The sun crept over the horizon, its faint light barely piercing the icy grip of the Austrian Alps, where freezing winds swept across the rugged terrain, stealing any warmth that might have reached the ground. Hans Gruber, a low-ranking member of Grindelwald's army, shivered against a gnarled tree, his thick coat—layered with warming charms—doing little to fend off the biting cold. He'd joined less than a year ago, a fresh recruit, which landed him this miserable guard duty for the fifth week running. He cursed his superior, a sneering wizard named Carrow, for sticking him out here, alone, in the middle of nowhere. The post was pointless, he thought, his breath fogging in the air. No one would dare approach Nurmengard, not with Grindelwald himself inside, his presence a shadow that loomed over the castle like a curse. Hans stamped his boots, trying to keep blood flowing, when a sharp tingle ran through him—the perimeter wards he'd set up were triggering, signaling multiple Apparitions. "What the hell?" he shouted, his voice cracking with shock.
Ten signatures registered in his mind, then twenty, fifty, a hundred and fifty, more, until he lost count, the numbers climbing too fast. His heart pounded, his wand slipping into his hand as he spun toward the Apparition point, a clearing a hundred yards away. Nurmengard's wards were so potent that even authorized personnel had to use specific points to Apparate, a safeguard against forced side-along intrusions. Hans sprinted forward, his boots crunching on frost-covered stones, his breath ragged, but before he could take ten steps, something slammed into him, knocking him flat, the air rushing from his lungs. He hit the ground hard, gasping, his wand nearly slipping from his grip. Scrambling to his knees, he thrust his wand out, shouting, "Incendio!" A plume of fire erupted around him, scorching the grass, meant to clear space and flush out his attacker. He staggered to his feet, eyes darting, but saw nothing—no one, just trees and shadows. "Who's there?" he yelled, his voice echoing, his wand trembling in his hand.
A shadow flickered to his left, barely a blur. Hans whipped around, his heart racing, and shouted, "Avada Kedavra!" The green curse shot from his wand, striking a tree, which exploded in a shower of splinters, the blast ringing in his ears. He spun, searching for movement, his breath hitching.
"You missed," a voice said, low and mocking, right beside him.
Hans jerked his wand toward the sound, but a hand clamped onto his arm, the grip like iron, unyielding no matter how he twisted or pulled. He looked up, his eyes widening, and saw a muscular teenager in a dragonhide coat, his face split with a cocky grin. It was Neville Longbottom, his broad frame radiating confidence, his eyes glinting with amusement. Before Hans could react, Neville twisted his arm with a sharp jerk, the bone snapping like dry wood. Hans screamed, pain shooting through him, but Neville didn't stop. He backhanded Hans with a casual flick, the blow sending him flying across the clearing, crashing into a tree with a sickening thud. Hans hit the ground, his vision swimming, agony radiating from his broken arm. He forced himself up, clutching his wand, and spat, "You bastard!" Channeling magic through his body, he surged forward, his good arm swinging wildly, aiming a punch at Neville's jaw.
Neville didn't even flinch, sidestepping the clumsy swing with ease, his grin widening, like he was toying with a child. Hans threw another punch, then a kick, but his movements were sloppy, fueled by panic more than skill. Neville laughed, a sharp, mocking sound, and slammed his palm into Hans's stomach, the force doubling him over, spit flying from his mouth. Hans gasped, swung again, but Neville caught his fist mid-air, his grip crushing, and whipped Hans around, slamming him face-first into the dirt. Before Hans could recover, Neville grabbed his collar, yanked him up, and hurled him with terrifying strength, sending him crashing through three trees, wood splintering, branches snapping as he tumbled, his body a ragdoll. Hans skidded across the ground, groaning, his ribs bruised, blood trickling from his mouth, but Neville wasn't done. He pushed off the ground, moving so fast he was a blur, and appeared behind Hans, catching him by the throat as he tried to crawl away.
