Hogwarts: Harry Potter’s Return from the Witcher World
Chapter 460: Suppression

Chapter 460: Suppression

Voldemort’s eyes burned with desire.

That was the one thing he craved most lately.

"It might help you a little, though not as much as you think," Dumbledore said softly.

Harry shook his head, firmly refusing. "No. You keep it."

"It doesn’t accept me."

The Elder Wand didn’t suit him. In fact, when he held it, the wand had nearly challenged him, eager to defy.

A powerful opponent.

Dumbledore took it back, glanced up at Voldemort, and added quietly, "Be careful."

Voldemort looked at Harry. "That’s the Elder Wand. Why aren’t you using it?"

"It might give you a sliver of a chance."

"I can already kill you. Why would I need it?" Harry replied plainly.

Voldemort said no more. He lifted his wand.

The White Frost surged forward, twisting into a massive serpent, bearing down on him with crushing force.

He floated motionless in the air.

In battle, Voldemort almost never used such spells—it kept him too distant from the pleasure of watching his victims’ pain and despair.

But not with Potter.

He had to ensure he remained at a safe distance.

Potter was unmatched in close combat.

Watching him, Voldemort’s lips curled into a twisted grin.

Harry raised his wand.

Nearby stone pillars twisted into an even larger serpent, writhing and coiling.

But these conjured beasts weren’t for battle—they were his stairway, his means to reach Voldemort, who hovered in the sky.

Climbing the serpent wasn’t easy, even with a witcher’s agility. The platform shifted with every move.

And Voldemort had no intention of letting him get close without resistance.

White flames roared.

The air plummeted into freezing cold.

Snow and hail joined the lightning and rain—Harry’s doing through a weather spell. Everything else was White Frost’s influence.

Rain hitting the ground instantly froze—dangerous footing. Harry had to further transfigure the serpent’s "skin" to be rough enough for grip.

Far off, soldiers forbidden by Gael to intervene—and Gael himself—watched from a distance.

The serpents clashed in midair, creating a spectacle more akin to a war than a duel.

Mist, wind, snow, and fire surrounded them—but in truth, these grand visuals contributed little to the actual fight.

The White Frost serpent only slowed Harry slightly. It didn’t hurt him, barely impeded him at all—Harry was, after all, a top-notch Seeker, a master of aerial maneuvering even under pressure.

Compared to a Bludger, the serpent wasn’t much of a threat.

Ironically, it was the minor spells that proved more effective.

Voldemort flicked his wand.

A piece of hail on the stone serpent suddenly exploded into slick oil.

Harry summoned fire to burn it away.

Chains materialized midair. The snowflakes and hail—unbound by Harry’s weather spell—were Voldemort’s allies. He manipulated them with impunity.

The serpent grew arms, batting the chains aside with ease.

Naturally, Harry didn’t just take hits.

His mastery of Transfiguration was second to none.

"Arrow Barrage!"

Thousands of arrows conjured—each perfectly honed—hurtled at Voldemort.

He didn’t dodge. Didn’t even try to block them.

Instead, he kept casting at Harry.

The arrows pierced him, leaving gaping holes.

But no blood spilled—his body pulsed with White Frost. It healed instantly, even his robes regenerating.

"Potter, do you see?" Voldemort murmured.

"You have no chance against me."

"In magic, I suppress you."

"You’re better at close range, yes—but mortal weapons can’t harm a god."

Harry tilted his head. "Just confirming something."

Voldemort raised an eyebrow. "Oh?"

"You really are a freak," Harry said clearly. "You’re not even wearing clothes."

His robes were White Frost constructs too.

"Still taunting me, Potter?" Voldemort’s spellcasting accelerated.

Powerful spells didn’t guarantee victory—especially if they couldn’t land.

Just like now.

If Voldemort cast the Killing Curse and missed, it did less than a simple Explosion Charm.

So they fought like third-years—throwing minor hexes and jinxes, reshaping the battlefield in real time.

Smoke spells, Transfiguration, Lumos—

Basic spells bloomed into deadly weapons in their hands.

Only when Voldemort was confident—like when Harry was trapped between two Frost serpents and had limited options—would he cast Avada Kedavra.

It was his hallmark move: force his opponent into a corner where dodging was impossible.

Many used the Killing Curse.

But only Voldemort had turned it into a signature.

It didn’t work on Harry.

He always escaped—through transformation, slipping through cracks, or simply leaping off his carefully constructed path to start over.

Reckless but calculated.

Voldemort felt the pressure. He was supposed to have the advantage, forcing Harry to retreat.

But their gap was closing.

This—Harry had earned.

Voldemort looked up.

A massive statue crashed down.

He dodged, flying aside.

Then it struck him—he hadn’t been chased.

He had let Harry close the distance.

Transfigured attacks didn’t harm him, true—but they had inched them closer, centimeter by centimeter.

He couldn’t allow it.

Voldemort raised his hand, Frost pushing him upward.

Too late.

Harry had already pulled something from his hat and hurled it hard.

BOOM.

It exploded midair—ice spreading out.

Harry swung his wand. Snow and hail linked together to form a straight bridge, stretching from the explosion’s center toward Voldemort.