[Marvel's Hogwarts Professor] Chapter 496 - 500

Chapter 496

The Death Eater station stood atop a windswept seaside cliff, where the salty air mingled with the crashing waves below.

The sea breeze roared as it swept through, stirring the deep blue ocean into frothy waves that relentlessly battered the jagged cliff face. Seagulls circled above, their sharp cries echoing over the churning water. Yet, despite their graceful flight, none dared to land on the cliff itself, as if an unseen force warded them away.

A closer look revealed the ominous presence of dense black specks swarming the cliffside. Near the edge, a foreboding black gate loomed, its surface etched with dark runes that seemed to pulsate faintly in the dim light.

Before the gate stood two figures—two versions of the Dark Lord. One, a pale and skeletal Voldemort, radiated malice, his eyes burning with an eerie red glow. Beside him stood his younger self, Tom Riddle, his sharp features etched with cold ambition. Around them, their followers—the Death Eaters—waited in tense silence. The air was thick with a mix of solemnity and electric anticipation.

Among the gathered crowd, several Death Eaters wore expressions of barely contained zeal. To the pure-blooded families present, this mission was merely an opportunity to restore their fading wealth. But to the devoted Death Eaters, it was far more—a chance to seize power and riches without restraint, a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to plunder and destroy.

Tom, ever calculating, glanced at his older self. Voldemort’s skeptical gaze rested on the portal. Despite his younger counterpart's reassurances, the elder Dark Lord clearly harbored doubts. The portal, capable of bypassing any space barrier, was their key to breaching Gringotts—the fabled safest bank in the wizarding world, fortified with countless protections.

“Voldemort,” Tom began, his voice measured, “have you given any more thought to my proposal?” He gestured casually toward the black gate. “The wizarding world is at a turning point. Soon, the tide will shift. Working together would ensure our dominance. Divided, we risk being weakened by our enemies.”

Voldemort remained silent; his serpentine features unreadable as he considered the younger man’s words.

Tom pressed on. “A new land, unfamiliar territory. Bloodshed will be unavoidable. Unity is our best chance.”

Voldemort’s crimson eyes flickered briefly toward Tom, but he gave no reply.

Suddenly, the portal hummed to life. A low, resonant buzz emanated from the gate, accompanied by an otherworldly green glow. The smooth, obsidian surface rippled like water as faint light began to radiate outward.

The Death Eaters instinctively leaned forward, their eyes wide with awe and curiosity. The ripples on the portal’s surface grew, spreading like waves until they stabilized. In mere seconds, a shimmering image began to form on the other side.

Through the portal, the familiar sight of a cavernous space came into focus. At the forefront stood Bellatrix Lestrange, her wild hair framing her unhinged grin as she raised her wand, chanting incantations with frenzied intensity.

Voldemort’s thin lips curved into a faint smile as he stepped forward, his movements deliberate. His pale hand touched the edge of the portal, and with a slight shimmer, he vanished, reappearing instantly inside Gringotts’ vault. Tom followed close behind, his sharp eyes scanning their surroundings.

The Death Eaters surged forward eagerly, unable to contain their impatience. They spilled through the portal, one after another, their excitement palpable.

“Bella,” Voldemort intoned, his voice low but unmistakably dangerous, “you’ve done well. Now, it’s time to reap the rewards.” His tone shifted to one of sinister promise. “Everything we have lost before—we will take back tenfold. Let the wizarding world remember what it means to fear the name of the Death Eaters.”

Bellatrix trembled with exhilaration at her master’s words. Her eyes shone with manic devotion, and her entire body quivered as though his praise were a spell cast directly upon her soul.

Tom watched her with mild distaste. Her mind, warped by years of dark magic, was as volatile as it was fanatical. While Voldemort valued her blind loyalty, Tom found her reckless fervor a liability.

Voldemort, unconcerned with Tom’s disapproval, turned his gaze toward the goblin Russo, who was held motionless under the Imperius Curse. Without hesitation, Voldemort raised his wand and hissed, “Avada Kedavra.”

