Hogwarts: Harry Potter’s Return from the Witcher World
Chapter 464: Sirius Isn’t Dead Yet

Chapter 464: Sirius Isn’t Dead Yet

Death wasn’t terrifying.

Snape wasn’t afraid. In fact, he welcomed it.

To die under Voldemort’s curse—perhaps that was the best possible ending.

Even if he never truly had her, even if they’d severed all ties, even if he was nothing like her... at least this way, he’d die as she did. That, at least, was one more thing he could share with her.

He accepted death calmly. But someone else did not.

The instant the green light of the Killing Curse shot forth, the marble floor beneath them twisted violently. Two towering walls rose up.

The spell struck the walls—massive explosions followed.

Shards of stone flew everywhere.

Snape knew someone had intervened. Dumbledore? Or Potter? Perhaps both.

He tried to open his eyes, but he couldn’t.

His strength had drained away completely. The potion—never meant for someone like him—was wreaking havoc, tearing his body apart.

Voldemort turned back.

Harry flew in on a Firebolt, dragging a flailing Dumbledore behind him.

Snape hadn’t been able to defeat Voldemort. But his small body, feeble magic, and desperate effort achieved exactly what was needed—he bought enough time for Harry and Dumbledore to arrive.

"Go help Professor Snape," Harry said softly, leaping from the broom.

The potion’s effects still surged within him.

Voldemort had lost an arm and his wand. Against someone like Snape, he was still overwhelming. But against Harry—whose power now rivaled his—he struggled.

Worse still—

His will was faltering.

Dumbledore landed behind the stone wall.

Snape’s condition was dire. Blood loss, desiccated limbs, ragged breath.

Voldemort hadn’t inflicted most of the damage.

The potion had.

The youngest Potions Master, most knowledgeable in brews, now undone by them.

Dumbledore cast healing spells—but to no avail. The potion’s backlash was far beyond spellcraft.

Even the Resurrection Stone, one of the Deathly Hallows, couldn’t bring back someone unwilling to live.

Just like the Philosopher’s Stone couldn’t extend Nicolas Flamel’s life forever.

To save Snape, he had to want to live.

"Severus, you can’t die yet," Dumbledore said.

Snape made no sound.

Dumbledore thought a moment—then tried Harry’s tone. "We still need a Defense Against the Dark Arts professor. If you die, we’ll be short next year."

No response.

Dumbledore pressed on: "Harry needs you. He still has potions only you can brew."

Snape’s breathing stirred faintly.

But it wasn’t enough.

Dumbledore leaned close, whispering:

"Sirius Black isn’t dead."

Snape jolted. His breath surged.

His eyelids twitched. He fought to open them.

That one sentence ignited his will.

Right—

How could he die?

That mutt Black was still alive!

He had to live long enough to see him dead.

Dumbledore smiled gently and continued casting spells. Snape’s wounds stabilized. They weren’t healed, but they stopped worsening.

With some protection spells, Dumbledore looked skyward.

He wouldn’t treat Snape further—not here. Just keeping him alive was enough.

More important things remained.

Harry fought Voldemort on a Firebolt.

With the Blizzardbrew still active, he moved through the sky with ease.

The only flaw: while Harry could dodge, the broom couldn’t—it was just a tool. Uncontrolled, it became a target.

In minutes, he’d already lost two brooms.

But this flaw was manageable.

Besides the one he rode, he had four more in the Sorting Hat.

Voldemort wouldn’t last until broom number seven.

At first, Harry fought to weaken him.

Now—every strike aimed to kill.

One slash took off an ear.

Another, the nose.

Handsome Tom Riddle reverted to his true self: noseless.

Fear finally crept into him.

He tried to flee.

Magic surged—he shot upward.

Harry watched him—then dropped his Occlumency defenses.

A sudden link flared between them.

Voldemort turned, confused—then paled.

The Horcrux!

Harry was one of his Horcruxes—unintended, made when Lily Potter died.

Damn it!

Harry raised his wand and aimed at his scar.

The soul tether twisted—pain exploded.

Voldemort froze.

In that instant, Harry jumped from the broom.

Voldemort recoiled and lashed out. White Frost shredded the Firebolt; twin bursts struck from both sides.

Harry became a white wolf—dashed through the frost, sword in jaws.

Shunk! The blade pierced Voldemort’s throat.

He shifted back to human form instantly.

With his wand, he turned a dangling alchemical bomb to iron and dragged them both earthward.

BOOM!

Dust shot up like smoke.

Harry drew the Serpentbone Sword and impaled Voldemort’s chest.

"Harry, catch!" Geralt shouted, tossing him both his swords.

Harry flicked his wand.

One plunged into Voldemort’s right arm.

The other pierced his stomach.

"Tom," Harry said quietly, "let’s finish this."

Voldemort grit his teeth.

"Albus," Harry said, forcing Voldemort’s head straight with a transfiguration spell, prying open his eyelids.

Dumbledore approached.

Legilimency.

Together, they dove into his mind.

Voldemort was a master of Legilimency and Occlumency. But his mind was fractured, his soul in pieces. He couldn’t resist.

They scoured his memories.

From the Room of Requirement to Crouch planting Karkaroff, to every moment after his resurrection.

Every memory was clear.

Dumbledore finished slightly before Harry. They exchanged what they’d seen.

Once uncertain—

Then once more.

And finally, a third time.

They were sure now.

Voldemort had no more Horcruxes.

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