Rufus Scrimgeour was often labeled the most controversial Minister of Magic in the last three centuries. In his quest to defeat Voldemort, he undertook numerous actions for which he could easily be condemned: dubious trials, the use of Dark Magic, and employing mercenaries. He even found himself at odds with Albus Dumbledore. No, he didn't believe Dumbledore was a traitor or a Dark Wizard. However, he did not require an ally who could disappear at any moment without explanation. He did not command his people—rather, they operated independently on the battlefield; he merely sent everyone he could there, including his personal guard.
Now, in his office, he observed the final battle of the English Civil War. Voldemort did not join the fray, nor did the elite Death Eaters. Gazing into the glowing sphere, Rufus drifted out of reality. What transpired resembled a game of Quidditch. Chasers, goalkeepers, and beaters attempted to score points. Somewhere distant were two seekers—Albus Dumbledore and the Dark Lord—who prepared to secure a considerable advantage by capturing the Snitch.
The state that the Minister of Magic and everyone else witnessing the ongoing battle—the head of the Department of Mysteries or foreign spies—could be accurately described as respectful bewilderment. Where was Voldemort? Where was Albus Dumbledore? Oh no, they were not seeking a catch. No one even dared entertain the blasphemous thought of bribing the Dark Lord or forging any agreement with Dumbledore. Muggles have a term—"the hand of providence." Here, it was "Albus Dumbledore's leg."
Wizards had not fought for a long time; the last experience was the war with Grindelwald, but now it was different. Those watching the battle, mesmerized by the spectacle, felt not despair but fear and deep respect. Two observers in the Ministry of Magic were present: the Minister of Magic and the Head of the Department of Mysteries. Contrary to expectations, the Department of Mysteries was more anxious. The Minister behaved like an amateur fan gripped by paralysis. He did not shout or applaud, but his face displayed the full range of emotions—an incredibly depressed mood that worsened with time.
The Head of the Department of Mysteries viewed the unfolding situation differently. Assessing the balance of power between the Lord's troops and their opponents, he understood in advance that he was about to lose a significant sum in betting. He reached for a drink. After the Dark Lord's army was overwhelmed by a wave of attackers, he regarded the Aurors and magical law enforcement officers as future corpses—with bewilderment and a tinge of guilt: sometimes, we didn't want to...
The very first breach of the Ministry's defense seemed destined to result in their senseless deaths. Yet, something instantly shifted. He didn't even notice why, but Voldemort's Sea Serpent perished without sustaining any wounds. It simply succumbed and died, much like a kettle left boiling on the stove for a day. Strange flashes coursed through the ranks of the Order of the Phoenix fighters, and suddenly, every member of the Order bore an array of artifacts on par with the Minister of Magic, making even the most inept wizard hard to kill without Dark Magic.
Additionally, the Transition Arches opened, unleashing golems—many golems. Numerous ones bore protective artifacts! They perished, but their bodies halted the enemy's advance. The Minister of Magic and the Head of the Department of Mysteries watched the duels of wizards with similar bewilderment. Albus's boosting was no less potent than Voldemort's, and it seemed somewhat absurd to witness yesterday's graduates of accelerated Auror courses fighting almost on equal terms with seasoned Dark Wizards.
Sadly, the wizards had neglected Muggle entertainment. Otherwise, they would have recognized that what was occurring could be termed a "bus" in football jargon, and both observers, representing the Ministry but unprepared for the ongoing developments, were no longer ready for this. How could one describe what they witnessed? Alison had once seriously studied the future. Seeing the future is not a problem, but it is a probable future. No one knows what you will see or whether it will come true.
Having mixed a number of potions with processed dragon's blood and a potion of luck, he had dropped it into his eyes and glimpsed a probable future in 1927: a fragment of the Muggle Olympics in Sydney in 2000. Then he witnessed the swim of a swimmer from Equatorial Guinea, Eric Moussambani Malonga. It was a 100-meter freestyle, in which he achieved the worst result in Olympic history. He had no rivals—those who were meant to compete were disqualified due to a false start. Eric had learned to swim eight months before the Olympics. He swam not freestyle, but rather a unique style known only to him. It was his first swim in a 50-meter pool. He had gained entry to the Olympics thanks to the quota for developing countries.
But he had made it. He had completed the race. And he had become a hero. It had not been an ordinary swim—it had been a special, one-of-a-kind event, where no one had jeered, and some had cried with emotion. What had that Muggle said after finishing? "I have never swum a hundred meters before. It is too long a distance, but I have done it." This was similar. What was happening could not be described as a bad battle. The fight had risen to the level of the largest wizarding battles of the war with Grindelwald, both in the number and quality of the participants. There were even fighters from foreign lands—mercenaries on both sides. Only Albus had somehow discovered a mountain of gold and had hired far more.
