Disclaimer: J.K. Rowling owns everything you recognise.
I want to thank hermionegranger026 for her open honesty, her effort to help me improve and her appreciated contributions.
Those of you who wish for Harry to mature will probably receive a nice surprise.
Through exhausted, half-open lids, Harry blurrily saw the wooden floor moving beneath him. Only partially conscious, his sluggish mind wondered if he was being carried.
A door creaked open – or so he assumed – and moments later, he was dumped on something unexpectedly soft: a bed while a disconcerting dark silhouette leaned over him.
"Harry, open your eyes. Do not make me repeat myself," came a dangerously velvety voice that washed gently over him. "Now."
The last word, hissed out wrathfully, evoked a sense of urgency in Harry, and he wearily cracked open one eyelid to reveal an emerald orb.
"Will you care to explain to me, Harry, why you had chosen to disobey me after I had made myself so clear?" asked Tom. "I do not understand your logic." This was spoken in a tone that did not bode well for Harry.
Lifting his head up, Harry licked his dried lips and rasped out, "The girl." He did not have enough energy to deal with Tom in full sentences.
"That innocent, little girl turned out to be Daphne Greengrass in her full capacity, leading you directly into the palm of Lord Voldemort," Tom said. "And you, with your saviour tendencies, rushed into the action without any regard for your own safety."
Harry sneered weakly. "Careful, Tom, you are beginning to sound like you actually care about my well-being."
In a split second, Harry's hand was pinned between Tom's slender fingers and crushed in a painful clasp. "Watch your tongue, Harry," he warned, his breath intimidatingly close to Harry's neck. "Or there will be consequences."
"Sorry," Harry muttered grudgingly, wincing as the older Slytherin freed his hand. "I wasn't intentionally ignoring your wishes. She just happened to come along – how was I supposed to know I would end up in a dark alleyway with Voldemort?"
"Perhaps," said Tom softly, "if you had complied with my instructions, you never would have seen Voldemort. Is it really so difficult to do as you are told?"
"I didn't –"
"I told you not to move from your spot, not to leave the store, not to duel any Death Eaters and not to act the hero. You did all of them."
"I didn't duel any Death Eaters," Harry protested feebly.
"You are quite corrected," agreed Tom sarcastically, "you merely duelled Voldemort."
Having spent the last of his remaining strength on arguing, Harry inhaled deeply and leaned heavily back on the pillow, closing his eyes tiredly. Not only was there an overwhelming physical fatigue but he also felt a draining sensation that left him empty.
"You need punishment," Tom said silkily, "both of us know it. I did, after all, say you would regret it. However… for the time being, you need more rest than punishment. I assume the duel with the Dark Lord has depleted your magic so severely that it is currently on a dangerously low status."
Harry paled. "What does that mean?"
"It means," said Tom slickly, "that you have to use your magic sparingly for the time being if you do not wish to loose it completely. Sleep will be the best medicine."
"Why aren't you tired too?"
An arrogant smirked laced Tom's handsome features. "Taking into account I will be as powerful as Lord Voldemort one day, I daresay my magical resources are greater than yours." He picked up his yew wand and waved it at Harry.
"How long will I be here?" Harry breathed softly, his eyes struggling to flutter open as he was suddenly invaded by a bout of supernatural drowsiness.
"How vague can one be, Harry?" Tom whispered, glancing at the figure he had forced into a magically induced sleep. "How long will you be on this bed? A few days. In this house? It depends. How long will you be by my side? A very, very long time."
—0O0—
5 years later
A dark figure, elegantly cloaked, moved lithely through the dangerous streets of Knockturn Alley like a gust of black smoke, stopped by no one and questioned by none.
The hooded figure walked across the cobblestone path silently, paying no heed – or perhaps was completely oblivious – to a screaming child in the arms of an old, leering witch, to his dirty surroundings, and to a hunched werewolf trailing behind him.
He did not pause to break his stride until he came to the store of Borgin and Burkes. He pushed the doors open and entered the gloomy room, sparing the ragged shop owner a swift nod of acknowledgement.
"Ralph Ashwood…how may I help you?" Mr Borgin asked, with a note of gladness in his voice. "You're the first customer I've had in days."
"Oh?" a voice emerged from beneath the black, concealing hood. "That's unfortunate."
"Indeed, Mister Ashwood," he said. "With Dumbledore's uprising and all, his supporters have tried to shut down Knockturn Alley along with its dark artefacts. Now, is there anything lining my shelves that has caught your liking?"
