"You know," Charles said softly, his tone calm as he looked at the paralyzed Voldemort, "among the thousands of Pokémon species, there's one called Paras and Parasect. They're Bug and Grass types."
He smiled faintly as he explained, voice steady like that of a patient teacher.
"Paras are usually found at the roots of trees in damp forests. They're born covered in mushroom spores, and as their bodies grow, so do the mushrooms on their backs. Those mushrooms—called tochukaso—control their behavior, forcing them to dig and drain nutrients from tree roots. The insect's own will is ignored. While the Paras feeds from the roots, most of the nutrition it absorbs is actually stolen by the mushrooms growing on its back."
"When Paras evolves into Parasect, the red mushrooms with yellow spots on its back grow larger than its body."
"Parasect prefers dark, humid environments—not because the bug does, but because the giant mushroom on its back does."
"As the bug's life force is continually drained away, the mind doing the thinking is no longer the insect's—it's the mushroom's. The body beneath is essentially dead. The true being is the fungus, moving according to the mushroom's will. Once the mushroom falls off, the body stops moving entirely. In fact, battles between the insect and the fungus often end with the insect's death. Sometimes, people find Parasect specimens in the forest whose mushrooms have fallen off—they lie motionless, a perfect example proving that the mushroom is the true organism. After draining every drop of nourishment from the insect, the mushroom plants its spores onto the insect's eggs."
"And from those spore-laden eggs hatch new baby Paras."
Charles' smile deepened. The truth was, he had added those very spores into the potion Voldemort used for his resurrection.
Voldemort had thought Charles was trying to stop him from returning. When he discovered his resurrection had succeeded anyway, he was delighted—smug even. But he had guessed wrong.
If Charles truly wanted to prevent his revival, he would never have allowed Karkaroff's plan to succeed in the first place.
"You'll never kill me! I am immortal!"
Voldemort could feel his vitality leaking away, and fury twisted his face. His bloodshot eyes glared like the eyes of a ghost from hell, locking onto Charles.
"You'll never—!"
Charles only found his outrage amusing.
"Mr. Voldemort, I'm afraid you've missed the key point. I said: when the mushroom on Parasect's back grows large enough, the insect's consciousness fades. The one doing the thinking—the true 'self'—is no longer the bug, but the mushroom."
Voldemort's pupils shrank sharply. Terror and venom distorted his face.
"So you finally understand," Charles said lightly. "You won't die—you'll become my puppet. Did you really think your plan would go so smoothly? It was me pulling the strings behind the scenes."
He spoke gently, like a teacher explaining an answer to a confused student.
"I fought you for so long just to give the spores enough time to spread inside your body—to let your magic boil over, to make you focus entirely on me instead of noticing or resisting what was happening within you."
"Kill you? No. If I'd wanted you dead, I wouldn't have let you live this long."
"Scary, isn't it? The wonders of Pokémon."
"You—want—to—control—me—?" Voldemort snarled each word, trembling with rage. His gaze burned with the desire to tear Charles apart—but his body refused to obey him. He realized, with horror, that he could no longer move of his own will.
Yet his mind wasn't destroyed entirely. His consciousness was still battling against the invading fungus.
Voldemort, after all, had his own advantage—his soul could exist independent of his body. Even though he had lost control of his physical form, his mind did not vanish. He could still resist the spores within him.
"I am the Dark Lord—Voldemort! You'll never control me!" he hissed, hatred dripping from every syllable. His glare felt like a curse cast directly upon Charles.
Charles clapped softly, smiling. "Impressive, as expected of the Dark Lord! But it's fine—I came prepared."
He reached into his robes and drew out a glowing, crimson oval—an object that looked like an egg forged from molten lava. Its surface shimmered orange-red, and at its center burned a core of blinding white heat.
Its temperature easily exceeded three thousand degrees. It wasn't an exaggeration to call it living magma.
"What… is that?" Voldemort demanded, his voice trembling.
He had seen Charles Gold summon many strange, terrifying things—but somehow, each one was crafted precisely to make him afraid.
"As you can see," Charles said lightly, "it's an egg. But not just any egg—it's a fiery sphere formed from the life force and excess energy of a Skeledirge's flame. And interestingly enough… it can trap souls."
He lifted the blazing orb and placed it directly on Voldemort's forehead.
"I think your extra consciousness would be much safer inside this little thing."
The fiery sphere glowed brighter as it touched Voldemort's head, fusing instantly with his soul.
The "egg" began to hatch, radiating a strange blue light—
—and when the glow faded, a tiny bird of living flame appeared above Voldemort's skull. Its wings flickered for a moment before the shape twisted, transforming under Voldemort's own influence. The fiery bird turned into a small, ghostly wisp of soul-flame, faint but alive.
Voldemort gasped in terror as he realized—his soul was no longer inside his body. He had been sealed within that frail, palm-sized fire. He had no limbs, no face, no control.
He wanted to scream in fury, but no sound came out.
Like Parasect's host insect, Voldemort had become a parasite's prisoner. The difference was, this time the host was a Skeledirge—the "fire crocodile" Pokémon—whose singing flame carried its own soul.
Now Voldemort's soul was trapped inside the flame, completely severed from his body. He could no longer fight the spores for control.
As for the fiery spirit that remained—
Charles smiled faintly, raised his Rainbow Wand, and bound it effortlessly under his will.
"I'm sure Dumbledore will find you… fascinating."
"No—! You can't—!"
Ignoring his muffled cry, Charles turned to Voldemort's now-lifeless body, whose back pulsed faintly beneath the spreading mushrooms. He didn't hesitate. With a flick of his wrist, he hurled a red-and-white Poké Ball straight at the Dark Lord's head.
The ball struck, burst open in a flash of red light, and drew Voldemort's body inside. It rocked once… twice… three times…
Click!
A clear, crisp sound echoed through the chamber.
Charles blinked—then smiled.
"Huh. Guess it really worked."
(End of Chapter)