Chapter 308: Chapter 308: "Backfiring Authority"
Breakfast had barely begun in the Great Hall when Dolores Umbridge marched in, her pink cardigan practically vibrating with righteous determination. The hum of student chatter quieted almost instantly, though many faces wore barely concealed grins. Everyone knew what was coming.
"Students," she began, her voice coated in syrupy sweetness, "after yesterday's... unfortunate interruption, I wish to complete my welcoming address—"
RIBBIT.
The sound echoed through the Hall, perfectly timed to drown out her words. Harry, buttering his toast with practiced calm, kept his wand movement subtle under the table. After three days of practice, the charm had become second nature.
Umbridge's face flushed an unpleasant shade of red, but she pressed on. "The Ministry of Magic has always—" CROAK! "—considered the education—" RIBBIT! "—of young witches and wizards—" RRRRRIBBIT!
Professor McGonagall suddenly seemed very interested in her porridge, her shoulders shaking almost imperceptibly. Across the table, Snape's trademark scowl twitched suspiciously close to a smirk.
After five increasingly futile attempts, each met with a louder and more obnoxious amphibian sound, Umbridge finally snapped. Without another word, she stormed out of the Hall, her frilly pink cardigan fluttering behind her, leaving a trail of half-eaten kippers and poorly suppressed laughter in her wake.
"Magnificent," Roger whispered to Harry as the heavy doors closed behind her. "Simply magnificent."
Harry allowed himself a small, satisfied smile as he bit into his toast.
---
The day's classes, however, proved less entertaining. Every professor seemed determined to hammer home the importance of their NEWTs.
"Your OWL results mean nothing now," Professor McGonagall declared during their first Transfiguration class, her sharp gaze sweeping over the students. "NEWTs require a level of dedication, precision, and discipline that many of you have yet to demonstrate."
Even Professor Flitwick, usually cheerful, was uncharacteristically serious. Pulling Harry aside between classes, he said, "As my apprentice, Mr. Potter, I expect nothing short of exemplary performance. You must set an example for your peers."
---
At lunch, murmurs about the fifth-years' first Defense Against the Dark Arts lesson filled the Great Hall.
"It's a joke," Charles Potter declared loudly at the Gryffindor table, his face a mix of anger and frustration. "No wand work, no practical application—just reading Slinkhard's rubbish about negotiating with dark wizards!"
Similar complaints rippled through the upper-year students. Cedric, usually optimistic, looked uncharacteristically grim as he leaned across the Hufflepuff table. "We're supposed to be learning advanced protective charms this year. Instead, we're analyzing theoretical responses to hypothetical threats."
The atmosphere darkened further as more students shared their frustrations. The older students, particularly those aiming for careers as Aurors or Healers, exchanged uneasy glances. Everyone knew how critical their Defense Against the Dark Arts grades were, and without proper instruction, their chances of excelling in their NEWTs seemed bleak.
---
Professor Flitwick made a show of examining the Great Hall, casting various detection spells. "Most peculiar," he squeaked, stroking his beard. "The charm appears to have integrated itself with the Hall's ambient magic. Very sophisticated work—quite advanced."
"Minerva?" Umbridge pressed, her voice sharp despite her attempt to sound pleasant.
Professor McGonagall's lips twitched as she replied with mock seriousness, "I'm afraid acoustics-based charm work is not my specialty. You may need a curse breaker for this one."
Harry, meanwhile, had no intention of stopping the spell. He reasoned that if the charm ended, he'd have to endure Umbridge's nonsense speeches, and that was simply unacceptable. Between classes, prefect duties, and private studies, this prank was the highlight of his days, and he wasn't about to let it go.
---
Life at Hogwarts soon settled into a routine—if one could call the chaos Umbridge brought a routine. First-years seemed particularly prone to getting lost this year, while second-years appeared to have collectively decided that testing illegal jinxes in the corridors was the height of entertainment. Harry, as Head Boy, spent much of his time ensuring everyone remained safe.
The true entertainment, however, came from watching Umbridge's increasingly desperate attempts to maintain control. Humiliated and frustrated, she pressured Dumbledore into enacting an Educational Decree banning pranks and unauthorized magical entertainment. Dumbledore, unwilling to waste energy fighting over something so trivial, approved it with barely concealed indifference.
At breakfast the next morning, the Weasley twins' eyes lit up as they read the decree pinned to the notice board.
"Freddie," George said solemnly, "I believe we've been issued a challenge."
"Indeed, Georgie. It would be rude not to accept."
What followed was a masterclass in magical mischief. Portable swamps appeared in hallways, suits of armor serenaded Umbridge with toad-filled love ballads, and her office door routinely transformed into various amphibian species when she tried to open it.
