MeowthTL

Harry Potter: Dudley From LOTM - 353

Chapter 353: Malfoy’s Fracture

Once he understood Hermione’s situation, Dudley waved a hand and let the sound barrier collapse.

While the two of them had been talking, Hagrid had already finished explaining hippogriff habits and how to approach them properly. Even so, everyone remained wary of the huge creatures. No one dared step forward and volunteer until Harry and Ron went up to help Hagrid out.

With Hagrid’s steady encouragement, Harry managed to earn the trust of one of the hippogriffs and even rode it once around the clearing, skimming above the Forbidden Forest. The sight immediately sparked the others’ interest.

"Hagrid is actually doing a pretty good job," Hermione said, watching Harry dismount.

"I was never worried about his teaching," Dudley said, shrugging. "I was worried he would drag out something far too advanced for a first lesson."

Hermione laughed. Clearly, she had been thinking the same thing.

Seeing the Gryffindors now crowding closer, eager to try, even the Slytherins could not sit still.

Malfoy shoved Neville aside and stalked towards the hippogriff Harry had just ridden.

"It cannot be that hard," he sneered. "If Potter can manage it, it will be no trouble for me."

"You agree, do you, you ugly brute?" he added, staring straight into the creature’s eyes.

"Oh, no!" Hagrid’s face drained of colour.

He lunged forward to stop him, but it was already too late.

There was a flash of silver. The hippogriff’s talons, hard and sharp as forged steel, lashed towards Malfoy in a blurring strike.

Everyone froze.

"Protego!"

A deafening crack rang out as the spell collided with claws. Malfoy was hurled backwards and hit the ground hard, tumbling through mud and dead leaves until he came to a stop in a filthy heap.

"Easy, Buckbeak, easy!" Hagrid roared, throwing himself in front of the enraged hippogriff and forcing it back.

"Draco, are you all right?" Crabbe, Pansy, and Goyle rushed over, panic written across their faces.

Malfoy’s face had gone pale, but he pushed himself upright with a grunt.

"I am fine," he said.

He looked down at his wand clenched in his right hand.

At the last possible second, he had gotten a Shield Charm off. Without it, his ribs would likely be splintered.

"How can they use something this dangerous for a lesson? I am going to report you," Pansy Parkinson shouted at Hagrid.

"Draco, you have to tell your father. Get the Board of Governors to sack him," Crabbe said at once.

"It was too dangerous. If you had not been so quick with that spell, you might be dead," Goyle added loudly.

The Slytherins closed ranks around Malfoy, voicing their outrage on his behalf.

"It was your own fault, Malfoy," Harry called.

"Hagrid explained their temper clearly. You are the one who ignored the rules," Ron said.

The Gryffindors rallied immediately, lining up on Hagrid’s side.

Within moments, the clearing dissolved into a shouting match, voices from both Houses rising to a roar.

Hagrid stood there, at a complete loss. He had only wanted to start the year with his most exciting lesson. He had never imagined it would end like this.

"Hagrid, check on Malfoy first," Hermione said quickly.

"Right. You are right," Hagrid said, jolted into motion.

He hurried over to Malfoy.

"His casting was fast enough, at least," Dudley murmured, watching Draco from a short distance.

Something about him felt different this term.

In the past, in a situation like that, Malfoy would never have got his wand up in time. Buckbeak would have left him in the hospital wing for weeks. But just now, his Shield Charm had been both swift and strong, almost completely nullifying the hippogriff’s strike.

"That is enough. Stop arguing," Malfoy said suddenly, looking around at the crowd.

"I said I am fine."

To everyone’s surprise, he did not seize the chance to make a scene.

From what they knew of him, he ought to have stayed on the ground groaning, insisting he was dying, and threatening to have his father sack Hagrid. Yet today, he let it go.

"That summer really did change him," Dudley thought.

He had once sent Malfoy to steal the Emperor card. Not only had Draco failed, but he had been caught by Lucius and locked up. When Dudley later infiltrated Malfoy Manor to take the card himself, Draco was still in confinement.

After Lucius finally let him out, Draco had even prayed to the Night Emperor, reporting his failure. Even then, there had been something off about him.

Now, it seemed that experience had cut deep. Draco no longer leaned on Lucius the way he once had.

There was a crack between them.

"I will take you to the hospital wing," Hagrid said anxiously.

"I told you, I am fine," Draco said. "I am going back."

He turned and walked away, leaving everyone staring after him.

"Draco, wait!" Pansy ran after him.

Crabbe and Goyle hesitated, then followed as well.

The remaining Slytherins were left looking confused.

Was that really the Malfoy they knew?

"What is going on with him?" Harry said, frowning.

"Maybe something happened over the summer," Dudley said. "Did you not notice his spell? The speed and power were both very good."

Only then did Harry and Ron fully register that the Shield Charm had been Draco’s own work.

"What is that supposed to be? Deliberately provoking Buckbeak, then blocking it with a spell? Has he lost his mind?" Ron muttered.

"Or he was testing his magic," Hermione said, brows knitting. "He must have had his wand ready beforehand. Otherwise, he would not have been holding it already."

Dudley nodded thoughtfully.

"That makes sense."

He watched Draco’s retreating back, thoughts turning.

"As far as I remember, there was something wrong inside Malfoy Manor," he mused. "Lucius did not seem quite right either."

"It looks like it is time to speak with Draco properly. Find out what is really happening in that house."

HP/LOTM: Visionary - 434

Chapter 434: Back to the Future, Ron Gets Smacked by a Cat

"Wow, did someone wring you dry? What happened to you?" Lada said bluntly.

"Ahem. Something like that. A very persistent little minx," the Director said, half joking.

"So, what are you really here for?" Arthursi asked.

She was not so easy to fob off. If he had come in person, he had a reason.

"Nothing much. Just thought I would invite you to watch His Awakening," the Director said, making a courteous little gesture.

"We are in," they said together.

Neither dragon hesitated. They grabbed the Director and dove straight into the Sea of Consciousness, gliding toward Byberil village.

"So this is how you travel through the Sea," the Director said from Lada’s back, sounding for all the world like a tourist.

"Aiden never brought you out here?" Lada asked, curious.

"No. He is terribly stingy."

"Do not badmouth him, or I will drop you," Lada said, giving her body a warning shake.

The Director muttered under his breath and wisely shut up.

A moment later, the three of them rose from the Sea and surfaced on the roof of a house in Byberil.

Down below, Remus, following Eleanor’s last wishes, had entered the old Prewett Manor and was carrying a baby out in his arms.

"Avada Kedavra!"

Green light flew at him.

Remus threw himself flat, taking the curse by inches. On the roof, silver threads sprang into being in Lada and Arthursi’s hands.

"Not yet," the Director said, catching both of their wrists.

If they let loose now, the last relic of the Prewetts would be blown to dust.

Arthur stepped out of the dark, stunned Mulciber with a single spell, and took baby Aiden from Remus’ arms.

Lada and Arthursi padded over to the fallen Death Eater. Two sets of dragon claws rested lightly against his throat.

"So this one’s really called Mulciber, is he?" a pleasant teenage voice said from inside Arthursi.

She stiffened.

A transparent phantom peeled itself out of her. Only then did Arthursi realise a little stowaway had been hiding all along on the island of her thoughts.

"Do not look at me like that. It was to keep you safe. Lada has one too," the virtual persona said, jerking its chin at the cat.

A shadow drifted out of Lada as well.

The two phantoms merged into one.

A faintly translucent Aiden floated in front of them.

"Not going to kill him?" Arthursi said. She knew why Aiden had stepped in.

"No. He has had his due in the future. I am more surprised to find Rookwood on that list. I am going to need an explanation for that, my dear Weasley Director," Aiden said, flicking a glance at the man in question.

The Director had his back turned and was whistling at the sky.

"He was going to hit your net sooner or later. No need to shove you into the Thirteenth Protocol’s line of sight too early," he said airily.

That only made the hole in his story bigger.

"Oh? So you even know He exists," Aiden said, lifting a brow.

"I found out just now. Eleanor sent word before she sacrificed herself," the Director said with a sigh, shoulders slumping.

“​No wonder everyone at the Department of Mysteries knows me so well,” Aiden said, easing the mood away from that raw edge. “They were my mother’s colleagues.”

"Enough. You have finished your promotions. Get back to your own era. You want the Thirteenth’s hand reaching into time itself?" the Director said.

The more he talked to Manipulators, the more he gave away. Better to bundle them off.

Aiden was happy enough with the surrender and did not press him.

He turned to Arthursi and Lada. "You can sleep in the Prewett Manor. Fifth floor, the sealed room."

With that reminder, the virtual Aiden faded. The Director’s projection went with him.

Arthursi and Lada slipped back into the Sea of Consciousness and swam toward the manor.

"Rude out-of-towners. Not even a goodbye," the Director said to himself, then Apparated away.

……

1997, Avalon.

Aiden felt the last traces of his virtual selves fade into the past. He lifted his head.

"Oliver. Oliver," he called.

The writer’s will tore through the Sea like a gale.

"For hell’s sake, are you going to bring the whole Department down again?" Oliver said, popping into view and planting a hard kick in the dragon’s side.

He hopped on one foot, clutching his toes.

"Sorry. Need you to fetch someone from the Prewett Manor. I will open the wards for you," Aiden said, cocking his head.

"Having you as a friend is the worst luck I have ever had," Oliver grumbled.

His feet still carried him into the ripples of Apparition.

In Byberil, at the old Prewett Manor, Oliver did as Aiden had told him and opened the iron door at the corner of the fifth floor.

Twin surges of dragon might speared through him. Dreams billowed outward, chewing at reality and pushing aside the rules of the physical world.

"This is not my house. I will not mind if you tear it apart," Oliver said.

He leaned against the doorframe, voice lazy.

The two dreamers inside snapped awake at once. The invading dream collapsed back in on itself.

A lady stepped out, cat in her arms.

"Thank you," Arthursi said.

She vanished with a twist on the spot. Knockturn Alley still needed dealing with.

That left Lada and Oliver staring at one another.

"Coming to find Aiden with me?" Oliver asked.

"No. I need to deal with the people outside for him," Lada said.

She raised a hind leg and scratched behind one ear.

Then she pounced.

Her body blurred to mist and slid straight through the manor’s floor.

Outside, she spotted the target at a glance. A shock of red hair, skulking around the edge of the property.

Ron Weasley.

He lurked by the corner of another house, craning his neck and peering about. Thanks to the Fidelius Charm, he could not fix the manor’s true position.

Lada padded up behind him, steps light and elegant.

"Looking for something, boy?" she said.

Ron jerked so hard he nearly leapt out of his skin.

"Aah!"

He flopped backwards and landed hard. A second later, he felt a small body land on his chest.

"Ron Weasley," Lada said, gazing down at him.

"Lada—"

He got as far as her name before her paw flashed out.

The cat punch hurled him backwards. He rolled across the ground and slammed into the wall.

His head rang, but that was with Lada holding back. If she had not, Ron would already be wandering the misty dreamscapes, keeping his forebears company.

In Middle-earth with Harry Potter Sign-In System! - 376

Chapter 376: The Mirror of Erised

Gandalf gazed around at the scene before him, a faraway look in his eyes, as if he had stepped back into Valinor itself.

Frodo was even more overwhelmed, staring at everything in open amazement.

There was no visible light source, yet the entire room shone with a gentle radiance. It was bright but never harsh, and time itself seemed to have lost all meaning here.

“Where is this?” Frodo asked, eyes wide.

“This is the Room of Requirement, my secret chamber,” Kael replied with a smile, then led them further in.

“Room of Requirement?” Frodo turned the name over in his mind, already guessing at its meaning.

“It is just what you are thinking,” Kael said. “This room can become anything you need. A space that looks exactly like Bag End, a hidden garden full of flowers and trees, a vault piled high with gold – anything you can imagine, it can become.

“Of course, nothing created in this room can leave it. The moment it passes beyond the door, it vanishes.”

Hearing this, Frodo was even more stunned. A room like this was nothing short of miraculous, a wishing room that could grant almost any desire.

Even Gandalf, who had long known of the Room’s existence, could not keep a note of wonder from his face as he listened.

He called himself a wizard, but beside Kael, with his depth of study and craft, he felt sorely outmatched.

Kael had not brought them here merely to admire the space. He guided them onward through the seemingly endless white expanse.

After several minutes of walking, objects began to appear ahead, arranged in neat order.

Frodo glanced around in curiosity.

On crystal plinths floating in the air, he saw a golden cup, a jewelled crown, a sword, a hat, a cloak, a gleaming red gemstone.

Elsewhere stood cabinets, mirrors, and basins set upon the floor.

One ornate golden mirror drew Frodo’s eye at once. It seemed to possess its own strange pull, and before he knew it, he was walking towards it, peering into its depths.

At first, the glass showed only his own reflection. Then, in the space of a heartbeat, it changed. The Frodo in the mirror was standing in a vast volcanic crater surrounded by rivers of molten rock.

The other Frodo looked as if he had come through great trials. His face was pale and worn, yet he smiled with a bright, unshadowed joy as he drew a ring from his hand.

Frodo’s breath caught. His eyes widened.

In the mirror, he watched himself wink at him, then cast the Ring into the fiery lava below. The Ring was swallowed by the molten rock and destroyed.

“What did you see?” Kael’s voice sounded just behind him, making Frodo jump.

He spun around to find Kael and Gandalf standing there. He had not heard them approach.

Gandalf was studying the mirror with keen interest, his expression thoughtful.

Kael, for his part, simply looked curious as he waited for Frodo’s answer.

Frodo hesitated, unsure how to put it into words. He glanced back at the glass. “I saw myself in the mirror,” he said slowly, “but… not quite as I am now. I was standing on a great volcano, with lava everywhere, and the sky was black and heavy, hot and close. Then I threw the Ring into the lava and watched it be destroyed.”

Excitement crept into his voice. He turned to Kael, eyes shining. “Is this a mirror of prophecy? Does it mean I will truly succeed in destroying the Ring?”

Before Kael could answer, Gandalf shook his head. “I fear not, Frodo. This is no mirror of prophecy. It is a mirror of desire. What you saw is likely the reflection of your own heart. Is that not so, Kael?”

Kael nodded with a smile. “Gandalf is correct. This is the Mirror of Erised. It shows the deepest, strongest longing in a person’s heart. The stronger the desire, the more powerful the mirror’s pull. Some become so lost in what they see that they forget everything else and waste away before it, unable to break free.

“You are wholly set on destroying the Ring, so the mirror shows you the moment you yearn for most.

“But that does not mean what you saw is meaningless. If your will remains firm and you refuse to yield to the Ring, then the scene within the mirror need not remain a dream.”

Frodo stared long and hard at the image, as if trying to carve it into his memory. His face hardened with resolve. “I will make it real,” he said quietly. “I must.”

Kael and Gandalf exchanged a glance and smiled, both of them satisfied by what they saw in him.

Frodo tore his gaze away from the mirror and turned to the other objects.

A seven-sided basin caught his eye. Liquid shimmered within, thin threads of lightning running through its surface. He leaned over for a closer look.

“Lord Kael, what is this?” he asked.

“This is a wizard transformation pool,” Kael replied. “The liquid is Thunderbird blood I have gathered, enough to let a single person be remade as a wizard.

“If you wish to wield magic, to study spells like the students here in the castle, you need only jump in. You would become a magic-using Hobbit.”

His tone turned teasing. “Of course, the process is not pleasant. It feels rather like having every bone pulled out and put back again. Are you willing to endure that?”

Frodo hesitated. Over his days at Hogwarts, he had seen much magic, and more than once he had envied the students as they worked with their wands.

The offer stirred that longing to life.

Yet, to Kael’s surprise, Frodo finally shook his head.

“No. Thank you, Lord Kael,” he said. “Magic is marvellous, but I would rather remain an ordinary Hobbit. When all this is over, I want to go back to the Shire and live quietly again.

“And if I cannot resist the temptation standing in front of me now, how could I hope to withstand the Ring’s?”

Kael’s astonishment slowly softened into respect.

Gandalf’s smile broadened, his eyes warm with pride.

Truly, this was a Ring-bearer chosen by fate. To refuse the chance to become a wizard – that was a strength of character few possessed, Kael included.

Kael even wondered, not for the first time, whether, without the Ring in the balance, Frodo’s reflection in the Mirror of Erised might have shown only himself, unchanged.

Since Frodo had refused, Kael did not press him.

In truth, this bloodline-fusion elixir made from thunderbird blood had been prepared for Bilbo, but the older Hobbit had declined. Only then had Kael considered offering it to Frodo.

He had thought that magic might make Frodo’s task a little easier, giving him more ways to carry the Ring unseen into Mordor and cast it into Mount Doom.

Now that Frodo had turned it down, Kael could only leave the pool for another day and another candidate.

With magic to preserve it, the elixir would not spoil.

He led Frodo and Gandalf on to another place in the room, where a black Palantír rested upon a crystal plinth.

Beside it stood a crystal phial shimmering with starlight.

Kael picked up the phial and placed it in Frodo’s hand. Then he drew a square of black cloth from his robes and draped it over the Palantír.

“This is the Light of Eärendil, the Phial of Galadriel, given long ago in Lothlórien,” he said. “It holds a power that pushes back the dark. Keep it with the Ring, and it will help to weaken the Ring’s hold on you.”

HP: Fantastic Beasts And The Right Way To Use Them - 305

Chapter 305: So, Is It Time to Start Fighting?

"So that is how it was."

In a corner of the pasture, a young man stood with a kneazle cradled in one arm and a suitcase dangling from the other. After listening to the old woman in front of him haltingly finish her story, a look of dawning understanding flickered through Evans's eyes.

If every person and creature that died in this world became a ghost or a wraith, then it really would deserve to be called a dark age.

Just imagining an earth overrun with ghosts and wraiths, all crowding together in some grotesque grand spectacle, made Evans shiver.

"So, Hogwarts was founded during the Dark Age?" Evans asked.

There was no record whatsoever of this Dark Age in wizarding history, whereas the history of Hogwarts's founding was extremely detailed. That was why the entire wizarding world took it for granted that Hogwarts had been established after the Dark Age had ended.

But one look at the sheer number of ghosts and wraiths in the school made it obvious Hogwarts had not been built after that era.

What was more, even after the Dark Age, Hogwarts continued to spawn a considerable number of ghosts and wraiths, wandering the castle day in and day out. That ran very much contrary to how magic normally worked.

Under ordinary circumstances, ghosts and wraiths would disperse on their own once their wishes or obsessions were fulfilled. Even if nothing resolved their regrets, time would still wear them away until they faded.

Yet the ghosts and wraiths at Hogwarts were different. The oldest among them could be traced all the way back to the school's founding. Professor Binns, the History of Magic teacher, for instance. And the Bloody Baron, who had previously led Evans down into the dungeons to look for a wraith.

According to Sir Podmore, a fair number of the wraiths had existed for close to a thousand years as well. The knight himself had died and become a wraith eight centuries ago.

Those wraiths had long since let go of any hatred in their hearts. Their days in the dungeon were spent either throwing parties or ambling about at leisure. Some of the more mischievous ones even drifted up into the castle proper just to frighten young witches and wizards who wandered into secluded corners.

Why were the wraiths and ghosts at the school behaving in such an abnormal way? Was it because Hogwarts had been founded in the middle of the Dark Age? But by this Hufflepuff lady's account, that era and the wraiths of that time had all been sealed away by Merlin's plan.

In that case... could it be that the founding of Hogwarts and that seal were connected somehow?

Evans pondered in silence for a moment, then gave a small shake of his head and pushed those thoughts to the back of his mind.

He could discuss all of this with Professor Dumbledore and the others later. Right now, there were more pressing matters to deal with.

"Yes. Hogwarts was established during the Dark Age, and it was one of the keys that allowed that era to end."

The old woman's face still carried that perfect, gentle smile, but looking closely, Evans could clearly see a trace of stiffness in it.

The corner of his mouth quirked up. He set the suitcase on the ground and, seemingly at random, flipped open one of its latches as he said, "Since you have finished telling me everything you wanted to say, does that mean it is time for the part where we start fighting?"

"You thing that has taken over Lady Hufflepuff...?"

At his words, the smile on Lady Hufflepuff's face froze.

"Let me guess. Since Merlin chose to seal away all knowledge of the Dark Age, that knowledge must carry some kind of danger, must it not?" Evans's tone sounded analytical, but it was firm, almost certain. "For example, if I simply learn that knowledge, something unpleasant happens to me?"

"I already explained, did I not? That knowledge only..."

The expression on Lady Hufflepuff's face grew even stiffer as she tried to explain. But before she could finish, Evans shook his head and cut across her.

"No. It is not that sort of danger."

A relaxed smile curved his lips as he placed a finger on another latch of the suitcase.

"I think the danger lies in the knowledge itself. Once I know it, certain conditions are fulfilled, and you gain the ability to influence me."

In the wizarding world, knowledge had always been a dangerous thing, never mind knowledge that had been completely erased from history.

"This space may well have been created by the four Founders of Hogwarts, but something is definitely wrong with it now."

"I imagine the strange pauses when you were talking just now must also have something to do with those problems, must they not?"

"I admit, the things you told me were certainly secretive enough. But it is obvious that a huge portion is missing. There is a great deal I wanted to know that you never even mentioned. You did not say a single word about how the so-called Dark Age actually ended."

"And I do not believe the Founders of Hogwarts went to all the trouble of leaving a place like this behind simply to give future generations a history lesson on how the Dark Age began. Would you not agree?"

As Evans spoke, the old woman's smile slowly faded. Wisps of mist began to seep from her body and from the ground around her.

"When did you realise?"

"To be honest, I never completely believed you from the start." Evans's expression remained easy-going. He even had the leisure to push a few stray strands of hair away from his eyes. "After all, we originally came here to deal with a curse powerful enough to affect a Chimera. How could a place founded by the Hogwarts Founders be home to such a curse?"

His smile brightened a notch. He pointed lazily at the blackish mist drifting from the old woman's side.

"Of course, you could argue the curse only appeared after you created this place. But it does not hurt to be a little suspicious, does it?"

"If you were truly Lady Hufflepuff through and through, I do not believe you would attack me over such a small slight. Yet that stuff clinging to you does not look like anything a good person ought to have, does it?"

"...You tricked me?"

The old woman's face darkened. The black fog billowing off her grew even thicker.

"I would not say I tricked you, exactly. I think my reasoning just now was fairly sound." Evans cocked his head slightly. "So you admit you are the shadow that has taken over Lady Hufflepuff?"

"In that case, my dear Headmaster and the others should be in the same situation as I am, facing the other Founders right now, yes?"

"Hmph."

She did not answer his question. Instead, the old woman lifted her head and stared at the young man before her with an eerie look in her eyes.

The grey-black mist at her side suddenly swelled and surged up, wrapping around her completely as it spread in all directions.

"If I were facing all of you at once, I might have reason to be afraid. But you are alone, and so very young. Even if you are Merlin's heir, your body cannot possibly hold much magic yet."

"I can finish you off in the shortest possible time, then go and help the others..."

Her voice broke off. Her eyes widened in disbelief as she stared at the young man standing opposite her.

Because as she had been speaking, the young man had already flipped open the suitcase beside him.

A gigantic panther-like cat leapt out of the case, landing as light as a shadow. Its soul-snaring eyes fixed on her with a chill, unblinking stare.

HP: From Failed Art Student to Dark Artist of Hogwarts - 304

Chapter 304: Third-Tier Epic Painting! Rare Material “Ariana – A Piece of History”

"You…?!"

Mr Crouch’s hands clenched into fists.

The face that was usually so hard and expressionless flushed a furious red.

For a moment, the air in the office went rigid.

Ethan glanced at Minister Scrimgeour, who had taken such a hard line, and a touch of approval flickered in his eyes.

At least someone was making the right call.

He was definitely an improvement on that fool Fudge.

However, just as Mr Crouch had said, if the Tournament could simply be stopped, then in the original story, they would never have been forced to go on with it even after they knew Harry was being lured into a trap.

All the more so now, when Ethan’s Crucible of Souls ritual required Voldemort’s "cooperation."

He looked from one man to the other and cheerfully offered, "Why do you not just duel for it?"

"Whoever survives gets to decide whether the Goblet stays."

"I can provide all kinds of arenas."

"Pure Hell, Nine Hells, Underworld, Evil Octopus. Buy now, and you even get one‑touch funeral services thrown in."

"Tempted?"

He looked genuinely eager to roll out the "one‑touch funeral."

"…"

"…"

"I was being hasty," Scrimgeour said stiffly.

"Not at all. I was the one who failed to think things through," Crouch answered, face solemn and suddenly full of reasonableness.

Scrimgeour turned to Dumbledore and Ethan. "Discuss the Tournament between you."

"I trust you will make the right choice."

He gave them a curt nod, set his domed hat more firmly on his head, and strode out.

Mr Crouch let out a long breath, muttered something under it, and nodded as well, preparing to follow.

At the door, he hesitated, pausing beside Ethan as if he wanted to speak.

Urgency and worry flashed in his eyes.

His mouth opened.

But in the end he said nothing, only turned away and left the office.

Silence fell at once.

Only Ethan, Dumbledore, and Professor Snape remained.

"Our current Minister is an impatient man," Dumbledore remarked at last, chuckling.

He plucked a pink, round sweet from his dish and popped it into his mouth, crunching down.

Ethan could have sworn he saw the sweet twitch in protest a moment before it vanished between his teeth.

Snape’s expression had twisted as if he had just watched a troll dance the hula.

The Headmaster’s office went quiet again.

"Cheep."

Fawkes called softly from his perch.

The phoenix fluffed his flame‑bright orange feathers and did his best to shuffle as far back on the stand as he could.

As far as possible from the concentrated evil that was Ethan.

Only after Dumbledore swallowed what was probably a Soft‑Centred Strawberry Beetle Pile did he speak.

"Ethan, our Defence Against the Dark Arts professor has not been seen at all this morning. Would you happen to know where he has gone?"

Behind the half‑moon spectacles, his gaze fixed on Ethan’s eyes.

As always, there was nothing to be read in that deep, ocean‑coloured blue.

Snape frowned. "I advise you to answer truthfully, Mr Vincent."

"And I imagine you know something about the incident with the reporter as well."

He stopped.

Even now, it struck him as remarkable that he was still managing to speak to Ethan in a tone that could almost be called calm.

He had been trained into it.

He ground his back teeth.

The tension stretched.

At last, Ethan said, "I did not expect you to care this much about my great work."

"It is very moving."

His eyes warmed with obvious approval as he looked at the pair of them.

Dumbledore and Snape: "…"

No, it was not.

"Since you ask so sincerely," Ethan went on, "I have no reason to hide it."

"Our previous Defence Against the Dark Arts professor was actually Mr Barty Crouch Junior in disguise."

Both men jolted.

Their pupils shrank.

Barty Crouch Junior.

The Death Eater who, by all rights, should have died in Azkaban years ago.

Dumbledore and Snape exchanged a grave look.

"So it was a Death Eater who attacked Rita Skeeter and then fled," Dumbledore said hoarsely, shaking his head. "For him to play the role so well right under my nose… that was my own negligence."

He straightened, face serious. "Thank you for the information, Mr Vincent. I will inform the Ministry at once."

"And Voldemort," Ethan continued, "plans to use Harry to conduct a resurrection ritual during the third task."

Dumbledore and Snape: "???"

Dumbledore snapped upright.

He stared at Ethan, floored.

It felt like sitting at a card table, expecting a modest flush from the other side, only for his opponent to pull a wand out of their sleeve, slam it on the felt, and shout that the age of gentlemen’s games was over.

Even the portraits of the former Headmasters on the walls sat bolt upright, eyes wide.

"Most tiresome Headmaster in history," Phineas Black folded his arms and drawled, "The most 'peaceful' age indeed."

A Dark Lord rising again, Death Eaters strutting around the school.

And now a would‑be god standing openly in the Headmaster’s office.

Even the air at Hogwarts was compromised.

"Voldemort is coming back— how do you know that?" Snape blurted.

His pupils trembled.

He stared at Ethan’s smiling face and felt, more than ever, how bottomless this boy was.

He could not even begin to guess how Ethan had obtained such tightly held information.

It was as if he had slipped right into the enemy ranks and—

He broke off.

He had remembered Ethan’s suspected "other identity."

He sank into silence.

Dumbledore let out a long breath.

He raised his wand to his temple, drew out a strand of silvery thought, and dropped it into the gently swirling Pensieve.

It looked to be one of the thickest he had.

"Perhaps," he said, "Scrimgeour is right. The Triwizard Tournament must be cancelled."

"But the magical contract is troublesome."

Like fate itself.

It demanded the set path be followed, grinding down every life marked to be sacrificed beneath its wheels.

Faces drifted through Dumbledore’s mind, those who had fallen over the long course of his life.

Members of the Order of the Phoenix, one after another, slipping away.

At the end, his memory fixed on the image of a young girl.

His heart clenched with fresh pain.

Ethan’s smile sharpened.

"What I like best," he said softly, "is breaking rules."

"The Tournament should go on. Not just go on, but be more spectacular than ever."

And then he would bend fate to a new shape.

Let blinding light, not Voldemort’s shadow, fall across the world.

Dumbledore’s brows rose.

Then he laughed.

"Very well, Ethan. We will do it your way. I will smooth things as much as I can."

"Any books in the Restricted Section, any materials you need, I will do my best to provide."

Snape’s eye twitched.

"I think it is unlikely that the Ministry will continue to indulge our highly innovative Mr Vincent," he drawled. "Scrimgeour will not agree."

"There is no need to worry about that, Severus," Dumbledore said mildly.

"I believe our new Minister will still give me some leeway."

He winked at Ethan.

"And in any case, it is Mr Vincent who is asking."

Ethan’s eyes lit.

He bowed gracefully. "Thank you for your support, Headmaster."

"I promise you will witness the sunrise."

With Dumbledore’s help, all he had to do was focus on his art.

Materials would be easier to secure, and time and efficiency would improve.

He met the old wizard’s kindly smile and, after a moment’s thought, added, "In the third task, you will be reunited with your family."

He had already returned to the Hidden Place in his dreams and met Ariana again.

This time she had led him through that searing, tangled past.

That life ended by a stray spell in the chaos.

He had obtained the precious [Ariana – A Piece of History].

And the extraordinary item [Shattered Heart].

[The heart offered up by its owner, shattered beyond repair yet still gleaming like a gemstone.]

[Key to painting a third‑tier violet epic.]

The words hit harder than "Voldemort will be resurrected."

Dumbledore’s eyes flew wide.

The calm lines of his face broke under the force of his shock.

"Ariana…"

He all but choked on the name.

Even Snape stood frozen, stunned.

Hope flared behind his eyes.

If Dumbledore’s family could come back, then Lily could not be far behind.

"The dead are still dead," Ethan said quietly. "They will never return to the world whole."

"Please do not expect too much."

"On that note, I will take my leave."

He snapped his fingers.

A top hat appeared in his hand.

He bowed like a stage magician and stepped into a doorway of darkness, vanishing from the office and leaving two of the most powerful wizards in the world staring after him.

"Compared to that little monster," Snape muttered at last, letting out a breath of a laugh, "I feel like a Muggle."

He met Dumbledore’s eyes.

Their path was clear.

What Ethan wanted, Ethan would have.

They would be his inexhaustible store of resources.

"No threats, no intimidation," Dumbledore said softly. "Without spilling a drop of blood, he has bound us tight."

"Ethan Vincent. It is hard to say whether he is more admirable… or more frightening."

As he spoke, Ethan’s head popped back through the still‑dark doorway.

"Oh, right. Almost forgot about Mad‑Eye," he said.

"I will keep Barty Jr. You can have your real Mad‑Eye back and explain everything to him."

A wardrobe door sprang open in front of them.

Like a chest being tipped over, it dumped a big man out onto the floor.

Bang.

Mad‑Eye Moody landed on his back, still clutching something strange in his hand.

A carved wooden fire dragon, surprisingly delicate and detailed.

He scrambled up, brandishing the carving and roaring at Ethan, "Next time, warn me first. I nearly snapped this masterpiece in half."

Then he looked up.

And saw Dumbledore and (former) Death Eater Severus Snape staring at him in stunned silence.

"…"

The three men stared at one another.

Time seemed to stop.

The famously joyless, ever‑vigilant ex‑Auror Alastor Moody flushed.

He shoved the carving behind his back, cleared his throat, and bellowed, "That maniac had me locked up. I had nothing else to do."

Dumbledore and Snape said nothing.

Ethan, how many surprises are you hiding from us?

Let us just hope that, when all this ends, you are not the one wearing the Dark Lord’s crown.

In the end Dumbledore laughed under his breath.

He opened his arms. "Welcome back, Alastor. It is very good to see you in one piece."

"In one piece and looking fresher, if anything," he added with a twinkle.

"Just in time. You can still teach for half a term."

"Hmph. Those brats are in for it," Moody grumbled.

He tossed the half‑finished carving aside.

His eye gleamed.

"All right, then. Tell me what is going on, Dumbledore. What have I missed?"

This time, he would not be defeated, would not be taken.

Let the crawling remnants of Voldemort’s following see for themselves.

This was what the strongest Auror in Britain looked like.

HP: The Duelist of Hogwarts - 462

Chapter 462: Facing Voldemort Again

The Death Eaters had assumed that capturing Harry Potter and his friends would be child’s play.

When the fighting actually began, they discovered to their shock that all eight of these children, who by rights ought still to have been sitting in Hogwarts classrooms, possessed formidable strength.

Harry in particular fought with a calm, efficient confidence that would not have looked out of place on a veteran Auror. Given his age, it was enough to make even hardened killers wary.

No wonder he was the “Saviour” who had once cost their master so dearly.

That thought surfaced, unbidden and unanimous, in every Death Eater’s mind.

Harry had never shown much talent for Transfiguration, but in Charms—especially in the darker branches of magic and in Defence Against the Dark Arts—his gift was astonishing.

Under Sean’s guidance, he had forged a brutal, direct fighting style built entirely around Dark magic and counters to it.

With Harry at the point of the spear, the eight of them punched straight through the Death Eater cordon and drove for the exit of the Department of Mysteries.

Only then did the Death Eaters realise that if they did not stop holding back, Harry Potter and his little band really might escape.

Wands rose as one.

Jets of green light began to streak through the air.

They were finally using the Unforgivable Curses.

The Death Eaters’ restraint vanished, and the pressure on Harry and the others spiked at once.

The doors of the Department were almost within reach when Harry suddenly skidded to a halt, spun around, and planted himself between his friends and the oncoming curses.

“Go!” he shouted. “All of you, go! I will hold them off!”

“Harry, we are not leaving you, we can—”

“Move!”

His snarl cut Ron off.

Harry stepped forward, wand blurring. Spell after spell poured out in a relentless stream—blasts, bindings, shields, jinxes and, threaded among them, more than one streak of Dark magic, even the jagged, vicious lash of the Cruciatus Curse itself.

His sudden eruption of power caught the Death Eaters completely off guard.

For several heartbeats, he alone held their entire line.

“Out of my way, you useless filth!”

The words were a shrill, delighted screech. A small, wiry figure strode out of a cloud of black smoke.

Bellatrix.

She threw back her head and laughed, high and wild, eyes shining as she fixed on Harry.

“Harry Potter! The fabled Saviour. Let us see whether you are truly fit to be the Dark Lord’s enemy.

“Avada Kedavra!”

A bolt of sickly emerald light exploded from her wand, roaring straight towards him.

Harry’s eyes widened.

He took one step back, raised his wand and hurled a streak of red lightning to meet it.

“Expelliarmus!”

Red met green with a crackle of power. The collision spat arcs of energy in every direction.

Harry dug his heels in and began to give ground inch by inch. Bellatrix advanced, step by step, amusement curling her lips. She flicked her wand in little pulses, sending fresh surges of green force slamming into the connection. Each one shoved Harry’s red beam further back. The death‑curse crept closer and closer to his chest, and black veins began to crawl from his clenched fingers up his wand arm.

“Harry, your training is still not quite enough.”

The familiar voice made him drop the spell at once.

If he was here, Harry knew, then he was safe.

Freed from the lock, Harry did not even flinch as the Killing Curse hurtled towards him.

A figure stepped out at his side.

Sean’s wand moved in a small, precise arc. The weakened curse glanced harmlessly away and smashed into a nearby Death Eater instead, sending the man scrambling to throw up a shield in blind panic.

Bellatrix’s eyes lit up.

“Harry Potter and Sean Bulstrode…” she breathed. “Today really is my lucky day. To snip away two such troublesome insects for the glory of Lord Voldemort—I am almost grateful you chose to stand before me together.”

She snapped her wand up and sent Diffindo slicing toward Sean's throat.

He raised his own wand with offhand grace. A wash of blue‑white mist swirled around the tip and batted the spell aside as if it were nothing more than smoke.

Then, with a single fluid motion, he lifted his arm again.

A rain of spells crashed towards Bellatrix like a breaking wave.

The sheer number of them would have overwhelmed almost anyone.

For all her mocking words, Bellatrix was not a fool.

Anyone who had once escaped Voldemort himself in a head‑on confrontation, surviving only because Barty Crouch Junior had severed his own arm to cover the retreat, was not someone to be taken lightly.

She might sneer aloud, but she took Sean very seriously indeed.

Like Barty Jr, she had been shaped by Voldemort’s personal tutelage. Her power was anything but ordinary.

Her wand flickered faster and faster, tracing different arcs through the air. Spells wove together in front of her into a mesh of light—one shield charm angled to deflect two or three incoming curses at once, the lattice shifting and reinforcing itself as new attacks crashed in.

Interesting.

So that was one of Voldemort’s tricks.

Sean watched her movements and recognised at once that this was a technique the Dark Lord had drilled into his inner circle.

In their last battle, Voldemort had been the one attacking and Sean the one defending. There had been no opportunity to see how the Dark Lord protected himself. Now, seeing the method echoed in Bellatrix’s movements, he gained a glimpse of it in advance.

Forewarned, he could be ready.

“Frost Domain.”

Sean drew his wand lightly through the air in front of him.

The temperature plunged.

Hoarfrost bloomed at his feet and raced outwards, a tide of ice surging straight for Bellatrix.

Flame erupted from her wand, billowing into a blazing shield as she tried to burn the ice away.

It was not Fiendfyre.

Ordinary conjured fire could not stand against Sean’s frost. It shattered under the advancing cold, forced back step by step until Bellatrix’s boots were almost on the ice.

She had no choice.

Her form dissolved into black smoke and whipped away down the corridor.

Sean’s body blurred into a streak of white mist and arrowed after her. Mid‑flight, both of them snapped back into solid form again and again, halting their Apparition to trade volleys of spells in mid‑air before vanishing and reappearing further on.

Spelllight flashed and skittered along the walls as the chase surged through the Ministry.

Under Sean’s subtle guidance, their running duel burst at last into the atrium.

As Bellatrix’s body solidified, Sean’s casting speed suddenly spiked. A scarlet jet slammed into her chest before she could raise a shield.

“Expelliarmus.”

The Disarming Charm hurled her backwards. She hit the wall with a sickening crack and slid down, stunned.

Sean landed lightly, walked over, and ground her fallen wand to splinters under his heel.

He raised his own wand, ready to end it.

Dark smoke boiled into being behind him, coalescing into a tall, thin figure.

“Ah…

“Sean Bulstrode…

“We meet again.”

(End of chapter)

Harry Potter: Dudley From LOTM - 352

Chapter 352: Time-Turner

"I promise," Dudley said, nodding.

Seeing that, Hermione did not say anything more. She slowly reached up to her neck and took off a delicate pendant.

It was a tiny golden hourglass, beautiful and finely made.

Dudley had noticed it before and had sensed the magic lingering on it, but he had not thought much of it, assuming it was just a magical trinket Hermione had bought for herself.

"This is a Time-Turner," Hermione said bluntly.

"Time-Turner?"

The moment Dudley heard the name, his expression hardened.

Hermione had not yet explained what it could do, but from the name alone, he could already guess.

"Yes. I got it from Professor McGonagall on the first day back. The reason I can attend two classes at the same time is because of this," Hermione said.

"After I finish one lesson, I use the Time-Turner to go back to before it began, then go to the other class instead. That is all there is to it."

Having said that, she looked far more at ease.

"Such a miraculous artefact," Dudley murmured.

His gaze fixed on the Time-Turner in Hermione’s hand.

The power to turn back time. Even in the Beyonder world, he had never heard of anything quite like it.

Of course, that might simply mean he had not yet encountered that level.

But time was too powerful, too frightening. If it could truly be reversed at will, there was very little in the Beyonder world that could not be undone.

"Are there no limits?" he asked.

"There are," Hermione said. "Using it drains my magic, so I cannot turn it too many times in a row. And I absolutely cannot let two of me appear at the same time. That would cause... extremely serious consequences."

"Forgive me, Dudley. I promised Professor McGonagall I would not tell anyone about this," she added, guilt in her voice.

"I understand," Dudley said. "But why did Professor McGonagall never mention it to me at all?"

He frowned.

He was, after all, top of their year. If this thing existed to help with study, McGonagall should at least have raised it with him. Instead, she had kept silent and even told Hermione not to tell him. It puzzled him.

"The Time-Turner belongs to the Ministry," Hermione explained. "Professor McGonagall wrote them a lot of letters, sent them all kinds of records to prove I am a model student and would never use it for anything except lessons. Only then did they agree to lend me one."

"I see," Dudley said quietly.

If it was Ministry property, that would make more sense.

Given his current standing with the Ministry, they would sooner throw him into Azkaban than hand him control of time. He was lucky they were not already looking for excuses to arrest him.

"Yes. Professor McGonagall did mention that you might have had a chance in future," Hermione went on. "But after what happened over the summer, there was almost no way they would approve one for you. So she decided not to say anything."

"It is fine. You have explained, that is enough," Dudley said, nodding.

"May I see it?" he asked.

Hermione hesitated, then slipped the Time-Turner from its chain and passed it to him.

"One turn is one hour," she said.

Dudley cradled it in his palm and let his senses brush over the magic bound into the delicate frame.

It was exquisitely made. The power coiled inside it was intricate to the point of being dizzying. Even with just a light touch, he could feel layer upon layer of enchantments, many of them beyond his current understanding.

Holding the Time-Turner between thumb and forefinger, he let a trickle of Spirituality flow into it.

At once, he felt it tremble in his grasp, as if struggling to wrench itself free.

"What is going on?" Dudley said, glancing at Hermione.

Was it resisting him because it did not recognise him as its owner?

"I do not know," Hermione said. "Oh, wait. Professor McGonagall did say that some very powerful wizards cannot use Time-Turners at all."

"What does that mean?" Dudley asked, taken aback.

"According to her, a Time-Turner is basically a kind of transport tool," Hermione said. "It moves a person from the current point in time to, say, three hours earlier."

"For that to work, the 'load' has to be light enough. Otherwise the Time-Turner cannot move it easily."

"That 'weight' is like the wizard’s strength. Or their magic," she went on. "The stronger a witch or wizard is, the harder it is to move them. For truly powerful ones, their magic alone makes the process extremely difficult. And if someone like that were to disturb time, the damage they could do would be terrifying."

"That is why Time-Turners are mostly used in very controlled situations, like extra classes. That is the only reason I was allowed one at all."

"I see," Dudley said slowly, looking down at the hourglass.

He could feel it recoiling from him. Or perhaps it was more accurate to say that it feared him.

If he so much as turned it once, the artefact might very well shatter under the strain.

On reflection, that was probably for the best. If things like this could be used freely to rewrite history, powerful wizards would be able to do whatever they liked.

Suppose Voldemort had taken a Time-Turner with him the night he went after Harry’s family. Or had one of his followers carry it. If, after failing, he had simply gone back and tried again—again and again—who could possibly have stopped him?

The entire world would have plunged into chaos long ago.

The wicked could twist the past to their liking. So could the righteous. In the end, the fabric of the magical world itself would rip apart under the strain of a thousand competing timelines.

Dudley did not experiment further. He handed the Time-Turner back to Hermione.

"Make good use of it," he said. "But do not run yourself ragged."

"Study within your limits. You are already outstanding."

"Not compared to you," Hermione said, flushing.

"Do not compare yourself to me. It is pointless," Dudley said.

His strength came from living two lives and from inheriting Beyonder powers from another world. That was how he had climbed so far, so fast.

Everything Hermione had achieved, she had earned by sheer effort. There was very little overlap between them.

"I just want to learn as much as I can. And I enjoy it," Hermione said with a small smile.

Dudley let the matter drop.

He trusted her to know where her own limits lay.

If this were that other Beyonder world, he thought, he would have introduced Hermione to the Church of Knowledge long ago. She was perfectly suited to it.

She might even have ended up as one of its high pontiffs.

HP/LOTM: Visionary - 433

Chapter 433: Birth of the Saviour, Sirius’ Broken Heart, Promotion

"Stupefy!"

Voldemort burst into the room and slammed Lily to the floor with a single curse. His favourite had begged for this woman, after all. So long as he had room to spare, he was willing to grant Snape that much.

Tom’s mind had been eaten away by Dark magic, but before Chaos soaked him completely, he had only been reckless, not stupid. A fool could never have gathered so many followers.

“Ah. Clever Lily,” Voldemort said, pushing the door the rest of the way open and gliding toward the woman the prophecy had marked.

“If you were not a filthy Muggle-born, I might almost have regretted wasting you,” he murmured, that old hunger for useful talent stirring in his cold eyes.

“But it is far too late for that. Curse the prophecy.”

He raised his wand and levelled it at the baby in the cot.

"Avada Kedavra."

"No!"

Lily’s magic flared, full and fierce.

As Eleanor’s closest friend, she knew the rooms of the Department of Mysteries well. Under Eleanor’s guidance, she had once brushed against a power almost no one understood.

Love.

A new magic born from reversing the Deep Realm King Resentment’s power, love still carried a faint echo of resentment within it.

Before the bolt of green lightning could strike Harry, Lily used that strange magic to weave a shield around him. It should have been perfect. It was not yet finished.

"So be it. Burn my life to ash," she whispered.

Her weak but unshaken voice passed the border between dream and waking and plunged into the Sea of Collective Subconscious. The whole ocean rang. Prophecies rejoiced, offering their blessings to the saviour’s birth.

Silver light filled Lily’s eyes.

Love crossed time and space. Golden spell-light reached Harry’s body just ahead of the Killing Curse.

The green lightning hit the golden motes and bounced.

Chaos rose to defend its master, but Lily’s last breath of power stamped a mark on Voldemort. Love swept the Chaos away.

At such close range, Voldemort had no time to raise a defence. His own Killing Curse struck him.

The unbeatable Dark Lord fell.

Outside the Potters’ cottage, Sirius arrived late on his flying motorbike. He blew the door in and rushed inside, only to find James Potter lying lifeless on the floor.

"No."

Memories crashed over him: leaving home, being taken in by the elder Potters, James treating him like a true brother.

Sirius’ eyes went red. His hands shook as they gripped James’ arm.

In the chaos of grief, one small, cringing figure stood out in his mind. Every piece slotted into place.

Peter had betrayed James.

Sirius staggered to his feet, ran back out the door, and roared away toward the Order’s base in Hogsmeade. The beds where he and Peter should have been resting were empty. The rat was already gone.

"Hey, Sirius," Hagrid called.

Sirius barely heard him. Something inside him was already breaking apart. He started to put his life in order, as if for the end.

"Hagrid, the bike is yours," he said, clapping the giant on the shoulder.

He drew his wand. Black family magic thrummed through the air as he tracked the signature of an Apparition from the room and plunged into the night.

Following the magical trail, Sirius finally found a rat about to vanish into a sewer on a London street.

"Accio rat."

He did not bother to hide. He cast in full view of the Muggles around him. Cold killing intent bled into his magic.

The fat rat had just squeezed into the drain when the spell ripped him back out and dragged him through the air to Sirius’s hand.

Peter chose to shed the disguise.

"Oh my God."

"The rat turned into a man. Am I seeing things?"

“That’s got to be street magic.”

Muggles muttered all around them, not knowing that some spectacles should never be watched.

"Die, you traitor," Sirius said, raising his wand.

Peter lifted his own.

"Confringo!" they both cried.

The twin curses met. The collision of their magic tore the street apart.

When Sirius clawed his way out of the rubble, the world spun. A shrill whine screamed in his ears.

He forced himself upright and stumbled to where Peter had stood.

Two severed fingers lay in the debris.

It looked very much as if Peter had died at his hand.

Sirius dropped to his knees and began to laugh, wild and broken, until the Aurors arrived and dragged him away.

At Hogwarts, Dumbledore had already crushed the Death Eaters assault. Then Snape’s message reached him: the Potters were dead.

He stood at the top of the tower for a long time, staring into nothing. Then he sat down and wrote a letter for Fawkes to carry to the Daily Prophet.

In less than an hour, an emergency edition flew out across wizarding Britain with a single blazing headline:

The End of the Dark Lord – The Wizarding World’s Saviour, Harry Potter

In a small box at the bottom of the page, the Prophet printed Dumbledore’s suggestion that the Dark Lord might not be truly dead. No one cared. Joy drowned it out.

Wands drew bright trails of fireworks across the sky. Crowds flooded into the Leaky Cauldron to drink until they could not stand.

Behind it all stood two demigods of the Visionary Pathway, two Sequence 4 Manipulators who had stirred up a storm in the Sea of Consciousness to bring the prophecy and the collective will of wizardkind into alignment.

No one stopped to ask how a baby barely past his first birthday had defeated Voldemort. A wave of hot, blind exultation rolled through them and carried them straight into celebration.

The dream was complete.

The two Manipulators stood on the top of Big Ben, watching the beautiful lie they had woven around the wizarding world.

"To weave a dream for an entire age," Arthursi said, taking out a vial.

Inside, a grey, unreal dream floated in the potion, like a brain carved from mist.

"Cheers," Lada said.

She clinked her vial against Arthursi’s and downed the brew in one swallow.

They felt their minds and bodies fusing, becoming strands of smoke that the wind blew down into the Sea of Collective Subconscious.

The saviour’s dream they had crafted solidified under the weight of the ritual and became their anchor, circling them and keeping them from being torn apart by the ocean’s storms.

