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[Marvel's Hogwarts Professor] Chapter 516 - 520
🕑 Added 2025-02-19 01:00:02 +0000 UTCChapter 516: The Captive Saints and Voldemort’s Offer
Durmstrang, solitary chamber.
“Hmph.”
“Let me go! Release me immediately!”
“Damn Death Eaters! When the leader returns, none of you will escape!”
“I am a Saint, and I will not be broken!”
The solitary chamber, once used to punish rebellious young wizards, was now filled with Durmstrang’s professors and staff. Ironically, the very place where students once faced discipline had become their own prison.
Bound and restrained, most of the captured Saints and wizards cursed and shouted in defiance. They hurled insults at the two guards standing outside the chamber, attacking their bloodline and ancestry with every vile word they could muster.
The two pure-blood wizards guarding the door frowned, clearly irritated, but remained silent. Their master had given strict orders, and they dared not disobey.
Still, if it were up to them, they would have taken great pleasure in teaching these prisoners the meaning of true suffering—peeling their bones apart, making them experience agony beyond imagination, and finally, granting them the "relief" of death.
Amidst the furious curses filling the chamber, one corner of the room remained eerily silent.
There, a lone woman sat, her presence distinct from the others. She appeared older, her face lined with wrinkles, her dark blue wizard’s robe giving her an air of solemnity. Eyes closed, she exuded an aura of quiet indifference.
Despite the chaos around her, the other prisoners rarely spared her more than a fleeting glance—almost as if they feared her.
Yet, their voices grew louder, their curses harsher—not just to vent their anger, but also to make a statement. They wanted no association with the Death Eaters.
Though everyone in the chamber knew the harsh truth—Durmstrang had not fallen by sheer force alone. There had to be a traitor among them.
More disturbingly, even with their leader’s prophetic abilities, the attack had gone unnoticed.
Had their leader miscalculated? Or was there something far more sinister at play?
The implications were terrifying.
“Rozier, what do we do now?” a middle-aged wizard, bound hand and foot, shuffled closer and whispered.
Vinda Rozier—one of Grindelwald’s most trusted confidantes—opened her eyes briefly before shutting them again. Her tone was calm, unwavering.
“There is nothing to be done. Just wait.”
Her words were simple, yet carried a certainty that made the wizard beside her fall silent.
They had faith in their leader. But this time, the enemy was unlike any they had faced before.
Voldemort.
A Dark Lord who once plunged the British wizarding world into chaos, who battled Dumbledore himself.
And worst of all, intelligence suggested that two other figures had joined Voldemort in this attack.
A growing sense of unease settled over them.
Rozier, too, was plagued by doubts.
She had already sent a message to Grindelwald through her wand. She had done all she could.
But could their leader return in time?
Right now, Grindelwald was engaged in battle in America, fighting both Dumbledore and the Goblin King.
Could he afford to abandon that war to retake Durmstrang?
Or was this all a trap?
The thought gnawed at her.
Could they have been used as bait?
After all, the last time someone managed to obscure fate itself, it was none other than the Goblin King, Turan. That deception had shaken the Saints to their core.
With war breaking out between the Goblins and the Saints, it wasn’t impossible that the Goblin King had secretly allied with Voldemort.
Countless scenarios ran through Rozier’s mind, but none gave her a definitive answer.
In the end, all she could do was sigh heavily.
She had fulfilled her duty. Now, the decision rested in Grindelwald’s hands.
And if this was truly a trap… she would not allow herself to become a burden.
Eyes closed, deep in contemplation, Rozier continued to calculate possible outcomes—until suddenly…
The shouting stopped.
Silence filled the chamber.
A cold shiver crept up Rozier’s spine.
Opening her eyes, she saw two figures standing before her.
She already knew who they were. Her expression remained impassive.
“Vinda Rozier, 93 years old. Educated at Durmstrang. At 19, you met Gellert Grindelwald and initially opposed him,” a pale-faced Voldemort said softly, as if making casual conversation.
The wizards around her recoiled, their bodies trembling.
They were not fools. They could feel it—an aura of death more terrifying than anything they had ever encountered.
And there were two of them.
Rozier, however, remained unshaken. She closed her eyes again, refusing to acknowledge them.
Voldemort did not seem displeased. He continued.
“At 23, inspired by Grindelwald, you joined the Saints.”
“You survived sixteen life-and-death encounters… and twelve times, you shielded Grindelwald from peril.”
Then, Voldemort gave a cruel smile, his voice dripping with malice.
“So, Grindelwald must trust you completely.”
“Tell me, if you were to turn on him… do you think he would got hurt?”
At those words, Rozier’s eyes snapped open. Her glare burned with fury.
“Voldemort, your schemes will never succeed.”
The moment she spoke, blood began to seep from her seven orifices. Red, vein-like lines crackled across her body.
The air vibrated with unstable magic.
A riot of power. A self-destructive spell.
She had always known this day might come. She had sworn not to become a burden.
And she would never allow herself to be used as bait.
Even if Voldemort had found a way to obscure fate… even if Polyjuice Potion could disguise an imposter…
She would not allow herself to be turned against Grindelwald.
She would die before that happened.
The surrounding wizards covered their ears in horror.
They understood.
If Voldemort's plan was real—if Rozier’s betrayal was necessary—then she had to die first.
Otherwise, they would be the first to fall, ensuring the plan’s secrecy.
