TalesByJaz
patreon
Harry Potter and the Silent Guardian: Ch. 353
🕑 Added 2025-01-29 18:49:57 +0000 UTCChapter 353: "The Chosen One Revealed"
The tension in the atrium was suffocating. A heavy silence blanketed the room, thick with unspoken dread. The members of the Order of the Phoenix and the assembled Aurors formed a cautious circle around Voldemort, their wands raised but hands unsteady. Each movement was slow, calculated—no one dared to be the one to set him off.
At the center of it all stood Voldemort, triumphant, towering over Dumbledore’s kneeling form like a dark god presiding over his fallen adversary. The polished marble beneath them was cracked and scorched, a battlefield marked by the weight of destruction.
Wands trembled in white-knuckled grips, but no one moved. They were waiting—waiting for the first spark that would ignite another war.
Charles emerged from the shadows, his movements sluggish with exhaustion, his injured leg dragging slightly behind him. His heart clenched at the sight of Dumbledore, the man who had always been like a grandfather to him, bloodied and kneeling before the Dark Lord.
“What will be your next move? Fight… or surrender?” Voldemort’s voice slithered through the chamber, cold and sharp as a blade. His crimson gaze flickered over the assembled fighters, amusement curling in his tone. “Your leader is down. You stand no chance against me. I would rather not waste more pure blood if I do not have to.”
Sirius scanned the situation, his mind racing through a hundred possible outcomes. None of them ended well—not while Voldemort had Dumbledore at his mercy.
“We can’t risk it,” Amelia Bones muttered under her breath, standing near Sirius. Her usually sharp eyes were wide with concern, her wand steady but her voice laced with frustration. “If we act recklessly, he’ll kill Albus before we can even blink.”
Sirius's expression tightened; even in his disagreements with Dumbledore, he would never allow the man to be sacrificed. And if he tried to do so, the others would never forgive him. A single bead of sweat trickled down his temple.
We need a miracle.
---
A sudden groan from the far side of the ruined fountain shattered the tense silence. All eyes snapped toward the crumpled figure of Magnus Blutreich, Voldemort’s fallen general. With a pained grimace, he struggled upright, one hand clutching his bruised ribcage, the other gripping a cracked golden statue for support.
Voldemort’s wand remained unwavering at Dumbledore’s throat, but his cold, piercing gaze flickered toward Magnus. “Magnus,” he barked, his tone laced with irritation. “What happened in the Hall of Prophecy? Your task was simple—get the boy to retrieve the prophecy and bring it to me. How could you fail?”
Magnus winced, exhaling sharply before straightening as best he could. “My Lord… everything was going according to plan,” he rasped, “but when the boy tried to take the prophecy orb from the shelf… he couldn’t touch it.”
The statement hung in the air, a sharp, unsettling note in the already fragile tension. The soft drip of water from the shattered fountain was the only sound that followed.
Voldemort’s expression darkened, his grip on his wand tightening. “What do you mean?”
A bitter chuckle escaped Magnus’s lips, though it was more pain than mirth. He lifted his gaze to Voldemort, the weight of failure dragging down his features. “Charles Potter is not the child prophesied to fight you, my Lord,” he admitted, his voice hollow. “The prophecy orb was keyed to ‘H. Potter’—Hadrian Potter. The elder son… not the younger.”
The atrium erupted into stunned silence. Every pair of eyes turned to Charles, who stood frozen in place.
Lily’s voice, barely above a whisper, cut through the silence like a blade. “What does this mean?”
Magnus let out a harsh, bitter laugh. “It means your precious ‘chosen one’ isn’t chosen at all.” He gestured vaguely at Charles, his voice laced with cruel amusement. “The prophecy never referred to him. It was marked for the boy you abandoned. You sent away the wrong son.”
The words landed like physical blows. James staggered as though struck, his face draining of color. Lily's hand flew to her mouth, years of choices and consequences crashing down around her.
“No…” James’s voice came out hoarse, almost desperate. “That… that can’t be possible. You’re lying!”
Charles swallowed hard. “No, Father,” he said, his voice raw with emotion. “He’s… telling the truth.” A bitter, broken chuckle escaped him as he turned his gaze downward. “The prophecy… it’s between Harry and Voldemort. It always was.”
A shudder coursed through Dumbledore’s weakened form. He did not speak for several moments, but when he did, his voice was quieter than it had ever been—full of something deeper than regret. “All this time…” he murmured, his eyes closing as though trying to block out the painful truth. “I made a mistake. I separated a family… for nothing.”
