[HP] Chapter 143-145

### [HP] 143: You Can’t Kill Me

Inside Louis, the Tiger Talisman—already on the verge of collapse as it struggled to contain the power of the Twelve Talismans—suddenly shattered.

The sealed energy of the Twelve Talismans erupted all at once. The surge of black qi swelled violently, overflowing from Louis’s body.

Dark mist shrouded him instantly, his once starlit eyes now veiled by a blood-red iris.

At that moment, the Philosopher’s Stone in his hand burst apart, scattering crimson fragments that hovered in the air before being drawn into him with each breath.

The Stone, capable of balancing yin and yang and catalyzing all alchemy, churned a storm within his body.

“This—!”

Veins bulged across Louis’s face as searing agony flooded every corner of his body.

The transformation did not stop—in fact, under the Stone’s influence, it grew more complete, more perfect.

His skin tore and healed, as scales with a greenish sheen pushed through, linking seamlessly piece by piece.

Bones, nails, muscles, nerves, vessels—every part of his body warped and reshaped.

The pain defied all description.

Louis collapsed, writhing across the floor, body twisting uncontrollably.

...

“Found you!”

Elsewhere in the castle, Voldemort’s eyes lit up. His left hand raised Quirrell’s wand.

“Avada Kedavra!”

The jet of sickly green light burst forth, grazing past a half-transparent figure.

Quirrell narrowly dodged the Killing Curse, a bead of non-existent sweat dripping down his spectral face.

Just a little closer—and he would have been struck down!

He didn’t even know if his current state could be slain by the Killing Curse, but he had no intention of finding out.

“Don’t think you can run, Quirrell! The moment you betrayed me, you should have been ready to die!” Voldemort laughed madly, hurling Killing Curses like they were casual hexes, one after another. Yet, whether by accident or intent, every shot missed.

Watching Quirrell’s frantic expression as he fled, Voldemort savored the moment. A year of humiliation, capped by Dio Brando’s scorn—now all of it was washed away in this sweet chase.

“Tell me, Quirrell—what gave you the courage to betray me? Was it Dumbledore?” Voldemort cackled as he suddenly switched to the Cruciatus Curse.

The bolt struck true. With a shriek, Quirrell’s soul crumpled to the floor, rippling like disturbed water.

Voldemort stepped closer, looming over the writhing specter. “And another thing—how did you become a ghost without dying? How did you gain a power even I’ve never heard of?”

That was Voldemort’s greatest confusion. Quirrell had been under his surveillance all along—so how had he suddenly acquired such an ability?

Who taught him? How?

Tormented by agony, Quirrell clamped his mouth shut and even squeezed his eyes closed.

How a soul managed to “shut its eyes” was unclear—but somehow, Quirrell did it.

He knew Voldemort was a master of Legilimency, so he chose to shut himself away.

“Not willing to speak, are you?” Voldemort gave a deranged chuckle. “So, you look down on me as well!”

Voldemort suddenly sprang to his feet, wand raised, and unleashed curses at Quirrell’s soul with mad abandon.

“Crucio! Crucio! Crucio!”

One after another, the Cruciatus Curses rained down as though they cost nothing, wracking Quirrell until he curled up again in unbearable pain.

A flush rose on Voldemort’s face—the perverse pleasure of torture.

“Let’s see how long you can keep that mouth shut!” he laughed hysterically.

“I’ll talk—I’ll talk!” Quirrell cried. The relentless agony nearly knocked him senseless, but in his soul form there was no escape into unconsciousness—he could only endure the full brunt of the curses stacking one after another.

He couldn’t hold out long. Quirrell had never been the type to stand strong; how could he possibly protect someone else’s secret with his life?

“Oh? Finally ready to speak?” Voldemort sneered, wand aimed at Quirrell’s head. “Go on then. Who ordered you? Who gave you this power? How do you communicate?”

