ACT4CH39 - Defying A Dark Lord Part 4

Lord Voldemort had faced many extraordinary things in his pursuit of power—ancient magic, forbidden rituals, and even Death itself. Compared to that, those wisps of flame emerging from Amelia Bones’s wand weren’t worth considering. Just a pitiful last stand by a woman to withstand the dementor’s despairing aura.

That was his first mistake.

It began as a faint shimmer, a fragile glimmer of golden light that barely stood out against the dim, death-choked air of the Azkaban courtyard. For a moment, it flickered and looked like it would fade.

Except it didn’t.

It grew, threads of radiance weaving themselves together in intricate patterns, as though the very air was stitching a tapestry of raw, ancient power. The aura expanded, pulsing with the warmth of sunlight piercing through a storm, and Voldemort’s sharp eyes narrowed as he felt it: a distinct shift in the balance of the battlefield.

Then he heard it. From her voice. From everyone’s voice. All as one.

“EXPECTO PATRONUM!”

The warmth began as a whisper, a subtle contrast to the frigid cold that had dominated moments before. It carried the scent of grass warmed by the sun, the faint hum of buzzing cicadas, and the earthy richness of fertile soil. Slowly, inexorably, the golden shimmer coalesced into a shape, indistinct at first but gaining form with each passing heartbeat.

A broad back materialized, covered in thick fur that seemed alive with energy, each strand glinting with the hues of sunrise: amber, gold, and a faint green that mirrored the vibrancy of meadows. Massive hooves, formed from the light of molten gold, stamped onto the icy ground, their impact cracking through the unnatural frost.

The bison’s head was the last to emerge, rising with deliberate majesty from the swirling radiance. Its horns, curling and immense, glowed like twin crescent moons, their tips sharp enough to cleave through shadow and doubt alike. The creature’s golden eyes opened, blazing with an intensity that rooted Voldemort to the spot.

The eyes were ancient, far older than the woman who had summoned the beast, and they burned with purpose: not just to protect, but to judge.

A low rumble emanated from the bison’s chest, more felt than heard, reverberating through the icy ground and the very air. It wasn’t merely a sound—it was a declaration. The air thickened with the oppressive power at its peak: suffocating, relentless, alive.

This… this was no mere Patronus. The warm radiance it exuded began to undo the deathly energy that clung to the battlefield, the frost melting into rivulets of pure, clean water that hissed as they touched the poisoned sea. Golden mist swirled around the bison’s massive frame as it pawed the ground, sparks of green and amber scattering from its hooves. The warmth spread further, chasing away Voldemort’s darkness with each deliberate motion.

He watched as the bison’s full form solidified, its colossal size dwarfing even his serpentine conjurations. He clenched his wand tighter, his sharp mind trying to comprehend the creature’s nature. This was no ordinary magic. It had the Potter boy’s power written all over it, yet it carried a force entirely its own—something older, primal.

"What is this?" Voldemort murmured under his breath, his voice tinged with unease for the first time. This… this was impossible, and yet, something about this form spoke to him, as if taunting him….

Voldemort froze, a chill creeping down his spine. How had he not seen it sooner?

For that one moment, he wasn’t standing there in Azkaban, but inside the confines of Salazar Slytherin’s Vault, staring at the massive engraving etched upon the floor for the first time.

Twenty-eight sigils, each of them representing the totems of the twenty-eight houses that were part of the original Wizard’s Council. Today, they were known as the Sacred Twenty-Eight, but centuries before, they had another name.

The Miraculum Operarius.

That which grants Miracles.

He remembered staring at the sigils, looking for the Houses of people that were on his side, and those that were against.

The rattlesnake of House Gaunt. The Jaguar of House Black. The Scorpion, representing House Selwyn and the bison signifying…

“GREENGRASS!” The word escaped out of his lips as a snarl. The totem of House Greengrass. This bison, it was not flame. It was not rage. It was the protection that Bones and her ragtag group manifested to shield them. It was warmth, it was vitality, one that seemed to infuse life even in the very stones upon which the ethereal bison stood. The magic of Summer, of Life itself had emerged out of the same blade that Bones had used to wield Death.