"Anything you want to recommend from your professional point of view?"
"Yes, yes!" Borgin grinned. "I'll retrieve them for you, shall I?" While he ducked into the storage, the visitor who had been called Ralph Ashwood took the chance to inspect the mysterious objects on the dusty shelves.
"If you pardon me for my wretched curiosity, may I know what brings you here?" Borgin inquired, as he placed the items he collected in front of his visitor.
A few moments slipped past before Ashwood saw fit to reply. "A birthday present to a good friend."
"Another bright young man such as yourself… or someone else?" Borgin said.
The green eyes that burned out from under the hood turned cold. "His age is no concern of yours. I'll take the Hand of Glory, thank you very much."
"Seeing as you are a valued customer, I will cut the price down by half for you. Sixty galleons," Mr Bogin said cheerily, his voice sickly sweet. He stretched out an impatient hand.
Ashwood eyed the jagged, filthy in disgust as he answered smoothly, "I'm afraid the price is too high, Mr Borgin."
"Fifty eight galleons."
"Twenty."
"Fifty galleons, and I'm not gonna go any lower," Borgin growled. "Business is low these days –"
"I suggest you do not try to use me to recover the money your business lost," Ashwood warned. "Take the twenty galleons or I will find another store to shop in."
"Fine," Borgin spat, "on the condition you take off your hood. In the four years you have shopped here, I have never seen your face and I daresay the identity you gave me is false."
Ralph Ashwood stiffened. "Each of us has secrets to hide – and I won't pretend I don't – but I have found from experience that those who do have secrets usually do not divulge them."
He tossed twenty galleons onto the counter, took the wrapped purchase, turned on his heels and swept out of the shop.
The moment he exited, an animalistic form lunged at him, but his wand was already in his hand and he did not hesitate in digging it sharply into the man's exposed neck. "Tell me, werewolf, what do you want?" he said. "You were stalking me when I came."
"How did you know –?"
"The yellow tint in your irises and the fact the full moon is only nights away. Please, answer my question."
The man snarled at him. "I was going to kill you and take your money. You looked like rich folk. I don't give a damn whether you kill me. My kin will go after you and avenge my death. Fenrir Greyback, heard of him? He serves the Dark Lord."
"Greyback…never heard of the name," he replied jauntily. "I suppose I can easily kill you, only I am not as low as you. Stupefy."
Then, Ralph Ashwood let go of the unconscious form and disapparated.
—0O0—
He apparated to the edge of town, into a lonely street with only one house. Expectedly, the door to the house was wide open and light poured out generously. A young man stood in the doorway, glaring at him.
"Sorry, just had to pop out for a while," he apologised as he brushed past the older boy and stepped into the inviting warmth of the house.
"Without leaving a note? You are becoming more and more careless."
"Okay, I'll make sure to tell you if Voldemort ever catches me, mother," he joked lightly, letting down his hood to reveal a head of raven hair.
"Where did you go?" Tom demanded.
"Knockturn Alley, nowhere dangerous," Harry said. "Borgin and Burkes."
"If I recall correctly, this is the thirtieth time you left without my permission."
"Look, Tom, don't ruin things on your own special day," Harry groaned, pushing the bundle into the older boy's arms. "Happy twenty-first birthday."
The look on Tom's face was priceless. "I did not ask for a present," he said slowly, and Harry snickered aloud.
"Think of it as a gift of gratitude for protecting me against Voldemort," Harry said casually, flopping onto a couch, subtly observing the pink tinge that coloured Tom's cheeks in amusement. It was not quite a blush but the closest the teenage Dark Lord came to.
"Put it on the mantelpiece, Harry," Tom said.
"What? Aren't you going to open it?" Harry asked, leaping up to block the way to the kitchen. "Don't tell me you don't know how to strip away paper."
"Get out of my way, Harry. I am going to provide you your dinner," came the dry reply.
"Oh, you don't need to do that either." Harry smirked widely like a Cheshire cat. "I spent the afternoon baking a cake."
"How thoughtful of you," Tom remarked sarcastically. "I wonder where it is now."
"In the Muggle oven you never use. I thought I may as well put the rusting machine to good use. The cake's strawberry, your favourite," he said silkily.
A sound that seemed suspiciously like choking came from Tom. "You are mistaken; I do not have favourites in flavours," he said automatically.
"What about those strawberry tarts you eat?" Harry pointed out. "Besides, once Voldemort had actually told me he liked them. Penny!"
