The reason Peeves was classified as a poltergeist rather than a ghost was precisely because, while he could pass through walls like a ghost, he also had a physical form. He could touch objects at will, and his greatest pastime was shrieking through the corridors to attract attention before pulling pranks on anyone unfortunate enough to cross his path.
"Ohhh~, you little rascal!" Floating midair, Peeves wagged his finger and clicked his tongue. "I've got y—"
BANG!!
Peeves' words were abruptly cut off as he was struck by a spell, spinning wildly in the air like a kicked ball. His hat nearly flew off his head.
"Alright, alright! An intruder? You've angered Peeves!!" Looking furious, Peeves pressed his hat firmly back onto his head—then, without another word, shot straight up through the ceiling and disappeared.
To be honest, Harry was momentarily dumbfounded watching Peeves flee at full speed.
He hadn't expected Peeves to actually defeat the enemy, but he had hoped the poltergeist's unique nature would at least serve as a distraction, giving him a chance to land a decisive blow.
After the exchange of multiple spells, the elemental energy in this corridor had already weakened considerably.
Even the two standing figures opposite him seemed a little stunned by Peeves' retreat. For a brief moment, the only sounds in the corridor were those of the two trolls in the background, who had begun fighting each other—one trying to move forward while the other blocked its way.
Then, their battle intensified.
"Confringo!"
"Confringo! Confringo! Confringo!!"
One of the Dark Wizards raised his wand and repeatedly cast the Blasting Curse at Harry.
It was as if that was the only spell he knew—one fiery-red curse after another streaked down the corridor, blasting holes into the walls.
But Harry didn't retreat. He braced his shield in front of him, lowering his stance as much as possible, moving forward like a serpent toward the Dark Wizard.
He was a Shaman, but right now, he looked more like a warrior.
Not much choice—elements weren't cooperating right now!
The continuous barrage of Blasting Curses had left his shield pockmarked with craters. To be fair, the goblin-forged shield was of excellent quality; even now, it had yet to be completely pierced, though its inner surface was now riddled with dents.
The Dark Wizard was trying to use his advantage as an adult with more abundant magic reserves to overpower Harry, intending to shatter his shield and kill him.
But what shocked Harry even more was that, even when he yanked the wounded, writhing wizard he had hammered earlier up as a human shield, the attacking Dark Wizard showed no hesitation—his curses struck the wounded man directly, one after another.
Weren't they comrades?
There wasn't even a shred of mercy. Every spell cast was a lethal curse, including some Harry couldn't recognize but knew were incredibly destructive.
Within mere seconds, the unfortunate wizard Harry used as a shield was on the brink of death—his back torn open, flesh mangled, so weak that he couldn't even scream.
Lightning Bolt!
Calling upon the already weakened elemental forces once more, Harry swung his warhammer, channeling a bolt of lightning forward. As expected, it was blocked by the same semi-transparent shield as before.
But Harry had anticipated this. Momentarily setting aside his warhammer, he drew his wand and flicked it—immediately, a piece of armor that had been flung aside earlier by the trolls, now lying in pieces at the Dark Wizard's feet, suddenly transformed into a wolf and sank its fangs into his ankle. The wolf followed up with a brutal death shake.
"AAAAAHHHHH!!" The wizard's screams filled the corridor as the searing pain disrupted his casting rhythm.
Charge!
No, wait—not a charge—Harry seized the moment and dashed forward, hurling his shield with a powerful spin. The spinning shield slammed into the wizard's head, causing him to reel backward. Harry deftly caught the rebounding shield and pressed forward.
He had already closed the distance, warhammer in hand, flames flickering along its surface—
SMASH!!
The wizard collapsed instantly.
"Morsmordre!"
A cold, chilling voice suddenly whispered at Harry's ear. He barely had time to raise his shield before feeling a strange burning sensation spread through it. Without hesitation, he tossed the shield away.
Sizzle.
Before his eyes, the shield that had accompanied him for just over a month now twisted and blackened, corroded as if it had been drenched in acid, turning into an unrecognizable pile of charred metal.
Dark magic—this was definitely some form of Dark magic, something even more insidious than the Blasting Curse.
Gripping his warhammer tightly in his right hand and his wand in his left, Harry warily eyed the last remaining Dark Wizard.
Unlike the others, this one had only cast three spells so far—Avada Kedavra, a shield charm, and just now, that corrosive Dark spell.
