Cassian flicked his wand toward Lucian and Barty. Two pale threads shot out and coiled into vials hovering by his side. He caught them without looking.

“Got your voice,” he said. “Sit and wait.”

Tendrils seeped from the cracks in the wall, curling around their arms, legs, shoulders. They didn’t fight. Lucian’s eyes were glassy. Barty just looked dazed.

Cassian didn’t spare them another word. He turned, boots crunching across the scattered glass, and made for Dumbledore.

The old man was still holding Voldemort at bay, wand raised, but the rhythm was off. Cassian slowed.

Dumbledore was casting clean, yes, but his counters didn’t bite. He let openings pass. There were a dozen chances already to go harder, to slam force into spellwork, and each one he’d let slip past.

Cassian stopped a few paces behind. Frowned. “Are you doing this gently on purpose, or are your joints acting up again?”

Dumbledore didn’t flinch. His next arc caught Voldemort’s curse and turned it wide, but he didn’t press the follow-up.

Cassian stepped closer. “What the hell are you doing?”

Before Dumbledore could speak, a sharp burst of flame split the air beside Voldemort. Cassian’s grip tightened. His wand came up fast. That wasn’t Apparition. They’d locked the place down six different ways.

Didn’t stop the man standing next to Voldemort now.

Cassian’s stomach turned over.

No mistaking that face. He stepped forward, teeth bared.

“Cassian,” Dumbledore said. “Step back. He is the Feng Shui Marauder. He didn’t Apparate. That’s Phoenix Jump. Normal wards can’t catch it.”

Cassian swore under his breath. Was Dumbledore holding back because he knew another person was coming?

Was he waiting?

No… worse. Was he being careful?

Feng turned his head, looking Voldemort over like he’d found a cracked vase in a shop window. “You failed then?”

Voldemort said nothing.

The Marauder let out a breath. “Waste of time.”

Dumbledore’s posture had changed. Gone was the soft stance, the casual duellist’s readiness. He stood ready now, white wand tilted half-forward like he was bracing for a first strike.

Cassian noticed.

“Why are you here?” Dumbledore asked, voice cold. “You and Voldemort have no alliance. This is interference. You’re breaching international law.”

Feng laughed. “What breach? Voldy roped my grandson into a blood contract. That’s family business.”

Dumbledore blinked. His face shifted with real surprise. “Grandson? Xu Mingyu?” he asked in disbelief.

Feng’s smile twisted. “Xu Mingyu,” he said, spitting the name like it tasted sour. “That cursed brat signed with this snake. Which means the lot of you made it personal.”

Dumbledore’s eyes widened, “He’s your grandson?”

“By blood, not by choice,” Feng muttered. “If I’d known he’d grow into this level of idiocy, I’d have drowned him at birth.”

His face darkened. “And Ji… That unfilial bastard attacked my grandson. In my school.”

Dumbledore’s gaze sharpened. Whatever warmth usually lived there was gone.

“Voldemort’s interference with your grandson does not grant you the right to attack the British Ministry,” he said. “Step away now, and we will not pursue this further.”

Feng laughed coldly.

“At this stage?” he said. “I have no interest in permission.”

The laughter turned manic. It was wild and loud. Even Voldemort turned his head, thin lips parting slightly, caught off-guard by the man’s expression.

“You can take this as notice,” Feng went on. “This is my declaration. Not at Britain.”

His grin split wider. “At everyone. To the whole world!”

The laughter came again, louder, rolling, unhinged.

Dumbledore turned his head to catch Cassian’s eye.

“You will need to hold Voldemort,” he said. “You cannot engage Marauder.”

Cassian gave a nod.

He stepped away from Dumbledore’s line. His wand aiming toward Voldemort.

Voldemort’s attention slid back to him, red eyes narrowing.

Cassian didn’t look away.

“Come on then,” he said. “Let’s keep this tidy. Those two are older than both of us.”

Voldemort paid no attention to the clash breaking out behind him. Feng Shui Marauder had already started tearing into Dumbledore, sparks and pressure rolling down the aisles, but that noise wasn’t his concern.

He had come for two things.

One was the prophecy. That was obvious. The other was what Marauder had asked him to retrieve. Except he didn’t even get that far. He was stopped by Cassian and Dumbledore.

It seemed Marauder came because he knew he’d fail. He’s here to take it himself.

He knew Dumbledore too well. The old man would burn the entire wing before handing it over. So for now, he could ignore him too.

The obstacle was standing right in front of him.

Voldemort’s gaze slid back to Cassian. The corner of his mouth lifted.

“Rosier,” he said. “I have been waiting to meet you again. You left rather abruptly last year, in the cemetery.”

