[Marvel's Hogwarts Professor] Chapter 431 - 435

Chapter 431

Night, Hogsmeade, Hog's Head Bar.

The lively clatter of conversation mixed with the clinking of glasses, creating a vibrant atmosphere. Wizards and witches sat at the worn wooden tables, their laughter and chatter blending with the occasional scrape of chairs across the floor.

Behind the counter, Aberforth Dumbledore wiped glasses with a practiced hand, his weathered face betraying no emotion as he listened to the snippets of conversation floating through the air.

“Have you heard?” a gruff voice said from a nearby table. “The Death Eaters are cozying up to those damned purebloods again. Should’ve tossed the lot of them into Azkaban.”

“Shh!” his companion hissed, glancing around nervously. “Watch your mouth. You never know who’s listening.”

Aberforth’s hands paused briefly before resuming their rhythmic polishing. His brother, Albus, had already informed him of Voldemort’s reappearance, even asking him to gather information from the bar’s patrons. Yet Aberforth approached the task with his characteristic indifference. If he overheard anything useful, fine. If not, so be it.

The conversations around him continued unabated.

“Word is Sirius Black’s been rounding up werewolves left and right,” a younger wizard said conspiratorially. “I hear they’re working with the Death Eaters now.”

Another voice chimed in, tinged with skepticism. “Some say the werewolves are tied to the Dark Lord himself.”

“What? Isn’t he dead?”

“Who knows? That’s just what I’ve heard.”

Aberforth’s frown deepened as he pondered the implications. The thought of Voldemort allying with the werewolves sent a chill through him. His brother’s machinations often seemed too far-reaching, but in this case, Aberforth felt the weight of an impending storm.

And what about Ian? he wondered suddenly. Ian, one of the young wizards Lockhart had recruited, had vanished from the public eye along with many others. Studying in secret somewhere, no doubt.

A burst of laughter from the corner brought his attention back.

“Do you know the name of Lockhart’s new school?” someone asked loudly. “The Daily Prophet keeps praising it, but they’ve been so tight-lipped about the details.”

“Don’t call him ‘Professor’ anymore—he’s a ‘Principal’ now,” another quipped, prompting laughter around the table.

“Who would’ve thought we’d have another principal in Britain before Dumbledore stepped down?” an older wizard remarked. “For centuries, it was just Hogwarts. I thought it’d stay that way forever.”

The conversation turned speculative, with guesses about Dumbledore’s opinion of the new school. Aberforth suppressed a snort. He could almost hear his brother’s thoughts: Let Lockhart handle Voldemort, Grindelwald, and whatever else comes next.

For Albus, Lockhart’s emergence as a power player was a stroke of fortune, another chess piece to manipulate.

Aberforth poured himself a drink, his mind heavy with foreboding. Chaos was brewing. The simultaneous reappearances of Grindelwald and Voldemort heralded a storm unlike anything the wizarding world had faced. If the two dark lords joined forces, the consequences would be catastrophic.

The chatter continued, but a new voice caught Aberforth’s attention.

“Something strange happened recently,” a young wizard declared, his tone smug.

“What now?” his companion asked, feigning patience.

“Magical creatures swallowing land,” the young wizard replied, lowering his voice dramatically. “They say entire areas vanish—forests, fields—completely gone.”

“Come off it,” the other wizard scoffed. “That’s just a rumor.”

“I saw it with my own eyes!” the young wizard insisted. “A forest disappeared right in front of me. They say there were elves living there, and they’re all gone now.”

Aberforth’s frown deepened. Magical creatures devouring land? He made a mental note to write to Newt Scamander. If this was true, it couldn’t bode well—especially if it tied back to Voldemort.

The Forbidden Forest

Lockhart hovered mid-air, surveying the dense greenery below. Beside him, Sunny, his loyal, spherical magical companion, perched on his shoulder, its tiny eyes gleaming with excitement.

“Gu! Gu!” it chirped, pointing eagerly at a patch of lush green grass.

Lockhart chuckled, gently stroking the creature’s furry head. “Green velvet grass again? You really can’t resist, can you?”

Sunny nodded enthusiastically, recalling fond memories of its favorite treat.

Lockhart closed his eyes momentarily, extending his mental awareness to the secret realm. The Hufflepuff Gold Cup, nestled at its core, allowed the realm to move with him, a remarkable advantage. Though the realm’s location would eventually be fixed, the golden cup would make creating portals from anywhere in the world effortless—a feature even Hogwarts lacked.

The thought brought a small smile to his lips.

He reopened his eyes, his gaze sweeping the forest below. He hadn’t come here for leisure. The Forbidden Forest’s rich biodiversity was vital for populating the fledgling secret realm. His goal was to replicate a miniature version of the forest, complete with its magical ecosystem, for the students of his school.

Lockhart extended his wand, channeling his magic to probe the area. Rich veins of magical energy and vibrant life forms shimmered in his mind’s eye. Perfect, he thought.

