Chapter 591: Dumbledore Unbound
Wormtail had been exposed.
It happened the moment he first approached the Dark Lord. Voldemort remained as
cunning as ever—perhaps even more so than before.
Sean stood on the outskirts of the thinning crowd in Diagon Alley, watching the
snow drift silently from the eaves. How had Peter been found out? Sean wasn't
entirely certain, but the root cause was clear: Bertha Jorkins had escaped.
Had Voldemort seen through Peter's mental conditioning immediately? Or was this
a calculated deception on the Dark Lord's part—a way to mislead them into
thinking he hadn't yet begun his ritual of anchoring his soul?
Deep in the Albanian forest, the mist seemed to thicken. Even here in London, a
thin evening haze was beginning to rise.
The bustling wizarding commercial street was nearly empty now, save for a
cluster of frantic Goblins and two young figures emerging from the shadows.
Hermione and Justin were running across the plaza outside Gringotts, their legs
moving fast as the bank's alarms continued to wail behind them.
They were glowing with adrenaline, clutching a magically sealed box between
them.
"Hurry, Sean!" Hermione shouted, her voice bright with excitement.
"We did it," Justin added, his voice vibrating with suppressed triumph.
A green-flamed door—the Warp Gate—shimmered into existence before them. Sean
gave a curt nod, and the three of them vanished into the emerald fire.
The Albanian Inn.
At that same moment, thousands of miles away, the fire in the hearth was the
final source of light in the growing dark. The wind howled outside the doors of
"The Serpent and the Lion," but inside, the air was unnervingly still.
A dark hood was slowly lowered, revealing the figure that had risen from the
death of Wormtail.
"I expected you to be here," Voldemort said to the empty doorway. His voice held
a trace of clinical, almost regretful amusement. "I expected you to show
yourself. A third-year wizard capable of crossing oceans to project his
consciousness into the mind of my servant... I have been looking forward to
seeing your face with my own eyes."
He paused, tasting the silence.
"But you are absent. You never truly came. You merely... planted a contract in
his mind. You turned him into a messenger, squeezing the last drop of utility
out of his miserable life."
He let out a soft, chilling laugh. "Brilliant. Truly magnificent."
Then, he turned his gaze toward the darkness outside the inn.
"Dumbledore," he called out. "I know you are close."
He didn't wait for an answer. He didn't seem to need one.
"Let me guess," Voldemort continued, his tone slow and deliberate. "You do not
wish to duel me here. You are uncertain. You do not know how many Horcruxes I
have left. You do not know if this snake is the final anchor, and you are too
afraid to gamble."
His smile widened, pulling the pale skin of his new face taut. He turned and
walked toward the door.
Albus Dumbledore stood at the northern edge of the village. The snow was already
ankle-deep.
He hadn't Apparated—warding the area against instantaneous travel had been his
first priority upon arriving in Albania. He had arrived on a broomstick, moving
with a calm, unhurried grace, like a man attending a long-overdue appointment.
As he dismounted, he watched Voldemort emerge from the inn.
Fifty years ago, Tom Riddle had walked toward him in much the same way—in the
corridors of Hogwarts, after Transfiguration lessons, and before the doors of
the Headmaster's office. Back then, Tom had been a handsome, polite boy with
ambition hidden behind a mask of charm.
The figure approaching him now was something else entirely. It was a face that
had been shattered and stitched back together, every line and slit expressing a
single, driving emotion: Fear.
Tom Riddle feared death so much that he had torn himself into fragments. To
Dumbledore, he looked piteous.
"Tom," Dumbledore said first.
Voldemort stopped ten paces away.
"Dumbledore," he replied. "You've grown old."
"And you have found a new vessel," Dumbledore said calmly. "It seems Wormtail
served you faithfully to the end."
Voldemort's expression didn't flicker. "Wormtail received exactly what he
deserved. He brought me back from the void, and then he leaked my secrets to a
thirteen-year-old child. He paid his initial debt, and then he betrayed
me—twice. First by being controlled, and second by allowing the prey to escape."
