Chapter 39:
– Harry –
I slumped back onto the hard wooden bench. Rias, Akeno, and the rest of the well-wishers had filed out to take their seats in the stadium, leaving only the champions behind in the stifling, dusty silence of the waiting area.
I shifted, leaning my elbows on my knees, and let my gaze drift to my left. Fleur and Gabrielle were huddled together on a low stool, their knees touching, bodies listing toward one another. They looked stunning in their form-fitting Beauxbatons athletic gear, but the tension radiating off them was palpable.
Fleur was chewing on her thumbnail, her perfect brow furrowed. Gabrielle was wringing her hands, her fingers twisting together until the knuckles turned white.
I couldn't stand seeing them like that.
"Hey," I called out softly, keeping my voice low and warm.
Both blonde heads snapped up. Their blue eyes—so identical, yet so distinct in their expressions—locked onto mine. Fleur looked anxious. Gabrielle just looked scared.
I offered them a slow, lazy grin and spread my legs slightly in a relaxed posture. "You two need to breathe. You look like you're waiting for an execution, not a tournament."
Fleur let out a shaky breath, smoothing a hand down her thigh. "It is a dragon, Harry," she murmured, her French accent thick with worry. "A nesting mother. They are... unpredictable and vicious…"
"And you are Veela," I countered smoothly. I stood up and crossed the short distance between us, crouching down in front of them so I was eye-level. I reached out, taking one of Fleur's hands and one of Gabrielle's, encompassing their delicate fingers in my larger grip. "And more than that, you both are very durable Rooks. You're steel and fire incarnate. You're powerful, beautiful, and dangerous." I squeezed their hands, catching Fleur's gaze, then Gabrielle's. "Besides," I added, pitching my voice lower, letting a husky, teasing note bleed into the words. "There is nothing out there hotter than the two of you. Dragon fire? Please. The flames of our love—and the heat we make in the bedroom—are way hotter than anything a lizard can cough up!"
Fleur blinked, startled out of her anxiety. She stared at me for a second, mouth slightly agape, before a snort of laughter escaped her. She pulled her hand back just to swat me lightly on the shoulder, rolling her eyes toward the tent roof. "Oh, mon Dieu," she groaned, though a small, reluctant smile tugged at the corners of her lips. "That was terrible, Harry. That was too corny even for you."
"I don't know," Gabrielle chimed in. The fear in her eyes had receded, replaced by a soft, affectionate glow. She leaned forward, squeezing my hand with both of hers now. "I liked it. It was... very sweet."
"See?" I grinned at Fleur. "Gabby appreciates my poetry."
Fleur shook her head, her smile widening, the tension in her shoulders finally dropping. "You are impossible," she whispered, leaning in to press a quick, soft kiss to my forehead.
The moment of levity shattered a split second later.
From outside the tent walls, a sound erupted that vibrated the air itself. The dragon let out a very powerful and loud roar!
Then came the scream a few seconds later. A scream that was cut very short. It was high, thin, and terrifyingly human. It cut through the dragon's roar for a heartbeat, a sound of absolute agony and terror, before it was abruptly silenced.
Then the crowd screamed. Thousands of voices crying out in unison—not in cheers, but in horror.
"Ladies and Gentlemen..." Ludo Bagman's magically amplified voice boomed through the tent walls, but the usual bounce and excitement were gone, replaced by a stunned, hollow tremor. "It appears... Oh, Merlin. It appears the first champion from Durmstrang... has been incinerated."
Well… Fuck…
In the corner, Viktor Krum let out a sharp, audible gasp. His head snapped up, his dark eyes wide and haunted as he stared at the tent flap, as if he could see through the fabric to the charred remains of his classmate.
Beside me, Fleur and Gabrielle went rigid. The blood drained from their faces, leaving them pale as ghosts. Gabrielle's grip on my hand tightened painfully, her nails digging into my skin.
"He is... dead?" Fleur whispered, the word barely forming on her lips. She looked at me, eyes searching for a denial I couldn't give. "Just like that?"
"It sounds like it," I said grimly, standing up but keeping a hold on them. I pulled them both into a brief, fierce hug, pressing their faces into my chest to shield them from the reality of it, if only for a second.
And after I just gave them a speech and everything to cheer them up…
I looked over their heads, across the tent.
Sona was standing by the entrance. My aunt, usually the picture of icy composure, looked rattled. Her arms were crossed tightly over her chest, her fingers gripping her sleeves. Her pink eyes were wide behind her glasses, staring at the spot where the Durmstrang boy had walked out just minutes ago.
We were devils. We commanded power that humans could only dream of. But I don't think either Sona or I had truly expected someone to actually die in this tournament. It was a stark, brutal reminder that while we might be near-immortal, the humans around us were much more fragile.
That poor guy. He'd been in way over his head, puffed up on bravado and school pride in front of all the judges not even a few minutes ago, and now he was ash.
I gave the girls one last squeeze and pulled away gently. "Stay here," I murmured. I walked over to the corner where Krum sat. The Bulgarian Seeker was staring at his boots, his face a mask of shock. He looked smaller than usual, his broad shoulders hunched. "Krum," I said quietly, stopping a few feet away. "I'm sorry. About your friend."
Viktor looked up. His expression was hard to read—grief mixed with a strange, fatalistic acceptance. He let out a long breath through his nose. "He not my friend," Krum said, his voice heavy and thick as he spoke in accented English. "He was a fool." He shook his head, looking away. "He know what he vas getting into when he sign up, Sitri. Durmstrang does not coddle us. We know the risks." He waved me off, turning his back to stare at the canvas wall, effectively ending the conversation.
It was cold, maybe, but I supposed that was how he dealt with it.
Before I could say anything else, the tent flap swept open.
The sunlight that spilled in seemed harsher now, less welcoming. Albus Dumbledore stepped inside. He was alone. No Madame Maxime, no Karkaroff, no Bagman. Just the Headmaster. The usual twinkle in his blue eyes was gone, extinguished completely. His face was grave.
He stopped in the center of the tent, his gaze sweeping over us. "Champions," Dumbledore said softly. He let out a sad, heavy sigh, closing his eyes for a brief moment as if gathering his strength. "What has just occurred," he continued, opening his eyes to look at us, "is a tragedy of the highest order. A young life has been cut short." He paused, letting the words settle. "I cannot stop this tournament," he said, and there was a note of genuine regret in his tone. "The magical contracts are binding. We must proceed. But I urge you... I implore you all... be far more cautious when you step into that arena. This is not a game. Do not take unnecessary risks. Your lives are worth more than glory." He turned his gaze toward the entrance, then looked specifically at my aunt. "Miss Sitri," Dumbledore said gently. "The arena is being... cleared. The judges are ready for the second attempt." He gestured to the flap. "You are next."
Sona nodded and followed him out of the tent. I knew she would be alright.
…A few minutes later, the atmosphere inside the stadium shifted dramatically.
