Deep within the damp, oppressive underground passage, the pale white glow that had illuminated the corridor only moments ago twisted into something far more sinister, an eerie emerald light.
It was the Killing Curse.
This is a spell Ian had cast on instinct, his wand steady despite the jolt of panic in his chest.
There had been no other choice.
The moment his eyes locked onto the grotesque figure ahead, he knew exactly whose face was leering at him from atop that twisted, malformed body.
No-nosed Tom.
Voldemort.
In a duel, hesitation meant death, and Ian had no intention of giving this remnant of the Dark Lord a chance to strike first. Even in such a pitiful, wretched form, Voldemort was still Voldemort, a wizard who had defied death itself.
Who knew what kind of dark, insidious magic he could still command, even as a fractured, clinging fragment of the soul?
Ian had never expected this to be his first encounter with a living, sentient piece of the Dark Lord.
“Avada Kedavra!”
The incantation rang out, sharp and decisive.
The jet of green light carved through the air in a perfect arc, like the sweeping blade of Death’s own scythe, carrying an inevitable finality. It hurtled straight for the deformed creature and the sliver of Voldemort’s soul bound to it.
For a moment, the Dark Lord’s lingering consciousness stalled in disbelief.
He had intended to possess a young wizard, slip undetected into Hogwarts, and uncover how much of his legacy had been destroyed. Instead, he was greeted with his own signature curse.
A Killing Curse.
From a student.
A half-grown Hogwarts student.
“How many years have I been gone?”
For centuries, wizarding duels at Hogwarts had revolved around Expelliarmus and Stupefy, children played dueling like it was a friendly sport. When did they start opening with Avada Kedavra?
Could this be a half breed disguised as a boy? A short-legged professor with an unfortunate Goblin ancestor?
“Hiss—”
Voldemort’s remnant soul had made a fatal mistake.
He hadn’t even considered defending himself.
After all, he thought he was facing some clueless little wizard who might, at best, manage to cast a Tickling Hex. By the time he realized the spell was real, the curse was already upon him.
The monstrous form he inhabited had nowhere to run.
The misshapen creature, sensing imminent death, convulsed in terror. Its bloated limbs twitched wildly, attempting, uselessly, to shield itself from the rushing emerald light.
But the Killing Curse did not yield.
Fate had already been decided.
Even as the curse struck only a limb, death spread like a venomous web, latching onto flesh and soul alike.
The spell burrowed deep, unrelenting, merciless.
Perhaps, in a way, the creature was grateful.
Being possessed by a fragment of Voldemort’s soul was an agony beyond comprehension. Its body had already been warped beyond recognition, its skin blistered with unnatural swellings, etched with twisted, runic scars— an abomination clawed straight from the depths of a nightmare.
And then—
“Boom—!”
The raw power of the Unforgivable Curse roared to life.
The creature— large, monstrous, unnatural— never even had the chance to scream.
It hit the ground with a sickening thud, a vast pool of foul-smelling liquid splattering across the dirt floor.
Ian, his reflexes sharp, snapped up the small enchanted umbrella in his free hand, blocking the spray just in time.
“Phew—”
His breath came out in a slow exhale.
The eerie green glow still lingered, curling through the air like wisps of spectral mist.
Then—
A dark fog began to rise from the creature’s corpse.
A thick, rolling mass of shadow, heavy with the weight of malice.
Voldemort’s remnant soul had used the creature’s dying body as a final, desperate shield.
The black mist seethed, coiling like an inky tide, saturated with something ancient, wrong. It radiated an unspeakable darkness, an unnatural void, as though it had no right to exist in this world.
And buried deep within it—
“IMPOSSIBLE!”
Voldemort’s voice.
A whisper that carried across the chamber with a rage that boiled into disbelief.
“A KILLING CURSE?! YOU’RE NO HOGWARTS STUDENT!”
There was no strategy, no time for any counterattack.
The moment his soul tore free from its vessel, Voldemort fled.
His survival instincts, finely honed from years of playing chess with death, screamed at him to run.
And yet—
Something was wrong.
Because the Killing Curse that had ended his temporary body had not faded.
“What is this—?”
His fragmented consciousness recoiled.
Something strange was happening. The lingering green light did not dissipate into nothingness— it gathered.
A web of emerald magic, silent and waiting.
Voldemort knew this curse better than anyone. It killed instantly, it did not leave traces, it did not linger, it simply was.
So why—
Why was it still here?
“WHAT HAVE YOU DONE TO THE KILLING CURSE?!”
Terror was not something the Dark Lord often experienced.
But this?
This was wrong.
