Tom Riddle's POV
The Great Hall quaked beneath the residue of our first barrage, the air thick with smoke, ash, and the lingering hum of shattered wards. Dust clung to my robes and my hair, yet my eyes remained sharp, glowing faintly with the golden-red light of the Phoenix circulating above me. Dumbledore stood across the hall, calm as ever, his robes singed, a faint bloodstain tracing his arm from a graze, but he remained unshaken.
I could feel the weight of his presence, the magnitude of his experience pressing against my sheer magical power. This was no longer a mere duel—it was a war contained within these ancient walls, a clash of ideology, knowledge, and supremacy.
With a deliberate flick, I sent shards of black lightning slithering across the floor, snaking toward Dumbledore like predatory serpents. He raised his hands, drawing the remnants of the hall's shattered stones into a moving barricade, but the energy was immense. Sparks arced off his shields, and one bolt grazed the corner of his jaw, cutting the air with a sharp metallic hiss.
"You've become a master of destructive transfiguration, Tom," he said, his voice steady but eyes narrowing. "Your intellect is formidable… but brilliance without restraint can be dangerous. Do you understand that yet?"
I ignored him, letting a wave of Fiendfyre erupt from my wand, shaping it into a swarm of dragons, each larger than a carriage, teeth and claws ablaze with a black-orange inferno. The flames roared as the dragons lunged, circling, twisting, and diving toward Dumbledore. He didn't flinch—his phoenix teleported above and around him, countering some of the flames, while he summoned a combination of firestorm and water vapor to extinguish the rest. The heat was overwhelming; my Phoenix above screeched and dove, adding its power to the assault.
I moved with fluidity, my wand tracing arcs in the air, casting multiple spells simultaneously. Cutting curses spun out, lethal and precise. Black lightning cracked against the stone floor, creating deep gouges. The very air seemed to bend under the pressure of our magic.
Dumbledore countered with a wave of water and air, summoning a whirlwind that hurled debris toward me. I transfigured shards of wood and stone into swarms of bats, eagles, and panthers, twisting them midair to intercept his spells. Sparks of elemental magic collided in the hall with deafening force. Each time he countered, I adapted. Each time I pressed forward, he deflected. It was a deadly dance, a battle of wits and raw power.
I sent a volley of black fire toward him, each stream splitting midair into smaller serpentine flames. Dumbledore's phoenix reacted, deflecting some, but I forced him to expend energy maintaining multiple shields and elemental wards. His eyes scanned the hall, calculating every step, every spell. I realized, for the first time in decades, that he was matching me in ingenuity—not just in power.
I pushed forward with a wave of telekinetic force, throwing rubble, tables, and shattered stone at Dumbledore. He responded by raising walls of earth, transfiguring them into moving shields that blocked most of the debris. Sparks and shards rained down, some hitting him, some deflected. I noticed a brief flicker of strain in his movement—experience, yes, but he was older, slower to recover between spells than I was.
Seizing the opportunity, I launched a barrage of ice spikes, each tipped with a subtle hex that would freeze and shatter anything it touched. He countered with stone bullets and fire constructs, yet one of the ice spikes grazed his shoulder. I smiled grimly; a small success. The faint trace of blood reminded me that even Dumbledore, the legendary Headmaster, could be injured.
"Do you feel the weight of your ambition yet, Tom?" he asked calmly, even as he staggered back slightly. "Do you understand what you risk?"
"I understand perfectly," I replied, letting my voice echo across the hall. "Everything I risked, everything I gained—it was all for this moment. To be unchallenged. To rule. And tonight, Albus, you are my final obstacle."
I extended my hand, and the air above me warped as I summoned multiple spears of black lightning, layering them with Fiendfyre serpents. Each strike was calculated to force Dumbledore to split his attention, to exhaust his defensive spells. I could see his mind racing—he was trying to anticipate my next move. But even he could not keep up with the precision of my combined magical onslaught.
He raised his wand, summoning a dome of water around himself, reinforced with air and stone constructs. The Fiendfyre collided with the dome, sending arcs of magical energy ricocheting into the walls and ceiling. Hogwarts groaned under the strain. Chandeliers swung violently, sending shards of glass scattering through the air. Dust, ash, and scorched stone fell like a storm, yet neither of us faltered.
I unleashed a new spell, one I had only perfected after years of study in the Forbidden Archives: a combination of transfiguration and necromantic energy that twisted the floor into a writhing mass of claws and skeletal appendages. They surged toward him, attempting to entangle and immobilize. Dumbledore's eyes flashed. He countered with an intricate shield of swirling water and stone that absorbed the onslaught—but even then, a few skeletal claws grazed his robes, shredding them slightly.
The hall was a symphony of chaos. The collision of spells, elemental energy, transfigured creatures, and sheer destructive power was overwhelming. I felt the familiar thrill—the intoxicating rush of absolute control over magic, over the battlefield. Yet in the back of my mind, a whisper of caution lingered. Dumbledore was still alive, still calculating, and still a threat.
I moved closer, sending shards of obsidian and ice flying, cutting through air and magic. He leapt backward, phoenix at his side, countering with simultaneous firestorm and water torrents. Our spells collided midair, creating eruptions of steam, fire, and lightning that shook the walls. Each strike I sent required precise calculation, each dodge demanded timing measured to the millisecond.
Then, for a brief moment, our eyes met. There was recognition—respect, perhaps even something like sorrow. I remembered the orphanage, the years at Hogwarts, the subtle guidance he had offered me. And yet, I had surpassed him. He knew it, and I knew it. This duel was no longer about discipline or control—it was about supremacy.
I sent another wave of black lightning, splitting into multiple beams, layered with transfigured stone shards and Fiendfyre. He countered with a swirling storm of fire and water, but the complexity of my attack forced him to divert part of his energy to defense. A bolt grazed his chest, leaving a shallow burn. He winced ever so slightly.
"Tom… you have grown beyond what I could have imagined," he said, breathing heavily, yet still poised. "But power without wisdom is dangerous. Even if you survive tonight… will you be able to live with what you've become?"
"I will live, and I will conquer," I replied, feeling the raw surge of magical energy coursing through me. "You cannot stop me, Albus. You never could."
We circled each other, each step measured, each spell anticipated. I could feel the strain building—but my reserves were immense. Dragon Magic Core, Phoenix regeneration, Hufflepuff healing—my body and mind were near the pinnacle of magical endurance. Yet Dumbledore was not to be underestimated. His spells were clever, reactive, unpredictable.
I launched a final attack for the moment: a volley of icicles, black lightning, transfigured creatures, and cutting curses aimed at overwhelming him. Dumbledore responded with water, fire, stone, and air, countering most—but not all—of my attacks. A jagged icicle grazed his leg, and a transfigured skeletal hand scratched his robe. He staggered slightly, more from fatigue than injury, and I knew it—I had pushed him further than he expected.
Yet he was still standing, still fighting.
This was far from over.