Harry scanned the deep purple energy. It felt somewhat similar to a disintegration spell, but also fundamentally different.
If disintegration was about breaking something down, then this deep purple energy was about annihilation.
Its intensity was so extreme it could even annihilate space itself—so even the Mirror Dimension couldn't fully withstand it.
There was no doubt: this was some kind of terrifyingly powerful ancient magic.
Harry studied the young man's features carefully, and an inexplicable sense of familiarity rose in his chest.
Then it clicked—he remembered a face he'd seen before. This face was younger, livelier, but the bone structure and features were unmistakable.
It was the same person.
It was Voldemort.
But Voldemort had been killed by Harry. So why was he standing here alive?
Harry's thoughts snapped to another moment—when he'd traveled the multiverse and the Ancient One had annihilated a lingering remnant soul.
What if that hadn't been a mere remnant?
What if it had been a method—some kind of ancient magic capable of using a fragment of a soul to revive?
Harry's mind spun, ideas slamming through his head like a storm.
He forced down the shock, locked his gaze onto the figure before him, and tested him with a cold question.
"Who are you?"
To Harry's surprise, the blond young man didn't hide at all. He answered with arrogance and a hint of mockery.
"Me? I'm Tom Marvolo Riddle—Hogwarts' greatest student in history.
And you—today's so-called savior, a savior in name only. I truly don't understand how you managed to defeat Voldemort."
The moment he introduced himself, Harry knew exactly who he was.
Of course.
The wizard in front of him was Voldemort in his youth.
Harry spread his hands, casual as if they were discussing the weather, his tone dripping with contempt.
"How did I beat him? Voldemort's nothing but a weak relic that should've been buried under history's dust a long time ago. To defeat him, you just face him head-on and end it.
If anyone's 'famous for nothing,' it's him—the Dark Lord who was all show and no substance."
"You—!"
Young Voldemort's face flushed with anger. He was still too immature to hide his emotions perfectly. He pointed at Harry and shouted,
"Shut up, you filthy insect! Voldemort is Slytherin's heir—he's the greatest dark wizard the wizarding world has ever produced!"
Harry's expression turned strange. Linking that reaction with what Voldemort had just said, he couldn't help laughing.
"Wait, buddy… you don't seriously think I don't know who you are, do you?"
Voldemort's expression shifted, and Harry sneered.
"Tom Riddle. Voldemort's name. No wonder you and Voldemort look so alike—because you're the same person.
So Voldemort really did master some ancient magic—enough to split his soul and cheat death.
But I didn't expect young you to be this stupid, handing out your real identity so easily.
Just wait, Tom. I'll find every single one of your soul fragments—and I'll kill you for good."
Voldemort's face darkened. He hadn't expected Harry to truly know his name.
Did that mean his plan hadn't succeeded? Did he never become the man everyone feared so much they couldn't even say his name?
Even so, Voldemort forced a hard grin and kept talking.
"So what if you know? I'm hiding inside Hogwarts right now, and you can't find me. Once I finish that one thing completely, I'll return—and I'll rule the wizarding world!"
As soon as he finished speaking, a purple glow wrapped around Voldemort and the basilisk.
In an instant, both vanished from where they stood.
Staring at the Mirror Dimension, now on the brink of collapse, Harry frowned, thinking.
Where, exactly, was Voldemort hiding?
…
The moment Harry released the Mirror Dimension, he saw Dumbledore and the others waiting nearby.
As soon as Dumbledore spotted him, he asked immediately,
"Harry—what just happened? Where did the basilisk go?"
Harry explained everything that had occurred, then added,
"I suspect Voldemort split his soul multiple times, creating magical artifacts meant for revival. And that this soul fragment has already mastered ancient magic."
"Ancient magic?" Voldemort alone was serious enough—add ancient magic to it, and even Dumbledore had to treat it with full gravity. "Then we must act with everything we have. We need to find Voldemort's trail."
Then Dumbledore looked at the students gathered nearby. A handful of them had been drawn by the commotion, and they'd clearly overheard the conversation.
Seeing the fear on their faces, Dumbledore soothed them gently.
"Don't worry, children. The professors will handle everything. All you need to do is forget what you heard and attend your classes as usual.
And remember—do not spread this."
…
Time passed in a blink.
Harry, Ron, and Hermione were walking through the entrance hall when they noticed a small crowd around the noticeboard, reading a piece of parchment that had just been pinned up.
Seamus and Dean looked thrilled, waving them over.
