HP: A Magical Journey

Looking at the Resurrection Stone in one hand and the Hufflepuff’s Cup in the other, Quinn wondered if this would work. It had never been done before. Yes, he had his research, and the little testing he had done had given him positive outlooks— but that wasn’t how magic was supposed to be found and developed.

‘This is more like how people die,’ Quinn thought. He recalled the case near him: Pandora Lovegood, Luna’s mother— the woman had died in an accident while experimenting with magic when Luna was just nine-years-old. The risk was very real, and the possibility of the magic backfiring on Quinn loomed quite near.

‘There is another risk— much less risky— that you could take,’ said a voice in Quinn’s mind. Instead of trying to weaken Voldemort through the Horcrux and soul magic, Quinn could simply destroy them, making Voldemort mortal, and then try killing him as he was, hoping that the combined might of Quinn and Dumbledore would be enough to kill Voldemort.

It was a matter of which risk to take.

Quinn closed his eyes for a moment before opening them with a determined light flashing in the stone greys. He felt the pain in his shoulder from Voldemort’s curse as he recalled everything he had risked and sacrificed for the past half-year.

‘I have to break myself away from these chains— for myself and no one else,’ Quinn thought as he injected his magic into the items in his hands.

The Horcrux trembled in Quinn’s hand and let out a low shriek that he immediately forced down— it was too early for Voldemort to find out what he was doing. He buckled down and let the Resurrection Stone use his soul and magic to draw power to do his bidding against the piece of foul soul protected inside the Hufflepuff’s Cup.

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– (Scene Break) –_.

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Dumbledore and Voldemort exchanged spells doing more and more damage to their surroundings but failed to do any real harm to their opponents. Their duel was supernatural enough that even those who had lived their entire lives with magic would be startled to see what magic could accomplish— being forced to wonder if the magic in their possession was the same as that wielded by the likes of Dumbledore and Voldemort.

Voldemort shot a hazy spell towards Dumbledore, who deflected it to the sky. The spell climbed up to the sky, leaving a smoke trail in its wake. Voldemort didn’t seem dissatisfied as he grinned and shot another spell, but this time not toward Dumbledore but at the spell that had been deflected. A stark white zap of magic hit the head of the smoke trail, and a loud explosion was heard as dark clouds burst out from the intersection of the spells, slowly puffing out to cover the sky above.

Voldemort waved his wand and muttered a spell under his breath. “I find my view of you change quite significantly today, Dumbledore,” he said as heavy gusts began to blow. “I always thought of you to be a sentimental sort— but here I see you without a lick of grief or anger on your face. Do you feel nothing about the boy’s death? I heard you two shared a relationship akin to a grandfather-grandson’s. But here you are, facing his murderer, and not a single word of resentment has been said to me.” He laughed loudly, “You even teamed up with the man who delivered the boy to me! How unfeeling of you, Dumbledore!”

The sky above rumbled as a white glow illuminated across behind the dark clouds, flashing them momentarily in a dim white.

Dumbledore waved his wand above his head in a circle as if building momentum to throw a looped rope. The dust and dirt around him rose in circles as a wide tornado built around him until the spiraling dust broke forward and formed a horse-like apparition of dust that charged toward Voldemort, leaving behind a dusty trail that obstructed vision all around.

Not waiting even for a second to observe his spell was worked against Voldemort, Dumbledore turned to the ruins of the building under which Quinn hid and shot a chain of spells all over the wreckage. Neither did it explode, nor did the building seem to move back in time and fix itself— the spell’s purpose was simple: strengthen the broken wreckage through transfiguration and make them stick together so they could withstand pressure from outside better.

Dumbledore couldn’t have Quinn worrying about the roof falling over his head when he was concentrating on something much more important. ‘I will protect you, so please. . . don’t fail,’ Dumbledore thought as he returned to face Voldemort.

The three-story high horse was immediately ripped apart, and the dust was pushed away to the sides, making everything visible again. Voldemort looked unharmed. “Is that the best you could do as the Master of the Elder Wand? If so, I’m disappointed I did not face you for as long as I did.”

“I pity what you become, Tom.” Dumbledore decided to engage Voldemort in conversation— he needed to preserve his magic for later. “And, I blame myself for not helping you when you came to me. I failed you, my student. I fear that I’m the reason for everything that has happened to you and, in turn, this country. I fear. . . I’m who made you this way.”

Then Dumbledore waited. He didn’t need to wait long. It took Voldemort only a few seconds to blow up like a kettle on a high flame.

“YOU ARE NOT WHO MADE ME!” Voldemort screamed, and the earth shook with him. “You are not the reason for who I am! You have nothing to do with me! I am the master of my own destiny! I am the immortal Dark Lord! You didn’t make me; I made myself!”

‘It worked,’ Dumbledore thought pleasantly. Dumbledore knew that even the mere mention that he had a hand in Voldemort being what he was today would infuriate the man so much that it would shatter all sense of control Voldemort thought he had in the situation. Dumbledore could tell that all previous thoughts had left Voldemort, replaced by what he had just said.