Something ghostly and unfamiliar had unfolded in this forsaken underground passage, something that even his vast knowledge of magic could not explain.
He barely had time to think.
Because the moment his soul attempted to slip away—
The web snapped.
And like a net catching its prey, the curse struck again.
This time— directly at him.
In less than two seconds, emerald light was all he knew.
“Hōng lóng!”
Seeing the eerie green light streaking toward him again, Voldemort’s remnant soul no longer dared take it lightly.
Without hesitation, he manipulated the swirling black mist around him, commanding it to slam into the underground passage’s walls, toppling the stone and mortar in a desperate act of defense.
The deadly green light crashed against the collapsing debris, dispersing into a web of eerie patterns across the broken surface. But this time, the energy didn’t recoil and reassemble; it simply faded away.
“Good, good… at least my research into chaining Killing Curses has only just begun,” Ian muttered, his pulse still thrumming.
He wasn’t the only one shaken by the encounter. The Voldemort remnant, though fleeing in blind panic, was clearly unnerved as well.
From that brief exchange, Ian had gleaned something crucial.
Voldemort’s soul fragment, though still a terrifying force of dark magic, was nowhere near his former strength.
Otherwise.
He wouldn’t be this pathetic, dodging a single Killing Curse like a spooked rat.
In this weakened, half-existent state, Voldemort’s spectral form might only be capable of subtle manipulations, tricks that didn’t require significant magical reserves.
That was Ian’s best guess.
And it only stoked his hunger for magic further.
He had already missed two opportunities to expand his magical capacity before. There was no way he was letting this one slip away.
This time, he would use the extraordinary power of the Soul Furnace.
What was that old wizard saying? Something about a house-elf conveniently bringing you a blanket when you’re cold?
Voldemort was practically delivering an opportunity gift-wrapped.
His lack of raw magical reserves had been a frustrating obstacle lately. But if taking a calculated risk meant confronting the most feared Dark wizard in modern history, well— wasn’t that a fair trade?
“Don’t run, Tom! We grew up in the same neighborhood, didn’t we? No need to be shy! Let’s have a little chat!”
Ian called out with a grin tugging at his lips as Voldemort’s shadowy form receded into the distance.
But— well.
There was no helping it. Two legs could hardly compete with something that flew.
Seeing that Voldemort’s lingering soul had absolutely no regard for their supposed childhood camaraderie, Ian had no choice.
With a flick of his wand, he conjured a broomstick.
A simple enough magic item— one that required minimal magical output to sustain. More importantly, Ian could adjust its speed based on his understanding of enchanted flight.
And, quite conveniently, he had been deep into research on magical flight recently.
His work on crafting an enchanted flying cloak had left him with plenty of insight into airborne artifacts.
And so—
A broomstick, faster than the yet-to-be-invented Firebolt, materialized beneath him.
Ian even conjured a self-warming cushion for extra comfort.
If his flying cloak prototype had been complete, he would’ve used that instead. But, alas— he wasn’t quite there yet.
Still, he had spent plenty of time “dissecting” the school’s broomsticks, breaking down their enchantments piece by piece.
And now?
With some clever Transfiguration, he had briefly turned that knowledge into something functional.
Of course— this was hardly a trick any ordinary wizard could replicate.
“What in Salazar’s name is wrong with this boy!?” Voldemort’s remnant soul risked a glance back mid-flight—
Only to see the child he had assumed was some kind of dwarfed lunatic now chasing him on a magically-conjured broomstick.
And not just any broomstick.
This thing broke every single rule Voldemort had ever known about broom flight.
The sheer speed of it shattered his understanding of what was possible.
“This… this isn’t right! This is completely unnatural!”
“Crucio!”
Ian’s wand was already raised.
He had tested this spell on Peeves before, he knew his magic could affect spirits.
And Voldemort’s fragmented soul was still, at its core, a spirit.
Another curse shot from Ian’s wand, streaking toward the fleeing shadow with alarming speed.
But Voldemort, ever the seasoned master of dark magic, had been watching for it.
The spell missed.
He twisted through the air, his fragmented essence darting away, slipping past the hex with an almost instinctual fluidity.
Of course.
That didn’t mean it was easy for him.
“You—!”
Voldemort’s soul seethed with fury, his very essence vibrating with disbelief.
“You are not a student!”
The mere thought of being chased like some common fugitive by a boy from Hogwarts was insulting beyond reason.
Grief and indignation burned through his fractured consciousness, but in this pathetic, weakened state, he couldn’t retaliate as he wished.
All he could do was keep running.
Faster.
Like some wretched stray, hunted by an opponent who should have been beneath his notice.
Being chased by an Unforgivable Curse was an entirely new experience.