“Enough.”
With a flick of his wand, Voldemort conjured dark purple, spiked vines that slithered across the black floor.
In an instant, they coiled tightly around Rozier, leeching the surging magic from her body.
The crimson lines glowing along her skin were siphoned away, drawn into the vines like fire consuming a wick.
The violent, unstable energy within her began to subside.
Rozier’s expression flickered with surprise, a rare hint of emotion breaking through her cold mask.
Of course, she didn’t want to die.
But she was not afraid of death either.
More than anything, she refused to become a burden.
Yet now, her final act of defiance—her last resort—had been neutralized.
That meant only one thing.
“Keep Rozier alive,” Tom Riddle—Voldemort—said coldly. “If you push her too far, we will all pay the price.”
Voldemort—the original—merely shrugged in response, a look of disdain on his face.
If she died, so be it.
Ever since the Gringotts incident, especially after arriving in Europe, he had sensed something was off.
It was as if he had walked into an invisible web.
His every move was met with resistance, his every action contained.
He needed to break free of this entanglement, no matter what the cost.
And for that—Grindelwald was a good place to start.
“Come,” Voldemort sneered. “Your master is here.”
“We should show him what his most loyal confidante has done for him, don’t you think?”
Tom Riddle didn’t respond, but Voldemort chuckled mockingly.
With a flick of his wand, Rozier—her body battered and bloodied—was lifted from the ground and floated out of the solitary chamber.
A long, dark trail of blood followed her.
The corridor outside the chamber was already packed with Death Eaters.
Some were brimming with excitement.
Others were nervous.
A few held thinly veiled fear in their eyes.
Because Grindelwald had arrived.
He stood just beyond Durmstrang’s entrance, a legion of elite Saints at his back.
The Death Eaters had known of the prisoners in the chamber for some time now.
But none of them dared act without direct orders from their master.
Now, as Voldemort stepped forward, Rozier floating lifelessly behind him, the Death Eaters instinctively moved aside, pressing themselves against the walls.
They opened a path.
Step. Step. Step.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
Boots clicked against the stone floor. Blood dripped steadily, forming a crimson trail in the snow-covered ground.
The Death Eaters looked on in silent shock.
None of them knew that Tom Riddle had merely halted Rozier’s self-destruction.
To them, this was simply another display of their master’s cruelty.
Another prisoner tortured, another body broken.
Whooosh! Whooosh! Whooosh!
Outside, the wind howled through the icy landscape, slamming against the grand stone fortress of Durmstrang.
Grindelwald stood at its entrance, clad in a flowing black robe.
Behind him, rows of Saints stood at attention.
Their ranks were unnervingly orderly, exuding a silent but unmistakable power.
And yet, within Grindelwald, a storm raged.
He burned with fury, barely restraining the urge to storm into Durmstrang and tear the mastermind behind this attack into shreds.
But beneath that anger, a rare chill settled in his chest.
The sense of fate had failed again.
Could it be? Had they anticipated his every move?
Every action he had taken in recent days had been met with disruption.
The Magical Congress had been within his grasp—until the Goblin King emerged.
Durmstrang, his once unshakable stronghold, had been taken.
Dumbledore had suddenly traveled to America.
Lockhart had collaborated with the Ministry of Magic to release those cursed Wizarding Fortune Cards.
The world was shifting in unpredictable ways, and for the first time in a long time, Grindelwald did not feel in control.
Could it be that this world was beginning to reject people like him?
Was he becoming obsolete?
Durmstrang’s fall was a stark warning.
The power he had wielded for so long was not as solid as it seemed.
He needed to reinforce his foundation—rebuild his strategy.
And he had a vague idea of how to do that.
Just then—
Creak. Creak. Creak.
The massive iron gates of Durmstrang swung open.
Voldemort and Tom Riddle emerged with their followers, stepping onto the snow-covered ground.
And for the first time, two generations of Dark Lords faced each other.
The tension was suffocating.
And then—
Grindelwald’s sharp gaze landed on Rozier, battered and bleeding.
The sheer killing intent that exploded from him was like a hurricane.
His left eye, black as the abyss, suddenly turned silver-white.
The power of fate surged around him, crackling like a coming storm.
A provocation.
A blatant challenge.
Voldemort smirked. With a flick of his wand, Rozier's limp form swayed midair, more blood spilling onto the pristine snow.
Like red plum blossoms blooming on white canvas.
A taunt.
Tom Riddle smiled, staring at Grindelwald from across the distance.
No one spoke.
Yet the magic in the air roared with unspoken words.
A beat passed—then, with a casual flick, Tom waved his yew wand.
Rozier's frail body floated forward, toward Grindelwald.
Voldemort smirked but did not stop him.
“Grindelwald, your followers are quite courageous,” Tom remarked in a mocking tone.
“Willing to die rather than be used.”
“I admire that.”
“But I am a gentleman—I wouldn’t take from another man what he loves so dearly.”
A smirk curled on his lips.
“I’ll return her to you.”
Rozier continued to drift toward Grindelwald, an unspoken truce hanging in the air.
Neither side truly wanted an all-out war yet.
Not when other forces—Dumbledore, the Goblin King—were watching.
Not when other pieces were still in play.
Grindelwald's sharp eyes scanned Rozier, carefully sensing her condition.
He let out a quiet sigh of relief.
