"The silence before a storm is never truly silent."
The castle of Hogwarts stood still, ancient stone bathed in the pale glow of the moon. The whispers had faded, yet their weight remained thick in the air. The first year under Daniel — the one they dared only call "Death" behind closed doors — had torn apart the naive illusions of the magical world.
Gone were the days when spells were games.Gone were the years when students believed darkness only lived in fairy tales.
Now, they trained like warriors. Now, even the youngest first-years understood one brutal truth:War was inevitable.
In the shadows of the Forbidden Forest, the echoes of old alliances crumbled, and families whispered of fractured bloodlines. The Ministry's facade of peace? Shattered. The old Death Eaters? Hunted like vermin, one by one disappearing into silence — and Death himself walked their nightmares.
But it wasn't enough. Not yet.
The real storm was only beginning.
Inside the castle…
Daniel stood at the high towers, his black cloak trailing behind him like a shadow with its own will. His eyes scanned the grounds — calm, controlled, yet beneath the surface, the pressure of inevitability hummed.
The first year had been the foundation. The second would be the reckoning.
Behind him, Snape approached, quiet as always, his voice coated with disdain but laced with reluctant respect.
"They fear you more than the Dark Lord ever dreamed of."
Daniel smirked, eyes never leaving the horizon.
"Fear is only useful if it teaches them strength. Otherwise, it's just another leash."
Snape tilted his head, intrigued.
"And what leash do you wear?"
Daniel's response was a whisper, cold, amused, final.
"Only my own, Severus. And I promise — even that breaks when necessary."
Below, the castle stirred. New faces. New ideologies. Old rivalries cracked, reforged under harsher, deadlier purpose.
Hogwarts wasn't a school anymore. It was a forge.
And soon, every child inside its walls would have to choose:To be the hammer… or the blade.
The War of Ideals had begun.
Harry Potter: The Deathbringer SagaChapter 2 — The War of Ideals
"You don't conquer minds with wands. You break them — or you make them sharper."
The Great Hall had never felt so… divided.
Gone were the childish rivalries of Gryffindor versus Slytherin, Ravenclaw's arrogance, or Hufflepuff's soft loyalty. Those banners still hung, but their meanings had shifted.
Under Daniel's reign, the Houses were no longer about bloodlines or pride. They were factions of ideology.
Strength. Loyalty. Ruthlessness. Unity.The war wasn't fought with curses yet — it was waged in glances, whispered promises, secret oaths behind stone walls.
Daniel knew this was only the beginning. Ideals were the true battlefield. The Dark Lord? Dead. His 'commercials of death' — hunted. But the disease that fueled them? Still breathing.
Cowardice. Blind obedience. That false, fragile peace.
Tonight, that disease would bleed.
The Lesson Begins
The students filed into the Defense Against the Dark Arts chamber — if you could still call it that.
Heavy, enchanted doors closed with a sound that felt final, like a tomb sealing. Some flinched. Most didn't. After a year under Daniel, fear had become background noise.
Harry entered last, his emerald eyes colder now — the reflection of months of brutal, merciless training. The whispers followed him: Death's Heir, they called him. But none dared say it to his face.
Daniel's presence commanded silence.
He moved through them — no wand, no theatrics — and yet magic thickened the air like a storm about to snap.
"Let's speak plainly," his voice cut through the hall, dark silk laced with steel. "This school is no longer a breeding ground for victims. You'll be weapons. Shields. Wolves in human skin. And to those clinging to the Ministry's outdated morals— leave now."
No one moved.
Even the stubborn Pure-bloods from ancient families — they had seen enough to know better.
Daniel's eyes, those shards of void, scanned them. Slowly, dangerously.
"Your parents told you killing corrupts your soul," he mocked softly, stepping closer, "but they forgot one truth — letting the innocent die? That stains your soul far deeper."
Some flinched at that. Others — like Harry — stood taller.
From the corner, Draco Malfoy stared, fists clenched, confusion etched behind pride. Even his father, Lucius, had bent the knee — a 'friendly warning' from Daniel had made sure of that.
Daniel continued, pulling no punches:
"Your ideals make you soft. House rivalries? Irrelevant now. We stand divided, we fall — and fall hard. Voldemort learned that. So did his dead followers."
A hush. The forbidden name spoken with disdain, stripped of fear.
"This is not a school anymore," Daniel declared, voice low, ominous. "This is a forge. Those who can't take the heat? Burn."
The Divide Sharpens
Dueling matches sparked. Students clashed, spells sharp and unforgiving. Shields shattered. Spells twisted. Those trained under Daniel struck with precision no twelve-year-old should possess.
Neville Longbottom — once trembling, now steady — disarmed a Seventh-Year Pure-blood with ruthless efficiency. His parents' cure had lit a fire in him that no one could extinguish.
Harry? His spells whispered of shadows — precise, lethal, honed under Death's personal hand.
But beneath it all, the ideological cracks deepened.
The Ministry? Watching. Waiting. Displeased.
Parents whispered of rebellion. Some called Daniel a tyrant. Others, salvation. And inside Hogwarts, the war wasn't fought with dark marks — but with words, actions, shifting alliances.
This was the War of Ideals — clean lines blurred, right and wrong tangled in shades of grey.
And Daniel? He stood at the center, orchestrating chaos with the calm of a god among mortals.
The next step? Blood would be spilled. But not yet. First, the minds would fall.