"It was truly foolish of you to come here tonight, Tom," said Dumbledore, his tone of voice indifferently calm, his face cool as his blue eyes took in the evil, murderous wizard that had once been his student. "The Aurors are on their way…"

Voldemort only smiled his twisted smile at him. "By which time I shall be gone…" he raised his wand. "And you…shall be dead."

As quick as lightning, Dumbledore telekinetically pushed Harry to one side with a wave of his hand, and triggered the power of his wand. A cord of red light animated from his wand's core to meet the jet of green light shooting from Voldemort's. Sparks of auburn and aquamarine literally flew in all directions as the two spells collided. With his back leaning against a wall, Harry sat up hesitantly, his eyes wide as his mind and senses fully registered what exactly was going on. As he watched how the two jets of light struggled to push the other back, Harry was strongly reminded of the Priori Incantatem that ultimately saved his life, when he was forced to duel Voldemort at the end of his fourth year. For a moment, he wondered if Dumbledore's and Voldemort's wands were also brothers, just like how his wand shared cores with Voldemort's. But he shrugged the thought off as he recalled Dumbledore telling him earlier that his fifteen-inch wand was made of elder wood, with the core of a Thestral hair. Voldemort's was thirteen-and-a-half-inches, made of yew, and had the core of the phoenix Fawkes' feather. There was no way they were brothers.

Cackling sounds jolted Harry back to reality. He realised that lightning-like tendrils were popping off from the main beam of green light and hitting the marble squares above and around him – the impatient Voldemort was trying to direct his curse at him, while fending off Dumbledore. Fortunately, miraculously for him, the bolts of deadly magic were all missing their target, destroying instead parts of the wall that he was sitting against. Debris of ivory-smooth, dark-green marble surrounded him. Merlin, he thought to himself, as he drew his knees closer to his chest, his hands on top of his head, as to shield himself from the onslaught of pieces and bits of marble. I always knew that I was lucky, but I didn't know that I was THIS lucky…

Dumbledore, however, was becoming both worried…and angry. With every bolt of deadly magic was intended for Harry, his heart missed a beat; believe or not, he truly loved and cared for Harry, in fact, he loved and cared for Harry more than anyone or anything in his life. The fact that he had been the one to condemn the poor innocent boy to a dark, lonely, insecure, difficult childhood was something that he will never ever forgive himself for. The fact that said poor innocent boy still forgave him, still loved and looked up to him as a beloved grandfather who can always be counted on for comfort and advice had only served to intensify his guilt, his self-loathing, and his remorse, it truly was more than he had hoped for. Losing the trust and faith of James, Lily, Sirius, and even Remus (partially) due to the terrible mistakes he made regarding Harry had been painful, but he honestly did not think he was able to bear it if he had also lost the trust and faith of the boy who was the grandson he never had, the one and only person whom he allowed himself to wholeheartedly love and get attached to ever since his…his…his…own family was destroyed. He had made a personal vow to himself to never hurt or disappoint his surrogate grandson ever again.

This is exactly why this has to end now, Dumbledore! A voice commanded powerfully in his head. The longer you take, the more danger Harry will be in! Remember that Tom knows and is capable of many dirty tricks! This has to end now! If not, then as quickly as you can!

With that in mind, the wise old wizard slowly advanced towards his dangerous opponent, forcing more and more of his strength and power into his spell; little by little, the red light forced the green light backwards. His blood-red eyes widening at the unexpected, absolutely impossible (in his own opinion) turn of tide, Voldemort broke the connection with a quick slash of his wand…then laid out his second card to play.

