Chapter 312: Victory

Voldemort died just like that.

There wasn't even a grand duel worthy of his power—he simply fell at Cyrus's hands, effortlessly.

In the end, his death was no different from the countless ordinary wizards and Muggles who had perished at his command during the war.

So much so that when Harry looked down at Voldemort's lifeless body, he felt like he was dreaming.

He almost feared that the next second, Voldemort would rise again—it wouldn't have been the first time after all.

"He's really dead?" Harry asked.

"What else would you expect?" Cyrus replied softly.

He slowly approached Voldemort's corpse.

Even in death, his ashen-gray-red eyes remained wide open, his twisted expression frozen, as if he were cursing the world with his final breath.

"I just thought…" Harry hesitated, his lips parting slightly.

"…It's unexpected."

"This is Voldemort we're talking about! He killed so many people, his magic was so powerful! And yet, the way he died was just so…"

Harry strained to find the right word, before finally settling on something that still felt somewhat inadequate.

"…Unremarkable?"

Cyrus couldn't help but think that perhaps Hogwarts should start emphasizing basic literacy a bit more in their curriculum.

"But unremarkable? Hardly. The entire world just watched him die." Cyrus replied.

He understood what Harry truly meant.

Harry simply felt that Voldemort's death didn't suit his reputation. He had expected a grand, climactic battle, a death worthy of a Dark Lord—perhaps in a duel against Dumbledore, or even Cyrus himself.

"But you know," Cyrus said, his voice carrying an edge of meaning, "I think this kind of death suits him perfectly."

He looked down at Voldemort's lifeless face.

"He always thought he was extraordinary. Even in the Muggle world, he believed he was different. And when he entered the wizarding world, his exceptional talent only fed his arrogance."

Harry listened in silence.

"He refused to believe he was just another ordinary wizard born in a Muggle orphanage. He thought that someone as exceptional as himself must have a noble heritage to match his power. He searched relentlessly… until he finally found the truth of his wizarding bloodline—through the Gaunt family."

"But he was right, wasn't he?" Harry asked.

Voldemort had indeed traced his ancestry to pure-blood wizards, and not just any lineage—his blood was of the highest nobility. He was not only a descendant of Salazar Slytherin, but quite possibly a direct heir of the Peverell brothers as well.

"He found the right family," Cyrus admitted. "But his power never came from that bloodline, Harry. There are countless pure-blood wizards in the world, many from families just as old and prestigious. But how many of them had talent as powerful as Voldemort's?"

As he spoke, Cyrus's gaze drifted toward Grindelwald.

Grindelwald was also a pure-blood wizard, yet his ancestry was nowhere near as illustrious as Voldemort's. The same was true for Dumbledore's family.

They were not powerful because of their lineage—they were powerful because they themselves were strong.

Not to mention, by the time Voldemort found the Gaunt family, they had already fallen into complete ruin.

Obsessed with blood purity, they had resorted to generations of inbreeding, reducing their once-proud line to a dwindling handful of ugly, crippled, and half-mad remnants.

Harry listened carefully, his expression thoughtful.

"So what you're saying is… Voldemort was never really that special, was he?"

"That's exactly right, Harry."

Cyrus nodded in approval, pleased that Harry had understood.

"Look at him. He always thought he was superior, that everyone else was nothing more than lesser creatures beneath him."

Cyrus paced around Voldemort's lifeless body, speaking as if he were critiquing a dish at a banquet.

"He never cared for non-human creatures. He saw them as inferior, filthy… their very breath an offense to him."

"That's exactly how he saw Muggles."

Harry said.

"Yes, but how is he any different from them?" Cyrus countered. "He isn't a god. He dies just like anyone else. And in death, he becomes nothing more than a cold, lifeless corpse."

"He was powerful—unmatched, even. Not even I could say with certainty that I would always win against him." Cyrus admitted humbly. "He ruled Britain with his magic for years, killed countless people, and made the world tremble in fear."

Harry thought of his parents, of all those who had perished at the hands of Voldemort and his Death Eaters. Some had been fighters, others had been innocent victims—all of them had suffered because of his strength.

Wasn't it his power that made Voldemort truly extraordinary?

Harry thought so.

But Cyrus disagreed.

"His strength was only an illusion."

