I couldn’t stop now. I stepped through, and the others followed close behind. The ritual chamber was exactly as I’d seen it in dreams and visions, yet somehow worse. So much worse.
The space was vast— easily the size of the Great Hall at Hogwarts, maybe larger. But where the Great Hall inspired awe and wonder, this place inspired only dread. Every surface— floor, walls, ceiling— was covered in runic inscriptions that seemed to writhe and pulse with sickly light. They seemed to grow from the stone itself, like veins of luminescent infection spreading through living tissue. Each symbol connected to dozens of others in patterns that hurt to follow, all of them leading inexorably toward the center of the chamber.
And at the center stood the Veil of Death.
I’d seen it, known about it of course. An ancient archway of stone with a tattered curtain that whispered to those who could hear it. A doorway into the sweet embrace of death. A mystery that had claimed countless researchers who got too close.
But seeing it in person, seeing it properly— that was something else entirely.
Where the others saw a simple stone arch perhaps fifteen feet tall with that strange, otherworldly curtain flapping despite the absence of any breeze, my accursed eyes perceived so much more.
Look closer. The whispers urged. See what they cannot. See what IS.
The stone arch wasn’t just stone— it was constructed from thousands upon thousands of threads, each one a different color. The threads intertwined and split at random, weaving through each other in patterns that seemed both chaotic and perfectly ordered. And the curtain itself— it was worse.
The threads that made it up were being pulled inexorably toward some central point, drawn into what I could only describe as an event horizon. They stretched and twisted as they approached that point, reality itself warping around them, and then they vanished into something I couldn’t quite perceive. But they didn’t stay gone. A fraction of a second later, they emerged again from the other side, shooting back out to resume their chaotic weaving.
An endless cycle. Souls being pulled in and spat back out, over and over, for eternity.
The boundary. The whispers explained, their voices almost reverent. The threshold between what is and what was and what might be. Life touches death touches life, forever and always. This is where we dwell, Sunderer. This is where you have always belonged.
“Adam?” Harry’s voice cut through my trance. “Are you alright? You’re staring.”
I blinked, tearing my gaze away from the Veil with difficulty. “I’m fine. Just… processing.”
Surrounding the Veil, arranged in a perfect circle, were the artifacts. The relics that Grindelwald had spent years acquiring, that had cost so many lives to gather.
The Eye of Ra sat on a pedestal to its left, the ancient Egyptian artifact glowing with inner fire. Its golden surface was covered in hieroglyphics that seemed to shift and rearrange themselves, and I could feel the raw power radiating from it even at this distance. The whispers told me it was seeing things— past, present, future, all layered on top of each other. Looking through it would show you truths that mortal minds weren’t meant to comprehend.
Death’s sight. The whispers said. It sees all endings, all beginnings. A powerful anchor.
The Mirror of Erised stood directly across from the Veil, its ornate golden frame looking almost mundane compared to some of the other artifacts. But I knew better. The inscription along the top— “Erised stra ehru oyt ube cafru oyt on wohsi”— seemed to pulse with each beat of whatever heartbeat drove this ritual. The mirror’s surface didn’t show reflections anymore. It showed… potential. Possibility. Desire made manifest.
He was clever. The whispers said, and I could hear grudging respect in their voices. The old one in gray. He understood that desire is a bridge— between what is and what could be. Between life and death. Between your world and ours. He channeled his want through the mirror, directing it into the Veil itself. Forcing the boundary to open wider.
I’d been right. That theory I’d developed months ago, trying to understand what Grindelwald was planning— I’d been partially correct. The specifics had been off, but the core concept was sound. He was using the Mirror of Erised to focus intent, to direct will itself into the Veil.
Scattered around the circle were at least a dozen Time-Turners, each one suspended in the air by invisible force, all of them spinning at different speeds. Some moved forward, some backward, some seemed to vibrate in place. The whispers told me they were creating temporal anchors, fixing this moment in time from multiple angles, ensuring that what happened here would resonate across past, present, and future simultaneously.
Cunning. The whispers admitted. If he succeeds, it will be as if the boundary was always open. As if we were always free. Reality itself will reshape around this moment.
There were other artifacts I didn’t recognize. A crystal sphere that seemed to contain a miniature galaxy. An obsidian dagger that left trails of darkness in the air. A crown of thorns that wept blood onto the stone floor, the blood evaporating before it could pool. A book bound in what looked disturbingly like human skin, its pages turning by themselves. Each one was a masterwork of magical craftsmanship. Each one was an abomination that should never have been created.
And each one was now inextricably linked to the Veil, feeding power into it or drawing power from it or both simultaneously.
But it was the figure at the base of the Veil that made my blood run cold.
Someone was chained there. A man, I thought, though it was hard to tell. He was bound by thick iron chains that seemed to sink directly into the stone floor, his arms spread wide, his head hanging low. His clothes were tattered and stained, and I couldn’t see his face from this angle. But I could feel the power radiating from him— or rather, being drained from him.
A sacrifice. The whispers said softly. Not dead, but not truly alive. Suspended between states, his life force being slowly fed into the ritual. The old one in gray needs a living anchor, you see. Someone to hold the door open from your side while we push from ours.
“Who is that?” I breathed, unable to stop myself from asking.
Several heads turned toward me, following my gaze.
“Merlin’s beard.” Sirius whispered. “Is that a child—”
“We need to move.” Dumbledore’s voice cut through the growing horror, sharp with urgency. “Whatever is happening here, we are running out of time to stop it.”
He was right. I could feel it in the air, in the way the runes pulsed faster and faster, in the way the Veil’s curtain seemed to billow despite the absence of wind. The ritual was approaching some kind of critical threshold.
I forced myself to look away from the Veil and the chained figure, to take in the rest of the chamber. Grindelwald’s forces stood arrayed around the room, positioned at what the whispers told me were anchor points— places where the ritual’s power concentrated before flowing into the Veil. There had to be at least forty of them, maybe more, all armed and ready.
And standing before the Veil itself, his back to us, his arms raised as if conducting an orchestra, was Grindelwald. His gray robes hung loose on a frame that seemed diminished somehow, as if the ritual was draining him as much as it was draining the chained man. But when he turned to face us, his eyes blazed with triumph and something approaching religious ecstasy.
He is giving everything for this. The whispers said. His strength, his very life force. He will likely not live to see the fruits of his labor.
What could be so important? Was he really throwing his life away?
No way. I thought to myself. The whispers have to be lying. Grindelwald always has a plan— always.
