The method Voldemort had found was exactly what Dumbledore feared most: using Harry's blood to resurrect himself.
That way, Voldemort's new body would also carry Lily's protection—because it carried Harry—and the "love magic" that once rejected him would no longer burn him away.
Harry didn't know any of that.
What he did know was that Voldemort's speech was making him want to explode.
Because Voldemort kept talking like he was revealing some grand secret—
Except Harry already knew every word.
Arthur had explained it to him years ago.
So right now, Harry desperately wanted a Muggle megaphone turned to maximum volume so he could shout into Voldemort's ear:
"YES, I KNOW!"
Voldemort, of course, had no clue what was happening inside Harry's head.
He continued his solo performance, savoring every second.
"Doesn't matter," Voldemort said calmly. "Things are different now."
"Now… I can touch you."
He pressed his hand against Harry's forehead.
The shard of Voldemort's soul inside Harry's scar sensed its master and began battering Harry's mind—trying to tear through the wound and reunite with the main soul.
But Voldemort didn't notice any of that.
He was too busy enjoying the sound of Harry's pain.
He laughed loudly.
"Who would've thought a few drops of your blood would be so useful, Harry?"
Harry cursed him endlessly in his head.
A few drops? Wormtail had practically tried to carve open his artery.
The ritual might have needed only a few drops, but the cut on Harry's wrist was still bleeding freely.
If Voldemort kept monologuing much longer, Harry honestly thought he might pass out from blood loss before anything else.
Finally, Voldemort seemed done.
With a flick of his wand, he released Harry from the statue and lifted the bindings.
(Wormtail, watching: So I'm not allowed to talk, but you get a whole speech, and then you free the prisoner I caught? Being a servant is suffering…)
"Pick up your wand, Potter," Voldemort said, stepping back. "Quickly. Quickly!"
Harry grabbed his wand and pulled in a shaky breath.
Voldemort's voice turned almost… proper.
"You know how dueling works, yes? First, we bow."
He bowed.
And Harry instantly understood what Voldemort wanted:
A duel.
A performance.
A victory to display.
Fine.
That suited Harry perfectly.
Voldemort's endless yapping had already lit a wildfire in his chest.
Right now, Harry didn't care whether he could win.
He just wanted to hit back.
Harry bowed as well.
Voldemort nodded, pleased.
"You haven't forgotten wizarding manners. Good."
"Now—let's begin."
"Cruci—"
"Crucio!"
Voldemort opened with an Unforgivable without hesitation.
But Harry wasn't some helpless fourth-year anymore.
He'd fought enough to know what to do against a curse he couldn't block:
Move.
Harry dove, rolled, and barely escaped the streak of pain.
And strangely—because his anger was so focused—his mind felt clearer than ever.
He knew he had no raw advantage against Voldemort.
So he created one.
"Confringo!"
Harry blasted the ground, kicked up a wave of dirt, then whipped his wand and hurled dust and grit into the air like a smoke screen.
Voldemort hadn't dueled properly in a long time, and arrogance dulled his reflexes.
He got caught in it.
For a heartbeat, he lost Harry.
Voldemort slashed his wand to clear the dust and retreated instinctively, wary of a sudden rush.
And that was exactly what Harry wanted.
In the cover of that moment, Harry called on Lily—
and his body surged as the "Susanō" state wrapped around him.
To the Death Eaters watching, Harry's shape flared with pale light.
Then he vanished into a blur.
In less than two seconds, he was in Voldemort's face.
No fancy spell.
No speech.
Just a fist—
straight into Voldemort's nose.
Voldemort stumbled back, shock splintering his expression.
He couldn't understand it.
How had a fourth-year student landed a hit?
And with something as crude as a punch?
Harry didn't care what he understood.
One punch didn't feel like enough.
So Harry stepped in and threw two more—
bang, bang—
clean, furious, satisfying.
For the first time since arriving, Harry's chest loosened.
His breathing steadied.
Voldemort, meanwhile, recovered.
He melted into a shadowy retreat, sliding out of range.
Even as he backed off—face burning with humiliation—he forced his voice into cold pride.
"Well done, Potter."
"It seems Hogwarts taught you more than children's games."
"But the real duel begins now."
This time, Voldemort stopped playing.
Dark magic poured from him in relentless waves, forcing Harry into defense after defense, leaving almost no room to counter.
Voldemort's voice rose as he attacked.
"I will destroy you! After tonight, no one will doubt my power!"
"After tonight, when they speak your name—there will be nothing left!"
Harry gritted his teeth, dodging and blocking with everything he had.
And still he managed to spit back, breath ragged but sharp:
"Save it, Voldemort."
"The world's changed. You're the kind of villain my friend says can't survive past episode three."
That line snapped something.
Voldemort had been planning to drain Harry, break him slowly, enjoy every moment.
But now?
He wanted Harry gone.
Immediately.
"Avada Kedavra!"
Green light tore through the fog like a spear.
And Harry answered with the spell that had become his signature:
"Expelliarmus!"
Yes—everyone knew there were three Unforgivables.
And yet somehow, there was always a mysterious "fourth" whenever Harry was involved.
Voldemort's mind short-circuited for a heartbeat when the Killing Curse didn't simply end it.
His green beam met Harry's red—
and instead of an instant death, the magic locked.
Even in Voldemort's hands, the "ultimate curse" suddenly looked… embarrassingly stoppable.
Voldemort was baffled, but he didn't stop feeding power into his wand.
He couldn't risk being disarmed again.
Harry didn't stop either.
Because if he faltered even for a second—
that green light would reach him.
Nearby, the Death Eaters stirred.
Some shifted forward, tempted to interfere.
But Voldemort barked at them without turning his head:
"Don't interfere!"
"He is mine!"
And the Death Eaters… didn't exactly protest.
In fact, many of them looked quietly relieved.
Because the truth was: most of them weren't devoted followers anymore.
Not really.
Many were simply opportunists wearing masks.
If Voldemort fell again, they wanted fewer crimes on their hands.
And no one embodied that "just acting" mentality more than Lucius Malfoy.
Lucius had felt Ranni's pressure with his own skin and bones—something Voldemort's aura couldn't even compare to.
And from what Draco had told him about Arthur?
Lucius didn't believe Arthur would let Voldemort dance around unchecked.
So Lucius stood in the back—
hands still, stance polite—
perfectly practicing the ancient art of minding his own business.
While he "farmed" safely behind the frontline, the clash between Voldemort and Harry reached its strange conclusion.
As Harry's magic thinned toward exhaustion, something unexpected happened:
Harry realized he couldn't stop.
He couldn't break the connection even if he wanted to.
Voldemort realized it too.
A thin golden beam linked their wands now—no longer red, no longer green—
but bright, blazing gold.
The light of Priori Incantatem.
Then shapes began to spill from Voldemort's wand.
Mist condensed into figures—echoes of people Voldemort had killed:
Bertha Jorkins.
Frank Bryce.
And then—
Harry's parents.
James.
And Lily.
In the original timeline, Cedric would have been there too.
But with Hermione taking the champion's place, Cedric had escaped that fate.
For Harry, though, none of that mattered.
His eyes locked on Lily.
He felt her presence.
He felt the strange strength flowing into him.
And he stared at her, breath shaking—
unable to understand why, in front of him, there was one Lily—
while inside him, somewhere deep in his scar and blood,
there seemed to be another.
Advance Chapters Available on Patreon
patreon.com/WhiteDevil7554