Harry Potter and the Silent Guardian

A hush fell, thick with anticipation, as Harry raised his wand. "Everyone, stand back," his voice resonated through the shattered atrium, calm yet carrying an undeniable command. "Let me handle this." He stepped forward, leaving Fleur and Emma slightly behind, his gaze sweeping over the assembled dark forces – Grindelwald, Voldemort, and the masked ranks of their followers.

As Harry stepped forward, a soft white light began emanating from his skin, unlike any magical aura they'd seen before. It pulsed with a rhythm that seemed almost alive, creating a barrier that casually deflected stray spells and debris without Harry even acknowledging them.

"What… what is that light?" Lily breathed, her voice a hushed whisper, her eyes wide with a mixture of wonder and a profound, aching regret for the son she barely knew.

Sirius, however, just grinned, a flash of pure, unadulterated pride lighting his features. "That's what happens when you don't waste time playing favorites with your children, Lils."

But if Harry heard their exchange, he gave no sign. His focus honed in on the assembled enemies—Grindelwald, Voldemort, and the masked ranks of their followers. The ancient lore of the Knight's path was lost to most, and few, if any, would realize the significance of the white glow protecting him. Ever since Harry ascended to Great Knight, his very life energy had merged with his raw magical abilities, raising him to a level of power unknown in modern times.

However, this was no time for sword fighting. Tonight, the sword remained sheathed. Tonight was about magic—pure, overwhelming magic.

Wand held loosely, almost casually, in his hand – the Elder Wand remaining discreetly concealed for now – Harry moved. And then, the ruined atrium became the stage for a symphony of magic, a breathtaking display of power that shattered all previous notions of what wizardry could be.

Casting speed became a blur, a near-invisible dance of his wrist and fingers. Spell after spell ripped from his wand tip, a torrent of pure, focused power. Crimson jets of light slammed into masked figures, throwing them back against shattered pillars, instantly Stupefied. Blinding flashes of gold erupted, Expelliarmus charms disarming opponents before they could even react. Waves of emerald green, not the Killing Curse, but powerful binding magic, snaked through the air, ensnaring groups of dark wizards, tying them together in writhing, magically reinforced bonds.

The masked figures, Grindelwald's elite and Voldemort's Death Eaters alike, fell like dominoes. They were skilled, dangerous, but they were facing a force operating on an entirely different plane. Harry moved through them like a tempest, a whirlwind of pure magical energy. He was everywhere at once, spells erupting from his wand in a dazzling, overwhelming display.

"Merlin's beard," Moody rasped, his magical eye spinning wildly in its socket, struggling to track the sheer velocity and complexity of Harry's spell patterns. "I… I've never witnessed anything remotely like this."

"He's… he's taking down their entire army… single-handedly!" whispered an awestruck Auror, his eyes wide with utter disbelief.

James and Lily watched, mouths agape, as their son moved with a grace and power they could scarcely comprehend. Charles, standing slightly behind them, stared, a complex mix of awe and something akin to fear flickering in his eyes. Sirius, however, simply grinned, a wide, proud, almost feral expression. "That's my godson," he murmured to Amelia Bones, who stood beside him, equally stunned.

In what felt like mere heartbeats, the ranks of masked figures were utterly decimated. Heaps of stunned wizards lay scattered across the ruined atrium floor, disarmed, bound, completely neutralized. The furious chaos of moments before had been replaced by a stunned, almost reverent silence, broken only by the crackling echoes of spent magic.

Now, only two figures remained standing against Harry – Gellert Grindelwald and Voldemort. They exchanged a swift, almost imperceptible glance, a silent communication passing between the two dark lords. Then, they moved in unison, turning their combined might against the young wizard who had so effortlessly dismantled their army.

Two streams of dark magic, one elegant and precise, the other brutal and raw, converged on Harry. Grindelwald unleashed a torrent of silver fire, each flame burning with chilling intensity, while Voldemort followed with a barrage of bone-shattering curses, each spell a promise of agonizing pain.

