I felt like a classic Dark Lord, hidden away in a house with the source of my immortality. Neville was playing the role of the "heart of evil." The boy was asleep under potions and spells, enclosed within a shimmering sphere—an incredibly powerful defense, my attempt at absolute protection. Its main drawback was that while inside, you couldn't cast spells on anything outside the sphere. You were completely cut off; to get out, you had to break your own protection with magic. Even so, I could feel the Horcrux's wariness. It wanted to live. I didn't object; I would even protect it.
The cliché of the situation was broken by the fact that the Horcrux wasn't mine. And Neville was no ordinary Horcrux. The boy, under anesthesia, had ended up on an operating table. There, I removed his heart and placed it under stasis charms. I gave the boy a donor heart, made sure magic helped it take, then removed the donor heart again, made it a Horcrux, and implanted it back into his body. Muggles have been doing heart transplants for ages, and it's no big deal. If Albus loses today, I'll extract the Horcrux-heart and make a replica for the next hero. It sounds impressive, after all—"The Heart of Darkness." If Albus wins... well, kid, I'll build you a monument. And bring flowers.
Another departure from cinematic standards was that the true source of my immortality—my daughter Delphini and the four other newborns Bellatrix had quickly produced thanks to a Time-Turner, three of whom I had turned into vessels—were safe in my house under a Fidelius Charm. I had strictly forbidden Bellatrix from leaving for the next several calendar days and ordered her to guard the children. I warned my inner circle about "potential misunderstandings with the Mark." If Albus somehow managed to kill me, or rather, deprive me of my body, the Mark would temporarily disappear. Barty and Edward Lestrange, who were not participating in the operation, were given my homunculi and instructions for my resurrection. They would be quick: Edward is an experienced Dark Wizard, unafraid of the nasty stuff, and Barty is a young genius who graduated from Hogwarts with top marks in every subject—fewer than ten have managed that in the last two centuries.
On the second day after I had created the vessels and barricaded myself in the Lestrange house, the expected happened: Dumbledore paid me a visit.
The most optimistic scenario looked like this: several hundred mercenaries and low-level Death Eaters would kill the old man as he approached the house. The Great Light Wizard, overwhelmed by sheer numbers. We could add some long-range strikes from the Ministry and Stonehenge if needed. There was a risk of friendly fire, but all my valuable assets were either far away or in ambush. And we would definitely hit Albus.
To my regret, I had once again underestimated the old man and his Invisibility Cloak—he managed to slip through the entire outer ring of security unnoticed.
He was only detected inside the house when the defenses activated, primarily the "Shield of Lightning." It was a beautiful sight, like the frame of a dome materializing from thin air, made of lightning, before countless bolts shot toward the old man. I imagined him being struck by numerous charges, falling, charred to a crisp… Dreams, dreams…
But while the defenses succeeded in detecting the target, they failed to destroy it.
I watched through my scrying orb, amazed. It felt as though I was the one with the ancient magical lineage, and Albus was a Muggle in a wizard's body. How did he even think of creating a portable Faraday cage, even one made of mithril? The old man was wearing some kind of wire suit over his ridiculous robes, and he was successfully grounding the semi-magical charge through these wires. Albus Dumbledore—a human lightning rod. Meanwhile, the charge was fading…
I don't even know what I felt. What is this old man doing? People feel all sorts of things about Albus. Some see a hero, some are frightened by him, others find him ridiculous or disgusting. Some want to finish the old man off, but personally, I have only one association: Albus, you are exhausting.
When he's in an impossible situation, he pretends to forget its impossibility and just walks out of it. My former Muggle life brings a comparison to mind: a cartoon character pulls a hole out of his pocket, hangs it on a wall, and walks through. Or draws a door with a marker and passes through.
For the first time in my life, I wanted to kill myself. Instead, I decided to look "within." Finding my connection to Delphi, I entered her consciousness and saw the world through her eyes. She was lying in her crib, other "dolls" beside her, while Bellatrix sat nearby, biting her nails. Excellent. The vessels were safe. Even if this ended in failure, it wouldn't be critical. And failure was still a long way off. The old man had to get to me, kill me, deal with the Horcrux, prevent me from regenerating, all while under enemy fire, and then escape. I was sure he would make a mistake somewhere, and I would help him. Die, Albus, just die. The day of your death will be the best day of my life.
Meanwhile, the old man continued to astonish. Rodolphus, sitting near the family's source of magic, was directing strikes at Albus from it, but he was soon forced onto the defensive himself. Albus moved toward me, having conjured some kind of barrier around the Lestrange house. We were prepared for this; the barrier wouldn't last as long as the one at Malfoy Manor.
This time, I didn't rely much on traps. A wall of people is more reliable. There were still plenty of Muggle hostages, both inside and outside the house.
Golems roamed the house, including Abidemi's wooden men. In the distance, Abidemi's Totem Poles glowed strangely—he had promised they would hinder the use of Light Magic.
Anticipating losses among my servants, I had already removed all the Death Eaters from the house and filled it with my most combat-ready werewolves. But Albus still surprised me. Where is the organization for the prohibition of chemical weapons when you need it?
Alastor Moody was a cheerful fellow. When fighting werewolves, he used a silver solution—a silver blade can be pulled from a wound, but silver from the blood is another matter.
Albus was shrewder. He shattered several vials he'd brought with him, and the air in the Lestrange house filled with a gas, harmless to humans, but containing volatile silver compounds. It was done so masterfully that the silver only accumulated in the blood to a specific level, enough to cause temporary paralysis but not to kill.
Of course, I shielded my servants, and they protected themselves from the gas, but Albus destroyed their air filtration shields. As soon as the gas touched the werewolves' skin, they dropped instantly. Next time, I'm sending werewolves in space suits after him!
Under these conditions, Albus would reach me very soon…
I switched to plan B: persuasion.
I used a voice-amplifying charm. My magically enhanced voice pierced the Lestrange house. I offered Albus peace. I offered for him to simply leave and not interfere. I suggested that if he was dissatisfied with something, we could discuss it. "You dreamed of the greater good too, didn't you? I am familiar with Grindelwald's visions. You truly could have done better than me. You envisioned deals between wizards and Muggles, with a Statute of Secrecy, resolved by independent magical arbitration. I can't imagine how to implement that. Help me improve the system."
But the old man kept coming. I threatened to start killing hostages if he didn't turn back. He didn't.
