Hogwarts: I Am Such a Model Wizard

Chapter 927: Face-to-Face Combat — Voldemort’s Screams

Harry, Ron, and Hermione had never run so fast in their lives. Harry even felt, absurdly, that he could catch a Golden Snitch on foot if he had to.

Driven by sheer terror, they pushed themselves to the limit—rolling, stumbling, scrambling through bend after bend. The exit was just ahead.

But then, a thought hit Harry like a Bludger.

Voldemort was chasing them. If they ran outside now… wouldn’t that be the same as leading Voldemort straight into Hogwarts?

Damn it!

The realization drained the color from his face—but it was too late to stop. In the blink of an eye, the three of them were already at the base of the passage’s exit.

A blast of hot air blew in from above, snapping Harry out of his daze.

“Wait—listen to me…” he gasped, throwing an arm out to stop Ron. “We can’t go out! We’ll lead Voldemort right into Hogwarts!”

Ron’s face turned just as pale.

Lead Voldemort to Hogwarts?

Just that alone would be enough for Mrs. Weasley to kill him—ten times over.

“This isn’t the time to worry about that!” Hermione, slightly more composed, grabbed Ron and shoved him toward the tunnel wall, speaking quickly.

“The second Voldemort spotted us, this secret passage was already compromised. And even without it, do you honestly think he wouldn’t go to Hogwarts anyway?”

“Hurry—he’s almost here!”

Urged on by Hermione, Ron gritted his teeth and scrambled up through the tunnel’s opening. Hermione followed right after.

The moment the intruders emerged onto its territory, the Whomping Willow reacted. One of its thick branches swung around violently—Harry, just beginning to climb out, didn’t have time to dodge.

He was smacked clean into the air.

Fortunately, years as a Seeker had sharpened his reflexes. He managed to grab hold of the branch mid-swing, clinging on for dear life instead of being hurled away.

“Harry!”

Ron shouted, lunging to press the knot near the tree’s base—the trigger that would freeze the Whomping Willow. A simple prod would stop it cold.

But his hand was abruptly yanked back.

“Hermione, you—?”

“Wait! Harry’s not in danger yet—wait!” Hermione panted, her eyes locked on the tunnel entrance with unblinking intensity.

Ron didn’t ask again. Instead, he turned and tried to help pry Harry loose from the branches.

But the tree was too powerful. They made several attempts to no avail.

In the end, Harry timed it perfectly—just as the branch swung near the ground, he let go.

He flew through the air and crashed into Ron. The two of them tumbled into a heap on the grass.

“Hermione!” Harry sprang up, shouting. “Come on, he’s coming out!”

Ron joined in, yelling, “Hermione, what are you doing? Hurry!”

But Hermione didn’t respond. She didn’t even turn her head.

Her teeth sank into her lip, her eyes fixed on the mouth of the passage.

Thud, thud…

Footsteps echoed from within—growing closer, heavier, louder.

Hermione held her breath. Every muscle in her body tightened like a drawn bowstring.

The footsteps drew nearer.

And now—she could see them.

Two long, narrow, blood-red pupils glowing from the pitch-black tunnel.

Hermione snapped her wand forward.

“Confringo!”

But it was too late.

The moment the spell left her lips, Voldemort had already stepped into the open. The Blasting Curse came far too late for an ambush.

It struck the trunk of the Whomping Willow instead—blowing out a crater of splintered bark.

The impact instantly enraged the tree.

Nearly every branch began to whip through the air—thick, gnarled limbs thrashing like a swarm of wild beasts. Dozens—no, hundreds—of limbs lashed out in fury, intent on crushing the intruders who dared harm it.

Hermione, prepared for the retaliation, mimicked Harry’s earlier move—throwing her arms around a thick branch just in time to dodge the first wave.

Voldemort and Snape were not so lucky.

They had just stepped out of the passage, barely catching their breath—when the chaos descended.

A forest of branches tore through the air, descending on them like a storm of living, flailing battering rams.

Snape was sent flying instantly.

A branch as thick as a barrel slammed into his chest, and for a moment, it felt as if a Giant had punched him with full force. He was hurled backward uncontrollably, crashing hard against the ground.

