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ACT4CH3 - The Dogs Of War
🕑 Added 2024-01-06 16:14:56 +0000 UTCThe wall of junk before Albus Dumbledore was ripped up and flung aside from the path as a bolt of pure crushing force blasted forth from faux-Grindelwald’s wand. At a closer look, the Dark Lord wielded an exact facsimile of the Elder Wand, but unlike Dumbledore’s legendary weapon, faux-Grindelwald’s one was merely a copy — a speck of illusion temporarily made real. The very air screamed and the world around them shook as that terrible spell impacted Dumbledore with a deafening noise. Harry instinctively shifted into his ‘Death-vision’ and saw the old wizard swerve the wand around in a complete circle, catching the bolt of destroying force in a single loop and deflecting it back, while adding a little of his own power.
This time, the power of the spell that blasted towards faux-Grindelwald made Harry’s hair stand on end and the entire room shake. The stone-crushing force obliterated nearly everything in its way, gouging the floors and disintegrating everything in its way, only to be held back by a mammoth-sized fist of stone that protected the Dark Lord from being instantly killed.
It didn't, however, stop him from being promptly buried under the rubble scraped by the wave of destructive force, and the blocks falling from the ceiling.
Albus Dumbledore was scary.
“Now GO!” yelled Dumbledore. “I will buy you all the time you need.”
“But how will I —”
“You can sense magic, Harry,” said Dumbledore. “Use it. Connect with your senses. Find the vile taint that exists in this place and obliterate it with Death. Now leave —”
The rest of his words died as more people appeared out of the junk walls, all of them were dark green robes and hats, their wands pointed at them. Every single one of them had the totem of the Deathly Hallows emblazing upon the chest area.
“Acolytes,” muttered Dumbledore. “Illusions, but as real as you and I while we are inside this place. I’m afraid my plan to seek the curse’s origin has backfired upon us.”
As if confirming his theories, more acolytes walked out of the shadows, now numbering close to twenty, their wands glowing deadly crimson. Right then, the rubble was transfigured into five armoured stone knights, complete with sword and shield with the Hallows totem engraved upon them.
“I will admit that I have not been hit by a force like that for more years than I can count,” confessed faux-Grindelwald. “You, my freund, are certainly not in a playing mood.”
“Harry,” said Dumbledore. “Whatever you do, do not hold back.”
“But sir, none of this is real,” said Harry, looking around for the Bloody Baron who had vanished. “We can always prepare and come back later.”
“I’m afraid that isn’t an option any longer,” said Dumbledore, no longer smiling. “Remember, this is Dunamancy we are up against. The more the curse learns about us, the more factors it has to add to create a favourable outcome for itself. Every subsequent attempt we make will be exponentially difficult.”
Harry scowled. “So it’s now or never.”
“No,” said faux-Grindelwald, grinning. “Not now, not ever. You cannot fight us, old freund. We are a manifestation of your deepest, darkest thoughts. Your subconscious wish for the evil on which you can blame all your suffering. Do you see it now? I am not against you, I am your ally. When you are at your lowest, I grant you what you desire most.” His grin was simple, and childish, and Harry felt nothing from him other than a strange calmness so deep that it was almost hypnotic. “Give up, Albus. Join us, and let me complete my one task. You have already done the needful by bringing the Defence Against The Dark Arts Professor with yourself into my sanctum. There is no going back. Not for him.”
Dumbledore closed his eyes. “I see. I was right. You are the curse, talking through that puppet that looks like my friend.”
Faux-Grindelwald gave him a dark grin. When he spoke next, his voice felt heavier, darker, as if it had its own weight and exerted gravity.
“I am Purpose, Albus Dumbledore. To bring down the Defence Against The Dark Arts Professor is the foundation of my existence, and nothing can stop me.”
Dumbledore smiled. “Clearly you do not understand me as well as you claim. Always to do what is right, not what is easy, has been my principle.”
Faux-Grindelwald inclined his head, in a gesture of respect. “Of course. You are the venerated Headmaster, after all. Even Reserata Carcerum is hesitant to trap you within. It acknowledges your role as Ward Holder, and for that, you have my respect. But you cannot fight me, Albus Dumbledore. Powerful as you are, you are but one man. If you must resist, know that you stood in defiance of the world’s power itself. Most would not have the courage and I truly admire you for that.”
