The soul emerged from a misty illusion, summoned by the shaman priest's incantation. Professor McGonagall, however, recalled Harry's description of this spell with crystal clarity: it could only call forth the blood ancestors of its target.
Which meant that all these souls drifting around the shimmering light curtain were none other than the ancestors of the Potter family?!
Men and women alike hovered there, chatting and laughing among themselves as if at a cheerful reunion. They seemed to be debating something, their voices a faint murmur, while their hands stretched forward. From their palms, blue light rippled outward like water disturbed by a stone, sustaining the glowing barrier that enveloped the room.
At the edge of this cylindrical curtain of azure light, Professor McGonagall noticed six totem poles, each no taller than her calf. Strange, unfamiliar runes were etched into their surfaces—symbols she vaguely recognized from somewhere, though she couldn't place them.
Then, a voice called her name. Startled, she turned to see James and Lily Potter gazing at her, their faces alight with warm smiles. James waved enthusiastically, his hand a blur of motion.
But they weren't alone. Among the spectral figures, Professor McGonagall spotted other familiar faces—Fleamont Potter and his wife, Euphemia, James's parents. And there, standing slightly apart, was Henry Potter. She knew him from history lessons: during his tenure in the Wizengamot from 1913 to 1921, Henry had boldly denounced the Minister of Magic, Archer Evermonde, for barring wizards from aiding Muggles during the First World War. To McGonagall, that act of defiance had always shone as a beacon of justice.
She squinted, trying to distinguish the shadowy souls more clearly. The modern figures, like James and Lily, stood out sharply against the older ones, their clothing a stark contrast. Some of the ancient spirits wore flowing robes adorned with intricate patterns, their ornaments reflecting styles lost to centuries past.
At that moment, Harry's voice rose, his chant growing louder and more resonant. The words reverberated through the office like the tolling of a great bell, each syllable echoing in a way that defied the room's modest size.
The sounds clashed and intertwined, carried by those impossible echoes, swelling and fading in waves.
Professor McGonagall could only deduce that Harry was performing some form of ritual magic—an ancient practice rarely employed by modern wizards. She couldn't discern its precise purpose, and she didn't dare intervene, lest she disrupt the delicate spellwork.
Meanwhile, Voldemort was growing frantic. Trapped within the blue light curtain, he felt its effects more keenly than anyone outside. He was utterly isolated.
He hurled spell after spell—dark curses, everyday charms, anything he could muster—but to his horror, nothing breached the barrier. Even the air around him seemed trapped, weighed down by the curtain's oppressive magic. The space grew stifling, heavy with a sense of impending doom. Then, abruptly, Harry's chanting vanished from his ears.
Harry stood with arms outstretched, raised high. As he moved, the six ancestral totems lifted into the air, hovering at the center of the light curtain.
"Harry!! Potter!!!!"
Voldemort's roar tore from his throat, his eyes wild with rage and desperation. A torrent of words—ambitions, threats, unfulfilled desires—burned within him, but they crumbled into nothingness. As the totems drew closer together, even his final bellow of Harry's name fractured into a guttural, broken sound.
"You're too dangerous, Voldemort," Harry said, his voice steady and unshaken. "Letting you roam the castle would be reckless."
Before him, the six totems fused into a single pillar, their edges melding seamlessly without the slightest crack. Carved into its surface were two faces. One, bowed and mournful, seemed to shrink from the world—it was Quirrell's. The other, twisted and savage, writhed as if clawing its way free from an invisible prison—Voldemort's.
With a flick of Harry's wrist, the pillar—originally half a meter tall—shrank rapidly. By the time it settled into his palm, it was a mere ten centimeters high.
"By the way," Harry added with a sudden, wry chuckle, staring at the totem in his hand, "Dumbledore might disagree, but I still think he overestimates you."
At his words, Voldemort's carved face contorted further, straining with feral intensity. Yet its struggles weakened, as if mired in thickening tar, until it stilled completely. All that remained was a grotesque, protruding visage—one that could make a child weep at a single glance.
Harry reached out and grasped the object, this strange ornament that now entombed Voldemort. He turned it over, sensing the power thrumming within.