But at least—
At least that bizarre Killing Curse variant hadn’t been cast again.
That was Voldemort’s one small mercy in all of this.
“Wait— stop! I’ll show you my Hogwarts student ID! Really, just trust me!” Ian called out, voice dripping with mock sincerity.
He was trying to cut Voldemort off by altering the environment, collapsing sections of the passage, and blocking potential escape routes.
But the wraith-like form of Voldemort’s soul slithered through the gaps in the falling stone with ease.
Instead of slowing him down, the debris only made Ian’s pursuit more difficult.
Chunks of stone and shattered pipe clattered from above, along with a fresh wave of foul-smelling sewage.
Voldemort’s spectral form, while immune to physical filth, still seemed to register the absolute stench of it.
“Ugh— disgusting! Keep away from me!”
The exit was just ahead.
And Voldemort—
Voldemort bolted faster than he had ever flown in his life. He tore through the opening and shot out into the Forbidden Forest, vanishing into the misted shadows beyond.
He had clearly done this before.
The moment he burst free of the underground tunnel, the swirling black mist surrounding him flared outward.
And then—
The very landscape moved.
Boulders. Twisted roots. Dead, gnarled trees.
All of them lifted into the air at his command, pulled by invisible magic.
And then—
“Boom—!”
A deafening crash echoed through the valley as the entrance to the passage collapsed in on itself, sealing off Ian’s path in a thick wall of rubble.
The Forbidden Forest loomed ahead, its depths swallowing Voldemort’s remnant soul into its eerie darkness.
The forest glistened, fresh from the storm, as though it had been washed anew.
Raindrops slid from blades of grass and clustered leaves, their soft patter blending with the crisp, earthy scent that followed the downpour.
Voldemort’s remnant soul slunk through the shadows beneath the trees, avoiding the sunlight at all costs.
Even in his weakened state, he knew better than to let the light further unravel his already fragile essence.
Of course, he hadn’t expected his makeshift barricades to stop the hunter pursuing him.
And indeed, they hadn’t.
“Sly Tom!”
A sharp flick of Ian’s wand sent debris and shattered stone flying in all directions.
He burst through the settling dust cloud, his self-made broom slicing through the air as he hurtled forward, hot on Voldemort’s trail.
Not a single drop of sewage had managed to touch him despite the burst pipes.
Ian felt a twinge of regret; if only Madam Hooch had been here to see this.
He was certain he would’ve earned full marks for style alone.
“My good brother! That’s what I should call you, isn’t it? Fate has brought us together once again. Now tell me, what will it take to get you to sit down for a nice, calm chat?”
“Would it take… Imperio?”
Ian’s wand twitched, and before Voldemort could react, several Imperius Curses shot out in quick succession. Like guided spells, they veered and curved through the air, sealing off potential escape routes ahead of the fleeing wraith.
Voldemort could feel the magic surging behind him, magic more aggressive, more relentless than anything he had ever expected from a schoolboy.
His very soul quivered.
“This must be Dumbledore’s trap!”
The misty remnants of his face twisted, contorted by something disturbingly close to terror.
There was simply no way a mere Hogwarts student had reached this level of power.
No, the only explanation was that Dumbledore had laid an ambush, an elaborate deception meant to lure him out.
“Who are you, really!?”
He was convinced now. The boy wasn’t a boy at all.
He is no doubt an old, battle-hardened wizard under the Polyjuice Potion, masquerading as a student.
Voldemort had no time to confirm his suspicions. The Imperius Curses were closing in.
His only option? Sacrifice whatever he could find.
The post-rain air was thick with the scent of damp earth and fresh greenery. The Forbidden Forest should have been brimming with life- tiny, curious creatures peeking from their burrows to glimpse the storm-washed world.
Instead, Voldemort’s shadow polluted the scene.
As he passed, he ripped up the creatures in his path, forcing them into his defense.
Helpless Bowtruckles, rainbow stags, even a troll just stumbling out of its cave, all were yanked into the Imperius Curses’ trajectory.
One by one, they froze in place, backs snapping straight, hands raised in eerie, obedient salutes.
It was a grotesque sight.
And yet—
Compared to the vegetation Voldemort’s soul had passed through, those creatures had been lucky.
At least they had survived.
The same could not be said for the plants that wilted and blackened in his wake.
It was not because he was siphoning their life force; he lacked the power for that now. Rather, it was the sheer, corrosive nature of his lingering dark magic.
The black mist that clung to him like a second skin was toxic; anything it touched withered under its influence.
“I can offer you knowledge forbidden to most! Secrets of immortality! Power beyond your wildest dreams! Your strength is wasted on the mundane, I can show you the future you deserve!”
