Hogwarts: Harry Potter’s Return from the Witcher World
Chapter 462: Because of Love

Chapter 462: Because of Love

Voldemort felt a growing unease.

Even though another wound wouldn’t harm him—no vital organs, no blood vessels remained in his body—it wasn’t fatal, nor debilitating. It was just... unsightly.

A few holes in the flesh—far more charming than his magically disfigured form, at least.

But the meaning was different now.

In his plan, this wasn’t how it was supposed to go. One-on-one against Harry, he was supposed to win decisively, effortlessly—even if the boy was as slippery as a rat, it should’ve just taken a bit longer.

But now... he was wounded.

Was Harry truly his destined nemesis? The one from the prophecy?

He loathed the thought. Hated even the possibility.

And yet—his rare failures, one after another, were always because of Harry Potter.

Magic is the power of the soul.

His doubt began to ripple through his magic.

Inside the cage, his white spiritual aura began to waver, faltering beneath Harry’s steady golden glow.

That aura was magic’s pulse.

Harry saw it clearly. His Witcher-trained senses allowed him to spot the subtle vulnerabilities revealed in each hesitation.

And in battle—

That meant Voldemort, stunned, realized that even the smallest flicker of doubt made him more vulnerable to Harry’s strikes.

Same attacks. More magic.

Yet suddenly, they were ineffective.

Frost encircled Harry, twisted around him, but never reached.

Just short.

Every spell—just barely missed.

Harry moved with light steps, the sword dancing through the air. Again and again, he slipped through Voldemort’s defenses, carving wounds and slashes into his body.

White Frost raged. Green light flared.

Stormwinds howled through the cage.

But Harry, like a dancer, flowed between gusts. His wand cast transformation spells, which were swallowed by the Frost—only to explode into clouds of dust.

From the haze came a blade.

It pierced Voldemort’s abdomen.

His gut nearly burst open.

Voldemort gritted his teeth.

No. This couldn’t continue.

Harry’s strikes weren’t lethal—but they were cumulative. And now, he could feel it.

Weakness.

From deep within the soul.

He gripped his wand, staring at the faint pulse on Harry’s temple.

It all started with those two potions.

Maybe Harry had created something extraordinary.

And—

He glanced outside the cage.

Half the Wild Hunt had already fallen. No reinforcements arrived. Only the branded ones—the ones carrying his Dark Mark—continued to fight.

This was turning against him.

It couldn’t go on.

Voldemort raised his wand, casting upward at the cage’s roof.

A torrent of raw magic burst forth.

BOOM!

The cage exploded in a violent blast.

But at that very moment, the transfigured constructs twisted unexpectedly.

Voldemort had guessed right.

Harry and Dumbledore had rigged the bars.

Lion heads lunged to bite him. He repelled them with magic—like gunpowder hitting flame—boom!, chain explosions rocked him, disorienting.

Harry seized the moment, darting close, slashing at his right arm.

Flesh split. Bone cracked.

Voldemort didn’t counterattack. He focused on casting, escaping through the ruptured cage, flying far away.

Escaping?

Even Harry paused.

He hadn’t yet decisively won—yet Voldemort fled?

Had repeated failure shaken his confidence?

Harry swung his wand.

The cage twisted, reshaped into an iron serpent to pursue him.

In the Awakening Palace—

Snape stared out the window, frowning at Voldemort’s shrinking silhouette.

He didn’t hesitate.

He waved his wand—the window morphed, widened.

Black smoke coiled around him, lifting him skyward, flying after Voldemort.

Sixteen years ago, he’d been afraid.

Would he be the same now?

Flying, he chanted spells—aimed at his own left arm.

He had long pondered how to remove it. Practiced countless times in secret.

One last spell.

Sectumsempra.

Invisible blades surged from his wand—sharp as time itself—cleanly severing his arm.

It plummeted toward the ground with the rain.

Snape hesitated, then summoned it back, holding it in hand.

He would return it himself.

Both the arm—and the Dark Mark upon it.

Voldemort had already sensed him. Before even seeing him, he knew who it was.

That magic—so familiar.

It was his own invention—for supporting wizard flight.

Few Death Eaters could use it.

Even Crouch couldn’t.

Only one man.

Black and white lights collided.

Voldemort halted, murmuring, "Severus Snape."

Snape also stopped, silently staring at him.

"You betrayed me," Voldemort said, voice calm but decisive.

He hadn’t summoned Snape.

For him to appear now—there could be no other reason.

"Severus, I trusted you."

"But you chose Dumbledore and Potter. What did they promise you?"

His eyes held a strange sadness.

Snape shook his head, voice low but unwavering, heavy with finality: "I didn’t choose Albus or Potter. I chose myself."

"You chose yourself?" Voldemort echoed, faintly puzzled. "Then you shouldn’t have betrayed me."

He paused, then said coldly, "Even so, you shouldn’t have joined them."

"Why?"

Snape replied, firm and quiet as ever: "Because of love."

Love?

Voldemort froze—then rage overtook him.

That word again!

That pathetic reason!

Ever since his first failure—Lily, Dumbledore, Potter, Grindelwald—it was always this word.

"Because of love!"

What even is love? It wasn’t a spell.

Or...

Did it even exist?

His expression twisted as he stared at Snape.

Why—why was it always this ridiculous answer?

And now even Snape said it.

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