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Albus Dumbledore was, for perhaps the third time in his long life, completely out of options. The Great Hall of Hogwarts was dead silent, save for the desperate, ragged breathing of the remaining Order of the Phoenix members. The doors had been blasted off their hinges. Voldemort stood at the threshold, pale, snake-like, and radiating absolute triumph, flanked by a sea of black-robed Death Eaters.
"It is over, Albus," Voldemort hissed, his red eyes gleaming. "Your mudblood army is broken. Your savior is a child. Yield, and perhaps I will let some of you live as servants."
Dumbledore didn't answer. His hand, blackened and dying from the ring’s curse, dipped into his robes. His fingers brushed against a smooth, jet-black stone—a relic given to him by Gellert Grindelwald in the summer of 1899.
“He called himself a friend, Albus,” Gellert’s voice echoed in his memory from a century ago. “A traveler from the East who had walked the earth for millennia. He told me: ‘The graver the situation, the more blood you drop on it, and I’ll be there.’ I pass it to you. My ultimate token of affection.”
Dumbledore had always assumed it was a romantic exaggeration. A dramatic fairy tale. But with the Dark Lord raising his wand to strike the final blow, Dumbledore squeezed his cursed hand, letting his own fresh, warm blood smear thick across the surface of the black stone.
For a second, nothing happened. Voldemort sneered, raising his wand. "Avada—"
CRACK.
It wasn't the sound of Apparition. It was the sound of the sky above Hogwarts literally tearing open. The enchanted ceiling of the Great Hall instantly turned a violent, pitch-black color, blotting out the daylight. The temperature plummeted so fast that everyone’s breath turned to thick plumes of ice. The stone floor beneath Voldemort’s feet split apart, a thick, suffocating black mist pouring out of the fissures.
From the shadows of the mist, a melody began to play. It wasn't a wizard's song; it was sharp, eerie, and thrummed with a terrifying, ancient spiritual pressure that forced every single person—Order and Death Eater alike—straight to their knees. Out of the fog stepped a man. He looked barely twenty-five, with wild black hair loosely tied in a red ribbon, wearing sweeping, midnight-black robes that looked entirely foreign. Resting against his lips was a dark jade flute, his fingers flying across the holes. But the most terrifying part? His eyes were glowing a brilliant, unholy crimson.
Wei Wuxian lowered the flute with a casual spin, letting out a long, dramatic sigh. "Man, Gellert wasn't kidding," Wei Wuxian said, his voice echoing perfectly through the cavernous hall. "He really did give it to his lover immediately. Though, buddy, you look a little old to be 'Grindlefield's' boyfriend. No judgment, of course, love is love!"
"Who... what are you?!" Voldemort roared, his crimson eyes fixing on the intruder. He pointed his wand at Wei Wuxian. "Avada Kedavra!"
The blinding green jet of light shot across the room. Wei Wuxian didn't even move. He just raised two fingers. The killing curse hit an invisible wall of black resentful energy a foot away from his face, shattered into harmless green sparks, and dissolved into nothing.
Wei Wuxian blinked. He looked at his hand, then looked at Voldemort. "Wait," Wei Wuxian chuckled, a deeply amused, wicked smile spreading across his face. "That was it? That was your big attack? You split your soul into... what, seven tiny pieces just to stay alive, and that is the best magic you can do?"
"I am the Dark Lord! I am the Master of Death!" Voldemort screamed, incensed.
"Master of Death?" Wei Wuxian threw his head back and laughed, a rich, melodic sound that sent shivers down everyone's spines. "Oh, sweetheart, no. You're a poorly cultivated snake ghoul. I literally raised an entire army of the fierce dead before lunch back when I was a teenager."
With a flick of his wrist, Wei Wuxian brought the flute back to his lips and played a single, sharp, aggressive note. Instantly, Voldemort’s giant snake, Nagini, let out a horrific, unnatural shriek. Her eyes turned completely black, empty of Voldemort's control. She whipped her massive body around, baring her fangs, and snapped her jaws directly onto the shoulder of a screaming Lucius Malfoy.
"My dead listen to me, snake-boy," Wei Wuxian said, casually walking past the panicked Death Eaters as if they were nothing but minor inconveniences. He strolled right up to the Headmaster’s podium, reached out, and pinched a piece of treacle tart off a plate. He popped it into his mouth, chewed thoughtfully, and looked down at a bewildered Albus Dumbledore. "Anyway, Albus was it? Your ex-boyfriend says hi. Now, who do you want me to kill first?"
