Chapter 114: Zero Gameplay Experience
"What now, Headmaster?"
Although Ryan was tempted to urge Dumbledore to cast aside his reservations—after all, a price had already been paid, so what was a little more to ensure Voldemort was dealt with for good—he held his tongue.
The Headmaster was, at his core, a man of the 19th century. For an educator of that old school, convincing him to strike down one of his former students was not so different from convincing a father to kill his own son.
All Ryan could do was apply a little pressure, hoping Dumbledore would make a decision quickly.
Couldn't he see the "veteran Auror-level" Gellert at his side, practically trembling with anticipation? Ryan felt that if the Headmaster didn't decide soon, he'd miss out on all the action.
"Dumbledore, I don't need you to give me the Philosopher's Stone. Just let me leave Hogwarts Castle, and I will return Quirrell's body," Voldemort said, seemingly lowering his demands.
Dumbledore's brow relaxed slightly, and the tip of his wand began to bob up and down in the air.
The gesture earned him a sharp frown from Gellert, who nudged him twice with his elbow, a clear signal for Dumbledore to be serious.
"Tom, I'm sorry, but I refuse," Dumbledore finally said after a tense moment, his resolve hardening. He would capture Voldemort here and now, no matter the cost.
An expression of utter shock and disbelief appeared on Quirrell's face—Voldemort's expression. The Dumbledore he knew had always been indecisive, soft-hearted. Why was he so resolute this time?
He had no time to ponder it. With negotiations broken, his only option was to exploit his unique state of existence and the fact that Quirrell's body was not his own to break through the encirclement.
In the next instant, Voldemort forced the body to attempt Apparition. He was immediately hit with a backlash from Hogwarts Castle itself, and jagged cracks spread across Quirrell's skin.
Yet, he hadn't moved. He was still in the exact same spot.
"It cannot be denied that the grand alchemical matrix laid out by Lady Ravenclaw and Mr. Slytherin a thousand years ago makes Hogwarts a unified whole," someone said.
Voldemort turned to see the old wizard Ryan had called 'Professor Flamel' speaking slowly. "Therefore, without the corresponding authority, one cannot perform unauthorized actions within Hogwarts. Apparition, for example."
"As a blood descendant of Slytherin, you possess a certain degree of authority yourself. That is why you were able to even attempt it, though it came at a price."
Voldemort was deeply displeased by this explanation. "What do you know! This entire castle was designed by the greatest of the four founders, Slytherin himself! Of course I can Apparate as I please!"
The old man didn't argue. "Perhaps. But if one of those two were presiding over Hogwarts, I imagine modifying the alchemical matrix in certain areas of the castle wouldn't be so easy."
The sheer audacity of his tone! The man spoke as if he were on the same level as the Hogwarts founders! Voldemort was furious. "And who are you!"
"Nicolas Flamel," the old man stated calmly.
"Nicolas Flamel? So what? Is Nicolas Flamel supposed to be some—" Voldemort blurted out, only realizing halfway through his sentence that yes, Nicolas Flamel was indeed a very big deal.
Wait! How did Dumbledore get this man to show up?
Back in my prime, I, Lord Voldemort, never even crossed paths with him!
This game has no balance at all! If they don't nerf the White Wizard faction, how is anyone supposed to play?
Voldemort felt that this game, Wizarding World Online, offered zero gameplay experience. The damn devs only knew how to keep buffing the White Wizards!
It had gotten so bad that even a descendant of Slytherin couldn't Apparate inside Hogwarts anymore!
Fine. Ryan, the child, would be difficult to capture in a short time. Nicolas Flamel and Dumbledore were out of the question; he couldn't beat them right now. Flitwick, a Head of House, was no pushover either. That left the unfamiliar old man. The best strategy was to attack him, throw them all into disarray, and then look for an opportunity to escape.
After weighing his options, Voldemort fixed his gaze on Gellert and, raising his wand, fired off two blasts of Avada Kedavra.
An ordinary Killing Curse was just that—ordinary. But Voldemort's was different. It was the signature spell that had allowed him to terrorize the wizarding world. As Ryan had sensed, he had poured his own profound understanding of death into the curse, making it terrifyingly powerful.
The only known weakness of a Voldemort-brand Killing Curse was, perhaps, a Harry-brand Disarming Charm.
"The essence of death... impressive," Gellert remarked, watching the green bolts of light speed toward him. "While his other talents are lacking, his exploration of magic's fundamental nature shows a unique style. It's commendable."
As he spoke, a sheet of blue fire erupted before him, completely swallowing the green light.
Why is every single one of them a powerhouse? Voldemort's heart went cold. Judging by that blue fire alone, this old man was no weaker than he was.
Blue flames... he felt like he'd heard of them somewhere before. But he had no time to think. His plan had devolved from taking a hostage, to launching a surprise attack to cripple one of them.
Now, he realized he couldn't take down any of the five people in front of him in a short amount of time. In fact, he might even be captured if he faced any of them one-on-one.
In that moment, Voldemort felt a despair deeper than the night he had faced Harry and lost both his body and his magic.
No, I have to abandon Quirrell's body. I'll use my current form to break through! Voldemort surged with magical energy.
A great cloud of black mist formed, radiating a corrosive aura and the timeless stench of death. The moment it appeared, it began to spread like ink dropped in water, eating away at its surroundings.
Within the mist, Quirrell's body flickered in and out of view. It was now covered in so many cracks that it looked like a ceramic vase that had been shattered and was only just holding its shape.
Countless wailing faces churned within the dense black fog as Voldemort commanded it to charge straight at the five wizards.
He's feigning an attack to cover a retreat, Ryan thought. A classic diversion to escape.
Sure enough, halfway through its charge, the black mist reversed direction and bolted for the exit. Ryan, pretending to be a diligent teammate, tried to cast a Shield Charm on everyone. As he expected, three of the five were untargetable.
"Finite Incantatem!" he shouted, pretending to put in effort on the offensive.
The spell hit the black mist but had no effect whatsoever.
While the outcome was expected, Ryan noticed something. The black mist that Voldemort had become also gave off that same "untargetable" feeling.
"Mr. Gellert just mentioned the essence of death..." he mused. It was clear that Voldemort, by integrating the essence of death into his magic, had reached a new plateau of magical prowess.
It was just like Mr. Flamel's mastery of alchemy, which allowed him to draw upon conceptual things to create his devices. Combining this with his own magical experiences and knowledge of powerful wizards, Ryan deduced that once a wizard had thoroughly mastered a certain field of magic, the next step was to infuse that magic with their own, personal understanding.
But what kind of understanding is it, exactly...?
~~~
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