Chapter 316: Chapter 316: “Return of the Defeated”
Vladimir Dracul XII Apparated at the base of an ancient mountain, just beyond the hidden wards shielding the Alliance's sanctuary from the outside world. A bitter wind howled through the narrow valley, carrying flecks of ice that lashed against his dark cloak. He paused, taking a moment to compose himself. Smoothing the fabric over his shoulders and brushing any lingering travel dust from his boots, he refused to let even a shadow of defeat mar his appearance.
He stepped forward, and the mountain's jagged face shimmered. An arched entrance, concealed by powerful wards, parted as if aware of his presence. Vladimir strode into the revealed corridor, the rock walls closing around him like the maw of a beast. The echo of his footsteps reverberated against the cold stone. Dim torchlight flickered along the walls, their flames sputtering in unseen drafts. The oppressive silence pressed down on him. He recognized it well—it was the charged calm that always preceded the storm of anger and blame.
The corridor opened into a vast, cavernous hall illuminated by uneven sconces. The floor beneath him bore ancient runes, their grooves chipped and worn by centuries of history. At the center of the chamber stood two figures, their outlines flickering in the dim firelight.
Nearest to the entrance stood Voldemort, his gaunt figure unnaturally still. His crimson eyes glowed with a predatory intensity, like a snake watching for the slightest movement. Opposite him leaned Magnus Blutreich, the leader of the Schwarzwald Zirkel. Magnus exuded restless energy, his silver hair gleaming like polished steel. Unlike Voldemort's controlled menace, Magnus drummed his fingers impatiently against the edge of a heavy oak table etched with swirling runes.
A tense silence blanketed the room.
"Where is Vladimir?" Voldemort's voice cut through the stillness, low and venomous. The sound reverberated off the jagged walls, his irritation palpable. "He should have arrived by now."
Magnus shrugged with a faintly mocking smirk. "Perhaps he's still gathering what remains of his forces," he said, his tone smooth and nonchalant. "As you'll recall, we only committed a token force to the operation. The vampires bore the brunt of the losses. If things went poorly, he's suffered far more than we have."
Voldemort's lip curled in displeasure, but he didn't respond. At that moment, footsteps echoed from the corridor beyond. Both men turned to face the approaching sound.
Vladimir emerged from the shadows with measured strides, his posture radiating a practiced, icy composure. His pale features betrayed faint bruises on his cheek and near his left eye—marks carefully concealed but not entirely hidden. Still, he carried himself as though unscathed, his crimson eyes cold and guarded.
"You're late," Voldemort hissed, his voice like a whip. His piercing gaze bore into Vladimir. "Where did you run off to?"
Magnus straightened, crossing his arms over his chest. "We were about to send someone after you," he said coolly. "When none of the forces returned, it didn't paint a promising picture."
Vladimir inclined his head, his voice calm yet tinged with bitterness. "Your concerns are not unwarranted," he admitted. "Our expedition encountered… difficulties."
Voldemort's eyes narrowed dangerously, his tone low and cutting. "Difficulties? Explain."
Vladimir exhaled slowly, allowing a trace of frustration to slip into his words. "The Knight—the one we targeted—was prepared for us. It's as though he knew we were coming. His sanctuary's defenses were far more formidable than anticipated, and the traps he'd set were lethal. Our army was… intercepted and slaughtered."
A heavy silence fell over the chamber, broken only by the sputtering of torches and the faint drip of water echoing in the distance. Magnus raised an eyebrow, his skepticism cutting through the quiet like a blade. "Slaughtered? So you arrived too late to salvage anything?"
Vladimir's mouth tightened. "Yes. I sensed the losses and rushed to intervene, but by the time I arrived, there was little left to save."
A muscle twitched in Voldemort's jaw, his voice low and icy. "And the Knight?"
"He lives," Vladimir answered, meeting that crimson gaze without flinching. "I couldn't kill him. He was stronger—faster—than I anticipated. A prolonged duel would have ended in my defeat."