Still… It was beyond impressive. Grindelwald had somehow managed to gather artifacts from across the globe, each one a legendary item of power. He’d understood their fundamental natures well enough to link them together, to make them work in concert. He’d puzzled out the metaphysical properties of the Veil itself and found a way to force it open. He’d created a ritual that operated across multiple temporal streams simultaneously, ensuring its success would echo through all of time.
It was brilliant. Absolutely, horrifyingly brilliant.
And it had to be stopped.
Why? The whispers asked, genuinely curious. Why oppose something so magnificent? You see the artistry here. The elegance. The sheer audacity of vision required to conceive of this, let alone execute it. Should such work not be allowed to reach completion?
“Because it’s going to kill everyone.” I muttered under my breath.
Death is not the end, but the beginning. The whispers reminded me. You of all people should understand this— you have said these words, yourself, once upon a time. Death is merely… transition. Change. Becoming something else. What the old one in gray seeks to accomplish would simply speed that process along. Is that truly so terrible?
I didn’t have an answer for that. Or rather, I had too many answers, none of them satisfying.
The chamber itself was roughly circular, with the Veil at the center and seven massive pillars spaced evenly around the perimeter. Each pillar was carved with the same writhing runes that covered every other surface, and each one seemed to pulse in sequence, like a heartbeat made of stone and magic. The floor between the pillars and the Veil was sunken slightly, creating a kind of amphitheater effect.
The air in the chamber felt wrong. Too thick, too cold, charged with so much magical energy that my skin prickled just breathing it. Every breath tasted of ozone and copper and something else I couldn’t identify. Something that reminded me of the Forbidden Forest at night, of the moment between sleeping and waking, of standing at the edge of a cliff and looking down into darkness.
“Stay together.” Dumbledore commanded, his voice carrying clearly despite the oppressive atmosphere. “Do not separate. Do not engage unless absolutely necessary. Our goal is to disrupt the ritual, not to—”
“Albus.” Grindelwald’s voice rang out, cutting through Dumbledore’s orders. “How wonderful of you to join us. And you’ve brought more guests! How thoughtful.”
The way he said it— warm, welcoming, as if we’d arrived for tea rather than to stop an apocalypse— made my skin crawl more than anything else in this nightmare chamber.
He believes he has already won. The whispers observed. He is not wrong.
Grindelwald turned fully to face us, and despite everything— despite the horror of what he was doing, despite the lives he’d destroyed to get here— he looked genuinely pleased to see us. His gray robes shifted as he moved, and I noticed they were covered in the same runes that adorned the chamber. They pulsed in time with his heartbeat, or perhaps his heartbeat pulsed in time with them. It was hard to tell where Grindelwald ended and the ritual began anymore.
“Welcome, welcome!” He spread his arms wide, the gesture magnanimous, as if he were greeting honored guests rather than the force that had come to stop him. “I must say, I’m impressed you made it this far. The defenses were quite thorough, or so I thought.”
His followers remained at their positions around the chamber, wands raised but not casting. Waiting. The whispers counted them for me, analyzed their positions, noted which ones were guarding the artifacts and which ones were maintaining the ritual’s anchor points.
Forty-three. They said. Skilled fighters all. They hold the geometry of the working in place. Kill them, and the ritual destabilizes. But they know this. They will fight to the death.
“You’re wasting your time, Albus.” Grindelwald continued, his tone conversational. “The process is too far along to be stopped now. Even if you killed me where I stand, even if you destroyed every person in this chamber, the ritual would complete itself. The anchors are set. The bindings are sealed. The Veil is already opening.”
As if to emphasize his point, the curtain rippled— a movement I could see clearly with my altered perception. More soul threads were being pulled through, the cycle accelerating.
“If that were true.” Dumbledore replied, his voice calm but carrying an edge of steel. “Then why post defenders? Why station your followers at every anchor point? Why not simply let us enter and bear witness to your inevitable triumph?”
The corner of Grindelwald’s mouth twitched— not quite a smile, but close. “Because I’m not a fool, old friend. The ritual will complete, yes. But there’s a difference between completion and controlled completion. What I’ve built here is delicate. Precise. Your interference could introduce chaos into the equation. The Veil would still open, but perhaps not in the way I’ve planned. And that would be… problematic.”
He speaks truth. The whispers confirmed. The working is stable now, but fragile. Like a tower of cards, perfectly balanced. One wrong move and it collapses. But it still falls. Just… messily.
“Problematic.” Sirius snarled from beside me. “You’re trying to tear a hole in reality and you’re calling the consequences problematic?”
Grindelwald’s gaze shifted to Sirius, then swept across our group, taking in each person with that calculating intelligence I remembered from my time in his custody. His eyes lingered on Harry for a moment, then on Hermione, then on me.
“You know.” He said, his tone shifting to something almost contemplative. “I really must commend all of you. Students, Teachers, Magical Officers, Aurors, warriors from across the globe— you’ve all fought magnificently today. The casualties you inflicted on my forces, the tactical decisions you made, the sheer audacity of pushing through to reach this chamber… It’s genuinely impressive.”
He is stalling. The whispers noted. Every second he keeps you talking is another second the ritual progresses. But listen anyway. He reveals things when he speaks.
“Especially you, Adam.”
My blood turned to ice as Grindelwald’s eyes locked onto mine. Around me, I felt the others tense, their attention suddenly focused on both of us.
“You’ve come so far since our time together.” Grindelwald continued, his smile widening. “When you were with us, you seemed so… amenable to my overtures. Willing to listen. To consider possibilities beyond the narrow worldview you’d been taught.”
The chamber seemed to hold its breath. I could feel everyone staring at me now— Harry, Hermione, Sirius, Remus, Dumbledore. The weight of their shock was almost physical.
“What?” Harry’s voice was quiet, dangerous. “What is he talking about?”
They didn’t know. The whispers said, almost amused. You never told them. How interesting.
Of course I didn’t tell them— a spell stopped me. I thought. But now that it no longer bound me…
“Adam?” Hermione’s voice carried hurt beneath the confusion. “What does he mean ‘when you were with us’?”
Grindelwald’s expression was one of delighted surprise. “You didn’t tell them? Oh, yes, of course; the spell preventing you from speaking. You see, friends, Mr. Adam Clarke spent several weeks as my… let’s call it ‘guest.’ We had such illuminating conversations about the nature of magic, the boundaries between life and death, the potential for those with the right gifts to reshape the world itself.”
The silence that followed was deafening. I could feel the questions, the accusations, the betrayal radiating from the people around me. My friends. My family. All of them suddenly uncertain about whether they could trust me.
I took a step forward, my jaw clenched so tight it hurt. Every eye in the chamber was on me now— Grindelwald’s followers watching with interest, our own people watching with suspicion and confusion.