Instantly, a female house elf appeared at Harry's summon. "Hath Master Harry summoned I?"
"Yes, Penny," said Harry, smiling at the words. The endearing house elf had developed an obsession with Shakespeare and had taught herself a few words of Old English which she attempted to use at every possible chance. Harry thought it sounded rather sophisticated. "Can you please bring us the champagne bottle and strawberry cake in the oven? Be careful not to burn yourself."
"I shalt, I shalt!" Penny chirped and disapparated into the kitchen.
"She sounds appalling," Tom sneered. "Why must you encourage her?"
"I've proven Voldemort wrong," Harry said. "He insisted house elves were incapable of independent thought, that they wanted to be treated badly, that they dislike people who regard them as equals. Penny is living proof against all those claims."
Years ago, Tom had brought the elf home as a servant, and she had instantly taken a shine to Harry, who enthusiastically returned the favour. Since then, Penny had been following them from house to house, as they regularly relocated to avoid capture by Voldemort. Harry swore her favourite phrase was, "Whither thou goest, I shalt go."
"Hither I cometh!" Penny squeaked cheerfully as she set the cake and champagne in front of Harry and Tom.
Swiftly, Harry uncorked the bottle and poured both he and Tom generous glasses. Raising his, he said, "Twenty one candles for twenty one years, and may you live through many more."
Tom smirked. "I think the correct terminology should be 'eternity'." He took a sip, nonetheless, and casually scanned Harry's face. "What are you up to, nowadays, when I am out?"
"I manage to create fun for myself," Harry replied lightly, carefully keeping his expression neutral. "Knockturn Alley offers so much entertainment – if you can overlook the filth littering the streets."
"You know…" Tom said slowly, "they say never to underestimate the power of an associate's influence; they say you can adopt a part of a friend's personality over time. I must commend you, Harry…you've become a marvellous liar."
Harry shrugged unconcernedly, looking calmly at the Slytherin sitting opposite him. "You're not so bad yourself."
"I find it difficult to believe a vigorous young man such as yourself would find idle recreation fun," Tom murmured mockingly. "In the last few weeks, I have heard talk of a 'determined, fiery teen' who launched an ambitious speech in Diagon Alley that passionately supported Dumbledore. According to some shoppers, it had been 'powerful and swaying'."
"How nice."
"The young man had been described as having 'flaxen hair and stunning green eyes'," Tom crooned. And then, he dove for the attack. "Apparently his name was Ralph Ashwood."
"As you can see, Tom, I do not have blonde hair," Harry said.
"But Ralph Ashwood is your alias, is it not?" Tom said. "Tempted by the rumours, I went there yesterday and listened to your entire speech."
Instead of looking discomforted, Harry gave a clever smile and allowed his mask to crumble to pieces. "Was I any good? Did you enjoy it?"
"Your speech was powerful and you adopted a silver tongue in the midst of it; impressive enough, but 'enjoy' is not the word for me," said Tom. "I would prefer it if you did not sing Dumbledore's praises for the whole wizarding world to hear."
Harry rolled his eyes. "I can support whoever I want, Tom. In the last five years, Dumbledore gained enormous ground against Voldemort; Death Eaters have been forcefully cleared from the Ministry and other political standings, and the public has turned against Voldemort. In another few months, he may draw his followers into hiding. Isn't that what you said – support the winning side?"
"Dumbledore and Grindelwald have gathered more power than I previously imagined; once they defeat Voldemort and begin their reign, they will be extremely hard to knock off their thrones," Tom said. "When that time arrives, no one will be capable of stopping them. It must not happen."
"What were you hoping for when you released Dumbledore and Grindelwald?" Harry said. "To kill two birds with one stone and let Voldemort battle it out with Dumbledore until both sides are weakened enough for you to rise to power?"
"You have hit the mark, more or less."
Harry shook his head in exasperation. "Your mind is unbelievably twisted, Tom. I, for one, am satisfied with the current progress Dumbledore's making."
"Dumbledore's progress," hissed Tom, "is made from ordering Grindelwald to kill off individual Death Eaters, holding children of Death Eaters – like Draco – hostage, bargaining with the media for a sick portrayal of Voldemort and other political methods you would consider wicked."
"He is holding students like Draco at Hogwarts to keep them save from Voldemort's corruption."
"His claims can be trusted no more than you can trust the Dark Lord," Tom said bitingly. "Tragically, your brain doesn't seem to have the capacity to recognise the fact. Shock me, Harry, say something intelligent."
