[Marvel's Hogwarts Professor] Chapter 436 - 440

Chapter 436

How Could the Killing Curse Fail?

Voldemort stared at Lockhart, who stood unharmed, with a grim expression.

He was no ordinary dark wizard.

As the Dark Lord, Voldemort's mastery of black magic was unparalleled. Among his many dark arts, the Killing Curse was his pride and specialty. His understanding of it exceeded that of Grindelwald or even Dumbledore.

For Voldemort, casting the Killing Curse was as natural as breathing. Where ordinary wizards required days to recover from the emotional and spiritual toll of casting it even once, Voldemort could unleash a hundred or more in a single day without hesitation, thanks to the Horcruxes that anchored his soul.

This proficiency made him a figure of terror. To most wizards, the Killing Curse was a forbidden weapon, used sparingly and with great cost. For Voldemort, it was merely a basic attack. Every strike was lethal, turning him into a symbol of death itself.

Over years of refinement, Voldemort had enhanced the Killing Curse beyond its original capabilities. His version not only obliterated the soul but also incorporated features such as unerring precision, magical tracking, and even resistance to Apparition-based escape.

For those unfortunate enough to face him, the curse invoked such primal fear that their bodies often froze, leaving them defenseless.

Confident in the curse’s lethality, Voldemort had willingly sacrificed his arm to ensure Lockhart’s defeat. Even if Lockhart survived one or two hits, Voldemort believed the cumulative effect would bring him down.

Yet now, he stood face to face with an impossibility: the Killing Curse had failed.

Lockhart met Voldemort’s astonished glare with a faint smile.

"space and time seperation," Lockhart said, his tone calm yet laced with an unspoken challenge.

The technique Lockhart referred to dislocated space and time, preventing any attack from the present moment from striking him where he was a second earlier.

This magic, derived from the Time Stone, was one of Lockhart’s most significant achievements. His brief encounter with the Eye of Agamotto had proven fruitful; there was no way Lockhart would let such an opportunity slip by.

The integration of time and space magic was no small feat, but Lockhart had amassed sufficient energy from these dimensions to cast such spells with remarkable efficiency.

While Voldemort seethed in disbelief, Lockhart took a moment to survey the battlefield.

The firestorm conjured by his students, known as Heavenly Fire Comes to the World, rained down relentlessly, like meteorites from the heavens. Werewolves and dark wizards scrambled in panic, dodging the fiery onslaught.

Despite the oppressive assault, Voldemort’s earlier conjuring of black mist had momentarily bolstered their morale. Yet with Voldemort now occupied, their hope began to falter once more.

The dark wizards frantically layered themselves with defensive spells, shimmering barriers of varying shades materializing around them. Werewolves, lacking magical abilities in their transformed state, relied on their instincts to evade the fireballs. Some even sought refuge beside the dark wizards, hoping their shields might offer protection.

"Protego!"

The sky above the square darkened as layers of gray magical barriers overlapped, dimming the fiery red glow cast by the falling fireballs.

Meanwhile, Dumbledore, McGonagall, and the other professors diverted their focus to the students. Concern etched their faces as they observed the scene.

The scale of the joint spellcasting astonished them. Although such magic held immense power, it came with significant risks. They knew too well that the slightest mistake could cause a catastrophic backlash, endangering the lives of the casters.

Snape, however, wore a faint smirk. Unlike the others, he understood the roots of this magic.

The joint spellcasting was a hallmark of Kamar-Taj, designed to combat dimensional demons. Lockhart, ever resourceful, had adapted the technique for wizards and rigorously trained his students in its execution.

Under the watchful eyes of the professors, the first wave of fireballs descended upon the square.

Boom!

The initial fireball collided with the gray defensive barriers, causing them to buckle under the force. Flames exploded outward, painting the barriers with a fiery hue.

One after another, the fireballs struck, their explosions sending sparks flying across the square. The dark wizards’ collective defenses held for the first wave, but it was evident the shields were weakening. Cracks began to spiderweb across the barriers, and the strain on their magic was palpable.

The werewolves, dementors, and dark wizards instinctively clustered together in small groups, seeking safety in numbers. Above them, the defensive barriers flickered ominously, barely holding under the relentless assault.

The dark wizards, desperate to regain the upper hand, began weaving offensive spells of their own. Dark magic rippled through the air, their curses and Killing Curses aimed directly at Ian, Vera, and the other Kamar-Taj students.

