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"Damn it! Stop him! Damn it!"
Bellatrix shrieked hysterically. She had already lost a hand, and the ongoing ritual prevented her from speaking clearly.
Only then did the Death Eaters snap out of their daze, hurriedly drawing their wands to retaliate.
Sirius seized Umbridge by the collar and shoved her hard toward the cauldron, using her as a distraction.
Umbridge let out a piercing scream as she stumbled forward, several Death Eaters lunging to stop her from toppling the cauldron.
Their efforts weren't in vain—just as she teetered on the edge, someone managed to grab her by the collar and yank her back.
Even so, some of the bubbling potion splashed onto Umbridge's face.
She let out a bloodcurdling scream, clutching her face as she writhed on the ground in agony.
Meanwhile, several dark wizards turned their wands on Sirius, though their attacks were hesitant—Harry was still beside him, and they dared not risk using lethal spells in case they accidentally struck the boy.
Sirius, however, paid no mind to his own safety.
He took several spells to the back, each impact sending sharp jolts of pain through his body.
Blood splattered across his robes, yet he gritted his teeth and powered through, grabbing Neville's wrist.
Under the stunned gazes of the Death Eaters, Sirius reached for Harry, and in an instant, all three of them vanished—teleported away with a shapeshifter.
"Damn! Damn it! What do we do? After them! Get to Hogwarts! If we fail, we're as good as dead! That old man, Dumbledore, shouldn't have the strength to fight back!" Bellatrix screeched.
The Death Eaters wasted no time, disappearing one by one, apparently having found an entrance to Hogwarts.
They never expected that someone else had been hiding nearby all along.
"What do I do?" Bellatrix muttered, her voice trembling as she stared at the massive cauldron—the vessel of Voldemort's rebirth.
This wasn't how things were supposed to go. This wasn't part of the plan.
"Why not add a little extra... ingredient?" a strange voice whispered in her ear.
Before she could react, a gleaming silver orb shot out from the shadows.
Nagini, sensing the danger, coiled and lunged at it, attempting to deflect the projectile with her body.
She failed.
The orb plunged into the cauldron, sending a wave of potion splashing over the edges.
Ethan had spent weeks modifying his anti-magic bombs, integrating alchemical white phosphorus, double gunpowder, and metal dust.
The result? A weapon far deadlier than before.
Despite witnessing countless horrors under Voldemort's command, Bellatrix had never seen anything as terrifying as what unfolded before her eyes.
A surge of pale flames and shimmering silver smoke erupted from the cauldron, coiling upward like spectral tendrils.
Voldemort's agonized scream tore through the air, a sound so raw and piercing that it seemed to bypass the ears and stab directly into the soul.
Bellatrix staggered, her vision swimming.
Ethan, watching from the shadows, wasted no time.
Seeing his handiwork take effect, he vanished into the night with a swift shapeshift.
He had tripled the usual ingredients, ensuring the explosion was powerful enough for maximum devastation.
He wasn't about to let himself get caught in it.
White-hot flames and silver smoke surged outward, consuming everything in their path.
The first to be swallowed by the destruction was Nagini.
Bellatrix could only watch in horror as the great serpent's massive form shriveled and withered, her thick coils collapsing inward as the cursed fire devoured her.
Nagini's body turned charred black before being torn apart by the shockwave of the explosion, her remains scattering into the air like ash.
The Death Eaters didn't fare any better. The white flames engulfed them, and within seconds, they dissipated like sand in the wind—not even leaving behind corpses.
As for Bellatrix, she felt nothing—no pain, no resistance.
Under her own gaze, her body disintegrated, crumbling away like the porcelain doll she had accidentally shattered as a child.
Still, she forced her head to turn, trying to catch a glimpse of who had done this—who had bested her master, who had sentenced her to death.
But she saw no one.
For the first time in her life, Bellatrix felt regret.
Her mind quieted. The frenzy, the madness—it all faded away.
She was ready to meet death.
Memories of a lifetime flashed before her, each moment vivid yet distant, like echoes from a forgotten dream.
Then, time stopped.
Not metaphorically.
It truly stopped.
The flames hung suspended in the air, shimmering like molten silver. Even her body, mid-disintegration, remained frozen in place.
"Aah! Ahh! That's no fun!"
A voice—male, careless, amused—rang in her ear.
A filthy man, dressed in rags, materialized before her. His skin was mottled, his head covered, and yet he strode fearlessly through the burning wreckage as if it were nothing more than a warm breeze.
He didn't flinch. Didn't even seem to notice the devastation around him.
Instead, he waded straight to the cauldron—reaching in with his bare hands to rummage through the bubbling remains.
A moment later, he grinned.
He had found something.
The tramp pulled out a small, charred arm—the last remnant of Voldemort's body.
"That's bad, Tom," the vagrant muttered, shaking his head in disappointment.
"I thought you could at least hold out for a few more rounds. I even bet on you!"
He toyed with the severed limb as if it were some cheap trinket.
Then, with an exaggerated shake, a withered, gray-black soul—full of cracks and holes—tumbled from the stump.
Voldemort's soul.
"Looks like you'll have to fulfill our agreement, Tom," the tramp said cheerfully.
"Don't call me Tom," Voldemort's fragmented soul rasped.
"Oh, don't be like that! 'Tom' has such a nice ring to it!" The vagrant chuckled.
"Now, let's go over the deal again. I resurrect you, grant you an immortal body—one that no one can ever defeat. But in return… you must serve me. Absolutely."
Silence.
Voldemort had never bowed to anyone. To obey was unthinkable.
But now?
Now, he was on the verge of oblivion.
He had no choice.
"One condition," Voldemort whispered.
"Bring her back."
His broken soul shifted toward Bellatrix.
The vagrant's grin widened.
"Oh, that? Pfft. That's easy. Consider it a bonus!"
He waved his hand dismissively.
Voldemort hesitated—just for a fraction of a second—before speaking the words that would seal his fate.
"Then… I accept."
The vagrant clapped his hands together.
"Great! First things first—cleanup!"
With a snap of his fingers, the white flames and death-laced smoke collapsed inward—shrinking rapidly until they formed a tiny black orb, pulsing with contained destruction.
The vagrant plucked it from the air, examined it curiously, and then—without hesitation—popped it into his mouth.
A deep, thunderous boom resonated from inside his stomach.
The tramp let out a content sigh, exhaling a lazy smoke ring.
"Whew. Damn, that Witcher's handiwork is something else," he muttered, rubbing his belly.
Then, with an almost childlike enthusiasm, he clapped again.
"Alright, alright! Enough jokes!" His grin vanished, replaced by an unsettling sharpness.
"It's time to get down to business."