Quirrell’s eyes glazed. His mind, shattered by the pain, gave up on resistance. He opened his mouth, ready to spill everything he knew.

In the shadows, Chuan’s fingers tightened around the Soul-Stealing Scroll.

She debated whether to act immediately—to cut Quirrell off before Voldemort could hear something that would endanger her master’s true body.

At last, she steeled her resolve, ready to rip the scroll open.

Even if it meant exposing herself, she could not allow suspicion to fall upon her master. He might not care for such “small troubles,” but as his servant, she had to consider everything on his behalf.

But just as Quirrell was about to utter Louis’s name—and just as Chuan prepared to unfurl the scroll—Dumbledore finally came online.

A dazzling spell shot straight into Voldemort’s back.

Unfamiliar with the body he occupied, Voldemort failed to dodge in time and was blasted into the wall.

The aged wizard approached step by step, white beard flowing, Elder Wand in hand.

It had only been a Banishing Charm—normally a simple spell used for blocking or shielding. Yet in Dumbledore’s hand, it had become something wondrous and devastating, a powerful offensive spell.

Of course, the Elder Wand’s might contributed, but so too did his immense magical strength and lifetime of study.

Even so, that strike was not enough to kill Voldemort—especially not one wielding the Demon Lord’s Sword.

The castle wall exploded outward. Voldemort emerged, sword in hand, hair disheveled, his face still carrying traces of Quirrell’s features.

“Dumbledore?!” Voldemort roared, a flicker of dread in his eyes.

This old wizard had always been one of his greatest fears. Even at his peak, he had no certainty of victory against him—let alone now.

But he had the Demon Lord’s Sword! The blade of undying!

Even if he could not defeat Dumbledore, he would not lose.

“Tom, it has been a long time. It seems life hasn’t treated you kindly.” Dumbledore’s tone was still gentle, though his eyes lingered on the blade in Voldemort’s hand.

“Dumbledore! Save me!”

The Quirrell who moments before looked ready to perish suddenly darted to Dumbledore’s side. “Quick! Kill Voldemort!”

Dumbledore cast him a curious glance, intrigued by the odd state he was in.

“Dumbledore… heh, heh, heh.” Voldemort raised his wand. “Indeed, it has been long. And as you say, life has not been kind. But I have returned from hell itself. I am immortal!”

“You cannot kill me now!”

---

### [HP] 144: I’ve Caught You

Dumbledore frowned as he looked at Voldemort and the Demon Lord’s Sword clutched in his hand. After a moment of silence, he lifted his wand with a gentle flick.

That single motion marked the beginning of a battle between Dumbledore and Voldemort—a battle that had never occurred fifty years ago.

Seeing the movement, Voldemort instantly braced for an attack. But Dumbledore did not unleash any dark curses.

He used Transfiguration.

Without even chanting an incantation or making a deliberate flourish, the stones on the ground seemed to gain life. They fused together, forming a mighty lion of stone, its surface still carrying the rough texture of rock as it roared and lunged at Voldemort.

Transfiguration was one of the fundamental spells of wizardkind—but also among the most advanced. From first through fifth year it was mandatory, and only those with excellent O.W.L. scores could continue studying it into sixth and seventh.

Such an important branch of magic had power not to be underestimated. In the hands of a skilled wizard, Transfiguration became a battlefield-spanning weapon of terrifying versatility.

And Dumbledore was a legendary master of Transfiguration—he had once been the professor of the subject himself.

Faced with the charging lion, Voldemort’s eyes filled with wariness.

At first glance, its stony texture might suggest an incomplete or clumsy transformation, but in truth this was an advanced form of the art.

Not only did it possess formidable combat power, but it also had extraordinary resistance to many kinds of magic—especially the Killing Curse. Ordinary Death Eaters might fail to destroy it even with three attempts. Only Voldemort in his prime could have hoped to obliterate it with a single strike.

Such constructs were similar to the stone guardians of Hogwarts—they too were born of Transfiguration, and their strength was immense.

