Chapter 944: Voldemort and the Basilisk

Chapter 944: Chapter 944: Voldemort and the Basilisk

Voldemort’s obsessive guard over Snape forced Kyle to temporarily abandon his rescue plan and focus entirely on fighting him instead.

For a while, curses flashed nonstop across the battlefield.

With two opponents to deal with, Voldemort gradually began to lose ground. He narrowly avoided Rosier’s Killing Curse several times—barely scraping by.

A freshly graduated student and a washed-up failure who should’ve retired from the magical world long ago had actually forced the Dark Lord himself into this humiliating state—even driving him to roll across the ground...

Voldemort’s eyes were icy. The moment felt disturbingly familiar, like being dragged back to that decade he’d spent as a drifting soul, clinging to life by possessing disgusting snakes and vermin.

It had been the lowest point in his existence—and now it was happening all over again.

Aside from being suppressed by Kyle and Rosier, what angered him even more was Dumbledore’s attitude...

Voldemort could accept losing to Dumbledore—he was used to it. Ever since their first clash over a decade ago, he had never truly defeated him.

But being ignored by Dumbledore? That was unacceptable.

When he first saw Dumbledore alive again, he had been genuinely startled—he’d even thought, for a moment, that Dumbledore had created a Horcrux.

Panic had followed. Fear. Voldemort knew all too well that in his current state, he was no match for Dumbledore.

Even escaping would cost him dearly.

In that moment, he had considered everything. He gritted his teeth and mentally prepared to go back to being a formless spirit—again—for decades, if necessary.

Then Grindelwald walked out of the tower.

And suddenly, he felt like a matchstick broken by a first-year in Transfiguration and casually tossed aside.

Dumbledore didn’t even spare him a glance—his eyes remained fixed on Grindelwald from the very beginning. There wasn’t even the dramatic confrontation Voldemort had envisioned.

Dumbledore didn’t lift a finger. He’d simply called someone else to deal with him.

That—that was what Voldemort couldn’t bear.

Grindelwald? A man who had failed decades ago? He was nothing. Voldemort was Dumbledore’s true rival—his fated enemy!

"Ahhh!"

Voldemort let out a furious scream and slashed his wand through the air. A blinding flash burst forth—followed by a loud crack as the wand shattered into pieces.

The wand he had seized by force had broken, but not before releasing one final spell.

The solid ground beneath them liquefied into a swampy mire, swallowing everything it touched—stones, leaves, trees—all were sucked down into the earth at alarming speed.

Rosier took to the air immediately, not even glancing at Kyle.

Fortunately, the Firebolt finally sprang back to life and shot up from the ground. Kyle caught it just in time and soared upward.

"Lucky," Rosier said coolly—though her tone hinted at disappointment.

"You’re the lucky one," Kyle replied as he swung onto the broom.

"I was just about ready to bolt. Believe me, I may not know flight magic, but I could’ve made it out of the spell’s range in time... If the Firebolt hadn’t come when it did, you’d be facing Voldemort alone right now."

"Well then, Madam Rosier," Kyle raised an eyebrow, "do you actually think you can take Voldemort on your own?"

Before she could respond, he went on.

"I doubt it. And you’re decades older than him... Tsk."

Rosier’s expression darkened, and her eyes glinted with murderous intent as she looked at him.

"What, planning to attack me now?" Kyle stared back, unflinching.

"Watch your tone. I’m here to help. If you had even the slightest sense of etiquette, you’d thank me instead of glaring like that."

"He’s your British problem," Rosier said coldly, enunciating each word. "Not ours."

"Oh, so what—you’re saying he didn’t come all this way to kill Grindelwald, but to have a picnic?" Kyle’s voice rose with sarcasm.

He had no fondness for Rosier to begin with, and seeing her act all high and mighty only made him more blunt.

