Chapter 244

He passed through the basement, climbed the stairs, and used glow powder to reveal a transparent path… Harry remembered every detail of Donald Fontroy's arrangements; he sprinted forward, unlocking the second locked door with a key.

Then he began running upward, but halfway up, Harry stopped.

According to Donald Fontroy's instructions, what should have appeared before him now was the final trial—four doors to choose from. But what Harry saw was a collapsed corridor, everything within it destroyed by a powerful magical storm, leaving only rubble and debris.

Through gaps in the rubble, Harry saw flashes of light; after a moment's thought, he realized he could crawl through.

Harry crept silently atop the debris, crouching low, inching forward. He saw a tall, thin figure clad in a black robe, revealing a pale, hairless, terrifying face—blood-red eyes with slit pupils like a serpent's. Without doubt, this was Voldemort.

He remained silent, found his opening, and fired a green bolt—but opposite him, a marble statue was advancing with its hand raised; the Killing Curse struck the statue's chest and did nothing.

Harry's heart pounded as he saw to his right a shelf covered by a cloth, with Dumbledore standing before it.

Voldemort raised his wand again; another green bolt grazed the marble statue's ear. Dumbledore's robe suddenly spun, and he reappeared three feet to his side, evading the curse.

"It is foolish of you to come here, Tom," Dumbledore said calmly. "The doctors are coming."

"You're bluffing, old man," Voldemort snarled, uttering a new incantation. "They won't come. They're all at Hogwarts."

"Hogwarts—you finally struck at it," Dumbledore said, dodging another Killing Curse. The spell struck the tapestry, burning a large, charred hole at its edge.

Dumbledore flicked his wand lightly, casting a powerful spell: a torrent of searing magical energy surged toward Voldemort; Harry could even see the air warping.

Voldemort seemed afraid of this spell; he conjured a shimmering silver shield midair. A low, gong-like tremor emanated from the shield, an unnatural sound that chilled Harry to the bone.

"You don't want my life, do you?" Voldemort said, his tone unserious. "You're finally showing your cruel nature, aren't you?"

"We both know there are other ways to destroy a man, Tom," Dumbledore said as his spell ended, walking toward Voldemort. "I admit, simply taking your life wouldn't satisfy me."

Dumbledore moved slowly, as if strolling through a garden, exuding absolute confidence in his power—but Harry knew better. Dumbledore had confessed himself that his strength was waning. He was bluffing, pretending, trying to exploit Voldemort's long-held assumptions to find an opening.

"You're going to say, 'Nothing is worse than death,' aren't you?" Dumbledore said, walking forward with casual ease, as if they were chatting over drinks. "But for you and me, death is the easiest escape."

Harry watched Dumbledore, exposed and defenseless, and felt immense fear—but for some reason, Voldemort seemed equally afraid. He made no move to attack.

Harry quietly drew his wand. The Time-Space Matrix radiated warmth. His last two spells had been Sectumsempra; if he got an opening to strike Voldemort, he should use that spell again.

But Sectumsempra might not work. Harry realized he needed the Stupefy spell. The Time-Space Matrix amplified the first two spells he cast—meaning, before attacking Voldemort, he had to cast Stupefy twice first.

He crawled slowly, taking advantage of Voldemort's full attention on Dumbledore. Harry wanted to reach the painting—first slip the cloth inside, then the frame. He had to use minimal energy, so he'd have enough left to utter the third "Enough."

"If we both die here, I won't worry," Dumbledore said lightly. "You know Harry has grown into a remarkably reliable leader. But you? Your vast empire rests on one man. Can you be certain they won't tear each other apart after your death, fighting for power?"

"Who will be the next Dark Lord?" Dumbledore asked, sounding almost amused. "Lucius? Regulus? Do you think they'll kill Delphini, just as you tried to kill Harry Potter fourteen years ago—"

"Avada Kedavra!" Voldemort, enraged by the words, fired two green bolts in rapid succession. The marble statue raised its hand to block—but the twin curses shattered it into fragments.