It was time. A golem I had conjured—to avoid accumulating any eregkhu myself—began killing the hostages, grinding them into mince. I broadcast their death rattles to Albus. To keep him on his toes, I set more hostages on him—Muggles from another room, whom Malciber had Imperiused. For maximum effect, they carried not only explosive runes but also various other runes designed to kill the bearer within minutes. I was sure Albus could easily save any one of them, but not all at once.
I hoped Albus would get bogged down in a rescue operation. Meanwhile, my forces outside would carefully dismantle his wards and flood the house. After that, his defeat would only be a matter of time.
Albus tried to save the hostages, but today I had outdone any terrorist. My hostages were custom-built. Since I was no longer limited by time, I could take a prisoner, disassemble them part by part while they were unconscious but alive, as if on a surgeon's table. Runes were drawn with my blood on their skin and skulls, spells cast on nearly every bone and most internal organs. The first prisoner took six days of work; the last, thirty hours. The result was "living bombs" rushing at Albus. He tried to save them, removing my protective charms, stuffing them into spatial pockets—in vain. The explosions reached them everywhere. I know how to control my own blood, after all. The werewolves took some damage, as did the Lestrange house, but war demands sacrifices…
The old man approached me with the speed of a hurricane. Soon, he burst into the Lestrange dining hall, where I had holed up with the second batch of hostages and Neville. The dining hall's defenses held for a whole three strikes before Albus broke through. Considering who was knocking and with what, that was a respectable result.
I feared the old man. Feared him greatly. Not enough to drop my wand and beg for mercy, but I was wary that he had some cunning plan to defeat Voldemort in a single blow. I was sure I was immortal. But what if he could turn me into some kind of mummy, bound to a body? I had checked everything—it was impossible. In a desperate situation, I just needed to be deprived of my body and then resurrected properly. Barty, Bella, and Edward already had their instructions. But this was Albus… As the Head of the Department of Mysteries says, a human anomaly.
Shielding myself with "living bombs" soaked in potions, I began my fight with Dumbledore.
From the side, it looked like he was throwing candy at me—his spells resembled Bertie Bott's Every Flavour Beans. But when they hit my shield, it felt like being struck on the helmet with a mace.
The fight took place at incredible speeds, and within two seconds, there were no living Muggles left nearby. Yes, I used Muggles as hostages; with wizards, there's always a chance of a wandless spell or something like a "blood protection," and I didn't need that.
Once, I was inferior to Tom Riddle in the power of Dark Magic. Not anymore. Having partially figured out how to amplify ritualistics with the Resurrection Stone, I had managed to strengthen myself not by three times, but almost four. And I no longer needed a wand, so it became a sacrifice in a modified "wand burnout" ritual. It hit harder, but it died with every strike…
Black Lightning flew at the old man, piercing through the walls of the house. My Anti-Patronus, just by flying near him, had already driven most of the hostages mad. My spells intertwined, the house shuddered with endless combinations of curses, of which the "Song of Ice and Fire" was the most harmless.
The hostages had long been dead when the old man counter-attacked. A continuous magical pressure tried to crush me. It was reminiscent of the tentacles that had tried to overwhelm me at the Ministry, only this time, there were no tentacles.
I twirled my wand, creating counter-charms. Soon I understood his plan: to repel this attack required wand movements the human wrist simply cannot perform. But he had underestimated my level of Metamorphism. I had practiced a lot.
Extra fingers, or rather, tentacles, grew from my palm. The joints in my hand changed instantly, and I didn't even miss a beat in the rhythm of the battle. I managed to fight it off.
Albus began to conjure something incredible. It most resembled… a model of a spaceship with a solar sail, only everything was made of magic. Then this spell flew at me. An attempt to dodge showed that the object was self-guiding and, at least by standard methods, indestructible.
I had a plan for this. With telekinesis, I pulled several Muggles from a spatial pocket and placed them between myself and Albus, inside my "living shield" defense. Albus conjured something, and his "ship" slowed. Enough for me to create another layer of protection between myself and the hostages, but not enough to completely avoid a collision with my outer shield. The result was obvious—a breach in the outer shield, four dead Muggles, and my inner shield weakened by a third.
Taking advantage of the old man's hesitation, I attacked. He parried every attack, dodging Unforgivables and taming another Fiendfyre. A pity the only hostages left were in my spatial pocket…
Soon, my wand began to spark—a sure sign it was about to end. I did something even more insane than its equivalent in fencing: I simply threw my wand at the old man.
The moment it left my protection, it detonated. I had designed the burnout ritual so that at the end, it would release a fountain of destructive energies, with the parameters of my own shield programmed into its "friend-or-foe" system. And the sacrifice to create it… Just one, specifically for the fight with Albus. By Tom's standards, nothing.
The explosion made Albus's shield change color. And he, thinking I was unarmed, went on the attack before I could reach for a new wand. But thanks to Horace Slughorn, my wand is always with me!
Feigning a weak defense, I began my true attack. The idea was simple: two kickboxers are fighting, but one has a broken leg. The healthy one should logically approach from the side of the broken leg and strike it, right? Yes.
I had managed to figure out roughly what Grindelwald had damaged in Albus's eyes. I developed a special attack in advance. To any other wizard, or even a Muggle, it's completely harmless. But if everything went as planned… the old man would be left without eyes.
Masking my true attack with relatively harmless "flashes" in normal, magical, and astral vision, I struck.
Albus once again confirmed his reputation: he or the Elder Wand had found two different protective charms for the eyes. Albus could have chosen one, relying on luck, but instead, he cast one protection on his left eye and the second on his right.
Both spells withstood my attack, but the attack itself was two-tiered. The second strike at the same points showed that the protection on the left eye was weaker. As if in slow motion, I saw the old man's left eye burst, and an explosion equivalent to a small firecracker blew the glasses off his nose. And this wasn't just a blow with a spiked club—this was high-level Dark Magic, albeit very modest in its area of effect. This wound would not heal. No, you could drink Polyjuice Potion and take the form of someone who isn't crippled. You could become a Metamorphmagus and grow a prosthesis. A perfect prosthesis. Or you could completely destroy your body and be reborn in an undamaged one, if, of course, your immortality is guaranteed by something like a Horcrux.
If the old man was surprised by the loss of his eye, I didn't notice. I saw no reaction—either the old man has balls of steel, or he took a painkiller before the fight, like me. He also didn't notice that I was fighting without a wand. I didn't need a new one—I cast just as well without it. And using the wand amplification ritual several times in a row is dangerous for one's own energy.