“This place will do nicely,” he murmured, his voice carrying a tone of satisfaction.

Sunny chirped in agreement, its small body practically vibrating with excitement.

Lockhart’s eyes glinted with determination. The Forbidden Forest would serve as the blueprint for his secret realm’s own magical reserve—a place for students to explore, learn, and grow. With the tools at his disposal, the possibilities were limitless.

Hogwarts owed much of its success in teaching potions to the abundant resources of the Forbidden Forest. Even the simplest potion ingredients, though individually inexpensive, would cost a fortune when scaled to hundreds of students. Without the forest’s bounty, the Potions class might have become an elective—or disappeared entirely.

Lockhart intended to replicate this model for his own school. His vision was clear: every wizard, regardless of their background, would have the opportunity to learn and practice potion-making. However, unlike Hogwarts, Lockhart had no intention of wasting resources indiscriminately.

As his school matured, resources would be allocated strategically, prioritizing those with exceptional talent. His ambition wasn’t limited to creating competent potion-makers. He dreamed of training the next Snape, another Horace Slughorn, or perhaps even a second Newt Scamander or Nicolas Flamel.

The thought made Lockhart smile. The idea of nurturing a new generation of extraordinary wizards and witches filled him with satisfaction.

Unlike others who sought dominance through singular power, Lockhart believed in collaboration. He saw the collective wisdom and innovation of many as the key to achieving his goals.

For instance, he planned to refine the meditation method further, adapting it specifically for wizards. He envisioned new spells, magical theories, and large-scale enchantments born from shared effort.

While Kamar-Taj’s magic was remarkable, much of it depended on the power of the Vishanti—a reliance Lockhart found unsettling. Transforming such magic into something universally accessible required collaborative research. He refused to become dependent on external forces, vowing instead to build something lasting and self-sufficient.

As the breeze rustled the leaves around him, Lockhart’s focus sharpened.

Buzz!

The space within a several-kilometer radius began to ripple and distort. Trees, soil, and countless animals vanished into the distortion. Moments later, a deep crater replaced the vibrant forest.

Far away, within the secret realm, a new forest appeared. Its trees swayed gently, and the animals within chirped and rustled, startled by their sudden relocation. Everything about their new environment—the magic in the air, the light, even the ground—was different.

Lockhart paid little attention to the scene. By now, he was accustomed to it. Over the past few days, he had traversed Britain and beyond, gathering magical resources and creatures for his secret realm.

The realm was his future base of operations, and perfection was non-negotiable.

Standing at the edge of the fresh crater, Lockhart raised his wand. With a series of precise movements, the surrounding soil began to shift, filling in the void. Slowly but surely, the land returned to its natural state.

To ensure it blended seamlessly, Lockhart scattered seeds across the area and cast a series of growth-accelerating spells. Grass, shrubs, and even young trees sprouted rapidly, covering the ground. Soon, the area looked almost untouched—save for the eerie silence.

Lockhart nodded in satisfaction. Leaving such an obvious mark would have been reckless.

His work was far from done. The Forbidden Forest held countless treasures, and he intended to use as many as possible to complete his secret realm. The opening of his school was fast approaching, and time was of the essence.

Malfoy Manor, Study

The night was quiet, and Tom Riddle stood by the window, gazing out at the darkened grounds of Malfoy Manor.

The manor, a testament to Lucius Malfoy’s wealth and status, was well-maintained and imposing. It served as their current base of operations, though Tom found its grandeur suffocating at times.

Yew wand in hand, he turned to face the open space in the center of the study.

“I didn’t expect you to show yourself so soon,” Tom said, his voice calm yet pointed. “Aren’t you afraid I’ll devour you?”

From the shadows, a pale figure emerged. Its smooth, hairless skin and slitted, nostril-less face were unmistakable—it was Voldemort.

The two stared at one another, their contrasting appearances a study in duality.

Tom, dressed in an elegant dark green robe, looked youthful and composed. His calm demeanor hinted at restrained power and quiet confidence.

Voldemort, on the other hand, exuded menace. Clad in a black robe, his twisted features and restless energy conveyed danger and madness.

“You must have sensed it,” Voldemort hissed, his tone laced with anger. “Someone is using a Horcrux to curse us.”

Tom’s expression didn’t falter. “So?” he asked coolly. “What do you intend to do about it?”

Voldemort’s gaze flicked over Tom, noting the layers of protective magic surrounding him—similar to his own. A sneer curled his lips.

“It’s not just my problem,” Voldemort said sharply. “It’s ours. Lockhart has the Horcrux, and he’s clearly skilled with curses. If we don’t act, he’ll use it to expose our traces—or worse, claim the other Horcruxes.”

The admission clearly cost Voldemort, his face twisting with suppressed rage.

“I don’t know how you severed your soul,” he spat, “but it’s clear you’re not immune to this curse.”

Tom remained unfazed. “And what do you propose?”

