At midday, the bright sunlight finally broke through the heavy clouds' blockade. Golden threads of light pierced through the gaps in the dense clouds, casting down upon the earth and enveloping Harry and Voldemort, who were engaged in a fateful duel.

The Death Eaters thought it was merely sunlight. But soon they discovered that wasn't the case at all!

'I hope I haven't disappointed those people,' Harry thought wearily. At the moment when the aurora-like green barrier of the Killing Curse had met the crimson lightning of his Disarming Spell, he had made his choice.

He hadn't groveled before Voldemort like a beaten dog, hadn't shown even the slightest trace of weakness or cowardice in the face of certain death. Instead, he had bravely launched a counterattack against the most feared Dark wizard in history, standing tall and defiant until the very end.

I am not a coward, Harry told himself. Not like Peter Pettigrew, who betrayed his closest friends to save his own worthless skin. Whatever else happens here, whatever the history books might say about this moment, let them record that Harry Potter faced his end with honor.

In the strange, suspended moment that followed the collision of their spells, Harry found himself waiting for death with a surreal sense of tranquility. The fear that had gripped him moments before seemed to drain away, replaced by a numbness that was almost peaceful.

There was even a hint of joy flickering in the depths of his consciousness—a bittersweet anticipation of reunion. Soon, very soon, he would see Hermione and Ron again. They would be waiting for him somewhere beyond the veil of death, probably arguing about something trivial.

He hoped that they wouldn't grow impatient and wander too far into whatever place awaited them. He hoped they would wait for him, just a little longer, so that they could continue their adventures together in whatever form existence took beyond this.

But then something impossible began to happen, something that shattered his resigned acceptance and filled him with bewildered wonder.

Harry suddenly became aware that his holly and phoenix feather wand was vibrating in his grip as if someone had run a powerful electrical current through it. He tried instinctively to loosen his grip, thinking perhaps he could drop the wand and spare himself whatever was about to occur, but found to his amazement that his fingers seemed to be fused to the handle.

No matter how hard he concentrated on releasing his hold, his hand remained locked in place, as if some invisible force had welded flesh to wood.

Harry's eyes widened in shock and confusion as he took in the scene unfolding before him. At some point during his moment of contemplation, the dazzling green radiance of Voldemort's Killing Curse had simply vanished, dissolving into nothingness as if it had never existed.

Similarly, the crimson lightning that had erupted from his own wand tip had faded away. But in place of those two opposing forces, something far more extraordinary had taken shape—a thin beam of light so intensely golden, so unbearably brilliant, that looking directly at it was like staring into the heart of the sun itself.

Harry's gaze followed the shimmering golden thread as it stretched across the space between them, leading his eyes inevitably to his opponent. There, at the far end of this bridge of light, he could see Voldemort's pale fingers wrapped around his wand with the same desperate intensity that Harry felt in his own grip.

Voldemort's face had been nearly translucent by the wash of golden radiance. But most satisfying of all was the expression of panic Harry saw there. The red eyes that had always seemed so confident, so utterly certain of their owner's supremacy, now darted back and forth like those of a trapped animal, wide with fear and disbelief.

Then, completely without warning, Harry he felt his feet leave the solid ground of the graveyard. Across from him, Voldemort was experiencing the same phenomenon, rising into the air with equal grace and equal helplessness, their wands still connected by that pulsing golden thread that seemed to grow brighter and larger with each passing second.

They continued to ascend in perfect synchronization, as if choreographed by some interstellar puppeteer, rising higher and higher above the graveyard until they floated well above the tallest spruce tree in the cemetery.

The Death Eaters themselves were in a state of complete chaos. They shouted up at their master with voices stressed by panic and confusion, some calling out questions, others begging for instructions.

Some of the bolder Death Eaters like Barty Crouch Jr, driven by loyalty or perhaps simple desperation, began to take independent action without permission.

But before the spell could hit Harry, the golden thread connecting him and Voldemort suddenly snapped, yet the two wands remained tightly linked. The golden thread exploded into thousands of finer golden arc-shaped threads, forming a web that directly deflected Barty's Killing Curse.

This scene left the Death Eaters even more bewildered. Lucius Malfoy watched, his pale face silently changing expression.

"Don't move!" Voldemort shouted to the Death Eaters. Harry saw his red eyes widen in shock—clearly, he was equally stunned by what was happening, beyond his understanding of magic.

Suddenly, as if summoned by the golden web itself, the most beautiful sound Harry had ever heard began to fill the air around them. Music rang out from every single golden thread in the vibrating web of light.

Harry recognized the song immediately, though he had only heard it once before, during his second year at Hogwarts when he had faced the basilisk in the Chamber of Secrets. It was the song of a phoenix—specifically, the song of Fawkes.

'Don't break the connection!'

This music appeared not only in Harry's ears but in his heart. The image of a sharp-eyed old man involuntarily appeared before his eyes—Professor Dumbledore, as if he were present, giving him instructions.

Faced with this voice's demand, Harry hesitated. He knew this situation seemed advantageous to him, but he had already resolved to die.

