Harry Potter and the Silent Guardian

Sirius stepped forward, placing himself at the front line while the others positioned themselves to provide support. His wand was steady in his grip, his stance balanced and prepared. Across from him, Voldemort stood motionless, eyes gleaming with malice, his skeletal fingers curling around his wand as if savoring the battle to come.

The Dark Lord struck first. With a flick of his wrist, he sent a jet of dark purple energy crackling through the air. The spell howled as it tore toward Sirius, splitting the very air with its malevolent power.

Sirius sprang sideways, just as the curse blasted into the already shattered fountain behind him, reducing it further to smoldering rubble. The acrid scent of scorched stone filled the air. Without missing a beat, Sirius retaliated, flicking his wand sharply. "Reducto!" he bellowed, sending a concussive blast hurtling toward Voldemort.

A shimmering black shield materialized instantly, absorbing the blast with eerie ease. Voldemort barely flinched.

The battle erupted into a relentless exchange of magic. Sirius's style was bold, aggressive, and unpredictable. He darted across the battlefield with the fluid grace of a seasoned duelist, dodging and weaving between spells while launching his own with rapid precision. His movements were almost playful—reckless yet impossibly precise. His wild, free-spirited nature was reflected in every twist, every feint, every unexpected counter.

"Come on, Tommy!" Sirius taunted, deflecting a particularly nasty curse with a well-timed Protego. "Harry hits harder than that during warm-ups!"

A muscle in Voldemort's jaw twitched. His crimson eyes flared with fury at the name. His response came in the form of a spell chain so rapid that it left ghostly afterimages in the air. Dark curses streaked toward Sirius in a seamless wave, each one lethal enough to end the fight in an instant.

But Sirius was ready. His wand was a blur, parrying and countering every spell with uncanny speed. He matched Voldemort move for move, his grin widening at the sheer thrill of the duel.

The spectators could only watch in stunned amazement.

The Order had always known Sirius was a powerful wizard, but this—this was something else entirely. His raw skill, his reaction speed, the sheer power behind his spells—it was unlike anything they had seen from him before.

"Impossible," Lily whispered, her hands clenched at her sides as she watched her former friend duel on par with Voldemort. "When did Sirius become this strong?"

Amelia, her eyes fixed on the battle, answered without looking away. "He's been training with Harry. If you ever saw their mock duels, you'd think this was normal."

The atrium became a battleground of titanic forces. Magic twisted the very fabric of the air. Marble pillars shattered into dust only to be reconstructed mid-explosion. Elementals, conjured by both duelists, crashed into one another—blazing infernos clashing against waves of liquid shadow, electrified air meeting stone golems. The sheer force of their magic warped the light itself, distorting reflections against the ruined walls.

Sirius was holding his own, but that did not mean he was as strong as Voldemort. He had become formidable, but Voldemort, even weakened from the destruction of his Horcruxes, was still one of the most dangerous wizards to have ever lived.

"Is that all you've got?" Sirius called out, his voice dripping with mock disappointment as he sidestepped another deadly curse. "I thought the curses of a Dark Lord would have burned my wand to cinders by now."

Voldemort's patience snapped. His face twisted into something monstrous, his anger finally overriding his cold precision. He hurled a series of green bolts laced with pure, unfiltered death magic. Each one sizzled with lethal intent, cutting through the air with the promise of instant destruction.

Sirius ducked, twisted, and deflected the attacks, his wandwork flawless. The energy from the spells collided with the pillars behind him, reducing them to crumbling debris. Stone rained down, the ground trembled under the force of their battle, but neither wizard faltered.

The duel raged on, magic shaking the very foundation of the Ministry. And through it all, Sirius Black laughed, reveling in the fight.

---

For several minutes, the battle raged on, neither combatant giving an inch.

Their clashing spells sent deafening shockwaves through the vast atrium, shattering what little remained intact. No one else dared to interfere—the sheer intensity of their duel made even the most seasoned Aurors hesitate. The magic they wielded was too volatile, too deadly. A single misstep could mean disaster for anyone caught in the crossfire.

But as the fight dragged on, Voldemort's decades of accumulated dark magic and ruthless experience began to tip the scales.

With a cunning flick of his wand, he cast a feint—an arc of searing blue flame. Sirius, anticipating a more direct attack, dodged too early. It was exactly the opening Voldemort had intended. A powerful concussive blast followed in the split-second of vulnerability, striking Sirius square in the chest and sending him skidding across the scorched floor.

He rolled with the impact and scrambled back to his feet almost instantly, but his breath came harder now, his chest rising and falling in sharp gasps.

Voldemort's next curse was faster. A second hex clipped Sirius in the shoulder, the dark magic scorching through the fabric of his robes. A sharp, searing pain shot down his arm. Sirius clenched his jaw, gripping his wand tighter even as his fingers trembled slightly from the hit.

"You always liked cheap shots, huh?" he spat through gritted teeth, forcing himself upright. "No wonder your nose fell off."

Voldemort's crimson eyes flared with fury. His thin lips curled in utter contempt. "I will flay that insolent tongue from your mouth, Black."

With a sweeping motion, he unleashed a hurricane of cursed fire. The inferno spiraled through the air in a violent coil, twisting like a living creature as it lunged for Sirius.

Sirius reacted fast, conjuring a shimmering shield of silver light, but even as it deflected the flames, it flickered unsteadily under Voldemort's relentless force. The strain showed in the lines of pain etched across Sirius's face.

"Not bad, Black," Voldemort sneered, his voice dripping with cruel amusement. He stepped forward, pressing the attack. "But not good enough."