Dumbledore's and Harry's eyes widened to the size of plates at the terrible apparition that materialized before them: a huge, monstrous serpent that seemed to be made of fire and lava, baring its razor-sharp fangs as if anticipating a sumptuous feast. Voldemort laughed his cruel and heartless laugh. Sweating profusely from heat, fear, and reluctant fascination, Harry huddled closer against the wall, strangely unable to look away despite the horrifying monstrosity of the towering, fiery serpent. It actually kind of looks like the Basilisk. A part of his mind that had, by some miracle, managed to retain the power of reasoning and logical thinking, concluded. Oh, where is the Sorting Hat when Dumbledore and I need it?! We definitely could use Gryffindor's sword right now!!! But wait…would it work on a monster that is not of flesh and blood??? Dumbledore took a few steps back, his blue eyes wide, and his mouth half-open. Oh, Tom, what powers have you sold your soul to?! What exactly is it about such dark, such monstrous, such terrible powers that fascinates you so?! Are you really completely, utterly blind to what they have done to you, what they have forced you to become?! With a grin as twisted as that of its creator's, the serpent lunged at Dumbledore, but the old wizard was prepared. Uttering a well-chosen formula under his breath, he fiercely slashed his wind at the fiery monster.

The serpent drew back, shrieking in pain and rage, as if it had been struck with a deadly weapon. Cold, unnatural winds blew about, roaring and whining, sending chills down Harry's spine. As his green eyes watched, the serpent disintegrated into pure fire, which Dumbledore gathered, with his hands and wand, and then sent it hurling towards Voldemort. Mentally cursing the old wizard, Voldemort made a gesture of power, and the fire disappeared without a trace. He raised his wand again, but Dumbledore was too quick for him.

Spirit of waters, his mind mentally chanted, as he flicked his wand. Come to my aid! His wand core glowed a radiant blue.

In answer to his spell, the water of the Fountain of Magical Brethren rose like a tidal wave. Voldemort, caught by surprise, was unable to retaliate, as he found himself engulfed completely in water. Using his left hand and his still-glowing wand, Dumbledore compelled the water to surround Voldemort akin to a "cocoon of molten glass", his teeth gritted, and his usually warm and gentle eyes now fierce and blazing – manipulation and control of the elements was a highly advanced, dangerously powerful kind of magic, one that required a wizard's total and absolute concentration, focus, and willpower, even for one with the strength and the skill of Albus Dumbledore.

Voldemort, still visible within the enchanted sphere of water, snarled furiously. Very clever, Dumbledore. Fighting fire with water. But it is useless, all of it! Powerful and skilled though you are, you cannot keep this up forever! You, pathetic, irredeemable, filth-loving old fool, are merely delaying the inevitable! His red eyes darted left and right, back and front, up and down the magical watery sphere, desperately seeking for a loophole that he could take advantage of to break free.

There were none.

However, Harry unknowingly provided his worst enemy with one.

He had actually come up behind the man whom he loved as a grandfather, watching the intense duel between the two all-powerful wizards, in absolute, silent fascination. He had read of and heard about such duels, of course, but seeing it for real was a breathtaking, stunning, completely different experience, one that he knew he will never ever forget. Upon spotting the boy that had always been the biggest thorn in his flesh, Voldemort viciously slashed at the watery sphere in his direction, his red eyes blazing with murder, prompting Dumbledore to turn around in confused wonder.

Harry! With a lightning-quick wave of his left hand, Dumbledore blasted Harry away from the fighting, making the boy fall on his buttocks. You should have stayed where you were, Harry! It is too dangerous here! Never mind, I will get you out of here as quickly as I can, Harry! I swear it! I just need a little more time! He then returned to focusing on the water-manipulation magic that he had been performing previously.

But it was too late.

That momentary distraction was all the ferociously powerful wizard that was Lord Voldemort needed. He broke free of his watery prison, which vanished with a tremendous splash.

Burning with a mixture of unholy triumph and murderous rage, Voldemort sent a torrent of dark energy towards Harry, intending to vaporise him, but Dumbledore intervened. In an unbelievable reflex for a man of his advanced age, the Headmaster of Hogwarts sprang protectively in front of Harry, holding off the fatal dark energy with a powerful force-shield. His wand core simply glowed like a blue fallen star from the incredible strength of his protection spell, lighting up his face; his eyes were not twinkling, his lips not smiling, his whole countenance blatantly screamed: if you want him, you will have to get past me, and I WILL FIGHT till my last breath!

