I became Voldemort

Chapter 275: Voldemort’s Failure

Thud!!

A muffled crash echoed through the air, followed by a shadow figure tumbling down from midair and rolling several times across the ground.

Cedric clung tightly to several people, the force of the Portkey nearly dislocating his arm. He hit the ground heavily, rolling awkwardly several times. The champions and the artifacts he had brought back scattered with a loud clatter.

"Oh! That's—!"

In the Quidditch stadium, over a thousand spectators gasped in unison. One by one, they stood up, craning their necks and waving their arms as they shouted.

"Diggory!"

"Diggory!"

"..."

Cedric struggled to his feet. His head was bleeding, his vision blurry, and the warm sunlight on his seemingly frozen body left him momentarily dazed.

"Do you see that?"

A middle-aged man's voice rang out from the stands, loud enough for the entire stadium to hear, filled with joy and pride. "That's my boy! That's my boy!"

Amos Diggory pushed through the crowd, his hands raised high in exhilaration.

The reactions among the crowd were mixed. Ron had noticed Harry and the others that Cedric had desperately brought back the moment they returned. Harry was conscious but looked far worse off than Cedric, appearing battered and broken.

Ron saw Harry urgently running toward the castle, and a deep sense of foreboding struck him. Without hesitation, he leapt out of the stands to follow.

At the moment, most people were cheering for Diggory's victory, but there were some who thought differently—after all, both Cassandra and Fleur had also returned with their artifacts.

"I think we need a fair ruling," Fudge said, "and it's best we figure out exactly what happened in the Department of Mysteries!"

The last image they had seen was of the three most powerful wizards standing together, followed by Cyrus suddenly aging dramatically, while Dumbledore and Grindelwald appeared to reverse time itself and grow younger.n/o/vel/b//in dot c//om

At that time, Fudge had suspected something might have gone wrong in the Time Room, but due to the ongoing tournament, he had no way to send anyone to investigate. Scrimgeour had wanted to halt the tournament but couldn't go against the Minister's orders.

Fortunately, after that, Cyrus had suddenly reversed time again, regained his strength, and disappeared with the other two in a blaze of fire.

'As long as Dumbledore is there, things shouldn't go too badly,' Fudge thought. Even though he had little love for Dumbledore, he trusted the man's abilities. Not to mention, before leaving, it seemed that Cyrus and Grindelwald had set aside their differences.

'Let's hope the Department of Mysteries is intact…'

Fudge mused as he and the rest of the judges made their way to Cedric's side.

"Cedric Diggory, Champion of Hogwarts, you were the first to return from the Department of Mysteries. You've won this victory for Hogwarts," Babajide Akingbade said solemnly.

His aged eyes also glanced at Fleur and Cassandra. Fleur had already fainted, and Cassandra had returned slightly later, as part of the second group. Otherwise, Cedric wouldn't have been able to bring so many people back with him.

It seemed that Cedric only came back to his senses upon hearing Akingbade's voice. He realized that everything he had experienced in the Department of Mysteries wasn't a dream but a vivid, painful reality!

Cedric's body trembled uncontrollably once more as he looked at Fudge, his eyes filled with fear and desperation. 

"Sir! Aurors… the Aurors must go to the Department of Mysteries immediately!" he cried out, nearly throwing himself at Fudge. 

"Calm down, Amos's boy," Fudge said, though he too had started to sense that something grave might have happened in the Department of Mysteries. However, with so many people watching, he couldn't afford to lose his composure. "Is it some magical mishap in the Department of Mysteries?" 

Cedric frantically shook his head. His panic and fear rendered him almost incoherent as he gasped for breath. He could still feel Voldemort's icy hands around his throat, suffocating him. 

"It's… it's the Dark Lord!" Cedric shouted, summoning every ounce of strength he had left. "Sir, the Dark Lord has returned…" 

Fudge froze as if struck by a Freezing Charm, his entire body stiffening. Even his layers of fat seemed to turn rigid, and an icy chill coursed through his limbs. 

"Don't joke about that, boy! This isn't a funny joke…" His tone grew harsher, trying to mask the growing dread in his voice. "There are other witnesses here!" 

Fudge's gaze turned toward Cassandra, silently pleading for a different answer, hoping for any explanation that didn't involve the unspeakable name. 

Truthfully, Fudge would have preferred the Ministry to be obliterated entirely over hearing confirmation of that terrifying possibility. 