The Dark Lord's wand lifted for what looked like a finishing blow. Magic coiled at the tip, dark and crackling with lethal intent.

Then, before he could strike—

"Padfoot!"

A familiar voice rang across the battlefield.

James Potter lunged forward from the gathered ranks, wand already raised.

His mind was clear—this was not the time for guilt, for drowning in the weight of past mistakes. Sirius was in danger. That was all that mattered.

A barrage of spells shot from James's wand, streaking toward Voldemort's flank. The sudden attack forced the Dark Lord to abandon his finishing move and twist defensively, breaking the rhythm of his assault.

"It's about time, Prongs!" Sirius coughed, shaking off the pain as a grin spread across his lips. "Thought you were just gonna stand there and let me have all the fun."

James fell into a ready stance beside him, his hazel eyes gleaming with fierce determination. "Can't let you hog the spotlight," he shot back.

A flicker of recognition—of old camaraderie—passed between them. This was how they had fought at Hogwarts against bullies, how they had trained in the Order's early days. Back to back, united by the shared mischief that had given birth to their Marauder nicknames.

---

With renewed confidence, Sirius launched a rapid-fire volley of hexes, forcing Voldemort to defend high. At the same moment, James aimed low, sending a twisting curse into the ground. Chunks of marble erupted like jagged spikes, nearly catching the Dark Lord's legs. Voldemort snarled in irritation, swiping his wand downward to shatter the incoming debris.

The two Marauders pressed their advantage, their attacks perfectly synchronized. They moved in a rhythm that only came from years of fighting together—quick, fluid, and relentless. Now Voldemort was on the defensive.

Sirius and James called out old code-words from their Hogwarts days—"Stag Sprint!" "Moony's Cloak!"—signals for feints, misdirection, and precisely timed counters. The synergy between them was effortless, like two dancers in perfect step, weaving illusions and spell-chains that kept Voldemort guessing.

For the first time in decades, the Dark Lord found himself at a disadvantage.

Sirius flicked his wand, sending a Langlock curse that nearly sealed Voldemort's mouth shut, forcing him to twist aside to avoid it. James took the opening, firing a Blasting Curse that grazed Voldemort's robes, scorching the fabric and eliciting a furious snarl. In retaliation, the Dark Lord erupted with an aura of crackling black fire, forcing them both to step back. But it was clear—the combined force of the Marauders was pushing him backward.

Across the atrium, Magnus—bloodied, furious, and desperate—tried to leap to his master's aid. But before he could take a step, a gruff voice barked, "Not so fast, lad."

A flash of bright blue light struck Magnus square in the chest, sending him sprawling. Mad-Eye Moody, battle-worn and unyielding, strode forward, wand leveled.

Magnus hissed and tried to rise, but another barrage of hexes rained down on him. The Aurors had closed ranks. Amelia, Kingsley Shacklebolt, and the others tightened the perimeter, ensuring he had no way of reaching Voldemort.

---

Back in the heart of the battle, Sirius and James executed a final, cunning pincer move.

Voldemort barely saw it coming. A flash of red light slammed into his chest, sending him hurtling backward. His body crashed against a massive, cracked pillar, shattering its base. Fragments of marble tumbled down around him as he collapsed in a heap, dust swirling in the eerie silence that followed.

For the first time, Lord Voldemort lay still. The atrium held its breath.

James and Sirius stood panting, their wands still raised. Then, ever so slowly, Sirius turned to James, his lips quirking in exhilaration.

"Is that it?" he panted, chest rising and falling heavily.

James steadied him, his own face breaking into a wild grin. "Did we just—?"

The realization spread like wildfire. Around them, the Order and the Aurors erupted into cheers. For the first time, hope blossomed in their ranks. The impossible had happened. Voldemort had fallen.

But then—

Then came the footsteps. They echoed through the atrium like rolling thunder. Each slow, deliberate step sent a ripple of cold dread through the air. Shadows thickened unnaturally, stretching and twisting along the floor, as if the very darkness itself was answering a summons.

James felt it first—a deep, instinctive chill in his bones. His exhilaration turned to unease.

And then, somewhere in the crowd, a whisper.

"Gellert Grindelwald."

The name spread like wildfire, spoken in hushed disbelief.

And then he appeared.

Gellert Grindelwald strode into the atrium, his elegant robes swirling around him, moving as if caught in a phantom breeze. He radiated effortless dominance. His sharp, piercing gaze swept over the battlefield, his face unreadable—but his amusement was unmistakable.

Behind him came his elite guard—dark wizards handpicked and trained by the Dark Lord himself. Their silver masks gleamed under the dim light, and their wands were already drawn.

Grindelwald came to a stop, tilting his head slightly as he took in the scene before him.

"I hope," he said, his voice soft, thick with an old accent and amusement, "that I haven't missed all the fun."

Voldemort let out a ragged breath. Slowly, with visible effort, he pushed himself upright from the rubble. His crimson eyes gleamed with something that was not quite gratitude, but rather the satisfaction of a long-expected arrival.

"You… took your time," he rasped, brushing dust from his ruined robes.

Grindelwald smirked, his gaze flicking briefly over the shattered remains of the atrium before settling back on Voldemort. "Better late than never," he drawled. "Shall we repay these fine people for their… hospitality?"

The atmosphere in the room shifted. What moments ago had been victory now felt like the prelude to disaster.

The Order and Aurors braced themselves. Their wands were ready, their expressions steeled. But the presence of Grindelwald himself changed everything. The real battle was only beginning.