Harry considered the exchange briefly.
And then whipped his wand out, yelling — “SECTUMSEMPRA!”
Faux-Grindelwald merely stood there, smiling as Harry’s spell splashed against an invisible shield.
“A Dark curse?” he mocked. “Albus, my freund, you allow your protege to cast something so dark?”
“Using the dark arts doesn’t make you a dark wizard,” said Harry, glaring at the imposter. “Sometimes, you need to use the darkest of arts to slay the darkest of men.”
“Ah, a boy after my own heart,” he said. “Had we met under the right circumstances, we might even have been friends. But I’m afraid you’re not ready to face me, boy. Not yet.”
Harry narrowed. Was that faux-Grindelwald talking, or the curse? It was difficult to say. But one thing was clear. Illusion or not, it was a caricature crafted out of Dumbledore’s memories, no, his fears, and empowered by the ley lines beneath Hogwarts. The only thing they had on their side was Dumbledore’s mastery of Transfiguration, the power of the Elder Wand, and of course, Harry’s own magic-negating power of Death. Much like the wards that could channel limitless power, Death could endlessly devour it.
On the other hand, there was no saying what kind of change might come across him should he give in to Death and truly channel it into this world.
Harry became especially conscious of the Cloak that he currently had inside his mokeskin pouch. He had inculcated the habit of keeping it there on his person at all times, along with a few more trinkets, several of which he had gotten for his birthday from his godfather, as well Dumbledore’s deluminator. The last time he had worn the Cloak during a fight, he had transformed into that demon that had devoured Walburga’s wraith. If he were to use the Cloak, and there was the Elder Wand nearby, and Dumbledore had all but handed the Wand to him—
He closed his eyes as a coldness arose within him. He had resisted it often enough over the last several months that it was almost routine. This time, he let it take over.
“REDUCTO! MORS DISSOLUTUM! BOMBARDA MAXIMA!”
Every single spell, he hissed in Parseltongue, making the others unable to understand what he was chanting. The first blasting curse smashed against another silvery barrier, which shattered upon impact with the Mors spell, which he had exquisitely crafted as a shield-breaker spell. Being able to cast it in droves turned it into the ultimate anti-magic bombardment, and with the amplified exploding curse on its coattails, none of them ever saw it coming.
He didn’t even wait to see if faux-Grindelwald was still there. He was already on his feet, rushing at the acolytes, his wand moving and spitting out spells, even as he felt a shower of stone shards impact against the back of his exposed neck from a spell that had shot past before he had even started running. More and more acolytes kept pouring in, casting spells and shields back and forth at a rapid-pace. None of them were even taking the time to voice incantations, as that would only slow them down.
Honestly, he was surprised at the level of skill displayed even by the acolytes. Not even Snape had displayed this kind of agility whenever the two had sparred on occasion. It led him to a chilling question — were these Acolytes being amped up by the Room, or were they really that good? The truth was probably somewhere in the middle.
But one thing was certain. If he wanted to win, he’d have to bring in a game changer.
His shield-breaker clashed against a succession of exploding curses, and Harry had to pull back, casting a fogging spell. Ordering his thoughts, he made a small effort of will, and vanished. He had become quite good at the trick, and the more he delved into it, the more he realised how versatile illusions truly were.
Smirking at the sheer irony, Harry called up an image, another combination of illusion and suggestion. This one was simple — him, as he appeared just a moment before. The sensation that went with it was just kind of a heavy dose of himself, the sound of his steps and movement, his wand in hand, and a solid amount of aggression emanating out of its illusory shell. He tied the spell with the portable wardstone that hung on his neck, and made his illusory doppelganger pull an illusionary Thunderbolt and shoot away. Majority of the opponents instantly rushed after it, summoning broomsticks from the junk. Since they couldn’t detect anything from him, courtesy of his Death powers, there was no sure fire way of telling the difference between him and his illusion.
Meanwhile, the real him shifted into his animagus form, still invisible, and soared into the labyrinth.