A flash of sickly green light illuminated the vault as the goblin crumpled to the floor, lifeless.

Voldemort stepped over the body with an air of detached indifference. “No witnesses,” he murmured, more to himself than to anyone else.

The corridor outside the vault was soon littered with bodies as Death Eaters unleashed a cascade of Killing Curses on any goblins foolish enough to approach.

Tom, meanwhile, focused on extracting the goblin Russo’s memories. Pressing the tip of his wand to Russo’s temple, he pulled silvery threads of memory into his palm, allowing them to flow into his mind.

As the stolen knowledge settled within him, Tom’s lips curled into a sneer. Most of the vault’s treasures had already been plundered—by none other than Kamar-Taj. Even the dragon that once guarded Gringotts’ depths had been taken.

Disgust flickered across his face. He muttered an incantation, and with a flick of his wand, the goblin’s severed head rolled to the floor. Blood trickled in small, icy streams, but the air remained curiously devoid of the scent of death.

Tom turned to the Death Eaters gathered behind him. “You,” he commanded, his tone leaving no room for argument, “pure-bloods, retrieve what’s yours. The rest of you, follow me.”

The Death Eaters exchanged wary glances before splitting into two groups. The pure-blood families hurried toward their respective vaults, clutching keys they had prepared in advance. The others fell in behind Tom, their obedience driven by fear as much as loyalty.

Voldemort, standing amidst the carnage he had created, exuded an aura of sadistic satisfaction. The corpses of goblins lay scattered at his feet, their expressions frozen in terror.

Tom watched him for a moment, a flicker of understanding passing through him. Despite their differences, they shared a common truth: both versions of the Dark Lord reveled in the act of killing, finding solace in the destruction they wrought.

As if sensing Tom’s thoughts, Voldemort turned and offered a sinister smile. “You asked about my thoughts on your proposal earlier,” he said, his voice dripping with malice. “Let’s settle it this way. If you can match my pace in this massacre, I will agree to your terms.”

Tom’s lips twisted into a dark grin. “And if I surpass you?”

Voldemort’s smile widened. “Then, I’ll reward you—with a Horcrux.”

Chapter 497

A loud, piercing alarm blared through the underground tunnels of Gringotts, the urgent buzzing accompanied by a mechanical voice repeating the warning.

"Gringotts has encountered a major crisis. Reminder: Major crisis. Major crisis."
"All goblins, urgent assembly. Urgent assembly."
"Proceed to the nearest platform within one minute and deploy to the battlefield."

The echoes of the alarm filled the vast underground network, reverberating off the ancient stone walls. Goblins in crimson uniforms scrambled from various chambers, rushing toward the nearest platform. Their sharp, beady eyes were wide with urgency as they leaped onto enchanted carts, which screeched to life and hurtled down the twisting tracks at breakneck speed.

Each goblin clutched a magic-forged firearm, their belts laden with gleaming rounds of enchanted bullets. Their grip tightened instinctively around the cold metal, seeking comfort in the weight of their weapons. None of them spoke; they didn’t need to. The deafening roar of distant explosions and the unmistakable crack of gunfire painted a vivid picture of the battle ahead.

The wind howled through the underground tunnels, whipping past them as their carts sped toward the eastern sector of the bank. The further they traveled, the louder the cacophony of destruction became. The stench of burning stone and the acrid tang of blood tainted the air.

Rio, one of the goblin commanders, clenched his jaw as he caught sight of the battlefield. His breath hitched, and his grip on his weapon tightened until his knuckles turned white.

The once-grand battle platform had been reduced to a smoldering wasteland. Thick, curling smoke choked the air, turning the cavern’s usual dim glow into a shadowy nightmare. The corpses of fallen goblins littered the ground, some charred beyond recognition, others dismembered, their severed limbs strewn about like discarded scraps.