"I thought I was strong before," Neville said, his voice gleeful, his grin wild as he tightened his grip, lifting Hans off the ground. "But now, with no magic at all? This feels bloody incredible." His fingers dug into Hans's neck, Hans choking, his legs kicking uselessly, his wand lost in the dirt.
"Longbottom, stop playing around!" a sharp voice cut through the air. "They'll know we're here if you keep this up."
Neville turned, still holding Hans, and saw Arcturus Black standing at the edge of the clearing, his cane planted in the ground, his black robes stark against the frost. Behind him, the others—Claude Beaumont, Bellatrix, Andromeda, Tonks, Moody, Kingsley, Lupin, Hagrid, James Hawkthorne, Charlie Weasley, and the French resistance—were setting up, casting defensive wards and preparing to launch their attack on Nurmengard's outer defenses. Their plan hinged on distracting Grindelwald's forces, giving Neville time to slip inside and plant the ward-breaking device. Arcturus's eyes narrowed, his face stern, urging Neville to focus.
Neville glanced at his hands, still wrapped around Hans's throat, and shrugged, dragging the struggling wizard to the nearest tree. Without hesitation, he slammed Hans's head against the trunk, the impact sickeningly loud, blood spraying across the bark. He did it again, and again, his movements relentless, until Hans's head was unrecognizable, a pulpy mess, his body limp. Neville let him drop, the corpse slumping to the ground, and wiped his hands on his dragonhide coat, his expression unbothered, like he'd just swatted a fly.
The others watched, unease rippling through the group. James Hawkthorne stepped back, his wand twitching, his face pale, the brutality catching him off guard. Tonks's hair flickered to a sickly green, her eyes wide, her hand gripping her wand tighter. Andromeda pressed her lips thin, her hands clasped, glancing at Arcturus, silently questioning his choice. Claude Beaumont shifted, his boots scuffing, his voice low as he leaned toward Arcturus and said, "Lord Black, should we trust him? He seems... unstable. That was excessive."
Arcturus hummed, his cane tapping once, and said, "We have no choice, Monsieur Beaumont. Neville's the only one who can bypass the wards. I believe he'll do what's needed." His voice was steady, his eyes fixed on the spot where Neville had stood, his confidence unshaken despite the display.
Neville, ignoring the stares, cracked his knuckles and said, "Yeah, yeah, I'm going." He crouched, then pushed off the ground with explosive force, vanishing in a burst of speed, a faint trail of dust marking his path toward Nurmengard's outer walls, his sword strapped across his back, the anti-magic device secure in his coat.
Arcturus turned to the group, his cane raised, and said, "Cast the defensive wards now. Get into position. Once the battle starts, it won't stop until we're dead or we've won." His voice carried over the clearing, firm and commanding, leaving no room for doubt.
Claude nodded, drew his wand, and shouted, "Protego invetalim ornago totalum!" A shimmering dome flickered into existence, cloaking their position. Jean Lecoust stepped forward, his wand slashing, casting "Fianto Duri," strengthening the barrier. Elise Fournier and Sophie Laurent moved to the left flank, their wands weaving Repello Inimicum, repelling enemies. Luc Martin took the right, his wand glowing as he layered Salvio Hexia, deflecting hexes. Bellatrix paced, her wand sparking, muttering curses under her breath, her eyes darting toward the castle, her thoughts on Harry. Andromeda and Tonks worked together, their wands tracing intricate patterns, adding Muffliato to mask their movements. Moody and Kingsley took the rear, their wands raised, casting Homenum Revelio to detect any approaching threats. Lupin and Hagrid stood near the center, Lupin's wand weaving Disillusionment Charms over their supplies, Hagrid hefting his crossbow, his eyes scanning the treeline. James and Charlie positioned themselves near Claude, their wands ready, their faces tense but focused.
