Almost instantly, Harry triggered his self-defense mechanisms.
However, this ambush was not directed at Harry's physical body, but rather at his mental fortifications. Suddenly, his vision went black. A moment later, he found himself standing in the sun-drenched Hogwarts Valley.
Sunlight? What is going on? Isn't it supposed to be night? How can there be sun?
He quickly realized that he had likely encountered a psychic attack; someone had invaded his mental world. At this thought, his urgency vanished. Within a mental world reinforced by Ancient Magic, he was effectively a god. To put it in modern terms, he was the GM (Game Master) of this private mental realm. "Cheating" didn't even begin to describe his advantage here.
He began a careful search of his mental landscape to locate the intruder. Sure enough, it didn't take long to find a hooded figure standing by the shore of the Black Lake. The silhouette looked strangely familiar. With a single thought, he summoned the figure directly before him.
"Harry Potter..."
A soft, feminine voice spoke. The more Harry heard it, the more familiar it became. "You are...?" he asked uncertainly.
"You don't even recognize an old friend? That's truly heartbreaking, Potter..." The figure giggled, reaching up to pull back the hood. She revealed a face that was both charming and delicate.
It was a feminine, "lady-boy" version of Voldemort. Or rather, she should be called Merope.
Harry's lip twitched. He truly couldn't comprehend why this version of Tom would maintain such a form. "I have to ask—have you completely transitioned?" he inquired curiously.
"Indeed. Changing one's gender is not a difficult task for a wizard," Voldemort—no, Miss Merope—giggled. "Moreover, a female identity serves as excellent cover. It causes people to lower their guard, making them willing to give me whatever I desire. It is far more fulfilling than using the Imperius Curse."
Harry fell silent. He was genuinely speechless. After a long pause, he managed to squeeze out: "You really are twisted now."
"Twisted?" Miss Merope smiled faintly. "Perhaps. But it is certainly a path less traveled..."
With that, she lifted her robes to reveal two white, elegantly curved legs. That wasn't the focus, however; the focus was on the two weapons strapped to her thighs—one long, one short.
"What are those?" Harry asked, intrigued.
"These?" Miss Merope drew the weapons and combined them into a single scythe. "The Scythe of Death. Surely you've seen such a thing before?" She swung the scythe, and the space around her seemed as if it might be torn apart by the blade.
But nothing happened.
Miss Merope let out a surprised "Oh?" She clearly hadn't expected the Scythe of Death, capable of tearing through space itself, to be unable to cut through the mental world of a mere young wizard.
"I'm curious," Harry said, unhurried. He had sensed the power of the scythe—it was formidable, but this was his world. "Why would you return to Hogwarts, or to Britain for that matter? As far as I know, Voldemort isn't fond of you. He still holds a grudge for what you did to him. Your primary soul is quite petty, as you should know. Recently, he was even discussing joining forces with me to deal with you."
"Is that so?" Miss Merope narrowed her crimson eyes. "But you also know that we are essentially the same person. How could I not know what he's thinking? In fact, if that fool hadn't given you that false impression, I never would have caught you off guard so easily."
"And what do you plan to do next?" Harry asked nonchalantly. "After you 'solve' the problem that is me?"
"Devour him," Miss Merope smiled eerily. "Such excellent nourishment, such a perfect opportunity. If I didn't cherish it, Merlin would surely despise me."
"You two certainly have a wonderful relationship," Harry remarked. "But did you ever consider that he might be digging a hole for you in secret?"
"Really?" Miss Merope brandished the Scythe of Death. "Regardless, you will face death first. So, Harry, tell me... how would you like to die?"
"I'd like to die of old age," Harry replied flatly.
"You're being naughty, Harry," Miss Merope swung the scythe. "Naughty children must be punished..."
She brought the scythe down in a fierce arc. Nothing happened. A second later, she realized the weapon was no longer in her hands—it was in Harry's.
"Nice scythe," Harry said with a grin, holding the weapon. "But it's mine now."
"What?!" Miss Merope was stunned. She hadn't expected Harry to seize her weapon so effortlessly and silently. The Scythe of Death was supposed to be immune to spells, capable of even nullifying Avada Kedavra. Yet, this seemingly ordinary fourth-year student had stolen it without a sound.
Miss Merope began to question reality. Wait, this is a damn fourth-year?
One couldn't entirely blame her. She had left Hogwarts during her first year and had never experienced Harry's true terror, and Voldemort had neglected to share that particular bit of intelligence. This led her to operate under the assumption that he was "just a slightly stronger fourth-year," causing her to look down on the main Voldemort.
You! Damn useless failure! You can't even handle a child? Go eat dung!
"Clearly," Harry said with a smirk to the dazed Merope, "Voldemort didn't just lie to you; he refused to share the most vital information. Perhaps he wanted to use my hand to kill you—to remove a thorn from his side."
"Impossible," Miss Merope said stubbornly. "The plan isn't finalized yet. He wouldn't do this!"
"And yet, here we are. My patience is wearing thin." Harry twirled the scythe expertly. "There's an old saying in the East: 'Born a son, raised to be a daughter.' I wonder how Merope Gaunt would feel seeing her son turn into a daughter—and taking her name to boot. Hahaha..."