Blood pooled in deep crimson puddles, seeping into the cracks of the ancient stone. The eerie silence of the dead contrasted sharply with the wails of the wounded, whose cries were swallowed by the relentless barrage of curses still echoing through the chamber.

Rio’s stomach churned as he watched one of his fellow goblins brush too close to the swirling black mist infecting the air. A split second later, a horrendous screech filled the cavern as the goblin's body contorted in agony, flesh dissolving as if devoured by an invisible predator. Within moments, nothing remained but bones, which crumbled into dust.

Fear gripped the goblins. Many hesitated, their instincts screaming at them to retreat. But orders were orders. And those who turned and fled would be executed for cowardice, if not by their superiors—then by the Death Eaters themselves.

Across the battlefield, Voldemort stood amid the chaos, a twisted smile curling his pale lips. His wand moved lazily through the air, sending out bursts of lethal green light and torrents of dark mist that slithered like living shadows.

"Avada Kedavra!"
"Death Fog!"

One by one, the goblins fell.

Voldemort inhaled deeply, reveling in the metallic scent of blood and the burning stench of death. To him, this wasn’t merely battle—it was pleasure. The terror in his enemies’ eyes, the sound of their final, gurgling breaths, the thrill of complete domination—he craved it.

The screams were music. The corpses, his art.

His magic surged around him, raw and boundless.

No one could match his command of the Dark Arts. Not Dumbledore, not Grindelwald—no one.

A short distance away, Tom Riddle watched, his expression unreadable. The way Voldemort wielded death with such ease stirred something in him, an ancient instinct deeply embedded in their very essence.

They were the same.

And yet, they were not.

Tom did not lack the desire for death and destruction, but unlike Voldemort, he was a creature of patience and control. True power did not come from reckless slaughter—it came from precision. Every move had to serve a greater purpose.

Suddenly—

Boom!

A goblin was obliterated before his eyes, his body reduced to a fine mist of blood and bone. The explosion sent debris flying, and in its wake, something golden gleamed beneath the rubble.

The Death Eaters nearby froze, eyes widening.

A vault.

The remnants of a destroyed chamber wall revealed its hidden treasure.

A hungry silence followed.

Then, all at once, the Death Eaters lunged forward, their greed consuming them like a drug.

They had been bystanders in the battle between the two Dark Lords, unwilling to interfere in their display of dominance. But now, with the vaults cracked open before them, they had their own feast to indulge in.

They moved like vultures, tearing into the unguarded riches with frenzied excitement. Galleons spilled onto the bloodstained floor, jewelry and artifacts glinting amidst the carnage.

No one held back.

It was free wealth, wealth taken without consequence.

Voldemort noticed, and a chilling laugh escaped his lips.

"Go." His voice slithered through the air like a curse. "Take what you desire. Kill as you please."

The Death Eaters didn’t need to be told twice.

Wands snapped upward, and the massacre resumed.

"Avada Kedavra!"
"Bone-Breaking Curse!"

Gunfire clashed with dark magic as the goblins desperately tried to defend what remained of their bank. But against the overwhelming force of Voldemort’s army, they were mere insects crushed beneath an unforgiving boot.

Voldemort’s crimson eyes flickered toward Tom, his expression tinged with curiosity.

Unlike himself, Tom had not actively joined the slaughter.

Instead, the younger Dark Lord had been weaving intricate runes into the air, his wand tracing precise, deliberate patterns. Ancient symbols pulsed with malevolent energy, stretching out across the battlefield.

Voldemort narrowed his eyes. Was Tom hesitating? Was he falling behind?

No.

Voldemort understood himself too well to think that.

Tom was planning something.

And whatever it was, it was big.

Voldemort turned away, focusing instead on his own brand of destruction.

With a single sweep of his wand, the thick black mist coiled and writhed, slithering into the mouths and wounds of fallen goblins.

Then—

Click. Click. Click.

The corpses moved.

Broken bodies began to stitch themselves together. Shattered limbs twisted and reformed. The dead were no longer dead.