We continued to exchange spells, turning the Lestrange house from a pile of rubble into a pile of ash—mostly my fault, Albus tried to be more careful.
Of those inside, only a few werewolves in Albus's particularly clever spatial pockets and Rodolphus survived—he was in the room next to the Source of Magic, trying to help me by directing the house's defensive strikes.
The whole time, I tried to keep Neville's sphere behind me—I was sure Albus couldn't break one of my best defenses in a single hit. And if he struck several times in a row, he would have to expose himself.
I noticed Albus shift the Elder Wand from his adamantium hand to the other. The speed of his attacks immediately dropped below mine. With his prosthesis, he pulled another goblin-made blade out of thin air. And then…
It's not easy to stop a snake's strike. The old man's arm lengthened and shortened. I would have had time to shatter the limb, but he covered it with magic from the Elder Wand. The sword touched the shield around Neville and began to spin much faster than a drill, biting into my multi-layered sphere. Goodbye, Neville.
But unlike Neville, the Horcrux wasn't asleep. A strange energy emanated from the child—new shields began to appear right inside the sphere. And though they were far from my own defenses, weaker than any of my inner circle's shields, there were many of them. I was trying to sever Albus's adamantium "wire-arm" and clear the space between us of objects transfigured by Albus or pulled from his pockets, but I couldn't keep up.
Fortunately, the Horcrux was thinking for two. Finding no resistance from the consciousness, it took control of the child. The little boy simply levitated with wandless, non-verbal magic, just like me, only within his sphere. And then his eyes opened. They were not Neville's eyes. They were the blood-red eyes of Tom Riddle.
The Horcrux had accessed a new resource—the boy's magic. And it used it to protect itself. Its enemy was Albus, and I… I wanted to protect it! Because as soon as Albus liquidates the Horcrux, he'll come after me!
The boy's meager magic was enough to delay Albus's "drill" for a moment. Enough for me to strip some of the protective charms from Albus's adamantium hand.
My plan was simple. It was unlikely the old man had used human sacrifice to strengthen his prosthesis. Amateur.
Of the options he had, that left a few substances like chimera bile or dragon blood that he might have used in treating the adamantium. And if this prosthesis was created, then by reversing the process, it could be destroyed.
A normal attack with the prosthesis is too fast, and it's covered by protective charms. But the two-tenths of a second it spent drilling my protective sphere was enough for me to get the necessary substances to the adamantium outside Albus's main protection.
Although I am a Metamorphmagus and can take the external appearance of a chimera or a not-too-large dragon, I cannot possess their magical properties.
However, it was no trouble to place pre-prepared substances in small vessels inside my own body and now—shoot these projectiles at Albus's prosthesis.
I was much closer to the sphere with Neville than the old man was—after all, I controlled its movement. I saw drops of blood and bile from magical creatures, over which I had long cast spells, touch Albus's adamantium prosthesis. The old man's prosthesis instantly—no, it doesn't evaporate or explode. And it doesn't strangle its owner, which is a pity.
Everything happened as planned: the old man's prosthesis instantly turned into an ordinary piece of hardened wire, incapable of anything, even if it was adamantium.
Dumbledore severed the adamantium at the edge of his shield with a spell. Neville's protection rapidly regenerated, sucking the goblin blade inside, where the boy-Horcrux with red eyes surrounded it with some kind of protection. As practice shows, the sleeping consciousness of a three-year-old is no match for half the soul of a crazed Dark Mage. Although maybe Neville just wants to help me himself?
And now it was time for the last planned attack. A pity the goblins hadn't managed to complete the entire order.
Trying to approach from the side of the old man's missing left eye, I used a Blood Whip.
Going after Albus with a Blood Whip is idiotic. That's why I wasn't counting on the Blood Whip itself at all.
The goblins, on my order, had made several blades. Or rather, not blades. Tiny razors smaller than a shaving blade, less than a centimeter on their longest side.
The idea was simple: the blades are in my body; they don't wound me because I've fixed them firmly to the side. Then I push the blades into the stream of blood, and they are inside my Blood Whip. I strike the old man with the Blood Whip. Naturally, he blocks it. But inertia is inertia—the goblin blades, accelerated by my new limb, hit Albus's shield. Each of the eight blades is enchanted differently. One of them will surely penetrate his defense. And then—a piece of metal accelerated to supersonic speed, especially one not made of lead, is quite sufficient for a kill.
Albus tried to dispel the Blood Whip, but I didn't let him. I struck. The Blood Whip did no damage, dissipating as soon as it touched Dumbledore's shield. The poison in the blood also failed to penetrate his protection. But it fulfilled its task—to accelerate the goblin blades and deliver them to the target. Of the eight blades, two pierced the shield.
The old man didn't have time to react, but the Elder Wand did. It simply bent the old man's body from within. One of the projectiles missed. The second, though it grazed Albus's mithril mesh, gave him a through-and-through wound. It was very pleasant to realize that the old man had blood: I had seriously considered that he was made entirely of adamantium.
The old man decided to play his trump card: a front of combined Light and Dark spells moved towards me. Although the area of effect was small, the concentration of energies was impressive.
I tried to resist—the front began to move towards me more slowly.
I wonder what will happen first? Will Albus's attack reach me, or will his external barriers be broken from the outside, and a crowd of my servants will pour in?
In any case, this action won't be superfluous.
I pulled all the Muggle hostages I had left, all seven sleeping Muggles, from the spatial pocket attached to my clothes. I hoped Albus wouldn't kill them along with me. Or maybe he would—the more eregkhu he had, the sooner he would say goodbye to Light Magic.
I expected anything but what happened. The old man himself was surprised.
The thing is, he had probably gotten angry. And anger can amplify Dark Magic. His two-in-one spell didn't lose focus. Simply, all the excess power of Dark Magic, multiplied by Dumbledore's strength and the unnatural nature of the Elder Wand, crashed down on me. I withstood it. But the subsequent annihilating blow—I did not. The Muggles, for that matter, didn't either.
I didn't really understand anything. One moment I'm standing opposite Dumbledore, trying to cast spells, but they're weak… And Albus's own charms are flying right through me.
Looking back, I discovered a very wide clearing in the ground behind me—nothing was left of the house long ago. I see, the old man deprived me of my body.
But Dumbledore's blow was too strong: his shield around the house broke. I saw my servants rushing in—not the elite, the vanguard, but their numbers were impressive. On the wings of Darkness, in the literal sense, Rodolphus flew in and threw an Avada at Albus. Naturally, he missed. Why? I told you—stay by the source, you'll be safer.
Albus, with a single movement of his wand, froze Rodolphus in magical ice. His shield was intact, and the wizard had every chance of getting out on his own. In about two hours.
Before Albus were only my half-smoky ghost and the somehow surviving Neville in his damaged but rapidly regenerating protective sphere, thanks to the Horcrux's efforts.
Albus began to cast, drawing with his wand and holding some glass sphere in the air with a spell. I tried to cast an Avada at him, but nothing stronger than a Reducto came out.
Don't even hope. I drew a few symbols here with my own blood and then burned them out. I'm sure you can imprison my spirit here. In about ten hours. The problem is, you're without an eye, without a hand, with a wound in your stomach, and soon there will be several hundred of my servants here, and in the future, up to two thousand werewolves. You can't defeat them all, even you!
The old man probably thought the same. The meaningless passes aimed either at me or Neville ceased. And then the old man lit up. For a second, I was envious—I had never seen such a Fiendfyre. Either the Elder Wand helped, or the old man tried hard.
A pillar of fire shot into the air, three hundred meters high, resembling a large hurricane. I hope we covered the battlefield well from the Muggles—a breach of the Statute is completely unnecessary. Several hundred golems and undead that my servants had sent ahead ceased to exist. And they were far from the epicenter. My servants were extinguishing the fire, aided by the power of Stonehenge and the Ministry.
I was very close to the epicenter but felt nothing. The fire simply passed through my smoky gray, semi-ghostly flesh. I felt no sensations at all.
But the target wasn't me. Poor Neville. My protection and the Horcrux were capable of surviving a lot, but this was clearly overkill. They burned.
Trying to act like a grief-stricken Dark Lord, I screamed piercingly, attempting to change my smoky form. I managed to turn into something like a stream of smoke the size of a bull.
Albus looked at me, hoping I would now dissipate. Don't hope. I have seven Horcruxes. Seven. And this was only the sixth.
Dumbledore's Fiendfyre burned for less than a second. Over the cooled ashes of the golems moved other golems, undead, Dementors, giants. Behind them came new werewolves and several dozen mid-to-low-level wizards, and almost two hundred mercenary mages. And that wasn't even the entire vanguard!
Albus began to cast a spell, but as soon as he started, I knew what it would be.
No, I had securely protected this place from a nuclear explosion. I hadn't been clever enough to copy Albus's artifacts that he gave to Elison after the Nurmengard incident, but with the help of human sacrifice, I had managed to make all seventeen remaining artifacts more stable—they could maintain a "nuclear-free zone" over a certain area constantly. One of the artifacts covered the Lestrange house.
Albus was casting what he had once wanted to finish Grindelwald with—a very powerful combination of Light and Dark spells with an open-ended vector of destruction. In plain language, the explosion would be monstrous and partly magical.
Will he survive? A stupid question. He survived then, and now he's much older and has the Elder Wand. But even so, he won't kill all of mine, and it's unlikely, considering how many he will kill, that he'll be able to repeat it more than once.
The flash of the explosion blinded everything. It still did me no harm. I didn't test my theories but simply flew away as fast as I could while no one was paying attention to me. By my estimation, I was flying very fast, but I felt no air resistance. I felt nothing at all, as if I had no body. Which, in truth, I didn't…
To pass the time, I counted to myself. When I reached three thousand seven hundred and eighty-eight, I arrived where I wanted to be.
Barty and Edward met me. I flew to my pre-made homunculus and possessed it. It was… painful. Both the process of possession and the process of controlling the occupied homunculus. Telling them to begin, I climbed into the cauldron.
There are far fewer ways to restore a body than to destroy one, but still enough. Especially considering that for my previous body, I used Edward's finger and Barty's blood, and they were both here. They cast some spells, slaughtered a goat (a perfectly ordinary goat), dripped their blood into a mirror, and…
It seemed as if the potion in the cauldron was boiling away. No, it was just being used to create my flesh. Twenty minutes later, I climbed out of the cauldron.
The first thing I did was check my connection, first with Nagini, then with the "vessels." Everyone was where I had left them. Nagini was with them—she wasn't needed here, I didn't plan on retreating, but my "vessels" might need an evacuator. I would fight to the last breath. Neville Longbottom's.
Magic worked as usual, as did Metamorphism. My wandless magic was still with me. Maybe I should put up a monument to Horace too?
"You've done an excellent job. My condolences, Edward. Your son, Rodolphus, is dead. Dumbledore killed him. Extend your arm—I will call a general assembly."
Edward rolled up his sleeve and let me touch the Mark.
"Dare I ask how it happened?" he asked.
"A cornered Dumbledore proved to be very dangerous. I didn't expect him to use such Dark Magic so openly. I lost my own body. Alas, I doubt I can resurrect your son. But we will have our revenge."
Soon, we were at the general assembly. They looked at me as if I had been resurrected.
It's convenient when you know exactly when and where you'll be killed.
I spoke of how Albus had gone completely mad: before, he just took our money, but now he wants to kill us all. Let us unite!
But in my thoughts, I rejoiced. Now Albus was definitely a political corpse. The murder of hostages? Dark Magic? Mass murder of opponents? What did you expect from Voldemort? But that Albus was like that—now that was a shock!
Right after the meeting, I took out the Time-Turner. So much to do!
Me-1 was adjusting the new plan to eliminate Albus.
Me-2 was analyzing the last battle.
Me-3 was preparing new hostages.
Me-4 was burying Neville. Or rather, there was a grave without a body.
A lavish grave appeared where the Lestrange house had recently stood. I made it myself with permanent Transfiguration. Bellatrix was sobbing on the ground nearby. Am I afraid of the truth? No. Not only because Bella will forgive me for anything. But because I am not guilty of anything! Neville and I fought Dumbledore together! And that scoundrel killed a child. And that I added new functions to the child… Who knows about that? And even if Bellatrix finds out—a part of the Lord was in Neville! She could have cared for them both at the same time! Or, the Lord elevated Neville to a superhuman level with someone else's Horcrux, and Albus killed him! Of course, the official version was much simpler: the old man found Neville with a blood-seeking spell and wanted to kill him. I sensed the old man was looking for the child and decided to protect him. What happened, happened… How could I leak this idea to Skeeter? Neville Longbottom: The-Boy-Who-Died. Albus Dumbledore killed him. We know this for a fact. And how many such cases have remained secret? How many murders did Albus Dumbledore manage to cover up while he was Chief Warlock? How long? It is your civic duty to make every effort to put an end to Albus Dumbledore, the child-killer, the false Light wizard, the tyrant, the executioner, and the maniac.
For the third time, I tried to lift Bellatrix from the ground with my hands. Have you not killed parents or children yourself? Fine, I'm in no hurry. Conjuring luxurious flowers, I waited.
I felt a little sorry for the boy. He was useful: he entertained me and Bellatrix well. I remember:
"Bella, what are you doing?" Neville says.
"Growing my hair out," Bellatrix answers.
"Bella, are you bald?" Neville concludes, as always, with an unobvious deduction.
Or this last masterpiece:
"Bella, if the Lord is the most important one, then why is there a Minister for Magic?" Neville asks.
"The Minister is a puppet," my wife says.
"And what's a puppet?" Neville asks.
Bella conjures something like a mitten puppet, puts it on her hand, and begins a show. A few seconds later comes Neville's, as always, killer question:
"And why does the Lord stick his hand up the Minister's bum?"
A pity, Neville, that your superpower—clumsiness and childlike innocence—didn't work on Albus. Such a superpower can only defeat a cretin, and Albus, alas, is not a cretin. Maybe I should have kept the boy conscious or given him a cauldron? Nonsense. It wouldn't have helped.
But that's all in the past. Neville was not only a training dummy for Bella so she would know what to do with her own children. Neville will serve me even after death.
I've wanted to erect a monument for a long time. But to whom? Rosier? Selwyn? Carrow? Moody? Kingsley? Aurors or the killers of Aurors? Now I have the answer: a monument to Neville Longbottom. The-Boy-Who-Died.
Good Voldemort was walking down the street. Evil Aurors attacked him. The Dark Lord told them—don't throw Avadas everywhere, you'll hit yourselves. But they did. And killed each other. Then the Dark Lord, out of pity, took the child to raise. Raised him as his own, sang him songs. And then… evil Albus Dumbledore came. Unable to kill Voldemort, he began to kill those he could reach. Poor Neville!
Albus Dumbledore… How does the earth bear such a black heart?
Bellatrix's reply pulled me from my thoughts.
"I want revenge."
I was even taken aback by the surprise. I tried to discreetly bypass her Occlumency and reached for my wand. Then I remembered—I don't need a wand anymore.
"I want revenge on Albus Dumbledore. I'm not some porcelain doll! I won't sit locked up anymore while you fight!"
Silly girl. It's an excellent plan! But if you want to fight… I'm not Albus—I don't save anyone against their will.
"I promise you, you will be at the very center of events," I answered. "Just keep in mind: if you happen to die, I will be forced to find myself another woman."
"Who is she? Helena? Pandora? Narcissa? That stupid little girl? It doesn't matter. I'll kill them all…"
But I interrupted her speech with a kiss.
"There is no woman better than you. And why would I want a woman who is worse?" I asked.
Me-5 was discussing the rebuilding of his house from scratch with Edward Lestrange.
Me-6 took on a special mission. To inform Isabella de Torquemada, or rather, Isabella Lestrange, of her husband's death.
She was sitting in her room, preening. I cast anti-eavesdropping charms.
"Isabella, your husband has been killed," I informed her.
Her face contorted with sadness.
"Curse it. I was hoping to have a good night tonight. Perhaps you're interested?" she asked.
"Thanks, but I'll pass. All your sexual partners have died."
"That was an accident! I had nothing to do with it!" she replied.
"I tell everyone the same thing. People just die sometimes, and I have nothing to do with it."
"And why not?" she asked.
Many reasons. Who knows what's in your head—I'm in no hurry to die. I also have no idea what will prove stronger—your technology of transference into a descendant or my creation of a "vessel."
And most importantly: I used Bellatrix's blood in a ritual on myself. What if she finds out about my infidelity and stops loving me? Trading the ghostly chance of gaining Light Magic for sex with someone from the fifteenth century is slightly foolish. Love is love, but one must think with one's head, not one's little head.
"A pity," she replied. "You remind me somewhat of my first husband, only not so aggressive and impulsive. Do you need your wife for something? Rare genes?"
"Not interested. But if you're so eager… I have a great guy for you."
"Is he pure-blood?" she asked.
"Yes," I answered.
"Rich?"
"Yes."
"Handsome?"
"Yes."
"Young?"
"Yes."
"I want him already," the widow replied. "How can we meet?"
"I'll send him to visit you. His name is Barty Crouch."
Me-7 was instructing Snape. I hope Albus has a heart attack.
Me-8 was showing Lily her sister and her family.
Lily looked a little lost. I had just told her about Horcruxes: how Albus made them for the greater good, and I destroyed them. Now Albus is obsessed with the idea of making a new Horcrux from the child of prophecy: Neville or Harry. With Neville, the old man miscalculated slightly. Oh, right, Albus has also gone mad from eregkhu. But don't be afraid, I'll save you. And Harry. For free.
While Lily was trying to compose herself, I was dealing with her relatives. A long story. Petunia was jealous of her sister for being a witch. But after she received news of her sister's death, her hatred diminished.
Vernon had his own score to settle with wizards: Sirius Black had briefly turned him into a pig shortly before the wedding. A joke. Naturally, he was not thrilled. The Ministry… what about the Ministry? Morfin wasn't imprisoned for attacking a Muggle—Morfin was imprisoned for failing to appear at a hearing, attacking a Ministry employee on duty, and then actively resisting a Ministry patrol. For turning a Muggle into a pig, especially temporarily, especially with almost no witnesses, especially if you're a local aristocrat, you can get away with a fine.
But after I introduced myself as a lawyer, albeit a magical one, who had won the case "Vernon Dursley vs. Sirius Black" and asked where to send the due monetary compensation, Dursley's eyes warmed…
It went on from there—soon I was telling them that the forces of evil and racists in the magical world had been defeated. That's why you, under the witness protection program, are being sent…
You don't want to go anywhere? A pity. You know, the witness protection program includes ten thousand pounds sterling per person per month, a free change of appearance, and magical medicine. At this point, the slightly obese Vernon lit up with the idea. And Petunia looked at her child and decided that he could also lose some weight while eating everything he wanted.
Why am I fussing over Muggles so much? It's not just to troll Lily.
