A Hard-Won Victory! First Encounter with Dumbledore!

The damaged corridor of the underground vault was strewn with countless fragments of rock that glimmered with a golden sheen.

Voldemort, who had been about to strike, suddenly realized that his—no, Quirrell's—body was becoming heavy and rigid. His five senses dulled, and even his joints gradually grew stiff.

Startled, his scarlet eyes caught their reflection in Harry's clear gaze.

The ugly green skin on his face was turning into dazzling gold!

"Harry, hit him! Take his wand!"

Seizing the opportunity, Dudley shouted loudly. At the same time, he raised Digo Wand, which he had been gripping tightly, and pointed it at Voldemort. "Expelliarmus! Expelliarmus! Expelliarmus!"

This was not about repeating important things three times. Dudley was repeatedly stirring up his magic, trying to successfully cast the proper Disarming Charm.

At the same time, Harry, who had been somewhat at a loss, heard his cousin's familiar command and immediately steadied himself. He did as he was told.

He muttered, "Strength... strength... increase! Increase!"

Both hands moved at once!

One hand clenched into a fist and struck hard at the part of Voldemort's face that had not yet turned to gold—the remaining back of Quirrell's head.

His other hand formed a claw and swiftly reached for the hand in which Voldemort—Quirrell—held his wand in reverse, trying to snatch it away.

Naturally, Voldemort would not simply wait to die. His scarlet eyes erupted with utter hatred and murderous intent as he desperately began to chant, "Avada..."

"Expelliarmus!"

Dudley's Disarming Charm succeeded at the crucial moment and struck Voldemort.

The Alder Wand, which Harry had nearly torn from his grasp, had just produced a flicker of green light at its tip before flying from his hand. Like an arrow, it shot into a distant stalactite.

A normal Disarming Charm would make an enemy's wand fly into the caster's hand. Clearly, Dudley's spell had not been perfect this time; it had only barely passed.

Still, that was enough!

Voldemort had lost his means of wreaking havoc. After all, he was not powerful enough to control Quirrell's body and perform Wandless Casting while weakened.

Even more fatal was the fact that Harry, the Savior who possessed the complete Mother's Love Protection, had already touched an enemy brimming with murderous intent toward him.

"Ah—"

Quirrell let out an agonized scream. Starting from the back of his head and his right wrist, the backlash spread through his entire body. Wherever it passed, flesh crumbled into ash. Even the parts that Dudley's magical outburst had turned to gold were no exception.

"Harry... Potter! I will return!"

Voldemort relaxed his control over Quirrell's body. Things had come to this, and there was nothing he could do to turn the tide. His own escape and resurrection mattered more.

"Bang—"

Quirrell's head exploded completely. An invisible repulsive force threw Harry and Dudley, who had charged over while enduring the pain, away.

The black hood shattered. A dark-purple turban reeking of garlic flew high into the air, followed closely by Voldemort's Main Soul in the form of black smoke.

Spinning rapidly downward, the bastard tried to use smoke-black tentacles formed from his mimicry to grab the fake Philosopher's Stone parcel that had fallen to the ground before fleeing.

The pain in Dudley's body had yet to fade, and he was in poor condition, but he still wanted to keep Voldemort here. That ugly bastard had truly enraged him today!

Lying on the ground, he struggled to raise his wand. "Fire-Making Spell..."

"Finite Incantatem!"

An aged yet even more resounding voice interrupted Dudley just as he forced himself to focus on casting the Fire-Making Spell.

An incomparably dazzling yellow light tore through the Fiendfyre serpents raging around the outskirts and swept in from an extreme distance with unstoppable force, striking the black-smoke tentacles Voldemort's Main Soul had extended with perfect accuracy.

"Hiss! Damn Dumbledore!"

Accompanied by an almost inaudible, venomous curse from a soul, Voldemort's Main Soul gave up on retrieving that "Philosopher's Stone." It shot upward and crashed into the dark-purple turban slowly descending through the air.

The instant the two came into contact, they transformed into a twisted spiral and vanished.

Clearly, Voldemort and Quirrell had prepared an escape route long ago, turning the turban into a Portkey—and an enhanced one at that.

Otherwise, they could never have escaped from the Gringotts Underground Vaults, bolstered by all manner of protective magic, through Apparition.

"Damn it!"

Dudley cursed viciously, not even sparing a glance at the master of time control who was clearing up the remnants of the Fiendfyre while drifting toward them.

He laboriously pushed himself up and staggered over to Harry's side. After helping his cousin to his feet and confirming that he was unharmed, he hurried over to Hagrid, who lay unconscious in a pool of blood.

"Episkey! Rennervate!"

Without another word, Dudley immediately began treating Hagrid with Diggle's Wand.

After wasting two spells, Dudley quickly found the knack for casting the Healing Charm. Under the cover of white light, Hagrid's wounds gradually closed.

"Harry, help Hagrid up!"

"Yes, Cousin!"

As always, Harry answered obediently. After casting Brute Force Enhancement on himself once more, he lifted the heavy Hagrid with relative ease.

Only after seeing Hagrid slowly regain consciousness, with no apparent side effects, did Dudley cast the Healing Charm twice more on himself and Harry.

"Harry, Hagrid! Are you all right?"

A white-haired, white-bearded old man with a crooked nose approached them, his voice gentle and compassionate.

Hagrid was still not fully conscious. Vaguely recognizing that Dumbledore had arrived, he nodded with difficulty.

As for Harry, who was supporting Hagrid, he felt somewhat at a loss before such an elderly man. He merely watched in silence.

"Go stand somewhere else. Don't make me smack you!"

Suddenly, without even turning around, Dudley snapped at the gentle old man over a hundred years old, leaving the greatest wizard of the twentieth century utterly dumbfounded.

Dumbledore's expression stiffened. It had been a long time since anyone had spoken to him like that—or perhaps no one had ever dared to speak to him like that.

Whether Grindelwald or Voldemort, whether the Saints or the Death Eaters, all held at least a basic degree of reverence for him.

Even with the wealth of experience he had gained over more than a century of life, he found it difficult to imagine that an eleven-year-old wizard could... could speak so outrageously.