“HOW IS THIS POSSIBLE?” Voldemort exploded, his rage creating a crater around him. He had, of course, known about the Potter-Greengrass alliance, but he had mistakenly believed it had something to do with the changed status of House Black. At least, that was how Lucius had put it.

But before he could act further, a strange pulse vibrated through his core. It was subtle at first, a flicker, a thread of power like a whisper against his skin, but it was unmistakable. Potter’s blood, his essence, was alive within him.

His mind raced. His thoughts scrambled for answers, for any scrap of explanation that might allow him to assert control. But what he felt was not just a clash of magic—it was something far more profound.

Life.

Death.

Together.

The concept was unfathomable.

Voldemort’s mind, which had devoted itself entirely to the pursuit of immortality, suddenly understood the depth of the impossibility of what he was facing. He had never once considered the idea that life could exist alongside death—both within the same vessel. Yet here it was, in the blood of Harry Potter: an inextricable link between the two forces, each feeding off and strengthening the other.

Lifting his wand, Voldemort aimed a spell directly at the creature’s heart. 

“AVADA KEDAVRA!”

The green streak of death arced forward with deadly precision. It struck the spiritual beast dead on— only to dissolve against its radiance like mist under a noonday sun.

He staggered, disbelief flashing across his face. Facing the power of Death was one thing, but no magic had ever failed him so utterly. The creature was not merely immune; it actively rejected the very concept of destruction.  

The bison charged.  

Voldemort stepped back instinctively, his movements losing their usual grace. He summoned barriers of fire, torrents of water, and serpents forged from shadows, all of them colliding with the bison in futile waves. Each attempt to stop it was undone, dissolved into light and warmth as though the creature’s mere presence banished his every effort. His crimson eyes glowed with intensity as he raised his wand, whispering incantations too ancient and dangerous for most wizards to comprehend.

Voldemort moved with the precision of a maestro, weaving his magic into the fabric of the air. With a sharp flick of his wand, he called upon the Shadows of Tharok, an ancient spell born from the depths of forgotten tomes. Black tendrils erupted from the ground, snaking toward the bison like living things.

The tendrils lashed at the golden beast, their edges sharp like the tips of obsidian blades. Each strike carried the weight of curses meant to sever the ties between soul and body. The bison staggered momentarily, its radiant form flickering under the barrage. Voldemort’s lips curled into a triumphant smirk as he drove the spell harder, the tendrils growing thicker and more numerous, their movements mimicking serpents constricting prey.

But the bison’s eyes glowed brighter, its head dipping low as if to brace itself. The light from its body surged outward, golden flames erupting around it. The tendrils shrieked—an unnatural, ear-piercing sound—as the warmth consumed them, unraveling Voldemort’s dark conjuration like threads of smoke in a gale.

Undeterred, Voldemort raised his wand once more, tracing complex, angular runes into the air. With each stroke, the runes glowed a deep, malevolent green, forming a perfect circle. 

"Orrum Aeternis!"

From the center of the rune circle, shards of obsidian exploded outward, forming a spinning maelstrom of jagged, razor-sharp fragments. The vortex hurtled toward the bison, the shards reflecting the faint flickers of Voldemort’s glowing wandlight. Each fragment was enchanted to pierce not just flesh but the very essence of a being, designed to rip apart the creature’s radiant form.

The bison met the assault head-on, its massive hooves stamping down as it lowered its head and charged. The shards struck its form, and for a moment, it appeared that Voldemort’s magic had found its mark. But as the shards collided with the bison’s golden glow, they disintegrated into harmless motes of shadow. Voldemort hissed in frustration as the light seemed to grow stronger with every failed attack.

Voldemort’s frustration boiled over into rage. He thrust his wand skyward, calling upon one of the most devastating spells in his arsenal. The sky above the courtyard darkened, the storm clouds parting to reveal a churning void of black fire. Dark flames rained down, each ember imbued with the power to consume both flesh and spirit, leaving nothing behind.

“Yes,” he hissed, seeing the black flames engulf the bison into its inferno. A thrill of triumph shot through him, as the  golden light dimmed beneath the onslaught. The courtyard itself was scorched, the icy remnants of water evaporating into steam as the flames consumed everything in their path. The manifestation was gone, destroyed by the overwhelming power of….

