Chapter 138: Chapter 138: All Hallows’ War Part – 2

Lord Voldemort glided through the Forbidden Forest, his army spread behind him like a dark tide.

Death Eaters marched in formation, their masks gleaming in the moonlight. Among them moved others—Grindelwald’s old guard in their distinctive blue and silver robes, mercenaries from Eastern Europe, and dark wizards who’d crawled out from whatever holes they’d been hiding in.

The giants lumbered behind, each step shaking the ground. Thirty-foot-tall engines of destruction that had been promised a deal they could not day not to.

Werewolves loped along the flanks, unbothered by Fenrir Greyback’s death, already salivating at the thought of young blood.

Above them all, hundreds of dementors glided like storm clouds given form, their presence dropping the temperature and stealing the very light from the stars.

And from the deeper forest came the skittering of massive legs—the acromantulas, convinced by Voldemort’s promises of centaur-free forest.

Voldemort raised a hand, and the army halted at the forest’s edge. He could see Hogwarts’ lights in the distance, could feel the ancient wards humming with power.

“My faithful,” he spoke, his voice carrying to every ear without amplification. “Tonight, we end the resistance. Tonight, we take our rightful place as rulers of this world. The old fool Dumbledore is dead. Their precious Boy-Who-Lived is just that—a boy. They huddle behind their walls like sheep, praying for a miracle that will not come.”

Cheers erupted from his forces. He let them have their moment before continuing.

“I am merciful. I will offer them one chance to surrender. When they refuse—and I know they will refuse—we will show them what it means to stand against Lord Voldemort.”

More cheers. Bellatrix’s maniacal laughter rose above them all.

Voldemort placed his wand to his throat. “Sonorus.”

—

In the Great Hall, Voldemort’s voice suddenly filled the air, cold and clear as winter death.

“Defenders of Hogwarts. I am Lord Voldemort, and I speak to you now as your future sovereign. You have one chance—surrender. Open your gates. Lay down your wands. Give me Harry Potter. Do this, and I swear no unnecessary blood will be shed. Your children will be safe. Your families protected. You will find your place in the new order I am creating.”

The hall held its breath. No one moved.

“You face five hundred of my faithful. Giants who have crushed entire villages. Werewolves hungry for your flesh. Dementors who will strip away your very souls. And me—the greatest dark lord and the greatest wizard alive. You cannot win. You know this. Your leaders know this. Yet pride—foolish, wasteful pride—keeps you standing when you should kneel.”

Amelia’s jaw clenched, but she remained silent.

“I give you five minutes. Five minutes to see reason. To save your lives. To spare your children the horror of watching their parents die screaming. Five minutes, and then I come for you all.”

The voice cut off.

For a moment, nobody moved. Then Amelia stepped forward, her voice ringing with authority.

“You heard him. Five minutes to positions. Aurors—wands at the gates! Hit Wizards—take the giants! Medical corps—stations! This is not a drill!”

The hall erupted into motion. As people rushed to their positions, Amelia caught Moody’s arm.

“The wards?”

“Will hold for maybe ten minutes once he starts,” Moody said grimly. “After that…”

“After that, we make them pay for every inch.”

—

Voldemort watched the five minutes pass with the patience of a serpent. No white flags appeared. No gates opened. No surrender came.

“So be it,” he murmured.

He raised his wand and began to speak in a language older than Latin, older than memory. Dark magic, ancient and terrible, flowed from him in waves.

The Hogwarts wards, maintained for a thousand years, reinforced by countless Headmasters, lit up like aurora borealis. Blue and gold energy crackled across invisible barriers as they fought against Voldemort’s assault.

For a moment, it seemed they might hold.

Then Voldemort pushed harder, pouring years of accumulated power into a single, devastating attack.

The wards shattered.

The sound was indescribable—like glass the size of mountains breaking, like the very air screaming in protest. Light exploded across the grounds as centuries of protective magic died in an instant.

“ATTACK!” Voldemort commanded.

His army surged forward, but the first wave wasn’t human. Hundreds of dementors flowed toward the castle like a tide of despair, their presence draining warmth, happiness, and hope from everyone they passed.

—

On the Astronomy Tower, Harry watched the ancient wards die and felt that old, familiar cold slithering up from memory, trying to nest in his bones again.

Not today.

The thought came fierce and certain. Because he wasn’t that boy in the cupboard anymore. Wasn’t the orphan who’d needed to scavenge happiness from scraps.

He stepped forward, Susan’s hand warm in his even as frost began creeping across the stones. When he raised his wand and reached for joy, there was no desperate searching, no careful rationing of precious memories.

He was drowning in them.

Sirius’s bark of laughter echoing off castle walls after they’d turned Slughorn’s robe Gryffindor red. Susan’s fingers threading through his during their first real conversation about the future—not the war, but what came after. Arthur’s single nod of approval that somehow meant more than a hundred “well dones” from anyone else. The twins teaching him that chaos could be a love language. Neville standing up in the DA meeting and saying “We follow Harry” like it was simple as breathing. Hermione and Ron, despite their differences, sticking to him in times of danger.

The smile that curved his lips could have drawn blood.

When he spoke, the words emerged in the tongue of serpents.

“Expecto Patronum.”

The light that erupted from his wand wasn’t the usual silver. It was silver shot through with veins of gold, pulsing with power that made the air itself sing. The stag that formed wasn’t just corporeal—it was magnificent, its antlers spanning twelve feet, its eyes burning with golden fire.

Prongs looked at the approaching wall of dementors.

And charged.

The first dementor it hit didn’t just flee—it screamed, a sound that should have been impossible for creatures without true form, and then simply… ceased. Not destroyed, but unmade, unraveled at a fundamental level.

Gasps rippled along the battlements. Below, Death Eaters stumbled in their advance, because dark wizards or not, they’d never seen a Patronus that could delete dementors.

Prongs ran on, antlers lowering to rake the sky. He cut swathes through the swarm, herded them, corralled them, erased them. Those that fled did not look back. Those that survived did not descend again.

In less than a minute, the dementor assault had become a dementor rout.

At the forest’s edge, Prongs stopped. Turned. Lifted his magnificent head to stare directly at Lord Voldemort.

And grinned.

It was physically impossible. Patronuses didn’t have facial expressions. But Prongs grinned anyway—wide and mocking and absolutely delighted, a clear message: ’Is that all you’ve got, Tom?’

Then he dissolved into motes of light that swirled once, twice, before fading like applause.

For a heartbeat, silence held both armies.

Then the defenders erupted. Not cheers—those would come later, if there was a later—but the kind of primal roar that said we might die, but you’ll work for it.

Voldemort’s face contorted with rage.

“FORWARD!” he roared. “KILL THEM ALL!”

The real battle was about to begin.

—

From his tower, Arthur raised his glass in a toast to Harry’s display.

“Now that,” he said to the empty air, “was properly dramatic. Well done, Harry.”

Below, spells began to fly as the two armies clashed, and Arthur settled back in his conjured chair with the satisfaction of a theater critic watching the performance of the season.

The opening act had exceeded all expectations.

Time to see if the main event could match it.

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