, Section 619: Before Dawn 3

Chapter 610, Section 619: Before Dawn 3

The Auror Master didn't understand what the little wizard was saying.

"Your question?"

He initiated the inquiry.

Ian didn't answer. He turned and continued walking out of the ruins.

Shakel followed. "At least tell us who you are?"

Ian didn't stop or turn around. His voice came from ahead, calm and clear: "Ian Prince. A student of Hogwarts."

Shackles was stunned. A Hogwarts student? A twelve or thirteen-year-old Hogwarts student, single-handedly, reduced the stitched monster that had baffled the entire Azkaban to ashes? He opened his mouth, wanting to say something, but found himself at a loss for words.

Flitwick walked over and stood beside Shakel, also watching the boy's back. He was short, but his back was ramrod straight, and his large eyes were filled with complex emotions.

"He is indeed a student of Hogwarts," Flitwick said in a hoarse but calm voice. "At least, that's what he said."

Shakel turned to look at him. "You know him?"

Flitwick shook his head. "I don't know him. But I saw him in Dumbledore's office once. In a rush. Dumbledore didn't introduce him, only saying he was a 'special' student."

Shackles was silent for a few seconds. "Special"—the word, coming from Dumbledore, carried a wealth of meaning. "Special" could be anything—exceptionally intelligent, exceptionally talented, exceptionally dangerous, exceptionally important. "Special" could also mean not being an ordinary person.

"He just said he's here to solve his own problems," Shakel said in a low voice. "What do you think his problems are?"

Flitwick didn't answer. He didn't know, and he didn't want to know. Some things are better left unseen.

In the distance, Ian stopped. He stood at the edge of the ruins, facing the sea, his back to everyone. The sea breeze ruffled his robes and tousled his black hair. He stood there, motionless, like a statue.

Shaker and Flitwick exchanged a glance but said nothing.

"Let's clean up this mess," Ian's voice came from ahead, calm and clear. "Save those who need saving, arrest those who need arresting. Don't just stand there."

Shakel paused for a moment, then turned and walked towards the still-dazed Aurors. "Did you all hear that? Get moving! Treat the wounded, assess the damage, and hunt down the fugitives! Don't just stand there!"

The Aurors, as if waking from a dream, began to bustle about. Some cast healing spells to stop the bleeding of the wounded; others carried stretchers to transport the seriously injured to the makeshift medical station; still others formed small teams to search the ruins for any Death Eaters and prisoners who might be hiding. The professors joined in as well—Sprout helped his injured colleague toward the tower, Slughorn was counting heads, and Flitwick pointed…

A few young Aurors were leading the repairs of the collapsed passage.

Everything is proceeding smoothly.

Ian stood at the edge of the ruins, looking at the sea, at the undulating waves, at the bubbles shimmering in the morning light. His expression was calm, but his deep eyes were churning with complex emotions.

He knew it wasn't over yet.

The stitched-together monster was just an appetizer. The real main course was yet to come.

He looked up at the sky. The clouds were moving slowly, and sunlight peeked through the gaps. In the distance, on the sea, a small black dot was approaching them.

It was not a boat, nor a bird, but a person.

A figure dressed in a long black robe and wearing a hood walked out of the sea. He trod on the waves, each step on the water as if it were solid ground. Water splashed up under his feet and then froze instantly, turning into ice crystals that shimmered with an eerie light in the morning light.

His steps were slow and unhurried, like an old man strolling in his own backyard. But no one felt he was unhurried, because as he approached, the air began to grow heavy, the sea breeze grew cold, and the busy Aurors all stopped what they were doing and looked in that direction.

Shackles turned deathly pale. He sensed that presence, that cold, chaotic, abyssal aura. It was Voldemort. Not the Voldemort who had been repelled by Dumbledore and fled in disarray, but a new one…

A more powerful and more dangerous Voldemort.

"Alert!" he shouted. "Everyone, on alert!"

The Aurors raised their wands, but their hands trembled. The professors were equally tense; Flitwick's wand was already in his hand, but his face was grim. They had just escaped the clutches of the stitched monster, and now they faced Voldemort, and a Voldemort who seemed even more powerful than before.