Both the Minister of Magic and the Head of the Department of Mysteries pondered where Albus Dumbledore had acquired such wealth and artifacts. The Minister of Magic mused on the costs of corruption in England. Very little. But even if we presume that Albus Dumbledore had stolen everything, and then everyone from the Order of the Phoenix had donated their possessions to him, there was still too much money missing. Alison considered it from another angle. Why does Albus require a salary? And where does he allocate the funds that should be due to the History of Magic teacher, who is essentially a ghost?
The pathos and spectacle of the fight soared to unprecedented levels; the scene could easily be mistaken for 1945. The only thing missing was the clueless Muggles among the combatants. The clash was neither poor nor ridiculous. It was a different, uniquely heroic fight, where one could assert about the forces of good: they "lay down their bones." Initially, they did not allow themselves to be easily slain. Then, they received assistance from Albus's people—his mercenaries and golems. They were still losing, but the Death Eaters were expending more and more magical energy. It was reminiscent of a fistfight between two individuals, where one is nearly always on the floor, spitting blood and teeth, while the other injures their hands increasingly with each victory.
Soon the first fighter, the undisputed favorite, was left with dislocated fingers and broken arms, forced to adopt a defensive stance. It seemed that the forces of light were bound to lose. They were being obliterated with remarkable simplicity as they attacked the prepared positions of Voldemort's minions. As if slugs were being sliced that threw themselves onto a knife meant for cutting ingredients. And it was impossible not to attack—this was the only chance to keep the enemy in place until the immensely powerful area attacks from the Ministry and Stonehenge were ready. The spectators hardly noticed how two wizards detached from the attacking line. One was a renowned Japanese wizard, the other an infamous mercenary. They touched some artifact with their wands and hurled it into the ranks of Voldemort's followers. Although both were quickly eliminated by the enemy, they fulfilled their objective—the artifact reached the enemy and detonated.
A gap formed in the collective shield of their opponents, into which Albus's golems charged, followed closely by the wizards. The impenetrable perimeter of the Dark Wizards vanished, and soon the battle lost all semblance of order, devolving into a grandiose massacre of "all against all" in small squadrons. To protect themselves from area attacks from the Ministry and Stonehenge, the elite wizards of the enemy were forced to divert increasingly from direct combat with the wizards.
When they left their troops unattended for support, something akin to a turning point occurred. The Death Eaters grew fatigued, and a rain of spells directed from the Ministry and Stonehenge rained down upon their minions. This simply could not be happening! The Ministry was destined to lose! He envisioned a classic fairy tale: first, the enemies of Voldemort laid down their bones, then awaited assistance, and then somehow providence intervened, leading to their victory. No, most of their adversaries were still alive, but they wouldn't be permitted to escape, and a wizard without mana was merely a Muggle.
The Minister of Magic felt an overwhelming sense of joy. It was unlike anything he had ever witnessed—when the enemy was more numerous, stronger, more shameless, openly wielding forbidden magic, had the initiative, but could accomplish nothing. Rufus Scrimgeour could hardly suppress tears of joy. The scenario resembled Quidditch—formal superiority meant nothing; everything was determined by the score. Only here, no Snitch or seeker would come to aid them.
However, just then, as if by a twist of fate, Albus Dumbledore appeared. It was clear to everyone that the Death Eaters were doomed. That was likely why Albus awakened and decided to take action. No one would deny his intuition. Or perhaps Albus merely intended to secure a new Order of Merlin, First Class? A long-forgotten feeling stirred within Alison's soul: envy. At one time, he had attempted to compete with Dumbledore. He had absolutely no chance. Albus had only lost to him once in school, and that was due to his own choice to surrender.
Alison believed it was out of pity, but he later discovered that Albus had simply had a date and wished to arrive on time. To be honest, Alison held a particular hypothesis about Dumbledore. As Head of the Department of Mysteries, he had wandered the department and noticed two employees who, instead of completing their work, were engaged in a Muggle board game, Dungeons & Dragons. Naturally, he had fined them three months' wages and confiscated the game, but he had read the rules himself. Then he understood everything: success depended not only on the chosen action but also on the parameters of the one executing it.
According to his calculations, Albus Dumbledore's life was explained quite simply: luck equaled forty million. With a maximum for the rest—ten units. That is, for people, bad luck is when something unfavorable befalls you for no discernible reason, but for Albus, bad luck translates to when nothing positive occurs. What is considered normal for people equates to Albus's bad luck; what is fortunate for people amounts to Albus's normal state, and what is impossible for people is merely good fortune for Albus. So what? To be born the most powerful wizard in the history of observation? Simple! To be a favorite among all teachers and others throughout your life? Certainly! To collect every prize and award that exists? Easy!
He had to traverse to another country to escape parental control, while Albus merely needed to do nothing! Right after graduating from Hogwarts—would you like to ascend to a high official position? Or perhaps become Deputy Head of the Department of Mysteries? Or maybe a mistress— the then Head of the Department of Mysteries, a woman— a natural metamorph? And yes, Grindelwald desires friendship with you. The second most powerful wizard in the world, who would gladly share with you what he learned in Durmstrang and at home. But that was not sufficient.
