Harry Potter and the Triwizard Gambit - Chapter - 26

The night air in the garden of Riddle Manor shimmered with tension. The Death Eaters formed a wide circle, their black cloaks whispering in the wind. The grass beneath their boots was damp with dew, but all eyes were locked on the two figures at the center: Voldemort and Harry Potter.

The Dark Lord’s crimson gaze lingered on his opponent, not with contempt but with cold calculation. He had expected arrogance, perhaps reckless bravery, but not this quiet, razor-edged confidence in the boy’s stance.

Voldemort raised his wand slightly, lips curling. “You are bold, Potter, to stand against me. Boldness alone, however, has killed many before you.”

Harry’s voice was steady. “I’m not them. And I’m not afraid of you.”

Gasps and hisses rippled through the Death Eaters. Voldemort smiled thinly.


“Then let us test that courage,” Voldemort hissed.

He flicked his wand, conjuring a shimmering shield of dark energy before Harry could even blink. But Harry didn’t flinch—his opening curse burst from his wand with such speed and power that Voldemort’s shield cracked like ice under strain.

The Dark Lord’s eyes widened a fraction. So strong? From the very first spell?

He countered immediately, launching a streak of green light that split the night. Harry twisted aside, his movements sharp and fluid, and sent a volley of spells back—each one different, some familiar, some strange.

Flames in twisting shapes. Blades of air. Chains of light that hissed against Voldemort’s defenses.

The Death Eaters fell silent, watching in disbelief as their master’s shield buckled again and again.


Voldemort’s wand lashed out, conjuring serpents that sprang from the ground, their fangs dripping venom. Harry answered with a cutting charm so clean it scattered them into dust.

The Dark Lord narrowed his eyes. These are not spells taught in Hogwarts. Some I do not even know.

He pressed harder, unleashing a barrage of curses, some so dark that the earth beneath them blackened and burned. But Harry’s defense was relentless—every strike blocked, absorbed, or evaded with a speed that made even Voldemort hesitate.

The boy’s reflexes were almost unnatural, his casting crisp, efficient, unflinching.


Around the circle, Death Eaters exchanged uneasy glances.

“Did you see that shield-breaker?” one hissed.
“He’s too fast,” another whispered. “Like he’s been dueling for decades.”
“This is impossible… he’s only fourteen!”

The whispers grew, admiration mixing with fear. Voldemort’s lip curled. Their awe was misplaced—he was their master, not this boy.


For the first time in years, Voldemort felt his heart quicken. His memory sharpened: the prophecy, the one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord… equal to him.

His wand hand tightened. Is this what it meant?

Every strike Harry made forced him to defend seriously, every counter Harry threw pushed him back a step. And the boy—no, the young man—never faltered.

“Impressive,” Voldemort admitted aloud, his voice carrying over the garden. “Most impressive. No one has pressed me so far since Dumbledore himself.”

Harry’s eyes narrowed. “Then maybe it’s time someone finished what he started.”


Voldemort’s crimson eyes gleamed. “You have power, Potter. Power enough to rival even me. Join me, and I will teach you the rest—the secrets even you have not uncovered. Together, we could tear this world down and rebuild it in our image.”

Harry’s laugh was short and sharp. “You think I’d join you after everything you’ve done? After the families you’ve destroyed? After the way you twist magic?”

The Dark Lord’s expression hardened. “Then you leave me no choice.”

He began casting without restraint, forbidden curses that warped the air, magic that twisted the grass to ash where it landed. Harry answered with light and fire, forcing him back, sparks flying as spell clashed with spell.

The Death Eaters shielded their eyes, awed and terrified. For the first time, they were watching someone fight their master as an equal.

And Voldemort knew it too.



A thunderous bang split the night, shaking the walls of Riddle Manor. For a heartbeat, even Voldemort stilled, his crimson eyes flashing toward the gates. The Death Eaters turned in alarm, hands tightening on their wands.

Then the wards exploded inward in a shockwave of white smoke.

Through the haze, Sirius Black came hurtling like a storm given flesh. His wand slashed once, twice—two Death Eaters screamed as they were blown apart in a burst of flame and bone. A third lunged at him, but Sirius pivoted with deadly precision, his curse ripping the masked wizard from existence.

