The Dawn That Burned the Dead
A dark army advanced, crawling across the earth like a living plague. From afar, they looked like an endless infestation of cockroaches—but upon closer view, they revealed their true nature: twisted abominations, shadow-born beasts, and rotting corpses raised through necromancy, marching as harbingers of the end. Among them moved more imposing figures—werewolves with fur blackened by corruption, vampires with starving eyes, and above them… a swarm of horrors.
Dementors, harpies, wraiths, and ghosts flew through the cloud-choked skies like omens of doom. They soared ahead of the horde, led by a figure whose mere presence froze the air: Voldemort.
The Dark Lord moved forward, his robes billowing violently around him, eyes wild, maddened, and impatient. They were closing in on their first target: the Ministry of Magic.
But to reach it, they had to go through the Muggle world.
Voldemort didn't hesitate. As he raised his wand, hundreds of creatures surged behind him like an army of damnation. In that moment, the line was crossed. There would be no turning back. Declaring war on the Muggles meant shattering the International Statute of Secrecy, branding himself as a global enemy of the magical world. But his gaze held not a single trace of hesitation. He didn't merely want to cleanse England.
He wanted to cleanse the world.
His madness had reached a point where even the existence of nuclear weapons meant nothing to him. He knew their power. He had seen fire, steel, uranium… and dismissed it all as trash. Useless against him. He no longer cared.
A serpentine smile began to curl across his lips.
Meanwhile, at the head of the undead army, a figure walked with a leisurely pace, as if none of it were worth hurrying for. Herpo the Foul. The ancient necromancer observed the legions of corpses around him with disinterest, like an artist bored of his own masterpiece. Even he, who had never physically set foot in the Muggle world but had instead manipulated dictators and psychopaths from the shadows… found himself faintly intrigued.
Until something changed.
Suddenly, he opened his eyes wide. A spark of emotion lit his gaze as he looked up at the sky, twisted smile widening.
There—above—something appeared.
At first, a faint glimmer… then blinding light.
A radiance descended like an enraged sun, sweeping across the field in a divine wave. A sacred aura expanded like a wildfire of celestial judgment, burning all that was impure.
Thousands of corpses ignited instantly. Vampires screamed as their bodies crumbled to ash. Dementors were obliterated in a fraction of a second, erased like smoke on the wind. Werewolves writhed in pain, their human side the only thing sparing them from annihilation. Even Herpo cried out as his magic-bound flesh corroded from within. And Voldemort… fell to the ground, skin smoldering.
The light faded.
And then, descending from the heavens, came a figure clad in a golden robe with crimson-etched pauldrons and a sapphire gemstone gleaming at his belt. His cloak billowed with grace, and a black mask concealed his face.
Harry Potter.
He wore the enchanted robes Einar had given him—the garb of the Psijic Order. And he looked pretty damn cool in them.
Einar had dropped him midair, so just before reaching the ground, Harry shouted:
"Resto Momentum!"
The spell halted his descent, and he landed softly, though he sighed internally at the sudden drop.
A second later, the ground shook from a massive impact. Dust exploded outward as another figure crashed down violently.
Einar.
He made no effort to slow his fall. The earth cracked. The soil trembled. But with a casual wave of his hand, he swept the dust aside, revealing himself.
Harry removed his mask for just a moment. His eyes locked onto Voldemort's—eyes that burned with hatred… and fear.
But it was Einar who stole everyone's attention.
Wearing armor as red as the pits of Oblivion, twin swords hanging at his sides, and exuding a presence so overwhelming that even giants took a step back—he looked like a war god made flesh.
Herpo turned toward him, eyes ablaze with curiosity. His wand trembled—not from fear, but excitement.
"You did this?" he asked, voice thick with fascination.
"Cleanup," Einar replied with brutal calm. His gaze drifted across the surviving werewolves, vampires, trolls, and giants. Then back to Herpo.
"But it seems it wasn't enough. I'll have to finish the job myself."
Herpo let out a euphoric laugh, raising his wand with manic delight.
"Then fight me!"
A black beam shot from his wand—but before it could land…
"FIIK LO SAH!"
Einar's Voice shattered the air. His body blurred and split—one half spectral, moving to the side. The ghostly clone rushed forward, slicing through several werewolves in a single motion.
The real Einar appeared in front of Herpo, sword descending in one clean, brutal strike.
CLANG!
Herpo's body was cleaved in half—yet there was no flesh. Only dark mist, which dispersed… and quickly reassembled.
Herpo stood once more, smiling with wild delight.
"This is exciting!" he shouted, eyes wide with madness.
"I've waited so long to fight you! Ah, the thrill of battle—can you feel it?! Can you feel it?!"
A tide of black mist erupted from his body, covering the ground, withering plants, and poisoning the very air around them.
Einar watched him silently, unblinking.
A giant charged at him with a massive war hammer—but before the weapon could strike, two spectral swords burst from the giant's chest. Einar's clone had appeared behind him… then vanished into shadow again, like a silent guardian ensuring no one interfered with the duel.
Voldemort watched in impotent rage as his army was torn to pieces.
Einar's clone danced through the battlefield, decapitating enemies with every step. A vein pulsed violently on the Dark Lord's forehead, ready to burst.
But he couldn't lose focus.
His eyes locked onto Harry.
Einar might be an unstoppable monster…
But if Voldemort was going to die today—
Harry had to die with him.
