Chapter 329: Chapter 329: "Storm over Azkaban Part - 1"
Harry sat in the Head Boy's room, a thick tome on battle magic by Godric Gryffindor open in his lap. The book was nothing short of fascinating, filled with advanced strategies and spells that even Arcturus had never mentioned. It was part of the Gryffindor inheritance he had received, along with the Gryffindor Knight Breathing Method. Though Harry had rarely found the time to delve into the tome's secrets before, with the war looming larger every day, he decided it was worth learning some of these powerful and destructive spells.
Completely engrossed, Harry's mind raced with ideas for how to incorporate the techniques into his fighting style. The rare quiet of the past month had given him a chance to catch his breath and prepare for the fierce battles ahead, and he intended to make the most of it.
But the quiet didn't last.
The enchanted mirror in his pocket buzzed urgently, shattering the silence. Harry quickly pulled it out, revealing Sirius's face—pale and strained. The cacophony on Sirius's end was deafening: shouts, the sharp crack of spells, and maniacal laughter filled the background. Whatever was happening, it was serious.
"Harry!" Sirius yelled, his voice barely audible over the chaos. "Azkaban's under attack! I need your help—now!"
Harry didn't hesitate. He snapped the book shut, slipped it into his bag, and moved with purpose. Swiftly, he wore his armour and changed into his battle attire. He then fastened his vigilante mask—a sleek, shadowy piece that covered the upper half of his face. Grabbing his wand, he was out the door in moments, moving silently but swiftly through the castle.
Sneaking out of Hogwarts was second nature to him by now. Once he was clear of the school's wards, he focused and apparated away. His destination: Azkaban, the dreaded wizarding prison.
---
Azkaban
The night was heavy with an unnatural chill, the kind that seeped into both bones and souls. The dark waves of the North Sea crashed violently against the jagged rocks surrounding Azkaban, the fortress prison standing like a menacing shadow against the moonlit sky. Inside, the air was thick with despair, the silence broken only by the soft, eerie gliding of dementors as they fed on the misery of the prisoners.
The guards, accustomed to the monotony and the constant drain of the dementors' influence, patrolled with sluggish movements. Years of routine had dulled their senses, leaving them unprepared for anything out of the ordinary.
But something was wrong.
The dementors, typically silent and methodical, began to stir. They moved with purpose now, gliding through the darkened corridors with their hooded faces turned toward the entrance of the prison. One by one, they gathered outside, their numbers growing as their chilling presence blanketed the island with an even deeper sense of dread.
The guards noticed the shift, but their realization came too late. An alert officer, quicker than most, sounded the alarm. His panicked voice echoed through the stone halls: "Intruders! We're under attack!"
It was the last thing he managed to say before the world erupted into chaos.
---
With a series of loud cracks, an army of wizards appeared out of nowhere, their cloaks billowing in the icy wind. Death Eaters. Dozens of them. Their silver masks gleamed coldly in the moonlight as they moved with deadly precision, their wands flashing in unison. The guards didn't stand a chance.
Spells tore through the air, cutting down the prison's defenses with ruthless efficiency. Within minutes, the courtyard was a battlefield. Bodies of fallen guards littered the ground, the acrid smell of burning flesh and dark magic hanging thick in the air. Above it all, the Dark Mark burned an ominous green in the night sky, its serpent-like tongue flickering eerily as if alive.
When the Aurors arrived, led by Sirius and Mad-Eye Moody, the scene was one of devastation. The Death Eaters stood victorious, their boots planted firmly on the bloodied ground, the remnants of the guards strewn around them. At their forefront stood a figure cloaked in dark robes, his golden mask gleaming with malevolence. His red eyes burned with cruel intent, and there was no mistaking his identity. Voldemort.
Behind him, the dementors hovered ominously, their allegiance now unmistakably with the Dark Lord. Their oppressive chill seemed to ripple through the air, compounding the growing sense of doom.
Sirius's heart sank as he took in the scene. He knew they were hopelessly outmatched. The Aurors were skilled and experienced, but they were facing an army of Death Eaters—and Voldemort himself. The odds were impossible.
Still, Sirius raised his wand and signaled for the Aurors to form a defensive line, his voice calm despite the chaos. "Hold the line!" he commanded. But even as he barked orders, his mind raced. He needed Harry. Now. He could only hope they could hold their ground long enough for reinforcements to arrive.
---
Harry apparated to the rocky edge of the sea, beyond which Azkaban loomed like a distant nightmare. The prison was still far away, and apparating directly there was impossible due to the fortress's extensive magical protections. But time was of the essence—Sirius was in serious trouble, and Harry needed to act fast.
He glanced up at the dark storm clouds swirling above the sea. Despite the dire situation, a small, almost mischievous smile tugged at his lips.
Taking a deep breath, Harry transformed into a massive thunderbird. His enormous wings crackled with electricity as he rose into the storm, merging seamlessly with the swirling tempest. In an instant, a flash of lightning illuminated the sky, and he disappeared into the clouds. Seconds later, another thunderclap heralded his arrival above Azkaban's island.