"They're starting a Dueling Club!" Seamus said. "First meeting tonight. I wouldn't mind learning some dueling—might come in handy one day…"
"What, you think Slytherin's freaks are going to duel fairly?" Ron said. He'd always had a grudge against Slytherin, but he still read the notice with obvious interest.
"It'll be useful," Seamus said to Harry and Hermione. "Are we going?"
Harry nodded. Of course he wanted to go—he wanted to see what Lockhart was really up to.
The other students didn't know Lockhart's true level.
Harry did.
Lockhart's real combat ability was only around the level of an average adult wizard—nowhere near any of the professors.
With Harry agreeing, Hermione and Ron agreed too. Even Ginny heard about it from Ron and decided she'd go along as well.
So at eight o'clock that evening, they returned to the Great Hall.
The entire hall had been transformed.
Where the long tables usually stood, a huge raised platform now dominated the space.
Under the light of countless floating candles, the stage gleamed so brightly it was almost hard to look at.
Nearly the entire school had shown up, pressed close together, each student holding a wand, faces full of excitement.
Ron grinned and asked,
"Wonder which professor is teaching us?"
Hermione was just as excited—but as she watched the crowd, she also kept part of her attention fixed warily on Ginny.
Right now, Ginny was her biggest rival.
Thinking it through, Hermione answered,
"I heard Professor Flitwick used to be a dueling champion when he was younger. Maybe it'll be him."
Harry just smiled faintly and said nothing.
He didn't need to guess to know who was running this club.
It had to be that attention-seeking show-off—Lockhart.
Sure enough, there was a commotion at the doors.
A wizard strode in wearing robes with a tailored vest, a single protective glove on one hand—Gilderoy Lockhart.
As he walked, his cape with its swaying fringe flared and snapped, making him look absurdly dramatic and, unfortunately, rather handsome.
The contrast beside him was brutal.
Professor Snape—greasy-haired as ever—looked like a grim shadow next to Lockhart's polished shine.
Harry thought maliciously: maybe one of Lockhart's reasons for dragging Snape in as an assistant was to make himself look even better by comparison.
When they reached the center of the Great Hall, Lockhart swept his gaze across the students, paused briefly on Harry, then raised his voice.
"Ahem! Everyone, eyes on me!
Professor Dumbledore has permitted me to open this little Dueling Club, so you can be properly trained—just in case one day you find yourselves needing to defend yourselves.
Now, let me introduce my assistant, Professor Snape. He has told me he is, in his own words, 'not entirely ignorant' when it comes to dueling, and has sportingly agreed to help me with a short demonstration.
So first, Professor Snape and I will duel, to give you a reference—so you can understand the proper flow of a duel between the world's finest wizards.
And don't worry. I'll hold back. I'll return your Potions professor to you in one piece!"
Harry frowned slightly, staring at Lockhart's confident face.
Something was off.
Lockhart had always had enough self-awareness to know exactly how strong he wasn't.
How could he look this confident challenging Snape?
Harry stayed calm, deciding to watch where Lockhart's confidence was coming from—confidence that supposedly let him beat an outstanding Potions master.
Lockhart and Snape turned to face each other and bowed.
Then they raised their wands like arrows pointed at their chests.
Even now, Lockhart showed not a hint of tension. He even smiled to the students on both sides and explained lightly,
"You see? This is the proper dueling stance. On the count of three, we may begin casting!"
A prefect stood aside as referee and started counting down.
"Three… two… one!"
They both raised their wands. Snape's fundamentals were obviously sharper—he shouted,
"Expelliarmus!"
A brilliant red jet blasted from the tip of his wand, streaking toward Lockhart.
Facing the attack, Lockhart remained smugly confident. He didn't even bother to dodge—he merely flicked his wand, and the red light was snuffed out in midair.
Snape's brows drew together.
Harry was stunned.
And the students erupted into cheers, shouting Lockhart's name over and over.
"Professor Lockhart! Professor Lockhart! Professor Lockhart!"
What was going on—was Lockhart actually that strong?
To intercept a spell at the last instant like that—killing it cleanly before it could land—required razor-sharp judgment and timing. It usually only happened when the gap in skill was enormous.
And yet Lockhart had done it to Snape.
Lockhart spread his arms wide, drinking in the cheers, then grinned at Snape.
"Professor Snape, then it's my turn!"
He lifted his wand. He didn't speak an incantation.
He just swung hard.
In the next instant, the dueling platform changed—stone walls erupted and slammed forward, charging straight at Snape!
And at last, Harry sensed what was wrong.
Mixed into Lockhart's spellcasting was a brutal, violent current of power.
That was ancient magic.
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