[Ornament: Voldemort and Quirrell's Emblem]
[Quality: Orange Legend]
[Effect: When casting a spell, there is a chance to trigger 'Voldemort's Echo,' unleashing three random dark magic spells of Voldemort's caliber upon your target. Simultaneously, there is a chance to trigger 'Quirrell's Echo,' summoning a brief earth elemental ally. If both echoes activate together, 'Voldemort's Echo' weakens, reducing the dark spells to one with diminished power.]
[Details: Bound by two reluctant souls—one steeped in guilt and regret, the other seething with rage and malice—they may remain entwined like this forever, until true death claims them.]
"It's alright, Professor," Harry said, turning to McGonagall with a brief nod. "Voldemort's been dealt with."
The statement hit her like a thunderbolt. For a moment, she couldn't process it, her mind reeling. She hurried forward, hesitated for a heartbeat, then gingerly lifted the small ornament from Harry's hand.
It was heavier than it looked, requiring a firm grip. The twin faces etched into it made her breath catch—Voldemort's in particular sent a shiver through her, stirring a dizzying mix of disbelief and unease.
Who am I holding right now? Voldemort?
That Voldemort?
Is this real—or some kind of trick?
"What exactly is happening here?" she demanded, her voice sharper than she intended.
McGonagall's thoughts were still a jumble. Not long ago, Ron, Hermione, and Neville had burst into her office, babbling incoherently about Harry facing Death Eaters alone in Quirrell's quarters. They'd urged her to rush to his aid. Given the gravity of their claims—and the fact that no student would dare prank her with such a story—she'd sent word to Dumbledore and dashed over without a second thought.
She'd braced herself for Death Eaters. Instead, she'd found Voldemort.
"I think we'll need to brief Dumbledore," Harry said, his gaze drifting past her to the three heads peeking cautiously through the splintered office door. "He'll have to find a new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher for the rest of the term. But first—" His eyes narrowed. "I'd like to know why my three good friends didn't stay safely in the common room like I told them to."
"Ahem, don't be mad, Harry," Ron said, clearing his throat awkwardly. His eyes darted everywhere but Harry's face. "We were just worried about you."
"Yeah," Neville chimed in. "After you left, we kept thinking something felt off. We couldn't just sit there, you know, in case… well, in case something went wrong."
"A precaution!" Hermione declared, folding her arms. Then she turned the tables on Harry. "And didn't you say Quirrell was just a Death Eater? Why was Voldemort here fighting you? You lied to us, Harry!"
"…I didn't lie," Harry replied after a pause, looking away. "I just didn't tell you everything."
"Semantics!" Hermione snapped, her indignation flaring. She opened her mouth to argue further, but McGonagall cut in.
"Enough. You can sort this out later," she said, addressing the trio at the door. Her tone softened as she added, "I'm glad you arrived so quickly, Professor Dumbledore."
"Thank you, Minerva," Dumbledore replied, stepping into the wrecked office. His eyes swept over the chaos. "I came as soon as I got your message. It seems the trouble's already been handled, Harry?"
Harry caught the faint sarcasm in McGonagall's words, and he was pretty sure Dumbledore had too. The headmaster, however, chose to ignore it.
"Professor Quirrell gave me detention tonight after I accidentally damaged some equipment in class," Harry explained, sticking to a formal tone. "I didn't expect Voldemort to be possessing him. When he tried to kill me, I had no choice but to fight back—and finish him."
"Fight back," McGonagall echoed flatly. "And finish him. Do you realize how that would sound to other wizards?"
"Er, they'd throw Harry a party?" Ron ventured, raising a tentative hand. "I mean, Harry Potter defeating Voldemort again after eleven years?"
"This isn't the time for jokes, Mr. Weasley!" McGonagall shot him a stern look. "You clearly knew Quirrell was a Death Eater but waited until today to tell me or Professor Dumbledore!"
"We didn't have proof," Hermione interjected smoothly, as if she'd rehearsed it. "Accusing a professor without evidence would've been reckless. No one would've believed us, and Quirrell might've retaliated."
Her argument was airtight. McGonagall paused, reluctantly conceding the point.
"Very well, Minerva," Dumbledore said brightly. "Regardless, these children have achieved something extraordinary. For their courage and the outcome of their efforts, Gryffindor will receive one hundred points!"