No fatal injuries.
The magic within her had been forcefully suppressed, but she had lost too much blood.
She was weakened—but alive.
His hand rested gently on Rozier’s shoulder—a silent reassurance.
She was safe now.
At that moment, Rozier mustered every ounce of strength she had left.
Her eyes cracked open, lips barely moving.
Her voice was faint, barely above a whisper.
"Be careful… I’m the bait."
The words had barely left her lips when—
Zzzzzzzzt!
Dark purple smoke exploded from her body.
It spread like wildfire, engulfing Grindelwald and the Saints in an instant.
The Saints barely had time to react before the cursed magic touched their skin.
"AHHHHHH!"
Screams tore through the air.
The wails of agony echoed, filling the battlefield with despair.
The potency of the magic was undeniable.
Even Tom Riddle froze.
His head snapped toward Voldemort, eyes wide in disbelief.
Voldemort stood with his wand raised, a sinister smile creeping across his face.
It was him.
He had planned this all along.
Tom’s stomach dropped.
He had miscalculated.
Grindelwald’s murderous gaze burned through the thick purple fog.
In that moment, Tom knew—
The plan had spiraled out of control.
Everything had gone wrong.
And now, there was no turning back.
Chapter 517: An Unstable Alliance
He had originally thought it would end peacefully.
At worst, a battle—a struggle for dominance.
But now…
It had become a fight to the death.
The deaths of his closest confidants, the loss of elite Saints—there was no turning back.
This war would not end without blood. Without enough lives sacrificed, it was impossible to resolve.
Thoughts raced through Tom’s mind.
He didn’t hesitate.
His wand was in his right hand in an instant.
“Apparate!”
A flash of black light.
In a blink, Tom vanished—reappearing on the battlefield’s edge, forming a triangular formation with Voldemort and Grindelwald.
“Grindelwald, I didn’t kill your people.” Tom attempted to explain.
But—
“Enough with the pointless words, Tom.”
Voldemort’s voice was laced with mockery as he glanced at him before shifting his gaze back to Grindelwald.
His tone turned cold.
“Gellert Grindelwald, we have fallen into someone else’s trap.”
“We have a common enemy and should be natural allies.”
“But instead, we are standing against each other.”
“This is a conspiracy, and someone is manipulating us from the shadows.”
Grindelwald showed no immediate reaction to Voldemort’s words.
His right eye glowed with a bright silver-white light, as if attempting to pierce through the fog of fate—seeking the true mastermind behind it all.
But—
“What do you see, Grindelwald?”
Voldemort’s voice held an eerie certainty, as if he knew exactly what Grindelwald was doing.
“Or rather— can you see anything at all?”
Grindelwald did not answer.
Voldemort smirked darkly and continued, his voice turning venomous.
“It’s only natural.”
“Dumbledore was lured to America. The British wizarding world has fallen under his control.”
“Now, this incident escalates our conflict further—consuming your focus and energy.”
“As the key figure in this conspiracy, you—Grindelwald—who are so skilled in spying on fate, have been blinded.”
“Just like me.”
At this, Voldemort turned toward Tom, eyes gleaming with malicious amusement.
“Isn’t that right, my ‘other self’?”
“They created you… to restrain me.”
“A puppet.”
Tom’s face darkened with anger.
Nothing irritated him more than the word puppet.
Because—
In a way, he was exactly that. Lockhart’s puppet.
But rather than fury, Tom felt something else—a sense of unease.
Voldemort… had seen through it all.
Despite being twisted by dark magic, his instinct for danger remained unmatched.
His intuition was razor-sharp.
“Gilderoy Lockhart?”
Grindelwald immediately caught onto the key name.
Voldemort’s pale face twisted into a cruel smile.
“Yes. It’s him. He’s orchestrating everything.”
“I’ve felt something was wrong for a while.”
“I was thriving in Britain—until I was forced into Europe.”
Voldemort sneered.
“In fact, Britain is cleaner now than ever before.”
“After all—”
“I took away all the pure-blood families and the dark wizards.”
His gaze locked onto Tom.
“Isn’t that right, Tom?”
A cruel smirk curled his lips.
Only three people could hear this conversation clearly.
To the Death Eaters and Saints watching, they saw only moving lips—no sound.
A conversation hidden from the world.
“What do you propose?” Grindelwald asked, suppressing the rage burning inside him.
Voldemort’s smile widened.
“It’s simple.”
“We join forces and kill the mastermind.”
“Lockhart is just one man— he cannot stand against the two of us.”
“After that, we settle our own grievances.”
“Unless, of course, you’d rather we destroy each other, and let a pathetic rat like Lockhart claim victory?”
Tom stood silently, his expression unreadable.
To his own surprise—he was tempted.
But then—
A flash of memory.
A night of resurrection.
A skeletal figure wreathed in flames.
Dark red Hellfire, beating like a heart in the depths of his soul.
A suffocating fear—a sense of an unstoppable force.
Something primal inside him warned him against this alliance.
And that hesitation made him reconsider.
“Grindelwald, will you join me?” Voldemort extended his invitation once more.
Grindelwald did not respond.
He was still attempting to trace the truth—searching for hidden hands behind the curtain.
But it was no use.
Like a thick fog, everything was shrouded, blurred, concealed.
Most notably—he could find no trace of Lockhart.
His heart sank.
Voldemort might be telling the truth.