Albus, your sister is dead! You've ruined the Ministry's Time-Turner! An investigation? Prison? At the very least, an interrogation? Come now, it's Albus! The poor thing probably choked on a cherry pit or tumbled down the stairs. Perhaps she simply forgot how to breathe? Don't touch the orphan. Let's give him a place at Hogwarts instead. Yes, he graduated last year, has no teaching qualifications, was friends with a Dark Wizard, fell out with his brother for blaming him for his sister's death in front of witnesses, and destroyed a Ministry artifact—he'll be a teacher. He needs a parrot. No parrot? Sorry, Albus. Get yourself a phoenix.
By the way, you need not tie it to yourself—it's already tied. Luck continued to pursue Dumbledore. "Albus, how about I teach you everything I know?" "Who are you?" "I am Nicholas Flamel. Let's drink the Elixir of Life to our acquaintance. By the way, my wife has taken a fancy to you. Are you interested?" "No?" "Alright, if you change your mind, let me know. You're leaving already? Wait! I have something stuck in my boots. The damn gold. Take it, will you?"
The absurdity parade persisted. Albus was gaining influence and accolades. He could have become Minister of Magic as early as the 1930s, yet he showed no interest: "Do you want to become Minister of Magic?" "No, not particularly." "Then we will come to you next year! Perhaps you will change your mind!" Suddenly, you will be required to make a choice!
The apotheosis of this was the confrontation between Albus Dumbledore and Grindelwald. Grindelwald was the most formidable Dark Wizard of all time, and in terms of his atrocities and destructive power, Voldemort was not even close; he merely succeeded in instilling fear in locals. So, who would emerge victorious? The most powerful Dark Wizard capable of foreseeing the future, the immaterial Black Death, the Master of the Elder Wand, who single-handedly vanquished magical states. The wizard with whom the World Coalition of states had battled for years, almost to a standstill. With him was a throng of the undead, golems, and demons. The finest teams of wizards had attempted to eliminate him more than once, even resorting to deploying demons against him, disregarding principles.
And then, who would triumph? The most powerful Dark Wizard, who could foresee the future, the immaterial Black Death, the Master of the Elder Wand, who had single-handedly defeated magical states. The wizard with whom the World Coalition of states had battled for years, nearly to a standoff. With him was a throng of the undead, golems, and demons. The finest teams of wizards had attempted to vanquish him more than once, even sending demons after him, disregarding principles.
And yet, what would result? The most formidable Dark Wizard, who could see the future, had to face the school transfiguration teacher, Albus Dumbledore. The outcome: nearly nothing remained of Grindelwald. The wizards conducted a slight examination of his damaged body and concluded it better not to argue with Albus. It felt like they had simply torn flesh and magical energy from Grindelwald, reducing him to a half-squib who would have perished without Dumbledore's prostheses.
Albus himself donned spectacles after the battle. Whether to appear more respectable or because the Elder Wand had jumped into his hand so swiftly that it slightly damaged his eye, was uncertain. The history of the war with Voldemort mirrored this. Wizards from ancient families could not contend with Muggle-borns. At the same time, many purebloods sided with Albus. Albus himself, utilizing Expelliarmus, drove everyone away, while the Dark Lord fled from him as if from fire, which, of course, proved that he possessed extraordinary intellect or animal intuition.
Albus quickly amassed an army of supporters and a compliant head of the Auror Department, who personally filled Azkaban's cells by a third.
How does he recruit individuals? "Hello, I'm a champion wizard duelist, may I join you?" "Of course, Filius." "Hello, I'm a master of transfiguration, may I join you?" "Of course, Minerva." "Hello, I'm a Potions Master. Instead of brewing potions that are sold by their weight in gold, may I teach children how to cut up slugs?" "Of course, Severus." "Hello, I'm a battle mage and Dark Wizard, former head of a mercenary company, may I join you as a gamekeeper? I agree to ten galleons a month." "Of course, Robert Argobast."
Alison did not believe in the Deathly Hallows. The Elder Wand was a curious artifact; for some reason, its memory of spells from previous owners did not reset, so it outgrew standard wands, yet the rest was mere myth. However, he would not be surprised if he discovered that Albus wrapped himself in that Invisibility Cloak at night to stave off the cold. And before going to sleep, he sent messages to his parents and sister through the Resurrection Stone, and they responded. Although it appeared Albus's luck had turned slightly against him lately, Alison knew it was not so. Albus Dumbledore could not die. He would simply ascend to heaven to regroup. And even if Albus died... Alison did not believe in life after death.
Although... It was Albus! Alison would not be shocked if a special afterlife were crafted for Albus, ensuring that the Headmaster could continue to enjoy good fortune—even after death, for all eternity. The Minister of Magic remained silent. He did not wish to tarnish the victory with excessive emotion. A victory he was preparing to greet standing. Alison was pleased he had chosen the correct side. For such a moment, he could have knelt, but he would not.