The wards hummed, their magic blending into a formidable shield, the air crackling with power. Claude looked at Arcturus, his wand still raised, and said, "We're set, Lord Black. The golems are ready to deploy, and the teams know their roles." He gestured to the steel constructs, their runic matrices glowing faintly, lined up behind the wards, waiting for the signal to charge.
Arcturus nodded, his cane tapping, and said, "Good. Hold the line until Neville's done his part. Then we strike." He stepped forward, his robes brushing the frost, his eyes fixed on Nurmengard.
___________________________
Neville tore through the forest, his boots barely touching the ground, the wind whipping past as he reveled in the raw power coursing through his body. His muscles surged with strength, propelling him at speeds that blurred the trees into streaks of green and brown. He grinned, his heart pounding, exhilaration flooding him as he tested his new limits, the Heavenly Restriction stripping away every trace of magic and unlocking a physical prowess he'd never imagined. He leaped over a fallen log, his body moving like a charmed broom, and laughed, the sound sharp in the freezing Austrian air. The cold of the Alps didn't touch him, his dragonhide coat flapping as he ran, the anti-magic sword strapped across his back bouncing lightly. He felt alive, unstoppable, like he could outrun a Thestral and snap a troll's neck with one hand.
He skidded to a stop near a rocky outcrop, his eyes catching movement—a border guard, another of Grindelwald's lackeys, pacing with a wand in hand, oblivious to the danger. Neville smirked, his hand drifting to his sword's hilt, eager to test its anti-magic steel, a gift from Arcturus that promised to cut through spells and flesh alike. He drew the blade with a smooth motion, its edge glinting in the faint dawn light, and moved like a shadow, closing the distance in a heartbeat. The guard didn't even turn, his focus on the horizon, muttering about the cold. Neville swung the sword in a single, fluid arc, the blade slicing through the man's neck before he could blink, severing his head clean off. The body crumpled, blood spraying the frost-covered grass, and Neville spun, delivering a roundhouse kick to the severed head, sending it hurtling into a tree with a wet splatter, brains and bone fragments exploding across the bark.
He shook the blood from his sword, the steel singing as it flicked clean, and smirked, his eyes glinting with dark amusement. "Let's see what else you can do," he muttered, turning back to the headless body, which hadn't yet hit the ground, caught in a moment of lifeless suspension. He slashed again, the blade moving faster than thought, carving the corpse into chunks—arms, torso, legs—each piece falling in a gruesome pile before it could collapse naturally. Blood soaked the earth, the air thick with the coppery stench, and Neville stepped back, admiring his work, the sword light in his hand, unmarred by the carnage.
He sheathed the blade, his mind racing as he flexed his hands, feeling the power in every muscle. He was at least three times stronger and faster than before, his body a weapon honed by the complete absence of magic. From the dusty tomes he'd skimmed in the Longbottom library, he knew Heavenly Restrictions grew more potent with age, his strength and speed destined to climb as he matured, maybe even rivaling a giant's might one day. The thought made his grin widen, his pulse quickening. He could crush stone, snap spines, outrun spells—magic was nothing to him now. A faint murmur broke his thoughts, voices drifting through the trees. He tilted his head, straining his ears, and caught snippets of conversation—Grindelwald's men, griping about guard rotations, complaining about some acolyte named Macduff hoarding Firewhisky.
Neville turned toward the sound, his eyes narrowing as he focused, his vision sharpening like a hawk's. Over two miles away, he could see them clear as day—three wizards huddled near a boulder, their robes patched, their wands loose in their hands. His senses were dialed to impossible heights, every sound crisp, every detail vivid, like the world had been remade for him alone. The smell of pine, the rustle of leaves, the distant crack of a twig—it all hit him at once, overwhelming but thrilling. He crouched, then pushed off the ground, launching forward with a burst of speed, the forest blurring again as he closed the distance, his coat flapping, his sword bouncing against his back.