From the blood-soaked ground, grotesque creatures rose—hulking, misshapen monstrosities crafted from a nightmarish fusion of goblin flesh and dark magic.

The bullets fired at them were useless. The creatures barely flinched as gunfire shredded their rotting flesh, only to watch the wounds knit back together.

Rio's stomach lurched as he witnessed the horror unfold.

One of the creatures lunged, grasping a goblin in its massive, decaying hands. The goblin screamed as he was pulled toward the creature’s gaping maw, sharp teeth sinking into his flesh.

With a sickening crunch, he was consumed whole.

The other goblins froze.

Terror unlike anything they had ever known gripped them.

This was no longer a battle.

It was a massacre.

And the second Dark Lord had yet to even raise his wand in attack.

Tom's purple wand moved gracefully, dark runes flickering outward like ripples in water. The spell spread—not just across the battlefield, but beyond, creeping through the walls, infiltrating every inch of Gringotts.

Chapter 498

The air reeked of blood and madness.

The goblins' world had become a nightmarish haze of death, their once-cautious minds now reduced to a singular, frenzied thought: Kill.

Their eyes burned with bloodlust, their faces twisted in unnatural rage. Panic had long since been overridden by the overwhelming compulsion to fight. There was no longer fear, no hesitation—only a blind, maddened charge toward the enemy.

They sprinted forward like rabid animals, their small, clawed hands mechanically loading and firing their weapons, magic bullets spraying in rapid succession. The rounds lit up the cavern like bursts of fiery serpents, but as soon as they entered the swirling black mist, they simply vanished, swallowed whole by the darkness. No sound, no impact—just pure nothingness.

Yet, not a single goblin paused to question it.

They were deaf to reason, their fury blinding them to the obvious anomaly. Their weapons, their magic—none of it was working.

And still, they continued.

Voldemort, perched amidst the carnage, took notice. His red eyes gleamed with intrigue as he flicked his wand, sending a tendril of black mist outward. The mist unfurled like a sentient wraith, stretching and splitting, slipping through the air unseen.

It was his eyes now, scouting the rest of Gringotts even as he fought.

The visions poured into his mind—chaos, bloodshed, screaming goblins locked in battle, not just against Death Eaters but against each other.

Internal strife.

The goblins weren’t just defending themselves; they were fighting one another.

Voldemort turned, his gaze landing on Tom.

The younger Dark Lord stood motionless in the distance, wand still in hand, his face unreadable.

Voldemort narrowed his eyes, deep crimson flashing ominously.

A shift in perception.

For the briefest of moments, the world itself seemed to change.

Tom’s magic was everywhere.

The runes he had been casting had not simply faded into the air—they had spread, unraveling into invisible threads. These cursed strings now wove through the battlefield, slithering unnoticed into the minds of the goblins.

And with each death, each act of violence, those threads thickened, spreading further and further.

Voldemort’s gaze sharpened.

The goblins weren’t just fighting because they were desperate.

They were under his influence.

A magnificent curse—one that thrived on chaos, one that infected, twisted, and turned enemies into mindless berserkers.

Every goblin touched by those invisible strings had been driven into an uncontrollable, suicidal rage, forced into slaughtering their own kind.

Brilliant.

Voldemort let out a quiet, almost imperceptible breath.

It wasn’t that he couldn’t have done this himself—he simply hadn’t thought of it.

And that was what truly gave him pause.

Tom’s strategy was not just brutal—it was efficient.

He had taken what Voldemort did naturally and refined it, weaponized it into something even more devastating.

Voldemort tilted his head slightly, watching the carnage unfold. He had always known that Tom Riddle was powerful, but now he had to acknowledge something else.

Tom Riddle was dangerous.

Not to him, not yet.

But the potential was there.

The revelation tempered Voldemort’s killing frenzy. His movements became more measured, his curses cast with less reckless joy.

There was room for improvement.

He would need to adapt, to evolve.

He would not allow himself to be lesser than his own younger self.

