Hogwarts: I Am Such a Model Wizard

How many fake Kyles had there been now... the seventh? The eighth?

Voldemort had lost count—or more accurately, he was too blinded by rage to care anymore.

And it all started two hours ago.

On a hillside, he'd come across a panicked Kyle and, without hesitation, cast Avada Kedavra.

The figure dropped dead—clean and decisive, just like the Muggles and Aurors who had died at his hands.

Voldemort had been elated. Even more so than when he snatched the Elder Wand from Dumbledore. As "Kyle" lay flat on the ground, Voldemort felt something almost nostalgic—like he was back in his childhood.

That first time he lured someone who mocked him to a cave by the sea and used his own unique methods to torment and terrify them.

It was only much later that he learned those methods had a name: magic.

But that didn't matter. The fear and despair on those two Muggles' faces had given him an intoxicating sense of euphoria, a thrill so sharp and pure it had left him breathless.

Years had passed, and the world had changed—but Voldemort could hardly believe he had rediscovered that rare and delicious feeling.

He'd decided to bring "Kyle" with him, to toss the corpse into Hogwarts at just the right moment. He could already imagine the look on Dumbledore's face.

At the thought, Voldemort had actually laughed out loud.

In his delight, he even magnanimously pardoned the Death Eaters who had failed him.

Then, not long after, he watched as the corpse of "Kyle" began to twist and morph, changing into someone else in seconds.

As Slughorn's most gifted student, Voldemort recognized the trick almost instantly.

Polyjuice Potion...

Kyle had given the Death Eaters Polyjuice laced with his own hair—creating a perfect double.

And Voldemort had fallen for it. Worse, he'd been pleased with himself.

His eyes flared blood-red, a bone-deep cold rising with them.

He had been tricked. Again.

Why "again"? Voldemort didn't know. It was simply the thought that came to mind.

Driven by fury, Voldemort snapped. He transformed into a cloud of black mist and tore through the mountains, striking down everything in his path—Death Eaters, black dragons, "Kyles"—with a single fate: death by Killing Curse.

To make sure he would never be fooled again by such petty tricks, Voldemort tweaked the Killing Curse—just slightly—so that it would also "kill" Polyjuice Potion.

Potions were magic too, after all. And for the Dark Lord, master of the dark arts, such an adjustment was child's play.

But that decision unhinged him even further.

Every "Kyle" he encountered after that was fake. Each one just another Death Eater dosed with Polyjuice.

By now, the number of Death Eaters he'd personally killed was pushing double digits.

If the Hebrides had a leaderboard for Death Eater kills, Voldemort would be in first place—followed by a bunch of fire-breathing dragons.

Out of the original fifty-plus Death Eaters, fewer than twenty were still alive.

But Voldemort didn't care. Even when the "Kyles" he encountered were clearly just Death Eaters in disguise, he cast the Killing Curse without pause.

Because he couldn't be sure if it was really Kyle pretending to be a Death Eater. He knew Kyle's tricks all too well—if he could use Polyjuice to sneak in as a Death Eater, he could certainly make himself look like a Death Eater while keeping Kyle's face.

So now, Voldemort had only one solution: if he couldn't tell the real from the fake, he'd just kill them all. One of them had to be the real Kyle.

As for the black dragons and MacFusty? Who cared. Out of the way.

Voldemort raised his wand. A bright flame burst from the tip and twisted into a massive serpent.

Wherever the fire snake slithered, trees and even solid rock ignited.

His patience was gone. He decided to unleash Fiendfyre to force Kyle out—completely disregarding whether any Death Eaters got caught in it.

And even if they did, Voldemort didn't care... what difference would a few more deaths make at this point?

The Fiendfyre spread with unnatural speed. Though it was night, the central mountains of the Hebrides blazed like midday.

In the roaring firelight, Voldemort spotted another Kyle—and, as usual, flung a Killing Curse his way.

But this time, the figure dodged.

It had been a casual strike, but not just anyone could avoid it.

"Found you," Voldemort said, narrowing his slit-pupiled, crimson eyes.

He knew—this time, it was the real one.

The ones who died easily to the Killing Curse had been Death Eaters. The one who evaded it had to be Kyle. It was a grimly ironic method of identification, but undeniably effective.

And Voldemort was right. That was Kyle.

Kyle hadn't expected Voldemort to go this far. Not only was he merciless with his own followers, he was even willing to annihilate all remaining Death Eaters—and the entire mountain range—just to kill him.

Trying to escape the surge of Fiendfyre had exposed him.

"So close," Kyle sighed.

He had nearly reached the sea. If he'd just released a few more decoys to mislead Voldemort and disguised himself as Crabbe or Goyle, he'd have had a real shot at slipping into the water and escaping.