"He came here looking for Grindelwald. That makes it your

"You—"

"Don’t start. I’m not stopping you," Kyle cut her off. "Or I could just go back to Hogwarts—save you from the trouble of dragging me along."

"Would you dare?" Rosier finally snapped back. "Dumbledore told you to stay and face him. Do you dare leave now?"

"I think you’ve misunderstood something." Kyle waved a finger. "The reason I chose to stay and help you is because I also want to kill Voldemort. Not because... Dumbledore ordered me to."

And with that, Kyle really did fly higher into the air, casually striking a pose like a spectator at a show.

"Good luck, Madam Rosier."

"Don’t worry—if you die, I’ll make sure to avenge you."

Rosier’s chest heaved with rage. She could tell Kyle wasn’t bluffing—he really didn’t intend to help. He’d even pulled out a bottle of Butterbeer.

Who the hell drank Butterbeer in the middle of a life-or-death battle?

Rosier felt a vein pulsing on her forehead, but she didn’t have time to argue.

While she and Kyle had been talking, everything within a dozen feet had already been devoured by the swamp. Then, countless sticky, white, bloated heads rose from the liquid ground—there must have been hundreds.

And then came the skeletons—just as many.

The moment they emerged, they charged in a relentless, surging tide.

"Hah, pathetic." A flicker of disdain crossed Rosier’s face.

Even if she could sense a special curse on those skeletal corpses, so what? She could fly. No matter how powerful the curse was, it couldn’t reach her in the air—

"Oh, damn it!"

To her shock, Voldemort also transformed into a cloud of black mist and shot into the sky—right alongside a skeleton that leapt upward, its pallid bones faintly glowing with a trace of green.

Rosier couldn’t be sure whether that green light was the Killing Curse, but she wasn’t about to take chances. She blasted the skeleton to pieces on the spot.

It was easier than she’d expected. The bones were brittle, and under her spell, they shattered instantly.

But at the same moment, the green light entwined around the skeleton surged outward—hurtling straight at her.

Fortunately, Rosier’s reflexes were sharp. She dodged just in time—and now she was certain. That was the Killing Curse.

It had been planted on the skeletons in advance by some special enchantment, lying in wait to strike down whoever destroyed them.

Truly insidious. If she’d hesitated even a second, she might’ve been hit. And looking down at the hundreds of identical skeletons and corpses below—many of them already crouched, ready to leap—Rosier felt a chill crawl across her skin.

Even if only half of them were booby-trapped with that curse, there was no way she could handle it.

And that wasn’t even counting Voldemort, who was far more dangerous than all of them combined.

"What a shame," came Kyle’s voice from above, wistful. "How’d she manage to dodge that?"

Rosier snapped her head upward.

Kyle’s sigh served as a warning. Not wanting to become a sitting target, she immediately veered in his direction.

But Kyle had been ready for that.

A light breeze swept through the air—and Rosier froze mid-flight. The tree nearest her right hand suddenly split into three clean sections, sliced through with eerie precision.

"What do you think you’re doing?" she asked coldly.

"Looking out for myself," Kyle replied matter-of-factly, already ascending higher.

Voldemort watched their exchange, a flicker of delight crossing his face—though it vanished as quickly as it came.

Excellent. So there was friction between them.

That was more like it. They were both dark wizards, after all—no reason for Kyle to single him out.

Voldemort could see a path to victory now. If they worked together, he didn’t stand a chance. But if they turned on each other and fought separately... then he would be in control.

He glanced down and swept his gaze across the battlefield. With a casual flick of his finger, a new wand flew into his grasp.

He’d killed plenty of old wizards just now—seven or eight at least, all on Rosier’s side. There were more than enough spare wands to go around.

"Avada Kedavra!"

With perfect timing, Voldemort acted as though Kyle didn’t even exist. Every spell he cast was aimed solely at Rosier.

"Damn it!"

