Edward slowly stepped out from behind the tree, revealing himself to Peter. He had Professor Flamel pinned by the throat, his wand pressed inches from the old man’s face.
“Peter… you don’t understand,” Edward said, advancing. “This is necessary. I have to do this.”
Peter backed away, wand raised, heart hammering. “I trusted you,” he choked out. “I thought so highly of you, Professor. How did you even get back into Hogwarts? Who helped you? Tell me!”
Edward’s grip on Flamel tightened. “I will tell you everything, Peter. I promise. But let me finish this. I must kill him. Fifteen years I’ve waited—fifteen years for this moment!”
“Expelliarmus!” Peter shouted, sending a jet of red light through the air—but Edward snapped his wand and blocked it with ease.
“Sectumsempra!” Edward roared.
The curse flew at Peter like a black blade. His reflexes kicked in; he dove sideways, but not fast enough. His right cheek tore open, his arm split with a deep gash, and he crashed onto the ground, screaming. His wand skidded away into the dirt.
Edward froze, horror flickering across his face. “I—I’m sorry, Peter! Are you hurt? I didn’t mean—”
But Peter only groaned, clutching his arm. Blood streaked down his cheek. Still, with trembling determination, he crawled toward his wand.
Seeing Peter recover, Edward panicked. He jerked Flamel closer and lifted himself into the air using a levitation charm, floating away across the forest canopy.
Peter staggered upright, swaying with pain, but lifted his wand. “Stupefy!”
The red bolt struck Edward before he could dodge. He was thrown backwards, crashing into a thick tree trunk. Flamel tumbled free, gasping.
Peter sprinted toward the headmaster, dragging him to shelter behind a fallen log. Flamel drifted in and out of consciousness, murmuring nonsense through half-closed eyes.
Suddenly—
A violent force slammed into Peter’s chest. He flew backward through the air, losing his grip on Flamel as he soared into a tree and crashed into the dirt.
Edward stood again, shaking with fury. His wand pointed at Peter. “This shall teach you a lesson!” he snarled.
Peter’s body lifted into the air, flung violently through branches and brush, hurled deeper and deeper into the forest until the world blurred and vanished.
Edward raised his wand and flicked it sharply toward Flamel. The headmaster’s body jerked violently upward, suspended mid-air like a puppet on invisible strings.
Flamel’s eyes snapped open, wide with terror—but before he could react, Edward hissed:
“Imperio.”
Flamel’s expression melted instantly into blank obedience. His limbs went limp, his eyelids drooping as he hung in the air, floating helplessly under Edward’s control.
“Sleep, old man…” Edward whispered, almost tenderly. “When you wake, it will all be over.”
He stepped closer, tightening his grip on his wand, preparing to finish the killing curse he had waited fifteen long years to cast—
When a thunderous rumbling shook the forest.
Edward froze.
From deep within the trees came the unmistakable pounding of dozens of hooves—fast, coordinated, furious.
The Centaurs.
Edward’s eyes widened in alarm. He turned just in time to see a full herd bursting from the shadows, galloping straight toward him in a storm of raw, furious magic.
And clinging to the tail of one of them—white-knuckled but determined—was Stewart Malfoy.
“NOW!” Stewart shouted, pointing his wand at Flamel mid-gallop.
“Wingardium Leviosa!”
The spell shot forward, snatching Flamel’s limp body away from Edward’s grasp just in time. The headmaster drifted awkwardly through the air but sailed safely toward Stewart, who grabbed him by the robes as the centaur charged past.
Edward snarled, fury blazing in his eyes.
“You insolent little—!”
Without finishing, he lunged forward and seized the mane of another passing centaur. With inhuman agility, he swung himself onto its back, gripping tightly as the creature reared in shock.
The chase was on.
Edward urged the centaur beneath him into a reckless sprint, racing through the forest after Stewart, who clung to Flamel with one hand and the centaur’s tail with the other. Branches whipped past, hooves thundered, and shouts echoed as predator pursued prey through the ancient, moonlit woods.