Miss Merope took a deep breath; she admitted her composure was breaking. "But you cannot kill me, Harry." A red light flashed in her eyes. "You might erase me from your mental world, but you cannot truly kill me."
"And why is that?" Harry asked.
"You didn't think I made no Horcruxes, did you?" Miss Merope sneered. "Though, perhaps they shouldn't be called Horcruxes... Anyway, do your worst. This time, I admit defeat."
"Can I ask a few questions first?"
"Ask away. Whether I answer depends on my mood," she replied with a cunning smile.
"About your time in America—what exactly were you stirring up over there?" Harry asked, his eyes narrowing.
"No comment," she replied instantly.
"We're friends, Merope," Harry continued. "A Scythe of Death is a rare item. For you to get one, your connections must be significant. Why not tell me... Legilimens!"
However, he read nothing. There was only a blank void. It seemed Merope had emptied her mind before invading Harry's mental world.
"You cannot read my thoughts!" Miss Merope sneered, clearly adopting a stance of non-cooperation.
Harry didn't waste another word. With a flicker of thought, Miss Merope turned to ash within his mental world.
The Awakening
He withdrew from the mental realm, still clutching the Scythe of Death. Opening his eyes, he saw Veratia's concerned gaze.
"How is it, Harry? How do you feel?"
"I feel alright," Harry smiled, handing the scythe to Veratia. "Look, here's my trophy. Supposedly, it's a scythe once used by Death himself."
"It's lovely." Veratia didn't even look at the weapon. Instead, she cupped Harry's face in her hands. "Are you truly okay? You fainted just now, I was scared to death..."
"I'm fine," Harry said, patting his chest. "Just a bit of a mental attack. Merope... the rogue soul fragment of Voldemort that escaped, tried to invade my mind. I took her out. Simple as that."
"Simple as that?" Veratia asked.
"Of course." Harry smiled. He turned his head and realized he was lying on a warm bed. Looking up, he saw the Milky Way. "Where are we?"
"Great Hangleton," Dumbledore's voice came from the side. He was holding a pendant—Slytherin's Locket.
"Is that Voldemort's Horcrux?" Harry asked.
"Yes," Dumbledore sighed. "But Voldemort escaped. He left behind this empty vessel, having drained the soul fragment to facilitate his flight."
"That's possible," Harry said. "But that's not the point. What about his Death Eater servants?"
"Not a single one got away. I've already summoned the Aurors to take them into custody," Dumbledore said with a smile. "Quite a spectacle, Harry. The Death Eaters have been wiped out in one fell swoop. For now, even if Voldemort escaped, it is an acceptable outcome. Without his followers, the trouble he can cause will be significantly diminished."
Harry nodded in agreement. Having gained a Death Scythe and the news of Merope Riddle's return made the ordeal a net gain.
"I tried to read Merope's memory in the mental space," Harry added, "but I found nothing but a blank. Why?"
"Perhaps because it wasn't the main soul," Veratia suggested, then paused. "Should I say 'he' or 'she'?"
"She," Harry shrugged. "Merope told me that changing gender is trivial for a wizard. She grew tired of life as a man; being a woman allows her to hide easily."
"Disgusting," Veratia said with a look of disdain.
"Well then." Harry climbed out of bed, which promptly turned back into an unremarkable pebble. "I suppose we should head back? Everyone must be waiting. Where is the Triwizard Cup?"
"Right over there," Dumbledore pointed. "It's still a Portkey. Picking it up will transport you back to the center of the arena."
Dumbledore continued: "Regarding tonight's events, I must give Cornelius Fudge a brief account. Whether he believes it or not, he must recognize that Voldemort has returned."
"I suggest you bring the Death Eaters and have a word with Rita Skeeter," Harry said with a mysterious smile. "I think Ms. Skeeter will be very interested in these prisoners, don't you agree, Professor Dumbledore?"
Dumbledore looked back at Harry and nodded with a faint smile. Harry was right; sometimes, the power of the media is the true invisible hand. This battle was indeed a success; Voldemort had lost another Horcrux, which was cause for celebration.
Once Dumbledore had left, Harry turned to Veratia. "Wait... I recall you were fully prepared. Why did you let Voldemort escape?"
"Oh..." Veratia looked away, speaking vaguely. "I think you should head back quickly, Harry. Don't keep everyone waiting too long..."
"Veratia!" Harry said seriously. "I want to know what happened. Don't hide things from me."
Veratia turned back, her violet eyes looking at him tenderly. "Fine, since you ask..."
"After some discussion, we agreed that not completely eradicating Voldemort was the better choice."
"Why?" Harry asked, confused, though a basic answer was already forming in his heart.
"The Death Eaters must be dealt with, but not all of them," Veratia said with a slight smile. "I'm sure Mr. Malfoy taught you this logic, right? It's part of politics."
Harry had a moment of realization. He remembered the lesson Mr. Septimus had given him on the concept of "Nurturing the enemy to ensure one's own importance."
"You political types... your hearts are truly dark," he remarked with a sigh.
--
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