The three Horcruxes lay on the desk, looking deceptively mundane. To any other wizard, they were invincible fortresses of dark magic, requiring the rarest substances in the world to crack. To Ethan, they were just messy knots of energy that needed to be untied.
"We need Basilisk venom or Fiendfyre," McGonagall reminded him, her hand hovering near her wand as if expecting the artifacts to lung at them. "Standard spells won't even scratch the surface of—"
"Minerva, please," Ethan interrupted, a golden spark igniting in his palm. "I'm not a standard wizard. I don't need a snake's tooth to dismantle a piece of soul. I already told you... soul magic is a cup of tea for me. And I'm thirsty."
Ethan didn't bother with a wand. He placed his hand directly over the Hufflepuff Cup. A series of intricate, golden geometric rings flared into existence around his wrist, rotating in opposite directions with a hum that drowned out the ticking clocks. He closed his eyes, his fingers tightening in the air as if he were gripping something invisible inside the gold.
A high-pitched, ear-piercing screech erupted from the cup. It wasn't a physical sound; it was a psychic wail that vibrated in the very marrow of their bones. Black smoke began to billow out of the gold, forming a distorted, screaming face that looked like a caricature of Tom Riddle.
"I am the immortal... I am the Great Lord Voldemort..." a thousand voices whispered in a raspy, overlapping chorus. "You are nothing but dust... I will flay your spirit..."
"Yeah, yeah. Heard it all before. New world, same ego," Ethan muttered.
He slammed his other hand down. The golden light intensified, turning into a blinding white flare. The screeching reached a crescendo—a final, desperate curse in Parseltongue—before the black smoke was incinerated. The cup remained, but its cold, malevolent weight was gone. It was just an antique now.
Ethan didn't stop. He grabbed the Locket of Slytherin.
Again, the golden rings flared. The locket rattled violently on the desk, the eyes of the serpent glowing a sickly, radioactive green. The soul inside didn't just scream; it tried to lash out, projecting a vision of Ethan's worst fears.
"Nice try, Tom," Ethan snorted, crushing the energy between his palms. The locket snapped open, a dark, oily residue leaking out and evaporating before it could even touch the mahogany.
Finally, he reached for Ravenclaw's Diadem.
"Wait—" Dumbledore started, sensing the sheer density of the magic protecting the tiara.
It was too late. Ethan's magic surged into the silver. This fragment, the most vocal of them all, let out a roar of pure, concentrated hatred that shattered several of the silver instruments in the room. It felt like a physical weight pressing against the walls, but Ethan's golden light was absolute. He tore the fragment out and snuffed it like a candle flame.
The silence that followed was heavy, broken only by the heavy breathing of the two professors.
****
At that exact moment, miles away in the darkened drawing room of Malfoy Manor, Lord Voldemort didn't just feel his soul fragments being destroyed. He felt as if his very heart had been gripped by a cold, iron hand and twisted.
He was mid-sentence, lecturing Lucius Malfoy on his failures, when he suddenly gasped. His lungs refused to take in air. He collapsed to his knees, his pale, spider-like hands clutching his chest, a gargle of pure, unadulterated agony escaping his throat.
Nagini let out a frantic hiss, coiling herself tightly around his legs as if she could protect him from the invisible assault.
"My Lord!" Bellatrix screamed, rushing toward him, her face a mask of total terror. "What is happening? Severus, do something!"
Snape stood back, his face a mask of shock, though his mind was racing. He knew exactly what this was. He felt a surge of grim satisfaction buried deep beneath his Occlumency shields. Williams actually did it.
Voldemort's head snapped back, his eyes glowing a manic, bloody red. He felt the voids in his chest—three distinct, hollow gaps where his immortality had once been anchored. The Cup. The Locket. The Diadem. Gone in less than a minute.
He let out a scream of rage that shook the foundations of the manor. The windows in the drawing room exploded outward, raining glass down on the lawn like a lethal storm.
"They have found them!" Voldemort roared, his voice cracking with a raw, primal fury he hadn't felt since the night in Godric's Hollow. "Everything! All my soul fragments have been destroyed!"
He stood up, his body trembling with the aftershocks of the spiritual trauma. He didn't look like a god anymore; he looked like a cornered animal, twice as dangerous and half as sane.
"Mobilize everyone!" Voldemort hissed, his hands clawing at the air as if trying to pull the world down around him. "I will not wait for them to come to me. We march on Hogwarts. Now! I want every student, every teacher, and especially that vermin Ethan Williams brought before me in chains!"
He turned his gaze toward the distant horizon, his mind burning with the realization that for the first time in decades, he could actually die.
*****
"He's coming," Ethan said, looking out the office window toward the dark horizon. He could feel the shift in the magical atmosphere, a gathering storm of malice.
"How long?" Dumbledore asked, his hand tightening on the Elder Wand.
"Hours, maybe less," Ethan replied. "He's panicked. He's going to throw everything he has at this castle. Giants, werewolves, Dementors—the works."
McGonagall straightened her robes, her eyes flashing with a fierce, professorial fire. "Then we had better start waking people up. Hogwarts has stood for a thousand years. It will not fall to a madman and his circus tonight."
"I'll handle the air support," Ethan said, a smirk returning to his face. "Let's see how a dragon-riding Dark Lord handles a mirror dimension."
Author's Note:
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