No! It can’t —

Within the flames, the bison’s light flared anew, pushing the dark fire back with an explosive force. 

—be….

Voldemort took a step back, his confidence flickering, watching impotently as the flames swirled around the bison but could not touch its core, dissipating into harmless smoke. Determined to end this, Voldemort cast one final spell, pouring every ounce of his remaining strength into his wand. 

"Serpens Aeternum!"

From the ground, massive serpents of shadow and fire erupted, their scales shimmering with infernal light. They coiled and writhed, their massive jaws snapping as they lunged at the bison, attempting to ensnare and devour it. The serpents’ sheer size and ferocity dwarfed anything Voldemort had summoned before, their very presence exuding a sense of dread that chilled the air.

The bison met their attack with equal ferocity, its golden horns tearing through their forms as it stamped and gored. Yet for every serpent it destroyed, another took its place, born from Voldemort’s relentless magic. The courtyard became a battlefield of chaos, light and dark colliding in a struggle that seemed to shake the very foundations of Azkaban itself.

Voldemort’s breath came in ragged gasps, his body trembling from the strain. He watched as the bison continued to fight, its light undiminished despite the overwhelming odds. A flicker of fear crossed his face—a fear he had not felt in decades. For all his power, for all his mastery of the dark arts, he was facing something beyond his understanding.

But how? 

His mind raced, and his gaze flickered to his own hands. He could feel Potter’s blood thrumming within him, resonating with the power of the bison. A cruel smile crept across his face as he raised his wand and sliced a shallow line across his palm, allowing the blood to pool.

With a guttural incantation, Voldemort began to channel the blood’s energy, fusing it with his own magic. The dark energy around him shifted, no longer entirely his but something more. He thrust his hand forward, fueling his attack. The serpents struck the bison with renewed vigour, halting and forcing it to stumble.

This time the golden light flickered, struggling for the first time against the power of his magic. But it wasn’t one-sided. Summer burned bright within Voldemort, and brought with it an unspeakable agony, the blazing vitality practically poisonous to his soul that was drenched with the power of Dark Magic. The blood in him roared, and at the same time, made him fall to his knees, destabilizing his magic. For every ounce of strength it gave, it sapped his control, as though the essence of Harry Potter within him resisted his will.

His breath hitched, and for the first time in many years, the cold grip of fear wrapped around his heart. Fear not of death, but of being utterly undone by something he had never even considered: the existence of life within death, and vice versa. A power he could not grasp, could not control, was blossoming within him, turning against his every intention.

In his mind, he heard the faintest echo of something. A warning. His thoughts were fragmented, crashing together like waves against the shore.

How can both exist?

How can they fight for dominance within one being?

It was unnatural, an abomination. Death was supposed to be the end, an escape from the clutches of life. Yet here, within the boy’s blood, life and death coexisted in a balance Voldemort could neither comprehend nor break.

For the first time, Voldemort doubted the very foundation of his existence, the unyielding belief that he was above such paradoxes, above the natural order. It had always been his superiority that set him apart from others. But now, in the presence of this impossible duality, he could feel his arrogance crumbling.

Voldemort's control began to fracture, the dark magic he had woven now spiraling into a vortex of self-doubt. The life within him—the warmth that Potter’s blood imbued—counteracted his darkest spells, unraveling them before they could reach their target. With every surge of Summer’s power, the strength of his spells weakened, as if the blood within him took from him even as it gave.

The energy coursing through him rejected the very magic he had called upon, distorting his curses and spells as they tried to manifest. The forces of life and death battled against his will, merging together in a way that refused to bend to his dominance.

"No..." Voldemort’s whisper was filled with disbelief, the sound harsh and strangled. "This cannot be…!"

But it was. And it was undoing him.

The very blood that had given him power had now become the source of his destruction. The power of Summer, bound to the death magic of Potter’s blood, had transformed into something entirely new, something Voldemort had no name for. And it was driving him to the edge.