The werewolves, their muscles bulging grotesquely, let out feral roars and prepared to charge. Their eyes locked onto the students with savage intent.

The dementors, hovering ominously, exhaled icy breaths that chilled the air. The oppressive heat of the battlefield gave way to a sinister cold, the dark energy amplifying the effectiveness of the black magic.

Ian and the others felt the shift immediately. The magic in the air grew heavy, sluggish, making their spells harder to control.

Despite the mounting pressure, the students held firm. Above the square, the firestorm continued, hammering down on the dark wizards’ defenses.

Boom! Boom!

With a deafening crack, the defensive barriers shattered, and the remaining fireballs rained down unhindered.

The battlefield erupted into chaos as the fiery projectiles struck the square. It was now an all-out war between the wizarding students of Kamar-Taj and the Death Eaters.

Chapter 437

Boom! The Shield Shatters

Boom!
The defensive shield collapsed in a brilliant eruption of gray light, scattering particles into the air. Fireballs crashed onto the square, leaving massive craters in their wake. Heat waves and swirling dust expanded outward, consuming the battlefield.

The Death Eaters, who had quietly regrouped into strategic formations, began to execute their plan. For Ian and his fellow students, the sudden assault and counter-strategies of the Death Eaters proved challenging to manage.

This wasn’t mere luck or chaos—these were seasoned dark wizards, many with decades of experience. Their calculated actions reflected a tactical knowledge of powerful magic. They understood that once large-scale magic reached its peak casting stage, only a master wizard could alter or control it mid-process.

As fireballs rained down, scorching the square, the dark wizards strengthened their defensive spells. Their shields turned from shimmering gray to a near-black hue, pulsating with magical energy as they braced for impact.

Boom!
A fireball exploded on contact, unleashing a torrent of flames. The sheer force made veins bulge on the faces of the defending wizards, and some began bleeding from their eyes, ears, and mouths under the strain. Even with their robust defenses, the joint spell’s power was overwhelming.

Dust and heat waves spread toward the edges of the square, threatening the audience. Tom Riddle’s frown deepened as he raised his wand. The dark green barrier around the square flickered, and a gentle breeze swept through the air, dispersing the dust and neutralizing the heat wave. The battlefield became eerily still.

From the sidelines, Grindelwald’s amused voice drifted to Dumbledore’s ears.

"Albus, I must say, Lockhart’s talent for training students is quite remarkable. Who would have thought squibs could become wizards of this caliber?" His tone was laced with mockery.

Dumbledore ignored the provocation, keeping his focus on the battlefield.

But Grindelwald pressed on. "Have you noticed, Albus? These students’ magic resonates with one another, amplifying its power tenfold. I suspect meditation plays a significant role."

Dumbledore’s brow furrowed slightly as Grindelwald continued, his tone shifting to one of curious analysis.

"Their magic is synchronized—almost of the same nature. Meditation seems to have not only benefited squibs but has also brought profound changes to fully trained wizards."

Then, with a sly grin, Grindelwald added, "Imagine how the pure-blood families will react when they learn of this. And what about Hogwarts? Will you promote this meditation universally, Albus?"

Dumbledore’s expression hardened. Grindelwald’s words carried a dangerous truth. The ability to amplify magic through collective casting was revolutionary, far beyond what even veteran Aurors could achieve. For pure-blood families, who prided themselves on their magical superiority, this technique would undoubtedly become an obsession.

Shaking off the distraction, Dumbledore refocused on Ian and his fellow students.

On the square, the aftermath of the firestorm was evident. Scorched craters dotted the surface, flames flickering within and around them. Though the dark wizards had successfully resisted the worst of the attack, their pale faces and bloodied mouths betrayed the toll it had taken.

Several dark wizards cast spells, clearing the lingering dust and restoring visibility.

Woo! Woo!
A collective howl rang out as the werewolves, led by Fenrir Greyback, lunged toward Ian and the students. The dark wizards followed suit, ready to exploit the chaos.

Fenrir's lips curled into a vicious grin. Wizards were formidable at a distance, but in close combat, few could rival the raw power and agility of werewolves.

Ian’s voice rang out, calm and commanding.

"Top fifteen fighters, step forward. Engage the werewolves directly. Do not let them bite you."

Without hesitation, fifteen young wizards moved forward, their expressions steely. Behind them, Vera, Wanda, and the other students retreated, preparing to cast their next coordinated spell.

