Voldemort had once read about the Avada Lightning Chain in the Restricted Section of the Hogwarts library.
The book described it as an incomparably terrifying curse. Once cast, it could kill multiple targets in the very same instant, with overwhelming power.
And even though that power was so immense that it didn't lose out to ancient magic long since lost…
Even Voldemort—who craved power more than anything—had never attempted to learn it.
Because Dark Arts often came with dreadful side effects. The more you used them, the more they corroded the caster's soul.
And the Avada Lightning Chain's impact on the caster's mind was dozens of times stronger than that of an ordinary Killing Curse.
Even he couldn't guarantee that after casting the Avada Lightning Chain multiple times, he could still hold on to himself—still keep his mind intact—rather than being drowned by a maddened urge to slaughter and turning into a rampaging monster that only knew how to kill.
In the records about the Avada Lightning Chain, aside from a handful of legendary wizards from the distant ancient era, only one wizard in the last few centuries had successfully mastered it.
That wizard, even while still a student, had already become a killing machine that made people tremble at his name, brutally massacring several thousand people. His bloody atrocities were simply horrifying beyond belief.
Just remembering what that wizard had done made even Voldemort—famed for being cold-blooded and ruthless—feel his spine turn icy, chills crawling up from the depths of his heart.
Compared to that, Voldemort even felt that in some ways, he might qualify as a "kind" wizard.
And Harry's earlier mockery—asking how many people he killed "the next day," whether it was another few hundred—wouldn't feel out of place at all if it were said to that wizard.
Now, Voldemort looked at Harry with a complicated expression. If Harry truly had mastered the Avada Lightning Chain and wasn't being controlled by that insane bloodlust, then it meant that in the domain of the Killing Curse, Harry had already surpassed him.
Who would believe it?
A first-year, surpassing the Dark Lord in mastery of the Killing Curse?
Even more absurd, this little wizard was also the Chosen One—famous throughout the magical world, seen as the symbol of hope.
We're screwed.
Isn't this just… completely screwed?
If even the Chosen One fell into darkness, then who would stand up and save this precarious wizarding world?
The thought that he might have to become the one to "save the wizarding world" in the future—from an out-of-control Harry—made Voldemort's face turn extremely ugly, disgust twisting his features into an unwilling snarl.
No. Harry was too dangerous. He had to be eliminated!
Time passed bit by bit. Minutes later, Voldemort's body grew weaker and weaker, almost drained of all life, swaying on the verge of collapse.
And the "Philosopher's Stone" in his hand shone at its absolute brightest, a blinding radiance that hurt to look at.
At this moment, Voldemort seemed to have aged more than ten years in an instant. Wrinkles stacked across his face, skin loose and dull—he looked even more haggard than white-haired Dumbledore.
He panted heavily, each breath labored and thick, yet his eyes glittered with near-mad frenzy.
He stared at Harry and rasped, wild and hoarse, "Potter—this duel… in the end, I still won!"
Then he crushed the Philosopher's Stone in his fist!
In an instant, a powerful, mysterious force erupted outward from him!
The "Philosopher's Stone" shattered, breaking down into strands of crimson magical light that wrapped around Voldemort layer by layer.
His appearance began recovering at a visible pace. His dried-up, withered face gradually filled out again.
Seeing this, Harry's expression flashed with shock and fury as he stared hard at the scene.
He didn't hesitate for even a moment, continuing to assault Voldemort as he roared, "Voldemort! Don't you dare!"
Voldemort barely managed to swing his wand, erecting layer after layer of defenses in front of himself, intercepting Harry's attacks with difficulty.
The massive magical impacts made his body jolt, and he couldn't help spitting out a mouthful of dark red blood.
Yet his expression only grew more twisted with delight as he rasped, "No, Potter. The Philosopher's Stone has already activated. The result is set in stone. You can't change anything!"
Voldemort waited eagerly to savor Harry's despair, sinking into the joy of imminent victory—only to suddenly sense something off.
No. Something was wrong!
After hearing Voldemort's words, Harry's expression instantly shifted into the exact opposite. His lips curled slightly, a mocking smile hanging there as he teased,
"I see. Then I'm not worried anymore."
"What?" Voldemort instinctively felt danger, but couldn't understand why Harry had suddenly calmed down—why he wasn't stopping him.
Could it be…
The next instant, the outermost high-density layer of magic on the stone was completely used up. The crimson torrent of magic that had been wrapping Voldemort shrank at a visible speed, like a tide pulling back.
Voldemort was struck like lightning. In that split second, he understood everything. Eyes bulging, he roared,
"No! Dumbledore—you lied to me! This stone isn't the real Philosopher's Stone!"