Peter awoke in a ditch, surrounded by darkness.
Not darkness—Dementors.
Hundreds of them.
Their hooded faces hovered above him like shadows given life. His breath froze. Every scrap of joy drained from his chest as they descended.
He stumbled to his feet and ran.
Branches whipped against his torn cheek. His lungs burned. Behind him, the Dementors glided silently, drawing out every dream he’d ever loved.
He saw Stewart and Alison lying broken in hospital beds. He saw his mother weeping over his body. He felt his soul tearing apart.
He fell to his knees, shaking uncontrollably.
Then, with nothing left to lose, he raised his wand to the sky and screamed—
“Basilisko!”
A blinding green eruption burst from his wand, lighting the forest like emerald fire. A colossal spectral Basilisk materialized, its scales shimmering brighter than moonlit glass.
It roared—a sound that shook the forest floor.
The Dementors recoiled, hissing, their ranks trembling.
They surged toward the serpent, surrounding it in a dark circle. But the Basilisk twisted violently, shattering their formation, blasting Dementors away like leaves in a storm.
Those who weren’t destroyed fled in terror, scattering into the trees.
For the first time in their cursed existence, the monsters of hopelessness felt fear.
Peter gasped, realizing—
I can control them.
“I have to use them to catch Edward,” he whispered.
The Basilisk turned toward him, eyes glowing, and bowed its head.
It understood.
With a single thunderous roar, the Dementors regrouped—not to attack, but to obey.
They followed the Basilisk like soldiers under a general.
Meanwhile, Stewart raced through the forest on the back of a galloping centaur, Flamel floating beside him under a desperate Wingardium Leviosa.
As they escaped, Edward gripped another centaur’s tail and swung himself onto its back, chasing them.
Flamel regained consciousness mid-air. With a grunt, he dispelled the levitation charm and dropped beside Stewart, wand out.
Edward jumped from the centaur, landing in front of them. He pointed his wand at Flamel, shaking with rage.
Flamel only smirked.
A massive THUD echoed behind Edward.
He turned—
—and a Troll clubbed him across the back, sending him sprawling into a tree. His wand flew from his hand.
Stewart gaped. “Alison! How did you—how did you DO that?!”
Alison, approaching with the Troll waddling behind her like a loyal pet, shrugged. “I didn’t hurt him. I was kind. He seemed… lonely. So we’re friends now.”
Stewart burst into laughter. Flamel stared in disbelief.
Flamel raised his wand. “Back to the forest, friend,” he told the Troll gently.
The Troll nodded and lumbered away.
Edward dragged himself upright, clutching his ribs. “Flamel, you fool! That Troll could’ve protected you from what I’m about to—”
“You will be your own undoing, Black,” Flamel interrupted. “Whatever you do here—whatever you’ve done—I promise you’ll face it.”
Before Edward could answer, a soft green glow illuminated the trees.
Then it grew.
And grew.
The whole forest lit up like daylight.
All four of them turned—
—and froze.
Peter emerged from the shadows, limping, bleeding—but standing tall. Behind him, towering like a god, shone the spectral Basilisk. And around it…
A swarm of Dementors hovered in obedient formation, awaiting Peter’s command.
Flamel’s jaw dropped. Stewart and Alison stared in pure awe.
Edward fell to his knees, laughing through tears of fear and pride.
“That’s an O, Mr. Harrow,” he said quietly. “Outstanding.”
The Dementors swarmed him like a tide. Edward didn’t fight. He only looked at Peter with a trembling smile.
“We will meet again, Peter. I promise you that. And when we do… you will learn something new.”
The Dementors lifted him into the air and swept him away through the treetops, disappearing into the star-filled sky toward Azkaban.
Peter exhaled shakily. The Basilisk dissolved into sparkling emerald mist and slid back into his wand.
His knees buckled, and he collapsed onto the forest floor.