Surprisingly, Charles Potter joined the chaos, channeling his Marauder lineage into increasingly creative pranks. No one was more delighted than Fred and George to have him on their team. Umbridge couldn't walk ten feet without triggering some new form of magical mayhem.
Her attempts to catch the culprits were laughable. Every investigation led to dead ends, every accusation lacked evidence. Harry found himself simultaneously impressed by the twins' and Charles's ingenuity and amused by Umbridge's ineptitude. Of course, as Head Boy, he maintained a façade of disapproval, dutifully documenting the incidents while feigning concern.
What Umbridge didn't know was that Harry had personally taken care of her most sinister tool. On the first day of term, he'd quietly removed every Blood Quill from her office. He'd sworn that no student under his watch would endure that kind of torture.
Harry's own contributions to Umbridge's torment were less flashy but far more insidious. Late into the night, he layered subtle wards around her quarters and office. The enchantments ensured that any letter she sent to the Ministry would arrive as blank parchment, and her Floo connection mysteriously failed every time she tried to use it.
In London, Minister Fudge grew increasingly frustrated by the lack of communication. He'd sent Umbridge to Hogwarts as his eyes and ears, yet days had passed with no updates. Meanwhile, at Hogwarts, Umbridge's confusion turned to paranoia. Convinced the Minister had abandoned her, she grew even more erratic.
Harry observed her unraveling with quiet satisfaction. No one who truly knew Umbridge's nature could summon sympathy for her plight. He had seen firsthand, in the books, the depths of her cruelty—the cursed blood quill, the Muggle-born Registration Commission, her delight in inflicting suffering.
Every croaking interruption at meals, every unanswered letter, and every failed Floo attempt pushed her closer to breaking. Harry hoped she'd snap soon, pack her frilly pink wardrobe, and flee Hogwarts. If she did, Dumbledore and the other professors might yet salvage what remained of their students' Defense Against the Dark Arts education.
But for now, the damage was apparent. Her lessons were useless, and discontent was spreading.
"It's a joke," Roger complained at lunch, his voice carrying across the Ravenclaw table. "No wand work, no practical training—just reading books. What kind of Defense class is that?"
Cedric, usually cheerful, looked grim. "NEWTs are life-changing, and this is what we get? How are we supposed to learn anything useful with that woman in charge?"
Elvinia voiced similar concerns during a Head meeting. "She's going to get someone killed," she said, her frustration evident. "The younger students especially—they need practical defense training."
Harry nodded thoughtfully. "If it gets worse, I might restart the defense classes like the ones I ran for Patronus training. But not yet. I don't have the time right now, and maybe—just maybe—the pranks will drive her out first."
For now, Harry's vigilante activities were on hold. Between his duties, studies, and efforts to torment Umbridge, there simply wasn't time to hunt Death Eaters. The information he'd gleaned from Macnair's memories would have to wait. He needed to establish a solid routine at Hogwarts first, ensuring that any future absences wouldn't raise suspicion.
---
Late one evening, in the third week of September, Harry was meticulously patrolling the corridors when a sudden magical pulse disrupted his focus. His eyes snapped toward the source of the disturbance.
The alarm wards he had placed around his secret hideout had been triggered—a first.
Harry stilled, his magic sharpening like a blade. He concentrated, sensing the unfamiliar magical signature now radiating through the perimeter. Whoever had dared approach his hidden refuge wasn't just powerful—they were bold. Very bold.
Harry's expression hardened. His quiet evening had just become far more interesting.
Chapter 309: Chapter 309: "Ashes Under Moonlight"
Under the pale, distant glow of the moon, eight vampires stood in a tight, tense formation atop a desolate hillside. Their attire—dark cloaks and simple tunics—was designed to blend seamlessly into the shadows. But their eyes betrayed them, faintly glowing with a predatory hunger.
They had followed the trail of their prey to this very spot, tracking the subtle magical residue left by the one who had slain their brethren. Yet now, they found nothing but a rugged expanse of land—silent and unremarkable.
A wiry vampire named Justus crouched low near a moss-covered boulder, pressing his hand flat against the damp earth. His voice was low, but his certainty cut through the quiet. "We're here. The essence is strong—it lingers. Whoever killed Amara and the others stayed here for some time."
Ira, the oldest among them, with silver hair glinting faintly in the moonlight, narrowed her piercing eyes as she scanned the surroundings. "I see no structure, no cave, no door," she hissed. "If he's here, he's hidden well."
Sergei, a broad-shouldered vampire with a jagged scar across his cheek, growled in frustration. "The essence leads us here, yet there's nothing. It reeks of a Fidelius Charm. Does anyone know how to break through that kind of magic?"
At the mention of the Fidelius Charm, the group exchanged uneasy glances. The charm was no small matter—its secrecy was nearly absolute, and bypassing it required knowledge they didn't possess. Only the Secret Keeper could reveal its protected location.