Cassian shifted his weight and shrugged. “Sorry. Had to. I was losing my magic, and there was a cult of perverts queuing up to kill me. Felt rude to hang about.”

The answer earned him a soft laugh. Voldemort looked almost pleased. Not looking offended at all, he said, “Because you took those two from me, I was unable to restore them properly. My body is still incomplete.”

Cassian stared flat. “You’ll live.”

Voldemort smiled.

“You have a secret that interests me,” he said. “All those unfamiliar spells. I may not look like one, but I am a bit of a scholar myself. I traveled half of the world, and still, I cannot place half of what you use.”

Cassian deadpanned, wand still raised. “Are we fighting or what?”

Voldemort’s smile vanished.

“It doesn’t matter,” he said. “Tonight, I will take my answers.”

The air snapped.

Green light ripped down the aisle.

Cassian moved before thought finished forming. His wand came up, his other hand sliding back, and the curse split at the point of impact, carved apart and flung wide. The force tore through the shelves on either side, glass chiming and screaming as prophecies rattled in their frames.

Cassian answered with light, Lumos Snipa, driving Voldemort back a step. The beam cut clean through shadow, burning white against the stone. Voldemort hissed as the light struck him. He knew that spell, knew it too well. Five years ago, in the depths of the Forbidden Forest, Rosier had used it against him. The memory burned sharper than the magic itself. Was this how he chose to begin? A reminder. A provocation. An attempt to mock him? Him?!

He vanished in a blink before it struck, reappearing behind a column with a counter already forming.

The floor lurched. Cassian jumped, kicked off falling stone, and the air around him twisted hard. The brief cyclone ripped outward, hurling debris in a violent spiral. Tempestas Verto.

Voldemort tore through it with brute force, dispersing the pressure with a single flick, and sent something back that cracked like a whip.

Cassian dropped low as it skimmed over him, heat licking his shoulder.

He didn’t wait. Lumos Noctis.

Darkness slammed down. The Hall went blind as the light snuffed completely. For half a heartbeat, nothing moved. Then the pulse hit him. It rolled through the floor. A pressure wave that kissed every surface and came back full of information.

Cassian felt it pass through him.

There it was.

His teeth clenched. He knew this trick. Voldemort’d done it to him before. Dumbledore too. Sightless awareness that didn’t care about darkness. A way of knowing where someone stood.

Voldemort sent another pulse.

Cassian stopped as it washed over him. Then moved away, keeping low, counting steps by memory.

He sent one back.

His pulse wasn’t as heavy. But it was fast, mapped to movement rather than presence. The feedback hit him all at once. Voldemort, three shelves down. Weight forward. Wand high.

Cassian flicked his wrist. Fire skipped across the floor in short, hopping bursts. Voldemort shifted, cloak snapping, already countering.

Something slammed into Cassian’s chest and threw him back. His lungs locked for half a second. Pain rang hollow through his ribs, sharp. He hit the stone hard, slapped a hand down, and the impact softened under his palm. Spongify. He bounced, rolled, came up on one knee.

Cassian struck. But Voldemort tore the spell apart before it reached him and stepped straight through the wreckage, wand and free hand moving at once. Pressure hit high, then low.

Cassian split the first cleanly and dropped flat under the second, glass slicing past where his head had been. He dragged his wand across the floor.

The stone answered. Growth burst from the cracks, thick and fast, lashing for ankles and wrists. Sylvanima. Voldemort tore free with force alone, leaving scorched remnants behind, but it slowed him enough for Cassian to close the distance.

Voldemort blinked away again.

Cassian felt the pulse a fraction too late.

Something brushed his neck.

He twisted and threw frost blind. Glacius. The air froze solid in front of him, ice blooming outward, catching robe and stone alike. Voldemort reappeared at its edge, slowed for a breath, wand lifting. He walked through it.

“Impressive,” he said but before he could say anything more, he felt a change.

His eyes narrowed.

Cassian lifted his hand and the broken world rose with it. Gravitas Ascendio. Shelves, doors, stone, all ripped upward and held there, trembling.

“Mind the labels,” Cassian said as they reached the ceiling.

He then dropped them.

Voldemort burned everything to dust mid-air and surged forward through the heat, spells chaining too fast to track. Cassian blocked, split, redirected. One hit numbed his shoulder. He shook it off and drove Voldemort sideways.

They closed.

Too close now.

Voldemort struck without a wand, raw magic flaring. Cassian met it forearm to forearm, the impact snapping the air between them. He shoved forward, hooked Voldemort’s wrist, killed the magic between them for a breath, and slammed him back into a shelf.