The battlefield felt as if it were suspended in time, with the bison standing tall against the oppressive forces of darkness. Its amber eyes burned with the raw power of Summer, and with every passing second, the warmth it emanated grew stronger, pushing back the pervasive chill that Voldemort had cast upon the world. The ground, now softening under the heat, quivered as the beast pawed the earth, preparing to charge.

Voldemort stood at the center of the carnage, his pale skin drawn tight with concentration. His face twisted in a grimace, a mixture of fury and disbelief. The magic surrounding him—Potter's blood, Summer's warmth, the living embodiment of life and death intertwined—was too much. The heat burned at his soul, the cold of his own dark powers no match for the blazing force of the bison. But he was far from defeated. His mind raced through the ancient, esoteric spells he had spent his life studying, searching for something—anything—that could counter such a primordial, living force.

His body was a conduit for the power of Potter's blood. It thrummed in his veins, an anchor to the boy’s impossible legacy. The pull of life and death, wrapped together in the blood that he had once thought was his weapon, now turned against him, twisted the very essence of his being. Yet he would not—could not—be undone so easily.

Voldemort raised his wand high, his eyes flashing with an almost feverish light. His lips moved in an incantation so ancient, so hidden, that it could only be understood by those who had traversed the deepest corners of the arcane. This was not a spell that the average dark wizard could wield, nor was it something born of simple incantations. This was magic that drew upon the very fabric of reality—the thin veil between existence and non-existence. It was the invocation of the Void itself.

"Vadae Mortus Infinitae!"

The words vibrated in the air, shaking the ground beneath his feet. They were not meant for the living to hear. As Voldemort spoke, the world seemed to hollow out around him, the very space bending inwards as though his command was tearing a hole in the universe.

For a moment, nothing happened. The air hung heavy, thick with the weight of the unseen. And then—a darkness emerged, swirling at the tip of Voldemort’s wand like an ink-black vortex. It expanded outward, stretching beyond the realm of magic itself. This was a force that existed beyond life, beyond death—something that existed in the spaces between. The swirling shadow seemed to draw from the void itself, pulling away light, warmth, and hope.

The bison, powerful and radiant, began to recoil. The warmth around it faded slightly, as the light from the beast began to dim, drawn in by the insidious tendrils of the Void. The air itself seemed to choke on the darkness Voldemort had summoned, and even the bison’s massive form faltered under the weight of this esoteric magic. Voldemort’s eyes gleamed with a triumphant, almost manic gleam.

He would win this, and nothing would stop him.

And then the sight of a gleaming blade tearing through the air at him proved him wrong.

....

....

....

Amelia Bones staggered forward, her body trembling with exhaustion. Her arm hung heavy with the weight of the Sword of Gryffindor, its surface gleaming faintly with the light of Death. She had thrown every single thing she had in her arsenal and then some at Lord Voldemort.

Her entire arsenal matched against his own. Her wards leaching his magic. The blade literally slicing through the endlessly complicated and horribly taxing magic like knife through butter. Elemental conjuration enough to drown an entire alley. Animate conjuration on impossible levels. Facing the power of Death over and over. Whatever… this golden flame was. The bison. It shattering through everything he threw at him.

It was overkill. More than overkill. But to make sure the Dark Lord stayed dead, no overkill was enough.

And it still wasn’t enough to stop this madman.

Amelia had been through dozens of mind-scarring and reality warping ordeals over the past two decades, and yet she had to admit that the disaster in front of her was the most horrifying thing she had ever faced.

Truly, Tom Riddle was the worst Dark Lord Britain had ever faced.

Still, this was truly the best chance they had. 

Even though she was utterly exhausted. As were the few who still stood around her, wearing their injuries like battle scars, their breaths laboured, their movements slower with every passing moment. All they had was the blade of Gryffindor, and a certain Dark Lord busy in trying to keep the bison from obliterating past his… whatever those tendrils were.

McDonald, the former hit-wizard, was the first to charge. A curse slashed across his thigh, but he pressed on, flinging spells at the serpents that surged to defend Voldemort. With a roar of determination, Gerald cast a powerful cutting curse that severed a serpent’s head cleanly, its black blood hissing as it splattered on the icy ground. But Voldemort, ever watchful, hurled his left hand at him, and a dark streak of purple hit Gerald in the chest, and it exploded.