The screaming terror that had accompanied the Durmstrang student's death had vanished, replaced by a roar of pure, unadulterated shock and exhilaration. The sound was deafening, even through the thick canvas walls of the champions' tent—thousands of people shouting, stomping, and cheering in a frenzy that vibrated in the soles of my boots.
I didn't need to see the arena to know exactly what was happening. I could picture it perfectly from sensing Sona's demonic magic and the announcer.
"Unbelievable!" Ludo Bagman's magically amplified voice boomed. "I have never seen anything like this! Ladies and gentlemen, Miss Sitri isn't just fighting the dragon—she's rewriting the landscape! Look at that water manipulation! She's summoned a tidal wave from thin air!"
Beside me, Fleur and Gabrielle flinched at the volume, but their expressions were changing. The paralyzing fear was melting away, replaced by wide-eyed curiosity. Even Krum, who had been staring at the floor like a man waiting for the gallows, lifted his head, his dark eyes narrowing as he listened.
"She has extinguished the dragon's fire!" Bagman shrieked, his voice cracking with excitement. "The Chinese Fireball is trying to breathe, but its jaws are frozen shut! Literal ice! She has encased the beast's head in a block of ice mid-roar! Oh, that has to be humiliating for the dragon!"
I chuckled darkly. Sona hated messy fights. She would have locked that dragon down with the same ruthless efficiency she uses whenever the two of us spar together.
"She's going for the egg!" Bagman yelled. "She's walking right past the beast... she has it! Sona Sitri has retrieved the Golden Egg! The judges are checking the time... incredible! Two minutes! She completed the task in just over two minutes without a single scratch!"
The stadium erupted again, a thunderous wave of applause that seemed to shake the tent poles.
A moment later, the tent flap was swept aside with a sharp snap of fabric.
Sona marched in.
She didn't look like a student who had just survived a brush with death. She looked like a conqueror. Her Ravenclaw robes were slightly disheveled, the hem damp and darkened where it had dragged through conjured water, and her usually pristine black bob was windblown, framing her face in a wilder, more alluring way than I was used to. Her chest—modest, but perfect—was heaving, rising and falling in a rapid rhythm as she caught her breath. The exertion had brought a flush to her cheeks that made her look positively edible.
In the crook of her arm, she held the Golden Egg casually, like it was a grocery bag rather than the prize of a deadly tournament. She spotted me instantly.
"Two minutes," I called out, walking toward her. "Not bad, Auntie. Not bad at all."
Sona tossed her head, adjusting her glasses with her free hand. "It was sloppy," she said, though the pride in her voice betrayed her. "The Fireball was faster than I anticipated. I had to freeze its feet to the rocky terrain before I could silence it."
I stopped in front of her, ignoring the stares of the others. I reached out, my thumb brushing a bead of sweat from her temple. "You look incredible," I murmured, pitching my voice low so only she could hear. "All flushed and messy. It's a good look on you."
Sona's smirk faltered, her blush deepening into a rich crimson that had nothing to do with the exertion. Her eyes darted down to my lips, then back up.
"You're incorrigible," she whispered back.
Before we could say more. Madame Maxime, the colossal headmistress of Beauxbatons, ducked inside. She looked flustered but determined, her massive hands clapping together. "Fleur! Gabrielle!" she boomed. "It is time! Ze judges, zey say we go now to keep ze momentum! Back to back! Fleur, you are first, zen Gabrielle immediately after! Allez, allez!"
Fleur stood up, her spine straightening. She looked at me one last time.
"Show them what true fire is," I told her while grinning.
Fleur nodded, swallowed hard, and followed her headmistress out into the roar of the arena.
Sona stepped closer to me, shifting the heavy golden egg to her other hip. "I'm going to the stands," she said quietly. "I want to see this from above. And... I need to sit down. Using that much demonic power in broad daylight while trying to make it look like wizard magic was exhausting."
"Go rest," I said, squeezing her shoulder. "I'll see you on the other side."
She leaned in, her lips brushing my ear with no one looking, sending a shiver straight down my spine. "Good luck, Harry. Don't get burned." With a final, teasing smirk, she turned and swept out of the tent, heading for the exit that led to the stands.
I sat back down, alone now except for Krum and Gabrielle—who was pacing nervously near the entrance since she was next.
Fleur's run was a masterclass in Veela magic. I couldn't see it, but I could hear it. Bagman was losing his mind over the microphone.
"She's put the dragon to sleep!" he shouted. "Incredible! I've never seen a charm like that! The Common Welsh Green has just... sat down! It's dozing off!"
I grinned. That wasn't a charm. That was pure Veela allure, concentrated and weaponized. Fleur had basically sung a lullaby to a giant reptile and knocked it out cold.
"She has the egg!" Bagman roared. "And she's—oh! A little singe on the skirt there—careful, my dear!—but she's clear! Another champion successful!"
Gabrielle let out a squeak of relief. She looked at me, a dazzling smile breaking through her anxiety.
"She did it!" Gabrielle cheered.
"Your turn, Gabby," I said, giving her a thumbs-up.
She nodded, took a deep breath that expanded her chest against the tight blue fabric of her uniform, and marched out for her turn next.
Gabrielle's run was... louder.
"And here comes the younger Delacour!" Bagman announced. "Facing the Swedish Short-Snout! A nasty beast, that one!"
There was a roar, followed by the distinctive whoosh of massive flames erupting.
"She's dancing around it!" Bagman yelled. "Look at her move! She's using fire against fire! She's redirecting the flames!"
But then, a collective gasp ripped through the stadium, silencing the cheers.
"Oh no!" Bagman cried. "She's trapped! The dragon has her cornered against the wall! It's—IT'S STRIKING!"
There was a sickening thud that I felt through the ground, followed by the sound of stone shattering.
My heart hammered in my chest. I half-rose from my seat, ready to tear through the canvas wall.
"She's... she's getting up?" Bagman's voice was filled with disbelief. "Ladies and gentlemen, I don't believe it! The dragon just tail-whipped her directly into the rock face—a blow that would shatter a boulder—and she's standing up! She's shaking it off!"
I sank back down, exhaling a breath I didn't know I'd been holding. When I had reincarnated Gabrielle, I'd made her a Rook. High defense, high physical strength. A blunt force impact like that would have turned a normal witch into jelly. For a devil Rook? It was a bruise at most.
"She must be wearing an incredibly powerful protection charm!" Bagman speculated wildly to the crowd. "That is the only explanation! What resilience! She has the egg! She's sprinting for the exit! Gabrielle Delacour has survived!"
The crowd went insane.
I chuckled, shaking my head. Protection charm. Right. Let them think that.
Then it was Krum's turn.
The tent was nearly empty now. Just me and the dust motes.
I listened intently. Krum didn't have devil magic. He was just a wizard—a talented one, sure, but mortal.
His fight was brutal.
