Hogwarts: Harry Potter’s Return from the Witcher World
Chapter 461: Threat

Chapter 461: Threat

Transfigured constructs coiled and solidified beneath Harry’s every step, each perfectly timed to form a stable path. These alchemical feats, even Geralt would marvel at.

But Harry was sure—they couldn’t harm Voldemort.

He leapt up in swift strides.

Below him, the ice encasing Voldemort cracked within seconds, splintering with a brittle crack-crack before shattering in a puff of mist, smoke, and rain.

"Potter, it’s useless!" Voldemort shouted upward.

Harry said nothing.

He raised his empty left hand—still unsheathing no sword—formed a hand sign, and smashed it down.

Yrden Sign!

A violet glow whirled to life, runes forming in midair.

Voldemort’s flight-enabling magic failed. His body plummeted, heavy and graceless, toward the ground.

He struggled to stabilize himself.

Harry slashed his wand. The ice parted. He adjusted his form—his boot stomped directly onto Voldemort’s face.

Just as Voldemort had recalibrated his magic, shaken off Yrden’s interference, and was about to rise—

That stomp threw him off balance again.

He and Harry both slammed into the ground, kicking up a cloud of dust.

Magical energy surged. The stone serpent came crashing down, coiling into a ring with its tail in its mouth.

"Albus!" Harry called.

Dumbledore turned. On the serpent’s body, a layer of iron bars sprouted—he understood Harry’s intent. Geralt rushed forward, shielding them, slamming down an Aard Sign. With the help of potion enhancements, the shockwave sent foes tumbling.

Dumbledore raised his wand.

The cage’s growth accelerated.

When Voldemort regained focus, he was already imprisoned. Shadows loomed overhead; rain and frost trickled through the broad slats—but none wide enough for escape.

And this was no ordinary prison.

It was a magical construct.

Dumbledore’s and Harry’s magic.

"Now," Harry said calmly, "the real duel begins."

Voldemort sneered. "So much trouble, just to bring me to the ground?"

"You should’ve tried a Killing Curse then—might’ve actually worked."

Harry dipped his hand into the Sorting Hat. "Do you even have a soul left?"

"You tore yourself apart. Is that body even still you?"

"Words mean nothing to me," Voldemort replied coolly. "You think a few self-righteous taunts will make me doubt myself?"

He saw Harry draw the sword and raised his wand.

White Frost surged forward.

The cage restricted Voldemort—but it also restricted Harry.

"I thought you’d wised up," Voldemort sneered. "Yet here you are again, swinging that stupid sword."

"A single sword?"

"What can you hope to do with that alone?"

Harry didn’t reply. He rolled aside, dodging the Frost. Even a brush against it shattered his Quen shield and weakened his enchanted armor—it drained magic.

"Potter, you’re slowing down," Voldemort cackled. "Or is it me getting stronger?"

"See it now?"

"As the battle drags on, I don’t tire. I grow stronger."

He raised both arms.

Immense magic surged, blanketing the entire cage.

Harry flicked his wand—not at Voldemort or the Frost, but skyward.

Weather Charm!

Thunder cracked louder. Rain poured harder.

He downed a Thunder potion.

Magic boiled inside him.

Then another—a golden one. Blizzard—Snape’s modified Felix Felicis.

Time seemed to slow.

Magic flowed with perfect clarity. Harry’s vision sharpened—he could see magic itself.

Two currents.

One, bone white—Voldemort’s.

The other, soft gold—his own.

In terms of magical power, they were equal.

Two potions?

Voldemort scoffed. Snape had mentioned Potter’s delusions—dreaming of inventing new potions before mastering old ones. Because of reasons he didn’t disclose, Snape had aided him. But those potions seemed absurd to Voldemort—amplifying effects via toxins? For ordinary wizards, they were death sentences.

"Potter, seems you’re desperate now," Voldemort said softly.

Harry’s face stayed blank. "Am I?"

He lunged forward, kicking off the ground.

Voldemort flung his wand. Two Frost waves snapped shut like fangs.

But—

Harry twisted midair, weaving through the narrow gap with uncanny grace. His golden shield remained untouched.

That potion—it wasn’t Felix Felicis? But then what—

No time to think.

Harry was on him, raising the Sword of Gryffindor.

Voldemort sneered, began the curse. "Avada—"

The sword slashed him.

"—kedavra" never came.

His voice choked. "What did you do?"

His body tore. Pain followed—not overwhelming, but real.

Voldemort’s eyes filled with panic. In that instant, Harry adjusted his position, dodged the wand’s direction, and struck again.

A diagonal slash—straight through the chest.

Another pang.

Voldemort felt weakness creeping in.

It wasn’t fatal.

But it shouldn’t have happened at all.

He launched another wave of Frost—aimed to bury them both.

Harry retreated swiftly.

Voldemort merged with the Frost, flooding to the cage’s far end.

"Your voice trembles more," Harry said softly, raising his sword into stance. "Surprised?"

Voldemort didn’t answer. He stared at his wounds.

One on the left arm.

One at the heart.

Not deadly—but the Frost couldn’t heal them instantly.

A thin layer of balm... some kind of ointment, persistent and defiant, blocked regeneration.

"Ointment?" he muttered, disbelieving.

His invincible form—undone by ointment?

Harry slashed his wand—mist billowed. He dashed forward, vanishing into the haze.

No reply.

Voldemort grew cautious, dodging with effort. But the cage was too small.

Another clash.

He was struck again—right elbow, another puncture.

Just a fingertip-sized hole.

But his panic deepened.

He... can truly threaten my life.