The Old Ones of Hogwarts

Chapter 590-599: The Great Wizarding Revolution 1

On the fourth day, he began to feel desperate.

His body had reached its limit. Blisters on the soles of his feet burst and grew back, burst and grew back; his lips were cracked and bleeding, and his throat was so sore that he could hardly swallow; his eyes were swollen and red from the scorching sun, and his vision was beginning to blur. He didn't know how much longer he had to walk, how much longer he could hold on, or whether this damned desert had no end at all.

But he didn't stop.

He can't stop.

On the fifth day, the pyramid finally grew larger.

On the sixth day, he reached the foot of the pyramids.

The entrance to the pyramid was a gigantic, gaping maw, devoid of teeth, containing only a dark, bottomless passage. Voldemort stood at the entrance, panting heavily, drenched in sweat, his legs trembling slightly.

He stepped into the passageway.

The passage was short, only a dozen steps. At the end of the passage was a small stone chamber. In the center of the chamber was a stone platform. On the platform sat a mirror.

The mirror was small, only about the size of a washbasin. Its frame was made of some kind of golden, gleaming metal, covered with intricate runes. The mirror surface wasn't glass, but rather some kind of flowing, mercury-like liquid that swirled slowly in the darkness.

Voldemort walked to the stone platform and looked down at the mirror.

The reflection in the mirror was himself—not the twisted, inhuman monster, but Tom Riddle from decades ago. Young, handsome, with dark hair, delicate features, and a faint, proud smile playing on his lips. That was how he used to be, the way he missed most, and the way he hated most.

He reached out and grasped the mirror.

This time, there was no resistance, no traps, no guardians. The mirror lay quietly in his palm, cold and smooth, like a sleeping baby.

He held the mirror up to the only light source in the stone chamber—the faint golden glow coming from the entrance.

On the mirror's surface, words began to appear. These were not Titan runes, nor ancient incantations, but rather the familiar script used by modern wizards: "Mirror of Banishment. Guided by the fate of its holder, it can strip the target's existence from reality and cast them into eternal nothingness. How to use: Reflect the target in the mirror and recite their true name. After three recitations, the target will be banished, never to return."

Voldemort looked at the line of text, and the corners of his mouth slowly turned up.

He smiled.

The laughter echoed in the cramped stone chamber, hoarse and wild, filled with smugness and satisfaction.

"Finally—" he murmured, "Finally—"

He carefully tucked the mirror into his robes and turned to walk out of the passage. His steps were quick, filled with an impatient eagerness. All the weariness, the pain, the despair—the moment he held the mirror, they were all left behind.

He only wants to do one thing right now—

Leave here.

Back to his world.

Then, banish that damned raven.

He didn't notice that on the stone wall above his head, a small raven was quietly crouching in the shadows. Ian watched Voldemort's retreating figure, his impatient steps, and a slight smile played on his lips.

"Fourth hurdle, passed," he said silently to himself. "Smoother than expected."

He gently flapped his wings, took flight from the stone wall, and silently followed behind Voldemort.

The desert began to vanish, the pyramids began to collapse, and three suns fell simultaneously. The golden world dissipated into countless points of light behind Voldemort, slowly fading away to reveal the ancient, rune-covered ruins once more.

Voldemort did not turn around.

He passed through the narrow doorway, through the circular stone chamber, through the living passage, and past the bronze door he had torn apart. The runes in the ruins flickered as he passed, as if bidding him farewell.

When he finally emerged from the ice cliff and stood once more on the Arctic ice sheet, the aurora borealis swirled overhead, and the icy wind howled in his ears. He opened his arms and took a deep breath of the cold, snow-laden air.

Then, he transformed into a black streak of light and flew south.

Behind him, the ancient ruins were once again swallowed by the ice and disappeared beneath the permafrost.

Only the raven stood silently at the highest point of the ice cliff, watching the black streak of light disappear into the horizon, its dark eyes gleaming with complex light.

"Next, I have one more scene to film," Ian whispered, muttering to himself. "Then it's up to Headmaster Dumbledore."