The One with Whom it was even more pointless to argue than with Voldemort had triumphed. Apparently, such was Albus's fate... The two wizards observed the incredible, unnatural victory. And then, in a single moment, everything shifted. The Minister of Magic initially did not comprehend, attributing it to interference in the connection. Alison, who was monitoring the battle while simultaneously observing the readings from the devices—the arrows and indicators—realized he was sobering up for the second time in a row. In an unknown manner, the protection over Voldemort's minions was restored, and the area surrounding Azkaban was suddenly enveloped by powerful anti-travel charms. So potent that they could be cast for two hours using the Ministry's power.
Remote attacks on the Death Eaters ceased altogether. The weather shifted dramatically. Two energy streams—one from Stonehenge and another from the Ministry—were halted by a massive influx of power, resting against the giant's hands. Energy began to flow backward through them—alien energy. A message rapidly arrived, indicating an explosion from within Stonehenge and confirming that the source was incapacitated for at least five hours. The same fate would have befallen the Ministry's source, but someone had thought to halt the attack in time.
**End of Alison's POV.**
**The Battle of Azkaban Through the Eyes of the Lord.**
I sat in Azkaban, within a conjured black and opaque sphere, observing the battle. I awaited the moment to intervene or for Albus to arrive. I could feel it—my palm pressed against the floor of Azkaban—the power, the new power that was ready to be mine. Soon it would be time to unleash it upon my foes. The Death Eaters exercised remote command, casting area-of-effect spells or providing cover for the fighters. Somewhere in the distance, a close-quarters battle raged: wizards from the ranks of those who were not to be pitied, werewolves, giants, Dementors, magical creatures under our control—Nundus and Manticores, golems, large and small, cheap and priceless. And the dead; many dead.
Something unimaginable and indescribable was occurring. It appeared that our army would easily crush the enemy. We outnumbered them in both quantity and quality. The enemy's advantage in mercenaries was easily countered by our "auxiliary forces." I watched as my fighters delivered seemingly lethal blows to the enemy time and again. Someone was blown to pieces; someone was consumed by the black fog. Yet the enemy held firm. This was unacceptable: either we win immediately, or we lose later. Our bloodletters, like Charles Nott and Edward Lestrange with their teams, were currently holding off attacks from the Ministry, but sooner or later, they would tire, and the Sources of Magic—Stonehenge and the Ministry—do not tire.
We began dispatching better troops into the fray. I observed as Nessie, adorned with artifacts, breached the enemy's defenses. But then, another miracle occurred. A vial of poison, no larger than my little finger, flew into Nessie's nostril. And she perished! How? How could you poison a Sea Serpent? A massive, magical, poisonous creature? I was certain that if I poured a barrel of poison I would brew into its mouth, it would survive! I had tested it on its tissues—it was incredibly difficult to poison, requiring substantial Basilisk venom. Yet the fact remained—Nessie was dead. With her demise, the breach in their defenses was sealed.
Perhaps I was wrong not to turn Nessie into a Horcrux? No, that was correct: there were too many witnesses present. Furthermore, I did not intend to clean up after my own people in mass after the victory, and some might decide they were not on the same path as the Lord and the Horcrux. Horcruxes are classified information, but in the chaos that would ensue post-battle, one could uncover something from the Department of Mysteries.
The battle escalated. We were bound to win, but... either Albus had acquired numerous artifacts and distributed them to his people, or he had spent years accumulating artifacts, preparing for the Third Deathly Hallow, the Cloak of Invisibility. His followers were dying with remarkable reluctance. Soon, we were forced to defend ourselves. Fortunately, we had several defense plans in place. Some Death Eaters shielded us from long-range attacks, while others provided magical support to our troops. It bore resemblance to how an ancient phalanx formation meets its enemies. No, there was no actual formation—magical shields replaced it. Thousands of magical shields connected like a honeycomb. If any were removed or destroyed, the gap was swiftly sealed by other protective charms.
The nature of the battle shifted—now our enemies sought to do something about our defenses. It appeared utterly hopeless—I watched with glee as the enemy ground through their troops in futile assaults. But they couldn't refrain from attacking—if they did, we would regroup, prepare our assault weaves, and break through their defenses. Their only chance to thwart us was to attack; it was improbable they could force us back into defense again. But the conundrum was that they could not breach our defenses, and they were suffering heavy losses.
Soon they would be unable to maintain such a pace in battle. I overlooked how it all transpired. Just moments ago, everything was fine, and then—an odd flash. I thought Dumbledore had arrived. Most of all, it resembled the effect of the mutual annihilation of Light and Dark curses, similar to when Dumbledore had defeated the Basilisk.
"Explosion of an unidentified artifact of unknown nature," Jugson informed me over the comm. "Those who executed the attack have been eradicated. The likelihood of a repeat assault of this kind is assessed as extremely low. Albus Dumbledore has not been detected. Orders?"
