Chapter 143: Chapter 143: The Fated Duel Part – 3

The golden beam carved through the air with inevitable purpose, a living embodiment of prophecy and protection.

From his invisible perch, Arthur was already turning to leave, satisfied that his intervention wouldn’t be needed after all.

The war would end here, cleanly, with Harry’s own power finishing what had begun all those years ago in Godric’s Hollow.

Then movement caught his eye which made him stop.

Bellatrix Lestrange, wild-eyed and fanatic, had ripped free from the Death Eater ranks and was sprinting to intercept the beam.

“NO!” she screamed, her wild eyes fixed not on the approaching death but on her master behind her. “I WILL NOT FAIL YOU AGAIN!”

In that fraction of a second before impact, Bellatrix’s thoughts were crystal clear: she had failed her master, failed to protect the Cup, failed to be worthy of his trust. This, then, would be her atonement. Her Lord would not die while she still drew breath.

The golden light struck her square in the chest.

For a heartbeat she appeared to glow from within, mouth opening in a silent cry that looked more like triumph than pain. Then the ancient magic consumed her utterly, reducing her to ash that scattered on a wind that should not have been there.

Silence.

Absolute, crushing silence swallowed the Quidditch pitch.

Harry stood frozen, his wand still extended, staring at the small pile of ash that had been Bellatrix Lestrange.

The golden light was gone, spent on the wrong target.

He could feel it in his bones—whatever that power had been, it was a one-time gift. His mother’s final protection, perhaps, triggered by facing her killer.

And it had been wasted.

Voldemort rose slowly from where he’d stumbled backward. The fear was gone from his face, replaced by something far more dangerous: cold calculation mixed with volcanic rage.

He felt nothing for Bellatrix herself—she had been a tool, useful but ultimately replaceable. But she had been his most powerful tool, and her loss was… inconvenient. More importantly, she had died to save him from a spell that had made him show fear.

Fear that everyone had witnessed.

This was now part of his history, his legend. The story would spread: Lord Voldemort, afraid. Lord Voldemort, saved by a servant’s sacrifice.

Unacceptable.

“That,” Voldemort said, his voice deadly quiet, “was your only chance at victory.”

His crimson eyes swept the assembled defenders, the Death Eaters, every witness to his moment of weakness.

“Now you all die.”

Without warning, without even raising his wand, Voldemort’s magic detonated outward in a sphere of raw destruction. It was not aimed or controlled. It was just raw power given form.

The ground cratered beneath him, chunks of earth flying like shrapnel. The scorched grass instantly turned to ash. The very air seemed to scream.

Harry was lifted off his feet and hurled backward twenty yards, hitting the ground hard. Sirius threw up a shield just in time to protect Amelia and the others nearby, though the blast still drove them to their knees.

Even the Death Eaters scrambled for cover, their master’s rage making no distinction between ally and pawn.

When the dust cleared, Voldemort stood alone in a crater thirty feet wide, his robes untouched by the destruction he had caused.

“I had thought to preserve magical blood,” he said conversationally, as if he hadn’t just unleashed devastation. “But now? Now I see that some examples must be made. Some histories must be erased entirely.”

He raised his wand and began to chant in a language that no one could recognize much less understand. Dark magic—true dark magic, the kind that had been forbidden even in the darkest days of history—began to gather around him.

Even Arthur did not recognize the incantation. It was a kind of magic Voldemort had only recently sought out in his relentless quest for more power to defeat Arthur and anyone else who opposed him.

At his wand tip a sphere of absolute blackness coalesced, swelling with each syllable. It was not merely dark; it was an absence — a hungry void that consumed light and sound. Even the edges of the crater buckled as the void drank at reality itself.

“Stop him!” Moody roared.

Spells flew from every direction. Stunners, cutting curses, even Unforgivables from the most desperate of the defenders. The dark sphere swallowed them all, growing hungrier with each assault.

Harry pushed himself up to help. He tried to cast, but his magic felt drained, empty. Whatever ancient power had manifested through him had left him depleted.

The dark sphere was the size of a Quaffle now. Then a Bludger. Then larger still.

Voldemort’s laughter cut across the grounds, high, cold, utterly mad. “This is how it ends! Not with prophecy or unknown magic, but with power! Raw, unlimited power! The power to unmake you all!”

Arthur watched from his invisible perch with a long, quiet sigh. The movie was over; it was time to step in before there was no one left to save.

The dark sphere reached critical mass, pulsing with malevolent energy. Voldemort thrust his wand forward, sending the sphere hurtling toward the clustered defenders. His laughter reached a crescendo—

And then stopped.

The world around Voldemort suddenly fractured like a breaking mirror. Cracks spread across reality itself, geometric patterns that hurt to perceive. The Quidditch pitch, the defenders, the Death Eaters—all of it shattered and fell away like broken glass.

Voldemort found himself in a vast space of infinite reflections. Every surface showed distorted versions of himself, stretching into impossible distances. The ground beneath him was somehow both solid and not, real and unreal simultaneously.

His sphere of destruction flew into the endless expanse, seeking targets that no longer existed in this dimension. It exploded harmlessly in the distance, its power wasted on empty air.

“What—” Voldemort spun, wand raised, trying to make sense of his surroundings. “What is this trickery?”

—

Back in the real world, everyone stared at the empty spot where the Dark Lord had stood seconds before, where a deadly sphere had been hurtling toward them.

Gone. One instant there, the next, as if neither he nor his weapon had ever existed.

Then a voice cut across the grounds—calm, almost bored, but unmistakable to some.

“I’ll take it from here. Deal with the pawns, and I’ll ensure their leader doesn’t return.”

Harry’s eyes widened. “Arthur?”

Sirius grabbed Harry’s shoulder. “That’s definitely him, but where—”

“Questions later!” Moody barked, his magical eye spinning wildly but finding nothing. Whatever Arthur had done, even Moody’s enhanced vision couldn’t penetrate it. But the old Auror was nothing if not practical. “The Death Eaters are still here! ATTACK!”

The command snapped everyone from their stunned stupor. They had an army of dark wizards to deal with, and their master’s sudden disappearance had left them confused and vulnerable.

Spells erupted from the defenders’ positions. Those hidden in the stands revealed themselves, raining hexes down on the suddenly leaderless Death Eaters. The dark wizards, bunched together and without Voldemort’s protection, were sitting ducks.

If that wasn’t bad enough for them, a series of pops announced new arrivals.

Winky appeared at the head of a hundred house-elves, each armed with an eclectic array of household items that, in their hands, might as well have been weapons of war. Rolling pins, kitchen knives, and what appeared to be an entire set of silver candlesticks.

“Master cleans up the big bad guy!” Winky declared with unbending authority. “Winky cleans up the small bad guys! HOUSE ELVES—ATTACK!”

The Death Eaters, already reeling from their master’s disappearance and the renewed assault, found themselves facing a third front as house-elves rained household items from above. The elves trusted no one would strike them in midair; the Death Eaters needed both hands free to respond to the main assault from the defenders.

In the distance, near the Forbidden Forest, the centaurs and Neville were making short work of the acromantulas. Without Voldemort’s disappearance, the spiders’ natural cowardice reasserted itself. They fled back into the forest depths, pursued by arrows and sword strikes.

The tide had turned decisively. Without Voldemort, without Bellatrix, without their monstrous allies, the Death Eaters were just a collection of violent bigots facing an aroused and organized resistance.

Spells lit the night like cold fireworks. The tide had irrevocably turned. All that remained was to make sure Voldemort never returned — and Arthur, wherever he was, had said he would see to that.

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