He was dead before the rest of his body hit the ground, his outstretched hand just inches from Amelia’s.

Auror Harriet Cresswell screamed in fury at the sight of her comrade’s fall. She sent a barrage of fiery curses toward Voldemort, the spells crashing against his shields like waves on a rock. A serpent lunged for her, its maw wide and dripping venom, but she sidestepped with practiced precision and drove her wand into its skull, sending it writhing into the ground. Yet another serpent coiled around her waist before she could react, its crushing grip snapping ribs as she gasped in pain. With a final defiant cry, Harriet conjured an explosive curse that obliterated both herself and the serpent in a burst of fire and shadow.

Amelia herself was not spared. A lash of shadow magic raked across her shoulder, tearing through her robes and leaving a deep, burning wound that sapped her strength with every step. Poisoned water clung to her boots, numbing her legs and making each movement an agonizing effort. A jagged piece of ice, flung by one of Voldemort’s raw bursts, embedded itself in her thigh. She gritted her teeth and pulled it free, the wound bleeding freely as she pressed forward, refusing to falter.

“Such bravado needs to be praised,” said Voldemort, sneering though the flicks of rage were visible in his slits for eyes. He was extremely limited in what he could cast wandlessly, or at least, that was what it appeared. “Such audacity to strike at me should be responded with a deserved response.”

He thrust his open palm at the nearest auror, which happened to be Kingsley Shacklebolt, and hurled a spell — 

“SWORD!”

— which shattered against the gleaming edge of the blade that had just obstructed him from decapitating the auror. Voldemort grunted as Shacklebolt hurled it at another auror to his left, and before he could even react, the auror bounded over and thrust the sword at Voldemort’s right lung, only for a quick protego to obstruct the motion. The sword, of course, shattered through the shield, but the momentum was lost. In a desperate ploy, the auror threw the sword at Belby, while Voldemort grabbed him using magic and crushed his windpipe.

He fell down on the floor, unmoving.

The darkness was wrapping itself around the bison, creeping into its very essence. The creature’s golden fur was beginning to fade, slowly, as though its life force was being siphoned away by the endless, hungry blackness. The bison snorted, shaking its head in resistance, but with each breath, the life-giving warmth was being drained, replaced by a suffocating cold that was not the cold of Winter, but the absence of existence itself. Just a little more, and it would be gone for good.

But by then, Amelia was already moving. Two hit-wizards were shielding her. The first was Belby, a grizzled veteran, and Johnson, a young rookie, who was barely out of training. Belby threw a shield charm to deflect a snake’s venomous spray, before cutting its head off with a single slice, but was caught off guard by Voldemort’s spell. With a flick of malice, a spear of darkness tore through the rookie’s left shoulder, and the man crumpled down to the floor, but not before throwing the sword at Amelia, and screaming in a rasping voice.

“GO!”

Gripping the sword with both hands, Amelia dragged her body ahead, despite it feeling like molten lead, her resolve to make this monster pay forcing her steps. she drove the blade forward, aiming for Voldemort’s heart and —

—And then he caught it.

With his bare hands.

Amelia couldn’t believe her eyes. Lord Voldemort was holding the blade— by the sharp end — with his bare hands. Just being in contact with the blade was enough to destroy any enchantment. Just a single nick was enough to kill even the darkest of creatures and render them to dust. Yet Voldemort was holding that blade back, with bloodied hands —

An invisible force hurled her away by several feet, the force all but blowing her unconscious. Amelia had the faint feeling that she was being held in air by an invisible force. She watched, horrified, as Voldemort spun the blade around and grabbed it in his bloodied fist, he squashed Johnson’s head and flung the rest of his body away like so much dead meat. 

“An interesting power, this Death,” said Lord Voldemort. “But unfortunately for you, Director. Harry Potter isn’t the only one that can wield it. This body…” he animatedly said, “was forged out of Potter’s blood. I can wield Death, just like I can wield Summer. So you see, Director, you never quite had a chance.”