Ian and Remy led the charge. With swift movements, they clasped their hands together, conjuring long black staves etched with glowing red flame runes. These were special melee staves, designed specifically for Kamar-Taj-trained wizards.

The students’ wands vanished as they gripped the enchanted staves tightly. Their pace quickened, and they rushed toward the oncoming werewolves.

Fenrir’s eyes widened momentarily in surprise. Wizards engaging werewolves in close combat? Madness.

But his astonishment quickly turned to a cruel grin. If these students were foolish enough to step into his domain, he would gladly send them to their deaths.

Woo!

With a deafening howl, Fenrir led his pack, charging toward the students with lethal intent.

Ian met Fenrir head-on, his staff crashing down onto the werewolf leader’s shoulder.

Boom!

A burst of red light erupted from the impact, accompanied by a sickening crack. Fenrir staggered back, blood seeping from his shoulder as his bones fractured under the weight of the blow.

"Damn it!" Fenrir snarled, his golden eyes blazing with fury.

Ignoring the pain, Fenrir swung his claws at Ian’s face. The razor-sharp talons gleamed with wolf venom, a deadly toxin capable of turning a human into a werewolf with even the smallest scratch.

From the sidelines, McGonagall and the other professors gasped. Fenrir Greyback’s reputation was infamous, and Ian was just a young wizard barely out of his teens.

The tension on the battlefield thickened as the professors watched with bated breath, knowing the danger Ian faced.

Danger. Extreme danger.

Chapter 438

The Clash of Claws and Staffs

Whoosh!
Fenrir’s wolf claws sliced through the air with a sharp whistle, aiming straight for Ian’s face. The werewolf leader’s cruel eyes gleamed with malice, confident in his lethal strike.

But Ian’s gaze remained calm. The red, flame-like runes etched on his black staff flickered faintly, and the muscles in his arms tightened in preparation.

Boom!
The staff met the claws with a resounding clash. Ian redirected Fenrir’s attack with practiced precision, guiding the wolf’s claws away and sidestepping fluidly to the opposite side. His movements were as swift as they were calculated.

And then—crack!—the staff struck Fenrir’s waist with brutal force.

Fenrir grunted in pain. For all his strength and agility, the werewolf had not anticipated the deceptive technique. The impact sent a shockwave of agony radiating through his body.

Werewolves, despite their monstrous power, had an inherent weakness: their waists and abdomens were their most vulnerable points. Fenrir, as experienced as he was, couldn’t escape this biological trait.

The leader of the pack staggered to the side, his face contorted in pain. His bloodshot eyes darted to his waist as the sharp ache threatened to overwhelm him. His claws dug into the ground, barely preventing him from collapsing entirely.

Behind him, the rest of the werewolves were faring no better.

Thud! Thud! Thud!
The young wizards, fully aware of the werewolves’ weaknesses, struck with precision and force. Their enchanted staffs landed devastating blows to their opponents’ waists and abdomens, sending the beasts sprawling. Many of the werewolves writhed on the ground, their legs kicking feebly as they howled in pain.

The chaos gave the students no pause. With practiced efficiency, they raised their staffs, channeling magic through them. Red, flame-like chains materialized from the staff tips, growing longer with each flick of their wrists.

Clink! Clink!
The chains wrapped tightly around the fallen werewolves, binding their limbs to the ground. The beasts’ struggles were futile; the magic-infused restraints rendered them immobile.

The young wizards turned their attention to the remaining werewolves, who now hesitated. Their glowing eyes shifted nervously between their restrained comrades and the students who had taken them down so efficiently.

For a moment, the werewolves faltered, their aggression tempered by caution.

Then, Fenrir’s furious roar tore through the square.

"Kill them! Tear them apart!" he bellowed, his voice a mixture of rage and pain.

The werewolf leader’s command reignited the feral instinct of his pack. Those still standing roared in response, their hesitation replaced by primal fury.

Fenrir himself charged at Ian once more. This time, he abandoned brute strength, relying instead on his superior agility. His plan was simple: scratch the opponent, let wolf venom do the rest. One scratch was all it would take to ensure Ian’s demise.

Ian, having retreated to create distance, watched Fenrir’s approach with unwavering focus. A faint cyan glow enveloped his boots, and a gentle breeze swirled around his feet.

The Wind Walk Spell.

