LIGHTNOVELONLINE Chapter 233: taunting
*Narrator pov*
Say what you will about the Aurors but, from that small interaction with the masked Morpheus those two men managed to alert the other teams in record time already calling for backup.
You see the Aurors were not taking any more chances, not after the bloodbath of Diagon Alley. They were told directly from the head Auror, that any chance of a threat, any sliver of a doubt.
Call for backup.
Especially in densely populated areas like a Quidditch match were many people come gathering in mass to watch the game. That being said because there were a lot of people there, the Aurors actually had a lot of teams present guarding the match.
It was subtle but they started to appear in the stands, near the pitch, where the concessions were. Each had their wands either out or ready for a quick draw.
Suddenly the snitch shot out front and the seekers chased they flew rapidly across the field trying their hardest to grasp the golden ticket to victory.
The seeker for Kestrels dived inward slipping in between two chasers separating himself from his opponent his hand reached forward inches from grasping the snitch.
A smiled bloomed across his lips as he grasped the snitch and turned to the crowd, "That's how it's bloody done!" he yelled pumping his fist in the air his happiness made him ignorant to the shouts of alarm from the crowd
A green light flashed in the corner of his eye before the light faded from his gaze and his body slipped from the broom falling limp to the ground floor.
The screams of terror were almost drowned out by the sickening laugh that followed and the chaos that ensued.
The sick laughter echoed through the stands, chilling every spectator to their core. Voldemort's Death Eaters had appeared in a violent burst, scattered like wolves into the frightened throng. A surge of dark-robed figures poured from every corner, their wands raised high as curses crackled in arcs of green, purple, and red, tearing through the air like vicious beasts.
The Aurors sprang into action, rallying under their quick-cast shields and deflecting lethal curses, struggling to hold back the tide. They moved as one, coordinating through shouted commands and flashing spells, but they were outnumbered. Families huddled together, mothers shielding their children, while others scrambled for the exits, tripping over fallen popcorn boxes and discarded game scarves in their panicked flight.
And then, like a shadow within the chaos, Morpheus appeared. His silver mask glinted with an eerie light, his wand flicking in sharp, controlled movements as he wove through the Death Eaters. At first, he appeared almost as a ghost, fluid and swift, taking down foes with a practiced ease. With a slight twist of his wrist, he disarmed one Death Eater, then turned to cast a silent, deadly hex at another, who fell as if struck by an invisible hammer. In seconds, Morpheus had carved a path through the attackers, his silver mask reflecting every flash of spellfire, his presence did not bring the Aurors any peace of mind.
They didn't know him, didn't recognize him from any of the hit wizard squads either but what they did know was Morpheus was culling the herd. They adjusted their defenses, flanking him and supporting his swift onslaught. Morpheus was their ally today, at least in action if not entirely in motive, as he cut down the dark ranks without hesitation.
In the midst of this battle, Voldemort's cold, sibilant voice slithered through the din. "How bold of you!" he hissed, his eyes narrowing as he spotted the masked wizard weaving his way toward him. "To show up here! I had a feeling it was you again killing my people."
With a calculated precision, Voldemort raised his wand, sending a jet of green light toward Morpheus. He sidestepped, spinning away as the Killing Curse crashed into the ground where he'd stood just a heartbeat before, scorching the grass.
Morpheus steadied himself, his wand raised. For a moment, the world seemed to fade around them—the shouts, the screams, the roars of battle drowned out by an eerie silence as the two faced off, predator to predator. In that instant, Morpheus felt the weight of Voldemort's gaze.
And he laughed, "Tom," Morpheus intoned, his voice laced with an almost mocking calm, "you've always been too predictable."
Voldemort flinched, "HOW DO YOU KNOW THAT NAME!" he roared
Voldemort's voice echoed across the pitch, but Morpheus only chuckled, the sound hollow and dark behind his silver mask.
"How do I know it?" he mused, sidestepping a vicious jet of green light Voldemort hurled at him. "Tom, you wear your scars as proudly as your power. You think yourself a mystery—an enigma wrapped in darkness—but you are as transparent as glass."
With a flick of his wand, Morpheus cast a shimmering shield that absorbed Voldemort's curse, then retaliated with a lightning-fast curse of his own. Voldemort was forced back, barely deflecting the spell as he staggered. The Dark Lord's crimson eyes flashed with fury, but there was something else there, too—a flicker of uncertainty, the briefest hint of fear.
Morpheus circled him, his movements fluid and unhurried, as though he were sparring rather than fighting for his life. Each of his spells forced Voldemort further on the defensive, the Dark Lord's robes torn and smoking, his composure fraying.
"Did you really think," Morpheus continued, his voice a low, dangerous murmur, "that no one would remember where you came from? That you could cut away your past and leave no trace? It lingers in you, Tom, no matter how hard you try to erase it."
Voldemort's face twisted, and with a snarl, he unleashed a torrent of spells, one after the other, furious and wild. But Morpheus moved like water, dodging and weaving through the deadly curses with an almost taunting ease. He sidestepped a curse that burned the ground at his feet, deflected another with a flick of his wrist, and fired back a powerful blast that sent Voldemort reeling.
The Aurors, positioned around the edges of the chaotic battle, were transfixed. They'd seen Death Eaters in combat, seen Dumbledore himself cast with terrible force, but this was something different. Morpheus was toying with Voldemort, unraveling his precision, exposing his vulnerability.
Finally, Voldemort's gaze shifted, his eyes darting to the Aurors closing in, and a twisted smile crept onto his lips. "Enjoy your little victory,." he spat, his voice dripping with venom. "This is not over." And with a flick of his cloak
Just before Voldemort could Disapparate, Morpheus's wand snapped up in a swift, precise motion. A jagged slash of silver light struck Voldemort's arm, slicing through his robe and leaving a deep, bloody gash. Voldemort stumbled, his face contorted in shock and pain as he clutched his wounded arm, dark blood seeping through his fingers.
Morpheus watched, tilting his head with detached interest as Voldemort's crimson eyes blazed with rage. "Consider that a reminder," Morpheus said softly, his voice laced with cold satisfaction, "that you're not untouchable, Tom."
Voldemort seethed, his face twisted with fury as he fought to maintain control, but he staggered again, visibly weakened. His wand hand shook, blood dripping from his injured arm. He tried to raise his wand, but Morpheus was quicker, firing another spell that struck Voldemort square in the chest, sending him sprawling backward.
The Aurors gasped, seeing the Dark Lord—the supposed invincible Voldemort—on his knees, bloodied and breathing hard. For a fleeting moment, it seemed he might be defeated, but then his expression twisted into a snarl of bitter defiance. With a flash of dark energy, Voldemort managed to wrench himself free from the spell's impact, vanishing with a crack that left a harsh silence in his wake.
For a moment, Morpheus stood alone, his masked face watching the empty space where Voldemort had been. Slowly, he lowered his wand, a faint smile hidden behind his mask.
The Aurors, snapping out of their shock, closed in, eager to question the mysterious masked wizard, but as they approached, Morpheus turned, his silver mask glinting in the moonlight. Before they could call out or fire a binding spell, he Disapparated, leaving the field.