Voldemort's figure disappeared into the horizon, and the ruins of Azkaban fell into a deathly silence.
The sea wind howled, whipping up ashes and rubble. The Auror stood frozen, wands still raised, fingers stiff. The professors stood at the tower's entrance, their faces etched with despair. Shacklebolt spoke first, his voice hoarse. "He... he's been taken away."
No one answered. Flitwick's hands hung at his sides, his wand pointing to the ground, the faint light at its tip gradually fading. He remembered the black-haired boy standing in the center of the ruins, turning the stitched monster to ashes. Less than half an hour had passed.
Sprout supported his injured colleague, tears silently streaming down his face.
Slughorn leaned against the wall, his lips trembling, his voice barely audible. "We... are finished."
Another silence fell. The distant sound of waves crashing against the rocks echoed, one crash after another, like some ancient, deadly countdown. Shacklebolt took a deep breath, forcing himself to straighten his back. "It's not over yet."
Flitwick looked up at him.
" Dumbledore is still at Hogwarts. Grindelwald isn't dead. As long as they're here, we're not finished." Shacklebolt ' voice steadied, and his eyes regained their light. He couldn't believe Dumbledore would fall like this. He couldn't believe that the old man who had protected the Wizarding World for decades would lose. He couldn't believe it.
Flitwick nodded, gripping his wand tightly. "I'm going back to Hogwarts. You're in charge here."
"I'll go with you." Sprout wiped away her tears and tightened her apron.
Slughorn hesitated for a moment, then stepped forward. "I'll go too. Dumbledore needs people."
Shacklebolt looked at them, paused for a second, and said, "Go ahead. I'll take care of things here."
The explosions of Apparition. The ruins returned to silence.
Voldemort's figure crossed the North Sea, passed the English Channel, and landed on the southern coast of England. He walked slowly, each step steady, his black robes billowing in the sea breeze, the Mirror clutched tightly in his hand. He was in no hurry. The prey was already in the cage; Dumbledore was still struggling in his death throes, and Grindelwald was no match for him. This world was already his. But there was one thing he had to do himself. He wanted to watch Dumbledore's eyes close, to end the nightmare that had haunted him for decades. He raised his head and looked north—there, the towers of Hogwarts were faintly visible in the morning light.
He laughed. His laughter drifted in the sea breeze, low and hoarse, carrying decades of resentment and triumph.
" Dumbledore, I'm here."
Voldemort landed on the stone steps in front of the gates of Hogwarts.
The Castle was quiet, devoid of students, professors, and even that annoying phoenix. The gates stood wide open, their dark entrances like the jaws of a beast, waiting to devour any intruders. He stepped onto the stone steps, tiny tendrils swaying gently in the air as they emerged from his neck. His footsteps were light, yet carried an unstoppable weight, each step leaving a smoky footprint on the stone. The hall was empty. Four long tables were pushed against the wall, candles floating overhead, their flickering flames illuminating the ancient portraits on the walls. The figures in the portraits did not whisper as usual, but silently gazed at him. Some eyes held fear, some anger, and some were as empty as the dead.
Voldemort looked up at the portraits, a slight smile playing on his lips. "Tell Dumbledore I've come."
The people in the portrait looked at each other, but no one moved.
"No need." A voice came from the end of the corridor.
Voldemort's smile froze for a moment, then returned. " Dumbledore."
Footsteps came from the end of the corridor, slow but steady. Dumbledore emerged from the shadows, dressed in a purple robe, his silver hair neatly combed, half-moon spectacles perched on his nose, his azure eyes calm as still water. It was as if he were welcoming a fellow traveler, not Dark Lord with Legend power and gifts from the Deep Space. He walked to the center of the hall, only a dozen steps away from Voldemort. He stopped, hands behind his back, wandless, defenseless, completely unguarded. Voldemort stared at him for a long time, his crimson eyes churning with complex emotions: anger, pleasure, doubt, and a trace of fear suppressed for decades, a fear he refused to acknowledge. "You knew I was coming."
Dumbledore nodded. "I know."
"You know what I have."
Dumbledore's gaze fell on the Mirror in his hand, he looked at it for a second, then looked away. "I know."
