Delphini Riddle

(Warning this chapter is Dark and may contain elements of rap* and torture, you have been warned)

March 21, 2041

If anyone finds this, know that we fought to the last breath.

We fought with every ounce of magic, every ounce of strength, and still, the tides pull against us.

We were not weak.

We were not foolish.

But the Muggles—

No, I will not call them that.

They are vermin.

A plague upon the earth.

And yet, they have proven to be the most dangerous adversary magic has ever known.

We thought ourselves untouchable.

We believed that wands and spells would always triumph over crude metal and fire.

But war is the great equalizer.

The Dark faction has paid in blood for every lesson learned.

And I—

I have studied them.

Their tactics.

Their history.

Their weapons.

I have spent years learning how they think, how they move, how they kill.

And despite all we have gained, all the knowledge we have taken from them, we are still not winning.

They move faster than us.

Their weapons do not require words, no incantations, no time.

We have adapted—now, silent casting is the rule, not the exception.

One second means death.

A spoken spell is an invitation for execution.

Our youngest warriors learn this before they learn to walk.

Even hesitation is fatal.

The Dark faction has pushed magic further than it has ever gone, tearing apart the old ways and forging something new.

We have abandoned tradition for survival, twisted spells beyond recognition, made them deadlier, crueler, necessary.

The first true advancement came when we learned how to make their own clothing betray them.

The spell is simple: a whisper, a flick of the wand, and the fibers in their uniforms twist like serpents, constricting, piercing, severing flesh from bone.

It does not matter if they wear armor; their own protection turns against them.

It is not enough.

The second breakthrough came in understanding the world around us.

Magic is tied to nature, but we never sought to truly harness it.

Now we do.

A storm is no longer just a storm—it is a weapon, an ally, an executioner.

With the right magic, the wind howls through their cities, leveling them as if the hand of Merlin himself had commanded it.

Lightning does not strike where it wills, but where we dictate.

Fire does not burn as nature intends—it seeks, it hunts, it devours at our command.

And yet, we are still losing.

The Ministry is gone.

What remained of it was nothing but a hollow husk, a weak-willed government that spent too long trying to reason with creatures that understand nothing but slaughter.

Their leader, the so-called Minister of Magic—Hermione Granger—is no more.

She believed in peace.

She believed that there was still a chance to end this without annihilation.

The Muggles showed her the truth.

They captured her.

They did not kill her outright.

No, they defiled her, shattered her, tore her apart piece by piece before finally discarding what was left.

Her body was displayed like a trophy, a warning.

It took three days before one of ours found her.

Three days before the Dark faction received the final confirmation that there is no peace.

There never was.

Ronald Weasley is still alive.

If one could call that living.

He does not fight with us.

He does not fight with anyone.

He simply… exists, caught between grief and madness.

Some believe he will snap, that he will finally join us.

Others believe he will let himself be taken.

That he will end as his wife did.

We cannot afford to wait for him to decide.

We cannot afford to lose another second.

The Dark faction was not prepared when this war began, but we are prepared now.

We have learned.

We have sharpened ourselves into something greater.

We do not cast spells in halls of learning—we carve them into the battlefield itself.

We do not practice duels—we perfect execution.

We do not talk of mercy—we erase those who stand in our way.

This war will not be decided by honor.

It will not be decided by treaties or talks.

It will end when every last one of them is buried in the dirt.

And I will see it done.

They are gone.

Not just the soldiers, the warriors, the witches, the wizards who stood beside me.

Not just those who bled and fought and sacrificed.

The Dark Faction itself is gone.

What once was a force strong enough to break nations, to tear down cities, is now nothing more than scattered remnants—whispers of what we once were.

For a while, we were winning.

London fell first.

Our spells turned the streets into graveyards, their machines useless against magic they could not understand.

Russia came next.

The snow and the ice became our weapons, the storms bending to our will.

The old world trembled before us.

Their bullets and fire could not match the will of those who sought revenge, those who had suffered too much to ever stop fighting.

But it was not enough.

It never was.

I made the Horcrux knowing it would be needed.

I did what had to be done.

Sacrifices were made, the kind that most would not dare to speak of, but I was prepared to do what was necessary.

And yet, in the end, it did not matter.

We were undone by a traitor.

A single voice who let them in, who let the Muggles strike when we were weakest.

I do not know their name, nor do I care to.

Their name is nothing.

Their actions, though, have sealed the fate of our kind.

They took me alive.

They could not kill me.

I have seen their frustration, the rage in their eyes as their weapons failed, as their fires burned but did not end me.

They call it unnatural.

They call it an abomination.

I call it power.

But power does not save one from suffering.

They have made sure I will never fight again.

I cannot see anymore.

They took that from me first, digging into my skull with their crude tools, laughing at my screams.

Ensuring that even if i escaped, i would never see the world i had fought to conquer.

The pain was unbearable, but I did not beg.

I would not give them the satisfaction.

Then they made certain I could never wield a wand again.

I felt the steel against my skin, the slow, deliberate severing of flesh and bone.

They had bound me, stripped me of my wand, and severed them at the shoulders.

My hands, my arms—gone.

But it was nothing compared to the moment they took my legs.

They had done it slowly, prolonging the agony, watching me convulse as the blood pooled beneath me.

Escape was no longer possible.

I do not know how long it took.

I only remember the sound of my own blood pooling on the floor.

They feared my voice as well.

I had cast spells even without a wand, even without my arms.

So they silenced me.

The knife was sharp, and the pain was unlike any other.

My tongue had been torn from my mouth, leaving me unable to speak, to whisper even the simplest incantation.

It was not just flesh they took—it was my last weapon, my last defense.

And then, there had been the other violations.

I do not wish to remember.

I do not wish to acknowledge the depth of their cruelty, the way they sought to break not only my body but the last remnants of my mind.

I was no longer a leader, no longer a warrior.

I was a body, broken and discarded, waiting for an end that would not come.

And yet, I live.

They do not know what they have done.

They think they have broken me, that I am nothing but a ruined thing, fit only for display.

They do not understand.

Even now, even like this, I endure.

Because I have done what they fear most.

I have ensured that magic will live on.

I have ensured that the war is not over.

Let them think they have won.

Let them believe that they have silenced the Dark.

They will learn soon enough.

Darkness cannot be killed.

It only waits.