Their thoughts dissolved, thread by thread, and slipped into the dream.

The two weavers finally returned from the Sea.

When they opened their eyes again, dragon might burned in both their gazes. Flocks of birds scattered from the rooftops in panic.

"Easy. Soften it. There are millions of people in London. You planning on a mass exposure event?" a rough, half-amused voice said behind them.

Arthursi and Lada turned together and saw a man who looked like a withered stick.

HP/LOTM: Visionary - 432

Chapter 432: The Closed Loop of Fate, The Traitor

When the torrent of mind-force finally faded and time began to move again, Tom blew apart the rubble in front of him with a burst of magic. Riddle Manor had been reduced to ruins in the battle. Only a single, lonely building was still standing.

"Tch."

Because of his own arrangements, Voldemort now had to waste magic repairing the estate.

A twitching rat caught his eye. He closed his hand in the air, and the rat flew into his grasp.

While broken stone and shattered beams slid back into place under his spells, the idle Dark Lord spared a moment to reverse the transformation on the rat at his feet.

A cowering wizard tumbled onto the floor.

"Well, look who I have found," Tom said, waking him with a charm.

Then the light of the Cruciatus Curse flickered through what was left of Riddle Manor.

……

Elsewhere, Sirius and Remus crashed to the ground in front of Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place, as the transport spell dropped them. Both of them struggled back to their feet.

"Gideon, Fabian, Eleanor…" Sirius said.

He sank down hard on the cobbles, fist slamming against the ground.

"Peter was not sent back," Remus said, suddenly realising one of their number was missing.

"That is bad. He is still in You-Know-Who’s lair?" Sirius forgot his grief in a heartbeat. He yanked out his wand, ready to go straight back.

Remus slapped it out of his hand.

"Are you mad? What are you going to do against him now? We have to call the Order. That is what we do," he said sharply.

"Right. Dumbledore," Sirius said.

He bolted into the nearest Muggle house, Confunded the occupants, and used the Order’s private method of contacting Dumbledore.

"You wait here for them. I have to get to the Prewett Manor. Gideon and Eleanor’s child is still there. Merlin, how am I supposed to face a baby in swaddling clothes…" Remus said.

Even the steady one felt close to losing his grip when he thought of what came next.

"Remus, is it possible that a four-month-old cannot even talk yet?" Sirius said.

For once, his brain was working properly.

"But…"

Remus lowered his head. Shadow hid his eyes.

"We still failed to save his parents," he said.

"What are you going to do with the child?" Sirius asked.

"Honour Eleanor’s wishes. Place him with their close kin, Molly," Remus said.

Sirius clapped his shoulder. "Then go."

Remus nodded and slipped into the crowd. Not long after, Dumbledore arrived at Grimmauld Place.

"Professor," Sirius said, hurrying to meet him.

“There is no need to explain. I already know. Gideon only just sent me the key to the Prewett family vault at Gringotts—that was how I realised they had gone off on something this dangerous,” Dumbledore said with a sigh.

There was no time to mourn. One of their number was still missing.

"Come. To Hogsmeade. I put out an alert. The others should gather quickly," Dumbledore said, holding out his arm.

A phoenix’s cry cut the air. Flame wrapped them, and they vanished.

……

Back at Riddle Manor, Tom pressed the Dark Mark into the arm of his newest servant.

"Remember your promise, Peter," he said.

With a flick of his wand, he opened the manor gates. Peter Pettigrew shuffled away, shaking, until he slipped from sight.

At the same time, at the Order’s gathering, Sirius slammed his palm on the table.

"What do you mean, ‘wait and see’? Are we just going to sit on our hands until Peter’s corpse turns up before we try to save him?"

"We have lost three Prewetts. In terms of raw strength, we are not in a good position," Moody said, voice flat.

"But they lost plenty of Death Eaters. Fabian, Gideon, Eleanor…" Sirius’ voice caught, then steadied. "They took a lot of them down."

"It was planned. In everything you described, there was no sign of any of the Dark Lord’s core circle, not a single leading pure-blood. He all but went out himself against the two Prewetts," Moody said with a snort.

He knew he had been outplayed. Trading away their knights for a few pawns was his failure as the one setting the board. The pace of events had been too violent to predict. He had never imagined Eleanor would be taken. Now that it had happened, conserving their strength mattered more than anything.

"Enough. I will go to Riddle Manor myself. The rest of you, be ready for any Death Eaters who converge. And you will follow Moody’s lead," Dumbledore said, ending the argument and rising.

They had barely reached the street when they almost walked straight into a soot-streaked Peter Pettigrew.

Everyone stopped dead.

They had braced themselves for a final battle. No one had expected this.

"Peter!" Sirius grabbed him at once. "Where did you go? I thought You-Know-Who had you. We were about to come and get you."

"I… I turned into a rat and hid in the sewers. I ran for ages before I got out… of the manor," Peter said.

He looked limp and exhausted, like a man who had only just stopped running.

"That is you, all right," Sirius said, thumping him lightly in the chest.

"If you are safe, that is what matters. In that case, we…" Dumbledore began.

A silvery cat Patronus bounded into the square.

"Dumbledore! The Death Eaters are attacking Hogwarts!"

Professor McGonagall’s voice made everyone freeze.

Dumbledore rallied at once, calling people to him and hurrying back to the school. Sirius moved to follow, but Dumbledore stopped him with a hand.

"You and Peter should rest. Hogwarts has enough defenders," he said.

Sirius did not argue. Riddle Manor had taken him to his limits. His magic and his mind were both running on fumes.

The two of them went back to the Order’s safe house to snatch a little rest.

Bad news did not wait.

The fire in the hearth flared green. A familiar face appeared in the flames, crying for help.

"James!" Sirius shouted.

"Padfoot! Voldemort has found—"

A scream ripped across the fire. The connection snapped.

Sirius did not spare a thought for sleep. He sprinted out the door and swung himself onto his magically modified three-wheeled bike, gunning straight for Godric’s Hollow.

At the same time, in Godric’s Hollow, a powerful Dark wizard tore through the Potters’ wards. The Fidelius Charm fell with them. The Secret-Keeper had betrayed the secret.

Cloaked in black, Voldemort walked up to the door and blew the last barrier open.

Inside, James Potter hid his wife and son as far back as he could, then drew his wand and went to meet Voldemort head-on.

One jet of green light ended his life.

As James fell, he hit a picture frame. It clattered to the floor. Tom glanced down and saw Lily Potter and Eleanor Prewett in the photograph, both of them holding babies.

"So there is one left. The Prewetts really are hard to be rid of," he said.

One sweep of his wand and the photograph went up in flames.

Then he turned to the Death Eater at his side.

"Mulciber. Go to Byberil village and wipe out the Prewetts’ last bloodline."

“As you command, my Lord,” the Death Eater said, vanishing with a twist.

Tom rose, turned toward the stairs, and walked on to meet his destined death.

HP: Fantastic Beasts And The Right Way To Use Them - 304

Chapter 304: Lead the Way

One hand on her hip and the other lifting a great net woven from flowing water, the girl wore a look of unabashed pride as she glanced at the huge beast beside her, flames burning at the tip of its tail.

"You see? I told you I wouldn't let you go hungry, didn't I?"

"Oooh..."

The Chimera flicked a glance at the dozen-odd doves struggling in the girl's net, a very human sort of disdain appearing on its face.

So few little birds were not even enough for a single bite.

It did not have the heart to dampen the girl's enthusiasm, though. Instead, it quietly turned its head away and began to lick at the swollen red lumps along the back of its neck.

They had run fast enough at the time, but even so, it had still been bitten a few times by those giant mosquitoes. And those mosquitoes... who knew what was wrong with them? Being that big was one thing, but they had actually forced their way through its flames just to land on it and take a few bites.

Fortunately, after biting it, those mosquitoes trembled, dropped out of the air, and crashed to the ground. Otherwise, it was very much in doubt whether the two of them would have escaped.

No, that was not quite right. The only one who would really have been in trouble was probably it. That girl clearly had nothing to fear from those mosquitoes.

In fact, after dragging it away, she had even wanted to go back and settle the score with the swarm.

The Chimera turned its head again and eyed the large, water-blue net in the girl's hand, unable to stop itself from grumbling inwardly.

At first, it had been all for the girl's plan. After all, in all its life it had never seen mosquitoes that big, let alone been bitten by them. Of course it wanted revenge.

But after several rounds of watching this girl leave by a little path on the left only to reappear crashing out of the bushes on the right, the Chimera no longer believed she was capable of avenging it.

How could a girl that powerful be so hopeless at finding her way?

Completely unaware that the Chimera was silently complaining about her, Sosia clutched the big net in her hand and excitedly licked the corner of her lips.

She had not expected to catch something as ordinary as doves in the depths of a magical forest like this. By rights, such mundane creatures should never be able to enter. The mist at the forest's edge would have driven them away long before that. Even if one somehow slipped through the fog by sheer luck, it would very soon be snapped up as a snack by the magical creatures roaming the outer ring.

Still, she was not especially concerned about how these doves had managed to get here. What mattered was that ordinary creatures tasted much better roasted than magical beasts ever did.

On top of that, ordinary creatures usually did not have much going on in their heads. Roasting them came with almost no psychological burden at all.

So many advantages.

Looking at the few doves thrashing about in the net, Sosia's mouth was practically watering.

The pity was that Evans had been dragged off to Merlin-knew-where. On her own, whatever she roasted would probably not taste nearly as good.

Should she wait until Evans gets back before cooking them?

She had been running around all day and was already starving. Worse still, now that she had lost access to flowing water, she had lost her method of constantly replenishing her energy. At the moment, she could only absorb energy from food.

If she did not, she would probably fall into a coma before long. And if she still could not return to her own lake, it was not impossible that she would simply fade away altogether.

Thinking of this, Sosia gave a small shake of her head.

Forget it. She would just roast them now. She might not have done much cooking herself, but after watching Evans roast things so many times, she had to have picked up something.

She silently tried to bolster her own confidence. Then she set the net down to one side, snapped a few branches off a nearby pine and trotted over to the Chimera's tail.

"Don't move, don't move, lend me a bit of fire!"

As a tidy campfire flared up in an instant, tears welled in the eyes of the dove flock's leader.

It knew that it was about to become food for that human female and that monster.

It was unwilling. But what could it possibly do? As a dove, it had absolutely no power to resist.

In its grief, it poured its heart out to its companions, speaking of the history of their flock and the ending that now awaited them.

If any one of them were fortunate enough to escape, it hoped they would pass its words on.

Even if it were about to fall into the sea of fire, their spirit would never bow.

Yet before the dove leader could properly steel itself for death, a hand suddenly plucked it out of the net and dangled it in mid-air.

"I kept hearing something muttering just now. Was that really you?"

Sosia tilted her head curiously as she studied the large bird hanging from her hand.

As a spring sprite, she could do more than hear the voices of plants and running water. As long as an animal possessed true intelligence, she could understand what it was expressing as well.

Of course, all of that depended on the creature actually having intelligence in the first place.

In her opinion, doves should only have some very basic instinctive reactions, nothing more.

Eating a creature that truly possessed wisdom would make her feel a bit guilty.

But she was so hungry. Perhaps she could exercise a little flexibility with her bottom line, fill her stomach first, and think about the rest afterwards?

Come to that, had it not just claimed to be the leader of this flock of doves?

Recalling the information the dove had mentioned earlier, Sosia decided this particular bird might be useful for more than just food.

"Do you know the way?"

The dove leader froze for a moment at the question, then bobbed its head up and down so fast it was a blur.

It seized on the chance like a drowning creature clutching at a reed, launching into a frantic boast about its skills as a guide.

As the cleverest dove in the flock, it was already one of their leaders. Back where they used to live, it had always managed to lead the flock safely past those cursed cats and to find humans willing to toss them food.

Right, and it could even lead this human female to a place they had once stumbled into by accident.

After so many days in this magical forest, the dove leader's mind was no longer what it once had been. It could already ponder some quite complicated matters.

For example, the fact that this human female in front of it seemed to have abilities similar to those of the monsters. In that case, might she be interested in that dangerous place?

Roughly two days earlier, when they were being chased by a big dog with two tails, they had accidentally blundered into an underground cave.

The entrance to the cave was very well concealed, hidden behind a huge rock that did not actually exist. If one of their flock had not smashed headlong into the stone and passed straight through it, they would never have realised that place was there at all.

It was thanks to that hidden place that they had shaken off the pursuit of the two-tailed dog.

It was thanks to that hidden place that they had survived that monster's hunt.

Unfortunately, there had been countless mechanisms and glowing attacks inside. They had managed to stay barely half an hour before they were forced to leave, abandoning what could have been a perfect refuge against outside threats.

The fact that they could not remain there long did not mean this human female could not.

It remembered that in the place they used to live, the human cubs loved adventures most of all. Even though they would always get a beating for digging up nests or crawling into hollow trees and little streams, their enthusiasm never cooled.

If the cubs were like that, an adult human would probably be the same.

Having made up its mind, the dove leader steadied itself and quickly described the cave they had visited before. Then it looked up at the girl in front of it, eyes full of hope.

"A cave hidden behind a big rock that is not really there?"

Sosia repeated the long string of information the dove had conveyed, mulled over it for a moment, and a gleam of anticipation flashed in her eyes.

It sounded like fun.

Without hesitating much longer, she checked the dove leader again. It did not seem to be lying. She clapped her hands and dispelled the net of flowing water.

"All right then. Lead the way!"

HP: From Failed Art Student to Dark Artist of Hogwarts - 303

Chapter 303: From This Day On, Reporter Rita Never Opened Her Rumour-Mongering Mouth Again

The next day.

The Daily Prophet ran a bombshell.

— "Shocking! Our own reporter Rita Skeeter found in the Forbidden Forest at Hogwarts! Mind shattered, presumed attacked!"

The moving photograph showed Rita looking like a beggar.

Her blonde hair was a bird’s nest.

Her elegant dark green silk suit was in tatters, and the frame of her glasses hung askew and broken.

Her eyes were stretched impossibly wide, packed full of real, solid terror.

In the animated picture, she knelt on the ground, clutching her head with both hands, curling in on herself and shaking all over as if trying to hide from some monstrous thing.

Her expression was vacant and witless, lips moving constantly, muttering who‑knew‑what.

Just looking at her sent a chill down the spine.

The article read:

"Discovered by: Hogwarts professor Rubeus Hagrid and Beauxbatons Headmistress Madame Maxime (we still have no idea what the two of them were doing in the Forbidden Forest so late at night)."

"Upon examination, no obvious external injuries were found on Rita Skeeter’s body. However, she is suffering severe mental trauma and memory confusion, symptoms similar to those displayed by Gilderoy Lockhart two years ago."

"She also shows strong hysterical and panic reactions."

"It is impossible to imagine what horrors she must have witnessed."

"She is believed to have been struck by the All‑Is‑Forgotten Curse.”

"She has been transferred to St Mungo’s for treatment. We will continue to follow this story."

"Next, we will take a closer look at safety issues at Hogwarts and surrounding this year’s Tournament…"

"Merlin, what happened to her?" Michael gasped. "She… she looks like she has been scared out of her mind."

"She was fine yesterday. Still baring that great bloody maw and digging for stories everywhere."

"Terrifying. Who on earth did this? Ethan, any ideas?"

He turned.

Ethan, perfectly calm, was enjoying his breakfast.

He took a sip of hot coffee. "The attacker might be far away," he said mildly, "or very close."

Michael laughed. "You and your jokes."

Ethan only smiled.

"…You are joking, right?" Michael said.

Ethan cut into his egg.

The golden yolk flooded out under the knife.

"At least Rita has got her wish," he said lazily. "She has become the juiciest front page story of all."

She would be thrilled.

Remembering the way her face had twisted the moment the spell hit, Ethan nodded to himself.

"Yes," Michael muttered. "Quite a tale."

For some reason, talking to Ethan always made his skin crawl.

It was like sharing a table with someone at lunch, then looking up and seeing their face on a Wanted poster.

The Great Hall doors banged open.

Professor Snape swept in like a black whirlwind.

One look at his thunderous face and his "Gryffindor loses one hundred points" posture, and the Hall fell into instant silence.

Only his hard, echoing footsteps remained.

He stopped in front of Ethan and looked down at him.

"Professor Dumbledore wants to see you," he said, lips barely moving.

A ripple went through the students.

They stared at one another, eyes bright with excitement.

Only when Ethan obediently rose and followed Snape out did they let out the breath they had been holding.

“It has to be about last night, about the reporter who was attacked.”

"I heard the Minister for Magic is here."

"Whoever that Dark wizard was, they were practically being kind. They only drove her mad instead of killing her."

"Whoever did it is terrifying. Thank goodness we have Ethan."

"Same year as us, and while we are cramming for exams, his future is already set."

"Are we sure 'future set' does not mean a one‑way trip to Azkaban…?"

One way or another, they all looked on with envy and respect.

"This is wrong," Hermione said anxiously. "Ethan is still a child. They cannot really drag him into something this dangerous."

"What if the Dark wizard turns him to stone? What if he ends up with horrible mushrooms growing all over him?"

"That sounds awfully specific," Ron said. "You really should have taken Divination."

Harry looked just as worried, though for a different reason.

"I am more concerned about the Tournament being cancelled," he said. "Even more than Ethan."

The last task was set.

He and Cedric were both going in.

Harry still hoped they would walk back out together, holding that gleaming golden cup.

While the students argued and speculated, Ethan followed Professor Snape’s long strides toward the Headmaster’s office.

"Soft‑Centred Strawberry Beetle Pile," Snape said hoarsely to the gargoyle, glaring at it as it slid aside.

You could tell just saying that password made his mouth feel unclean.

The spiral staircase rumbled into motion beneath their feet.

Partway up, Snape broke the silence.

"Perhaps," he said, "you have not been sneaking into my Potions stores to help yourself to ingredients we do not use in class."

"Say, lacewing flies, dried African tree‑snake skins… a remarkable coincidence, given that those are precisely the ingredients needed for Polyjuice Potion."

He turned his sharp, hawk‑like gaze on Ethan.

Ethan’s mind wandered.

Professor Snape would be an excellent listening exercise in an English class.

The man spoke in nothing but long, barbed sentences.

He knew exactly what Snape was suspicious of.

That he had been brewing Polyjuice in secret for some shady task.

"Please do not worry," Ethan said politely. "I have not taken your ingredients, nor have I used Polyjuice to do anything bad."

He had used Ageing Potion, kindly supplied by the Malfoy family.

And what he had done was not "bad" at all, but a great service to world peace.

"Hmph."

Snape answered through his nose.

He still looked doubtful, but at least somewhat reassured.

If Ethan said he had not done something, then he had not.

On that point, he was annoyingly honest.

Snape had no idea how quickly he was going to regret relaxing.

They reached the landing.

Voices crashed out of the Headmaster’s office before they even knocked.

"The Tournament must be terminated."

"But Minister, the magic contract of the Goblet of Fire is clear. Once champions are chosen, they must see the Tournament through. To break that contract would have consequences we cannot predict."

"Dark wizards are practically dancing on the Ministry’s head. Who has time for games?"

"Ahem."

Snape coughed deliberately.

He rapped on the door, and Dumbledore’s tired "Come in" sounded from within.

Ethan stepped in with him and saw Minister Scrimgeour and Mr Bartemius Crouch.

The man who should, by rights, have died in the Forbidden Forest by his own son’s hand looked grey and exhausted, sweat beading on his brow.

Minister Scrimgeour’s face was set in a scowl.

"Do you need me to remind you, Mr Crouch," he said heavily, "that during the Quidditch World Cup your behaviour was witnessed to be extremely strange. Your house‑elf also disappeared."

"Right when the Dark Mark appeared in the sky."

Crouch went white.

He was clearly thinking of his missing Death Eater son.

He clenched his fists. "I do not know what you are talking about," he rasped.

"My meaning is that the Triwizard Tournament must be stopped," Scrimgeour said.

"Anyone who argues otherwise will be presumed to have ties to the forces of evil."

HP: The Duelist of Hogwarts - 461

Chapter 461: The Plan Begins

Harry dropped down into the familiar alleyway.

In a few quick strides, he reached the telephone box tucked away inside it.

The last time he had come to the Ministry for his hearing, he had entered from here. He drew his wand and took out the Invisibility Cloak. By now he understood more about it, knew it was different from ordinary cloaks and Disillusionment Charms. As long as no one physically brushed against him, no spell or eye would pick him out.

He planned to use the cloak to slip inside.

He stepped into the telephone box, reached for the buttons and pressed them.

Before the mechanism could engage, there was a sudden flurry of noise outside. One, two… five or six figures in quick succession dashed up to the booth and began banging on the glass, making Harry jump out of his skin.

Peering out, he saw faces he knew all too well.

Shock wiped every other expression from his own.

“What—what is going on?” he stammered. “Hermione, Ron… Blaise… how are you all here?”

Hermione held up her wrist for him to see the watch glittering there, then pushed the door open and squeezed inside.

“You have not forgotten the watch I made over the holidays, have you?” she said briskly.

She snatched the Firebolt from Harry’s hand and tossed it back out into the alley. While he was still reeling, she shoved him into the corner. Ron, Neville, Ginny, Luna, Blaise and Jensen all piled in after her. Eight bodies crammed into the narrow space until Harry’s face was mashed so hard against the glass that he was barely recognisable.

“Hermione, I… I’m going to suffocate…”

On the opposite side of the box, Hermione was just as squashed.

"Just—bear with it," she gasped. "Someone hit the button. Whoever's closest to the phone—just press it!"

"I've—I've got it…"

Ginny managed to wriggle an arm free and jabbed at the keypad. The cold, mechanical female voice spoke from inside the phone, and eight badges clattered out of the coin slot. The booth shuddered once, then began to sink.

When the doors slid open again, Harry and the others staggered out and hurriedly stretched cramped limbs.

“Harry,” Hermione said, glancing around, “it looks like there is no one in the Ministry.”

It was night, so most Ministry officials should have gone home. But there should still have been patrols. The last time Harry had come here with Sirius, it had been the same: eerily empty.

Back then, he had not understood what that meant.

He did now.

Umbridge had sent every Auror who was not hers on distant assignments or simply told them to go home. The only ones left on the rota were those openly aligned with her faction.

Then, at night, she ordered even those loyalists out.

The result was a Ministry of Magic with its guard conveniently down.

Before, Umbridge had done this to make it easy to murder Fudge and frame Harry and Sirius for the crime. Now, she was doing it again, this time to give Voldemort and the Death Eaters a clear path to the Department of Mysteries, so they could stroll in and steal the prophecy orb.

"It means the Death Eaters and You-Know— the Mystery Man will be here any minute," Hermione said. "We need to move now and get to the Department of Mysteries before they do. We have to take the prophecy first."

“What is a prophecy orb?” Ron asked, as perfectly mistimed as ever.

“I will explain on the way. We do not have time now.”

Hermione shot him a withering look, growing more exasperated with her useless boyfriend by the day. Then she grabbed Harry’s sleeve and broke into a run, leading the group towards the Department of Mysteries.

…

At the same time, Sean was sitting in the Headmaster’s office at Hogwarts, turning his two‑way mirror over in his hands.

Before long, Dumbledore’s face appeared in the glass.

“Sean,” he said, “Harry and the others have entered the Ministry. They are heading for the Department of Mysteries, as planned.”

“Speaking of the Department of Mysteries,” Sean said, “how much do you actually know about the most mysterious branch of the Ministry?”

He had expected Dumbledore to have at least a little to say.

To his surprise, the old wizard only shook his head.

“I am afraid I know very little,” Dumbledore replied. “Of course, I refer not to the things on display there that are already half‑public knowledge—Time‑Turners, prophecy orbs and the like. I mean the true secrets guarded within the Department. Those, I do not know.”

Not even Dumbledore?

He claimed ignorance, yet in the same breath he had confirmed there were things in the Department so secret that even he could not uncover them.

Interesting.

“How is the business with the Vanishing Cabinet?” Dumbledore asked.

“I interfered a little,” Sean said. “I made sure they would not discover it too soon.”

“You have changed your mind?”

“I simply think it can be put to better use,” Sean replied. “If it is only going to bring in a few Death Eaters, that would be a waste of its potential.”

“So you have a new plan.”

“I do,” Sean said. “And I will need your cooperation for part of it.”

“If it is your plan, I am very willing to cooperate,” Dumbledore said.

They left it there.

Sean glanced down at the enchanted map spread across the desk. A cluster of glowing points was heading towards a small, box‑outlined section marked “Department of Mysteries”. Within that box, his map showed nothing but a hazy outline. As soon as the lights crossed its border, they vanished from view.

Shortly after the lights representing Harry and his friends disappeared into the Department, another set of points entered the Ministry and began moving rapidly in the same direction.

Watching how straight and sure their path was, Sean rose from his chair and stretched lazily.

“Professor,” he said to the mirror, “the time is about right. We can move.”

“Very well,” Dumbledore replied. “I will alert Marchbanks and the others. The Ministry will soon see the return of Tom.”

“Then I will go on ahead.”

Sean walked to the fireplace, took a pinch of Floo powder, and threw it into the grate.

The flames roared up, turning emerald green.

“Ministry of Magic!” he called, and stepped into the fire.

