The first curse came like a hammer.
Harry barely had time to register the motion of Voldemort's wand before instinct took over.
He raised his own wand and twisted his wrist sharply.
The air cracked.
The bone-breaking curse slammed into the hastily formed shield and shattered, dispersing into a spray of pale sparks that bit into the surrounding gravestones. Stone groaned. Marble split.
Harry slid back half a step, boots grinding against gravel.
Pain flared up his arm—but it was dull.
Weak, he realized instantly.
Not harmless.
But weak.
Harry's eyes narrowed.
Voldemort had his body back, but his magic had not fully followed him through the ritual yet. The power was there, coiled and hungry, but sluggish—like a predator waking from hibernation.
Good, Harry thought grimly.
Because Harry himself was weakened too.
His magic surged hot and fast, but it crashed against the limits of his fourteen-year-old body, constrained by smaller channels and immature reserves. In his prime, this duel would already be over.
Now—
Now it was a race of precision.
Harry snapped his wand forward.
The air around Voldemort boiled.
A blood-boiling curse—dark, vicious, designed to rupture vessels from the inside out—ripped toward him.
Voldemort's red eyes flashed.
He swatted it aside with contemptuous ease.
A second spell followed immediately, sharper, crueler—a cutting curse that hummed with dark intent, designed not to slice flesh but to unmake it.
Voldemort spun away from it with serpentine grace, robes snapping.
He laughed.
Appreciatively.
"So," Voldemort breathed, circling Harry slowly, wand loose and relaxed in his long fingers. "You know dark magic."
Harry didn't answer.
He sent another curse—this one eating, corrosive, meant to rot flesh on contact.
Voldemort vanished in a blur and reappeared three steps to the left.
"Powerful," Voldemort continued softly, his voice sliding into the sibilant cadence of serpent-speech without effort. "Advanced spellwork. Control beyond your years."
Harry felt it then—the subtle pull.
Recognition.
Voldemort's magic brushed against his own like a probing finger.
"Then why," Voldemort asked, now fully speaking in the language of snakes, "do you stand against me?"
Harry answered in kind, his reply slipping into Parseltongue without conscious thought.
"Because you mistake cruelty for strength," Harry hissed back.
Voldemort's smile widened.
"You are no Light wizard," Voldemort said. "Not like those fools who hide behind rules and mercy. You are one of us."
The Death Eaters leaned forward slightly.
Harry felt Rose behind him—felt her fear, her confusion, her fragile hope.
"And you should be with me," Voldemort finished.
Harry's response was a curse.
A bone-eating spell, raw and hungry, ripping through the air like a living thing.
Voldemort laughed outright this time as he twisted away, robes fluttering.
Two green flashes erupted in response.
Harry felt them before he saw them.
"Killing curse," he thought coldly.
He dove to the side, rolling across the dirt as the first Avada Kedavra passed where his head had been a heartbeat before, obliterating a tombstone behind him.
The second—
Was aimed past him.
At Rose.
Harry didn't think.
He flicked his wand backhanded and whispered, "Depello."
The banishing charm struck Rose squarely in the chest.
She cried out as she was flung backward, skidding across the grass and crashing behind a stone angel just as the killing curse tore through the space she had occupied.
Green light scorched the night air.
Rose lay gasping, alive.
Harry was already back on his feet.
Rage burned bright and focused in his chest.
"You miss," Harry said calmly.
Voldemort's eyes gleamed.
The duel exploded.
Spells collided midair, detonating in showers of sparks and shockwaves that rattled the graveyard. Dark curses, defensive wards, cutting hexes, transfigurations half-formed and redirected.
Neither of them shouted the spells.
This was not a duel of beginners.
Harry recognized every spell Voldemort cast—not from books, but from experience. These were the same spells he had seen pureblood elites use during the war with the Phoenix Legion. Old magic. Efficient magic.
Magic meant to kill and distroy.
Harry redirected a curse with a sharp flick of his wrist.
