Lockhart had always relied on deception and theatrics, but now he wielded the dream world as a formidable weapon. This time, however, it wasn't just another of his schemes—he had deliberately sown the seeds of dreams, allowing them to spread and take root.
Dumbledore, ever perceptive, had taken notice. The moment Lockhart displayed the power of the dream world in front of him, the old Headmaster had begun his own research into the phenomenon. In truth, he had been subtly guided towards this path, as though destiny itself had nudged him to explore the mysteries of dreams.
Using his vast knowledge and wisdom, Dumbledore crafted a dream world—one modeled entirely after Hogwarts.
Then, like an unstoppable tide, the power of the dream world descended.
Voldemort's sharp instincts immediately sensed something was wrong. The environment around him shifted unnaturally, as though reality had been torn away, leaving him stranded in another dimension.
No—this wasn't just another place. It was Hogwarts.
The ancient castle loomed around him, its towers piercing the sky as they always had. The stone walls, the vast corridors, the flickering candlelight—every detail was nearly identical to the Hogwarts he knew. And yet, something was off.
It was silent. Too silent.
There were no students, no chatter, no scurrying feet. The emptiness stretched in all directions, an eerie hollowness that sent a chill down even Voldemort's spine. The air itself felt unnatural, heavy with something intangible.
His crimson eyes narrowed, and the blood-red mist surrounding him swirled violently in response to his rising unease. The dark magic within him instinctively lashed out, expanding outward like a living entity, seeking to consume everything in its path.
And yet...
Without warning, shadowy figures began materializing just beyond the mist.
At first, they were faint—like ghosts flickering in and out of existence. But then, one by one, they became clearer, their features sharpening.
Snape.
McGonagall.
Quirrell.
Lockhart.
More and more figures emerged, stepping forward with a quiet, imposing presence. Some Voldemort recognized immediately—professors who had taught at Hogwarts over the years. Others were unfamiliar yet strangely familiar, their faces ones he had seen countless times in portraits hanging within the castle walls.
Armando Dippet.
Phineas Nigellus Black.
And more—countless former Headmasters and professors of Hogwarts, summoned from the echoes of history itself.
It was as if every person who had ever left a mark on Hogwarts had been called forth.
A vast, overwhelming magical energy gathered in the air. The pressure mounted, sinking into Voldemort's very being. He felt something he hadn't felt in a long time.
Fear.
Damn it!
Voldemort's mind raced. Was it the nature of this dream world affecting him? Or was it something else—some unseen force that made his heart waver?
His instincts screamed at him. He had to act.
With a deep, guttural hiss, Voldemort unleashed his fury.
The blood-red mist erupted like a living tide, surging outward in a frenzied storm. The monstrous Blood Abyss Worms hidden within it wriggled to life, their grotesque forms gnawing at everything around them.
They consumed with reckless abandon—devouring trees, grass, the very magic in the air. Even the power of the dream world itself was not spared from their endless hunger.
The nightmare was spreading.
But then—
A new force emerged.
A hum filled the air. A deep, resonant vibration that sent a shiver through the very fabric of the dream.
One by one, the gathered figures raised their wands high.
The will of Hogwarts—Dumbledore's will—flowed through them. The dream's magic surged, turning into pure energy, filling each professor, each Headmaster, each defender with an overwhelming power.
Their wands crackled with light.
Then, in unison—
BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!
A storm of magic exploded forth.
Raging torrents of spells—red, green, blue, gold—shot like cannon fire toward the blood-red mist.
Flames roared. Shadows twisted. Blades of light carved through the abyss.
The spells crashed down upon the mist like relentless waves, tearing through the Blood Abyss Worms. The creatures shrieked, their bodies warping, melting, disintegrating into nothingness.
The dream world itself responded, reinforcing every attack, magnifying their power.
Voldemort felt the pressure intensify. The spells weren't just powerful—they were absolute. They carried the weight of history, the peak of every spellcaster's ability, frozen in time and unleashed in perfect form.
And under Dumbledore's influence, each of them fought at their very best.
Voldemort snarled, his mind racing for a way out. But there was no escape.
Pain.
A raw, burning agony seared through him as spell after spell found its mark.
Weakness.
His magic tried to mend his wounds, but it wasn't fast enough.
Despair.
No matter how hard he fought, no matter how much power he called upon—he was being overrun.
The curses battered him from all directions. One spell cut through his defense; another followed before he could counter it. His body twisted under the relentless assault.
Even as he struggled to heal, more magic crashed against him, bringing new suffering before the last wound had even closed.
Corroding.
Burning.
Paralyzing.
Every type of pain imaginable surged through his body, overwhelming his senses.
And then—
Voldemort screamed.
A raw, guttural sound of rage and agony tore from his throat. His mind teetered on the edge, the relentless suffering pushing him to madness.
His vision blurred. The world twisted. Reality itself seemed to fracture.
