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Hey everyone, LuxRadium here.
I had hoped to recover sooner, but unfortunately, a few days after my last chapter, I had to be hospitalized again due to a high fever. It turned out I had gotten chickenpox, which along with the cold weather, wrecked my immune system. I was discharged a week later, but I had very little energy for some time. On top of that, I had to catch up on work I'd missed and also had to move to a new apartment.
Now that things have settled down, I'll be more active again.
I've also launched a Patreon for those who'd like to support me. As a perk, Patreon readers will get access to chapters that I have edited in advance. And as a bonus, for every new Patreon member, I'll drop three chapters the following day instead of just one.
As promised, I'll be dropping 10 chapters today.
As always, thank you for your support — and happy reading!
Patreon @ patreon.com/LuxRadium
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Dumbledore reacted instantly, pulling Harry back with all his might — but the Killing Curse was too fast.
It struck Harry squarely in the chest.
And bounced off.
The curse rebounded violently, slamming into a corner of the room and carving a deep crater into the stone wall. The entire room quaked with the blast, dust and shards tumbling from above.
Voldemort — still in his black mist form — flickered violently, his mist dissipating at the edges, unstable as smoke in a gale.
"That damned woman!" he roared. "The protection is still there!"
His voice was filled with fury and disbelief. He whirled in midair and launched himself like a striking serpent — straight at Vizet.
But the pendant hanging from Vizet's neck shimmered. In a flash of radiant fire, it transformed into a phoenix — Fawkes — rising with a cry and hurtling toward the oncoming shadow.
Voldemort only laughed, a cruel and manic sound echoing across the chamber.
"Useless!" he spat. "You think I haven't planned for this? You don't know, Dumbledore. You don't understand how far I've come — how close I am to true immortality!"
"Immortality…" Dumbledore's eyes narrowed. In that instant, he understood what Voldemort meant.
To achieve true immortality, both body and soul must be preserved — intertwined and indivisible. That meant Voldemort had already mastered magic far beyond even what most Dark wizards dared approach.
For him to cast a Killing Curse with such force, even in this half-existence… his soul magic must be advanced beyond reckoning.
Voldemort's mist-like body thinned even further — turning spectral — and shot clean through Fawkes, piercing directly into Vizet's forehead.
Vizet had been ready.
He remembered the conversation at the Hog's Head. Remembered the warnings. Remembered Dumbledore's teachings.
Even as Voldemort's voice shrieked through his skull, Vizet lifted his wand, pressing it against his temple.
"Expurgare!"
His voice rang out, calm and firm, while performing the wand movements.
At that moment, Fawkes retracted into the pendant, now glowing faintly.
From the folds of Vizet's robe, something fell — the Christmas bottle Luna had given him.
It shattered against the ground.
Golden sparks erupted in a spray of radiant fire. The warmth of those golden flecks spread into the swirling spell around Vizet, and turned into dazzling threads of light.
Vizet felt it then — a splitting, a parting within himself.
Something inside him peeled away, light and pure. As it drifted, the original silver-blue magic transformed into flawless, blinding white — and surged inward, into his mind, into the very core of his consciousness, carrying the Purification Spell with it.
Dumbledore had made sure Harry was only unconscious.
He raised his wand — jaw tight, expression grim — and stabbed his wand outward.
From its tip erupted a searing bolt of silver light, straight and silent, trailing after the remnants of Voldemort's mist.
But the cost was immediate.
His skin turned a sickly pale, and the light in his blue eyes dimmed. That silver beam contained not only magic, but Dumbledore's very will — his soul itself.
And just then, something new appeared.
From where Quirrell lay, a faint orange-brown mist rose into the air, glowing softly, as though summoned by memory. It drifted toward the point where Voldemort and Vizet were locked together.
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Voldemort felt the pull of weightlessness.
But he adjusted quickly. This was a realm he knew well — the realm of the mind and soul — one of the domains where he reigned supreme.
And then, he began to fall.
Faster and faster, like a meteor, a dark tail of mist trailing behind him. He didn't resist it. He welcomed the descent.
After all, he knew exactly where it would lead.
The soul was the foundation of true immortality — and Voldemort had studied its depths with unnatural obsession. This was his territory.
All he needed to do was dive deeper, faster. At the end of this fall lay Vizet's soul. That was what he had always wanted.
To merge with it.
To seize the Obscurus.
To devour its power.
To reinforce his own fragmented essence — and rise again, stronger than ever.
The darkness gave way to brilliance. A golden glow began to spread around him, and then he saw it —
A maze.
A vast labyrinth of radiant gold.
Voldemort hovered before the shimmering walls, a half-smile curling his lips.
"A clever trick," he murmured. "Dumbledore… so this is how you prepared to fight me."
Just then, three lights appeared above him, descending like celestial spirits.
One was brilliant silver — steady and sharp. One was flawless white, threaded with glimmering gold. And one was a muted orange-brown, flickering softly.
Dumbledore. Vizet. Quirrell.
Voldemort sneered.
"You'll never understand," he said aloud, "what those soul-soothing draughts truly gave me."
His body shimmered, chameleon-like, and took on a golden hue that blended perfectly with the gleaming walls of the maze. The golden surface rippled like liquid and then opened — inviting him inside.
He stepped through with a grim smile.
"Joy… what a strange thing to feel again," he whispered. "I lost it too long ago. But perhaps now, I can reclaim it."
He moved forward confidently.
"Don't worry, Vizet. I won't destroy you completely," Voldemort added, almost kindly. "I'll leave a few fragments behind. So you can witness what I become."
As he walked deeper into the Soul Labyrinth, his form began to change.
The outer layers of his soul shimmered again — this time taking on Vizet's appearance: black hair, a sharply handsome face, older and more defined than the real Vizet.
But the eyes were wrong.
Where Vizet's eyes held a thirst for understanding and a curiosity for life…
Voldemort's held nothing but cruelty. And the glee of power over others.
The maze twisted and turned, far more intricate than he'd expected. And it wasn't empty.
Fragments of Hogwarts lingered in the air like echoes — corridors, staircases, fleeting glimpses of robes and laughter. They stirred something in him. They made him slow down.
He remembered.
Hogwarts had once been a sanctuary. A place where he belonged. Where he'd discovered his name — his heritage. Where he learned that he was not ordinary. That he came from greatness.
Old memories, long buried in dust, surfaced now… They weighed on him.
Voldemort shook his head violently, forcing them down. He slammed his mind shut with Occlumency, regaining clarity.
"Vizet…" he growled. "You've given me far too many surprises."
He looked ahead. The heart of the labyrinth was close now. He could see it — a dark, towering castle looming at the center.
In front of it stood a statue: a veiled goddess holding a glowing full moon in her hands. Her face was obscured, unknowable.
And then — he was no longer alone.
The soft orange-brown light of Quirrell had found him.
Of course. Voldemort had used Quirrell's soul and vitality too much. Quirrell would recognize his presence immediately.
"Quirinus Quirrell!" Voldemort's voice thundered with fury. "How dare you resist me! You think this will save you? Are you not afraid of death at all?"
But the brown light moved forward without hesitation, circling Voldemort, spreading soft pulses of light as if trying to soothe or restrain him.
Voldemort snarled, "Then I'll destroy you first."
The brown light was fragile — resistance without power. In mere moments, his black magic spread through it, corrupting it completely. Within seconds, Quirrell's presence was severely reduced.
But just then, the flawless white light descended.
Vizet had arrived.
And he understood now. Understood exactly what Voldemort was trying to do.
There was no time left for doubt.
Vizet plunged straight into the swirling mass of black and brown, into the core of darkness where Voldemort's spirit awaited.