Chapter 87: Voldemort vs. Voldemort
"I'm sorry, Mr. Collins. I truly regret it," Dumbledore said apologetically to Mimiron—Collins being his assumed name.
"I see."
Mimiron rose to his feet, his expression unreadable. "If you happen to change your mind, feel free to contact me at any time."
Then he turned to the other man.
"Congratulations, Professor Quirrell. I hope you'll shine in this position—and survive it."
His smile didn't reach his eyes as he shook Quirrell's hand before turning and leaving the office.
Moments after Quirrell stepped outside as well, the voice in his head suddenly surged with excitement.
"Follow him. Kill him."
"Master, haven't I already succeeded?" Quirrell asked, bewildered. "Why the sudden change?"
"Don't ask questions. Hurry!"
The voice grew louder, pounding against his skull until his head rang.
"…Yes, Master."
The office door closed.
Dumbledore narrowed his eyes. The warmth vanished from his face, replaced by cold steel.
"Tom…"
---
Mimiron had been wondering how he might lure Quirrell somewhere secluded—only for Quirrell himself to make the first move.
"Mr. Collins," Quirrell said with a stiff smile, "the moment I met you, I felt a sense of kinship. Though the Defense Against the Dark Arts position requires only one professor, I believe we could still become… friends."
"I completely agree, Professor Quirrell," Mimiron replied with an equally hollow smile.
Like old friends, they walked one behind the other, heading toward Hogsmeade.
"Professor Quirrell," Mimiron said at last, eyeing the increasingly desolate surroundings, "are you certain this road leads to Hogsmeade?"
"Of course," Quirrell replied calmly. "Why would I lie to you…?"
"....."
"....."
"Avada Kedavra."
"Avada Kedavra."
Two blinding green flashes detonated in midair.
The twisted, serpent-like beams collided and intertwined, sparks bursting in every direction. The shockwave blasted away dust and gravel around them, carving out a perfect circular crater.
When the green light finally faded, their gazes locked.
All pretense was gone—this was a fight to the death.
The Killing Curse erupted again and again, yet each clash ended in a deadlock. Doubt crept into both of their minds.
That's not right…
My Avada Kedavra was personally guided by the Dark Lord—how can his be just as strong?
Another violent collision of green light.
At last, the voice in Quirrell's mind could no longer hold back.
"Remove the turban. Let me speak to him."
Quirrell kept his wand raised with one hand while fumbling for the turban at the back of his head with the other. It took him a moment to tear it free. Mimiron, mistaking the motion for the preparation of some spell, tensed in alarm.
Then he saw it.
"Merlin… another master?"
Mimiron's eyes widened in disbelief.
A deathly pale face emerged—skin stretched tight over bone, barely a nose at all, only two slit-like nostrils. Red eyes glowed with a ghastly light. The face was embedded in the back of Quirrell's skull like a malignant parasite.
It was identical to the Voldemort fused to Mimiron's chest.
Faced with such a scene, Mimiron could only tear open his robes, exposing the Cup-bound Voldemort embedded there.
"Just as I suspected," hissed the Voldemort on Quirrell's head.
As the original body, he had sensed the presence of the Cup Horcrux the moment Quirrell shook Mimiron's hand. That was why he had ordered Quirrell to follow him out—to destroy this other self.
He would not tolerate another Voldemort existing in the world.
The moment the two Dark Lords met, they seized full control of their hosts. There were no words, only magic—brutal, merciless exchanges of spells.
Because they were too close to Hogwarts and feared drawing Dumbledore's attention, both soon abandoned the Killing Curse and unleashed other forms of dark magic instead.
In the end, the original Voldemort prevailed—but only at the cost of grievous injuries.
"Return… Quirrell," Voldemort rasped weakly. A deep gash marred his face, and what little nose he had left was now completely gone.
The Cup Voldemort was in even worse condition—half his face had been scorched black by Fiendfyre. Had he been a moment slower, he would have been annihilated on the spot.
"Withdraw… find somewhere to recover…" the Cup Voldemort barely managed before losing consciousness.
At that moment, if Mimiron had possessed even a shred of courage, he might have torn Voldemort's face from his chest and regained his freedom.
But he didn't.
Avoid the blade for now. Endure.
That was all he could think.
---
Back home, Russell suddenly remembered something Professor Flitwick had once told him.
"Uncle Gomez," he asked, "would you teach me fencing-based dueling?"
He had considered learning wizard dueling from Flitwick, but there was an awkward problem—Flitwick's advantage lay in his small stature and agility. That was racial talent, not something Russell could replicate.
Gomez's fencing-duel system, however, perfectly fused Muggle swordsmanship with magical combat, balancing both ranged and close-quarters fighting. It suited him far better.
"I'm afraid not, Russell," Gomez replied, surprisingly firm. "I've been very busy lately. Not only are we heading to Soviet, but several other Addams are joining us as well, so…"
He shrugged, the meaning obvious.
"But you can learn from Wednesday," Gomez added brightly. "She inherited my dueling technique perfectly."
That single sentence was a revelation.
If Gomez knew it, then of course his daughter would as well.
---
Clang—clang—clang.
Steel rang through the empty hall as Russell and Wednesday, clad in protective gear, crossed blades. Their rapiers struck again and again, sparks flashing with each collision.
Suddenly, Wednesday lunged forward.
Her blade slid aside Russell's with serpentine precision and came to rest against his throat.
"I lost again," Russell said, dropping his sword. He removed his mask and fell backward onto the mat, limbs spread in a starfish shape.
"You're improving quickly," Wednesday said. She mimicked his posture, then rested her head on his arm.
Russell shifted slightly, making sure she was comfortable.
According to Wednesday, fencing-dueling began with fencing itself. Russell had never touched a rapier before, and the fact that he could already trade blows with her spoke volumes about his talent.
Of course, she was holding back.
Otherwise, he wouldn't have lasted five exchanges.
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