"Voldemort was like a child holding a deadly weapon, believing himself to be invincible. But in the face of death and failure, he was nothing more than a coward."

Cyrus spoke with a sorrowful expression, as if the entire tragedy of Voldemort's existence could be summed up in that one statement.

Harry found it bizarre.

He had never imagined that one day, someone would describe Voldemort as a pitiful weakling.

And yet—

Hearing it from Cyrus, it felt undeniably true.

It wasn't just because Cyrus had defeated Voldemort—it was the undeniable truth in his words, the kind of truth that carried a power beyond magic itself.

"Strip away his magic, and he was nothing."

Cyrus shook his head.

"Just like beneath his handsome facade, his soul was nothing more than a broken, patched-up mess—fragile, filthy…"

"He was never worthy of being a respected opponent, never worthy of a grand funeral."

Fwoosh!

Cyrus raised his wand, igniting a brilliant flame, and under Harry's watchful gaze, he burned Voldemort's corpse to nothing but ashes.

"That's it. Let his delusions of grandeur be reduced to nothing, swallowed up in an ordinary death."

Harry nodded blankly, unable to tear his eyes away.

It was so ironic.

Voldemort had believed himself a god, had spent his life desperately trying to escape what he saw as his greatest shame—His lowly birth, his human body, the inevitability of death…

But in the end—he failed.

He could never erase the Muggle blood in his veins, he still died, and he died no differently from any other mortal.

Or perhaps—that was the best ending he could have had.

"I still have one more question..." Harry asked.

Seeing that Cyrus didn't seem inclined to refuse, he continued, "Why did Voldemort's spell stop working on you?"

But it wasn't Cyrus who answered—it was Snape.

"Simple. Because that wasn't the Elder Wand."

His expression remained as sour as ever, and when he looked at Harry, it was with the same disdain one might have for a particularly dense troll.

"Surely you don't think that after all the planning Cyrus and Dumbledore put into this, even accounting for the possibility of my failure, they would have left something as crucial as you as a weak point?"

As Snape pointed out, Cyrus would never have pinned all his hopes on a single person.

If Snape had failed, then Nagini was always prepared to destroy the Elder Wand in Voldemort's grasp.

From the very beginning, Nagini had never betrayed Cyrus—she had merely waited for the right moment, serving as Snape's safety net.

"And where did the third Elder Wand come from?"

"That," Cyrus said with a knowing smile, "is another story."

After a brief pause, he decided to explain it to Harry anyway.

"You know that I've been searching for traces of ancient magic recently."

Harry nodded, and Cyrus continued.

"The four previous Guardians of Ancient Magic created a series of trials to protect its secrets. One of them left behind a magical illusion in her trial—inside that illusion was a false Elder Wand."

"So the third Elder Wand was fake from the very beginning." Harry suddenly understood. "But Ancient Magic is powerful—still, I never thought it could extract a false Elder Wand from an illusion and bring it into reality."

"That's where you're wrong, Harry." Cyrus shook his head. "Magic that exists within an illusion can only exist inside that illusion. It can never be brought into the real world."

A fake would always be a fake.

If Ancient Magic could create an unlimited number of Elder Wands and bring them into reality, wouldn't that mean an unstoppable army could be forged in an instant?

"But the one in your hands worked like a real Elder Wand at first!"

Harry felt that Cyrus's explanation contradicted itself.

But Cyrus only smiled mysteriously.

"Who said this is the real world?"

"What?"

"Idiot, have you not realized that this isn't the real Hogwarts?" Snape sneered.

He had already healed his fractured arm with potions—a shattered bone was hardly a concern in the wizarding world.

"You're just as thick-headed as your father was! Or do you simply not have a brain at all?"

With just two sentences, Snape made Harry's face burn with embarrassment.

No matter what Snape had done, as long as he was alive, Harry was certain he would never like him.

If Snape had died heroically, perhaps Harry would have mourned him.

But he wasn't dead—not only was he very much alive, but he was also healthy and full of energy—just so he could insult Harry's dead father.

Harry understood now just how much pressure Snape had endured, caught between Dumbledore and Voldemort for years.

Maybe he had never truly felt remorse for the people Voldemort had killed, but as a double agent, he had saved lives nonetheless.