Magnus let out a short, mirthless chuckle. "So, to summarize, you lost your entire strike force and accomplished nothing."
Though Vladimir's fists clenched at his sides, he kept his composure. "If you think it was so simple, Magnus, perhaps you'd like to lead your forces against the knight right now. He will not be expecting it."
"Enough," Voldemort snapped, the single word silencing both men instantly. He stepped closer to Vladimir, his crimson eyes narrowing dangerously. "Tell me exactly what happened. Who is this Knight? He's not the Blue-Eyed wizard, yet he continues to foil our plans."
Vladimir's gaze flickered with resentment, but he spoke evenly. "He is indeed not that Blue Eyes wizard. His face was obscured—likely by a helm or some illusion. His fighting style was entirely different. He is a sword-wielding Knight, enhanced by advanced magic. Even the wards around his estate seemed crafted to complement his skills. He unleashed powerful illusions and had another figure—a second Knight, possibly a clone—that fought with equal ferocity."
Magnus's lips curled in a half-sneer, half-smile. "Two Knights?" he mused, his tone laced with mockery. "The army made up of vampires and werewolves couldn't handle two Knights?"
Vladimir ignored him, turning to Voldemort. "I dueled the main Knight briefly. He outmatched me—physically, magically, or a combination of both. I saw no benefit in pressing a hopeless fight, so I withdrew."
Magnus scoffed, the sound sharp and derisive. "Ran, you mean."
Vladimir's eyes flashed. "You can call it what you like. I call it keeping myself alive, so this alliance retains the last representative of the Carpathian Covenant capable of more than whimpering in a corner."
Before Magnus could retort, Voldemort silenced them both with an upraised hand. "Your survival does not absolve your failure, Vladimir," he said, his voice dangerously soft. "We cannot afford more disasters. Is that understood?"
Vladimir dipped his head a fraction. "It is. I also understand that confronting the Knight on his own ground again would be suicidal. My recommendation is to leave him be for now."
Magnus gave a hollow laugh. "After all this, that's your grand solution? Abandon the mission entirely?"
An undercurrent of tension flickered in Vladimir's jaw, but he pressed on calmly. "There's no point in charging headlong into a fortress we cannot breach. The Knight's combination of illusions, wards, and combat skill makes him unbeatable on his turf. Next time, if confrontation is necessary, it must be on neutral ground. Another failure like this, and our army and my vampires will be wiped out completely—leaving our alliance with nothing."
Voldemort's lips curled faintly. "For once, I agree. We cannot squander our resources chasing shadows. The Knight remains a threat, but we will engage him only if he crosses our path again. For now, our focus shifts to more pressing matters."
Magnus's scornful glare made it clear he wanted to argue further, but Voldemort's tone brooked no dissent. With a begrudging nod, Magnus let the topic drop, though the tension in the chamber lingered.
A faint scuffle echoed at the cavern's entrance, breaking the charged silence. A young Death Eater stumbled into the hall, his robes disheveled, and his face pale. Dropping to one knee, he struggled to steady his breath. "My Lords," he gasped. "We have… news."
Voldemort's piercing gaze flicked over him with impatience. "Then speak."
The Death Eater hesitated, his eyes darting briefly to Magnus, as though uncertain of the power dynamics in the room. Resolving to address everyone, he raised his voice. "We've found him—the one Master Blutreich has been searching for. Grindelwald. We know where he's imprisoned."
The chamber fell silent once more. Magnus blinked, the name hanging in the air like a spark waiting to ignite. He whispered almost reverentially, "At last."
Vladimir stiffened, uneasy at the mention of Grindelwald, while Voldemort's inhuman gaze sharpened, betraying a flicker of heightened interest.
"Where?" Voldemort demanded.
"Nurmengard," the Death Eater answered, his voice trembling with a mix of fear and excitement. "The rumors were partially true, but now we've confirmed them. Grindelwald remains locked within the fortress. Dumbledore's wards still hold. Even as the old man's influence waned, no one dared tamper with Nurmengard. It's… formidable."
