Voldemort's body lay quietly amid the ruins. The tentacles had completely withered, like dried vines that would crumble at the slightest touch. All those eyes had fallen away as well, shattering into dark-red powder on the ground, mixing with the dust and scattering in the sea wind. That inhuman face had finally gained a measure of peace. Its three eyes were closed, and there was even the faintest curve at the corners of its mouth—not ferocity, not madness, but relief. Dumbledore stood beside the body, looking down at his face in silence for a long time. Grindelwald stood at the doorway, her wand hanging at her side. Her mismatched eyes watched the once-incomparably-arrogant Dark Lord, holding neither mercy nor hatred, only something faint and indescribable. Ian did not look at Voldemort. He was watching the lingering dark-red motes in the air. Even after Voldemort's death, the power of Deep Space had not fully dispersed. The motes floated through the air, leaking from the corpse, passing through the collapsed ceiling, and drifting toward the sky. If allowed to leave, the power of Deep Space would return to the void. Perhaps some unspeakable entity would seize it and use it as a coordinate for their next invasion of this world. Ian could not let that happen.
"Stand back," he said calmly, with a trace of command in his voice.
Dumbledore looked at him. So did Grindelwald. They watched Ian walk to Voldemort's body, crouch down, and extend his hand, palm facing the dark-red motes that were still escaping. A silver-white glow lit up in his palm. This time, it was neither dazzling nor blazing, but gentle and tranquil, cool as moonlight.
The instant the dark-red motes touched the silver-white light, they stopped. They no longer drifted upward or struggled. They simply hovered