"Krum is on the defensive! He's firing curses, but they're bouncing off the hide! He's casting the Conjunctivitis Curse! A risky move!"
The dragon shrieked—a high, piercing sound of pain that grated on the ears.
"A direct hit to the eyes!" Bagman yelled. "The beast is blinded! It's thrashing! It's smashing the eggs! Krum is going for the prize, but the dragon is flailing wildly!"
Then came the scream. It was short, guttural, and undeniably Krum.
"He's been hit!" Bagman groaned. "A jet of flame caught him! He's down! He's rolling! He's up again, but he's burned badly! He has the egg—he's limping—he's out! He made it, but at what cost? The medical team is rushing the field!"
I winced. He pulled it off, unlike his fellow schoolmate, but he'd paid for it in flesh.
Finally, the flap opened. A terrified-looking Ministry wizard poked his head in.
"Mr. Harry Sitri?" he squeaked. "You're... you're up next."
Bagman's voice, now booming and almost manic, finally cut through the stillness.
"And now, ladies and gentlemen, the final champion of the day! Representing Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry! HARRY SITRI!"
The roar of the crowd was a physical wave that hit the tent. It was deafening.
My turn.
…I forced a grin onto my face, letting the corners of my lips curl upward into a cocky smirk as I strode down the dark, damp tunnel. The air grew warmer with every step, carrying the dry, dusty scent of the arena and the faint, lingering sulfur of the previous dragons.
The heavy iron gate at the end of the tunnel groaned as it was hauled upward, the metal screeching against stone, opening the way to the sunlight.
I stepped out onto the rocky terrain, and the noise hit me like a physical wave.
It was a wall of sound—thousands of witches and wizards screaming, cheering, and chanting. The stands were a sea of waving flags and colorful robes, a chaotic kaleidoscope surrounding the pit.
I rolled my shoulders, feeling the fabric of my shirt stretch over my muscles, and let my demonic senses unfurl like invisible tendrils, sweeping through the stadium to get the lay of the land.
I found them immediately.
My mother, Serafall, was practically vibrating in the VIP box, her aura a bright, chaotic beacon of excitement that nearly drowned out everyone else. Beside her, the steady, grounded presence of my grandparents, Sebastian and Selene, felt like an anchor. I could sense Sona's cool, collected energy in the stands, likely analyzing my entrance, and Rias's warm, crimson aura nearby next to her.
Most of my peerage sat around them as well except for one member.
I turned my head, scanning the packed rows until my eyes locked onto a specific section near the top. Lilja Nornas. My Queen.
She was sitting next to her sexy and slightly crazy sister, Rossweisse. I didn't expect her to be here as well.
Then, I turned my attention to the center of the arena.
"What the fuck?" I muttered, the words lost in the roar of the crowd.
The dragon I was supposed to be facing was sleeping. I wasn't sure what this black dragon even was, and neither were the judges when I had selected it.
It was dubbed the "Mystery Breed" by the officials, but looking at it now, my instincts were screaming that this was something else entirely.
I stood there on the rock, hands loose at my sides, debating with myself. If it was asleep, did I really need to fight? I could just walk over there, grab the golden egg, and walk out.
It wouldn't be much of a show for the crowd, but the look on Sona's face when I beat her time with such a cheap tactic would be worth it. I could practically feel her indignantly huffing and fake adjusting her glasses already!
"OI! WAKE UP, YOU DUMB PIECE OF SHIT!"
"WE PAID GOOD MONEY FOR BLOOD! DO SOMETHING!"
I froze, my head snapping toward the stands. Some drunk idiots in the upper rows were leaning over the railing, hurling popcorn and abuse at the sleeping beast.
"Are you fucking kidding me?" I hissed with a strong urge to fly up there and punch those morons.
But it was too late.
In the center of the arena, the black mountain shifted. It wasn't the jerky, instinctual twitch of a startled animal. No, it lazily lifted its head and looked around calmly. It opened its mouth, and let out a yawn. It looked around the arena with an air of mild curiosity, then, its head lowered. It glanced briefly at the clutch of eggs nestled near its belly, and then looked away, completely indifferent.
It didn't care about the eggs. A nesting mother would be snarling, posturing, wrapping herself around her brood. This thing looked at them like they were rocks.
Then, those burning crimson eyes locked onto me.
The dragon's snout curled, the scales shifting to mimic a human sneer. "It is about time," a voice boomed.
It didn't come from a spell or a telepathic projection. The dragon's throat actually moved. The English was archaic, accented with a guttural hiss, but perfectly understandable. "I have been waiting for you... my prey."
Up in the commentary box, Ludo Bagman's voice crackled over the Sonorus charm, high-pitched and trembling. "Did... did that dragon just speak? That's—that's impossible! Dragons cannot speak! It must be a trick! Someone using some prank magic!"
I stood there, my boots planted on the rock, my hands loose at my sides, but my mind was racing at a million miles an hour. Bagman was an idiot. The Wizarding World—in their arrogance—classified dragons as beasts. Dangerous, yes, but animals. XXXXX-class monsters to be herded, bred, and harvested for heartstrings and liver.
In the hierarchy of the supernatural world, those were little more than oversized wyverns. They could be classified as High Class beings due to their size and the sheer destruction they could cause, but they weren't really true dragons. Most true dragons were at minimum Ultimate Class once they were fully grown.
This... this was a True Dragon.
"How the fuck did the tournament managers mess up this badly? How do you mistake a sentient being for a wild animal?" I took a step forward, raising my voice to be heard over the murmuring crowd. "How did the Ministry even capture you?"
The dragon chuckled. Smoke curled from its nostrils in rhythmic puffs of amusement. "Capture me?" the dragon mocked, its voice dripping with scorn. "Do not insult me, little devil. The humans did not capture me." The dragon shifted its bulk, rising slowly onto its legs. It was even bigger than I had thought. As it stood, it unfolded, its shadow stretching out to swallow a quarter of the arena. "I simply... made a vacancy," the dragon rumbled, a cruel glint in its crimson eyes. "I found one of the beasts they had selected for this little game. I ate it. And then I took its place in the pen. It was a good plan, was it not?"
It bragged about the deception with a smugness that was almost human. It stretched its wings, the black membranes blocking out the sun above us
The dragon grinned, exposing rows of teeth that looked like jagged daggers. "Hehehe... I smell your nervousness, little man," the dragon taunted, its head weaving back and forth like a cobra. "But it is not enough!" The pressure in the air grew heavier, a suffocating aura of malice that pressed down on my shoulders. "I do not want your nervousness," the dragon hissed. "I want to smell your fear. No... I want to taste your despair!" It took a step toward me, the ground shaking under its weight. "Know me and despair, little Sitri!" it roared, the voice booming loud enough to rattle the fillings in my teeth. "For I am Crom Cruach! The most evil dragon in existence!"
Crom Cruach.