Seeing that Grindelwald had yet to give an answer, Voldemort showed no signs of impatience.
He knew this enemy was different.
Unlike Dumbledore, Grindelwald had fewer moral restraints.
He was a Dark Lord himself.
And his power might surpass them all.
“Grindelwald, whether you agree or not—”
Voldemort slowly raised his wand, pointing it directly at Tom.
“He—Lockhart’s resurrected puppet—must die today.”
“Otherwise, once Lockhart realizes what we know, he’ll take precautions.”
“And then, attacking him will become impossible.”
Yes.
If he could devour this puppet Tom—his power would surge.
With that power, he would have the advantage—against both Grindelwald and Lockhart.
The moment the words fell—
“Avada Kedavra!”
Voldemort’s wand slashed through the air.
A bolt of sickly green light erupted, heading straight for Tom.
In that instant, Voldemort deliberately exposed his back to Grindelwald—completely undefended.
It was a calculated risk.
A sign of trust.
And Grindelwald… did not attack.
A cold smile crept onto Voldemort’s lips.
He knew Grindelwald had been swayed.
He had laid out the danger.
If Grindelwald attacked him now—he would only be playing into Lockhart’s hands.
Without Voldemort, Grindelwald would be left to face Dumbledore and Lockhart alone.
And he would fall.
As for Rozier’s death—
To Voldemort, she was nothing more than a valuable sacrifice.
Now, Grindelwald had an exit.
By siding with Voldemort to eliminate Tom Riddle, everything could be reset.
“Avada Kedavra!”
“Avada Kedavra!”
Boom! Boom! Boom!
There was no finesse—only raw destruction.
Dark green Death Curses crisscrossed the battlefield, colliding with explosive force.
Tom and Voldemort moved with lightning speed, dodging and counterattacking.
Black flashes flickered across the field.
Apparition spells burst as both repositioned rapidly.
The ground shattered beneath them.
Stone debris flew like bullets.
The battlefield reeked of death and decay.
Even a single touch of the cursed ground would mean certain death.
The figures of the two combatants blurred—mere shadows weaving between streams of killing curses.
The watching Death Eaters and Saints silently stepped back.
None of them wanted to be caught in the crossfire.
Grindelwald stood at the edge of the battlefield, watching the duel with cold, calculating eyes. His expression was unreadable—deep in thought, yet hesitating.
At that moment, Tom lashed out with his wand, unleashing another spell. But despite his outward aggression, an unease settled deep in his chest.
It wasn’t Voldemort that concerned him.
It was Grindelwald.
He wasn’t sure when the old Dark Lord would choose to strike.
If it were only Voldemort, Tom could handle it.
But two opponents of this level—one of whom knew him intimately—meant his survival was far from certain.
His attention split, his mind torn between fighting Voldemort and watching Grindelwald.
Slowly, he began losing ground.
Voldemort noticed instantly.
And he thrived on it.
No matter what Grindelwald did, Voldemort only needed to stand his ground.
If Grindelwald didn’t interfere, Voldemort would consume Tom’s essence and become even stronger.
If Grindelwald chose to attack him instead—then all bets were off.
This battle was an all-in gamble.
He had already staked his life on this confrontation.
And he had no fear of risk.
The greater the storm, the greater the prize.
Whooosh! Whooosh!
The wind howled violently, and without warning, snowflakes began drifting from the sky.
But in front of Durmstrang’s towering stone walls, those soft, fluttering flakes were soon tainted—streaked with the eerie, dark-green glow of countless Killing Curses.
Snow, dyed in death, swirled through the air like silent ghosts.
The gathered Death Eaters and Saints instinctively stepped back, avoiding the cursed snowflakes.
There was no other magic in this duel.
Only death.
If a single curse touched them—it would be the end.
In less than ten minutes, Voldemort and Tom had exchanged the Killing Curse more times than anyone could count.
A near-endless downpour of pure death.
Like a storm of fatal green rain.
But as his mind drifted, Tom felt the battle slipping further out of his control.
Voldemort, on the other hand, fought with increasing ferocity, throwing out deadly spells without care for his own magical reserves.
And then—
Whooosh!
The icy wind howled.
But this time, a burning sensation followed.
A searing heat, unnatural—soul-consuming.
Tom’s pupils contracted sharply.
In his vision, a blue firebird had joined the battlefield.
A phoenix of blue flame dove straight toward him.
Grindelwald had made his move.
And he had chosen his target.
A two-on-one battle had begun.
Buzz!
"The Black Mist!"
Realizing the immediate danger, Tom didn’t retaliate with another Killing Curse.
Instead, he invoked his specialty—the Black Mist Curse.
Whooosh! Whooosh!
The cold wind carried his form away, dissolving him into a mass of dark mist.
He couldn’t afford a long-range Apparition—not with two enemies of this caliber.
A longer spell would leave too large a window for attack.
Instead, he used the Black Mist Curse to shroud himself—a cover to escape the battlefield.
Voldemort, initially elated at Grindelwald’s involvement, sneered when he saw Tom attempt to flee.
Without hesitation, his body also dissolved into black mist.
He gave chase.
Who was afraid of who?
They were both Voldemort, after all.
And only one could be the true Dark Lord.
Watching the two masses of black fog twist and churn through the sky, Grindelwald did not move.
But the blue phoenix he had summoned flapped its blazing wings—and followed.