Beneath the Arctic ice cliffs, the ancient ruins fell silent once more after Voldemort's departure. The runes dimmed, the mechanisms ceased functioning, and the blasted walls, torn doors, and collapsed stone bridges slowly healed under the influence of some ancient restorative magic.

Everything is returning to normal, as if no one had ever been there.

Only in the deepest altar hall did a faint, dark red light still flicker.

Ian stood before the stone platform, holding a crystal ball the size of a fist. The crystal ball was completely transparent, but inside, a dark red mist slowly rotated, occasionally flashing with a tiny, lightning-like light. That was the power Voldemort had offered—the power of deep space corruption.

The ruins intercepted a portion of Voldemort's power when he offered his destiny, gathering, compressing, and sealing it through the runes embedded in the stone walls. This was Ian's proudest achievement in designing the ruins; everyone who steps onto the altar, whether they pass the trial or not, leaves something behind.

Strength, memory, destiny—one of them is bound to suit him.

"This stuff is really poisonous."

Ian held the crystal ball up to his eyes, observing the dark red mist through its transparent walls. It was slowly rotating, growing thinner with each turn, as if being devoured from within. The edges were beginning to turn transparent, as if it might completely dissipate at any moment.

"It's dissipating again," Ian muttered to himself, frowning. He closed his eyes and probed the crystal ball with his senses. The power trembled slightly at his touch, like a snake awakened, struggling and dissipating more violently. He tried to bind it with magic, but it was too unstable.

Every touch Ian made accelerated its loss, as if it didn't belong to any container in this world at all.

"Having lost its host, it is returning to deep space."

Ian opened his eyes, looking at the dark red mist that had shrunk by a fraction, a hint of disappointment flashing in them. This wasn't the first time he had tried to intercept this power.

Since Voldemort left, he has used three different containers: a crystal ball, an obsidian bottle, and even an ancient sealed box he found in Grindelwald's vault.

Every time, the result is the same.

The power begins to dissipate within hours of being intercepted; it cannot be retained, preserved, or bound by any known magical container.

"We still lack the means."

He sighed, placed the crystal ball on the stone platform, and watched the mist continue to dissipate. The dark red light grew weaker, the rotation slowed, and the transparent area at the edges expanded. At this rate, in less than an hour, the power would completely vanish.

It vanished into nothingness.

"Let my super brain come up with a solution."

Ian stared at the dissipating mist, his fingers tapping unconsciously on the edge of the stone platform. Countless thoughts flashed through his mind—why couldn't it be preserved?

Is it because this power is so deeply bound to Voldemort's soul that it will automatically perish once it leaves his body? Or is it because it inherently possesses a certain "exclusivity"?

Refusing to be contained by any container? He reached out again, this time not through a container, but by probing his fingertips directly into the mist.

Dark red mist instantly coiled around his fingers, like countless tiny, cold tentacles. They tried to burrow into his skin, to merge with his magic, to resonate with the ancient authority within him. Ian did not resist, but allowed the tentacles to penetrate, feeling the essence of that power.

Cold. Chaotic. And there was an indescribable, abyssal emptiness. It was a unique existence formed by the fusion of power from deep space and Voldemort's own dark magic. It was similar to the Old Flame that Ian had taken from the Dream of Cthulhu, yet completely different.

The Old Flame is a pure, ancient, chaotic power imbued with the aura of a sleeping god; and this power is even more chaotic and unstable.

Like a flood forcibly poured into a container, it could burst its banks at any moment.

Ian's old authority trembled slightly.

In that instant, he felt—that dissipating power was being "attracted" by the old authority. Not absorbed, not devoured, but "seen" by some higher being. Like the abyss gazing into the abyss, like chaos embracing chaos.

The dark red mist trembled violently at his fingertips, its spinning speed suddenly increasing, and then a portion of it merged into his old authority.

Yes.

That power flowed into his body through his fingertips, intertwining and merging with his original old flame, eventually sinking into the deepest part of his authority and becoming a part of his power.

Ian's pupils contracted slightly.

He looked down at his fingers; the dark red mist had vanished, leaving only faint, almost invisible red marks at the fingertips. He closed his eyes, sensing the ancient authority within him. It had indeed changed—not strengthened, not transformed, but possessed a new kind of "memory." A memory of Voldemort's power, a deeper understanding of the power of deep space.