Meanwhile, across the battlefield, a lone goblin suddenly halted mid-charge.

Rio gasped as the madness in his mind shattered, a cool sensation washing over his body like a sudden plunge into icy water.

His vision cleared.

The rage dissipated.

And for the first time, he truly saw what was happening.

The battlefield before him was a nightmare.

His brethren, eyes wild and unfocused, were slaughtering each other with no rhyme or reason. The ground was slick with goblin blood, their screams of agony blending with the echoing gunfire and the crackle of dark magic.

His stomach twisted in horror.

He pressed a trembling hand to his chest, fingers grazing the cold metal of the identity plate hanging there.

The Goblin Revolutionary Army.

A lifeline.

If not for this protective enchantment, he too would have been lost to madness, another mindless pawn in Tom Riddle’s cruel game.

Rio took a shuddering breath and cautiously moved toward the battlefield’s edge.

He wasn’t alone.

Through the haze, he spotted others—fellow goblins clutching identical identity plates, their expressions mirroring his own shock and relief.

Survivors.

They locked eyes for a brief moment, silent understanding passing between them.

They needed to get out.

Tom’s gaze flickered toward the escaping goblins but showed no interest in stopping them.

His spell was vast in scale, and he had known from the start that there would be ways to counter it. A few goblins slipping away hardly mattered. The damage had already been done.

Voldemort, however, had noticed.

The way Tom ignored the escapees, the way he had chosen Gringotts as their target in the first place—it was all starting to make sense.

He was testing something.

Interesting.

But he said nothing. Their partnership, for now, remained intact, and they shared a common enemy.

With the battlefield nearly devoid of living goblins, Voldemort finally lost interest in the slaughter.

The bet was over.

And he had lost.

For the first time in a long time, Voldemort found himself disinterested in further killing. Instead, his thoughts turned elsewhere—

The vaults.

The Death Eaters had already begun looting, tearing through centuries of accumulated wealth.

But while they were busy sifting through the treasures of pure-blood families and wizarding vaults, Voldemort set his sights on something far greater.

The goblin treasury.

Goblins were famed for their alchemy, and their kind had hoarded treasures beyond even what the wealthiest wizards could imagine.

And he would claim them.

With a swirl of black mist, Voldemort's form dissolved into shadow, streaking away through the underground corridors.

Tom watched him go, his gaze sweeping over the looted vaults and the remnants of their devastation.

Gringotts was finished.

Their mission had been a success.

Now, it was time for the next step.

The underground tunnels twisted and turned like a labyrinth, their winding paths treacherous even for goblins who had spent centuries navigating them.

But Voldemort moved with purpose.

He knew exactly where he was going.

Each turn, each choice of direction—precise.

Occasionally, he paused before a vault, observing either the emptied chambers or the Death Eaters still greedily plundering. If something caught his interest, he lingered for a moment before moving on.

He passed skirmishes—goblins still desperately trying to fight back, their gunfire lost against the sheer might of dark magic.

Some battles intrigued him.

Others bored him.

If an attack came his way, the assailant was swiftly reduced to dust, their bones collapsing in a silent heap.

Finally, he slowed.

He had arrived.

A massive platform stretched before him, guarded by goblins whose expressions betrayed no fear, only grim determination.

A shimmering yellow barrier surrounded them, pulsing faintly with protective enchantments—likely designed to counter Tom’s curse.

Voldemort’s eyes gleamed.

These goblins were different.

They weren’t simply protecting treasure.

They were guarding something far more valuable.

His lips curled into a predatory smile.

He had found the Goblin Armory.

Chapter 499

Hogwarts, school infirmary.

"Ugh..."

"Kill... Avada Kedavra..."

"Destroy them... plunder... make the goblins pay the price..."

Harry Potter lay on the hospital bed, his body drenched in sweat, his face twisted in pain. His fingers clutched at the sheets as if battling an unseen force, and his entire body trembled violently. He muttered incoherent words under his breath, his voice hoarse and filled with anguish.

