Hogwarts' Golden Glory

"Silver...laced with holy silver powder?!" Greyback roared, driven mad by pain and rage. "You tricked me!"

"I've prepared for all possibilities," Kane said calmly, his wand continuing to maintain the rune array, "including dealing with a werewolf corrupted by vampire blood."

The battlefield was completely divided into three parts:

In the center, Kane and Lupin confront Graybury, who is bound by silver threads but still struggling frantically.

On the left, Moody and Voldemort engaged in a high-intensity magical duel—fire, darkness, protective spells, and offensive spells intertwined, and the bursts of magical energy forced the surrounding werewolves to retreat.

On the right, more than thirty werewolves who had sided with Kane nervously formed a circle, protecting their clansmen, the elderly, women, and children who had not yet made a choice.

Tobias, Ella, and two other werewolves who had drunk the potion stood at the front. They had completed their transformation but remained conscious, forming a convincing defensive line.

Voldemort glanced at the situation during the battle, a cold calculation flashing in his scarlet eyes.

The situation is getting out of control.

Greyback was tied down, more than a third of the werewolves defected, and the rest were hesitant.

Moody's fighting ability was stronger than he had expected—even in his remnant soul state, Voldemort was not afraid of this old Auror, but he could not win in a short time.

More importantly... Kane Malfoy.

The boy's composure, preparation, and grasp of timing far exceeded what one would expect for his age. And that phoenix on his shoulder…

Voldemort's gaze swept over Igor. The phoenix was spreading its wings, golden light continuously spreading and weakening the surrounding dark magic. This creature had a natural resistance to dark magic.

A plan took shape in his mind.

"Fenrir!" Voldemort suddenly shouted, using his staff to deflect a stun spell from Moody's. "Remember our pact! Prove your worth!"

Upon hearing this, Graybury's blood-red eyes widened sharply. He stopped struggling against the silver thread, instead spreading his arms to allow it to embed itself deeper into his flesh. The excruciating pain made him roar, but it also brought a certain... clarity.

"Yes... Master..." he hissed, his dark red fur beginning to glow with an eerie black light, "to prove... his value..."

He turned to the werewolves who had not yet made a choice—about twenty or so, mostly frightened old and weak, or relatives of Greyback.

"You!" Graybury's voice twisted, a mixture of beast and man, "Loyalty... or death?"

He ripped off several silver threads, ignoring the gushing blood, and lunged at the nearest young werewolf. Not to kill him, but to grab him by the neck and drag him towards Voldemort.

"Sacrifice!" Greyback roared, "Use their blood... to complete the final ritual!"

Voldemort laughed. It was a cold, emotionless laugh.

"A wise choice, Fenrir."

At the top of the wooden staff, the black gemstone began to glow.

The battle has entered its most brutal phase.

The battle reached its climax.

Voldemort's staff traced intricate patterns in the air, each strike creating ripples of black magical energy. Wherever those ripples passed, the ground cracked, the air distorted, and even the moonlight seemed to be tainted.

"Avada Kedavra!"

A green light tore through the air, heading straight for Kane. It wasn't a test; it was a true killing curse.

But Moody had anticipated this. His wooden leg stomped heavily on the ground—not an ordinary step, but a trigger of a pre-set protective array. A semi-transparent silver shield instantly rose around the three of them. The Killing Curse struck the shield, erupting in blinding sparks; the shield trembled violently, but did not shatter.

"Fiendish Mutant, Triple Binding!" Moody retaliated, waving his wand as three burning chains shot towards Voldemort from different angles.

Voldemort didn't even move. His crimson eyes swept over the chains, and he tapped them lightly with his staff: "Shatter."

The black magic sliced ​​through like a sharp blade, and the three chains of fire snapped, turning into sparks and dissipating.

"Your methods are still as old-fashioned as ever, Alastor," Voldemort hissed, his voice laced with sarcasm. "You used this trick twenty years ago, and you still do now."

"Old trick, but effective." Moody gasped for breath, his fake eye spinning wildly while his real eye remained fixed on his opponent. "At least it'll make you stop talking nonsense."

Under Moody's cover, Kane completed his preparations. He crouched down, placing his left hand on the ground, channeling magic through his palm into the network of runes already prepared underground—something he and Moody had secretly planted while setting up the perimeter after their arrival. Igor stood on his shoulder, the phoenix's magic resonating with his, amplifying the runes' effects.

The ground began to glow. Silver lines spread from beneath Kane's palm, quickly connecting to form a complex pattern: a massive array of runes covering half the open space. At the center of the array was the symbol of the moon, surrounded by ancient runes representing "purification," "stability," and "protection."

"Moonlight Purification Array, activate," Kane chanted softly.

The moment the array fully illuminated, the moonlight throughout the camp seemed to be concentrated and purified. Silvery-white light surged from the ground, spreading like mist, and wherever it passed, the dark magic emanating from Voldemort was visibly suppressed and purified.

Voldemort showed surprise for the first time: "Ancient formations like the Niven array... Nicolas Flamel taught you that?"

"He gave me the book." Kane stood up, wand in hand. "Deciphering it is my own business."

"What a pity, child." Voldemort shook his head, a hint of regret flashing in his crimson eyes. "You have great talent, but you've chosen the wrong path."

He raised his staff, and the black gemstone burst forth with an even more intense light. This time, it wasn't a direct attack, but a low, chilling chant. The language didn't belong to any known magical language; the syllables were twisted and bizarre, each note sending shivers down the spine of anyone who heard it.

The runic array on the ground began to flicker erratically. Black magic, like ink dripping into clear water, began to taint the silvery-white light.

"He's using ancient dark magic to corrupt your array!" Moody roared. "Hold on, kid! We can't let him—"

Before he could finish speaking, Voldemort's second wave of attacks arrived.

"Soul's scream!"

An invisible sound wave erupted. It wasn't a physical sound, but a magical shock that directly attacked the mind.

Moody groaned, kneeling on one knee, blood seeping from his seven orifices—his soul, traumatized in Azkaban, was exceptionally vulnerable to such an attack.

Kane also felt a sharp pain, as if countless needles were piercing his brain. But Igor spread his wings in time, and golden light formed a protective shield, blocking most of the impact.