"Why would such a foolish person be my future self?" The younger soul fragment circled the main soul, which hovered in midair as a cloud of black smoke, sneering with disdain.
"Defeated by Dumbledore, fine—but to be bested by a newborn baby? And even after twelve years, you've made no progress. You've been turned into a trinket, ha!"
"You're a piece of Voldemort's soul, split off when he was younger," Harry said with certainty, his voice steady despite his pallor. One hand clutched his chest as he knelt on the ground.
Harry was stalling. The dagger that had pierced his armor carried a dark magic curse he didn't fully understand. He focused on casting Purify Spirit to cleanse the curse, while simultaneously channeling the healing power of Riptide to mend his wounds.
He hadn't expected two of Voldemort's Horcruxes to appear at Hogwarts at the same time. From what this fragment was saying, it seemed Lucius Malfoy, one of Voldemort's followers, was involved. Something Voldemort had entrusted to Lucius—why hadn't Lucius given it to him?
Harry had plenty he wanted to say to Lucius, but right now, the priority was defeating the enemy before him.
The battle wasn't over yet.
The only thing Harry could take some comfort in was his quick reflexes. The moment he sensed something was wrong with Ginny, he had leaned back to dodge, and the basilisk-scale mail he wore—though it hadn't offered much protection—bought him just enough time.
At least the dagger hadn't pierced his heart.
"You're stalling, Potter," the younger Voldemort turned, flashing a malicious smile. "But that's fine. I'll allow it. Struggle all you want—it'll only make it sweeter when you realize it's all futile, ahahahaha!"
Voldemort erupted into maniacal laughter, convinced he had already overcome the problem that had stumped even his main soul, the one that had failed repeatedly.
"Let your final moments bear witness, foolish Potter," Voldemort said gleefully, showing no sorrow for the destruction of the diadem, another Horcrux. "You're about to see my ascension. Like you, shedding the constraints of a mortal body, I will become stronger! More perfect!"
"Yes, I will become a new demon!"
Voldemort raised his arm triumphantly, his right fist crackling with fel energy. He gripped the hovering, demented main soul tightly.
"Main soul—no, you're no longer the main soul," Voldemort said softly, staring at his future self. "You, who failed time and again, who became so pathetic you lost all wisdom—you're unfit to be called the main soul. Just as I intended when I created my first Horcrux, I am the true main soul."
Vivid green fel flames spread like a spider's web, enveloping the original main soul. The new Voldemort was drawing power from his past self, siphoning its essence.
For the first time, the main soul, long imprisoned in a dark cell and driven to madness, seemed to regain a flicker of awareness. The agony of having its essence forcibly extracted by fel energy made it wail.
"…No… don't… no…"
No further sounds came. The younger soul fragment—now, more accurately, the new main soul—acted swiftly and ruthlessly. In less than two seconds, he had completely absorbed everything from his future self.
Harry knew exactly what this new Voldemort was doing.
As Voldemort had proudly declared, he was transforming into a demon.
Fel energy was seeping into Voldemort's soul, the destructive force reshaping him into one of its creatures—a demon.
His once youthful, handsome face was gone. Voldemort's translucent form was solidifying, his pale skin turning a dull, decayed green, marred with grotesque tumors and spines. Bright green fel runes stretched from his head down his body.
It didn't take long for Voldemort to lose all traces of humanity. His legs morphed into massive reverse-jointed limbs, his feet replaced by enormous hooves. His arms, now spiked, bore two sharp, blade-like appendages.
Voldemort had fully transformed into a demon, a bona fide member of the Burning Legion—though, to be honest, he wasn't much different from the demons Harry had killed before.
Ugly, powerful, and repulsive.
"Ah, how marvelous," Voldemort's voice grew deeper, more guttural. "This is power—such incredible power!"
He studied his demonic hand, utterly enthralled by its grotesque beauty.
He could feel the magic—or rather, the fel energy—coursing through him, a power so immense it seemed he could destroy the entire tower with a thought.
But what satisfied Voldemort even more was the intangible connection he now felt—the bond every demon shared with the source of fel energy, the Twisting Nether.
"I've truly achieved… immortality," Voldemort's expression bordered on reverence. "The demons didn't lie. I can feel it—even if I die here, I can be reborn in the Twisting Nether. I am immortal!"
Harry watched Voldemort's ecstatic display coldly, focusing on healing his own injuries.
He knew Voldemort was right. Demons of the Burning Legion, like all demons, were immortal in the material world. Mortals could only destroy their physical forms, but their souls would return to the Twisting Nether, nourished by endless fel energy until they revived.
But Voldemort wasn't entirely correct. To truly kill a demon, one had to destroy it in the Twisting Nether, preventing its return. Alternatively, killing a demon in a high-concentration fel zone could also end it permanently. Holy Light, the antithesis of fel energy, could do the job, as could high-level arcane magic or void energy. There were plenty of methods.