As Sean vanished into the whirl of green, Ginny, in another part of the building, snapped her wand up and unleashed a streak of yellow‑white fire that blasted an oncoming Death Eater off his feet.

"Confringo!"

She had an uncanny knack for explosive magic. She had learned the Blasting Curse at astonishing speed, and her mastery of it had grown just as fast. Even a seasoned Death Eater hit full on by one of Ginny’s curses would feel it.

“We have got it!” Harry shouted. “Now move! Get out of here, before the Mystery Man arrives!”

He bellowed as he fought, wand sweeping out. A blue‑white wave of light burst from its tip, knocking aside a slashing curse. He spun on his heel and snapped his wrist, sending a jet of red light slamming into another masked figure and hurling him backwards.

After so much training, Harry had finally come into his own.

Harry Potter: Dudley From LOTM - 351

Chapter 351: Hagrid’s Class

The afternoon lesson was Care of Magical Creatures, Hagrid’s first class as a professor.

Dudley and the other three left the castle early and went to his wooden hut by the edge of the Forbidden Forest.

"Oh, I knew you lot would turn up ahead of time," Hagrid boomed when he saw them coming.

"Professor Hagrid, what are we learning in our very first Care of Magical Creatures class?" Hermione asked with a smile.

"Guarantee you will love it," Hagrid said, grinning mysteriously.

"Hagrid, for the first lesson, maybe do not bring out anything too outrageous," Dudley could not help reminding him. "Something normal will do."

When it came to magical creatures, Hagrid’s idea of "harmless" was not the same as everyone else’s. He could happily keep a three‑headed dog, giant spiders, and even a dragon as a pet. Dudley was genuinely worried he would drag out something wildly inappropriate and see the whole class implode on day one.

"Relax. Nothin’ will go wrong," Hagrid said, still full of confidence.

Looking at him, Dudley had the distinct feeling Hagrid was getting carried away again.

Still, this first lesson was right here on the grounds. Even if something unexpected did happen, Dudley would be close enough to help.

After a bit of small talk, the other students began arriving around the hut.

From a distance, Dudley caught sight of Malfoy and his usual entourage.

"Great. Forgot this lot share the class with Slytherin," Ron said sourly when he saw Draco.

Once everyone had gathered, Hagrid stood in the doorway and waved them over.

"Right, everyone here? Follow me. I promise this lesson will be a good one."

"Come on now, keep up," he called, striding off towards the forest with Fang at his heels.

"Is this not the Forbidden Forest? Are we really allowed in?" Neville said nervously.

"It is fine if we have a professor with us. Although..." Harry glanced at Hagrid’s broad back and could not shake a niggling sense of foreboding.

"We are pretty deep in now. What is he planning?" Ron muttered after a while, looking queasy.

His memories of the forest were not exactly pleasant, especially where the Acromantulas were concerned.

"I do not know. He refused to tell me which creature we are learning about. Said it was a surprise," Hermione said helplessly.

"It should be fine. At least, I do not feel any danger," Dudley said.

At his words, Ron and the others relaxed a little. With Dudley there, it was hard to stay truly worried.

Thankfully, Hagrid soon led them out into a clearing and stopped.

"All right, everyone round here, and get out your books. Open ’em to—" Hagrid began loudly.

"How are we supposed to open them?" Malfoy cut in lazily. "I have had enough of this stupid book."

He yanked out his heavily trussed copy of The Monster Book of Monsters and slammed it onto the ground.

"Er..." Hagrid stared at them all in surprise. "No one’s managed to open their book yet?"

Everyone shook their heads, even Hermione.

Without bindings, the books did nothing but snap and lunge for fingers. Even Hermione had not managed to tame hers.

"I opened mine," Dudley said, pulling his copy from his bag.

"Brilliant, Dudley!" Hagrid said, beaming. "Tell everyone how you did it."

At least someone had figured it out.

"I just opened it like this," Dudley said, and flipped the book open in his hands.

In his grip, the volume lay as docile as any Muggle text. In everyone else’s, it had been a snarling menace.

"It bites," Hermione said, still baffled.

"The first time I got it, it did try to bite me," Dudley said. "I warned it once. After that, it behaved."

The first day he received the book, it had almost taken a chunk out of him. Then he let his Judge’s aura roll out, seized it, and forced it open. Since that moment, it had never so much as twitched at him.

The others stared at one another.

Dudley’s method was clearly not going to work for them. Even if they swore they would burn it, the books would still snap at their hands.

"You need to stroke the spine," Hagrid said at last.

They all tried it, and to their amazement, the books settled down at once, pages going limp and quiet.

"This thing really needed a set of instructions," Ron muttered.

"You would have to open it to read them," Harry said, grinning.

"Maybe they should print them on the cover."

While everyone was still chuckling and turning pages, Hagrid put his fingers to his lips and whistled.

A moment later, heavy hoofbeats echoed through the trees.

Whatever was coming was big. Several of the more timid students went pale.

Then the creatures stepped into view.

They had the bodies of horses, but the heads of eagles, with hooked beaks and great wings tucked at their sides.

"Hippogriffs. Beautiful, aren’t they?" Hagrid said proudly, gesturing at the line of creatures.

Dudley raised his brows.

"They are not bad," he admitted.

As far as spectacle went, Hagrid’s first lesson was actually rather impressive.

"I honestly thought he was going to drag us off to study giant spiders," Hermione said, clearly relieved.

"If any of those see us again, they will probably go mad on the spot," Dudley said lightly.

They had slaughtered a fair number of Acromantulas on their last visit. The ones still lurking in the forest were the ones that had escaped their blades.

Hagrid launched into an enthusiastic explanation of hippogriff habits and temperaments.

Dudley’s eyes flickered. With a small movement of his hand, he sealed the space around them, cutting off sound from outside.

"Hermione. We need to talk," he said quietly.

"Now? About what? We are in the middle of class," Hermione said, suddenly tense.

"Class is the only time I see you lately," Dudley said. "Otherwise you vanish before anyone can catch you. Do you deny it?"

"Dudley, I..." Hermione looked torn.

"There are things you chose not to tell me before. That was your right," he said. "But in the situation we are in now, I have to know what is going on. If I do not, I cannot guard against the risks."

"Do you understand what I am saying?"

His tone had gone serious.

Hermione held his gaze for a long moment, then nodded.

"All right," she said softly. "I will tell you. But no one else can know. Absolutely no one."

Lotr: Playing Minecraft in Middle-earth - 363

Chapter 363: A Mysterious Sign

For now, at least, Saruman was safe.

In an earlier discussion, Elrond and Gandalf had reached that conclusion together.

The Ringwraiths had chosen to take him prisoner rather than kill him outright. That meant they had some use for him. Until that purpose was served, they would not truly threaten his life.

What other torments he might suffer in the meantime was another matter.

After all, to expect the Nazgûl to invite him over for a polite chat would be altogether too much to hope for.

Dale.

After arranging defences against Dol Guldur throughout the North-South Vales, Rhovanion, and the Vale of Anduin, and while the forces meant to assault the fortress were still gathering, Levi went a little further north. He flew to the Grey Mountains, to the old Dwarven colony the Halls of Dáin, which had been retaken not long before.

Glóin had spoken of strange stirrings there.

At present, the safest and swiftest way to cross the Misty Mountains was the Sky-road. Before long, the Fellowship would almost certainly pass this way.

If it could be managed, it would be best to clear out any lurking threats before they arrived.

Roar!

As luck would have it, the moment Levi reached the place, a distant call echoed from behind the towering peaks whose tops were lost in cloud. The sound carried with unnatural force.

Something was waiting in the Northern Waste, and it was nothing wholesome.

Levi weighed his options, then swapped his gear for the Blaze chestplate. With a sharp crack like a firework, flame-wings unfurled at his back, and he shot straight upward.

In moments, he reached the peak.

The blizzard was too thick to see through. He kept descending, gliding down the far side towards the mountain's foot.

Crash!

A massive shape slammed into him from the side. The fire-wings flickered and died. Before he could even register what had happened, he had been driven bodily into the mountainside.

Some enormous creature had charged him head-on. Against that kind of weight, the small knockback resistance from the Blaze chestplate was not nearly enough.

"What in the…" Levi muttered.

He shoved aside broken rock and hauled himself out, staring at his rune shield, which had lost a noticeable sliver of durability. He was mildly baffled.

Then he looked up at whatever had just attacked him, and his expression cleared.

It was exactly as he had expected.

Just as he had thought, there was something on the far side of the mountains, in the Northern Waste.

A dragon. A wingless cold-drake. The moment he had dropped into range, it had come thundering across the ice and snow and rammed him full-force, a perfect dragon-charge.

Beherdan could do the same thing, but he always held back. The worst he ever did was knock Levi off balance, or play a prank and send him sprawling on his backside. He never drained health or triggered the shield.

This stranger-dragon, however, had no such restraint. It clearly wanted him dead, the better to crack him open and eat him on the spot.

That hit had truly hurt, and that was with all his resistances active. Without them, it would have been far worse.

"Let me see what we have here," Levi muttered.

He drew the Dragonflame Steel greatsword and charged out through the blizzard, bringing the blade down hard on the drake's skull. The blow left it reeling and seeing stars.

The cold-drake, which had lived all its life in these snowy wastes, was driven back by the strike. It crashed through a great sheet of ice behind it.

With his current gear, a single flightless dragon was no real threat to Levi.

Even without the Star Ring, his equipment alone was enough.

He did not even need to think about combat sense or tactics. If he simply stood still and traded blows with the beast, hit for hit, he could grind it down by raw attrition.

That was how confident he was.

After a few more strikes, the dragon finally recovered enough to realise something was very wrong. This human was not normal. In pure strength, it was at a disadvantage.

The dual-knockback effect of the Dragonflame Steel greatsword kept it from advancing even one step. Every exchange felt like being clubbed by a siege-engine or slapped by one of Fangorn's Ents.

An Ent's slap was no joke. One blow could shatter stone and punch through steel plate. Apart from dragons, no living thing could take that kind of punishment.

After a few more clashes, the dragon was thoroughly cowed. Its body was scored with blood and wounds, its bones cracked beneath the scales.

And that was only because it had blocked every strike with the hardest parts of its body. If Levi had aimed for a weak point, such as driving his blade down its open throat, it would have died in a single blow.

"Running already? I was not done yet," Levi called after it.

The dragon turned its head and heard that dreadful human voice behind it.

It had made a terrible mistake.

A fatal one.

Since time out of mind, it had been dragons who mocked Men. Today, the tables had turned.

But it was too late.

From the moment the cold-drake entered Levi's sight, its fate had been sealed. And then it had actually charged him.

Soon it was nothing but a pile of materials. Not even a bone remained.

After gathering what the dragon had left behind, Levi pressed on deeper into the Northern Waste. To his surprise, he had not gone far before he met another obstacle.

The snowfield here was uneven. Something had passed through recently, leaving tracks that were still fresh, not yet buried by the storm.

Awoooo—

A wolf-howl rang out from somewhere unseen. Black shapes flickered across the snow, unsettling and wrong. In the distance, the sky flickered with a sickly green light, drawing him further in.

On this ancient snowfield, untouched for ten thousand years or more, Levi walked on, radiating heat, melting the frost beneath his feet as he went.

The road was long and dull. The endless, unchanging white began to stir something restless in him.

The temperature here was abnormal. Levi had no doubt that if he took off the Dragonflame Steel armour now, the cold alone would begin to drain his health.

Under the crushing chill, even the heat of the Dragonflame Steel was suppressed. It could no longer melt the snow and ice around it.

Walking and flying by turns, Levi had, without realising it, left the heartlands of Middle-earth far behind. He was moving ever closer to its edge.

All along the way, apart from the unbroken white, the only other constant was the growing density of monsters. The black shapes he had glimpsed earlier were the afterimages of Wargs. Now they lay still, burnt and skeletal, unable to run any longer.

There were also Orc corpses.

Wherever Levi passed in this wasteland, the land became "clean".

As these ancient, savage creatures fell one after another, the evil power over the snowfield seemed to lessen. The grey mists at the horizon and the howling, blinding storm were beginning to fade.

Perhaps it was time to turn back.

At a certain moment, the thought rose in him.

But at the same time, another feeling stirred: a premonition, or perhaps a sign. It urged him forward, deeper still, as if something waited there for him, something he was meant to do.

The sign was only a vague sensation. It had no force behind it, no specific content, no clear instruction.

It was simply there, making itself known, proving it was real and not imagined.

Whether to heed it was Levi's choice. He could follow it, or he could ignore it.

In the end, he decided to see where it led.

The feeling was familiar. It reminded him of the sign that had come when he first opened the Nether Portal, all those years ago. It came from the highest source.

Though it was not a command, the gesture deserved respect.

Screee—

After walking a while longer, a harsh, grating shriek rang out from above. If such a sound were heard over a city, it would cause panic.

To Levi, it was simply unpleasant and shrill.

When the shape in the air spotted him on the ground below, it seemed to startle, almost guilty, and fled at once into the distance.

"Oldest trick in the book," Levi muttered.

Even so, he followed.

Because the direction it fled was the same direction the sign was leading him.

One Piece: The Dragon All-Star - 192

Chapter 192: Final Battle with Kaido! Kai’s New Form!

Kaido’s form changed in a shocking way.

Flame-like auspicious cloud markings surfaced between his brows, and the hair all over his body curled and streamed like flowing clouds.

Bands of pitch-black flame-clouds formed from nothing, coiling around his massive frame.

Every muscle swelled and bulged, radiating an even more terrifying pressure.

Kai’s brows lifted.

So this was… Awakening?

“Gunyo-riki.”

Kaido’s low voice rolled out, his outline blurring as if it melted into the air. “Ryusei-gun.”

In the next instant, countless afterimages of his kanabo tore through space in Kai’s pupils, a storm of iron phantoms like a thousand dragons in wild flight, crashing in from every direction.

He had no room to react, nowhere to dodge.

Fast.

No, not just faster. Stronger across the board.

Kai’s pupils shrank. He forced his Haki to the limit, arms crossing in a rapid guard.

Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang.

The rain of blows almost fused into one continuous impact.

It felt like taking a Sea King head-on.

Kai was hurled away at once.

Crack.

His heels plowed two trenches dozens of meters long into the rock before he finally ground to a stop.

He raised his head, looking at Kaido’s transformed state.

There was no fear in his eyes.

Only hotter battle lust.

If you are transforming, then so is Kai.

He drew in a deep breath.

Dazzling green light burst out from within him.

His already huge, powerful dragon-man body grew again, lines of muscle smoothing into something even more explosive.

Most striking of all were the two pure golden streamers that extended from the horns at the back of his head, made entirely of shining light. They trailed behind him like a pair of dragon whiskers from myth, or holy halo-ribbons, gliding and curling with a strange, sacred grace.

“Wororororo!”

Kaido roared with laughter when he saw it. “So that is your Awakening form? Looks nothing like any other Mythical Zoan.”

“Let me see what it is worth.”

He wrapped both hands around his kanabo, body canting to the side in a batter’s stance, every ounce of strength pouring into his arms.

“Kongō: Kabura.”

He swung.

A colossal column of compressed force, wrapped in black-red lightning, blasted out.
It tore the island open as it screamed toward Kai.

“Dragon Pulse.”

Kai did not back down.

He opened his jaws and unleashed a brilliant, massive shockwave of his own.

Boom.

Blow and blast met midair.

The explosion was so loud it felt like it cracked eardrums.
The wild turbulence of clashing energy vaporized the rock around the impact in an instant.

Before the smoke could clear, Kaido lunged in.

The kanabo in his hands left a forest of afterimages, raining down like a typhoon.

Kai’s movements stayed relaxed, body flickering like a mirage.
His fists blurred into their own web of shadows, intercepting each crushing blow as it came in.

Boom. Thud. Crack. Bang.

Explosions and impacts rolled over the island without end.

Every exchange between them had enough force to bring a mountain down or send a river off its course.

After trading more than a hundred such head-on clashes in a matter of minutes, the two of them broke apart again, sliding back across the torn rock for dozens of meters.

They looked at each other once and burst out laughing in unison.

“Again!”

They both said it at the same time.

Their fighting spirits erupted like twin volcanoes as they crashed together once more.

The brutal battle raged on from high noon under a blazing sun all the way into a star-splashed night.

The constant shockwaves of their battle scoured the island like an enormous shovel, shaving the surface down by tens of centimeters.

After yet another earth-splitting exchange, they slipped past one another and came to a halt, facing off from a distance.

They both looked like hell.

Aside from the one scrap of cloth that refused to be destroyed, every trace of clothing had been blasted to tatters.

Their bodies were covered in cuts and bruises.
Some of the smaller wounds they could not be bothered to waste stamina healing; there were more important things to spend their strength on.

“Impressive,” Kai said.

He grabbed what was left of his upper garments and tore them away, revealing a lean, perfectly cut torso.

“An old-timer is still an old-timer. When it comes to battle experience, I am still behind.”

In raw stats, including Haki techniques, he had already surpassed Kaido.

The edge was small, but a lead was a lead.

Even so, throughout the last exchange Kaido had used battle-hardened instinct to claw things back at key moments, instead of being steamrolled outright.

That kind of depth, forged through a lifetime of wars and death matches, was something he still could not fully match.

“Heh. You think I cannot see you have been using me as a whetstone?” Kaido snorted.

“Ah, caught me?” Kai grinned, unbothered.

He did not sound the least bit ashamed.

He wanted to climb higher more than anything.

He raised his right hand, thumb and forefinger pinched almost together, eyes glittering with excitement.

“I’m right on the edge. I can feel it—that thin barrier to the next stage. I’m about to break straight through.”

“Hmph.”

Steam puffed from Kaido’s nose as he bared a savage, exultant smile.

“Then let your teacher give you one last lesson, brat.”

Before he finished speaking, his already massive body began to bulge and twist.

In a breath, a dragon hundreds of meters long coiled through the air above the island.

He looked down on Kai from on high.

“Take a good look at my real full power.”

Oh?

That one.

Light flared in Kai’s eyes.

Anticipation surged through him.

Then he had to answer with everything he had too.

His body changed with a roar.

Emerald light speared into the sky, his frame exploding upward within it.

It stretched and lengthened, shifting into a green dragon over a hundred meters long.

He still did not match Kaido’s sheer size, but the aura rolling off him did not lose in the slightest.
If anything, it pressed back against Kaido’s.

“One strike to settle it, Kai!” the azure dragon bellowed, voice shaking the heavens.

Flames hotter than molten metal erupted from his throat, gushing like a broken dam.

They flowed down his entire length in a thick, lava-like river, racing across his body.

In a blink, an armor of pure fire wrapped Kaido from snout to tail.

With that fanged shell in place, his bulk swelled several times over.

His full length now stretched for kilometers.

A true flame dragon straddled the sky.

The heat it put out matched its scale.

Wherever the tail brushed the island, stone softened and sloughed, spilling away as a river of magma.

Fire Dragon Torch.

The sight of it was so unreal it looked like myth intruding on reality.

Even pirates far out at sea could see it clearly.

“Gulp.”

Viola swallowed with effort.

Her eyes were wide, her voice shaking.

“T-that size… It is insane. Even giant Sea Kings are not that big.”

Could Kai really beat that?

Even Loki’s face had gone heavy.

“That is… a bit beyond the scale,” he said.

If that dragon ever appeared over Elbaf, it would not need to attack.

The heat alone would be enough to light the Treasure Tree Adam and turn the giants’ homeland into a blasted wasteland.

“Relax. Believe in Kai,” Yamato said.

She still looked perfectly cheerful, even reaching over to pat Hiyori’s tense shoulder.

“Hiyori, you see that? You are going to be that strong too one day. You ate the same Fruit as my old man.”

At that, a wry, bitter smile slipped onto Kozuki Hiyori’s flawless face.

Yamato was giving her way too much credit.

Even when two people ate the same Fruit, they could still be worlds apart.

How far you pushed the power always came down to the person, not the Fruit.

“Wororororo!”

Kaido’s laughter boomed from within the blazing dragon.

“Kai! Whatever you have, bring it on and show me.”

“Then I will give you everything I’ve got,” Kai said.

He bared his teeth in an answering grin.

His green dragon body coiled and launched, streaking upward like a shooting star.

Kaido spiraled in place, watching, ready to see the final answer his student would write.

Until—

At the peak of the sky, a point of green light snapped on.

That tiny star swelled impossibly fast, piercing the thick banks of cloud.

Kai came down wrapped in a cone of searing green radiance and compressed air tens of meters wide.

It was like watching a colossal emerald meteor fall from space.

Next to that descending brilliance, his dragon body looked small.
But the focused, piercing pressure that lanced out from it felt sharp enough to punch through stars.

A divine spear driven straight down from heaven.

“Wororororo! Finally,” Kaido roared.

Red light flashed in his eyes as he let out the most exhilarated shout of the fight.

“Then let this be the perfect curtain call for our duel.”

“Rising Dragon—”

The flame dragon’s huge head vanished behind a storm of black-red Conqueror’s Haki, the aura so thick it looked solid, arcs of Haki lightning snapping and howling around his horns.

At the same time, the fire dragon that blanketed the sky surged up, bringing world-burning heat with it, charging straight at the falling spear of green.

“Flaming Bagua!”

“Dragon Ascent!”

The two dragons slammed together.

Boom.

No words could capture the noise.

It smashed past the limit of hearing and straight into the bones, as if the whole world shivered in fear.

Spear met shield.

Meteor struck Earth.

At the point of impact, the light went mad.

For an instant it washed out every colour, leaving only white.

The island below screamed and shook apart.

Kai’s green meteor and Kaido’s flaming armor chewed through one another, each trying to erase the other.

His power tore at the fire, and Kaido’s Haki and Fruit forced the flames to regrow and refill the gaps.

For a while, they were deadlocked.

Inside the heart of the green radiance, Kai did not feel any panic.

His dragon eyes only burned brighter.

He could feel it.

The new power pushing up out of his core.

“Here it comes,” he shouted, thrilled.

In the next breath—

Blinding, pure white light burst from his scales, swallowing him from head to tail.

Something shifted inside that glow.

Countless crystalline plates grew over his emerald hide, like perfectly cut diamonds laid edge to edge.
Each one caught the light and split it, making it painful to look at.

Above his head, a crown-like jewel condensed into being, radiating solemn, sacred authority.

Terastallized Mega Rayquaza had arrived.

The instant this new form emerged, the stubborn, ever-regenerating flames that made up Kaido’s armor met the crystal facets on Kai’s body and simply… vanished.

Touched them, and melted away like snow kissing the sun.

With the barrier gone, the green spear tore through the fire dragon unhindered.

It did not slow before it slammed into Kaido’s true body.

What—

Kaido’s wild grin froze.

He could not comprehend how his full-power Fire Dragon Torch, a fusion of every scrap of strength, Haki, and Fruit he had, had been dismantled so simply.

He had no time to dwell on it.

The force hammering into his azure dragon flesh was overwhelming.

The blue dragon had nothing left to resist with.

He fell.

Hard.

His body smashed into the earth, cratering it.

Boom.

The world lurched.

Dust towered into the sky, blooming into a mushroom cloud.

At the same time, the ruptured fire dragon’s remnants blew apart.

The unleashed blaze surged outward like a supernova.

Sea water boiled around the island’s corpse.
Sails on the nearby ships caught fire one after another.
Wood creaked as it charred, smoke whispering off the hulls.

The sky itself seemed to catch, blazing like an ocean of flame.

Light and heat scoured the night away, turning midnight back into day.

“Hot! It is so hot! We are going to be roasted,” Chopper and Bepo wailed.

The two furballs panted, tongues lolling.

Their pelts felt moments away from bursting into flame, brains starting to swim in the heat.

“Take your clothes off!” Zoro shouted through the wave of hot air.

“Right!”

They answered on reflex, paws going for their own fur.

Then they both froze, realization hitting, and exploded.

“Idiot! We cannot take this off!”

Fortunately, the misery did not last long.

“Ice Fang.”

A cold blue ray lanced upward, cutting into the raging flames overhead.

Hiss.

Frost smashed into fire.

The collision boomed.

At the same time, the suffocating heat rolling over the fleet began to ebb.

“We are saved,” Chopper and Bepo sobbed, clutching each other in relief.

The moment lasted all of two seconds.

“Too hot,” they yelped together, shoving away from each other at once.

Two fur coats pressed together in this weather was a death sentence.

When the aurora-bright glare of the explosion finally faded and the roiling energy and dust started to settle, everyone could at last steady their feet.

They turned as one toward the battlefield.

They all froze.

Mouths hung open.

Pupils pinholed.

It was as if they were looking at the most impossible sight in the world.

“The island… the island is gone!” someone screamed.

HP: Fantastic Beasts And The Right Way To Use Them - 303

Chapter 303: Dinner Is Sorted

Muttering under his breath, Slytherin, cloaked in silver‑green, let his head droop as though his mind had gone blank, and said nothing more.

Seeing that the figure opposite him seemed disinclined to speak again, Dumbledore raised his brows. He glanced at the notebook by his hand, where he had jotted down a few key phrases, then at the surrounding stone walls. A faint glint flickered in his blue eyes.

