Hogwarts Study Panel.

Chapter 591-589: Dumbledore, Now Without Any Restraint (4k)

Little Pettigrew has been exposed.

When he first approached Voldemort.

He remains cunning.

Perhaps they are even more cunning.

Sheen stood beside the dispersing crowds in Diagon Alley, snowflakes falling softly from the eaves overhead.

How was Little Pettigrew exposed?

Sheen didn't know.

But Bertha Jorkins escaped, which is the direct source of Little Pettigrew's exposure.

Did Voldemort really discover Little Pettigrew the moment he first approached?

Or is this just his misleading advice?

To dispel their suspicion that he hasn't yet created the Horcrux?

The fog in the Albanian forests seems to have gotten thicker.

Even Diagon Alley was shrouded in a thin evening mist.

The once bustling wizarding commercial street was now nearly deserted, save for a group of panicked goblins and two young wizards emerging from the shadows.

Hermione and Justin took off running from the blaring alarm bells in front of Gringotts.

They were beaming with pride, holding a perfectly sealed box.

"Run! Sheen!"

Hermione shouted excitedly.

"We're done."

Justin's voice also carried a suppressed excitement.

A large door engulfed in flames opened before Sheen.

Sheen nodded slightly, and the three of them disappeared into the green flames.

at the same time.

In a tavern far away in Albania, the still-burning flame is the last source of light in the night.

The wind and snow howled outside the tavern, but inside, everything was still.

The hood was gradually pulled down, revealing the figure that had risen from the death of the insect's tail.

I thought you would come here.

Voldemort spoke to the empty doorway, his voice tinged with a hint of regretful amusement, "I thought you would show yourself. A third-year wizard, capable of crossing oceans to project your consciousness into the mind of my servant. I've been waiting for so long to see your face."

He paused.

"But you weren't here. You were never really here. You just—put a contract in his head. Turned him into a messenger, gave him the last use of his life."

He chuckled softly, "Wonderful, absolutely wonderful."

Then he looked up at the outside of the tavern.

"Dumbledore."

He said, "I know you're nearby."

He didn't receive an answer. But he didn't seem to need one.

Let me guess.

He said slowly and deliberately, "You don't want to fight me here. Because you don't know how many Horcruxes I still have."

You don't know if this snake is the last one, and you don't dare take the risk.

His lips curled up even higher.

He turned and walked towards the door.

Dumbledore had already appeared at the north end of the town, where the snow had piled up to his ankles.

He didn't Apparate—setting up anti-Apparate spells around the town was the first thing he did after arriving in Albania.

He arrived on a broom, not fast, but with a composed demeanor, like someone keeping an appointment.

As he got off the broom, he saw Voldemort walking out of the tavern.

Fifty years ago, Tom Riddle walked in the same way—in the corridors of Hogwarts, after class in the Transfiguration classroom, and in front of the headmaster's office.

At that time, Tom was a handsome and polite young man with ambition and secrets hidden in his eyes, but his face had not yet been completely distorted by dark magic.

But now, a completely different face is approaching him.

It was a mask that had been torn apart and pieced back together, and every line on it spoke the same word: fear.

Tom Riddle was so afraid of death that he tore himself to pieces and stuffed them into Horcruxes.

He looked pitiful.

"Tom."

Dumbledore spoke first.

Voldemort stopped ten paces away from him.

"Dumbledore."

He said, "You're old."

"And you have a new body."

Dumbledore said calmly, "It seems Wormtail has ultimately done its duty for you in the end."

Voldemort's eyes remained unwavering: "Wormtail got what he deserved. He brought me back from the void and then revealed my secret to a third-grade child."

He paid off his first debt, then betrayed me twice. The first time was when I was being controlled. The second time was when he released his prey.

Dumbledore did not answer.

His right hand remained tucked into his sleeve, not touching the wand, but his fingers had already touched the slender silk wrapping.

Where is that child?

Voldemort asked.

"In a safe place."

"Safety."

Voldemort repeats the word as if savoring its meaning, "You're always keen to hide those you trust in safe places," aren't you? Just like when you hid the Potters in the valley back then.

