse, a powerful, black jet that Echo barely blocked, sent the young wizard staggering onto his knees, his wand arm trembling with the strain. He was breathing heavily, his rage giving way to a desperate, sinking fear.
"No chance," Voldemort pronounced, his skeletal hand raising his wand for the final blow, a smile of cold triumph curling his thin lips. "You are strong, but I am eternal."
The fear, however, gave way to a surge of pure, defiant pride. Echo's eyes snapped back up, the sick green in his irises blazing brighter than before.
"You think you know dark magic, old man!" Echo screamed, his voice hoarse but echoing with new power. "You only practice it! I was born into it!"
His whole body seemed to crackle with an unnatural energy. He shot back up, throwing off the weariness that had settled on him. His wand came up, and a sound unlike any other escaped his throat—a high, venomous hiss.
"Sse-Taash!"
It was Parseltongue. His wand obeyed the raw command, not the formal Latin of the spell, and a wave of pure, condensed shadow magic exploded from the tip. It wasn't green, or red, or black—it was a shimmering void, a tangible absence of light, guided by his will and infused with a terrifying new power.
Voldemort's casual defense was shattered. The Dark Lord actually took a full step back, his red eyes wide with shock. He had never felt a magic quite like this—it was ancient, primal, and impossibly strong.
Echo was a storm now. He shrieked, hissed, and commanded, his magic flowing with a violent, terrifying beauty. His spells ripped through the forest, the power in his wand overwhelming Voldemort's defenses. A bolt of shadow-lightning forced the Dark Lord to take a desperate dive behind a granite outcrop. The sheer power of the counter-attack put Voldemort squarely on the defensive, ducking, weaving, and casting desperate shielding charms. It was working. He was winning. He had put the Dark Lord on the ropes.
But the surge was a brief, suicidal effort. The shadow-magic, a core manifestation of the Dark Beast, was consuming his energy at an alarming rate. As he launched one final, massive curse, a jolt of pain, not from a spell but from deep within his own magical core, slammed into him. His vision swam. The vibrant, sickly green in his eyes flickered, then dimmed, receding back into the familiar violet. He felt the terrifying, sudden drop of magical stamina, like a bucket of water kicked over, draining him completely. The raw power went out of his spell, which barely struck Voldemort's hastily erected shield.
Echo stumbled, his knees buckling, his breath coming in ragged, painful gasps. His wand arm dropped to his side, too heavy to lift. Voldemort slowly stepped out from behind the outcrop, his robes a little dusty, his face a mask of calculation that quickly softened into a cold, predatory smile.
"Ah," he hissed, his voice thin with satisfaction. "It seems that the magic of yours takes a toll on the body. A regrettable flaw. Shame."
He began to walk slowly toward the wheezing, exhausted boy.
"You are the first, you know," Voldemort continued, his voice a low, seductive whisper. "The first person to have almost gotten me. Me—Voldemort, the master of death, almost felled by the boy's wand. Not many can claim such a feat." His face took on a cold, plastic expression. "But you are outmatched from the start. You throw your spells with no rhyme or reason. Your dark magic, while impressive, has been held back by your own restraint. And you are ignorant of its cost."
He stopped just a few feet from Echo, looming over his slight figure.
"I will not offer this chance again," the Dark Lord said, his red eyes boring into Echo's. "Join me, boy, and I will teach you control and power beyond your dreams. Or I will simply take you and use you as I see fit until I find your usefulness at an end."
Echo, ragged and breathing heavily, looked up at the terrifying, snake-like face of the man who had ruined his life. He coughed, a dry, painful sound.
"I..." Echo choked out, his voice barely a whisper. "I'm not... out of tricks... just yet."
He reached a shaking hand into the neck of his shirt, grabbing the length of chain that hung there.
Voldemort reacted with lightning speed. With a sharp, non-verbal command, the thick, moss-covered roots of the nearby trees shot up from the earth like pythons, coiling instantly around Echo's legs, chest, and neck, binding him tight against a tree trunk. The roots were powerful, tightening with crushing force.
However, the Dark Lord failed to ensnare the boy's right arm, the one reaching into his shirt, or his wand arm. Echo's hand managed to pull the object he had been trying to retrieve free. A heavy, intricate, serpentine locket, green enamel contrasting with the dull gold of the chain, swung free from his shirt, dangling down his chest.
Voldemort's terrifying red eyes snapped from the object in the boy's hand to the locket. His serpentine face looked for the first time utterly and completely taken aback.
"The Locket of Salazar Slytherin," Voldemort breathed, the words barely a hiss of pure shock. "How on Earth did you get that? It's impossible."
Echo leaned his head back against the tree, the roots digging painfully into his skin. A faint, terrible smile of triumph touched his lips, the green in his eyes momentarily flaring in a final burst of malice.
"I got it from a friend," Echo said, his voice quiet, flat, and filled with chilling finality.
Echo's hand, though shaking, found the heavy, intricate, serpentine locket. He didn't hesitate. He wasn't thinking of a spell in Latin or Parseltongue; he was thinking of power. Raw, ancient, uncorrupted power. The locket, resting against his palm, pulsed once—a slow, deep beat that seemed to vibrate with the very structure of the earth.
"Luctum Exsurge," Echo commanded, the words not a language, but a feeling of absolute magical authority, drawn from the deepest well of the locket's ancient magic.