With a burst of speed, Ian’s movements became a blur. He darted toward Fenrir, his steps erratic and unpredictable. His staff swung in swift, precise arcs, clashing repeatedly with the werewolf’s claws.

Boom! Boom! Thud! Thud!
The sound of their fierce exchange echoed across the square. Fenrir’s claws swiped with deadly intent, but Ian’s quick footwork allowed him to evade most of the attacks. The few strikes that did connect were absorbed by the pale golden glow of his enchanted wizard robes, leaving Fenrir frustrated.

Meanwhile, each strike of Ian’s staff left Fenrir grimacing in pain. The red, rune-covered weapon seemed to burn his flesh with every hit, sending searing sensations through his body.

Fenrir growled, baring his fangs as he pressed the attack. Yet, deep down, frustration gnawed at him.

Are these students wizards or magical creatures?

Their combat style defied his expectations. Wizards were supposed to rely on spells, not engage in physical combat. But here these students were, fighting him and his pack in close quarters, armed with enchanted equipment that negated many of his advantages.

Fenrir’s eyes darted around the battlefield.

The scene was grim for the werewolves. Most of his pack lay defeated, their limbs bound by fiery chains. Those still fighting were struggling to land a single effective blow.

Fenrir’s attention was drawn to one particular student who was clawed heavily by a werewolf. For a moment, hope flared in his chest—until he saw the golden mask that appeared over the student’s face, completely shielding them from harm. The young wizard staggered but remained unscathed.

"Damn wizard! Damn wizard! Damn wizard!" Fenrir snarled, his voice a mixture of fury and despair.

The meticulous preparation of these students had rendered the werewolves’ most lethal weapon—the wolf venom—entirely useless. Fenrir couldn’t shake the suspicion that they had been deliberately prepared for this battle.

Still, he couldn’t dwell on the thought for long. Ian’s staff swung again, striking his already sore waist.

"Ugh! Stop aiming for my waist!" Fenrir roared in anger, dodging backward to regroup.

The battle raged on, drawing the attention of the spectators in the stands.

Tom Riddle, Grindelwald, and Dumbledore watched the students in stunned silence.

"Headmaster," Professor Flitwick finally broke the silence, his voice tinged with disbelief. "Should Hogwarts begin training students in close combat as well?"

Flitwick, a renowned dueling master, struggled to process what he was seeing. Wizards traditionally relied on spells, strategy, and careful positioning. Yet here was a group of students wielding staves, charging headfirst into physical combat with werewolves.

"I’ve only ever seen something like this among giants," Flitwick muttered, shaking his head.

Grindelwald leaned forward, a bemused expression on his face.

"Interesting," he said, his tone dripping with amusement. "Lockhart’s wealth is evident, outfitting his students with such formidable equipment. But training them to fight werewolves in hand-to-hand combat? That’s new."

The idea of melee-trained wizards was novel, even to someone as seasoned as Grindelwald.

A sly grin spread across his face as a thought took hold. "Perhaps I should encourage Durmstrang or Ilvermorny to explore this... innovative approach."

Chapter 439

The Chaos of Claws and Spells

Roar! Roar!

Near the center of the square, red flames flashed as enchanted staffs swung with precision. The furious howls of werewolves, mixed with the sharp whistling of their claws slicing through the air, filled the chaotic battlefield. Ian and the other wizards fought with unwavering focus, their movements a dance of practiced efficiency and raw determination.

Behind the werewolves, the Death Eaters began to advance, carefully maneuvering around the fray.

The werewolf battlefield was a cacophony of snarls, roars, and flashes of magic. Though the Death Eaters viewed werewolves as little more than expendable pawns, they were careful not to provoke the beasts. Casting spells indiscriminately might accidentally harm the werewolves, and given their feral state, there was no doubt that an enraged werewolf would turn on them.

The leader of the Death Eaters, Phineas, sneered as he observed the chaos. He couldn’t help but recall Lupin—the mild-mannered werewolf he once encountered—and how even he succumbed to madness on a full moon night.

Werewolves are filthy creatures, Phineas thought with disdain. They belong at the bottom, where they’ll always remain.

Yet, despite his contempt, Phineas adhered to the Dark Lord’s orders. The task was clear: eliminate the students. Those who killed the most would be rewarded with powerful dark magic.

Casting Disillusionment Charms, the Death Eaters split into two groups, flanking the square to encircle the remaining students. Their sinister smiles and whispered incantations promised a grim fate for their young targets.