You believe that a spell, a secret guardian, a well-intentioned plan—can avert inevitable death.

Something flickered in Dumbledore's blue eyes.

That was an old wound from fifteen years ago, which was precisely stabbed.

"As it turns out,"

Voldemort continued, "Your plans always have flaws. The Potters' secret protector betrayed them, and this time—"

He took a step forward.

"This time, your choice—this third-year student has also betrayed your expectations. You told him to hide, but he couldn't resist saving a woman, an insignificant Ministry of Magic employee. He didn't hesitate to use his control over Wormtail and expose his own existence for it."

"You're wrong, Tom."

Dumbledore's voice remained calm, but there was a tone Voldemort had never heard before—something akin to gentleness—in it: "He did not betray my expectations. On the contrary, he did things you could never understand."

"Oh?"

As soon as they finished speaking, their wands shot out almost simultaneously.

Dumbledore's spell was silent; the snow beneath Voldemort's feet suddenly transformed into tangled vines, climbing up his calves.

Voldemort's reaction was equally astonishingly fast.

He did not try to break free, but instead transformed into a cloud of black mist and pulled himself out of the vines' entanglement.

The black mist reformed into a human shape in mid-air, then a ghastly green light flashed: "Avada Kedavra!"

The green light was faster than any lightning bolt.

But Dumbledore was no longer there.

He had left only a shallow footprint in the snow where he had just stood, and he was now standing to Voldemort's side.

This wasn't Apparition—there were anti-Apparition spells around the town—but rather pure, extreme reaction speed and dueling instincts that hadn't been dulled over the years.

A ring of fire burst forth from the tip of Dumbledore's staff, splitting into dozens of burning phoenixes in mid-air, which swarmed towards Voldemort from all directions.

Voldemort's wand traced an arc.

Black mist surged from the tip of the staff, transforming into a twisted shield that devoured all the flames.

But while he was dealing with the flames, Dumbledore's next attack had already caused the ground to explode, and dozens of stone pillars rose from the ground like unsheathed swords, piercing Voldemort from below.

Voldemort leaped into the air.

At the same time, he swung his wand downwards, and a dark green light sliced ​​through the stone pillars cleanly.

He hovered in mid-air for a moment, looking down at Dumbledore.

"I can play with you all night long."

He said.

Dumbledore did not reply.

His wand was still held aloft, its tip gleaming with a cold blue light.

Flames erupted again.

"Heh heh—Dumbledore, you can't kill me—I can leave anytime—and you wouldn't dare kill me anyway. After you kill me, how can you find me again? You're just like him, you both care too much about this world."

Even the little act I used to test his tail brought out his mercy. It's his nature, and you know it better than anyone in the world. The faster he grows, the more he cares—I have a million ways to kill him—”

Voldemort's black mist rose up, enveloping his newborn body, and climbed into the blizzard-ravaged night sky.

But he only rose less than twenty feet.

A rope extending from the tip of Dumbledore's wand entangled him, and Voldemort was brought back.

He reformed into human form in mid-air and suddenly turned around.

Dumbledore was still standing on the snow.

His blue eyes, peering through his half-moon lenses, fixed on Voldemort with a chilling calm.

"Do you want to leave, Tom?"

"I thought you were here to talk."

Voldemort slowly descended back to the ground, the playfulness in his voice gone, replaced by something colder and harder. "But you never intended for me to leave in the first place."

"You've created a new Horcrux, Tom."

Dumbledore said, his tone still calm, as if scrutinizing a student's subtle movements in class, "Just now, with the death of the wormtail. So, you need to answer a few questions for me."

Voldemort's lips twitched slightly.

Do you think I'll answer?

I think you will.

Dumbledore said, "Because you can't leave."

He took a step forward. The snow crunched softly beneath his feet.

"You've made a mistake, Tom, the exact same mistake you made when you were young. You always thought everyone was stupid and weak."

Voldemort didn't speak, but his scarlet pupils narrowed slightly.

"Don't you think a fourteen-year-old's talent is too astonishing, having destroyed multiple of your Horcruxes?"