But Cassandra only nodded coolly, looking at him as though he were an utter fool. "If you're referring to the one you call Voldemort as the Dark Lord, then yes, he has indeed returned." 

Fudge's heart, which had been hanging by a thread, finally seemed to drop, weighed down by despair. 

Especially when Cassandra blatantly uttered the name "Voldemort," Fudge's legs nearly gave out, and he almost collapsed to the ground. His face turned so pale that he looked worse than a corpse.

The cheers of thousands were abruptly silenced, and every Hogwarts student felt as though they were trapped in a surreal nightmare.

But for some, this was only the beginning.

The first to act was Barty Crouch Jr., disguised as Madame Maxime. He immediately targeted Bellatrix Lestrange, his words sharp and full of hostility. "Madam Lestrange, as I recall, you are a Death Eater, are you not? Don't you have some explaining to do?"

In an instant, Bellatrix became the center of attention, and all eyes turned toward her with overwhelming pressure.

Fudge, seizing on this opportunity like a drowning man clutching at straws, directed his pent-up frustration and fear toward her. Beneath his trembling layers of fat was a fierce malice that threatened to erupt.

Yet he managed to retain a shred of rationality and refrained from immediately accusing her.

Umbridge, however, could no longer contain herself. She mistook this moment as her chance for revenge and promptly placed a figurative "guilty" hat on Bellatrix's head.

"From the very beginning of the Triwizard Tournament, Ilvermorny's conduct has been nothing short of ruthless and cruel. Bellatrix Lestrange is a known Death Eater, and that man, Cyrus, has a well-documented connection to the Dark Lord. Should I then conclude that it was you who helped the Dark Lord return?"

Umbridge's tone was dripping with glee as she approached Bellatrix. To her, the scrutinizing stares from the crowd felt like a source of strength, emboldening her and giving her the courage to stand before Bellatrix.

"Well, do you have anything to say for yourself, Bellatrix Lestrange?" Umbridge asked with a sickeningly sweet, grating smile, her voice oozing false politeness.

"If not, the Aurors will arrest you first—along with those Ilvermorny students—"

Smack!

The sharp sound of a slap echoed through the air.

Bellatrix slapped Umbridge hard across the face without saying a word, but her cold, piercing gaze was filled with a menacing threat. "Are you speaking to me, you toad?" 

The slap left Umbridge's face swollen, and before anyone could react, Bellatrix's sharp eyes scanned the crowd. Some of the Aurors appeared ready to act, but hesitation lingered in the air. 

"Calm yourselves, gentlemen!" McGonagall shouted, her voice commanding and sharp. 

Having taught at Hogwarts for decades, her authority alone was enough to make the younger Aurors hesitate. None dared make a rash move under the glare of the formidable Gryffindor head. 

"Now is not the time for us to argue here. Minister Fudge, I believe the most important thing right now is to send Aurors to the Department of Mysteries to provide support." 

"Yes, yes..." Fudge mumbled, momentarily snapping out of his daze with a dry laugh, clinging to a fragile shred of hope. 

Voldemort's resurrection might not be real, right? 

As long as he hadn't seen it with his own eyes, there was still a chance this wasn't true. After all, these were just children, the champions of the Triwizard Tournament. Perhaps they had merely been frightened by some illusion. 

"You must have let your imagination get carried away, Cedric," Fudge said, trying to convince both Cedric and himself. He gently patted Cedric's head, forcing a paternal smile. "Now, go enjoy your victory!" 

"But, the Dark Lord..." 

"There is no Dark Lord!" Fudge interrupted forcefully. "It's just a case of magical instability in the Department of Mysteries. It's unusual, sure, but rest assured, Dumbledore is there. The Ministry isn't about to collapse!"

He spoke with confidence.

But just as his words fell, the massive screens around the Quidditch pitch began to tremble violently. Startled, Fudge turned his gaze toward them.

The scene displayed on the screens was catastrophic: the floor of the eighth level of the Ministry was torn apart, and two massive dragon-like creatures burst out from the Department of Mysteries.

They clashed and tore into each other, their wings and bodies smashing through multiple floors as they ascended higher and higher...

Kingsley Shacklebolt froze momentarily, then stepped silently to Fudge's side and said in a low voice:
"Minister, it seems the Ministry really is about to collapse..."