Around him, Professor McGonagall, Snape, Sirius, and the other professors stood in tense silence. Their expressions ranged from deep worry to barely concealed dread. The flickering candlelight cast elongated shadows across their solemn faces, mirroring the weight of the moment.

Sirius paced restlessly near the bed, his gaze darting to Harry and then back to Madam Pomfrey, who was conducting a series of diagnostic spells over the boy's trembling form. His voice broke the oppressive silence, thick with barely restrained panic.

"Madam Pomfrey, what is happening to my Harry?" he demanded. "He’s my godson—whatever it takes, we must save him!"

The urgency in his voice made McGonagall, Flitwick, and Sprout turn their focus toward the matron. Worry, unease, and helplessness flickered in their eyes, reflecting the fear gripping the room. This was not the first time they had witnessed such an episode.

They had seen Harry awaken in the dead of night, gasping for breath, tormented by nightmares so vivid that they left lingering shadows in his waking mind. Last time, those visions heralded a horror that shook the wizarding world—the Dark Lord’s resurrection. And now, as history threatened to repeat itself, the professors could not ignore the chilling possibility that worse was yet to come.

"It’s the same as before," Madam Pomfrey murmured at last, her voice heavy with pity. "The root cause lies in soul resonance. This child... he is experiencing yet another dark, nightmarish connection."

She hesitated, the lines on her face deepening. Something in her expression made Sirius's anxiety spike further. He clenched his fists, his tone turning sharp.

"What aren’t you telling me? What happened last time? I was in Azkaban—I wasn’t here to protect him! I need to know what’s happening!"

Silence followed his outburst. The weight of Voldemort’s return still lingered in the air, a forbidden truth spoken only in hushed whispers. But now, the shadows had deepened. Madam Pomfrey took a measured breath and met Sirius’s gaze.

"This time... it’s worse."

Her words sent a chill through the room.

"Harry’s soul is not just resonating with darkness—it’s being tainted by it," she explained gravely. "It’s as if something is poisoning him from within. His essence is being infiltrated by despair, hatred, and a level of black magic unlike anything I have ever seen. There are traces of curses, resentment... something ancient and malignant."

Her voice wavered slightly before she forced herself to continue. "Last time, Headmaster Dumbledore was able to intervene, isolating the dark influence and stabilizing Harry’s soul. But now..."

She didn’t need to finish. The absence of Dumbledore loomed over them like an unspoken curse. He was in America, locked in battle with the first Dark Lord, Grindelwald. He could not come to their aid.

"Then what do we do?" Sirius’s voice cracked, laced with desperation. He turned to the professors, his eyes pleading. "There must be some magic—some way to help him. Please, tell me there’s something! I already lost James and Lily—I can’t lose Harry too."

McGonagall, Flitwick, and Sprout exchanged uneasy glances. If a solution existed, they would have acted already. But this was beyond even their collective expertise. The silence stretched, suffocating and unbearable.

Snape stood apart, arms folded tightly across his chest. His sharp eyes flickered with something unspoken—concern, perhaps, though it was buried beneath layers of detachment. But at the mention of Lily’s name, a flicker of something else passed over his face—hope? Longing?

Sirius resumed his restless pacing before suddenly stopping in his tracks. Determination hardened his features.

"I’ll go to America and bring Dumbledore back," he declared. "If he’s the only one who can save Harry, then we have no choice."

McGonagall’s sharp intake of breath halted him. "Sirius, you must think carefully. If Dumbledore leaves, the American wizarding world will be vulnerable. He is their strongest defense against Grindelwald."

"I don’t care!" Sirius shot back. "Harry needs him now!"

McGonagall exhaled slowly, her mind working through possibilities. "Then... perhaps we should take Harry to him."

Madam Pomfrey immediately shook her head. "Absolutely not. Harry’s condition is too unstable. The strain of a long-distance Apparition could exacerbate the corruption in his soul. The trauma might become irreversible."