She had no choice. Furious though she was, Rosier had to abandon the idea of using Kyle as a shield. She threw herself wholly into evading Voldemort’s relentless assault—and the occasional leaping skeleton.

The cursed corpses were so light that, with just a bit of force, they could practically fly like they’d been hit with a Levitation Charm.

She couldn’t strike back. She couldn’t dodge everything. Rosier was seething with frustration.

"Bloody hell—are you just going to sit there and watch?!" she shouted.

Kyle shifted his pose on the broom, half reclining, and gave her a casual wave.

"Good luck. I’ve got faith in you."

Without Kyle’s support, the fight quickly turned one-sided again—only this time, Rosier was the one being overwhelmed.

Furious over being ignored by Dumbledore, Voldemort unleashed a fury even greater than before, throwing Killing Curses at her with reckless abandon.

But on his sixth casting, he suddenly whirled around and aimed his wand behind him.

A green and a red beam collided in midair.

"You really thought I’d fall for that? That I’d buy into your pitiful little performance?" Voldemort sneered, facing off against Kyle now.

A sudden betrayal during battle... Did they think he was an idiot?

Even a fool could tell something was off.

"Fair enough," Kyle said with a helpless shrug. "It was all improvised—pure instinct and guesswork—and I’d say it turned out pretty well. At the very least, you fell for it, didn’t you?"

He raised his wand, pouring all his effort into maintaining the magical tether between them.

"So... what are you going to do next?"

"Avada Kedavra!"

The words rang out almost in unison. A flash of green light shot straight at Voldemort from above.

In his current state, there was no way he could dodge—unless...

Voldemort made a split-second decision. Without the slightest hesitation, he let go of his wand. The beam of energy connecting them instantly wavered and veered off course—right into the Killing Curse.

BOOM.

The explosion rocked the clearing. All three were caught in the blast. Voldemort lost yet another wand.

Rosier, already worn down by age and exhaustion after the prolonged fight, couldn’t react in time. The shockwave flung her backward.

Kyle, being the farthest away, got off easy—only a fresh coating of dust on his robes.

He absently patted the front of his cloak with his wand hand. The wand tip swayed—and so did the two flowerpots he’d just pulled from his suitcase.

But Voldemort didn’t notice the subtle shift. Instead, he dove downward, clearly aiming to seize another wand.

Under Kyle’s command, the two pots containing mature mandrakes floated right to Voldemort’s ears—smoother than he’d hoped.

Apparently, it wasn’t just Rosier’s reflexes that had dulled. After several brutal battles, Voldemort was also approaching his limit. Normally, he’d never miss a detail like that.

But this wasn’t "normal."

Invisible magic yanked the two mandrakes from their pots. The moment they were free of the soil, the roots writhed—and opened their mouths.

A shrill, earsplitting scream erupted.

But it wasn’t just sound—it went deeper, cutting straight into the soul.

Kyle had seen it before, back at Hogwarts: Voldemort’s soul, tattered and splintered, was particularly vulnerable to mandrake screeches. Even his vast magical power couldn’t block it out entirely.

So Kyle had chosen to play the same card again.

And the result... was better than expected.

Voldemort’s body spasmed—then dropped like a stone, crashing hard into the ground.

"Avada—" Rosier reacted on instinct, ready to finish him off. But the swarm of skeletons Voldemort had summoned immediately surged forward, surrounding his fallen body and blocking her line of sight.

"Damn it! I can’t see him anymore!" Rosier shouted. "We need to clear those wretched things out first!"

"No need," Kyle said, flicking his wand downward.

A wave of red Fiendfyre burst across the ground, spreading with terrifying speed...

Watching it burn, Rosier couldn’t help but recall the first time she’d met Kyle—he’d used this same Fiendfyre Curse to incinerate Nurmengard Tower.

Even now, she still struggled to comprehend how someone could act so completely outside the norm.

Who would’ve thought he’d use Grindelwald as leverage to threaten her?

