Dark shadows lurked.
Conspiracies were brewing.
Meanwhile.
On the empty street, cold moonlight spilled down, stretching the limp figures on the ground into long, thin shadows.
"No! How could you possibly be this powerful?! We're the strongest!" The five Horcrux clones had only just struggled halfway out of the rubble—then there was no then.
Ian raised his wand again. This time, there were no flashy movements. He merely pointed calmly in five directions. Five silvery-white beams shot from the tip of his wand at once, striking the five clones precisely between the brows.
There was no explosion, no scream, not even a struggle.
The five figures froze simultaneously, brief, incredulous blankness appearing on their faces—then their bodies began to weather away from the edges, dissolving into tiny silvery-white motes that drifted away on the wind.
Like five pencil drawings erased by a rubber.
Like five dreams that had never existed.
"You..."
In the final instant before he vanished, young Tom stared fixedly at Ian. His scarlet eyes were filled with resentment, fury, and... fear that seeped into his very bones. His lips moved as if he wanted to say something, but before a sound could emerge, his entire body dissolved into points of light and vanished into London's night wind. The other four Horcruxes met the same fate.
Five Voldemort clones—terrifying beings with independent consciousness and legendary magical power, powerful enough to crush ordinary Aurors—had been completely erased in mere seconds.
As though they had never existed.
The Death Eaters completely broke down.
No one knew who was the first to throw away the "wand" in their hand—those branches transformed into wands by illusion now looked especially ridiculous under the moonlight. They dropped to their knees, raised both hands, and trembled all over as chaotic pleas spilled from their mouths: