In Ireland, Bandon, upon that desolate isle whispered to be home to banshees, a fierce gale raged. The colossal waves caused the isolated land to sway like a ship on the verge of sinking, each mighty crash against the shore sending spray soaring high. Though the sun shone brightly in the sky, it only served to heighten the oppressive atmosphere. Two monstrous beasts, radiating terrifying power, sent the creatures of the island scattering in panic. Even the insects burrowed in the rocks scurried forth, fleeing as if Death itself were hot on their heels.
A monstrous wolf, shrouded in toxic mist, and an incredibly thick, immense serpentine creature, a Basilisk perhaps, attacked each other. While it seemed a simple clash of brute strength, every strike was imbued with formidable magical might. At a certain level of mastery, a wand truly isn't always necessary, and magic needn't conform to rigid standards, but can be expressed in ways that align perfectly with one's own will.
Lockhart, ever the showman, had hoped to watch from the sidelines, but these two wouldn't allow it. A relentless barrage of attacks gave him no chance to escape the fray. He darted between the titans like a bothersome fly, constantly employing Apparition and Counter-Cursing to reverse spells, weaving through the battle. He'd assist whichever side seemed to be faltering, as if declaring, 'Let the games begin and never cease!' He grew wilder and wilder with each passing moment.
The roars of the werewolf, the hisses of the Basilisk, and Lockhart's maniacal laughter, mingled with the booming tremors of the surrounding destruction, creating an unbearable din.
Finally, in a synchronized moment, the elder Voldemort and young Tom, with an almost uncanny understanding, suddenly combined their efforts. At the cost of enduring Lockhart's attacks themselves, they managed to ensnare this infuriating fly.
Boom!
The werewolf slammed its hands to the ground and let out a furious howl. The clear blue sky, as if someone had abruptly dimmed the brightness on a magical screen, swiftly turned pitch black. A full moon emerged, casting its light upon the land, causing the very earth to shimmer and rise.
Yes, rise.
The island seemed on the verge of shattering. Every corner fractured, every fragment "falling" upwards into the sky under an immense force. The sensation of "falling" from the ground into the heavens, as if plunging into a bottomless abyss, was enough to shatter one's will. Lockhart, caught off guard, lost control and began to "fall" skyward at an ever-increasing speed.
He desperately tried to Apparate back to the ground, but no matter what he did, he couldn't seem to return to the dimension where he had stood. It felt as though the world had completely inverted. He furiously attacked Voldemort, only to find the Dark Lord stubbornly enduring his spells, as if this particular piece of magic was too important to abandon. This was a chance, and Lockhart unleashed spell after spell, only to find himself struck by his own design.
A massive serpentine shadow crashed down, slamming into his back. His body almost instantly exploded under such a powerful impact.
Bang!
Flesh splattered.
For a moment, both Voldemort and Tom couldn't help but grin, convinced they had finally annihilated the irritating fellow. Yet, these scattered pieces of flesh swiftly coalesced into a viscous, formless substance, much like an Obscurus. It expanded and contracted rapidly, and within moments, Lockhart's form regenerated.
"Just because you're big, you think you're impressive?" Lockhart yelled, furious. Seeing them prepare to launch another attack, his body simply exploded outwards again. The viscous matter swelled and twisted rapidly in the air, emitting a strange, soul-grating friction. A colossal serpentine shadow materialized before the werewolf and the Basilisk.
This serpentine shadow was immense.
It was even larger than the werewolf's poisonous mist-wolf shadow. Its long, silvery body loomed over them, its head reaching up to the now clear sky as it stared down.
"A Patronus!" the Basilisk (Tom) shrieked in horror. "Impossible! How could anyone conjure such a real and powerful Patronus?"
Ah, yes, who indeed could conjure such a mighty Patronus?
Lockhart's serpentine eyes gleamed with amusement. Tom, my dear boy, that's your Patronus, in its most extreme form.
"This is..."
The werewolf (Voldemort) narrowed his eyes, scrutinizing the colossal serpent. It seemed utterly bizarre. "Is this my Patronus? But how could someone like me possibly have a Patronus?"
Tom paused, glancing at Voldemort. "What are you talking about?"
Voldemort ignored him, his gaze fixed on the colossal serpent before them. "Who are you, really?"
The giant serpent unfurled its body, its silver scales shimmering with an eerie, translucent sheen in the sunlight, as if it were merely a phantom.
"Me?" The giant serpent grinned. "Take a guess?"
With that, the giant serpent plunged down, snapping its jaws at the still-bewildered Basilisk. Terrifying silver-white light erupted between its teeth—a curious blend of the Killing Curse and a Memory Charm. The serpentine fangs effortlessly pierced the Basilisk's skull, tearing through its entire head as magical power surged forth.
That was...
Voldemort's gaze hardened.
Utterly hardened.
Because he was far too familiar with this very scene!
The Killing Curse, a tool for slaughter, used to unleash immense magical power. He himself had employed this very force to create his Horcruxes. The sheer magnitude of this magical power was beyond even him or Dumbledore to conjure – it was the final, profound cry of a life leaving the world.
Flee!
Voldemort made his decision in an instant. He didn't know why Lockhart would now choose to slay his past self, whom he had so painstakingly retrieved from the river of time. But if he had, it was surely to manipulate this immense magical power for some nefarious purpose! He was still weak, and utterly unwilling to clash with such a potent magical force head-on.
Voldemort cast a deep, final look at the Basilisk, which was now undeniably deceased. He watched it revert to the half-man, half-serpent form of Tom, then shrink further into the shape of a normal human. He quickly tore open the fabric of time and space, casting a flight charm to return to his true timeline.
Strangely, he noticed that Lockhart wasn't pursuing him.
Perhaps Lockhart's intention wasn't to attack him, but to complete some ritual or spell of his own? If that were the case, it only fueled his fury further, for his pursuit had inadvertently aided Lockhart, helping the man to slay his past self!
Blast it!
Voldemort felt cheated.
Then, he keenly sensed an opportunity—a chance to finally finish Lockhart.
Perhaps, at this very moment, Lockhart wanted him to escape? What if he were to turn back now and deliver a swift counter-attack? Would that catch the mysterious fellow Lockhart by surprise?
Decisive and unwavering, Voldemort never hesitated.
His massive werewolf form rapidly collapsed back into his human shape. Bandages wrapped around his body, and a shadowy veil swirled around him, instantly transforming into a wizard's robe. Gripping his wand tightly, he turned back, ready to unleash a Killing Curse upon Lockhart at any moment.
Suddenly!
He felt a powerful surge of magical energy spreading from an unknown source. He recognized this energy; he even knew it was the energy unleashed by the death of his past self. Yet, he had no idea where this energy was, or what it intended to do. He finally understood the helplessness Dumbledore must have felt when facing him. Mysterious, ominous, and utterly inscrutable.
It was like an itch you couldn't scratch, deep beneath the skin, making you yearn to tear open your flesh to reach it.
This must be the nature of a curse!
He swiftly made his judgment, beginning to cast numerous spells that might block this energy, constantly probing the potential reach of this magic. At the same time, he cast detection spells, attempting to pinpoint Lockhart's location.
However, he was clearly mistaken.
This was no curse, even if it felt like one.
It was...
"Gilderoy Lockhart!" Voldemort roared, his eyes blazing with fury as he stared at the shimmering, kaleidoscopic vortex of time and space. "You dare use my own magic against me!"
This was a spell from The Ever-Burning Flame of Life, the magic notebook he had traded to Lockhart—a spell that used the soul as a template to refresh the body, maintaining peak physical vitality.
This was a blessing, not a curse.
But in truth, it was a curse, for this magic carried a terrible consequence: the continuous purification of one's magical bloodline. This had once been Voldemort's ambition, to strip away the "dirty" Muggle blood of his father, Riddle, and to purify the pure-blood ancestry of his mother, Gaunt. But he had long since abandoned that pursuit.
The purification of his magical bloodline would undoubtedly lead him to fully embody that very bloodline, making him purer, yes, but also making him no longer himself! He had long ago ceased chasing "purer blood" and had instead shifted his focus to pursuing "more self."
He should never have traded that book to Lockhart.
All his past malevolent acts seemed to always boomerang back, striking him square in the face. Fate, it seemed, was always so malicious and ironic!
Voldemort rapidly cast spells, desperate to resist this powerful magic. Alas, he was far from his full strength. He was merely a wraith, a spirit possessing a werewolf, further bound by Dumbledore's enchantments, unable to break free. He was caught in an awkward, untenable position.
"No!!!"
He simply couldn't resist the immense magical power.
Voldemort sped through the tumultuous currents of time and space, attempting to escape the relentless magic. He fled, fighting with every ounce of his being, yet he began to feel the magic encroaching upon his body, little by little. It was like a surging flood, its waves constantly crashing over his small vessel, until finally, it would utterly capsize and engulf him.
Whoosh!
He seemed to hear the sound of a river. His pupils dilated, as if he saw a bloodline stretching into the depths of time and space. He saw his parents, following this bloodline upwards, and then his grandfather, Marvolo Gaunt. He saw countless figures, stretching back even further to his revered ancestor, Salazar Slytherin, whom he had fanatically admired in his youth.
And then, a colossal silver serpent, spanning the river of time, followed the trace of this magical bloodline, hurtling towards him.
Voldemort was utterly unable to escape.
Escape implied a change in physical location, a temporal displacement, a separation by contact. But from any angle, the concept of escape simply did not apply to the current situation. The magical bloodline before him was like a zipper, and the long serpent, like the zipper's pull, was moving along this magical bloodline, propelled by what might have been the power of his own Patronus, heading straight for his end of the line.
There was no avoiding this.
"No!~~~"
Voldemort roared, feeling an immense surge of energy wash completely over him, rapidly altering his body.
Soon, the energy dissipated, and Lockhart was nowhere to be seen. Only Voldemort remained, still roaring in furious protest.
He tremblingly raised his wand and waved it before him. A mirror materialized, reflecting his face.
A face so familiar.
The crucial problem was—this wasn't his body! This was the body of his servant, the werewolf, Fenrir Greyback!
"Lycanthropy..." Voldemort gasped, a hint of terror in his voice as he felt the changes deep within his soul. "I've been infected with lycanthropy!"
"Gilderoy!!!!!"
"I'll kill you!"
"I'll kill you, you, you!!!!"
Just then, he suddenly felt another surge of energy within time and space. His eyes narrowed, and he saw the colossal silver serpent winding its way back towards him once more.
"!!!" Voldemort's expression shifted, and finally, with a bitter snarl, he turned and fled towards the end of time.
I'll be back!
I will surely return!
Voldemort swore within his heart, roaring the promise aloud.