A sickening crack echoed through the air. His legs twisted unnaturally in opposite directions—clearly broken.

The pain was excruciating. Snape’s face turned ghostly pale.

He couldn’t even begin to understand how, in the middle of walking, he had suddenly been knocked through the air.

“Did it work?”

Seeing Snape’s battered state, a flash of hope lit up in Hermione’s eyes.

Everything had gone just as she predicted—even a professor couldn’t escape injury when ambushed by the Whomping Willow.

Snape was down. That meant Voldemort couldn’t be much better off...

Hermione turned to the tunnel entrance, anticipation mounting—only for her heart to plummet.

Voldemort was still standing there. Completely untouched.

The frenzied branches seemed blind to him, lashing in every direction but his. None struck even close.

With unhurried steps, Voldemort strolled into the open, his expression calm and almost amused. With a faint flick of the Elder Wand, Hermione was lifted off the ground and floated helplessly before him.

“A clever plan. Unexpected… and bold,” he said, eyeing her from head to toe. Then his voice dropped, cold as ice. “It’s just a pity you’re a Mudblood. As a reward, I’ll kill you myself… To die by the hand of the great Dark Lord—you should be honored.”

Now that she was closer, Hermione noticed something—there was a faint magical shimmer surrounding Voldemort. It must have been this enchantment that kept the Whomping Willow from recognizing him.

What kind of magic it was, she had no idea.

She saw Voldemort raise his wand. Hermione struggled with all her strength to break free, but it was useless. She felt petrified—she couldn’t even move a finger.

Just as she braced herself for the end, Voldemort hesitated.

His expression flickered—conflicted. As if, in Hermione’s face, he’d seen another witch. Another Mudblood.

...Lily Evans.

Voldemort, a wizard who exalted pure-blood supremacy above all else, despised Mudbloods. He considered their blood too filthy even to be worthy of death by his magic.

And yet, more than a decade ago, he had been defeated by one.

Lily Evans, with some obscure protective magic, had deflected his Killing Curse—dooming him to drift like a wretched spirit through the shadows for years.

Now here was another Mudblood witch. Clever. Trouble. Close to Harry Potter.

Coincidence?

Voldemort knew not every Mudblood was like Lily. She was an anomaly.

But the memory surfaced anyway, unbidden.

And the Killing Curse, brimming at the tip of the Elder Wand, did not fall.

That hesitation was the chance the others needed.

“Expelliarmus!”

“Stupefy!”

Two furious shouts rang out in quick succession.

“Let her go!” Harry snarled, gripping his wand tightly. Ron stood beside him, his face red with rage.

Voldemort batted both spells aside with casual ease—but in doing so, lost control of Hermione.

Hermione didn’t waste the moment. She dropped to the ground and bolted, making it back to Harry and Ron’s side.

Voldemort didn’t react with anger… or perhaps, this had been his plan all along.

There were countless ways to kill a Mudblood. Someone like her wasn’t worthy of the Elder Wand. And besides, his “pet” hadn’t eaten yet.

With a lazy flick of his wand, Voldemort summoned a massive Dark Mark into the sky above him.

The chaos drew attention.

Within moments, Death Eaters began to arrive.

But...

Voldemort surveyed the pitiful group that had gathered—fewer than a hundred—and his expression darkened.

Snape had warned him of the Death Eaters’ defeat, but even so, he hadn’t expected it to be this complete.

How long has it even been?

Only a tenth of them remained.

Even if he’d unleashed several hundred pigs, they wouldn’t have been slaughtered this fast.

“You... must be joking.”

“Master!” Barty Crouch Jr. stood at the front, his voice shaking. He knew exactly why Voldemort was furious—but even they hadn’t expected things to turn out like this.

“More of our people are trapped in the fire...!” he said, forcing the words out. “If we can just get them out, we can still break through Hogwarts’ defenses!”

Following Barty Jr.’s pointing finger, Voldemort saw an enormous column of Fiendfyre.

It was massive—nearly the size of the Quidditch Pitch. The roaring flames surged into the sky, far more eye-catching than even Hogwarts Castle itself. Within the blaze, he could clearly make out the Dark Mark.

