Magic is idealistic. Casting spells requires firm willpower and concentrated focus to manifest one's desires.
Every professor had repeated this phrase not just once, but over and over, hoping students would develop the habit of concentrating their minds and letting their thoughts guide their magic during spellcasting.
Yet being overly deliberate isn't necessarily good.
In the early stages, it might help students master spells faster, but to advance to deeper levels, they needed their own unique understanding of magic.
Fire Shield, a spell derived from cursed flames, was at its core still Dark Magic—exceptionally sinister Dark Magic. More than willpower, what it truly demanded was... emotion!
Hatred, destruction, bloodlust... all manner of negative emotions blended together, merging with the materialised magical power within the incantation.
Harry erupted with unprecedented energy, unleashing the true Fire Shield!
The eternal blue cursed flames instantly ignited the entire graveyard. Those eyes inherited from his mother now glared at the noseless freak opposite with unprecedented ferocity.
Voldemort stared dumbfounded at the twin-headed avian monstrosity that had devoured his spell and now lunged toward him.
He simply couldn't believe this was magic Harry could wield.
In his daze, he seemed to see the phantom of a white-haired middle-aged man materialise behind Harry, watching him with indifferent eyes.
"Begone!"
Waving his wand, Voldemort sent the fiery apparition flying. The flames surged endlessly, one monstrous beast after another taking shape and charging forth.
"Harry! I admit I underestimated you. This spell is impressive—Dumbledore didn't teach you this, did he? Absolutely not!
"It was Lawrence, wasn't it? That brat never looked like the obedient type. Since you want to play, I'll give you a proper game!"
Voldemort extended his long tongue, swiping it across his palm as crimson flames spewed forth, coalescing into a three-headed serpent that clashed with the blue beasts.
"This is true cursed fire! Put away your pathetic candle flames!"
Voldemort's wand emitted continuous explosive hums as pitch-black smoke billowed from it. To Harry's shock, his flames were being corroded by the smoke.
The rolling fumes were devoured, transforming into even more dark mist.
Over a dozen flame beasts summoned by Harry still stood on the field, but they were no match for the black smoke and three-headed fire serpent.
"Expelliarmus!"
Voldemort didn't even flinch as he deflected the spell.
"What's wrong? Can't keep up?"
"Was casting one spell of this scale your limit?"
Voldemort sought not just to destroy Harry physically—he wanted to break his spirit, to make him surrender. He loathed that gaze, despised Harry's audacious overestimation of himself.
'Did you truly believe you were my destined rival?'
'How dare you have the courage to strike at me?!'
Crimson light blotted out the sky. Harry's vision blurred as Voldemort vanished with a swirl of robes.
When he reappeared, he was already at Harry's side, his wand glowing with terrifying radiance.
"Crucio!"
Harry dodged nimbly, rolling haphazardly across the ground. The missed strike only enraged Voldemort further. Black lightning wove into a vast net as Harry desperately curled into a ball, squeezing into the gaps between the strands.
"What a pity there are no spectators for this duel. Otherwise, those former traitors would have loved to see the Chosen One's disgrace!"
"Go on then, kill me! Voldemort!" Harry shouted. As his head hit a rock, a sudden clarity struck him, revealing a secret.
From the moment Voldemort was resurrected until now, he had never once used the Killing Curse on Harry!
Harry scrambled to his feet, excitement and recklessness overtaking him: "Are you scared? You killed Barty Crouch Jr, tried to kill Riddle, killed Wormtail—but why won't you use the Killing Curse on me?"
"You're afraid it'll rebound like thirteen years ago, aren't you? Afraid it'll turn back on you."
"I bet you've run out of that potion, haven't you?"
"No one recognises you as their master anymore. If you die again, no one will bring you back. From now on, Riddle is Voldemort—you're just a wraith less substantial than a ghost!"
Voldemort's crimson serpentine eyes widened. For once, he seemed at a loss for words.
After a long pause, he finally responded with icy detachment, his voice shrill and cruel: "Don't flatter yourself, Potter. I merely wish to torment you, to make you repay every debt your mother owed."
"I'm just toying with an insect. How amusing that you've mistaken this for fear."
"I am Voldemort! I fear nothing!"
"Then use the Killing Curse!" Harry swung his wand to point directly at him. "Go on!"
He was gambling—betting that Voldemort feared his mother's protection, betting on what Wayne and Dumbledore had said about love's magic not failing before he came of age.
Unfortunately, regarding the first point, he'd gambled wrong.
"Then I shall oblige."
"Avada Kedavra!"
"Expelliarmus!" Harry instinctively cast his most confident spell, swinging his wand with all his might.
Voldemort's face twisted in mockery. Using a Disarming Charm against the Killing Curse? Only a fool would attempt something so futile.
But when the two spells collided, his smirk vanished.
Instead of dissipating as expected, the red beam of the Disarming Charm held its own against the green light. Suddenly, Voldemort felt his wand vibrating uncontrollably in his grip.
Harry experienced the same sensation—as if holding a vibrating rod, his entire body shook with the force.
Though the wand threatened to fly from his grasp, it stubbornly adhered to his palm.
A golden beam shot from his wand tip.
In the dazzling glow, he saw identical golden light erupt from Voldemort's wand. The two beams connected, forming a golden orb between them.
Harry remembered Mr Ollivander's teachings.
His wand and Voldemort's shared the same core—a feather from Fawkes.