"Continue the fight," I commanded. Unlike the others, I had a rough idea of what had just transpired. Albus had crafted an artifact with the aid of the Third Deathly Hallow. The issue was that for it to function, a powerful Dark and Light Mage needed to direct magic into it. Our predicament was that a single such strike was sufficient to undo us—an undesigned effect passed through the collective shield. A portion of it began to dissipate, slowly recovering! A massive cannon had been unleashed upon the phalanx formation. First, golems surged into the breach, followed by the enemy wizards.
Soon, our main collective shield ceased to exist; the secondary shields crumbled, and the reserve ones could not be deployed. No, it was not a disaster. It was simply that from that point onward, the odds of victory became equalized. Was it time for me to intervene? No, it was too early. Perhaps they could manage without me, and Albus was not yet here. What was the old man doing now? What was he up to after vanquishing the Basilisk?
The most rational course of action was to rest, using the Time-Turner. In ten hours. And after resting, come here. What could one expect from the old man? Both the confrontation with Grindelwald and the battle against the Basilisk illustrated that he was not inclined to resort to Dark Magic, although he was capable of it. Moreover, under my enhancement ritual, I would become significantly stronger, and he might not reach me with Dark Magic or "annihilating strikes."
I believe Albus would immediately grasp that my enhancement was fleeting, which meant he would first attempt to halt me with standard spells. But when my enhancement wore off, he would strike, much like Grindelwald, to eliminate me while I was vulnerable, writing it off as a "weak point of an unknown ritual."
I waited, observing the conflict. It was unclear how, but the enemy was gaining the upper hand. No, there were no massive losses or panic. Someone would have concluded that we were winning. Everything mirrored the First Magic War—two forces were staring each other down, and soon one would fall lifeless. More precisely, our wizards were exhausting their strength. The enemy was as well, but they had stationary Sources of Magic. To endure a bit longer, we removed protection from several secondary troops like Dementors and the Dead.
A barrage of spells rained down on my forces, but for now, only on auxiliary units. Well, it's time. We transition to plan B—myself and the army will defeat the enemy army, and then I and the army will pursue Dumbledore after the battle. "I'm entering the battle on plan 14/N," I commanded. "You provide my remote cover and the development of the offensive."
"Dumbledore has been located," they replied. Indeed, a white-bearded old man in a ridiculous robe swiftly moved from the rear of my enemies to the front, conjuring a phoenix Patronus and scattering his adversaries.
It's time. Having accelerated my perception as much as possible and consumed special potions, I initiated the final stage of the ritual to gain strength. How can I describe what I was doing? This time, I didn't merely touch Azkaban—I envisioned it as part of my energy system. Initially, I thought I had failed, that I would soon be killed here. But no. A different sensation soon washed over me. At first, it felt like my transfer into the Lord's body—pain and something changing within. It felt as though enormous, slithering worms were writhing inside my magical channels. This did not persist for long, and then… It's impossible to articulate what transpired. It was akin to having kept one's eyes shut all one's life and then suddenly opening them. Or having been bedridden for a lifetime and then walking. No, it was so much better! I was simply inundated with power; I felt that I was different from my half-hour-ago self more than a Muggle compared to the Lord.
I gazed at the imprint of my palm on the floor of Azkaban. It was as if a red-hot brand had been pressed against ice. Azkaban was swiftly becoming non-existent; the "hole" in Azkaban was rapidly enlarging, and black ash fell instead of stone. I sensed the magical energy compressing inside me. And I let it escape, nourishing the structures of the spells I had created and restoring the Collective Shield over my followers. I would not have possessed enough strength for such large-scale actions before, but now... It felt like I had once watered the lawn with a hose, and now the pressure had increased hundreds of times.
Very soon, I realized that I had accomplished everything I desired, yet the energy still clamored to be released. I directed my gaze toward the sky. With a force of will, accompanied by a wave of my wand, the alien energy, which somehow was under my control, attempted to counter the flows from Stonehenge and the Ministry of Magic. My wand disintegrated into ash, and I grasped the next one. The room I occupied had already ceased to exist; Azkaban was rapidly collapsing, and I was battling two large Sources of Magic. Initially, the flows of magic from them ceased. Then the flow from Stonehenge began to reverse. Surely, somewhere, an explosion occurred. The Ministry's flow was destined for the same fate, but they simply turned it off. Excellent, I shielded my own, blocked remote attacks; it was time to test the weapon on people.
With a force of will, I soared from Azkaban. I now had more protective charms on me than I or Tom had ever possessed. I pointed my wand at my enemies. I was certain no one had ever wielded Hellfire as a machine gun—dozens of spells per second. Fire flowers blossomed in the Enemy Camp. Simultaneously, I cast dozens of Higher Defense Breakdowns per second—some of my foes were left without protection. I heard some inquiries from the commanders over the radio, but I didn't care—the counterattacks from the enemy were directed at me.
