Chapter 310: Chapter 310: "Dark Council"
As Harry made his way back to Hogwarts, high above the British countryside in an ancient castle, an important meeting was underway. The dimly lit chamber glowed with the eerie light of hovering orbs of cold fire, casting long shadows across the room.
Voldemort sat at the head of an ornate table, flanked by Magnus Blutreich of the Schwarzwald Zirkel and Vladimir Dracul XII of the Carpathian Covenant. Their respective inner circles stood at attention beside their leaders. The alliance's plans were progressing smoothly—Ministry infiltration, political maneuvering, strategic positioning—and this meeting was part of their regular discussions to refine their schemes.
After reviewing their primary objectives, the topic shifted to a growing concern—a thorn in their side.
"What of our vigilante problem?" Voldemort asked, his crimson eyes locking onto Vladimir. "The one who killed Macnair and your guards. Have you resolved it?"
A confident smile spread across Vladimir's aged features. "By now, he should be dead. I sent nine of my elite warriors to his hideout tonight. They are my finest—experts in tracking, combat, and stealth. We should hear of their success any moment."
Magnus raised a skeptical eyebrow, his silver hair gleaming faintly in the cold firelight. "Such confidence, despite the previous failures?"
"This time—" Vladimir began, but the chamber doors burst open with a resounding crash.
A young vampire stumbled in, pale even by undead standards. He was trembling as he approached the table where his lord sat.
"Marcus?" Vladimir's smile vanished, replaced by a scowl. "You were assigned to the hunting party. Why are you here alone? Where are the others?"
Marcus fell to one knee, his voice trembling. "My lord... they're dead. All of them. That monster killed them."
The temperature in the room seemed to drop further as Vladimir rose slowly from his seat, his ancient face twisted in fury. "What? Everyone? Dead? How? Speak—tell me everything."
Marcus spoke quickly, his words tumbling over each other as he recounted the night's events. He described how they had tracked their target to a hillside, how he had been stationed as a lookout, ready to strike if their prey tried to flee. Then, everything had gone wrong. Wards had sprung up, trapping them, and a knight had emerged. He detailed the swift, brutal efficiency with which their target had cut down his comrades.
"A knight?" Magnus interrupted, leaning forward, his sharp features intent. "Are you certain?"
"Yes," Marcus whispered. "The armor, the way he fought—it was unmistakable. But this knight wasn't like the stories I've heard. He wielded magic—elements bent to his will. Fire, lightning, earth... they moved as though they were extensions of him."
Voldemort's lip curled, his voice icy. "A knight? Why have I not heard of them, and why are you so afraid?" Skepticism tinged his words, though his crimson eyes flicked toward Magnus, who was well-versed in ancient lore. "Explain."
Magnus sighed, his tone laced with irritation and unease. "Knights are relics of a forgotten time. Humans who trained their bodies relentlessly without magic, achieving feats of strength and endurance rivaling wizards. But their methods were painstakingly slow. They were replaced by wizards, who could achieve power far more quickly. I believed them to be extinct."
Vladimir nodded, his voice low and grave. "Not entirely extinct, it seems. My Covenant's oldest records speak of them. Knights once roamed ancient kingdoms, facing entire armies single-handedly. The greatest among them—the Sky Knights—harnessed life energy, allowing them to surpass mortal limits. They could resist spells, move with inhuman speed, and endure strikes that would fell most men. A fully trained knight could live over a century and still fight as if in his prime."
Voldemort's expression remained impassive, though his eyes narrowed in thought. "Decades of training, and now we face one who is both knight and wizard? Unusual. And deadly."
Magnus gestured dismissively. "Perhaps that explains his strength against vampires. While knights fell easily to wizards, they were said to be formidable foes for creatures like werewolves and vampires, who rely on physical superiority. He may simply be exploiting their natural weaknesses."
Voldemort's fingers tapped against the table as he turned his gaze to Marcus. "Are you certain it was a knight? You saw the battle clearly?"
"Yes, my lord," Marcus said, his voice barely above a whisper. "Vampires see well in darkness. I watched from the treeline. He never sensed me. But the others..." He shuddered. "They didn't stand a chance."
Vladimir slammed his fist onto the table, the sound reverberating through the chamber. "Eight of my best! Eight! And this... knight cut through them like wheat!"
The room fell silent, the weight of Marcus's account sinking in. Their foe was far more dangerous than they had anticipated.
"This changes everything," Magnus said quietly, his weathered features grave. "A knight who can wield magic... I've never even heard of such a thing. Mastering either takes years, but this man has achieved both. He's no ordinary foe."
Vladimir scowled, his ancient face etched with frustration. "What I don't understand is why he's targeting us. He seems like a lone hermit—someone without ambition or allies. How did we make an enemy of him?"
Voldemort's crimson eyes gleamed with cold malice. "It doesn't matter. He has killed too many of our forces. He's an enemy now, and there's no turning back. Between this knight and that cursed Blue Eyes, the wizarding world has changed while I was away. How have so many powerful individuals emerged from obscurity?"