Though he had used fewer spells, each one was exceptionally lethal—anyone hit wouldn't even have to worry about their last words.
Yet, aside from those three attacks, this wizard had merely stood there, watching as Harry fought his two comrades, offering them no assistance or support.
"Urgh... Ahh..."
A groan of pain came from the floor. The first wizard struck by Harry's Lightning Bolt had regained consciousness.
Harry realized these Dark Wizards were far more physically resilient than he had expected. They seemed to have a natural resistance to magical damage, recovering from unconsciousness surprisingly fast.
But that was fine—Harry would just help him sleep again.
Lifting his foot, Harry delivered a swift kick to the wizard's head, knocking him out cold. He didn't kill him—keeping a prisoner for interrogation was always useful.
Even as Harry remained on high alert, the last wizard made no move to intervene, simply watching as Harry knocked out his supposed comrade.
"I thought you were on the same side," Harry remarked. "Or do you have some twisted rule that only the last one standing gets paid?"
"Ahaha, brilliant guess!" The wizard suddenly let out a raspy chuckle. "I knew you weren't like the others. Those dull fools could never have come up with such an exquisite idea... Just like the ones lying on the floor. For them, dying here is the greatest moment of their pathetic lives."
"...You never planned to escape," Harry said grimly. "Who are you? You sound like you know me well."
A suspicion had already formed in his heart.
No, at this point, it wasn't just a suspicion. Through his Astral Vision, he once again saw the familiar chaotic aura.
Voldemort.
But why wasn't he in Quirrell?
Had Dumbledore's intelligence been wrong again? Why did he think "again"?
Voldemort had orchestrated everything to lure the professors away—wasn't it to steal what lay in the trap room on the fourth floor?
Why was he here—waiting for him?
"Who am I?" Voldemort's voice turned sinister, his grin widening. "I know your kind, Harry—those who wield the power of prophecy. Your paths are always so... clear-cut."
As he spoke, Voldemort raised his wand and gave it a wave.
From the nearby restroom, a girl slowly walked out—it was Hermione.
Her eyes were vacant, as if her soul had been drained. She had no focus of her own, stepping forward mechanically until she was out the door, then turned to face Harry.
Harry took a deep breath. The fury surging into his mind was forcibly suppressed, replaced by a sharp clarity—controlled, composed, like a true warrior harnessing his rage.
"Not even angry?" Voldemort let out a piercing laugh. "Don't worry, I merely guided this Mudblood's memories. As long as she was here, I knew you'd rush over without a second thought—you people are just like that."
"I have so much to say to you, Harry," Voldemort's voice suddenly softened, almost gentle. "But I fear we don't have the time—Cruciatus!!"
It was like he had split personalities—one moment speaking calmly, the next, shouting the incantation with unhinged fury.
"Cruciatus! Cruciatus! Cruciatus!"
A relentless barrage—four Unforgivable Curses in a row.
Harry had half a mind to ask if Voldemort even knew any other spells.
"Hahahahahaha!!" Voldemort cackled wildly, his eyes locked onto Harry's evasive movements. "I'll admit, your self-created spells have their… interesting qualities. But that's all they are, Harry—interesting. Cruciatus!"
"They're nothing more than variations of elemental curses! Even their range and power don't compare! And look at you—you can't even cast them in quick succession! Too weak, Harry Potter! Cruciatus!"
"Where's your soul magic?! Why aren't you using it?! Show me what it can do!!"
He was getting more agitated by the second. Harry couldn't help but think Voldemort's mental state was in shambles—his emotions fluctuating far too wildly.
Like right now.
"You should abandon those feeble, worthless spells and embrace the boundless mysteries of Dark Magic!!"
The spells suddenly changed. Black, red, purple—a barrage of curses, none of them looking remotely friendly, howled through the air, slamming into the debris Harry had transfigured for cover.
Every spell was different from the last, as if Voldemort were putting on a grand demonstration of Dark Magic's upper limits. But judging by the impact, his real target wasn't Harry at all—it was the underground halls of Hogwarts itself.
Harry could see the far wall, now dripping with some sort of purplish sludge, bubbling ominously with a stench strong enough to make one retch. He wasn't sure if it was a curse or some corrosive substance, but the wall was not in good shape.
Voldemort's spells came faster and faster, but his voice grew weaker and weaker.
Through his astral sight, Harry saw it clearly—the soul of the wizard Voldemort was possessing was rapidly deteriorating, teetering on the edge of death.