Magnus let out a slow, shaky breath, his expression flickering between rage and awe. "So that's how it is. Curse that meddling fool, Dumbledore. He turned my Lord's fortress into a prison." His teeth clenched, fury evident in his voice. "He left Gellert to rot, hidden away from the world. All these years."
Vladimir's expression tightened, a mix of discomfort and fascination crossing his face. "Nurmengard," he murmured. "Built by Grindelwald himself, yet twisted into his tomb. The fortress was always said to be unassailable."
Voldemort gave a curt nod, his tone heavy with calculation. "If we attempt an open assault on Nurmengard, the ICW and every European Auror will descend upon us. We are not yet prepared for that. Stealth is paramount. A small infiltration—precise and coordinated—is the only option. One misstep could bring disaster."
Magnus's lieutenant stepped forward, his voice steady but reverent. "Quiet infiltration is indeed the way. If we approach with an army, every wizard on the continent will rise against us. We must assemble squads capable of operating in absolute secrecy. A burglary, a stealth mission—free the lord and vanish without a trace. Only then can we regroup and plan our next move."
Vladimir lingered to the side, unnoticed and silent. His place in this conversation felt tenuous at best. The Carpathian Covenant was a shadow of its former self—its armies decimated by one Knight. What was once a vital force in the Alliance now stood diminished, and Vladimir's influence had dwindled with it.
Still, he clenched his fists at his sides, refusing to break under the weight of his failure. If revenge against the Knight was to be his, he needed Voldemort to succeed. Only then could the Covenant be restored, and vampires roam freely once more. For now, he swallowed his pride, determined to rebuild when the time came.
Magnus's voice rose again, addressing Voldemort more intimately. "We'll need a specialized infiltration team. My Zirkel can provide curse-breakers skilled in dismantling archaic wards. You'll supply wizards to guard them. But we must act soon—before the window closes."
Voldemort folded his hands behind his back, features grave but unwavering. "Agreed. We move quietly and without delay. Let the Knight remain ignorant. One fiasco is enough, and we cannot afford an entanglement with him while pursuing Grindelwald."
Vladimir found his opening to speak. "I will assist in any way I can," he said softly, suppressing the bitterness in his tone. "Though the Covenant is diminished, we still have resources—contacts across Europe—who can help ensure the operation remains discreet."
Magnus shot him a cynical glance, but Voldemort inclined his head, his voice cutting but devoid of outright derision. "Use them. If any of your kind remain loyal, put them to work. But there will be no more wasted lives on pointless vendettas."
A faint flush of anger crept across Vladimir's pale cheeks, but he kept his composure, dipping his head in deference. "Yes, my Lord."
With that, the meeting drew to a close. The next phase of their plan was set: a stealth operation to free Grindelwald from Nurmengard. The Alliance would gather what few resources remained, avoid any confrontation with the Knight, and move swiftly to secure an ally who could tip the balance of power in their favor.
As the final words echoed through the chamber, Voldemort swept out without a backward glance, his robes billowing like a shadow against the flickering torchlight. Magnus lingered, leaning closer to exchange words with a Zirkel lieutenant who had stepped out from a side passage. Their hushed conversation carried a sense of tempered excitement, their tones cautious but determined.
Vladimir stood apart, silent, his mind roiling with conflicting emotions—resentment, humiliation, and the cold burn of determination.
He exhaled slowly, his breath visible in the frigid air, before turning to leave. The torchlight caught his eyes as he moved, reflecting the icy resolve within. He would bide his time, rebuild his power, and exact vengeance on the Knight who had brought ruin upon his Covenant. For now, he would play his part in the Alliance, aiding Voldemort and Magnus in their quest to free Grindelwald. If that path led him closer to reclaiming his strength, then he would walk it willingly.