With his ‘Death-vision’, he could easily spot the two magical juggernauts — Dumbledore and Grindelwald, fighting each other, utilising magic arcane and powerful unlike anything he had ever pulled off. On one end, Albus Dumbledore was the Transfiguration Master, and in a world of junk, he could use the world itself as his weapon. When channelling with the amplifying power of the Elder Wand, a weapon that made one supposedly unbeatable, Dumbledore was an unstoppable force. On the other end was Gellert Grindelwald, his equal in skill and intellect, and for all he knew, pumped up with all the magic he needed, courtesy of the ley line that empowered the Room. It didn’t matter if Grindelwald was even killed. He was an illusion and could just as easily be crafted for the room to play with Dumbledore.
Truly, this was a clash between an unstoppable force and an immovable object.
Still, he had a job to do. Glazing down, he looked at the long narrow hallways, dead ends, and blind corners, filled with loads of waste and forgotten material. In his modified vision, almost everything was coated with a light teal, which he assumed was the colour for illusion. Those that weren’t were indeed original objects, or at least, magical constructs, and were coated in a multitude of colours. And the worst part? The walls were always shifting around, as were the objects, making it nearly impossible for him to scan them properly or at least divide the chamber into proper sections.
He had but a second’s warning. The entire junk wall on his six exploded with a deafening sound, huge sections of the wall crashing down and raising a gale of dust, as doxies, boggarts and pixies rose out of it screeching madly. It took Harry another second to realise that unlike the illusions beneath, the doxies and the others would be able to smell his blood.
Harry wasn’t one to hold a grudge. True, he enjoyed exchanging spells and testing himself in combat, but holding grudges was a waste of time for him, an affluent distraction that he simply couldn’t be bothered about. Until now, it was only Malfoy and Voldemort that held real sore spots in his heart.
But currently he had a new convenient outlet to vent on. Especially when this new outlet was giving him a slew of reasons to do so.
The experience back in Grimmauld Place was simply too vivid and fresh in his mind. Like before, he wasn’t in a position to use his wand. But unlike before, he was anything but trapped.
Spreading his wings, he reappeared and swooped into the doxy swarm, biting a couple heads off, while coating himself with a thin layer of Death-energy all over. The pests began disintegrating the moment they touched his skin, their illusion revealing themselves as nothing but magical constructs. There were a few real ones too, and those dropped down to the floor, dead at his slightest touch.
“EVERTE STATUM MAXIMA!”
Harry narrowly dodged the streak of light that struck a broken cupboard, making it explode in a thousand splinters. If not for his quick reflexes, and his skin turning into thick, almost metallic scales, the splinters would have fatally wounded him.
That said, he idly noted that the knockback jinx was not supposed to explode anything, so the cupboard must have really been damaged initially to explode like that. His second thought was that the voice sounded eerily like Draco Malfoy. His third thought was that it was impossible for Draco Malfoy to be present in that room, and that it was equally impossible that the room was picking up images and characters from his mind.
“You cannot escape me, Potter!” screamed faux-Draco. “Animagus or otherwise.”
Yep. Definitely not Draco.
“REDUCTO DUO! PERCUTIO! AVADA KEDAVRA!”
Endless streaks of spells perforated the air, piercing endlessly in straight lines through the air while chasing after an errant flicker that shifted between transparent and jet black. They struck the junk and exploded like cannonfire, the percussive impact of their launches and detonations reverberating across the vast chamber, and yet their target did not fall as it flew and flailed through the air, yielding no noticeable results.
“Ugh!” groaned Harry, as he morphed in mid-air, rolling ahead as he did the ground. It was far from perfect, and if not for the Impervius charm on his clothes, he’d have seriously bruised his elbows and knees.
— Nothing noticeable except high velocity three dimensional motion sickness.
Still, it wasn’t something he could blame on them. He had been training to fight against multiple opponents, not morphing mid-flight only to hurl spells at opponents enclosing in from all sides.
And with that, Harry used his other new skill.
Extrasensory.
It was a close relative of the Supersensory charm, a highly-advanced NEWT-level spell that dialled one’s senses to eleven. But for Harry, things were slightly different. His eyes morphed into a morbid yellow, and his perception of Time sped up, as did his reflexes, as well as his ability to perceive speed, for a limited time.