Voldemort’s lips curled into a cold smile. “Lockhart’s opening ceremony is approaching. We will strike there. He, his students, his allies—they will all perish.”

Tom’s expression didn’t change, but his eyes glinted with interest.

“We’ll gather our forces,” Voldemort continued. “With the two of us united, the British wizarding world will crumble. Once Dumbledore and Lockhart are dead, we can settle things between ourselves.”

Chapter 432

January 20, 1993, Diagon Alley.

Diagon Alley was bustling with energy, its usual liveliness elevated to a fever pitch. Wizards and witches crowded the cobblestone streets, their focus not on the shops but on a new, awe-inspiring addition near Gringotts.

Next to the imposing wizarding bank stood a portal, unlike anything most had ever seen.

The base of the portal glowed with intricate red flame-like patterns, their designs radiating spatial magic. The fiery red lines stretched upward, forming the frame of the portal, through which an entirely different world could be glimpsed. Beyond the portal lay a verdant green field, with a straight road leading to an array of towering buildings.

This was the gateway to Lockhart’s wizarding secret realm, unveiled for the grand opening ceremony of his school.

A young man in a regal purple-and-gold wizard robe stood beside the portal, a friendly smile on his face. Though youthful, he exuded a quiet strength. He was Hobbes Rom, one of Lockhart’s students—a Squib who had become a wizard through the meditation method.

Many pure-blood wizards eyed him curiously, some even tempted to engage him in conversation. However, the excitement of the opening ceremony took precedence, and most chose to step through the portal without delay.

The portal itself drew more than a few stares. Wizards accustomed to using Floo powder or Portkeys marveled at its advanced craftsmanship.

Hobbes maintained his calm demeanor, only moving his wand when necessary—such as when a half-giant or unusually large wizard approached, requiring the portal to expand momentarily to accommodate them.

At the far end of the street, a commotion arose. Heads turned as the crowd parted to let a group of distinguished figures through.

“Dumbledore! That’s Principal Dumbledore!” someone exclaimed.

“Look, there’s Professor McGonagall—and Professor Snape too!”

The murmurs grew louder as the Hogwarts contingent made their way toward the portal.

Dumbledore, ever affable, greeted those around him with polite words and a warm smile. Walking alongside him were Professors McGonagall, Snape, and several other Hogwarts staff members.

“Albus,” McGonagall said with mild exasperation, “are you certain Lockhart told you everything about this ceremony? He was so secretive about the details. We could’ve taken the Thestral carriage and saved some trouble.”

Dumbledore chuckled. “Minerva, I assure you, I asked. Lockhart insisted on secrecy, promising a ‘grand surprise.’ I thought it best to indulge him. Besides,” he added, his tone light, “we’re not the only ones entering this way. Guests from the Ministry and other schools are doing the same.”

Snape’s expression darkened slightly, though he said nothing.

He recalled Lockhart’s explanation during one of their conversations. The secrecy wasn’t just about the nature of the secret realm; it was about control. Lockhart had deliberately designed the event to ensure that everyone—no matter their status—would enter through the same portal, effectively eliminating any grand entrances or displays of power.

Snape had his suspicions about Lockhart’s motives. Was this about avoiding ostentation, or was there a deeper, more calculated reason?

For now, he kept his thoughts to himself.

When they reached the portal, Dumbledore turned his attention to Hobbes.

“Are you one of Lockhart’s students?” Dumbledore asked kindly, his blue eyes twinkling.

“Yes, Principal Dumbledore,” Hobbes replied with a slight bow. “My name is Hobbes Rom.”

Dumbledore smiled warmly but noted Hobbes’s brief hesitation as he glanced at Snape.

McGonagall raised an eyebrow, curious. “How long have you been studying under Lockhart, Mr. Rom? You seem… quite adept for someone so young.”

Dumbledore added gently, “Were you a Squib before?”

Hobbes nodded, though his expression turned cautious. “Yes, Professor. But I’ve been training under Principal Lockhart for some time now. The meditation method has changed everything for me.”

As Dumbledore observed him more closely, a wave of astonishment passed through him. In less than half a year, this former Squib had acquired magical abilities comparable to a sixth- or seventh-year Hogwarts student.

Even more remarkable, Hobbes’s aura carried an unmistakable edge—a trace of battle experience.

If he faced a senior student from Hogwarts in a duel, Dumbledore thought, it’s not certain who would prevail.

The implications were staggering. Could Lockhart have been training Squibs in secret long before introducing the meditation method?

Before Dumbledore could inquire further, Hobbes spoke, his tone apologetic. “I’m sorry, Principal Dumbledore, but our headmaster instructed us not to share certain details. You’ll need to ask him directly.”

Dumbledore’s smile didn’t falter, but his curiosity deepened. The boy had referred to Lockhart as “headmaster” with unmistakable pride.

Subtly, Dumbledore attempted to use Legilimency to glimpse Hobbes’s thoughts.