But no matter how furious he was, it couldn't change the ending awaiting him.
He had already burned through Quirrell's life. Even if he found the real Philosopher's Stone now, he wouldn't be able to activate it.
Voldemort, seething with unwilling hatred, snapped his gaze toward Harry and ground out through clenched teeth,
"Potter—look at you, so smug. You and that old bastard Dumbledore set me up together!
Fine. I don't have long left. But before I go, I can still squeeze out my last bit of strength—and drag you down with me!"
Now that the counterfeit stone's "restraint" was gone, the magic Voldemort had poured into it broke loose like a stampede of wild horses, blasting outward in every direction.
Yet Voldemort, relying on his extraordinary magical skill, cleverly seized control of that power.
Under his manipulation, the violent magic began to gather and compress, slowly taking shape.
Before long, a ball of deep crimson flame appeared out of thin air. It burned like infernal karmic fire, radiating a heart-stopping magical fluctuation!
Sensing the power inside that dark red fireball, Harry's expression shifted. If it detonated, it would be enough to destroy everything within several hundred meters.
This was an all-in, life-on-the-line attack from a powerhouse like Voldemort—its strength beyond imagination. Even Harry would have difficulty withstanding it.
But…
"You don't have the chance."
Harry's voice suddenly sounded behind Voldemort.
Voldemort's heart jolted. He whirled around—
Too late.
In the next instant, a blade tore through the air with a shrill, razor-edged scream, flashing past Voldemort's throat!
A head shot upward with the force of blood pressure, flying high into the air, then dropped with a wet smack onto the cracked, ruined floor of the chamber.
At the same time, the terrifying fireball that was about to form dispersed rapidly.
Even after being beheaded, Voldemort retained a final thread of consciousness. Completely unable to understand, his gaze swept toward where Harry had been standing just a moment ago.
Harry was clearly still there—so how had he appeared behind him and delivered a fatal strike?
What kind of magic was that?!
Then the "Harry" who remained in place began to blur and fade, turning into golden butterflies that fluttered away into nothing.
This was Kamar-Taj magic: Images of Ikonn.
Long before Voldemort tried to use the counterfeit Philosopher's Stone to rebuild his body, Harry had quietly cast Images of Ikonn, leaving a duplicate standing in place to mislead Voldemort.
His real body, meanwhile, had silently slipped behind Voldemort, lying in wait with patient stillness.
When Voldemort realized the stone was fake and his emotions surged, exposing an opening, Harry seized the moment and struck decisively—killing him in one move.
There was no doubt about it.
Harry's plan succeeded.
After resting for a short while, Harry lifted his wand.
Voldemort's lifeless body floated up, hovering behind Harry.
He walked leisurely through the wreckage, heading toward the exit of the chamber.
Here, Voldemort was ended by Harry Potter.
Passing through chamber after chamber, Harry finally returned to the first room they had entered.
Fluffy's vitality was strong, and with the Life Potion Harry had fed it, it had already recovered most of its strength.
Seeing Harry burst out from the trapdoor, Fluffy became instantly excited. Its massive body surged forward, tongue lolling out, eager to lick Harry's face.
If Harry hadn't reacted fast—instantly casting the Iron Armor Charm to cover himself—he would have been drenched in drool.
He patted Fluffy's head lightly, calming it down, then pushed open the door and walked out.
The moment he stepped into the corridor, Harry sensed something and smiled. Dense footsteps were rushing in from the distance, rapidly approaching!
Soon, with Dumbledore at the head, many professors and multiple prefects arrived, filling Harry's view.
The professors' reactions varied. Dumbledore, seeing Harry, wore his usual gentle smile.
Professor McGonagall's expression was stern, but her eyes were full of concern.
Even Snape—normally unreadable—reacted strongly, letting out a heavy breath of relief.
The other professors also showed sincere smiles.
Hermione and Ron were among the crowd as well. Seeing Harry unharmed, they exhaled in relief and hurried over, saying with joy,
"Harry, you're okay—thank goodness!"
But then, suddenly…
They saw something, and their bodies went rigid on the spot.
Behind Harry, from within the doorway, Voldemort's corpse and severed head floated out little by little, blood still streaming in thin strands from the broken neck and the stump of the body.
At the sight of it, everyone except Dumbledore turned pale—professors and prefects alike. Even Hermione and Ron looked horrified.
Harry instinctively stepped forward, wanting to explain—but the people in front of him stepped back as well.
Feeling utterly helpless, Harry complained,
"Look at this—damn Voldemort. He's scared everyone half to death!"
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