Harry regarded at Tom levelly, with composure – an ability he had acquired through the years with the young Dark Lord. "Being around you is like a cancer of the soul. Excuse me, Tom, I need to go out for a walk…alone. Perhaps you will have opened your present when I come back." He got up and went for the door, aware of the freezing glare burning a hole in his back.
"I wouldn't recommend that, Harry," Tom drawled. The door locked itself. "It is my birthday after all, and I will get what I want. Sit down."
The words that would have sounded so childish had they come from anyone else sounded perfectly authoritative coming from Tom…but Harry couldn't care less. "Say please," Harry said, a small, sardonic smile lacing his voice, "like a polite little boy."
Tom's eyes sparkled dangerously, but he purred mockingly, "Please, Harry."
"Since you asked so nicely," Harry paused, "I suppose I should comply. It is your birthday. What do you want to do?"
"Let's talk…about you." Tom entwined his slender fingers together and coolly held Harry's gaze. "Beyond belief, is it not? What five years can do to someone? Despite your preposterous sentiments, you have altered admirably."
"What do you mean?" Harry spoke in genuine surprise. "I haven't changed."
Tom's lip curled upwards in entertainment. "Have you not noticed? I no longer have a pathetic little snivelling boy on my hands; instead, I have a resourceful ally whom I moulded myself." He glanced at Harry with something akin to triumph. "You have matured."
Harry gave a light snort. "The world has come to an end; the almighty Tom Riddle has paid me a compliment. Seeing as I am sixteen, nearly seventeen, the fact that I've 'matured' – as you put it – really shouldn't come as a shocker."
"You are persuasive, charismatic even, when you wish to be. You are a powerful duellist, trained by myself in the Dark Arts. You have become a force to be reckoned with," Tom hissed. "However, you plant your loyalty in the wrong place: with Dumbledore."
Even with all his developed self-control, Harry felt a shiver creep up his spine at the sinister words. "You overestimate me, and your own skills at 'moulding'. I am not your acclaimed dark ally and neither do I want to be. I support Dumbledore."
"Your naivety has returned. Do you honestly believe that Dumbledore will welcome you if he learns you have dabbed in the Dark Arts for half of your life, that he will accept you as Voldemort's precious Horcrux?"
"You forced me to study the Dark Arts, and I obliged for the sake of fighting the dark with the dark. Dumbledore himself works alongside Grindelwald, a dark wizard." Harry said. "I have no intention of telling him I'm a Horcrux. Besides, even if he does find out, he'll know I'm nothing like Voldemort; I did help him in Nurmengard, after all."
"Then, Harry, why have you not attempted to approach Dumbledore in the last five years if you are so confident he will accept you?" Tom scorned. "You are afraid, afraid he will reject you. Over-indulgence in your ridiculous fantasies will do you no good; you are consumed by your own idealised image of a white saviour. I assure you, it is not the true Dumbledore."
A look of uncertainty threatened to flit across Harry's face, but he schooled his expression resolutely into a blank mask. "I am going to bed; it has been a tiring day. I'd appreciate it if you could pardon me…" he sidestepped Tom and made a quick gesture at the elf. "Penny, light up the fireplace in my bedroom for me, will you?"
"Certainly, Master Harry." Penny scuttled merrily to her duty.
Harry watched her go with a trapped sense of morose in his stomach, knowing Tom Riddle, the devil, was the cause. "Goodnight, Tom," he said, bitterly. "I do hope you're satisfied. It is your birthday."
—0O0—
A lone figure, like a ghost, moved out from amongst the protective, cloaking shadows of the trees. Trailing him was a female, her head bent in a display of devoted submissiveness.
"You understand what you need to do, Bellatrix?" Voldemort questioned, his breath forming a fog in the glacial night air.
"Naturally, my Lord." The answer came in a highly confident tone. "We are to abduct as many of the children of Dumbledore's supporters as possible once the wards have been taken down."
"This town consists solely of his devotees, meaning additional, excessively powerful wards have been set in place by Dumbledore himself, along with equipped spells that would alert him as soon as the wards are disturbed."
"All the necessary preparations are in place, my Lord," Bellatrix said.
"My magic will effortlessly tear the old codger's wards down, but the alert spells are unstoppable," Voldemort said quietly. "Fast movement is required. Capture as many as you can, wound the remaining, and destroy the houses. Leave no resistance behind. Await my order."
