Chapter 101: The Finale of the Prophecy (Part 2)

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The striking red glow was as intense as molten lava, while Voldemort's dark mist seemed like a cooled, black crust. Though there was no perceptible change in temperature, the scene unfolding before him resembled an eruption of lava swallowing everything in its path.

Voldemort's face contorted in agony as he endured a torturous pain that twisted his features to their limits. The remnants of his dwindling strength seemed perilously fragile against this eroding red light. Even if Harry stood still, without taking any further action, it would take no more than 20 or 30 seconds for the crimson energy to completely obliterate Voldemort.

This crimson glow was identical to the magical energy radiating from the floating island above. It was a powerful magic, sourced from an unknown, awakened entity—something far beyond Voldemort's ability to approach, especially in his current, disembodied state. Yet, driven by a relentless desire, he had arrived here, sensing the peculiarities and secrets concealed within this place well before his arrival.

Voldemort, born in 1926, had heard peculiar tales at Hogwarts, legends that time had not yet erased. Although forty years had passed since these events, fragments of the stories still lingered at Hogwarts.

These stories, unrecorded in any book, dated back to the late 19th century. At that time, Hogwarts still retained professors who had experienced that era firsthand. Interestingly, Voldemort managed to gain the favor of nearly every professor, a fact that greatly benefited him in gathering stories of past events.

Piecing together these fragmented clues, Voldemort learned that in 1892—the year Dumbledore first entered Hogwarts—a hidden battle had shaken the school. The entire Hogwarts castle trembled from underground rumblings, and massive, armor-clad trolls wreaked havoc in Hogsmeade and other nearby areas.

Phineas Nigellus Black, the headmaster then, suppressed all news of the incident. As a result, Black, already unpopular, later earned the dubious honor of being known as Hogwarts' worst headmaster.

Back then, students were curious about what had occurred, and Voldemort, with his formidable intellect and ambition, was no exception. Unlike the other students, however, he had a unique advantage—strength, cunning, and a true Slytherin's relentless determination.

After investing considerable effort, he eventually located this ancient battleground beneath Hogwarts.

In that place, someone had once fought a monstrous dragon-like creature, whose chest bore a half-formed fairy. The fierce battle had shaken even the castle walls. Confirming this, Voldemort was elated—he sought immense power and dreamed of wielding it to pursue his own form of immortality.

Yet Voldemort's excitement soon turned to disappointment. The battlefield had been thoroughly cleaned, leaving him empty-handed, with no artifacts of value. All he found was the fossil-like statue of the defeated dragon, seemingly abandoned by its victor as a testament to their achievement.

The preserved fossil statue held a powerful force; the creature appeared to have transformed through this energy. While the fairy on its chest remained flesh and blood, the fossil enveloping its lower half was a magical construct, molded into a stone shell.

However, Voldemort found no means to harness this power at the time. It was too dangerous, too overwhelming—a bizarre magic that he could not control.

It was this encounter with such potent magic that later influenced Voldemort's behavior toward Harry. This crimson energy didn't fit neatly into the usual categories of lawful evil (black-silver) or chaotic evil (pure black). Instead, it seemed to be the chaotic good—formed from countless mingled feelings of fear, sorrow, and pain.

Regardless of its classification, this energy embodied the very pinnacle of its category. Born chaotic evil, Voldemort found himself incompatible with chaotic good energies. Although tempted by this force, he knew he could never wield it. But when he sensed the pure chaotic evil darkness within Harry, Voldemort's long-dormant desire stirred once more.

Though there was some truth to the words of his supposed allies, Voldemort's ultimate goal was singular: to seize the chaotic, dark energy within Harry—one that resonated deeply with his own nature, an ultimate, unbounded dark power that could push him past his former limits.

Yet, in his weakened state, Voldemort had no choice. Currently, he was no match for Harry; his power, diminished to a mere three or four percent of its peak, was barely above that of a Hogwarts student. Only his wealth of battle experience allowed him to survive thus far.