While in flight, I evaded Avada and some of the enemy's spells. In addition to the protection I had, I conjured more and more shields. If I were correct, this was the enemy's strongest blow, and their numbers would only dwindle in the future. They would have other targets. Hundreds of my shields shattered, but the enemy's spells collided with the Universal Shield. That shield, with its virtually endless magical supply, held firm against everything. But no, not everything. One of the spells penetrated the universal shield as if it didn't exist, only to become ensnared in dozens of other shields under protection.
And I wouldn't forget about you, Albus. But first, the lesser threats would fall. The battlefield filled with my Antipatronus Obscurus, on which I didn't spare any magic. I conjured a colossal Incinerating Spell and a Freezing Spell, periodically infusing it with energy. A massive front swept away my enemies at the point of contact. Simultaneously, I did not neglect to unleash area attacks, each time pouring everything into the onslaught.
My wand burned out again. I acquired a new one, and while retrieving it, I cast a couple of dozen weaker wandless spells—after all, the energy reserve was conditionally infinite. Before, I had always been concerned with the question—why does the main villain in movies exclaim: "I am invincible!"? Because the power that materializes from nowhere stupefies, and you realize you can accomplish far more than before. It was incredibly difficult for me to maintain composure—despite my newfound temporary strength, I was still human, and a bullet to the head is fatal for me.
True, it is much more challenging to inflict a fatal blow on me... With the new wand, I unleashed cascades of spells upon the enemy. I would like to state that they fled. No. It was merely that, under my and my followers' blows, who quickly demonstrated what happens to a wizard without magical protection, about a third of the adversaries ceased to exist. Of those who stood before me, only one survived. And not only did he survive, but he also retained his defenses and sustained no injuries.
I unleashed a deluge of area and pinpoint spells upon Dumbledore, weakening the fire from the rest of my enemies, focusing primarily on dismantling magical protection. For some reason, a strange association surfaced in my mind—as if I were a hundred-gun ship of the nineteenth century, and Dumbledore was a five-gun ship. If he missed one of my broadsides, he would sink. But I couldn't deliver that salvo—I either missed Albus, or the attacks ricocheted off his defenses, or they were absorbed and redirected.
This continued for about two seconds. I obliterated a couple of hundred of my opponents, but I could do nothing against Dumbledore. Then my wand burned out once more. Albus launched an attack. That shield of transfigured metal, which I had used to defend myself from Albus's unforgivable attacks, went berserk and attempted to assault me. I simply incinerated it. After retrieving my wand, the traditional volley of spells was supplemented with area crushing attacks. I was confident that I would crush Dumbledore, literally.
And then he seized his only opportunity to win—a mental assault. He attempted to exert pressure on my mind defenses with something, and I retaliated in kind. We both managed to slip something beneath the opponent's mind defenses. I projected Albus a pre-prepared "movie"—a scenario in which he died and encountered Grindelwald in the afterlife. I vividly imagined how surprised Albus would be upon meeting an old acquaintance: "Gellert?" To which he would respond, "Who were you expecting? Apostle Peter?"
Mind magic is complex and varied. False memories, complete subjugation, mind reading—even personality alteration—are all possible, albeit the latter is quite challenging. You can obliterate the enemy's mind without physically harming their brain. The destructive effect hinges not only on the effect itself but also on how real it appears and whether the target believes in the reality of the events. That's why these techniques are utterly futile against mindless creatures like golems and the dead.
I hadn't anticipated killing Dumbledore that way—merely restraining him, and then my spells would finish him off. For example, those "Vise" he had encountered. The issue was that Albus's mental assault also caught up with me. Even two of them. And Albus did not hesitate. I knew not what the first spell was named, but its effect was evident—it granted wishes. I was the most powerful wizard in the world, amalgamating the Deathly Hallows I had created with my own hands. Dumbledore's grave was already overrun with moss.
This was not simply a vision; it was a high-quality deception of all senses. I even sensed Bellatrix's kisses, as if in reality! Only instead of lingering there and relishing the experience, I endeavored to extricate myself from it. To be frank, Albus was brilliant—he crafted a paradise for me where I could do as I wished without harming anyone. I nearly resolved to remain there, but... it wasn't the reality that deterred me. Two factors held me back: even if they killed me, my soul was with me.
Of course, those who sought the Horcruxes would writhe for Dumbledore just as they had before (or rather, less so, since they were the result of several Horcruxes, while he was merely the product of one). But that was no longer my concern. I had no reason to fear it, for it was impossible! For Tom Riddle, the loss of his Horcruxes was the only thing he dreaded, and I had none! Even if they destroyed two Horcruxes a day, it made no difference to me! Dumbledore's vision deflated like a Boggart attempting to frighten a hundred individuals at once.
I was relieved that Dumbledore's subsequent shot was a blank; I broke free from that spell and was about to emerge into reality when... The fragments of two shattered mental spells from Dumbledore fused together, creating something new. This mixture simply crushed me without any frills. It felt as though my brain were being engulfed in a chaotic maze of sensation. The problem was that this spell operated independently—it would not dissipate with Dumbledore's death; he would not be able to cancel it, even if he desired to.
