Herpo sat in the dimly lit study, the only light coming from a flickering oil lamp that painted his face in uneven shadows. Spread across the desk before him were rolls of parchment layered in overlapping chaos—maps of Hogsmeade, Hogwarts, and Diagon Alley, each marked in precise, ink-black lines. Arrows traced possible invasion routes, X's marked choke points, and circles indicated fallback positions. A few notes were scrawled in his tight, slanted handwriting—grim reminders to fortify weak wards, redistribute patrols, and seal certain alleyways altogether.
His eyes flicked from one sheet to another, calculating, revising, discarding one idea for another before his quill even touched the page.
The faint flutter of wings broke the silence.
Nagari swooped through the open window, her talons gripping a sealed letter, the parchment crisp against the dark feathers. She landed neatly on the desk, scattering a few loose sheets to the floor. Herpo's gaze lifted, and without a word he reached forward, plucking the letter from her beak.
The moment the seal broke, a small, unfamiliar object slipped out with a muted clink, rolling across the desk until it bumped against one of the maps. Herpo's eyes narrowed at it for a moment before he unfolded the letter.
The first few lines made his brow tighten. By the second paragraph, his jaw had set into stone. And by the end, a deep frown had cut into his face, the kind that carried both anger and urgency.
"Damn it," he muttered under his breath, the words low but edged.
Without hesitation, he snatched up the strange object, tucking it into the folds of his robes. The chair scraped harshly against the stone floor as he rose. A moment later, he was crossing the room with swift, purposeful strides, scattering parchment in his wake.
The green flames in the fireplace roared to life as he threw a pinch of Floo powder into the grate. He stepped in without pause, the name of his destination ringing clear and sharp as the fire swallowed him whole.
***
The crackle of firelight painted the sitting room in gold and shadow, glinting off the half-empty glass of deep red wine in Lord Arcturus Black's hand. The old, high-backed chair creaked softly as he leaned into it, savoring the quiet. Outside, wind scraped against the windows, but within, the Black estate was as still as a tomb.
The sudden rustle of wings broke the calm.
From the darkness beyond the window, a great black crow swept in through the ajar balcony door, its talons gripping a tightly bound letter. Nagari's eyes glowed faintly in the dim, her feathers dusted with frost.
Arcturus arched a brow, setting his glass aside. "From him, then…" he muttered, holding out a steady hand.
The crow landed on the armrest, offering the letter with a short, commanding click of her beak. As Arcturus untied the binding, something heavy and cold dropped into his palm an object, similar in shape to one Herpo would soon receive, but with subtle differences in design and make.
The letter unfolded with a whisper of parchment. His eyes darted over the script, his expression shifting from cool detachment to a tightening frown. By the time he reached the end, his jaw had set like stone.
"Bloody hell…" The words were low, but sharp enough to cut.
Without hesitation, Arcturus folded the letter, slid the object into his robes, and strode toward the doorway. His voice carried through the halls deep, imperious, and leaving no room for delay.
"Summon the family. Now."
The quiet of the manor was shattered, replaced by the hurried pops of house elves and the opening of long-forgotten doors.
***
The air around the shrine still carried the smell of smoke and scorched earth. Shouts and clanging echoed through the mountain pass as repair crews worked tirelessly transfiguration masters coaxing stone back into seamless walls, ward-carvers etching glowing sigils into their surfaces. Every section of the defenses that had taken the worst of the siege was now doubly reinforced, the scars of battle still raw in the stone.
Beyond the gates, the Terracotta Army stood in perfect stillness, weapons raised, eyes empty but fixed forward. Around their feet, medics hurried among the wounded, some soldiers groaning in pain, others lying beneath sheets.
Morpheus and Kazuki stood on a section of wall that overlooked it all. For a moment, they said nothing, only watching the movement of their people.
"They're going to split the attack," Morpheus said at last, his voice steady, almost casual. "Be prepared for a big wave to hit the shrine… and then a similar one, probably even larger, will crash into Britain like no one's ever seen before."
Kazuki's jaw tightened. His fingers curled into his palm until his knuckles turned white, rage and something far more helpless burning behind his eyes. "What can we do?" he asked, the words sharper than he intended. "I understand we're getting help from goblins, and our forces are strong… but there's too many of them. There's just too many."
Morpheus let out a long, controlled breath. "I sent contingencies along with Herpo. The anchor in Britain will not fall. It's probably the most guarded out of every single one. Now… if they are attacking Britain, I might have to actually tell them where it is. The exact location."
Kazuki turned toward him, his expression hardening. "If they think you're a villain now, then after you tell them, they'll see exactly what kind of fucking monster you are. This is what you're doing. You know this. People are dying. Humanity is dying. And you still think you can win, that we can win. Are you blind?"
Morpheus didn't answer immediately. His gaze drifted to the horizon, as if he could see something beyond the grey mountains. Finally, he exhaled and spoke, quiet but unyielding.
"No, my friend," he said. "My eyes are wide open. I can see the path. And I will follow that path to victory."
***
The final battles loomed in the close future and Morpheus saw but one path to victory, a path he knew would achieve his goals but at a cost far greater than anyone could know.
Especially his brother.
He could not turn back now, he could not falter yet sometimes on a rare occasion we wished with everything in his soul he could just let go.
But he couldn't.
So Morpheus waited, he waited for the demons and angels to attack the shrine once more.
He waited for the taste of victory that was promised at the end of the road.
—
A/N: man, rereading this chapter I am overcome with emotions as this novel has obviously grown into something different and bigger than simply Harry Potter.
If anyone is still reading thank you.