One of the two Voldemorts would die tonight.
Even if the worst-case scenario played out and they both perished, it would still be to his advantage.
As for Lockhart—the supposed mastermind behind it all…
The more Grindelwald thought about it, the more he believed it might be true.
But he lacked sufficient proof.
And for a strategist like him, acting on pure assumption was unacceptable.
Until he could verify it beyond doubt—he would not commit to that belief.
Whooosh! Whooosh!
High above, two black fogs intertwined—growing larger, rolling through the air like gathering storm clouds.
The sky darkened further.
A clash of shadows and death.
And then—
Fwoooosh!
The blue fire plunged into the heart of the black mist.
A surge of searing heat.
The massive cloud of darkness shrieked in agony—splitting apart.
figures plummeted from the sky, crashing into the snow.
Tom.
Voldemort.
And Grindelwald.
Once again, they formed a triangle of confrontation.
Grindelwald’s face remained impassive, but blue flames surged at his feet.
With a single flick of his wrist, the fire spread outward—a blazing blue ring that sealed the battlefield.
The Death Eaters and Saints watching were instantly cut off.
It was just the three of them now.
Tom and Voldemort looked equally disheveled—their robes scorched, their expressions wary.
But while Tom’s face was clouded with worry, Voldemort… smiled.
Grindelwald had fully entered the battle.
And that meant today’s fight was locked in.
Victory was assured.
Tom, however, knew the truth.
Voldemort was his own alternate self.
They knew each other’s spells.
Each other’s thoughts.
Each other’s weaknesses.
Voldemort could predict his movements—his defenses—his every plan.
And now, with Grindelwald siding against him…
The stench of death was thick in the air.
Tom hesitated.
He could still turn the tables.
But the cost… would be devastating.
Roar!
The blue phoenix suddenly twisted into the shape of a tiger.
It let out a deafening roar, its flaming fangs gleaming as it pounced at him.
At the same time—
"Avada Kedavra!"
"Avada Kedavra!"
A storm of Killing Curses shot toward Tom like a hail of arrows.
Voldemort and Grindelwald—fully united against him.
This was it.
Life or death.
Tom’s eyes flashed ruthlessly.
His mind touched something deep within his soul.
A secret weapon—something beyond magic.
And then—
Whoooosh! Whoooosh! Whoooosh!
Dark red Hellfire suddenly exploded from his body, consuming him entirely.
His entire form transformed.
In the heart of the battlefield—
A flaming skeleton wreathed in Hellfire emerged.
A creature of pure destruction.
And as the blue tiger and the storm of Killing Curses collided into him—
BOOOOM!
The battlefield erupted.
Chapter 518
BOOM!
The blue tiger bared its fangs, lunging forward with a monstrous roar.
A storm of dark green Killing Curses rained down on Tom like deadly arrows.
The impact sent a deafening rumble across the battlefield as blue and green light collided, creating a chaotic storm of energy.
The sheer force of magic sent dust and debris spiraling into the sky, mixing with the lingering aura of death and destruction.
As the gray haze slowly drifted across the frozen battlefield, the snowflakes that had once fallen gently from the heavens vanished into steam before they could even reach the ground.
The Saints and Death Eaters stood frozen, eyes locked onto the center of the battlefield—where the Dark Lord had been struck from all sides.
Whoooosh! Whoooosh! Whoooosh!
The howling wind gradually pushed the dust aside.
And from within the dispersing fog…
A figure emerged.
A skeleton wreathed in hellfire.
Dark red flames clung to its bones, flickering like cursed embers.
The wand clutched in its bony grip burned with the same infernal fire, sending sparks scattering with every twitch of its fingers.
Even the falling snow could not touch it.
Before a single flake could come within a meter of the flaming skeleton, it evaporated into mist.
The sheer heat of Hellfire was enough to scorch the very air.
Seeing the monstrous figure standing tall, Grindelwald's eyelid twitched involuntarily.
Something was wrong.
Something was deeply wrong.
Without hesitation, he flicked his wand—
Whooosh!
The blue flames of Protego Diabolica roared to life, transforming into a massive flying dragon that soared toward the flaming skeleton that was once Tom Riddle.
Voldemort, standing at a distance, did not move.
Instead, an unfamiliar sensation gripped his heart—
Fear.
Something primal.
Something he could not control.
As though he had encountered a natural predator.
So, he simply stood there, watching as Grindelwald tested the creature that Tom had become.
ROAR!
The blue fire dragon let out a mighty bellow, spreading its claws wide as it prepared to strike.
Click. Click. Click.
Tom—the Hell Skeleton—slowly tilted his head, his wand now floating autonomously behind him.
And then—
BOOM!
Tom raised his burning skeletal hands and caught the blue fire dragon.
CRACK! CRACK! CRACK!
The entire battlefield fell silent.
The massive Protego Diabolica dragon writhed within Tom’s grasp, but it could not break free.
It was as if the mighty beast was nothing but a small, struggling prey.
And then—
Zzzzzzt! Zzzzt!
Tom breathed in.
The dragon’s blue flames shuddered—then, like streams of fire, they were pulled into Tom’s maw.
One bite.
The dragon shrank.
Another bite.
Its light dimmed.
In less than ten seconds, the once-great fire dragon was gone—completely devoured.
Click. Click. Click.
