Hogwarts: Harry Potter’s Return from the Witcher World
Chapter 463: The Patronus Charm

Chapter 463: The Patronus Charm

What right did Snape have to speak such words?

Love?

Could he possibly understand love?

What a joke.

By upbringing and experience, his past was arguably even more tragic than Voldemort’s own.

Voldemort stared coldly at Snape, like a serpent studying its prey.

He’d grown up in an orphanage, yes, but at least he hadn’t been beaten by a drunken father or forced by a love-blinded mother to apologize to said father. That had been Snape’s home life.

And at Hogwarts—

During Tom’s time, Slytherin hadn’t yet developed such hostility toward half-bloods. Handsome, brilliant, and claiming pureblood heritage, Tom had been widely admired—even suspicions were drowned by reverence when he displayed Parseltongue.

But Snape?

He had been bullied from the start.

A half-blood and poor, he had been targeted relentlessly. Even after he showed talent and tried to integrate into Slytherin, the bullying continued—from both within and outside the house.

And this man spoke of love?

"Severus, I admire you," Voldemort said, trying to calm himself, voice soft. "You, I, Crouch—we’re the same."

"Unhappy childhoods."

"Exceptional talent."

"A deep understanding of the world—"

Snape interrupted him. "Dark Lord... Voldemort. No, we are not the same."

"You do not understand love."

He paused, letting out a bitter laugh. "Though I suppose neither do I."

"But at least I longed for it. I yearned for it."

"Love is the most powerful magic in the world."

Snape didn’t claim to understand it. Dumbledore believed he did—but Snape disagreed. Maybe he had grasped it, unknowingly.

But that vague, mysterious force—

Let a dark wizard like him cast a Patronus.

Kept him sane.

Kept him alive.

Voldemort sneered, raising his hand. "How laughable. Lily Potter had love. She still died by my curse."

"And now you think you can stop me?"

Behind him, the surviving Wild Hunt knights fought with unnatural devotion, the Dark Mark compelling their loyalty. But it was hardly effective against Dumbledore and Harry.

Snape flicked his wand, tossing the severed left arm to Voldemort. "This belonged to you. I’m returning it."

"You lost an arm. I gave you one back. Now we’re even."

"As for whether I can stop you—"

He pulled a potion from beneath his robes.

Voldemort recognized it—identical to the one Harry drank at the start.

"You lied to me," Voldemort said quietly. "When did your Occlumency become this good?"

Snape grinned and drank it swiftly. "Lied?"

"No—who would dare lie to you, the great Dark Lord?"

"I always told the truth."

The potion surged through him. His frail body convulsed, veins bulged. His face contorted with lines like battle scars burned into his flesh.

Magic and life force surged explosively.

As if all the suffering of the past year had been saving up for this moment.

"I only ever told you part of the truth. The rest—you never asked."

Snape fought not to let pain color his voice.

The Thunderbrew potion placed an immense burden on him.

Especially—

In such violent storm weather.

"You’re an unimaginable spy," Voldemort said softly—and fired a Killing Curse.

Snape dodged lightly, his wand conjuring black Fiendfyre, shaped into a giant serpent—a dark Patronus of sorts—lunging at Voldemort.

It collided with the white fire and extinguished.

Even boosted by the potion, Snape remained outmatched.

Only Dumbledore—or Harry on two potions—could rival Voldemort.

Snape couldn’t take more. One dose was already draining his life force. Blood poured from his eyes, nose, skin—dark, thick, unnatural.

And worst—his spells had no real effect.

Curses, dark magic, potions—Voldemort shrugged them all off.

Voldemort’s voice was calm. "You’ve disappointed me."

Twin streams of White Frost struck from both sides.

What had no effect on Harry was no better against Snape—he could fly.

He dived—Frost collided in mid-air.

But Voldemort anticipated this.

A huge frost spear, conjured mid-dive, skewered Snape’s shoulder, pinning him to the ground.

Snape coughed blood, raised his wand, and gasped, "Sectumsempra!"

His signature curse.

Invisible blades tore through the air. Voldemort didn’t dodge. They sliced off his ear.

Frost gathered again—another white spear pierced Snape’s other shoulder.

But Snape didn’t stop.

Weakly, he raised his wand, his voice trembling yet firm—perhaps for the last time:

"Expecto Patronum!"

Light mist shimmered.

His wand glowed silver.

A silver doe leapt into being, clumsy and innocent, stumbling forward with childlike glee.

Snape looked at it with wonder.

Such a beautiful creature.

He had carried it inside for sixteen years.

Voldemort laughed cruelly. "A Patronus? Severus, what do you take me for?"

"A Dementor?"

"A vampire bat?"

"You think that could work on me?"

He pointed and hissed: "Avada Kedavra!"

Green light shattered the silver doe.

Snape closed his eyes in pain.