Magnus folded his arms, his tone measured but resolute. "We'll only learn the truth once we capture and interrogate them. For now, we need to focus on neutralizing this new threat."
Vladimir turned to Marcus, his gaze piercing. "My kin demand vengeance. They've been humiliated. I cannot let this insult go unanswered. Marcus, tell me—what else did you see? Every detail is important."
Marcus trembled but obeyed, his voice halting. "He was precise. Calculated. Every movement had a purpose—there was no wasted energy, no taunting or theatrics. He trapped them first with anti-Apparition wards and boundary shields, then…" He swallowed hard. "Then he executed them. Like it was nothing more than a task."
Voldemort's expression darkened, his fingers tapping thoughtfully against the table. "Professional. Methodical. This is no vigilante playing at hero."
Magnus nodded grimly. "And now he knows we can track him. He'll be even more cautious."
Vladimir began pacing, his ancient features twisting with a mix of fury and calculation. "We need overwhelming force. No more small teams, no more probing attacks. This time, we crush him entirely."
"I agree," Magnus said. "My Zirkel can provide combat specialists and ward-breakers. Combined with your vampires—"
"And the werewolves," came a guttural voice from the shadows. Fenrir Greyback stepped into the dim light, his feral grin baring jagged teeth. "My pack is eager to prove themselves. On the full moon, they'll be at their strongest. Let them join the hunt."
Voldemort raised a hand to silence the rising voices. "Numbers. Be specific."
Vladimir's lips curled into a predatory smile. "Twenty of my best warriors."
"I can provide twenty transformed werewolves," Greyback added, his tone dripping with eagerness. "The strongest of my pack."
"And the Zirkel will send three combat masters," Magnus said. "Capable of breaking through any wards he might set."
Voldemort's gaze flicked to Magnus. "And three of my Death Eaters?"
"Yes, my Lord," Magnus replied with a respectful nod. "A force of nearly fifty. Perhaps excessive for one man—but after our losses, we cannot risk another failure."
Still kneeling, Marcus spoke hesitantly, his voice barely audible. "My Lords… even with such numbers, do not underestimate him. The way he fought… it was like watching death itself."
"Then we'll respond with greater death," Vladimir snarled. "In two weeks, under the full moon, we'll end this."
Voldemort's expression remained distant, his voice soft yet commanding. "So be it. Crush him completely. Leave no survivors, no loose ends. When we move on the Ministry, I want no hidden knights waiting to interfere."
The alliance leaders nodded, their resolve hardened by vengeance. As the meeting adjourned, the room emptied, each faction preparing for the upcoming assault. But in the shadows, Marcus lingered, unable to shake the image of that silent, armored figure—relentless, unstoppable, and utterly without mercy.
The next full moon would bring either triumph or slaughter. Marcus only prayed he wouldn't be chosen to see which it would be.
Chapter 311: Chapter 311: "The High Inquisitor"
Back at Hogwarts, the first light of dawn streamed through ancient windows as Harry stirred from his bed, refreshed after a full night's rest. He had no idea about the meeting held far away or the force being assembled to hunt him down.
As he prepared for his daily morning exercise, his mind wandered back to the previous night's battle. The vampires who had tracked him to his hidden home had been swiftly eliminated, but Harry knew it wouldn't end there. They now had an idea of his location, and they would undoubtedly return—this time with reinforcements. Death Eaters, perhaps even other dark creatures, would likely join them. The only uncertainty was when they would strike, and Harry needed to be ready.
Yet, instead of fear, Harry felt a simmering excitement. Knights thrived on challenges, on trials of strength and skill, and each victory brought him closer to the next stage of knighthood. He could have asked for help from Sirius, Amelia, or even the Longbottoms, but he refused. These battles were his, and each one he faced alone pushed him closer to mastering his craft.
Outside, in his secluded training ground deep within the Forbidden Forest, Harry began his morning exercises. The air was cool, carrying the scent of damp earth and pine, as he performed the precise, disciplined movements of the knight breathing method. He could feel his progress—he was nearing seventy percent of the journey to becoming a Great Knight. The thought filled him with anticipation.
With more battles, he would ascend to the next level, gaining the strength to wield life energy as shields capable of deflecting spells. The idea of facing more vampires and perhaps even werewolves thrilled him; they would forge his body and magic into even sharper weapons.
After finishing his training, Harry returned to the castle, showered, and prepared for another day of classes, Head Boy duties, and tormenting Dolores Umbridge. The situation with her had unfolded quite differently from the events in canon.
Without the Ministry's letters and decrees granting her additional authority, she remained powerless. The title of High Inquisitor had never been bestowed upon her, leaving her influence limited. She had become little more than an isolated figure in the castle, her authority undermined and her presence a source of ridicule. Even students who supported the Ministry avoided her for fear of being targeted by the endless stream of pranks that followed her everywhere.