Gliding silently, Harry descended, transforming back into his human form before anyone could spot him. His animagus form was a powerful secret, one he intended to keep hidden for as long as possible. But just because he couldn't flaunt that card didn't mean he couldn't make an entrance in style.
The Aurors were fighting valiantly but struggling to hold the line against the overwhelming force of the Death Eaters and Voldemort's advancing army. Suddenly, a blinding light erupted in the stormy sky above. The sound of thunder roared as a massive Patronus in the shape of a thunderbird descended upon the battlefield. Its radiant wings spread wide, driving the dementors back with a force that left even the Death Eaters momentarily stunned.
The Aurors froze, staring in awe as the majestic Patronus landed among them. Its form shimmered before dissolving, revealing Harry standing tall in its place. Cloaked in dark, reinforced robes and his face hidden by a sleek mask, he raised his wand, his eyes blazing with unshakable determination.
"Sorry I'm late," Harry said, his voice calm but carrying an unmistakable edge of steel. A faint smirk played on his lips as he added, "The main character has arrived. Now the real show can begin."
Chapter 330: Chapter 330: "Storm over Azkaban Part - 2"
The Death Eaters hesitated for a moment, unnerved by Harry's sudden and dramatic appearance. Clad in his dark robes and mask, he resembled one of the vigilantes who had been causing the Dark Alliance so much trouble in recent months. Fear flickered in their eyes, but Voldemort's voice sliced through the tension like ice.
"Kill him," he commanded, cold and unwavering.
The Death Eaters surged forward, wands raised as they unleashed a barrage of deadly curses. Harry was ready. He moved like lightning, his wand a blur of motion as he deflected incoming spells and countered with devastating precision.
The Aurors, inspired by the arrival of such a powerful ally, fought with renewed energy. The tide of despair that had gripped them moments before began to shift.
Sirius was at Harry's side in an instant, his expression grim but resolute. "Took you long enough," he said, though his tone carried more relief than reproach.
"Had to make an entrance," Harry replied, a faint smirk breaking through despite the chaos.
The battle was fierce and unrelenting. Spells crisscrossed the courtyard in deadly arcs, lighting up the stormy night in flashes of red, green, and purple. Harry moved with a fluid, almost inhuman grace, his wand work both elegant and merciless. Each spell he cast hit its mark, dropping Death Eaters with precise, calculated strikes.
"Watch your left!" Harry called out, deflecting a Killing Curse aimed at Sirius. In the same breath, he conjured a shimmering shield to protect two younger Aurors from a volley of dark magic.
The fight was chaotic, but Harry and Sirius moved with practiced synchronicity. Their countless battles together had forged an unspoken understanding between them. Sirius provided powerful offensive strikes, while Harry's razor-sharp reflexes and shields kept them both in the fight.
Mad-Eye Moody, leading the Aurors, barked orders with tactical precision. His gruff voice cut through the noise of the battlefield as he directed the Aurors into defensive formations that maximized their coverage while minimizing their exposure. Under his command, the Aurors fought with discipline, standing firm against the overwhelming onslaught.
But the Death Eaters had numbers on their side. Thankfully, the prisoners they had freed from Azkaban were wandless and unable to cause any trouble. Voldemort, meanwhile, remained motionless, standing off to the side and merely observing the chaos. Perhaps he intended to stay out of the fight to keep his return from being exposed.
For a moment, the battle seemed to hang in the balance—until an icy, bone-chilling cold swept across the courtyard. The dementors, which had been hovering at the edges of the fight, suddenly surged forward en masse, drawn to Harry and his allies. Their oppressive presence was suffocating, driving even the most seasoned Aurors to their knees as their worst memories clawed to the surface.
Harry's primary wand was occupied deflecting curses from the Death Eaters, leaving him with no time to deal with the dementors. Acting quickly, he drew a backup wand—not the Elder Wand; that could only be used after Dumbledore's death. With a sharp thrust of the wand, Harry cast his thunderbird Patronus again.
The brilliant, radiant light of the thunderbird swept across the battlefield, its glowing wings driving the dementors back. For a brief moment, the oppressive chill lifted, and the Aurors caught their breath. But Harry knew it wouldn't last. There were too many dementors, and his Patronus couldn't cover every angle.
Seeing the Aurors faltering under the strain, Harry turned to Sirius, his voice urgent but steady. "Order them to fall back," he said. "I will hold them back."
Sirius hesitated for only a moment, his eyes flicking between the battlefield and Harry's determined expression. He knew Harry was right. The Aurors were outmatched. If the fight dragged on, there was no guarantee they'd all make it out alive—and Harry wasn't willing to take that risk. These people mattered to Sirius, and by extension, to Harry. He couldn't bear to see Sirius or Amelia grieving their losses.
Sirius nodded sharply and began barking orders to the Aurors, rallying them into a defensive retreat.
Harry's focus snapped back to the battlefield. With few options left, his mind raced through the battle magic techniques he'd just been studying in Godric Gryffindor's tome. The ancient writings seemed to spring to life as his wand moved in precise, complex patterns.
