The battlefield at Hogsmeade was no longer a village. Its streets were churned mud, its cottages twisted into battlements by Herpo's wards, walls groaning under the weight of constant bombardments. The air was thick with ash, screams, and magic so raw it stung the lungs.
And at the center of it Herpo soared.
The first of the gods thundered toward him, a hulking brute of a figure with skin like molten bronze, shoulders wreathed in fire. The second hovered above, feathered wings tipped with shadow, a spear gleaming with lightning. Herpo met them both without hesitation.
He blurred, bones snapping and lengthening, scales erupting across his skin. His basilisk form roared into existence, fangs glinting with venom, eyes glowing with killing light. The ground split as he surged forward, tail whipping the fiery god off his feet and smashing him through the wreckage of a cottage.
Then, in an instant, he was man again—robes torn, face smeared with blood, wand in hand. He slashed it upward, a crescent of green fire leaping to intercept the winged god's spear thrust. The clash of magics detonated the air with a thunderclap.
"Hold him! Hold him!" a goblin captain barked nearby. His squad rushed in, shields raised, enchanted steel catching the flaming god's counterblows as Herpo lunged forward once more, half-serpent, half-man, his fangs snapping inches from the god's throat.
The battlefield reeled around them.
***
Near the southern barricade, a centaur loosed arrow after arrow, each shaft glowing with runes that burned blue against the night. One arrow pierced the wing of a descending angel, sending it crashing into the mud. "Push them back!" the centaur shouted, already nocking another.
A vampire landed beside him, stone flesh cracking, pale muscle glistening underneath. Without a word, the creature tore through two demons that had broken the line, snapping one's neck in its jagged hands before vaulting back into the fray. The centaur gave it a brief nod—no words, just the shared language of survival.
***
Closer to the shattered High Street, a knot of human wizards crouched behind transfigured stone walls. Their faces were pale with exhaustion, hands trembling as they poured spellfire into the advancing tide.
"They just keep coming," one muttered, voice ragged.
"Then we keep killing," another rasped, wand shaking as he cast. His shield charm flickered under the impact of a demon's claws. Just as the beast was about to break through, a goblin leapt atop its back, driving an axe into its skull with a guttural roar.
Blood sprayed across them all, but none flinched. They had no time for disgust. Only survival.
***
Herpo's roar split the chaos again. He twisted mid-strike, his body elongating, scales flashing, venom dripping from fangs as he caught the lightning spear in his mouth. Power surged through him, burning his throat, but he forced it down, his basilisk eyes flaring bright enough to blind the winged god momentarily.
In the same breath, he became a man again, spitting out shattered fragments of the spear as he whipped his wand in a vicious arc. "Confringo!" The explosion caught the winged god's chest, hurling him backward into the night sky.
But the fiery brute was already on him, fists like hammers striking Herpo's ribs. Bone cracked. Herpo screamed in fury more than pain, collapsing into scales again, his massive tail coiling around the god's legs and crushing. Fire seared through his flesh, burning into the basilisk's hide. Still he tightened, his eyes locked on the enemy with venomous hatred.
***
On the northern wall, students—no older than James and Sirius, stood shoulder-to-shoulder with veterans. They had slipped here unnoticed, too stubborn to retreat once found. One Hufflepuff girl was weeping openly, but her wand hand stayed steady as she healed a centaur's shattered flank.
"You're doing fine," the centaur grunted through clenched teeth. "Do not falter."
Nearby, Sirius Black's laugh cut through the chaos as he flung a blasting hex that caved in a demon's chest. "Bloody hell, this is better than Quidditch!" he shouted, though the wild look in his eyes betrayed the thin edge between courage and terror.
***
Herpo staggered back into human form, chest heaving, smoke rising from his robes. His eyes flicked across the battlefield, seeing everything at once bloodied lines holding by threads, allies dying even as they killed.
"Hold!" he bellowed, his voice echoing like a curse. "Push them back! These are no gods and they bleed the same as we do"
Herpo moved back in the thick of it, a shadow at once man and monster, sliding between forms with terrifying speed.
When his human body held sway, his wand was a blur, every flick precise, merciless. A demon lunged too close—Herpo spat a curse, and the thing froze mid-stride as its legs warped into gnarled wood, roots splitting its own flesh before it toppled into the muck. He spun, transfiguring broken spear shafts into serpents of ironwood, which whipped forward and wrapped around the ankles of a winged god, yanking it from the sky.
The gods did not underestimate him now. They had learned quickly that he was no mere mortal sorcerer. When his flesh tore and the basilisk burst forth, their gazes skittered away in primal instinct. Angels averted their eyes, striking from oblique angles; demons shielded their faces with armored claws. None dared meet the serpent's gaze for even a heartbeat. And that moment of hesitation was Herpo's opening.
The bronze-skinned god charged, spear blazing with light. Herpo shifted, robes ripping as scales exploded across his body, but he didn't commit fully to the serpent yet. Instead, he raised his wand, whispering a word so dark it seemed to rot the air. The god's weapon shuddered, its haft sprouting jagged thorns that pierced the wielder's hand. The god roared, forced to drop it.
Above, the winged god dove, sword of lightning raised. Herpo twisted back into basilisk form, coils erupting across the earth, and the god's charge faltered—its eyes squeezing shut, face turned away. It swung blindly, its blade only clipping scales instead of piercing his heart. The serpent hissed, a sound that rattled the marrow of every mortal on the field.
Mortals scrambled nearby: a squad of aurors conjuring chains of fire, healers dragging the wounded back through smoldering trenches, soldiers shouting in terror as a fallen angel's body crashed into their ranks. All around, Herpo's duel carved a storm through the chaos.
He snapped back to human shape, wand whipping forward. A wall of mud and blood surged upward, solidifying into jagged stone spikes that tore through a cluster of demons. One tried to crawl free, but Herpo's next curse liquefied its bones; it collapsed into a screaming, shapeless heap. He didn't spare it a glance his eyes were locked on the gods.
The bronze warrior came again, bleeding golden ichor from its thigh. This time Herpo's curse blasted it backward, black energy clinging to its flesh like oil, eating away at its glow. The god stumbled, ichor steaming where the malediction clung. Herpo bared his teeth, but before he could press the attack, the winged god's blade seared across his side, cutting deep.
Herpo howled, staggering blood pouring hot and fast. For a heartbeat his vision swam. Then he hissed, forcing himself forward. His basilisk's head erupted once more, unhinging jaws snapping down on the winged god's arm. Venom pumped, black and burning, into divine flesh. The god shrieked, wrenching free, clutching the wound as ichor dripped like molten metal.
Around them, soldiers shouted, emboldened,
"Keep him up! He's bleeding them!"
"Don't let Herpo fall!"
They hurled hexfire and iron chains, most evaporating against the gods' defenses, but every distraction bought Herpo a heartbeat. And he used every heartbeat.
Back into human form, he lashed curses in rapid succession, fingers jerking precise arcs. A rain of spikes conjured from battlefield debris; a demon transfigured into a living shield of bone; the earth itself buckling under his command to swallow divine feet. Then, when their gazes strayed even slightly when instinct warned them not to meet his basilisk's stare he surged into serpent again, tail whipping, fangs snapping, coils constricting.
The air was alive with his roar, half-man, half-beast, wholly merciless. Blood ran down his flank, his ribs screamed with every breath, but still he fought, dragging gods into the mud, his venom spreading, his curses gnawing at their magical forms.