Something had clearly occurred to him. The corner of his mouth lifted. Folding his hands together, he simply watched the bowed old wizard without saying a word.

No one knew how much time had passed. Perhaps it was the weight of that steady gaze, but eventually the dazed Slytherin suddenly raised his head again. His eyes lit up, as if someone had just been there to plug him back in.

He pressed a fist to his mouth and gave a couple of light coughs.

"Ahem. That is all I know about the Dark Age. We still have plenty of time. Do you have any questions you wish to ask?"

This time, there was no trace of that earlier deadness in his voice. His expression remained cold, but there was now a faint warmth in his eyes, a touch of gentle regard for a younger wizard.

"Even if your questions concern dark magic, I can answer them. I lived through that age, after all."

Dumbledore’s eyebrows climbed a little higher. A smile mirrored Slytherin’s on his own face.

"Excellent. In fact, there are quite a few matters I have long wanted answers to."

He opened his notebook and began working his way down the list, one question after another, asking about every point he had accumulated over so many years.

Time slipped by. At last, Dumbledore closed the notebook, looking thoroughly satisfied.

"Thank you for your answers. You have cleared up a great many of my doubts."

Ever since that incident, he had devoted himself to magic. These insights into dark magic scratched at curiosities that had gnawed at him for decades.

And now that he knew some of the hidden truths of that dark era, he held enough leverage to shift the sealed Age of Darkness, to do things that had been impossible before, without disturbing the seal itself.

It was, without exaggeration, extraordinarily precious knowledge.

Thinking this, Dumbledore drew the wand made of elder wood from within his robes. The corner of his mouth curled in an amused little smile.

If he had received such a gift, he could not in good conscience ignore the problem that might be coiled at its heart.

Besides, the man before him was one of Hogwarts’ founders. In every sense, he ought to do something.

His thoughts moved quickly. He lifted his hand and levelled the wand at the old man’s chest.

"What are you doing?"

Slytherin’s smile vanished in an instant as he saw the white‑haired wizard raise his wand. But before he could react, the tip of the Elder Wand flashed with brilliant light.

The light split at once into seven streams, which streaked out to encircle the table and the dour old man in a ring. A moment later, the beams joined one another, sketching a fiendishly intricate diagram that sealed both table and wizard inside.

Then Dumbledore flicked his wrist. The wand pointed straight at the old man, and a translucent wave of force pulsed outwards, centred on Slytherin.

Wherever the ripple passed, the air and stone twisted, then snapped back into place. Ribbons of grey‑black mist oozed out of cracks in the room and were swept up by the wave, then slowly dissolved. At the same time, the old man at the table clutched his head and began to shake. Strands of the same murky vapour seeped from his body, writhing and trying to flee.

They had nowhere to go. The barrier and runes etched into the floor earlier bound every wisp in place. Not a single thread escaped.

After a few seconds, the old wizard’s tremors began to ease. He lifted his head. His eyes were now a solid, burning red.

Dumbledore’s wand flared again before that look could deepen. A streak of scarlet shot from the tip, struck Slytherin squarely in the chest, and ripped a blood‑red shadow out of him. The shape was flung backwards and pinned against the glowing web of lines at the rear of the diagram.

The pattern began to contract toward its centre. The grey‑black vapour within was compressed at frightening speed. Warped, half‑formed faces surfaced in the seething mist, here for a heartbeat and gone the next. No matter how they strained, they could not break free of the sigil’s bindings.

As the diagram shrank smaller and smaller, the blood‑red stain faded from the old man’s eyes. Beads of sweat stood out along his brow. He slumped over the table, breathing hard, utterly exhausted.

When it was done, Dumbledore lowered his wand and studied the panting figure opposite him, lips quirking.

"I have sealed off every flow of magic between you and the outside world, and locked away everything abnormal in and around you. Now you should be nothing more than a pure shadow. There is nothing left that can control you or tamper with your thoughts."

He tilted his head, tone turning lightly teasing.

"Your hints were far too subtle. Trying to understand them would have taken more work than my old brain cares for these days."

"Now then. Let us talk properly. You have been dropping mistakes ever since I walked in here. What exactly have you been trying to say?"

Under the dim moonlight, a dozen doves picked their way warily through the trees. The one in the lead kept twisting its head this way and that, scanning the darkness and flinching at every sound.

It did not know how they had come to this stretch of woodland beside the lake. It did know that for small, ordinary creatures like them, danger lay behind every trunk and cluster of roots. One careless step and they would be something else’s supper.

That much had been proved by more than enough corpses.

The scenes burned into the leader’s memory would never fade: its kin snatched up one by one, turned into snacks between monstrous jaws, while the survivors scattered, helpless, with no power to fight back against predators far more terrifying than any wild beast.

When they first arrived in this forest, they had been a great flock, hundreds strong. In only a few days, there were barely a dozen left.

Thinking back on everything that had happened, a thin glimmer of moisture gathered at the corner of the dove’s eye.

Even so, their deaths had not been entirely in vain. In the days since, the leader had come to understand that this woodland was not normal.

There was some strange energy saturating the place. Simply by lingering here, it had noticed its mind clearing, its thoughts sharpening. Its hearing had grown keener; its strength had swelled.

Perhaps, if they stayed here long enough, even creatures as ordinary as they were might one day complete some kind of transformation.

It clung to that belief. Clung to the hope that one day, it would be able to lead its flock out of this life of endless hiding, to walk this forest proudly and unafraid.

When that day came, it would avenge every fallen kin with its own beak and claws.

Just as the dove was filling its heart with that fierce hope, a stream of water shot out of nowhere, skimming across the ground beside it and its companions. The water burst apart into a vast net, dropped over them before they could flee, then snapped tight and dragged them all toward a patch of shrubs not far away.

A voice sounded in its ear an instant later, light and almost cheerful.

"Looks like dinner is sorted for tonight."

HP: From Failed Art Student to Dark Artist of Hogwarts - 302

Chapter 302: Petrifying Barty Jr! The Best Way to Prevent Leaks Is to Improvise the Task

Memories crashed back over Barty Jr.

The unexpected Black Egg, the curse that had ridden him like a parasite, the champions taking turns to beat him senseless.

And finally, a single huge word burned itself across his mind.

Failure.

Snap.

The soft sound cracked through the dead, empty space, making him jump.

He stared up, blank and terrified.

Someone was sitting on a "stone pillar."

Mr Lamp.

Right now, Mr Lamp held a closed old book in one hand. On the cover, an eye was painted so vividly it seemed to move, scarlet and shot through with what looked like raised, pulsing veins.

It radiated such a sense of doom that Barty Jr flinched away on instinct.

A dim, ghostly green light burned behind Mr Lamp’s back. The shadow it cast spilled forward and swallowed him, leaving only the pure white mask with its featureless face and twin black holes where eyes should be.

They stared down at Barty like a god watching an ant.

Cold. Empty. Inhuman.

"You failed."

Mr Lamp’s voice was calm and clear behind the mask.

There was no trace of anger in it.

Barty still felt his robes stick to his back with sudden sweat.

"I‑it was that brat," he snarled, hatred burning in his eyes. "If he had not added new rules at the last second, I would never have been brought down by a mere cursed fog."

He had been so close. So close to killing Ethan.

He could not understand it.

He prepared every angle, covered every variable, and still, each time, he was one step behind. As if Ethan were reading the future.

Impossible.

"Give me another chance," Barty shouted. "Next time, in the final task, I will succeed."

His desperate roar bounced around the chamber like the cry of a trapped beast.

Then silence fell again.

Barty stared at the motionless white mask, cold sweat sliding down his temple.

At last, the verdict came.

"Voldemort is very disappointed in you."

The words hit like a thunderbolt.

All colour drained from Barty’s face.

Mr Lamp—Ethan, of course—was lying.

There was no way he had gone to report in and come back in that little time.

As for what to do with Barty Jr, he already had his own excellent ideas.

"I went to some trouble to get you into the task," Ethan said lazily. "To slip you into the place of Delacour’s sister. All you had to do was pick your moment and cast a single Killing Curse."

"It should have been foolproof."

"But you failed."

Barty shook, eyes bulging. "N‑no…"

"Given that," Ethan went on, "the Dark Lord considers you to have no further value."

"Nonono!"

Barty howled, bloodshot veins creeping across his eyes.

He stumbled backwards, eyes darting madly around the chamber for an exit.

"I need to see the Dark Lord. Let me see him. He will not abandon me!"

Tsk. Loyal lapdogs, grovelling right up to the end.

Ethan shook his head.

Barty looked like a headless fly.

"Do not worry," Ethan said kindly, lips curling. "Even garbage and scraps can be put to use. I will squeeze every last drop of value from you."

"This body of yours will make an excellent flowerpot."

Perfect for growing one of the key ingredients of the Ghoul’s Resonance Elixir: "the spotted mushroom that grows from flesh saturated with Dark magic."

And whose flesh was more thoroughly soaked in Dark magic than Barty Jr’s?

It was a gift dropped into his hands at exactly the right moment.

Ethan was already thinking he really ought to write a nice little book one day: One Hundred and Eight Uses for a Dark Wizard.

"I have never heard of that mushroom," he mused, "but the Restricted Section at Hogwarts should have something on it."

"Then Neville can take over. Another new strain. Neville will be delighted."

He smiled, eyes moon‑shaped.

He had even planned Barty’s "post‑life care."

"What… what are you talking about?" Barty stammered.

He stared at Mr Lamp’s obvious good mood and felt like he was listening to some alien species speak a different language.

Cold crept up his spine.

Ethan clapped his hands lightly. "All right. Time is up."

"Time for you to go."

Barty’s eyes went wide.

Then he gritted his teeth and bolted.

If he could not Apparate, then he still had to be inside Hogwarts.

If he stayed within the school, then Mr Lamp would be under Dumbledore’s constraints too, just like him.

Never in his life had Barty imagined he would one day pin his hopes on the great white wizard.

Something hissed behind him.

A dry scrape, like scales sliding over rough stone.

Cold seeped into his bones.

He turned.

Two huge, vertical, yellow eyes stared down at him from the darkness.

And he remembered exactly what kind of cold‑blooded creature made that sound.

A snake.

And that "stone pillar" Mr Lamp sat on was not stone at all.

It was the massive, coiled body of a basilisk.

Crack.

His limbs froze. His skin, his flesh, his bones turned to stone from the inside out.

"M‑Master, plea…"

The last few words crumbled away.

The statue that had been Barty Jr toppled to the floor with a heavy thud.

"Well done, Little Green."

Ethan patted the basilisk’s cool, scaly head and was rewarded with a very enthusiastic nuzzle.

He hopped down from the great body and promptly cast Drying and Warming Charms on the seat of his trousers.

Behind every glorious image, there was always a less glamorous angle.

He nudged the Barty‑shaped statue with his toe and examined the terror twisted into its stone features.

Barty was not dead.

Killing him now would be far too quick, far too artless.

Neville’s parents deserved better.

Besides, the spotted mushroom needed living flesh. It would draw Dark magic and life force up as its nourishment.

"Heave‑ho."

Ethan manhandled the petrified Barty into his trusty leather bag.

The interior, expanded by magic, could swallow almost anything. It was perfect for the travelling collector of "artworks."

"That is that," he said, brushing imaginary sweat from his brow. "Neville can handle the mushroom farming."

"The Ministry will help gather the rest of the ingredients. They will be delighted to."

Connections made everything easier.

Whether they were truly delighted was none of his concern.

"Hehehe."

He set off down the stone corridor, smiling with saintly innocence.

"In a few months, when the term ends, it will be time for the final task," he thought.

"Voldemort plans to use Harry to resurrect himself then."

"And I will alter his resurrection."

A shadow flashed in his eyes.

"The conditions for the Crucible of Souls ritual are already more than half complete."

"Voldemort is the evil soul. The Lamp’s brightness has reached 'Bright'."

"Repairing the damaged Wayward Realm can be left to the Ministry."

"That leaves only one last requirement: painting a third‑tier violet epic."

And the key lay with Dumbledore’s sister, Ariana.

"Tonight, in my sleep, I will go back to the Hidden Place and look for her," Ethan decided.

"Then figure out how to use the new painting to adjust the content of the final task."

What?

The task proposal was already filed?

This was not "last‑minute changes."

This was "a surprise bonus."

"Good. Everything’s planned."

He tapped his fist into his palm, eyes curving.

"Just one more thing. Dealing with the little bug that followed me."

His blue eyes narrowed.

From behind the white mask, his gaze went straight to a nondescript little beetle crouched in a corner.

The magic leaking off it was nothing like an insect’s.

The beetle froze when their eyes met.

It clung to the stone, hoping stillness would save it.

But the footsteps down the corridor came closer and closer.

He really is coming for me.

He has seen through my disguise.

Unregistered Animagus, sneaking into forbidden places in beetle form, tailing people. A Daily Prophet reporter who would do anything for a scandal.

Rita Skeeter.

Her soul practically flew out of her body.

She wanted a juicy story. She had not imagined it would be this juicy.

The famed new saviour, Ethan Vincent, was Mr Lamp, the one who had declared he would end the world.

And he was working with the Dark Lord.

In that instant, Rita finally understood the old warning.

Some secrets are better left unknown.

She shot into the air with a buzz, wings straining as she fled.

There was an entrance. There had to be an exit.

If she could just—

She darted through rough‑hewn stone tunnels, over carpets of old white bones, until she reached the sealed mouth of an ancient drain.

Then she stopped, stunned.

Right.

She had come in through Ethan’s portal.

In a space where Apparition was blocked, he could stroll in and out at will.

There was no "exit."

Tap. Tap. Tap.

The unhurried footsteps drew nearer.

Rita shifted back to human form and collapsed on the floor, staring in horror down the corridor.

A tall figure appeared, taking off the white mask and shrugging out of a black robe.

Dark curls, cobalt eyes, handsome features.

If not for the damp stone walls, she might have thought she was at some elegant banquet.

Ethan, aged up with potion, stopped in front of her limp body.

Only then did it truly hit her.

This underground chamber was a jar.

And she was the insect he had lured inside.

"A‑ah… ah…"

Her red lips shook.

Her usually immaculate hair and robes were a mess.

At last she forced a wobbly smile.

"I will resign," she whispered. "Is that… acceptable?"

Ethan smiled faintly.

"All Is Forgotten (Obliviate)," he said.

Oh, right.

His magic was just a teensy bit strong.

She would have to bear with it.

Harry Potter: Dudley From LOTM - 350

Chapter 350: Ominous Omen

"Professor Trelawney, how can Dudley avoid this bad omen?" Harry asked quickly once he recovered.

"Yes, is there some way to ward it off?" Hermione added.

Clearly, his friends were far more anxious about the omen than Dudley himself.

"There is no way," Professor Trelawney said, lips trembling. "I only foretell. I cannot solve what I see."

"Professor, is it really a prophecy?" Dudley asked.

"Oh, my dear, of course it is a prophecy," Trelawney said solemnly. "Naturally, if you would rather not believe me, that is your choice."

"Time will prove me right."

Whatever doubts Dudley had entertained about the omen vanished at that. He mentally shifted Trelawney straight into the category of charlatans.

The Emperor card lay in his pocket.

With that in his possession, even a genuine Seer could not read his future, much less point at him and declare some vague misfortune. And Grindelwald, a master of prophecy, had suffered backlash when he tried to glimpse Dudley’s path. There was no universe in which Sybill Trelawney outstripped that Dark wizard’s foresight.

The only thing that still nagged at him was the way she had reacted to his name, as if she had sensed that the one he had given was not truly his.

Trelawney did not push any further. She drifted on into the rest of her lesson, muttering and waving her arms.

Today’s topic was tea‑leaf reading. In short: drink your tea, pour out the dregs, then tip the leaves into the cup and interpret whatever shapes they make.

In all his time in the other world, Dudley had never seen divination conducted this way. Watching Trelawney work, he saw nothing that struck him as genuinely mystical.

By the end, he had stopped expecting anything from the class at all. He treated it as an oddly staged tea ceremony.

The tea itself was not even good. Trelawney’s leaves were so foul that, by the time they were finished, he had lost any desire for a second cup.

At last the period ended. Dudley could not wait to get out.

The space was too cramped, the light too dim, and the smell of incense and boiled leaves cloyed in his lungs. He felt as though he could barely breathe.

"Remember, dear boy," Trelawney called as he headed for the trapdoor. "The omen."

"Do not forget."

Dudley did not so much as slow his step. He left with Harry and the others, heading for Transfiguration.

"Dudley, you really must not go sneaking off after Black any time soon," Harry said.

"You believe Professor Trelawney, then?" Dudley asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Better safe than sorry," Ron put in. "We should be careful."

"Oh, please. I am with Dudley. She is talking complete nonsense," Hermione said sharply.

"Only because she said your aura is tiny and you have almost no gift for sensing the future," Ron shot back.

Hermione glared at him so fiercely that he shut his mouth at once.

"You can all relax. Nothing is going to happen to me," Dudley said. "Maybe Trelawney does have some real gift, but I would not believe a single word of any prophecy she makes about me."

Harry and Ron fell quiet, though they still looked uneasy.

In Transfiguration, Professor McGonagall demonstrated a succession of elegant spells. Usually the class would have burst into applause. Today, the students seemed drained, and only a few half‑hearted claps followed each transformation.

"What is the matter with you all?" McGonagall said, frowning. "It is the first day of term, not the last. Must you look so defeated already?"

Eyes flickered around the room and, almost as one, drifted towards Dudley.

"Dudley, perhaps you can explain what is going on," she said at once.

"It is nothing serious," Dudley said with a shrug. "Professor Trelawney announced in class that she had seen an omen on me. A death omen."

He had not taken it seriously at all, but clearly the others had. Gryffindor was a tight‑knit House; when they heard Dudley might be in mortal danger, worry had spread quickly.

"I see," McGonagall said.

The moment his answer included Trelawney’s name, she understood.

"In fact, since the day Professor Trelawney started teaching here, she has predicted the death of one student every single year," McGonagall said. "And every one of them, without exception, is alive and perfectly well."

"So there is no need for any of you to fret. It is entirely unnecessary."

"Within the walls of Hogwarts, you are in the safest place in the wor—"

She broke off, coughed lightly, then went on, "In any case, Dudley is not in danger."

At that, the class finally relaxed.

"I knew she was talking rubbish," Hermione muttered under her breath.

It was obvious she was still stung by Trelawney’s dismissal of her "inner eye."

"Very well. Let us continue," McGonagall said and turned back to the blackboard.

At lunch, Hermione was still fuming.

"Divination is nothing but wild guesses dressed up as mysticism. There is no rigour to it at all," she said, flipping through the Divination textbook.

Harry and Ron shared a look and very wisely kept their opinions to themselves.

"Compared with Arithmancy, it is complete rubbish," Hermione went on.

"You are right, Hermione. So why did you choose it in the first place?" Dudley asked, giving her a long, level look.

He had almost forgotten what had happened earlier, but her mention of Arithmancy brought it all back.

Divination and Arithmancy were scheduled at the same time. Hermione could only have attended one. Yet from what she had just said, it was clear she had already been to Arithmancy as well.

That in turn reminded him of the way she had seemed to appear out of nowhere beside him before class.

"I suppose my brain must have been addled," Hermione said abruptly.

She snapped the book shut with a crack and stood up from the table without meeting his eyes.

"I think she just cannot stand admitting she has no talent for Divination at all," Ron said, watching her go.

Dudley did not answer.

He watched Hermione’s retreating back, thoughtful.

"What are you hiding, Hermione Granger?" he wondered.

HP: The Duelist of Hogwarts - 460

Chapter 460: Taking Action

At Hogwarts, in the Gryffindor common room.

Hermione was revising for her O.W.L.s, quill scratching steadily as she summarised key points from the book open in front of her. In the middle of a sentence, the watch on her wrist gave a faint vibration.

She set her quill down at once and glanced around the room. Apart from Ron and Neville sitting beside her, no one seemed to have noticed anything.

She caught Ron’s eye and gestured for him to sit a little further out, blocking her from view. Then she turned her wrist and gently twisted the watch’s bezel. A softly glowing, simplified map flickered into existence above the dial.

“Hermione? What is it?” Neville asked in a low voice.

Hermione frowned.

“Harry has left the Burrow,” she whispered. “He is heading towards central London. His speed is very fast. He must be on his Firebolt.”

“London?” Ron blinked. “Why would Harry go there?”

Hermione twisted the bezel again. The map zoomed in, one dot pulsing faintly.

She stared at it for a moment, then answered Ron.

“Because the Ministry of Magic is in London.”

“The Ministry? Why would Harry go to—”

Ron broke off mid‑sentence, his face suddenly draining of colour as the pieces clicked into place.

Seeing his expression, Hermione let out a slow breath.

“You have thought of it too, haven’t you?” she said. “Back when we were training with Harry, he told us Voldemort had been trying to get at something in the Department of Mysteries. But the Department is the most secret division in the Ministry. Umbridge has not managed to lay her hands on it. Harry must have seen something and feels he has no choice but to go and stop it.”

“Stop it?” Ron squeaked. He looked as horrified as if he were watching Voldemort and Umbridge perform a pole dance together. “Harry wants to go and stop You‑Know‑W— I mean, the Dark Lord’s plot, all on his own?”

Hermione turned and gave her “useless boyfriend” a look.

“Harry is going to stop Voldemort’s plan, not Voldemort himself,” she said. “There is a difference.”

“Hermione,” Ron said weakly, “since when do you just call You‑Know‑Who ‘Vold—’ like that?”

“That is not important,” Hermione snapped. “What matters is that we cannot let Harry try to wreck Voldemort’s plan by himself.”

Ron stared at her, looking even more appalled, as if his mental image had just evolved from pole dancing to the pair of them wrapped around each other doing a striptease.

“Shouldn’t we tell Professor Dumbledore?” he tried. “Or Sean, or someone?”

“If we could reach them, Harry would have,” Hermione said flatly. “If he is heading for the Ministry, that means he could not get through, and that this is urgent. We have to go and help him. Otherwise, everything we did over the holidays, all that training, will be for nothing.”

Ron, still shaken, watched as the light on Hermione’s watch began flashing faster and faster.

“Speaking of that,” he said slowly, “what is with your watch, anyway? Since when did you have something like that?”

“That is not the point, Ron. Why can you never focus on what matters?”

Hermione’s enchanted watch was not something she had owned before.

She had made it herself before the term started.

During the holidays, in the old Order of the Phoenix headquarters at Number 12 Grimmauld Place, she had come across Molly Weasley’s old notes.

Before she married Arthur, Molly had been a member of a pure‑blood family herself. Not all pure‑blood lines despised Muggles and Muggle‑borns; some, through chance or temperament, simply remained pure‑blood while still seeing no shame in the non‑magical world.

Molly’s family was one such house: the Prewetts.

They were a well‑known old name with a long history. One only had to look at the clock Molly had crafted, the one that showed the location and danger level of every member of her family at once, to understand what kind of skills the Prewetts had preserved.

Very few witches or wizards in the world could have made such a thing.

Those were the Prewett family’s accumulated secrets.

Hermione had stumbled across Molly’s notes by accident and had been astonished. She had begged to borrow them and spent the rest of the holiday devouring every line. With guidance from former professors like Lupin and Moody, who were often around the house, she finally achieved some results.

By combining Molly’s designs with Professor Lupin’s teachings, she created the watch she now wore, a device that fused the principles of the Weasley family clock and the Marauder’s Map.

When Harry left Hogwarts, Hermione had marked him with the watch. That was how she could track him now.

“We need to move quickly,” she said. “Fortunately, Hogwarts is closer to the Ministry than the Burrow is. If we hurry, we can meet up with Harry on his way there.”

She looked from Ron to Neville, eyes serious.

“This is dangerous. The three of us will be enough. We are not calling Blaise, Luna or the others. You two fetch the broomsticks. I will get a few things ready, then we will go straight to the Ministry.”

The trio split up at once.

Hermione ducked up to the girls’ dormitory, grabbed several vials of potion and stuffed them into her bag. Then she ran down, slipped out of the castle and headed at speed for the edge of the Forbidden Forest near Hagrid’s hut.

When she arrived, she found she was not alone.

“Blaise, Jensen… Luna, Ginny… what are you all doing here?” she demanded. She already knew the answer. Ron and Neville must have run into them on the way. Neither of them could lie to save their lives, so of course, the others had followed.

“To help Harry, obviously,” Ginny said. “We are not sitting this one out.”

“We are not going to help Potter,” Blaise drawled. “We are going to test ourselves. Those Ministry idiots only pushed me around last time because I could not cut loose at Hogwarts. This time, I will not be holding back.”

Hermione opened her mouth to argue, but her watch flashed even faster.

Harry had reached the outskirts of London.

“All right,” she said. “No time. We leave now.”

She turned to Ron.

“Ron—did you get the brooms?”

Ron shook his head, ready to explain, but Luna spoke first, dreamy as ever.

“We do not need brooms,” she said. “The school ones are all ancient models. They could not keep up with a Firebolt. We need something faster to get us to the Ministry.”

As she spoke, she turned towards the trees.

Seven Thestrals stepped out of the shadows of the Forest, black hides gleaming, leathery wings half‑unfurled.

Seven riders.

Exactly enough for all of them.

Riding Thestrals at full speed, they would be able to reach the Ministry of Magic and meet Harry before it was too late.