Harry will play the role of a target. I have already prepared a colossal runic pattern using an Aztec technique. Albus Dumbledore will kill the boy and die. He won't notice the rune system—I'll draw it with water, he won't have time for a full scan. Lily will play the part of the last line of defense for the Horcrux—a mother's instinct against the Elder Wand.
But what if everything goes wrong? What if the boy survives and Lily doesn't? What to do with Harry? That's right! He has relatives! Who will love him. I don't need embittered wolves like Tom. But there will always be a place in my world for a well-behaved boy…
Me-9 was letting Abidemi go on vacation to Africa. The poor guy lost his grandfather's head and went to look for a replacement.
Me-10 was reading the newspapers. I love the press!
On one of the pages, a one-legged, one-eyed Albus Dumbledore was hugging a one-legged, one-eyed Alastor Moody. They were both standing on the deck of a pirate ship. And they were singing, really singing: "…dive into the abyss of plunder, standing waist-deep in blood…"
Or this from the jokes section of the newspaper: "Why is Grindelwald up to his neck in blood, while Albus Dumbledore is only up to his ankles? Because Albus Dumbledore is standing on Grindelwald's shoulders!"
But I was especially pleased by the poems about Albus:
"…He'll read the verdict, you see,
then Avada you point-blank with glee.
Or maybe he'll use Gryffindor's sword for the deed?
Though he really just loves a good burning spree!
So much room for good works, it's true,
sex with Grindelwald was just the prelude…"
The Quibbler distinguished itself, in my opinion, with a not-bad piece about Albus:
Gifted with power,
A faithful hound of the light,
Having read a prayer,
I brought down the blight.
I cut through the flesh,
To save the soul in sacred fire,
I am above the law -
This sin I bear.
In one person, I am judge and executioner,
Tormenting flesh, I know no tears,
The enemy hides everywhere,
I will tear off the mask of lies.
And there will also be the speech of the inconsolable Edward Lestrange in the papers: "Albus killed my son. Destroyed my home. He even killed the house-elves! What are house-elves—he even killed the pet hippopotamus that lived in the aquarium!"
I never did understand why Edward kept a regular hippopotamus at home, but oh well… Neville had parrots, Edward is a big boy, so he had a big toy.
But even against this backdrop, The Quibbler stood out. I decided it was time for the Lovegoods to expand their publishing activities. After all, Pandora is a Death Eater, and she can write things like that.
In the latest issue, they discussed how Albus Dumbledore differs from You-Know-Who. In short: Dumbledore forbids Dark Magic, allows the Dementor's Kiss, steals money, and kills children. You-Know-Who allows Dark Magic, forbids the Dementor's Kiss, gives away money, and saves children. And also, You-Know-Who is straight.
Me-11 was reading the news about the unexpected suicide of Augusta Longbottom. And it was truly unexpected! I had only sent her information about who killed her grandson and how. And proof that the child was in my care and was being treated well.
I had hoped the old woman would join me. Or oppose me—then she could simply be imprisoned. Anything is better than uncertainty. But she killed herself! Fine, that's a solution too. And the source of magic… A hunter will be found for it as well.
Albus Dumbledore's POV
The meeting of the remnants of the Order of the Phoenix had to be interrupted after Severus brought news that Voldemort had been resurrected. Albus had hoped he would have more time, that he could use the Dark Lord's absence to sow discord among his servants, so that by the time Voldemort returned, nothing would be left of his enemies' organization… It didn't work out.
Albus Dumbledore thought intently, alone under the starry sky. The wind whimpered softly, and in his mind, the wizard still heard the howling of werewolves and saw the explosions of hostages from within.
With each of Voldemort's Horcruxes, he had left a part of himself behind. The Resurrection Stone had taken his life, though it gave him time to settle his earthly affairs. During the hunt for what he later realized was Slytherin's locket, he had killed his brother and used Dark Magic for the first time since his duel with Grindelwald. And he had to leave his hand there. The Basilisk-Horcrux had shattered his illusions that he could protect others—a pity for the students of Hogwarts, and the fact that he had to be seen using Dark Magic was a minor detail.
The operation with the diary at the Malfoy house had seemed successful, but Voldemort had used it to completely ruin his reputation and paint him as a thief and a robber.
Gringotts… Everything had gone according to plan, but he had to quarrel with the goblins. And even Grindelwald hadn't quarreled with the goblins…
But the last case was the worst. He had truly tried to save the hostages—he failed. All dead. He had tried to separate the Horcrux from Neville, even though he knew it was useless—he failed. Even the self-casting mode of the Elder Wand hadn't helped: at the request to separate Voldemort's Horcrux from its host, the wand remained cold.
He had not been prepared for Neville Longbottom to be Voldemort's Horcrux! What was he supposed to do? Spare him? He would have gladly spared him under other circumstances. For example, if Voldemort had been neutralized. What kind of life would Neville have had? A guarantee of immortality, assembled by a madman? There was no certainty that an Avada would take the target, no desire to cut a child with a goblin blade, and an attempt to open the sphere to study the object had ended with the loss of his adamantium hand… So he had to burn it. In his defense, he could only say one thing—it all happened so quickly that Neville didn't feel any pain.
He had tried to destroy Voldemort's spirit—he failed. He had tried to capture Voldemort's disembodied spirit—there wasn't enough time. His enemy's servants arrived too quickly. All that was left was to die on the spot. He would have, but Voldemort had at least one more Horcrux.
He decided to fight his way out: he did what he had wanted to do during his duel with Grindelwald. Only this time, he had the Elder Wand. He managed to escape, killing more than four hundred enemies with a single spell… And now he grieved not because he was a little closer to losing his command of Light Magic.
He had tried to live without killing. He failed. The first victim was Ariana. An accident.
For a long time, things had gone well. He had even managed to neutralize Grindelwald without killing him.
Then he began to search for Tom Riddle's Horcruxes and, among many places, found one in the Mariana Trench. He destroyed it, thinking it was Tom Riddle's. It turned out to be the Horcrux of one of Grindelwald's Japanese allies, who had committed suicide in 1945 and then laid low, making a new body. The owner of the Horcrux was upset, and he had to be killed too.
Even counting the Horcrux and its creator as two, that made three.
The fourth was Aberforth Dumbledore. He consoled himself that for him, it was only a release, and that at the time of their last meeting, he was no longer truly alive.
Then, several Muggle hostages at once, who had very unfortunately been in the path of his self-guiding spell.
The ninth was Neville. He should have thought of something! But what can you think of during a duel with a Dark Lord when several thousand of his servants are on your tail?