"Then what are you waiting for?" Fudge's face turned as black as thunder. "Deploy every Auror immediately!"

...

Meanwhile, in the Department of Mysteries.

The Death Chamber.

Cyrus wielded Godric Gryffindor's sword with fierce determination. Time seemed to freeze for a moment as the blade cleaved through something solid.

A grotesque head fell heavily to the floor, severed cleanly. Blood gushed out in torrents, shooting toward the ceiling of the Death Chamber like a fountain.

Thud!

Voldemort's body collapsed to the ground alongside the severed head...

But his head was perfectly intact.

It was the basilisk's head that had been severed.

The disoriented basilisk's massive body continued to writhe, blood gushing from the enormous wound as if from a spring. The crimson liquid cascaded across the steps leading to the archway in the Death Chamber, painting them red, as though welcoming the arrival of death.

The enormous severed head rolled to the base of the archway. Its dull yellow eyes still turned sluggishly, venom dripping from its fangs…

"So, even this isn't enough to kill you," Cyrus said coldly, gripping the sword.

When Cyrus had swung at Voldemort, in that fleeting moment, Voldemort had no time to evade but managed to cast a summoning spell—a form of Transference separate from Apparition. He had pulled the basilisk away from its battle with the thunder phoenix, using it as a shield to block the blow.

Even so, Godric Gryffindor's sword had still wounded Voldemort.

Now, a massive gash split across Voldemort's chest.

Yet something about it unsettled Cyrus. No blood flowed from the wound. Not a single drop. It was as though Voldemort was no longer made of flesh and blood. Through the opening, Cyrus could see nothing—no internal structure at all.

Voldemort seemed to sense Cyrus's thoughts and let out a cold, icy laugh. "Look at me—do I still bleed? Well you had me there! You mastered the Duplication Spell," he continued, his tone laced with disdain. "I admit, I underestimated you."

He rose to his feet, the massive wound on his chest squirming and stitching itself back together at an unnatural speed. "A trick you must have played back at Christmas, right? Let me guess... when was it?"

He spoke to himself as though piecing together a puzzle.

"Ah, yes, it must have been when you dropped the sword and narrowly avoided my curse in the dust and smoke. That's when you completed the duplication spell, wasn't it? No wonder you left the hat behind, too. No wonder the 'you' from earlier felt so... weak. I suspect this spell splits your power in half, doesn't it?"

Voldemort's voice grew increasingly cold as he uncovered the weakness of Cyrus's spell. Now, his intent to kill was palpable.
"How do you plan to defeat me now?"

Cyrus, left with only half his magical power, couldn't possibly be a match for him.

"This will finish you!—"

"Avada Kedavra!"

Voldemort: What the fuck?

Boom!

The curse detonated like a bolt of lightning!

A dark figure was sent flying backward, collapsing onto the ground like a ragdoll. 

Voldemort spat out blood, tumbling lifelessly down the steps. 

He raised his head in disbelief, staring behind him. The Cyrus who had been trapped by his spell had somehow broken free. The serpentwood wand that Voldemort had knocked away was now mysteriously back in Cyrus's hand. 

The explosion just now hadn't come from Voldemort's curse—it was Cyrus, delivering a devastating blow from behind! 

Now, two versions of Cyrus stood tall at the top of the stairs, gazing down at Voldemort. Behind him, the black veil on the archway was billowing high, as though beckoning him to step through... 

The damage inflicted by this spell far exceeded that of Gryffindor's sword. Voldemort was gravely injured, his body trembling with weakness. Yet he couldn't fathom it—how could Cyrus, whose magical power was supposedly halved, unleash such a powerful attack? 

"Confused? Let me explain," Cyrus said coldly. "It's simple: I never split my magical power in half." 

The duplication spell Cyrus had used did indeed require splitting his abilities. 

But the Cyrus wielding the sword didn't need magic at all—he only needed a strong physical form. 

From the start, all of the magical power resided in the Cyrus holding the wand. He had feigned weakness, lured Voldemort out of the central chamber, and even deliberately dropped the serpentwood wand. What Voldemort didn't know was that the wand could transform into a snake and slither back to Cyrus. This ruse allowed him to deliver a devastating attack when Voldemort least expected it. 

At this moment, Voldemort tried to raise his wand again, but as he did, he suddenly froze, his expression darkening. 

It was as if he had realized something—letting out a displeased "Tch" under his breath. 

_________

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