It slammed into a Death Eater standing too close to the circle.
The man screamed as his arm crystallized and shattered.
Another redirected curse caught a second Death Eater across the chest, throwing him backward into a grave.
They fell.
But none of the others intervened.
Harry noticed.
Of course they didn't.
Pureblood custom.
A duel was sacred.
And more than that—
They were afraid.
Voldemort was smiling now, genuinely enjoying himself.
He moved like a dancer, spells flowing from his wand in seamless arcs, his laughter cutting through the clash of magic.
"Who are you?" Voldemort asked between spells. "You fight like a veteran, but you are a child."
Harry blocked a curse that would have caved in his ribcage.
"Curious," Harry replied coolly, sending a slicing hex that grazed Voldemort's shoulder and drew first blood. "You've returned from death, and you still ask pointless questions."
Voldemort hissed, eyes flashing with delight rather than anger.
"Ah," he said. "You wound me. That takes skill."
Harry's breath came faster now.
His body was starting to feel it.
The drain.
The limits.
Voldemort noticed.
He pressed harder.
A Crucio tore through the air.
Harry twisted, letting it graze him instead of striking fully.
Pain exploded down his spine, white-hot and vicious.
Harry bit down on a scream and used the momentum to roll, sending a shockwave back at Voldemort that shattered three headstones.
Rose watched from behind her cover, horror and awe warring on her face.
He's fighting Voldemort, her mind screamed.
He's actually fighting him.
Harry staggered but stayed upright.
"You enjoy this," Harry said, voice tight, magic crackling around him. "Hurting people weaker than you."
Voldemort's eyes narrowed slightly.
"And you," he said, voice silky, "enjoy standing between predator and prey."
Harry smiled.
"Someone has to."
Voldemort raised his wand again.
The air thickened.
Harry felt it—Voldemort was about to escalate.
Now, Harry thought.
Before my body gives out.
He shifted his stance subtly, edging backward, herding the duel closer to the gravestone where the Triwizard Cup lay hidden.
Voldemort followed, intrigued, predatory.
"Still running," Voldemort taunted. "Even now."
Harry didn't answer.
He cast three spells in rapid succession—feints, distractions, pressure.
Voldemort countered all of them effortlessly.
But it bought Harry seconds.
Seconds were enough.
Harry risked a glance back.
Rose met his eyes.
"Run when I say," Harry said quietly.
She shook her head fiercely. "I'm not leaving you!"
Harry's gaze hardened.
"That wasn't a request."
Voldemort's laugh echoed.
"How touching," he mocked. "Very well. Let us end this."
He raised his wand high.
"NOW!" Harry shouted.
Harry had expected to fall alone.
That had been the plan—if it could be called one.
He had calculated the angle, the distance, the timing. He would block long enough. Distract long enough. Bleed long enough. Rose would run, grab the Cup, vanish.
And Harry—Helios Black, Harry Potter, whatever the world wanted to call him—would buy those seconds with his body.
The curse hit him like a mountain.
Raw force.
His shield caught it—but only barely. The impact detonated against his hastily raised barrier, and Harry was flung backward as if swatted aside by a giant's hand. He felt ribs crack midair, felt breath tear from his lungs, felt the night spin violently as he flew.
He slammed into a gravestone back-first.
Stone shattered.
Pain exploded white-hot across his spine and shoulders, and for a moment the world reduced itself to nothing but fire and ringing silence. His wand nearly slipped from his fingers, but instinct—trained by years of war—kept it locked in his grip.
Harry dragged in a ragged breath.
Up. Stay up.
His vision swam, but he forced his eyes to focus.
Voldemort stood across the clearing, wand already rising again.
No hesitation.
No speech.
No theatrics this time.
Just murder.
Green light bloomed at the tip of Voldemort's wand.
Harry's mind snapped into brutal clarity.
Killing Curse.
He had seen this before.
Not once. Not twice. Dozens of times. He had watched it shatter shields, tear through enchantments, erase people from existence.