I attempted to resist it. No chance. It was even worse than when the old man subdued me in Aberforth's house. I resolved to endure as long as I could, hoping that the spell would exhaust itself. For instance, that the magic invested would deplete. I do not know how long this continued, but I awakened standing on the battlefield. Dumbledore was not near. Somewhere in the distance, a battle raged on. I ascended and unleashed a cascade of spells upon the enemy, querying my subordinates over the comms about what had transpired.
My newfound power remained within me, indicating that those twenty seconds had not yet elapsed. After several rounds of attacks, my adversaries began to retreat, morphing into a panicked flight. Everything would have concluded more swiftly, but the mercenaries, it seemed, were forbidden from retreating by their oaths—they had to perish.
"Lord, Dumbledore was struck by one of your spells. We intended to finish him off, but the golems carried him away. He did not relinquish the Elder Wand. We were unable to collect blood samples—it was all absorbed by his garments. You also sustained several of his attacks; we managed to remove the burning, but we couldn't extract the mental effect," Jugson informed me.
I see. Either my internal resistance played a role, or the spell could simply be neutralized from the outside. There were no volunteers eager to confront Dumbledore, yet when he lay on the ground, the number of those eager to demonstrate their loyalty to me surged—after all, a unique opportunity to showcase allegiance would not come again soon.
And indeed, I was saved, but they did not need to know this. We had no remaining enemies. I conjured interference in the communication, unleashing a barrage of several hundred spells of Astral Noise, channeling my entire reserve into each. I laboriously extinguished the flames surrounding me. They refused to extinguish, regardless of the energy I invested, although they did weaken significantly.
Then I began casting protective spells over the area and investing in portal spells to reposition my troops. The Unspeakables had vacated, but I didn't pursue them too aggressively. There was nothing left of Azkaban, merely ashes in the air. I felt my power beginning to ebb and stabilize. I now possessed Dark Magic equivalent to that of Tom Riddle with Horcruxes, independent of my ereghu level.
It was amusing how much effort it took to attain Tom Riddle's level regarding Dark Magic efficacy. They brought me a few prisoners. I would attempt to remove Dumbledore's "Gubright Fire" with a sacrifice. Twenty minutes and two corpses later, I dispelled the spell. I surveyed the battlefield. Reports bombarded me. The dead, golems, and Dementors had almost all perished. Half of the werewolves and mercenaries were gone. Greyback died a hero's death. A third of the wizards were also lost. Of the Inner Circle, only Amycus Carrow had perished. Mulciber somehow survived, and remarkably, he was almost unscathed.
I found four disgruntled individuals in the Inner Circle: Rosier, Mulciber, and both Carrows. They believed that Mudbloods should be labeled as such, even at a loss. Rosier was dead, as was Amycus Carrow. Alecto is more straightforward: she is now preoccupied with the Black money, the house, and especially her child. She is grateful that the Dark Lord married her to his favorite, Sirius Black, and she will not be particularly foolish. Thus, only Mulciber remains. We shall find him an important position in the Ministry: either he will redeem himself, or he will perish after the failure.
My victory could be termed Pyrrhic, were it not for one fact: nearly all the enemies perished, including Albus's golems. According to estimates, fewer than one in ten individuals survived, and they were not the most combat-ready. Meanwhile, the majority of my forces remained alive! Moreover, the enemy was morally defeated, and my authority had soared to unprecedented heights, as had Dumbledore's authority...
And I myself was wounded; they carried him away unconscious, and I laid down an army. I had become entangled with mercenaries... Yes, my enemies still held all the major Sources of Magic. But they lacked personnel to defend them! In such circumstances, capturing Stonehenge would be a piece of cake. Particularly when imperialized puppets from the office plankton would also be opposed by office plankton.
It's more complex with the Ministry, but it's still manageable—in extreme cases, I will transport a detachment as a phoenix. Fortunately, the Ministry's defenses are not in optimal condition now, and the imperialized managed to smuggle a couple of Vanishing Cabinets in there. An assault from within, when the entire garrison had perished in battle, and Albus was lying somewhere, knocked out—what could be simpler?
And Hogwarts... The local source is tied to the director; even if I could make my house-elf the director on paper, as long as Dumbledore is alive, I possess no power over that place of might. It's not critical: we have two sources; they have one. In the best-case scenario, Hogwarts will be besieged, and if open resistance arises, the defenses will be forced through. Unlike Dumbledore, I have someone to safeguard my positions.
And as for the trash... we shall recruit Dementors and the like, if necessary. There is no shortage of werewolves; we will soon be implementing migration quotas. We'll leave these behind—after all, they fought for freedom, and we will only take new ones if they prove their usefulness. Or perhaps we shouldn't—major military operations are no longer planned.
The "storming" of Stonehenge lasted less than fifteen minutes. My entire army faced off against the defenders. Yes, the army was fatigued, but the numerical superiority was enormous, and they had no fighters left. And the source lay silent. I, along with a detachment of elite magicians, penetrated within via a phoenix—their defenses malfunctioned, likely due to the repercussions of my earlier strike.