Holding himself in this state was not only highly taxing on his concentration, but also very dangerous. The human mind was not supposed to operate under such conditions, or accept such a degree of sensory input so quickly. Beyond the killer headache he would be sure to have after this, prolonged use of this could even lead to brain damage.
But he only needed it for a few seconds, so he should be fine.
“MORS DISSOLUTUM!”
The streak of pale white struck faux-Draco in the face, burning him to flakes of nothingness as he looked at Harry in blank shock.
He was gone before his body hit the floor.
For that instant, everything went still. The remaining attackers, the flying debris, the spellfire — it was like time itself had frozen. They had all felt it at the same time.
For Harry Potter had just killed one of the illusions. No, he had destroyed the magic in them. And for the Room that could conjure things with Magic, it was an anathema unlike any other.
“KILL THE DEFENCE PROFESSOR!” yelled several people at once.
Harry gave them an answer in return. After all, if he didn’t stop holding back now….
His wand arced.
Then when?
“MORS DISSOLUTUM HORRIBILIS!”
A rain of pellets, each of them a tiny bit of concentrated Death-energy, erupted out of his wand and struck at the attackers. Each projectile literally tore through the attackers, dissolving them into motes of energy and leaving discharged raw energy in its wake. The Room responded in vengeance and anguish, this time creating several more Acolytes, or things that looked like Acolytes. They had no faces, just a blank mask for a face, complete with the robes, the hat and the wands. They came at him in hordes, and given the speed of their casting, there was no way even an Auror force could fight them head on and win without taking punitive damages.
Harry made it look easy.
He charged, ducking to avoid the first curse, his mind falling into the same instincts that he did while training with Fleur’s Mirror Room, rushing ahead as his wand arced up, tearing through the first guy in a single smooth motion with a single shot, motes of white flooding out of it. He twisted in mid-air, and fired twice again, exploding the heads of two more, and unleashed a wide-area Exesa spell, obliterating five more the next instant.
The entire exchange took barely four seconds.
“Eight gone,” gasped Harry. “Many more left to go.”
His words were punctured by a massive torrent of flames that tore through the air, followed by a mighty growl. His heart got stuck in his throat as a crippling presence froze his body in fear. He twisted his head, and met the blood-red eyes of a humongous dragon, a dark, black, Hungarian Horntail, just as large, angry and scaly as he remembered, its gigantic teeth barred in a clear sign of outrage.
Before he even realised it, he was already yelling GLACIUS MAXIMA, as dragonfire — hot, fast and precise enough to melt a Snitch mid-flight, surged to incinerate him to ashes. As mist enveloped the area, Harry suddenly realised what kind of a monumental idiot he was being.
This was the Reserata Carcerum — the Room of fucking Requirement.
It was built separately from the Hogwarts wards. And that meant that the regular rules that held inside Hogwarts did not have to apply here.
Like the impossibility that was creating illusions out of one’s wishes and making them take form.
Or in his case, the inability to apparate.
Apparently the dragon was not impressed by his ability to withstand its dragonfire with his freezing spell, and displayed its displeasure with belching an even larger torrent of flames that melted everything in their way. Grinning, Harry apparated right behind the dragon, waved his wand, and cast the strongest Sonorous he was capable of.
“You missed,” He hissed out loud.
Dragons were incredibly powerful beings. Their hide was impervious to most spells, and their innate magical capacity was enough to counter almost every hex, curse or enchantment by default. Their strengths were on the same level as that of a basilisk, or a herd of graphorns. And their dragonfire was one of the most toxic and destructive things out there, which could only be deflected against, but never transfigured.
But for all their abilities, they had some glaring weaknesses.
Their senses were very delicate.
So when spoken in a magical language such as Parseltongue, amplified by the Sonorous, the result hit the illusory beast with something that was less noisy and more like being thrown into an enormous vat of petroleum jelly — dragon-sized. The beast crouched in pure agony, flailing, its wings flapping wildly, like it was being electrocuted. The dragon’s tail came thrashing in his direction, and he apparated a second time, this time right in front of its face and sent a freezing blast aimed for its nostrils. The dragon sneezed relentlessly, and Harry’s confidence in his victory rose substantially.