But now... with Voldemort ready to kill everyone just to get him, that plan was useless.

Staring at the twisted face of Voldemort and the inferno raging around him, Kyle felt despair creeping in.

This time, it seemed there was no way out.

He never imagined Voldemort would care this much. A man who preached the supremacy of absolute power had not only cast an Anti-Disapparition Jinx to block his escape, but had been willing to bury fifty Death Eaters with him.

Unless Dumbledore descended from the sky, he probably wasn't getting out alive.

Kyle looked up at the fire-lit sky. Not even a single cloud, let alone Dumbledore.

"By Merlin's strawberry socks," Kyle muttered, closing his eyes.

Not that he planned on giving up.

In several hidden spots across the mountain, faint lights flickered to life. Arcane runes shimmered into view.

This was Kyle's fallback plan… or something like it.

If it was only Fiendfyre, he didn't think he was any worse off than Voldemort. But he needed time.

Voldemort and Kyle raised their wands simultaneously.

The solid ground beneath them turned to swamp. Voldemort stumbled, and the Killing Curse veered off target, slamming into a cliff to Kyle's left.

Almost at the same moment, Voldemort swept his arm, regaining balance as a hurricane rose around him.

The whirlwind carried rocks and leaves into the air, coiling them into a massive snake with venomous fangs. With a shriek, it lunged at Kyle.

A flash of silver appeared in front of Kyle. His shield transformed into a door—the front gate of Hogwarts Castle.

The giant snake collided with the door and exploded with a deafening boom.

"How long can you keep this up?!"

Voldemort raised both hands above his head.

A crack split open beneath Kyle's feet. If he hadn't reacted quickly, he might have fallen—but that wasn't the end of it. Countless pitch-black daggers surged from the crevice, racing toward him.

Kyle wrenched a thick slab of stone from the cliff wall beside him and slammed it down over the crack with a heavy crash, smashing the blades beneath it.

He was gasping for air now. Casting large-scale Softening and Severing Charms together was beginning to take its toll.

Still, he'd achieved what he needed.

As the battle raged, the runes he'd planted in advance around the area lit up all at once.

It was as if someone had thrown more fuel into a fireplace—the Fiendfyre, once only a few feet high, suddenly shot up over ten feet in the blink of an eye.

Kyle raised his wand.

The Fiendfyre began to contract, drawing inward until it swirled tightly around him, a blazing sphere like a miniature sun.

As it condensed, the flames shifted color—first from red, to pale yellow, then shimmering faintly with traces of gold.

For the first time, Voldemort's expression changed. He drew in a sharp breath.

He never imagined that his own Fiendfyre could be seized so quickly by a wizard not yet twenty.

"Avada Kedavra!"

Without hesitation, Voldemort slashed his wand, casting the Killing Curse to end it.

The curse struck the "sun" and instantly disintegrated—bursting like fireworks before being devoured by several golden tendrils of flame.

Voldemort's breathing grew heavy. He had a sudden certainty: if that ball of Fiendfyre hit him, he would die.

But he didn't feel fear.

What he felt... was the urge to laugh.

"Hah! The great Dumbledore actually trained a Fiendfyre master!"

He raised his wand again.

At his motion, the previously stable Fiendfyre sun began to churn violently, its shape subtly distorting.

Voldemort was fighting for control.

Unlike other dark magic, Fiendfyre, once conjured, slipped free of the caster's will and became a semi-sentient force of its own.

That's why most wizards could only release it—they couldn't actually command it, unless they employed more complex runic magic.

But that wasn't a hard rule.

If Kyle could seize control of Voldemort's Fiendfyre, then Voldemort could just as well try to take it back.

Now it was simply a matter of who had the greater skill.

...

At the heart of the Fiendfyre sphere...

Pale-faced, Kyle pulled out his suitcase. He released the Niffler, then stuffed the suitcase—and a rolled piece of parchment—into its inner pouch.

"Hide. Find a chance to get this to Newt."

The Niffler could slip through any narrow crevice and burrow deep underground. Even if Voldemort scorched the entire mountain range, he wouldn't be able to find it.

But that only worked if it was just the Niffler.

Kyle hesitated. Should he hide in the suitcase too, and let the Niffler carry it away?

It might not work.

You couldn't hide magical traces.

Dumbledore had once said that any use of magic leaves behind a trace—that's how he'd seen the remnants of Voldemort's magic in the seaside cave where the Slytherin locket had been hidden, and used it to track down the boat beneath the lake.

This suitcase, crafted with the Undetectable Extension Charm, gave off a very clear magical signature.

