The indignation of this thing knowing who I really am—and daring to consider me on par with Voldemort—burned deeper than I could have anticipated. I’ve never been one for arrogance, but how on earth had a copycat like him managed to win the loyalty of a Dementor?

  Throughout history, I'd faced my share of insults. My image twisted and diluted, my essence reduced to tales meant to frighten children. But this situation… it kindled an anger in me I hadn't felt in ages.

  I glanced over at Hermione, unconscious on the ground beyond the cloaked fiend. My mind raced with possible ways to help her as my blood simmered. My arsenal contained only a handful of spells capable of hurting a Dementor, but every single one risked harming her as well. I need to get it away from her!

  "Flipendo!" I cast, watching as the spell pushed the Dementor a few feet back, giving me the smallest window to think.

  Not far enough! I thought, feeling the urgency of the situation press on me. This was where things would get difficult. I’d never truly pursued mastery of the sword—swordsmanship had always been more of a pastime, a way to pass the centuries. Now, I needed a skill I never fully embraced, a skill Godric had once tried to teach me. His words echoed in my mind from when I’d once admitted, “I have no talent with the sword, Godric.”

  “That’s not true, my friend,” he’d said with that characteristic steadiness. “What you lack is not talent, but the need. Once your life, or something you desperately care about, rides on the use of your blade—it will cut truer than ever before.”

  Godric had honed his swordsmanship to a level that verged on myth. His skills were such that some said he could cut through spells themselves. A fully cast spell could typically only be blocked by another spell, yet Godric’s blade was an exception to almost anything—save the Killing Curse.

  He’d discovered that a true swordsman could channel their will into the blade, drawing magical energy from the environment and funneling it through the weapon. This effect, similar yet opposite to the way a wand worked, temporarily strengthened the blade, allowing it to impact objects and beings beyond the ordinary. But the technique was not for everyone—it demanded magical prowess and complete focus.

  For the rest of the magical community, this ability was impractical. The focus required slowed the user’s natural recovery of magical energy, and unlike a wand, a metal sword was a poor conductor of magic, making it incredibly draining. It was powerful, but it came at a steep cost.

  had long since mastered channeling my will into a blade, but drawing on external magical power in tandem remained a skill just out of reach—until now.

  Oddly enough, a stick proved a better conduit than a metal sword, allowing the energy to flow, albeit imperfectly. Like a match igniting with a swift strike, the energy surged through the stick in a concentrated line, its edge now crackling with my will. This time, I didn't need a resilient weapon; I needed raw, explosive force.

  Focusing intently, I compressed every ounce of magical energy at the tip of the stick, watching as it began to glow an intense red, a warning of imminent eruption.

  I lunged, executing the cleanest fencing thrust I’d ever managed, and the stick connected directly with the Dementor's chest.

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  BOOM!

  The stick shattered upon impact, fragments bursting outward and embedding into the Dementor like shrapnel. All that remained was the small section I’d held, my hand miraculously unharmed save for a few splinters. The Dementor, however, was sent flying back, crashing against a nearby brick wall, temporarily dazed but at last separated from Hermione.

  Without wasting a second, I raised my wand. "Incendio Maxima!"

  A torrent of flame roared forth, spiraling into a fierce inferno that could melt stone, colliding directly with the Dementor. Yet, despite the raw, blazing heat, it merely staggered, emerging almost unscathed save for a faint singe. The creature’s resilience to fire was maddening.

  “Maxima” is an ancient and largely forgotten modifier, intensifying a spell’s effect to its absolute limit. Today, it’s mostly known through Lumos Maxima, used for a brighter light. Few remember that any spell with three words or fewer can have "Maxima" added to it. Its power, though, is perilous; spells with no natural cap could drain a caster to death. Many a wizard fell victim to their own amplified attacks, which is why most professors taught to avoid its use altogether. Only Lumos Maxima remains in regular practice since the light spell poses no danger.

  The Dementor rose once again, visibly enraged by my last attack, but I refused to relent. “Sectumsempra Maxima!” I shouted, channeling every ounce of my focus.

  As much as I loathed Snape, I couldn’t deny he had crafted a powerful death curse. Knowing all death spells, I was familiar with this one’s creator and the devastating force it wielded. Unlike Diffindo, Sectumsempra cut deeper, its wounds laced with a dark anti-healing curse akin to basilisk venom or a recluse spider’s bite, making recovery nearly impossible.

  The curse slashed cleanly through the Dementor, bisecting it and leaving a gash that extended into the brick wall behind it. Yet, even with its body split, the creature didn’t die. Its two halves clung together, barely separated, as if held by a ghostly force, a crack in reality itself. I staggered, falling to one knee, my energy almost entirely drained.

  “Damn thing’s resilient,” I muttered through clenched teeth.

  I knew from the start I could not defeat the Dementor. My only hope was to either make it too much trouble for the creature so it would retreat or stall long enough for someone capable to arrive.

  Unwilling to back down, I pointed my wand toward a nearby building. “Accio!” I called, summoning a piece of rubble. It ricocheted off the Dementor’s head, causing it to momentarily falter before making its way into my hand. Hogwarts' first-year spells might seem basic, but they had their uses, even in desperate times.

  The object I caught was a piece of old drainpipe. Exhausted but determined, I prepared for another charge. Just as I braced myself, a voice called out, “Expecto Patronum!” and a bright, silvery bat burst forth, flooding the area with calming light.

  The Dementor recoiled, shrieking before it was forced to retreat into the shadows, banished by the Patronus. I looked over my shoulder, and my eyes met those of our unexpected savior: Trocar Sanguini. Of all people—Sod it all to hell!

  For a few moments, we simply stared at each other, each recognizing a profound truth about the other. He now knew that I was Death incarnate, bound in mortal form, and I realized that Trocar Sanguini was far more than just an undead mage. Only a soul of true purity could cast a Patronus like his—a feat difficult even for powerful wizards and nearly impossible for a vampire, whose very nature defies light and life. There was something undeniably unique about this man, something that hinted at a deeper mystery beneath the surface.

  “Benjamin Diggory! Dumbledore would like to speak with you in his office… and so would I,” said the Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher, his voice calm but insistent.

  I then noticed Hagrid, the groundskeeper, standing nearby, his massive arms gently lifting Hermione off the ground. The gentle giant held her as carefully as if she were made of glass. Even in her unconscious state, Hermione's hand remained tightly wrapped around the ruby, and a faint, wheezing breath reassured us all that she was still with us.

  “It’s about damned time,” I muttered, smoothing down my robes with a sharp tug. No matter the circumstances, it was always essential to keep up appearances.

  I need it away from her! I thought.

  These first year and unrestricted spells Hogwarts teaches are actually quite useful, I thought.

  Oh, Sod it all to hell!

  There's more to this man than meets the eye, I noted mentally.

  "It's about damned time," I responded straightening my robes. After all, it's important to keep up appearances.