, Section 620: Before Dawn 4

Chapter 611, Section 620: Before Dawn 4

Voldemort's figure disappeared into the horizon, and the ruins of Azkaban fell into a deathly silence.

The sea wind howled, stirring up ashes and rubble. The Aurors stood rooted to the spot, wands still raised, but their fingers were frozen. The professors stood at the tower's entrance, their faces etched with despair.

Shakel was the first to speak, his voice hoarse: "He—has been taken away."

No one answered. Flitwick's hands hung at his sides, his wand pointing to the ground, the faint light at its tip gradually fading. He remembered the black-haired boy standing in the center of the ruins, turning the stitched monster to ashes. Less than half an hour had passed.

Sprout supported his injured colleague, tears silently streaming down his face.

Slughorn leaned against the wall, his lips trembling, his voice barely audible: "We—are finished."

Another silence fell. In the distance came the sound of waves crashing against the rocks, one after another, like some ancient, deadly countdown.

Shakel took a deep breath and forced himself to straighten his back. "It's not over yet."

Flitwick looked up at him.

"Dumbledore is still at Hogwarts. Grindelwald isn't dead. As long as they're here, we're not finished." Shackles' voice steadied, and his eyes regained their light. He couldn't believe Dumbledore would fall like this. He couldn't believe the old man who had protected the wizarding world for decades would lose. He couldn't believe it.

Flitwick nodded, gripping his wand tightly. "I'm going back to Hogwarts. You're in charge here."

"I'll go with you." Sprout wiped away her tears and tightened her apron.

Slughorn hesitated for a moment, then stepped forward: "I'll go too. Dumbledore needs people."

Shakel looked at them and paused for a second. "Go ahead. I'll take care of things here."

The explosions of apparitions rang out one after another. The ruins returned to silence.

Voldemort's figure crossed the North Sea, passed the English Channel, and landed on the southern coast of England. He walked slowly, each step steady, his black robes billowing in the sea breeze, the mirror clutched tightly in his hand. He was in no hurry. The prey was already in the cage; Dumbledore was still struggling in his death throes, and Grindelwald was no match for him. This world was already his.

But there was one thing he had to do himself. He wanted to watch Dumbledore's eyes close and personally end the nightmare that had haunted him for decades.

He looked up and gazed northward, where the Hogwarts towers were faintly visible in the morning light.

He laughed. The laughter drifted in the sea breeze, low and hoarse, carrying decades of resentment and triumph.

"Dumbledore, I'm here."

Voldemort landed on the stone steps in front of the gates of Hogwarts.

The castle was quiet; there were no students, no professors, and no annoying phoenix. The gates were wide open, dark and gloomy.

The cave is like the mouth of a giant beast, waiting to devour all intruders.

He stepped onto the stone steps, his tiny tendrils swaying gently in the air as they emerged from the sides of his neck. His footsteps were light, yet carried an unstoppable weight, each step leaving a smoky footprint on the stone slabs.

The hall was empty. Four long tables had been pushed against the wall, candles floated overhead, their flickering flames illuminating the ancient portraits on the walls. The people in the portraits didn't whisper as usual; they simply stared at him in silence. Some eyes held fear, some anger, and some were as empty as the dead.

Voldemort looked up at the portraits, a slight smile playing on his lips. "Tell Dumbledore I've come."

The people in the portrait looked at each other, but no one moved.

"No need." A voice came from the end of the corridor.

Voldemort's smile froze for a moment, then returned. "Dumbledore."

Footsteps came from the end of the corridor, slow but steady. Dumbledore stepped out of the shadows, wearing a purple robe, his silver hair neatly combed, half-moon spectacles perched on his nose, his azure eyes calm as still water, as if he were welcoming a fellow traveler rather than a Dark Lord with legendary power and gifts from deep space.

He walked to the center of the hall, only a dozen steps away from Voldemort. He stopped, put his hands behind his back, and stood there without a wand, without any defense, completely unprepared.

Voldemort stared at him for a long time, his scarlet eyes churning with complex emotions: anger, pleasure, doubt, and a hint of fear that had been suppressed for decades and that he was unwilling to acknowledge.

"You knew I was coming."

Dumbledore nodded. "I know."

"You know what I have."

