Patronus Charm?
Tom stared in disbelief at the silver-white lion roaring against the black mist. Lockhart, the man he considered despicable, deceitful, and thoroughly steeped in dark magic, had conjured a Patronus.
Tom's thoughts spiraled as he recalled their earlier encounters. In his Horcrux state, he had witnessed firsthand the depths of Lockhart's cunning. This man had no qualms about using curses, delving into forbidden magics, or even considering the eradication of entire species like goblins.
By every measure, Lockhart was a dark wizard. If not for Tom's own existence, Lockhart could have easily claimed the title of Dark Lord.
And yet... here he is, summoning a Patronus, Tom thought, his mind reeling.
The Patronus Charm was an ancient defensive spell, associated with purity, justice, and positive emotions. Dark wizards attempting to cast it risked severe backlash, often summoning dangerous entities instead. Yet here was Lockhart, his silver lion bursting forth with undeniable strength and purpose.
Is there no justice in this world? Tom fumed inwardly.
Unbeknownst to him, Dumbledore had been quietly observing his reaction. The headmaster's sharp eyes flicked between Tom and the battlefield, gauging the implications of what he was witnessing.
Meanwhile, Grindelwald remained silent, his brows furrowed as he considered the significance of Lockhart's Patronus.
Among the spectators, Ministry officials and professors exchanged glances of approval. The Patronus Charm held immense cultural and symbolic weight in the wizarding world.
Historically, it had served as a means of identifying heroes and leaders, a marker of moral integrity and strength of spirit. Even in modern times, mastery of the spell often earned wizards positions of trust and authority.
For Lockhart, the conjuration of a corporeal Patronus—a feat many skilled wizards failed to achieve—was a masterstroke. The onlookers couldn't help but feel a swell of admiration and trust toward him, despite the chaos of the battlefield.
Lockhart noticed their reactions, a satisfied gleam in his eye. Soft power is as important as hard power, he mused.
As the silver lion charged into the black mist, its light disrupted the dark magic, forcing Voldemort's spell to unravel.
Voldemort scowled as he felt the debilitating effects of the Patronus. The Black Mist Curse, one of his proudest creations, was rooted in his studies of Dementors, making it particularly vulnerable to the light of the Patronus Charm.
The mist recoiled instinctively, retreating from the silver lion's radiance. Once at a safe distance, Voldemort transformed back into his human form. His pale face betrayed his frustration and weariness.
This stalemate is intolerable, he thought. His Death Eaters were faltering, the werewolves were nearly subdued, and even Tom Riddle was locked in a confrontation with Hogwarts wizards.
"Execute the second plan," a faint voice echoed in Voldemort's mind.
He gritted his teeth but nodded. "Okay," he muttered under his breath.
At that moment, Dumbledore's calm voice broke the tension.
"Tom," he said, his tone heavy with meaning, "don't forget what I told you. Reality has a way of forcing outcomes we'd rather avoid."
Tom's lips curled into a bitter smile. "Even if you are Dumbledore," he replied.
Dumbledore's gaze didn't waver. "Exactly. Even if I am Dumbledore."
He paused, then added in a tone that bordered on wistful, "Tom, perhaps you and your other self should leave. Next time we meet, I hope it's under better circumstances."
Tom's expression darkened, but he said nothing.
He understood Dumbledore's veiled warning. If the battle continued, neither he nor Voldemort would emerge unscathed. The best-case scenario for both parties was mutual destruction—a prospect that neither could afford.
A sudden chill swept across the square as a cold breeze drifted in. Overhead, the sky began to shift.
Pale golden lines appeared, weaving intricate patterns across the heavens. The ethereal chains intertwined with colors representing the elements—yellow for earth, green for trees, silver-white for space, and fiery red for the sun.
The spectacle was mesmerizing, a strange beauty that seemed to call to the very essence of magic itself. Wizards in the audience couldn't help but stare, their minds inundated with visions and fragments of knowledge.
For the more experienced, like Dumbledore and Grindelwald, the patterns were a revelation. They recognized the structures as the core mechanisms of the secret realm Lockhart had constructed.
But amidst the golden brilliance, strands of black mist began to converge, drawn toward the center as if pursuing something unseen.
"Curse," Dumbledore said aloud, his voice firm. "The black mist is drawn by a curse."
He refrained from analyzing the curse further, instead committing the patterns above to memory. This knowledge might not allow him to replicate Lockhart's secret realm, but it was a foundation—a potential blueprint for relocating Hogwarts to a safer, hidden space.
Lockhart observed the reactions with a knowing smile. He made no attempt to stop anyone from studying the spectacle.
Let them look, he thought. Knowledge freely given is often the most expensive.
The black mist, however, was another matter. Lockhart knew its origin well: the soul fragment within Hufflepuff's Gold Cup, one of Voldemort's Horcruxes.
Voldemort's gaze flicked skyward, a rare smile gracing his lips. The mist was responding, and he could feel its pull.
Lockhart noticed the change in Voldemort's demeanor. The Dark Lord suddenly lunged toward him, his wand raised.
Voldemort's attack was sudden, his spells relentless. Black chains formed from mist lashed out, seeking to ensnare Lockhart.
But Lockhart was ready. His wand shone with silver-white light as he summoned his Patronus once more.
Roar!
The silver lion charged, intercepting the chains and forcing Voldemort to retreat.
"You're persistent, Voldemort," Lockhart said, his tone laced with mockery.
"And you're insufferable," Voldemort shot back, his crimson eyes blazing.
Their duel resumed with renewed intensity, but both wizards knew the battle was drawing to a close.
A shout rang out across the battlefield:
"Retreat!"
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