Even now, Voldemort schemed.
Tempting, luring, poisoning with promises.
At the same time, the black mist trailing behind him writhed and thickened, forming shadowy tendrils.
They lashed out like cursed whips, stretching toward Ian in a deadly assault.
“Oh, come now! I’m only trying to rekindle an old friendship! Just a little fireside chat!” Ian called back.
And then, with a casual flick—
He conjured Fiendfyre.
A raging inferno of blue flames erupted, hungrily devouring the encroaching darkness.
The shadowy tendrils shriveled and disintegrated instantly.
Voldemort’s soul recoiled as though burned, with horror flashing across his face.
More than the twisted Killing Curse from before, this—
This was the true nightmare.
His fleeing form blurred, propelled forward by sheer terror, forcing even greater speed from his essence.
But Ian was no slower.
The distance between hunter and prey shrank rapidly.
The chase’s disturbance sent shockwaves through the Forbidden Forest.
Birds exploded from the canopy, shrieking their alarm.
Small creatures darted through the underbrush, desperate to escape the creeping black mist.
“I sense a dark soul approaching…”
A centaur, deep in his evening hunt, had been skinning his latest catch when the disturbance reached him.
But he was a moment too slow to react.
Voldemort’s wraith passed through him.
His once-healthy skin withered to a sickly grey, his eyes rolling back as he collapsed to the ground.
His brethren reacted with fury.
“They’ve killed our kin! These wretched humans!”
Bows were drawn.
Arrows took flight.
Ian barely had time to register the centaurs’ cries before a volley of enchanted projectiles hurtled toward him, each one aimed to kill.
“Idiots! Beasts!”
His wand flared, and Fiendfyre surged forth once more.
The monstrous flames roared ahead, sweeping through the forest, obliterating the incoming arrows before they could reach him.
He had no desire to kill the centaurs, only to neutralize the threat.
Just before the fire reached them, he withdrew his magic.
The inferno vanished.
But the heatwave alone sent the centaurs reeling, their startled cries echoing through the trees.
“He attacked us!”
“This filthy human cub dares to strike us!?”
“How dare he! How dare he!”
They should have been cowering in fear.
Instead, they howled in fury, their rage misdirected, blaming Ian when it had been Voldemort who had killed their kin.
Ian exhaled sharply, unamused.
“I regret sparing you.”
There were no indulging blind, hypocritical fools.
Without wasting another second, he cast the Protean Charm.
And the centaurs—
The centaurs fused.
A grotesque amalgamation of limbs and bodies twisted together, their individual consciousnesses blurring into an incomprehensible, chaotic mess.
Somehow, a new species had been born.
Malformed.
Mindless.
“Vera Verto!”
Ian didn’t spare them another glance.
His focus remained locked on Voldemort.
If the soul fragment escaped now, Ian would lose his chance to push his magic beyond its limits.
And that was simply unacceptable.
The moment the incantation left his lips, the black mist around Voldemort reacted.
Something within the spell interfered with his very essence.
The darkness that swirled around him—
Began to change.
It twisted.
It sharpened.
And for the first time in a long, long while—
Voldemort felt something.
Pain.
“What kind of magic is this!?”
Voldemort’s fragmented soul struck a wall of ignorance. He had no choice but to abandon the black mist corrupted by Ian’s magic, detonating it as his control slipped away.
“Didn’t your teachers ever teach you Transfiguration at school?”
Ian was in relentless pursuit. The chase turned the entire Forbidden Forest into a chaotic battlefield.
“Oh, and the Summoning Charm… Accio, Tom Riddle!”
Ian recalled a lesson from his Head of House. Since the Summoning Charm could indeed be applied to living beings, it stood to reason that it could work on souls, too.
Sure enough.
Voldemort’s remnant soul immediately felt a tug, his speed plummeting.
He fled.
Ian pursued.
Even if Voldemort had sprouted wings, escape would have been impossible.
“Don’t push me!”
Voldemort’s fragmented soul emitted a terrified, guttural shriek. Casting a desperate glance behind him, he saw the young wizard drawing ever closer, a gleam of exhilaration in his eyes that fanned Voldemort’s rage.
For so many years, countless wizards dared not speak his name. His mere presence had inspired fear. From his youth to the height of his power, only Dumbledore had ever humiliated him.
No!
Even Dumbledore had not degraded him like this!
“Die! Rot in the depths of the hell!”
The more Voldemort dwelled on it, the more his fury consumed him. The black mist around him twisted and surged, swelling with ominous intent, determined to make his pursuer pay.