“My time with your people.” I said, my voice cutting through the tension like a blade. “Was unwilling. You kidnapped me. Held me prisoner. Fed me pretty lies and philosophical justifications for atrocities while your followers murdered innocent people.”
Grindelwald’s smile didn’t waver. “Kidnapped is such an ugly word. We provided you with an opportunity to see beyond the propaganda, to understand the true nature of— “
“You kept me trapped.” I interrupted, taking another step forward. My magic was starting to crackle around me, responding to my anger. “You had one of your fellows cast the Cruciatus on me. You tried to break me down psychologically so I’d be more receptive to your recruitment pitch. The only reason I’m not dead or corrupted is because I played along just long enough to leave.”
I could see it in their faces— Harry’s expression shifting from shock to fury on my behalf, Hermione’s hurt transforming into protective anger, Sirius looking like he wanted to murder Grindelwald with his bare hands.
“And as for your overtures.” I continued, my voice dropping to something cold and hard. “I’m not interested. I never was. Every conversation we had, every philosophical debate, every appeal to my supposed ‘potential’— it was all manipulation. Grooming. You wanted to use me, just like you use everyone else. A tool to further your goals.”
I stopped about fifteen feet from where Grindelwald stood, close enough that I could see the runes on his robes pulsing, close enough that I could feel the raw power emanating from the Veil behind him.
“I’m here to stop you.” I said flatly. “That’s all. Nothing you say, nothing you offer, is going to change that. You’re trying to destroy the world, and I’m going to do everything in my power to prevent it.”
For just a moment, something flickered across Grindelwald’s face. Disappointment, maybe. Or perhaps it was simply calculation— a reevaluation of variables in whatever mental equation he was running.
“Pity.” He said quietly. Then his voice rose, addressing the entire chamber. “I had hoped you might still see reason, Adam. That you might understand what we’re building here isn’t destruction— it’s evolution. The next step in magical development. But I see now that you’ve chosen your side.”
He is displeased. The whispers observed. But not surprised. He knew this was the likely outcome. He had simply hoped for something different.
Grindelwald’s posture shifted slightly, his casual demeanor falling away to reveal the calculating strategist beneath. His eyes swept across our entire force— fifty-three exhausted fighters against his forty-three fresh defenders and whatever other surprises he had waiting.
“Very well then.” He said, his voice carrying clearly through the chamber. “I suppose we do this the hard way.”
He didn’t shout the order. Didn’t need to. A simple gesture, his hand rising and then falling, and suddenly the entire chamber erupted into chaos.
Spells flew from every direction at once. Grindelwald’s defenders launched their assault with the experience of people who’d trained for exactly this scenario, their curses timed and aimed to create overlapping fields of fire that would force us into kill zones.
Down! The whispers screamed, and I dropped flat as three separate curses slashed through the space where my head had been a moment before.
Around me, the others were reacting. Dumbledore’s Shield Charm blazed to life, covering half our force in a shimmering dome of protection. The Auror commander was already shouting orders, trying to organize our people into defensive formations. Harry’s ancient magic crackled as he deflected a curse aimed at Hermione.
The initial exchange claimed lives immediately. An Auror I didn’t know took a purple curse to the chest and went down screaming. One of Grindelwald’s followers on the far side of the chamber was caught by a Blasting Curse and simply ceased to exist. A member of Mahoutokoro’s contingent fell, her body hitting the stone floor with a sound that would haunt me.
Move. The whispers urged. Standing still means death. The one to your left— he’s preparing a Bone-Breaker. Roll right.
I followed their guidance without thinking, rolling across the stone floor as the curse passed through where I’d been lying. I came up with my wand already moving, sending a Bludgeoning Curse toward the caster. He blocked it, but the whispers were already guiding me toward the next threat.
Behind you. Cutting Curse. Duck and counter.
Duck. The spell passed over my head, close enough that I felt the heat of it. Counter with a Stunner that caught my attacker in the shoulder, spinning him around but not dropping him.
His shield is weak on the right side. Transfigure the floor beneath his feet.
I did. The surface of the stone became ice, and he slipped, his concentration broken. My followup spell cleaved his head off.
The chamber had descended into absolute chaos. Spells ricocheted off the stone pillars, creating shrapnel that was almost as dangerous as the curses themselves. The Veil at the center pulsed with each death, the soul threads I could see growing more agitated, the cycle accelerating.
It feeds on this. The whispers noted almost clinically. Every death in this chamber strengthens the working. Grindelwald planned for this. Whether you win or lose, the ritual progresses.
“Wonderful.” I muttered, throwing up a shield as a Blasting Curse exploded near my position.
Dumbledore was engaging two of Grindelwald’s lieutenants simultaneously, his magic a thing of terrible beauty. Every movement was precise, efficient, each spell flowing seamlessly into the next. But even he couldn’t be everywhere at once.
A young wizard— couldn’t have been more than twenty— went down near my position, a Cutting Curse having opened his throat. He was drowning in his own blood before anyone could reach him.
The one by the third pillar. The whispers said. He’s maintaining the southeastern anchor. If he falls, that section destabilizes.
“How do I— “
You don’t. Not yet. Too many defenders. But mark him. When the opportunity comes, strike there.
I filed the information away, ignoring the potential reasons behind why the voices were helping me. Instead, I focused on staying alive, second by second. The Aurors had managed to establish an offensive line, but it was getting pushed back step by step. Grindelwald’s people knew this chamber intimately, knew every angle, every position, every tactical advantage.
And through it all, Grindelwald himself stood before the Veil, his arms still raised, his voice chanting in a language that made my bones ache. He wasn’t even fighting. Didn’t need to. His followers were dying to protect him, and every death just made his ritual stronger.
He has already won. The whispers repeated. He knew you would come. Knew you would fight. Knew that fighting itself would feed his working. Every choice leads to the same destination.
I pushed myself to my feet, using a chunk of broken stone as cover while I caught my breath. The whispers were a constant stream now, feeding me information faster than I could fully process it.
Three incoming from your right. The lead wizard favors fire-based curses. Shield won’t be enough— transfigure the stone between you into a barrier.
I did, pulling a wall of granite up from the floor just as a stream of white-hot flames crashed against it. The stone held, though I could feel the heat radiating through.
The second wizard is circling left. He telegraphs his casting by dropping his shoulder half a second before he releases. Watch for it.
Sure enough, the wizard’s shoulder dipped. I was already moving, throwing myself sideways as a Killing Curse passed through the space I’d occupied. My counter-curse caught him in the chest— he went down hard and didn’t get back up.
The third one is backing away. Not a fighter. He’s maintaining one of the anchor points. Let him go for now.
