A blood-red moon hung over the jagged peaks of Mount Wundagore, illuminating the craggy throne once ruled by chaos incarnate.

  Lord Voldemort, now infused with eldritch energies from the Darkhold, stood at the foot of the cursed mountain. He had apparated there after escaping the Sanctum Sanctorum, drawn by the whispers of a throne once corrupted by Wanda Maximoff, the Scarlet Witch.

  Voldemort (in Parseltongue): "This pce... pulses like a Horcrux."

  He raised his wand—Yew and Phoenix Feather, now ced with scarlet sigils drawn from chaos magic—and muttered:

  “Revelio.”

  A surge of magic peeled back the veil of illusions cloaking the mountain’s summit. Twisting tendrils of hexed smoke and glimmers of past traumas emerged—echoes of Wanda’s grief, her wrath, and her raw power.

  Suddenly, a gust of wind brought voices—children’s ughter... then screams.

  Wanda's magical memory (echoing): "You took everything from me."

  The ghostly forms of Billy and Tommy, her children, flickered before Voldemort. But these were no innocent souls—these were remnants of hexcraft, shaped by agony and sorrow.

  Voldemort: "Ridikulus." (he mocked)

  He raised his wand and unleashed:

  “Sectumsempra!”

  Sshing hexes tore through the illusions—but the mountain only responded with more aggression. The rocks trembled. Runes ignited. From the summit, a crown of scarlet fire bzed in the air.

  Voldemort’s dark cloak billowed as he grinned.

  Voldemort: "Let the throne remember a new master."

  ---

  Meanwhile in Westview...

  The sky rippled with haze and grief. The town remained frozen in subtle hex residue—ghosts of Wanda’s former enchantment.

  Doctor Strange and Wong arrived through a portal conjured with the Sling Ring, stepping into the ghost-town silence.

  Strange (softly): "Her spell may have lifted... but the fabric of magic here is still frayed."

  Wong held up the Book of the Vishanti, whispering:

  “Spell of Sensing—Aromentus Veritas.”

  A glowing trail of vender fme curled toward an abandoned house—the former ir of Agatha Harkness.

  The door creaked open on its own.

  Inside, candles fred. Shadowy figures danced in the corner. Then came a voice, sardonic and tired.

  Agatha’s Ghost: "Oh... it’s you, boys."

  The translucent form of Agatha Harkness, garbed in her gothic witch attire, appeared atop her broken runic circle.

  Agatha: "You let the nose-less creep take the Darkhold? Honestly, Stephen."

  Strange: "We need your help. He’s heading for Wundagore. Whatever Wanda left behind—it’s calling to him."

  Agatha: "That throne was built on madness and grief. And he’s the perfect match. You’ll need more than mirror magic and glowing sigils to stop him."

  Wong: "Then tell us what we need."

  Agatha lifted her fingers, casting an ancient hex:

  “Occultus Exempr.”

  From the floorboards rose a shimmering map of Wundagore, with ley lines twisting like serpents. At its heart: the Chaos Throne—glowing with an unstable fissure in space-time.

  Agatha: "He’s going to break the ley lines and flood the world with corrupted magic. And if he binds the throne with his wand—chaos will obey him."

  Strange (gravely): "Then we sever the link before he completes the bond."

  Agatha: "You’ll need three things—Runes of Containment, a soul-anchor to ground the throne, and a counter-force of pure intention."

  Wong: "And where do we find that?"

  Agatha: "Follow the Scarlet Thread. Only one remnant of Wanda remains—buried at the mountain’s heart."

  She turned ghostly pale, her form flickering.

  Agatha (fading): "And beware the throne’s guardian... She left more than magic behind."

  The ghost vanished, leaving the room cold and breathless.

  Strange: "Prepare the spells, Wong. It’s time we visit the mountain."