But Harry was ready. He met their combined assault head-on, his white aura flaring brighter, deflecting the brunt of their attacks. His casting remained impossibly fast, spells whipping from his wand in a counter-offensive that was breathtaking in its speed and ferocity.

He parried Grindelwald's silver flames with shimmering shields of pure energy, then retaliated with bolts of lightning, crackling whips of elemental force that forced Grindelwald to weave and dodge with surprising agility for his age. Against Voldemort's curses, Harry unleashed a barrage of shield-breakers, spells designed to shatter dark magic, forcing Voldemort onto the defensive, his sneering face tightening with frustration.

"Impossible!" Grindelwald spat, his usually smooth accent thickening, cracking with raw fury. "No one… no one is supposed to possess this level of power!"

"Actually," Sirius called out cheerfully, a booming voice of unrestrained glee echoing through the stunned silence, "my godson is. And trust me, Gellert, Tommy-boy, you haven't even seen him at full strength yet."

James watched his eldest son with a mixture of pride and profound regret. Every spell, every movement, showed years of dedicated training—training that should have happened under his guidance, not in spite of his absence.

The atrium had transformed into a dazzling, terrifying spectacle of pure magical combat. Harry, bathed in that enigmatic white light, moved with a fluid, almost ethereal grace, his spells precise, devastatingly powerful, and breathtakingly varied. He was not merely defending; he was relentlessly attacking, systematically pushing back against two of the most formidable dark wizards in recorded history, and against all odds, against all expectations, he was unequivocally, undeniably winning.

Voldemort and Grindelwald fought with desperation now, realizing they were facing an opponent far beyond their initial estimations. They combined their efforts, coordinating their attacks, trying to overwhelm Harry with sheer magical force. But it was like trying to break a dam with pebbles.

Harry's casting speed was simply too fast, his defenses too strong, his attacks too relentless. He weaved through their spells as if he could anticipate their every move, countering their every offensive with a perfectly timed defense and a devastating riposte.

Finally, with a decisive surge of power, Harry unleashed a twin volley of spells. A bolt of pure white light, imbued with stunning force, slammed into Grindelwald, catching him off guard and sending him flying backwards, crashing into the remnants of the Fountain of Magical Brethren. Simultaneously, a wave of concussive force, invisible but immensely potent, slammed into Voldemort, knocking the Dark Lord off his feet, his wand flying from his grasp to skitter across the marble floor.

Silence descended once more, heavier this time, absolute. Harry stood in the center of the ruined atrium, his chest rising and falling slowly, the white glow around him dimming slightly but still present. Grindelwald lay sprawled amidst the golden rubble, unconscious. Voldemort, dazed and disoriented, sat slumped on the floor, wandless and defeated.

"That's… that's it?" someone whispered in utter disbelief, the voice barely audible in the charged silence. "He just… he beat them both? Just… just like that?"

Harry had done it. He had subdued them both. And he had achieved the impossible in front of the assembled Order of the Phoenix, a contingent of battle-hardened Aurors… witnesses. Witnesses to his awe-inspiring, overwhelming power, but also, crucially, witnesses to his… restraint. He hadn't killed. He had merely subdued.

He had won the battle, but what now? He couldn't kill Voldemort or Grindelwald in cold blood, not here, not now. He would be hailed as a hero by some, perhaps, but also branded a vigilante, a dark wizard himself by others. The Wizengamot, still riddled with dark sympathizers, might very well see this as an opportunity to bring him down, to imprison him. Azkaban loomed, not for Voldemort, but potentially for him. Fugitive status, endless pursuit… The thought was infuriatingly absurd.

Amelia Bones stepped forward, her monocle gleaming. "Harry, what are you planning to—"

Before she could finish, the atrium's fireplaces began lighting up one after another, emerald flames casting wild shadows across the battle-scarred walls. The Ministry was waking up, and its officials were arriving for the day.

The dawn would reveal a changed world, and Harry knew now it was not in his hands to decide the fate of the two dark lords. He had fought his battle. The rest—judgment, politics, the future—belonged to the Ministry, the Wizengamot, and fate itself.