But the moment he began, he encountered resistance. It wasn’t traditional Occlumency—it was something entirely new. A defensive magic seemed embedded deep within Hobbes’s mind, preventing external intrusion.

Fascinating—and unsettling.

“Very well,” Dumbledore said, stepping back with a smile. “Let us not delay any further. Minerva, shall we?”

McGonagall gave a curt nod, and the group stepped through the portal.

Dumbledore stepped through the portal, his senses immediately struck by the shift in atmosphere. The temperature was perfect, the air fresh and invigorating. Even the magic that suffused the environment was notably richer than anything he’d encountered in Britain.

A lush green grassland stretched out before him, bordered by various biomes—forests, swamps, deserts, and even an ocean visible in the distance. The sheer diversity of the landscape was startling.

Where is this place? Dumbledore wondered. It couldn’t be in the United Kingdom. Such an abundant and magical environment would certainly have been documented.

His gaze turned skyward, and his sharp eyes caught a peculiar detail: the sun. It wasn’t natural—it was constructed, a brilliant feat of magic. His pupils narrowed as he processed the implications.

This is not part of the natural world.

Dumbledore unleashed his mental powers, allowing his magical senses to extend outward. What he discovered left him reeling. This space was sealed by an enormous barrier, reminiscent of the interior of an enchanted suitcase, yet vastly more advanced.

This isn’t just an expansion charm—it’s a fully functioning, self-contained world.

Snape, McGonagall, and the other professors were equally captivated. While they lacked Dumbledore’s depth of insight, they too were struck by the environment's peculiarities.

Professor Flitwick voiced what many were thinking. “Minerva, have you ever seen anything like this? Forests, grasslands, deserts, swamps, and an ocean—all in one place?”

McGonagall shook her head. “No, Filius. This is beyond anything I’ve encountered. I suppose we’ll have to ask Lockhart when we see him.”

Dumbledore composed himself and began leading the group down the path toward the distant buildings. His mind churned with questions, but he kept them to himself.

The walk wasn’t long, and soon the Hogwarts professors reached the gates of Lockhart’s school.

A group of Lockhart’s students stood at the entrance, ready to guide new arrivals to the ceremony. Each student radiated confidence and poise, answering questions from curious guests with practiced ease.

As they approached, a young woman stepped forward to greet them.

“Principal Dumbledore, professors,” she said warmly, “welcome. I am Vera, a student of Teacher Lockhart. You can call me Vera.”

McGonagall studied the girl with interest. Vera was young, about the age of a seventh-year student, but there was a maturity in her demeanor that belied her years.

“The tutor instructed me to personally escort you to your seats,” Vera continued, smiling. “If you need anything, please let me know.”

McGonagall returned the smile. “Thank you, Vera. We appreciate your help. Where is the ceremony being held?”

“In the central square, just beyond the main buildings,” Vera replied, gesturing toward the path ahead. “Teacher Lockhart has reserved special seats for you at the front.”

As Vera led the group, Dumbledore’s sharp eyes scanned his surroundings. The layout of the school was vastly different from Hogwarts.

The campus sprawled far beyond the size of their own castle grounds, with buildings spread out across the landscape. Each structure had a distinct design and emanated a unique magical aura. Some were serene and inviting, others dark and foreboding.

Every building seemed to serve a specific purpose—teaching, combat training, divination, and more.

What struck Dumbledore most, however, was the atmosphere. The students here, from the youngest to the oldest, carried themselves differently. They were alert, almost on edge, their movements precise and purposeful.

This is not the relaxed, exploratory environment of Hogwarts, Dumbledore noted grimly. These students are being trained for something far more intense.

The group soon arrived at the central square.

The space resembled the Hogwarts Quidditch pitch but was significantly larger. A grassy field lay at its center, with a raised platform for speakers and performers. Surrounding the field were tiered seats, already filling with wizards and witches from around the world.

Vera gestured toward the front row. “Principal Dumbledore, professors, these are your seats. Teacher Lockhart has reserved them for you.”

Nearby, Dumbledore recognized several familiar faces—Cornelius Fudge, the Minister of Magic; Madame Maxime, the headmistress of Beauxbatons; and other prominent figures in the wizarding world.

“Thank you, Vera,” Dumbledore said warmly. “You’ve been most kind.”

Vera inclined her head. “It’s my pleasure. If you’ll excuse me, I must assist the other guests.”

As Vera left, Dumbledore and the professors took their seats, their attention drawn to the growing crowd. Conversations buzzed around them, nearly all focused on Lockhart’s mysterious school.

“This is extraordinary,” Flitwick murmured, glancing around. “I had no idea Lockhart was capable of something on this scale.”

“Neither did I,” McGonagall admitted, her tone contemplative. “There’s more to him than meets the eye.”

Dumbledore said nothing, though his piercing blue eyes scanned the surroundings. He sensed layers of intention behind every detail of this event, each one meticulously crafted to make an impression.

Boom! Boom! Boom!