Seems that I have been wrong about the old fool after all. Voldemort inwardly mused. I had thought that that the boy was nothing more than a toy, a tool, a weapon to him, but I was wrong. He really does care for the boy, cares so much that he will kill anyone who hurts so much as a single hair on the boy's head. I can see it clearly on his disgusting ugly old face. Well…it matters not. Nothing can defy the might of my powers or stand in my way! Yes, NOT EVEN ALBUS DUMBLEDORE!

Gritting his teeth, Voldemort started to gather the dark energy that Dumbledore's force-shield deflected back at him into a ball of incandescent light, imbuing more and more of his strength, his hatred, and his rage into the magic. With the dramatic scream of a madman and a monster, Voldemort unleashed the power of the energy ball, sending its might in all directions. The force of the spell was such that the atrium was destroyed, Dumbledore was knocked down, and Harry shrank back in fear and amazement.

All the windows shattered, the shards of glass ripping to pieces the banner that was like a half-length portrait of Cornelius Fudge. It was like a rain of silver and crystal.

Voldemort then worked his last attack.

Levitating and gathering all the shards of broken glass with his wand, he sent them hurling at Dumbledore and Harry, fully expecting to gloat his eyes on the delicious sight of his two bitterest foes being torn to pieces. He gave a low victorious laugh.

But Dumbledore, ever ready, held out his wand.

Another force-shield materialized, one that glowed white instead of blue.

As the glass pieces passed through the force-shield, they reverted to sand; the soft, pure white sand of Caribbean beaches. The sandy, breezy onslaught poured over Dumbledore and Harry like a large tidal wave, forcing them to shield their eyes and turn away.

Voldemort's laugh turned into a hiss of anger as the old man and the boy rose to their feet, completely unharmed. The expression on Dumbledore's face seemed to shout: is that the best you can do?

This is not working. Voldemort thought to himself. This is so not working. What should I do now?

Then…his twisted, shriveled mind hatched a plan. It was not over yet. He still had one final card left to play.

But it had to be played delicately…and carefully…

In a whirl of black sand, Lord Voldemort vanished.

As he watched the monster that had been his worst enemy, his worst nightmare since babyhood disappear, Harry was beginning to understand, more than ever, why Dumbledore was universally acknowledged as the one and only wizard that Voldemort was afraid of; when aroused, the old man really was a most formidable wizard, a foe that no enemy should ever underestimate, not to mention he really packed powers: serious, potent, spectacular, breathtaking powers. Then, suddenly, a razor-sharp, indefinable pain shot through Harry. His face went an impossible shade of white.

He fell to the ground.

Dumbledore turned around…and paled upon seeing his favourite boy on the ground, grimacing in pain, as if something was ripping his insides apart. He quickly knelt down so he could see Harry eye-to-eye. "Harry? Harry?"

Harry lifted his head up, but his eyes were not their usual warm, gentle, sparkling shade of dark green; instead, they were of a pale green that was cold, ruthless, and dead. "You've lost the battle after all, old man." The high, cold voice of Lord Voldemort spoke through Harry. Dumbledore's eyes widened, his mouth fell slightly open as he realised what was going on: Voldemort was attempting to possess Harry through the connection they shared.

Get out of my mind, you monster! Harry, never one to give up without his best fight, tried to force Voldemort out. He writhed and twisted, cried and panted…

His world suddenly went strange. Images flashed in front of him…almost faster than he could follow…his beautiful and golden mother, carrying a one-year-old version of himself protectively by the right arm, slamming the door of his bedroom on Voldemort with a scream…his brave, confident, and strong father being killed by a well-aimed Avada Kedavra…Dementors hovering towards him, eager to feast on the inner darkness that he had in overabundance due to his lonely, insecure, miserable childhood…Mr. Weasley, the man who had actually been a father to him in so many ways, being attacked by Nagini…Voldemort materializing…

"Harry…" said Dumbledore.

But Harry could not hear him; he was in too much pain.

So weak…Voldemort taunted with a sneer in his mind.

He saw himself sitting all alone in front of the fire in the Gryffindor Common Room…

So vulnerable…

He was sitting on the edge of his bed, stretching his neck…then he was standing in front of a tall, large, wide mirror that, to his horror, reflected not his face, but the red-eyed, chalk-white, snakelike face of Voldemort…"Look at me!" said the evil face. "So…like…you…"…

Harry gave a cry of pain, horror, and despair. As much as he hated to admit it, Voldemort really had a point.