Her thoughts drifted far as the flames roared higher, engulfing the skeletons and corpses.

The monsters Voldemort had summoned were incinerated in an instant, reduced to ash by the roaring Fiendfyre.

The earth turned a glowing red. Hundreds of faint green lights shimmered amid the blaze.

"Careful—those creatures are rigged with a tracking spell," Rosier muttered, clearly unsettled.

Kyle didn’t respond.

In truth, the moment those Killing Curses lit up, he’d already been preparing. One hand clamped tightly around his suitcase, he shouted with all his might:

"Fawkes!"

The next instant, hundreds of green streaks shot toward him.

And with them—Fawkes appeared.

The flame-colored phoenix seized Kyle by the shoulder and disappeared with him in a burst of fire.

"You can’t run!" Voldemort’s voice rang out behind them, warped and snarling.

Blackened by the heat of the Fiendfyre, his body was charred—but his eyes still burned, glowing crimson with madness.

"The Tracking Curse! As long as you still have magic in you, you’ll never get away!"

He laughed, manic and triumphant, as if he could already see Kyle being struck down by a barrage of Killing Curses.

This was meant for Dumbledore, his ultimate trump card—but using it on Kyle wasn’t a waste, not anymore.

And he was quickly proven right.

Though Fawkes had carried Kyle to another location, the Killing Curses still followed—vanishing midair for a stretch, mimicking the distance of an Apparition jump exactly.

Fawkes tried again and again to Apparate Kyle to safety, but no matter where they went—whether he chose the place or Kyle did—the curses kept coming. There was no escape.

"Strange, isn’t it? How things suddenly got so much harder..."

"Want to know why?"

"Too bad—I’m not telling you!"

Voldemort’s frenzied laughter echoed in the air, shrill and grating.

What else could it be? It was deliberate—he’d lured Kyle into thinking the Killing Curses were easy to dodge.

And Kyle had taken the bait. Who would’ve guessed those curses could track a wizard, that not even Apparition could shake them off?

He should’ve sent Rosier instead.

Kyle had tried several times to redirect the Killing Curses toward Voldemort, but it was no use. Voldemort was ready—he didn’t give Kyle a single opening.

After repeated attempts, Fawkes began to falter, his movements growing sluggish. Then he opened his beak wide and planted himself in front of Kyle, clearly intending to swallow the incoming curses himself.

Kyle stood behind him, tense, conflicted.

Could Fawkes even survive that?

Then—like rain falling from the sky—the Killing Curses came streaking down...

Only to halt in shock.

Fawkes hadn’t burst into flames. He hadn’t gone into a phoenix’s rebirth.

Not because the curses had failed—but because, at the last moment, Kyle had flung open his suitcase, and a massive creature had surged out to stand between them and the deadly spells.

The Basilisk.

Hundreds of curses slammed into its immense body. In seconds, its scales turned a sickly gray-white. With a thunderous crash, the serpent collapsed, unmoving.

Even the most powerful of dark creatures couldn’t withstand that kind of assault.

"..."

"No!"

Voldemort’s reaction came hard and fast—far stronger than Kyle’s. He hadn’t expected this. Kyle had used the Basilisk as a shield.

The Basilisk. Salazar Slytherin’s Basilisk—an emblem of supreme honor and the purest lineage. How dare he?

How could Kyle command it? That creature should have been his.

Rage and envy surged within him, twisting his thoughts. The sight of the Basilisk dying—his Basilisk—sent Voldemort into a stunned stupor.

At that exact moment, Kyle’s eyes flashed.

He had been watching Voldemort closely, waiting for this.

He inhaled quietly. His fingers tightened around his wand, then flicked it with precision.

Behind Voldemort, a flickering ember—barely clinging to life—suddenly roared back into flame. The fire surged upward, and for a split second, it formed the shape of a blade.

It drove straight through Voldemort’s back.

"Incendio Totalum!"

Fwoosh!