But no matter how strong, stone was still stone.

As the lion pounced, claws ready to rip him open and fangs poised to crush his bones, Voldemort ignored the imminent danger. With his right hand he swung the Demon Lord’s Sword. A cold flash of light tore through the air.

The proud lion froze like a statue. Dumbledore’s expression tightened—he had lost control of it.

Boom!

The lion collapsed into rubble, its cut surface smooth as glass.

Voldemort’s face lit with wild joy. He hadn’t imagined the sword in his hand truly lived up to Dio Brando’s words—it cut through anything!

Dumbledore steadied himself, Elder Wand sweeping rapidly. Spell after spell shot forth—incantations classified as harmful curses but not dark magic—each aimed at Voldemort.

Voldemort seemed to flip a hidden switch. Wielding the Demon Lord’s Sword, he moved like a sword saint incarnate, slashing every spell in half with ease.

The sword’s “cut through anything” was not limited to the physical. Unless faced with a unique enchantment like Harry Potter’s protection, nothing could misdirect its edge.

The reason Voldemort could not kill Harry was not that the sword was stopped, but that the protection diverted all attacks originating from Voldemort back onto Voldemort himself.

In direct confrontation, there were virtually no spells that could withstand the Demon Lord’s Sword.

That protective magic on Harry Potter—even Dumbledore himself could not replicate it.

“Hahahaha! Dumbledore, I told you, you can’t kill me! But I can kill you! Right now I am invincible!” Voldemort’s face flushed with manic excitement. For the first time, he realized—maybe he could kill Dumbledore, eliminate the only wizard who still threatened him!

He suddenly charged, brandishing the Demon Lord’s Sword like a berserk warrior gone mad, swinging it recklessly as he rushed at Dumbledore.

His swordplay had no technique at all—like a peasant waving a fire poker—but with the blade that cut through all things, it was still lethally dangerous.

Dumbledore, however, remained composed, as calm as a general commanding armies. Every flicker of spelllight at the tip of his wand was like a loyal soldier under his command.

“Useless! Useless! Useless!” Voldemort howled, face twisted, as he reached Dumbledore. The sword swept in a deadly half-arc, a crescent of cold light like a moon slicing toward him.

Swish!

The Demon Lord’s Sword cleaved through the wall effortlessly. But Dumbledore, who had stood there a heartbeat ago, was gone.

Gone too was Quirrell’s soul.

Voldemort froze. He knew Hogwarts had anti-Apparition enchantments—but Dumbledore had cheated.

He’d carved out an exception for himself!

“So you really are as shameless as you look, Dumbledore!” Voldemort snarled, hacking apart a Disarming Charm with his sword. “You preach that Hogwarts forbids Apparition, but you use it freely. If you’ve got any courage, stop running and let me kill you!”

His voice dripped with murderous bravado, but beneath it he was already thinking of retreat.

Against a Dumbledore who could Apparate at will, he had no chance of victory.

“No matter. I am immortal. Even if I can’t kill Dumbledore, he can’t stop me from leaving.” Voldemort’s grip on the sword restored his confidence. He raised his wand and fired a flash of sickly green Killing Curse straight at Dumbledore.

Dumbledore did not take it lightly. With a lift of his wand, shattered stones gathered into the shape of a massive eagle, which dove into the Killing Curse head-on.

Boom!

The curse blasted the eagle apart, sending dust billowing through the hall, blotting out all sight.

A perfect chance!

Voldemort spun to flee—but before he got far, Dumbledore’s incantation rang from behind him.

“Quick, but pointless. No matter what spell it is, I won’t fear it!” Voldemort sneered, Demon Lord’s Sword twitching eagerly as he turned to cleave the magic apart.

But this time, the sword’s cut did nothing. The spell’s effect remained.

A crashing wave surged forth, engulfing Voldemort and trapping him inside a vast sphere of swirling water.

