Final War [6]

The diary Horcrux clutched tightly in Marquas's bloodied hand, they had apparated from Malfoy Manor with seconds to spare, narrowly escaping Voldemort's wrath. The victory should have felt triumphant, the final Horcrux secured, Voldemort rendered mortal at last. But as they appeared on the outskirts of Hogsmeade, intending to regroup at their safehouse, the night sky blazed with sickly green light. The Dark Mark hovered over Hogwarts Castle, its serpent tongue undulating against the blackness.

"No," James breathed, his blood-streaked face pale with horror. "He wouldn't—"

"He would," Marquas cut him off, already running toward the castle in the distance. "Voldemort's lost everything. He's got nothing left to lose."

The safehouse forgotten, they charged toward Hogwarts, wounded and exhausted from the battle at Malfoy Manor but driven by desperate urgency. As they crested the hill overlooking the school grounds, the full extent of the catastrophe became clear.

The protective wards around Hogwarts had been shattered. Death Eaters swarmed the grounds like black ants, dueling with teachers and older students who had formed a defensive perimeter around the castle. The Astronomy Tower was already ablaze, flames the color of dragon's breath devouring ancient wood and stone. The acrid smell of burning magical artifacts filled the air, and even from a distance, they could hear the ominous cracking of centuries-old enchantments failing as the fire consumed them.

"How?" Sirius demanded, his injured arm forgotten in the face of this new horror. "How did they breach the wards so quickly?"

"This was planned," Dumbledore said, his voice tight with controlled fury. His eyes scanned the battlefield, calculating. "Malfoy Manor was never the true target, it was a trap designed to draw us away from Hogwarts."

Without another word, they plunged down the hill toward the battle, sending spells ahead of them to clear a path. The fighting was brutal and chaotic, jets of deadly light crisscrossing the once-peaceful grounds, bodies already littering the grass. The air tasted of metal and ozone, thick with the distinctive tang of powerful magic being unleashed without restraint.

As they reached the stone bridge leading to the castle's main entrance, an enormous figure staggered toward them, blood matting his wild beard.

"HAGRID!" Marquas shouted, rushing forward to support the gamekeeper as he collapsed to his knees.

Hagrid's massive form sank against him, smelling of smoke, blood, and something uniquely Hagrid, a mixture of forest earth, animal musk, and the herbal scent of his homemade remedies. His breathing came in ragged gasps that shook his entire frame.

"Got... the firs' years out," Hagrid gasped, one massive hand clutching a wound in his side that leaked blood at an alarming rate. "Secret passage... to Hogsmeade... but they're inside now... got past the main doors..."

"Who's leading the defense inside?" Dumbledore asked, already casting healing charms that seemed woefully inadequate against Hagrid's massive injuries.

"Flitwick," Hagrid managed, his normally ruddy face ashen beneath his tangled beard. "Holdin' the Great Hall... keepin' the students behind him..." He coughed, blood spattering his beard. "Never seen the little feller duel like that... worth ten Death Eaters, he is..."

"Save your strength," James urged, conjuring bandages that immediately soaked through with blood.

But Hagrid shook his head, his breathing growing more labored. "Don' worry 'bout me... save the kids..." His massive hand gripped Marquas's arm with surprising strength. "He's lookin' for you... Voldemort... screamin' yer name through the castle..."

Marquas felt the blood drain from his face. Voldemort had come here hunting for him, bringing destruction to Hogwarts out of sheer vengeance.

"Go," Hagrid whispered, his grip loosening. "I'll be... right behind yeh."

They all knew it was a lie. The light was already fading from Hagrid's beetle-black eyes, his massive frame slumping further.

"You won't be alone long, my friend," Dumbledore said softly, resting a hand on Hagrid's shoulder as the half-giant drew his final breath.

For one terrible moment, they stood in silence around Hagrid's body, the first casualty of many this night would claim. A gentle rumble of thunder rolled across the sky, as if the heavens themselves mourned the gamekeeper's passing. Then reality reasserted itself as a series of explosions rocked the castle's west wing.

"We need to split up," Moody growled, his magical eye swiveling wildly as he assessed the battlefield. "Secure the students, engage the Death Eaters, find Voldemort."