Dumbledore's gaze fell on the mirror in his hand, looked at it for a second, and then looked away. "I know."

"Then why are you still standing here?" Voldemort's voice was soft yet dangerous. "You should run, Dumbledore. You should hide. You should hide in the castle, behind the students, behind those who would die for you, just like before."

Dumbledore's lips curled into a slight smile. Not mockery, not smugness, but the kind of knowing smile unique to an old man who had seen it all.

A faint, weary smile. "I've run enough, Tom."

Voldemort frowned. "What did you say?"

"I said, I've run enough," Dumbledore's voice was calm and composed. "I've hidden enough. I've concealed enough. I've used other people's lives to protect my own."

He took a step forward. Voldemort instinctively took a step back—then froze, a flash of annoyance in his eyes.

Dumbledore looked at him, at his bloodshot eyes, at the fleeting panic on his face, for a second, then two. "You are my nightmare, Tom."

Voldemort's lips twitched. "What?"

"For decades, I've been thinking. Thinking about how to defeat you, how to stop you, how to stop you before you kill more people. I've considered you my greatest threat, my greatest enemy, my greatest defeat." Dumbledore's voice was calm, yet carried an indescribable weight. "Every night when I close my eyes, I see you. I see the people you've killed, the homes you've destroyed, and how you've become what you are now."

Voldemort fell silent. In his crimson eyes churned complex emotions that even he himself was unwilling to acknowledge.

"Am I your nightmare?" His voice finally rang out, hoarse and low, carrying a hint of suppressed anger. "Do you know that you are my nightmare, Dumbledore?"

He took a step forward. His tentacles thrashed wildly, and a dark red light danced on them.

"From the orphanage onwards, you've been watching me, waiting for me to make a mistake, waiting for me to slip up. You've never trusted me, never truly accepted me; you've only been monitoring, guarding against, waiting to lock me up. You're my nightmare!"

Dumbledore neither refuted nor explained; he simply looked at him.

"You are not worthy to call my name!" Voldemort roared. "You are not worthy to..." "You are right," Dumbledore interrupted him.

Voldemort was stunned.

"You're right," Dumbledore repeated. "I don't trust you, I don't accept you, I've been watching you, guarding against you, waiting to lock you up." He paused. "Because I know what kind of person you are, and what kind of person you will become. I knew from the first day you walked into Hogwarts at the age of eleven."

He took a step forward. This time, Voldemort did not retreat.

"Because I've had those thoughts myself. I've thought about ruling, about conquering, about making all Muggles kneel at my feet. I encountered dark magic and forbidden powers before you did. I know what that feels like—that feeling of being in control, of being superior." Dumbledore's voice was calm, yet every word carried immense weight. "The only difference is, I stopped. You never did."

Voldemort stared at him.

"I am not your nightmare, Tom. You are your own nightmare." Dumbledore sighed. "You crave power because you are afraid. You fear death, you fear failure, you fear being looked down upon. You arm yourself with power, you prove yourself with killing, but you can never fill that hole, that hole that has existed since the orphanage, the hole of abandonment, neglect, and unlove."

Voldemort's body trembled slightly. "Shut up."

"So when you become powerful enough, you start to fear me. Not my strength, because you're already stronger than me. You fear me because I can see that hole." Dumbledore's gaze fell on his eyes, those scarlet eyes churning with anger and fear. "You're afraid of someone truly seeing you."

"Shut up!" Voldemort raised his hand, palm facing Dumbledore. A dark red light gathered in his palm. "You're just an old man without magic! How dare you speak to me like that? What gives you the right?"

Dumbledore stared at the hand, at the dark red light that was gathering, swirling, and growing brighter, for a second. Then he smiled.

"An old man without magic?"

His hands, which were behind his back, his long purple robe, and his crescent-shaped glasses—all began to glow. A golden, soft, warm light emanated from his body, from every pore, every inch of his skin, every cell. The light was not dazzling or intense, but it carried an indescribable power, as if from the very beginning of the world, illuminating the entire hall as if it were daytime.

Voldemort's pupils contracted sharply. "You..."

"You think I've truly lost my magic?" Dumbledore's voice was calm and composed, the golden light emanating from him growing ever brighter. "You think I'm so weak that I can't even defeat the few worthless fools you sent? You think that Azkaban performance was just a show for the Ministry of Magic?"