The sound of fireworks erupted above the square, drawing everyone’s attention skyward. Colorful explosions painted the sky, forming glowing words that hovered in midair:

Kamar-Taj Opening Ceremony

Lockhart’s voice rang out, resonant and clear, amplified by magic to reach every corner of the square.

“I am Gilderoy Lockhart, and I welcome you all to the grand opening of Kamar-Taj.”

The crowd erupted into applause, their anticipation palpable.

Chapter 433

50 Days Earlier – Marvel World, Kamar-Taj

"Lockhart, have you ever considered the position of Sorcerer Supreme?"

The Ancient One’s tone was light, almost teasing, but her gaze remained sharp as she sat at the head of the hall.

Lockhart froze, his expression one of feigned surprise. Internally, his mind raced.

Why bring this up now? he thought. A test? A warning? Or something else entirely?

He replayed his interactions with the Ancient One since arriving at Kamar-Taj. She had been nothing but supportive, helping him forge contracts, teaching him magic, protecting him from Dormammu, and even entrusting him with the Eye of Agamotto.

These gestures had left Lockhart both grateful and wary. What does she see in me? Why invest so much?

“Lockhart?” the Ancient One prompted, her calm voice breaking his thoughts.

Lockhart composed himself quickly. “Sorcerer Supreme, I... hadn’t given it much thought. My focus has been on integrating what I’ve learned here into my studies.”

The Ancient One smiled faintly, gesturing for him to continue.

Seizing the moment, Lockhart decided to probe her intentions. “If I may, Sorcerer Supreme, I have a request.”

Her interest piqued, the Ancient One leaned forward slightly. “Go on.”

Lockhart took a breath, carefully crafting his words. “Before joining Kamar-Taj, I practiced a unique magical system of my own design. I also taught students who shared my methods.”

“I’ve since begun blending Kamar-Taj’s teachings with my own, creating a new approach to magic—one that doesn’t rely on contracts with the Vishanti or other dimensional entities.”

The Ancient One’s expression shifted subtly, her gaze sharpening. Lockhart noted her reaction and pressed on.

“My students have been experimenting with these methods, and I believe there’s potential for something groundbreaking. With your permission, I’d like to establish a school under the banner of Kamar-Taj, dedicated to advancing this new magic. Its purpose would align with Kamar-Taj’s mission—resisting the influence of dark forces and empowering humanity.”

The hall fell silent.

The Ancient One regarded him with an intensity that bordered on scrutiny, as though measuring the truth of his words. Finally, she smiled.

“An intriguing proposal,” she said, her tone measured. “I support your vision, Lockhart. If you require resources or guidance, simply ask.”

Relief coursed through Lockhart, though he maintained his composed exterior.

“There’s one thing I’d need to make this a reality,” he ventured. “I’d like access to Kamar-Taj’s library of magic and guidance on constructing a secret realm for the school.”

The Ancient One’s approval was immediate. “Consider it done.”

Lockhart bowed slightly in gratitude. His suspicions were confirmed—the Ancient One saw potential in him, not as a threat but as an ally. She was preparing for the inevitable and placing bets on future contenders for Sorcerer Supreme.

“I’ll do my best to make you proud,” Lockhart said earnestly.

The Ancient One gave a rare smile. “You’ve already exceeded expectations. Continue on this path, and I see great things in your future.”

Harry Potter World, Wizarding Secret Realm, School Square

“Welcome, everyone, to the grand opening ceremony of Kamar-Taj!” Lockhart’s voice rang out across the massive square, amplified by magic.

The crowd of wizards, seated in terraced rows surrounding the central platform, turned their attention to him.

Lockhart stood tall on the stage, his golden robes catching the sunlight. Behind him, a banner emblazoned with the name Kamar-Taj waved gently in the enchanted breeze.

“Kamar-Taj is more than a school,” he continued. “It is a sanctuary for innovation, a place where magical boundaries will be pushed, and a home for those who dream of shaping the future of wizardry.”

“We will devote ourselves to refining the meditation method, enabling all Squibs to awaken their magic and erasing the concept of ‘Squib’ from wizarding history.”

Applause erupted across the square.

Dumbledore watched intently, his expression calm but thoughtful.

Snape, seated beside him, smirked faintly. Kamar-Taj, he thought. Does Lockhart truly believe he can use that name without consequence?

But neither Snape nor anyone else in the audience noticed the ordinary-looking young wizard seated quietly near the back.

His face, though unremarkable, betrayed a flicker of emotion—surprise, recognition, and something darker.

Grindelwald, disguised and observing, suppressed a bitter laugh. Kamar-Taj, he mused. So this is where it’s been hiding all along. How ironic.

His gaze drifted to the red-haired girl seated among the students on the square.

Wanda Maximoff.

The threads of fate he had glimpsed whispered her importance. She was the key to understanding the "New World" he had seen in his visions.

Grindelwald’s thoughts darkened. The game has changed. But the pieces are all here.

