The Old Ones of Hogwarts

Chapter 600, Section 609: That Deceptive Game 2

Voldemort was making a declaration of victory.

"Do you know how long I've waited for this day?"

His voice was soft and hoarse, "From the moment I saw you in Azkaban, I've been waiting. Waiting for an opportunity, a chance to take you down with my own hands."

Grindelwald looked at him, his heterochromatic eyes swirling with complex emotions. There was no fear, no anger, only a faint, compassionate calm.

"You're still so cautious." His voice was hoarse but calm. "Even after sending out so many pawns, even after coming in person, it was only a Horcrux clone that came."

Voldemort's smile froze for a moment.

Grindelwald continued, his tone still calm, as if recounting a story unrelated to himself: "Do you think I can't see it? This body—it's not your true self. Your true self is still hiding somewhere, preparing something, afraid of something. You've always been like this, from the orphanage to Hogwarts, to becoming the Dark Lord—you've never dared to face any real threat yourself. You always hide in the background, letting others die for you."

Voldemort's eyes narrowed slightly, his smile vanished, replaced by a cold, almost cruel calm.

"You're right." His voice was gentle yet dangerous. "It's just an avatar. But it's enough to deal with a severely injured, weakened Grindelwald whose cultivation level has even dropped. One avatar is more than enough."

He stood up and took a step back. Tentacles emerged from his body, swaying gently in the air, as if awaiting a command.

"Do you have any last words?" he asked.

Grindelwald looked at him and remained silent for a few seconds. Then, he sighed softly.

The sigh was soft and faint, yet it echoed across the silent hills, carrying an indescribable and complex emotion.

"What a pity," his voice was hoarse but calm, "what a pity that you only sent an avatar."

Voldemort frowned slightly. "What?"

Grindelwald did not answer. He simply stood up slowly, and the weariness and resentment in his heterochromatic eyes vanished, replaced by a calm, almost composed understanding.

Voldemort's Horcrux stood opposite him, its three crimson eyes fixed on him, a cold, victorious smile playing on its lips. Its tentacles swayed gently behind it, and a dark red light flickered around it, enveloping it in an eerie glow.

"Grindelwald!"

His voice was soft yet dangerous. "What else can you do? Severely injured, weak, and even your cultivation level has dropped. Dumbledore's fate is unknown, and that raven is nowhere to be found. You alone, what makes you think you can fight me?"

He spread his arms wide, as if embracing the entire sky. Tentacles sprouted from his body, dancing wildly in the air like celebratory flags.

"Your era ended long ago, Grindelwald. It ended fifty years ago. You're just a wretched old man clinging to life, a prisoner locked in a tower waiting to die. You couldn't even beat a few useless guys I sent out, so what right do you have to stand before me?"

Grindelwald didn't move. He just stood there, looking at Voldemort, at that twisted, inhuman face. Those heterochromatic eyes...

In his eyes, there was no anger, no fear, only a calm, almost composed indifference.

"You're right!" he said, his voice hoarse but calm. "I can't do anything to you on my own."

Voldemort's smile deepened.

"But—" Grindelwald raised his hand and pulled out his ever-present wand from inside his robes. The wand looked ordinary; its shaft was made of dark wood, devoid of any decoration, with only a few fine, almost invisible scratches. But the moment Voldemort saw the wand, all three of his eyes lit up simultaneously—this was no ordinary wand; it was Grindelwald's wand, the scepter that had once made all of Europe tremble, the scepter belonging to the first Dark Lord.

Grindelwald gripped his wand, the tip pointing towards the sky.

"I can find help."

He waved it gently.

A golden ray of light shot from the tip of the staff, soaring straight into the sky! The light was not intense, nor dazzling, but it carried an indescribable warmth, like the dawn. It pierced through the still billowing black smoke and the dark red light, exploding in the sky and transforming into countless tiny, golden specks of light, like fireworks, like stars, like some ancient signal.