"And you, Harry," he added with a wink, "will be awarded a Special Contribution Award. I'll submit the request to the school board myself."
Such an honor was rare and prestigious among students, and McGonagall had no objections.
"For now," Dumbledore continued lightly, "I'd like a moment alone with Harry. Don't worry—I promise there's no Voldemort hiding in me."
It was a well-timed jest, and it eased the room's tension considerably. After McGonagall ushered Hermione and the others out, Dumbledore approached Harry and picked up the ornament containing Voldemort and Quirrell's souls.
"I'm afraid Quirrell's beyond saving now," Harry said, scanning the office for any lingering threats. "Voldemort tried to recruit me. I couldn't let him keep going."
Dumbledore studied the object intently, avoiding Voldemort's side and focusing on Quirrell's sorrowful expression. He seemed not to hear Harry at first, then let out a long, regretful sigh.
"Everyone must face the consequences of their choices," he murmured. "A pity. I'd hoped he might…"
"Redeem himself?" Harry scoffed. "If he wanted redemption, he wouldn't have drunk unicorn blood. Voldemort just used him as a disposable pawn."
"At least he can taunt Voldemort now, in a way," Dumbledore said, flipping the ornament to reveal Voldemort's snarling face. "Hello, Tom. It's been a while. How are you?"
Harry smirked. The old man had a sharp sense of humor.
"I should mention," he said, glancing up, "once the ritual fully settles and the seal locks, they'll be cut off from the outside world. They won't hear anything."
"Really?" Dumbledore shook his head with mock disappointment. "That's too bad. I had quite a few things to say to Tom."
"Voldemort's real name is Tom?" Harry asked, intrigued.
"Yes," Dumbledore replied, still holding the ornament. A spark of satisfaction gleamed in his eyes—something Harry hadn't seen in years. "Tom Marvolo Riddle."
With a flick of his finger, Dumbledore summoned a string of letters into the air: Tom Marvolo Riddle. Another flick, and they rearranged into I am Voldemort.
"If you'd like," Dumbledore offered earnestly, "I'd be happy to share some tales from the past when I have a moment."
"About Voldemort?" Harry asked.
"More than that," Dumbledore said, shaking his head slightly. "There are secrets not found in any book, and I've lived long enough to stumble across a few."
"I'd like that," Harry replied, standing. "Just let me know when."
"Thank you," Dumbledore said with a playful grin. "I appreciate you humoring an old man's ramblings. Do you remember what you said about Voldemort last time, Harry?"
"…That he's just a soul fragment now?" Harry guessed after a moment.
"Exactly," Dumbledore nodded. "Magic is a boundless mystery—especially dark magic. It's always surprising us with the impossible."
"Are you saying Voldemort's not fully gone?" Harry asked, catching on. "I've suspected as much. Any leads? He can't have just strewn soul fragments everywhere, right?"
"Sharp as ever, Harry," Dumbledore chuckled. "No points for Gryffindor this time, I'm afraid. But I must correct you—Voldemort isn't some firework to be split into a dozen pieces. Even dark magic has its limits."
"So how many fragments?" Harry pressed.
"I don't know," Dumbledore admitted frankly. "I only know what I've uncovered. I'm not omniscient, Harry."
"Fair enough," Harry said with a nod. "Whatever."
"You don't seem concerned," Dumbledore observed, raising an eyebrow.
Harry simply pointed at the ornament in Dumbledore's hand. The gesture said it all.
"Ha… Hahahahahaha!"
Dumbledore glanced down at Voldemort's frozen, furious face and burst into hearty, genuine laughter—the kind that hadn't rung out from him in years.
"May I take this, Harry?"
"Go ahead," Harry shrugged. "I've no use for an evil trinket like that. Just don't let him loose. If you do, give me a heads-up."
"So you can catch him again?" Dumbledore teased.
"For a fee," Harry grinned. "My services don't come cheap, you know."
"Hahahahahaha!"
Dumbledore threw his head back, laughing even harder, clearly delighted.
"Thank you, Harry," he said warmly. "But don't underestimate an old man's savings. I've got a bit tucked away."
With that, Dumbledore departed, practically beaming. He couldn't wait to return to his office and examine his new… collectible.
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