He reached them in seconds, a gust of wind marking his arrival. One wizard, a lanky man with a scar across his cheek, spotted him, his eyes widening, but before he could raise his wand, Neville drew his sword and slashed, the blade severing both of the man's arms in a single stroke. Blood gushed, the wizard screaming, and Neville grabbed him by the neck, yanking him to the side, using his body as a shield. A green flash—a Killing Curse—sizzled past, fired by the second wizard, a stout man with a panicked face, missing Neville by inches. Neville tossed the armless wizard to the ground, where he writhed, shrieking, and rushed the second, his speed a blur. The wizard stumbled back, his wand shaking, and stammered, "Wait, wait, wait!"
Neville didn't slow, his sword flashing as he hacked off the man's hand, then his wrist, his forearm, his shoulder, each cut precise, the pieces falling in a bloody cascade. The wizard stood frozen for a heartbeat, staring at his ruined arm, then screamed, a raw, guttural sound, collapsing to his knees, blood pooling beneath him. Neville laughed, stepping closer, and mocked, "How's your magic helping you now, mate?" He planted his boot in the man's chest, kicking him with enough force to send him tumbling across the clearing, his body rolling through dirt and frost, his screams fading into gasps.
The wizard skidded to a stop, clawing at the ground, his remaining hand scrabbling for his wand, tears mixing with blood on his face. Neville strolled to a nearby tree, its trunk thick and gnarled, and with a single, casual kick, shattered it, the wood splintering, the tree toppling with a deafening crash. The wizard, still crawling, looked back, his eyes wide with terror, and tried to drag himself away, but the tree slammed down, crushing him. His body burst under the weight, ribs snapping, organs rupturing, blood and guts spraying across the frost, his legs twitching briefly before going still, a mangled mess pinned beneath the bark.
Neville threw his head back, laughing wildly, a manic edge to his voice as he shouted, "This is the best day of my life!" He looked down at the wizard, who somehow clung to life, gurgling, his spine snapped, his lower half crushed, his eyes rolling in pain. Neville's laughter grew louder, his chest heaving, and he stepped closer, grinning like a madman. "You wizards are so weak!" he roared, bending down to slide his arms under the fallen tree, his muscles bulging as he lifted it with a grunt, the massive trunk rising like it weighed nothing. With a heave, he hurled it aside, the tree crashing through the underbrush, splintering smaller trees in its path. He planted his foot on the wizard's head, pressing down slowly, savoring the man's choked screams, the sound growing shrill until, with a sickening pop, the skull collapsed, brains and blood oozing into the dirt, the body jerking once before going limp.
A rush of pleasure hit Neville, a dark thrill he'd never felt before, pulsing through him as he stared at the carnage. Killing these wizards, shattering their magic-fueled arrogance, felt right, like he was born for it. His grin faded, his breathing steadying, and he shook his head, muttering, "Enough fun." He sheathed his sword, the blade clean despite the slaughter, and took off again, rushing through the forest, his speed kicking up dirt and leaves. He wove between trees, his senses sharp, tracking the terrain until he spotted a stone staircase sunken into the ground, leading to a metal-barred door. According to the blueprints Arcturus had shown him, this was the entrance to Nurmengard's inner walls, a service tunnel for guards and supplies.
Neville leaped down, landing silently, and caught the lone guard—a wiry man with a bored expression—by surprise. Before the guard could raise his wand, Neville grabbed his head and slammed it against the stone wall, the skull bursting like an overripe fruit, blood and brains splattering the rock. The body slumped, and Neville turned to the door, gripping the bars and ripping it off its hinges with a screech of metal, the hinges snapping like twigs.
He tossed the door aside, smirking, and thought, 'Without the wards slowing me down, this is a piece of cake.'
...
High on Nurmengard's battlements, two of Grindelwald's men, Wilhelm Kessler and Fritz Mueller, stood watch, their robes flapping in the icy Alpine wind. The sun was rising, its light cold and weak, casting long shadows across the frost-covered stone. Wilhelm, a wiry man with a patchy beard, leaned against a parapet, his wand twirling lazily, his voice dripping with irritation. "I'm telling you, Fritz, dragonhide boots are a scam. They charge you a hundred Galleons, and for what? My feet are still freezing out here."