"Avada Kedavra!"
The killing curse tore through the air like a poisoned javelin. It surged across the field like a streak of green lightning.
Harry saw it—
—but didn't move.
The runes on his mask lit up in matching green, pulsing softly with ancient magic.
The curse struck him square in the chest.
And Harry… didn't even flinch.
He remained standing, his golden robe billowing around him, as if he had been struck by a breeze—not a killing curse.
From the side, Einar barely glanced over, his expression unchanged. Then, in a flash of movement, he vanished, launching himself toward Herpo like an incarnate meteor. The necromancer had barely a second to react before feeling a hand tighten around his throat with inhuman strength.
Herpo smiled with fervent madness, firing off a barrage of spells point-blank at Einar's chest… but they amounted to nothing more than harmless sparks.
With a single, sharp motion, Einar hurled him through the air.
Herpo's body crashed through several trees, breaking them like paper before smashing into the ground deep within the forest. Without pause, Einar leapt after him, dragging their battle further away.
Meanwhile, at the heart of the chaos, Harry remained calm. His mocking voice echoed from beneath the mask as he gently stroked the small head of Vir, who had peeked out from under his tunic and now retreated again, reassured that the protection enchantment was working flawlessly.
"What's wrong, Tom? Usually you start with a grand speech about how you're going to defeat me, rule the world... all that nonsense."
Voldemort rose with pure rage twisting his face.
"So that's your confidence, is it? You think because the Killing Curse doesn't work on you now, you're immortal? That as long as your precious teacher is nearby, nothing can touch you? You're nothing but an arrogant brat... Coming here for revenge after all these years?! You think I'm just another ghost from your past?! I am Lord Voldemort! The most feared Dark wizard of all time! Not even Dumbledore could defeat me—and now that he's hiding like a rat, you think you can do better?!"
"Ah. There it is—the speech," Harry said, amused.
Voldemort roared in fury and whipped his wand forward. A colossal serpent of fire burst into existence, writhing like an infernal entity, and lunged at Harry with gaping jaws.
Harry responded instantly.
A single motion.
A portal opened before him, and from it emerged a towering frost atronach. The creature roared upon arrival and delivered a thunderous punch straight into the flaming serpent, igniting a violent clash of fire and ice.
Without losing rhythm, Harry twirled his wand. The tip crackled with a high-pitched hum, and a bolt of pure energy shot toward Voldemort.
CRACK!
But Voldemort vanished with the sound of Apparition.
"Clairvoyance."
A thin line of mana appeared in front of Harry, marking Voldemort's new position. He turned with surgical precision, raising a shield just in time to block a dark projectile flying toward him. With his free hand, he pulled a dagger from his belt and hurled it with blinding speed.
Voldemort deflected it with his wand as if it were trash.
"You've improved, Potter," he hissed. "But not enough. You think a few months of training are enough to surpass Lord Voldemort? You—a Gryffindor with a foolish soul?"
He flicked his wand again.
The surrounding trees trembled. Their leaves detached and hovered midair… before transforming into hundreds of magical spikes.
"Die."
The spikes flew toward Harry like a lethal storm.
But the young wizard didn't move.
He raised his wand toward Voldemort, and with his other hand, made a sudden gesture.
CHAK!
Voldemort winced in pain.
He looked down.
The dagger—the very same one he had deflected earlier—was buried in his side.
He had stabbed himself without realizing… manipulated by telekinesis.
He yanked it free with a grimace of rage just as Harry lifted his wand skyward. Several lights descended upon him, and his skin began to transform. Layers of magical energy wrapped around him, hardening like living armor.
The spikes struck.
TING-TING-TING!
Metallic clangs rang out as the projectiles bounced off his body. Sparks flew on impact, but none of them pierced even his robe.
They dropped to the ground—harmless.
Voldemort, seething, raised his wand again… but then—he felt it.
A glow beneath his foot.
He looked down just as a red rune flared to life.
BOOOOOOM.
The explosion swallowed him whole, hurling him several meters into the air. Fire and debris painted the sky orange and grey.
Harry remained still. The frost atronach continued battling the fire serpent nearby, obliterating what remained of Voldemort's lesser forces. Einar's spectral clone was still cleaving down any fool who dared come close to the center of the battlefield.
Harry raised his head, green eyes calm… unwavering.
It was true: he didn't yet have Voldemort's level of raw magical power. Nor his experience. Nor his decades of accumulated cruelty.
But he had something else.
Cunning.
Strategy.
And spells Voldemort had never seen.
Spells Einar had taught him.
And he hadn't even drawn his sword yet.
This… was only the beginning.
…
Nearby Forest.
Einar descended like a divine hammer, slamming down onto Herpo's broken body.
His fist struck the ground with a deafening BOOM.
The earth cracked beneath him. Herpo's head exploded into a spray of black liquid, splattering across trees, stones, and soil.
Einar slowly rose, watching as the viscous fluid began to pull itself back together, defying all logic.
Within seconds, Herpo's head reformed… his twisted smile wider, more unhinged.
He raised his wand and aimed it straight at Einar's chest.
A torrent of black magic burst forth. Einar barely moved, but the blast pushed him back several meters—not from pain… but from sheer force.
He lifted his head again.
His eyes gleamed with renewed interest.
Herpo laughed.
"This… is going to be fun."