Ian didn't move. He just stood there, watching the figure getting closer and closer, a faint, mocking smile playing on his lips.

"It's finally here."

Ian said softly.

Voldemort's footsteps halted on the sea, less than fifty meters from the reef of Azkaban. He raised his head, revealing a twisted, inhuman face beneath his hood. Three scarlet eyes gleamed coldly in the morning light, and tiny tendrils protruded from the sides of his neck, swaying gently in the air.

He saw Ian. The black-haired boy standing on the edge of the ruins, the one who had made him uneasy when they first met in Azkaban, the raven that kept his true self awake at night.

His lips curled up slightly, revealing a sinister smile.

"Raven." His voice was soft and husky, carried on the sea breeze. "We've finally met."

Ian looked at him, his deep eyes devoid of any emotion. "You're more cautious than I thought," he said calmly and composedly. "Since the main body doesn't dare come, you've sent an avatar to its death."

Voldemort's smile froze for a moment, but he quickly recovered. "Committing suicide?" His voice was soft yet dangerous. "You think I'm here to die?"

He raised his hand and took something out from under his black robe. It was a mirror—not large, only about the size of a washbasin. The frame was made of some kind of dark gold metal with an eerie luster, covered with intricate runes. The mirror surface wasn't glass, but some kind of flowing, mercury-like liquid, slowly swirling in the morning light.

Ian gazed at the mirror, a barely perceptible glint in his eyes. He recognized the Mirror of Exile, of course. It was a forgery he'd made himself, pieced together from fragments of the Philosopher's Stone he'd gotten from Nicolas Flamel and a few ancient crystals he'd unearthed from Grindelwald's vault. He'd spent a whole week carving the runes, three days fine-tuning the flow of the liquids, and a whole day ensuring every detail was perfect enough to fool anyone.

He did it. Voldemort really treasured the fake mirror and used it against himself.

"Do you know what this is?" Voldemort held up the mirror, its surface facing Ian. The flowing liquid swirled in the morning light, reflecting Ian's image—a blurry, distorted figure, like a crumpled piece of paper.

Ian looked at him without saying anything.

"The Mirror of Exile." Voldemort's voice was soft yet dangerous, tinged with an barely suppressed excitement.

He took a step forward and stepped onto the reef. Tiny tentacles protruded from the side of his neck, dancing wildly in the air like celebratory flags.

Three scarlet eyes burned with the light of victory, and a ferocious, triumphant smile spread across his lips.

Ian looked at him, his deep eyes still devoid of any emotion.

"Do you think I'd stand there and let you take my picture?"

Ian remained silent.

Voldemort's smile froze for a moment.

"What?"

He clearly hadn't expected this.

Ian raised his hand, and the wand slid from his sleeve into his palm. A silvery-white light shot out from the tip of the wand, as thin as a hair, yet carrying an indescribable, irresistible power, heading straight for the mirror in Voldemort's hand!

Voldemort reacted quickly. His body instantly transformed into a cloud of black smoke, narrowly dodging the silvery-white light. The light struck the sea behind him, exploding into a huge column of water, splashing everywhere and turning into countless tiny, shimmering ice crystals in the morning light.

"You—" Voldemort's voice carried a hint of annoyance.

"Did you think I'd obediently let you take my picture?" Ian's voice was calm and composed as he pointed his wand at Voldemort, and another beam of silver light shot out.

This time, Voldemort didn't dodge. He raised the mirror, its surface facing the silvery-white light. The light struck the mirror, but instead of exploding or impacting, it was absorbed by the mirror. The flowing liquid briefly brightened, then returned to normal, as if nothing had happened.

Ian frowned slightly. Genuine or counterfeit? If it wasn't a counterfeit, he made it himself, so of course he knew it was fake. But Voldemort had just absorbed that light with the mirror—that wasn't a function a counterfeit should have. That mirror—his counterfeit—definitely didn't have that ability.

unless----

Voldemort's hands trembled slightly, and his face grew even paler. The mirror shuddered violently the instant it absorbed the light, nearly slipping from his grasp. He held on tightly, his tentacles wrapping around the frame to hold it in place.

