Harry Potter and the Silent Guardian

Voldemort rose like a resurrected serpent king, his crimson eyes burning with a terrifying intensity that sent a fresh wave of fear through the already traumatized onlookers. He tested his newfound strength by flexing his fingers, a cruel smile stretching his thin lips. Inside him pulsed Grindelwald's power—a dark, intoxicating energy that throbbed beneath his skin, twisting and amplifying his own magic until it felt… different. Stronger.

He fixed his gaze on Harry, who stood resolute amidst the debris—an island of white radiance in a sea of darkness. Voldemort felt his arrogance climb, fueled by Grindelwald's transferred strength; he intended to show this upstart boy, this so-called chosen child, the true face of power.

"You may have defeated me once, Potter, but that is not going to happen again," Voldemort hissed. His voice, amplified by magic, echoed through the stunned atrium. "Now you stand before Lord Voldemort—reborn, ascended. You are nothing."

With that, he launched a brutal assault—a barrage of dark curses infused with Grindelwald's chillingly precise magic. Cutting curses, bone-breakers, soul-searing hexes—a maelstrom of lethal intent was unleashed upon Harry.

Yet Harry moved with an almost supernatural speed. His white aura flared, deflecting and absorbing the onslaught. Spells that would have crippled or killed any other wizard simply evaporated against his radiant shield, leaving not a scratch or tremor. He countered with his own spells, faster and more powerful than before. Bolts of pure magic slammed into Voldemort's hastily erected shields, shattering them with contemptuous ease.

After witnessing the extent of Voldemort's increased strength, Harry felt a grim relief. Things had not spiraled completely out of control. He was still a bit stronger than this new Voldemort and could very well end the war today.

"Having trouble, Tom?" Harry's voice carried a faint edge of mockery. "All that power, still not enough?"

For a moment, Voldemort recoiled in surprise before frustration dawned on his face. He was indeed stronger—Grindelwald's power was potent—but it wasn't enough. Not yet, not against Harry. He needed time: time to integrate this new power, time to master it, so he could truly become the ascended dark lord he envisioned. A direct confrontation now, even with this borrowed strength, was too risky. He needed to retreat and regroup before he could return, unstoppable.

However, flight was anathema to Voldemort's pride. He needed a diversion—a way to escape without appearing to flee in terror. His eyes darted around the ruined atrium, taking in the scattered debris, shattered pillars, and heaps of rubble. Then, a dark and cunning idea sparked in his mind.

With a flick of his wand, Voldemort unleashed a complex, wordless spell. The very air around them vibrated, and with a deep groaning rumble, tons of rubble scattered across the atrium began to rise. Shattered marble, broken statues, and fragments of the fountain were lifted into the air, suspended above the stunned and scattered crowd—a precarious, deadly canopy of debris.

Harry's eyes widened. He recognized the tactic instantly—a classic villain move: using innocents as shields and distractions. He scanned the crowd, searching for help. His gaze fell on the fallen Aurors, injured Order members, and terrified Ministry officials. He looked for signs of resistance, for raised wands or protective charms, for any sign that these supposedly trained wizards would defend themselves when it truly mattered.

There was nothing. Only fear. Faces were pale and frozen, eyes wide with terror as they stared at the looming mass of rubble. Not a single wand was raised, not a single shield charm cast. The wizarding world, which prided itself on its magical prowess and ability to defend against the dark arts, was paralyzed by fear, utterly incapable of acting when the moment arrived.

"This," Harry thought bitterly, "is why dark wizards thrive. So many with magic, yet so few willing to use it when it matters."

The few who might have helped—the Order members, Sirius, James, Amelia, Moody, and the Aurors—were unconscious, worn down by the night's brutal battles before Voldemort's power wave had knocked them out. Harry noticed that Fleur and Emma were awake, their wands raised and faces determined, but even together, they wouldn't be enough to stop this, not quickly enough.

Voldemort laughed, a sharp, piercing sound that cut through the atrium's frozen silence. "A parting gift, Potter," he sneered, voice laced with cold pleasure. "Choose—save them, or stop me. Enjoy your victory… while you can." And with that, he sprang toward the nearest Floo fireplace, snatched some Floo powder, and vanished in a swirl of green flames—deserting his allies without hesitation.

The moment his form dissolved into the Floo flames, the spell holding the rubble aloft faltered. With a deafening roar, tons of debris began to plummet—a deadly rain of shattered stone and marble poised to crush the helpless crowd below.

Harry had no choice. He couldn't pursue Voldemort—not yet, while the lives of these people were in immediate peril. Even though he did not care for the lives of many of them, the unconscious bodies of Sirius and Amelia were also at risk, and he could not simply stand by. With a surge of power, he channeled his magic, focusing his intent and will. He couldn't simply block the falling debris; its sheer mass and widespread impact were too great. Transfiguration was the only solution.

Concentrating every fiber of his being, Harry unleashed a wave of transfigurative magic—a silent, invisible force that swept upward and encompassed the falling rubble. Stone twisted, marble softened, and jagged edges were smoothed away as heavy fragments transformed, morphing into millions upon millions of delicate flower petals. They cascaded down in a gentle, harmless shower of vibrant colors, burying the stunned crowd in an unexpected blizzard of blossoms.

The immediate danger was averted. Moments before, the atrium had been poised to become a scene of carnage and terror; now, it was filled with the soft rustle of falling petals and the sweet scent of countless blooms, masking the lingering stench of battle. Yet Voldemort was gone.

"Damn it!" Harry's shout rang across the chamber, frustration evident. With Voldemort's magic magnified by Grindelwald's essence, the Dark Lord could become a threat beyond imagination. Harry refused to let him gain full mastery of those powers. Everyone he cared for was at risk.

He turned to Emma and Fleur, who were already tending to Sirius and Amelia, their faces etched with concern. "Take care of them," Harry said in a low, urgent voice. "I have to go after him. Don't worry, I'll bring him back."

Without waiting for a reply, he turned back to the still-flickering Floo fireplace, took a deep breath, and stepped into the emerald flames. He disappeared into the swirling green, leaving behind the scent of flower petals as he plunged into the unknown, into the hunt.

Voldemort would not be allowed time to regroup. Voldemort would not terrorize anyone again. Harry intended to end this war tonight—every one of Voldemort's followers lay either dead or captured, with only Voldemort himself still free. It was the perfect moment to finish him.

The hunt was on, and this time, one of them wouldn't be returning.