The first spell was not a curse, but a monstrous Repulsion Field. A shimmering, golden-black wave of force, thick and tangible as a sheet of metal, burst from Echo's chest, centered on the locket. It slammed into the throttling roots, vaporizing them instantly, leaving only smoke. The wave kept going, striking Voldemort's hastily erected shield with the force of a battering ram. The Dark Lord was thrown backward, skidding violently across the forest floor until he hit a tree trunk with a sickening thud.
Echo gasped, his eyes wide. That was more power than he could have ever imagined. He felt the magic drain him, but the locket seemed to feed him back a terrible, cold strength.
"Tenebris Foramen," Echo hissed, the second command manifesting as a Void-Rift. A swirling, ink-black hole, the size of a shield, opened directly in front of the stunned Dark Lord, sucking in the surrounding air and light. Voldemort, recovering with a snarl of furious shock, only just managed to throw himself sideways, the edge of his black robes being torn into nothingness as he tumbled away.
The locket in Echo's hand was now noticeably warm. A prickle of pain, sharp and immediate, ran up his arm. He remembered the restriction, the warning: three uses. He was already at two. The third one might break him, but he didn't care. Not now. He raised his wand again, and with a guttural, desperate cry:
"Umbra Regnum," he roared, using his final allowance.
The third spell was a spectacular, devastating Shadow-Chain. A hundred chains, forged of pure, crackling shadow, erupted from the ground and the trees around Voldemort, weaving together into a gigantic, suffocating net. Voldemort screamed a wordless curse, but the shadow-magic was too fast, too consuming. It wrapped around his limbs, binding him tight, pressing his arms and wand to his sides, and forcing him to his knees. His shield, once impenetrable, flickered and died under the crushing magical weight.
Echo's body convulsed. He screamed, a raw, animal sound, as the locket in his hand became unbearably hot. The heat was a searing brand, not a warning. It burned through the gold chain and his shirt, fusing itself to his skin.
But the moment of success was instantly countered by the Dark Lord's final, desperate act. Though pinned, his legs were momentarily free of the most restrictive chains. With an agonizing, silent surge of will, he animated the very earth.
The roots that Echo had vaporized erupted back to life. They shot out, not from the trees, but from the ground, thick as pythons, coiling around Echo's chest and neck, crushing him against the tree trunk again. This time, the locket—already glowing incandescent white-hot—was pressed with bone-breaking force against the bare skin of his sternum.
A high, blood-curdling shriek was torn from Echo's throat. The locket was burning, burning through him, imprinting the reverse image of its serpentine symbol onto his flesh. The searing pain, a million times worse than the Cruciatus Curse, was pure, liquid agony.
"Luctum Fulgur!" Echo shrieked, his voice a broken, desperate rasp. Even with the sky clear of a single cloud, a massive bolt of brilliant, jagged white lightning tore from the heavens, fueled by the locket's ancient power. It slammed into the earth with a deafening crack, missing Voldemort by mere inches and leaving a glass-filled crater where it struck.
Panicked and acting in pure haste, Echo didn't wait. He pointed the glowing locket again. "Gallus Mutatio!" A beam of chaotic, swirling magic shot from the serpentine relic. Voldemort threw himself aside with a snarl of shock. The spell missed its target entirely and struck a nearby thicket of gorse. In an instant, the bush sprouted feathers and a beak, transforming into a large, terrified hen that let out a series of frantic clucks before scurrying away into the undergrowth on two spindly legs.
The magic was monstrous. With the fifth command, a shockwave of golden light burst from Echo, ripping the thick roots from his chest and neck, sending them flailing into the surrounding darkness. With the fifth, the shadow chains around Voldemort tightened to the point of implosion, tearing the Dark Lord's robes to shreds. But the price was paid.
Echo's vision went white, then black. His muscles gave out, his breath caught in his throat. He fell forward, utterly spent, the locket finally falling from his hand, the imprint of the serpent on his chest glowing and pulsing with agonizing heat.
Voldemort, too, was released. The shadow-chains, lacking Echo's will to command, fell to the forest floor as dead weight. The Dark Lord, disheveled, his serpentine face twisted with pain and disbelief, slowly rose to his feet. He was bleeding from a dozen cuts, his wand-arm trembling, his power utterly exhausted from defending against a magic he had never encountered.
Silence fell, absolute and suffocating, save for the ragged, desperate gasping of both combatants. Echo lay on the ground, his wand slack, his body refusing to obey. Voldemort stood, leaning heavily against the scarred oak, his crimson eyes fixed on the smoke still curling from the boy's chest.
"I... I am impressed," Voldemort hissed, his voice raw and thin, a strange mix of fury and utter astonishment. "I did not know you were capable of such power. It is… ancient. And that locket, my locket… how did you get that, boy? How did you find it?"
Echo coughed, a dry, painful sound, and slowly pushed himself up to a sitting position. He touched his chest, the raw, searing pain a solid, constant fire. He looked up at the Dark Lord, his violet eyes flat and empty again, but a small, cool, and dark smile touched his lips.
"It's not your locket at all," Echo choked out, the effort tearing at his throat, not mentioning the fact that he accidentally traveled back in time with a Time Turner and met the actual founder of Hogwarts himself, getting the original locket from Salazar Slytherin. "And as I said, I got it from a friend." He paused, his smile widening, his expression complete in the darkness. "You really are an old man if you're already this winded just from defending yourself."
Echo pushed himself to his feet, a monumental effort that left him swaying. He stood upright, his small, bald figure a frightening silhouette in the dying light, his burnt chest smoking, his eyes locked on the Dark Lord.
"But don't worry any more," he whispered, a promise of death in his low, chilling voice. "I got one more spell up my sleeve, and this one is going to kill you."