Voldemort, haggard, his serpentine face a mask of pain and disbelief, straightened from the scarred oak. He watched the boy, his red eyes narrowed in pure, calculating malice. He had never seen magic like the locket's, but this boy, this pathetic, exhausted shell, dared to threaten him again.
Echo raised his wand high into the air, a movement of sheer, agonizing effort. His entire body screamed in protest, every last joule of magical stamina already spent, yet a dark, primal reserve was tapped. The air around him grew cold, not with the natural chill of the night, but with an unnatural, soul-crushing despair.
"Exspecto Daemonem!" Echo shrieked, the Latin a desperate, guttural tear from his ravaged throat.
From the tip of his wand, a black swirling flame erupted, coiling outward with impossible speed. It was not fire that burned; it was shadow and negation, a vortex of pure, unbound darkness that ripped through the air. The black flame grew instantly, forming a terrifying, upward-spiraling tornado that tore past the treeline and clawed at the indigo sky.
At the center of the cyclone, a shape began to coalesce, growing in mass and terror. With a deafening, triumphant roar that shook the ancient trees to their roots, the Dark Beast manifested. It was no longer a shadow or a vague inner presence; it was a demon, a towering figure of solid shadow, its body a silhouette against the dark vortex, its eyes burning with the sickly, toxic green that had briefly filled Echo's own. It was freed, and it roared with a savage, joyous excitement at being let loose upon the world.
As the black fire cyclone spun, the darkness of the spell acted as a monstrous magnet. From the swirling void, several Dementors manifested, their ragged cloaks flapping, their eyeless heads turning towards the boundless well of despair and hatred that fueled the spell. They screeched, high and inhuman, flying around the Dark Beast in a macabre, excited dance, drawn to the sheer, terrifying darkness.
Voldemort looked up at the impossible spectacle, his crimson eyes wide. His lips parted, but no sound came out. For the first time in a very long time, the self-proclaimed Master of Death was utterly and completely speechless, a tremor of genuine, visceral fright running through him. He looked from the towering Dark Beast to the slight figure of the boy who had summoned it.
Echo stood rigid, his face pale and stark with exhaustion, but his eyes held nothing but cold, absolute murder. He brought the tip of his wand down, a slow, deliberate movement that was the final exertion of his will.
The Dark Beast shrieked, a sound of unleashed power, and dove down the trajectory of the wand. The accompanying Dementors followed, a wave of cold, soul-sucking negation. The terrifying force of the spell, the beast, and the Dementors flew as one towards the Dark Lord, tearing through the forest with explosive, world-ending power. Trees ceased to exist in the path, ripped to shreds or vaporized by the corrosive magic.
Voldemort, trapped between shock and paralysis, finally found his voice. With a desperate, soundless surge of will, he Apparated—not to safety, but only several yards sideways, throwing everything he had into a momentary escape from the devastating spell.
When the cyclone of black fire and shadow passed, tearing a massive, scarred trench through the Forbidden Forest, Echo stood for one terrible, final moment. He saw nothing standing where Voldemort had been. The massive granite outcrop was gone. The silence that followed was suffocating. It was over.
The relief, the celebration, the simple act of relaxing—all were denied him. The spell had taken every last ounce of his magical stamina and his will to live. His knees buckled, his body collapsing forward onto the forest floor.
Before the earth even registered his fall, Voldemort appeared from the side, a haggard, shredded silhouette against the devastation. He was barely in one piece, having thrown all his power into that single, desperate Apparition. He raised his own long, white wand, his serpentine face twisted with a mixture of sheer terror and pure, cold fury.
"Bombarda!" he hissed, the spell hitting the boy with a final, non-verbal Blasting Curse that sent Echo sprawling and utterly still into the dirt.
Voldemort stood there, leaning heavily on his wand, gasping for breath. The front of his black robes was torn to shreds, his pale skin bleeding from a dozen cuts caused by the near-instantaneous, short-distance Apparition. He looked at the path the spell had left: a line of pulverized earth, torn trees, and a scattering of animal corpses—squirrels, a rabbit, a large owl—that had been in the way. He noticed that the animals were not merely crushed. They had been drained of their souls, like a Dementor's Kiss, but their bodies were not empty husks. They were very much dead.