“BLACK!” Voldemort snarled, his voice shaking the air.

But Sirius barely spared him a glance. His eyes were locked on one thing: the sight of Harry dueling Voldemort like an equal, spells clashing in violent bursts of light.


The Death Eaters surged forward, their curses turning the garden into a battlefield of shrieking lights. From behind Sirius came the rest of the Order—Remus, Kingsley, Tonks and Moody and more—wands blazing as they charged into the chaos.

Dumbledore followed, calm but fierce, his spells weaving golden arcs that disarmed and bound the Death Eaters in glittering chains. “Capture them!” he called, his voice carrying over the clash of magic. “Stunning spells! We must have proof for the Ministry!”

“Proof won’t stop them from killing us!” Sirius roared back, blasting another Death Eater into the hedges. His fury was a living thing, his spells brutally final. “We fight to kill, old man, or we die here tonight!”

Remus, usually calm, fought with equal ferocity, his face taut with grim determination. “They’re not throwing stunners, Albus—they’re trying to kill us! We don’t have the luxury of mercy!”


Several Death Eaters broke from the fight, their wands trained on Harry as he dueled Voldemort. Green lights streaked toward the boy, but Sirius was faster—his curses intercepted each one, the air exploding with counter-magic.

“Not him!” Sirius shouted, his voice raw. “You won’t touch him!”

One masked Death Eater slipped behind Harry, wand raised. Sirius’s spell struck before the man could utter a word—his body crumpled to the ground, lifeless.

Every time a blade of light neared Harry, Sirius was there, cutting it down, his wand an unrelenting shield. He didn’t care if his magic killed. In fact, he wanted it to. Anyone who threatened his godson would not leave this garden alive.


Even as Dumbledore fought to bind and capture, Sirius and Remus fought to kill. Kingsley, Tonks, and several Aurors began following Sirius’s lead.

“What’s the point of stunning them?” Tonks shouted, dodging a curse that sliced through the earth at her feet. “They’ll just get back up!”

“Exactly,” Sirius growled, his next curse slamming into two Death Eaters at once. “We end it here. No more trials. No more escapes.”

Remus muttered grimly as he cut another attacker down, “At least this way, they won’t be waiting in the shadows tomorrow.”

Behind them, Dumbledore fought on, refusing to kill. But even the enemies he disarmed and bound were falling lifeless when Sirius or Remus passed by. Dumbledore didn’t notice, or perhaps he chose not to look.


And through it all, at the center of the storm, Harry and Voldemort duelled with ferocious speed. Every curse shook the air, every counterstrike turned night into day.

Voldemort’s face was taut, not with fear but with fierce concentration. Harry’s wand hand was steady, his breath sharp, his eyes burning with determination.

To the Death Eaters, their master had always been untouchable. But now they saw the truth—Potter matched him spell for spell.

And Sirius, blood spattering his face from another fallen Death Eater, knew it too. Harry can finish this. He’s the only one who can.

So Sirius fought harder than ever, tearing down every threat that dared draw close, carving a path of destruction so his godson could face the Dark Lord unbroken.


The battlefield was chaos—shattered earth, black smoke, curses colliding in the night. But in the middle of it, Nymphadora Tonks’s sharp eyes caught something strange.

Mad-Eye Moody, the grizzled veteran who should’ve been striking down Death Eaters, had his wand angled not at the enemy… but at Kingsley Shacklebolt. A jet of sickly green light missed him by inches, dissolving into the dirt.

Tonks froze. That wasn’t friendly fire. That was deliberate.

She spun, wand raised. “Moody!” she shouted. “What the hell are you doing?”

The scarred Auror’s magical eye whirled toward her, but instead of barking an explanation, he sent a hex straight at her chest.

Tonks dove, rolled, and fired back. “You bastard!”


Sparks lit the garden as their spells clashed. Tonks’s heart hammered in her chest—Moody was supposed to be one of the best duelists alive, and his spells came fast and vicious. But something was off. His magic was too fluid, too sharp, not the gruff blunt-force casting of the man she’d trained under.

Dumbledore’s voice rose above the clash. “Enough!”