The name hit me like a bucket of ice water. I had heard that name before. Back in the Underworld, during one of Sona's intensive tutoring sessions on supernatural history. She had listed the Legendary Dragons—the Heavenly Dragons, the Dragon Kings.
And Crom Cruach. The Evil Dragon. The one who had split mountains, devoured armies, and challenged gods. He was a being of chaos and destruction, a legend that even devils spoke of with caution.
"You have got to be shitting me," I whispered, my blood running cold.
If this was really Crom Cruach, I was dead. High-Class Devil or not, I was a bug compared to a being on that level. He could sneeze and vaporize Hogwarts.
The dragon—Crom Cruach—threw his head back and let out a roar that wasn't words, just pure, unadulterated power. A shockwave of sound blasted outward, shattering the windows of the commentators' box and sending students in the front rows scrambling backward, covering their ears.
He flexed his massive legs.
CRACK-PING!
The heavy iron chains binding his legs and neck didn't just break—they disintegrated. They shattered into shrapnel as he flexed his muscles, the enchanted metal unable to hold back his strength for even a fraction of a second.
He was free, not that those chains would have mattered.
He looked down at the nest of eggs beneath him—the reason he was supposed to be here, the objective of the task.
Crom Cruach lifted one massive, clawed foot. He didn't even look down. He just stomped.
CRUNCH.
The sound was sickening. Shells shattered, yolks splattered, and the Golden Egg—the objective, the prize—was flattened into a disk of scrap metal beneath his heel.
"Oops," he rumbled, his tone dripping with sarcasm. "Clumsy me… I was doing those babies a favor anyways, being born as weak dumb slaves to be harvested for parts is no life to live for a dragon." He lowered his head. "I hope you don't die too soon. I like to play with my food."
He opened his jaws wide.
"Oh, fuck," I breathed. I dove to the right, throwing myself behind a massive slab of granite just as the dragon unleashed hell.
ROOOOAAAARRRR!
A torrent of black and red fire erupted from his mouth. It slammed into the spot where I had been standing a microsecond ago!
I peered around the edge of the rock, expecting to see a crater. Expecting to see the side of the stadium melted into slag.
What I saw... confused me.
The fire had stopped. The ground where I had been standing was scorched black, the stone glowing cherry-red. The rock I was hiding behind was melting, the surface turning to sluggish lava and dripping down like wax.
That cursed fire was powerful and very dangerous to me—
But...
I frowned, wiping sweat from my forehead. If that was really Crom Cruach...shouldn't I be dead? Shouldn't the rock be gone? Shouldn't the ground be a hole leading to the planet's core? Shouldn't the shockwave alone have turned my internal organs to jelly?
I narrowed my eyes. He was strong. Unbelievably strong. But he wasn't God-level strong…
Something was very strange here, but I at least knew one thing. It was powerful, but it wasn't nearly as powerful as I thought it would be, and I wasn't going to lose here!
– Serafall –
Serafall Leviathan was practically vibrating in her seat, her body humming with a frenetic, electric energy that had nothing to do with the magical wards surrounding the arena and everything to do with the spectacle unfolding below.
When Sona stepped out onto the rocky, sun-bleached floor of the enclosure, Serafall felt her breath hitch in her throat. Her little sister looked absolutely magnificent. Sona stood with her back straight, her posture radiating that cool, intellectual arrogance that Serafall adored so much. The wind whipped Sona's short black hair around her face, framing her glasses and her sharp, focused expression.
"GO SO-TAN! DESTROY IT! FREEZE THAT BIG DUMB LIZARD INTO A POPSICLE!" Serafall shrieked, her voice amplified by her own magic as she leaped up from the plush velvet bench of the VIP box.
She shook her sparkling pink pompoms violently, the plastic ribbons creating a frenzied rustle that competed with the roar of the crowd. But beneath the bubbly, Magical Girl exterior, Serafall was drowning in a much darker, heavier heat. Just the sight of Sona standing there, so commanding against the towering bulk of a dragon, sent a jolt of lust straight to her core.
Serafall squirmed, her thighs rubbing together beneath the scandalously short hem of her pink magical girl skirt. The fabric of her panties was already damp, clinging uncomfortably—and deliciously—to her slick pussy lips. She was soaked. She couldn't help it.
Down in the arena, the dragon roared—a sound of pure fury and fire. Sona didn't even flinch. She simply raised her hand holding her fake wand, her expression bored, bordering on disdainful.
"Hehe, So-tan is so awesome!" The air temperature in the stadium plummeted. "Yes! Yes! Show them!" Serafall squealed, biting her lower lip as she watched the magic condense.
Sona didn't dance around. She didn't play. She unleashed a wave of demonic ice that flashed through the air like a diamond avalanche. The dragon, mid-lung, was encased instantly. One moment it was a creature of fire and rage, the next, it was a glistening, silent statue, trapped in a prison of Sona's making.
The crowd went wild, but Serafall slumped back into her seat, panting slightly, her face flushed. "That was... amazing," she breathed, fanning herself with one of her pompoms. "Only two minutes! My So-tan is a perfectionist!".
It was almost a shame it had ended so quickly. Serafall would have happily watched Sona dodge and weave for another hour, her clothes getting torn, sweat glistening on her skin... but no, Sona was too efficient for that sadly… Or maybe Serafall was just too used to magical battles dragging out on her show.
Beside her, Sebastian and Selene Sitri were clapping politely, though their eyes shone with a profound, satisfied pride.
"She has grown," Sebastian noted, leaning back and taking a sip of his wine. "She is significantly more powerful than she was when she left for Japan."
"It is surprising," Selene agreed, her pink eyes—so like Sona's—narrowed in calculation. "I did not expect a human school to have this effect on her in only a few weeks".
Serafall tore her eyes away from Sona's retreating figure to look at her parents. "It's not just the school," she said, her voice dropping the high-pitched idol persona for a moment of serious magical theory. "It's the environment. At Kuoh, So-tan and even Rias-chan had to hide everything. They had to suppress their auras, hide their wings, and pretend to be mundane humans twenty-four seven." She crossed her legs, feeling the wet fabric of her panties slide against her sensitive skin, sending a fresh shiver up her spine. "For magical beings like us, suppression is anathema," she continued. "It stifles development. It's like trying to grow a flower in a dark box. Here? They can let it out. They can breathe!"
Selene nodded slowly, tapping a manicured fingernail against her chin. "That is a valid point. Perhaps we have been approaching the management of young devils in human territories incorrectly. Suppression breeds stagnation. I wonder if I should inform the other noble families about this matter, or keep it to ourselves to allow Sona and Rias to grow stronger while the competition stagnates?"
The answer to that question was obvious of course. Power was everything to devils, and having So-tan get ahead of everyone else her age was a no brainer!
The gates rattled open again, and the announcer's voice boomed through the stadium, announcing the next champion.
It was Fleur Delacour. One of Harry's Rooks.