In Voldemort's mind, the only force capable of countering that chaotic darkness was something of equal magnitude—the mysterious power preserved within the fossil statue, which he had once found insurmountable.

With vast accumulations of knowledge and experience, Voldemort had finally developed a rudimentary means to harness this formidable power. While fully claiming it was still impossible, he could manage to utilize its lingering residue.

After all, the original wielder of this power was long dead, leaving it as a lifeless, masterless force.

Suppressing the unbearable, soul-searing pain with a grim silence, Voldemort dared not lose focus even for a moment. Suddenly, a magic circle outlined in thin black lines materialized around him. He flung the captured crimson energy into its center, where the red glow swiftly permeated and devoured the black lines. Under his guidance, this ownerless force became the magic circle's energy source, and a fractured crack appeared the moment the spell took effect.

A faint shattering sound seemed to echo from the void.

The mirror shattered—above the magic circle, space splintered like broken glass, creating a jagged, three-meter-wide hole. At the instant this portal ripped open, all the ambient magic in the air drained into it, like a bottomless pit suddenly opening in the ocean, creating an enormous whirlpool as countless waters were sucked in.

Perched above the entrance to the Abyss, Hogwarts was already one of the places closest to its depths. Now, using this vast power, Voldemort had reopened the gateway to the Abyss!

A glint of cruel intent shone in his malevolent gaze. He was never one to accept defeat lightly. If he couldn't possess the Philosopher's Stone or harness Harry's power, then he would destroy it all instead!

"You're courting death!"

Harry's eyes blazed with fury as he realized Voldemort's intentions. The Abyss was universally acknowledged as the ultimate enemy of the magical world—a truth never in dispute. By recklessly opening a portal and inviting the Abyssal demons to the surface, Voldemort had now branded himself a traitor of the highest order!

Betraying one's own kind was unforgivable, and this transgression far surpassed every atrocity Voldemort had ever committed.

"As long as you're dead!" Voldemort rasped, his voice scratchy and thin as he hovered like a thin cloud of black mist.

"Then no one will know any of this."

"I'm already dead—a corpse, killed by the Boy Who Lived eleven years ago."

"Who would suspect someone as dead as me?"

Deep down, Voldemort was unwilling to admit his role as a traitor to the magical world. He knew well what that kind of betrayal meant—the whole wizarding community would turn against him in vengeance.

What he craved was immortality and ultimate power, not betrayal without reward. The Abyssal demons had no interest in alliances; they only consumed magic itself, intending to seize every ounce of magical energy in this world, killing any being who could wield magic.

History had proven this repeatedly, with countless fools sacrificing their lives to verify the truth: those who attempted to summon the Abyss or betray their own race often fell to their own stupidity.

Fortunately, they were in Hogwarts. The school's powerful wards shielded against detection, and its proximity to the Abyss made such a gateway barely feasible. Attempting to open such a passage anywhere else would be nearly impossible. Even a thumb-sized portal would attract the merciless Abyssal Judgement Army, eradicating any who dared breach the world with their presence. No wizard would allow demons to taint their realm—releasing the Abyss was a threat far greater than releasing a dangerous beast into their midst.

"Merlin's pants, are you a reincarnated sewer spirit?" Harry retorted, struggling to contain his outrage. "Is your brain just full of sludge?"

Voldemort's absurdity rendered him nearly speechless.

"If it weren't for Grindelwald…"

"Forget it, dammit! There's no reasoning with you!"

"Grindelwald might've been a clown, but Dumbledore? He was just as bad, constantly spinning up his righteous 'hero-building plans.' Someday, when he finally kicks it, I'm going to throw a party on his grave and clear out his shrine offerings! That old coot's been so preoccupied with fishing for a champion that he finally pulled up something disgusting—a filthy maggot flinging dirt everywhere and splattering me in the process!"