Dumbledore nodded grimly. "Minerva and I will take the Great Hall, support Filius. Alastor, secure the hospital wing, the injured will be taken there. James, Sirius, and Remu find the younger students, ensure the evacuation routes remain clear."

"And me?" Marquas asked, though he already knew the answer.

Dumbledore's blue eyes met his, all twinkle long gone. "You must confront Tom. He came here for you, perhaps only you can draw him away from the students."

A suicide mission, then. But Marquas merely nodded. "I'll find him."

They separated at the entrance hall, each group moving with grim purpose toward their assigned tasks. Marquas headed for the grand staircase, instinct telling him Voldemort would seek the high ground, a position of power from which to rain down destruction.

The corridors of Hogwarts, once so familiar and safe, had become a war zone. Tapestries burned, suits of armor lay dismembered, and the wounded, students and Death Eaters alike, sprawled where they had fallen. The smell of smoke mingled with the copper scent of blood and the distinct odor of dark magic, like rotting vegetation and electrical burns combined. Marquas moved swiftly, dispatching any Death Eaters he encountered with brutal efficiency, no longer attempting to stun or incapacitate. This was war in its rawest form, and mercy had become a luxury none could afford.

As he reached the second-floor corridor, a deafening explosion shook the castle to its foundations. Chunks of ceiling crashed down around him as he ducked for cover. When the dust cleared, terrified screams echoed from the direction of the Great Hall.

Changing course, Marquas sprinted back downstairs, dreading what he would find. The doors to the Great Hall had been blasted off their hinges, and through the settling debris, he witnessed a scene of unimaginable horror.

Professor Flitwick stood alone in the center of the hall, surrounded by the bodies of at least a dozen Death Eaters. The diminutive Charms professor was bleeding from multiple wounds, his wand arm hanging limp at his side, but still he maintained a shimmering shield protecting hundreds of students huddled at the far end of the hall. The shield pulsed with an inner light that cast Flitwick's shadow in stark relief against the floor, enormous compared to his tiny frame, as if even his shadow fought to appear more formidable.

Facing him were Bellatrix Lestrange and Antonin Dolohov, both looking battered from their earlier fight at Malfoy Manor but filled with sadistic glee as they systematically weakened Flitwick's shield with curse after curse. Each impact sent visible tremors through the magical barrier, like ripples across water.

"Little man plays the hero," Bellatrix taunted, her wild eyes gleaming with madness. "But heroes die, don't they? Just like the half-breed gamekeeper."

Flitwick didn't waste breath responding to her taunts. Every ounce of his considerable magical power was focused on maintaining the shield protecting his students. But Marquas could see it wavering, its edges growing thin and transparent as Flitwick's strength ebbed.

Marquas raised his wand, ready to intervene, when a voice like ice froze him in place.

"The face-wearer arrives at last."

Voldemort stood in the doorway behind him, his robes still stained with ink from the destroyed diary. His snake-like face was contorted with a fury beyond reason, red eyes blazing with promise of torment beyond death.

"You destroyed the last of them," Voldemort hissed, advancing with predatory grace. "Made me mortal. For that alone, I would flay the skin from your body inch by inch. But you have taken far more than that from me, impostor. You have taken my destiny."

Marquas backed away, positioning himself to keep both Voldemort and the unfolding scene in the Great Hall in view. "Your destiny was always to fall, Tom. I just accelerated the timeline."

Voldemort froze. For the first time since Marquas had known him, the Dark Lord's serpentine face showed something new, uncertainty. Perhaps even fear.

"Even now, you maintain your insufferable arrogance," he said, voice dangerously soft. "But look around you, severus. Look at what your interference has wrought."

Voldemort gestured toward the chaos with one pale, long-fingered hand. The motion was almost elegant, like a conductor directing an orchestra of destruction.

"How many will die tonight because of your meddling? The half-giant is already gone. The little professor will follow soon. And then, one by one, I will slaughter every child in this castle while you watch, powerless to stop me."

As if to punctuate Voldemort's threat, a piercing scream cut through the hall. Marquas risked a glance back to see Flitwick's shield finally collapse under the combined assault of Bellatrix and Dolohov. The tiny professor dropped to one knee, blood streaming from his nose and ears as he desperately tried to renew the protection.