For the majority of this time, we simply searched for defenders, and then hurled them into prison. The Ministry didn't even require storming—they surrendered. The faction seeking a compromise with me triumphed among local politicians. More accurately, they achieved acceptable terms of capitulation. Since I did not intend to execute, torture, or dispossess everyone of their property, there would not be any issues.
Those dispatched to Hogwarts discovered traces of Hellfire at the site of Dumbledore's battle with the Basilisk. There was no resistance—the imperialized Ministry employees simply sent the children back, placing the teachers under house arrest "for criminal negligence." I gathered the intimidated gazes of my followers. If those with intellect comprehended that this was some form of self-strengthening, the most dim-witted among them did not. Some of the werewolves had never encountered Voldemort before and decided that he possessed such power.
The head of the Department of Mysteries expressed a desire to meet with me to "announce the surrender." I ordered my followers to inspect him for artifacts, potions, and to remove his protections. I would verify it myself later, but time was of the essence.
Having assumed the form of Elena, I conversed with the werewolves. I expressed my gratitude for their loyal service and announced the advent of a new life—Voldemort had granted me land. And there would be a "werewolf state." Today, we shall commence construction on the first school for werewolves in the history of the magical world. Both those capable of casting spells (Hogwarts is simpler) and those who cannot (see that hippogriff? Capture it. And this is what the ingredients look like. Go collect them), and age of the applicant is irrelevant—adults can be taught here. Previously, such projects were cut off at the root for one simple reason—where would one find teachers for werewolves? You can teach one werewolf, another—ten or a hundred. When a werewolf transforms up close, they present significant challenges even for a good wizard.
And attempting to pacify them without inflicting harm on the werewolf... The most realistic option is Cruciatus. But I found a solution. All the teachers from Hogwarts are now instructors at a werewolf school. It's a forced measure; it's this way or... they will teach the werewolves something, but they won't be able to influence the loyalty of these citizens of the new magical world to me.
And Hogwarts? What of Hogwarts? Teaching children is a standard job. I'll hire instructors from across the globe. What's perilous about teaching children? And if Albus endeavors to reclaim Hogwarts, he won't recognize the magical world: new laws, a new Minister of Magic. Then Bellatrix came to me. Initially, they attempted to crush me in their embrace, but I was saved by protective spells. Then they sought to seduce me. I have no objections, but I need to maximize Dumbledore's absence. Who knows how long he will remain unconscious? It is imperative that when he returns, he does not recognize the magical world: new laws, a new Minister of Magic.
Then Bellatrix began to lament to me—that she had summoned Grim, for which she had killed her sister, who bore such resemblance to her, and there were rumors that Rufus Scrimgeour was slain by Elena in a Ministry office locked from the inside! Why did she do all the work while I received all the glory? And simultaneously, the thought was clearly discernible—what were you doing with Elena when we were both in the black Sphere in Azkaban? Were you charging yourself with the power of love, and why was there no effect?
I pondered Albus. I couldn't kill him again. Moreover, the Elder Wand remained with him—I couldn't take it from him or defeat him. Bad. But this doesn't change anything—I'll ensure that he cannot wage a guerrilla war alone; I merely need to send Snape to ascertain how severely the old man is wounded. But the most crucial realization I had was to stop tugging at Nunda's mustache. No more confrontations with Dumbledore until I am absolutely certain of my immortality.
After all, that bearded man nearly vanquished me! He dealt me a fatal blow, a fatal one for my mind—I would have become a vegetable regardless of the number of Horcruxes in my possession! But he was let down by the fact that my attack was far more spectacular—he was thrown aside, lost consciousness, and sustained multiple wounds, while I merely appeared slightly stunned, unable to save myself. In the end, my followers saved me. But he battled without his phoenix, and that creature could distract me and bolster him, both with its song and movements. It was fortunate that I eliminated Fawkes in time.
True, I also fought without a phoenix, but she and Barty provided me with an escape route if I truly found myself in peril. Having soothed Bellatrix, I began preparations for my meeting with Alison. Soon, I would have a new slippery ally, who had previously been friends with the Minister of Magic and Albus Dumbledore. Considering the fate of his former allies, it was perilous to befriend him; I simply wished to eliminate him preemptively. Legilimency would reveal his fate, as would an analysis of the situation.
Although no, I had overlooked something. I was fiddling with the Gaunt ring, which contained the Resurrection Stone. Forgive me for deeming you completely useless. You are the greatest creation of magic. Kill someone? The Elder Wand? I'll dispatch mercenaries. Ten. A hundred. A thousand. Forge an artifact? The Invisibility Cloak? I'll purchase it; the Muggles of the world will contribute. But the Resurrection Stone... With your assistance, I will achieve everything, punching through the barriers between life and death.
The only thing that perplexed me was that such matters should come with instructions for use written directly on them.