They were, undeniably, unarguably, alike.

Both of them were half-bloods, orphans, raised by Muggles, the only two Paselmouths to come to Hogwarts since Slytherin himself. Both of them had similar qualities: resourcefulness, determination, and a disregard for rules. Merlin, both of them even, once upon a time, looked alike – he knew that Voldemort had dark glossy hair and dark green eyes that mirrored his before undergoing numerous dangerous, magical transformations that resulted in him becoming the bald, red-eyed, slit-nosed, chalk-white, ugly monster that he was now.

"Harry," Dumbledore spoke in his soft, warm, tender voice. "It isn't how you are alike. It's how you're not. Remember what I once told you: it is not our abilities that show us for what we really are. It is our choices. You have a very great capacity to love, Harry, despite having suffered a miserable childhood of neglect. You are fiercely loyal to and protective of your friends and loved ones, you would willingly die for them if you have to. And that, Harry, is what makes you so different, so extremely different from Voldemort."

But how is my ability to love going to help me now? Harry asked himself. He cannot even move a single hair now, from the pain.

It was then that he spotted his friends – Ron, Hermione, Cedric, Ginny, Neville, and Luna – all watching him.

They must have tagged along for the rescuing ride when they found out that I had been kidnapped…they shouldn't have…oh, they shouldn't have…they could have gotten themselves killed…

Ron had a bleeding cut on his face, Hermione had a cut lip, and Cedric had wounds on either side of his face and neck. All three appeared to be dirtier and more battered than the others, but Harry did not care about their appearances; the expressions of concern, fear, and worry for him touched him.

Something was happening. Despite the pain, Harry could feel his heart warming…beating again. The indescribable chill that seemed to be threatening to freeze every fiber of his body into ice just a second ago was now fading, little by little. His world went strange again…visions of the past, one after another, flashed across his mind…Hermione, restored back to normal from her Petrified state, joyfully ran into his arms and hugged him as tightly as she could…Ron and him exchanging mutual smiles…him breaking into sobs of released pain and renewed joy as his resurrected parents enveloped him in the softest, gentlest, warmest embrace he had ever had…his mother sponging his feverish face with cool water, while singing a lullaby to him in a haunting low voice, chasing away the nightmares that, though no fault of his own, had been part of his life since the early days of his childhood…his father strolling along with him the gardens of his new home, a smile on his face as he massaged his glossy dark hair, then slowly slipping a hand into his, its warmth gentle and soothing, assuring him that he was not alone and unloved anymore…Sirius and him hugging before the Black Family Tree, assuring each other that neither of them were alone or friendless or unwanted…Cedric and him confiding in each other the ups and downs of their lives…Cedric confessing his love for him under the mistletoe, proceeding to kiss him passionately…the eleven-year-old versions of Ron and Hermione waving at him from the stairs, delight written all over their features at seeing him healthy and well, fully recovered from his first encounter with Voldemort…the thirteen-year-old versions of Ron, Hermione, and himself laughing merrily in the snow at the pranks he had played on Malfoy and his goons while wearing his Invisibility Cloak…the present versions of them sitting in front of him, Ron looked highly amused while Hermione laughed cheerily – their reactions upon learning how he reacted after sharing his first kiss with Cedric…

The sight of his dearest friends had reminded him of all the happiness, all the wonderful times he had shared with them; their concern, their care, their love for him had sent him strength and hope, and he had embraced them…like friends…his heart filled and swelled with emotions that Voldemort would never understand. Now, he understood, more than ever, the incomparable power and beauty of love and friendship. He understood, more than ever, the drastic difference between him and Voldemort.

"You are the weak one." Harry said, with a firm and controlled calm that made the Voldemort in his mind pause in his assault in confusion. The pain had, miraculously, been diminished, if only a little, making breathing easier. "You are the weak one, Riddle, not me, not anyone else, you. You will never understand that there are things so much worse than death. You will never know love or friendship, two of the most beautiful, most wonderful, most powerful kinds of magic the world have ever known. And I pity you for that. I feel sorry for you."