It was obvious: his Death Eaters were trapped inside.

“Hmph... Kyle... Very good...” Voldemort narrowed his eyes, instantly identifying the culprit behind the blaze.

There was no need to guess—Kyle was the only one in Hogwarts capable of wielding that much Fiendfyre.

It wasn’t arrogance toward the professors or the Aurors from the Ministry. The fact was, they simply weren’t capable of this.

Controlling Fiendfyre was exponentially harder than conjuring it. To rein in flames of this scale without letting them spread was almost impossible.

But Voldemort had seen Kyle cast similar magic before—back on the Hebrides Islands.

At the memory, Voldemort subconsciously touched one side of his face. A phantom sting of Fiendfyre burned across his skin.

“You think this will trap my Death Eaters? Foolish dreamers!” Voldemort raised his wand.

“Think again!”

A cascade of desks, chairs, and benches suddenly rained down from above, crashing hard toward Voldemort.

He had no choice but to turn his wand, blasting apart the airborne furniture—many pieces oddly armed with greatswords and flails.

A tabby cat landed on the ground and transformed mid-air into Professor McGonagall. She immediately stepped in front of Harry and the others, shielding them.

Boom. Boom. Boom...

The ground trembled.

A full-blooded Giant and a slightly shorter half-Giant thundered toward the battlefield like two rampaging elephants.

It was Hagrid—and his brother, Grawp.

Scrimgeour arrived too, one leg broken and replaced with a makeshift wooden brace. But his grip on his wand was rock steady.

Behind him came Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, Lupin the werewolf, Tonks, and Kingsley—all storming forward with grim resolve.

Chris swept a quick glance over Harry and his friends. A flicker of disappointment crossed his face—but he said nothing. Instead, he strode quickly to stand opposite Voldemort.

Kyle’s probably fine... Chris reassured himself.

If even Voldemort could figure out that Kyle was the one who trapped the Death Eaters in the Fiendfyre, so could he.

And since the flames hadn’t collapsed yet, it meant Kyle’s magic was still holding.

That was all he needed to know.

“Well... everyone’s here,” Voldemort said casually, utterly unsurprised.

Because this had been his goal from the very beginning.

Killing Harry had never been the problem. If he’d truly wanted to, he could have done it back in the secret passage. Harry wouldn’t even have had the chance to run.

But Voldemort hadn’t done that—because he wanted an audience.

He wanted to kill Harry in front of everyone. Shatter their faith in The Boy Who Lived. Make them watch as their hopes died with him.

Show them that their dreams were nothing but fantasy... that he, the Dark Lord, was invincible.

Now the audience had arrived.

Unfortunately, they didn’t seem interested in quietly watching the show.

No matter. A few preliminary adjustments were in order.

Voldemort flicked his wand.

The earth split open, and from the cracks burst countless blackened hands, reaching up to grab whoever was closest.

Scrimgeour stood nearest to the fissure. One of the hands grabbed hold of his wooden brace—and in seconds, it rotted into mush.

“Watch out! Don’t let those cursed things touch you!” he roared, retreating quickly.

Voldemort swept his wand again. The black arms began to stretch and twist, snaking forward like agile, venomous serpents...

Crack!

A faint sound came from the Elder Wand—so soft only Voldemort heard it.

He looked down.

Another deep fracture had formed in the wand, wide enough to expose the charred-black core within.

Again...

Grinding his teeth, Voldemort fought to suppress his rage. He didn’t channel any more power into the wand.

The black hands recoiled into the fissures in the ground.

But the danger hadn’t passed. Not even close.

“Go!” Voldemort commanded. “Kill them. Don’t fail me again.”

The Death Eaters charged forward without hesitation, and Barty Crouch Jr. led the way, his wand aimed directly at the head of the Department of Magical Transportation—his own father.

“Avada Kedavra!”

The battle reignited. Everyone focused entirely on fending off the Death Eaters while pushing Harry farther back.

They all knew they stood no chance against Voldemort. The only thing they could do now was protect Harry Potter... at the very least, not let him die here.

Harry was jostled to the rear, pushed farther and farther from Voldemort—until he suddenly collided with someone.

“Potter!”