The Great Hall was frozen in a state of absolute, paralyzed disbelief. Voldemort’s red eyes stared in horror at Nagini, who was currently pinning Lucius Malfoy to the stone floor by his shoulder. The Death Eaters were completely disoriented—their flawless victory had just been hijacked by a man who looked like an elegant, ancient prince but carried the crushing weight of a primordial god.
"Silence that beast!" Voldemort screamed, his voice cracking with uncharacteristic rage. "Diffindo! Reducto!"
Two deadly curses shot from his wand, aimed straight at his own familiar to break the foreign possession. Wei Wuxian didn't even look up from the plate of treacle tart. He simply let out a sharp, rhythmic whistle. Nagini instantly coiled, her massive scales hardening like dark spiritual steel. The curses hit her flank and ricocheted off into the walls, shattering a massive Hogwarts window into a thousand sparkling shards.
"You know, for someone who calls himself a Dark Lord, you have terrible control over your pets," Wei Wuxian said, leaning back against the Headmaster's podium. He looked over at the staff table, where the Hogwarts ghosts were floating. The Nearly Headless Nick and the Fat Friar were shivering violently, drawn toward Wei Wuxian like moths to a flame. The sheer volume of resentful energy radiating off his black robes was acting like a massive spiritual gravity well.
"My lord..." Nick stammered, bowing so low his head nearly detached completely. "The dead... the dead recognize the Master."
"Hey there, ghost buddies," Wei Wuxian waved cheerfully, completely destroying the terrifying atmosphere. "Don't worry, I'm just visiting. Though," he turned his piercing crimson eyes back down to the sea of black-robed wizards, "some people here are overdue for an appointment with the underworld."
Voldemort’s face contorted into something genuinely monstrous. "I am immortal! I have conquered death! You are nothing but an illusion! A trick by Dumbledore!" He raised the Elder Wand with both hands, channeling every ounce of his dark magic. "CRUCIO!"
The Unforgivable Curse tore through the air, a beam of pure, agonizing red light. Wei Wuxian’s smile finally vanished. The playful demeanor dropped, replaced by a cold, ancient aura that made the very foundations of Hogwarts tremble. He didn't use a wand. He didn't even use his flute. He simply raised his left hand, his long fingers splaying open.
The Cruciatus Curse hit his open palm and stopped dead. The red light didn't shatter; it was literally absorbed into his skin, fueling the dark, swirling mist around his robes. Wei Wuxian closed his fist, extinguishing the remnant sparks.
"Agony magic?" Wei Wuxian chuckled, his voice dropping an octave, echoing with the ghostly whispers of a million souls. "Sweetheart, I spent three months falling through the Burial Mounds, drowning in the screams of the tortured dead until I became their king. You cannot threaten me with pain. I am pain."
With a sudden, explosive motion, Wei Wuxian swept his arm outward. A wave of black resentful energy rolled across the Great Hall like a tsunami. It didn't hurt the Order of the Phoenix members—it washed over them like a cold breeze—but when it hit the Death Eaters, their wands instantly grew burning hot, forcing them to drop them to the floor. The heavy silver masks melted off their faces, exposing their terrified, pale expressions.
"Now then," Wei Wuxian smiled, the crimson in his eyes flashing brightly as he took another casual bite of treacle tart. "Albus, my old buddy Gellert said you were the smart one. What do we do with a snake ghoul who doesn't know his place?"
Dumbledore, to his immense credit, didn't panic. He slowly lowered his wand, adjusted his half-moon spectacles, and stared at Wei Wuxian with a mixture of profound exhaustion and fascination. "Well," Dumbledore said, his voice entirely too calm for a man whose castle was currently being held hostage by a primordial entity. "Politics in our world have become... rather complicated, Mr...?"
"Wei. Wei Wuxian," he replied, giving a theatrical little bow. "But my friends call me the Yiling Patriarch. My enemies usually just scream and run away."
"Mr. Wei," Dumbledore nodded. "The snake-like gentleman you just disarmed is Lord Voldemort. He believes himself to be the pinnacle of dark magic, and he has spent the last several decades trying to conquer our society."
"By wearing matching black bedsheets and giving himself a terrible nose job?" Wei Wuxian laughed, hopping off the podium. He strolled right past the frontline of terrified Death Eaters, who were completely frozen. Without their wands, and with Nagini currently eyeing them like an afternoon snack, they looked less like a dark army and more like a very confused, very scared theatre troupe.