HP/LOTM: Visionary - 431

Chapter 431: Shattered, the Strange Light, and She Who Chose to Sacrifice

At the centre of the battlefield, Gideon forced his arm up again. His duel with Voldemort had left him covered in wounds, but his dragon blood only burned hotter. Battle-lust roared through him.

His magic surged, gathering faster and faster until it seemed to catch fire in the air itself. The sheer force of it warped the space around him. A phantom dragon reared up behind his back, its gaze locked on Voldemort alone.

A small twitch flickered at the corner of Voldemort’s eye. He knew this was Gideon’s last throw. If he took this one head-on, the Prewett would have nothing left.

"Confringo!"

The Blasting Curse, normally jagged like lightning, straightened under Gideon’s power into a blazing lance. It shot for Voldemort’s chest.

Everything in its path crumbled to dust, as if a dragon had loosed its breath.

"Hah."

Voldemort did not bother with the incantation. He simply clenched his hand.

Black slime wrapped him in an instant. Layer upon layer of Shield and Barrier Charms flared to life over the sphere.

The explosion shook the world.

The blast flung Sirius and Remus like rag dolls. Dust boiled up and swallowed everything. No one could see who still stood.

A flash of spell-light cut through the grey. Something heavy hit the ground.

When the dust thinned at last, only one figure was still on his feet: a man with no hair at all. His right hand was flayed and bloody, but he did not seem to notice.

Voldemort crooked a finger. Eleanor’s body drifted through the air to hang before him. A murmured charm brought her back to herself.

She gasped, gulping air into her lungs.

"Open your lovely eyes and see who is here with you," Tom said.

He leaned back. Stone writhed and rose under him, shaping itself into a chair.

"Gideon! Fabian!"

Eleanor saw them at once, hanging from living vines. Before each of their hearts floated a green curse, steady as a held breath.

"Good. You grasp the situation," Tom said.

"Hand over your Prewett Protocol, and I'll let them live."

He lifted his hand, calm as if they were discussing a business deal.

So intent was he on savouring the moment that he never noticed the other presence slipping into the courtyard under a veil of strange power.

Augustus Rookwood.

Something drifted at his back: a knot of eerie light, a small body made of purple flame, floating like a foetus. Its right arm was missing, as if something had maimed it.

"Kill them. Force the Dark Lord’s rage to break loose. Then you can take the Final Protocol."

Honeyed whispers poured into Rookwood’s mind. He raised his wand.

"Avada Kedavra!"

Two jets of killing green shot toward Gideon and Fabian, where they hung in midair.

Tom’s face snapped from smug delight to pure fury.

"No, Augustus. What are you doing?" he roared.

Too late.

The twin curses struck. The dragonkin’s lives were snuffed out in an instant.

"No!"

Eleanor’s grief broke free. It tore her Occlumency to pieces, sent her mind-force surging. Her thin thread of dragon blood answered the call and erupted.

Grey-white scales and wings of a Mind Dragon unfurled from her back. The Fourteenth Protocol flared under her will. Colour bled out of the world. Everything hung frozen. Time stopped.

The Chaos in Voldemort’s body could not even struggle. The silver-white tide of mind-force swept through it and scrubbed it clean.

Eleanor flicked her hand. Voldemort flew.

He smashed through wall after wall and vanished.

"Yes. That is it," the little flame-being at Rookwood’s back laughed.

The Protocol was already weak. Being forced to give up power, then to rewrite reality on such a scale, drove more and more cracks through the jewel that anchored it.

"So it is you," Eleanor said.

Her silver-white pupils turned on Augustus. The purple little man on his back tore at reality, chewing a hole in the border between world and Deep Realm.

"Poor Fourteenth. Go with your mistress. Share her oblivion," the purple thing crowed.

It never finished.

Two dragon claws punched through its escape route, wedging the hole shut.

"We have been waiting a long time, friend. You were not easy to catch."

"You actually dared to use my human like a game piece. You deserve every second of this," a second voice said.

The two Manipulators of the Visionary Pathway had been lying in wait in the Sea of Consciousness. The instant the flame-creature tried to slip away, Arthursi and Lada reached out and pinned it in the material world.

"Now. Take this properly," Eleanor said.

She stepped in front of it. Her fist, wreathed in silver-white fire, crashed down.

The purple creature shattered. In its last instant of sight, it saw the gem’s core splinter as well and laughed in ragged triumph.

Coughing, the Fourteenth Protocol broke.

Eleanor could no longer hold back the flood. Her mind-force slipped its leash and ran wild.

Pure mental power spilled across the ground and began to take form, twisting everything it touched toward the Deep Realm.

"You two…" Eleanor lifted her head.

She saw the ripples of time and space clinging to the two demigods’ forms.

"So. The future?" she said, and smiled at them, gentle as ever.

"Ma’am—" Arthursi reached out, trying to help her rein the power in.

Eleanor caught her hand and turned it aside.

"No. The Protocol is bound to my life. I am past saving. Do not waste your strength. And… thank you," she said.

She hooked her fingers. In an instant, she had both of them in her arms. Her mind-force surged, helping their bodies finish digesting the potions inside them.

"Go and do what you came to do. I have my own task," Eleanor said.

Light began to leak from her skin.

Mind-force twined with magic. Everyone still counted as "people" in that ruined courtyard vanished, sent far away. In Remus’ mind, she left two things: the location of the old Prewett manor, and the name she had just chosen for her son.

Aiden Prewett.

There was no strength left to hold the Protocol in check. So Eleanor made her final choice.

Sacrifice.

She gave all her life and magic to seal the rampaging Protocol. Her body melted into a sphere of silver-white light.

"Go to him. Stay by his side, and guard him for me. And… tell him… I love him," she whispered.

It took everything she had left to shape the words.

She hurled the light with all her strength and watched it fly, high and higher, until her eyes could no longer follow.

A silver-white meteor crossed the British sky and fell at last on the old Prewett manor in Byberil village. It sank into the tiny body lying in the cradle.

The baby woke and began to cry.

In Middle-earth with Harry Potter Sign-In System! - 373

Chapter 373: Taking Away the Ring

On the quiet borders of the Old Forest, the Withywindle flowed gently down from the streams of the Barrow-downs, passing by a little house ringed with flowers.

Around the house lay a broad, neatly kept lawn and garden. Beyond that, tall trees stood in a ring, trimmed so evenly that they looked like a living wall.

Here lived ever‑merry Tom Bombadil and his wife, Goldberry.

With the Huorns of the Old Forest standing guard, few ever came near Tom’s house to disturb him.

Today, however, the little house was lively.

Green fire flared in the hearth, and out of the Floo stepped Kael, Gandalf, and Frodo, one after another.

Sam, Merry and Pippin, who had wanted to come as well, had been firmly left behind at Hogwarts.

Tom greeted the three of them with unrestrained delight, giving each a great, crushing hug.

Gentle, lovely Goldberry brought out plates of fruit and nut‑cakes for them.

These fruits and nuts had grown from the Huorns themselves and were far sweeter and richer than any ordinary produce. After eating, one felt one’s strength and spirits swell.

The three guests ate and drank as they talked of many places in Middle‑earth.

Tom cared nothing for the quarrels and wars of the world. His curiosity was for living things alone. From Kael and Gandalf, he listened with interest to tales of strange flowers and trees, of mountains and rivers they had seen.

Frodo, who knew little of such matters, sat quietly by, slowly eating Goldberry’s nut‑cakes and listening without interrupting.

At last, Gandalf spoke of the purpose of their visit.

Tom Bombadil’s face lit with sudden joy. He leapt to his feet as though a weight had been lifted from his shoulders, capering about the room.

“Wonderful!” he cried. “At last, you have come to take that troublesome thing away!”

He hurried into a small storeroom piled high with odds and ends and began rummaging.

Kael and the others followed, watching curiously.

Tom dragged out a large wooden chest, thick with dust, from the bottom of the heap.

He lifted the lid to reveal a smaller wooden box inside.

Beneath that, when he opened it, lay a still smaller casket of silver, like a set of nesting dolls.

Taking the silver box in his hands, Tom went back to the sitting room. He set it down on the table with obvious distaste and grumbled, “That ring never stops muttering its nonsense, buzzing in my head until it aches. These last few years, the voice has only grown louder. Even my horses and cows are on edge because of it.”

“It even tried to slip away from me. It whispered to a rat once and had it try to steal it. I caught the little thief and shut the thing in this box. Only then did it quieten a bit.”

He tapped the silver lid lightly with one finger, and it sprang open.

“If you had not come soon,” he went on, “I was thinking of throwing it out altogether. Because of it, the small folk of the forest will not come here to play, and my horses and cows have all grown thin.”

As the lid came up, the One Ring lay revealed in the box.

At the same time, a powerful, seductive presence poured out of it.

In an instant, Kael felt its lure coil around his mind. A voice seemed to whisper that if he took the Ring, he would gain power like Sauron’s own—that he could shatter the chains on his soul, ascend to the rank of the Maiar, and claim true immortality.

Reason and desire tore at one another. Something in him clamoured to reach out, to seize the Ring from the box and claim it for himself.

Just as he was about to lift his hand, a sharp pain stabbed through his mind.

Clarity flashed in his eyes. For one stark moment, his reason drove the hunger back. His face changed, and he stepped back on pure instinct even as he forced his Occlumency into motion.

Within his thoughts, a great fortress rose, solid and unyielding, blocking the assault from without and cutting off the Ring’s whisper, freeing him from its pull.

After decades of work, Kael’s Occlumency had become something very different from what it had once been. In the realm of his mind stood an impregnable castle, as intricate and winding within as Hogwarts itself.

It bristled with mental traps, false memories, and pits of darkness where recollections disappeared, so that no invader could ever find his true memories or the core of his soul, let alone corrupt them and turn him into a puppet.

As his Occlumency flared fully to life, the mental castle became an unbreakable bastion, and the Ring’s influence slipped away from him like water off stone.

He had never slackened in his training. For decades, he had studied Occlumency and driven it to new heights for this very purpose: to stand against Sauron’s assaults on the mind.

For Sauron’s greatest gift was his power to corrupt the spirit, to drag even the mighty into ruin, twist them and make them his thralls.

While Kael was throwing off the Ring’s temptation, Gandalf relied on his own formidable will to withstand its call.

Even so, his body remained taut as a drawn bow, and he glared at the Ring as if facing a deadly foe.

Its lure was far stronger than in years past. Even without touching it, they were caught in its net.

He had thought himself prepared, but feeling that power for himself made his heart grow heavy.

He turned at once to check on Frodo and Kael.

To his surprise, Kael’s eyes were clear. He only frowned at the Ring, as though merely wary, not enthralled.

“Kael, are you all right?” Gandalf asked.

Kael shook his head lightly. “Do not worry, Gandalf. My Occlumency is sound. As long as I do not touch it, it cannot reach me.”

Gandalf let out a slow breath.

He trusted Kael. Over these past decades, he had felt for himself how swiftly the younger wizard’s strength had grown, rising into the same rarefied heights as the greatest powers in Middle‑earth.

Through long meditation, his spirit and soul had also grown steadily stronger. If ever his heart reached perfect balance and his soul full wholeness, he might yet break the shackles that bound it and rise to the level of the Maiar.

That step, however, was a hard one indeed. Until now, only a very few had ever managed such a transformation: Eärendil, Glorfindel, and the like.

Eärendil had passed through countless trials and borne a Silmaril into the sky in the wars of the First Age against Morgoth, becoming the Star of Hope, the Star of Eärendil.

Glorfindel had fallen in battle, dragging a Balrog down with him, and by the grace of the Valar had been sent back, his power raised to equal that of the Maiar.

Even Galadriel, for all her might and the Elven Ring Nenya on her hand, had not stepped onto that same height.

Such was the measure of how difficult it was to become as the Maiar.

They were lesser gods, beneath the Valar yet still of divine rank. To reach that state was little different from attempting to climb into heaven.

Drawing his thoughts back to the present, Gandalf turned his eyes to Frodo.

The Hobbit had not escaped untouched. The Ring’s call had brushed him too, but as a Halfling he withstood it far better than any other race. After a brief, dazed moment, he shook himself free, backing away in alarm and trying to put distance between himself and the box.

Seeing this, Gandalf’s expression eased into quiet satisfaction.

Hobbits truly were a strange people: small, ordinary and easily overlooked, yet able to resist a power that even the Maiar themselves could not wholly withstand.

Lotr: Playing Minecraft in Middle-earth - 362

Chapter 362: Gifts

The reforging of Narsil would take time, and so would the preparations of the Fellowship and all the other powers.

When the council broke up, no one set out at once. They stayed on a while in Rivendell, waiting until all was in readiness before the journey truly began.

As for those preparations, the first concern was the safety of the surrounding lands.

Elrond met privately with Levi to speak of the situation nearby.

“I had thought to send out every scout in Rivendell to comb the country around us,” Elrond said, lifting a small stone pot and pouring steaming tea into Levi’s cup, “but it seems that may not be necessary.”

“That is so,” Levi answered, with no false modesty.

“You need not trouble yourself over the safety of the road, at least not west of the Misty Mountains. The wilds there are full of our people. Even if someone walked out with no supplies at all, a few cries for help would bring folk running with enough to see them far along their way.”

“And if no one comes?” Elrond asked, half in jest.

“Then shout a few more times, or walk on a bit and ask at the nearest outpost,” Levi said. “Gandalf travels that road often. He knows where all our supply points lie.”

“That eases my mind,” Elrond said.

He let out a breath. At least the scouting of the near country was no longer his worry.

Even so, to guard against mishap, Levi sent word to both of his cities to tighten their watch and sweep all of Eriador for any hint of hidden danger.

When they had finished with the matter of the starting-point’s safety, Elrond went back to his many other tasks, and Levi turned to his own plans.

That afternoon, he went to the Hobbits’ quarters.

“Hey. You there, the sturdy lad. Over here,” he called.

In a quiet court, he waved to the young Hobbit who was admiring the view.

The sturdy lad was, of course, Sam.

“G–good day, my lord,” Sam stammered.

He trotted over, looking up at Levi a little nervously. “What can I do for you, sir?”

Levi could not help smiling at such stiff politeness.

“You are Sam, yes? Samwise Gamgee. I know you. Your father is often at Bilbo’s house. We have met a few times. The year you were born, I happened to be visiting the Shire. I even held you once.”

He clapped Sam on the shoulder and looked him up and down.

“You have filled out a fair bit since then,” he said.

At that, Sam suddenly felt this far-off figure of legend become much more familiar, like some distant uncle who had known him since he was in swaddling clothes.

Others might have flushed with embarrassment at such talk, especially a certain thoughtful captain of Gondor, but Hobbits were different. They loved nothing better than talking of who was kin to whom, and which cousin married into which branch of what family, and once they started, they could go on all night, even with someone they had only just met.

Pippin, for instance, could sit in an inn and reel off Frodo’s entire family tree, then turn round and explain how he himself was related, and so on and so on.

Hobbits did love their homely gossip.

“Really?” Sam said, wide-eyed.

“Of course. Did your father never tell you? There was one time I went to visit Bilbo and found the two of them sharing a bottle. It was one of your father’s old vintages. He had been saving it for years, and I got a cup or two as well.”

Sam listened, full of wonder.

“What a strange stroke of fortune…” he murmured.

“Is it not? The world is like that. One twist of fate can bind this person and that together,” Levi said.

After that small piece of family talk, he did not forget why he had called Sam over.

“I know you and Frodo are close,” he said. “You set out because you feared for his safety. That kind of friendship is something to envy.”

Under Sam’s gaze, he drew out a sword: a short, finely-made blade with a faint, shimmering light along its edge.

He had forged it only days before. Its base strength was no less than most Elvish blades: keen as a razor. On top of that, Levi had laid several enchantments upon it.

The deadliest of them all was Bane of Arthropods V. Against spider-kind it would strike with several times its normal power.

On the blade, a single line had been etched:

[Forged by Levi, given to those who set forth on the Quest.]

“I will give you this,” Levi said. “It may help you at some crucial moment.”

“Though in truth, I hope you never have to use it.”

“I’ll remember that, sir,” Sam said.

He took the short sword with great care and bowed over it.

When he had left Sam’s lodgings, Levi went to look for Pippin and Merry. By chance, he found someone else there with them.

“Aglar? What are you doing here?” he said.

His first Elvish friend was chatting happily with the two Hobbits.

“You are here, Levi,” Aglar said, turning at once at the sound of his voice.

“I came to bring these Hobbits some things they will need. Weapons and the like. See?”

He pointed at Merry and Pippin. Each of them held a sword that looked more than sharp enough.

“So I see,” Levi said, laughing and shaking his head. “Seems I need not have worried.”

Even so, he took their gear for a moment and laid his own enchantments upon it as well.

When he had finished and passed the blades back, he and Aglar talked a while longer. Then Levi went on his way again, this time to find Frodo.

He came upon him walking with Bilbo, the two of them sharing all that had happened over the years.

There was little Levi could give Frodo now.

For armour, he already wore a shirt of mithril mail as tough as Netherite. In that coat, even if a troll drove a spear at him with enough force to skewer a wild ox, he would come away with little worse than a flesh wound.

As for a weapon, the sword in his hand, Sting, was no common toy, however plain it might look.

On that score, Levi truly had no need to worry.

But gear was only one side of things. There were other matters that could not be settled with armour and steel.

After a long, warm talk with uncle and nephew, it grew late. Bilbo, old as he was, could not keep his eyes open any longer and went off to bed.

Frodo, too, found himself blinking with sleep.

He glanced at Levi, who still looked perfectly alert.

“I do not know if it is just my imagination,” he said, “but I keep feeling as if you never need to sleep.”

“Sleep?” Levi said.

He thought a moment.

“Now and then, yes,” he said at last. “But to me, it is more of a pastime than a need.”

“How strange,” Frodo said.

He could not picture such a thing, not right now, when he could barely stand upright.

“Frodo,” Levi said suddenly.

Frodo looked up at once.

“Journeys are full of the unexpected,” Levi said.

“I have made many preparations, but there are things even I cannot foresee.”

“I cannot give you any absolute promise. Nor can I walk at your side on this road.”

“But I will do all that lies within my power, in my own way, to keep you safe.”

…

Clip-clop…

Hoofbeats sounded at the gate of Rivendell.

At first light, Levi rode out.

There were still days to go before the Fellowship would depart. With everyone busy, to expect Levi to sit quietly in Rivendell would have been too much to ask.

He was not idle, in any case.

West of the Misty Mountains, he had already set Roadside Keep and the Water-city on alert. Now he took the Sky-road once more, flying towards the lands on the eastern side of the mountains.

Rhovanion and the Vale of the River were at peace. Outposts there were manned at all hours, keeping unblinking watch on Dol Guldur and laying their own plans for an assault.

No doubt Saruman was close to the end of his patience by now.

In Middle-earth with Harry Potter Sign-In System! - 374

Chapter 374: An Unexpected Mishap

“Frodo, try to take up the Ring. Be careful not to let it ensnare you,” said Gandalf.

Of all those in the room, only Tom and Bilbo could handle the Ring without falling under its spell.

Tom would never leave the Old Forest, so the task of carrying it could only fall to Frodo.

At Gandalf’s words, Frodo eyed the Ring in the box with wary distrust, but still reached out, lifted it, and set it in the palm of his hand.

Gandalf watched every flicker of expression on his face. “How do you feel?” he asked.

Frodo stared at the Ring, his eyes reluctant to leave it. “Er… I am not sure how to say it. There is a little voice in my mind telling me to hide it, to keep it for myself. But… I can manage. If I ignore that voice, it does not trouble me too much.”

Gandalf let out a slow breath, but his tone remained grave. “You must treat this Ring with the utmost caution. If you let it sway you, its power will corrupt you, and you will become nothing more than its puppet.”

At the warning, Frodo stiffened and looked down at the Ring with renewed vigilance. “I will be very careful. Truly,” he promised.

Kael, standing to one side, added, “The Ring’s pull is very strong. Even if Frodo can resist it for a time, long contact will change him. Since Tom’s box can shield and weaken its power, we should keep it shut away.”

As he spoke, he drew a small leather pouch from his robes and handed it to Frodo.

“This is a dragonhide pouch. It blocks most magic from passing through, and it’s bigger on the inside—about the size of a small room. You can keep the Ring, and anything else you need, in there.”

At Kael’s suggestion, Frodo forced down the sudden reluctance tugging in his chest, set the Ring back in Tom’s silver box, and then tucked the box into the dragonhide pouch.

He could still feel the faintest tug from within the pouch, but it was nothing compared to the temptation from before.

Only then did Kael, Gandalf, and Frodo all breathe out together in relief.

Most of all Frodo, for the whispering in his heart had fallen silent, and the painful sense of attachment to the Ring had vanished with it.

With the Ring secured, the three saw no reason to linger. After heartfelt farewells to Tom and Goldberry, they turned to the fireplace, ready to return to Hogwarts by Floo.

Frodo stepped into the hearth first.

“Hogwarts!” he cried, flinging down a pinch of Floo powder.

Green fire leapt up around him, taking hold to send him on his way.

In that instant, though, the Ring in his enchanted pouch flared with a surge of invisible darkness. Its power ripped through both box and dragonhide, clawing at the very fabric of the Floo path.

The Floo Network shuddered as if a great hand had shaken its web. The steady, ordered route of travel buckled and twisted out of control.

“No!” Kael’s face drained of colour as he felt the distortion. He lunged forward, trying to haul Frodo back out of the flames.

But the green fire had already swallowed Frodo whole. Before Kael could take a single step, the hobbit was gone, snatched away.

Staring at the empty fireplace, Kael’s expression grew dark.

“What has happened, Kael?” Gandalf demanded. He had felt something amiss as well, but knew far less of the Floo’s workings and looked to Kael for an answer.

Kael’s jaw tightened. “As Frodo travelled, some force burst out from him and shattered the Floo’s stability. Now… I have no idea where he has been sent.”

The moment Kael spoke of a power erupting from Frodo, Gandalf knew at once what it must be.

“The Ring,” he said, his voice heavy. “Sauron poured a great part of his own spirit and strength into it. It has a will of its own, and it is always seeking a way back to its master.

“It slipped from Isildur’s hand at the Ford and left him to die, then abandoned Gollum when he could no longer bear it out of the dark, and chose to be found by Bilbo instead.

“Now it has sensed danger again. It is trying to shake free of you and me, whom it cannot sway, and take hold of Frodo, so that he may carry it back to Sauron.”

He frowned deeply. “We do not know where he has gone. We must find him quickly, before he comes to harm.”

Kael’s worry was no less. When the Floo failed, a traveller could be flung almost anywhere.

If Frodo had fallen into some deadly place, where his life was under threat, they might already be too late.

“I will check the Marauder’s Map first,” Kael said, already reaching into his robes. “If he landed anywhere within my lands, we will see him at once.”

The Marauder’s Map showed every corner of the territory under Kael’s rule. If Frodo had arrived within those borders, his name would soon be found.

Kael could only hope.

If the Ring had flung him beyond that reach, across half the world, then finding him swiftly would be near impossible.

Before he could even unfold the Map, Tom Bombadil spoke up. “No need to search, Kael, lad. The wind from the West has told me where your little friend has gone. The hobbit you want is in the Old Forest now.”

“Frodo is in the Old Forest?” Kael and Gandalf cried together.

Tom nodded, but a shadow of concern creased his brow. “You had best hurry,” he said. “He is carrying the Ring, and that has made the trees very angry. They are attacking him as we speak.”

At that, Kael’s worry sharpened into fear. He quickly asked where in the Forest Frodo had appeared.

“Downstream along the Withywindle,” Tom replied, “where Old Man Willow stands. You remember the place, Kael.”

With a clear destination, Kael wasted no time. He seized Gandalf’s arm and Side‑Along Apparated.

Down the Withywindle, an ancient, half‑hollow willow rose by the riverbank, its great limbs swaying in the breeze and humming with a low, barely audible song that carried sleep and dream within it.

Frodo, meanwhile, had tumbled into the Forest in utter confusion.

He had no idea how he had come to be here. At first, he did not even realise it was the Old Forest.

He only felt, with a creeping chill, that all the trees around him were twisted and grim, and that countless unseen eyes were watching him with pure malice.

A shiver ran down his spine. He drew the dagger Kael had given him and turned slowly about, searching for whatever was spying on him.

He saw no living creature, no flicker of movement but the restless branches. The press of trees was so thick that not even birdsong reached him.

Swift‑witted as ever, Frodo’s thoughts turned at once to the trees themselves. The unseen gaze was theirs.

And with that, the truth dawned on him. This could only be the Old Forest.

Before Bilbo had brought him to live at Bag End, Frodo had grown up in Buckland, at the Forest’s very edge. He had heard its tales since he was small.

He knew that the trees there were awake in their own dark fashion, and that they hated outsiders. Long before he was born, they had risen against Buckland itself.

Knowing now where he stood, Frodo grew even more wary. He moved with the greatest care, trying not to disturb the watching wood, and silently prayed that Kael and Gandalf would reach him soon.

His prayers, however, went unanswered.

The hostility in the air was unmistakable. Branches rattled, and leaves whispered harshly. Great limbs slammed down, trying to crush him, while roots heaved up from the ground to trip and snare him.