Images flashed before his eyes again…faster than his mind could digest…Dementors retreating with strange growl-like noises of rage and despair…Dumbledore hugging him as a grandfather would his favourite grandson, tears rolling down the old, wise, gentle face as aged hands soothed the night-dark hair with a gentleness that was surprising even for a benevolent man like him…him furiously, determinedly smashing the mirror that reflected not his face, but the cruel hateful face of the monster called Voldemort…him sitting in front of his bedroom mirror, with his father brushing his hair, then wrapping strong arms around him as he rested his head on his shoulder, smiling at him that special magical smile of love and warmth through his mirrored image, then kissing his temple and whispered words of comfort and assurance in his ear…his mother, as beautiful and serene as ever, tucking the blankets more comfortably about him, brushing the hair off his forehead with the gentleness of a devoted mother, pressing a sweet kiss to the lightning-shaped scar that had been both curse and blessing to him, whispering repeated words of love, warmth, comfort and assurance…Sirius enveloping him in a fierce, protective hug, relief and love written all over his face, and a radiant delighted smile on his lips, while Remus stood nearby, watching them fondly, looking younger and far happier than anyone had ever seen in him…

The next thing Harry knew, he let out a razor-sharp cry of intense agony…then it was over.

The pain was gone.

But he was so sad, so exhausted, so weakened that he cannot move at all.

His brow was severely beaded with perspiration. His face was as white as a sheet, and his breathing was heavily laboured – forcing the most powerful Dark wizard of all time out of his mind and body and soul had been excruciatingly painful, and absolutely draining, it truly was something of a miracle that he was still alive, still breathing, still conscious, how ever barely. His summer-green eyes, though dimmed and tired, were still alert, and took in the sight of Lord Voldemort materializing above him.

Voldemort stared down at Harry in absolute contempt, long white fingers sliding across the smooth length of his wand as though he was preparing to perform another deadly curse, his ruby-red eyes, however, betrayed a slight, very slight hint of bewilderment and shock that a mere fifteen-year-old boy was able to deny him possession simply by employing those pathetic, worthless, utterly useless emotions known as faith, love, and friendship. He had, once upon a time, firmly deemed such emotions as nothing more than filth and dirt, abominations of nature, the lowest and most shameful of mortal weaknesses. Now, however, he was beginning to wonder what exactly they were, and why the crackpot old fool Dumbledore always insisted that they were far more powerful than his kind of magic. If they were not filth, waste, and dirt, then what are they? What are they? What kind of magical powers do they possess? Are they really able to outmatch me, the greatest sorcerer of all time? How is it that this thorn in my flesh is always able to escape my clutches, a feat no other wizard or witch has ever accomplished, simply by having an overabundance of such…such…such…things?! For a wizard who had pushed the boundaries of Dark magic further than they had ever been pushed, and who had penetrated more secrets than, arguably, any other wizard alive, Voldemort was beginning to think that Harry James Potter was a secret that he could never uncover, a mystery that he was doomed to be forever powerless to solve, but equally doomed with a ruthless passionate determination to solve.

"You are a fool, Harry Potter." He said at last, in a tone of voice barely above a whisper. His lips were curled in the purely evil smile that was his trademark. "You simply are. And you will lose everything. I swear it." Yes, I will not rest; will not stop until this thorn in my flesh is rid of utterly or at least broken beyond all repair…he raised his wand, but lowered it when the flashes of green fire in the fireplaces announced the arrival of Ministry employees.

As quick as lightning, Voldemort Disapparated in a whirlwind of sand.

But it was too late.

Cornelius Fudge's face was a classic portrait of stunned horror, so much so that one might have been moved to laugh had the situation not been so grave or so serious. Percy Weasley behind him was staring with wide eyes and a half-opened mouth, his usually pompous face now as pale as a corpse. The other Ministry employees were openly staring as well, disbelief, bewilderment, and fear written on every face as they registered what they had just seen and on the present scene before them.

The stunned silence was finally broken by Fudge's: "He's…back…"