On stage, Lockhart’s voice took on an enthusiastic tone.

“To mark this historic moment, I present to you a performance by my students—a showcase of the magic we’ve cultivated together.”

He gestured grandly. “Enjoy the Magical Feast!”

Chapter 434

The Magical Feast was Principal Lockhart’s carefully orchestrated highlight for the opening ceremony.

Seated around the square, wizards leaned forward, their attention fixed on the students at the center. Some enhanced their vision with spells, while others used enchanted telescopes to capture every detail.

At Lockhart’s signal, the students—led by Ian, Vera, Remy, Wanda, and others—raised their wands in unison. Following practiced movements, they traced elegant trajectories in the air, the tip of each wand leaving shimmering lines behind.

A moment later:

Boom! Boom! Boom!

Explosions of magical light filled the sky. Multicolored fireworks—blue, purple, red, and green—soared upward, bursting into dazzling displays.

The crowd erupted into applause, their faces alight with awe and joy. The vibrant patterns in the sky captivated the younger wizards, while the older ones exchanged nods of approval.

Ian stepped forward and called out, “First form: The Animal Kingdom!”

At his command, the students began a new performance. Each moved their wands with distinct, intricate motions, creating luminous lines that shimmered and coalesced into three-dimensional forms.

One by one, magical creatures emerged. A blue ball escape bird flickered through space, a silver unicorn galloped with a radiant glow, and a golden phoenix soared, scattering brilliant light from its wings.

The creatures danced in the air, their movements vivid and lifelike.

Dumbledore watched intently, his expression thoughtful. The precision and skill required for such a performance are remarkable, he noted.

Beside him, McGonagall murmured, “This level of control over magic is impressive for their age.”

Snape, meanwhile, was silent, his sharp eyes dissecting every movement. He noted not only the students’ mastery of magic but also their evident familiarity with these creatures—a testament to rigorous training.

Ian raised his voice again. “Second form: Nature’s Splendor!”

This time, the magical creatures dissolved into bursts of light, cascading down like rain onto the square’s marble floor. The droplets shimmered and transformed, grass sprouting where they landed.

In moments, the stark marble was replaced by a lush meadow. Flowers of every hue—red roses, yellow rhododendrons—bloomed across the field. A crystal-clear pond appeared in the center, its surface reflecting the magical sky above.

But it didn’t stop there.

Among the ordinary flora, magical plants began to grow. Mandrakes stretched their leaves, hellebores bloomed like lotus flowers, and whomping willows swayed ominously in the breeze.

The wizards in the audience gasped.

“Sprout,” McGonagall whispered, leaning toward her colleague, “what do you think of their imitations?”

Professor Sprout, the Herbology expert, studied the magical display intently. “Impressive. The details are remarkably accurate, even for an illusion. These students must have extensive experience with magical plants. They’ve been trained well.”

Dumbledore listened silently, his sharp mind processing the implications. Lockhart’s students display exceptional skill—not just in magic, but in disciplines like potions and Herbology. This suggests a higher caliber of instruction than I’d anticipated.

In the shadows near the front of the audience, two nearly identical young men sat side by side. At their feet rested a magical suitcase.

One of them, Voldemort, radiated a barely-contained fury. The other, Tom Riddle, watched the performance with a calm intensity.

“Are you sure this is the right time?” Voldemort hissed, his voice low but venomous.

Tom Riddle’s lips curled into a faint smile. “The curse is deepening, and delay only increases the danger to us. Besides, this is the perfect moment. The attention of the wizarding world is focused on Lockhart. We’ll strike where it hurts the most.”

Voldemort’s narrowed eyes betrayed his doubt. “And Dumbledore? He won’t sit idly by.”

“You leave Dumbledore to me,” Riddle said smoothly. “He won’t interfere until it’s too late. Meanwhile, you and your forces will handle Lockhart directly. Or do you lack confidence?”

The taunt hit its mark. Voldemort’s jaw tightened, but he nodded. “Fine. Let’s proceed as planned.”

Tom Riddle’s smile widened. “Good. And remember—if things go awry, the Portkey will ensure our escape. But imagine the chaos if Lockhart’s students were turned into werewolves.”

The thought lit a cruel gleam in Voldemort’s eyes.

Together, they vanished with a sharp crack of Apparition.

The festive atmosphere in the square was shattered as dark figures materialized.

Tom Riddle appeared in the audience, his suitcase bursting open to release a squad of Death Eaters clad in black robes.

Simultaneously, Voldemort emerged near the students, flanked by snarling werewolves, gliding dementors, and dark wizards exuding malevolent energy.

Gasps and screams erupted from the crowd.

A translucent, dark green barrier materialized around the square, isolating the space.

An eerily calm voice rang out, amplified by magic. “Ladies and gentlemen, please remain seated. You are about to witness the clash between the Death Eaters and Kamar-Taj!”

 
The War Between the Death Eaters and Kamar-Taj

A group of wizards seated in the audience heard a voice that radiated elegance and arrogance.