Frodo dodged and darted, his small size and quick feet serving him well as he slipped between the trunks.

More than once, the blows that should have broken him instead struck a shimmering barrier: the protective brooch Kael had given him flared to life, spreading a shield of magic that turned aside the worst of the assault.

Seizing those brief openings, Frodo ran on as fast as he could and burst at last into a small clearing where Old Man Willow stood.

Whether his luck was good or ill, he could not have said. He had escaped the wrath of the forest, only to stumble straight into the lair of its cruelest heart.

The Willow’s low song thickened in the air, heavy with drowsiness. Not even the brooch’s magic could keep it out.

Under the weight of that enchantment, Frodo’s mind grew hazy. Step by step, he wandered closer until he stood beneath Old Man Willow’s gnarled trunk, swaying.

Slowly, like a sleepwalker, he began to move toward a great cleft in the bark, a gaping mouth where the tree waited to swallow him whole.

“Petrificus Totalus!”

Kael appeared in a crack of displaced air. His spell struck Old Man Willow like a hammer, locking its trunk and branches in place. The tree froze where it stood, and the droning song broke off at once.

Lotr: Playing Minecraft in Middle-earth - 361

Chapter 361: Making Arrangements

The choice left many in the hall stunned, Frodo himself not least.

Gandalf froze for a heartbeat, pretended he had not heard Frodo’s first cry, and went on trying to calm the others.

No, lad. Turn around now. Go back. You can still be spared what lies ahead…

Even if, in truth, there was no escaping it.

“I will take the Ring to Mordor,” Frodo said.

The argument broke off as if a knife had cut it.

“But I do not know the way,” he added.

This time, no one could pretend not to hear.

Gandalf was the first to move. He stepped up and stood behind Frodo.

“I will help you bear this burden, Frodo Baggins, for as long as it is yours to bear,” he said.

“If my life can shield you, then I will not hold it back.”

Aragorn went down on one knee, looking up at Frodo.

“From this day, my sword is at your command,” he said.

Gandalf glanced sideways then, catching Levi’s and Elrond’s eyes in turn.

Levi raised his brows.

The three of them had reached an understanding.

So be it.

“And you have my bow,” Legolas said, stepping forward.

“And my axe,” said Gimli.

He came trudging up too, holding only the haft of what had once been an axe, and muttered under his breath, “Though someone had better get me a new one.”

His old axe lay in splinters, broken on the Ring.

When Frodo stepped forward, even Boromir, with all his weight of care, was taken aback. He found himself bowing to the courage in this small Hobbit.

“You have taken up a heavy doom, little one,” he said.

“If this is the council’s final will, then Gondor will stand behind it.”

“Hey, and me as well!”

Sam burst out of hiding.

Neither Elrond nor Gandalf was surprised. They had known he was lurking nearby all along.

The next two, however, had not been in anyone’s plans.

“And us!”

Merry and Pippin popped out behind Sam.

“You will not send Frodo off without us,” Pippin said. “Not unless you tie us up in sacks and carry us away.”

Levi suddenly rubbed his hands together, quelling a certain unworthy impulse.

Not here. Not now. This was supposed to be a solemn occasion.

In the quiet that followed, Elrond found his voice again.

“Do you understand what you are asking to join?” he said.

“Er… some sort of mission?”

“An adventure… or something?”

The cousins looked at one another. In each other’s eyes, they saw only clear, stubborn resolve.

They did not know. They meant to go anyway.

“Nine companions,” Elrond said at last, with a slow nod.

“So it shall be. You shall be called the Fellowship of the Ring.”

Thus, on that day, the Fellowship of the Ring was formed.

“Brilliant!” Pippin crowed, pumping his fist.

“So… where are we going again?”

Everyone else stared at him, momentarily blank.

The council wound down with the founding of the Fellowship.

At the very end, there was still the question of who should go. Some argued that the last two Hobbits were ill-suited. They were too small, too weak.

On grounds of safety, Elrond made his own view plain. In truth, he agreed. Rather than send Hobbits, he would far rather see Glorfindel go. No one in the room doubted that Frodo would be safest under his guard.

“No, my lord Elrond. I believe Merry and Pippin are exactly who we need,” Gandalf said.

“In many moments, friendship and loyalty matter more than strength.”

“Glorfindel, and Levi too, whom you keep eyeing, are both far too powerful. They could not go unseen.”

“Their mere presence would drive Sauron to madness. He would strip Mordor to hurl everything he has at them. The Fellowship would face his full fury from the first step. Forget bearing Frodo into the heart of Mordor; they would likely be forced into a final war between Free Peoples and Shadow before they had gone a dozen leagues.”

“Very well. So be it,” Elrond said.

He turned again to Levi.

“And you? What say you?”

“No objection,” Levi said.

“Trust them. Their friendship and their will shall show their worth.”

He leaned back in his chair after that, with nothing more to add.

This was no longer something he should meddle in directly.

The Fellowship would move in shadow. He stood in the light and could stand nowhere else.

Sometimes it was a nuisance to be so very conspicuous.

With everything fixed, the council ended.

The Fellowship broke up for the time being, each member going to make ready in their own way.

That night, Aragorn went to his mother’s grave to say his last farewell.

“I am not ready to bear this weight,” he said softly.

“She thought that by bringing you to Rivendell she could keep you safe,” Elrond said, breaking into his grief.

“But in her heart, she knew you could never flee your fate.”

“Elves still have the skill to reforge the sword of kings. But only you have the right to wield it.”

“I do not want that right,” Aragorn said.

After decades of hardship and roaming, the sharp edge of his youth had worn away. Now, at all times, he found himself shrinking back.

“You alone bear this blood. You cannot be replaced. You cannot run,” Elrond said behind him.

Aragorn bowed his head and held his tongue.

Elsewhere…

“Here. Draw it and see,” Bilbo said.

He had called Frodo to his room and now pressed an Elvish short-sword into his hands.

“This is my old companion, Sting. See if it suits you.”

Frodo drew the blade and his eyes went wide.

“It is so light. And it feels so sharp,” he breathed.

“Oh, that is as it should be,” Bilbo said.

“Back at Roadside Keep, Levi told me he had laid some kind of sharpness enchantment on it. After that, I could feel that it was not quite the same. Just as he said, it took on an extra edge, even though it was already sharp enough. Elf-work, after all.”

“And speaking of Elvish work, there is this: when Orcs come near, the blade glows blue,” Bilbo went on.

“I do not know if you have ever seen Levi’s ‘Bane’. He does not use it much now, but in the old days, it was his mark. When Bane flared, the Orcs knew he had come. They would scatter and flee, with no heart left for battle.”

“Bane was forged by the Elves as well. For all we know, it comes from the same place as this little blade.”

“And then there is this…”

Bilbo delved in his chest again. He drew out a small coat and helped Frodo into it: a shirt of mithril mail. Then he produced a heap of golden apples.

“One for each of your companions. Levi gave me more of these than I could ever use,” he said.

Once again, Frodo was left speechless by his uncle.

Just as he had said before, no matter how many years passed, there were always more riddles hidden about Bilbo. Every time one was turned up, it left Frodo, a Hobbit long used to a quiet, settled life, deeply shaken.

…

“Do you know it?”

Outside Bilbo’s room, as they strolled the paths with nothing better to do, Levi and Glorfindel happened to see uncle and nephew rummaging through chests and handing treasures back and forth.

Levi pointed at Bilbo’s Elvish short-sword, Sting.

“Recognise where it came from?” he asked.

“Oh?”

Glorfindel peered with interest.

Though they were some distance away, he still caught a clear glimpse.

“It does look familiar,” he said.

He smiled. There was remembrance in it, and something deeper and harder to read.

“This is the first time I have seen Bilbo draw it,” Levi said.

“So you do know it?” he pressed.

Glorfindel only smiled, shaking his head, then nodding.

“Do not dance around it. Tell me its name,” Levi said.

“Sting. Did not Bilbo name it so?”

“All right, all right,” Levi muttered.

He raised his brows and let the matter go. It was hard to stay sharp when an Elf insisted on going round in circles like that.

Still…

If memory served, Glorfindel had used a short blade when he slew the Balrog. Or, for one of his kind, it would be nearer to a dagger.

The thought made things interesting.

Levi turned it over in his mind, then shook his head at himself.

It was only a guess, after all. Glorfindel had not said.

Very well. Let it be.

One Piece: The Dragon All-Star - 191

Chapter 191: Showdown with Kaido (Part One)

At the heart of the battlefield, the solid ground had reached its limit under the full force of their clashing Conqueror’s Haki.
Spiderweb cracks raced outward in all directions.

The shockwaves from their auras alone were strong enough to knock ordinary powerhouses unconscious.

“Wororororo!”

Kaido threw his head back in wild laughter, his voice shaking the air.
“Brat, you have grown this much? That really makes me happy!”

“I just do not want to abandon my dream because I am not strong enough,” Kai said with a light smile.

“Well said. Take this!”

Kaido’s massive body shot forward like a fired cannonball.
The kanabo in his hand crackled with thick black and red lightning, radiating pure destruction.

“Bring it on.”

Kai surged up to meet him.
His right fist turned pitch black, arcs of black-red Conqueror’s Haki lightning leaping and dancing over his knuckles like crazed serpents.

In the next instant—

Boom.

Fist and iron club never actually touched.
They crashed together in the air, a hair’s breadth apart.

Two peaks of Conqueror’s Haki twisted together, grinding and devouring one another.

The space between his fist and Kaido’s club warped violently, light itself bending.
For a heartbeat, a tiny black point bloomed there, like a miniature void trying to swallow everything around it.

The gale howled again.
The sea that had only just calmed exploded into an even greater frenzy, tidal waves rearing like mountains and hammering every ship around the island.

“Just the aftershocks are this strong… I cannot see a thing!” Viola shouted.

She threw an arm up in front of herself, straining to withstand the wind.

Bonney, Chopper, and Bepo were far too light.
Their small bodies rocked wildly, seconds away from being hurled into the air.

Seeing this, Loki quietly stretched one arm off the makeshift raft at his side, planting it in front of the Rayquaza’s bow like an unshakable wall.

The raging wind slammed into that barrier and broke.

“Phew. Saved,” the three small ones exhaled together.

They all turned grateful eyes on him.

“Thank you, Loki!”

“Oi, Law, look at the sky!” Sachi said.
His finger shook as he pointed upward, his voice gone strange with shock.

Law looked up automatically.
His usually cool expression shattered, pupils narrowing.

The sky… had split.

The thick canopy of clouds had been parted straight down the middle, a long, clean trench carved across heaven as if someone had combed it open.

“Ha ha ha, that is just Kai and Kaido saying hello,” Yamato explained, smiling like it was the most normal thing in the world.

Saying… hello?

Law could not help clicking his tongue.

Was this some strange custom he had never heard of?

When top-tier monsters said hello, did they always open a crack in the sky?

What did the sky ever do to them?

In the center of the battlefield, after that first full-force clash, Kai and Kaido slid back from each other.

Thud, thud.

Kaido clearly skidded one extra step.

The realization jolted through him.

This brat’s strength…

It had gone up again.

Did this Mythical Zoan of his not have a ceiling?

“Kai-sensei, looks like your odds are not great today,” Kai said lightly, picking up on that tiny difference at once.

“Wororororo! Do not get ahead of yourself, boy,” Kaido barked, laughing loud as he crushed his surprise down.

He swung the kanabo and charged in again.

The greeting was over.

Now the real fight began.

In the next heartbeat, both of them shifted into their hybrid beast forms and slammed together.

Jet-black claws and a vicious iron club crashed again and again at speeds the eye could not follow.

Boom. Boom. Boom. Boom.

Conqueror’s Haki and Armament Haki lightning sprayed from every impact like storms of wild thunder snakes.
Every bolt that struck the ground blew a new crater open.

The shattered rocks never made it back down.
The crushing wind picked them up, flinging them across the sea like cannon shells.

“Careful!”

“More rocks incoming!”

On the surrounding ships, pirates yelled over one another as they scrambled to defend against the incoming shards.

They had no choice.

The ones who had scoffed at those stones earlier were now flailing in the cold sea.
Their ships had been punched through and gone under in moments.

“This power…” Law murmured.

The scene before him looked less like a battle and more like a natural disaster.

It was his first time seeing Kai fight without holding back.

If he had been standing where Kai was now, the aftermath alone would have torn him to pieces.

Now he finally understood what it meant to stand at the top of the pirate world.

Doflamingo’s dream of becoming king was a joke.

Compared to this level of force, he did not even qualify to pick a fight.

“We… actually have the luck to be on the same crew as someone like that,” Sachi said.

He and Penguin traded a look.
In each other’s eyes, they saw the same awe and fierce gratitude.

This was an opportunity they would not have dared dream of.

“Kai-aniki has gotten stronger again,” Zoro said.

He did not blink, staring at the battlefield even though he could not make out any details of the exchanges.

“What is wrong?” Sanji grinned. “Gap too big now? Afraid you cannot keep up with Kai-nii anymore?”

“Oi, Zoro, are you seriously the first of us three to fall behind?” Ace added, sounding genuinely surprised.

“Shut it, both of you,” Zoro snapped, whipping his head around.

There was no fear in his eyes, only boiling battle lust and excitement.

“I am fired up. Got it?”

He looked back toward the hellscape of the island and licked dry lips, fingers tightening around Wado Ichimonji.

“One day, I will be as strong as they are,” he said.

Roronoa Zoro was not the kind of man who turned his back on a wall.

“That is better,” Sanji said, nodding, a small approving smile at his mouth.

“We are going to get that strong together,” Ace laughed, clapping both of them hard on the shoulders.

With a stage like this and resources like these, how could they not give everything to reach the peak?
How else would they face the friends who believed in them, or themselves?

On the island, after countless bone-crunching collisions with no tricks and no wasted motion, the once-barren rock looked like the moon.

Cratered.

Broken.

Kai and Kaido broke apart again.

Both of them were breathing a bit harder now, and there was no hiding the exhaustion on their faces.

Their stamina was not the problem.

They were both top-tier Mythical Zoan users, monsters with absurd endurance.

The real issue was—

“Stubborn old beast,” Kai exhaled, white breath steaming from his lips.

He shook his head once, forcing his mind to sharpen.

Their fight was more than bodies and Devil Fruits slamming together.
It was Conqueror’s Haki against Conqueror’s Haki.

They both had Future Sight-level Observation Haki.

It was far too easy for things to fall into an endless loop of “I predicted your prediction of my prediction of your prediction,” a spiraling game that devoured focus at a terrifying rate.

But skating on the edge, gambling everything against another top monster like this—

It felt incredible.

A bright, wild grin split Kai’s face.

“Again!”

“Wororororo! I will go as long as you can,” Kaido roared back.

He suddenly threw his jaws wide.
Blistering heat gathered in his throat.

“Boro Breath!”

A blast hot enough to melt steel erupted from his mouth, swelling as soon as it left his lips.
It turned into a world-ending fire dragon, shrieking down at Kai.

Kai’s eyes sharpened.

He drew a deep breath, chest swelling.

“Flamethrower!”

An equally vicious beam of fire exploded from his mouth to meet Kaido’s breath head-on.

Boom.

Midair, the two torrents of flame smashed together.

Light and heat went wild.

A fireball tens of meters across bloomed into existence, a second sun hanging over the island and painting everything around it blazing white.

The shockwave rolled out like a tsunami.

“Hot. It is so hot!” pirates howled.

The ones who had been laughing at their soaked comrades earlier suddenly found themselves jealous.
The sea sounded far more comfortable than this.

“Who is the Flame-Flame Fruit user again?” Ace choked, staring.

For a second, he honestly regretted ever eating the Mera Mera no Mi.

As the great fireball detonated, a huge shape burst through the flames and drove straight for Kai.

The kanabo in his hands shone darker than ever, wrapped in a storm of black and red Conqueror’s Haki and Armament Haki lightning.
The swing came down with the weight of a collapsing mountain range.

“Roaring Thunder: Bagua!”

So fast.

Red light flashed in Kai’s eyes.

His Observation Haki screamed.

The ground under his feet exploded as he moved.

“Extreme Speed.”

Boom.

The club hit only empty air.
The impact cratered the ground, a deep pit opening where Kai had been standing as cracks raced out for dozens of meters.

“Tch. Slipped it, did you?” Kaido muttered.

Red light flickered in his own eyes.

In the next moment, his absurdly thick waist twisted in a way that should not have been possible, dragging the rest of his massive body and the kanabo with it.

He came around faster than any normal man could have managed, club already waiting right in the path of Kai’s return strike.

“Dragon Claw.”

Kai’s black, taloned hand flashed out, meeting the swinging iron head-on.

Clang.

The metal scream rang in everyone’s ears.

This time, the one who lost ground was Kaido.

Forced into a rushed counter, he took the worst of the trade, blasted back by the sheer force of Kai’s strike.
His heels gouged twin trenches in the rock.

Kai did not let up.

He streaked after Kaido like lightning.

Fists, elbows, knees, shins, even his forehead—every part of his body turned into a weapon.

Bang. Bang. Bang.

The drumbeat of impacts never stopped.

Under that relentless storm of blows, even Kaido could only turtle up and defend, snatching rare chances to throw counterattacks of his own.

“Oil-Burner Uppercut!”

With a shouted kiai, Kai gathered power into his right arm and drove an uppercut from below, his fist snapping up into Kaido’s jaw before he could fully cover it.

The force detonated.

For a ridiculous instant, the enormous Yonko seemed weightless.

Then his body shot straight up into the sky like a launched rocket.

Kai kicked off the ground, leaping in pursuit.

He had not flown far when Kaido’s roar crashed down from above, thick with pain and fury.

“Conquest of the Three Worlds: Ragnarok!!!!”

High overhead, Kaido raised his kanabo above his head.

He began to spin, club and body whirling like a living drill of iron and muscle.

Black-red Conqueror’s Haki lightning wrapped the iron tight, compressed into a single, seething pillar of thunder.

He hurled himself downward, dragging all of his mass, strength, and raging Conqueror’s Haki with him, slamming it at Kai like a falling world.

Clang.

Kai crossed his arms and caught the blow head-on.

For an instant, he felt like an island had landed on him.

Then he was the stone, and the swing was the bat.

He screamed toward the ground at even greater speed.

Boom.

The instant his body hit, Kaido’s flood of lightning crashed down as well, drowning the impact zone and raking it again and again.

The island groaned like a living thing on the verge of breaking.
The ground shuddered under every ship’s keel.

Only after a long moment did the thunderstorm finally begin to fade.

At the center of the smoking crater, Kai stood, his whole body blackened.
He exhaled a long breath, smoke curling from his mouth.

“Your Conqueror’s Haki is something else, Kaido-san,” he said. “I nearly could not hold that one.”

If he had not reached a new understanding of Conqueror’s Haki over the past year, he would not have taken that hit head-on.

“Do not give me that,” Kaido growled.

He landed back on the torn earth, glaring down into the pit.

He actually looked worse off than Kai now.

His chest and face were latticed with claw marks and fist-sized dents.
Scales had shattered, blood seeping steadily from the torn flesh, leaving him looking more ragged than he ever liked to show.

Kai’s earlier flurry had not been easy to weather.

“Oi, brat. Did you learn that old hag Linlin’s trick?” he demanded.

He stared hard at Kai, feeling how little his aura had dropped, and a suspicion took shape in his mind.

“More or less,” Kai answered without hesitation. “I have a rough handle on it.”

He had not spent the whole year just eating rocks.

While he had been stockpiling “fuel,” he had never stopped pushing deeper into what Conqueror’s Haki could do.

Now he could actively pull a portion of his Conqueror’s Haki out to defend himself, instead of trusting to instinct alone.

He was not at Big Mom’s level yet, that nearly automatic, flawless “iron balloon” that wrapped her whole body.
But compared to those who could only rely on Conqueror’s Haki passive protection, he had clearly climbed to a higher rung.

“Wororororo. Interesting,” Kaido said.

His left hand, scaled and scarred, came up to press against the deepest wound on his chest.

With his regeneration, that cut should have closed the moment it was made.

Instead, it still gaped, Kai’s Conqueror’s Haki clinging to it and choking his recovery.

“So you picked that up too. You have taken your Conqueror’s Haki training further than I can pretend not to be impressed by,” Kaido admitted.

Shock rolled under his amusement.

This brat’s talent really was monstrous.

It was not that the techniques themselves were impossible.

They were brutally hard, yes, but the sea did hold others who had pushed their Conqueror’s Haki to this height.

What truly staggered him was how fast Kai had reached that point.

He had never seen a genius like this.

“But the fight,” he said, Conqueror’s Haki surging up from his core, “is just getting started.”

His Conqueror’s Haki roared through him, blasting away the Conqueror’s Haki Kai had left on his cuts.
Before their eyes, the wounds began to close, his body knitting back together.

HP: Fantastic Beasts And The Right Way To Use Them - 302

Chapter 302: The Source of the Dark Age

"The idea of dark magic first came from a secret organisation in ancient Egypt. Its leader was called Herpo. You should have heard that name before."

In the dim underground laboratory, Slytherin, cloaked in silver‑green, spoke in a low voice. Opposite him, Albus Dumbledore, white hair and beard gleaming in the murk, held a quill in one hand and wore an expression of keen interest.

"Yes. Herpo the Foul. His name is still well known in the wizarding world even today."

"Herpo the Foul… a very accurate description."

Slytherin paused briefly, then went on in that same deep, steady tone.

"He was one of the earliest wizards to be labelled a Dark wizard. At that time, ‘Dark wizard’ was not used for scholars of dark magic, but specifically for those who committed countless atrocities."

"He invented many curses, bred horrors such as the basilisk, and even created Horcruxes, those notorious abominations that twist and profane the soul."

His voice remained flat, drained of any emotion.

"But none of that is the most important part."

He suddenly lifted his head and stared straight into Dumbledore’s eyes. There was nothing in his gaze at all. The emptiness in it made the skin crawl.

"The most important thing is that he invented a concept. One he called the Hall of Lost Dreams."

"The Hall of Lost Dreams? That was his work?"

Dumbledore frowned. That was one thing he had never considered.

The concept was not exactly common knowledge in the wizarding world, but any witch or wizard who had delved deeply into magic would have come across it in one form or another.

It was also one of the chief reasons many wizards believed death was not truly the end.

"Isn’t that supposed to be a place only those on the brink of death can reach?"

"Now, yes."

Slytherin’s lips curled into a smile that held no warmth at all.

"But in the beginning, it was something Herpo devised for one specific purpose: the makers of Horcruxes."

"In this construct, every wizard whose body had died while their Horcrux remained intact would fall into the Hall of Lost Dreams and wait there for a chance to return to life."

"According to Herpo’s own description, the place exists between reality and illusion. Any wizard who enters it is freed from the torment of negative emotion and the suffering of time. They can simply and peacefully wait for the day they rise again."

"But those negative emotions do not truly vanish. They drift through the Hall, slowly gathering until they are all drawn down into a spring made entirely of malice and despair."

"Legend says that if anyone could find that spring and be touched by its waters, they would come to understand the true nature of emotional magic and gain power beyond imagination."

"So dark magic came from someone tapping into that power?" Dumbledore asked, curious.

"No. It was far worse than that."

Slytherin’s voice was as deep and colourless as before.

"Even from the description alone, it should be obvious that this so‑called Hall of Lost Dreams was mostly a story Herpo spun to sell his Horcruxes."

"Think about it. Unlimited life, the promise that even an ‘accidental’ death would send you to the Hall to wait painlessly for your resurrection, and on top of that the chance to grasp a power that could make you invincible."

"With a magic like that, who would not be tempted to try?"

"And events proved that Herpo truly was… a plague upon the world."

"After the invention of Horcruxes, countless wizards tried their hand at crafting these abominations. They even sparked a chaotic war that pushed both the wizarding world and the Muggle world to the brink of collapse."

At this point, Slytherin faltered, as though some terrible memory had surfaced. He fell silent.

"And then?" Dumbledore prompted, still intrigued. "So far, you have not said much about dark magic itself."

"Quite."

Slytherin inclined his head.

"It should have remained nothing more than a crude lie. Unfortunately, long after Herpo vanished from history, someone made that lie real."

"Lady Morgana?" Dumbledore rubbed his chin.

When Fawkes was reborn, Evans had passed on a number of stories he had heard about dark magic.

"She was merely a puppet," Slytherin said with a bleak little smile. "A puppet being controlled without ever realising it. Sadly, that particular puppet’s capacity for destruction was… excessive."

"I do not know how she did it. I only know what came of it."

"She took that imaginary world and laid it in a sheet over the real one."

There was a clear note of reluctant admiration in his voice.

"Even I have to admit she was a true genius. The Hall of Lost Dreams was purely fictional. Even genuine makers of Horcruxes had no idea whether such a place existed."

"And yet, even so, she took the descriptions and used them to build a world like that from nothing, then draped it over reality."

"So everything that had once been used to describe that imaginary place became real?" Dumbledore asked.

"Yes."

"The moment she succeeded, the nature of dark magic changed forever."

Slytherin’s voice sank back into its earlier, heavy cadence, with a hint of regret threaded through it.

