The ritual had not gone as planned.
The bound paladin imploded. Bones cracked, flesh became dust and blood boiled. The body is smashed inward, compressing done into nothing as space twisted. Then the wards promptly splintered into motes of light.
Existence shattered, and something crossed from the other side. The thin wispy thing had no colour, no tone or shade or substance, no real discerning qualities at all. It was flickering nothingness, an aching, blank absence, like static set aflame.
Ur'dan leapt back from the sight, but the warlock was just a step too slow. Another formless limb extends, the another, gliding soundlessly through the orc's left leg. It vanishes under its touch, and the limb became more real. Another instant and the orc was gone. Another limb extends, and another. They grope blindly around, devouring the ground and the air itself, a writhing tangle of nonexistence gorging on reality. They strain, trying to draw their full bulk through, but there are too many of them, and the gap is too small. Banehollow had destroyed the implements grounding the ritual with a volley of shadow bolts, but the yawning hole in existence stayed open.
A thunderous crash, and something unseen tore through chaos. The phantasmal monstrosities were cut apart and the portal shrank down to nothing.
The Dread Lord heeded his instincts and threw his body to the right, just as the floor where he had stood erupted into molten spikes. The demon raised an arm, hand glowing green with a fel-curse, but he did not get the opportunity to launch it. A projectile glowing as bright as the sun shot into him from behind, blasting him across the room.
Steel tore through his neck as the Dread Lord's head fell. But his demonic soul did not return to the Twisting Nether, for the sword ripped through it as easily as his flesh.
The man named Harry Potter was tired of fighting and killing, but that was what must be done. Demons existed here, and they must be killed. All of them.
There's power in self-sacrifice and in oaths, that Grindelwald was right about. He allowed the bindings to take hold. To prevent a violation of the three conditions, occlumency of the most rigorous, exacting variety was needed. He cannot allow himself to think about what he cannot allow himself to think. He can scarcely let himself realize that there are unsafe thoughts at all. And so the man named Harry Potter was sealed away.
A darkness engulfed shadow hold, devouring the senses of those within. It twisted the wand and everything was suddenly edged in silver lines, gleaming wires in an endless Stygian expanse. The spell was limited, just showing the edges of the world, but in this case it was more than sufficient.
The first spell launched it into the heart of the cavern, a cerulean wave scattering the demons around the crater its landing left. It didn't give them a chance to recover, a wash of flames scorching the closest, slowest and bravest before the entire group had even realised it was there. Bolts of energy blasted from the Elder Wand into the masses, the bodies of demons exploded from wherever the light of its spells hit. Utterly unprepared for the ferocity of the assault, terror spread through the blinded crowd. Switching from stunned incredulity to panic the demons began to struggle to escape, chaos spreading through their ranks.
It didn't let them run, it chased them on their way with waves of shadow. It cut through their armour and flesh with equal ease, the hindmost dropping before they could make it to the tunnels. Once everything was dead, it would destroy the barrow just to be sure.
As the slaughter went on, a small tendril of red slipped into the remains of a warlock. It resembled nothing so much as a bloody slurry, flecks of bone visible in the crimson liquid. But it would suffice. It twisted and turned, growing rapidly. First the skeleton formed, then the muscles and veins, building up around the white bone like snakes coiling around a pillar. Finally, the skin grew, covering the inner workings of the body from sight.
For a moment, the form lay still. Then the eyes of Tom Riddle opened. Only a fragment of a fragment of his power had managed to escape, and the weakness gnawed at him. Still, this terminal of his will couldn't be able to recuperate here. If his enemy spotted him, he wouldn't survive an instant of its fury. Getting far away from this barrow was his best option. In a crack, space folded around the once-dead man vanished.
In Malygos's expertise, there was nothing he couldn't do. Time bent to his will if he was willing to stomach it's horrendous cost. The dead could be brought if the right preparations was made, as rare as that may be. But he couldn't do everything. Wasn't willing to do anything.
But regardless it came as a surprise when he heard the breath of something new. A great flaring of power near Mount Hyjal. Something he hadn't felt before. And it a fit of pique he didn't know he had, he said-
"What was it?"
And the whelps ran. It didn't matter. He failed them. What right did he have to keep them there and here?
And they came again. With an explanation that time. Something entirely new. A signature, a tone , a melody that used different notes..
His self appointed regent came to him. Crisp. Disciplined. Reporting all that had happened. Everything that was relevant. Saragosa was good. She was skilled and she didn't fail, so Malygos paid no heed. Any dragon was better than him.
Whatever this was, its proximity to Nordrassil provided ample reason for it to be investigated. Malygos had no elders at his disposal, and Kalecgos was in Quel'Thalas, searching for the residual energies of the Sunwell. That left his daughter, Tyrygosa. Never intrusive, always witty with some humorous comment.
If his action in the War of the Ancients was the result of a foolish choice, then an inaction that he chose foolishly would be no better.