Serafall leaned forward, resting her chin on her hands, her eyes sparkling with a different kind of hunger now. Fleur stepped out into the sunlight, her silver-blonde hair gleaming like spun gold. She was breathtaking—a creature of pure allure and fire. The way she walked, hips swaying with a fluid grace, made Serafall's mouth water.
She danced around her dragon, weaving sleeping magic spells that charmed and confused the beast before striking with precision.
"Ooh, she's feisty," Serafall purred, licking her lips.
And then, right after Fleur, came Gabrielle. The younger sister was smaller, softer, but no less fierce. She moved with a youthful energy that was infectious.
Serafall watched them both get their eggs with a predator's appreciation. These were Harry's girls. They belonged to her son. Which meant, by extension, they were family.
And in the Sitri family, sharing was caring.
"Those French Veela are very sexy," Serafall murmured, her gaze glued to the way Gabrielle's robes clung to her form as she dodged a tail swipe. "I can't wait to join Harry in bed more often one day soon," she whispered to herself, too quiet for her parents to hear over the roaring crowd. "I need to properly fuck them! And his whole peerage too!" She imagined having Hermione, the bushy-haired brunette, pinned under her, whimpering. She imagined breaking Narcissa's pureblood composure. And most of all, she imagined doing it all while Harry watched, while Harry participated, his hands on her, his cock claiming them all in a glorious, tangled heap of limbs and magic.
The wetness between her legs increased, a heavy, throbbing ache that demanded attention.
The announcer's voice broke through her haze, announcing the next champion.
Viktor Krum.
Serafall groaned, slumping back in her seat. The fantasy popped. Krum trudged out onto the field, looking dour and serious. He hit the dragon with a curse to the eye, and then it got really pissed off and attacked right back.
Even though he was getting maimed and burned, it was still boring. All she wanted to see was her darling son who was last! Every second Krum spent on the field was a second she wasn't seeing her precious Harry-kun.
"Hurry up, hurry up," she muttered.
Finally, Krum grabbed his egg but had to be escorted out of the arena by medical staff.
Serafall sat up straight, her spine snapping erect. Her heart began to hammer against her ribs, a frantic, excited rhythm. She grabbed her pompoms again, her knuckles turning white as she gripped the handles.
The gates groaned open. It was time.
"Harry-kun!" she squealed. Her son was coming out to play, and she was going to scream until her throat was raw.
And then, the atmosphere in the VIP box shattered the moment the name left the dragon's mouth.
Crom Cruach.
Beside her, Selene Sitri, usually the picture of icy composure, sucked in a sharp, ragged breath that sounded like a saw cutting through bone. Sebastian dropped his wine glass. It hit the floor, red liquid splashing against his boots, but he didn't even blink. His eyes were wide, fixed on the monstrosity in the arena below.
"Serafall!" Selene shrieked, her voice pitching up into a command that brook no argument. She grabbed Serafall's arm, her nails digging painfully into the bicep. "Get down there! Now! That is the Crescent Circle Dragon! It will eat him alive! Kill that monster before it hurts my grandson!"
Serafall was already moving. The playful mask of Magical Girl Levia-tan vanished instantly, replaced by the cold, hard features of the Satan Leviathan. Her hand snapped out, summoning her magical wand, her muscles coiled to spring over the balcony railing and turn that lizard into shaved ice.
But then, she hesitated.
Her foot hovered inches above the floor, her body frozen mid-lunge. She frowned, her eyes narrowing as her senses—honed by centuries of warfare and politics—swept over the beast below.
Something was wrong.
It looked like Crom Cruach. It had the obsidian scales, the serrated spine, the sheer, overwhelming physical mass of the legendary Evil Dragon. But the energy radiating off it... it was thin. Hollow. It lacked the crushing, suffocating weight that a being of that caliber should project just by existing.
"Wait," Serafall murmured, pulling her arm out of her mother's grip.
"Wait?!" Selene cried, her face pale. "Are you insane? He is going to die!"
"Look closer, Mama," Serafall commanded, her voice dropping an octave.
As a Maou, her vision transcended the physical realm. She shifted her gaze, peeling back the layers of reality to look at the creature's essence. What she saw made her blink in sheer absurdity.
The soul inside that mountain of muscle wasn't ancient. It wasn't a swirling vortex of malice and millennia of slaughter. It was small. Unformed. Flickering like a candle in a gale.
"It's a baby," Serafall whispered, disbelief coloring her tone. "That soul... it is barely a year old."
"A year?" Sebastian asked, stepping up beside them, his panic giving way to confusion. "How is that possible? Crom Cruach is older than the Bible."
"It's a clone," Serafall realized, the absurdity of the thought making her want to laugh and rage at the same time. "Some idiot actually tried to clone the legendary Evil Dragon."
It was madness. It was hubris of the highest order. But there it was, breathing smoke in the arena, a biological puppet wearing the skin of an evil god.
She looked down at Harry.
Her beautiful, handsome son was standing behind a melting rock, his chest heaving. She could see the terror etched onto his face—the sweat slicking his skin, the way his eyes darted around looking for an escape. He was freaked out, and rightfully so.
"My poor baby," she cooed softly, though she didn't move to intervene yet. "He thinks he's fighting the real thing."
But then, she saw the shift. She watched as Harry's panic plateaued and then began to recede. He straightened up. He wiped the soot from his face. He had sensed it too—the disparity between the legend and the reality. He realized this black dragon wasn't nearly as powerful as it was pretending to be.
Harry stepped out from behind the rock, a grin cutting across his face.
"He's going to fight," Serafall said, a thrill shooting through her that had nothing to do with fear. "Look at him, Mama. He's not running!"
"Haha! Of course my grandson won't run away from a challenge!" Sebastian said proudly.
Harry raised his fake wand. A pulse of blue light flared, and a high-pressure blast of water erupted from the tip, slamming into the dragon's snout with the force of a cannonball. The dragon roared, stumbling back, shaking its head.
"Yes! Get him, Harry-kun!" Serafall cheered, jumping back into her seat, grabbing her pompoms again.
Harry didn't let up. He flicked the wand again, but this time, the magic that poured out wasn't blue. It was pink. A vibrant, passionate pink that Serafall recognized instantly.
Veela fire.
The wave of pink flames crashed into the dragon, washing over its left side. The black scales hissed and popped, and the dragon shrieked as the fire set one of its massive wings ablaze.
Serafall clapped her hands together, giggling uncontrollably. "Hehe! Oh, the irony! An evil dragon clone getting burned by the flames of love!"
"It is... effective," Selene admitted, though she still looked like she wanted to faint.
The dragon, enraged and in pain, fought back viciously. It lunged, snapping its jaws, its tail whipping around like a siege weapon. Harry dodged, wove, and shielded, but the beast was fast. A claw caught him, a glancing blow that sent him skidding across the stones, tearing his shirt and drawing blood.