The battle was fragmenting, breaking down into dozens of individual duels scattered across the chamber. I could see Sirius engaged with two of Grindelwald’s followers, his magic creating barriers of golden light that deflected their curses. Harry was somewhere to his left, dashing forward and back and destabilizing his foes just enough for Sirius’ curses to hit.
Still, we were losing ground.
An officer from the DMLE near the entrance went down, a sickly green curse hitting her squarely. She didn’t even have time to scream. Another of Mahoutokoro’s warriors fell from his kirin, his body tumbling through the air before crashing onto the stone floor with a wet crunch.
Can you feel it? The whispers observed dispassionately. The boundary thins.
Indeed, I could feel it. The Veil pulsed, the soul threads I could see moving faster, being pulled through that impossible event horizon with increasing urgency.
I fought my way forward, trying to reach a position where I could actually threaten one of the anchor points the whispers had identified. A wizard appeared in front of me— tall, muscular, moving with the confidence of someone who’d survived a lot of fights. He didn’t waste time with words, just launched into an assault that forced me immediately on the defensive.
Diallo. I recognized the man. He’d grown since the last time I’d seen him, but he still moved about the same.
A Blasting Curse forced me to roll left, concrete shrapnel cutting into my cheek. I came up firing, but Diallo’s shield absorbed my stunner without difficulty.
Yep. I thought. He still overcommits to his offensive spells. Leaves himself exposed for a fraction of a second after each major casting.
I waited for it as we traded curses back and forth, neither gaining ground.
“No greeting, Diallo?”
He did not answer, and his following spells came fast and vicious, each one carrying real killing intent. No hesitation, no mercy.
I suppose I shouldn’t have expected one, with the speech I gave.
Another wizard joined him— Guffries. I recognized him instantly.
“Clarke!” Guffries snarled. “Don’t worry; we’ll make it quick!”
The curse he launched was purple and twisted through the air like a serpent. I barely got my shield up in time, and even then I felt the impact shudder through my bones. Whatever that spell was, it was designed to break through defenses.
Now I was fighting two opponents simultaneously. Diallo pressed from my right, his raw power forcing me to give ground. Guffries attacked from the left, his spells carrying a personal venom that made them even more dangerous.
Diallo first. The whispers decided. He’s the greater threat. Watch for his overcommitment. Three… two… now!
Diallo launched what looked like a modified Blasting Curse, putting real power behind it. For half a second— exactly as the whispers had predicted— his guard dropped.
I didn’t waste the opening. My Cutting Curse caught him across the shoulder, not deep enough to be lethal but enough to make him stumble. Before I could follow up, Guffries forced me back with a flurry of curses that left scorch marks on the stone where I’d been standing.
The three of us circled each other, trading spells, looking for openings. I was managing to hold my own, but just barely. The whispers guided me through moment by moment, warning me about incoming attacks, pointing out weaknesses in their defenses that appeared and vanished in fractions of seconds.
Guffries is too comfortable here, knowing that you’re being pushed. Use it.
Diallo’s footwork is getting sloppy. He’s favoring his injured shoulder. Push him right.
Both of them together— if you can force them into each other’s lines of fire, they’ll have to pause. Buy yourself three seconds.
I followed their guidance, transfiguring the floor beneath Diallo’s feet while simultaneously firing a wide-angle Stunner toward Guffries. Not accurate enough to hit, but enough to make him dodge right— directly into Diallo’s path.
They both hesitated, checking their fire to avoid hitting each other. Three seconds, exactly as promised.
I used those seconds to put some distance between us, repositioning near one of the massive pillars. My chest was heaving, my magic reserves running lower than I’d like. Around the chamber, the battle raged on with undiminished fury.
And then the world turned white.
Not metaphorically. Literally. The entire chamber was suddenly flooded with light so intense it burned, accompanied by a sound that resonated through every atom of my being— a deep, sonorous note that made the stone beneath my feet vibrate in sympathy.
Magic. Raw, primal, overwhelming magic.
The light came from two sources simultaneously, and even through my disorientation, I understood what was happening.
Grindelwald and Dumbledore had finally engaged each other directly.
Move. The whispers screamed urgently. MOVE NOW.
I threw myself behind the pillar just as a wave of force swept across the chamber. It wasn’t aimed at me— wasn’t aimed at anyone specifically. It was just the overflow, the excess energy from spells so powerful they reshaped reality in their wake.
The wave caught Diallo and Guffries, throwing them both off their feet. Caught half a dozen other fighters on both sides. Caught the air itself and set it on fire with magical discharge.
I risked a glance around the pillar, my eyes watering from the intensity of the light.
Dumbledore and Grindelwald stood perhaps thirty feet apart, and the space between them was a maelstrom of clashing magic. Every spell either of them cast would have killed me instantly. Every gesture sent ripples through reality itself. The stone floor was cracking, the runes on the walls burning brighter, the very air screaming under the pressure.
This wasn’t dueling. This was warfare on a scale I’d only read about in history books. This was what happened when two of the most powerful wizards who’d ever lived decided to destroy each other.
Magnificent. The whispers said, their tone almost worshipful. Look at them. Look at what they can do. This is magic as it was meant to be practiced. As it was practiced in the old days, before mortality and caution diminished your kind.
A spell from Dumbledore’s wand— something that looked like liquid light— crashed against Grindelwald’s shield and exploded into a thousand cutting fragments that scoured the stone around him. Grindelwald’s counter was a wave of darkness that seemed to eat the light, that pulled at the edges of reality itself.
Where their spells met, the world broke.
I don’t know how else to describe it. The air literally shattered like glass, revealing glimpses of something beyond— colors that didn’t exist, angles that couldn’t be real, spaces that were simultaneously vast and infinitesimally small.
The boundaries are so thin here already. The whispers noted. Their battle tears at the fabric further. They do not care. They have fought before. They know what they risk. They do it anyway.
The shockwave from another exchange knocked me flat on my back, my head ringing. Around the chamber, the organized battle had dissolved into complete chaos. No formations, no tactics, no strategy. Just desperate survival as titanic forces ripped the battlefield apart.
I saw a wizard— couldn’t tell from which side he was— get caught in the edge of one of Grindelwald’s spells. He aged fifty years in three seconds, his body withering, his scream cutting off as his lungs turned to dust.
I saw one of Grindelwald’s followers try to cast a curse at Dumbledore’s exposed back. The spell never reached him. It hit some kind of passive defense and simply ceased to exist, unmade at a fundamental level.
You need to move. The whispers urged. Staying here means death. The pillar won’t protect you from forces like these.
“Where?” I gasped, trying to get my bearings in the chaos.