"How dare you!" Bellatrix Lestrange shrieked, her voice cracking as she tried to lunge forward without her wand. "The Dark Lord is immortal! He has split his soul! He cannot be destroyed by a wandless heretic!"
Wei Wuxian stopped. He didn't turn around, but the temperature in the Great Hall instantly dropped another ten degrees. The playful, laughing traveler vanished, replaced by the chilling shadow of a man who had commanded legions of the dead. He slowly looked back over his shoulder, his crimson eyes locking onto Bellatrix.
"Sweetheart," Wei Wuxian murmured, his voice sounding like it was echoing from the bottom of a deep, dark well. "Splitting a soul isn't immortality. It's vandalism. It makes you fragile. It makes you weak. A true master doesn't tear his own spirit to pieces out of fear; he commands the spirits of everyone else."
He raised a single finger, and a tiny, swirling thread of black resentful energy drifted toward Bellatrix. It didn't touch her, but it floated just inches from her face, whispering a thousand agonizing, ghostly voices directly into her mind. She instantly collapsed to her knees, clutching her ears and screaming in pure terror.
"Now," Wei Wuxian turned back to Dumbledore, his bright, cheerful smile instantly snapping back into place as if nothing had happened. "You mentioned he split his soul seven times? Where are the other pieces? Because if they're just lying around, I can pull the soul fragments out of them with a simple flute solo and cook them into a spiritual soup. It's a great remedy for a headache, you know."
Harry Potter, who had been hiding behind a broken pillar, slowly poked his head out, his jaw completely on the floor. He looked at Dumbledore, then at the ancient immortal who was casually offering to turn the Dark Lord's soul into a light afternoon snack. "Professor..." Harry whispered. "Who did you say gave you that stone again?"
Dumbledore let out a soft, highly amused sigh. "An old friend, Harry. An old friend with very interesting taste in company."
Harry Potter stared at the ancient, black-robed man who was currently dusting treacle tart crumbs off his sleeves. "Soul... soup?" Harry croaked, his green eyes darting over to Voldemort, who looked like he was having a minor cardiovascular event from pure, unadulterated fury.
"Oh, absolutely!" Wei Wuxian beamed, pacing backward with his hands tucked into his wide sleeves. "Back in the Burial Mounds, if a malicious spirit got too loud, you just chop a piece off, boil it down with some spiritual herbs, and boom! Clears the meridians right up. Though, looking at this guy..." Wei Ying paused, squinting critically at Voldemort’s pale, hairless face. "...the flavor profile might be a little bitter. Too much resentful energy born of petty cowardice, you see. Real quality souls are aged like fine wine."
"SILENCE!"
Voldemort’s roar shook the dust from the enchanted ceiling. He didn't bother with a spell this time. Driven by pure, primal survival instincts, he lunged forward to grab his wand off the floor. He never made it.
Wei Wuxian didn't even lift a finger. He simply let out a sharp, amused click of his tongue. Instantly, the shadow beneath Voldemort's feet came alive. Two skeletal, decayed arms—surrounded by a thick aura of black mist—shot out from the solid stone floor. They grabbed the Dark Lord by his ankles with a grip of literal iron. Voldemort hit the ground face-first with a loud, highly undignified SMACK.
"Ah, ah, ah," Wei Wuxian chided, tapping Chenqing against his chin like a disappointed schoolteacher. "No running in the halls. Honestly, didn't your elders teach you any manners? When a senior cultivator is speaking, you sit down and listen."
The Death Eaters were in complete shambles. Bellatrix was still on the floor humming to the ghostly voices in her head, Lucius Malfoy was pinned by a giant possessed snake, and their immortal lord was currently being held down by a pair of aggressive skeleton hands.
"Albus," Wei Wuxian turned back around, hopping back onto the Headmaster's desk and swinging his legs cheerfully. "I think your 1:00 class is about to start. You should probably head out! Don't worry about the snake-boy or his little pajama party here. I'll tidy up the castle before you get back."
Dumbledore slowly picked up his tea cup, took a candy from his desk, and offered a grandfatherly smile. "I believe I shall do just that, Mr. Wei. Do try not to completely dismantle the architectural integrity of the Great Hall. It took quite some time to build."
"No promises!" Wei Ying waved him off with a grin.