Dumbledore's voice was soft, yet every word was clear: "Why do you think I kept him at Hogwarts? Because he wasn't ready, because he wasn't strong enough?"

He paused.

"Because he is not yet capable of bearing the guilt."

"You're bluffing."

"Voldemort said, but he didn't move. He stood still, wand hanging at his side, his whole posture like a coiled snake, seemingly relaxed, but every inch of his muscle was poised to strike. "You wouldn't dare—"

Dumbledore smiled slightly.

"That's your problem, Tom. You think everyone is the same."

Voldemort's pupils contracted sharply.

"Every time you are resurrected, every time you create a new Horcrux—"

Dumbledore's voice grew lower and sharper, "I will find you. Every time, I will catch up with you, and I will tear the body you have just acquired to pieces, and make you retreat back into the shadows, and spend another thirteen years searching for the next servant willing to sell his soul."

Snow fell on the open space between them.

The silence lasted for several seconds; it was the first time Voldemort had paused for so long during a conversation.

Then, Voldemort laughed.

The laughter was cold and sharp, carrying a deliberately exaggerated mockery, yet it couldn't suppress the thin, fragmented tone beneath.

"Dumbledore—you wouldn't dare—"

Dumbledore did not answer.

"Why don't you give it a try—"

Finally, he said.

"How dare you?!"

Voldemort roared, his vertical pupils filled with rage, "Every time I rise from the dead, I unleash terror, Dumbledore! Every time I appear, I kill all the disobedient, Dumbledore! The wizarding world will be destroyed in your hands, Dumbledore!"

"I am a sinner."

Dumbledore smiled.

His left hand suddenly emerged from his sleeve, and what he held between his fingers was not a wand, but a long, thin silk bundle.

Silk spread out in mid-air, and Gryffindor's sword exploded in a scarlet light in the snowy night.

At the same time, he swung his right wand to the side, and the magic exploded on the tavern wall.

The walls of the tavern were completely peeled off.

Gravel and sawdust flew through the wind and snow. And behind that broken hole in the wall, deep within the dimly lit tavern, a giant serpent coiled in the shadows.

Voldemort's expression finally changed; that deliberately maintained composure shattered for a moment, revealing the ferocity and panic beneath.

"you""

He didn't finish speaking.

Because Dumbledore's sword had already flown out of his hand.

The sword slashed straight at the giant snake.

Dumbledore had already stepped forward, his wand pointing directly at Voldemort.

He was forcing Voldemort to choose between confronting him and protecting the giant serpent.

Voldemort chose to fight against Dumbledore's Transfiguration rather than protect the giant snake.

This exposed everything.

This reveals that the giant serpent is not the "last Horcrux".

This reveals that if he really did have a seventh item, then it is indeed not here.

Voldemort stood on the snow, his chest heaving violently.

His newborn body was not yet strong enough, and the continuous spellcasting he had just done had caused his magic to become sluggish.

Those scarlet eyes were fixed on Dumbledore, churning with anger, fear, and a barely perceptible...

His fear, which he would never admit.

"You've become like this, Dumbledore."

"I will be your enemy, Tom. And this enemy will kill you until you are afraid, Tom."

Dumbledore sheathed the sword at his side.

"You will die of old age, Dumbledore! But I won't."

Voldemort roared.

Then, the black mist exploded, spreading in all directions like a black bomb.

The magical barrier set up by Dumbledore emitted a piercing tremor.

He waved his wand, but Voldemort did not choose to break through head-on.

Only a small portion of the scattered black mist was real.

Most of them are just illusions.

The real Voldemort had already slipped through the most inconspicuous crack and disappeared into the vast snowy night.

Dumbledore slowly followed after them.

Their rules of the game have long since changed.

He had no interest in gambling, nor in caring about anything in the world.

He just wanted to kill his mistakes.

Kill this time.

Kill the next one.

Kill the next one.

Until that proud Dark Lord finally understood one thing: every time he was resurrected, he would be greeted by a Dumbledore who was no longer restrained.

Every time his whereabouts are exposed, he pays the price with his body.

He believed that immortality was an unsolvable curse.

But Dumbledore decided to make immortality itself a torment.

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