Tom flexed his burning fingers, rolling his shoulders as if savoring the sensation.
His skull tilted back, and for a brief moment, his entire body shuddered.
A sensation surged through him.
Power.
Overwhelming, intoxicating power.
It was addictive.
For the first time in his existence, Tom Riddle felt unstoppable.
Even the rage of being forced into this transformation faded from his thoughts.
Yes—he had resisted this Hellfire form.
Because he knew—the moment he embraced it, Lockhart’s control over him would tighten once more.
He had been so close to severing the magical contract that bound him.
So close to freeing himself.
But now—
Forced into a corner by Voldemort and Grindelwald,
He had no choice.
And his efforts to escape Lockhart’s grasp had been wasted.
"Avada Kedavra!"
Voldemort, seeing Grindelwald’s failed attack, struck without hesitation.
A storm of green light surged forward—
But—
BOOM!
The deadly curses collided with the Hellfire skeleton—
And vanished.
The moment they touched his burning body, the dark red flames expanded outward, swallowing the green light whole.
Not a single trace of Voldemort’s attack remained.
Click. Click. Click.
Tom slowly turned, his empty eye sockets locking onto Voldemort.
The blackened scorch marks left by the curses on his body barely mattered.
Then, for the first time, he spoke—
His voice hoarse, eerie, dripping with death.
"Your… soul exudes… a seductive fragrance."
Click. Click. Click.
Without hesitation, Tom rushed toward Voldemort.
His wand—wreathed in Hellfire—floated behind him.
Voldemort flinched.
Even for him—this monstrosity was…
Terrifying.
A flaming skeleton, clad in Hellfire, charging at him?
Nightmare incarnate.
But it wasn’t the sight that disturbed him the most.
It was the feeling.
The sheer deathly aura, thick and suffocating, that surged from Tom’s very existence.
Voldemort instinctively tried to Apparate.
But—
Whooosh!
The space around him twisted unnaturally.
The Hellfire had already corrupted the surrounding air.
Voldemort barely managed a short jump, appearing only a few feet away.
His nerves tightened.
This wasn’t normal.
Immediately, his wand traced a delicate arc in the air.
And then—
Whoosh!
A black-green fire burst into life—
And vanished.
Where Voldemort once stood—
A black-robed Death Eater now trembled in fear.
Voldemort had swapped places.
His true self now stood where the Death Eater had been.
The robed wizard barely had time to react before—
"BOOM!"
The Hell Skeleton loomed over him.
Panic flooded his features.
His legs gave out beneath him.
His voice quivered.
"Ex…pelliarmus!"
A desperate red light shot toward Tom.
But—
Sssshhh!
Tom merely reached out.
The spell fizzled, snuffed out like a dying ember.
As if he had merely pinched a flickering candle flame.
And then—
Tom’s left hand shot forward, gripping the Death Eater by the throat.
Lifting him effortlessly into the air.
His hoarse voice echoed across the battlefield.
"Sinner…"
"Look into my eyes."
"And let me judge your sins."
Chapter 519: The Flames of Judgment
"Let me... judge you for your sins."
Voldemort stood to the side, his voice hoarse as he gazed upon the skeleton engulfed in hellfire.
He couldn't help but find it inexplicably ironic.
Such words would make sense coming from a righteous wizard or a hero of justice.
But you—Tom Riddle, the Dark Lord, a murderer of countless lives—now stood there, looking like an evil skeleton, uttering those words.
The phrase "sinner" sounded almost laughable coming from him.
Anyone unaware of the situation might mistake this as the righteous judgment of a noble wizard.
Yet, who in the wizarding world didn’t know? If sin could be measured, Tom was undoubtedly at the top, one of the most infamous figures in history.
The contrast was simply too absurd.
However—
"Ho... ho... ho..."
The Death Eater suspended in the air by the skeletal figure’s hellish flames struggled, his throat producing desperate, guttural sounds.
His hands flailed wildly, his legs kicked frantically, searching for the ground, yearning for even a single breath of air.
But in mere moments, under the watchful eyes of Voldemort, Grindelwald, and countless wizards, the infernal flames within the skeleton’s eyes ignited with renewed intensity.
At the same time, hellfire poured into the Death Eater's eye sockets, seeping into his skull, as if searching—examining his very soul.
Then, suddenly—
Dark red hellfire burst violently from the Death Eater’s mouth, nose, and eyes.
"Ho... ho... ho..."
"Sinner, you are guilty!"
The Death Eater's struggles grew even more desperate, his screams filled with agony. The flaming skull—Tom’s transformed form—pronounced its judgment without hesitation.
In the next moment, the flames surged wildly, flooding into the Death Eater’s body.
A second later, amidst the hellfire, something translucent was forcibly torn from the Death Eater’s body—his very soul.
Then, without pause, the spectral essence was devoured by the flaming skull.
Devouring souls.
The realization sent a chilling thought through Voldemort’s mind.
His once-calm expression turned even grimmer, a flicker of fear flashing in his deep, red eyes.
Voldemort had long relied on Horcruxes to attain immortality, but this—this power before him—it was almost entirely focused on the soul.
And more terrifyingly, his Killing Curse had already proven utterly useless against it.
Put simply, this entity before him was his natural enemy.
Especially after his resurrection, when his soul had already been fractured and weakened—
For the first time in a long while, Voldemort felt regret.
He should never have let things escalate to this point with Tom.