But he had also seen it stopped.
Dumbledore—standing in the Atrium—had shown the world a truth few acknowledged:
The Killing Curse could not be blocked by magic alone.
But it could be blocked by matter.
Solid. Dense. Real.
Harry's wand moved even as his body screamed in protest.
Stone.
Marble.
He reached for it instinctively, shaping the spell in his mind—
Mass. Density. Angle. Intercept.
The ground beneath him trembled as the beginnings of a marble barrier surged upward—
And then—
Someone stepped in front of him.
"No—!" Harry croaked.
Too slow.
Rose Potter moved without thinking.
She stepped directly into the path of death.
Harry saw her back first—slender, shaking, shoulders squared in absolute defiance. She threw both arms out as if she could physically shield him, as if her body alone could stop what magic could not.
"NO!" Harry shouted, reaching for her, his wand jerking wildly—
The Killing Curse struck her square in the chest.
Green light swallowed her.
For a single, horrifying second, Rose Potter glowed like a dying star.
Then she collapsed backward.
Into Harry's arms.
The world stopped.
Harry caught her automatically, arms locking around her weight as she hit the ground. Her wand slipped from her fingers, clattering uselessly against stone.
"No," Harry whispered.
His voice didn't sound like his own.
"No—no—no—no—"
Around them, silence reigned.
Absolute.
The Death Eaters had frozen.
Some stood half-raised, wands still lifted, eyes wide behind their masks. Others had taken a step forward and stopped mid-motion, as if the scene before them had short-circuited their understanding of reality.
Across the clearing, Voldemort staggered.
The Killing Curse backlash rippled through him—subtle, but visible. He dropped to one knee, one hand braced against the earth, breath coming shallow. His red eyes burned brighter for a moment, then dulled slightly, confusion flickering beneath the surface.
The Death Eaters murmured.
"My Lord—"
Voldemort raised a hand sharply, silencing them.
His wand remained raised, green light fading slowly from its tip.
Harry stared down at Rose's face.
She looked… peaceful.
Her freckles stood out sharply against her pale skin. Her red hair spilled across his arm, catching on the jagged edge of the shattered gravestone.
"No," he said again, louder now, panic clawing into his throat. "Rose—stay with me. Stay—"
Harry's hands began to shake.
Memories crashed into him with brutal force—
Cedric's body hitting the ground.
His own scream tearing his throat raw.
The world spinning, uncaring.
Not again.
I won't—
"She didn't know," Harry said hoarsely, lifting his head to glare at Voldemort. His eyes burned—not with tears, but something far darker. "She didn't even understand what you were."
Voldemort tilted his head slowly, studying the scene with naked curiosity.
"How… familiar," Voldemort said softly. "She died protecting someone else. How very… Potter."
Harry clutched her to his chest.
Tightly.
Harry squeezed his eyes shut.
No. Not again.
And then—
He felt it.
A pulse.
Faint. Fragile. But unmistakable.
Harry's breath caught sharply in his throat. His hand, pressed flat against her chest, felt it again—an uneven flutter, like a heart remembering how to beat.
His eyes snapped open.
At the same moment, something moved.
A thin, oily-black wisp seeped out from Rose's forehead scar, writhing like smoke trapped in liquid. It made a faint, terrible sound—half-scream, half-hiss—as it tore free of her skin and evaporated into nothingness.
Harry stared.
Then understanding crashed into him with dizzying force.
The Horcrux.
Just like him.
Just like that night in the forest.
Harry let out a long, shaking breath he hadn't realized he was holding.
"She's alive," his mind whispered.
Relief hit him so hard his knees nearly buckled.
But he didn't smile.
Didn't react.
Because Voldemort was watching.
Harry forced his body to remain rigid, grief-stricken, broken. He bowed his head over Rose's body as if in mourning, shoulders tense, face shadowed.
Harry rose slowly, Rose's body slid gently to the ground as he rose. Every movement was measured, deliberate. His magic churned beneath his skin, tightly leashed.
