At that moment, the small pool of ancient magic in the Chamber—glowing with a mysterious aura—was being slowly drawn into Voldemort.
As each thread of power merged into him, an astonishing change followed.
Voldemort's face—still wearing Lockhart's handsome features—began to twist and reshape. His contours warped, his features reassembled in an eerie pattern, gradually returning to something closer and closer to his true appearance.
Watching that, Harry couldn't help but suspect that if Lockhart's looks fully "matured" into Voldemort's, Voldemort might be using Lockhart's body like an embryo—reviving himself all over again.
And honestly… there was a very real chance that was exactly what he was doing.
Voldemort sensed Harry's intrusion. The face that already carried bone-deep cold turned even more sinister, as if an arctic wind had blown straight out of hell, freezing the air around them.
He stared at Harry with feral hatred. His jaw clenched, facial muscles twitching, and he forced the words out through his teeth—venomous, bitter, and endless.
"Damn you, Harry Potter… and that brain-dead idiot Lockhart! Why couldn't he wait a little longer?
Just a little more time, and I would've completely remade this fool's body into my perfect vessel… and returned properly!"
Harry didn't attack immediately. He wanted information first.
"You're not the real you," Harry said calmly. "You're a soul split off from the original. From what I can tell, you're the version from your school days.
This afternoon, I spent hours in Hogwarts' Restricted Section, digging through old texts. And if my guess is correct, the immortality magic centered around splitting the soul… is called a Horcrux."
Voldemort's pupils tightened. A flicker of shock slipped through his eyes.
He truly hadn't expected Harry to uncover his most hidden, most critical secret… in a single afternoon.
But Voldemort was Voldemort. Even as a student, he possessed a composure most people could never reach.
After that brief moment of surprise, he steadied himself, slowly spread his hands, and curled his lips into a cold, dismissive smirk—arrogance dripping from every syllable.
"And what if you know? I've hidden my Horcruxes in places scattered across the world—so well concealed that even if you roused every wizard alive and had them search everywhere, you'd find nothing.
Besides… are those future fragments even really me? If you destroy them one by one, what does it matter to me?"
Harry wasn't surprised by that philosophy.
Splitting the soul dragged in a mess of ethical questions, the kind that never had clean answers. Those severed fragments lacked the complete memories that came after—so were they still "you," or something else entirely? People could argue forever.
But one thing was certain for Harry.
Even if death was staring him in the face, he would never split his own soul.
If he proved himself once, he proved himself forever. Across every world, every universe, there would only ever be one Harry Potter.
Harry's gaze dropped to the pool of ancient magic at Voldemort's feet. He phrased it like a question, but his certainty was absolute.
"So this is where your confidence comes from. Even without a full resurrection, you can still wield power like this… because of that pool.
Voldemort—you've mastered ancient magic."
"You know ancient magic?" Voldemort's expression flickered with unmistakable surprise. Then, as if something clicked into place, he sneered. "That makes sense. The spell you used earlier—an ancient variant of the Killing Curse, isn't it?
So you're one of the inheritors of ancient magic too. No wonder you could overpower me in a direct clash."
He was wrong.
Harry wasn't using ancient magic at all.
What Harry used was his own chaos magic.
Chaos magic wasn't just different—it was higher in nature, broader in scope, and vastly more overwhelming than ancient magic.
That was why, in their beam clash, Harry had steadily held the advantage and forced Voldemort back.
Naturally, Harry had no intention of explaining any of that.
He'd gotten what he came for.
So he moved.
Harry drew his wand from his pocket dimension and slammed it down against the ground.
The rocky floor beneath him bulged upward, swelling fast—then split as a colossal stone giant, more than thirty feet tall, erupted from the earth.
Voldemort, of course, refused to be outdone.
He called the Basilisk.
It dropped from the ceiling like a nightmare given weight, coiling behind him—an immense serpent presence that made the air feel smaller.
Before the true fight turned lethal, Voldemort had his own plan: stall for time, absorb more of the ancient magic, and keep growing stronger.
He lowered his voice and spoke in Parseltongue—ancient, eerie, and hypnotic, a whisper of hissing temptation.
"Harry… I've seen Lockhart's memories. You've been going to the Restricted Section again and again. That tells me something.
You crave power… just like I do.
So why not cooperate? If you work with me, I'll share ancient magic with you. And later… we can rule the wizarding world together."
Harry's answer was pure disdain.
"This world does need change," he said flatly. "But the one to drive that change will never be you.
Go back into the dust of history where you belong."
That reply stunned Voldemort.
In his imagination, Harry would've answered like a cliché—furious condemnation, shouting about friendship and love and righteous bonds, charging in with wand raised like a hero in a children's story.
Instead, Harry didn't play the part at all.
Worse—his words carried a shadow of something that sounded uncomfortably similar to Voldemort's own ambition: reshaping the world, forcing a sweeping reform.
