Pettigrew had been exposed.
From the very first time he approached Voldemort.
He remained cunning.
Perhaps even more cunning than before.
Sean stood at the edge of the thinning crowd in Diagon Alley, snow sliding down from the eaves above with soft rustling sounds.
How had Pettigrew been exposed?
Sean did not know.
But Bertha Jorkins had escaped, and that was the direct cause of Pettigrew's exposure.
Had Voldemort truly discovered it the first time Pettigrew approached him?
Or was that merely a false lead?
A way to make them abandon the guess that he had not yet created another Horcrux?
The mist in the Albanian forest seemed even thicker now.
Even Diagon Alley had risen with a thin evening fog.
The bustling wizarding shopping street was nearly empty now. Only a crowd of panicked goblins remained, along with two young wizards emerging from the shadows.
Hermione and Justin sprinted out from the square before the alarm-blaring Gringotts.
They were flushed with excitement, holding a perfectly sealed box.
"Quick, Sean!"
Hermione shouted excitedly.
"We did it."
Justin's voice also carried suppressed excitement.
A door wreathed in flames opened before Sean.
Sean nodded lightly, and the three of them vanished into the green fire.
At the same time,
far away in the Albanian tavern, the fire that had not yet gone out was the last source of light in the night.
The wind and snow roared outside the tavern door, but inside, everything had gone still.
The hood was gradually lowered, revealing the figure that had risen from Wormtail's death.
"I thought you would come here."
Voldemort spoke toward the empty doorway, a trace of almost regretful amusement in his voice.
"I thought you would show yourself. A third-year wizard capable of crossing the ocean and projecting his consciousness into my servant's mind. I waited for a long time, wanting to see your face with my own eyes."
He paused.
"But you are not here. You never truly came. You merely placed a contract in his mind. Turned him into a messenger. Gave him the last purpose of his life."
He laughed softly.
"Brilliant. Truly brilliant."
Then he raised his head toward the outside of the tavern.
"Dumbledore."
he said.
"I know you are nearby."
No answer came.
But he did not seem to need one.
"Let me guess."
he said slowly and deliberately.
"You do not want to fight me to the death here. Because you do not know how many Horcruxes I still have.
"You do not know whether this snake—is the final one. You dare not risk it."
The curve of his mouth rose higher.
He turned and walked toward the door.
Dumbledore had already appeared at the northern end of the town. By then, the snow had piled up to his ankles.
He had not Apparated there—the first thing he had done after arriving in Albania was set up Anti-Apparition spells around the town.
He had come on a broom, not fast, but with an easy composure, like a man attending an appointment.
When he stepped down from the broom, he saw Voldemort walk out of the tavern.
Fifty years ago, Tom Riddle had once walked toward him like this—in the corridors of Hogwarts, after Transfiguration class, before the door of the Headmaster's office.
Back then, Tom had been a handsome, courteous young man, ambition and secrets hidden in his eyes, but his face not yet completely twisted by Dark Magic.
And now, the one walking toward him had a completely different face.
It was a mask that had been torn apart and stitched back together. Every line of it spoke the same word: fear.
Tom Riddle feared death so much that he had ripped himself into fragments and stuffed them into Horcruxes.
He looked very pitiful.
"Tom."
Dumbledore spoke first.
Voldemort stopped ten steps away from him.
"Dumbledore."
he said.
"You've grown old."
"And you have changed into a new body."
Dumbledore said calmly.
"It seems Wormtail did offer you his final loyalty after all."
Voldemort's gaze did not waver in the slightest.
"Wormtail received what he deserved. He brought me back from nothingness, and then leaked my secrets to a third-year child.
"He repaid the first debt, then betrayed me twice. The first time, he was controlled. The second, when he let the prey escape."
Dumbledore did not answer.
His right hand remained gathered within his sleeve, not touching his wand, but his fingers had already reached the slender silk-wrapped bundle.
"Where is that child?"
Voldemort asked.
"In a safe place."
"Safe."
Voldemort repeated the word, as if tasting it.
"You are always fond of hiding those you favor in 'safe' places, aren't you? Just like you once hid the Potters in that valley.