Like a cornered serpent, the Dark Lord unleashed his might — a power that no ordinary soul could wield. In his unstable state between life and death, he was still capable of casting magic.
But this was a gamble. Magic drained what little of his existence remained. Yet humiliation had drowned any trace of reason.
“Noctem Evoco Mortuos!” (Night Summons the Dead!)
And so it began.
The black mist that Voldemort had amassed over countless years erupted violently. It exuded an evil and terrifying presence that seemed to devour the very light. Sunlight filtering through the trees dimmed as though swallowed by the abyss. The air grew heavy, churning with a vile, oppressive force.
The black mist writhed in a storm of shadows as the darkness spread in an instant.
Tendrils of mist twisted and lashed like serpents, coiling and snapping. Then, with a deafening roar, the mist split apart, birthing countless dark spirits.
Grotesque figures emerged from the smoke, their twisted faces contorted with rage and despair. Some resembled the remnants of those who had once been human, their hollow eyes burning with hatred, bound by invisible chains of anguish.
Others had twisted into monstrous forms, claws dripping with malice, their jaws twisted into permanent snarls of hunger.
The howls of the dead echoed through the Forbidden Forest. Even magical creatures cowered, trembling beneath the oppressive presence.
The horde of spirits surged forward, a tide of torment and destruction. Their wailing voices pierced the air, their skeletal hands reaching toward Ian, eager to drag him into the abyss.
“I knew you had a trump card!”
Ian’s expression remained unchanged as he raised his wand high.
With a surge of magical power, the cursed flames of Fiendfyre burst forth. From a single flicker, they roared into an unstoppable inferno.
The entire Forbidden Forest was cast aglow.
The shadows that had blanketed the trees were stripped away, revealing the twisted destruction left in the wake of the battle.
“Boom!”
Fiendfyre clashed with the black mist spirits.
Flames and darkness collided, consuming everything in their path. Towering trees crackled and split as they were devoured, their ashen remains scattering in the swirling winds.
The smoke, black and heavy, choked the sky.
Countless spirits writhed within the blaze, their anguished cries mingling with the crackle of fire. The once-mighty forest was reduced to nothingness.
Even the creatures that had dwelled in the shadows were now no more than ash.
Amid the apocalyptic scene, Ian stood with an unwavering expression on his face. His silhouette flickered between the flames and shadows, a lone figure weathering the storm.
“Since you crave destruction so badly, I’ll grant your wish!” Voldemort’s fragmented face twisted within the swirling mist.
He directed the horde of spirits forward, commanding the blackened wraiths to engulf Ian’s flames. His voice, venomous and shrill, echoed through the battlefield. “You will burn! You will suffer!”
‘This is getting rather troublesome.’ Ian whispered softly as his wand surged with power once more.
“For all your supposed brilliance, I thought you were leagues ahead of me on the path of magic. Yet when pushed to the edge, this is all you can muster?”
“Frankly… it’s disappointing.”
Ian’s eyes remained cold and unwavering as he spoke while he flicked his wand.
In an instant.
The Fiendfyre roared with renewed vigor, its sapphire flames surging like a tidal wave. The blue blaze swept through the air, devouring the black mist and the spirits it contained.
The souls howled in agony, their forms twisting and writhing as they burned.
Consumed by the enchanted fire, they shriveled and vanished, their remaining essence reduced to fuel for the relentless inferno.
The flames surged further, growing ever more ferocious.
“Your magic… It’s impossible!”
Voldemort’s ghastly visage twisted in horror. He felt the overwhelming tide of Ian’s magical power and recoiled in disbelief.
“Who… who are you truly!?”
His frantic question was answered not by words but by a monstrous roar.
A colossal blue claw emerged from the flames, slashing through the air. It tore Voldemort’s fragmented face apart, shattering the black mist and exposing the sunlit sky beyond the scorched remains of the forest.
“Me? I am just a junior who wants to use you as nourishment to aid my training.”
Sunlight shone on the ravaged earth as a faint gold glow fell on the little wizard’s face.
The flames burned away the black mist.
And completely dispelled the darkness.
But it didn’t stop. Because the black mist didn’t contain Voldemort’s remnant soul— only a fragment of his will.
The surging Fiendfyre turned into ferocious giant beasts, beginning to search the Forbidden Forest.
Voldemort’s remnant soul fled really fast.
He had clearly been prepared for both outcomes: either his magic would kill the wizard chasing him, or it would buy him precious time to escape.
Feeling his magic being annihilated like dry twigs, Voldemort’s remnant soul fled like a madman.
As if realizing something, his heart was filled with terror and dread.
“It’s Dumbledore! That sly, hypocritical bastard! It must be him! It must be him who took the Polyjuice Potion to lure me on purpose!”
