Combustion! Heat! Death!
A storm of fireballs rained down from the sky like meteorites, distorting the air with their intense heat. The very atmosphere seemed to writhe, saturated with the acrid scent of death.
On the ground, the werewolves looked up in terror at the inferno descending upon them. Their powerful bodies strained as they sprinted in all directions, desperate to escape.
The dark wizards, sensing the magnitude of the danger overhead, instinctively reached for the escape provided by Apparition. But to their horror, the surging magic in the air disrupted spatial fluctuations, making Apparition a death sentence instead of salvation.
Realizing their predicament, they quickly raised their wands and cast defensive spells in rapid succession.
"Protego!"
One after another, barriers of various colors shimmered into existence above the square. Pale golden glimmers of defensive enchantments flickered across the dark wizards' robes, layering their protection further.
Compared to their frantic attempts at survival, the dementors fared better. Their spectral forms resisted much of the fire and magic, though the oppressive heat and the magical pressure caused them to circle uneasily. Some even drifted instinctively toward Voldemort, their master, seeking a semblance of security.
Voldemort stood at the forefront, his scarlet eyes narrowing as he watched the cascading fireballs and felt the immense magical power saturating the battlefield. He inhaled deeply, his expression a dangerous mix of calculation and menace.
Buzz!
Dark mist erupted from Voldemort's body, coiling and spreading outward like a living shadow. With a flick of his yew wand, the mist surged upward, condensing into countless black arrows radiating an aura of death and destruction.
Death Arrows.
Defense was not Voldemort's style. His philosophy was simple: overwhelm with relentless attacks. His arrows were not aimed at protecting the werewolves or dark wizards from the fireballs above; to him, their lives were expendable.
His true targets were the students casting the firestorm spell.
"This group of students..." Voldemort thought coldly, his wand poised, "trained by Lockhart, are a liability. Their deaths will surely crush him."
Without hesitation, he waved his wand, preparing to unleash a devastating volley.
But then, a calm voice broke through his concentration.
"Mr. Dark Lord, have you forgotten? Your enemy is me!"
Lockhart's voice was steady, almost taunting, as he floated in mid-air, not far from Voldemort. His composed demeanor and infuriatingly handsome face made Voldemort's rage flare.
With a sharp flick of his wand, Voldemort redirected the Death spell toward Lockhart.
Whoosh! Whoosh! Whoosh!
The air was filled with the shrill sound of arrows slicing through it, each one streaking toward Lockhart.
Unfazed, Lockhart merely smiled. He raised his wand and drew a simple line of red flame before him.
In an instant, the line expanded into an intricate wall of blazing red flames, carved with strange, otherworldly runes.
Boom! Boom! Boom!
The Death Arrows slammed into the fiery wall, splintering into black mist upon impact. The mist hissed and writhed, corroding the wall, leaving jagged craters in its surface.
Lockhart's brows furrowed as he sensed the dark energy attempting to infiltrate the barrier. With a quick flourish of his wand, the runes on the wall glowed, purging much of the black mist or forcing it to dissipate outward.
Unperturbed, Voldemort reformed the scattered mist into new arrows. Each one bristled with even more concentrated malice as they streaked toward Lockhart's fiery wall again.
The cycle repeated: attack, defense, corrosion, and reformation.
Despite holding the line, Lockhart felt the rapid depletion of his magic. A faint frown crossed his face. Voldemort's relentless assaults were taking their toll—not just on his barrier but on his own strength.
He noticed a malevolent curse lingering in the air, snaking toward his body and soul. Its emptiness gnawed at him, eroding his defenses from within.
Voldemort smirked, sensing Lockhart's struggle.
"Avada Kedavra!"
With a swift motion, Voldemort unleashed the Killing Curse.
"Avada Kedavra!"
Another green bolt of death followed, and then another. Each curse hurtled toward the weak points in Lockhart's barrier, exploiting its cracks.
The first bolt shattered a significant section of the fiery wall, creating a gaping hole. More curses followed, their lethal energy converging on Lockhart like a swarm of harbingers.
Then, in one fluid motion, Lockhart dismissed his wand, letting it vanish.
He crossed his arms over his chest in an unfamiliar gesture. A ring on his finger began to hum, emitting a low, resonant buzz. The space around him shimmered, as if distorted by rippling water.
Voldemort's eyes narrowed. This was something he didn't recognize. He poured even more magic into his Killing Curse, amplifying its speed and lethality.
The curses streaked toward Lockhart, each one a promise of death.
Whoosh! Whoosh! Whoosh!
The green bolts of death surged forward—only to pass through Lockhart as if he were a phantom.
The curses continued their trajectory, colliding harmlessly with the ground behind him.
Voldemort's scarlet eyes widened, disbelief etched into his face.
"Impossible," he hissed. "The Killing Curse... it's ineffective?"