The week passed quietly. Classes continued as usual, and while Harry expected the vampires to retaliate at any moment, the attack never came. The delay puzzled him at first, but it also gave him valuable time. Each night, when his schedule allowed, Harry returned to his hidden sanctuary to lay traps and prepare surprises for the inevitable battle. The more time his enemies took, the more thoroughly he fortified his defenses.
Meanwhile, Umbridge's situation deteriorated. A month of relentless pranks and humiliations had finally broken her spirit. Harry had to admit he was impressed—her resilience in the face of such torment was remarkable. But even she had limits, and by the end of September, her defenses crumbled.
On the morning of October 1st, Umbridge was conspicuously absent from breakfast. By lunch, rumors had spread like wildfire through the castle. Witnesses claimed to have seen her leaving Hogwarts, her belongings floating behind her in a neat procession. Her face, they said, was a mask of barely contained rage.
"Freedom!" George Weasley declared during dinner, raising his goblet high. "The toad has finally hopped away!"
The Great Hall erupted into celebration. Even the professors seemed more relaxed, though they maintained their professional composure.
"Good riddance," Roger said later that night when Harry and his friends gathered in their usual spot.
"Don't celebrate too soon," Harry warned, his tone serious.
Elvinia frowned. "What do you mean?"
Harry pushed his plate aside, his eyes sharp with caution. "Umbridge isn't the type to admit defeat. She's backed by the Ministry. This isn't over."
His words proved prophetic. Just two days later, the morning owls delivered copies of the Daily Prophet, its headline screaming in bold letters:
MINISTRY SEEKS EDUCATIONAL REFORM
DOLORES UMBRIDGE APPOINTED FIRST-EVER HIGH INQUISITOR
The article detailed the sweeping new powers granted to Umbridge by Minister Fudge. She now had the authority to inspect teachers, enforce curriculum changes, and impose new educational standards. Most troubling of all, she was empowered to create and enforce rules at her discretion to maintain "proper order."
When Umbridge returned that evening, her entrance was as dramatic as it was calculated. Gone was the flustered, powerless professor who had been the target of endless pranks. In her place stood a woman cloaked in Ministry authority, her smile sharp and unyielding, a promise of retribution in every step.
"By order of the Minister of Magic," she announced to the stunned Great Hall, her voice cutting through the room despite the loud ribbits that echoed with every sentence. The magical disruptions didn't faze her in the slightest. She continued speaking, uncaring whether her audience heard her words or not. "Hogwarts will undergo necessary reforms. The era of unchecked chaos is over."
The changes began immediately. Every morning brought new educational decrees, each more restrictive than the last. Student organizations were disbanded. Gatherings of more than three students required written permission. Even Quidditch teams were subjected to rigorous approval processes for practice sessions. Umbridge's vengeance had arrived in full force.
Her inspections were ruthless. She interrupted Professor McGonagall's advanced Transfiguration class with thinly veiled questions about "age-appropriate content." She probed Professor Flitwick's teaching methods while making snide comments about his heritage. Even Snape endured her scrutiny, though his carefully measured responses betrayed the fury simmering beneath the surface.
But it was the students who bore the brunt of her authority. Detentions were handed out for the slightest infractions. Prefects were threatened with the loss of their badges if they failed to report rule-breakers. To tighten her grip further, she formed an "Inquisitorial Squad," a group of students granted powers far exceeding those of prefects. Unsurprisingly, it was composed of students eager to gain her favor.
Harry watched the chaos unfold, choosing not to intervene. It wasn't fear that held him back—Umbridge was nothing more than a nuisance in his eyes—but his time was consumed with preparations for the impending battle. Any misstep in those preparations could mean death, and he wasn't willing to risk it.
"This is worse than before," Cedric muttered during one of their group meetings. "At least then, she was just an annoying professor. Now she's practically running the school."
Harry nodded, his expression grim. "I think this was her plan all along. The pranks only delayed the inevitable. Fudge sent her here to undermine Dumbledore, to strip him of his influence. But for now, we need to focus on protecting the students without giving her more ammunition against us. Give me a few days to think of a way to counter this."
As the week progressed, Hogwarts became unrecognizable. Portraits were enlisted to spy on students, reporting movements to the Inquisitorial Squad. Walls were plastered with educational decrees, each one more draconian than the last. A heavy atmosphere of fear and suspicion hung over the castle, students dreading punishment for even the smallest mistakes.
Despite these challenges, Harry's mind remained focused on the full moon. The delay in the vampires' retaliation only reinforced his suspicion—they were waiting for the werewolves to be at full strength. The timing made sense; they would strike when their forces were at their peak. Each night, Harry strengthened his wards and laid new traps, determined to meet the looming threat on his own terms.
As he patrolled the corridors that night, the castle shrouded in darkness, Harry's expression was one of steely resolve. The alarm wards at his sanctuary were ready to trigger, and his preparations were nearly complete.
"Let them come," he thought, his grip tightening on the Elder Wand. "I'll face them all—and I will win."
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