At the edge of the square, directly across from them, a dark green barrier shimmered into existence, pulsing with intense magical energy.

Boom!
A burst of dark green light erupted in the sky, resembling a dazzling firework display. As the brilliance faded, a sinister emblem took its place—a dark green mark intertwined with skulls and serpentine shapes: the unmistakable symbol of the Death Eaters.

Dumbledore, standing near the barrier, rose abruptly, his sharp eyes locking onto the group of Death Eaters cloaked in black robes outside the magical boundary. Yet, his attention soon focused on one familiar figure at the center.

"Tom, is that you?" Though his words carried a hint of doubt, his tone was resolute.

"Long time no see, Headmaster," Tom Riddle replied with a nod, his youthful appearance restored.

Meanwhile, the ordinary wizards in the audience began to stir uneasily. The appearance of the Death Eater mark had sent waves of panic through them.

Some raised trembling wands, poised for either attack or defense. Others scrambled from their seats, rushing toward the rear in an effort to flee. Their frantic movements contrasted sharply with the calm demeanor of Dumbledore and the senior wizards seated at the front.

Tom Riddle observed the scene before him with a detached amusement. The chaos, the fear—this was the power of the Dark Lord's reputation, and he relished it.

"Silence."
A gentle, commanding voice broke through the commotion, and the panicked wizards began to settle. It was as if the very sound carried a calming spell. All eyes turned to Dumbledore.

"Remain calm," Dumbledore said, his voice steady and reassuring. "The Ministry of Magic, school professors, wizards, and Aurors are all present. We will do everything in our power to protect you."

At his words, the professors and officials from various schools and organizations began to rise. Snape, McGonagall, and other Hogwarts professors stood, their wands raised, ready to defend. Similarly, the Vice-Principal of Durmstrang, the Headmistress of Beauxbatons, and the Minister of Magic joined them, flanked by their colleagues. Their expressions hardened, their grips on their wands tightening as they faced the Death Eaters outside the barrier.

Cornelius Fudge, however, had gone pale.

Tom Riddle's voice rang out, cutting through the tense atmosphere. "You have nothing to fear. We have no intention of harming you—unless you interfere. This is a battle between the Death Eaters and Kamar-Taj."

He smiled thinly, his words dripping with menace. "But should you intervene, we won't hesitate to unleash the Killing Curse upon the ordinary wizards."

The moral dilemma weighed heavily on Dumbledore and his allies. Tom's veiled threat caused a flicker of hesitation to cross the faces of the gathered professors and officials. Dumbledore's brow furrowed deeply. This was not a favorable development, and he was already contemplating his next move when—

"Tsk, tsk, Albus," a mocking voice chimed in. "I suggest you listen to the Dark Lord for once."

The voice belonged to Grindelwald, and Dumbledore's expression darkened further.

"Let's see how Lockhart and Kamar-Taj handle this," Grindelwald continued with a sly smirk. "Surely you're curious about their true power."

The presence of two Dark Lords in the fray made Dumbledore falter. Even with the strength of the wizards around him, he couldn't ignore the mounting threat. He had no choice but to wait and watch.

Through the translucent green barrier, the square came into sharp focus. Once a serene landscape of marble, lush greenery, and vibrant flowers, it had transformed. A section of the square now bristled with hostility—a stark gray marble expanse teeming with werewolves, dementors, and dark-robed wizards, their leader unmistakable: Voldemort.

"My loyal followers," Voldemort intoned coldly, his voice slicing through the air, "this is the first step toward reestablishing order. Use every ounce of your skill and malice to construct the foundation of my dominion."

He glanced toward Lockhart, sneering. "I'll deal with him myself. As for the students... kill them all. The one who claims the most lives will be richly rewarded."

The werewolves howled in anticipation, their bloodlust palpable. Dark wizards let out guttural shouts as they surged forward, and dementors swooped from the skies, drawn to the young and vulnerable souls before them.

Yet the students stood firm. There was no panic in their eyes, no trembling in their hands. They raised their wands in unison, as if they had been waiting for this moment.

"The third form: Fire from Heaven!" Ian, Vera, Remy, and Wanda's voices rang out in harmony, their cries a declaration of their resolve.

The entire square shuddered as a surge of magical energy erupted from the students. The air grew stiflingly hot, and the once green grass withered under the intensity. The sky transformed—white clouds ignited into blazing fire-colored masses.

A powerful wind swept through, but instead of cooling the scene, it carried the oppressive heat, drying throats and singeing fur. The werewolves hesitated, their primal instincts warning them of imminent danger. Even the dementors faltered, their movements sluggish in the rising heat.

High above, the fire-filled sky began to rain death. Massive fireballs, their heat distorting the air, plummeted toward the enemy forces. The werewolves and dark wizards were consumed by panic, scattering as the fiery onslaught descended.

The students' wands directed the flames with precision, transforming the sky into a fiery inferno.