One way or another, he vowed, the tides would shift again. The Knight's fortress had proven invincible tonight, but no fortress was truly impregnable. Allies could be forged, and cunning plans devised. This bitter defeat was but a single move in a long and complex game. The grand chessboard of dark alliances was still in play, and Vladimir would await his turn.
As he stepped from the ancient hideout, his shoulders remained square, his steps measured. Though his confidence lay in tatters, his pride refused to falter. If his presence no longer commanded respect, he would earn it back. If the Carpathian Covenant had been reduced to ashes, he would raise it anew. The Knight might seem unstoppable within his fortress, but the Covenant's thirst for vengeance would not be quenched by a single night's failure.
Far beyond the hidden caverns, Vladimir knew the Knight Wizard would be in his sanctuary, celebrating his victory. A grim smile ghosted across Vladimir's lips as he strode into the cold night.
Let him have his illusions of invincibility for now, he thought. The game is far from over.
Chapter 317: Chapter 317: "The Scars of Victory"
At nearly the same hour that Voldemort and his alliance were plotting to free Grindelwald, Harry Potter trudged into Hogwarts through a seldom-used side entrance. The door yielded easily to the discrete password override he'd engineered months ago. Exhaustion weighed heavily on him, both physically and mentally, but beneath the fatigue was a faint, satisfying hum of victory. Winning, it seemed, had a way of dulling the sting of bruises and the toll of adrenaline.
His head throbbed, his eyelids heavy, but the castle's wards greeted him like an old friend, wrapping him in their familiar warmth the moment he stepped inside. The early light of dawn filtered through the tall windows, bathing the stone corridor in muted gold. Harry sighed, his footsteps echoing softly as he made his way to the Head Boy room.
Once inside, he kicked off his boots and all but collapsed onto his bed, too tired to even bother with undressing. A few hours of sleep would have to do before classes began. But as soon as he closed his eyes, the battlefield surged into his mind: the deadly dance of Fiendfyre, the guttural hiss of dying vampires, and the pained roars of wounded werewolves. His rest was shallow, haunted, and far from peaceful.
When he finally woke, the sun was already well above the horizon. He glanced at the clock—he'd managed perhaps two hours of sleep. It would have to suffice.
"Another morning," he muttered to himself. "Another day at Hogwarts."
Rolling out of bed, Harry rummaged through his trunk and pulled out two vials: an Invigoration Draught and a mild Focus Serum. He downed them quickly, feeling their effects ripple through him, sharpening his mind and steadying his body. With a deep breath, he cast a refreshing charm to clear any lingering traces of fatigue. The spell worked as intended; outwardly, he looked as though he'd slept like a baby. No one would suspect a thing.
Harry straightened his robes, grabbed his school bag, and stepped into the bustling castle halls, the weight of his dual life neatly hidden behind an air of practiced nonchalance.
---
The day's lessons passed in a blur. Harry found himself uncharacteristically irritable, snapping at a second-year Ravenclaw who had timidly asked for help in Transfiguration. Though he muttered a curt apology afterward, the incident gnawed at him. Skipping the rest of his classes, he resolved to find out why he'd lost control so easily. Meditation and Occlumency seemed like the best way to uncover the cause.
He retreated to a quiet alcove in a seldom-used tower corridor, settling onto a cold stone bench. The distant murmur of the castle seemed muffled here, as though the space itself held its breath. Harry closed his eyes and tried to clear his mind. Meditation came first, the familiar rhythm of his breathing calming the frayed edges of his nerves. Then came the practiced mental exercises of Occlumency, each one forcing him to confront the source of his frustration.
The truth was obvious, even before the exercises had begun. It wasn't lack of sleep or the stress of classes. The haunting weight of what he had done the night before—killing so many foes—hung heavily in his mind. Vampires, werewolves, and other dark creatures, all falling by his hand. Rationalizing the situation ("They attacked me; I had no choice") did little to quiet the horror of it. Nightmares had already begun to take hold, replaying the faces and screams of his enemies.