The ground beneath the Death Eaters erupted in cascading chains of explosive force, sending bodies flying. Each spell he cast wasn't aimed at a single target—it transformed the battlefield itself into a weapon. The very environment shifted under Harry's control, becoming an extension of his will.
"By Merlin," one of the Aurors breathed in awe as Harry conjured walls of pure force that crashed into the Death Eater formations like battering rams, scattering them like leaves in the wind.
The sheer destructive power of Harry's magic sent shivers through friend and foe alike. These weren't mere dueling spells—this was battle magic of the highest order, crafted for warfare. Death Eaters who had once advanced with confidence now hesitated, their ranks breaking under the onslaught. Harry's presence and his devastating spells turned the tide in moments.
From his position, Voldemort's crimson eyes narrowed as he observed the chaos. This masked wizard wielded magic unlike anything he'd encountered before. The sheer scale and precision of the spells were foreign to him—perhaps Grindelwald might recognize them, but Voldemort had never faced a true battle mage during his wars.
When a particularly devastating chain of spells turned three of his inner circle into smoking heaps, Voldemort made his decision. He realized the battle was slipping out of control. Without his direct intervention, and with all his power, his forces couldn't succeed. But exposing his return wasn't part of his plan tonight, and the Azkaban prisoners weren't worth the risk.
"Fall back!" Voldemort commanded sharply. "Take those we've freed and retreat!"
The Death Eaters didn't need to be told twice. Grabbing the few prisoners they had managed to liberate—far fewer than they had planned—they began retreating in groups. The battle, once a confident push for dominance, had devolved into a desperate escape.
Harry could have pressed the advantage. He could have unleashed even more devastating spells, decimating the retreating forces. But Sirius and the Aurors were too close, and Harry knew he wasn't yet fully proficient with these ancient techniques. His most powerful battle magic could easily catch his allies in its radius, and he wouldn't risk their lives to stop a few more Death Eaters from fleeing.
As Voldemort prepared to leave, he turned to Harry, his gaze burning with cold fury—and something else. Was it fear?
"Who are you?" Voldemort demanded, his voice cutting through the chaos. "Why do you continue to be a thorn in my plans?"
Harry said nothing. He held his ground, magic crackling visibly around him like a storm barely held in check, a silent warning against any last-minute attacks. His silence was more unnerving than any reply could have been.
Voldemort sneered, though his pride had clearly taken a blow. With a sharp motion, he retreated alongside his remaining forces. The sharp cracks of mass Disapparition echoed across the courtyard, leaving behind a scene of destruction—and dozens of prisoners still locked securely in their cells.
Harry watched the sky, his expression unreadable. The Voldemort of the past would have stayed and fought, his pride demanding victory or death. But this Voldemort was different—more cautious, less prideful. It was a dangerous change, one that made him harder to predict and harder to defeat.
The war wasn't over. Tonight had been a victory, but it was only one battle in a much larger war.
The battlefield fell into an eerie silence as the last of the Death Eaters disappeared with their freed comrades. The dementors, no longer bound to Voldemort's control, began to retreat, their shadowy forms gliding silently into the night. No one made any move to stop them. As they vanished, the oppressive chill they carried lifted, replaced by the biting cold of the North Sea wind.
The Aurors, battered but alive, began to regroup, their faces etched with a mix of exhaustion and relief. For now, they had survived.
Harry stood at the center of the courtyard, his mask still firmly in place, his breathing steady despite the intensity of the battle. His wand was lowered, but his senses remained sharp, scanning the area for any lingering threats. Sirius stood beside him, his expression a blend of pride and concern.
"That was… incredible," Sirius said, his voice low but full of awe. "Where did you learn to fight like that?"
"Let's just say I had some help from an old Gryffindor," Harry replied cryptically. His mind, however, was already elsewhere—thinking about how he could refine the battle magic techniques he'd used and adapt them for the challenges to come.
Before Sirius could ask more, a familiar figure limped toward them. Alastor Moody, his magical eye whirring wildly, scanned the scene as he approached. His gruff voice carried across the courtyard, silencing the low murmurs of the Aurors.
"Black! Who's this masked bloke? And why's he fighting like he's straight out of a bloody war manual?"
Harry stiffened at the question. He couldn't afford to be interrogated. He knew his Patronus's shape likely gave away his identity to some, but that alone wasn't enough evidence to unmask him officially. Still, the Ministry's scrutiny was something he didn't want to deal with right now—especially given the number of deaths his magic had caused tonight.
His identity leaking could wait. For now, he had other priorities. The battle magic techniques he'd used tonight intrigued him, and he wanted to master them further. He could see their value—not just in raw power, but in the way they turned the tide of the fight.
Without answering Moody's question, Harry glanced once more at the battlefield. Then, with a calm motion, he raised his wand and disapparated with a soft crack, vanishing just as Voldemort had moments before.
The courtyard was left in stunned silence. The Aurors exchanged bewildered glances, while Moody's face darkened with suspicion. He muttered something under his breath, his sharp gaze lingering on the spot where the masked wizard had stood.
Sirius looked at the empty space where Harry had been, his lips curling into a small, knowing smile. He said nothing, letting the mystery remain—for now.
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