Serafall flinched, her fingers digging into the velvet armrest, but she didn't interfere. Her son wasn't going down that easily. He rolled to his feet instantly, eyes burning with defiance, ready for round two.
He was magnificent. He was—
BOOM!
The sensation hit Serafall before the sound did. Her senses, which had been focused entirely on the arena, suddenly exploded outward, screaming a warning that turned her blood to ice.
It came from above. High above.
A pressure descended on the stadium, heavy and sickeningly holy. It wasn't the pure, sterile light of Angels. It was heavy, oily, and reeking of fallen grace.
"Tainted light," Serafall hissed, her head snapping up. She looked through the enchanted glass roof of the VIP box and saw it. High in the clouds, a formation of black-winged figures. And descending from them, falling like a meteor, was a massive, dark gold lightspear.
It wasn't aimed at Harry. It wasn't aimed at the dragon. It was huge—big enough to obliterate the arena, the stands, the students, and everyone in them. It was heading down to kill everyone below.
Time slowed down to a crawl. The cheers of the crowd warped into a low drone. The fire in the arena seemed to freeze in place. The only thing moving was Serafall. The playful, ditzy mask of Magical Girl Levia-tan disintegrated. In its place stood the Monster of the Cold. A menacing aura erupted around her body, a violent storm of neon pink and void black energy that shattered the windows of the VIP box instantly. The air temperature in the box dropped to absolute zero in a microsecond.
Two massive, leathery devil wings shot out of her back! "Fucking Fallen Angels," Serafall snarled, her voice a distortion of rage. She crouched and launched herself upward.
She blasted through the roof of the VIP box as she shot into the sky like a reverse lightning bolt.
The wind roared in her ears as she ascended, placing herself directly in the path of the falling judgment. She stared up at the massive dark gold spear, her blue eyes glowing with a terrible light. She summoned her pink wand—her weapon of mass destruction disguised as a toy.
"You want to play?" she screamed at the sky. She thrust the wand forward. A freezing ray of death erupted from the tip—a beam of concentrated, demonic ice energy so potent it turned the air around it into liquid. The blue-white beam slammed into the tip of the dark gold light spear.
The impact was silent for a fraction of a second, and then the sky broke.
A shockwave rippled out, shattering clouds and shaking the entire Hogwarts area to its bedrock. The ground groaned, the castle walls trembled, and the lake bubbled as the two opposing energies fought for dominance.
But the light spear didn't stand a chance. Serafall's ice ate through it, shattering the construct of light into a billion harmless sparkles of frozen energy, blasting it out of existence before it could touch a single hair on her son's head.
Serafall hovered in the air, her wings beating slowly, ice crystals forming on her eyelashes. She glared up at the black-winged figures in the clouds, her aura flaring out like a beacon of war.
"WHO DARES!" she shouted, her voice booming like thunder, promising a death cold enough to freeze hell itself.
– Lilja –
The tension in Lilja's muscles was coiled so tight it felt like her tendons might snap. Her emerald green eyes were locked onto the arena below, her pupils dilated with a mixture of terror and fierce, protective rage.
Harry—her Harry, her King, her second chance at life and love—was down there facing a legend.
Crom Cruach.
The name alone was enough to make even seasoned warriors in Valhalla hesitate. It was a name steeped in blood and shadow, a creature that rivaled gods in raw power. And Harry was standing before it, looking so small against the backdrop of obsidian scales and jagged spikes.
"I have to go," Lilja hissed, her voice rough. Her fingers dug into the wooden railing of the spectator box, splintering the varnish. "I have to help him. Now!"
She shifted her weight, preparing to vault over the edge. She didn't care about the rules of the tournament. She didn't care about blowing her cover as a transfer student. If that dragon breathed, Harry would be ash. She would summon her armor mid-fall, drive her sword through the beast's eye, and—
A hand clamped down on her shoulder. "Stay where you are, Lily," Rossweisse said, her voice calm but brooking no argument.
Lilja whipped her head around, her red hair lashing like a whip. "Are you insane, Rose?! That is the Crescent Circle Dragon! It will kill him!"
Rossweisse didn't flinch. She sat stoically in her office-lady attire, her silver hair spilling over the shoulders of her blazer. Her blue eyes were narrowed, focused intently on the beast below, analyzing it with the cold precision of Odin's personal bodyguard.
"Look closer," Rossweisse commanded, her grip tightening on Lilja's shoulder. "I have met the real Crom Cruach before, alongside Lord Odin during diplomatic summits. The pressure that being exerts... it crushes the air out of your lungs just by existing." She gestured with her free hand toward the arena. "That thing down there is big, yes. It is ugly. But it is hollow."
Lilja blinked, her panic faltering for a split second. She forced herself to look—really look—with her Valkyrie senses, not just her fearful heart. Rossweisse was right. The dragon lacked the oppressive, world-ending gravity of a true Dragon King.
"It is an imposter," Rossweisse stated firmly. "A biological puppet. Dangerous, certainly, but not a god-killer. Harry can handle it."
The breath rushed out of Lilja's lungs in a shuddering gasp. "An imposter..." she whispered, her knees feeling momentarily weak with relief. "Thank the Norns."
She sank back onto the bench, her heart still hammering against her ribs, but the immediate urge to commit suicide-by-dragon began to fade. Harry was strong. He was a Sitri. If it wasn't the real Crom Cruach, he stood a chance.
But the universe, it seemed, had no intention of letting them rest.
The relief had barely settled in Lilja's chest when the air pressure in the stadium changed violently. A high-pitched whine, like a falling bomb, pierced the roar of the crowd.
Beside her, Rossweisse gasped.
It was a sound of pure shock, one Lilja had never heard from her usually composed older sister—when Roseweisse wasn't drunk at least. Lilja turned just as Rossweisse surged to her feet.
"Incoming!" Rossweisse shouted, her eyes fixed on the clouds above.
What happened next was a blur of motion and magic that burned itself into Lilja's memory.
Rossweisse didn't waste time with a transformation sequence. She simply flexed her aura, expanding her magical power outward in an explosive burst to shed her civilian disguise.
The tight black pencil skirt and the white button-down blouse didn't just fade away—they shredded into particles of light, disintegrating instantly from her body.
For a split second—a single, frozen heartbeat in time—Rossweisse stood completely naked in the middle of the stands.
Lilja's eyes widened. Even in the face of imminent danger, she couldn't help but be struck by the sheer, statuesque perfection of her sister. Rossweisse was a goddess of war carved from marble and soft flesh. Her massive, heavy breasts bounced once with the force of her movement, the pale, creamy skin flushing pink in the cool air, her large nipples stiffening instantly. Her hourglass waist flared into wide, powerful hips and thick, muscular thighs that were usually hidden beneath modest office wear.
It was a vision of raw, unashamed female power, breathtaking and bold.
But the nudity lasted only for that fraction of a second. In the next blink, silver light coalesced around Rossweisse's form. Heavy plates of Valkyrie armor slammed onto her skin with a metallic clang—greaves, gauntlets, a breastplate that hugged her curves—manifesting from the ether to clothe her for war.