It had been a long, unforgiving night.
*******************************
Peter woke up in the hospital wing with Professor Flamel and his two best friends sitting anxiously at his bedside. The moment his eyes opened, all three rushed forward and wrapped him in a warm, crushing hug. Peter winced—but laughed. He was safe. They were safe.
By evening, Madam Pomfrey finally allowed him to leave. Stewart and Alison practically dragged him back to the Slytherin dormitory, where a large box waited on his bed—Bertie Bott’s Every Flavour Beans, sent with a handwritten note from Professor Flamel.
The trio spent the entire evening and half the night tasting beans one by one, screaming, laughing, comparing flavours—soap, dirt, candyfloss, pepper, and something unidentifiable that made Stewart temporarily unable to speak. For the first time in days, the castle felt peaceful again.
The final morning of the term arrived far too quickly. The whole school gathered in the Great Hall for the year-end feast. Peter stared at the enchanted ceiling, remembering the terrified, uncertain boy who had walked through those doors months ago. Now, the ceiling felt brighter—alive with thousands of stars gently shimmering above them.
Headmaster Flamel rose from his seat. The hall fell instantly silent.
“A memorable year, perhaps!” he began warmly. “We have made new friends, new memories, and—dare I say—new legends. Each of you arrived one year younger than you stand today, and each of you is leaving one year wiser. So—applaud yourselves for your progress!”
Applause thundered through the hall.
“Every house has performed admirably,” the headmaster continued. “But one house has stood out this year. Slytherin! Once removed entirely from Hogwarts, I reintroduced them at the start of my term—and I could not be more proud of the results.”
The Slytherin table roared with pride.
“Before we close the year, I wish to award points for a few remarkable acts of character.”
He lifted a scroll.
“Fifty points to Slytherin’s Stewart Malfoy, for offering his hands to those who mattered most—especially in times when chaos flooded the air.”
The Slytherin table erupted. Stewart’s face went so red that Alison nudged him with a smirk.
“Fifty points to Slytherin’s Alison Parkinson, for bringing kindness and light even to creatures the world calls doomed.”
More applause, louder this time. Alison blushed deeply as Peter clapped proudly for her.
“And fifty points to Peter Harrow,” Flamel said, voice softening, “for proving that it is not our instincts, but our choices, that truly define who we are.”
The applause nearly shook the table. Peter felt his chest warm—humbled, proud, and overwhelmed.
“But we are not done yet.” Flamel raised a hand. “Fifty points to Gryffindor’s George Smith, for his unwavering determination in the face of danger.”
The Gryffindor table exploded with cheers. Slytherins did not seem disappointed—many clapped along, including Peter.
“And now,” Flamel said with a grin, “the moment you have all been waiting for—the winner of the House Cup!”
The stars on the ceiling seemed to pulse.
“This year’s House Cup goes to… Slytherin!”
The entire Slytherin table leaped to their feet, cheering wildly.
“And…” Flamel added loudly, raising his eyebrows, “Gryffindor!”
The cheers stopped abruptly. Confusion rippled across the hall.
“Yes,” Flamel said, chuckling at their expressions, “it is a tie. Slytherin and Gryffindor have both earned exactly five hundred and twenty points.”
A stunned silence filled the hall.
“So,” Flamel asked lightly, “are both houses willing to share the House Cup?”
The hall remained silent.
Slytherins glared at Gryffindors. Gryffindors glared back.
Peter briefly imagined a shared trophy—but then he locked eyes with George Smith across the hall. George raised an eyebrow challengingly.
And Peter knew immediately: no chance.
“Well,” Flamel said, amused, “as it is clear that neither house is willing to share—perfectly fair, I might add—we shall settle this matter at the start of next year!”
Excited chatter erupted throughout the hall.
“Until then,” the headmaster concluded, “enjoy your holidays!”
The enchanted ceiling burst into a swirl of falling gold sparks as students rose from their seats, laughing and cheering, ready to begin the summer.