"Filius!" McGonagall's voice rang out as she and Dumbledore finally fought their way into the hall from another entrance, but they were too far away, too late to intervene.

With the last of his strength, Flitwick cast not a shield but an offensive spell, a blasting curse of such power that it rocketed Bellatrix and Dolohov backward into the stone wall with bone-shattering force. But the effort cost him what little strength remained.

"Run," the Charms Master gasped to his students as he crumpled to the floor. "Go..."

Bellatrix, despite her injuries, recovered first. Blood streaking her face, she raised her wand with malicious delight.

"Avada Kedavra!"

The killing curse struck Flitwick squarely in the chest. The tiny professor's body jerked once, then lay still, his final act one of sacrifice to buy his students precious seconds of escape.

Chaos erupted in the Great Hall as students broke from their huddled mass, screaming and running for the exits. Dumbledore and McGonagall fought desperately to cover their retreat, but they were outnumbered as more Death Eaters poured in.

"You see?" Voldemort whispered, now so close that Marquas could feel his cold breath. It carried the scent of something unnatural, like stones in a graveyard at midnight. "This is the price of your defiance. This is what happens to those who stand with the face-wearer against Lord Voldemort."

Marquas stared at Flitwick's small, crumpled form. First Hagrid, now this. His throat tightened as screams echoed through the hall. The students, how many more would Voldemort sacrifice in his vendetta?

"It's me you want," Marquas said, his voice steady despite the turmoil within. "Not them. Not the children. Fight me, Tom. Just me."

A cruel smile twisted Voldemort's inhuman features. "Oh, I will destroy you. But first, you will watch as I take everything from you, just as you have taken everything from me."

He raised his wand, aiming not at Marquas but at the fleeing students. "Avada—"

"ENOUGH!"

The voice that thundered through the hall was not Dumbledore's, nor any Order member's. It resonated with ancient power, echoing with unnatural force that made the very stones of Hogwarts vibrate beneath their feet. The torches along the walls flared blindingly bright for an instant before dimming to a sickly blue.

The voice seemed to silence even the raging battle. Wands lowered as heads turned toward the shattered entrance of the Great Hall. Through the settling dust stepped a figure so impossible, so utterly unexpected, that even Voldemort himself hesitated.

Gellert Grindelwald. not the withered prisoner of Nurmengard, but the conqueror at the height of his power surveyed the chaos with cold amusement. His mismatched eyes gleamed with terrible purpose, radiating magical power that rivaled even Voldemort's.

"Impossible," Dumbledore breathed, momentarily forgetting the battle as he stared at his former love and greatest enemy. The Headmaster's face had drained of all color, his hand trembling slightly before he mastered himself.

Grindelwald smiled, but the expression held no warmth. His eyes fixed on Marquas with unnerving intensity.

"The Face-Wearer," he said, his voice carrying that same unnatural resonance, like several voices speaking in perfect unison. "At last, we meet in the flesh."

Understanding dawned on Marquas with horrifying clarity. "Herpo," he whispered.

The thing wearing Grindelwald's body inclined its head in acknowledgment. "Very good. The vessel is adequate, if somewhat... resistant." A fleeting expression of pain crossed Grindelwald's features before smoothing into that unnatural calm again. "A powerful wizard in his own right. But then, I have always chosen my hosts with care."

"How?" Dumbledore demanded, moving cautiously toward what had once been his greatest enemy and closest friend. The tension in his voice betrayed deeper emotions than mere surprise. "Gellert was secured in Nurmengard, beyond any possibility of escape."

"Was he?" Herpo/Grindelwald's smiled widened. "Or did he simply disappear when it suited certain... political narratives? The truth, Light-Bearer, is that your precious Gellert has been my project for days, whispering to him from beyond the Veil, guiding his ambitions, preparing him as a potential vessel."

Grindelwald's head tilted in an unnaturally fluid motion, reminding everyone that the body before them was merely a puppet for something far older and more terrible.

The fighting had ceased entirely now, Death Eaters and Order members alike paralyzed by the confrontation unfolding before them. Even Bellatrix seemed cowed, her fanatical devotion to Voldemort temporarily overwhelmed by the ancient darkness radiating from Grindelwald's possessed form.