Voldemort looked up at the golden specks of light, his brow furrowing slightly. "What are you doing?"

Grindelwald did not answer. He simply stood there, wand in hand, gazing at the sky.

A few seconds passed. Ten seconds. Half a minute.

Nothing happened.

Voldemort's lips curled into a mocking smile again. "This is your helper? A signal? Grindelwald, you're more desperate than I thought." He didn't finish his sentence.

In the sky, those golden dots of light suddenly lit up. Not gradually, but like flames ignited, they instantly emitted a blinding radiance! That light transformed the entire sky into a golden sea, dispelling all the black smoke, the dark red glow, and the shadows that had shrouded the town!

Then he heard it.

A cry.

The sound was neither loud nor shrill, yet it clearly resonated throughout the entire hill, the whole town, and reached the ears of everyone.

It is not the cry of a falcon, nor the cawing of a crow, but a purer, more ancient sound, like the first breeze at the dawn of the world, like the last sigh at the end of destiny.

A raven flew out from the golden light.

Its feathers were jet black, yet gleamed with a metallic sheen; its wings were broad and powerful, each flap creating a hurricane; its eyes were deep and unfathomable, gleaming with a wisdom beyond the ordinary. It swooped down from the sky with astonishing speed, like a black arrow, shooting straight towards the hill!

The stitched-together monster was the first to react. Its eyes widened simultaneously, emitting a blinding dark red light. Its body trembled violently, and its twisted limbs crawled frantically on the ground, trying to retreat, trying to escape.

"Raven—" Bellatrix's voice came from the fused face, filled with barely concealed fear, "The raven is coming—"

Selwyn's voice trembled as well: "Master—it's here—"

Voldemort didn't move. He stood there, his three scarlet eyes fixed on the raven that had descended from the sky, a ferocious, excited smile slowly spreading across his face.

"You've finally arrived." His voice was soft yet dangerous. "Grindelwald, you certainly haven't disappointed me."

The raven landed on the hill, between Grindelwald and Voldemort. Its wings were folded, and its black feathers gleamed metallically in the sunlight. It tilted its head, its dark eyes fixed on Voldemort for a long time.

Then, it began to change.

It wasn't shapeshifting, nor illusion, but a more fundamental, more natural transformation. Its body elongated and expanded, feathers became robes, wings became arms, and claws became feet. A black-haired boy stood on the hill, hands in his pockets, tilting his head to look at Voldemort, a faint smile playing on his lips.

Ian Prince.

Twelve-year-old Ian Prince.

He was dressed in ordinary dark clothes, with delicate features and black hair that fluttered gently in the wind. His eyes were dark and deep, like a bottomless pool. He stood there, looking no different from any other ordinary twelve-year-old child.

But Voldemort knew he wasn't.

Voldemort looked at Ian, his three scarlet eyes swirling with complex emotions—excitement, greed, and a hint of barely concealed fear.

"Raven." His voice was soft yet dangerous. "We've finally met."

Ian looked at him, his deep eyes showing no fear or anger, only a faint, almost calm understanding.

"You've been looking for me," he said, his voice calm and composed. "Now I've found you."

Voldemort's lips curled into a grotesque grin. "Yes, found it." He took a step forward, his tentacles flaring wildly behind him. "Do you know how long I've waited for this day? From Azkaban, from the moment you stood on the rocks looking at me—I've been waiting. Waiting for an opportunity, a chance to finish you off with my own hands."

He raised his hand, palm facing Ian. Dark red light condensed in his palm, transforming into a constantly spinning, lifelike sphere of light.

"You think you can escape? You think you can hide in the shadows, watching my every move, but doing nothing? You're wrong, Raven. Today, this is where you'll die."

"Are you sure?" His voice was calm and composed.

Voldemort's smile froze for a moment. "What?"

Ian didn't answer. He simply raised his hand, and an ordinary-looking wand slid out of his sleeve and into his palm. The wand was thin and light, made of light-colored wood with no decorations, only some fine, almost invisible patterns.