Fritz, stockier, with a shaved head and a scar across his nose, snorted, kicking a pebble off the wall. "You're just cheap, Wilhelm. Dragonhide's worth every Knut. Keeps spells from burning your toes off. What're you wearing, cow leather? Might as well be barefoot." He grinned.
Wilhelm spun, his wand pointing at Fritz, though not seriously. "Cheap? Me? You're the one who bought that knockoff Firewhisky last week. Tasted like piss, and you still drank it!" His voice rose.
Fritz laughed, slapping his thigh, and said, "Better than your goblin-brewed sludge! You were sick for days, you idiot. Bet you're still tasting it." He leaned forward, smirking, when a deafening boom shook the battlements, cutting him off. A barrage of spells—red, green, and gold—slammed into Nurmengard's outer shield, the magical barrier flaring to life, rippling like liquid glass as it absorbed the attack. The impact vibrated through the stone, rattling Wilhelm's teeth, and he stumbled, his wand slipping from his hand.
Fritz yelped, flailing, and lost his footing, tumbling backward over the parapet. "Son of a bitch!" he screamed, his voice echoing as he plummeted, hitting the courtyard below with a sickening crunch, his legs splayed at wrong angles, groans rising from the flagstones. Wilhelm scrambled to the edge, peering down, his face pale, but didn't hesitate. He slammed his fist onto an emergency rune carved into the battlement, the stone glowing red as it triggered, a shrill alarm blaring across the castle, piercing the morning air.
The alarm stirred Grindelwald's forces. Wizards and witches poured from the castle courtyard, some sprinting up spiral staircases, their boots clanging on stone, others Apparating onto the walls with sharp cracks, wands drawn, eyes scanning the horizon. The shield flared again, more spells crashing against it, sparks showering like fireworks. Macduff, shoved through the crowd, his wand sparking with excitement. He climbed onto a parapet, grinning like a madman, and shouted, "Finally, some action!" Beside him appeared Zabini, her dark robes sleek, her face calm but her eyes sharp, as she surveyed the attack.
Macduff turned to the gathered men, his voice booming over the attack, and said, "Listen up, lads! First one to bring me a Ministry official's head gets free drinks all night, on me!" The wizards cheered, raising their wands, their faces lighting up despite the spells pounding the shield, the barrier holding firm but glowing brighter with each hit.
Zabini stepped closer, her wand lowered, and said, "This doesn't add up, Macduff. Why would they attack so openly? It's foolish, throwing spells at a shield they can't break."
Macduff laughed, waving her off, and said, "They've got nothing left, Zabini. This is all they can do, a last desperate swing. I honor 'em for it, I do." He cracked his knuckles, his grin widening, and added, "I'm gonna carve through their lines, snap their wands, crush their skulls, and dance on their corpses. They'll regret stepping foot here." His voice dripped with glee.
Zabini shook her head, her lips tightening, unconvinced. She didn't believe the French Ministry, or whoever was out there, would waste lives on a pointless assault. There had to be another plan, something hidden beneath the spectacle. Without a word, she Apparated, vanishing with a crack, reappearing in the inner keep to investigate, leaving Macduff on the wall. He shrugged, turned to his men, and shouted, "More for us, boys! Let's give 'em hell!" The wizards roared, their wands raised.
Outside Nurmengard, the forest edge roared with spellfire, a storm of curses, hexes, and charms streaking toward the castle's shield, each impact sending ripples across its surface, sparks raining down like a meteor shower. Claude Beaumont stood further back, his wand in hand, his eyes scanning his forces—French resistance fighters mingled with British allies. Claude turned to Arcturus Black, who stood beside him, his cane planted in the dirt. "I fear they won't take this threat seriously enough to draw Grindelwald out," Claude said with worry.