He glided, unnoticed, through the fields and towards the concentrated, resilient bubble of defensive force that drew across the entire town. The Dark Lord prudently sent out a tentacle of magic grazing the surface of the defence, testing its strength. A wave of fervent retaliating magic shot back, but it mattered very little to Lord Voldemort.
He had found the weakest point in Dumbledore's barrier, a dent in the shield. And he lashed at it with the full impact of his power. When the two potencies met, one immobile and the other hurtling, a thunderous crack sounded, and the ground trembled from the sheer ferocity of the blow.
For a moment, it seemed the wards had withstood Lord Voldemort's attack – but a thin, fracture slithered across the flawless surface, shadowed by numerous more.
There was another tremendous splitting sound as the wards collapsed entirely, like a sand castle, breaking into fragments of dust that instantly vanished.
"Mosmordre," Voldemort whispered, the hiss behind his words lingering in the wind.
A colossal skull burst from the tip of his wand, comprised of what looked like emerald stars, with a serpent protruding from its mouth like a tongue. It rose higher and higher, coiling and twisting like a mutated basilisk, blazing in a haze of hellish, green smoke, etched against the black sky like an eerie, new constellation. The Dark Mark.
Following the breakthrough, cracks of apparition blew up the nightly silence, signalling the beginning of a Death Eater raid, a raid aimed to strike at the very heart of Dumbledore, in the name of Lord Voldemort.
Whoops of triumph and savagery arose from the Death Eaters who were already within the petite town, shooting spells and setting rooftops aflame, seemingly intent on smoking the residents out.
A sinister smile crossed Voldemort's face momentarily as Bellatrix darted forward to join the fray, cackling madly, with her black, torn dress fluttering after her.
The once-peaceful town was a mess; with ripped roofs, shattered windows, mothers screaming for their children… Voldemort observed all of it with an untouched air. None of them mattered; they all were pawns in the deadly game between him and Dumbledore.
Woken up by the noise, and caught entirely off guard, the inhabitants barely enough time to grab their wands before flurries of curses flew in. Many had tried to apparate, in vain. A woman named Molly Weasley, along with her husband and son, had been amongst them.
As the fifty Death Eaters spread across the town and enveloped it like a second Great Plague, they seized with them countless tearful children, varying in ages with some as young as six and others as old as sixteen.
"Come out, little girl, come out from your mummy's embrace and play," Bellatrix jeered, her black eyes pinning a distressed woman, who was desperately attempting to hide her daughter behind her, against the wall.
"Please, please, I beg you!" the woman shrieked. "Have mercy! Don't – don't take her away, please, I swear I will be in your debt forever – no!"
"Accio," Bellatrix said lazily, waving her wand at the girl. To the despair of the mother, Bellatrix, in an astonishing display of strength, hoisted the eight year old on to her shoulders and disappeared amidst the sea of Death Eaters.
Meanwhile, Molly Weasley and Arthur Weasley had joined together to fend off anyone who endangered their son, much to the protest of the sixteen year old. "I'm bloody old enough to kill a couple Death Eaters! I'm not a baby!" he was saying – but his complaints ebbed away upon seeing the scorching glare of one of the masked figures.
However, it was too late to fall silent, for the masked follower advanced menacingly towards them while Ron's parents huddled ever closer.
Tall and lithe, the only thing unconcealed by the silver mask was a lock of blonde hair. "Ah, the Weasleys, what a pleasure meeting you here. You seem to have moved houses…at the wrong place and wrong time, it appears."
"Malfoy!" Mr Weasley snarled, his face lighting up in recognition. "You slinking worm of a Death Eater!"
"Careful, Arthur, be very careful of what you say." There was a wicked smile in his voice. "I may take out my offense on your son when we capture him. Who knows when Dumbledore save the children? Or if there will be anything to save of your dear little Ronald."
"Take that back!" Ron yelled, his ears pink with rage. "Don't you dare threaten my parents."
"Your son is very brave. Or very foolish. Either way, the Dark Lord would want to meet him," Lucius commented. "Speaking of Ronald, where is your youngest daughter? Or did you have a couple more?"
Mrs Weasley flushed. "We won't let you take him."
"It is not a matter concerning only your son. All the children are being taken," Lucius said airily. "Unless you want to personally face the Dark Lord's wrath, I suggest you hand him over. The Dark Lord is here, you know."
The Weasleys blanched. "He's lying, the slippery ferret," Mr Weasley said roughly, to his wife. And then to Malfoy, "You will keep your grimy paws off our son."