"Then why are you still standing here?" Voldemort's voice was soft yet dangerous. "You should run, Dumbledore. You should hide. You should hide in the Castle, behind the students, behind those who would die for you, as you always have."
Dumbledore's lips curled into a slight smile. It wasn't mockery, nor smugness, but rather the faint, weary smile characteristic of an old man who had seen it all. "I've run enough, Tom." Voldemort's brow furrowed. "What did you say?"
"I said, I've run enough," Dumbledore's voice was calm and composed. "I've hidden enough. I've concealed enough. I've used other people's lives to protect my own—enough." He took a step forward. Voldemort instinctively took a step back—then froze, a flash of annoyance in his eyes.
Dumbledore looked at him, at his bloodshot eyes, at the fleeting panic on his face, for a second, then two. "You are my nightmare, Tom." Voldemort's lips twitched. "What?"
"For decades, I've been thinking. Thinking about how to defeat you, how to stop you, how to stop you before you kill more people. I've considered you my greatest threat, my greatest enemy, my greatest defeat." Dumbledore's voice was calm, yet carried an indescribable weight. "Every night when I close my eyes, I see you. I see the people you've killed, the homes you've destroyed, and how you've become like this." Voldemort fell silent. In his crimson eyes, complex emotions churned, emotions he himself was unwilling to acknowledge.
"Am I your Dreamshaker?" His voice finally rang out, hoarse and deep, carrying a hint of suppressed compassion. "Do you know that you are my Dreamshaker, Dumbledore?" He took a step forward. His tentacles thrashed wildly, a dark red light dancing on them.
"From the Orphanage onwards, you've been watching me, waiting for me to make a mistake, waiting for me to slip up. You've never trusted me, never truly accepted me; you've only been monitoring, guarding against, waiting to lock me up. You're my nightmare!"
Dumbledore neither refuted nor explained; he simply looked at him.
"You are not worthy to call my name!" Voldemort roared, "You are not worthy of..."
"You're right," Dumbledore interrupted him.
Voldemort was stunned.
"You're right," Dumbledore repeated. "I didn't trust you, I didn't accept you, I've been watching you, guarding against you, waiting to lock you up." He paused. "Because I know what kind of person you are, what kind of person you will become. I knew from the first day you walked into Hogwarts at the age of eleven."
He took a step forward. This time, Voldemort did not retreat.
"Because I've had those thoughts myself. I've thought about ruling, about conquering, about making all Muggle kneel at my feet. I came into contact with Dark Magic earlier than you, with forbidden powers earlier than you. I know what it feels like—that feeling of controlling everything, of being superior." Dumbledore's voice was calm, yet every word carried immense weight. "The only difference is, I stopped. You never did." Voldemort stared at him.
"I am not your dream, Tom. You are your own nightmare." Dumbledore sighed. "You crave power because you fear. You fear death, fear failure, fear being looked down upon. You arm yourself with power, prove yourself with killing, yet you can never fill that hole—that hole that has existed since the Orphanage, the hole of abandonment, neglect, and unlove." Voldemort's body trembled slightly. "Shut up."
"So when you become powerful enough, you begin to fear me. Not my strength, because you are already stronger than me. You fear me—because I can see that hole." Dumbledore's gaze fell on his eyes, those scarlet eyes churning with anger and fear. "You fear someone who can truly see you."
"Shut up!" Voldemort raised his hand, palm facing Dumbledore. A dark red light gathered in his palm. "You're just an old man without Magic Power! How dare you speak to me like that? What gives you the right?" Dumbledore stared at the hand, at the dark red light that was gathering, swirling, and growing brighter, for a second. Then, he smiled. "An old man without Magic Power?"
His entire being—his hands behind his back, his purple robe, his crescent-shaped glasses—began to glow. A golden, soft, warm light emanated from his body, from every pore, every inch of skin, every cell. The light was not dazzling, not intense, but it carried an indescribable power, as if from the very beginning of the world, illuminating the entire hall as if it were daytime. Voldemort's pupils contracted sharply. "You—"
"You think I've truly lost my Magic Power?" Dumbledore's voice was calm and composed, the golden light emanating from him growing ever brighter. "You think I'm so weak that I can't even defeat the few useless fools you sent? You think that Azkaban act was just a performance for the Ministry of Magic?"
