Voldemort shook his head. "I no longer have anything to say to you, Harry Potter. I no longer believe in that so-called prophecy. Yes, the heart and fate—we will have to pit them against each other to find out."
"Then it looks like fate is on my side." Harry sneered and brought his left hand out from behind his back. In his palm, a phantom Beating Heart glowed like lava.
Villains died because they talked too much, and Voldemort really did talk far too much...
Anton had made that joke during a chat at the Cabin. He had said it casually, but the person listening had remembered it well.
And while Voldemort rambled on, Harry had finally completed the exceedingly complex "Hatred Magic."
He would not be shaken by Voldemort's words, because Anton had once complained to him—everyone had their own standpoint. If you considered things from someone else's standpoint rather than your own, then who was the idiot if not you...
"What is that?" Voldemort suddenly sensed an utterly terrifying aura in Harry's palm. Within it were traces of Lily's love magic and Harry's flesh and blood, forming some mysterious connection with him.
"My heart," Harry said softly. "My everything."
What burned like lava within the heart was the love he treasured most, the most beautiful emotions of his miserable childhood. He had cast them aside with such resolve, and such pain.
Bang!
The phantom heart suddenly burst apart. Its lava-like radiance exploded into the most dazzling, searingly brilliant flower.
It all seemed like a preview. Countless streams of light converged, becoming endless darkness that enveloped Voldemort.
In an instant, Voldemort seemed to be drifting through a space of nothingness. All he could see was a flower floating up from Harry's hand.
Then Harry, too, vanished from his sight.