“Maybe,” said Amelia, blood pooling inside her mouth. Now bereft of the blade, it was like all her injuries were suddenly magnified. “But I am a soldier. Dying in battle is something I’ve readied myself for decades ago. But to see you wielding that blade… is an irony beyond imagining.”

Lord Voldemort laughed. “Then let me give you a taste of this irony.”

And like invisible chains dragging her, Amelia was catapulted forward, with the Dark Lord holding the sword steady in his blooded hand. Amelia closed her eyes, readying herself to be impaled by the same weapon that had given her, giving the world a chance to get rid of the monster that was Lord Voldemort. She felt her death at the tip of that legendary blade come nearer and nearer….

….And stopping?

What the hell?

She paused in her tracks, the blade just a fraction of an inch away from penetrating her skin. She could still feel Voldemort’s pull attempting to drive her through the sword. She could also feel the power of Death emanating out of it, a cold, wintry plume that would not differentiate between friend and foe.

It wasn’t the power of Death.

It wasn’t the power of Summer either.

Then —

Before Amelia could articulate her thoughts, Kingsley Shacklebolt threw himself at Voldemort, a wild battle cry on his lips. His spells were reckless, his movements frantic, but he succeeded in drawing Voldemort’s attention as he threw everything he had in a single blasting curse.

It didn’t get past the Dark Lord’s shield.

The sword in his hand though, was a completely different story. 

Death, Amelia had learnt, was dreadfully strong against most magic. The more esoteric it was, the more easily it would be neutralised. But against raw elemental energies, the effect was far subdued. And if it was facing a physical force, Death might as well not exist as well.

The sword of Godric Gryffindor was hurled out of Voldemort’s hands, and Amelia knew right then, what she needed to do.

“ACCIO —”

“AVADA KEDAVRA!” snarled Voldemort.

“—SWORD!” 

The blade came soaring into Amelia’s hands, but the killing curse was faster. It struck in her direction like a deadly snake, but right before it could extinguish the light out of her knees, a hand came out of nowhere and obstructed its path. 

Kingsley Shacklebolt, his face both pale and illuminated by the green curse of death, fell down to the floor, his final sacrifice saving her life. And Amelia, moved by the shock of his sacrifice and the righteous anger fueling her vengeance, brought that majestic blade down at Voldemort in a single strike.

The hastily raised shield shattered.

The enchantments were cleaved through as if they were smoke.

The sword cleaved through his neck, down through his rib cage, and for the first time, Voldemort screamed — not in rage, but in pain. The sound was unearthly, a terrible wail that spoke of agony deeper than flesh. 

The power of Death surged through that blade, its black radiance flooding the battlefield. Voldemort’s body jerked as the sword struck true, splitting him open from shoulder to hip. A wave of dark, inky essence spilled from the wound, writhing as though alive. His wand clattered to the ground, its magic extinguished.

Voldemort staggered, his hands clawing at the air as though trying to grasp something unseen. His form flickered, the edges of his body unraveling like a fraying tapestry. His crimson eyes met Amelia’s, and for a fleeting moment, there was something almost human in them—a flicker of fear, of realization.

“No,” he rasped, his voice hollow. “This... cannot be...”

The light from the sword intensified, and Voldemort’s body collapsed under its weight. It was not a mere death but a severing, an unmaking of his physical form. Shadows poured from the wound, shrieking and twisting before dissipating into nothingness. His body crumbled, leaving only his essence behind—a wraith-like form, translucent and furious, its red eyes burning with impotent rage.

Amelia stood over him, the Sword of Gryffindor still glowing faintly in her trembling hand. Her breathing was ragged, her body teetering on the brink of collapse. Around her, the courtyard was silent, save for the faint rustle of the wind. Most of the Aurors who had fought so bravely were gone, their sacrifices etched into the frozen ground.

Voldemort’s wraith snarled at her, but it was powerless now, its tether to the physical world severed. With a final, defiant shriek, it dissipated into the night, banished but not destroyed.

Amelia dropped the sword, the clang of metal against stone marking the end of the battle. She fell to her knees, clutching at her bleeding side, and gazed up at the dark sky. In the silence, she thought of Gideon, of Sirius, of all those who had fallen.

And for the first time in years, she let herself weep.