A massive explosion erupted, sending dust rolling through the air.
A figure stretched long under the light.
Everyone in the vault looked up.
Bellatrix had wasted words—whether she answered or not, the man would get what he wanted. Where was Harry? Harry was right outside the door.
"It seems I'm still a bit late."
"You've already been resurrected, Tom Riddle."
Through the swirling dust, Harry stepped forward and spoke slowly, looking at him.
Tom Riddle.
The name made Voldemort's face change. He stared at Harry, the boy who was just as tall as himself. "You know that name?"
"Dumbledore told you?"
Harry shook his head. "You told me yourself—another version of you."
Voldemort's expression darkened again.
This was not good news.
He knew nothing about Harry Potter—his combat style, his way of thinking, his life experiences.
But Harry had fought him before. He undoubtedly knew more about Voldemort.
"And I know many of your little secrets." Harry clapped his hands. "For example, you pride yourself on being a pureblood, a descendant of the Gaunt family. But you've never told anyone that your mother, a Gaunt, controlled a Muggle with a love potion and gave birth to you—a half-blood."
Voldemort narrowed his eyes, staring intently at Harry. Deep in his pupils, there was a trace of shock.
He knows even this?
Harry smiled lightly. "Oh, I know much more."
"For example, how you spent days and nights rummaging through the girls' bathroom just to find the Chamber of Secrets."
"Or how you used… certain means to acquire—oh, let's call it 'that thing you have now'—by sacrificing beauty."
Voldemort didn't let him finish.
Avada Kedavra!
Green light flashed, speeding toward Harry's face.
Harry waved his wand.
Avis!
A flock of birds materialized, but before they could cry out, one was struck by the green light, its life extinguished instantly, while the rest scattered in terror.
"You really don't want to talk about these things, huh?" Harry shook his head, his tone helpless. "Tom, this is your past. You should accept it."
He paused for a moment.
Then, as if realizing something, Harry's eyes lit up. "Oh, wait! The thing about seducing wealthy older women—that just happened for you, didn't it? That would make it the present, not the past."
"You talk too much." Voldemort flicked his wand.
Black flames surged forward.
A massive serpent of fire lunged at Harry.
Kingsley's expression changed drastically, and he hurried toward the exit. But before he could flee, Harry grabbed him and flicked his wand once more. The vault trembled violently—the floor cracked and rose, shaping itself into a colossal stone golem that crashed into the fire serpent.
Sparks burst forth.
Voldemort kept moving his wand, firing dark curses like fireworks, spreading destruction all around.
Harry responded in kind.
"Not bad," Voldemort praised. "For a fifth-year wizard, your skills deserve some recognition. Even I, when I was in my fifth year, may not have been much better than you."
"But this level of skill does not belong in my presence."
"My followers say you've defeated me twice by sheer luck. Maybe that gave you the illusion that you could stand against me."
"But I'm sorry to say—"
"I am the greatest Dark Lord."
Harry tilted his head. "The greatest Dark Lord?"
"Tom, you need to have some self-awareness. You're just the most shameless, the best at deceiving young girls—oh, and old ladies too."
Voldemort's hand twitched.
He cast Langlock, a spell that was uncharacteristic of his combat style. Though effective, it was almost useless against a skilled duelist. But the fact that he even cast it...
Why did this boy have such a sharp tongue?
Why did he know so much about Voldemort's past?
Why did he add so much dramatic flair, making it nearly impossible to refute?
Voldemort had never felt anything toward Harry Potter—despite the boy's role in his downfall, that was something from over a decade later. Without personally experiencing it, there was no deep emotional connection.
But now, he suddenly understood why his future self had hated this boy so much.
He needed to die.
And painfully.
His magic surged, spell after spell flying out, pushing Harry back.
"Why so quiet, Potter?" Voldemort taunted as he conjured more dark creations. The air in the vault grew thick with oppressive magic, making it hard for Kingsley to breathe.
It had been over a decade since he last felt the true presence of the Dark Lord.
From the slight hesitation at the beginning, Voldemort was now slipping back into his old self, his spells growing sharper and more deadly.
In a direct duel, a fifth-year Harry couldn't keep up with a wizard like Tom Riddle, who had been out of school for at least three years.
At first, Harry could hold his ground with Transfiguration.
But gradually, he was forced to rely on Fog Conjuration, Summoning Charms, and Levitation Spells just to evade Voldemort's attacks.
Kingsley wanted to help, but the moment he pulled out his wand, the Death Eaters struck.
Rather than being of assistance, he would only be a distraction.
After a few futile attempts, he gave up on trying to intervene and retreated to the side of the vault, praying that Dumbledore would arrive soon.
Harry was strong—far beyond the level of a typical fifth-year wizard.
But…
His opponent was not ordinary.
This was the Dark Lord. Even if he had just been resurrected—
"Talk, Potter." Voldemort sneered again. "You love talking, don't you?"
"How about telling a joke? Lighten the mood—I hate this dreary atmosphere."
He was mocking him, but his spells were ruthless, each one aiming for a lethal blow.
Mist Concealment!
Harry used the spell for the third time.
"This trick won't work," Voldemort muttered, flicking his wand without an incantation. A gust of magical wind swept through the fog, dissipating it.
"How many times now?"
"Repeating the same failed method over and over—how foolish."
But this time, something was different.
As the wind howled, Voldemort sensed something off.
His Death Eaters screamed. Their bones—ribs, arms—were ripped out of their bodies and floated before him, dripping with fresh blood, forming a grotesque bone shield.
Then—
Crash!
A powerful shockwave sent Voldemort staggering backward. The bone shield cracked like shattered glass.
Arresto Momentum!
A circle of purple light enveloped Voldemort, weighing him down. He felt an unfamiliar pressure.
A sharp blade slashed through the bone shield.
The sword grazed his neck—cutting into his shoulder.
Harry's voice was calm. "I was just testing you."
"So you're a typical Slytherin—gaining even the slightest advantage makes you arrogant?"
"Tom, you're weak."
"I thought that even if you weren't at full strength, you would at least be leagues beyond an ordinary Dark wizard."
"But you're not even as good as Snape."
"At best, you're only slightly stronger than the average professor."
He swung again.
Voldemort barely dodged, but he had no experience fighting against swords.
Though he tried to evade, the Basilisk Bone Sword still cut deep into his chest.
He stared down at the wound, eyes wide in shock.
This feeling…
"You recognize it, don't you?" Harry whispered, stepping forward. "Basilisk venom."
Voldemort clenched his teeth, his voice already slurred by the spreading venom. "You… use a sword?"
"Didn't your followers tell you?" Harry smirked. "Half my power is in my sword."
The sword flashed—
And an arm fell to the ground.
Voldemort said nothing.
Instead, he raised his wand.
The Death Eaters, even those missing bones, rushed forward like puppets.
Bellatrix destroyed the vault's ceiling with an explosion—
And like rats escaping through a hole, they fled.
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Powerstones?
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