Alone

That surge of hoarfrost charged ferociously toward the castle.

Professor Flitwick had just stepped outside and encountered it head-on. He raised his wand.

His instinct, like Dumbledore's earlier, was to counter frost with fire.

A massive blaze!

A fiery serpent burst from his wand, slamming into the hoarfrost.

In the blink of an eye—

The flame was devoured. The frost even grew larger.

Yennefer arrived just behind him.

She gripped her crystal raven-headed casting tool—unlike most wizards who needed wands, most sorcerers also required personal casting conduits.

A milky translucent shield extended from her hand.

The hoarfrost slammed against it.

Yennefer staggered slightly under the impact.

"Fire spells don't work," Flitwick frowned, as if his lifelong understanding had just been shattered. "It actually absorbs them!"

Yennefer gritted her teeth. "Hoarfrost isn't real frost."

"It absorbs energy!"

Geralt opened his magically expanded bag and pulled out a weapon.

A well-maintained sniper rifle—Barrett M82.

As a Witcher, he wasn't only skilled in melee combat; he also needed effective ranged abilities.

Usually, Witchers relied on crossbows or alchemical bombs for that.

Harry never used a crossbow—he had magic. His ranged capabilities were just as powerful as his close combat.

Geralt, however, had neither spellcasting nor magical talent.

At first, he'd thought to get a crossbow again. When he mentioned it to Sirius, the man gave him a strange look, then dragged him into his room, turned on a game console, and introduced him to the concept of firearms.

Geralt was a quick learner.

From Sirius's explanations, he learned about handguns, rifles, and semi-automatics.

Sirius spared no expense.

The next day, after Geralt expressed interest, Sirius bought him a full set of firearms—even two RPGs.

Geralt knelt, leveled the rifle, and loaded a round.

His Witcher training gave him sharp vision and a wide field of view.

Their instructor even said Geralt was a natural marksman—clean, decisive—and hinted he'd make a great mercenary, someone who could earn the title "White Wolf."

He aligned his sights.

Pulled the trigger.

Boom—a thunderous blast. A bullet flew, the muzzle spitting flames.

It pierced the murky white mist—

Straight toward Voldemort.

Perfectly accurate. It shattered his head into a thousand pieces.

His body still hovered, unmoved.

"Is he dead?" Professor McGonagall looked up in shock, eyes fixed on the falling debris.

Not blood or bone.

But snowflakes.

As if in reply—

Whoosh—

The snowflakes swirled, regrouped, and reformed into a fully intact head.

Voldemort waved his hand.

The hoarfrost surged again and smashed through Yennefer's shield, slamming into the castle wall and tearing a gaping hole.

Dumbledore raised his hand and grabbed Fawkes's talon.

With a burst of flame—

He reappeared beneath the breach and swept his wand—Evanesco. The frost vanished.

But the damage was done.

The breach let hoarfrost seep inside, shattering the enchantments sealing Crouch's classroom.

Inside, the man instantly awoke.

He looked out through the opening. His vision was poor—just a blinding white haze.

"Father," he murmured. Tears welled in his eyes.

Neville arrived, panting.

The wall and doorframe were blasted apart. The man stood exposed—thin, filthy, but unmistakable.

"Crouch!" Despite his condition, Neville recognized him instantly.

Crouch turned his head. "Longbottom."

Neville stepped closer.

"My father came to rescue me," Crouch said without fear. He braced himself on the floor and stood. "Goodbye, Longbottom."

Outside—

Voldemort raised his wand. "Crouch, come."

Inside—

Crouch's body was yanked skyward toward the breach.

Neville lunged, grabbing his legs—and was pulled along with him.

At the lake—

Crouch and Neville landed.

"My father, my most respected father," Crouch said reverently, excitedly. "You've returned once more."

"This time, I'm stronger than ever." Voldemort nodded tenderly at Crouch—then lifted his chin toward Neville. "And a little gift."

"Before I leave, a gift for Potter."

He raised his hand, pointing at Neville.

"Avada Kedavra!"

A burst of green and white blazed like a firework.

Neville rolled, swinging his wand.

From afar, the ice surged upward.

A seed sprouted instantly, coiling around the ice and yanking him forward.

A precise fusion of Transfiguration, Charms, and Herbology.

He narrowly dodged death.

The explosion of green light disintegrated McGonagall's summoned bird swarm and Sprout's enchanted cabbages.

Voldemort scowled.

A sixth-year student—

Dodging the Killing Curse?! Even alone, without combo spells?

Dumbledore arrived with Yennefer and Flitwick.

Boom—another sniper shot.

Geralt provided long-range cover.

The bullet struck Voldemort's unknown Shield Charm, creating a faint ripple in the air.

Neville stood and called to Fawkes, "Help me!"

Fawkes tilted his head.

Dumbledore nodded.

Fawkes flew to him.

Neville dropped another seed—this one grew instantly, wrapping around Crouch and yanking him upward.

Voldemort plucked a finger off his hand and tossed it.

Crouch caught it mid-air.

Neville grabbed Crouch's hand as Fawkes landed on his shoulder.

"Quidditch pitch!" Neville shouted.

Flames engulfed them.

They vanished.

On the other side of the castle, on the empty Quidditch field, two figures landed.

"Crouch. Now it's just you and me," Neville took a deep breath, clutching his wand—and pulled out a long sword from his pocket.

Crouch held Voldemort's finger.

He could feel the magical energy within—it was like holding a wand.

He grinned viciously. "Yes, just us."

----------

Powerstones?

For 20 advance chapters: patreon.com/michaeltranslates