He looked back down at the boy, who lay unconscious and smoking on the ground, his burnt chest marked with the locket's symbol.
"You were right about one thing, child," Voldemort said, his voice raw, barely a whisper. He looked again at the devastation the spell had left. "I truly have no idea about true dark magic. What you've shown me today has flipped my understanding of it and magic on its head. But," he hissed, taking slow, painful steps toward the motionless form of the boy. Stopping right over the boy's prone form and raising his hand, his pale fingers skeletal and poised to strike, "I think our little game is at an end. It is time for you to give me what I want."
Before the tip of his long, white finger could touch the boy's singed skin, a flash of something blacker than shadow, faster than a viper, shot out from the ground, raking a set of razor-sharp claws across the back of Voldemort's hand.
Voldemort shrieked, a sound of pure pain and surprise, and instantly recoiled, clutching his now profusely bleeding hand to his chest. His red eyes, wide with shock, darted wildly around the forest. "W-what was that?" he demanded, his voice trembling. "Show yourself!"
The answer was not given in words, but in a sudden, impossible materialization. From the deep, absolute darkness of Echo's shadow, which lay cast and still on the forest floor, a shape began to rise. It wasn't the smoky, winged demon of the Exspecto Daemonem spell. This was a creature that embodied all the nightmares of the dark and the twisted nature of raw, unrestrained magic—the Dark Beast.
It manifested only halfway out of the shadow, a massive, muscular form of solid, oily blackness that seemed to drink the light. Its features were a terrifying composite: the spiral, ridged horns of a great ram crowned its head, above the snarling, elongated snout of a dog, its maw filled with the needle-sharp teeth of a bat. Two, curved tusks jutted from its boar-like jaw. Its immense, gorilla-like body was supported by a single, colossal, clawed hand planted on the ground, and from its other arm—which ended in the massive, curved talons of an eagle—a dozen black, silk-thin threads extended into the air.
The threads, like a puppeteer's strings, effortlessly wrapped around Echo's unconscious body, lifting him gently but firmly from the forest floor until he was held suspended, slack-limbed and utterly still, a human puppet dangling before the monster that had claimed him.
Voldemort slowly lifted his head, his serpentine face pale, his red eyes fixed on the towering, half-formed beast, a mixture of stark terror and overwhelming, breathless awe warring in his expression.
"So," the Dark Lord whispered, his voice catching in his throat, "you are the Dark Beast. The one locked away in the boy."
The massive, muscular form of solid, oily blackness that was the Dark Beast tilted its horned head, its immense, single-clawed hand still planted on the ground, supporting its bulk. The massive talons of its other arm held Echo's unconscious form suspended in the air.
A sound, a low, tectonic grinding, escaped the Beast's elongated snout. It was a sound that originated from the very bedrock of the Forbidden Forest. This resonant, deep-seated growl vibrated in Voldemort's chest, promising immediate, bone-shattering violence. The ram horns on its head seemed to absorb the meager light, making the Beast's silhouette even darker, its immense, gorilla-like body coiling, clearly ready to spring.
Voldemort, haggard and bleeding, yet possessing the will of a conqueror, did not flinch. He slowly straightened, his pale, thin hand lifting in a calming, almost casual gesture.
"Wait," he hissed, his voice still raw, but regaining its cold, calculated quality. "And listen, creature. Listen to an offer that your little host could never, in his pitiful, mortal life, offer you."
The Beast paused. The shift in its posture was minimal—a slight uncoiling of the massive shoulder, a small, arrogant jerk of its horned head—but it was enough. Its red, glowing eyes, immense beacons of alarming light, remained fixed on the Dark Lord, an amusement that was both ancient and deeply malevolent, flickering within them. It was as if the creature recognized a familiar strain of power in Voldemort, a potential it had not yet consumed, and was momentarily intrigued by the jester.
Voldemort took a slow, painful step forward, his voice dropping to a low, persuasive cadence that carried no hint of the panic he'd felt moments before.