He was losing.
For the first time in decades, Voldemort was losing.
But Dumbledore wasn't done.
The ancient Headmaster had already foreseen this moment.
Any enemy, no matter how formidable, could adapt over time. The Blood Abyss Worms would eventually evolve resistance to these attacks.
There was only one way to end this.
They had to strike now—strike with their full might before Voldemort could recover.
Dumbledore's voice, steady and commanding, resonated through the dream.
"Focus your power. Do not let him escape."
The figures around him responded without hesitation.
A final surge of magic gathered—greater, more concentrated than ever before.
This was it.
They would crush the Blood Abyss Worms.
They would break Voldemort.
Because even if he resurrected later...
It would take time.
And time was all they needed.
This was Dumbledore's final solution.
There was no need to hesitate—Dumbledore and his allies would strike with the most powerful attack available.
The dream seeds had long since taken root in the spiritual ocean of Hogwarts. Under Dumbledore's leadership, they had fully bloomed, giving rise to an entire dream world—a vast and powerful realm modeled after the castle itself.
But the true power of this dream world did not lie in its mere existence.
It was the countless imprints of those who had once shaped Hogwarts—principals, professors, even the most outstanding students throughout history—that had been drawn into it.
These were the echoes of the past, lingering traces of wizards who had left their mark on the school's spiritual fabric.
When Dumbledore first discovered this, he could have allowed the dream world to simply devour these imprints for raw power.
But he chose a different path.
Instead of consuming them as mere fuel, he nurtured them. He refined their essence, strengthened their spiritual forms, and gradually transformed them into something more—virtual souls within the dream world.
Each one of these figures had been among the greatest of their time. Whether principal, professor, or student, they had once shaped the very foundation of Hogwarts' magical legacy.
They were the accumulated knowledge and wisdom of thousands of years—an inheritance of unimaginable depth. To simply erase them would have been a waste beyond comprehension.
And now, because of Dumbledore's choice, that inheritance stood as an unstoppable force.
The battle had reached its peak.
For the first time in Hogwarts' long history, every legendary wizard who had ever walked its halls fought together.
Their wands ignited with unparalleled magical force. Their combined will and mastery of spellcraft surged into a single, devastating assault.
The sheer power was overwhelming.
The very fabric of the dream world trembled under the strain.
The massive burst of spells crashed down in an endless barrage, illuminating the battlefield with blinding flashes of magical energy.
BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!
The sky itself seemed to split apart as ancient magic rained down upon Voldemort.
The dream world of Hogwarts—the sanctuary that had stood for generations—was now a battlefield where time itself had gathered its greatest champions.
The effects were nothing short of catastrophic.
The blood-red mist that had once filled the battlefield shattered under the onslaught, vanishing like smoke in the wind. The entire landscape bore the scars of the attack—the ground had been leveled by nearly half a meter, and from above, a massive crater stretched across the battlefield, evidence of the sheer destructive force that had been unleashed.
At its very center—
Voldemort was gone.
Not a trace of him remained. Not even the monstrous Blood Abyss Insects had survived. Every last one had been obliterated.
And thus—
The Dark Lord Voldemort had perished for the third time.
Cause of death: At the hands of Albus Dumbledore.
Time elapsed: From the start of the battle to its conclusion—less than a minute.
Dumbledore stood in the dream world, his eyes closed as he reached out with his senses.
In the unseen depths of existence, beyond what mortal minds could comprehend, something stirred.
The fabric of the world—the very force of fate—rippled like a river disturbed by a stone.
Something had changed.
Three times now, Voldemort had perished. Three times, he had defied the natural order—only to be struck down again.
What did it mean?
In the unseen recesses of the universe, the consciousness of the world itself hesitated.
It had chosen Voldemort. Had granted him favor. Had tied his fate deeply to its own grand design.
And yet, no matter how much power had been bestowed upon him, he continued to fall.
Even under its divine blessing, he had been slain. Again. And again.
Had it made a mistake?
Had it backed the wrong contender?
Even an entity that acted purely on instinct—on the natural flow of causality—could not ignore the truth.
When an investment fails repeatedly, a new strategy must be considered.
And so, the flow of destiny paused.
For a moment, it stilled—neither moving forward nor backward. It was a moment that could have lasted a second, a day, or a thousand years.
And then—
A fork appeared in the river of fate.
The cosmic force of favor began to shift.
Like a tributary breaking away from the main current, part of the world's blessing was now redirected—flowing toward an unknown path.
Toward a new champion.
Toward Albus Dumbledore.
He who had struck down the world's chosen adversary.
He who had seized victory where others had failed.
He who had proven himself worthy of fate's attention.
From this moment forward, Albus Dumbledore would be blessed by the world.
A new decree was written into the flow of destiny:
"Seek and destroy the invaders of this world."
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Marvel x Star Wars: Avengers in the Clone Wars
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