"It's useless." His voice was a little hoarse, but still smug. "The Mirror of Exile can absorb any magic and make it its own. Your attack is just charging it up."

Ian looked at him and was silent for a second. Then, he smiled.

The smile was faint and gentle, carrying a complex and indescribable emotion. It wasn't fear or tension, but rather a sense of relief.

"Recharge?" His voice was calm and composed. "That's perfect."

He raised his wand, and this time, a thicker and more intense beam of silvery-white light shot from its tip, aiming straight for the mirror in Voldemort's hand! Voldemort didn't dodge; he raised the mirror and absorbed the light again. The mirror surface suddenly brightened, and the flowing liquid spun wildly, emitting a low, buzzing sound.

Voldemort's hands trembled even more violently, but his smile deepened. "Keep going! Keep going! The more you attack, the stronger it becomes! Once it has absorbed enough energy, your end will be near!"

Ian looked at him, a barely perceptible glint in his deep eyes. He knew the mirror was fake, but he also knew Voldemort didn't. In Voldemort's eyes, the mirror was the true Mirror of Exile, capable of absorbing magic, sealing enemies, and eliminating his greatest threat. But in Ian's eyes, it was just an ordinary mirror, enchanted with color-changing and absorption spells, a fake he had made himself.

But he didn't expose him. He continued his attack—beams of silvery light shot towards Voldemort and the mirror. Each beam was absorbed by the mirror, each absorption making the mirror brighter and more intense. Voldemort's smile deepened, and the smugness in his eyes grew stronger.

"Don't you understand?" Voldemort's voice was soft yet dangerous. "You are leading yourself to your own destruction."

Ian did not answer. His wand continued to emit light, but a barely perceptible smile flickered in his deep eyes.

Finally, the mirror trembled to its limit. The runes lit up simultaneously, emitting blinding light, and the flowing liquid spun wildly, emitting a deafening roar. Voldemort raised the mirror, its surface facing Ian.

"Enough." His voice was soft yet dangerous. "Raven, your time is over."

A blinding beam of light shot out from the mirror, heading straight for Ian!

The light was neither silvery-white nor dark red, but a strange, aurora-like, ever-changing color. It shot towards Ian with astonishing speed, distorting the air and trembling the space in its path, leaving a deep, smoking trench in the ground.

Ian did not dodge.

The beam of light struck his chest.

In that instant, his body stiffened abruptly. His eyes widened, his mouth opened as if to say something, but no sound came out. His body began to become transparent, not gradually disappearing, but being swallowed by the light, slowly pulled into the mirror.

Voldemort watched this scene, his three scarlet eyes burning with barely suppressed excitement. "Yes! That's it! Go in! Go in!"

Ian looked at Voldemort, his deep eyes showing no fear, no anger, only a faint, almost calm understanding. His lips moved, uttering a few words silently, before his entire body transformed into a streak of silvery-white light and was absorbed into the mirror.

The mirror suddenly lit up, then returned to normal.

The flowing liquid swirls slowly, reflecting the empty sky and ocean.

Voldemort held up the mirror, staring at its surface for a long time. There was nothing in the mirror—no Ian, no Raven, no boy who kept him awake at night. Only an empty, flowing liquid.

Then he smiled.

The laughter rose from low to high, from hoarse to shrill, echoing through the ruins, drifting across the sea, and exploding in the sky. Three scarlet eyes burned with a mad, triumphant, and satisfied light, and tendrils protruded from the sides of his neck, dancing wildly in the air like celebratory flags.

"I succeeded—" His voice was hoarse and trembling, "I succeeded—the raven—I—sealed it away—"

He put down the mirror and looked at the ruins, at the terrified Aurors and professors, at the craters and scorch marks still emitting smoke.

"Dumbledore is badly wounded, Grindelwald has escaped, and the Raven has been sealed away." His voice was soft yet dangerous, carrying a morbid, almost manic pleasure. "This world is finally mine."

He burst into laughter.

The laughter echoed in the sea breeze, reverberated through the ruins, and exploded in everyone's ears. No one dared to move, no one dared to speak, no one dared to make a sound.

They just stood there, looking at the mad dark king, at the mirror in his hand, and in the direction where the boy who had once saved their lives had disappeared.