BOOM!
Grindelwald's heart lurched as he witnessed the forbidden act of soul devouring.
Without hesitation, he swiftly brandished his wand.
The sky darkened.
Thunder rumbled.
Bolts of lightning crashed down upon the flaming skeleton.
Thunder was always more effective against dark creatures—
Or so Grindelwald thought.
Voldemort, standing beside him, had the same idea.
After all, the skeletal figure before them, engulfed in black flames, looked no different from the darkest of creatures.
However, as the final bolt of lightning dissipated, the flaming skull turned slowly, locking its burning gaze upon Grindelwald.
The hellfire that wrapped its body flared aggressively.
Thin, blackened marks lined its skeletal frame—evidence of the attack—but they were insignificant wounds at best.
Whoosh!
Provoked by Grindelwald’s assault, the hellfire around the skeleton exploded outward.
Behind it, a lone wand had been floating, consumed by infernal flames.
But now—
The wand began multiplying.
One became two.
Two became four.
Four became eight.
The rapid duplication continued until the number of wands reached thirty-two.
Thirty-two wands, identical in appearance, wreathed in flames, arranged themselves in two rotating circles.
One aimed at Voldemort.
The other at Grindelwald.
A powerful surge of magical energy rippled through the battlefield, thick with the stench of death.
Both Voldemort and Grindelwald tensed.
The flaming skeleton slowly outstretched its arms.
The thirty-two wands aimed.
And then—
BOOM!
A torrent of spells was unleashed.
Brilliant red Disarming Charms, deep black Blasting Curses, and even the sinister green glow of Killing Curses filled the battlefield like a relentless storm of arrows.
Each spell howled through the air, carrying immense destructive power.
BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!
One after another, the spells crashed into Voldemort and Grindelwald’s defenses.
They reacted instantly.
Golden shields of Protego Maxima formed before them.
Other defensive charms layered upon one another in rapid succession.
BOOM!
The first impact.
The golden shield trembled.
BOOM!
The second wave.
Cracks spread across the surface.
BOOM!
The third wave.
The shield shattered.
The Death Eaters and Grindelwald’s followers, the Saints, watched in horror.
But neither Voldemort nor Grindelwald allowed panic to show.
Their gazes remained locked on the incoming attacks, wands flicking ceaselessly, countering and deflecting the relentless barrage.
Then—
Grindelwald’s right eye flashed silver-white.
The ground beneath him transformed, glowing with an ethereal radiance.
The Domain of Fate.
A tide of destiny’s power surged forth, illuminating the battlefield in a silvery glow.
Yet, faint black tendrils—ominous and shifting—began to manifest above the domain.
Grindelwald’s expression darkened.
His gaze fixed upon the flaming skeleton—Tom’s grotesque form.
Then, with a forceful slam of his wand—
A blade of silver-white fate materialized, slicing through the air toward the flaming skull, attempting to sever its very destiny.
Simultaneously, waves of calamitous misfortune descended upon the skeletal form, attempting to smother it in ill fate.
Noticing this, Voldemort wasted no time.
With a flick of his wand, he unleashed his most powerful dark curses, taking advantage of the skeleton’s seemingly cursed state.
It was time to end this.
But then—
Something horrifying happened.
Grindelwald's confident smirk froze.
His eyes widened in shock.
The power of Fate had—failed.
In his perception, the flaming skeleton was neither truly alive nor truly dead.
It had no discernible fate.
Or rather, its destiny was completely obscured.
The force of misfortune was wasted.
And Voldemort’s dark curses?
They burned to ashes the moment they touched the hellfire.
The battlefield grew eerily silent.
Grindelwald and Voldemort exchanged glances.
They had no way of dealing with this creature.
The Avada Kedavra had no effect.
Curses disintegrated upon contact.
And even Fate itself could not bind this entity.
This being—this monstrosity—was beyond their comprehension.
And now—
The flaming skeleton raised its arms once more.
The thirty-two wands rotated ominously, preparing another devastating onslaught.
Grindelwald and Voldemort immediately made their decision.
At the exact same moment, their voices thundered across the battlefield:
"Death Eaters /Saints, RETREAT!"
Chapter 520: The Retreat Begins
"Retreat!"
Grindelwald and Voldemort issued the same command.
The Saints and Death Eaters exchanged glances, hesitating for a brief moment.
Then, without further delay, several dark wizards among the Death Eaters pulled magical brooms from their space-extended bags and soared into the distance.
It wasn’t that they couldn't Disapparate—but the surrounding space had long been sealed by the flames of hell.
Even Voldemort himself couldn't escape through Disapparition. His only option was short-range teleportation through sacrificial magic.
The sight of the first wave of fleeing wizards seemed to trigger an unspoken signal.
A large number of Saints soon followed suit, retrieving their own brooms and fleeing the battlefield.
Even more Death Eaters joined the exodus.
After all, they had just witnessed their comrades have their very souls devoured by this flaming skeleton.
True death.
No afterlife.
No ghostly existence.
No chance of resurrection.
A fate more terrifying than mere death.
With that in mind, none of them needed further convincing. The moment Voldemort and Grindelwald gave the order, the most anxious among them bolted without hesitation.
Yet—
Some Death Eaters remained rooted to the spot.
Motionless.
Waiting.
Most of them were pure-blood nobles, with only a handful of dark wizards among them.