"Above us!" Rossweisse yelled, her voice echoing with magical amplification.
Lilja looked up, and her blood ran cold. Descending from the clouds was a spear. But it wasn't made of steel or iron. It was a massive, jagged lance of condensed light, glowing with a sickly, dark-gold hue. It was the size of a building, crackling with holy energy that had been twisted and corrupted.
A Lightspear. A weapon of the Fallen Angels. And it was dropping straight toward the center of the arena, moving fast enough to vaporize everything in the stadium—students, teachers, Harry—in a single strike.
Rossweisse raised her hands, her aura flaring silver as she prepared her magic to block the attack, to throw herself between the weapon and the innocent lives below. "I don't think I can stop it fully—" she gritted out.
But she didn't have to.
From the VIP box, a streak of neon pink and black energy shot upward like a reverse meteor.
"WHO DARES!" a voice roared, booming like thunder. It was Serafall Leviathan, her power erupting in a terrifying display of ice and demonic energy. She intercepted the Light Spear mid-air, meeting the holy weapon with a beam of freezing death that shattered the construct into a million harmless sparks of light. The explosion shook the foundations of Hogwarts, rattling teeth and knocking students from their seats.
The clouds broke apart.
Lilja stared, her mouth going dry. They descended like a plague of locusts—black-winged figures dropping from the sky in formation. There were dozens of them. No, Lilja realized with a sinking feeling, there were over a hundred.
Fallen Angels were invading. Was she watching the Great War restart before her eyes!?
Panic erupted in the stands.
The wizards and witches of Hogwarts, Beauxbatons, and Durmstrang were not warriors. They were students and teachers, prepared for a tournament, and they had no idea what these creatures were. They probably just thought they were being attacked by an army of dark flying witches and wizards. Screams tore through the air as the crowd began to stampede, pushing and shoving in a desperate bid to reach the exits!
Lilja felt the urge to run to Harry, to jump into the pit and shield him with her body. But her mind, honed by two lifetimes of conflict, snapped into overdrive.
Harry can handle himself, she told herself fiercely. He is fighting the dragon. He is strong.
She looked around the stadium. She saw the flash of red hair—the Gremory group. She saw the Sitri group. She saw Hermione, Narcissa and Tonks, Fleur and Gabrielle, Ginny, Jasmine and her mother, Harry's maids, the Sitri twins—all the people Harry cared about, exposed and vulnerable in the stands.
My duty is not just to him, Lilja realized, straightening her spine. I am his Queen. His people are my people. His harem is my responsibility to protect.
She summoned her own armor, the silver plates forming over her clothes in a ripple of magic, her sword materializing in her grip.
"Rossweisse," Lilja said, her voice steady. "I'm securing the perimeter. I need to protect Harry's peerage."
Rossweisse glanced at her, pride flickering in her eyes. "Go. I will hold the sky."
The lead Fallen Angel, a man with four black wings and a cruel, scarred face, hovered above the center of the pitch. He spread his arms wide, basking in the terror of the students below.
"We are the Fallen!" he bellowed, his voice magically projected to every corner of the stadium. "We are the allies of the Dark Lord Voldemort! Today, this school falls, and the boy Harry Sitri dies!"
Lilja snarled, her grip tightening on her spear. Arrogant crows.
The counterattack was brutal and immediate. The most powerful devils in the stands immediately started fighting back. Lilja was proud of them not panicking.
The first wave of Fallen Angels didn't even know what hit them. Sona's water jet punched a hole straight through one attacker's chest. Rias's destruction magic erased three of them from existence before they could even scream. Akeno's lightning fried the wings off two more, sending them plummeting to the ground like stones.
But there were still too many of them. Spears of light began to rain down, exploding against the stands, shattering stone and wood.
"Rose!" Lilja shouted, deflecting a stray spear with her own weapon.
"I am on it!" Rossweisse yelled back. Her sister, the Ultimate Class Valkyrie, the woman regarded as the most talented warrior Asgard had produced in a millennium, didn't panic. Rossweisse raised both hands, her fingers moving in complex, blurring patterns. Magic circles—Norse runes glowing with silver fire—erupted into the air around her. Not one. Not two. Dozens. "By the power of Odin, I deny you entry!" Rossweisse chanted, her voice overlapping with itself as she cast multiple spells simultaneously.
A massive, shimmering dome of translucent silver energy expanded over the entire stadium. It was a masterpiece of defensive magic, a multi-layered barrier woven with deflection charms and absorption runes.
Light spears slammed into the barrier and shattered like glass. The Fallen Angels dove, trying to break through, but they bounced off the shield, their momentum wasted.
Lilja watched her sister with awe before shaking her head and getting ready to go on the counter attack herself.
– Voldemort –
The ground beneath Lord Voldemort's bare feet trembled, a rhythmic, deep-earth shudder that felt less like an earthquake and more like the world itself recoiling in terror. High above the stadium, the sky had been torn asunder. It was a chaotic tapestry of violently clashing energies—neon pink and void black wrestling with a sickly, dark-gold light that screamed of corrupted holiness.
Voldemort stood frozen, his crimson eyes wide and unblinking, fixed on the cataclysm unfolding in the clouds.
He had spent decades cultivating an aura of invincibility. He had pushed the boundaries of magic further than any wizard in history, mutilating his own soul to achieve immortality. He was the Dark Lord. He was the thing people feared to name!
But as he watched Serafall Leviathan—a Maou, a true King of Hell—intercept a spear of light the size of a cathedral tower and shatter it into a billion glittering shards, a cold, unfamiliar sensation curled in his gut.
It was a feeling he hadn't experienced since he was a child in the orphanage, huddled under thin blankets while bombs fell on London.
Insignificance.
The sheer scale of the power on display was nauseating. The shockwave from the impact a mile away rattled his ribcage and made the air taste of ozone and ancient, frozen death.
Beside him, Raynare let out a harsh, derisive snort, breaking his trance.
Voldemort turned his head slowly, his neck muscles tight. The Fallen Angel stood with her hands on her hips, her posture radiating an infuriating mix of boredom and arrogance. She was undeniably beautiful in a cruel, sharp-edged way—a creature of sin made flesh. Her long black hair whipped around her face in the gale force winds generated by the battle above, and her outfit—a scandalous arrangement of tight black leather straps and lace—left very little to the imagination.
Her large, black feathered wings were folded behind her back, twitching occasionally like agitated ravens. She looked away from the sky, sneering as she glanced down at the assembled wizards.
"Stop gawking," Raynare spat, her violet eyes gleaming with contempt. "Lord Kokabiel is handling that bitch, Maou Leviathan. He has been planning this for centuries. Do not concern your tiny human minds with the battles of gods and kings." She gestured lazily toward the sky, where dozens of black-winged figures were diving and weaving through the clouds. "My brothers and sisters are attacking from above to keep their defenses occupied," she explained, her tone dripping with condescension, as if she were speaking to a particularly slow child. "It is our job to attack the arena from the ground. Since you dumb human wizards and witches can't fly without your little broomsticks, you are relegated to the mud."
