Dumbledore watched Wanda's performance with growing intrigue. Thoughts churned in his mind as he observed the battlefield.
Are there so many talents among Squibs?
Lockhart's ability to gather and train such exceptional students was baffling. Not only had he identified potential in what others dismissed as failures, but he had also somehow awakened latent wizarding talents within them.
He glanced briefly at Grindelwald and Tom Riddle—two Dark Lords who had themselves unlocked extraordinary talents.
Grindelwald wielded the magic of destiny, an uncanny ability to see and manipulate the threads of fate. Voldemort, on the other hand, had mastered soul and dark magic, refining them to levels unparalleled in history.
Even Dumbledore's own talents, inherited from his family, were formidable: top-tier wizarding aptitude, an extended lifespan, and the rare ability to summon a phoenix. These gifts marked the awakened talents of a wizard, elevating them beyond ordinary practitioners.
To awaken such talents meant securing a path toward greatness—if one could survive the journey.
His gaze shifted toward Tom, the younger and more rational counterpart of Voldemort. Though Dumbledore did not fully understand the phenomenon of two Toms, he could clearly discern that the one before him was more composed.
"Tom," Dumbledore began cautiously, "congratulations on regaining your sanity. However, I suspect your current condition is… unstable."
His eyes flicked toward Voldemort, the chaotic figure wreaking havoc on the battlefield below, the hint unspoken but clear.
Tom offered a thin, humorless smile. "Dear Headmaster, you need not concern yourself. My condition is excellent."
He gestured toward the battlefield. "Perhaps you should worry about your own. Lockhart appears to have exceeded your expectations."
Tom's voice turned icy, his words laced with a pointed warning. "Kamar-Taj could become a formidable rival to Hogwarts. You wouldn't want the legacy of Hogwarts esteemed institution to crumble under your leadership, would you?"
Dumbledore's lips tightened into a faint smile, though his heart was heavy. He understood all too well what both Tom and Grindelwald had been hinting at:
Change is coming.
The wizarding world was on the brink of transformation, and there was no stopping it.
"Your Excellency, my students are doing well, don't you think so" Lockhart remarked, his tone laced with mockery as he observed the chaos below.
Despite Voldemort's relentless assault, Lockhart had effectively countered his every move. The time-and-space magic Lockhart wielded rendered him impervious to most of Voldemort's attacks, allowing him to move freely and oversee the battlefield.
Voldemort, in contrast, was growing increasingly frustrated. His left arm hung limp within his robes, a casualty of his earlier sacrificial spell. His mind raced as he tested various attacks—soul magic, spatial manipulation, curses, and even mind-control spells—all to little effect.
Through his experiments, Voldemort detected traces of time magic entwined with Lockhart's defenses. It was an unsettling realization; few wizards dared to meddle with such an unpredictable force.
Time magic, Voldemort thought grimly, his face darkening.
Lockhart's taunt only further stoked his anger.
"If I cannot touch you, then I will destroy your students," Voldemort hissed.
His crimson eyes swept over the battlefield. The Death Eaters were struggling against the young wizards—a disgrace that ignited his fury.
Weaklings!
Voldemort turned sharply, his form dissolving into black mist. The dark vapor surged toward the students, intent on claiming vengeance.
Lockhart's eyes narrowed as he watched Voldemort shift tactics.
"Voldemort, your enemy is me!" Lockhart declared, his voice cold.
In an instant, he dismissed his defensive magic and propelled himself forward, determined to intercept the Dark Lord. He had invested too much in his students to allow them to become casualties.
Voldemort, sensing his pursuit, turned and unleashed a Killing Curse with glee.
"Avada Kedavra!"
The green light streaked toward Lockhart, but he reacted swiftly. With a flick of his wand, he conjured a crimson shield that intercepted the spell, bending it away in a spiraling arc.
"Flaming Sword!" Lockhart called.
With another motion, a blade of shimmering purple flames materialized in the air, its surface inscribed with glowing runes. The sword shot forward, slicing into Voldemort's black mist form.
The mist quivered and recoiled as the flaming blade struck. Voldemort's incarnation began to flicker, momentarily destabilized.
The black mist, however, remained resilient.
Zhi! Zhi! Zhi!
The purple flames hissed and sputtered, unable to fully dissipate the mist. Instead, the sword hovered within the vapor, its runes glowing faintly as it persisted in its attack.
Clever, Voldemort thought bitterly. The sword hadn't caused significant damage, but its presence forced him to maintain his mist form. Any attempt to reconstitute his body would leave him vulnerable to the blade.
This is a distraction, he realized.
Cursing inwardly, Voldemort directed the mist toward Lockhart, black chains of vapor lashing out in an attempt to ensnare him.
Lockhart responded by raising his wand high. A brilliant silver-white light erupted from its tip, spreading outward in a protective wave.
Roar!
A majestic silver lion materialized from the light, its ethereal form roaring fiercely as it charged into the black mist.
Lockhart's Patronus met the chains head-on, its luminous energy countering the corrosive darkness. The battlefield was awash in flashes of light and shadow as the two forces clashed.
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