A wave of golden light erupted from his wand, forcing the two apart. For a moment, Moody staggered—and then his skin began to ripple. His scars melted away. His false wooden leg splintered. The magical eye rolled to the ground.

Where Alastor Moody had stood, a younger man emerged—wild-eyed, with straw-like hair and a fanatical grin.

Gasps erupted from the Order.

Dumbledore’s face hardened. “Barty Crouch Jr.”


Tonks tightened her grip on her wand. “So it was you… all this time.”

Crouch Jr. laughed, high and harsh. “Yes. While you fools stumbled in the dark, I guided the Boy-Who-Lived right into my master’s hands!”

Spells erupted as Tonks launched herself back into the duel. Barty Crouch Jr. fought like a man possessed—every curse sharp and deadly, his movements fueled by fanaticism. He laughed even as sparks ripped across his robes.

Around them, the last of the Death Eaters were falling. The Order pressed hard, too many now for the remnants of Voldemort’s forces to withstand.


Tonks pushed him back step by step, sweat stinging her eyes. “It’s over!” she snarled.

“Never!” Crouch Jr. screamed, flinging a chain of curses that shattered the hedges behind her. “The Dark Lord—!”

His cry was cut short. A streak of red light hit him squarely in the back. His eyes went wide, his body twisting before he collapsed, lifeless, onto the blood-soaked grass.

Tonks stood frozen, wand still raised, chest heaving. She hadn’t cast that final spell.

One of the Aurors lowered their wand, face grim. “He was too dangerous to keep alive.”

Silence fell for a moment as they looked down at the dead man who had worn Alastor Moody’s face.

Dumbledore’s expression was carved from stone. “So ends Barty Crouch Jr. May his treachery serve as a warning to us all.”


The garden was fire and ruin. Death Eaters lay scattered in heaps, the grass scorched black by spells that had raged only moments before. The Order pressed the last of the enemy into submission, but in the very heart of the battlefield, two figures still clashed with unrelenting fury.

Harry Potter and Lord Voldemort.

Their wands carved streaks of light into the night sky, every spell colliding with a thunderous crack. Voldemort’s crimson eyes glowed with fury, his movements sharp and precise, but for the first time in his long reign of terror, he was not the hunter. He was the hunted.

Harry’s spells came relentless, woven with all the knowledge he had gained at Runestone Castle, honed through duels with Sirius, Remus, and the Weasley twins. He moved like a storm, wand a blur in his hand.

“You cannot kill me, boy!” Voldemort hissed, his voice rising above the clash. “I am eternal! I am—”

Harry’s voice cut through, cold and certain. “No. You’re finished. Every Horcrux—gone. There’s nothing left for you to hide behind.”

Shock flickered across Voldemort’s face, but it was too late.

Harry’s wand rose high, gathering magic so potent that the very air trembled. The ground beneath his feet cracked, stones rising as if pulled by unseen strings.

“Bombarda Maxima!”

The words tore from his throat like thunder.

The spell surged forth—a blinding torrent of explosive magic that ripped across the garden and struck Voldemort squarely. For a heartbeat, silence fell. Then the world detonated.

The explosion rocked the earth, flames erupting skyward. The shockwave flattened hedges, tore through stone, and sent Death Eaters and Order members alike staggering back.

When the smoke cleared, nothing remained of Lord Voldemort but broken fragments. His body was gone, ripped apart by the force of Harry’s spell. The Dark Lord had been obliterated, not with prophecy, not with sacrifice, but with power and certainty.


For a long, stunned moment, no one moved. The Death Eaters who had survived stared in horror, some throwing down their wands, others dropping to their knees in disbelief.

Sirius, his wand still dripping sparks, rushed forward, eyes wide as he grabbed Harry by the shoulders. “You did it,” he whispered, almost disbelieving. “Merlin’s beard, Harry—you did it.”

Harry’s chest rose and fell, sweat pouring down his face, his wand trembling in his grip. He looked at the scorched ground where Voldemort had stood, then at the stunned circle of faces around him.

“He’s gone,” Harry said simply, his voice hoarse but steady. “For good this time.”

And as the night wind swept across the ruined garden, the wizarding world changed forever.