HP: The Duelist of Hogwarts - 464

Chapter 464: Second Stage

“Tom, your little scheme in the Ministry comes to an end today.”

As Sean spoke, Voldemort’s wand jerked sharply. A pulse of murky green shot along the beam of light between them, ramming towards the lightning Sean was hurling at him. Before it could reach him, a crackling surge of current flared from Sean’s wand and wiped the attack away.

“To me, the Ministry is nothing more than a tool,” Voldemort hissed. “A way to delay Dumbledore and you. Real power exists only beyond such institutions, in Magic itself. As long as I exist, the Ministry is a trivial nuisance I can sweep aside with a wave of my hand.”

He slashed his wand upwards.

The tangled column of green light and blue‑white lightning blasted into the ceiling of the atrium and detonated. Stone shattered. A vast crater opened above them. Nearby, the enormous banner bearing Umbridge’s smiling face caught fire and went up in flames.

Voldemort flicked his wand towards the blaze.

The burning cloth twisted and stretched, the fire reshaping into chains that dropped from the ruined ceiling in a deadly net, crossing and knotting together as they fell to envelop Sean.

Sean whipped his wand.

A brilliant arc of light lashed out, obliterating the descending chains. Before the last sparks had faded, he jabbed his wand again and again at the rubble still raining from above. Chunks of broken stone shuddered and twisted, reshaping themselves into fully armoured knights. With lances and longswords raised, they thundered towards Voldemort.

“Parlour tricks, Sean Bulstrode.”

Voldemort’s wrist twitched.

A string of fireballs spat from his wand, smashing into the charging figures and blowing them apart in a storm of debris.

The instant the stone knights shattered, Sean struck again.

The fragments sharpened into jagged spikes, which screamed in from all directions to skewer the Dark Lord.

Voldemort opened his mouth and exhaled a torrent of searing flame.

Fiendfyre.

The cursed blaze coiled and danced around him, incinerating every shard before it could reach him. His wand carved three vicious slashes through the air. The Fiendfyre split into three streams, each one writhing into the shape of a serpent, hissing as they lunged at Sean from three different angles.

Sean’s wand shivered in his grip.

Cold spread from his boots across the marble, rushing out to meet the oncoming fire. The frost surged up, twisting into three ice‑bright serpents of its own, which hurled themselves at the Fiendfyre snakes.

“Feels familiar, does it not, Tom?” Sean called.

“You are already out of tricks, Sean Bulstrode.”

Fire and ice collided and vanished together, annihilating one another in mid‑air.

In the same heartbeat, both men moved.

Their hands blurred, leaving afterimages in the air. A storm of spells erupted from their wands, so dense that the air between them became a mesh of light. Curses and counter‑curses smashed into one another and winked out. Others tangled and spun away across the hall. Some blew straight through weaker magic and careened on to clash with entirely different spells.

Sparks flew. The atrium rang with one thunderous detonation after another.

“He is actually holding off the Dark Lord…”

“Sean—Sean is that strong?”

“At his age, even the Dark Lord was not like this. Nor Dumbledore. What sort of talent is this boy?”

“I heard Sean Bulstrode received Slytherin’s hoarded legacy at Hogwarts. Perhaps it is true after all.”

“Watching this, it is hard not to believe it.”

While the onlookers murmured in awe and fear, Marchbanks slipped to Gavin’s side.

“Can Sean manage this?” she asked under her breath. “Do we truly not need to step in?”

Gavin’s head moved in the faintest of shakes.

“This is Sean’s fight,” he said quietly. “It is also the final step in the plan he has worked towards for so long. Only if he faces Voldemort alone and withstands his assault will he gain the kind of authority he needs.”

Marchbanks’s eyes widened as the implications struck her.

“Gavin… are you saying Sean intends to become…”

She trailed off as he nodded.

A sharp breath hissed between her teeth.

“New blood surpasses the old,” she murmured. “We really have grown old.”

Out in the centre of the atrium, the duel had reached boiling point.

Sean had grown far stronger since their last encounter. Even the raw force of his magic had risen another notch. But measured against Voldemort, he was still a step behind.

Not that Sean’s strength could be summed up by conventional spellwork alone.

“Tom,” he called over the roar of colliding curses, “do you know what makes today special?”

“Special…?” Voldemort’s slitted eyes narrowed.

Sean grinned.

“To lure you out on this exact date took a great deal of work,” he said. “Even then, the odds were not in my favour. Fortunately, Harry and I coordinated perfectly. We were lucky enough to make sure everything happened today.”

Tonight was the full moon.

And Sean had two abilities that only reached their full potential under its light.

Moonlight Blessing.

Child of the Night.

High above London, Kurkan beat her wings, scouring the heavy clouds from the sky. Silver radiance spilled down, bathing the city in moonlight.

At that moment, Dumbledore stepped from a fireplace at the edge of the hall. Without a word, he swung his wand, activating a series of devices hidden in the walls and ceiling. Mirrors, or something very like them, snapped out from their housings one after another, catching the natural light from outside and channelling it inward. Cool moonlight poured through the ruined ceiling and from the mirrored panels, washing over Sean.

He did not change outwardly, as a werewolf would.

But thin streams of silver traced themselves across his skin, racing into curling, interlocked patterns. They resembled runes drawn in a single flowing stroke, strange and compelling to look upon. Under their touch, and under the full moon’s eye, Sean’s strength—mind, magic, body—rose in a single, surging wave.

A pale halo bloomed in his pupils.

He rolled his shoulders, loosening his muscles, and smiled at Voldemort.

“All right then,” he said softly. “Let us begin round two, Tom.”

For the first time that night, Voldemort felt the faintest prickle of danger.

Rather than unsettle him, it seemed to sharpen his focus. The frenzied, raging Dark Lord fell away like a discarded mask. In his place stood the Voldemort Sean remembered from before—cold, split‑minded, terrifyingly calm.