Ga! Ga! Ga!
Phineas’ wicked laughter echoed as he crept closer. But as he rounded the battlefield, he froze.

Standing directly ahead was a group of wizard students, arranged in a tight formation. At their forefront was a young red-haired girl—Wanda.

Even though he was hidden by the Disillusionment Charm, Phineas felt her gaze pierce through him. A chill ran down his spine.

Impossible... she sees me?

Panic flickered briefly in his mind, but Phineas quickly raised his wand. Without hesitation, he began the incantation for the Killing Curse.

"Avada Kedavra!"

As the dark green glow ignited at the tip of his wand, something strange happened.

His throat suddenly felt raw, and he coughed mid-incantation. The glow dimmed momentarily before flaring back to life. The spell’s energy faltered, becoming erratic.

"Avada, cough, Kedavra!"

The incantation was completed, but the spell’s path veered wildly. Before Phineas could react, the curse struck him in the back. His body crumpled to the ground, lifeless.

Behind him, one of his own men stared in horror.

"I-I didn’t mean to!" the dark wizard stammered, looking down at the stone he had tripped over. His misstep had caused his own Killing Curse to strike Phineas.

The surrounding Death Eaters froze, their minds reeling. Before they could process the bizarre scene, several wands turned instinctively toward the "traitor."

"Traitor!"

Whoosh! Whoosh! Whoosh!
Five Killing Curses shot toward the unfortunate dark wizard, striking him down instantly.

The tension among the Death Eaters snapped.

"Wait—Top wasn’t a traitor!" one of them muttered, glancing uneasily at the fallen body.

"Could it be a curse?!" another suggested hesitantly.

The idea of a curse unsettled them further, though the absence of detectable magic made it seem unlikely.

As confusion spread through their ranks, Wanda watched from the opposite side of the square. A knowing smile played on her lips.

You wanted to kill me without paying the price? she thought, her brass-colored rings glinting faintly in the light. Master Lockhart’s magic and my talent say otherwise.

Wanda raised her hands, the rings glowing with a faint red aura.

"Assist as planned," she called to her fellow students. "I’ll support you!"

With a wave of her hands, red beams of light shot outward, forming a shimmering field that enveloped the area.

The students behind her cheered, feeling a surge of power. Under the influence of the red-tinged field, their wands became more responsive, their spells more potent.

"Petrifucus Totalus!"
"Expelliarmus!"
"Thunderbolt!"

Though the students used basic offensive spells, the amplification provided by Wanda’s field made them devastating. Each spell struck with double the force, their accuracy unmatched.

The Death Eaters, meanwhile, were in disarray.

"Cough, cough!"
"Avada—ugh!"

Their incantations faltered. Some found their magic veering wildly off-course, while others experienced sudden muscle spasms that disrupted their spellcasting.

Even those who managed to release their spells found them significantly weakened, their effects easily deflected by the students.

The field’s influence turned the tide decisively in the students’ favor.

Grindelwald, watching from the stands, leaned forward in his seat. His eyes gleamed with interest as he observed Wanda’s performance.

"Fascinating," he murmured. "There’s something about her... a familiarity."

He couldn’t shake the sense that her magic resonated with the threads of fate. Though it wasn’t pure destiny magic, it carried an unmistakable echo of it.

For a moment, Grindelwald allowed himself to imagine the possibilities. A talent like hers—probability manipulation—was rare beyond measure. To alter the likelihood of events, to shape outcomes with precision... it was a gift as dangerous as it was powerful.

Lockhart’s voice broke his reverie.

"Your Excellency, the Dark Lord," Lockhart said with a slight smirk, "it seems my students are performing admirably."

Chapter 440

Dumbledore watched Wanda’s performance with growing intrigue. Thoughts churned in his mind as he observed the battlefield.

Are there so many talents among Squibs?

Lockhart’s ability to gather and train such exceptional students was baffling. Not only had he identified potential in what others dismissed as failures, but he had also somehow awakened latent wizarding talents within them.

He glanced briefly at Grindelwald and Tom Riddle—two Dark Lords who had themselves unlocked extraordinary talents.

Grindelwald wielded the magic of destiny, an uncanny ability to see and manipulate the threads of fate. Voldemort, on the other hand, had mastered soul and dark magic, refining them to levels unparalleled in history.