Voldemort’s crimson eyes flickered with cold fury at the sight.
How could he not understand what was happening?
These Death Eaters—his so-called loyal followers—had changed allegiances.
Rather than return to him, they now willingly submitted to Lockhart’s puppet.
Traitors.
However, Voldemort had no time to punish them.
Because Tom—engulfed in hellfire—was already on the attack.
When Tom heard Grindelwald and Voldemort call for retreat, his response was simple:
He attacked.
He wasn’t letting them go so easily.
The two bastards before him had forced him to unleash hellfire’s power, further entangling him with Lockhart.
If he didn’t vent his fury, there would be no calming the rage boiling within him.
Upon transforming into the Hell Skeleton, an influx of battle experience had naturally surfaced in Tom’s mind.
With an effortless motion, he raised his arms high—
The flames of hell churned violently.
A long iron chain, formed purely of infernal fire, materialized in his grasp.
With a swift swing, the chain spun rapidly, whipping through the air.
Whoosh! Whoosh! Whoosh!
The swirling chain crackled, scattering embers of hellfire in every direction.
An overwhelming sense of oppression filled the battlefield.
The Hell Skeleton’s flaming gaze locked onto Voldemort.
Then—
With a sudden crack, the chain shot forward, lashing toward Voldemort with terrifying speed.
Simultaneously, behind Tom, the thirty-two hellfire wands unleashed a barrage of curses at Grindelwald, aiming to pressure and hinder him.
Voldemort’s instincts screamed at him.
The hellfire chain roared toward him, a tangible force of inescapable doom.
Feeling the space around him tighten, locking further, Voldemort didn’t hesitate.
His wand flicked through the air.
Even as he retreated, he cast a flurry of Transfiguration Spells.
BOOM!
With an earth-shaking rumble, the snow-covered ground contorted and rose violently.
From the trembling earth, giants of stone—twice the height of a man—began forming.
Their rough, earth-toned bodies charged forward, intercepting the oncoming chain.
BOOM!
One giant swung its massive right arm, attempting to seize the infernal chain—
But with a deafening crash, the chain shattered the giant’s arm into rubble.
Undeterred, the chain continued its deadly advance toward Voldemort.
ROAR!
The crippled stone giant let out a deep bellow, lunging forward with its remaining arm to grasp the chain once more.
At the same time, more stone giants along the path did the same—grabbing at the infernal weapon with their heavy arms and bodies.
But—
Whoosh! Whoosh! Whoosh!
The moment the chains were caught, the hellfire flared violently—
Engulfing the stone giants in an instant.
Within mere seconds, every single stone giant was reduced to ash.
Though it had only bought a brief moment, Voldemort had used that precious window well.
Layer upon layer of protection, illusionary decoys, and confusion spells now surrounded him.
In the blink of an eye, countless Voldemorts stood upon the battlefield—
All identical.
All radiating identical magical signatures.
It was impossible to distinguish the real one.
At that very moment—
BOOM!
High above—
A massive black eye manifested in the sky, blinking slowly.
From its depths, it emanated a terrifying aura of death, darkness, and destruction.
Then—
A gigantic black beam of energy descended from the heavens, slamming toward the Hell Skeleton.
The Eye of Death.
One of Voldemort’s trump cards, a spell perfected through the joint research of Lockhart’s students.
It was crafted to be a weapon against future threats.
Now, Voldemort was finally forced to use it.
The Hell Skeleton leaped the moment it saw the beam descend.
But—
The Eye of Death followed.
The black pillar of destruction continued to track his every move, obliterating everything in its path.
Wherever the beam struck, the land turned to corroded ruin.
The once pristine white battlefield became riddled with dark, intricate scars—markings of utter devastation.
But among those scars—
Faint traces of red hellfire began to emerge.
It was subtle.
But unmistakable.
Hellfire was reacting. Preparing.
It would never be extinguished—never falter—never cease its judgment.
Grindelwald observed the unfolding battle with cold, calculating eyes.
He had deflected the barrage of spells Tom had thrown at him—
But then he had simply stopped.
There was no need to interfere.
After all, the flaming skeleton’s target was Voldemort—not him.
Why should he intervene?
If Voldemort died here, all the better.
Even though they had temporary cooperation, Grindelwald wasn’t about to risk himself for Voldemort’s sake.
This was an opportunity.
He would watch.
He would learn.
And when the time was right—
He would plan accordingly.
BOOM!
At some point, the corroded black lines left by the Eye of Death’s attack had transformed—
Burning roads of hellfire.
A trap had been set.
The Hell Skeleton stopped dodging.
The thirty-two hellfire wands behind him split once more—becoming sixty-four.
Above Tom’s head, a colossal fiery magic array took form, aimed directly at the Eye of Death.
And then—
BOOM!
From the burning lines upon the earth, hellfire chains erupted upward, wrapping around the massive black eye, sealing it in place.
In an instant, the Eye of Death was immobilized.
Then—
BOOM!
A titanic infernal beam exploded skyward.
The heavens trembled.
A mushroom cloud of destruction blossomed.
Grindelwald turned without hesitation, transforming into blue flames as he fled.
Voldemort, his face twisted in rage, did the same—vanishing into a black mist.
Tom, now back in human form, turned his gaze upon the remaining pure-blood wizards and dark sorcerers.
Then, slowly, he stepped forward.
