Hogwarts: Harry Potter’s Return from the Witcher World
Chapter 465: Tom Doesn’t Understand Love

Chapter 465: Tom Doesn’t Understand Love

Voldemort no longer had the means to do anything.

Nor did his soul.

His tattered, fragmented soul couldn’t be split further.

Snape had been right.

Harry reached out and gripped the hilt of the Sword of Gryffindor.

He was ready to bring this to an end—to cut off Voldemort’s head.

"Potter," Voldemort spoke suddenly. "You’re not stronger than me."

Though his throat had been pierced, his elemental-constructed body still allowed him to speak.

The effects of the two potions were beginning to fade.

Harry’s hand paused. He nodded slightly. "Yeah. I’m not stronger than you."

"But you were afraid."

"And that’s why you lost."

Voldemort stressed his words: "I wasn’t afraid of you."

Harry said nothing.

"Does love... really exist?" Voldemort—no, it was Tom Riddle now—asked.

Dumbledore replied gently, "Of course it does."

"You once had it."

"Really?" Tom Riddle’s eyes grew distant as memories flooded his mind. His voice was faint—perhaps from his failing life force, or perhaps from disbelief.

Faces flickered in his memory.

The young wizard who defended him against pureblood bullies when he first entered Slytherin.

The Ravenclaw girl who handed him a love letter in fifth year.

Slughorn’s enthusiastic praise in Potions class.

Bellatrix... young Barty Crouch...

Had they loved him?

Dumbledore watched Voldemort’s thoughts carefully and nodded. "Yes. They loved you."

"But you didn’t care. You didn’t believe. And you let it all slip away."

Tom Riddle closed his eyes.

Harry pressed down.

The sword cleaved through his neck.

The soul that had once been loved, and then torn apart by his own hand, finally disintegrated.

"He’s dead," Dumbledore whispered with both sorrow and relief.

This nightmare had haunted the wizarding world for decades.

He had been a student Dumbledore once cherished—and deeply regretted.

He had returned so many times... but this time, he was truly gone.

Voldemort’s body collapsed like sand.

It had been constructed of White Frost, held together by his soul. With the soul gone, nothing remained to keep it whole.

The frost surged outward, instinctively seeking to consume.

But Harry now held Voldemort’s knowledge of controlling it.

A flick of his wand, and the scattered frost stilled.

"He’s dead," Harry echoed.

"Harry, are you hurt?" Yennefer appeared beside him via portal, clearly worried.

The battle had been titanic.

Even the aftermath had killed numerous Wild Hunt warriors. The milky-white flames—seemingly cold—were violently aggressive. When they touched the Wild Hunt, they froze them solid, then shattered them to powder with a breeze.

The powder of burned bone.

From that fire alone, Yennefer knew: this was no enemy she could have faced.

She would’ve been annihilated.

Harry shook his head. "Minor injuries. Bit of dittany and I’ll be fine."

Avallac’h approached, surveying the battlefield. "You’ve left the Aen Elle Elves with a massive mess."

"That’s your own fault," Harry shot back bluntly.

Geralt chimed in, "You chased Ciri. You brought this on yourselves."

"We hoped to solve things peacefully," Avallac’h said quietly.

Harry stared at him, face blank. "It’s laughable to hear you say ’peacefully.’"

The Aen Elle were far from the refined, artistic beings they pretended to be.

Peace?

A race that had waged war across countless worlds?

"We should talk," Avallac’h suggested.

But he didn’t get to finish.

Electric sparks shimmered across the ground. A white flash—and Ciri appeared.

"I saw the fighting was over, so I portaled here. I don’t trust Gael," she added.

Avallac’h was stunned.

Ciri’s words were her answer to his proposal.

Harry said softly, "Ciri doesn’t trust you. Neither do we."

"You’d best clean up your own mess."

"We had a nice partnership," Avallac’h tried again.

Harry conjured a stone archway with a flick of his wand. "We partnered because we had a common enemy."

"That enemy is gone now."

"There’s no need to trouble each other anymore."

Avallac’h sighed.

Ciri, experienced now, opened a portal seamlessly.

"Still don’t want to talk?" Avallac’h tried once more.

Harry didn’t answer. He carefully levitated Snape and stepped into the portal.

Dumbledore followed last.

The gate vanished, leaving only the empty arch.

Gael arrived too late. He looked at the arch, then Avallac’h. "You didn’t stop them?"

"They couldn’t be stopped," Avallac’h replied.

Gael scowled.

The Aen Elle had suffered most in all of this.

The king was dead.

The Wild Hunt—nearly annihilated.

"At least we have their research on the White Frost," Gael muttered, as if to comfort himself.

Their only gain.

Back at Hogwarts.

The damage from Voldemort’s last attack had finally been cleared. Merpeople had labored day and night, breaking the frozen lake surface.

Harry and Dumbledore rushed Snape to the infirmary.

His condition shocked Madam Pomfrey—after emergency care, he was rushed to St. Mungo’s.

Later, in the Headmaster’s Office.

It was deep into the night by the time they finished dealing with Snape.

They finally had a moment to rest.

"Are you going back, or staying a bit longer?" Harry asked Geralt and Yennefer, tending to his wounds.

"Ciri’s trouble is over. Yours isn’t," Yennefer said, glancing at his scar. "We’ll stay until that thing on your head is gone."

Geralt nodded.

He rather liked this world—peaceful, safe, full of curiosities.

Ciri sighed. For now, she had to focus—learn to master her power.

They chatted a while longer.

Eventually, Harry returned to the Gryffindor common room.

He spoke the password Dumbledore had given him and entered through the Fat Lady’s portrait.

Just like before.

By the fireplace, two people waited for him.