He took a step forward. The golden light shone even brighter. Voldemort took a step back, then another. The Mirror slipped from his hand and fell to the ground with a crisp cracking sound. The mirror shattered, and the flowing liquid gushed out, but it did not glow or swirl; it simply turned into a pool of ordinary mercury, flowing across the stone slab.
"It's fake." Voldemort stared at the pool of mercury, his voice hoarse. " The Mirror is fake..."
You've been lying to me all along.
"Yes," Dumbledore's voice was calm and composed, "I've been lying to you all along."
He raised his hand, golden light coalescing in his palm, transforming into a slender sword burning with golden flames. "My Magic Power has always been there. My Legend has always been there. I have been waiting for you—waiting for your true self to come." Voldemort's face was deathly pale. He stared at the sword, at the golden flames, at Dumbledore's aged face and those deep blue eyes, burning with decades of fighting spirit. He knew he had been deceived. From beginning to end, from Azkaban to Azkaban, from the "mortally wounded" Dumbledore to the " Magic Power " Dumbledore, from Grindelwald's "betrayal" to the Raven's "sealing"—it was all a deception. They were all bait, all hooks, all part of this net. And he was the fish, the one who thought himself clever, yet walked step by step into the trap. "You think this is all?" Dumbledore's voice was calm and composed. "Look back."
Voldemort suddenly turned his head.
At the entrance to the hall, two figures stood side by side.
One was Grindelwald, with silver hair, an aged face, and heterochromatic eyes. His wand was clutched in his hand, its tip still emitting wisps of smoke. His robes bore the scorch marks of battle, but his back was ramrod straight; the scars couldn't conceal the aura of Legendary Wizard emanating from him. He leaned against the doorframe, a faint smile playing on his lips, his heterochromatic eyes fixed on Voldemort as if he were looking at prey caught in a trap. The other was Ian, with dark hair, deep-set eyes, and the face of a twelve-year-old, his hands in his pockets. His robes were also stained with dust and scorch marks, but he stood there calmly and composedly, as if he had never left Azkaban, never been sealed away, as if he had always been there, waiting for this moment.
Voldemort stared at him, his eyes wide, and for the first time, genuine fear appeared on his twisted, inhuman face. "You—you weren't sealed away—" Ian tilted his head, a slight smile playing on his lips. " The Mirror I made, how could I not know it's fake?"
Voldemort's body trembled violently. His tentacles thrashed wildly, and a dark red light flickered on his body. He wanted to run, to escape, to Apparition— but Dumbledore's golden light enveloped the entire hall, and Grindelwald's Fiendfyre blocked all escape routes. Ian stood in the doorway, his deep eyes calmly watching him, leaving him a door—a door from which escape was impossible. "A net of heaven and earth," Grindelwald's voice came from behind, hoarse and calm, "Tailor-made for you."
Voldemort turned to look at Dumbledore. "You think you can catch me like this? I am Legend! I have the power of the Deep Space! You—" "We have it too," Dumbledore interrupted him.
Voldemort was stunned.
Dumbledore's golden light illuminated the hall. Grindelwald's Fiendfyre surged from his wand, Black Flames climbing the walls of the hall. Ian raised his hand, and a silvery light shone from his palm, sealing the door completely.
Three Legend. Three. A former white Wizard, a former Dark Lord, and a twelve-year-old child from who-knows-where. Three Legend. Surrounding him. Voldemort's hand fell down.
The tentacles stopped waving and hung limply at his sides, the dark red light gradually fading. He looked at Dumbledore, at Grindelwald, at Ian, for a long time. "You set up such a huge trap just to capture me?"
Dumbledore did not speak.
"Yes," Grindelwald said for him, "You deserve it."
Voldemort fell silent. He knew he couldn't escape today.
Three Legend, three completely different yet equally deadly powers, blocked all escape routes. He looked at the golden flaming sword in Dumbledore's hand, at the black fiery Fiendfyre dancing at the tip of Grindelwald's staff, and at the silvery-white, hair-thin yet irresistible light in Ian's palm for a second.
"Then let's go."
He raised his hand, and the dark red light re-condensed. The last fear in his eyes vanished, replaced by a frenzied, desperate fighting spirit.