Arcturus hummed, his expression unreadable, and said, "Perhaps not, Monsieur Beaumont, but if that's the case, I have a backup plan." He raised his cane, gesturing to the side, where Bellatrix and Andromeda waited, their wands ready. "Bellatrix, Andromeda, come here," he called.
Bellatrix strode forward, her dark hair wild, her wand twitching, her eyes burning with barely contained rage, her thoughts clearly on Harry, trapped somewhere in the castle. Andromeda followed, her robes neat, her hands clasped, her lips pressed thin, her displeasure at the situation clear but her resolve unwavering. Arcturus leaned closer, his voice dropping, and said, "Get ready... as we planned."
...
Neville slipped through Nurmengard's shadowed halls, his boots silent on the stone, hugging the darkness where flickering torches cast no light. He moved like a wraith, his senses razor-sharp, the ward-breaking device a feeling heavyy in his pocket. He paused at a corner, his breath steady, and spotted a guard ahead, a wiry man humming to himself, unaware. Neville glided forward, his hand clamping over the guard's mouth, his other snapping the man's neck with a quick jerk. The body slumped, and Neville dragged it into a niche, tucking it behind a dusty tapestry, the fabric shifting slightly. He pressed on, his eyes scanning, and found another guard by a doorway, flipping his wand idly. Neville struck, his fingers crushing the man's throat before a sound could escape, then broke his arm for good measure, the wand clattering. He hauled the corpse into a broom closet, stacking crates over it, and wiped his hands with a huge grin on his face.
He stopped in a dim corridor, fishing the crumpled blueprints from his pocket, and squinted at the jumble of lines and writing, trying to decipher the path to Grindelwald's office. The map was a mess—hallways twisted, chambers overlapped, and Arcturus's scrawled notes were gibberish. "Bloody useless," he muttered, his frustration flaring, and he stuffed the paper back, his jaw tight. He needed a guide, now. Footsteps echoed, and he ducked behind a cracked statue, watching a young wizard shuffle by, his posture slouched. Neville pounced, seizing the man, snapping both his arms with a sickening crunch, and covering his mouth, stifling a scream. "Be quiet, or you're dead," Neville whispered, his voice low. The wizard nodded, eyes bulging, and Neville eased his hand. "Where's Grindelwald's office? Speak."
"Central keep, top floor, past the grand hall," the wizard gasped, his voice trembling, sweat dripping. "Don't kill me, please—"
Neville twisted his neck, the snap echoing faintly, and let the body drop. He pulled it behind a curtain, blood smearing the floor, and muttered, "Should've picked a better boss." He moved deeper, sticking to shadows, but reached a bustling courtyard, packed with Grindelwald's men. He crouched behind a column, peering out, and heard them mocking the attackers outside. "Those fools won't crack the shield," one sneered, kicking a stone. "We'll wait till they're spent, then finish them," another laughed, his voice grating. Neville cursed, his fingers flexing, and whispered, "Come on, old man, get that distraction moving." The crowd was too thick to sneak through, and no side routes offered a way past.
---
Outside Nurmengard's walls, the spellfire barrage stopped, the air falling eerily quiet, the shield's glow fading as sparks dissolved. Arcturus Black stepped forward, his cane tapping the frost, Bellatrix and Andromeda at his sides. The French and British fighters stepped back, their breaths visible, watching as Arcturus drew his wand from his cane, the wood gleaming with runes. He raised it, unleashing his magic in a wave that pressed against the battlefield, a force that made Claude's chest tighten and James body shake. "As we practiced," Arcturus said to Bellatrix and Andromeda, his eyes locked on the castle's shield.
Bellatrix began the chant, her wand tracing jagged patterns. "Phase: Eclipse. The sun dies behind me, and light dares not follow."
Andromeda followed. "Invocation: From the hush between heartbeats, the void answers."
Arcturus finished, his voice deep, his wand slashing. "Void: Grasped by the abyss, even curses forget their names."