And then… He never thought he would ever use the "Song of Light and Darkness" in an area-of-effect version again. His enemies didn't think so either. Now, to count his victims, he didn't just lack fingers on one hand; the number of victims exceeded his age… It was sad. "Mom, can I kill a person?" "No more than one a year!" "But what about my birthday?"
And what, was there another way out? To die and give Voldemort the Elder Wand? How many would he kill with it? How many people would he destroy using the Invisibility Cloak as a workbench? The old Tom Riddle would have been interested only in the wand; the new Voldemort would be thrown into incredible ecstasy by the Invisibility Cloak. What could a wizard of Voldemort's level do, possessing Horcruxes and two of the Deathly Hallows?
This worried him even more than approaching the first critical point of eregkhu accumulation…
Albus watched as the sunset burned out in the west, while in the east, inky-black storm clouds gathered. They already occupied a good third of the sky. Lightning periodically flashed from them. By dawn, the storm would reach here, but for now, only its harbinger had appeared. But already, at the end of spring, a winter chill was in the air. The remaining two-thirds of the sky were strewn with stars.
Stars—tiny, strange, merciless. He tried to look away from the sky, but the basics of divination that he had beaten into his head wouldn't let him. Bad omens, as Trelawney loves to say. His gaze was particularly fixed on several constellations.
"I didn't listen to you, Sybill Trelawney," he said mentally. "I believed only in my own strength. And Voldemort turned out to be even more soulless, more cunning, and more bloodthirsty than I thought."
He was still the master of the Elder Wand. He was still the student of Flamel and the most powerful wizard of modern times. He commanded both Light and Dark Magic, although he felt that Light Magic might soon start to falter.
He, who had managed to deprive Voldemort of his body, a half-blind, one-eyed, and one-armed cripple, with a practically unhealing hole in his stomach, who had learned that Voldemort had returned on the same day he had defeated him, what was he to do in the current situation? It was time to issue a call to arms, to give orders to his loyal people. If people are ruled by a wise leader, they will follow him through fire and water. However, not a single sound thought came to his mind.
Or rather, thoughts came, but they were not allowed into reality by the dead: the Longbottoms, who had tried to protect their child from Voldemort, and Neville, whom he himself had then killed. Moody, who had died in France, hundreds of wizards who had died under Azkaban. If these people were alive, the Death Eaters would have fled without looking back, and the Order of the Phoenix, with Dumbledore at its head, would have driven them further and further. But the problem was not just that—Albus Dumbledore had also died in that last battle—only a helpless cripple with a memory tormented by suffering remained.
The plan he had rejected, to kill Voldemort in the past, was gaining more and more appeal. Now he was powerless to do anything for Magical Britain, except perhaps to try to find a good successor to his work. Perhaps this someone would be more worthy and would be able to deal with the Death Eaters and their leader. Albus Dumbledore smiled sadly. He knew the futility of his hopes too well. You want to submit a petition? Forbidden substances or objects are planted on the person, and they go to prison. You want to talk about your problems? Sorry, you don't have an appointment. The door is there. You want to talk to the Dark Lord unofficially or try to overthrow him? Avada Kedavra! Another national traitor, terrorist, separatist, foreign agent, alien from space, resurrected Mordred, reincarnated Grindelwald, or whatever the propaganda decides to call them, has been eliminated. He saw the new doctrine of military action for Magical Britain—it did not involve capturing territory at all. That is, if someone in another country opposed Voldemort, there would be no annexations that angered everyone—there would simply be the removal of Voldemort's enemy. The army of Magical Britain would come, kill the enemy of Magical Britain, and leave, leaving the population of the other country alone with the ruins. There would never be a coalition against Voldemort—Voldemort was sure he could control other countries without having a single soldier there. Defeat, slaughter, captivity, and slavery awaited all of Voldemort's opponents.
If people ever become free again, it will happen long after his bones have rotted in the ground.
His situation had changed. He had always seen a path to victory. But a leader must not just see the path to victory—he must understand when victory is impossible.
He would have understood if he had been cursed. And he was indeed cursed by many. But the voice of the people is dangerous only when the truth is behind it. Now there was a reason to curse him.
He would have understood if his allies had turned away from him now. No. The surviving Order members were still loyal to him. Various versions were put forward: You-Know-Who killed all the hostages, and Albus couldn't save them. Or the hostages were collateral damage. And Neville… Either Neville wasn't there, or You-Know-Who killed him, or it was necessary.
His foreign friends constructed similar versions. Most of them were loners, but three held public office. One led Magical Argentina. He had already written a scandalous article, "Slaves will not be admitted to paradise, paradise will not be given to the immortal," in which he argued that Albus had done everything right. Argentina was heading for a new war over the "Falkland Islands"…
Another, Babayaro Ekinbad, was the director of the largest magical school in Africa, Uagadou, and due to the Death Eaters' activities on that continent, he strongly disliked them. Although Albus had been ousted from the post of President of the ICW, he had managed to push Babayaro into the position. The official statement of the ICW boiled down to a simple declaration: "If Albus Dumbledore really killed a child, then it was necessary at least to save the world." Not exactly, to defeat Voldemort…
The official position of the magical USA was basically similar: "…on this day, Albus Dumbledore lost part of his halo of sanctity…"
But Albus didn't need that. He knew many of the right words and could convince anyone of the rightness of his actions, even Neville or Voldemort. The problem was that he couldn't convince himself!
He had lost his right to armed resistance. The current magical world was like a centaur—you couldn't tell where Voldemort was and where his victims were. An incredibly complex operation was needed to get rid of Voldemort without harming people. And he had failed.
A Healer, cutting a tumor from a body, must use a sterile instrument, and he no longer considered himself a "sterile instrument."
But if he had lost, it didn't mean that Voldemort had won. You can both lose.
An operation can be performed with an unsterile instrument if the goal is the death of the patient. In his case, Voldemort.
What could be the seventh Horcrux? Or rather, in light of recent events, who?
What to do if the seventh Horcrux is indeed Harry Potter? A plan formed in his head. Alas, now completely inapplicable. If only he had known this earlier and under different circumstances! Once in his youth, he had studied giant, dog-sized magical ants in Africa with an acquaintance. They couldn't be studied by standard methods. And then he made an ant-golem, a perfect copy of a living magical insect, and launched it into the anthill. That's how he managed to study those ants.
A child-Horcrux should have been hidden far away from the magical world, so that no one would realize it was a Horcrux. And he should have tried to separate the child and the Horcrux. He knew it wouldn't work, no matter how many years were spent on it, but it was worth a try.