Voldemort was squeezing every last drop of life and magic from his host, burning it all for a fleeting burst of power.
"Look! This is true strength! Power you can never defy!!"
"Only absolute power matters! Only this kind of power can achieve—DAMN IT! PEEVES!!!"
Voldemort's triumphant declaration turned into an enraged roar, his curses drowned out by Peeves' gleeful laughter.
"Come on, then! Keep going! You dare mess with Lord Peeves?! Take this! And this! And this—aha! Where'd this spider come from? Doesn't matter! You can have it too!"
Harry peeked out and saw Peeves floating overhead, a massive bundle strapped to his back, hurling every random object he could find at Voldemort. It looked like he had emptied out his entire stash of mischief.
"ENOUGH!!" Voldemort bellowed in fury, lifting his gaze toward Peeves—only for his vision to be suddenly obscured by a flash of pink.
Harry saw it clearly.
A pair of pink, lacy women's knickers…
Peeves had pulled them straight from his bag and tossed them down without a second thought. Who knew where he had even gotten them?
"YOU'RE DEAD!!!"
Voldemort tore the offending garment from his face, and the moment he realized what he was holding, he practically ignited with rage.
He roared, raising his wand to unleash a killing curse at Peeves.
But Peeves had already vanished, his bag and all, leaving only the sound of giggling and the whoosh of air where he had disappeared.
That was a poltergeist for you—pranks, invisibility, and fleeing the scene, all in one fluid motion. A true legend of Hogwarts.
"Nicely done, Peeves," Harry couldn't help but praise. The distraction had bought him a critical window of time.
When Voldemort finally snapped back to his senses and turned to face Harry again, he saw the boy clutching a pristine white totem—its surface etched with cryptic symbols and unfamiliar script.
Unlike the handcrafted totems used in ritual offerings, the ones a shaman used in battle were formed from the earth itself, their carvings serving only one purpose: a call for aid.
That was why battle totems couldn't be pre-made. The moment they were completed, their magic would activate, summoning the elements immediately. And you couldn't just waste an elemental's time—elementals had tempers too.
Given that he was currently at Hogwarts… Harry had pulled a piece of wood from his dragonskin pouch and carved one on the spot.
Twenty years of professional shaman training made him a master at totem carving.
"I didn't want to do this, Voldemort," Harry called out. "Mostly because this is going to be an absolute nightmare for Filch."
"What?" Voldemort blinked. "You're not seriously thinking of fighting me with that stick, are you?"
Harry didn't answer.
Instead, he drove the totem into the ground, slamming it through the stone floor of the underground corridor.
Silence.
Nothing happened.
Voldemort tensed, glancing warily around him—but nothing stirred.
"Perhaps I've overestimated you, Harry," he sneered, raising his wand once more, irritation clear on his face. "For what you did eleven years ago—wait. What's that sound?"
A deep, rolling rumble.
From above. From the walls. From the very pipes embedded within Hogwarts itself. A great surge of water was rushing through the castle's underground.
Then, a sudden series of bursts erupted from the restroom, loud and violent—pipes cracking, faucets exploding.
Indeed, there was no convenient elemental plane in this world. No great torrents of wind, no raging fires, not even earth elementals to summon at will.
But there was one element in abundance.
Water.
Hogwarts was built on the edge of a cliff, right beside the vast expanse of the Black Lake. Slytherin's common room was nestled beneath its surface, the view of the lake stretching beyond its windows.
And right now, Harry was deep within Hogwarts' underground chambers—where countless pipes crisscrossed the stone halls.
Ssshhh… pshhh—SPLASH!!
No longer a trickle. No longer a mere leak.
Water erupted in torrents, blasting from the pipes, flooding the floors in mere moments.
The totem Harry had placed was a Water Elemental Totem—its purpose: to awaken and summon the nearby water elementals, drawing upon lakes and rivers alike.
"This is it?" Voldemort laughed, watching the water swirl at his feet. "This is the magic you rely on? You think you can defeat me—defeat Lord Voldemort, who has even defied death—with such a pathetic, feeble spell?!"
"You've got it wrong, Voldemort," Harry smirked.
"You're the challenger here."
"Me? A challenger?" Voldemort's already fragile composure cracked further. He roared, "Then let's see for ourselves who the real challenger is—AVADA KEDAVRA!!"
The corridor flashed green. But Harry didn't even flinch.
Because standing before him, rising from the churning water, was a towering giant—its entire form sculpted from living currents.
A Water Elemental.
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