What's the point? part of his mind whispered. Even if this strange magic gives me some temporary advantage, how can it possibly change the reality? Voldemort is still the most powerful Dark wizard who ever lived, and I'm still just an underage boy who got lucky a few times.

While Harry hesitated, his wand vibrated even more violently, and the golden thread connecting him to Voldemort changed. It seemed as if large beads of light were sliding back and forth along the thread. Harry's hand trembled, the light beads moved closer to his side, and his wand's vibration intensified.

Harry instinctively gripped his wand tighter. Then he saw Voldemort seemingly relax as the pressure decreased. This made anger surge in Harry's heart—beat him!

Harry became utterly determined in that moment. No matter what this strange duel's ultimate outcome might lead to, no matter whether he lived or died in the next few minutes, Harry's instincts told him that in this particular confrontation, he and Voldemort were evenly matched. Since that was the case, he might as well win this round decisively, and then, die with dignity!

He concentrated all his will, struggling to force the light beads toward Voldemort's side. The phoenix song echoed in his ears, his gaze turned firm and blazing with fury. Slowly, slowly, the beads stopped sliding toward him and began moving toward the other end.

Now it was Voldemort's wand that began to shake violently. Voldemort looked shocked and afraid. This added to Harry's sense of satisfaction, so he focused even more intently on forcing those light beads forward.

One bead trembled, only inches from Voldemort's wand tip, and continued approaching.

Although Harry had no idea what would happen when the bead finally touched Voldemort's wand, he felt certain that it would be something he desperately wanted to avoid.

Harry had never concentrated so intensely on anything in his entire life, not during the most challenging Quidditch matches, not during his most difficult exams, not even during his previous encounters with mortal danger.

Every part of his being was focused solely on forcing that single bead of light to complete its journey and connect with Voldemort's wand tip. Slowly, the bead moved along the golden thread as it approached its destination. Finally, after what felt like hours of struggle, the bead made contact with the tip of Voldemort's wand.

Immediately, Voldemort's wand let out a piercing scream that echoed endlessly. Then Voldemort's red eyes widened in shock—

His wand tip first emitted several streams of gray vapor—unclear what they represented—but then a hand formed of thick smoke flew from the wand tip, circled twice around Voldemort's head, and vanished.

The hand Voldemort created for Barty Crouch Jr.?

Harry speculated, feeling certain this was the truth.

More streams of unclear vapor followed, then his wand screamed again.

Something larger than the hand emerged from Voldemort's wand tip—also made of thick smoke. First a human head appeared, then arms and body.

Harry stared in amazement with his green eyes. He remembered—he had seen this old man in his dreams, when Voldemort and Cliodna were plotting something. This old man had intruded and immediately lost his life.

Finally, the old man's full form appeared. He leaned on a walking stick, looking somewhat surprised at the two combatants, examining the connected wands and the web of light.

"So, he really is a wizard?" the old man said, looking at Voldemort. "This fellow killed me. Fight him, boy."

Voldemort's expression returned to terror. He naturally recognized this Muggle who had died by his hand, but he couldn't understand what was happening now.

'Another dead person appearing?'

But Voldemort's wand hadn't finished its strange behavior. Another head appeared—also gray smoke, and this time, a woman!

A moment of confusion nearly made Harry drop his wand. He quickly steadied it, both arms trembling.

It was Bertha Jorkins.

Since the Ministry of Magic confirmed this employee was missing rather than lost, the Daily Prophet had run several stories about it. Harry had seen this woman's photograph in the newspaper!

Bertha Jorkins's ghost stared wide-eyed at the struggle before her.

"Don't let go!" she shouted, her voice echoing like the old man's, as if from far away. "Don't let him kill you, Harry, don't let go!"

No!

Harry screamed inwardly.

This isn't right!

He had figured out something, even though he didn't know the principle behind this miraculous scene. But that didn't stop him from making some deductions!

It shouldn't be like this!

Harry trembled with excitement, the hatred in his tear-filled green eyes disappearing, replaced by hope!

'Something's missing!'

Harry's heart cried out with devout prayer!

If Voldemort's wand was spewing up the lives it had taken, then the hand of Barty Crouch Jr. should have been followed by the old Muggle caretaker, who should have been followed by Bertha Jorkins.

But before all of them, before any of these other victims, there should have been two other ghosts—two figures who were more important to Harry than anyone else in the world.

'Ron and Hermione!' his mind shouted with desperate certainty. 'Where are Ron and Hermione?'

Their souls, their ghostly forms, had not appeared among the witnesses emerging from Voldemort's wand. If Voldemort's wand was truly replaying its victims in reverse order, if it was being forced to expel the lives it had taken, then Ron and Hermione should have been the first to appear, their deaths being the most recent.

The fact that they hadn't manifested alongside the other victims could mean only one thing—one impossible, wonderful, miraculous thing.

Harry's gaze suddenly fell upon the corpses lying beside Tom Riddle's tombstone.

There was only one logical explanation for their absence from Voldemort's supernatural testimony: Ron and Hermione weren't dead at all.

They were still alive.

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