Harry Potter and the Secret Treasures

“I’m fine, just keep flying!” Harry wiped away some blood, as he saw two more Death Eaters emerging out of the darkness, drawing closer.

As the curses came shooting across the intervening space again, Hagrid swerved and zigzagged: Harry knew that Hagrid did not dare use the dragon-fire button again, with Harry seated so insecurely.

Fortunately, the two Death Eaters at the back were not very strong. Harry sent Stunning Spell after Stunning Spell back at their pursuers, barely holding them off.

He shot another blocking jinx at them: The closest Death Eater swerved to avoid it and his hood slipped, and by the red light of his next Stunning Spell, Harry saw the strangely blank face of Stanley Shunpike — Stan —

Well, this guy had finally become a Death Eater.

Seeing Stan Shunpike, the former Knight Bus conductor, shocked Harry no less than he had been months earlier when he learned he’d been arrested on suspicion of Death Eater activities. He’d argued fiercely with Rufus Scrimgeour about this, insisting Stan Shunpike was definitely not a Death Eater, just a boastful, acne-stricken conductor. Now it seemed nothing was certain.

When evil strikes, everyone goes wild.

Just then, two more Death Eaters emerged from the darkness and sped towards Hagrid’s motorbike.

“Hagrid, one more shot, do the dragon-fire thing again!” Harry shouted over his shoulder.

“Hold on tight, then, Harry!” Hagrid responded.

Harry clambered around on the seat to face forward and seized hold of Hagrid’s waist tightly. With another deafening, screeching roar, the white-blue fire shot from the exhaust: Harry felt himself slipping backward off what little of the seat he had, Hagrid flung backward upon him, barely maintaining his grip on the handlebars —

“I think we’ve lost ’em Harry, I think we’ve done it!” yelled Hagrid.

Harry felt his hand was sticky, and he lifted it up in the moonlight to see it was covered in blood, the blood from his knocked-out tooth.

But the injury was nothing; in fact, Harry thought things had been a bit too easy.

A few minutes later, he felt the motorbike dip slightly, though the lights on the ground were still as distant as stars in the sky.

His rapid breathing gradually subsided, and Harry couldn’t help but wonder, where is Voldemort?

………………………………………………..

After shaking off the Death Eaters, Evan and Sirius changed course and flew northeast — the direction where Ron and Mad-Eye Moody had fled.

Evan could sense that they had stopped moving, a worrying sign.

In the endless darkness surrounding him, he sensed a hint of danger.

There were no Death Eaters, but the air of danger grew thicker as they advanced.

This was Voldemort’s aura!

And his magic!

Voldemort had actually gone after Ron and Moody — how strange!

Evan had no idea why Voldemort would do that; he certainly didn’t believe Voldemort could be so easily fooled.

Even if Voldemort had gone after Harry and Hagrid, Evan wouldn’t have been so surprised. He knew the connection between Harry and the Dark Lord.

The link between the Horcrux and the main soul could allow Voldemort to locate Harry. If he truly wanted to, he could do it, and no one would be able to stop him.

Of course, doing so would further damage Voldemort’s already shattered soul — whether he was willing to risk that was another matter.

But now Voldemort wasn’t going after the most conspicuous target — Evan — nor the real Harry. Instead, he was chasing Ron. That was truly bizarre!

What was he planning?

“Look, Evan, there!” Sirius called out.

Beside a Muggle high-rise in a bustling district, Evan saw Voldemort floating in midair. He was hovering roughly at the height of the sixth floor, without broomstick or Thestral to hold him, his snakelike face gleaming out of the blackness, his white fingers gripping his wand.

At Voldemort’s feet, darkness converged toward him like smoke on the wind.

Before him, another cluster of shadowy smoke was forming.

Under the illumination of the surrounding skyscraper lights, Evan saw “Harry’s” body slowly drifting toward Voldemort.

No, that was Ron!

He was probably unconscious, his head bowed, shrouded in black mist, drawing ever closer to Voldemort.

Between them, there appeared to be a black thread — or perhaps it was simply the deep night, a darkness so thick that even light could not pierce it.

Evan had no idea what Voldemort intended to do with Ron, nor how he had managed to float in mid-air. Tearing his gaze from Voldemort’s black-shrouded form, he quickly scanned the surroundings. The area was in utter devastation, as if a fierce battle had just been fought. Moody was nowhere to be seen, and Evan wondered what had become of him.

There was no time to dwell on it — the urgency of the scene left them no choice. With a roar, Sirius drove his broom straight at Voldemort.

Evan followed, flying up, his wand pointed at the streetlights lining the road.

A flash of blue light — the two streetlamps began to elongate, growing longer and longer, then whipping toward Voldemort like snakes. But before they could touch him, the lamps began to melt, dissolving into gray smoke, which reformed into sharp blades that hurtled toward Sirius as he charged.

Sirius swerved his broom just in time to avoid them. Voldemort leveled his wand at him. “Avada —”

A bolt of silver-white brilliance, like lightning, shot toward Voldemort — Evan’s spell.

He had meant to interrupt Voldemort’s curse, but it was useless. Almost the instant he fired, a black shield materialized in front of Voldemort.

The white light struck the shield with a thunderous rumble, bursting into sparks that scattered into the air.

A crystalline shimmer flashed across the shield, then vanished into the night.

Amid the rolling thunder, Voldemort’s spell was already complete — a jet of deep green light streaked toward Sirius, carrying a deadly threat.

The force was immense. The oppressive magic seemed to squeeze the very air, leaving Sirius no room to dodge.

Bang!

The Killing Curse struck Sirius’s broom. At the very last moment, he Disapparated.

The next second, he appeared above Voldemort, flicking his wand and sending out three beams of red light.

Almost instantly, Evan’s spell was also ready.

He swung his wand vigorously, and a bright red light streaked across the night sky, casting one spell after another at Voldemort.

“Pitiable spells! Pathetic magic!” said Voldemort coldly, his voice devoid of warmth.

He raised his wand, and the black mist around him boiled and swirled.

The spell beams that came into contact with the black fog were swallowed by it, without so much as a ripple.

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