“I wonder what Snape would say if he ever saw me do this.”
He apparated again, just as the dragon breathed fire again, and then again and again, laughing in exhilaration as the beast tried to keep up with him, while being bombarded with spells and his constant commentary in Sonorous-amplified parseltongue. The fires drifted through the air, hissing as it burned everything, the junk melting as it missed its target again.
Harry had lost count of how many times he had teleported. Five times, fifteen times, twenty-two times, thirty-seven times, he could have probably crossed the fifty-way mark by now. It didn’t matter. It was incredibly easier, compared to surviving that mad bludger inside Snape’s warded ring. The feeling of utter invincibility rose in him, and he kept hitting it with the Death-powered shield-breaker spell, gnawing at the dragon’s thick skin little by little, while it kept screeching in agony and frustration from the extreme sounds.
But he couldn’t do this for long. He needed to end this, and end this quickly. But to do that, he needed something that was truly capable of tearing its way through the dragon’s hide. The only thing he could think of was amplifying the Mors Exesa spell with a ‘Horribilis’ suffix, or else, conjure an elemental conjuration using Abstract magic. The first would need him to get close to the dragon and strike him through an opening, preferably through the eyes, nostrils or maw, while the latter was incredibly taxing.
So colour him surprised when a familiar weight appeared in his left hand, and a thrill of recognition shot through him as he raised it. Gryffindor’s gleaming silver sword, its hilt encrusted with rubies and opals the size of eggs, had appeared in his left palm.
An echo of pain shot through his arm, a memory. The sword had come to him, just as it had so long ago in the Chamber of Secrets.
Sending his wand spinning back at his holster, Harry shifted the sword to his right hand and rushed at the dragon, and impaled the goblin-enchanted weapon into the beast, tearing through its hide like a knife through paper.
“MORS EXESA!” He bellowed.
Like the sound of a thousand people dying in unison, begging for mercy that would never come, the dragon let out a keening, high-pitched wail, as a wave of darkness and cosmic agony rolled off the beast, exploding in all directions. Pain roared through Harry, burning hot and icy cold at the same time, as Death rose within him to counter the lashing magic all around him, keeping its vessel safe from the magic’s malicious touch.
And then… it was gone.
Harry stood up, staggered a bit, but held himself, the sword of Gryffindor clenched in his right hand.
“Well…” he said. “Wasn’t that something?”
....
....
....
Hermione had come a long way, and she had a longer way to go. But she knew where she was headed. How? She didn’t know, but her instincts were pushing her forward.
Even if the entire place was rumbling like there was a war going on.
Hermione didn’t know what it was that Harry Potter and Albus Dumbledore were doing in this place, though given the explosions, the only thing she could possibly imagine was that her best friend was sparring against the Headmaster. It definitely made sense. The kind of magical effects Harry pulled off in class weren’t the kind that you could find in OWL or NEWT textbooks. And for all his claim of having Sirius teach things to him, Hermione knew a lie when she saw one. Sirius had been locked up in Azkaban in the high-security wing, surrounded by dementors. The man had been an absolute wreck when she and Harry had freed him and Buckbeak. And both he and Harry’s parents had been quite young when Voldemort attacked the Potters. No, there was no way Sirius Black could have taught Harry all that.
There was only one wizard out there that had the largest repository of spectacular magic enough to enthral everyone, and that was Albus Dumbledore. The same Albus Dumbledore that had been present at Harry’s birthday. Hermione had spotted him talking to Sirius Black about Harry’s magical training. Whatever brushing up Harry might have done with Sirius, it was clear that her best friend was getting personal lessons with the venerated Headmaster, possibly because he was the Boy-Who-Lived, especially now that Voldemort was back.
But that wasn’t her issue right now. She wasn’t planning on interrupting Harry’s training with the Headmaster, not when she had a room like this to explore. There were bigger fish to fry, as the saying went.
In her mind, she saw the image of the statue of a warlock. On its head was a shining tiara that oozed a brightness that made the sun pale in comparison. She walked towards it, without fear, ignoring the rumbling and explosions behind her. She hungered for it, an aching need felt by a sense of righteousness, an object that she was sure had chosen her, and would get her what she really wanted.