Away from the center. Toward the edges. Find cover. Wait for the storm to pass.
But there was nowhere safe. The entire chamber had become a war zone where the collateral damage from two titans could kill as surely as a direct attack.
Another exchange. Dumbledore’s wand moved in a pattern too fast to follow, and suddenly the air around Grindelwald was full of golden chains that wrapped and constricted. Grindelwald’s response was immediate— a pulse of gray light that shattered the chains and sent fragments spinning outward like shrapnel.
One of those fragments— a piece of broken spell given physical form— embedded itself in the stone inches from my head.
Move. Now.
I scrambled away from the pillar, keeping low, trying to use the chaos as cover. Around me, others were doing the same. The battle between Grindelwald and Dumbledore had effectively halted the larger fight. Both sides were too busy trying not to die to focus on killing each other.
I spotted Harry crouched behind an overturned chunk of floor, Hermione beside him. They looked unharmed, but terrified. Understandable. We were all terrified.
Another spell— this one from Grindelwald— created a sphere of absolute darkness that expanded outward like a bubble. Everything it touched simply vanished. Not destroyed. Vanished. Erased from existence.
Dumbledore’s counter stopped the sphere’s expansion, but barely. For a moment, I could see the strain on his face, the effort it took to match Grindelwald’s power.
They are evenly matched. The whispers observed. In raw power, in skill, in understanding of magic’s deepest principles. This battle could last hours. Or it could end in the next second. There is no way to predict.
The chamber shook. Literally shook, like an earthquake, as another exchange of spells hammered at the foundations of reality. Cracks spread across the floor, racing outward from where the two wizards fought. The Veil pulsed, responding to the magical chaos, the soul threads I could see moving frantically.
The ritual. The whispers reminded me. Remember the ritual. While they battle, it continues. Every second brings it closer to completion.
They were right. Through the chaos, through the storm of magic that threatened to tear us all apart, Grindelwald was still conducting his working. Though he did not speak, his lips still moved in that endless chant. His hands still traced patterns in the air. The ritual had empowered him so much that he was fighting Dumbledore with maybe half his attention, and it was still enough to create devastation.
What would happen if he focused entirely on the fight?
You would all die. The whispers answered my unspoken thought. Instantly. He holds back because he must. The ritual requires his concentration. Dumbledore knows this. He is not trying to win. He is trying to distract. To buy time for others to act.
Which meant someone needed to act.
I looked around desperately, trying to find an opening, a weakness, anything that could be exploited. But the sheer scale of power being thrown around made it impossible to think clearly.
There. The whispers said suddenly. Do you see?
“See what?”
The third anchor. The wizard maintaining it has abandoned his post. He fled when the duel began. The southeastern anchor point is vulnerable.
I followed the whispers’ guidance, my eyes finding the spot they indicated. One of the artifacts— the obsidian dagger I’d noticed earlier— sat on a pedestal with no one guarding it. The wizard who’d been maintaining that position was gone, probably dead or fled..
It wasn’t much. But it was something.
I started moving toward the anchor point, using the chaos as cover, praying that neither Dumbledore nor Grindelwald would accidentally kill me with their duel.
Careful. The whispers cautioned. The one to your left— Diallo has recovered. He sees you moving.
I spun, wand already rising. Diallo was back on his feet, his shoulder still bleeding but his magic undiminished. And he was coming right at me.
“No you don’t!” He snarled, launching a curse that turned the air itself toxic.
I barely managed to conjure a bubble of clean air around my head, but it meant I couldn’t move. Couldn’t advance toward the anchor point.
Guffries appeared from somewhere, his vicious smile back in place. “Going somewhere, Clarke?”
I was trapped. The anchor point was maybe twenty feet away, completely vulnerable. But I couldn’t reach it. Not with two skilled fighters between me and my target.
Fight. The whispers commanded. We will guide you. Trust us. Trust yourself.
Diallo’s next curse was a sickly yellow thing that hissed through the air like a serpent. I deflected it with a Shield Charm, but the impact sent vibrations up my arm hard enough to make my fingers go numb.
His injured shoulder is affecting his aim. Two degrees to the right of where he intends. Use it.
I sidestepped left, and sure enough, Diallo’s follow-up curse passed exactly where the whispers predicted. My counter-curse forced him to dodge, buying me a precious second.
Guffries filled that second with violence. A Cutting Curse that I barely blocked, followed immediately by a Bone-Breaker that I had to roll under. The stone where I’d been standing cracked and splintered.
He’s getting frustrated. His form is deteriorating. Watch his wand hand— it trembles slightly before each major casting.
I watched. Saw the tremor. I transfigured the floor beneath his feet into ice just as he committed to a powerful curse. His footing gave way, the spell went wide, and I hit him with a Bludgeoner that caught him in the ribs.
Even through the sound of sickening snaps, I knew that this wasn’t likely enough to put the man down.
“You’re even better than before.” Diallo admitted, circling to my right while Guffries crawled away to my left, down but not out. “I knew you had potential, kid, but you’ve exceeded all expectations yet again.”
“I’m flattered.” I gasped, my lungs burning. “Let’s stop fighting and discuss it over tea.”
Behind Diallo. The pillar is weakened from the duel. If you can force him back against it—
I launched a series of aggressive spells, nothing fancy, just raw force pushing Diallo backward step by step. He blocked them all, but the whispers were guiding my aim, each deflected curse pushing him exactly where they wanted.
Now. Transfigure the pillar behind him. Make it collapse inward.
I did. The already-damaged stone responded eagerly to my will, chunks of it suddenly lurching toward Diallo’s back. He sensed the danger at the last second, threw himself forward, but it broke his concentration long enough—
Guffries’s curse, meant for me, caught Diallo in the leg.
Diallo went down with a scream, his leg bent at an angle that made my stomach turn. Guffries froze for a fraction of a second, horrified at what he’d done to his ally.
That’s your opening. Take it.
My Stunner caught Guffries square in the chest. He dropped like a puppet with its strings cut.
I stood there panting, my wand still raised, hardly believing I’d managed to take them both down. Diallo was writhing on the ground, his leg clearly broken, no longer a threat. Guffries was unconscious, maybe dead— I couldn’t tell and didn’t have time to check.
I need to move.
I started forward again, my eyes fixed on that obsidian dagger sitting unguarded on its pedestal. Twenty feet. Fifteen. Ten.
And then the world exploded.
Not metaphorically. The actual world, the physical reality around me, detonated.
The force came from the center of the chamber where Dumbledore and Grindelwald had been dueling. I had just enough time to see Dumbledore and Grindelwald launching spells at each other. The shockwave hit me like a physical wall.
