Chapter 261
Harry's mind went completely blank.
He had no idea why he was here.
Then, all at once, the instinctive fear of life and death surged through him. A chill spread down his spine. He tried to scramble to his feet, to run—anything to escape that approaching green light—but he suddenly realized his legs would not obey him.
They simply wouldn't move.
Because of fear.
The scar on his forehead burned violently. He had never felt such pain in his life. His wand slipped from his hand and fell to the ground. He clutched his face and collapsed, unable to see anything ahead. It felt as though his skull were about to split open.
He forced himself to look up—
But everything blurred. He couldn't even tell where the light was coming from.
The brightness drained from his green eyes, replaced by despair. Reflected in them was that deadly green glow—the color of death itself. It grew larger, closer, until it seemed ready to swallow him whole.
Then—
Everything changed.
The ancient trees beside him suddenly stirred.
Thick branches bent and twisted with unnatural grace, sweeping down in smooth arcs. In one fluid motion, they slid beneath Harry's body and lifted him into the air.
Seamless. Precise.
Effortless.
The killing curse passed beneath him, missing by inches.
Harry dangled in the air, his pain easing slightly. Using the faint light, he looked down at the ground below.
Only then did he realize where he was.
A graveyard.
Old tombstones surrounded him, each one different, each carved from pale marble.
Hanging upside down, he stared at the one directly beneath him.
With effort, he made out the inscription:
Tom Riddle.
The letters were sharp and clean, as though freshly carved.
His vision cleared completely.
Then he saw him.
A figure standing not far away.
A face pale as bone. Red eyes gleaming. A flat, snake-like nose with narrow slits for nostrils.
The man from his nightmares.
Lord Voldemort.
Voldemort watched him with a thin, cruel smile, as though at any moment he would raise his wand again and finish what he started.
"I need to calm down…"
Harry forced the thought into his mind, struggling to regain control.
"I'm not dead. I escaped again."
He had to accept that first.
Then—
Who saved me?
He kept his gaze locked on Voldemort, but noticed something strange.
Voldemort wasn't just watching him.
He kept glancing elsewhere.
And in those red eyes… there was fear.
Harry followed his line of sight.
A tall figure stood quietly in the distance.
Silver robes.
A long, gleaming beard stirred gently in the wind.
It was unmistakable.
Albus Dumbledore.
The same formal robes he had worn earlier at the tournament.
Relief hit Harry instantly.
Of course.
If anyone could save him from Voldemort—it would be Dumbledore.
The only wizard Voldemort feared.
Hagrid had said it often. Others had said it too—Hogwarts had remained safe for years because of him. As long as Dumbledore stood there, Voldemort would not dare set foot inside.
"Dumbledore," Voldemort said softly, almost mockingly, as he stroked his yew wand. "What will you do now? Have you encountered a problem? Why are you still choosing to fight me… while trying to protect the boy?"
His tone carried a false confidence—an attempt to unsettle his opponent.
Harry took the chance to look around more carefully.
Only now did he notice the others.
Several figures in black robes lay scattered nearby. Hooded. Motionless. They looked battered, drained—barely conscious.
Among them, one stood out.
A short man without a hood.
His left hand was gone—severed cleanly. Blood seeped from the wound, soaking into the dirt beneath him. He lay unconscious, barely breathing.
Harry recognized him instantly.
Peter Pettigrew.
The traitor.
The coward who had deceived them all.
And now, reduced to this.
"Harry… protect yourself."
Dumbledore's voice came, low and steady.
He didn't turn.
The words traveled through the cold air, carried alongside the distant cries of crows circling overhead.
If Harry could see his face, he would have been startled.
The usual warmth was gone.
No gentle smile.
No twinkle behind the half-moon glasses.
Only sharp focus.
Cold vigilance.
No one—no one—could afford to be careless in front of Voldemort.
Dumbledore's wand moved slightly.
The branches holding Harry responded instantly, lowering him gently back onto the ground.
The moment his feet touched earth—
The ground beneath Voldemort shifted.
Loose sand began to gather, tightening, rising.
In seconds, it coiled into a massive serpent.
A sand snake.
Its body twisted, its head lifted, its tongue flickering as it prepared to strike.
Voldemort's expression hardened.
He knew the truth.
The gap between them.
Dumbledore was older. More experienced. And if not for his restraint—his refusal to cross certain lines—Voldemort would be at an even greater disadvantage.
That restraint… was something Voldemort despised.
To him, power meant victory at any cost.
And Dumbledore's "principles" were nothing but weakness.
But even so—
Even restrained—
Dumbledore remained a terrifying opponent.
And Voldemort…
He was not yet at full strength.
His resurrection had not gone as perfectly as he had planned.
The thought made his pale fingers tighten slightly.
Fury surged within him—but he forced it down.
Anger would only make him careless.
And in front of Dumbledore…
A single mistake could be fatal.