A cold dread settled over Sirius. His hands trembled at his sides as he turned back to Harry’s pale, sweat-drenched face. The boy's suffering was unbearable to watch, but what could they do?

"Soul pollution..." he whispered, the words twisting like a blade in his gut. He knew too well the dangers. Any wizard who dabbled in dark magic risked corruption. The stronger the magic, the greater the cost. It eroded sanity, consumed morality, and left its victims hollow.

Flitwick cleared his throat hesitantly. "There is... another option," he said. "We could attempt soul transformation."

The words sent an immediate shockwave through the room.

Sirius turned to Flitwick in horror. "You can’t be serious! That’s dangerous!"

He wasn’t wrong. Soul transformation was a method dark wizards often used to counteract soul corruption. It involved strengthening or altering the soul through magic, blood rituals, or alchemical potions. It could make one more resilient to dark forces, but it came at a price. A botched transformation could do irreparable damage—or worse, cost the patient their life.

It was, in every sense, a last resort.

The tension in the room thickened. No one wanted to suggest it, yet no one could deny that their options were running out.

Sirius's jaw clenched. He had lost too much already. He would rather bear this torment himself than let Harry suffer another second. His mind raced, desperate for another way.

Then, a new voice cut through the suffocating silence.

"I think we should go find Lockhart."

Chapter 500

Kamar-Taj, Secret Space.

Clang! Clang! Clang!

The crisp chime of bells rang through the vast, mystical grounds of Kamar-Taj. What was once a silent sanctuary soon filled with the sounds of students emerging from classrooms, their laughter and chatter echoing across the open courtyards and sprawling lawns. The air shimmered with energy, making Kamar-Taj feel alive with vitality.

From a high tower, Minerva McGonagall stood by a grand window, looking down upon the bustling scene. Her heart felt a mix of emotions as she observed the wonder before her. Compared to Hogwarts, Lockhart's Kamar-Taj was significantly larger. Perhaps due to its existence in a hidden dimensional space, its architecture and landscapes far exceeded her imagination.

She marveled at the diversity of structures—a serene bamboo teahouse beside grand wooden halls, marble palaces alongside towering steel skyscrapers. Ancient pyramids of desert sands coexisted with floating islands that hovered effortlessly in the sky. The very air seemed to pulse with magic, a harmonious blend of different cultures and civilizations.

McGonagall looked upward, her eyes catching the reflection of an ever-changing world. A mesmerizing sight unfolded in the sky—a shifting panorama of Britain’s green countryside, Egypt’s golden dunes, Antarctica’s icy expanse, and bustling Muggle metropolises. Each scene shifted in and out of focus, some fleeting like a dream, others lingering long enough to glimpse the movement of people within. It was as if she were gazing into alternate realities, or perhaps visions of distant lands in real time.

This place was unlike anything she had ever seen. The sheer scale and depth of Kamar-Taj filled her with a strange longing. For the first time, she felt the urge to bring change to Hogwarts, to modernize its teachings, its traditions—to ensure that it did not fall behind the likes of Kamar-Taj.

But her thoughts quickly refocused on the reason she had come.

She turned sharply and made her way toward the training chamber at the back. Pushing open the wooden doors, warm sunlight streamed in, casting a golden glow on Harry’s pale face. A faint blush of color had returned to his cheeks, though his body remained still. Sirius and Snape stood close, their gazes fixed on Harry with unwavering intensity.

Not far away, Lockhart’s students, Remy and Vera, stood in quiet anticipation, awaiting the next step.

"Mr. Black, do not worry," Vera reassured softly. "Here in Kamar-Taj, within the protective aura of the Dream World, foreign energies will be suppressed. Even the soul—under its influence—will not worsen over time."

Sirius barely acknowledged her words. His attention remained fixed on his godson, his grip tightening on the arms of his chair as if bracing for the worst.

"As for fully resolving Harry’s condition, we must wait just a little longer. Everything will become clear once the headmaster arrives," Vera added.