The spell: Heavenly Fire Descends to the World.

Chapter 435

Combustion! Heat! Death!

A storm of fireballs rained down from the sky like meteorites, distorting the air with their intense heat. The very atmosphere seemed to writhe, saturated with the acrid scent of death.

On the ground, the werewolves looked up in terror at the inferno descending upon them. Their powerful bodies strained as they sprinted in all directions, desperate to escape.

The dark wizards, sensing the magnitude of the danger overhead, instinctively reached for the escape provided by Apparition. But to their horror, the surging magic in the air disrupted spatial fluctuations, making Apparition a death sentence instead of salvation.

Realizing their predicament, they quickly raised their wands and cast defensive spells in rapid succession.

"Protego!"

One after another, barriers of various colors shimmered into existence above the square. Pale golden glimmers of defensive enchantments flickered across the dark wizards' robes, layering their protection further.

Compared to their frantic attempts at survival, the dementors fared better. Their spectral forms resisted much of the fire and magic, though the oppressive heat and the magical pressure caused them to circle uneasily. Some even drifted instinctively toward Voldemort, their master, seeking a semblance of security.

Voldemort stood at the forefront, his scarlet eyes narrowing as he watched the cascading fireballs and felt the immense magical power saturating the battlefield. He inhaled deeply, his expression a dangerous mix of calculation and menace.

Buzz!
Dark mist erupted from Voldemort's body, coiling and spreading outward like a living shadow. With a flick of his yew wand, the mist surged upward, condensing into countless black arrows radiating an aura of death and destruction.

Death Arrows.

Defense was not Voldemort’s style. His philosophy was simple: overwhelm with relentless attacks. His arrows were not aimed at protecting the werewolves or dark wizards from the fireballs above; to him, their lives were expendable.

His true targets were the students casting the firestorm spell.

"This group of students..." Voldemort thought coldly, his wand poised, "trained by Lockhart, are a liability. Their deaths will surely crush him."

Without hesitation, he waved his wand, preparing to unleash a devastating volley.

But then, a calm voice broke through his concentration.

"Mr. Dark Lord, have you forgotten? Your enemy is me!"

Lockhart’s voice was steady, almost taunting, as he floated in mid-air, not far from Voldemort. His composed demeanor and infuriatingly handsome face made Voldemort's rage flare.

With a sharp flick of his wand, Voldemort redirected the Death spell toward Lockhart.

Whoosh! Whoosh! Whoosh!
The air was filled with the shrill sound of arrows slicing through it, each one streaking toward Lockhart.

Unfazed, Lockhart merely smiled. He raised his wand and drew a simple line of red flame before him.

In an instant, the line expanded into an intricate wall of blazing red flames, carved with strange, otherworldly runes.

Boom! Boom! Boom!
The Death Arrows slammed into the fiery wall, splintering into black mist upon impact. The mist hissed and writhed, corroding the wall, leaving jagged craters in its surface.

Lockhart’s brows furrowed as he sensed the dark energy attempting to infiltrate the barrier. With a quick flourish of his wand, the runes on the wall glowed, purging much of the black mist or forcing it to dissipate outward.

Unperturbed, Voldemort reformed the scattered mist into new arrows. Each one bristled with even more concentrated malice as they streaked toward Lockhart’s fiery wall again.

The cycle repeated: attack, defense, corrosion, and reformation.

Despite holding the line, Lockhart felt the rapid depletion of his magic. A faint frown crossed his face. Voldemort’s relentless assaults were taking their toll—not just on his barrier but on his own strength.

He noticed a malevolent curse lingering in the air, snaking toward his body and soul. Its emptiness gnawed at him, eroding his defenses from within.

Voldemort smirked, sensing Lockhart’s struggle.

"Avada Kedavra!"
With a swift motion, Voldemort unleashed the Killing Curse.

"Avada Kedavra!"
Another green bolt of death followed, and then another. Each curse hurtled toward the weak points in Lockhart’s barrier, exploiting its cracks.

The first bolt shattered a significant section of the fiery wall, creating a gaping hole. More curses followed, their lethal energy converging on Lockhart like a swarm of harbingers.

Then, in one fluid motion, Lockhart dismissed his wand, letting it vanish.

He crossed his arms over his chest in an unfamiliar gesture. A ring on his finger began to hum, emitting a low, resonant buzz. The space around him shimmered, as if distorted by rippling water.

Voldemort’s eyes narrowed. This was something he didn’t recognize. He poured even more magic into his Killing Curse, amplifying its speed and lethality.

The curses streaked toward Lockhart, each one a promise of death.

Whoosh! Whoosh! Whoosh!
The green bolts of death surged forward—only to pass through Lockhart as if he were a phantom.

The curses continued their trajectory, colliding harmlessly with the ground behind him.

Voldemort’s scarlet eyes widened, disbelief etched into his face.

"Impossible," he hissed. "The Killing Curse... it’s ineffective?"