"The Abyss opening? Not my problem! Let someone else deal with it," Harry muttered, casting a wary eye at the silhouette emerging from the portal. The demon struggling to squeeze through was at least fifteen meters tall and easily the rank of a Centurion. Harry didn't stand a chance against something of that level. Maybe he could handle a lower-ranked demon to practice his spells on, but this was a fight far beyond his limits.

Not wasting a second, Harry spun around on his Firebolt 2001 and took off. But he'd barely flown twenty meters before a transparent magical barrier blocked his escape.

"Albus! Dumbledore!"

"You senile old man, enough already!"

Harry punched the barrier with all his strength, but it didn't even ripple. The invisible cage left him trapped, unable to escape.

As soon as the barrier appeared, a sharp crack sounded behind Harry. The portal, which had nearly expanded to four meters, was forcibly compressed back to two meters by an unknown power and continued shrinking. The demon, caught off guard, had half its body crushed, shattering into rubble as a fountain of blood sprayed out, filling the air with a strange, sweet scent.

"I'll deal with you later!" Harry muttered venomously, turning around with a murderous glint in his eyes. The spacious surroundings made it ideal for him to maneuver on his broomstick.

"There's no way I'll be able to sleep tonight until I finish you off."

Harry cracked his neck, producing a satisfying pop.

"I think I know how to mark a target now," he said, his gaze intense. As a three-quarters Awakened, Harry could see Awakened energy, a perception ordinary wizards could only dream of without special tools. They could sense magic traces, but not see it with such clarity.

Since ingesting the Philosopher's Stone and purifying his magic, Harry's control had improved. Awakened magic differed from typical magic—it could endure independently of the wizard's body without requiring an incantation to sustain it. Regular wizards' magic was like saltwater: natural magic was the water, and a wizard's will was the salt. Without transformation, this magic would soon dilute into the ambient natural magic.

But Awakened magic was denser. When it entered an Awakened body, it underwent a transformation, like oil that couldn't dissolve in water, granting this magic the longevity seen in ancient magical sites.

As a black oil droplet marked Voldemort, the dark wizard's senses immediately picked up on the foreign energy. Unlike hapless poachers who had fallen victim to similar marks in the past, Voldemort had once stood at the pinnacle. Just as he moved to expel this alien power from his body, a familiar incantation caught his attention.

"Avada Kedavra!"

The black trigger pulled, releasing a thin, snake-like flash of green. Voldemort's dark mist darted aside, but the deadly emerald serpent arced mid-flight, snapping back toward him with relentless accuracy!

The Killing Curse's speed wasn't fast, and Voldemort's black mist twisted and contorted to evade it. The green light struggled to catch up.

"Avada Kedavra!"

The ivory trigger clicked again, unleashing a barrage of green serpents that filled every possible escape route. They swarmed Voldemort's shadowy form, fangs sinking into the mist and dissolving it.

The soul-rending scream of Voldemort pierced the air, each Killing Curse carrying enough malevolent intent to activate but lacking the magical power to destroy his spirit. Harry, still operating with limited magical reserves, could only muster 1.3 units of magic, barely above the average adult wizard's 10 units. Each snake depleted his energy further, leaving the spells with insufficient potency.

The Killing Curse, a lethal poison, was useless if spread too thin. Though Voldemort had been struck multiple times, the venom's dosage wasn't enough. The soul-crushing effect was inadequate, leaving Voldemort's diminished mist clinging to life.

"I told you, the Killing Curse is lousy," Harry muttered, raising his gun to the dark mist's remnants as he approached on his broomstick.

"Time to go, little Voldy."

Harry's eyes narrowed. "Best not come back in your next life."

"Sectumsempra!"

Black blades flashed, slicing through the remaining mist.

"Now… it's your turn."

The portal continued to shrink, yet not before nearly thirty demons had managed to pass through. After the Centurion's grisly demise, the others charged forward, unhindered.

What greeted them was a torrent of black blades like a storm and deadly red bolts from the ebony gun.

The strange sweetness of blood hung heavily in the air, mixing with the clear waters of the underground river.

And in that moment—the river ran red.

(End of chapter)