Chapter 116: Path from Eden
Sectumsempra. Voldemort knew it well—a dark curse evolved from a common Cutting Charm.
Unlike a simple Cutting Charm, which only inflicted physical damage, the modified Sectumsempra carried with it a magical curse that prevented healing and inflicted wounds upon the very soul. The unhealable aspect was a signature of the Dark Arts, born from the pure malice of wishing to harm another. The soul-wounding property, however, was a characteristic developed by the curse's creator through their deep exploration of Occlumency, Legilimency, and similar mind-related magics.
"Snape!"
Voldemort was incensed. He had nowhere left to retreat, and he feared that if he slowed down, his pursuers would be upon him in an instant. His only option was to endure the spell head-on.
A feeling like being flayed by a thousand knives tore through his remnant soul. The powerful malice embedded in the curse made him feel as if he'd been struck by an Unforgivable.
"You damned traitor!" he raged. He couldn't understand it. For a mere witch! How could his most trusted second-in-command betray him over a woman?
What was so great about witches anyway? Divorce her and she'd probably take half your magic! The black mist that was Voldemort hovered in place, his consciousness reeling and dim.
"Dumbledore mentioned that your current state could be described as a remnant soul, or perhaps as being in a state between life and death," Snape said, striding into the corridor with a manic energy. "After much thought, I decided to add an element of the Imperius Curse to my Sectumsempra."
This was no ordinary Imperius Curse meant to control another person like a puppet. It was a variation he had developed after consulting with Professor Flitwick. By altering the incantation and the focus of his malice, he had transformed the spell from one that controlled a person's thoughts and soul to one that used his own malice to violently disrupt them.
Judging by the results, it was devastatingly effective against Voldemort's current form.
"Is it painful?" Snape hissed, his voice dripping with years of pent-up grief and resentment. "This is the feeling that has been festering in my heart for all these years!" With every word, he vowed to make Voldemort taste the full measure of his suffering.
He cast Sectumsempra again and again, as if the spell cost him no magic at all, meticulously slicing away at the black mist as if performing a death by a thousand cuts.
"Severus." Dumbledore emerged from the room behind them, his first sight being Snape torturing Voldemort. He wasn't concerned about the act itself, but about the toll it was taking on Snape.
With his expert eye, Dumbledore immediately recognized the advanced dark magic at play. Snape was channeling his own festering malice to amplify the curse's power. While incredibly potent, this method carried the severe risk of driving the caster to emotional extremes. At the rate Snape was casting, not even his mastery of Occlumency could protect him for long. Soon enough, Hogwarts would be blessed with a deranged Potions Master.
"Calm yourself, Severus!" Dumbledore commanded, ordering him to stop.
"Dumbledore—I am perfectly calm," Snape replied, lowering his wand only after the true heavy-hitters had arrived. He savored the moment of catharsis.
"Hmph," Dumbledore sighed. The fact that Snape could still listen to reason meant he hadn't lost himself completely.
In the original plan, Snape and the other two professors were only supposed to track Voldemort's position and slow him down. They were never meant to engage him directly. That was why Dumbledore, Gellert, and Flamel hadn't been rushing in their pursuit.
From the moment Voldemort had stepped into the fourth-floor corridor, he had been walking the "Path from Eden"—a road of no return.
Because...
Those who betray righteousness, once they leave Eden, can never go back.
Those who accept the serpent's temptation shall no longer possess the promised glory.
This was an alchemical array Nicolas Flamel had created in his youth—back when he was not yet two hundred years old. The witch hunts had just begun, and he had gone to have a "chat" with the reigning Pope at the time, Innocent VIII.
But the Pope, having risen from the bottom, was a master of indoctrination. Flamel found himself losing the debate and, in a stroke of genius, created this trap. It forced anyone caught within it to endlessly relive their past, reinforcing their own sense of right and wrong until their spirit was purified down to its most fundamental essence.
The aftermath had been simple. If Flamel hadn't shown mercy, the entire college of cardinals, along with the Pope himself, would have experienced the long, lonely road of exile from Eden. As Flamel told it, the Pope's face was quite dark by the end, and he didn't dare make a move. The two sides eventually reached an "amicable" agreement. As a parting gift, Flamel even took with him a few "lost little boys" who, the Pope claimed, had simply wandered into the Vatican. The alchemist, having already made his point quite forcefully, accepted the explanation with a knowing smile.
Despite the accord, the Church's holy knights and inquisitors were not idle, and they did manage to capture a number of less-skilled wizards. In the subsequent witch hunts, some real witches and wizards were indeed burned at the stake, but they were a tiny fraction of the total victims. These were generally the most ordinary of adult magic-users, likely no match for a senior student from Hogwarts. The vast majority—ninety-nine percent—of the victims of the witch hunts were simply the Church's political enemies, eliminated under the pretext of heresy to strengthen their spiritual control over the common people. All in all, the strategy had been remarkably effective for them.
So, when Voldemort entered the fourth-floor corridor, the alchemical matrix, prepared in advance, had activated.
Once you stepped inside, there was no turning back.
Even Voldemort at the height of his power couldn't have broken out of this array in a short time, let alone in his current weakened state. He could exhaust himself completely and never find an exit.
"Where are Minerva and Pomona?" Dumbledore asked Snape, casually picking up the writhing ball of black mist and tossing it toward the entrance of the corridor.
"They went to protect the students in the castle," Snape answered, raising his wand toward the mist in confusion, wondering what the Headmaster was doing.
The next moment, he understood. As the black mist touched some invisible boundary, shimmering images of Voldemort's every action since entering the corridor flashed in the air. The images shifted, extended, and flickered before flowing back into the mist, forming what looked like an endless Möbius strip that trapped the dark essence within.
But it was more than a simple loop. At the very center of the ring, the phantom image of an angel materialized, holding a flaming sword in one hand and a set of golden scales in the other. It seemed to be weighing the life and deeds of the being sealed within.
"A truly remarkable creation," Gellert said with deep admiration, especially after Flamel had told him the story behind the array's invention. It was the magical equivalent of dancing on someone's grave. He had metaphorically slapped the entire Church across the face right in front of their own icons.
"Even I know to be more discreet," Gellert remarked with a chuckle.
"Nicolas," Dumbledore said, holding the small, Möbius strip-like structure in his palm. On the golden scales of the spectral angel, the black mist thrashed and struggled. "Can this array truly purify Voldemort's spirit?"
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