The possessed wizard crashed to the ground, finally yielding control to Voldemort. With a flick of his wrist, a wand materialized in his pale hand.
The young witches and wizards unleashed a torrent of spells. A barrage of multicolored lights hammered down on him, forcing even Voldemort to backpedal. The students' magic wasn't overwhelmingly potent, but in numbers, it overwhelmed. He deflected bolt after bolt, his wand a blur, but retaliation was impossible amid the onslaught. Apparition was banned within Hogwarts' wards—no exceptions, not even for him. He had no choice but to weather the storm head-on.
Erwin watched with quiet satisfaction. This was precisely the strategy he'd envisioned. Hogwarts was a fortress by design: no Apparition, limited flight compared to instant relocation. Why duel Voldemort solo when you could swarm him into pure defense? No matter his power, enduring a ceaseless magical assault left no room for counterattacks. It was like pinning an opponent in their starting position—overwhelm and deny any openings.
Voldemort's vessel, a run-of-the-mill dark wizard scraped from the shadows, limited his options further. No Azkaban escapee or elite Death Eater here; this host's magical reserves were mediocre at best. Silent, wandless spells might have shattered the pressure, but with such a frail conduit? Unlikely.
The Dark Lord's expression darkened as he parried relentlessly. The students' fire slackened—magic drew on reserves, and not everyone matched Erwin's endurance. Sensing the lull, Voldemort struck.
A green beam lanced out. "Avada Kedavra!"
It targeted Hermione, who'd been casting with the most fervor. Her face drained of color; she'd devoured enough books to recognize the Killing Curse instantly. For a heartbeat, she imagined her ancestors calling her name.
But two stones hurtled from the earth, intercepting the curse. The green light shattered against them, fizzling harmlessly.
Then the four Heads of House appeared.
Professor McGonagall waved her wand, sending the stones tumbling aside. She turned with a warm smile. "Well done, children. Now step back—this is our fight."
Hermione blinked, a lump forming in her throat at the professor's protective stance. Her eyes misted. "Professor... you all made it!"
McGonagall ruffled her hair gently. "That's enough from you lot. Stand aside."
Voldemort's scowl deepened. At full strength, his curse would have vaporized those stones. This vessel, though—far weaker than even Quirrell—hampered him.
His icy gaze fixed on Snape. "Severus. It's been ages."
Snape met it silently, his face a mask.
Voldemort sneered. McGonagall stepped forward, her voice sharp. "I never thought you'd crawl back from the grave."
A chilling laugh escaped him. "Minerva McGonagall. Eleven years since our last dance—you were formidable then." His eyes slid to Flitwick and Sprout, old foes both.
Flitwick's voice cracked like a whip. "Voldemort, give it up. You won't slip away this time!"
"Silence!" Voldemort spat. "In my prime, none of you would dare face me. Surrender? You're beneath that. Show me how rusty you've grown!"
The students, huddled at the sidelines, paled at the name. They'd pegged him as just another dark wizard, but Flitwick's confirmation hit like a Bludger. Whispers rippled through the group, eyes flicking to the equally shocked Harry Potter. He absently traced the lightning scar throbbing on his forehead since the chaos began.
This was Voldemort?
Unseen by all, Rita Skeeter's beetle form scribbled furiously nearby. The Dark Lord's resurrection—her master had predicted it. Front-page gold.
Voldemort's taunt barely faded when Sprout struck first. Her wand slashed, hurling a binding spell straight at him.
He parried with ease, riposting instantly. She blocked, the clash sending sparks flying. The duel ignited.
Erwin observed keenly, marveling at the Heads' prowess. Wands whipped through the air, spells streaking like fireworks—blinding reds, blues, and golds clashing in a dazzling storm. It was raw spectacle.
Voldemort held his own against four, his experience turning the tide despite the vessel's frailty. Deflections flowed seamlessly into counters, forcing the professors to weave and dodge. But the host's limits showed: spells fizzled at edges, his movements lagged just a fraction.
Everyone sensed it—the fight couldn't last. Voldemort couldn't sustain against four skilled duelists indefinitely. Exhaustion would claim him, vessel or not.
...
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