Chapter 33.5- Doom Days

With a heave, the ground rose under my control. I skewered the snake from beneath with one giant spike, feeling the drain on my magic hit a crescendo as I moved. I danced to the side to avoid a green spell I recognized as the Avada Kedavra. He’d cast it silently? How? Come to think of it, he hadn’t said a single word all fight. That was strange. Very strange for Voldemort, especially. He loved to hear the sound of his own voice more than he loved to have his dick sucked, I was sure. Did he even have a pecker? That was a strange thought to have, I thought as I bent backwards, going near parallel with the ground to avoid a blast of chilling blue magic. It hit the trees behind me, and spread frost far as the eyes could see. Of course ice would be his element.

The cold, the unfeeling, and the stagnant. I breathed, and fire breathed with me. I swept my wand from left to right, calling upon the black magic eating flames that a Black Lord from the 15th Century had considered his magnum opus. What was funny was that he had been a counterpart to Ekrizdis in his youth. It wasn’t something widely known, but in his own accounts of his life, he talks about the help Ekrizdis had given in developing the spell.

Of course, it was magic draining like nothing else. It ate magic actively, and if it couldn’t find I from an outside source, it would consume its own caster’s magic. It was almost comparable to fiendfyre in the danger it posed to the caste, except that fiendfyre could be avoided by just apparating away. Voldemort and his death eaters had used the tactic quite widely in the first war until anti-disappirition jinxes began to be added to everyone’s repertoire and it became dangerous to throw around Class Five spells and expect to just have an easy escape available. The flames swallowed Voldemort’s next salvo of curses whole and spat nothing out, only growing in intensity as it flew towards the Dark Lord.

He spun his wand to the side and tore the flames from my control. Dispelling them with a twirl of his wand and a sneer on his face that almost seemed to say— ‘is that the best you have, Potter?’, and that was the last straw. This. This couldn’t be real. That was possible with other pieces of magic, maybe. But that spell? Not with that spell. That was one of the premier Black spells, so secret that only the Lord or his Heir could learn it. Sirius was a heathen who cared little for rules, but Arcturus Black definitely hadn’t been. There was no chance he’d have taught Bellatrix or Narcissa that spell. And while Regulus was a vague possibility, it was unlikely that he wouldn’t have been sworn to oaths otherwise to share the spells with any not of Black Blood. Sirius, bad as he was, at least had the good sense to make me swear something similar. It was a requirement to learn the magic, even.