"You believed a spell, a Secret-Keeper, a plan full of goodwill—could stop the death that was inevitably coming."
Something flickered in Dumbledore's blue eyes.
It was an old wound from fifteen years ago, struck with precision.
"Facts proved,"
Voldemort continued,
"that your plans always have flaws. The Potters' Secret-Keeper betrayed them. And this time—"
He took a step forward.
"This time, your choice—that third-year child—betrayed your expectations too. You told him to hide well, but he could not stop himself from saving a woman, an insignificant Ministry clerk. For that, he did not hesitate to use his control over Wormtail, exposing his own existence."
"You are wrong, Tom."
Dumbledore's voice remained calm, but within that calm was a tone Voldemort had never heard from him before—something close to gentleness.
"He did not betray my expectations. On the contrary, he did something you will never understand."
"Oh?"
The moment the word fell, both their wands moved almost at the same time.
Dumbledore's spell was silent. The snow beneath Voldemort's feet suddenly turned into tangled vines, climbing up his calves.
Voldemort's reaction was equally astonishingly fast.
He did not attempt to break free. Instead, he directly became a cloud of black mist, pulling himself out of the vines.
The black mist reformed in midair into a human shape, and then came a flash of sickly green light.
"Avada Kedavra!"
The green light was faster than any lightning.
But Dumbledore was no longer where he had been.
Only a shallow footprint remained in the snow where he had stood. He himself had appeared at Voldemort's side.
This was not Apparition—the town was surrounded by Anti-Apparition spells—but pure, extreme reaction speed and the dueling instinct of a man who had never grown lax through all his years.
A ring of fire burst from the tip of Dumbledore's wand, splitting in midair into dozens of burning phoenixes that pounced on Voldemort from every direction.
Voldemort swept his wand in an arc.
Black mist surged from the wand tip, becoming a warped shield that devoured all the flames.
But while he dealt with the fire, Dumbledore's next attack had already arrived. The ground exploded, and dozens of stone pillars rose from below like drawn swords, stabbing up toward Voldemort.
Voldemort shot into the air.
At the same time, his wand slashed downward, and a dark green light cut all those stone pillars cleanly in half.
He hovered in midair for a moment, looking down at Dumbledore.
"I can accompany you in this fight all night."
he said.
Dumbledore did not reply.
His wand was still raised, the tip shining with cold blue light.
Fire surged again.
"Heh, heh—Dumbledore, you cannot kill me. I can leave at any time. And you dare not kill me either. After killing me, how would you find me again?
"You are like him. Both of you care too much about this world.
"Even a little play I used to test Wormtail could force out his mercy. That is his nature. You know it better than anyone. The faster he grows, the more he will care—I have ten thousand ways to kill him—"
Voldemort's black mist rose, wrapping around his newborn body as it climbed into the snow-torn night sky.
But he rose less than twenty feet.
A rope extending from the tip of Dumbledore's wand wrapped around him, dragging Voldemort back.
He reformed into a human shape in midair and abruptly turned his head.
Dumbledore was still standing in the snow.
Behind his half-moon spectacles, his blue eyes watched Voldemort with a calmness cold enough to chill bone.
"You want to leave, Tom?"
"I thought you came to talk."
Voldemort slowly descended back to the ground. The amusement in his voice had vanished, replaced by something colder and harder.
"But from the beginning, you never intended to let me leave."
"You created a new Horcrux, Tom."
Dumbledore said. His tone remained calm, as if he were observing a small movement made by a student in class.
"Just now, with Wormtail's death. So, you need to answer several of my questions."
The corner of Voldemort's mouth twitched slightly.
"You think I will answer?"
"I think you will."
Dumbledore said.
"Because you cannot leave."
He took a step forward. The snow gave a soft crunch beneath his feet.
"You made a mistake, Tom. The same mistake you made when you were young. You always think everyone else is foolish and weak."
Voldemort did not speak, but his scarlet pupils shrank slightly.
"A child who destroyed several of your Horcruxes at fourteen—do you not find that talent too astonishing?"