In a sense, Voldemort had achieved the immortality he'd always craved, along with immense power. The only cost, perhaps, was his appearance—but given the transformation from his youthful self to his future form, he likely didn't care about that.
Harry was certain the eredar hadn't bothered to tell Voldemort that even demonic immortality had its limits. The problem was, Harry couldn't currently employ any of the methods to permanently kill a demon outside the Twisting Nether—which was why his expression was so grim.
As a shaman, purifying land tainted by fel energy and restoring life was well within his capabilities. But permanently killing a demon in the material world? That was a tall order. He couldn't exactly let a demon create a high-concentration fel zone just to kill it—that would defeat the purpose.
"You'll die here," Harry said, forcing himself to stand despite the weakness spreading from his chest wound. He leaned on his warhammer for support. "Immortality? Maybe. But do you know how long it takes a demon to revive in the Twisting Nether? Ten years? A hundred?"
"I regret to inform you, Voldemort," Harry taunted, "I've killed more demons than you've ever seen. And even among them, you're the weakest of the lot."
"A pathetic demon like you? In the Twisting Nether, you'd be one of countless others, cannon fodder to fill the front lines. You're not even fit to be a demon commander," Harry continued, his words cutting deep. "Forget the named demons whose infamy spans worlds—you're not even on the level of a felguard or a succubus. With your fel energy? You're barely stronger than an imp. Oh, do you even know what an imp is?"
"Lies!"
As expected, Voldemort exploded with rage.
For him, his appearance didn't matter, nor did the changes to his personality wrought by this power. But weakness? Weakness was unacceptable. He had to be strong, had to dominate.
"You're jealous! Jealous of my power!" Voldemort roared, his fury uncontainable. He had to kill this clown who dared mock him. Clenching his fist, he summoned a ball of fel flame and hurled it at Harry with a deafening blast.
"Earth elemental, heed my call!" Harry shouted.
There was no time to worry about the damage to the castle. The walls of the Headmaster's office rumbled, and a pair of massive earth elemental fists smashed toward Voldemort. Harry didn't seize the moment to attack. Instead, he endured the pain, encasing Ginny's body in layers of stone and sending her into the suitcase world for safety.
It was time to go all out.
The wound in his chest was worsening. Harry had no choice but to enter Ascension form again. In this state, temporarily transformed into an elemental being, his injuries wouldn't deteriorate further, and his combat ability remained intact.
Prolonged Ascension would inevitably turn him into an elemental creature permanently, but he couldn't afford to think about that now.
The castle walls, torn apart, melted into searing lava in an instant. Truth be told, facing Voldemort now—free from Ginny's body—felt easier. At least Harry could unleash his more powerful spells without restraint.
What was there to say to a demon?
Death was the only fitting end.
Lava Burst!
Lightning Bolt!
Elemental Blast!
Earthquake—no, scratch that.
It was undeniably easier. Voldemort—now truly a demon—was already sprawled on the ground.
This fight could have been described with more epic flair, but even infused with fel energy and transformed into a demon, Voldemort wasn't particularly impressive. His fel energy was barely above an imp's, though his physical form was significantly stronger. Still, that was it.
Without Ginny as a hostage, facing Harry's relentless onslaught, Voldemort quickly fell.
"This can't be," Voldemort muttered, his voice barely audible. The mental blow was worse than the physical one. He had achieved his greatest desire—immortality—and gained immense power. This should have been a moment of double triumph. So why had it all gone wrong?
He was questioning everything.
So much so that he couldn't muster the will to struggle.
Most of his body was gone. All that remained of Voldemort's demonic form was his right arm and part of his torso; the rest had been consumed by the molten lava, reduced to ash.
"Just as I said, even among demons, you're nothing special—just cannon fodder," Harry said, reverting to human form. He clutched his chest with one hand and held his warhammer in the other as he approached Voldemort.
"You're finished."
Without waiting for a reply, Harry raised his warhammer and smashed it down on the black diary that had fallen from Voldemort's body.
It was much like when the diadem was destroyed. But instead of a translucent, milky substance, the diary oozed black ink, spurting like blood.
At the same time, Voldemort coughed up a mouthful of demonic blood. Yet, even with his Horcrux destroyed, he didn't die instantly like the diadem's soul fragment. He only grew weaker.
"That was just my old body. I am immortal now," Voldemort said, struggling to prop himself up with one hand, refusing to let his gaze fall below Harry's. "You can't kill me, Potter," he sneered.
"Just this once," Harry said, catching his breath. He tightened his grip on the warhammer and brought it down with a resounding crack.
Voldemort died.
He died quietly, calmly, knowing he wasn't truly dead, so he showed no fear or reluctance.
The higher the rank of a demon, the longer it took to revive. A demon like Archimonde might need nearly ten thousand years. For a weakling like Voldemort? A few days at most.
But the Twisting Nether was a vast, incomprehensible place. Harry didn't know if Voldemort could find his way back to this world.
It didn't matter.
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