Even if she wasn’t utterly sure of what that was.
....
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....
Flying in the air, unseen and soundless, Harry watched as Albus Dumbledore faced faux-Grindelwald and five of his Acolytes single-handedly. For once, he was holding the stand in the fullness of his power. His robes were billowing, and power was rolling off his form in waves, as he gathered his left hand and unleashed a spell in a language Harry could barely hear much less understand, and a flash of his blue, dangerous eyes, and a wave of translucent pale blue energy washed across them and…
And they fell to wet, mushy dust. To their component molecules, maybe, as if the very bonds of energy that held those illusory forms together had been broken. Taken apart. Disintegrated. He could pull something like that with Death easily, but to undo magic using magic like that? Like… where would you even start?
Even more impressive, from an academic standpoint, was that breaking the energy of those bonds was providing the fuel for the next spell, because he kept doing it three more times, before letting it go.
That was a Wizard. Capital W.
Harry noticed a duo of disillusioned acolytes trying to curse Dumbledore from behind, their magic highlighting them perfectly under his Death-vision, and he swooped down at them, morphing mid-flight and slashed them with Gryffindor’s sword. Their disillusionment failed, and their bodies dropped to the floor, disintegrating to motes of energy.
“That was nicely done, my boy,” said the Headmaster amiably, as he trapped faux-Grindelwald in a battle of wills. “I didn’t realise you brought your cloak with you.”
“I don’t need a cloak to turn invisible, Headmaster.”
Dumbledore gave him a look of immense pride, which only elevated as he glanced at the sword in his hands, before flicking his wand in a semi-circular arc, and hurling forks of lightning to his right, obliterating everything on the spot.
“Is there no end to them?” asked Harry.
“They are one single enemy, Harry,” said Dumbledore. “I don’t even think they have individual minds, just superb instincts. They are troublesome opponents.”
Harry looked at the mound of foes that the old man had been leaving behind — dismembered bodies, Acolytes stuck in half-transfigured animal transformations, a large stack of dices that had strange human-looking faces peering out of them, and three entire columns of playing cards.
And the Headmaster had done that while holding faux-Grindelwald back while battling his Acolytes that were trying to ambush him from every single direction.
“Yes,” said Harry, “you clearly look… troubled.”
Dumbledore laughed, filling him with fresh horror. He had never seen the Headmaster look so… enthused about anything. “Well, I didn’t say I was upset by it. Just noticing that while I am stronger, these illusions will not be making things easy for me. Especially not… ah, excuse me,” he said, transfiguring at least a hundred rock spikes from the debris and hurling them at the Acolytes, massacring them in their dozens.
“I’ll admit, Harry,” said the Headmaster. “I had forgotten how it feels to just let go. To fight without any mental or moral restraints.” There was a strange glint in the man’s blue eyes, as he hurled fire and lightning in arcs, conjuring rock and glass and sand and a dozen different substances, combining them in a dozen patterns, and animating them to attack the opponents in complex movements, all at the same time.
“You… cannot… stop me, forever, mein freund,” gasped faux-Grindelwald, who was currently trapped by a large snake golem constricting him from all sides, with a dark withering curse gnawing at his abdomen.
“Oh, I know,” said Dumbledore, smiling. “I know you’re just a puppet, and you can just recreate Gellert over and over —”
The golem crushed the faux-Dark Lord in a barbaric display of gore.
“But I’ll be honest, it is rather therapeutic.”
“Are you… enjoying this?” asked Harry, flabbergasted.
Dumbledore blinked. “Are you not?”
Comments
Akinola Ologunde
This chapter takes the cake 🙌🏾. I was thinking since we didn’t get a chapter on the 5th, we should get two today?
Atsumu
GOATed chapter.
Darius Davis
Ab-So-LUTELY AMAAAAAAAAAAZING FIGHT SCENE! I esPecially loved Harry’s thoughtful considerations of Dumbledore being a Wizard. With a Capital W. Lol! That tickled me to no end!!! Beautiful writing. I am o so scared of the possible emotional quandary Harry might face when or if he does battle with Hermione and DOESN’T realize it’s actual Her and not a construct of the room. Sidenote, the lore about the room is suuuuuPERB.