Dumbledore's voice was soft, yet every word was clear.
"Why do you think I left him at Hogwarts? Because he was not ready? Because he was not strong enough?"
He paused.
"Because he cannot yet bear the burden of sin."
"You are bluffing."
Voldemort said. But he did not move. He stood where he was, his wand hanging by his side. His entire posture was like a coiled snake: seemingly relaxed, but every inch of muscle ready to strike.
"You would not dare—"
Dumbledore's lips curved slightly.
"That is your problem, Tom. You think everyone remains unchanged."
Voldemort's pupils contracted sharply.
"Every time you revive, every time you create a new Horcrux—"
Dumbledore's voice grew lower and sharper.
"I will find you. Every time, I will catch up to you, and then I will tear the body you just obtained into pieces, force you to shrink back into the shadows, and make you spend another thirteen years searching for the next servant willing to sell his soul."
Snow fell on the empty space between them.
Silence lasted for several seconds. It was the first time Voldemort had paused so long in a conversation.
Then Voldemort laughed.
That laugh was cold and sharp, carrying deliberate, exaggerated mockery. But it could not hide the thin, broken tone beneath it.
"Dumbledore—you would not dare—"
Dumbledore did not answer.
"You may try."
he finally said.
"How dare you?!"
Voldemort hissed, his slit pupils filled with rage.
"Every time I revive, I will unleash terror, Dumbledore! Every time I appear, I will kill all who refuse to submit, Dumbledore! The wizarding world will be destroyed in your hands, Dumbledore!"
"I was already a sinner."
Dumbledore smiled.
His left hand suddenly emerged from his sleeve. What he held between his fingers was not a wand, but that long, slender silk-wrapped bundle.
The silk unfurled in midair, and Gryffindor's sword exploded with scarlet light in the snowy night.
At the same time, Dumbledore's right hand waved his wand to the side. Magic blasted open the tavern wall.
An entire section of the tavern wall was peeled away.
Broken stone and splintered wood flew through the wind and snow. Behind the shattered hole in the wall, deep in the dim tavern, a giant snake lay coiled in the shadows.
Voldemort's expression finally changed. The composure he had deliberately maintained shattered for an instant, revealing the ferocity and panic beneath.
"You—"
He did not finish.
Because Dumbledore's sword had already flown from his hand.
The blade cleaved straight toward the giant snake.
And Dumbledore had already advanced, his wand aimed directly at Voldemort.
He was forcing Voldemort to choose: duel him, or protect the snake.
Voldemort chose to resist Dumbledore's Transfiguration and did not protect the snake.
That exposed everything.
It exposed that the giant snake was not "the final Horcrux."
It exposed that if he truly had a seventh one, it was indeed not here.
Voldemort stood in the snow, his chest heaving violently.
His newborn body was not yet strong enough. His repeated spellcasting had already made his magic sluggish.
Those scarlet eyes stared fixedly at Dumbledore, filled with fury, fear, and a tiny trace of dread he would never admit.
"You have actually become like this, Dumbledore."
"I will be your enemy, Tom. And this enemy will kill you until you learn fear, Tom."
Dumbledore recalled the sword to his side.
"You will die of old age, Dumbledore! And I will not!"
Voldemort roared.
Then black mist exploded, scattering in all directions like a black bomb.
The magical barrier Dumbledore had set up made a piercing vibrating sound.
He waved his wand, but Voldemort did not choose a frontal breakthrough.
Only a small portion of the scattered black mist was real.
Most of it was illusion.
And the true Voldemort had already passed through the most inconspicuous crack, vanishing into the endless snowy night.
Dumbledore slowly pursued him.
The rules of their game had changed long ago.
He had no interest in scheming, no interest in caring for all the world.
He only wanted to kill his mistake.
Kill this time.
Kill the next time.
Kill the time after that.
Until that proud Dark Lord finally understood one thing: every time he revived, he would face a Dumbledore with no more restraints.
Every time his whereabouts were exposed, he would pay with the price of a body.
He thought immortality was an unsolvable curse.
But Dumbledore had decided to turn immortality itself into torment.