“Water? You’re using water!?”

Realization struck him. The sword might cut through anything solid, but how could it sever formless water?

No blade, however sharp, could slice water. Wasn’t that the old sayingDraw your sword to cut the stream, and it only flows faster?

He’d grown careless, relying too much on the sword. If he had met spell with spell, at least he wouldn’t have been rendered helpless in an instant.

Inside the watery prison, Voldemort’s face turned ashen—not just from lack of air, but from sheer humiliation.

When he tried to raise his wand against the sphere, the sly Dumbledore spun the water prison, tumbling him around like laundry in a washing machine, dizzying him beyond the ability to cast.

“You see, Tom,” Dumbledore said softly, voice calm as his wand guided the churning prison, “there is no such thing as true invincibility. With the right method, every strength has a fatal weakness.”

His eyes glinted behind his half-moon glasses.

“I’ve caught you.”

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### [HP] 145: A Violent End

Inside the water prison, Voldemort’s face was ashen. Hearing Dumbledore’s words, his pupils shrank.

Caught… That humiliation was worse than death itself!

No. He couldn’t waste any more time—he had to escape.

But then his eyes fell on the Demon Lord’s Sword in his hand, and hesitation struck.

That sword wasn’t his. He still needed it, to trade for the Philosopher’s Stone!

What he didn’t know was that the Stone had already been shattered into fragments and absorbed by Louis—there was nothing left to trade for.

Even so, the hesitation lasted only a heartbeat. Voldemort, the Dark Lord, instantly recognized what mattered most.

The sword and the Stone were trivial. If he allowed himself to fall into Dumbledore’s hands in this state, he was finished.

With that thought, Voldemort abandoned both his current body and the sword. He cast a dark spell, turning into a cloud of black mist that seeped out of Quirrell’s body—and out of the water prison.

Dumbledore’s brow furrowed. He tried to split his focus and cast wandlessly, but that black mist seemed to ignore all magical power, slipping past his spells to escape right before his eyes.

“So, he slipped away after all?” Dumbledore sighed, dispelling the prison.

The mass of water splashed down, pooling across the floor in shallow sheets. The razor-edged Demon Lord’s Sword fell straight down, piercing the stone tiles to stand upright.

Quirrell’s dying body slumped into the water beside it.

“Headmaster Dumbledore! Save me—save my body!” Quirrell cried in panic, begging desperately.

“Professor Quirrell,” Dumbledore said slowly, “even if I do save you, you must face punishment. You aided Voldemort in infiltrating Hogwarts—that is no small crime.”

“But Headmaster Dumbledore, I was forced! The moment I had the chance, I came running to report it to you.” Quirrell’s spectral face twisted with lifelike desperation. “Please—use the Philosopher’s Stone to heal me!”

“The Philosopher’s Stone!” Dumbledore’s heart jolted as Quirrell’s words reminded him of the real issue.

The Stone! Where was it?

He rushed to Quirrell’s body, searching carefully.

“Not on him.” Dumbledore’s expression darkened.

Strange. Voldemort, in that mist form, shouldn’t have been able to carry anything away. So where could the Stone be, if not on Quirrell?

“It was Dio Brando!” Quirrell shrieked suddenly, his voice cracking with hysteria. “It was him—it was him who took the Stone! No! I’m finished, I’m finished!”

Ripples spread across the water at their feet, and for a moment the faint face of a bewitching woman flickered on the surface.

Neither the frantic Quirrell nor the focused Dumbledore noticed.

Dio Brando?

Dumbledore’s sharp mind instantly recalled the half-finished warning Harry had gasped before fainting.

“Who exactly is this Dio Brando?” Dumbledore demanded.

But Quirrell was lost in total despair, clutching his head and ignoring the question completely.

“Don’t be nervous, Quirrell. Your injuries can be healed with phoenix tears.” Dumbledore tried to comfort him.

