Chapter 71: Annihilation of a Soul

"Dracula, what is that look on your face?!"

Seeing Dracula's amusement curdle into sheer, utter indifference, a wave of primal terror washed over Voldemort. He panicked. The black smoke of his form began to thrash wildly within the blood-red prison, hurling itself against the crimson walls again and again, heedless of the searing pain as his very essence was corroded and dissolved. He had to escape. He had to get away from this demon.

Dracula watched his frantic struggles with cold, dispassionate eyes. He slowly, deliberately, clenched his fist.

In an instant, the water prison constricted, collapsing in on itself, engulfing the last vestiges of the Dark Lord's soul in a final, crushing embrace.

"Why...?" A desperate, disbelieving shriek echoed from within the churning blood. "I don't believe it! No one is immune to the lure of eternal life!"

Dracula unfurled his wings and drifted closer, his expression unreadable. "Perhaps," he said, his voice a soft, chilling whisper, "you should have looked more closely at who you were trying to bargain with."

The ghostly image of the dark moon still shimmered behind him, throwing his form into a sharp, slender silhouette. The only light came from the wine-red glow of his pupils and the cold, sharp glint of his fangs.

A final, horrifying realization dawned in Voldemort's fading consciousness. It all made sense now—the sudden appearance of an impossibly powerful wizard from a forgotten age, Dumbledore's strange hiring of a new Defense professor, the ability to Apparate freely within the castle's wards...

"The vampire count... of the legends..." The resentful whisper was the last sound Voldemort ever made.

The crimson prison snapped shut, leaving not a single gap. The black smoke that was Lord Voldemort was utterly, completely obliterated.

The dark moon faded. The sky above the Forbidden Forest fell silent, the only sounds the distant calls of deer and birds from within the deep woods.

Dracula dispersed the river of blood, hovering quietly in the night air, his expression thoughtful.

When he returned to the fourth-floor corridor, he was met with a scene of organized chaos.

Madam Pomfrey was bustling about, levitating a stretcher carrying an unconscious Harry Potter, while a sobbing Hermione Granger trailed behind. Near the entrance to the trapdoor, Hagrid was clutching the massive, petrified form of Fluffy, his body wracked with great, gulping sobs. The short, stout Professor Sprout was standing on her tiptoes, carefully examining the dog's wide, glassy eyes.

"There, there, Hagrid, he's not dead," she said, trying to comfort the inconsolable half-giant. "For a curse like this, a full-body application of Mandrake Restorative Draught should do the trick."

Dracula bypassed them and leaped down the open trapdoor. The Devil's Snare was gone, presumably collected by Professor Sprout, leaving only a hard, stone floor far below. He landed with a whisper-soft touch and continued on.

He passed Professor Flitwick, who was meticulously cleaning up the last of the giant wizard's chess set, and nodded a silent greeting. He strode past the two troll corpses Quirrell had left behind, through the extinguished flames, and back into the final chamber.

The room was far from quiet.

"...Albus, did you know all along that Voldemort's soul was lurking in this school?!"

Professor McGonagall's voice was a low, furious tremor. Her lips were pressed into a thin, white line, her face a mask of righteous anger as she accused Dumbledore of endangering the entire student body with his secrets and schemes.

Dumbledore stood before her, looking for all the world like a schoolboy being dressed down, his expression a mixture of helplessness and weary resignation. When he saw Dracula enter, his eyes lit up with relief.

"Professor Dracula! What a wonderful time for you to arrive," he said with a beaming smile, eagerly abandoning his lecture. "How did it go? Did you manage to deal with Voldemort?"

At the name, Professor McGonagall gasped, her anger momentarily forgotten. She turned to Dracula, her expression taut with anticipation.

"Theoretically, he has been taken care of," Dracula said softly. "His soul has been completely obliterated. Not even ash remains."

"Then why 'theoretically'?" she asked, confused.

"Because," Dracula said, his gaze meeting Dumbledore's, "I have a feeling he is still alive. Even with that soul-form annihilated, he may be reborn elsewhere."

Dracula and Dumbledore looked at each other, a single, unspoken word flashing between them.

Horcrux.

They both knew the grim truth. As long as a single Horcrux remained, the creator's soul was anchored to the mortal plane. The spectral form Dracula had just destroyed was a significant blow, weakening Voldemort to a state even more pathetic than the one he had endured for the past decade, but it was not the end. He was still alive, and the possibility of his return remained.

A heavy silence fell over the room. Dumbledore was lost in thought, already plotting his next move. McGonagall was pale with worry for the safety of her students. Dracula, for his part, was morbidly curious, wondering what secrets could be unlocked from a man who had torn his own soul to pieces.

Just then, a rough, booming voice shattered the quiet.

"Albus! Come give me a hand with this little beauty! I want to raise it in the Forbidden Forest!"

It was Professor Kettleburn, the Care of Magical Creatures teacher. He was standing triumphantly atop the massive, coiled form of the Basilisk, having somehow managed to climb it with only one arm and half a leg.

Dumbledore turned and stared at the monstrous serpent, which took up half the room. He looked at the gleeful, one-legged professor standing on its head. He looked back at the snake.

That, he thought with a profound sense of weariness, is the "little beauty" he's talking about?

(End of Chapter)

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