I'm not used to this, he thought grimly, his mind drifting through each vivid memory. He'd fought before, and he'd killed before, but never like this. Never so many, and never with such calculated precision. Inferi and Acromantula had been easier to distance himself from—they weren't truly alive, not like this. But last night, he had been a warrior on a battlefield, not a defender fending off mindless monsters.
The aftermath was clear now: his fuse was shorter, his frustrations bubbling over into interactions that once wouldn't have bothered him. A simple question from a young student had been enough to tip him into irritation, and he hated how easily he had snapped.
The solution, if there was one, lay in more meditation, more Occlumency—a mental regimen he'd honed to withstand outside intrusion. But cleansing emotional scars was far more difficult than blocking unwanted thoughts. He let out a weary sigh, realizing it would take days, perhaps weeks, to regain balance. Until then, he would need to keep his distance from others. He couldn't afford to lash out again, or worse, hurt someone out of reflex.
"So I keep my distance," he murmured to himself, eyes still closed. It was a temporary measure, he told himself, a necessary step to regain control. With time and discipline, he would find his equilibrium again.
For now, he just had to endure.
---
Days blurred into a haze of half-drowsy classes and forced politeness. Things were not progressing well. Several times, friends or professors tried to engage him, but Harry deflected them with excuses—extra Head Boy duties, urgent library research, private study. In truth, he just needed distance, a safe buffer from the weight of his thoughts.
When the pressure threatened to break him, Harry sought solace in the one place that brought him peace: Fleur Delacour. That night, as curfew descended, he slipped away to France to see her.
"Mon Dieu, 'Arry," she whispered during the first of his nightly visits, her fingers brushing back his unruly hair to reveal the dark circles beneath his eyes. "You look exhausted. What has happened?"
At first, he resisted, giving vague reassurances. But her gaze grew stern, her blue eyes shimmering with unshed tears. Eventually, he relented, recounting a compressed version of the confrontation at his mountain sanctuary: the vampire hordes, the werewolves, the illusions, the savage chaos. He spared her the grisliest details—the screams silenced by conjured flames, the clash of steel against flesh—but it was enough.
"You… alone?!" Fleur gasped, her accent tightening with alarm. "C'est insensé! You could have died!"
Harry shrugged, though guilt weighed heavily on him. "I made sure I was prepared. I wouldn't have done it otherwise."
Her grip on his hand tightened, her blue eyes swimming with a fierce mix of worry and anger.
"This is not about whether you were prepared, mon amour. You are…" She exhaled sharply. "Oh, 'Arry, you are too reckless. You must let me know next time. Even if I cannot fight your battles, I can call for help if it goes badly!"
"I'd never endanger you," he murmured, leaning forward to rest his forehead against hers. He closed his eyes, inhaling the soft, floral scent of her hair, grounding himself in her presence.
Fleur pulled back slightly, her tone half-scolding, half-affectionate. "I am not so fragile, mon amour. At the very least, let me be informed. The not knowing… c'est pire. It is worse."
He nodded, though uncertainty lingered in his heart. His protective instinct rebelled at the idea of involving her in the life-and-death struggles that defined his days. Yet he couldn't deny how her presence eased the storm in his mind. In her company, he felt a fleeting calm, a fragile peace that dulled the sharp edges of his burdens.
They spent the evening talking softly, sipping tea, or strolling under the moonlight. The quiet moments steadied him, the warmth of her presence melting the tension that coiled in his chest. Each night, as he prepared to leave, he felt fractionally better, the weight on his heart lighter. It wasn't a cure, but it gave him just enough strength to face the next day.
---
Meanwhile, as Harry fought his mental battles, the atmosphere at Hogwarts grew increasingly strained under the oppressive weight of High Inquisitor Dolores Umbridge. More Educational Decrees sprouted on the notice boards daily, stripping students of their few remaining freedoms. Quidditch teams were disbanded, student groups banned, and the once-vibrant castle was plunged into a bleak, joyless routine. A pervasive gloom hung over the halls, suffocating any spark of happiness.
