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Voldemort's laughter echoed through the battlefield, wild and arrogant.
He didn't bother to dodge.
No matter how severe the injury—curse wounds, seared flesh—his body knitted itself back together in seconds.
Eventually, he abandoned even the pretense of defense, cackling as he launched relentless attacks at Dumbledore and Ethan.
In the midst of the chaos, he was struck by the Killing Curse multiple times, his body charred by Ethan's Igni.
But each time, he regenerated—unstoppable, untouchable.
That was when he made his mistake.
Believing himself invulnerable, Voldemort dropped his guard completely.
Ethan seized the opportunity. In a flash of silver, the Lady of the Lake's blade drove straight through Voldemort's chest.
Voldemort's laughter died. He turned, eyes burning with fury.
"You fool," he spat.
"It's useless. You can't hurt me. I am immortal!"
With a snarl, he hurled a Killing Curse at Ethan—but the emerald light dissipated harmlessly against the shimmering shield.
"I know," Ethan said calmly, twisting the blade deeper.
A sickening crack rang out as the sword severed Voldemort's spine.
The Dark Lord crumpled, his body betraying him.
"You're wasting your time," Voldemort hissed.
"I'll be back in less than a minute!"
"I know," Ethan murmured, yanking the blade free before driving it back in, fracturing Voldemort's newly healed spine once more.
Then, without a word, Ethan grabbed Voldemort by the collar and dragged him toward the entrance of Hogwarts.
The Dark Lord sneered. "You accomplish nothing! I cannot die! I am blessed by fate! I will not perish day or night!"
Ethan stopped at the threshold of the castle. His voice was soft but unwavering.
"It's neither day nor night," he said.
"It's dusk."
Voldemort's eyes flickered upward.
The last light of the setting sun painted his face in eerie gold. A shadow of doubt crossed his expression.
"I cannot die indoors or out!" he snapped.
Ethan smiled grimly. "We're on the threshold—neither inside nor outside."
Voldemort's breath quickened.
"I can neither die on the ground nor in the sky!"
Ethan lifted him effortlessly onto his lap.
"You are neither in the sky nor on the ground. You're hanging on my knees."
Panic flared in Voldemort's eyes.
"It's useless! You can't kill me!"
His voice had sharpened into a shriek.
"I will not die by the hands of wizard or Muggle! Weapons cannot kill me! Spells cannot kill me! Neither man nor beast can end me!"
"Yes, yes," Ethan mused, his grip tightening.
"That's the trouble with prophecies, isn't it?"
He flexed his fingers, and his hand morphed—becoming the razor-sharp talons of a griffin Animagus.
"I am neither wizard nor Muggle," he continued.
"I will tear your throat with the claws of a beast that is neither man nor animal. You will choke on your own blood—neither by spell nor weapon."
Voldemort's eyes widened in horror.
"No! Wait! We can talk! Dumbledore is dying—join me! I'll make you Minister for Magic! You always wanted power, didn't you?"
Ethan chuckled, amused by the desperation in Voldemort's voice.
"You? Name me Minister?"
His claws flashed.
A wet, gurgling noise escaped Voldemort as Ethan's talons sliced through his throat. Blood poured from his mouth in thick, bubbling spurts.
He convulsed violently, hands clawing at the empty air—gasping, wheezing.
Ethan simply watched.
The Dark Lord shuddered one last time, then went limp.
Motionless.
Dead.
For the first time, truly and irrevocably.
Ethan watched as Voldemort's broken, twisted soul—shrouded in gray wisps—began to rise from his lifeless body. It let out a piercing scream, its fragmented essence writhing in agony as it drifted upward.
Then, a black void tore open in the air before him.
From its depths, a pair of skeletal hands emerged, their bony fingers reaching out like a predator snatching its prey.
They seized Voldemort's soul.
The Dark Lord's final, ear-splitting shriek echoed through the battlefield as he was dragged into the abyss.
And then—silence.
A different scream shattered the moment.
"No!"
Bella's anguished cry rang out, raw and desperate.
From the chaos of battle, she stood frozen, staring at Voldemort's lifeless form as though refusing to believe what her eyes were seeing.
For the briefest moment, she forgot the duel raging around her.
It was a fatal mistake.
A barrage of spells—Stunners, Petrificus Totalus, and Incarcerous—struck her in quick succession. Bella was hurled backward, crashing into the rubble, unmoving.
No one knew if she was dead or alive.
The Death Eaters stood in stunned silence.
Their master was gone. Truly gone.
For a heartbeat, disbelief paralyzed them.
Then, realization struck like a hammer blow—Voldemort had lost.
Not just lost. He had been utterly, irreversibly destroyed.
And with him, so had their cause.
Panic spread through their ranks like wildfire. Some Apparated on the spot, vanishing with sharp cracks of displaced air.
Others hesitated—only to turn and flee, scrambling for any escape they could find.
The battle was over.
Now it was a hunt.
The Aurors wasted no time. Moving in perfect coordination, they formed a blockade and unleashed waves of Binding Curses, cutting down the fleeing Death Eaters with ruthless efficiency.
One by one, they fell.
"It's over…?"
Dumbledore's voice was quiet, almost disbelieving, as he stepped toward Voldemort's corpse.
He studied it carefully, testing for breath, feeling for a heartbeat.
Then, wand in hand, he cast a dozen detection spells.
Each confirmed the same truth.
Finally, Dumbledore lowered his wand and turned to Ethan.
A smile spread across his face—a true, unburdened smile, the kind Ethan had never seen before.
The crowd erupted.
Shouts of triumph, of grief, of pure relief filled the air.
People hugged, wept, and cheered in equal measure, caught between mourning and celebration, sorrow and joy.
"Dumbledore," Ethan said, returning the smile.
"Your war is over."
"Ours," Dumbledore corrected. But then he paused, watching Ethan closely, realization dawning in his eyes.
"You mean to keep fighting."
Ethan nodded.
"You should rest, Dumbledore. This is your moment—your time to heal, to rebuild. This battle is mine."
Dumbledore studied him for a long moment, then sighed.
"Then go," he said at last.
"Go and finish it."
Ethan reached into his pocket and tossed something to him.
Dumbledore caught it instinctively, then looked down.
The Resurrection Stone.
"This thing is useless to me," Ethan said simply.
And with that, he turned, stepping into the night.