Caesar's Confession

He began his "confession" calmly, even meticulously:

"Professor McGonagall, you should have guessed where my hatred for Hogwarts and Dumbledore comes from, but let me tell you a deeper secret.

Getting close to Hermione was part of the plan from the start. Her talent, her background, her easily manipulated yet sentimental nature—the perfect pawn. That chance encounter at the station? I engineered it.

Guiding her interest in magic, deepening her dependence, giving her that necklace—it wasn't just protective charms inside.

There was also a subtle influence on her emotional leanings, teaching her those dangerous pieces of knowledge to make her grow faster, to become a more useful tool.

Using her feelings for me to ensure she'd stand by my side at critical moments, against you, against Dumbledore..."

Caesar laid out each scheme, each calculation, in the most flat and cruel tone, stripping away the warm veneer.

The cold purpose behind those memories Hermione treasured was laid bare, exposed ruthlessly before McGonagall.

Every word was like a poison-tipped blade, stabbing into the listener's heart, utterly defiling the feelings Hermione had given everything for.

Professor McGonagall's face went from flushed with anger to livid, then settled into a deathly pale. Her body swayed slightly, as if she might collapse at any moment.

She looked at the young man before her—someone she had once admired, even let down her guard toward because of his "care" for Hermione—and now found him utterly alien, utterly... evil.

"As for Hogwarts..." Caesar said finally, his gaze sweeping over the castle blazing with fire outside the window, "I never cared about it. It was just a stage. Now, it's time for the curtain to fall.

Kill me, Minerva. It's the only way to stop more deaths.

Oh, right, you can also avenge your disciple Snape, though Voldemort killed him, but..."

He closed his eyes, presenting his neck as if for execution, but the faint curve at the corner of his mouth carried mockery, as if to say: I've already won.

"Professor! Don't!" a Ravenclaw student cried out, "He might be tricking you..."

"Every second," Caesar interrupted, his voice as light as a sigh, "students could be dying under the claws of those monsters. Maybe the Weasley twins?

Maybe that girl who's always with Longbottom? Maybe some Hufflepuff whose name you don't know but who greets you shyly every morning?"

His words struck precisely at the softest, most untouchable part of McGonagall's heart.

Hogwarts.

The students here. Every single child here.

Nothing was more important to her than Hogwarts. Guarding this castle and the students within was a vow etched into her soul.

More important than her life, her principles, even her insistence on justice.

Caesar had completely extinguished the last flicker of hope in her heart—that she might subdue him and force him to lift the magic—and rendered the option of "judgment" pale and laughable.

In the face of endless death, judgment was meaningless.

All the anger, pain, struggle, and even the personal emotions belonging to "Minerva McGonagall" vanished from her face.

In their place was a complete, icy resolve belonging to the "Deputy Headmistress of Hogwarts."

Her wand rose, steady as a rock.

The tip aimed at Caesar's heart.

No incantation, only the condensed, extreme light of magic flickering at the wand's tip.

It was the culmination of her lifelong cultivation and her will to protect, enough to pierce metal and stone, to shatter a soul.

She looked at Caesar's face, calm in the face of death, and the last glimmer of "humanity" in her eyes died out.

"For Hogwarts."

The cold words fell.

A brilliant, unreserved beam of magical light, like the thunder of judgment, shot toward the man who had destroyed what she held dear and was slaughtering the place she had sworn to protect.

And in the moment before the beam struck, deep in Caesar's always-calm eyes, there seemed to pass an extremely faint ripple, one no one could understand.

Finally... stained.

Hermione... will you... hate me?

That's fine too.

The beam consumed him.

On the other side, the castle's central courtyard had become a hellish wasteland.

Among the rubble and broken walls lingered unextinguished Fiendfyre and remnants of dark magic, the air thick with the acrid smell of blood, ozone, and dust.

Remnants of Death Eaters were either subdued or scattered into the night, but greater chaos and screams of agony came from all corners of the castle.

The furious roar of the Fire Dragon, the thunderous stomps of giants, the terrified screams of students—all wove together into a symphony of destruction.

Yet, all this noise faded into a blurry background in Hermione Granger's ears.

Her world had narrowed to just the figure ahead, exuding a nauseating mix of the Philosopher's Stone's radiance and ultimate darkness.

Voldemort's newly reborn, unstable body was already covered in cracks and scorch marks under Hermione's violent and precise magical assault.

The spells she used had long surpassed the scope of Hogwarts textbooks, even beyond the dangerous and efficient ancient incantations Caesar had once taught her.

That was the fusion of her own surging, fully awakened magic born of extreme emotion, the vast knowledge base accumulated over five grueling years, and an almost instinctive battle intuition.

Every wave of her wand brought a shriek that tore through the air. Every incantation caused the surrounding magic to resonate and boil.

She held nothing back, offered no probing strikes—from the very start, she unleashed a full-force killing blow.

A silvery light, a variant of the Patronus Charm, coiled like a ribbon to weaken and bind the dark defenses of her opponent.

Magical blades formed from Ancient Runes cut viciously into the shell forcibly stitched together by the Philosopher's Stone.

She even mobilized all the lingering positive emotions and protective will remaining in the surrounding environment.

Turning them into invisible hammers, she struck again and again at Voldemort's already chaotic and evil Soul Core.

Voldemort was shocked and enraged. He had just gained a portion of the Philosopher's Stone's power and was eager to flex his might.

Yet he ran headlong into this witch who seemed to have returned from hell, nothing like a student at all.

The pure, powerful nature of her magic stung the depths of his soul, and her fighting style was so ruthless and precise it was like that of a seasoned Auror who had survived countless life-and-death battles.

What unsettled him even more was the cold, burning flame in her eyes. It wasn't hatred for darkness.

It was a purer, more unquestionable resolve of "must eliminate you," as if he were merely an annoying stone blocking the path to some goal.

"Mudblood... how dare you...!" Voldemort hissed, unleashing even more vast black magic, trying to crush her with raw power.

But Hermione's figure moved like a phantom, always dodging the deadliest attacks by a hair's breadth and leaving wounds on him with even sharper counterstrikes.

The power of the Philosopher's Stone was rapidly depleting, used to repair this temporary body and withstand Hermione's storm-like assault.

Finally, during a head-on collision of core magical power, Voldemort's not-yet-fully-stabilized body let out a cracking sound of unbearable strain.

A Silver-Red Beam, condensed from all of Hermione's magic and mixed with a burning obsession as hot as her heart's blood, pierced through the layers of hastily constructed defenses like a Spear of Judgment and drove deep into his chest.

Not a physical heart, but the core where that dark soul and the Philosopher's Stone's power merged!

"Ugh—!!!"

With a piercing, inhuman scream, Voldemort's twisted body flew backward like a shattered porcelain doll, crashing heavily into half a remaining wall and burying itself under the rubble.

A deep red light uncontrollably spilled from the "wound" pierced through his chest—the power of the Philosopher's Stone leaking away.

His scarlet eyes stared fixedly at Hermione as she approached step by step, filled with fury, disbelief.

And a trace of humiliation at being defeated by one he deemed lower.

Just as Hermione raised her wand again, ready to deliver the final blow—

"Wingardium Leviosa!"

A gentle yet undeniable Levitation Charm shot in from the side, not aimed at Hermione.

But precisely at the slightly dimmed yet still magnificent deep red gem that had rolled out from Voldemort's shattered chest.

The Philosopher's Stone, lifted by an invisible hand, arced through the air and landed steadily into the hand of Albus Dumbledore, who had appeared at the edge of the battlefield at some unknown moment.

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