The child should have been raised so that the new personality was different from Tom's: no vanity, no cruelty, no thirst for power and recognition, no thirst for knowledge, no love for first place—then it would be unlikely that the Horcrux would act in unison with the host or be able to take over the body—they would be too different.
In principle, such a child could live their whole life like that, remaining a child at heart even in old age. And then… Sadly, all people die. Maybe the Horcrux would die of the host's old age, or it could be helped… In about a hundred years.
But that's in case his enemy wasn't active. If he was—the Horcrux should be pitted against the main soul as often as possible. The main soul destroys the Horcrux? Problem solved. The Horcrux destroys the main soul? Problem solved. It's better for the destructive potential of the Horcrux to be periodically vented during battles for the integrity of the vessel than in any other way.
The host-wizard shouldn't be taught anything, so that there would be no temptation to join the Dark Lord. The main strength of the Horcrux is that it and the main soul are one, and any attempt by the main soul to kill a part of itself will be met with a reflexive resistance from the main soul's own magic. Besides… One soul in two bodies—most likely, the same wands would suit them.
Does a human-Horcrux have a chance to survive? No. Although… A completely incredible coincidence of circumstances: the main soul must use the blood of its Horcrux in a ritual of high magic to create its own body. And then they would have a common particle of soul and a common body.
What would that give? The Horcrux's wand could become an "Elder" against the main soul—the pets would copy their masters.
And if the main soul tried to kill the Horcrux at a moment when the Horcrux didn't want to die (always), but the host of the Horcrux wanted to die, then the blow would be fatal not for the main soul, but for the Horcrux. Then Harry Potter, Neville Longbottom could have freed themselves from the foreign soul within them.
Too many ifs. Moreover, the situation was terrible: he didn't have many years for an incredible intrigue. He would have to just grab Harry and send him to a friend in Africa, hoping he could think of something.
Based on the fact that Voldemort made Neville Longbottom the sixth Horcrux, one could assume that he didn't destroy the "power the Dark Lord knows not," but decided to put this power at his service. But why Neville, and not Harry? Prejudices about blood purity? Or… what if it's really true? Maybe Tom Riddle decided not to risk it and turned both into Horcruxes?
Could the changes in his enemy's character be related to the influence of the sixth and seventh Horcruxes? Could a foreign soul influence the soul of the Horcrux creator? Questions, questions…
He didn't like what he himself had done. A failed hostage rescue operation. At the end—a premeditated murder of a minor, committed with particular cruelty. Gellert would have approved. Although no—Grindelwald would have recommended taking the Horcrux hostage, bargaining for something, and then cheating after receiving a down payment.
He didn't want to kill another child of his dead allies, nor to entrust it to one of his proteges. He didn't even want to kill Death Eaters. He didn't need corpses or new prisons; he didn't even want to see his enemies in the dock. But without liquidating the Horcrux, he couldn't get rid of the Dark Lord… And would he get rid of his enemy by destroying all the Horcruxes? If you can count to ten, stop at three, so everyone thinks your ceiling is five. He had no guarantee that his enemy really had seven Horcruxes, and not one hundred and seven.
Only one solution remains, and it also means the seventh Horcrux doesn't need to be destroyed.
He doesn't need to kill Voldemort. He just needs to make him completely harmless. Two questions need to be solved: how to get to Voldemort and what to do with him.
How to get there… He has the answer. All three Deathly Hallows would make their master immortal and invincible. But two out of three will do. There is a wand burnout ritual—the wand becomes stronger, but each spell takes a particle of the wand's life. But no one has ever applied this ritual to the Elder Wand! And he has the perfect artifactor's workbench—the Invisibility Cloak. And Hogwarts. He will succeed.
He can strengthen the Elder Wand and then combine two of the three Deathly Hallows within himself. It's guaranteed to be fatal; someone weaker than him shouldn't even try, and even for him, the probability of success is about one percent. But if successful, it will briefly give him immense power before he burns out from the magic overflowing him. It will also guarantee the destruction of the Deathly Hallows, so they don't fall into Voldemort's hands if he himself still loses. As for the risk of the ritual itself… For some reason, he was sure he would be lucky.
What to do with Voldemort… Once, Albus had a lot of time, and he figured out why Grindelwald had lost his power. A wizard cannot be deprived of his power, but the body can be mutilated so that casting becomes impossible. As can recovery. The secret is to act with immense energies at a very deep energetic level. Then an attempt to reassemble the body will lead to the restoration of a magically defective body. Correcting this is very simple—to die. But the Dark Lord is bound to this world and cannot truly die, which means he has the power to turn the Dark Lord into a magical invalid. If he is without magical shields for long enough…
But that might not be enough. His enemy creates problems even without magic. The mind is as much a weapon as magic.
He had a phoenix familiar for a very long time. He understood something from observing the phoenix. He would develop such memory charms that could not be gotten rid of by changing bodies, similar to the deprivation of power. It would be very difficult for Voldemort to do anything when he couldn't cast spells and at the same time had the mind of a newborn.
But even so, his enemy could serve as a banner of struggle. Albus looked at his left hand for the first time with hope. If this curse was so good that it could deal with him, forced Flamel to admit his defeat, then it should be able to deal with Voldemort. All that needed to be done was to let this curse spread to Voldemort. This could be done by first adjusting and then removing the charms from Flamel while touching Voldemort with the afflicted hand.
And then… Voldemort would face what the creator of a Horcrux should have achieved after death: the inability to cast, the inability to think, and eternal, unending agony. Inhumane, but there is no other way. And if anyone deserves it, it is Voldemort.
He was sure of one thing: it is better to be a dead man than a dead god. So Voldemort will lose much more than he will.
Ancient Chinese mages had a legend that the country was ruled by a dragon who could turn into a wizard. And everyone who killed the dragon eventually turned into a dragon themselves. Perhaps he should thank Tom Riddle for the Resurrection Stone Horcrux: he had too little time to become an addict. People… Right now, most of them find life under the dragon's rule quite tolerable; they have grown accustomed to the cruelty and oppression, each hoping it won't get worse. After all, to fight the dragon is certain death. These people don't particularly want to be saved, they don't need freedom, they prefer to be in slavery, as long as the master is a little softer. Deprived of one tyrant, they gladly go under the rule of another. To free people, killing the dragon is not enough.
But he believes in people—he will vanquish the parasite, and people will sort things out for themselves.