Ira's lip curled, her voice dripping with irritation. "We were promised a swift kill if we followed the trail. Now we're standing here like fools. The Dark Lord and the Schwarzwald Zirkel warned us this wizard would be dangerous, but this level of cunning? He's more trouble than he's worth."
Rising to his full height, Justus tensed, his sharp features shadowed in the moonlight. "If he's using Fidelius, he's no ordinary wizard. Either he has powerful allies or a skilled Secret Keeper. Either way, this won't be easy."
Sergei grunted, a hint of savage glee in his tone. "I have an idea. The Fidelius hides, but it doesn't protect. Now that we know the area, why don't we destroy everything here—level the ground and take him and his house down together?"
Ira tilted her head, considering the idea. "Not bad, but we'd need wizards to cause that kind of destruction. Let's go back and return with a team who knows such magic. Staying here is wasting time."
Elisabet, the youngest among them, crossed her arms and glared at the rocks as though they were mocking her. "We should bring ward-breakers too. If he's under Fidelius, there are likely other wards hiding behind it. We'll break the wards and burn his hideout to ash. Let's see how long he thinks he can hide from us."
A murmur of agreement rippled through the group. Highly trained and deadly, these vampires weren't used to being outmaneuvered, let alone outsmarted. The indignity of being thwarted by invisible magic stoked their frustration.
Nero, who had remained silent, spat on the ground. "If he's the one who killed our brethren in London, I expected him to fight. Not cower behind wards and spells."
Jana, who had lingered near the back, spoke up at last, her tone clipped and commanding. "Enough. We're done here. We'll return with reinforcements—wizards who can destroy and dismantle these protections. Standing around here until dawn will only expose us."
Her words carried finality, and the others fell silent.
Their plan came together quickly: retreat, regroup, and return with specialists. But as they turned to leave, the wind shifted, carrying with it a faint, unsettling trace of magic. A tingling sensation prickled at the backs of their necks, sharp and insistent, drawing their attention skyward and along the hill's edge. Something had awakened—subtle, yet unmistakable to their keen senses.
Sergei froze, nostrils flaring. "Do you feel that?"
Ira nodded, her jaw tightening. "He's here."
The group instinctively closed ranks, forming a defensive circle. Their glowing eyes darted through the darkness, searching for any sign of movement. They were fast, strong, and well-coordinated, but they all understood the implications: if their enemy dared to reveal himself now, he either believed he could handle them or was prepared to prevent their escape entirely.
Jana extended her hand cautiously, brushing against an invisible barrier. Her voice dropped to a fearful whisper. "We can't run. The wards have shifted." She pressed harder, her frustration mounting. "I can't Apparate. We're trapped."
Nero snarled under his breath, his fangs glinting in the moonlight. "If he thinks trapping us makes him safe, he's overconfident. We'll show him what a mistake that is."
The moon hung high above them, silent and indifferent. In the stillness, a figure emerged at the edge of their vision. At first, it was only a shadow, indistinct and ghostly. Then the figure stepped forward, entering a patch of moonlight. He was clad in armor that gleamed faintly with each measured movement, a sword with a ruby-set hilt resting casually on his shoulder. His face was hidden beneath a helm, but his posture radiated calm, focused intent.
Justus sucked in a sharp breath. "He's… clad like a knight."
Elisabet's voice trembled, betraying her unease. "A knight? Here? In this age? Did a knight kill our brethren?"
Ira's expression darkened as she tried to recall old tales. "Knights are rare, but not extinct. If this is a true knight, we can't afford to be reckless."
Harry, concealed beneath his helm, remained silent. Unlike his usual confrontations, tonight he had no patience for words or theatrics.
He moved forward with deliberate precision, the sword in his hand gleaming in the moonlight, while his wand stayed hidden but poised for action. There was no room for banter, no space for intimidation. His purpose was clear: eliminate the threat swiftly and return to Hogwarts before anyone realized he was gone.
The vampires might view him as reckless for challenging eight of them alone, but Harry had faced far graver odds. He wasn't about to let them escape with any knowledge that could lead back to him.
The vampires spread out, their predatory eyes fixed on the advancing knight. Sergei snarled, his voice low and dangerous. "Whoever you are, knight, you've made a grave mistake showing yourself."
The knight didn't reply. His movements were smooth and calculated, each step imbued with purpose. Beneath the armor, Harry focused on his breathing, on the rhythm of his movements, and on the aura emanating from each vampire. He felt their power, their tension, and their cohesion as a unit. It didn't matter. He would strike first—and strike hard.
Jana's lips curled into a feral snarl. "Fine. Stay silent. We'll make you scream soon enough."
