Chapter 139: Chapter 139: All Hallows’ War Part – 3

The Death Eater army surged toward Hogwarts like a dark tide, but the werewolves outpaced them all. Enhanced muscles and predatory instinct drove them forward, eager for first blood, their howls echoing across the grounds.

They were fifty yards from the castle walls when a soft pop announced an unexpected arrival.

Arthur nearly dropped his wine glass.

“Is that—Winky?”

His house-elf hovered in mid-air, directly in the path of the charging werewolf pack, utterly unbothered by the sight of the horde of slavering beasts. Arms crossed, chin lifted, she glared with the confidence of someone ten times her size.

“Bad doggies STOP!” Winky’s voice carried across the battlefield. “Winky does not allow bad doggies in the school! You will make mess and increase work for elves! Winky will stop you!”

The lead werewolf, a scarred brute with yellow eyes, skidded to a halt, thrown off by the sight. “Out of the way, elf.”

“Winky is not in the way,” she sniffed, folding her arms. “You is in the way of children’s studies.”

Up on the tower, Arthur lowered his glass and raised his omnioculars. “Oh, this I have to see.”

Pop-pop-pop-pop-pop!

Dozens of house-elves appeared in formation above the werewolves, each holding something small but ominous.

“Elves of Hogwarts!” Winky commanded with surprising authority. “Show bad doggies what happens when they threaten our clean corridors! THROW!”

The elves obeyed in perfect synchronization, raining their payloads down on the confused werewolves before vanishing with collective pops. Only Winky remained, floating with serene satisfaction.

Arthur adjusted his omnioculars to see what had been dropped. “Are those… dungbombs? And potted plants? Oh, very clever.”

The dungbombs exploded on impact, releasing a stench so concentrated it became visible, a yellow-green miasma that would have made normal humans retch. But these weren’t normal dungbombs. The twins had modified them with concentrated Pepperup Potion, creating a sensory nightmare specifically designed for enhanced noses.

But that was just the opening act.

Then the potted plants hit the ground, clay shattering on impact. The baby Mandrakes, rudely awakened and thoroughly annoyed, did what baby Mandrakes do best.

They screamed.

The sound was beyond description. A piercing wail tuned precisely to the frequency that caused maximum agony to canine ears. Combined with the overwhelming stench attacking their noses, the werewolves’ enhanced senses became their greatest weakness.

The entire pack collapsed, writhing on the ground, hands clamped over bleeding ears, completely incapacitated.

“Good doggies stay down,” Winky said sweetly. Then, louder: “Attack!”

Another wave of pops. This time the elves reappeared looking like the world’s most determined kitchen militia. In their hands…

“Silver!” a panicked voice cried from the enemy ranks.

“For clean dishes! For Hogwarts! For magic! THROW!” Winky commanded.

Every piece of silver cutlery from the Great Hall—forks, knives, spoons, ornate serving ladles—became airborne missiles.

Werewolves screamed as silver burned into flesh like acid, their regeneration turning against them as wounds tried to heal around the embedded metal.

Within minutes, the werewolf vanguard was decimated—dead, dying, or fleeing back toward the forest with silver protruding from various anatomical locations.

“Bad doggies have learned their lesson,” Winky announced with satisfaction before vanishing with a pop.

—

The Death Eater army had frozen, watching their shock troops get annihilated by kitchen staff.

“What in the bloody hell just happened?” someone asked.

“The house-elves and weasley inventions happened,” Rookwood said grimly, his analytical mind already adapting. “Split formation! Attack from all sides—don’t give them grouped targets! Move!”

The wizards obeyed, spreading out to encircle the castle. But the giants weren’t known for following complex strategies.

“CRUSH THE CASTLE!” their leader bellowed, and the thirty-foot monsters charged straight ahead, too stupid or too proud to learn from the werewolves’ fate.

They made it to within range of the tower windows when projectiles started flying.

“NOW!” Fred Weasley’s voice rang out.

“FOR CHAOS!” George added.

