Ding! Transaction completed: 100 Galleons deducted.
Ding! 100 Galleons received. Account balance updated.
The faint, ethereal chime echoed in the dimly lit study of Malfoy Manor as Voldemort toyed with the two sleek, black Wealth Cards in his hand. The glowing runes embedded in the cards flickered before dimming, leaving behind an unsettling silence.
Voldemort's crimson eyes narrowed, his pale fingers tracing the intricate gold patterns etched onto the dark surface of the cards. His mind buzzed with the implications of what he'd just witnessed.
Across the room, Tom Riddle leaned casually against the wall, his expression unreadable. The flickering candlelight danced across his youthful features, casting shadows that seemed to stretch longer than they should.
But Voldemort was far from calm.
He shot a sharp glare at his younger self, his voice low and venomous.
"Do you care to explain this?" Voldemort hissed, the malice in his words almost tangible. "You've used me as a pawn in your little scheme. Be very careful, Tom… or you might find the wand pointed at you instead."
His grip tightened around his wand, and the room seemed to grow colder.
The heist at Gringotts—the audacious plan they had executed together—had been a ruse. The Ministry of Magic, Kamar-Taj, and even Hogwarts had been prepared. The entire event had played out like a well-rehearsed performance, and Voldemort was beginning to see the strings.
Especially now, staring at the two Wealth Cards in his hands, Voldemort's fury boiled over.
With a swift flick of his wrist—BOOM!—the black and gold cards exploded in a violent burst of magic. Shards of dark crystal embedded themselves into the walls, ripping through ancient tapestries, shattering priceless vases, and tearing gouges into the wooden floor.
The once pristine study was now a wreckage of smoking debris and magical scorch marks.
But Voldemort's rage wasn't satisfied.
The more he thought about it, the deeper the fire burned within him. These cards weren't just harmless trinkets—they were the future. A future now firmly in the hands of Kamar-Taj and the Ministry of Magic.
They've turned the entire wizarding world into their playground.
Before, Gringotts had strict regulations. Refining Galleons required reporting, oversight, and labor. But now, with these Wealth Cards, currency had become data. With a flick of the wand, wealth could be generated and controlled at will.
And it was all because of him.
I was their weapon, Voldemort realized bitterly. I did their dirty work.
The goblins had been slaughtered. Gringotts had been weakened. And in the aftermath, Kamar-Taj swooped in with a perfect solution—a wizarding wealth system digitizing Galleons and placing them under their control.
The timing was too precise. The plan was too perfect.
They used me.
And Voldemort—Lord Voldemort—did not take betrayal lightly.
His chest heaved, the scarlet glow in his eyes intensifying. The hatred festering inside him for Tom, Lockhart, and Kamar-Taj now dwarfed even his loathing for Dumbledore.
The sheer scale of this betrayal gnawed at him. This wasn't just about gold—it was about power. The past, the present, and the future wealth of the wizarding world had been compressed into those slim, black cards.
And he had missed his chance.
His grip on his wand tightened until his knuckles turned white.
Across the room, Tom finally spoke, his voice cold and detached.
"Did you really think Gringotts was that easy to break into?" Tom asked, his tone laced with condescension.
Voldemort's eyes snapped toward him, the rage in his gaze burning brighter.
"Why do you think the goblins put up so little resistance?" Tom continued, his words cutting through the tension like a blade. "Why do you think you had easy access to their arsenal of magical weapons?"
The room grew colder with each word.
Tom's indifference clashed with Voldemort's seething anger, creating a maelstrom of dark energy in the room. The very air seemed to vibrate with tension as the two versions of the same dark soul stared each other down.
Their hands moved almost simultaneously, fingers brushing the wands at their sides.
The walls trembled, ancient portraits rattling against their frames. The chandeliers swayed overhead, their light casting fractured shadows across the room. Books flew from shelves, and the very foundation of Malfoy Manor seemed to groan under the weight of the dark magic that now filled the space.
Then—
BOOM!
"Avada Kedavra!"
"Avada Kedavra!"
The twin cries of the Killing Curse echoed through the manor, and two streams of blinding green light collided in mid-air, releasing a shockwave that shattered what remained of the study.
The collision sent out a monstrous wave of energy that tore through the walls, reducing them to rubble. The floorboards splintered, and the ceiling above cracked like thin ice under a heavy boot.
Within seconds, the entire study was reduced to a smoking crater in the heart of Malfoy Manor. Dust and debris swirled in the air, and in the center of the chaos stood the two dark lords, their wands still raised, their faces twisted with hatred.
Outside Malfoy Manor
The explosion rocked the manor grounds, and wizards from across the estate rushed toward the source of the blast.
But as they neared, they froze.
The Death Eaters and pure-blood wizards felt it—the overwhelming magical pressure radiating from the manor's core. It was suffocating, a palpable force that pressed down on their chests and made their limbs tremble.
None dared approach.
"The… masters… they're fighting?" one Death Eater whispered, his voice quivering with fear.
The realization hit them all at once.
Their two masters—the two faces of the Dark Lord—were at war.
Loyalty fractured in an instant.
Some of the pure-blood wizards felt a deep pull toward Tom Riddle, whose elegant, mysterious demeanor represented the nobility and tradition of pure-blood supremacy.
Others were drawn to the ruthless power of Voldemort, whose dark magic, unbridled ambition, and thirst for blood had made him a legend among dark wizards.
But none of that mattered now.
Because both men shared a common trait—they did not tolerate traitors.
Any hint of disloyalty would be met with swift, brutal punishment. The Death Eaters had seen it before. They had watched comrades fall, burned away by the very masters they had sworn to follow.
So they stood there, paralyzed by fear, as the duel of death unfolded before them.
Back Inside – The Duel
The two dark lords moved in perfect sync, their bodies twisting and weaving through the torrent of curses that filled the air.
"Avada Kedavra!"
"Avada Kedavra!"
The Killing Curses flew back and forth like deadly green comets, each one narrowly missing its target or colliding in mid-air with a sickening crack.
The floor beneath them was a war zone—cracked stone, smoldering debris, and the faint stench of burnt magic filled the air.
Neither of them defended. Neither of them hesitated.
They were two sides of the same coin, locked in a deadly dance that only one could survive.
Their movements were eerily similar—the same instinctual footwork, the same sharp flicks of the wrist, the same ruthless efficiency honed over years of dark magic.
Each curse was a mirror of the other, each spell a reflection of their shared soul.
The Death Eaters watched from the shadows, unable to intervene, unable to choose sides.
Because in the end, it wasn't just a duel between Voldemort and Tom Riddle.
It was a duel between the past and the future.
Between what was… and what could be.
The duel reached its crescendo.
Their wands blurred in the air, their voices blending into a single chant of death.
"Avada Kedavra!"
"Avada Kedavra!"
The final curses shot forth, colliding in a blinding explosion of green light that sent shockwaves rippling through the manor.
The ground beneath them cracked and split, the very foundation of Malfoy Manor groaning under the force of their combined magic.
And then—
BOOM!
The world went white.
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