"Why waste your terrifying power on a fragile, broken child?" Voldemort gestured disdainfully with his bloody hand toward the suspended, slack-limbed Echo. "You are the apex of the Dark Arts, an entity of pure power and hatred. Yet, he locks you away, restrains you, treats you as a tool to be used only in moments of suicidal desperation. He is in a cage. A small, weak, mortal cage."
The Dark Lord straightened to his full, impossible height, fixing the Beast with his crimson eyes. "I, however, am eternal. I am the Master of Death, the true lord of the dark. I do not lock away. I embrace. I am a boundless ocean of darkness who will allow you to exude your whole, terrifying potential. Imagine it. You thrive on the darkness, on the raw, unrestrained magic, and on the moments of pure, delicious abuse the boy inflicts upon himself when he uses you."
Voldemort's lips curled into a cold, triumphant smile. "If you come to reside within me, you would never be bored. There will be no restraint, no remorse, no fear of the cost. Only power, endless power, and an eternal reign of terror. Come to me, and you will find your true Master."
The towering shadow Beast fell utterly still. The immense, feral head, with its ram horns and boar tusks, remained lowered, its unblinking red eyes staring into Voldemort's. For a long, silent moment that stretched the oppressive darkness of the forest, the creature seemed to consider the offer, the terrifying potential of an immortal, all-powerful host. The shadow mass of its body seemed to pulsate, drawing in the very stillness of the night.
Then, from the massive maw, a terrifying, percussive sound began to rise. A single, sharp thump that seemed to originate deep in its chest, like a final, mocking heartbeat. And then, it laughed.
The sound that erupted from the Dark Beast was not a growl, not a shriek, nor a hiss. It was a deep, booming, unholy, and utterly inhuman laugh—a sound of contemptuous, echoing amusement that shook the towering trees harder than any spell. It was the sound of an ancient god laughing at the folly of a mortal king, the sound an adult would make upon being presented with a plate of mud-pies as a serious business investment. It was pure, mocking derision made manifest.
The manic, echoing sound slowly died away, leaving a deafening silence. The Dark Beast slowly lowered its immense head, bringing its elongated, dog-like snout down until its glowing red eyes were mere feet from Voldemort's. The air between them tasted of ozone and ancient death.
A voice, deeper than the earth, yet as thin and cold as the chilling whisper of a Dementor, resonated in the silence. It was not the high, frantic voice of Echo, nor a recognizable language, but a primordial, soul-freezing chord of power. "No."
Without a sound of further challenge, the Beast acted. Echo's slack hand, which held the wand, was deftly manipulated by the silk-thin threads of shadow, twisting the length of holly and phoenix feather toward the Dark Lord.
The duel began not as a clash of wills, but as a demonstration of superior, clinical power. The Beast's massive, secondary taloned arm, still holding Echo aloft, became its focus. Spells erupted from Echo's wand with a speed and precision the boy had never possessed, each curse a brutal, non-verbal expression of pure malice guided by the Beast. Shadow-Fire exploded from the tip, twisting into solid, razor-edged whips that lashed out. Wordless cutting curses sliced the air, forcing Voldemort to leap, deflect, and parry with frantic desperation. The Dark Lord, already haggard and wounded, was constantly two steps behind, his own powerful spells aimed at the Beast's colossal, half-formed body simply dissipating upon contact with the oily blackness. It was instantly, terrifyingly clear that the Beast was a far more lethal duelist than its host, treating the wand as a surgical instrument of destruction.
Voldemort, panting, threw a desperate Impedimenta that the Beast effortlessly dodged by simply leaning its massive body a fraction of an inch to the side. The Dark Lord straightened, his serpentine face contorted with a desperate fury that masked a tremor of genuine fear.
"Stop!" Voldemort shrieked, his voice raw. He threw out his hand in a gesture of demand. "Stop this foolishness! Tell me, creature! What do you truly want from me to become your host? What is your price for this power? Name it!"
The Beast froze. The dueling stopped instantly, leaving a profound, unnatural silence in the air. The massive, horned head tilted again, a gesture of silent, malevolent amusement. The slit-like maw stretched, revealing a shocking, terrifying parody of a grin, showcasing the sharp, bat-like teeth. A sound, a low, guttural chord of power, resonated in the silence. "Your life."