Sirius gave a curt nod, mumbling his thanks, though his mind was elsewhere. His entire being was focused on Harry’s fate.

Vera, however, took a subtle glance at Snape.

"Professor Snape, have some water," Remy offered, almost deferentially.

Snape merely gave him a sharp look before accepting the drink with a slight nod. Over time, Remy had learned potioneering from Snape, enduring his endless criticisms yet gaining invaluable knowledge. The Potions Master had been ruthless, but his teachings were unmatched. And while Snape had never been one for sentimentality, Remy had managed to find a way to earn his favor—occasionally trading rare potions, including the coveted Elixir of Luck.

"Where is Lockhart?" Snape asked, his voice calm but expectant.

"The headmaster should be arriving soon," Remy replied uncertainly.

"Professor, the headmaster is still deep within the Dream World, making final adjustments," Vera added. "He cannot leave easily. Once his preparations are complete, he will be here."

McGonagall observed the exchange with some curiosity. It intrigued her how Sirius and Snape received such starkly different treatment in this place. However, she chose to remain silent, keeping her focus on Harry’s condition.

Flitwick and Sprout had remained at Hogwarts, occupied with their classes. But as deputy headmistress, McGonagall had ensured all was in order before making the journey to Kamar-Taj.

She took a step forward and whispered an incantation, her wand moving in a graceful arc.

"Soul Detection."

A gentle glow enveloped Harry’s body. The spell revealed that his soul was encased in a vast, warm energy—shielded, suspended in a near-stasis. McGonagall exhaled slowly, relieved. Whatever magic Lockhart had woven into this Dream World, it was stabilizing Harry’s soul, preventing further degradation.

Then, suddenly—

A low hum filled the room.

A shimmering humanoid figure materialized before them, its form ethereal, shifting like ripples on the surface of water.

"Greetings, headmaster," Remy and Vera said in unison, bowing their heads slightly.

Sirius took a sharp step forward. "Lockhart! Finally! Look at Harry—can you fix him?"

Lockhart gave Sirius a small nod but didn’t immediately reply. His gaze swept over Harry’s still form before shifting toward Snape. Their eyes met, and for a brief moment, an unspoken understanding passed between them.

Snape’s hands clenched at his sides, his breath catching slightly. He could already sense what Lockhart had found, and anticipation flickered in his usually cold eyes.

"Don’t worry," Lockhart finally said, his voice steady. "As long as I am here, Harry will be fine."

He stepped forward and raised his hand. A golden ripple of energy spread outward, cascading over Harry’s body and into the depths of his mind.

A gentle wind stirred through the open window as an image took shape above Harry’s forehead—a translucent projection of his brain. And within it, everyone could see the problem clearly.

A small, black shard embedded deep within his consciousness.

A Horcrux fragment.

Around the shard, faint golden threads wove a protective barrier, attempting to contain its corruption. But the fragment pulsed, radiating malevolence—Voldemort’s essence, a lingering remnant of dark magic.

Snape’s breath hitched. His sharp eyes focused on the golden threads, recognizing their energy in an instant. Love magic—Lily’s magic. Her protection had wrapped around the fragment, restraining it, keeping it at bay. Even in death, her love safeguarded her son.

"Lockhart—" Snape started, but the other man raised a hand, signaling for silence.

"Everyone, be quiet," Lockhart commanded. "I need to further dissect Harry’s soul to sever Voldemort’s influence."

Yes, it was the Horcrux fragment. The horrors wrought by Voldemort and Tom Riddle—the mass killings, the goblin slaughter—had stirred the darkness buried within Harry. The residual hatred, fear, and agony from those deaths had seeped into each of Voldemort’s Horcruxes, intensifying their corruption.

Most of Voldemort’s Horcruxes were impervious—crafted with unnatural resilience. But Harry... he was different. His soul was young, vulnerable. And now, that vulnerability had made him susceptible to the festering evil within.

They had to act swiftly.

Before it consumed him completely.