Voldemort let out a soft, almost thoughtful hum, a cruel smirk tugging at his lips. “Well,” he said, his voice emotionless. “This changes everything.”
---
Amidst the shock and horror, one man stood tall.
Laughter—sharp, defiant, and triumphant—cut through the stunned silence. Sirius Black’s bark of amusement rang out across the ruined atrium, his grin widening as he turned to face Voldemort directly.
“Yes, it changes everything,” he said, his voice brimming with fierce satisfaction. “But not in your favor, Voldemort. No, this changes everything for us.”
The Dark Lord's crimson eyes flickered with irritation, but Sirius pressed on, his wand steady at his side. “While the entire wizarding world was busy pinning their hopes on Charles, my godson—Harry—was learning the true value of strength. Unlike most children his age, he didn’t spend his days chasing bugs or daydreaming about Quidditch. No, from the moment he understood the world was cruel, he started training harder than anyone. And because of that, my godson has grown stronger than you could possibly imagine.”
Voldemort’s expression twisted with disdain. “You think a boy barely past his childhood can challenge me? Lord Voldemort?”
Sirius’s grin only widened, his gaze glinting with something dangerous. “You already know how strong Harry is, don’t you?” He tilted his head mockingly. “You could’ve faced him at Azkaban a few months ago, if you hadn’t chickened out, Tommy-boy.”
A flicker of rage darkened Voldemort’s expression at the mention of his hated Muggle name. The tension in the air thickened, magic crackling between them.
“You dare mock me?” Voldemort hissed, his voice like venom dripping from a blade.
Sirius smirked, unfazed by the Dark Lord’s fury. “Yes, I do. And why wouldn’t I? My godson should be arriving any moment now.” His tone was almost casual, but his words carried weight. “He would’ve been here already, but we did get some rather interesting intel about a certain army of yours sneaking into the country. So, Harry thought it best to use the extra time… to take out the trash.”
Voldemort stiffened.
Sirius’s words explained what had been nagging at the Dark Lord’s mind. He had planned for his forces to storm the Ministry alongside him, but things had unraveled too quickly. No messages. No reinforcements. No reports from Greyback.
His crimson eyes narrowed slightly. That’s why.
Just as Voldemort began reassessing his next move, the air above Dumbledore erupted in a fiery burst. A piercing cry filled the atrium as Fawkes appeared in a dazzling flare of golden light, his brilliant wings illuminating the ruined battlefield.
Before Voldemort could react, the phoenix’s talons clutched onto Dumbledore’s robes. In another burst of flames, they vanished—reappearing behind the Order’s defensive line. Moody and another elder Order member stepped forward instantly, steadying the weakened Headmaster.
Voldemort’s expression darkened further. His moment of triumph had slipped through his grasp.
---
Freed from the immediate threat to Dumbledore’s life, the tension in the atrium shifted. No longer forced into cautious hesitation, the circle of witches and wizards surrounding Voldemort and Magnus tightened, their wands gleaming in the flickering light. The tide had turned.
Sirius’s lips curled into a sharp, predatory grin, his grey eyes flashing with anticipation. He lifted his wand in one swift motion, unwavering in his stance. “Your hostage is gone, Voldemort,” he declared, his voice ringing through the chamber. “It’s time to end this.”
A low, simmering rage radiated from Voldemort like heat from a dying star. The very air trembled with his fury, crackling with the static charge of unrestrained malice. His crimson gaze burned with the promise of death.
“You wanted to anger me, didn’t you?” Voldemort hissed, his voice quiet but carrying the weight of a brewing storm. “You’ve succeeded. And because of that, none of you will see the sunrise. I will ensure it.”
Sirius let out a short, humorless laugh, rolling his shoulders as though shaking off tension before a duel. “Says the wizard who’s outnumbered and outmatched.” He twirled his wand between his fingers, the smirk on his face never faltering. “You know, my godson and I spar often. The last time we trained together, he told me I had the strength to battle you.” Sirius leveled his wand, his stance shifting into one of readiness. “Let’s see if he was right.” His grin widened, sharp as a blade. “Think of this as a warm-up. A taste of what you’ll face when you finally meet Harry.”
The witches and wizards around them wasted no time. Aurors and Order members moved into formation, well-rehearsed strategies falling into place with practiced ease. Amelia Bones barked swift orders, her Aurors responding in perfect synchronization. They tightened their defensive flanks, cutting off every possible escape route.
The tension in the air solidified into something palpable, something electric, the air charged with the anticipation of battle. The final confrontation was at hand.