The reassurance, aimed at the core issue, eased Quirrell’s panic instantly.

“Now, Quirrell—tell me. Who is Dio Brando? And who was it that turned you into… this?” Dumbledore asked in a grave tone.

This was crucial. That so-called “Dio Brando” was very likely the mysterious figure hidden in Hogwarts, the one helping Voldemort stir chaos—perhaps even the “deeper darkness” Firenze had warned of.

“Dio Brando is the leader of the United Villains of the World, All One Big Family organization. His purpose was to test Voldemort, to see if he was worthy of joining their ranks,” Quirrell blurted quickly.

“What… what ‘One Big Family’?” Dumbledore’s first reaction was that Quirrell was mocking him.

What kind of ridiculous name was that? Some kind of joke?

Apologize to every villain in the world!

“That’s really the name. The organization is powerful. Dio Brando’s subordinates include a female examiner who has been monitoring Voldemort, as well as other strange-looking but formidable lieutenants.”

Quirrell continued, “I’m not lying, Dumbledore! That so-called examiner—the woman—she was the one who helped the three-headed dog chase down Snape.”

“Examiner? Water? Not good!” Dumbledore’s gaze snapped to the puddles at his feet. Alarmed, he seized Quirrell, preparing to Apparate away.

Suddenly, an aura of evil so overwhelming it made even Dumbledore’s hair stand on end surged upward from below. Quirrell, beside him, shrieked in horror like prey glimpsing its predator.

A colossal skeletal hand erupted from the water, seized Quirrell in its grasp, and—amid his screams—dragged him down into a sinister scroll.

The scroll fell, landing lightly into a slender, lavender-hued hand.

That hand extended from the water’s surface alone, with no body attached.

But soon, more followed. Smooth pale skin, long limbs twined with a golden whip—until the voluptuous figure of Chuan rose fully from the water, appearing before Dumbledore.

“Greetings, Professor Dumbledore. On behalf of my master, I extend you regards.” She bent gracefully at the waist, bowing with an elegance that was both mocking and alluring.

“Your master?” Dumbledore’s grip on the Elder Wand tightened. “You mean… Dio Brando?”

“Oh, hohoho~ you jest. Dio is merely one of our organization’s cadres. My master is someone far above us—an existence beyond compare.”

Chuan laughed sweetly, her full chest trembling with the motion.

This woman—this ability… and she claims to be only a servant? Her power over water is more bizarre than blood curses themselves.

Dumbledore’s face hardened. “What is your purpose?”

He raised his wand slightly, prepared to strike her down.

“Our purpose? Simple. To gather all the villains of this world… and bring them under unified management. But today, my goal is merely to clean up the loose ends.” Chuan’s smile faded as her eyes settled on the Elder Wand. “Tell me, Dumbledore—do you really mean to kill me?”

Dumbledore’s pupils contracted. His usually gentle gaze sharpened into cold ferocity.

His wand rose. Without a word, a Stunning Spell shot forth—fast, efficient, the kind of silent casting that could catch ninety-seven percent of wizards off guard.

But Dumbledore was fast… and Chuan’s whip was faster.

The golden whip around her arm lashed out like a living serpent, coiling around the orb of spell-light. Incredibly, it seized the magic itself.

“What—?”

Dumbledore’s eyes widened, more shaken than he had been even by the Demon Lord’s Sword cutting through spells.

The golden whip gave a twitch, and the spell shattered like glass. Chuan, unruffled, slowly sank back into the water.

“Do not worry, Professor Dumbledore. We’ll have plenty of opportunities to meet again in the future.”

Before Dumbledore could unleash a stronger spell, she vanished beneath the rippling surface.

The Demon Lord’s Sword disappeared with her.

Dumbledore stood in the spreading puddles, face grim. Suddenly, the anguished cry of Fawkes echoed from the direction of the Headmaster’s office.

He spun around, heart clenched.

“Fawkes?”

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