Clearly.
Voldemort’s remnant soul had misunderstood something. This made the panic in his heart grow even thicker. He fled with all his might toward what might be his only chance at survival.
Over ten kilometers away.
“Master, Master has lost contact with me again…” Quirrell had gone to some lengths to cover his tracks, sneaking into the Forbidden Forest to meet the Dark Lord, who had recently reestablished contact with him.
Since he’d only received the order to come to the Forbidden Forest without further details, he could only search cave after cave for a possessed creature based on his guesses about the Dark Lord’s state.
Holding his wand cautiously as he probed a cave, Quirrell didn’t notice a dark shadow darting toward him from behind.
“My servant! My servant!”
Voldemort’s remnant soul, gripped by his Dumbledore phobia and fearing the “Dumbledore” who might catch up any moment, didn’t hesitate to rush toward Quirrell ahead.
He only wanted to hide in a living body to temporarily avoid being found. For that reason, without a second thought, Voldemort plunged into Quirrell, who had his back turned.
“Ah!”
Caught off guard, Quirrell let out a panicked scream.
“Shut up! Fool! It’s me!” Voldemort’s voice sounded in Quirrell’s mind, slightly calming the flustered Quirrell. He felt Voldemort’s soul enter his body.
“Run!”
At Voldemort’s urging, he tried to dart to Quirrell’s nape.
However.
The magic he’d cast earlier had taken too great a toll. His now-exhausted soul lacked the strength, and his noseless face could only gradually appear where he’d entered.
On Quirrell’s buttocks.
Feeling the odd sensation in his rear, Quirrell’s old face flushed red. He wanted to cover it but feared his actions might offend Voldemort, incurring his wrath and harsh punishment.
“Master… how did you…”
Quirrell stammered, trying to tactfully ask Voldemort to shift his parasitic spot.
But the utterly weakened and terrified Voldemort didn’t let him finish.
“I told you to run!” Voldemort was practically roaring in fury.
“Huh?”
Quirrell still felt a bit confused. Though the Forbidden Forest indeed held many dangerous creatures, even he should be fine as long as he was careful.
“Fool! Get out of the cave! Look at the sky!” Voldemort’s voice rang in Quirrell’s mind— thankfully not from his buttocks.
“Yes, yes… Master.” Quirrell hurriedly retreated from the not-so-deep cave.
But the moment he stepped out, he immediately wanted to crawl back in.
“Hiss! This… this…”
Quirrell sucked in a sharp breath, his legs going weak. He plopped down onto the ground with a thud. He really wasn’t disrespecting Voldemort, it was just that the scene outside had terrified him.
Above the Forbidden Forest, where the sky should’ve been clear and boundless.
Countless flame-formed western dragons were now soaring! They roared ferociously, their anger palpable. The Fiendfyre-turned-beasts blotted out the sky as if to devour everything, looking utterly terrifying as they did so!
“Damn bastard! Get up!”
Voldemort, pressed to the ground, felt a fresh wave of humiliation. But seeing a Fiendfyre-formed western dragon whoosh past the cave entrance where Quirrell was, he seemed to realize something.
He immediately stopped Quirrell, who was apologizing profusely and scrambling to stand in a panic.
“Stay sitting! Sit! Shrink back into the cave!”
Between dignity and survival.
The Dark Lord clearly made his choice.
He chose to bear the shame while his hatred for Dumbledore grew even stronger in his heart.
…
In front of a small cabin outside the Forbidden Forest.
“I didn’t expect Dumbledore would send you to assist me. Honestly, Snape, I don’t trust you. To me, you’re a thoroughbred dark wizard.” Hagrid spoke with clear disdain, tightening his grip on his massive crossbow.
He glanced back at Fang, who was barking furiously at the big black bat in front of them.
“Two Unicorns have gone missing in a row. What do you think the guy bold enough to target Unicorns could be?
I’ll be honest— I’d love to see you die in the Forbidden Forest. But obviously, Dumbledore thinks it’s not your time yet.” Snape sneered mockingly at the half-Giant before him.
He merely glared at the timid “ferocious dog.” The next moment, the sturdy Fang instantly fell silent. Even hiding behind Hagrid, it didn’t dare muster its courage again.
“I can figure this out myself! I don’t need you!” Hagrid’s temper flared at Snape’s taunts.
Don’t let me find out who stole the Unicorns! That scoundrel must’ve nicked things from my house too! I won’t let that despicable thief off easy, I’ll have him scrubbing the Hippogriff pens for three days straight when I catch him!
Clearly.
