Both obsessed/Tom Riddle (completed)

047. Face to face

The wizarding world was a broken chessboard, divided into two camps: those who stood with Tom Riddle, now fully realized as Lord Voldemort, and those who clung to Dumbledore's idealized vision of equality. The split had grown deeper and bloodier with each passing day, as the so-called "bright side" painted Tom's movement as dark, evil, and merciless.

Their propaganda spread like wildfire: Dumbledore was the savior of wizards and Muggles alike, while Tom was the villain seeking to "tear apart the fabric of their world." Lies, all of it—manipulations woven by Dumbledore to preserve his own image and agenda.

Tom's side, however, knew the truth. They didn't want chaos or destruction; they wanted preservation. The magic of their world had been diluted by careless mingling with Muggles, who neither understood nor respected their power.

Voldemort wasn't calling for senseless violence; he was calling for purity, for the strength of wizarding bloodlines to remain untarnished. But the other side refused to see reason, and Dumbledore had used every trick in the book to turn the masses against Voldemort and his followers.

Now, the war had reached its peak. On the barren fields just outside the Forbidden Forest, the two armies faced each other. Voldemort stood at the front of his forces, the Death Eaters and their allies—a formidable legion of pureblood families, creatures of darkness, and even the silent, unassuming Hufflepuff spies who worked in the shadows.

Beside him was Ernesh, his unwavering second-in-command, his devoted partner, and the terrifying weapon Dumbledore's forces could never predict.

Across the battlefield stood Dumbledore, flanked by his so-called Order of the Phoenix. He wore his usual look of serene authority, but Tom could see through the mask.

This wasn't a man fighting for peace or equality; this was a man manipulating the weak and the desperate, feeding them false tales of heroism and righteousness to fuel his army. Many of the people standing with him had no idea of the full picture—they were pawns, cannon fodder in a game of Dumbledore's making.

Tom stepped forward, his presence commanding. His voice echoed over the field.

"Albus," he began, his tone deceptively calm, "here we are at last. Your lies have brought us to this moment."

Dumbledore stepped forward to meet him, his eyes twinkling with that maddening facade of wisdom. "And your greed for power has brought you here, Tom."

"Don't call me that," Voldemort hissed, his wand sparking in his hand. "I have transcended that name. I am Voldemort, and this is not greed. This is justice. You know as well as I do that the magic in our blood is fading. Your vision will see our kind reduced to nothing more than a shadow of what we once were."

Dumbledore shook his head. "What you call justice is cruelty, Voldemort. The world is changing, and you refuse to accept it. Wizards and Muggles can coexist—"

"Coexistence?" Tom's voice was sharp and cold, cutting through Dumbledore's words. "You mean subjugation. You mean bending the knee to those who would wipe us out if they understood what we truly are. You mean sacrificing the future of our kind to placate your own guilt. But no more, Albus. Today, the lies end."

Ernesh stepped forward, his dark green eyes glowing unnaturally, his serpent-like fangs glinting as he smirked. "I can taste the fear in your army, Dumbledore," he said, his voice low and dangerous. "You've filled their heads with bedtime stories, but they're not ready for the truth. They're not ready for us."

Dumbledore's expression faltered for the briefest moment, and Tom saw it. A crack in the armor. Good.

"Enough words," Tom said. "It's time to end this."

The battlefield erupted into chaos. Spells flew through the air in a blinding array of colors, colliding with deafening cracks and explosions. The Forbidden Forest came alive with the sounds of war—shouts, screams, the clash of magic against magic.

Ernesh moved like a shadow, slipping through the fray with inhuman speed. His fangs sank into enemies with precision, his venom leaving them paralyzed or worse. He reveled in the chaos, his mind a storm of devotion and fury. Every spell he cast, every life he took, was for Tom.

Tom, meanwhile, was untouchable. His wand moved with deadly grace, his spells cutting through Dumbledore's forces like a knife through parchment. He had trained his knights well, and their loyalty showed in their unrelenting assault.

At one point, Tom and Dumbledore faced each other again, their wands raised.

"This is your last chance, Albus," Tom said. "Step down, and I may let some of them live."

Dumbledore's response was a flurry of spells, and the duel began in earnest.

Meanwhile, Ernesh found himself surrounded by a group of Gryffindors, their faces determined but their fear evident. He tilted his head, baring his fangs in a grin.

"You should have stayed in your tower," he hissed, his voice dripping with malice.

One by one, they fell, their courage no match for his ferocity.

By the end of the battle, the field was littered with the fallen. Dumbledore's forces had been decimated, their numbers reduced to a mere handful. Those who survived fled, their morale shattered.

Tom stood in the center of the carnage, Ernesh at his side. Blood stained the ground, the air heavy with the scent of death and victory.

"This is just the beginning," Tom said, his voice calm but resolute. "We will remake this world, and they will thank us for it—if they survive."

Ernesh smiled, his sharp teeth glinting. "Let them come. We'll be waiting."

...