I became Voldemort Chapter 321: Who was the murderer?

"It must be him!"

When the first student passed by early this morning and discovered Dumbledore lying in a pool of blood, Grindelwald had already been standing there for several hours.

He hadn't even noticed the passage of ti, nor had he realized that the entire school had gathered around.

"It was Cyrus who killed him! I've said it many tis already!"

Before Grindelwald could speak, a portrait on the wall leapt forward of its own accord. The figure inside was dressed in armor, holding a long spear, and shouted in a nasal voice, "Last night, I was patrolling my castle as usual, and then I saw a shadow—"

He spoke with great seriousness, preparing to paint the scene in vivid detail—but was quickly cut off.

McGonagall, her face streaked with tears, still snapped with fury: "Silence, Sir Cadogan! One more word and I'll toss you into the fireplace!"

"But I saw it—that bastard, that son of a bitc—" Sir Cadogan continued to rant.

But his voice ca to an abrupt stop.

Ginny had already rushed over, yanked his portrait down from the wall, slamd it to the ground, and gave it two hard kicks.

"Cyrus would never do sothing like this!" she shouted angrily.

In fact, that was the view held by many of the professors at Hogwarts as well—especially the four Heads of House, led by McGonagall. They were all willing to believe in Cyrus. Not just because he had defeated Voldemort, but more importantly, because they had fought alongside him several tis and knew that the relationship between Dumbledore and Cyrus had never been hostile.

Of course, not everyone thought the sa.

"Who knows? Maybe he just wanted to take Professor Dumbledore's place—"

"Are you stupid, Mike?" Hermione snapped, storming over and punching him straight in the face!

"Professor Dumbledore had already stepped down as Headmaster. Attacking him wouldn't have done Cyrus any good!" Even while defending Cyrus, Hermione remained logical and composed.

"Maybe that's what makes it the perfect sche," the boy grumbled, unwilling to back down even after being hit.

"Silence, all of you!" McGonagall cried out in grief.

She was overwheld with sorrow. Albus was dead, and yet the scene was chaotic—the murderer was still at large, the students were arguing endlessly… After all he had done for the wizarding world, who would mourn him?

An imnse sadness engulfed McGonagall.

She had once been Dumbledore's student—and also his closest friend.

She knew about the painful parts of Dumbledore's past, not through rumor, but because he had confided in her personally. Over the decades, the two of them had almost co to rely on each other for survival.

Two lonely souls, both battered by the cruelty of fate… and now, this old bumblebee had flown away without a word.

"..Grindelwald."

Her voice trembled, and Grindelwald could hear her teeth chattering. This stern woman, who had so recently stood brave and fierce against the Death Eaters, now seed fragile and delicate.

Only now did Grindelwald realize he wasn't the only one mourning Dumbledore.

Many people had loved him, though not all in the sa way.

But love was never ant to be shallow.

"Grindelwald," McGonagall tried several tis before she was finally able to voice the question. "Who was it? You must have seen… Who did it? I don't believe you or Cyrus could've done this."

"Who was the murderer?"

In Grindelwald's mind, the face that looked exactly like Cyrus's appeared once more. At last, he spoke the na:

"It was Death."

...

"Death?"

Cyrus was dressed in the most traditional wizard's robes, looking a bit bulky—far from his usual style. But today was no ordinary day.

He was here to attend Dumbledore's morial.

Hogwarts was packed.

Not even during the Triwizard Tournant had there been such a crowd—especially not one filled with so many renowned witches and wizards. All wore expressions of grief, struggling to believe that the kind and gentle Albus Dumbledore could truly be… gone.

The ceremony wasn't led by Grindelwald, but by McGonagall.

Cyrus noticed that Grindelwald was hiding among the crowd, unwilling to co forward, but he had already heard what happened—from Ginny and Hermione.

"So soone calling himself Death, wearing my face, killed Dumbledore… and took the Elder Wand?"

"That's right," Hermione nodded.

But what Cyrus felt inside was sothing very strange.

It wasn't anger—it was absurdity.

Once, he had worn Voldemort's face and been mistaken by Dumbledore as the Dark Lord himself. And now, Voldemort was finally dead, yet another imposter had shown up.

Truly, JK was right, this must be the most handso face in the world—so striking that even gods wanted to imitate it.

Still, from this, Cyrus began to understand a few things.

"I'm guessing it was Death who took the missing Voldemort body from the Hall of Inquiry."

That divine being must have used magic to restore the form of Voldemort's body, then used it as a vessel to walk the world. What Cyrus couldn't figure out was—why go out of his way to kill Dumbledore?

Just as he was deep in thought, a weary voice reached his ears.

"That's because Albus Dumbledore had a noble soul."

It was Grindelwald.

It was as if he had seen straight through Cyrus's thoughts—his face full of sorrow as he approached. Ever since he had recounted what he saw that night, Grindelwald had avoided speaking to anyone. But now, seeing Cyrus, he walked over on his own.

"Death set its sights on his noble soul."

Cyrus actually agreed with that sentint. Albus Dumbledore truly did have a noble soul.

He wasn't born noble—it was a choice he made, after enduring pain, to beco a great man.

But Cyrus didn't believe for a second that Death's goal was as simple as Dumbledore's soul. A god—especially a god that embodied death—would want far more when it stepped out of myth and into reality.

After killing Dumbledore and taking the Elder Wand, where had he gone?

Cyrus couldn't help but wonder.

But his thoughts were soon interrupted.

He saw McGonagall, overco by grief, stumble to the front of the gathering.

Every witch and wizard who had co to pay their respects wore solemn expressions.

Even mbers of the International Confederation of Wizards were present, as well as French wizards who had only just broken free from Voldemort's control.

Mada Maxi's towering figure stood out among the crowd; the tall woman was also steeped in sorrow.

All the professors were dressed formally—even Snape's hair looked a little less greasy than usual. Professor Sprout wore clean, neat clothes for the first ti, and even Filch—yes, even he—had put on an old suit.

A phoenix circled above the castle.

The sun shone brightly.

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