"This," Harry said quietly, voice carrying across the graveyard, "was unnecessary."
Voldemort looked up at him, eyes sharp despite his weakened state.
"She was an enemy," Voldemort said coldly. "She served her purpose."
Harry's jaw tightened—but he kept his expression carefully neutral.
"Even enemies," Harry replied, "deserve to be returned to their loved ones."
He lifted his wand.
The Triwizard Cup—still lying near the shattered gravestone—shuddered, scraped across the dirt, and flew toward him.
At the last moment, Harry redirected it.
The Cup veered sharply and slammed into Rose's still form.
Golden light flared.
And then—nothing.
The Cup vanished.
So did Rose's body.
The Death Eaters froze.
For a heartbeat, the graveyard was silent.
Harry lowered his wand slowly.
"She will be buried," Harry said evenly, meeting Voldemort's gaze. "By those who loved her."
Voldemort studied him for a long moment, red eyes calculating, unreadable.
Around them, Death Eaters raised their wands instinctively, all pointing at Harry now. Twenty magical signatures locked onto him, lethal and ready.
"Who are you?" Voldemort asked again, voice soft but dangerous. "And how did you find us?"
Harry exhaled once.
Now.
"I am Helios Black," Harry said calmly.
The name rippled through the circle.
A few Death Eaters stirred, exchanging glances.
"I came looking for my father," Harry continued. "Sirius Black."
That got a reaction.
A sharp intake of breath from one masked figure.
"Sirius Black?" another murmured. "The blood traitor?"
Harry's eyes flicked briefly toward Voldermort. "Everyone says he was your right hand man."
Voldemort's interest sharpened visibly.
"Sirius Black," Voldemort said thoughtfully. "Yes… he was one of mine."
Several Death Eaters leaned closer now, scrutinizing him. One spoke, voice slow with realization.
"He looks like one," the man said. "The face. The eyes."
"A Black," another agreed. "No doubt about it."
Harry said nothing.
Voldemort rose slowly to his feet, weakness fading beneath renewed purpose. He circled Harry once, studying him openly now, predator evaluating potential.
"You followed my followers," Voldemort said. "Tracked them here."
"Yes," Harry replied simply.
"And interfered in my business that alone should have killed you," Voldemort added. "And yet you stand."
Harry met his gaze without flinching.
"I'm difficult to kill."
Voldemort smiled.
It was a thin, pleased thing.
"I see a great deal of myself in you," Voldemort said softly. "Power. Will. Ambition."
Harry said nothing.
"You are not aligned with the Light," Voldemort continued. "And you are not ignorant. You are powerful."
He stopped directly in front of Harry.
"I would have you with me," Voldemort said. "Will you join me?"
The Death Eaters held their breath.
Harry paused, as if considering it seriously.
"I need time to think," he said at last.
Voldemort studied his face for signs of deception.
Found none he cared to acknowledge.
"Very well," Voldemort said. "Then go."
The Death Eaters stiffened.
"My Lord—"
Voldemort raised a hand. "He leaves."
Slowly, reluctantly, the circle parted.
Harry turned to go—but one Death Eater called out, suspicion sharp in his tone.
"And how will we find you, Helios Black?"
Harry stopped.
Did not turn around.
"You don't," Harry said quietly.
A pause.
Then he added, "I find you. Like I did today."
The words settled over them like a curse.
Harry stepped beyond the ward stone.
The air shifted.
And he was gone.
Behind him, Voldemort watched the empty space with keen interest, lips curling slightly upward.
The day had been a success.
He had his body back.
The Girl Who Lived was dead—sent back to Hogwarts for all to see.
And perhaps most intriguingly of all—
A new weapon had revealed itself.
A Black.
A prodigy.
A boy who fought like a veteran.
Voldemort's red eyes gleamed.
"Yes," he murmured to the night. "Today was a very good day indeed."
Far away, in a different place, Rose Potter drew a sudden, gasping breath—
Alive.
Author's Note:
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