It was like a brightly colored thread—while aboveground, it could blend in with the web of other magical traces. But if Kyle let the Niffler take it underground, it would stand out immediately.

Judging by Voldemort's behavior, there was no way he would let Kyle get away. Once he noticed Kyle was missing, it wouldn't take him long to detect the unique magical trace beneath the surface.

It would only be a matter of time before he was found.

Kyle wavered. Was it worth the risk?

If the Niffler dug deep enough—if Voldemort couldn't follow underground or didn't destroy the entire island—maybe it would buy him just enough time for reinforcements to arrive.

That Fiendfyre blast shooting into the sky had to draw attention. Maybe even Dumbledore had seen it. Every second he bought could be a chance to survive.

But Kyle feared Voldemort might be capable of more.

As he'd thought before, the King of Dark Magic knew far more than just the Killing Curse. No one could say what those dangerous experiments with dark magic had given him.

That black mist he used, for instance—it could seep through even the tiniest of cracks like real fog.

If he was caught, Voldemort would naturally claim the suitcase.

And with it, the Basilisk inside.

He had the power to awaken the Basilisk.

And if that happened, things would truly spiral out of control.

Kyle hesitated, still locked in a struggle with Voldemort for control of the Fiendfyre. Magic surged from the tip of his wand in steady torrents.

As the battle dragged on, his complexion grew even paler, and his consciousness began to blur.

The Fiendfyre around him started to break apart again—clearly Voldemort's doing.

Forget it. No more gambling.

Kyle clenched his jaw and made a snap decision.

He was going to risk it... After all, that Fiendfyre hadn't just gathered to shield him.

What if he could kill Voldemort? Even if he couldn't, he might at least buy himself enough time to escape.

If Voldemort got hurt—just enough—maybe Kyle could rally the black dragons nearby for one last stand.

It was a long shot, but it was still a shot.

With one hand gripping his wand, Kyle reached into his Mokeskin pouch with the other, ready to pull out the Firebolt and make a run for it.

But just as his fingers closed around the broom, something hard rolled into his hand.

He was sure he'd grabbed the Firebolt—so what was this?

Kyle looked down and saw a fragment of a blue gemstone. When had he—?

Wait... a gemstone shard?

His heart skipped a beat. He remembered what it was.

Kyle shot out his hand and grabbed the Niffler, who was already halfway buried in the ground, hauling it up by the rear.

"No need to hide anymore," he said, grinning with sudden relief.

How could he have forgotten about this? Maybe it had just been too long.

Kyle took a deep breath and peered through the shifting gaps in the Fiendfyre, locking eyes with Voldemort.

If this is what you want... then take it.

He raised his wand. Flames erupted from the tip and fused with the surrounding Fiendfyre.

The "sun" began to move.

"Incendio Totalum!"

Kyle thrust his wand toward Voldemort—and in that instant, he felt his magic pour out like a bursting dam.

The effect was immediate.

He had never unleashed the Firestorm Charm at this scale before—not just regular Fiendfyre, but the combined power of both his and Voldemort's flames.

The resulting inferno surged like a tsunami, rising nearly twenty feet high before crashing down with immense force.

The entire world seemed to fall silent. Even the roaring Hebridean Black Dragons abruptly went quiet, their mouths snapping shut.

From above, it looked as though the golden fire had cleaved the Hebrides Islands in two.

Voldemort, the direct target of the flames, sensed the danger just in time and turned himself into a cloud of black mist. But even so, half his body was scorched black.

For the first time since Dumbledore, Voldemort had truly felt the threat of death... That spell—it really could have killed him!

If he hadn't reacted in time... Voldemort glanced behind him.

Old Crabbe, who had been running toward him moments ago, was gone.

Gone—completely. Nothing left behind, as if he had never existed at all.

At that moment, Voldemort's fury reached its breaking point.

He wasn't angry over Crabbe's death—he didn't care about that. What he couldn't tolerate was letting another "Dumbledore" walk free.

No—worse. Dumbledore was over a hundred. Kyle wasn't even twenty. He was the greater threat.

Voldemort lifted his wand with his uninjured hand.

But then he saw Kyle smile—and, with visible effort, give him a small wave.

Between his fingers, a faint blue flash gleamed—and he vanished on the spot.

And with that, whatever shred of sanity Voldemort had left evaporated.

"You dare..."

"Come back! I command you—come back!"

Voldemort whipped his wand through the air like a madman, unleashing a storm of curses at the mountain where Kyle had just stood. Boulders exploded, stone shattered, and the towering cliffs were nearly flattened under a barrage of dark magic.

But it was no use.

Voldemort was forced to admit—he had once again watched Kyle escape right from under his nose.