I was airborne before I could even process what was happening, my body tumbling through space, the chamber spinning around me in a disorienting blur of light and shadow and chaos. I slammed into something hard— a pillar, maybe, or a chunk of debris— and the impact drove the air from my lungs.
Get up get up GET UP—
My mind was screaming, or was it the whispers? I couldn’t tell whether the panic in their voices or mine was the one driving me, at this point. I tried to obey, tried to push myself to my feet, but my body wasn’t responding properly. Everything hurt. My ribs, my back, my head. Blood was running down my face from somewhere.
I rolled left just as a wave of force passed over my position, strong enough to pulverize the stone where I’d been lying. I managed to get to my knees, then my feet, my wand clutched in a hand that was shaking badly.
I saw one of Grindelwald’s followers try to flee toward one of the exits. The doorway sealed itself with a sound like grinding bones, stone flowing like water to trap him inside. He screamed and beat at the wall with his fists, but it was solid. Unbreakable.
Grindelwald has sealed the chamber. The whispers confirmed. No one leaves. Not until the ritual completes or someone stops it. Or until everyone inside is dead.
“Wonderful.” I muttered, spitting blood.
Through it all, Grindelwald kept chanting. Kept conducting his ritual. His attention split between the fight and his working, and somehow he was winning at both.
A spell from Grindelwald— something that looked like liquid shadow— splashed against Dumbledore’s shield and began eating through it. Dumbledore’s response was immediate, the shield reforming even as it dissolved, but I could see the strain on his face now. This battle was taking its toll on him too.
The chamber shook again, harder this time. More cracks spread across the floor, across the walls, across the ceiling. The structural integrity of this place was failing under the onslaught of forces it was never designed to contain.
I tried to orient myself, tried to figure out where I was relative to where I needed to be. The anchor point. The obsidian dagger. If I could just reach it—
You can’t. The whispers said flatly. Look.
I looked. The path to the southeastern anchor was completely blocked now. A section of floor had collapsed, creating a pit maybe fifteen feet across. The edges were still crumbling, the hole growing larger by the second. Beyond it, I could see the dagger on its pedestal, still unguarded, still vulnerable.
Completely unreachable.
“There has to be another way.” I said desperately.
There are other anchors. All of them guarded. All of them defended by Grindelwald’s followers who know their lives depend on maintaining those positions.
A Death Eater— one of Voldemort’s people, distinctive in their black robes and white masks— appeared through the chaos. He saw me, raised his wand, and I was already casting before conscious thought caught up.
Our spells met in the air between us, red and purple light intertwining, and then the shockwave from another exchange between Dumbledore and Grindelwald hit us both. We were thrown in opposite directions, the duel abandoned as survival took priority.
I crashed into what felt like a wall but turned out to be another person. We went down in a tangle of limbs, both of us scrambling to get our wands up, to get clear, to not die in the next three seconds.
It was Sirius.
“Adam!” His voice was hoarse, his face covered in blood and soot. “Are you— “
Another shockwave. We both flattened ourselves against the floor as a wave of force passed overhead, so strong it tore chunks out of the ceiling.
“I’m alive!” I shouted over the chaos. “Barely!”
“Where’s Harry?”
“Over there!” I pointed toward where I’d last seen him. “With Hermione! They’re— “
The world turned white again. Then black. Then colors I had no names for. My brain couldn’t process what my eyes were seeing as Dumbledore and Grindelwald unleashed something that made their previous exchanges look like practice.
When my vision cleared, Sirius was gone. Not dead— just gone, separated from me by the chaos. I was alone again, surrounded by madness, unable to tell friend from foe through the storm of magic.
You need to get clear of the center. The whispers urged. The duel is reaching a critical point. When it breaks— and it will break— the release of energy will kill everyone within fifty feet.
“How do I— “
There. That gap between the pillars. Move quickly.
I didn’t argue. I ran, stumbling over debris, dodging falling stone, my lungs burning and my legs threatening to give out. A curse passed so close to my head I felt the heat of it. I didn’t look to see who cast it or why.
I reached the gap the whispers indicated and threw myself through it just as another massive exchange lit up the chamber behind me. The force of it sent me sprawling, but I was clear of the worst of it.
For a moment— just a moment— I had a chance to actually look at the battlefield and assess the damage.
It was catastrophic.
Maybe a third of the people who’d entered this chamber were down. Dead or dying or too wounded to fight. The stone floor was pocked with craters, slick with blood, littered with bodies I couldn’t identify through the chaos. The pillars were cracking, entire sections crumbling. The ceiling had multiple holes where spells had punched through the rock.
And the Veil—
The Veil was going insane.
The soul threads I could see were moving so fast now they were just blurs of color. The curtain billowed and twisted despite the absence of wind, and through it I could hear… something. Voices, maybe. Or the echo of voices. Or the memory of voices that had never been spoken.
It grows stronger with each death. The whispers said. Can you feel it? The boundary is so thin now. One more push. One more sacrifice. And it tears completely.
Harry was on his feet again, his ancient magic crackling around him in visible arcs of blue and white. He was fighting two of Grindelwald’s followers simultaneously, and from what I could see, he was winning. Hermione was beside him, helping where she could.
Tonks was rallying what remained of the Auror force, her voice hoarse but still carrying authority. Kingsley Shacklebolt was beside her, his Shield Charms protecting half a dozen fighters who were too wounded to defend themselves.
And through it all, Dumbledore and Grindelwald continued their terrible dance.
Another exchange. Another reality-shattering impact. Another wave of force that threatened to tear the chamber apart.
It cannot continue much longer. The whispers said. One of them will break. Soon.
“Which one?”
Unknown. They are too evenly matched. It could be either. Or both.
I had to do something. Had to act. But what? The anchor points were all defended or unreachable. The ritual was too far advanced to simply disrupt. And I was just one exhausted teenager against forces that made me feel like an insect trying to stop a hurricane.
You are more than that. The whispers said quietly. You know this. We know this. You have gifts that others lack. Connections to places and powers they cannot touch. Use them.
“I don’t— “
Yes, you do. You feel it even now. The pull. The resonance. The way the Veil calls to you specifically. That is not coincidence. That is not random chance. You are here, in this place, at this moment, for a reason.
Before I could respond, before I could even process what they were suggesting, the battlefield shifted again.
A new presence entered the chamber. Not through the doors— those were all sealed. This presence simply appeared, stepping out of shadows that shouldn’t have been deep enough to hide anyone.
Voldemort had arrived.
The Dark Lord didn’t announce himself. Didn’t need to. His mere presence was enough to draw every eye in the chamber, to make every fighter— on both sides— pause in their struggles.