Their voices wove together, the air crackling, the ground humming with power. Arcturus raised his wand, his voice thundering, and shouted, "Tenebris Vorago!" A stream of black energy surged, a writhing mass of darkness that roared toward the shield, crashing with a bone-rattling boom. The spell spread, shadowy tendrils snaking across the barrier, siphoning its magic, the shield flickering, straining to hold. It wouldn't break, but the castle's defenders froze, their faces paling.
Inside, Neville felt the castle shudder, the courtyard clearing as guards bolted for the walls, shouting about a strange spell. He seized the moment, sprinting across the open space, his speed blurring, and ducked into a stairwell to the central keep. He climbed, his steps silent, his senses tracking every noise, and headed for Grindelwald's office, his grin creeping back as he closed in.
---
On Nurmengard's battlements, Grindelwald appeared with a crack, Lyra at his side, her eyes wide, her hand tense. Zabini, Carrow, and Aurelius joined them, their faces taut as the shield wavered under Arcturus's spell. Lyra glanced at Grindelwald and asked, "What spell was that, my lord?" Grindelwald ignored her, his gaze fixed below, a laugh rising in his throat. "I didn't think you'd still be alive, Arcturus," he said to himself.
Zabini stepped forward, her voice sharp, and muttered, "This isn't just an attack my Lord, They must have a plan." Carrow scoffed, his wandd sparking, but Grindelwald raised a hand, silencing them, his laugh fading as he watched the darkness gnaw at the shield.
___________________________
At the Delacour Chateau, Harry stood in the muddy garden, his white hair streaked with dirt, his body aching from the Philosopher's Stone's toll. Dumbledore faced him, his eyes heavy, his hands clasped. "Are you ready, Harry?" he asked, his voice soft. "This will be dangerous, I'm giving you the chance to back out."
Harry met his eyes, "This is the only way to beat him, right?" He asked.
Dumbledore nodded, his expression somber.
"Then I'm in," Harry said, his voice steady, his Six Eyes flickering, his resolve solid despite the pain in his bones.
Dumbledore sighed, his face sad, but didn't argue. He pulled a vial from his sleeve, its contents glowing silver. "This contains Fawkes's tears," he said, offering it. "It won't heal the damage from destroying and restoring your body, but it'll let you use your magic, and you'll feel at full strength. But, Harry, when it wears off, the pain will be worse than before."
Harry took the vial, hesitated, then downed it, the liquid warm in his throat. Power flooded him, his magic surging, his body alive, the ache gone. Limitless pulsed within him, effortless to access, like a door flung open. His Six Eyes glowed, the world snapping into focus, every detail sharp.
Dumbledore watched, his voice calm, and said, "Be careful, Harry. Limitless is draining, and your eyes aren't used to the strain. I estimate you've got five minutes before the pain in your head becomes unbearable."
Harry nodded, his hand flexing, and said, "I'll be careful. Give me the Portkey."
Dumbledore handed over a rune-etched stone, then added, "Before I forget." He produced Harry's wand and held it out. "I'm sure you've missed this."
Harry took it, his fingers closing around it, and smiled as it thrummed, its magic syncing with his. "Thanks," he said his eyes meeting Dumbledore's.
Dumbledore looked at him, his voice soft, and said, "I'm proud of you, Harry... should you survive know that you'll know everything I do..."
Harry held his gaze, his throat tight, but said nothing as he wasn't quite sure what to say, he had mixed feelings about how Dumbledore had acted so far, but he couldn't think of that now. He gripped the Portkey, muttered, "Nurmengard," and vanished in a swirl of magic, leaving Dumbledore alone.
(AN: So the stage is set for the fight. I would've written them but tbh they're gonna end up being long chapters so I wouldn't have the time. I'll have to do it next time I write this. Anyway expect a lot of epic battles and a lot of cursed techniques. It's all gonna be very cool and very complicated. Kind of like Jujutsu. Anyway I hope you enjoyed the chapter.)
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