"Within Herpo’s concept of the Hall of Lost Dreams lay a spring that channelled forth the very source of human wickedness. When that world overlaid our own, that source erupted into reality and poured its power into every spell tied to negative emotion."

"Those spells no longer required years of study or an understanding of magical theory. All they demanded was a little flesh and blood, perhaps a sliver of soul, and they could unleash magic strong enough to threaten a Grand Sorcerer."

"You can imagine what happened when such magic appeared."

His voice was cold now.

"No one wanted to spend years on the arrangement of runes or memorise line after line of complex formulae. And even if there were those who did, they could never compete with wizards willing to sacrifice body and soul for power."

"In time, wizards lost the will to pursue knowledge. They fell into endless cycles of slaughter and war, turning every soul and every scrap of flesh they could get their hands on into fuel for their spells."

He paused, and when he continued, his voice was even lower than before.

"But even that was not the greatest consequence of the Hall of Lost Dreams."

"As the years passed, wizards finally discovered what it meant to have that place draped over the world."

"The dead could no longer truly fade, could they?" Dumbledore’s blue eyes flashed. "In the concept, only those caught between life and death were meant to enter."

"Exactly."

Slytherin nodded, his expression complicated.

"The dead no longer passed on. They became ghosts or vengeful spirits, wandering the world, gathering in ever greater numbers, eating away at the living’s space to exist. And there was no way to disperse them."

"After all, that realm was made for souls between life and death."

He fell quiet for a heartbeat, then added in a near‑whisper:

"In that place, we were the ones who did not belong."

HP: The Duelist of Hogwarts - 459

Chapter 459: Initiative

“Yes, it was me, Professor.”

“So this is another Horcrux, is it not?”

“That is right, Professor. This one was kept in the Lestrange family vault at Gringotts. Hufflepuff’s cup.”

At the name of Hufflepuff’s cup, Dumbledore let out a slow breath.

“Slytherin’s locket, Ravenclaw’s diadem, Hufflepuff’s cup… Once, Voldemort asked to borrow Godric Gryffindor’s sword from me, but I refused. In hindsight, that was a wise decision.”

“Speaking of Gryffindor’s sword, I have a question,” Sean said. “Professor, would it be possible to lend it to me for a while? I do not have a weapon that truly suits me. Back in second year, when I killed the Basilisk, I used the sword for a short time and it felt perfect in my hand. I was hoping I might borrow it.”

Dumbledore’s expression turned faintly odd.

He had just finished saying he had refused Voldemort, and now Sean was asking to borrow Gryffindor’s sword.

“Sean, it is not that I am unwilling,” he said. “You must understand that the sword of Gryffindor chooses its own wielder. Only a Gryffindor of outstanding courage can take it by the hilt.”

“But I have already held it once,” Sean pointed out.

“A special circumstance,” Dumbledore replied. “As I said, the sword has a will of its own. Still, if you truly wish to try, then once this current business is concluded, and I return to Hogwarts, come and find me. I will let you attempt to draw it, and we shall see whether you can hold Gryffindor’s sword now.”

Since Dumbledore had put it that way, Sean did not press the matter.

“Very well,” he said. “We will speak again when you are back. Going by my estimate, that will be fairly soon.”

“Oh?” Dumbledore asked. “And why is that?”

“Harry and the others seem to have plans of their own,” Sean said. “It should not be long before they act.”

“That is earlier than I expected,” Dumbledore admitted.

“Children grow up,” Sean said quietly. “They form their own thoughts. And he tried more than once to discuss this with us. We are the ones who deliberately avoided him, indulged him, even nudged him into this position. We do not have the right to call him reckless now.”

“Sean, as far as the records show, you and Harry are the same age, are you not?” Dumbledore asked mildly.

“Sometimes age cannot be measured by the body alone,” Sean replied. “The only age that matters is the one in your mind.”

When the conversation ended, Sean put away the two‑way mirror and turned to Kurkan, who was still working on a strip of dried dragon meat.

“Kurkan,” he said, “from now on, you stay with me, all the time, everywhere. I am about to walk into one battle after another. I will need your help.”

Kurkan darted onto his shoulder in a blur, the last piece of dragon meat clamped in her jaws.

“No problem,” she mumbled around it. “I was bored anyway. If that Voldemort fellow bullies you, I will bite him for you.”

“Good,” Sean said. “I will count on your protection then.”

“Leave it to me,” she said proudly. “You can relax.”

…

“Ah…!”

Harry sucked in a sharp breath and jolted awake.

His face was ashen. For the first time in nearly a month, he had once again seen scenes of Voldemort and his Death Eaters in his dreams.

Voldemort’s patience had run out.

He was furious with Umbridge’s continued failure to gain entry to the Department of Mysteries and locate what he wanted.

At the Ministry, the Department of Mysteries was so secretive that not even the Minister could order them about directly. All commands had to go through the Wizengamot. Umbridge had already held meeting after meeting over the issue, but aside from those who served Voldemort unquestioningly, every other member, pure‑blood or otherwise, had voted against her proposal to open the Department up for “investigation”.

Her plan to obtain the prophecy orb about Voldemort from inside had collapsed completely.

In the end, Umbridge’s authority rested on her title as Acting Minister. Without real power behind that title, she had no way to move the Ministry at all.

Harry had not relied on the dreams alone.

He had quietly investigated what Voldemort wanted from the Department of Mysteries and Umbridge’s repeated attempts to pry into it, through his own channels. With the help of Bill and Charlie Weasley, he dug into the matter and confirmed that what he was seeing was absolutely real.

That made him all the more anxious.

But no matter how he tried, he could not get through to Sean. Dumbledore was just as unreachable.

In the end, Harry went to the fireplace.

He flicked his wand, lit the grate, then cast another spell to make the flames whirl into a spinning vortex.

Kneeling before the fire, he called Sirius’s name.

“Sirius…”

“Sirius…”

“Sirius…”

On his third call, the flames twisted into the rough shape of a human face, features picked out in fire.

It was Sirius.

“Harry, I am a bit busy at the moment,” Sirius said. “Can we make this quick?”

Hearing that, a flicker of anger stirred in Harry’s chest.

He had had enough lately of being brushed aside.

He forced it down.

He knew Sirius had made a terrible mistake bringing him to the Ministry last time. He also knew Sirius had been trying to make up for it ever since, working himself ragged.

“Sirius, I had a dream,” Harry began. “Voldemort was furious. He is desperate to get—”

“Harry, not now,” Sirius cut across him. “Something has come up. Dumbledore has found a lead on some Death Eaters and we are heading out after them.

“I know about your dream. Do not worry about it for the moment. Focus on your Occlumency. When things settle down, I will come straight to the Burrow to see you. Remember to listen to Molly.”

“Siri—”

Before Harry could finish, Sirius’s fiery face broke apart and vanished.

The words caught in Harry’s throat, choking him.

He stared at the empty fireplace for a long time, then slammed his fist into the stone.

He hit hard.

Skin split and blood welled, but he barely noticed.

“Voldemort cannot be allowed to just walk in and take that thing,” he whispered to the cold grate. “Can he?

“Sean told me before. With the link between me and Voldemort, I was always destined to shoulder the burden of fighting him and his Death Eaters sooner rather than later.

“Dumbledore and Sean are both busy. Sirius and the others are busy. I am the only one doing nothing.”

He drew a long breath.

“So I am the one who should move.”

With that, Harry turned his head to look at his Firebolt and his Invisibility Cloak, lying together in the sitting room.

Resolve hardened in his eyes as he stepped towards them.

HP: From Failed Art Student to Dark Artist of Hogwarts - 301

Chapter 301: Ghoul’s Resonance Elixir! A Hundred Uses for a Dark Wizard

"Phew."

Ethan felt the candle burning in his skull flare a little brighter. The shadows in his mind thinned, his thoughts sharpened, and even his voice seemed to pick up a new, steady radiance.

"From now on, every word I say will carry more weight."

He could feel it clearly. He rubbed his throat, a pleased smile tugging at his mouth.

If the whole world was going to listen to his voice, solid public speaking skills were essential.

His soul fusion had climbed to 87.9 percent, brushing the 90 percent threshold.

The final ten percent. The sprint.

Ethan knew the Enlightened were not the final stage of life’s ascent. There were steps beyond, leading up toward that presence that coiled around the vault of the heavens, looking down.

The thought made his chest surge.

Art, spread across the universe.

For now, he was still in the "spread across the world" phase.

Heehee.

[Lamp light has illuminated the Hidden Place.]

[You have discovered an Old Days manuscript: Ghoul’s Resonance Elixir Recipe.]

A yellowed manuscript appeared in his hand. The paper, weathered by uncounted years, was as brittle as dead leaves.

And yet, under his fingers, it felt oddly rough and tacky.

A bit like touching an old person’s skin.

"Two‑legged sheep really are first‑rate materials in the dark world. No wonder some people tattoo maps and the like on themselves."

He muttered to himself and scanned the recipe with interest.

[Ghoul’s Resonance Elixir was first created by ghouls to awaken the memories of rotting meat inside a living stomach.]

[In later ages, it was used to fuse curses that had taken root in the body.]

["It gave me new life." — 1553, "Bloody Mary".]

[Ingredients: honey, Hades lily, powdered ivory bone, and a spotted mushroom grown from flesh saturated with Dark magic.]

"So instead of stripping away and curing a curse like a werewolf’s, it merges with the curse and uses its power," Ethan murmured, thoughtful.

His mind jumped to Dumbledore’s sister.

Ariana, tormented by an Obscurus.

Perhaps this potion could help her…

A hand slapped his shoulder, snapping him back.

"Hey, Ethan! Spacing out again? Get back to the castle and celebrate!" Michael said.

Ethan blinked and looked around.

He stood in the middle of a festive flood.

Hogwarts had taken first place twice. As long as they did not completely fall apart in the third task and let Durmstrang overtake them, the Tournament was theirs.​

Students were cheering their way up toward the castle. Banners snapped, conjured fireworks banged overhead, and a badly played saxophone wailed somewhere in the crowd.

It felt like a holiday.

"You all go ahead," Ethan said with a smile. "There is something I need to take care of."

Barty Jr.

Poor Barty Jr. His Dark Lord was about to be disappointed again.

Tsk. Given the chance, and still could not deliver.

Michael shivered at the sight of Ethan’s soft "hehehe" smile and wisely did not ask.

"Just do not be late," he said instead. "You are the star of the show. Without you we would not have seen something like this. This year’s Tournament is going into the history books."

Meeting his bright, earnest gaze, Ethan blinked and smiled. "Oh, I have no doubt."

After all, with Voldemort and Mr Lamp waiting in the wings, the final task was guaranteed to be a spectacle.

Enough to give the world a little Dark Lord shock.

He handed Luna a few vials of Invigoration Draught and watched the Hospital Wing staff bustle her away, then turned and walked in the opposite direction.

The smile faded.

Cold, predatory glints surfaced in his cobalt eyes.

All right. Time to deal with Barty Jr.

He already knew exactly how to put this failed Dark wizard to use.

As he opened a portal, a prickle of awareness made him glance back over his shoulder.

He sensed something.

His mouth curled.

He stepped through.

A short while earlier, the mood had been very different for Rita Skeeter.

Surrounded by celebration, she sat hunched over a pile of shredded drafts, fury boiling in her chest.

"Ethan Vincent. That rotten brat."

She ground her teeth, crumpling another page in her fist.

"He really did top the first task. Even the monster was no less impressive than a dragon."

A dragon, a giant squid.

Just how many "treasures" did Hogwarts have tucked away?

And every time, the articles she had written in advance had gone in the bin.

Again.

MacArthur from the office sauntered over, smirking. "Well, well. If it isn’t our department’s rising star, the 'Front Page Killer' herself. Funny, seems like nothing’s gone out from your desk yet."

He glanced at the wrinkled papers.

Rita snapped her notebook shut with a crack and snorted. "Mind your own."

"Only that mine went off to the main office the moment the task ended," MacArthur said lazily. "Might even snag the headline."

"Betting on Ethan to win was definitely the right call."

Rita watched him swagger away and very nearly crushed her own teeth.

A lowly loser, daring to look down on her.

She had ruined more reputations with her quill than he had relatives.

She straightened, perversely proud.

This time, she had gone in hard on both Ethan and Harry.

No parents? Then they must be desperate for attention.

Write it.

A godfather who was once a convicted killer, Sirius Black?

Maybe the whole thing was Harry’s plot.

Write it.

Write all of it.

Truth did not matter. Eyes on the page did.

If someone died, why waste time on mourning? The real work was to dig into the "unknown side" of their life the moment the body went cold.

At the moment, she was lining up the greatest white wizard of the age, Albus Dumbledore, in her sights.

"Damn it, my front page," she hissed. "What can I do to keep my front page?"

Gnawing her quill, she glanced up—and saw Ethan walking against the flow of the crowd.

Her eyes lit.

"Of course. Why did I not think of it sooner?"

"If there is a story bigger than the task itself, the headline is mine."

Murmuring to herself, she licked her upper teeth in excitement, ducked into an unnoticed corner, and vanished with a pop.

A beetle with markings like her ugly glasses buzzed out and followed Ethan, slipping through the dark door after him.

Ethan, let me dig up your little secrets and trumpet them to the world.

Front page, here I come.

She had no idea this would be the worst decision of her life.

Hogwarts, underground chamber.

"Hah!"

Barty Jr jolted awake.

Sweat soaked his hair. His pupils jittered, his breath ragged, as if he had just clawed his way out of a nightmare.

His blue magical eye rolled crazily on the flagstones, then whirled and fixed on him.

For some reason, looking at that inorganic blue orb, Barty had the oddest sense that it was alive.

It had to be his imagination.

It was just a magical device, not a real eye.

His body ached as if a troll had stamped him flat. His soul felt sucked dry, scrubbed raw by a Dementor’s kiss. Needles drove in and out of his skull with every heartbeat.

"Wh‑what…"

He pushed himself up, grimacing as he held his head.

This felt familiar.

Every time he worked with Mr Lamp, things seemed to end like this.

Why was that?

Harry Potter: Dudley From LOTM - 349

Chapter 349: Your Name

Seeing that Hermione clearly did not want to explain, Dudley fell silent for a moment, then slowly climbed the steps into the classroom.

It was the least classroom‑like classroom he had ever seen.

There were no desks, no proper chairs, only a couple of dozen low round tables, each ringed with patterned cushions. The whole place looked like a cross between an attic and an old‑fashioned teahouse.

The room was very dim. All the curtains were drawn; only a little light leaked around the edges and slipped into the gloom.

The strangeness of the setting pulled Dudley’s attention away from Hermione, at least for now.

It felt very much like the rooms he had seen in that other world, the ones used by real Seers.

It made him curious about the owner of this attic, the professor who taught Divination. Could there really be a genuine Seer in this world?

A brazier burned in the centre of the room, flames licking high. Suspended above it was a brass teapot, filling the air with a thick, cloying scent that was almost nauseating.

On a nearby bookshelf lay all manner of grimy feather quills, stubs of candles, battered decks of playing cards, cloudy crystal balls and a precarious stack of teacups.

"Welcome."

The voice drifted out of the shadows, soft and slightly slurred.

Dudley quickly slipped onto a cushion beside Harry.

A figure emerged slowly into the light.

"At last, I meet you in the material world. How delightful," she said.

Dudley’s first impression was that an oversized, glittering insect had stumbled into the room.

The witch wore so many trinkets it was hard to see the person underneath: huge, gleaming spectacles; a shawl spangled with sequins; and strings of beads, bangles and rings that caught every stray glimmer of light.

In the murk, they flashed and winked in a way that was more unsettling than impressive.

"Welcome to Divination. I am Professor Trelawney," she announced.

"Most of you will not have seen me before. I have found that living amid the bustle and clamour of the main castle blurs my Inner Eye, and makes it harder to pierce the mysteries of the future."

No one even dared breathe too loudly as they watched her.

"Very well. You have chosen Divination, the most sophisticated of all magical arts," Trelawney went on. "Let me be plain: if you lack the Sight, there is nothing I can do for you. In this field, books can only take you the tiniest distance."

At that, more than one pair of eyes slid towards Dudley and Hermione.

They were, without question, the top two students in their year, and both of them devoured books, especially Hermione, for whom reading was practically a way of life. If, in this subject, books were almost useless, then their usual advantage might vanish.

That would give everyone else a chance.

"Many witches and wizards are gifted enough to make things explode, transfigure their faces or vanish into thin air," Trelawney continued. "Yet they cannot lift the veil that shrouds the future."

"True Divination is a talent granted to a rare few."

Her words faded, and then her gaze swung abruptly to Neville.

"You, my dear boy. How is your grandmother?" she asked.

Neville jumped. "F‑Fine, I think," he stammered.

"Oh, I would not be so sure, dear," Trelawney murmured.

Neville went as white as the teacups.

Dudley narrowed his eyes, watching her. Whatever interest he had felt earlier was draining away fast.

So far, she seemed to be doing little more than putting on a show.

"You... you must beware," Trelawney said suddenly, sweeping her gaze around the room before fixing it on Parvati.

"Beware of what, Professor?" Parvati squeaked.

"Beware of red‑haired men," Trelawney said gravely.

Parvati’s eyes darted at once to Ron, sitting not far away. She shuffled her cushion several feet further off.

Ron could not help rolling his eyes.

"My dear, you seem to doubt my predictions," Trelawney said, having clearly caught the gesture. Her tone was airy, but her eyes were sharp as she looked at him.

"No, I just... my eyes hurt. Yes. My eyes hurt," Ron said quickly, rubbing at them for effect.

Trelawney held his gaze for a long moment, then turned her attention to Harry and Dudley beside him.

She studied Harry first, and from the way her eyes lingered on his scar, it was obvious she had recognised him. She was just opening her mouth to proclaim something when she seemed to notice Dudley properly for the first time.

"Oh!"

She gave a sharp cry and stumbled back, knocking over the little round table behind her.

Everyone in the room jumped.

"Professor Trelawney? Are you all right?" Lavender Brown hurried over and helped her back to her feet.

The professor did not answer. Her eyes were still locked on Dudley.

"C‑Child... what is your name?" she asked, lips trembling.

"Dudley Dursley," he said evenly, meeting her stare and weighing her in turn.

Had she actually seen something?

"Dudley Dursley," Trelawney repeated under her breath.

"Is that... your true name?" she asked, after a moment.

Dudley frowned.

It was his name, yes. But whether it was his real one was harder to say.

He had another name: Dudley Trunsoest. The name he bore in that eerie Beyonder world. The one that carried weight in mysticism, because it was the only name under which he could truly touch the strange and the supernatural.

From that angle, his real name ought to be Dudley Trunsoest, not Dudley Dursley.

Seeing his expression tighten, Trelawney spoke again.

"My dear, you must beware," she whispered, her voice shaking.

"Beware of what?" Harry demanded.

"I see misfortune upon you," Trelawney said, her huge eyes flying open.

"Misfortune? What is that supposed to mean?" Ron said, frowning.

"Misfortune, dear boy. Misfortune," she cried. "A dire omen. The darkest of omens. An omen of death."

Her words rang off the sloping ceiling, filling the cramped attic with a heavy, choking silence.

Faces around the room shifted to fear, to unease. Every eye fixed on Dudley, uncertain whether to be more frightened for him or of him.

Only Dudley himself remained as calm as ever.

HP: The Duelist of Hogwarts - 458

Chapter 458: A Perfect Infiltration Is One They Cannot Trace Back to You

Silent casting was not a branch of magic, but a highly advanced casting technique.

Hogwarts did not teach it until seventh year, and even then no one expected every student to master it. Some witches and wizards could manage it only with the simplest spells, like Cleaning Charms or Mending Charms, and that was already considered impressive. To cast mid‑ to high‑level spells silently required real effort and genuine talent.

There was another rule of thumb about silent casting: the stronger and more polished your magic, the easier it was to learn. Generally, once a spell was at level four, you could begin practising it without incantations. By level five, or even level‑5‑max, mastering its silent form became much easier.

Sean’s Soul Displacement Curse was at a very high level. Training himself to use it silently had not taken long.

Now that work was paying off.

Under the influence of the Soul Displacement Curse, the Gringotts goblin fell instantly under Sean’s control and led them down into the depths of the bank. They hurtled along in the mine cart, dropping at terrifying speed through the darkness, until Fleur had no choice but to cling tightly to Sean’s arm.

After that, things became much simpler.

Guided by the goblin, Sean and Fleur opened the Lestrange family vault. Inside lay piles of gold and jewels, a scattering of magical artefacts, and, in pride of place at the very centre, Hufflepuff’s golden cup.

Sean asked Fleur to wait outside. He entered alone, slipped the cup into a dragon‑skin pouch, sealed it, and tucked it into his Undetectable Extension Bag. Then he swept his wand in a wide arc and stripped the vault bare, sending everything else pouring into his bag as well.

Once he was done, he stepped out.

The two goblins swung the vault doors shut and prepared to escort “the Lestranges” back out.

That was when the alarms began to shriek.

Sean spun on his heel, wand already rising to bind the goblins where they stood.

He was a heartbeat too slow.

An invisible force snatched both goblins away before he could cast, and they vanished from before Sean and Fleur’s eyes.

Left standing alone in the vault, Sean swore under his breath.

So much for trusting the original story.

“It seems my infiltration plan had a flaw,” he said wryly. “Looks like the goblins did notice us after all. We will have to fight our own way out.”

Fleur gave him a sidelong look and smiled. She was calmer than he was. In her mind, as long as they did not run into Dumbledore or Voldemort, no one in the world could stop Sean.

“It does not matter,” she said lightly. “Right now, we are the Lestrange couple. If we have to blast our way out, we blast our way out.”

Sean laughed, then turned to the chained dragon in the depths of the vault caverns.

Its scales had fallen away in patches. The ones that remained were loose and dull. Its skin had turned a sickly white. Its eyes, an unhealthy pale pink, were blind.

When they had come in, one of the goblins had used a strange metal device—something like a warped triangle—to lure the dragon aside. Only then had they dared to open the lower vaults. Now, if they wanted to leave, they would have to borrow the dragon’s strength.

Sometimes the original plotline was a deathtrap.

Sometimes it was very useful.

White mist began to fall in shafts from the ceiling. Sean recognised it at once.

Aurors from the Ministry were here.

Without further hesitation, he flicked his wand. Two chunks of rock reshaped themselves into stone copies of Bellatrix and Rodolphus Lestrange. He made the statues scramble up onto the dragon’s back, then raised his wand again and blasted apart the chains that held the beast in place. A few jolting stimulation spells later, the dragon threw back its head and loosed a furious roar, flailing its wings and claws as it clawed upwards through the caverns, belching sheets of searing flame.

By now, every Auror’s attention was fixed on the rampaging dragon and the two dark silhouettes clinging to its spine.

Sean and Fleur cast the Disillusionment Charm on themselves, vanishing from sight. They lifted off the ground with a burst of magic, skimmed past the distracted Aurors and slipped out of the underground vaults, out of Gringotts itself, and into a narrow alley opposite the bank. There, they dropped their spells, returning to their own faces and bodies.

Sean glanced at Fleur, who had also reverted to her original form. They exchanged a grin and were just about to leave when the dragon smashed through Gringotts’s roof in an explosion of stone and iron.

It beat its wings, trying to claw free.

The Aurors moved as one.

Spells flashed from dozens of wands, weaving together into an enormous net of magic that dropped over the dragon like a shroud. Other, heavier curses hammered into its flanks. Under the combined assault, the dragon finally collapsed, stunned, sprawling across the shattered rooftop.

Only then did the Aurors realise that the Lestranges on its back had been crushed flat when the dragon rolled, and that a moment later their bodies had crumbled into nothing but gravel.

By this point, it was obvious they had been tricked.

The real culprits were long gone.

The Aurors spread out to search for suspects, but no one was foolish enough to think they would find anything. They all knew the thieves were almost certainly gone by now. They were merely doing whatever was left to be done.

Watching them fan out, Sean and Fleur shared another quiet smile, then Disapparated from the alley and returned to Hogsmeade.

They went back to Hogwarts through the passage in the Shrieking Shack. After seeing Fleur safely to her office, Sean finally returned to his own room, Hufflepuff’s cup in hand.

He closed the door behind him.

Kurkan shot up from the bed like a released spring and twined herself around his neck. The snake sniffed him intently, then demanded, “You smell like dragon. You met a new dragon. Why did you not take me with you?”

Sean gave her a disdainful look.

“Take you?” he said. “If I took you, that dragon would already be in your stomach.”

“That would not do!” Kurkan protested at once.

“As if,” Sean snorted.

“You have changed! Sean, you have changed!” she wailed.

He rolled his eyes, plucked the would‑be tragic heroine from around his neck, and tossed her back onto the bed. Then he drew out a small packet of dried dragon meat and dropped it in front of her.

“Make do with that.”

Kurkan let out a delighted squeal, seized a strip and began to chew. How a snake managed to chew at all was anyone’s guess. Magical creatures, Sean thought, were remarkable.

He set his things aside and was just about to change his clothes when the two‑way mirror on his person began to glow softly.

Sean picked it up and activated the connection.

Dumbledore’s face appeared in the glass.

“Sean,” he said mildly, “that business at Gringotts just now… that was your doing, was it not?”