But the power he "absorbed" was only a tiny fraction of the dissipating mist. Most of the power dissipated even faster when he tried to guide it with his authority, as if resisting being "understood."

Ian opened his eyes and stared into thought as he looked at the dark red mist on the stone platform, which had shrunk to the size of a fist.

"In that case—" he murmured, his eyes flickering, but he didn't continue.

He stood there, staring at the wisp of mist for a long time. Long enough that the mist completely dissipated, long enough that only an empty, cold stone remained on the platform.

Then, he sighed softly.

He tucked the empty crystal ball into his robes and turned to walk deeper into the ruins. His steps were slow, each one carrying the weight of deep thought. The Titan runes flickered faintly as he passed, as if questioning him, or perhaps simply performing their routine.

He walked to the deepest stone chamber in the ruins, the place where he had "made" the Mirror of Exile. On the stone platform, the fake mirror was still there, its surface having lost all its luster, becoming just an ordinary, dusty piece of glass. Ian walked to the stone platform, looked down at the mirror, and stared at it for a long time.

Then, he reached out and picked up the mirror from the stone platform. The mirror reflected his youthful face, yet it possessed a depth beyond his years. He looked at himself in the mirror, his deep eyes gleaming with complex emotions.

"Not enough," he said softly. "Far from it."

He set the mirror aside, took out the small device from his pocket, turned it on, and displayed Voldemort's image in the ruins. In the image, Voldemort stood before the altar, his three scarlet eyes flickering with hesitation and struggle. Ian looked at the image, a slight smile playing on his lips, revealing a hint of smugness.

"But at least, the fish took the bait."

He put away the device and turned to walk out of the ruins. One by one, the Titan runes behind him went out, the mechanisms closed one by one, and the entire ruins fell into slumber once more.

As he stepped out of the ice cliff and stood on the Arctic ice sheet, the aurora borealis swirled overhead and the cold wind howled in his ears.

He looked up at the eternal, magnificent sky, took a deep breath, and then transformed into a silvery-white ray of light, flying south.

Behind him, the ruins were completely swallowed by the ice and disappeared beneath the permafrost.

Voldemort returned to his hideout late at night.

The lair nestled beneath the industrial ruins of southeast London remained cold and damp, the air thick with the musty stench of decay and the lingering acrid smell of dark magic. Several Death Eaters knelt on either side of the corridor, foreheads pressed against the cold ground, trembling, afraid to look up. They could sense their master's return, but his aura had changed. Not stronger, nor weaker, but more—profound. Like an abyss, like the void, like an incomprehensible existence.

Voldemort didn't speak. He walked straight down the corridor and into the deepest, most secret chamber. The stone door closed behind him, shutting everyone out.

In the secret chamber, the mirror brought back from the ruins lay quietly on the stone table. It emitted a faint glow in the darkness.

A ghostly blue light emanated from the mirror, and blurry, unrecognizable images flashed across its surface from time to time. Voldemort walked to the stone table, looked down at the mirror, and his three scarlet eyes gleamed with complex light.

He didn't touch it.

He just stared at it, for a long time. So long that the Death Eaters kneeling outside began to wonder if something had happened to their master. So long that the Death Eater responsible for delivering the message began to hesitate about whether to knock on the door and ask.

Then, Voldemort spoke.

"Come in."

The Death Eater trembled, quickly pushed open the door, and knelt down.

"Owner."

Voldemort didn't turn around; he remained staring at the mirror. His voice was soft and calm, yet carried an undeniable authority: "Have you located the Raven?"

The Death Eater answered tremblingly, "Yes—Master, not yet. We've used all our undercover agents, searching the magical world of Britain, Europe, and even North America, but we haven't found any trace of the raven. It's like—like it vanished into thin air."

Voldemort remained silent for a few seconds.

"Where's Grindelwald?"

"No—no. After he escaped from Azkaban that day, someone saw him fall into the North Sea, but our spies searched that area and found nothing. He might—he might already—"

"Maybe he's already dead?"

Voldemort picked up where he left off, his voice laced with mockery.

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