A year had ended—but for Peter Harrow, his story had only just begun.
**********************************
The train was due in a few hours, but Peter, Stewart, and Alison still had a little time left—time for last-minute promises before they all returned home.
“My Instagram handle is malboy_dopeshit009,” Stewart said proudly. “Write it somewhere. And follow me the moment you reach home!”
They were standing inside the empty Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom—the same room where an impostor had lived among them the entire year. The place felt eerie now, hollow almost, without the presence of Professor Lincon… or Edward Black.
“Alright,” Alison said, adjusting her bag. “Mine is alison.park34.”
She turned to Peter. “What about you, Pete? You’ve been quiet for ages. What’s going on in that head of yours?”
Peter stood leaning against a desk, his arms crossed, brows tightly drawn. He had been lost in thought since morning.
“I’ve just been wondering…” Peter finally spoke. “Edward’s mission was to kill Professor Flamel. But in the forest, he said something strange. He said his work was already done. That killing Flamel was… personal. So what did he mean? Did he have another mission? If that’s already completed, we might be in trouble.”
Stewart frowned. “We can’t be sure yet. Did he leave you any clue? Something from the diary? Anything you remember from back then?”
Peter inhaled slowly. “Well… when I first took his diary, there was our textbook Dark Forces beside it—borrowed and returned long ago. But there was something else too. A locket.”
“A locket?” Alison cut in sharply. “What sort of locket?”
“The usual kind,” Peter replied. “The ones people gift each other—lockets with photographs inside.”
“Whose picture was in it?” Stewart asked. “His mother?”
“No, it wasn’t open when I saw it,” Peter said, shaking his head. “And I didn’t have time to check. But… Edward also visited the Room of Requirement. That’s where all the portraits were kept. Captain Friggles told us Edward was searching for something in there.”
“Looking for portraits…” Stewart murmured to himself.
“Exactly.” Peter leaned forward. “He spent nights roaming the castle, but only through corridors with very few portraits. He even removed all the portraits from this classroom except one—the Weeping Philosopher. I’m sure of it now. His mission had something to do with the portraits.”
A long, cold silence filled the room.
Then they heard it—the distant whistle of the Hogwarts Express echoing through the stone corridors.
It was time to go home. Finally.
Peter turned toward the door—
When a chilling voice slithered into the air behind them:
“You exceed my expectations.”
The three of them froze.
The voice continued, colder, sharper, almost amused:
“Well done… children.”
Peter’s heart slammed against his ribs. The three slowly looked around.
The room was empty. Silent. Still.
Except—The Weeping Philosopher was moving.
In the portrait, the figure had stopped weeping. He was no longer hunched or sorrowful. He straightened, lifting his head as if waking from a very long sleep.
Peter stepped forward instinctively, wand trembling in his hand.
The figure inside the painting smiled—a smile that was all wrong.
“Edward always told me how talented you three were,” the figure said, voice echoing disturbingly across the room. “I doubted him.”
The philosopher’s robes began to shift. His hair receded. His skin turned pale—deathly pale. His features rippled like water, twisting, reshaping.
Something was coming out.
Something ancient. Something evil.
“But you…” the portrait hissed, “you defeated the one I chose.”
The transformation continued, slow and horrific.
The philosopher’s eyes turned red—blood red. His nose sunk inward, leaving slits like a serpent. His jaw stretched unnaturally wide. The face whitened into a wax-like mask of death.
Stewart staggered backward. Alison clutched Peter’s arm.
Peter couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe.
He had seen pictures. He had heard stories. He had read the name in books.
But he had never imagined he would ever see him.
Once the transformation was complete, the figure—no longer a philosopher but a nightmare—looked directly at them through the canvas.
And with a voice as cold as the grave, he whispered:
“The flaw was always there…
not in our plan…
but in theirs.”
Lord Voldemort smiled.
Comments
Post a Comment