He looked exactly as I remembered from our brief encounter in the preceding caves. Tall, with those terrible red eyes that seemed to see through flesh and bone to the soul beneath. His robes were immaculate despite the chaos around him, as if the violence and destruction simply didn’t dare touch him.
Broken. The whispers said immediately. Can you see it? His soul is shattered. Fragmented. He has torn himself apart in pursuit of immortality and remade himself into something that should not exist.
I could see it, actually. Not with my normal vision, but with whatever sense the whispers had awakened in me. Where a normal person had a single coherent presence— a unified self— Voldemort was fractured. Pieces of him existed in multiple places simultaneously, tethered together by threads of dark magic that pulsed with wrongness.
He waded into the battlefield like it didn’t even exist. A stray Blasting Curse from one of the Aurors veered toward him, and he didn’t even raise his wand. The spell simply deflected, bending around him like water around a stone.
Another curse— a Bone-Breaker from one of Grindelwald’s followers who hadn’t realized who they were attacking— met the same fate. Voldemort didn’t acknowledge it. Didn’t even glance in the caster’s direction.
His red eyes swept across the chamber, taking in the chaos, the battle between Dumbledore and Grindelwald, the desperate fights happening in every corner. And then those eyes found me.
My blood turned to ice.
He has not forgotten you. The whispers said unnecessarily. You are an interference. He has not forgotten.
Voldemort began moving toward me, and fighters on both sides scrambled to get out of his path. No one wanted to be between the Dark Lord and his target. Not even his own followers.
“Adam Clarke.” His voice was soft, almost gentle, but it carried clearly through the chaos. “How curious to find you here. In the heart of a working that will reshape the world. Tell me— do you understand what you’ve stumbled into? Or are you simply playing at heroism, like your friend Potter?”
I didn’t answer. Couldn’t answer. My throat had gone dry, my wand hand shaking despite every effort to steady it.
Move. The whispers commanded. Do not let him close the distance. He is far more dangerous up close than at range.
I started backing away, my wand raised, trying to put space between us. Voldemort smiled— a thin, cruel expression that held no humor.
“There’s no need to run.” He said, still approaching with that unhurried confidence. “This will be over quickly. I promise.”
His wand rose, the movement almost casual, and suddenly the air between us was full of violence.
The first curse was a Killing Curse— straightforward, efficient, meant to end the fight before it began. I threw myself sideways, the green light passing so close I felt the cold of it against my skin.
Counter now! While he’s committed to the first spell!
I fired a Bludgeoning Curse, putting everything I had behind it. Voldemort deflected it with a gesture, didn’t even need to cast a Shield Charm. The curse ricocheted off toward the ceiling, blasting a hole in the already-damaged stone.
His second spell was something I didn’t recognize— a wave of purple light that spread out like a net. I transfigured the floor in front of me into a wall, but the purple light passed through stone like it wasn’t there.
Roll left!
I obeyed without thinking. The purple light passed through where I’d been standing, and where it touched the stone behind me, the rock began to age rapidly. Centuries of erosion happening in seconds, the floor crumbling to dust.
“Impressive reflexes.” Voldemort observed, his tone almost approving. “You’ve improved since our last meeting. Someone has been training you well.”
He’s toying with you. The whispers said urgently. Testing you. Learning your capabilities. Do not let him dictate the pace of this fight.
I launched into an offensive, throwing every spell I could think of. Cutting Curses, Blasting Curses, Stunners, a Bone-Breaker, a conjured spear of ice, a Reductor that should have blown apart whatever it hit.
Voldemort deflected or dodged every single one.
He made it look effortless. His wand moved in minimal patterns, each gesture precisely calculated. No wasted movement. No unnecessary flourish. Pure efficiency born from decades of combat experience.
“Is that truly the best you can manage?” He asked, and now there was disappointment in his voice. “I had hoped for more. The boy who faced me before the Mirror had shown promise. But perhaps that was simply luck.”
Do not listen to him. He attempts to anger you, to make you reckless. Focus. Find the pattern in his defenses.
“What pattern?” I muttered, throwing up a shield as Voldemort’s counter-curse— something that looked like liquid fire— splashed against my defenses.
He favors his right side by approximately one degree. His shields are strongest in his forward arc but weaker behind. His casting speed increases when he is stationary but decreases slightly when he moves. Use these weaknesses.
I tried. Merlin knows I tried. I angled my attacks to exploit the weaknesses the whispers identified. Aimed for his left side, tried to circle around to attack from behind, timed my spells for moments when he was moving.
It wasn’t enough.
For every weakness I exploited, Voldemort adapted. Shifted his positioning, adjusted his defenses, countered my tactics before I could capitalize on them. He was reading my fighting style in real-time, learning from every exchange, growing more effective with each passing second.
He is too experienced. The whispers admitted. Decades of accumulated knowledge. Thousands of duels. He has seen every trick, every tactic, every desperate gambit. He knows what you will do before you do it.
A Cutting Curse slashed across my shoulder, cutting through my robes and into flesh. I hissed in pain, stumbled, and that moment of weakness was all Voldemort needed.
His next curse caught me square in the chest— not lethal, but devastating. It felt like being hit by a battering ram. My ribs cracked, my breath exploded from my lungs, and suddenly I was on my back, staring up at the fractured ceiling, my wand tumbling from nerveless fingers.
Get up. GET UP.
I tried. My body wouldn’t obey. The pain was overwhelming, every breath an agony, my vision swimming in and out of focus.
Voldemort’s face appeared above me, those red eyes looking down with something approaching curiosity.
“Such potential.” He said softly. “Wasted on such foolish ideals. You could have been great, Adam Clarke. Could have learned so much. But you chose the wrong side.”
“Odgo—”
With a careless wave, he Disarmed me. “None of that…”
His wand rose, pointing directly at my forehead. The tip glowed with sickly green light.
No no no—
Voldemort smiled. “The end, this time, is absolute for you, Clarke. Avada Kedavra.”
Time seemed to slow. I could see the curse forming, see the green light gathering, see death itself preparing to claim me. Could feel the whispers screaming in my mind, desperate, frantic, offering power if I’d just reach out and take it.
But I couldn’t move. Couldn’t cast. Couldn’t do anything except watch as the Killing Curse left Voldemort’s wand and streaked toward my face.
This was it. This was how I died. Not in some grand heroic sacrifice, but on my back, beaten, helpless, unable to—
The green light hit something and exploded.
Not me. Something between me and Voldemort. A piece of rubble that came from the side, exploding into a thousand shards.
Voldemort’s eyes widened fractionally— the most surprise I’d seen from him. He spun, his wand already rising to face this new threat.