The castle's lively energy dulled into silence. Students trudged from class to class, avoiding eye contact with the pink-robed figure who glided through the corridors like a vulture circling its prey. In the Great Hall, conversations dropped to whispers whenever she passed, her saccharine smile as chilling as a Dementor's presence.
Adding to the misery, Umbridge's newly formed Inquisitorial Squad prowled the halls, eager to hand out detentions for the smallest perceived infraction. The Weasley twins—once unstoppable pranksters—were frequent targets, their mischief stifled under the squad's relentless watch. Detentions piled up for them and others, though thankfully Harry had intervened early to remove the blood quills. Instead of enduring that cruel torture, students were now simply made to write lines with normal quills—boring, but harmless.
Harry felt a stab of frustration every time he saw Umbridge impose her humiliating rules unchecked. Under different circumstances, he would have relished the chance to undermine her at every turn. But in his current state, physically and mentally drained, he avoided confrontation. His self-control felt fragile, and he feared that if he tried anything now, he might not be able to accurately control the power, leading to much worse consequences. Therefore, for now, she had free rein to spread her misery.
Defense Against the Dark Arts devolved into a farce, little more than silent reading sessions. No spells, no demonstrations. For the older students, the tension reached a breaking point. OWLs and NEWTs loomed ahead, and they needed real defensive training.
It was Charles Potter, along with Hermione Granger and Ron Weasley, who seized the opportunity. With a tip from Dobby, Charles discovered the Room of Requirement—a hidden space perfect for secret practice. They began inviting trusted friends, slowly building a group to teach and learn proper defensive magic. They named their secret group Dumbledore's Army, quietly defying Umbridge's oppressive decrees.
Harry learned of their plan by accident, overhearing a whisper from a Ravenclaw friend. He found himself impressed that the DA in the canon was still formed however he was annoyed about the discovery of Room of Requirements. That place been his secret spot. But the castle was large, and secrets rarely stayed hidden forever. He'd already moved anything truly important out of that place anyway, especially the Vanishing Cabinet (which he had relocated to his sanctuary for secure travel between his home and the Black Castle).
He sighed, resigned to their use of the space. "Let them have their fun," he mused. "If they can learn to defend themselves, that's a good thing. I'll keep watch from the shadows."
By the end of the week, Harry felt marginally better. Potions, short naps, and Fleur's unwavering support had soothed the worst of his mental strain. The nightmares receded, though they didn't vanish entirely. Time, and Fleur's calming presence, helped him compartmentalize the horrors of the mountain battle.
As he regained his balance, Harry began noticing the strain on his friends. The Weasley twins, though often in trouble, seemed subdued, their pranks all but forgotten. Roger, Cedric, and the Quidditch teams were frustrated at losing practice time in their final year. Fifth and seventh years, desperate to prepare for their exams, whispered openly about their frustration. Though rumors of Charles Potter's secret group spread, not everyone trusted Charles—or wanted to join his circle.
Some lamented that Harry, the Head Boy and the Hogwarts Champion, appeared indifferent to their plight.
Harry knew he could no longer remain idle. If he let Umbridge's reign go unchallenged, the morale at Hogwarts might fracture beyond repair. And while he wasn't ready for direct, violent confrontation, there were other ways to fight. Subtle sabotage, clever pranks—methods that wouldn't compromise his fragile control.
He smirked faintly, recalling the humiliating toad-croaking curse he'd once cast on her. Perhaps it was time for a repeat performance—or something equally devious.
"Yes," he murmured to himself, rising with renewed determination. "I'll act."
His friends had pleaded for him to do something, anything, to restore some semblance of hope and dignity. If the students needed preparation for their NEWTs, and the twins needed inspiration to return to mischief, he had a reputation to uphold—and plenty of ideas to unleash.
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