Dark objects shot from multiple towers. The projectiles struck the giants and immediately erupted into writhing masses of dark vines.

“Devil’s Snare,” Arthur murmured appreciatively. “But that alone won’t—ah.”

The second wave of projectiles followed immediately—vials of luminescent green potion that shattered against the already-spreading vines.

“Growth accelerant,” Arthur observed, pleased. “Herbology class has been busy.”

The Devil’s Snare exploded in size, tendrils as thick as tree trunks binding massive limbs, slithering into mouths and noses.

The giants thrashed and roared, but their great strength meant nothing against plants that grew faster than they could tear. The more they struggled, the tighter the snare constricted.

“HIT WIZARDS!” Kingsley’s voice boomed. “TAKE THEM!”

Coordinated spells ripped through exposed flesh—cutting curses slicing tendon and vein. Blood sprayed in dark arcs. The leader went down hard. Three minutes later, all the giants were dead or incapacitated.

Voldemort’s army had lost two of its three non-human forces before the real battle had even begun. The acromantulas, showing more wisdom than their allies, had scattered into small groups, making themselves harder targets.

—

The easy part was over.

Now came the true test.

Dark wizards hit every entrance at once, their spells pounding against doors and windows in an unrelenting rhythm. The ancient wood groaned; protective enchantments flickered like dying candles.

“They’re breaking through!” someone shouted.

With a thunderous crack, the main doors blew inward.

The Death Eaters surged inside—only to meet steel, not spells.

The entrance hall bristled with every suit of armor Hogwarts had collected in a thousand years, animated and arrayed in flawless formation. An iron wall stood between the invaders and the heart of the castle.

The first wave hurled curses at the knights. The enchanted armor didn’t care—it couldn’t. Grim and silent, they advanced, forcing the masked wizards back step by deliberate step.

Behind the armor, defenders took up firing positions—Aurors, teachers, older students, anyone willing to stay and fight. Spells darted through the gaps in the armored wall with deadly precision.

“PEEVES IS HELPING!”

The poltergeist swept overhead, gleefully unloading a satchel crammed with Weasley products. Portable Swamps erupted beneath Death Eater boots. Clouds of Peruvian Instant Darkness Powder blinded entire groups. One unfortunate wizard got a direct hit from a Nosebleed Nougat and stumbled away, clutching his gushing face.

Pop. Pop. Pop.

House-elves flickered in and out of the fray like lethal fireflies, tossing whatever they could grab—prank items, cutlery, even the occasional teapot sloshing with boiling oil. Their hit-and-run strikes shredded any attempt at a coordinated advance.

For a moment, it seemed the defenders might actually hold.

But experienced killers adapt, and the tide began to turn.

“BOMBARDA MAXIMA!”

An Exploding Charm tore a jagged gap in the knight line.

“CRUCIO!”

A seventh-year student dropped screaming, his wand rolling away as he convulsed. The Death Eater who’d cursed him laughed, the sound cutting through the chaos like a blade.

These weren’t pranksters or school bullies. These were killers, trained in dark arts most wizards couldn’t imagine. Where the defenders fought to incapacitate, the Death Eaters fought to cause maximum suffering.

“They’re breaking through on the east side!”

“South entrance is failing!”

“Where’s our reinforcement?”

An Auror fell, blood spreading beneath him. A professor’s scream cut the air as dark magic peeled flesh from bone. The animated armor, for all its strength, couldn’t cast shields or heal the wounded. One by one, they fell to concentrated fire.

The almost-playful chaos of prank warfare was giving way to the grinding horror of real war. Bravery still held the line—but bravery had limits.

“Fall back to secondary positions!” Moody bellowed. “Controlled retreat! Don’t let them—”

A violet curse slammed into the wall inches from his head, cutting him off mid-order.

The Death Eaters surged forward, sensing weakness. Their spells grew nastier—bone-powder hexes, flesh-rotting curses, soul-striking magic that made the air itself feel colder.

And still, Voldemort hadn’t even entered the fight.

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