“I think not.” A familiar voice said, and when the dust settled, I saw Gilderoy Lockhart.
“You—” I said, but was wracked by coughs.
“Me.” Gilderoy smiled a smile that didn’t reach his eyes— was that a hint of red in them? “Most of me, anyway.”
Seeing the thread above his body made so much sense now. I had seen it for most of a year, and was never able to understand— until now.
Voldemort regarded his unexpected opponent, and I saw recognition flash across his features.
“Interesting.” He said slowly. “I wondered where that particular fragment had ended up. Tell me— are you still Lockhart? Or has my younger self consumed you entirely?”
Lockhart smiled. “Both. Neither. Does it matter? I am what I needed to become. What I chose to become. Something more magnificent than either component alone.”
Impossible. The whispers said, their voices colored with genuine shock. A Horcrux does not merge with its host. It dominates or is dominated. There is no middle ground. This should not be.
“You were always arrogant.” Voldemort said, and now there was anger beneath his calm exterior. “Even the youngest version of myself. Unable to accept being part of a greater whole. Unable to accept that I am the original, and you are merely a shadow.”
“A shadow?” Lockhart’s laugh was cold, cruel, nothing like the vain showman I remembered. “Look at yourself, Tom. Look at what you’ve become in your quest for immortality. Broken. Fractured. More monster than man. While I—”
He gestured at himself with a theatrical flourish. “I am whole. I am magnificent. I am everything you could have been if you hadn’t been so afraid of death that you tore yourself apart.”
The temperature in the chamber seemed to drop twenty degrees. Voldemort’s face was expressionless, but I could feel the fury radiating from him like heat from a furnace.
“I see.” He said softly. “You believe yourself superior. How… disappointing.”
They moved simultaneously.
The duel that erupted was nothing like what I’d been engaged in. Where Voldemort had been testing me, learning my capabilities, playing with his prey— now he was fighting to kill. And Lockhart met him spell for spell, curse for curse, displaying magical knowledge and combat skill that should have taken decades to acquire.
The Horcrux contains memories. The whispers explained as I desperately tried to crawl away from the battlefield. Knowledge from when it was created. The younger Voldemort’s understanding of magic, his tactical instincts, his accumulated experience up to that point. Combined with Lockhart’s natural talents and his knowledge of modern magic— it makes him formidable.
I managed to get my hand on my wand, managed to pull myself behind a chunk of broken pillar that provided minimal cover. My ribs screamed in protest with every movement, and I could taste blood in my mouth.
But I was alive. Somehow, impossibly, I was still alive.
The duel raged on behind me. I risked a glance around the pillar and immediately wished I hadn’t. Lockhart and Voldemort were destroying the section of chamber they fought in, their magic carving new scars into already-damaged stone. Every spell either of them cast would have killed me instantly.
And through it all, Voldemort’s expression remained cold, calculating, utterly controlled. While Lockhart— or whatever Lockhart had become— fought with a mixture of competence and theatrical flair that was somehow more unsettling than Voldemort’s icy precision.
A body hit the ground near my position. Guffries. The young wizard with the vicious smile had apparently regained consciousness just in time to try attacking Lockhart from behind. His corpse told me how well that had gone.
Wait. No. Not a corpse. He was still breathing. Barely. His chest rose and fell in shallow, pained gasps.
Lockhart had subdued him. Hadn’t killed him. Had taken the time, in the middle of a duel with Voldemort, to use a non-lethal curse instead of simply obliterating the threat.
Curious. The whispers noted. The Horcrux retains some fragment of Lockhart’s nature. Or perhaps Lockhart retains enough control to stay his hand. Either way, it is a weakness Voldemort will exploit.
As if to prove their point, Voldemort’s next curse— aimed at Lockhart— deliberately passed close to Guffries’s position. Lockhart had to adjust his defense, had to ensure the unconscious wizard wasn’t caught in the crossfire, and that moment of divided attention cost him.
Voldemort’s follow-up curse caught Lockhart in the shoulder, spinning him around. Not a lethal hit, but enough to draw blood, to prove a point.
“You see?” Voldemort said, his voice carrying clearly despite the chaos. “That is your weakness, fragment. You care. You hesitate. You allow sentiment to cloud your judgment. I have shed such limitations. That is why I am the original, and you are merely an echo.”
Lockhart’s response was a flurry of curses so fast they blurred together, forcing Voldemort onto the defensive for the first time since the duel began.
“I am not an echo!” The thing wearing Lockhart’s face snarled. “I am not your inferior! I am the version of you that chose greatness over mere survival! Magnificence over cowering immortality!”
They are evenly matched. The whispers observed. The original has more power, more experience, more raw magical strength. But the Horcrux-fusion fights with passion the original has long since abandoned. Neither has a decisive advantage.
Which meant they could be fighting for a while.
Which meant I had a chance to act.
I pushed myself to my feet, my broken ribs protesting every movement. The chamber was still chaos— Dumbledore and Grindelwald’s duel continuing to reshape reality, fighters scattered across the battlefield, bodies littering the floor— but Voldemort and Lockhart’s confrontation had created a kind of dead zone around them. Everyone else was giving them a wide berth.
Where are you going? The whispers asked.
“The ritual.” I gasped, each word agony. “Have to… stop the ritual.”
You can barely stand. You have cracked ribs, possibly internal bleeding, magical exhaustion. You will not make it three steps before collapsing.
“Have to try.”
Then at least let us help. Draw on our strength. We offer it freely.
“Why?” I managed to ask, stumbling forward. “Why would you help me stop something that benefits you?”
Because we are curious. The whispers said simply. Because we want to see what you will do. Because the ritual as designed will open the boundary, yes— but in a controlled manner. Grindelwald believes he can bind us to his will. We would prefer to see what happens when someone with your… unique nature… interferes with his perfect plan.
I didn’t have the energy to argue. Didn’t have the luxury of questioning their motives. I just nodded, opening myself to whatever they wanted to give.
Power flooded into me. Cold, alien, wrong— but undeniably real. My broken ribs didn’t heal, but the pain receded to a manageable level. My exhaustion didn’t vanish, but I could move again. Could think clearly again.
Carefully now. This is borrowed strength. It will last as long as your body can handle it. Use it well.
I started moving toward the Veil, toward the heart of the ritual, past the dueling titans and the scattered fights and the bodies of the fallen.
I had no plan. No strategy. No idea what I would do when I reached the center.
Still, I moved forward.
No more running.
Yep. I thought.[not a thought, un-Italicize] He still overcommits to his offensive spells. Leaves himself exposed for a fraction of a second after each major casting.