Voldemort’s bare feet landed on the earth.
The magical burst of power wasn’t for show, but to keep everyone away from him. He felt there were two of him, occupying the sa mindscape. It wasn’t as simple as soone invading his mind, either.
Voldemort could distinctly feel an overlapping of emotions, thoughts, ideals, and ambitions. The most baffling realization was that these overlapping concepts belonged to the sa person — to him — the Dark Lord. Yet, they were not the sa, either.
The paradox was making Voldemort lose control.
To regain control over the changes he had just gone through, he needed a few monts.
A few monts to finally admit how powerful, shrewd, and a scheming bastard Lord Yellow Warlock was.
If it were anyone else in his place, then he would have hated and admonished Yellow Warlock, Voldemort believed. But he? No. He admired these qualities in Yellow Warlock as much as he hated them. Now more so than ever.
Lord Yellow Warlock had fooled not only Dumbledore and the entire world, but also the Order of the Immortal Lotus.
Voldemort hadn’t known this before.
But the mont he let this foreign, but sa, mindscape overlap with his own, he learned of it instantly.
Lord Yellow Warlock had the ans to conjure an exact copy of him, a fake, but impossible to be identified as such, Voldemort.
It was this magic he had used during the Battle of Legends, making everyone believe that Voldemort had already regained his body.
To cent that doubt, later, Yellow Warlock let the real him possess Grindelwald’s corpse.
The only one in the world who could have found out the truth regarding his frail state, and how he was using his magical possession of Grindelwald to sustain himself, was... Lord Ekrizdis, who was on Yellow Warlock’s side anyway.
And so, the yellow-robed monster used the doubt sown over two years ago to efficiently and effortlessly manipulate events, making sure that Dumbledore wouldn’t be present to stop... what was happening now.
He pushed into a corner and has now left no choice but... to use this body, offering it to as a gift, Voldemort thought, the two mindscapes superimposing perfectly within him. Gift. A cursed gift. He has practically turned into his wand... But...
I am Walking Chaos. I am the destruction, the end to all beginnings, and the ripper of the worlds. I am what lies beyond perception. Beyond death.
Those were the first words that the nearly perfect mindscape recalled.
Those were not the words of a man, or a wizard, dark or otherwise, though.
Voldemort kept repeating them in his mind, wondering if he could utter the sa... without feigning them.
He couldn’t.
And, in turn, Voldemort ca to a far-fetched, but most likely to be true, conclusion.
Lord Yellow Warlock wasn’t playing on the sa field as him. Lord Yellow Warlock wasn’t vying for supremacy of this world. Lord Yellow Warlock... wasn’t a part of this world.
No wonder the Order hates him so much, Voldemort realized. He is from... outside.
He had remained the Yellow Seat’s student for so ti, even though they had fallen out later. So, Voldemort rembered Abdul Alhazred ntioning these... outsiders, who raided worlds to pillage and plunder.
That’s why, when the group of four dark wizards had approached him, requesting him to let them help him in kidnapping Harry, he had not refused them.
And the greatest caveat about these outsiders was that... they never stayed.
Which ant, one day, Lord Yellow Warlock would leave this world as well.
Which ant, one day, he, Lord Voldemort, would rule this world unquestioned, unchallenged, and uncontested, because...
Voldemort opened his eyes, his red, slitted pupils glowing bloody.
Power.
Boundless magical power.
A power that he had only sensed from Lord Ekrizdis and Lord Yellow Warlock before.
It was coursing through his veins, like blood. It had beco his flesh and bones. It had beco... his.
And if this power undeniably belonged to him, then...
Lord Voldemort didn’t mind becoming a Yellow Warlock’s wand... for so ti.
As if that was the cue, two yellow crystals danced in Voldemort’s slitted eyes, countless more appearing in his mindscape, one crystal bobbing up and down over every tombstone.
Voldemort lifted his hands and looked at them.
They were pale, almost white, but dark black-red veins were pulsating and glowing on them. The sa veins covered his entire body, crawling up his neck and reaching to his eyes. And, they all shared the sa source.
Voldemort lifted his hand and pressed it on his chest.
There was a bump there, like a gelatinous blood crystal, beating like a heart.
All the red-black veins were slithering out of that bump, pumping not only blood but also unimaginable power.
Suddenly, a buzz filled his ears.
With a speed that could have jolted his senses before, a large bug appeared behind him, raising its scissors-like hands, which were glowing purple.
Then, the bug attacked, tracing unusually large purple arcs.
It was this that had destroyed his ritual, Voldemort realized, silently letting the attack land on him.
It was this creature... this power that belonged to the girl that had almost ruined his plans of ever regaining his body.
Even as Voldemort was sliced apart in three parts with a bloody squelch, he looked forward and saw the girl.
She carried a large book in her hand, which was oozing reddish-black magical flas.
Next to her, Harry... the boy who lived... was watching him fall with a shocked, exhilarating expression on his face.
As the three pieces of his body fell on the earth, and his head rolled forward, Voldemort sensed their relief and joy... as if they had miraculously averted a disaster.
Fools.
He wanted them to see it.
He wanted them to see what was going to happen next.
Because nothing would make him feel more joy than seeing their hope die... right in front of his eyes.
Blood stirred.
It wriggled as if it had a mind of its own.
The pieces of Voldemort’s body lifted, trails of blood like ropes pulling them to each other before gluing them together, becoming one.
And... he was back.
And... he laughed.
"Hahaha..." the Dark Lord relished at the sight of hopelessness. "Hahahaha..."
Lord Voldemort had risen again — in his fullest glory!
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