Harry Potter and the Silent Guardian

A jarring hush fell over the atrium, leaving everyone too shocked or exhausted to speak. Dumbledore lay motionless in death, his skin etched with the black curse. The Ministry was in disarray, Aurors scrambling to subdue the few remaining Death Eaters who were still conscious. Harry, drained by the night's battles, had stepped away, hoping the conflict was truly finished.

Yet fate disagreed. From the rubble of the ruined fountain, Gellert Grindelwald moved again—even though he had been thoroughly stunned just moments earlier. A swirl of dark, acrid smoke rose around him, coiling like a living shadow.

Harry's eyes narrowed. "Just when I thought I could finally get some real sleep," he muttered, instantly shifting to the forefront of the crowd. Sirius, James, and Moody flanked him, wands held ready.

One Auror gasped. "How can he even stand? Our spells should've kept him unconscious for hours!"

"It's some kind of foul magic," Moody growled, his magical eye whirling in its socket, trying to track the strands of black smoke twisting around Grindelwald's form.

Grindelwald's eyes opened, revealing pale irises shining with eerie clarity. Dark tendrils wrapped themselves around his torso, writhing over his torn robes as if feeding on an inner reservoir of malevolence. A low, raspy laugh spilled from his lips—soft at first, then growing louder, brimming with unsettling amusement.

"This is impossible," Lily whispered, fear threaded through her voice.

Still shaken by Dumbledore's death, Charles stared in disbelief. Amelia moved in, her wand raised, as the Aurors expanded into a wide formation.

Harry wasted no time. He remembered earlier that night when Fenrir and Vladimir had used warped magic to power themselves up. This was another foul technique, and he wasn't about to let it advance further. He blasted a rapid-fire series of spells, each intended to disable or restrain. Crimson Stunners, silver ropes of binding charms, and waves of concussive force hammered the black cloud swirling around Grindelwald.

Yet nothing happened.

The black tendrils merely swallowed the spells, as though Harry's magic were no more than a breath of air against a raging blaze. Every single curse vanished into the dark haze without resistance, and Grindelwald's laughter deepened, full of a cold, mocking edge far more disturbing than open rage.

"No effect," Sirius murmured, astonished.

"Don't bother, young Potter," Grindelwald's distorted voice reverberated from inside the darkness, sounding both frail and menacing. "It is… futile." He spoke weakly, each word harsh with exhaustion, yet there was an underlying layer of danger in his tone.

The black tendrils throbbed, then gradually began to disperse, revealing Grindelwald standing upright again. But he had changed. His face was gaunt, his complexion ashen, and his eyes were sunken yet still glowed with unnatural intensity. His once-elegant robes now seemed too large on his withered form. Dark magic clung to him like a swirling mantle, pulsing with sinister power.

"My old friend Albus has departed on his next great journey," Grindelwald said hoarsely, his gaze drifting to Dumbledore's lifeless body before settling on Harry. "And it seems… it is time for me to join him. I wouldn't want to miss the train, now would I?"

A fresh wave of unease coursed through Harry. Grindelwald spoke of death, of following Dumbledore into some grim afterlife. Yet there was another note in his voice—something deliberate, carefully planned.

Several Aurors shared uncertain looks, the confusion plain on their faces.

Sirius snorted, eyeing Grindelwald with mingled doubt and suspicion. "He's dying?"

Grindelwald let out a rough chuckle. "Certainly I'm dying, Black. Did you think I would live forever?" He paused, his gaze sliding to Voldemort's unconscious form lying nearby. A calculating gleam flickered in his eyes. "But before I go, there's a final piece of business. I can't leave… without making one last contribution. It wouldn't do, would it, for the age of darkness to simply… end here. So… I've decided to do something generous."

The dark magic around Grindelwald surged, growing thicker and more viscous, before stretching outward in tendrils across the rubble-strewn floor. Their path soon became horribly obvious: the creeping black tendrils advanced toward Voldemort's unmoving body.

"Stop it!" Moody thundered, sending a hex at Grindelwald. Others followed, flinging curses at either Grindelwald or Voldemort. But the dark aura consumed each spell effortlessly.

Harry added a hail of spells as well, fighting to break the link, but again, the black magic devoured every curse he unleashed, growing denser, stronger, pulsing with Grindelwald's waning life force. Disarming charms, binding hexes, even blasts meant to destroy—none could halt the encroaching darkness.

With a sickening twist in his stomach, Harry realized the truth: Grindelwald was transferring his power—his last remnants of strength and essence—to Voldemort. A final, vile act of legacy meant to ensure darkness would not perish with him.

Harry's pulse pounded as he watched Grindelwald's body tremble, that dark aura seeping from him. Meanwhile, Voldemort's eyelids began to stir, as though he were emerging from a deep sleep.

Pinned by Aurors across the atrium, Magnus struggled furiously. "Master—" he began, but Amelia cut him off with a Stunner. The rest of the onlookers watched in grim horror as Grindelwald's life force continued pouring into the one wizard who absolutely did not need more power.

Then, Voldemort twitched. His fingers flexed, his eyelids opening to reveal crimson eyes that had lost their previous dullness. They shone now with a blazing, renewed intensity. He turned to Grindelwald's fading form, momentary comprehension crossing his snake-like face. His thin lips curled into a slow, dreadful grin. A guttural laugh built in his throat and erupted into a triumphant, unhinged cackle.

"Yes… Let the darkness remain," Grindelwald whispered, his voice fading as he watched Voldemort awaken. His cheeks sank in, skin turning a pale gray. Finally, at the height of the twisted spell, Grindelwald's entire body disintegrated. He became ashen flakes, drifting onto the broken marble. His last murmur of laughter lingered, chilling all who heard it. Grindelwald was gone, leaving only a faint scattering of grey ash. But his strength had taken root in another host.

Voldemort flung his head back and roared with glee, the echo of his triumph booming through the ravaged atrium. A massive wave of magic exploded outward from him, an invisible shockwave hurling everyone to the floor. Aurors, Order members, Ministry officials—Lily, James, Charles, Emma, Fleur—all were swept off their feet, smashing into walls or collapsing where they stood. Their wands were tossed aside, their breaths torn from their lungs, leaving them dizzy and disoriented.

Only one figure stayed upright, unmoved by the blast: Harry Potter, still shrouded in that faint white glow. He stood firm, watching as Voldemort, newly reborn and more powerful than ever, slowly rose, his crimson eyes blazing with a heightened malice. The battle, it seemed, was far from finished. If anything, it had only grown more terrifying.