He took a step forward. The golden light shone even brighter. Voldemort took a step back, then another. The mirror slipped from his hand and fell to the ground with a crisp cracking sound. The mirror shattered, and the flowing liquid gushed out, but it did not glow, nor did it swirl; it simply turned into a pool of ordinary mercury, flowing across the stone slab.

"It's fake." Voldemort stared at the pool of mercury, his voice hoarse. "The mirror is fake—"

"You've been lying to me all along." "Yes," Dumbledore's voice was calm and composed. "You've been lying to me all along."

He raised his hand, and golden light gathered in his palm, transforming into a slender sword burning with golden flames. "My magic has always been there. My legend has always been there. I have been waiting for you—waiting for your true form to come in person."

Voldemort's face turned deathly pale. He stared at the sword, at the golden flames, at Dumbledore's aged face and those deep blue eyes, burning with decades of fighting spirit. He knew he'd been deceived. From beginning to end, from Azkaban to Azkaban, from the "mortally wounded" Dumbledore to the "magical" Dumbledore, from Grindelwald's "betrayal" to the Raven's "sealing"—it was all a deception. They were all bait, all hooks, all part of the net. And he was the fish, the one who thought himself clever, yet walked step by step into the trap.

"You think that's all?" Dumbledore's voice was calm and composed. "Look back."

Voldemort suddenly turned his head.

At the entrance to the hall, two figures stood side by side.

One was Grindelwald. Silver hair, an aged face, and heterochromatic eyes. His wand was clutched in his hand, its tip still emitting wisps of smoke. His robes bore the scorch marks of battle, but his back was ramrod straight; the scars couldn't conceal the aura of a legendary wizard emanating from him. He leaned against the doorframe, a faint smile playing on his lips, his heterochromatic eyes fixed on Voldemort as if he were looking at prey caught in a trap. The other was Ian. Black hair, deep-set eyes, a twelve-year-old face, hands in his pockets. His robes were also stained with dust and scorch marks, but he stood there, calm and composed, as if he had never left Azkaban, never been sealed away, as if he had always been there, waiting for this moment.

Voldemort stared at him, his eyes wide, and for the first time, genuine fear appeared on his twisted, inhuman face. "You...you weren't sealed away?"

Ian tilted his head, a slight smile playing on his lips. "How could I not know that the mirror I made is fake?"

Voldemort's body trembled violently. His tentacles thrashed wildly, and a crimson light flickered on his body. He wanted to run, to escape, to Apparate—but Dumbledore's golden light enveloped the entire hall, and Grindelwald's Fiendfire blocked all escape routes. Ian stood in the doorway, his deep eyes calmly watching him, leaving him a door—a door from which escape was impossible.

"A net of heaven and earth," Grindelwald's voice came from behind, hoarse yet calm, "tailor-made for you."

Voldemort turned to look at Dumbledore. "You think you can catch me like this? I am a legend! I have the power of the deep space! You—" "We have it too," Dumbledore interrupted him.

Voldemort was stunned.

Dumbledore's golden light illuminated the hall. Grindelwald's Fiendfire surged from his wand, black flames climbing the walls of the hall. Ian raised his hand, and a silvery light shone from his palm, sealing the door completely.

Three legends. Three. A former white wizard, a former dark wizard, and a twelve-year-old child of unknown origin. Three legends. Surrounding him.

Voldemort's hand fell to his sides.

The tentacles stopped swaying and hung limply at his sides, the dark red light gradually dimming. He looked at Dumbledore, at Grindelwald, at Ian, for a long time.

"You set up such a huge trap just to catch me?"

Dumbledore did not speak.

"Yes," Grindelwald said for him, "you deserve it."

Voldemort fell silent. He knew he couldn't escape today.

Three legends, three distinct yet equally deadly powers, blocked all escape routes. He looked at the golden flaming sword in Dumbledore's hand, and at the black fiery flames dancing at the tip of Grindelwald's staff.

I watched for a second as Ian gazed at the silvery-white, hair-thin yet irresistible light in his palm.

"Then let's go."

He raised his hand, and the dark red light reformed. The last trace of fear in his eyes vanished, replaced by madness.

The will to fight to the death.