Voldemort went rigid. Eyes wide, he stared at Harry, searching his face for the slightest hint that it was a joke.
Seconds passed.
Then Voldemort's mouth began to curl upward.
First a small hook.
Then wider.
Wider still—
until it became an exaggerated, twisted, eerie grin.
In that instant, it was as if Voldemort had seen himself reflected in Harry: another soul hungry to overturn the order of the world and rebuild it from the bones up.
His face contorted, and he burst into a harsh, skin-crawling laugh.
"HAHAHAHAHA! This is beyond ridiculous!
The so-called savior of the wizarding world… and I, the Dark Lord everyone spits on… are the same kind of terrorist—both dreaming of controlling the wizarding world!
No—you're even more terrifying than I am. At least I never managed what you did: keeping Dumbledore completely fooled, making him utterly blind to the danger you're hiding.
Dumbledore—my dear teacher—what a farce.
He pours all his energy into stopping me, never realizing there's an even worse, even more dangerous Dark Lord lurking right beside him!"
"You mean Dumbledore?" Harry said, almost helpfully, as Voldemort spiraled deeper into manic laughter. "I never hid it from him. Honestly—we're on the same side."
Voldemort froze.
"…What?"
The wild grin on his face locked in place as if a sheet of frost had snapped over it.
He lifted his gaze sharply, staring at Harry like a blade—trying to carve out any sign of deception.
But Harry's expression was calm and serious.
He wasn't joking.
"HAHAHAHAHA!" The realization only made Voldemort laugh harder, crazier. "So that's it! The greatest wizard—what a hypocrite. A 'White Dark Lord' is still a Dark Lord. I should've known!"
It was obvious Voldemort was misunderstanding Dumbledore completely. Harry didn't feel like letting that stand, so he explained again—still almost polite.
"Sure. We want to rule the world, reform the world… but not the way you do. Our real goal is to save the world."
"Save the world?" Voldemort sneered. "How laughable. Dressing yourself in noble lies to make your conquest sound righteous—I've used that trick already."
Harry attacked.
He controlled the stone giant to suppress the Basilisk, clashed beams with Voldemort, and—absurdly—kept talking like this was a debate he had time for, baiting Voldemort into slipping up.
"No," Harry said, calm and cutting. "You don't understand. You're powerful, sure—but your vision is narrow.
Our enemy was never other wizards, and it was never the Ministry.
Our enemy is Death… and things far more evil than Death.
Dimensional demon gods."
"Dimensional demon gods?" Voldemort frowned, the unfamiliar term catching him off guard. "What are dimensional demon gods?"
Harry's expression didn't change as he answered, almost like he was lecturing.
"Most of them are indescribable great beings—existing in forms beyond mortal comprehension. They're a grotesque fusion of nightmare imagination and terrifying power.
They can twist time and space, rewrite reality, and devour entire worlds.
While you're still fixated on something as small as the wizarding world, Dumbledore and I have already been planning how to face those entities… and how to reach other worlds."
Hearing something he'd never even imagined—something that sounded insanely powerful even though he didn't fully understand it—Voldemort froze.
His first instinct was suspicion: was Harry lying?
But then the idea settled into place with chilling logic.
Yes… that would explain why Dumbledore would stand with Harry. That would explain why they would plan to conquer the world.
Because they needed to mobilize everything.
Every resource.
Every force.
To face gods that strong.
Damn it.
Voldemort suddenly felt completely out of the loop.
So he wasn't Harry's true enemy at all.
He was just a stepping stone on their road.
Harry and Dumbledore hadn't even been looking at him.
That realization cracked something in him.
His pride couldn't tolerate it—not for a second.
If gods existed, then he would become a god.
And once he became one, he'd kill every other god… until he stood as the only one left.
Sure enough, after hearing news that shook him that hard, Voldemort could no longer stay calm.
And that was the moment Harry had been waiting for.
Harry whipped his wand—and fired the Super Electromagnetic Railgun he'd been charging this entire time.
Boom!
A razor-edged lightning sword tore straight through Voldemort's Shield Charm and slammed into him, ripping one of his arms apart.
An arm flew.
Voldemort screamed.
Then, without hesitation, he dove into the pool of solidified ancient magic beneath him.
What was strange was that the pool looked shallow—barely a thin layer.
But the instant Voldemort jumped in, his whole body sank into it completely, vanishing as if the liquid had swallowed him whole.
Harry rushed to the edge, assessed it for only a heartbeat—
then jumped in after him.
He felt a subtle, concealed ripple of space.
When his vision cleared again, the damp, oppressive Chamber of Secrets was gone.
He now stood inside a lavish, extravagant hall saturated with violent, raging magical pressure.
Harry swept his eyes across the surroundings and made the judgment immediately.
This was some kind of ancient-magic ruin—an old site tied directly to ancient magic.
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