In an instant, Harry lunged. His sword flashed like lightning, coursing with elemental magic. A gust of wind roared from its edge, scattering the vampires like leaves in a storm. Nero cried out as a blade of air sliced his shoulder. Elisabet leaped to a nearby outcrop, hissing orders to flank him, but Harry was already moving again—too fast, too unpredictable.
The vampires tried to encircle him, coordinating in groups of three to corner their foe. Yet Harry spun through their ranks, wandless bursts of force knocking them off balance. The ground quaked beneath their feet as he channeled elemental energy through his sword. Tremors disrupted their footing, jets of fire separated them, and shards of ice slowed their movements.
Ira spat curses, her voice tinged with panic. "He's using elemental magic! This is no ordinary knight!"
Justus tried a stealthy approach, darting in from behind with claws aimed for Harry's neck. Without turning, Harry flicked his sword upward, releasing a crack of thunder magic. Lightning lit the night, and Justus staggered back, a pained howl escaping his lips as burns scored his chest.
Sergei, the strongest of the group, opted for brute force. Ignoring the sting of Harry's spells, he charged forward, swinging a heavy claw at Harry's helmet. Harry parried with the flat of his blade, then countered with a low slash that severed Sergei's leg at the knee. Sergei's scream was short-lived; Harry's wand conjured a lash of Fiendfyre that reduced the vampire to ash in moments.
"He's killed Sergei too easily!" Ira shouted, desperation creeping into her voice. "Regroup! Regroup!"
But there was no chance. Harry pressed his advantage, stepping into the gap left by Sergei's death. He moved with relentless efficiency, delivering a wind-boosted strike to Nero's midsection, sending the vampire tumbling through the air. Before Nero could land, Harry was there, his sword slashing through the vampire's neck. A hiss of Fiendfyre followed, leaving nothing behind but embers carried off by the breeze.
Elisabet backed away, her wide eyes betraying her terror. "This can't be happening. He's a monster!"
The irony wasn't lost on Harry, but he gave no response. Silent and efficient, he granted no quarter. He couldn't afford it. These vampires had tracked him here, proving they possessed methods to bypass even his defenses. If they escaped, they'd return with reinforcements, better prepared. Harry's only choice was to ensure no information left this battlefield. An unprepared enemy was always an easier one to defeat.
The remaining vampires rallied, hurling a volley of Vampiric Hexes and blood-magic curses. Harry countered with elemental shields: fire consuming their spells, water washing away the energy of their curses, and hardened earth absorbing the brunt of the impacts. He had grown adept at channeling magic through his sword rather than his wand—it added versatility and, he admitted, looked far more imposing.
"Focus!" Ira screamed, her voice sharp and commanding. "Attack together!"
Three vampires rushed him simultaneously, while two more leaped at him from above. Harry crouched low, letting their shadows pass over him, then erupted upward with a shockwave of force. One vampire crashed into a rock, their skull cracking with a sickening thud. Another was impaled by a conjured lance of ice, their screams echoing briefly before fading into silence.
Elisabet and Ira recoiled, horrified at the swift decimation of their ranks. Of the eight who had stood confident moments before, four were now ash, two lay immobilized, and only Elisabet and Ira remained unscathed. Even they trembled, their confidence shattered by the knight who moved like a storm given human form.
"Run!" Elisabet begged, her voice cracking with desperation.
Ira hesitated, the hum of the wards around them sealing their fates. Her expression darkened as understanding dawned. "There is no escape. We cannot run. He's too strong."
Harry advanced, his sword raised, each step measured and deliberate.
In a final, desperate move, Ira lunged to distract him, hoping to give Elisabet a chance to break through the wards. Harry met her charge with a sweeping strike, which she narrowly dodged—only to be impaled by a conjured spike of earth. Pinned and helpless, she could do nothing as Harry's blade flashed, followed by the hiss of Fiendfyre. Her ashes scattered into the night.
"No! You—wretch!" Elisabet screamed, tears streaming down her face. "You'll pay for this—"
Harry didn't let her finish. A gust of pressurized air sent her stumbling, shattering her stance. With a swift, final slash and a surge of Fiendfyre, her cries were silenced, and the battlefield grew still.
The hillside, once alive with the chaos of battle, now stood silent. Only faint scorch marks and drifting embers bore witness to what had occurred. Harry methodically erased all traces of his presence. A cleansing charm here, a ward adjustment there—he left nothing behind that could point to him. Voldemort and the vampires would know something had happened, but without survivors, their understanding would be incomplete.
Standing alone under the moonlight, Harry breathed steadily. He'd won swiftly, as intended. Now he needed to return to Hogwarts before anyone noticed his absence. Time was essential—he had classes to attend, a façade to maintain, and a school to subtly protect.
With a faint pop of Apparition, he vanished, leaving the hillside as tranquil and empty as the vampires had first found it. The wards shimmered faintly, repairing themselves, ready for the next intrusion.
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