Hagrid had noticed the theft from his house and linked it to the missing Unicorns. He grumbled and cursed under his breath, his heavy footsteps pounding toward the entrance of the Forbidden Forest.
Since he had his back to Snape, Hagrid didn’t see the way Snape’s gaze flickered with unease or the slight twinge of guilt that crossed his face. Snape knew he may have been a little overzealous with his last “restock.”
Normally, Hagrid wouldn’t have even noticed.
“Whether it’s poachers or something far worse, a wandless half-Giant like you can’t handle it. You have no idea what kind of horrors might be lurking behind this.” Snape’s tone was dripping with disdain as he quickened his pace to keep up.
Of course, he wasn’t just following Hagrid for Dumbledore’s sake. He had a more practical reason: ensuring his potion ingredient supply chain remained intact.
“I’m not afraid of anything! I’ve got Fang!” Hagrid declared, tugging hard at the reluctant boarhound, who seemed far less enthusiastic about venturing into the Forbidden Forest.
Hagrid’s hand absentmindedly fiddled with the hem of his coat, adjusting it to ensure his battered pink umbrella, the thinly disguised remains of his broken wand, was completely hidden from sight.
“You think you’re tougher than Dumbledore, you great lump? This is a situation even he finds troubling,” Snape sneered, his wand ready at his side.
“Dumbledore can do anything! I’ll tell him you’re bad-mouthing him!” Hagrid growled, glaring at the potions master. He didn’t hide his disdain, not to mention Snape’s own questionable history as a former Death Eater.
“If you think that’s a threat, I suggest you swap brains with a Mountain Troll. It might actually improve your reasoning,” Snape replied coldly, his lip curling in amusement.
The two trudged further into the woods. The dense canopy overhead twisted and shifted, casting jagged shadows beneath their feet. But before long, both of them sensed something was amiss.
“What’s that smell? Burning? Something’s scorched!” Hagrid’s nose wrinkled in alarm. “I’d bet my last Galleon it’s those ruddy Centaurs trying their hand at cooking!”
“Or it’s a trap. Rushing headlong into trouble, how typical,” Snape snapped, his eyes narrowing.
The eerie stillness gnawed at him. Not a single creature stirred. The usual hum of the forest was absent. Even the low rustle of Acromantulas or the distant howl of wolves was nowhere to be heard.
It was unnatural.
Before Snape could voice his concern, Hagrid’s booming shout rang out, filled with disbelief.
“Western Dragon! Western Dragon!”
“Have you lost what little sense you had? Hogwarts’ Forbidden Forest doesn’t house Western Dragons. Even an idiot like you should know that,” Snape scoffed, but his sarcasm faltered.
Just then, a massive figure soared past them, wings beating powerfully.
A Dragon.
A magnificent, fearsome Dragon, its form wreathed in crackling flames.
“You reckless oaf! That’s Fiendfyre! Do you have any sense at all?” Snape roared, his face paling as he instinctively flicked his wand, yanking Hagrid back with a forceful spell.
The half-Giant tumbled through several small trees before crashing to the ground with a pained grunt. While it was undoubtedly a rough landing, it was clear that Snape had added a little extra force to his spell, perhaps with some lingering irritation.
“I-I knew that! ‘Course I did!” Hagrid stammered, hauling himself to his feet. His face was scratched, and bits of twigs clung to his wild beard, but the lingering fear in his eyes betrayed his bravado.
“Thanks for the help, Professor… Snape,” He grumbled.
Snape gave only a derisive snort in reply. His eyes, however, remained fixed on the sky above. Over a dozen fiery Western Dragons, forged from cursed flames, twisted and circled high above the Forbidden Forest.
“Dark wizards! There are dark wizards about, controlling Fiendfyre! What are they up to?” Hagrid growled, trembling with rage.
“Or perhaps,” Snape murmured, pulling a telescope from his robes and raising it to his eye, “There’s only one dark wizard.”
Through the enchanted lens, he spotted a figure standing on the head of one of the burning beasts. His blood ran cold. He had braced himself to see the worst— perhaps Voldemort himself.
But instead, the sight before him sent an entirely different wave of disbelief and fury through his veins.
“That arrogant brat! How dare he!” Snape’s voice erupted with rage.
Hagrid gawked at him in confusion. “Who? Who is it?!”
Back at Hogwarts, the commotion had not gone unnoticed. From the castle grounds, young witches and wizards had paused their lessons, eyes wide with awe and terror. The blazing Dragons were impossible to miss.
Even from the Astronomy Tower, students clutched their telescopes in disbelief, their chatter echoing through the stone corridors.
“Are those… Western Dragons?” A girl exclaimed.