He gripped his wand, the tip pointing at Voldemort.

"Give it a try."

Voldemort's eyes narrowed slightly. He didn't act immediately, but looked at Ian, at those deep eyes, at that ordinary wand, at that calm, smiling face.

Then he smiled.

"Okay," he said, his voice soft yet dangerous. "Okay."

He raised a finger—not a wand, but just a finger covered in black scales, its tip a sharp barb. A dark red light gathered at his fingertip, growing brighter and more intense, until it finally transformed into a thin, needle-like beam of light.

"Let me see just how powerful the legendary raven really is."

He suddenly pointed forward!

The beam of light shot out from his fingertip with astonishing speed, aiming straight for Ian's chest! Wherever it passed, the air was torn apart, space was distorted, and a deep, smoking trench was left in the ground!

Ian didn't dodge. He simply raised his wand and waved it gently.

A silvery-white light shot out from the tip of the staff, colliding violently with the dark red beam of light in mid-air! There was no explosion, no roar. The two beams collided and silently annihilated, turning into countless tiny, shimmering points of light, like shattered stars, slowly drifting down.

Voldemort's pupils contracted slightly.

Ian looked at him, the smile on his lips unchanged.

"Again."

Voldemort's face darkened. He no longer used a single finger, but raised both hands, all ten fingers pointing simultaneously at Ian! Ten dark red beams of light shot from his fingertips, striking Ian from different directions and angles! They intertwined and entwined in the air...

The division has transformed into an impenetrable web of death!

Ian's figure began to move. Not running, not jumping, but walking. He strolled leisurely through the gaps in the web of death, as if taking a walk in his own backyard. Every sidestep, every turn, every step, perfectly dodged the deadly attacks. The beams grazed his body, some striking the ground and blasting deep craters; some hitting the rocks and shattering boulders; some flying into the sky and disappearing into the horizon.

Voldemort's attacks grew increasingly dense and frenzied. The beams of light rained down like a torrential downpour, covering everything without leaving any blind spots! The ground was blasted into countless holes, rocks were reduced to dust, and the air was filled with the smell of gunpowder and burning flesh.

But Ian still wasn't hit.

His steps were light and unhurried, as if he were dancing a silent dance. The beams of light swept past him, flew over his head, and passed under his feet, but none of them could touch his body.

Voldemort's expression grew increasingly grim. He increased his power, and the beams of light became thicker, more intense, and faster.

But Ian kept dodging, kept walking, and still didn't get hit.

"Is all you can do to hide?" Voldemort roared, his voice tinged with annoyance.

Ian stopped and stood in a clearing that had been bombed beyond recognition. He looked at Voldemort, his smile unchanged.

"No," he said, "I'm just waiting."

"What are you waiting for?"

Ian didn't answer. He simply looked up at the sky.

In the sky, those golden specks of light had not completely dissipated. They were slowly falling, like snowflakes, like stars, like some ancient prophecy.

Voldemort followed his gaze, his brow furrowing slightly. He didn't understand what Ian was waiting for, but he had a bad feeling.

Without further hesitation, he raised his hands, gathering all his strength into his palms. The dark red light grew larger, brighter, and more intense, eventually transforming into a gigantic, constantly rotating sphere of light. Within that sphere, countless tiny, vein-like tendrils wriggled, each pulsation carrying an eerie, life-like rhythm.

"Go to hell!" He shoved him forward violently!

The ball of light hurtled toward Ian!

Wherever it passed, layers of rock were ripped up from the ground, the air was torn into fragments, and space itself was distorted and cracked!

That was his strongest attack, enough to raze an entire hill to the ground!

Ian watched the ball of light getting closer and closer, and raised his wand.

A silvery-white light shot out from the tip of the staff, not a beam or a pillar, but a thin, thread-like ray. The light appeared very thin and weak, as if it might break at any moment. But the instant it struck the enormous sphere of light—the sphere stopped.