Herpo staggered into the healing ward behind the lines, his robes torn and scorched, one arm slick with blood where divine steel had nearly gutted him. Even in his limp, there was a strange speed his body snapping in and out of serpent form in half-blinks, a survival instinct now turned into propulsion. His movements left gouges in the dirt floor where scales scraped, then human boots landed.
The air in the ward was thick blood, poultices, and the ragged chorus of the dying. Healers bent over rows of cots, shouting for bandages, potions, anything. Students hovered there too Hogwarts colors still on their cloaks, wands clutched white-knuckled as they tried to mend wounds or ferry supplies.
Herpo's eyes narrowed. He let out a wet chuckle, spitting blood to the side.
"Finally got your sorry asses up to do some real work, I see."
One of the healers, a thin woman with singed hair and hollow eyes—snapped her head up, aghast.
"They're just children!" she hissed, rushing to Herpo's side. "They shouldn't even be here—"
"Children?" Herpo barked a laugh that turned into a cough. "They can hold wands, can't they? They can fight, can't they?" His lip curled, revealing a glimpse of fang as he collapsed into a chair. "Don't waste breath on what they are. Look at what they do."
The healer reached for his side, but Herpo shoved her hand away. "No. I'll manage."
From his robes he drew his wand, already tracing jagged patterns in the air. Flesh knitted, not neatly, but brutally, cords of sinew drawn together under spellcraft. He smeared a salve across the wound with his bare hand, hissing as it burned, then uncorked a vial of potion and downed it like cheap ale. Bones realigned with a sickening crack. He didn't even flinch.
"Faster this way," he muttered.
The students had gone silent, their gazes locked on him. James Potter's jaw tightened, knuckles white around his wand. Evan Rosier looked like he wanted to smirk but thought better of it.
And then the tent flap burst inward. Professors swept in, Minerva McGonagall at the lead, her tartan robes flecked with dust, Flitwick at her side, and Pomona Sprout pale with shock. Behind them, tall and stern, strode Albus Dumbledore himself.
"What are you doing here?" Albus's voice was low, but it carried, echoing like a gavel. His gaze swept the students first, pinning them. "You were not summoned. You were not meant to be on this field."
The students stirred, voices tumbling over one another—
"We couldn't just sit back—"
"You're losing men every hour—"
"We had to do something—"
"Enough!" Minerva snapped, face white with fury and fear. "Do you understand the risk you've put yourselves in? This is not a game of courage, this is war!"
Herpo snorted, rising slowly, wounds half-sealed but his spine straight. His shadow loomed monstrous, even in human form.
"The bravery of the new lot," he said, a cruel grin tugging his mouth. "And here you stand scolding them like schoolchildren caught out of bed." His eyes slid to Dumbledore, sharp as knives. "Albus. I don't see you out there fighting."
The tent went still.
Herpo stepped closer, the ground crunching under his boots.
"Strongest mage of the century, they call you. Prove it." His voice was a hiss, serpentine and cutting. "These—" he jabbed his wand toward the students "—are not children. They're warriors now. Soldiers. They've chosen. They can do whatever they damn well please."
The words landed heavy, defiant. The professors bristled, Minerva's mouth drawn tight, but she didn't answer.
Herpo finished bandaging himself in silence, rolling his shoulder with a grimace until the bones clicked into place. He corked another vial, drained it, then straightened. His eyes blazed with feverish light.
"I've wasted enough time." He turned toward the flap, wand already in hand. "I'm going back to battle."
He paused only once, looking back over his shoulder.
"Albus. Minerva. I hope to see you join me."
And with that, he was gone, scales already ripping through flesh as he shifted mid-stride, the serpent and the man storming back to the front lines.
Herpo plunged back into the fray, blood still drying on his robes, fury propelling him forward. The battlefield was chaos—a sea of bodies and fire, steel ringing against spellwork. And through the carnage, a ripple of dread moved like a tide as the creature lumbered toward him.
Not a man, not even something that could rightly be called alive its skin shimmered faintly, scales of molten bronze shifting like plates of armor. Its eyes were hollow pools, glowing with azure fire. A name whispered across the ranks of the wizards as the thing raised its axe taller than two men:
Enceladus.
One of the lesser-born giants of the old Greek tales, birthed from ash and chaos, said to have clawed its way up from Tartarus when the world was young oh how there self important tells irked Herpo. Not a true god, but close enough its entire body seethed with raw, untamed magic.
Herpo's lips curled. Perfect.
He darted forward, body twisting into serpentine coils, then back to flesh as he lashed curses in rapid succession. Black fire roared from his wand, slamming into the giant's bronze chest. Enceladus staggered, then laughed—a low, cavernous sound—swinging the axe in an arc that carved through stone and bodies alike.
Herpo dropped low, snapping into basilisk form, scales grinding against the earth as he whipped around the giant's legs. Enceladus snarled, swinging downward, but the serpent dissolved back into Herpo's human shape in a flicker, his wand already moving.
"Avada Kedavra!"
The green light struck true—only to gutter and fade against the shimmering magic that clung to Enceladus's hide. The creature grinned, baring teeth like knives.
"Pathetic mortal." Its voice shook the ground.
Herpo sneered and spat blood. "I've killed your kind before you were even a whisper, beast."
The axe swung again, this time clipping Herpo's side. Pain flared white-hot as he was hurled backward, crashing through rubble. He barely had time to roll before the ground erupted where he had lain.
Then the sky tore.
A streak of light, wings broad and gleaming, descended with the shriek of steel. An angel, armored in ivory, spear tipped with a sun's fire. Its voice boomed as it dove:
"Fall, serpent! By the light of the Host, I cleanse thee!"
Herpo swore and shifted, scales ripping across his skin. He coiled, ready to strike—but the blow never came.
Instead, a thunderous crack split the air as a colossal fist of rock and stone, sculpted from the very battlefield itself, erupted upward and smashed into the angel mid-dive. The divine creature shrieked, wings breaking as it spun out of the air and slammed into the ground.
Herpo's eyes snapped toward the source.
There, striding through smoke and flame, was Albus Dumbledore. His long robes were scorched, his beard flecked with ash, but his eyes those piercing, crystalline blue eyes—burned with resolve at last. At his shoulder, a flash of gold and scarlet burst into being, wings beating back the smoke.
Fawkes, the phoenix, settled upon him, firelight rippling from its feathers.
"You're right," Dumbledore said, voice calm but carrying over the battlefield. His wand was already raised, the earth trembling at his command. "I have waited long enough."
The angel staggered upright, snarling, spear glowing like a sun. Albus leveled his wand, power gathering in the air until the very hairs on Herpo's arms stood on end.
"I am ready."
And as the angel charged, fire and light collided with transfiguration and will, the battlefield itself bending to Dumbledore's wants and needs.