When spells from such wands clashed directly, they would force a Priori Incantatem (reverse spell) effect.
Both Harry and Voldemort rose into the air, the golden thread binding them together until it finally shattered into thousands of luminous arcs.
Voldemort's eyes widened in shock as he struggled to sever the connection, while Harry fought to maintain it. They remained locked in this stalemate.
"Potter! What have you done?"
In a moment of madness, Harry blurted: "Voldemort, my wand's male. Yours is female. She's scared of me."
Voldemort was so furious that colour actually returned to his face.
Suddenly, a celestial melody rang through the air, emanating from each beam of light—the song of the Phoenix.
To Harry, the sound was indescribably beautiful, but to Voldemort, it might as well have been the equivalent of eating shit.
The wands vibrated more violently, the beams of light dancing along the golden threads as the two engaged in a tug-of-war, neither wanting the glowing orb to reach their own wand.
Driven by sheer survival instinct and the courage inspired by the Phoenix's song, Harry actually managed to overpower Voldemort, forcing the orb into his opponent's wand.
Instantly, Voldemort's wand emitted a piercing shriek, and a spectral figure floated out from it.
"Hold on, Harry!" the figure said.
The voice sounded distant, echoing, and Harry found himself weeping uncontrollably. He hadn't seen this person since he could remember, yet he would never forget.
"Mum!"
"Your father's coming too..." she whispered. "We're all here to help you. Stay strong, my boy."
A tall man with messy hair flew out from the tip of Voldemort's wand, landing beside Harry with a comforting smile.
Then came more and more apparitions—people Harry didn't recognise, but he knew with certainty that these were all victims of Voldemort, just like his parents.
Voldemort panicked utterly as the spectres circled him, whispering curses that pierced straight to his soul.
He unleashed his magical power in a shockwave that kicked up dust all around, but the apparitions remained unaffected.
At that moment, space distorted slightly, although neither Harry nor Voldemort noticed; their attention was entirely focused on the golden threads and apparitions.
"Avada Kedavra~"
Ripples spread through the air as a figure suddenly squeezed through space, casting the Killing Curse at Voldemort.
A dreadful sense of danger surged through Voldemort. With a desperate flick, he shattered the golden threads while two serpents flew from his robes, intercepting the green light as sacrificial victims before falling lifeless to the ground.
The apparitions didn't disappear with the broken light; instead, they clustered closer around Voldemort.
"Avada Kedavra!"
The voice came from all directions. The newly arrived figure shimmered, and suddenly, countless duplicates appeared throughout the space, all pointing their wands at Voldemort to cast the curse again.
"ROAR!"
Half of Voldemort's body exploded spectacularly, though strangely without any gory splatter. The destroyed half transformed into a solid shield that blocked all the Killing Curses, causing the golden apparitions to dissipate.
"You!"
"Calling for your father?"
"Lawrence!"
"What do you want from this daddy?"
Voldemort trembled with rage, momentarily too afraid to speak lest Lawrence continue insulting his ancestry.
Pfft!
Harry, who had been tense ever since being brought here, finally laughed before collapsing to sit on the ground.
"Wayne! You're finally here!"
"I've been here a while," Wayne said as he landed, making no further moves. "But you looked so happy seeing your parents, I thought I'd give you more time."
The mutilated Voldemort glared at him with pure venom.
That damned Lawrence had no honour, ambushing a 200-year-old wizard in his seventies!
Sensing Voldemort's murderous intent, Wayne quipped mockingly, "Voldy, your resurrection magic isn't quite perfected yet, is it? Only half-revived?"
"Don't get cocky, Lawrence," Voldemort's voice echoed eerily. "This isn't the end, merely the beginning."
"You've won today, but that doesn't mean you'll always win. I've walked the path of immortality further than anyone."
"Sooner or later, your head and soul will become my trophies, displayed alongside Dumbledore's. That's my highest recognition of you."
"Your recognition?" Wayne scoffed. "Why would I need validation from a half-blood who won't even acknowledge his own lineage?"
Voldemort's expression instantly darkened to match Snape's trademark scowl.
"I'm a half-blood? Then what are you—a far baser Mudblood!"
"That's the difference between us, Voldemort," Wayne said calmly, staring at the half-formed figure. "Bloodline is your precious status symbol, but to me it's worthless."
"Just look at you now—the noble heir of Slytherin—still beaten into a dying dog by me."
"Sharp tongue," Voldemort hissed, his snake-like pupils narrowing as he raised his chin.
"You only speak so arrogantly because you struck first."
Voldemort realised he despised Wayne Lawrence no less than Harry Potter.
Because they represented opposite extremes.
Born in an orphanage, he was inherently insecure and had never spoken of his origins at school. Everyone assumed he came from noble pure-blood stock that had simply fallen on hard times—an assumption he never corrected.
Yet Wayne Lawrence hailed from the aristocracy; his family was prominent even in Muggle society—a status unreachable for someone raised in an orphanage.
At Hogwarts, everyone knew Wayne came from pure Muggle lineage, with no wizards in his ancestry for generations.
And he'd been sorted into what Voldemort considered the lowliest house—Hufflepuff.
But what did it matter?
Every house respected and feared him. No one dared mention blood purity in his presence. Even proud Slytherins had mostly bowed before him.
When Pettigrew brought him intelligence about Wayne, Voldemort recognised his own envy. Looking at Wayne was like staring into an inverted mirror.
The reflection shone radiant, while he remained hideous outside the glass.