Dumbledore decided to poke a little more. “I do not think so. What if you were allowed to stay at Hogwarts as you had asked for during summer breaks? If you were not forced to go back to the horrible orphanage— maybe you would’ve been kinder, more compassionate. . . a better person. I take the blame for pushing you down the dark path. . . . Forgive me,” there was a feeling of sorrow in his voice.

The battlefield went silent. The sound of thunderclouds in the sky echoed loudly. The sound of explosions from the other part of the villages traveled wide— but only for so long as an earthshattering quake broke out beneath Dumbledore’s feet. Terrible cracks and crevices broke out on the ground, marring the surface with ugly scars.

“Mind your words, Dumbledore,” Voldemort said in a deep voice, a grave warning flashing in his tone. “You are treading a dangerous line here.”

“Dangerous line? I’m already in danger, Tom. You said so yourself that you plan to kill me today, just like I plan to do so to you. What difference does it make if I say anything that displeases you? I am simply speaking the truth, and you can’t stop me from doing so.”

“. . . I have decided to make the last moments of your life as painful as possible,” Voldemort said, snarling.

“Don’t you think my words anger you so much because you see the truth in them?” Dumbledore asked, continuing to throw words he knew would get a response from Voldemort.

In his effort to defeat Voldemort, Dumbledore studied every point of Voldemort’s life. He knew whatever there was to know about Voldemort’s life except for the ten years gap of absence in which Voldemort had left the country to travel the world. He knew enough to make every word hit where he wanted to.

Voldemort raised his wand to the sky, and the rumbles of thunder became louder and brighter as the clouds turned darker and more menacing than a deep rainforest.

‘I think this is enough,’ Dumbledore looked up at the sky. He glanced at the wreckage that he had reinforced. ‘I hope this is enough,’ he couldn’t provoke more— if he did more, Voldemort’s magic would begin to wreak havoc everywhere instead of just focusing upon him. Emotion was closely tied to magic. The former powered latter. But it also could affect it at a really deep level. Dumbledore had purposefully provoked Voldemort because he wanted to disrupt his internals in hopes that it would, by chance, work in favor of Quinn, who was trying to work with soul magic which yet again deeply connected with emotions.

“Die, Dumbledore,” Voldemort lowered his wand until he pointed it at Dumbledore.

Dumbledore didn’t look anywhere other than Voldemort, but his instincts told him what was about to happen. He immediately funneled magic through the Elder Wand, and a dome appeared overhead just in time for a white flash of thunder to strike him from the clouds. Even if it was for a split second, the air heated up until it burned.

‘That was close,’ thought Dumbledore— if he had waited to react to the magic, he wouldn’t have been able to block a literal thunderbolt coming down on him.

“I thought you wanted to kill me painfully. That would’ve killed me instantly,” Dumbledore chuckled.

Voldemort raised both of his hands towards Dumbledore. The cloud rumbled, and a flash of thunder descended again, but this time over Voldemort, but instead of electrocuting him, the lightning pooled around him— something impossible without magic. He jutted his arm forward, and the lightning pooled behind him brightened, and two small lightning streams bolted toward Dumbledore, slammed into his dome, and acted like drills trying to pierce through.

Dumbledore stabbed his wand into the dome, and the lightning at the impact point broke down into small electric spark streams. Dumbledore stood back and simply let his magic consistently dissipate the harmful magic into harmful sparks.

Voldemort grunted as he finally stopped the seemingly endless supply of lightning. He spat. “I am the only one responsible for what I am today. The blood of Slytherin runs through my veins— I was destined for greatness. Your only contribution to my greatness shall be by dying by my hand and making the people realize that—” Voldemort froze in his spot and began to shake as his already pale skin turned paler than a white Vampire’s. His hand went to his heart as he looked around with a panicky look.

“W-What i-is th-i-is?” he stuttered and fisted his robes.

Suddenly, a golden beam shot out of his chest that ended up at the wreckage where Quinn had been thrown into.

Voldemort’s eyes shrunk. He errantly waved his hand, and the wreckage rose up in the air and floated there in a strange sense of static. It revealed Quinn kneeling on the ground with the Hufflepuff’s Cup in his hand, which was the other end of the golden beam that connected it to Voldemort.

Quinn opened his eyes which were now glowing a deep purple with a shimmer of golden glowing in them like a burning flame. He looked directly at Voldemort. “Peace does not dwell in outward things but within the soul. . . and when you destroy the soul,” he grinned, “chaos ensues. . .”

Dumbledore looked between Voldemort and Quinn and stood up straight. He readied his magic. . . the real battle was about to start now.

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Quinn West – MC – Linko Starto!

Voldemort – Dark Lord – About to realize what is happening

Albus Dumbledore – Defender – You shall not pass!

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