Glass exploded.

Cassian pressed, broke alignment, drove a kick into Voldemort’s ribs.

Voldemort was gone again, then reappeared behind him, killing curse already screaming toward release.

Cassian didn’t turn.

His hand came up behind his back.

The shield flashed into existence at the exact point of contact. Green light split, shearing past him on both sides and tearing two aisles apart.

Cassian spun and answered with fire. Confringo. Voldemort countered, the blast detonating against the wall and knocking them both back.

They landed hard.

Cassian rose first, breathing rough, wand shaking.

Voldemort stood slower, robes torn, eyes burning.

Cassian wiped blood from his mouth.

***

Dumbledore slid back a step as the air buckled. The stone beneath his boots scorched, then cooled, then scorched again in quick succession. Heat rolled down the aisle.

Feng Shui Marauder hovered a foot above the floor. A faint outline of wings shimmered behind him, not fully there, not illusion either. Feathers formed and unformed along his shoulders, burning gold to white to nothing at all. His eyes reflected fire even when he wasn’t casting.

A line of fire snapped out from Feng’s hand. It curved mid-flight, split, then recombined behind Dumbledore.

Dumbledore didn’t turn.

His free hand lifted, palm out.

The flame hit a dead pocket, vanishing. The heat bled into the stone, raced through the runes already laid beneath the floor, and burst upward behind Marauder in a column of steam and ash.

Marauder twisted mid-air, cloak flaring. Steam hissed as he moved.

He clapped, the sound cracked like a gunshot. A pressure wave rippled outward

Dumbledore’s eyes flicked to the prophecies. He slashed his wand downward.

“Silencio Maxima.”

The hum cut dead. The shelves steadied.

Marauder frowned.

“You are anchoring sound to structure,” he said. “Risky.”

“Only if you assume I care about the shelves,” Dumbledore replied, and swept his wand in a tight arc.

The floor beneath Marauder erupted sideways. Stone peeled away in sheets, folding like pages, trying to wrap him in a spiral of earth and binding glyphs.

Marauder dropped. Fire detonated outward from his spine, a sudden burst that burned without spreading. The stone bindings hit the heat and slagged, collapsing into glowing fragments that fell and cooled before touching the floor.

Marauder landed lightly, boots kissing the marble, laughing too delighted.

He spread his arms. The wings fully manifested for half a second. Massive and burning. Real enough that the air screamed around them.

He moved, compressing the space between them.

Dumbledore felt the heat spike behind his eyes an instant before Marauder appeared inside his guard, hand already raised.

Dumbledore’s wand snapped down hard.

A translucent plane flared between them. The blow struck it and slid off at an angle, tearing a molten gouge through the floor instead of Dumbledore’s chest.

Marauder twisted with it, momentum carrying him through the gap. His elbow came around, trailing flame.

Dumbledore caught it bare-handed.

The skin blackened instantly. He didn’t flinch.

The fire guttered, starved as Dumbledore pulled the heat out of it and dumped it into the runes beneath his feet. The floor glowed, then dimmed.

Marauder wrenched free and jumped back, landing atop a shelf, glass crunching underfoot.

For the first time, his smile thinned.

“You are bleeding power to the structure again,” He said. “Not afraid this fake room’ll break?”

Dumbledore flexed his burned hand. He didn’t show it but he felt the burn of that mistake. “You cannot break it,” he replied, “You are still half a man pretending the rest of you is a god.”

Marauder scoffed, and as they were about to clash again, his head snapped to the side.

The fire around him faltered.

A patch of darkness pooled between the aisles, swallowing light not far from them.

Marauder stared, eyes widened.

“That’s-“

Dumbledore followed his gaze, squinting. Did Marauder recognise Cassian’s spell? Was it that important?

Shock flickered across Marauder’s face. Then greed. Then something bright and almost giddy. Jubilation twisted his features, and a second later he laughed.

“Oh,” He breathed. “Oh, that’s beautiful.”

He took a step toward the dark.

Footsteps thundered down the far corridor.

Marauder froze mid-stride.

Dumbledore turned as Magnus Rosier burst into the Hall, wand already up. Aurors followed, Unspeakables, professors, more pouring in by the second. Twenty at least. Probably more behind them.

Marauder clicked his tongue.

He looked back to the darkness, eyes alight.

“Another time, then,” he murmured.

Without another glance at Dumbledore, Marauder pivoted toward the black patch, fire curling back around his shoulders as he stepped closer to it, already reaching for whatever waited within.

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And in the end-times, multitudes shall gather to witness stories… yet offer no words. And that silence shall be the loudest scream.

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