In Transfiguration class, Daphne Greengrass’s startled voice rang out.
“Hogwarts doesn’t keep Western Dragons, Miss Greengrass,” Professor McGonagall responded sternly, though the flicker of unease in her eyes was undeniable. “I suggest you return your focus to your work and refrain from making absurd observations.”
Professor McGonagall had been guiding the young witches and wizards through their Transfiguration lesson.
Suddenly.
She noticed a cluster of students crowding around the windows.
“What on earth are you all doing?” Professor McGonagall frowned, prepared to reprimand them. But as she reached the window, her stern expression froze.
Above the Forbidden Forest.
A dozen dragons were soaring through the sky, diving and twisting with terrifying ease. The vivid blue flames crackling around them drew a gasp from the usually composed Gryffindor Head of House.
“Fiendfyre!”
She abandoned all thoughts of the lesson. Swiftly, she flung open the window and summoned her broom. Across the castle, other professors were reacting in much the same way.
The Defense Against the Dark Arts professor, however, was notably slower. He leisurely mounted his broom, looking amused as he joined the ranks of the other teachers. Professor McGonagall’s frown deepened as she addressed him.
“Professor Lockhart, the castle needs a professor to remain behind. We’ll investigate the matter and hope it’s not as dreadful as I suspect.”
As Deputy Headmistress, Professor McGonagall’s word carried the greatest authority in Dumbledore’s absence. Not even Gilderoy Lockhart could argue.
“Oh, absolutely! Staying put sounds perfectly delightful. I’ll keep an eye on the children… haha.” Gilderoy Lockhart chuckled, though there was a peculiar gleam in his eye as he gazed at the distant inferno.
“I mean, terrifying. Absolutely terrifying,” He quickly added, mimicking a sheepish Lockhart grin. The absurd display only made Professor McGonagall’s brow furrow further. But there was no time for rebuke.
With a series of sharp swishes, the professors soared toward the Forbidden Forest.
“Kids, isn’t that something? Fiendfyre, right before your eyes,” Gilderoy Lockhart commented as he entered the Transfiguration classroom.
The young witches and wizards crowded around the windows in awe.
“Merlin’s beard! Is that really Fiendfyre?”
“No way! How can Fiendfyre look like dragons?”
“Blimey! I reckon that could swallow ten… no, twenty of my uncle’s old broomsticks in one gulp!”
The students’ astonishment rang through the room.
“Bit of Transfiguration mastery at play, I dare say,” Lockhart remarked with a flourish. “Speaking of which, since we’re in Transfiguration class, perhaps I could step in? Teach you a trick or two?”
The students, however, showed no interest in the lesson. Their gazes remained fixed on the roaring spectacle beyond the castle grounds.
“That Fiendfyre… it can’t be,” Daphne Greengrass murmured, paling as she turned toward Aurora Grindelwald, who stood by the window with wide eyes.
Having recently dug into her classmate’s infamous family history, Daphne’s thoughts raced.
“It’s a combination of Paris style Protego Diabolica and Fiendfyre. It can be called a Controlled Fiendfyre!”
Her probing tone may have seemed subtle to her, but in a House like Slytherin, where alliances and whispers ruled the day, few secrets remained hidden.
“Grindelwald!”
“Merlin’s pants! Is it your family?”
“Did old Grindelwald break into Hogwarts? Is he planning to take over?”
“Will the school get a new name? Miss Grindelwald, do you think you could put in a good word so my father can stay on as a governor?”
The Slytherins erupted into chatter, each theory more dramatic than the last. Aurora, overwhelmed, turned instinctively to Lockhart, her head tilted in disbelief.
But before she could say a word—
“No! That’s not it! I’ve figured it out!”
A Gryffindor student suddenly slapped their forehead, eyes alight with epiphany.
“It’s the news! Remember this morning’s Prophet headline? The one claiming Headmaster Dumbledore has Veela heritage! That’s the truth!”
Gasps rippled through the crowd.
“Old Grindelwald must be here for Dumbledore! He’s come to kidnap him! All for love! It’s like something out of a romance novel!”
The Gryffindors nodded, enthralled by the scandalous notion. The absurdity of it all seemed perfectly reasonable to them.
Amidst the clamor, Aurora launched herself toward Lockhart, eyes burning with suspicion.
She couldn’t shake what she’d just witnessed.
She swore she saw it.
The Defense Against the Dark Arts professor’s hand had twitched.
That unmistakable motion.
She’d bet her wand on it— it was her grandfather’s signature wand-drawing move.
(End of Chapter)
You can read ahead up to 110 chapters on my Patreon: https://www.patreon.com/darkshadow6395