A familiar voice called out behind him, and Harry froze. He recognized it instantly—Snape.

“You—”

He barely had time to turn when a hand grabbed him, yanking him down forcefully.

“Let go of Harry!”

Ron and Hermione both raised their wands, but Snape didn’t even react. He held onto Harry’s collar tightly, not trying to harm him—instead, he pulled out a small bottle.

“Take this... go... go to the Headmaster’s office!”

Harry had never seen Snape like this before—so resolute, so deliberate... But why was he telling him to go to the Headmaster’s office? And what was in that bottle?

He got his answer soon enough.

A silvery-blue substance began to flow from Snape’s ears—neither liquid nor gas, more like condensed wind.

Harry knew exactly what it was. He’d seen it before. It was a physical memory, meant to be viewed with a Pensieve.

But why was Snape giving him his memories?

“Go to the Headmaster’s office... do what you’re meant to do...” Snape gave Harry a long, heavy look, then gritted his teeth and forced himself to his feet before walking off in the opposite direction.

“Harry...” Hermione and Ron ran up to him.

“That’s weird. He didn’t even try to grab you and hand you over to his master,” Ron muttered under his breath.

“I know. I don’t get it either,” Harry said, frowning.

None of them had seen Snape approaching—he could’ve easily taken Harry by surprise, even killed him if he’d wanted to.

But he hadn’t. Instead, he gave Harry a bottle of memories, and Harry had no idea what to make of it.

“Should I go to the Headmaster’s office?” he muttered, staring down at the bottle in his hand.

But right now, everyone was fighting Voldemort. How could he just walk away?

Harry’s heart was in turmoil. On one hand, he desperately wanted to understand what Snape meant—and what he had meant by do what you’re meant to do.

On the other hand, he didn’t want to be a coward. He wanted to fight, to stand shoulder to shoulder with everyone else.

“Harry, the Death Eaters are closing in!”

Hermione’s shout made the decision for him.

No!

He couldn’t just trust Snape—an enemy—for a single cryptic sentence.

What he should be doing—at least right now—was fighting alongside everyone. And destroying the Runespoor Horcrux.

Wait... where was the snake?

Harry looked around but couldn’t find any sign of the Runespoor.

It seemed like the snake had vanished ever since they returned through the secret passage back into Hogwarts.

Still, Harry didn’t dwell on it. He assumed Voldemort had hidden it again. As long as they could defeat Voldemort, they’d have time to hunt it down and destroy it.

He quickly shoved the bottle into his pocket, drew his wand, and aimed at a Death Eater rushing toward him.

“Expelliarmus!”

A wand flew through the air, spun to the ground, and was immediately snapped underfoot in the chaos.

“Oh, Harry! I think in a situation like this, Stunning Spells are more useful than Disarming Spells!” Hermione shouted to him in passing.

Harry ruffled his hair. “Sorry—habit... Stupefy!”

All around, the battle raged. Voldemort raised his wand again. He already understood the Elder Wand’s limits—and now, he was ready to end this farce.

As long as he didn’t push it too hard, it would be simple enough.

“Avada—ah!”

No one saw what happened. Voldemort’s incantation abruptly turned into a piercing scream.

His entire face twisted in agony, as though he were being torn apart.

The shock was so sudden that everyone—Death Eaters, Aurors, professors, students—froze and turned to stare at him.

What just happened to Voldemort?

It was the question on everyone’s face.

Harry watched from a distance as Voldemort collapsed to the ground, convulsing violently—and was instantly reminded of how Lucius and Draco Malfoy had writhed after being hit with the Cruciatus Curse.

But this was Voldemort. Who could cast Cruciatus on him?

Before Harry could dwell on it, the ground split open again—but this time, there were no blackened hands. Instead, molten lava poured from the cracks.

It spread fast—and it spared no one.

Death Eaters and allies alike began retreating rapidly.

In the center of the lava, Voldemort rose unsteadily to his feet. His face was contorted in fury, his eyes burning with hatred so intense it felt solid.

The shattering pain in his soul told him exactly what had happened.

One of his Horcruxes had just been destroyed.

And it had been the one closest to him.

“Damn it!”

“I’ll kill you... I will kill you!”