And yet, this was just who he was.

Always wrapped in that black cloak, always hiding whatever good was left in him, as if it was something shameful, something that could never see the light of day.

But Harry wasn't in the mood to argue with him now.

Being around someone who had loved his mother so obsessively still made him uncomfortable.

"What do you mean this isn't the real world?"

"This is, in fact, the illusion," Cyrus explained. "Didn't you notice that something was off about this Hogwarts from the very beginning?"

Only now did Harry realize—perhaps because he had been so preoccupied with his death, he had never truly paid attention to the subtle inconsistencies in the castle.

Thinking back, there were indeed many strange things.

For instance, there had never been sunlight inside the castle. Looking out from within, all he had ever seen was a murky, gray sky, something he had simply dismissed as resembling a Pensieve's haze.

More than that—there were no familiar portraits in the castle, and most importantly—There were no ghosts.

No Peeves!

"So… this Hogwarts is just an illusion?" Harry asked in shock.

Cyrus smiled slightly, but instead of answering, he pointed at the ground beneath Harry's feet.

Harry instinctively looked down—only to notice that the puddle he had stepped in wasn't reflecting properly.

Instead, dark streaks rippled through the water, like faded ink from an old painting.

Snap!

The sound echoed through the vast Chamber of Secrets as Cyrus snapped his fingers.

Nothing seemed to change—And yet, everything felt completely different.

Harry felt as though something had peeled away from him, like a thin, gray veil being lifted. And suddenly, he could see the world as it truly was.

His eyes cleared, and the world around him brightened—Colors returned, the murkiness washed away, like a world cleansed after the rain.

"The three of us together cast the illusion over Hogwarts." Grindelwald added.

He knew Harry was Dumbledore's favorite student, but he no longer minded.

In fact, when he looked at Harry now, there was almost a grandfatherly fondness in his gaze.

"Alright, let's get out of here." Cyrus said, stepping forward. "Honestly, I've never liked the Chamber of Secrets—"

...

The shift in Hogwarts seemed to have gone unnoticed by those at the Quidditch pitch.

They could see the battle but couldn't hear it, and to them, the fight had been anything but dull.

Before Voldemort's death, there had already been an intense, breathtaking duel within the castle.

When Harry fought Voldemort, the Dark Lord's immense power had been on full display—Which made his final, abrupt death all the more shocking.

So much so that over a thousand wizards fell into absolute silence at the same time.

"He's dead… really dead, right?"

No one knew who spoke first—but the words fell like a stone into still water, sending ripples of disbelief across the crowd.

"Hey!! The Dark Lord is really dead!"

Lee's dark-skinned face flushed with excitement, and he leaped onto a chair, flinging his wizard's hat high into the air. In his exhilaration, he even fired off a spell at it—blowing the poor, innocent hat to smithereens!

Normally, this would be the moment McGonagall would step in, sternly reprimanding him.

But this time, she didn't.

Even her usually pursed lips curved into a rare smile.

At times like this, young wizards needed something to celebrate!

And truth be told, even McGonagall herself had the urge to shout—

"Stone Gargoyles, assemble! Let's celebrate this glorious day!"

Her sharp gaze swept across the Quidditch pitch—And with Lee leading the charge, the entire student body erupted into thunderous cheers.

"The Dark Lord is dead!"

"Long live Cyrus!"

"Long live Cyrus!"

"Long live Cyrus!"

Their voices rose like a tidal wave, one roar overtaking the next.

Even the students from Durmstrang and Beauxbatons were no exception.

Then, at some point—McGonagall wasn't sure who said it—though she strongly suspected Ron—A voice called out over the crowd:

"If he's dead, why are we still calling him the Dark Lord?"

And so, everyone shouted again—"Voldemort is dead!"

Ron bellowed, "No—Tom is dead!"

But that didn't sit well with Hannah, who crossed her arms in mild irritation—after all, she had an uncle named Tom, the very same Tom who owned the Leaky Cauldron.

Just as Cyrus had said, Tom Riddle thought himself extraordinary.

But in the end, he was just another ordinary man.

Even his name was painfully ordinary.

________

The fic isn't ending- It'll still have 40 more chapters. 

Spoiler: The last enemy that shall be destroyed is death(★‿★)

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