Voldemort's face snapped into an expression of pure, concentrated fury and disbelief. "Then die, wretch!" he screamed, his wand arm whipping up. "Avada Kedavra!"
The brilliant, sickly green light tore through the air, an expression of the Dark Lord's final, desperate attempt to reclaim control. The Beast, however, did not even flinch. It merely extended its immense, planted, clawed hand—the one that had raked Voldemort's—and with a casual, insulting flick of its middle claw, struck the jet of pure death. The Killing Curse bounced off the claw like a stray insect, ricocheting into a nearby tree trunk, which instantly ceased to exist, turning into a cloud of fine sawdust.
The sight was the final, crippling blow to Voldemort's legendary composure. He stood frozen, his crimson eyes wide with paralyzing shock. The Dark Beast seized the moment. The immense, taloned hand holding Echo's limp form moved with impossible speed, and the other hand, planted, shot out. Its colossal, black talons closed around Voldemort's chest with casual ease, snatching the Dark Lord from the ground.
Voldemort shrieked, a sound of pure indignity and terror as the Beast lifted him eye-level. He was a small, fragile toy in the creature's immense grip. The Beast tilted its head, bringing its elongated snout close to the Dark Lord's face, and the unholy, booming, contemptuous laughter erupted again, shaking the forest. The colossal figure then brought the unconscious Echo close to the terrified Voldemort. The Beast manipulated the boy's wand, pressing the tip against the Dark Lord's shredded robes. The raw, primal will of the creature bore down on the boy's mind, a suffocating demand for the final, ultimate curse.
Before the mental command could force the word from Echo's throat, the boy's eyes fluttered, then snapped wide open with a gasp. Consciousness flooded back in a single, painful jolt. In that instant, the massive form of the Dark Beast fractured. The power had been recalled. It imploded inward, a silent, sickening reverse-explosion, pulling itself and the puppeteer-like threads back into the boy's smoking, exhausted body. The towering demon vanished as if it had never been, and the sudden cessation of the magical force made both Echo and Voldemort fall instantly to the forest floor.
Voldemort slammed into the dirt, the wind knocked from his lungs. Echo hit the earth hard, his body seizing in a fit of violent, dry coughing, the effort of his fight and the Dark Beast's departure making him choke as if he had been underwater. Slowly, painfully, Voldemort pushed himself up onto one elbow, his eyes—harrowed and blazing with a cold, desperate malice—fixed on the small, coughing figure a few feet away. He had been humiliated, nearly killed, and stripped of his dignity. All that remained was the single, primal need to understand.
"W... what are you," Voldemort gasped, the question a raw, trembling whisper. "What... are you?"
The sound of his voice, the raw question, acted like a physical blow. Echo's head snapped up, the hacking cough dying in his throat. His violet eyes, flat and empty moments before, locked onto the serpentine face of the Dark Lord. All the rage, the betrayal, and the sheer terror coalesced into a final, dark conclusion. Echo didn't reply. With a wordless cry of pure, final determination, he jammed his wand into the ground between them, driving it deep into the dark earth. There was no Latin, no Parseltongue, and no spoken spell. Only the sheer, agonizing force of ancient, uncorrupted magic—the final, devastating surge from a will utterly spent but utterly resolved.
The ground beneath Voldemort's prone form did not shake; it simply opened. Faster than the Dark Lord could process the betrayal, a massive, jagged chasm of absolute blackness tore through the forest floor directly beneath him.
Voldemort had no time to Apparate, no time to shield, no time to even scream a curse. He was simply gone—swallowed instantly by the dark, gaping rift in the earth. The chasm remained open for only a fraction of a second, just long enough for the sound of his single, raw, echoing shriek of undiluted terror to ring out. Then, with a muffled, grinding sound, the earth slammed shut, swallowing the sound and sealing the wound. The forest floor was whole again, the only evidence of the event being the torn trees, the scent of ozone, and the smoking, exhausted boy who lay sprawled beside the closed chasm.
Voldemort was gone. Echo, his body convulsing in exhaustion, his chest burning from the locket's brand, barely registered the victory. He had won, but the cost had been everything.