Even Dumbledore’s own talents, inherited from his family, were formidable: top-tier wizarding aptitude, an extended lifespan, and the rare ability to summon a phoenix. These gifts marked the awakened talents of a wizard, elevating them beyond ordinary practitioners.

To awaken such talents meant securing a path toward greatness—if one could survive the journey.

His gaze shifted toward Tom, the younger and more rational counterpart of Voldemort. Though Dumbledore did not fully understand the phenomenon of two Toms, he could clearly discern that the one before him was more composed.

"Tom," Dumbledore began cautiously, "congratulations on regaining your sanity. However, I suspect your current condition is… unstable."

His eyes flicked toward Voldemort, the chaotic figure wreaking havoc on the battlefield below, the hint unspoken but clear.

Tom offered a thin, humorless smile. "Dear Headmaster, you need not concern yourself. My condition is excellent."

He gestured toward the battlefield. "Perhaps you should worry about your own. Lockhart appears to have exceeded your expectations."

Tom’s voice turned icy, his words laced with a pointed warning. "Kamar-Taj could become a formidable rival to Hogwarts. You wouldn’t want the legacy of Hogwarts esteemed institution to crumble under your leadership, would you?"

Dumbledore’s lips tightened into a faint smile, though his heart was heavy. He understood all too well what both Tom and Grindelwald had been hinting at:

Change is coming.

The wizarding world was on the brink of transformation, and there was no stopping it.

"Your Excellency, my students are doing well, don’t you think so" Lockhart remarked, his tone laced with mockery as he observed the chaos below.

Despite Voldemort’s relentless assault, Lockhart had effectively countered his every move. The time-and-space magic Lockhart wielded rendered him impervious to most of Voldemort’s attacks, allowing him to move freely and oversee the battlefield.

Voldemort, in contrast, was growing increasingly frustrated. His left arm hung limp within his robes, a casualty of his earlier sacrificial spell. His mind raced as he tested various attacks—soul magic, spatial manipulation, curses, and even mind-control spells—all to little effect.

Through his experiments, Voldemort detected traces of time magic entwined with Lockhart’s defenses. It was an unsettling realization; few wizards dared to meddle with such an unpredictable force.

Time magic, Voldemort thought grimly, his face darkening.

Lockhart’s taunt only further stoked his anger.

"If I cannot touch you, then I will destroy your students," Voldemort hissed.

His crimson eyes swept over the battlefield. The Death Eaters were struggling against the young wizards—a disgrace that ignited his fury.

Weaklings!

Voldemort turned sharply, his form dissolving into black mist. The dark vapor surged toward the students, intent on claiming vengeance.

Lockhart’s eyes narrowed as he watched Voldemort shift tactics.

"Voldemort, your enemy is me!" Lockhart declared, his voice cold.

In an instant, he dismissed his defensive magic and propelled himself forward, determined to intercept the Dark Lord. He had invested too much in his students to allow them to become casualties.

Voldemort, sensing his pursuit, turned and unleashed a Killing Curse with glee.

"Avada Kedavra!"

The green light streaked toward Lockhart, but he reacted swiftly. With a flick of his wand, he conjured a crimson shield that intercepted the spell, bending it away in a spiraling arc.

"Flaming Sword!" Lockhart called.

With another motion, a blade of shimmering purple flames materialized in the air, its surface inscribed with glowing runes. The sword shot forward, slicing into Voldemort’s black mist form.

The mist quivered and recoiled as the flaming blade struck. Voldemort’s incarnation began to flicker, momentarily destabilized.

The black mist, however, remained resilient.

Zhi! Zhi! Zhi!

The purple flames hissed and sputtered, unable to fully dissipate the mist. Instead, the sword hovered within the vapor, its runes glowing faintly as it persisted in its attack.

Clever, Voldemort thought bitterly. The sword hadn’t caused significant damage, but its presence forced him to maintain his mist form. Any attempt to reconstitute his body would leave him vulnerable to the blade.

This is a distraction, he realized.

Cursing inwardly, Voldemort directed the mist toward Lockhart, black chains of vapor lashing out in an attempt to ensnare him.

Lockhart responded by raising his wand high. A brilliant silver-white light erupted from its tip, spreading outward in a protective wave.

Roar!

A majestic silver lion materialized from the light, its ethereal form roaring fiercely as it charged into the black mist.

Lockhart’s Patronus met the chains head-on, its luminous energy countering the corrosive darkness. The battlefield was awash in flashes of light and shadow as the two forces clashed.