Hogwarts: Harry Potter’s Return from the Witcher World
Chapter 459: Am I Not Handsome?

Chapter 459: Am I Not Handsome?

Gael stood at the window, holding a spyglass, observing the scene.

Dumbledore’s spell had a wide range, cast swiftly, and targeted only the Polyjuice Potion, not Voldemort himself.

The face of "Eredin" was wiped away—revealing the young, striking features of Tom Riddle.

"So this is your ace?" Voldemort said calmly, brushing his hand over his cheek. "A few of you come alone, thinking you can challenge an entire world? Just this?"

"Do you think removing the Polyjuice disguise will make the Wild Hunt turn on me?"

He chuckled. "My dear Albus, dear Harry, your decision to avoid the pursuit of power—truly wise."

"Because power... never originates from one individual."

He raised his arms, voice booming, "Tell me—am I not your King?!"

The Wild Hunt knights gathered around, momentarily hesitating.

Voldemort sneered.

The Dark Mark on their left arms burned with sudden pain. Subtle, but sharp and searing.

The hesitation vanished. The Wild Hunt erupted in cheers: "King! King! King!"

Far off in the Awakening Palace, Snape clutched his left arm and gritted his teeth.

Mass punishment made no distinction.

Gael lowered his spyglass. Though he only caught Voldemort’s final declaration, the stance, the expression, the cheers—it told him all he needed.

These visitors from another world had spoken the truth.

He turned toward Snape, whose eyes met his.

"Move your bloody head," Snape snarled.

Gripping his wand, he stared out toward the battlefield, resisting—barely—the urge to cut off his own arm.

In the sky, Voldemort spread his arms like a god and laughed triumphantly. "See it now? I am King—King of Worlds."

He paused, voice deepening: "Any world."

Harry stared up at him, smiling. "Yet you kept that face."

"And what’s wrong with it?" Voldemort replied. "The perfect face—one worthy of the strongest."

Yennefer nodded slightly in agreement.

Whatever he was, that face—Tom Riddle’s—was undeniably handsome. Even among handsome men like Geralt and Harry, it held its weight.

Harry’s voice was flat. "So, planning to use that face to seduce older women in other worlds?"

He looked at Yennefer, then added, "To be fair, she might fall for it."

Yennefer narrowed her eyes.

Not because of the latter part—but because of the former.

Older women?

"Potter!" Voldemort growled, but maintained his poise. He raised a hand elegantly. "You always speak with such venom, as if you’ve swallowed a whole Gryffindor."

"Ah, and if it were Slytherin, I suppose the tongue would betray me," Harry retorted.

A wand flew out from the building and landed in Voldemort’s hand.

Longer—thirteen inches, purpleheart wood, phoenix feather core. Not his original wand, which had been destroyed at Malfoy Manor.

This one had come from Ollivander’s reserves.

"Potter, I admit—you have some talent," Voldemort said softly. "I’ve fallen to you more than once."

"Maybe that’s given you courage... and a false confidence."

"You’ve come to believe yourself some messiah, the destined enemy of the great Lord Voldemort, ruler of all realms."

His tone hardened. "But it was all luck."

"The baby—your mother’s sacrifice triggered an ancient spell. I died by my own hand."

"First year—I was so weak, I couldn’t even exist alone."

"Second year—just a fragment, not yet revived."

"Fourth year—same thing. Killing an unarmed child doesn’t make you a hero."

"Last year... One true Horcrux was restored."

"But you caught me before I regained my memories—you severed an arm."

Voldemort smirked. "I’ll give you that. At your age, I was no match."

"But now, Potter..."

"I have experience, infinite power, a complete body—and the force of multiple apocalypses at my command."

"Still think you can win?"

Harry spoke softly: "You’re afraid of me."

Voldemort paused. "You always say the most joyless things."

"If you weren’t afraid," Harry pressed, "you wouldn’t be listing off excuses to convince yourself."

"That’s who you are."

"You feared the weak, real Tom Riddle—so you renamed yourself Voldemort."

"You feared your past—so you buried it."

"But lies can’t shield you."

"Tom, look inward. Have you convinced yourself?"

Voldemort’s face twisted with rage. "Potter—don’t flatter yourself."

"Reality will prove the truth."

"Whether my words are fact or fantasy..."

He inhaled, steadied himself, and smiled coldly. "Then tell me—Potter, did you come alone?"

"Or with Dumbledore?"

Dumbledore stepped forward.

"Albus, you and Geralt handle the Wild Hunt," Harry turned and raised his wand.

Dumbledore looked at him, stern. "Harry."

"I’m not acting on pride," Harry said quietly. "Trust me—it’s a witcher’s judgment."

Geralt leaned in. "Be careful. He’s strong."

"He is," Harry replied with a calm smile.

Dumbledore handed him a wand. "If anything changes, I’ll step in immediately."

Above them, Voldemort’s breath hitched.

That... was the Elder Wand.

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Powerstones?

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