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Ch324- Indeed, Who?

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Bellatrix’s eyelids fluttered as she slowly regained consciousness, her head pounding from the Stunning Spell. She blinked against the dim light of the alley, her vision blurry as she tried to focus on the figure standing above her. Confusion twisted her features. The man’s face was hauntingly familiar, but she couldn’t place him.

The Death Eaters paused, some lowering their wands slightly. Bellatrix wasn’t the only one thrown off. Dumbledore and Amelia Bones exchanged brief, thoughtful glances. They, too, were staring at the man, tension and recognition in their expressions. Memories of "Jacob," the student who had sacrificed himself to stop Voldemort's resurrection, flickered in their minds.

In the memories Jacob had shared with them, Dumbledore and Amelia Bones had seen Voldemort’s younger self. The face Harry now wore—a near-perfect replica of that young Tom Riddle.

But this wasn’t a look that many Death Eaters had ever witnessed. To them, Voldemort’s most iconic visage had been the serpentine, inhuman form he had assumed during his rise to power. The confusion was evident as Bellatrix’s followers stared at Harry, their brows furrowed, uncertainty rippling through the group like a whispered spell.n/ô/vel/b//in dot c//om

Bellatrix, groggy and disoriented from the Stunning Spell, tried to focus on him. Her lips twitched into a grimace as she rasped, “Who…?”

Harry didn’t bother answering her directly. His stride was measured, his presence commanding, but there was no effort to disguise the faint smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. He stopped just beyond the line of Aurors, his hand casually resting near the wand tucked into his belt. His voice broke the tension like the snap of a spell.

“All of you,” he began, his tone light yet laced with derision, “ganging up on a lovely lady like this. It’s a shame, really.”

The Aurors froze, exchanging looks of uncertainty. Kingsley took a half-step forward, his wand held steady, his eyes narrowing at the man before them. Moody, for once, held his tongue, his magical eye fixed firmly on Harry, scanning him up and down. Meanwhile, Dumbledore’s expression remained unreadable, though his wand arm shifted slightly, ready to act if necessary.

Dumbledore exchanged a glance with Moody, whose magical eye was fixed firmly on Harry. The older wizard’s frown deepened as Moody gave a slight shake of his head. “It’s not Polyjuice,” the ex-Auror muttered under his breath. “No glamours either. That’s his real face.”

Dumbledore, trusting Moody’s experience but needing his own confirmation, subtly extended his Astral Sight.

His probing revealed what no one else could see: the soul beneath the surface. There it was, the very image of Tom Riddle, but intact, and unscarred by the fragmented horrors Voldemort had inflicted upon himself in his pursuit of immortality. Yet what truly unsettled Dumbledore was the sight of a serpent, coiled and watchful, entwined around this man’s soul. The implications gnawed at the edges of his composed demeanor.

Could it really be… Voldemort?

The idea was absurd, and yet every piece of evidence pointed in that direction. The man’s appearance, the aura he projected, even the subtle way the magical environment seemed to shift around him. Dumbledore’s silence stretched, heavy with unspoken thoughts.

Harry chuckled, cutting through the quiet tension like a blade. He raised his wand, letting it rest lightly in his fingers. “You’re all looking at me like you’ve seen a ghost,” he said, his tone light, almost amused. He raised his wand, his expression almost mocking as he looked around. Several Aurors had shifted slightly, their stances tense, and Harry didn’t miss the way a few had angled themselves in preparation for a sneak attack.

Without warning, he hissed something under his breath—a low, guttural phrase in Parseltongue. The moment the sound left his lips, the ground shook faintly, and a sharp crack echoed through the alley. A ripple of invisible force burst outward, forcing every sneaking Auror to a halt. Wands dropped from a few hands, as if some unseen weight had compelled them to disarm. The rest froze in their tracks, wide-eyed and unsure of what had just happened.

Dumbledore’s eyebrows furrowed, the lines of his face tightening. “Parseltongue?” he murmured, his voice almost drowned out by the silence that had fallen across the alley.

Harry laughed, the sound sharp and cold as it sliced through the tense silence. “It has been some time, old man,” he said, his voice carrying an edge that made a few of the younger Aurors shift uneasily. His eyes, however, were fixed on Dumbledore.

Dumbledore’s frown deepened, the lines on his face etched with both concentration and doubt. Something within him refused to accept what stood before him. This man, this apparition, couldn’t be Voldemort. There was a familiarity, yes, but it was wrong, distorted somehow. No trace of the fragmented, soulless entity he had fought against for decades lingered in the man’s aura. Yet the physical resemblance to Tom Riddle was undeniable.

“Who are you?” Dumbledore finally asked, his tone steady but weighted with curiosity and suspicion.

Harry tilted his head slightly, his lips curving into a faint smirk. “I thought you were sharper than that. After all, you’re the great Albus Dumbledore. Defender of the weak. Vanquisher of the Dark.” His voice was laced with mockery, every word carefully chosen to provoke. He gestured vaguely toward the fallen Bellatrix. “And yet, here you are, bullying this girl."

Harry turned to Bellatrix. "And you," he said, his voice carrying just enough interest to command her full attention, "I was looking for you. I didn’t expect to find you here… wasting your efforts in a place like this."

The words hit Bellatrix like a curse. Her entire body stiffened, and the wild energy in her eyes shifted into something darker, more desperate. She barely registered the conversation continuing around her. Those exact words…

Years ago, in a shadowy dungeon lit by flickering torchlight, she had stood triumphant, her wand raised as she unleashed pain on a helpless Mudblood at her feet. She had been alive with power, reveling in her role, when her lord had stepped into the room. Silent at first, he had watched her from the shadows, his presence so commanding that it was suffocating. Then, in that cold, precise voice, he had spoken the same words: "I didn’t expect to find you here, Bellatrix. Wasting efforts in a place like this." His gaze had been unrelenting, critical, and it had carved into her more deeply than any curse could. She had craved his approval like the air she breathed and hated herself for falling short.

Back in the present, Bellatrix’s lips moved soundlessly, her mind trapped between memory and reality. The man before her couldn’t be him… could he? But those words. The timbre of his voice. The look in his eyes. For the first time in years, doubt seeped into her unshakable confidence.

Harry just didn’t want the Ministry to take Bellatrix again. He knew what a softy Dumbledore was. If she were taken into custody, at worst, she would end up in Azkaban, free to plot her next escape. Despite Moody’s earlier barked orders to “attack mercilessly,” the Aurors weren’t using lethal force. Dumbledore wouldn’t allow it.

And Harry couldn’t have that.

He promised Neville. Not explicitly, of course—Harry didn’t make promises he couldn’t deliver—but in his mind, he owed Neville this. Justice. Revenge. Whatever Bellatrix deserved, Harry was determined she wouldn’t escape it again.

The problem was, now that he stood before her, surrounded by Aurors and Death Eaters in the middle of a chaotic standoff, he had no idea what to do next. He couldn’t just waltz in and snatch her away with Dumbledore watching him.

Harry reached down and yanked Bellatrix to her feet with little effort, keeping his eyes on the swirling chaos of the alley around them. “Gather around me,” he commanded sharply.

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