"Get a move on, Lucius," Bellatrix sneered, choosing that moment to appear. "The wards have alerted Dumbledore and the Dark Lord is waiting."
Mr Weasley took a disbelieving look at the form on the female Death Eater's shoulder. "You've really bent as low as to kidnap somebody's daughter?" His voice tightened with rage and disgust. "Dumbledore will never let you get away with it, you slimy monsters. What have you done to her?"
"Knocked her out," Bellatrix said coldly. "The whining hurt my ears. Hurry, Lucius, and get the weasel brat."
Before anyone could do anything, there was a small bang. The end result was an old man standing before Bellatrix and Lucius, smiling unnervingly from a twisted mouth. "I bring regards from Dumbledore," he said, his voice unnaturally jolly. "And a present for his followers."
The tree behind Bellatrix exploded, and she sprang out of the way of a plummeting, flaming branch, snarling like a beast. "You dare…"
Another flaming branch whipped brutally at her in reply, catching her on the waist. A flash of pain sparked in her eyes, which swiftly darkened into fury. "Crucio!" Bellatrix barked, her lips curving crazily into a leer. "I'll kill you, I'll kill you, I'll kill you!" she chanted, laughing wildly as she threw curse after curse like the skilled duellist she was. Beside her, Lucius was doing the same.
"Impressive duelling talents," remarked Grindelwald, "more than I expected, but nothing to rival mine." He flicked his wand impatiently, and sent Bellatrix tearing through the air like a limp ragdoll. Lucius Malfoy was staring incredulously at the crumpled body, the Weasleys were fearfully crouching together behind Grindelwald, and then –
"That is enough," Voldemort said coolly. "I expect you destroyed the anti-disapparition wards, and apparated here, Grindelwald…but it is ill-mannered to cripple one's lieutenant without one's permission."
"Enchanted to see you so well, after all the political harassment and public disgrace, my Lord," Grindelwald said, mockingly. "You don't look a day older."
"I can say specifically the same about you, Gellert," Voldemort murmured, evenly. "You look decades younger than Dumbledore…although your birth certificate must have expired sometime in the last five years."
"Resorting to throwing petty insults around, Tom?" Grindelwald chuckled, surprisingly pleasantly. "It's only natural of course, seeing as you have already resorted to abducting children."
"If you echo Dumbledore's words, he speaks hypocritically; has he not chained children of my Death Eaters by his side, inside Hogwarts, under the excuse of protecting them, for five years? Every moment you linger here, my Death Eaters bring more children to my headquarters," Voldemort hissed softly. "I have an inkling Dumbledore will not be particularly happy. For that matter, why has he sent you to do his dirty job?"
"Albus is busy scheming another strike against you. This blow may topple your last line of defence."
The Dark Lord glanced calmly at the wand between his fingers. "You have irked me, you and Dumbledore, for too long a time and too often. Perhaps you will discover my magic to be overwhelming enough to 'rival' yours. I have, after all, defeated Dumbledore – and he has once defeated you."
The ensuing duel was a legendary one, an exhibition of both Dark Lords' might as they faced off. Explosions, eruptions, knives, daggers, Cruciatus Curses and spells with the potential to destroy were all a part of the inferno which belted from the palms of Lord Voldemort and Grindelwald; out of control, indestructible and armed with the capacity to reduce a mortal to a pool of dust.
The Weasleys clustered together uselessly, too awed and terrified by the scene to move away.
Although there were no obvious signs of who possessed more power and endurance, there were subtle hints; for every curse released by Grindelwald, the Dark Lord would return the favour with double the coldness, ruthlessness, precision and speed. To an experienced observer, there was little doubt who would claim final triumph in the long run.
However, neither wizard was unleashing their greatest power. The duel that had eventually led to Dumbledore's defeat had occupied three nights – and Voldemort had no intention of remaining that long.
In the end, it had been an unexpected trick that had resulted in Voldemort's quick advantage. The Dark Lord had feigned obliviousness, and purposely let a deadly spell pass through his tight shields. It had dug into him, and feed on him hungrily, until he bore hindering wounds. When Grindelwald closed in for the kill, Voldemort had callously conjured a sword and plunged it into the wizard's chest.
A trade of sorts had been made – his own injuries for his success. Apparently unimpeded by the pain, the Dark Lord had grabbed Ron Weasley and apparated, with Lucius supporting Bellatrix.
Two hundred kilometres away, Harry Potter awoke, screaming, from a nightmare.