Dumbledore swiftly swept his wand; behind the debris, he raised a silver shield. But where Voldemort wasn't looking, a thin, elongated flame crept up his foot, wrapping around him. In that instant, Harry thought they had won.

But Voldemort showed no fear. The flame transformed from a thread into a serpent, its color shifting from red-gold to a terrifying blue-green. It opened its jaws and hissed at Dumbledore.

The battle grew ferociously intense. Explosions erupted around Dumbledore's head and body; dust rose, obscuring Harry's view. He wanted to cast Stupefy now—but he couldn't find the painting.

Suddenly, a black corner of fabric appeared before him. Harry was certain it was Voldemort—he stood there, poised to ambush Dumbledore.

Was it black? Or white? Harry rubbed his eyes. He was sure he hadn't mistaken it. Though the fabric's color seemed blurred, the figure before him was Voldemort—and he was preparing to ambush Dumbledore.

Harry didn't care anymore. Since Stupefy wasn't ready—

"Sectumsempra!" Harry shouted. Instantly, his previously blurred vision sharpened—the fabric was white. The figure standing there was Dumbledore. Harry's heart nearly stopped.

"I've known you were there all along, Harry," Voldemort laughed. "Did you think hiding behind that rubble made you invisible? Don't you know we're linked? At this distance, I can almost feel your emotions."

Dumbledore's left hand, half-severed by Sectumsempra, fell to the ground—his little finger, still wearing the Resurrection Stone ring, drenched in blood. The old man, always standing reliably before Harry, winced in agony—but he still stood firmly before him.

"Episkey. Episkey," he muttered, touching his wound with his right wand. The bleeding slowed. Dumbledore gasped, continuing to chant the healing spell, but the wound closed painfully slowly. His face turned deathly pale.

"Remember this, Dumbledore—you die at the hands of your most beloved student, because if you'd dodged, Harry would be dead." Voldemort pointed his wand straight at Dumbledore's chest.

Harry's heart pounded. Voldemort held the elder wand. If Harry could lock eyes with him, there was still a chance. But he couldn't use Sectumsempra again. Harry realized—the spell had no trajectory, too fast. Their wands couldn't connect in time.

But what spell could he use? Yes—he'd tried the magical torrent before. It gave enough time to match Voldemort's Killing Curse, and as a sustained spell, it should benefit from the Time-Space Matrix's amplification.

"Oath—" Harry shouted, "Sword of Victory!"

"Shall I repeat myself?" Voldemort calmly drew his second wand. "At this distance, your thoughts are transparent to me."

A brilliant blue laser beam collided with Harry's golden magical torrent. They canceled each other out, then exploded with a loud bang—nothing magical happened.

"I don't know why you're so fixated on my elder wand, but it doesn't matter—I'll switch to the yew wand from now on." Voldemort didn't look relaxed either; he'd just blocked a full-power spell fueled by Harry's entire magical reserves.

The two most powerful wizards of the age stood facing each other—one wounded, the other drained. Harry lay knocked back into the rubble, still clutching his wand, but utterly devoid of magic.

Voldemort attacked again. Dumbledore barely dodged, the Killing Curse striking the rubble and kicking up a cloud of dust.

Harry had no strength left. He could barely open his eyes, watching Dumbledore fend off Voldemort's relentless assaults. Though his left-hand wound had healed, Dumbledore was growing overwhelmed by Voldemort's endless barrage of spells.

"Ha! Old man, you're wounded!" Voldemort taunted, trying to break Dumbledore's focus. "You're weakening. You're bleeding. And it's all because of Harry Potter—your most beloved student turned traitor!"

Harry lay on the ground, thinking: Dumbledore was losing. He had to do something. But ambush wouldn't work—Voldemort could read his thoughts. Worse—he had no magic left at all.

Then Harry remembered—he'd always kept his pistol holstered on his calf. If he could reach it, if he could just touch it, he might ambush Voldemort. He might have subdued Dumbledore for now, but a moment's lapse would invite retaliation.

"I can let many chances slip," Harry told himself. "But if I land just one shot—I'll win."