Voldemort stood in the center of the Mirror Dinsion, his wand moving in sharp, probing gestures as he tested the boundaries of the impossible space. Each spell he cast reflected endlessly in the mirrors, creating a dizzying kaleidoscope of light that ultimately affected nothing.
"SHOW YOURSELF!" His voice echoed infinitely, each reflection throwing his rage back at him. "FACE , COWARD!"
Only silence answered, and the silence felt like insult.
The Dark Lord’s composure cracked. Seconds—he’d been seconds from victory. Seconds from bending the wizarding world to his will.
The defenders had been helpless before his void sphere, Potter depleted, the wizarding world about to kneel. And then... this. Trapped like an insect, pulled into this mirror-realm without even sensing the magic that did it.
His frustration erupted and he lashed out blindly, firing curses in every direction, trying to shatter this prison through sheer force.
Then, suddenly, in the middle of everything, his instincts scread.
Voldemort spun, conjuring a concrete wall just as an invisible fist slamd into it. The barrier cracked from the impact.
Before he could process the attack, danger sang from his left. He rolled aside as sothing sharp—a blade?—carved through where he’d been standing.
Arthur struck from invisibility like a phantom, determined to end this quickly. After witnessing all those deaths tonight, experiencing war firsthand, he had no patience for talk or gas. He wanted to eliminate this Dark Lord quickly and go ho.
His assault was relentless. A punch from the left, a cutting curse from the right, a sword slash from above.
But sohow, impossibly, Voldemort was keeping up.
The crushing blow was deflected by a hastily conjured marble pillar. The Reducto was turned aside by pure instinct. The sword slash was t by sheets of transfigured steel that scread as the tals t.
"I can feel you," the Dark Lord hissed, pivoting to block another invisible strike with conjured stone. "Your magic betrays you, boy. Every spell leaves ripples. Every movent disturbs the air."
Arthur increased his tempo, his Apparition enhanced to the point where he seed to exist in multiple places simultaneously.
Fist strike to the ribs—blocked by a shield charm that crackled with strain. Bombardnt curse from behind—deflected by experience older than Arthur had been alive. A blade thrust at the heart—parried by hastily transfigured tungsten that sparked against the edge.
Voldemort was fighting on pure instinct and decades of experience, barely keeping up, but still alive despite Arthur’s expectations of a quick fight.
Arthur’s shock was growing. This wasn’t the frightened Tom Riddle who had fled from him at MI6. This wasn’t even the Tom Riddle who’d fought Harry minutes ago. Sothing fundantal had changed.
He gathered power for a decisive combination attack. Still invisible, he materialized directly before Voldemort—his left fist already swinging while his right hand channeled a point-blank Reducto that could punch through tank armor.
But Voldemort’s response was instant: his body dissolved into black smoke, flowing around both attacks.
The smoke reford ten feet away, Voldemort’s chest heaving slightly. "Impressive, but futile."
Arthur materialized fully, abandoning an invisibility that provided no real advantage against these instincts. He studied Voldemort with calculating eyes, noting the increased magical density around him. He was sure sothing had changed. But what?
"Finally showing yourself?" Voldemort’s lipless mouth curved. "Do you feel it too, mudblood? I am stronger now."
Arthur remained silent, knowing that villains loved nothing more than explaining their power. Information was ammunition, and Voldemort’s ego would provide it freely.
"For the past year," Voldemort began, his voice gaining an edge of triumph, "I’ve undergone rituals that would destroy lesser wizards. Consud potions brewed from extinct creatures. Perford magic so dark that ancient texts warn against it. Yet for all my efforts, the power gains were... modest. Incrental. Sothing was limiting , keeping from my true potential."
His red eyes glead with malevolent satisfaction. "The answer ca to in ditation. The prophecy—that thrice-damned prophecy—wasn’t just a prediction. It was a cosmic shackle, a constraint woven into reality itself. It kept weak, kept balanced with Potter, ensuring he would always have a ’chance’ against . Fate itself was conspiring to give that boy hope."
The Dark Lord flexed his fingers, and dark magic crackled between them like captive lightning. "I tested the theory these past months. My spies reported Potter’s growth in power, and mysteriously, I found my own strength increasing to match. We were linked, chained together by prophecy’s design. Two sides of a scale that destiny refused to unbalance."
His laughter echoed through infinite reflections. "But when dear, devoted Bellatrix intercepted that golden spell ant for , she didn’t just save my life. She shattered the prophecy’s hold. There is no Chosen One anymore, no fated confrontation. The scales are broken."
Power radiated from him in waves, as if to give Arthur more proof that Voldemort was telling the truth.
"Behold my TRUE strength! I’ll kill you, then return to slaughter everyone at Hogwarts!"
"Don’t get ahead of yourself," Arthur said quietly, settling into a combat stance. "You’re not leaving this place."
"We shall see about—"
Voldemort never finished the sentence. Arthur moved.
The battle erupted with violence that made their previous exchange seem like a warm-up.
Voldemort’s wand moved in complex patterns, weaving spells of terrible beauty. A cascade of silver flas that sought Arthur like living things. Arthur dodged, his enhanced body moving with inhuman grace, while his hands wove mystic arts shields that turned the flas into harmless light.
The Dark Lord followed with a barrage of silent curses—purple bolts that rotted whatever they touched, green light that promised death, black tendrils that tried to drag Arthur into so naless void. Each spell flowed into the next without pause, a continuous stream of destruction.
Arthur responded with ease, his magic flowing through pure will. He deflected Killing Curses like swatting flies, turned Cruciatus Curses into harmless light, unraveled complex hexes with casual gestures.
They moved through the Mirror Dinsion like forces of nature given form. Voldemort transfigured the ground into a forest of grasping stone hands; Arthur flew above them, walking on platforms of solid air.
The Dark Lord conjured a storm of cursed glass shards; Arthur opened a portal that swallowed them whole, then opened another behind Voldemort to return the deadly rain.
Neither spoke. There was no breath for words, no thought beyond the next attack, the next counter, the next fraction of advantage.
Voldemort’s wand work was artwork—five decades of experience distilled into perfect motion. A spiral that beca a bone-crushing curse. A flick that birthed lightning. A jab that sent ground-tearing rifts toward his opponent.
But Arthur fought with powers beyond conventional magic. His magic, enhanced by cosmic energy, refined by magical reconstitution, elevated by the rged Deathly Hallows.
He clapped his hands and space itself compressed, forcing Voldemort to flow away as smoke or be crushed between dinsions. He drew circles that beca portals, allowing him to attack from six angles simultaneously. He traced symbols that turned air solid, creating barriers that even Voldemort’s darkest curses couldn’t penetrate.
Sending spells through the portals to keep Voldemort busy, Arthur made his decisive move. Appearing directly in front of Voldemort, he channeled everything into a point-blank explosion charm that would have leveled a building.
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