Voldemort barely heard the insult. His attention was split, his mind racing as he tried to process the sensory overload. The ground shook again, harder this time, as another exchange of spells detonated in the atmosphere. The magic radiating from the skies was so potent it felt like a physical weight pressing down on his shoulders.
He looked at his hands—pale, spider-like, clutching his wand. This new body wasn't even at the level he would have liked? If anything, he wanted to redo the ritual that resurrected himself with a more worthy sacrifice. What was he currently supposed to do against beings who could freeze the sky or summon spears of light capable of leveling mountains?
"Are you listening to me, snake-man?" Raynare snapped, stepping into his personal space. She smelled of dark perfume and feathers. "Come on. Someone just put a barrier around the top of the arena to stop the aerial bombardment! But the ground level is vulnerable." She pointed a gloved finger toward the stone walls of the stadium, her lips curling into a bloodthirsty grin. "We can sneak in through the ground level entrances," she urged, her eyes alight with sadistic glee. "We can flank them while they are looking up. We can start slaughtering all of those students and devils before they even know we are there! Let's go!"
Voldemort looked at her, really looked at her. He saw the fanaticism in her eyes, the reckless hunger for violence. She didn't care about strategy. She didn't care about survival. She just wanted to kill.
He turned his gaze away from her and looked behind him.
Huddled in the shadow of the Forbidden Forest's tree line were his Death Eaters. Dozens of them. They were a pathetic sight. Bellatrix Lestrange, usually a creature of manic energy and fierce loyalty, looked haggard and gaunt, her hair a matted mess, her eyes darting wildly from the sky to him. Rodolphus, Rabastan, Dolohov—they were all there, clad in stolen robes that hung loosely on their emaciated frames.
They were fresh from Azkaban. They were weak. Their minds were fractured from years of Dementor exposure, and their bodies were atrophied.
And they were terrified.
He could see it in the way they flinched every time the sky lit up with pink or gold. He could smell the sour stench of their fear sweat. They were looking at him not with the usual adoration, but with desperate, silent pleading. They were loyal, yes, but they were broken. They were not ready for a war against biblical entities.
Voldemort's mind, sharp and cold as a razor, performed a rapid calculation. If he led them into that arena now, they would die. All of them.
Raynare wanted him to act as fodder. She wanted his Death Eaters to throw themselves into the meat grinder to buy her and her kind a few minutes of distraction.
Voldemort was immortal. He had ensured it. He still had a few Horcruxes tethering him to the mortal plane. But as he watched a beam of ice magic turn a cloud into a solid glacier a mile wide, a seed of doubt took root in his heart.
Could a Horcrux survive that?
If he walked into that arena and was hit by a stray light spear, or a blast of that terrifying, absolute-zero ice magic... would it just destroy his body? Or was that level of power capable of shredding the very essence of a soul, anchors be damned?
He was not willing to find out. Not today. Not for the sake of a Fallen Angel who looked at him like he was something she had scraped off her boot.
"Well?" Raynare demanded, tapping her foot impatiently. "Are you deaf as well as ugly? I said move!"
Voldemort turned back to her. His expression was smooth, blank, betraying nothing of the calculation whirring behind his red eyes.
"You are right," he said softly, his voice a high, cold hiss. "We must act decisively."
Raynare smirked, turning her back to him as she unfurled her black wings, preparing to launch herself toward the stadium. "Finally. Try to keep up, wizard. I won't wait for—"
Voldemort raised his wand. He pointed it at the space between her shoulder blades, right where the wings sprouted from her spine.
He channeled his full power, not into a killing curse—which might interact unpredictably with her angelic physiology. Instead it was a simple yet effective school spell he used.
"Stupefy!"
The red bolt of magic left his wand with the sound of a cannon shot. It slammed into Raynare's back with enough force to crack bone.
The Fallen Angel didn't even have time to scream. Her back arched violently, her four black wings going instantly slack as the stunning spell short-circuited her nervous system. She crumpled forward, hitting the dirt face-first with a heavy thud. Her wings sprawled out uselessly in the mud, twitching once before stilling completely. For a moment, she fought the darkness, her head lolling to the side. Her violet eyes, now hazy and unfocused, sought him out. Her lips moved, shaping a single, venomous word.
"...Traitor..."
Then her eyes rolled back, and she went limp, passed out cold on the forest floor.
Silence fell over the small clearing, broken only by the distant thunder of the battle in the sky.
The Death Eaters stared, mouths agape. Bellatrix looked from the unconscious angel to her master, a flicker of confusion warring with her adoration.
Voldemort lowered his wand, smoothing the front of his robes. He turned to his followers, his face a mask of imperious command. He needed to spin this. He could not let them think he was retreating out of fear.
He was Lord Voldemort. He did not fear. He merely... strategized.
"My faithful friends," he said, his voice projecting clearly over the wind. "Look at you." He swept his gaze over them, letting them feel the weight of his disappointment and his 'mercy.' "You are weak," he stated simply. "Azkaban has taken its toll. You stand barely upright. Your wands tremble in your hands." He gestured toward the stadium, where the sounds of screaming and explosions were intensifying. "This battle is disadvantageous for us," he declared. "To send you into that fray now would be a waste of my most valuable resources. You need time to recover. You need time to regain your strength, your magic, your hate." He walked among them, his red eyes meeting theirs. "Harry Sitri will fall to my wand," he promised, his voice dropping to a sinister whisper that sent shivers through the crowd. "But not today. Another day, when you are restored to your former glory, we shall return. We shall burn that school to the ground and feast on their bones. But I will not throw your lives away for the whims of these feathered abominations."
He saw the relief wash over them. It was palpable. Bellatrix practically collapsed against a nearby tree with tears of gratitude in her eyes as she praised her master!
They didn't see a coward running from a fight—they saw a benevolent lord sparing his weary army.
Voldemort glanced back one last time at the unconscious form of Raynare. He knew what he had done. He had just made an enemy of his allies, the Fallen Angels. Kokabiel, if he survived the Maou, would be furious. But as Voldemort looked up at the sky, watching Serafall Leviathan unleash another wave of devastating ice magic that seemed to freeze the very light of the sun, he doubted Kokabiel would survive the hour. Even if Raynare told him Kokabiel had acquired some kind of secret weapon called a Sacred Gear.
It was a moot point.
"Come," Voldemort commanded. "We leave." He turned on his heel. With a series of loud cracks that were swallowed by the noise of the battle, Voldemort and his followers Disapparated, vanishing into the ether.
They left the arena, the students, and the Fallen Angels behind, disappearing without anyone in the stadium ever knowing they had been there at all.
XXX