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'These guys still haven't given up, huh?'
The magical fluctuations were subtle, but that hardly mattered when someone could see magic itself. The flicker of blue light was far too dazzling—so bright that even with his back turned, Harry could feel the movement behind him. He didn't know what spell they were trying to cast, but honestly? It didn't matter.
To be fair, he'd been uncertain about how to handle these people. Should he force them to drink a potent Oblivion Potion laced with Wyvern Venom? Or should he just make a magical call to Durmstrang and ask Grindelwald to clean up his mess for him?
But now? Now, a new option had presented itself.
The first choice was risky. Sure, thanks to Snape's personal tutelage, the memory-erasing potion Harry brewed was permanent—but wiping the memories of over two hundred people? That kind of anomaly would eventually be noticed.
The second choice, while highly effective, wasn't exactly ideal either. He was a grown man now; he couldn't keep relying on his elders to handle his problems. Not that Grindelwald would refuse. If anything, the old man might take this as an opportunity to expand the Pureblood Party's influence. But considering the thousands of kilometers between here and Durmstrang, governance would be a nightmare. Not to mention the inevitable international backlash.
But this third choice? This one suited Harry's pride perfectly.
"I gave you all a chance. You just weren't smart enough to take it."
So don't blame me.
A grin crept across his face—bright, white, and chilling.
'The existence of an Awakened One comes with its own set of privileges. That's the perk of being one of fate's chosen errand boys. Sure, I'm the type to slack off and still collect my paycheck, but even I should get a cut of those benefits, right?'
With that shameless thought in mind, Harry deliberately nudged their elderly tour guide to lead them further away from the crowd.
This section of the exhibit displayed humanoid-compatible Black Iron Armor. Judging by the size, it was clearly meant for giants. Even if Hagrid were standing here, he'd barely reach the chest plate of these suits. While Hagrid's raw strength and durability were on par with a true giant, his height was not.
The tallest Giant Kings stood nearly twice Hagrid's height. Though giants as tall as six or seven meters were rare, they certainly existed.
These monstrous titans—the apex of brute force—were the reason giant tribes could hunt dragons.
A tribe without a Giant King of this caliber would be nothing more than mobile rations for dragons. All it would take was a single dive attack from a fire dragon to crush a lesser giant's skull and carry it off as a midnight snack.
Fire dragons consumed tons of meat daily. A single giant could keep one fed for at least two days. Though their meat wasn't as flavorful as cattle or horses, dragons still enjoyed the occasional change in diet.
Of course, this only applied to mid-to-large-sized fire dragons.
A smaller dragon swooping down to attack a Giant King? That was suicide. The giant would simply tank the dragon's breath attack, grab its wing, and tear into it like a piece of raw meat.
Sure enough, the moment Harry and Fleur distanced themselves from the crowd, the wizards made their move.
Silently, they shifted into position, waiting for Director Tom's signal.
Then—BOOM!
A burst of dark purple flames erupted from the dungeon's entrance.
The signal had been given.
Chaos ignited in an instant.
Harry, playing along, whipped his head around as the explosion rang through the chamber.
"Looks like things are getting messy. Fleur, do you want to leave first?"
Now that the dungeon's anti-teleportation field was gone, Harry could Apparate them out at any time.
Fleur hesitated briefly but then shook her head. "I can take care of myself. And besides, Thor is here."
Hearing this, Harry didn't argue. He simply vanished.
In the blink of an eye, he reappeared at the burning gateway.
The temporary magic barrier he had placed here was already on the verge of collapse. The dark purple flames were consuming it at an alarming rate.
Compared to group-cast spells, whatever this was packed far more destructive power—enough to rival the combined might of dozens of skilled wizards.
Here stood true elite wizards—masters of their craft, the kind of figures who could walk unchallenged through most battlefields, their skills and power putting them far beyond the reach of ordinary spellcasters.
"Almost had me fooled there."
Harry's gaze sharpened, locking onto a shadowed corner of the crowd. His cold smile gleamed with bared white teeth.
"Long time no see, Tom. Tell me, have you changed your name yet? Tom Riddle… my dear Lord Voldemort?"
When Tom Riddle suppressed his magic, disguising his presence, even Harry had failed to detect him upon arrival. But the moment Tom cast a spell, the game was over.
There was no mistaking it—that darkness, that uniquely malevolent magic, was unmistakable.
Unlike ordinary wizards, Voldemort and Grindelwald had transcended the limits of their own magic. While this transformation was not the same as an Awakened One's inherent ascension, it still placed them leagues above their peers. Their spells were stronger, faster, and deadlier, particularly those that aligned with their unique magical natures.
Grindelwald, for instance, had nurtured the Obscurus, refining its chaotic energy to elevate his own magical essence.
And Voldemort?
Harry didn't know what he had done.
But one thing was certain—compared to their last encounter at Hogwarts, the magic radiating from Voldemort now was stronger. Overwhelming.
Suffocating.
"Voldemort?!"
Gasps rippled through the room. The name alone sent a jolt through the gathered wizards.
For those who had heard the stories, it was shocking enough. But for those who had worked under him—who had trusted "Tom, their brilliant and promising director"—the revelation struck like a physical blow.
How?
How had their beloved leader—the man who had revolutionized their department—suddenly become the Dark Lord who once terrorized England?
Among them were even Hogwarts graduates, well-acquainted with the history of their school and its infamous former student.
But before any of them could react—
"Move."
The command was simple.
It came from the shadows.
Tom Riddle didn't step forward, nor did he bother with explanations. He didn't need to.
The moment his cold voice carried through the room, the Aurors and magical researchers who had been standing by sprang into action.
There was no hesitation.
A shimmering magical shield enveloped Harry, forming a perfect sphere around him.
But this time, there was no direct spell impact.
Instead—
A massive sphere of water, nearly two meters thick, engulfed him in an instant.
Within a breath, an Ice Hex froze the water solid, trapping Harry inside an unbreakable block of ice.
Simultaneously, a flurry of binding spells, suppression charms, and an intricate alchemical containment array were assembled at blinding speed. The magical researchers, though not as battle-hardened as the Aurors, were far from helpless.
They didn't need dueling skills to be deadly.
They only needed precision.
And in just two or three breaths, under Tom Riddle's meticulous planning, their preparations were flawlessly executed.
Now—
Inside that glacier of spells, they saw not the legendary Harry Potter—
But a helpless lamb, shackled and awaiting slaughter.
While everyone else felt a surge of triumph, the man hidden in the shadows did not share their relief.
After all—
This was the same freak who had once punched him so hard that he abandoned his empire and fled England like a cornered rat.
That moment—
The memory of his head exploding into black mist—
It was as clear as ever.
The pain hadn't mattered.
But the rage—the humiliation—
That, Voldemort had never forgotten.
And over time—
It had only festered.
(End of Chapter)