"And now," Herpo continued, his gaze shifting between Voldemort, Dumbledore, and Marquas, "the pieces align. The Fragment-Soul made mortal once more. And the Face-Wearer, the anomaly, the dimensional traveler whose very existence has disrupted the tapestry of fate." He spread his arms wide, and the air around him seemed to warp slightly, like heat rising from summer pavement. "Three sacrifices of immense magical significance, more than enough to fully breach the Veil and restore me to true corporeal form."

"You'll have to kill us first," Marquas said, raising his wand despite knowing how futile it might be against such an ancient evil.

Herpo's smile was terrifying in its confidence. "That is precisely the plan."

Without warning, he unleashed a wave of magic unlike anything Marquas had ever experienced, not a specific spell but raw, primordial power that rippled outward like a tsunami. The very air seemed to warp and distort as it approached, carrying the scent of something ancient and terrible, like the musty interior of a tomb sealed for millennia suddenly broken open.

"PROTEGO MAXIMA!" Dumbledore bellowed, erecting a shield of such intensity that it glowed blue-white in the darkened hall.

The magical wave struck the shield with apocalyptic force. Dumbledore staggered backward, blood streaming from his nose at the effort of maintaining protection. The shield held, barely, sparing them from immediate destruction, but the strain was evident in Dumbledore's pale face.

"Albus!" McGonagall cried, rushing to support the Headmaster as his knees threatened to buckle.

"Get the students out," Dumbledore gasped. "All of them. Now."

While Herpo readied another attack, chaos erupted anew. Death Eaters, recognizing a threat that endangered even them, began to disapparate or flee toward the exits. Order members rallied around the remaining students, urgently shepherding them toward escape routes.

The battle that followed defied description, magic in its rawest, most destructive form unleashed without restraint. The Great Hall's enchanted ceiling shattered, exposing the battle to the storm-wracked sky above. Stone pillars crumbled, ancient tapestries disintegrated, and the very foundation of Hogwarts groaned under the magical onslaught. The air filled with a kaleidoscope of sensations, blinding light, deafening sound, the taste of lightning, and the smell of time itself being warped by forces never meant to exist in the mortal world.

Meanwhile, Dumbledore had recovered enough to join Marquas, who stood temporarily forgotten as the dark wizards tore into each other.

"We need to get everyone out," Marquas urged, his eyes still fixed on the titanic duel. "While they're focused on each other."

"Agreed," Dumbledore replied. "But we cannot simply flee. If either of them prevails..."

"They'll come after us next," Marquas finished grimly. "We need a plan."

As they retreated strategically toward the doors, maintaining shields against the magical backlash of the duel, a terrible realization struck Marquas. Throughout the battle, Herpo's gaze kept returning to him, tracking him with unnerving focus despite the more immediate threat of Voldemort.

"He's still coming for me," Marquas said quietly. "Even now. I'm his primary target."

Dumbledore nodded, his expression grave. "The prophecy that spoke of 'one who wears another's face' marked you as Voldemort's nemesis, but it seems your role extends far beyond what even I anticipated. Herpo's designs appear to transcend our world entirely."

They had nearly reached the relative safety of the entrance hall when the magical combat behind them reached a devastating crescendo. Voldemort, driven by rage and the desperation of a newly mortal being, had unleashed Fiendfyre, cursed flames that took the form of serpents and chimeras, consuming everything in their path. The heat was so intense that it scorched their backs even from this distance, and the roar of the magical flames drowned out all other sounds.

Herpo countered with a spell in a language so ancient it predated Latin, a wall of absolute darkness that devoured the cursed flames as they approached. The darkness brought with it an unnatural cold that countered the Fiendfyre's heat, creating a zone of violent temperature fluctuation that made the very air crack and splinter.

The collision of these opposing forces created a magical backlash that blew out what remained of the Great Hall's walls. Marquas and Dumbledore were hurled forward into the entrance hall, battered by debris and wild magic.

As they struggled to their feet, ears ringing and bodies aching, a chilling laugh echoed through the ruins. Herpo emerged from the smoke and dust, his robes torn but his borrowed body largely unharmed. Behind him, Voldemort lay pinned beneath a fallen pillar, blood streaming from a gash across his inhuman face, still alive but temporarily incapacitated.