Dumbledore remained silent. His right hand stayed tucked within his sleeve,
making no move for his wand, but his fingers were already brushing the long,
silk-wrapped bundle at his belt.
"Where is the boy?" Voldemort asked.
"In a safe place."
"Safe." Voldemort tasted the word. "You were always fond of hiding those you
favor in 'safe' places, weren't you? Just as you hid the Potters in the Hollow.
You believe a single charm, a Secret Keeper, and a well-intentioned plan can
halt the inevitability of death."
A flash of pain flickered in Dumbledore's blue eyes—a fifteen-year-old wound,
struck with surgical precision.
"History proves," Voldemort continued, taking a step forward, "that your plans
are always flawed. The Potters' Keeper betrayed them, and this time... this
time, your chosen one—this third-year child—has betrayed your expectations. You
told him to hide, yet he couldn't resist saving a woman. A minor Ministry clerk.
He risked the control of his 'rat' and exposed his own existence just for a
shred of mercy."
"You are mistaken, Tom."
Dumbledore's voice was steady, but it carried a weight Voldemort had never heard
before—something approaching a terrifying softness. "He did not betray my
expectations. On the contrary, he did something you will never be capable of
understanding."
"Oh?"
The word was the only signal. Both wizards drew their wands simultaneously.
Dumbledore's spell was silent. The snow beneath Voldemort's feet erupted into a
mass of thick, grasping vines that lunged for his legs.
Voldemort's reaction was blindingly fast. He didn't struggle; he dissolved into
a plume of black smoke, slipping through the vines before reforming in mid-air.
"AVADA KEDAVRA!"
The green light was faster than any lightning bolt. But Dumbledore was no longer
there. A single footprint remained in the snow where he had been standing; he
was already appearing at Voldemort's flank. This wasn't Apparition—the village
wards held firm—it was pure, physical reaction speed and a century of dueling
instinct.
A ring of fire erupted from Dumbledore's wand, splitting into dozens of flaming
phoenixes that dove at Voldemort from every angle.
Voldemort swept his wand in a wide arc. Black mist poured from the tip, forming
a twisting shield that swallowed the fire whole. But while he was occupied,
Dumbledore's next strike arrived—the ground beneath Voldemort exploded as stone
pillars, sharp as unsheathed swords, lunged upward.
Voldemort took flight once more, his wand slashing downward to shear the tops
off the pillars with a jet of dark green light. He hovered in the air, looking
down at Dumbledore.
"I can do this all night, Albus," he sneered.
Dumbledore didn't answer. He stood his ground, the tip of his wand glowing with
a cold blue light. More fire began to surge around him.
"Heh... Dumbledore, you cannot kill me. I can leave whenever I wish. And you
dare not kill me. If I die now, how will you find me again? You and the boy...
you care too much for this world. Even a simple test of Wormtail's loyalty was
enough to trigger his 'mercy.' It is his nature. You know it better than anyone.
The faster he grows, the more he has to lose. I have ten thousand ways to
destroy him..."
The black mist rose higher, carrying Voldemort's new body into the storm-wracked
sky. But he only made it twenty feet.
A golden cord, manifested from Dumbledore's wand, lashed out and snagged him,
dragging him back to the earth. Voldemort landed hard and spun around, his eyes
burning.
Dumbledore remained in the center of the clearing, watching him through his
half-moon spectacles with a peace that was colder than the snow.
"Are you in a hurry to leave, Tom?"
"I assumed you came to talk," Voldemort said, his playful tone replaced by
something harder and colder. "But you never intended to let me walk away."
"You have made a new Horcrux, Tom," Dumbledore said. His voice was level, as if
he were observing a student's minor error in a classroom. "Just now. Using the
death of Peter Pettigrew. Therefore, you are going to answer a few questions."
Voldemort's lip curled. "You think I will speak?"
"I think you will," Dumbledore said, taking a step forward. "Because you have no
other choice."
The snow crunched beneath the Headmaster's boots.
"You made a mistake, Tom. The same mistake you made as a boy. You assume
everyone else is stupid and weak. A child who can destroy multiple Horcruxes by
the age of fourteen—did you truly think that was just 'talent'?"
Dumbledore paused. "Why do you think I kept him at Hogwarts? Because he wasn't
ready? Because he wasn't strong enough?"
He tilted his head. "No. It was because I didn't want him to have to carry the
weight of Sin."
"You're bluffing," Voldemort hissed. He stood like a coiled cobra, every muscle
tensed. "You wouldn't dare..."
Dumbledore allowed a small, sharp smile. "That is your problem, Tom. You think
the world is static. You think people never change."
Voldemort's pupils contracted to pinpricks.
"Every time you resurrect... every time you anchor a new piece of your soul..."
Dumbledore's voice dropped, becoming as sharp as a razor. "I will find you.
Every single time, I will hunt you down. And then I will tear your new body to
pieces. I will drive you back into the shadows and leave you to spend another
thirteen years hunting for another servant desperate enough to sell you their
soul."
The silence between them lasted for several seconds—the longest Voldemort had
ever paused in a confrontation.
Then, he laughed. It was a high, shrill sound that lacked its usual conviction.
"Dumbledore... you wouldn't..."
Dumbledore didn't answer. He simply waited.
"HOW DARE YOU?!" Voldemort roared, his rage finally breaking through. "Every
time I return, I will bring terror! I will slaughter every one of your
followers! I will dismantle your precious society brick by brick until nothing
remains!"
"I am already a sinner, Tom," Dumbledore smiled.
His left hand lashed out. He wasn't holding a wand, but the long silk bundle.
The fabric fell away, and the Sword of Gryffindor erupted in a flash of crimson
light.
Simultaneously, he flicked his wand with his right hand. A localized explosion
tore the side of the inn apart.
Stone and wood flew into the storm. Through the gaping hole in the wall, the
group could see a massive serpent coiled in the shadows of the pub.
Voldemort's composure finally shattered. The viciousness and panic beneath
his mask were laid bare.
"You—!"
He didn't finish. Dumbledore threw the silver sword. It flew like a javelin,
aimed directly at the heart of the giant snake.
At the same time, Dumbledore charged forward, his wand leveled at Voldemort's
chest. He was forcing a choice: save the snake, or defend himself.
Voldemort chose himself. He raised a shield against Dumbledore's
Transfiguration, leaving the serpent to fend for itself.
The move revealed everything. It proved the snake was not the "final anchor." It
proved that if there were a seventh Horcrux, it wasn't here.
Voldemort stood in the snow, his chest heaving. His new body was not yet fully
stabilized; the rapid-fire dueling was already beginning to tax his core. He
stared at Dumbledore with eyes that held anger, suspicion, and a tiny, hidden
grain of fear he would never admit to.
"You have changed, Albus."
"I am your enemy, Tom. And I am the enemy who will kill you until you learn to
be afraid."
Dumbledore summoned the sword back to his hand.
"You will die of old age eventually, Dumbledore! And I will remain!" Voldemort
screamed.
He dissolved into a massive cloud of black smoke that exploded outward like a
bomb. Dumbledore's magical barrier shrieked under the pressure. He flicked his
wand to contain the blast, but only a fraction of the smoke was real.
The true Voldemort had already slipped through a microscopic crack in the
barrier and vanished into the snowy night.
Dumbledore began to follow him at a leisurely pace.
The rules of the game had changed. He no longer cared about the "Greater Good"
or preserving the peace of the world. He only cared about erasing his own
mistake.
He would kill him tonight. He would kill him next time. And the time after that.
Until the arrogant Dark Lord realized that every resurrection would be met by a
Dumbledore who no longer had anything left to lose.
Voldemort thought immortality was his ultimate weapon. Dumbledore was going to
turn it into his ultimate torture.
☆☆☆
-> SUPPORT ME WITH POWER STONE
-> FOR EVERY 200 PS = BOUNS CHAPTER
☆☆☆
-> 30 Advanced chapters Now Available on Patreon!!
-> https://www.pat-reon.co-m/c/Inkshaper
(Just remove the hyphen (-) to access patreon normally)
If you like this novel please consider leaving a review that's help the story a lot Thank you