Harry Potter: Magic and Guns

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Malfoy Manor stood as a lavishly opulent estate, surrounded by meticulously designed gardens adorned with fountains and free-roaming white peacocks. Its ornate wrought-iron gates gave visitors the eerie sensation of stepping through a veil of smoke. 

However, tonight, the white peacocks were nowhere to be seen. Cloaked in the darkness of night, the luxurious manor had fallen into an unsettling silence. 

For miles around—ten, to be precise—there wasn't a single neighboring household. Centuries ago, a Muggle village had existed nearby, but the Malfoy family had cleverly "dealt with" its inhabitants. The cause of death? Officially, the Black Death. The Ministry of Magic had found no evidence tying the Malfoys to the tragedy, though everyone knew the truth. After all, the Malfoys had long harbored an intense disdain for Muggles. 

Five miles away from the manor, a burst of golden-red flames flared to life, and over a dozen figures materialized in a sparse grove. They stayed at a safe distance. As one of the wizarding world's most illustrious families, the Malfoys had undoubtedly placed numerous protective enchantments around their estate. Getting too close prematurely might tip off their target, an outcome no one wanted before their preparations were complete. 

The ten members of the Umbrella Squad soared silently through the night on alchemical rockets. Their primary mission was to set up anti-Apparition wards and other magical barriers. Armed with portable alchemical devices, they could complete their work quickly and efficiently. Before splitting off, Leon handed Harry a small device resembling an earpiece. This little gadget, an alchemical tool inspired by Muggle technology rather than a modified radio, allowed real-time communication within a fifty-mile radius. 

"Professor, tell me—how far behind is England compared to the rest of the world?" Harry asked as he attached the earpiece, glancing at Dumbledore. "The rest of the world's marching into the new century, but England feels like it's still stuck in the Middle Ages, squatting in the dirt." 

Dumbledore rubbed his nose thoughtfully, then tilted his head to look at the sky. "The moon sure is bright tonight." 

"Hogwarts is such a dump," Harry muttered, shooting Dumbledore a sidelong glance. "You know that saying, 'graduate and unemployed'? That's basically Hogwarts in a nutshell. No wonder there are only about three thousand resident wizards in this place. Who'd want to stick around?" 

"Well, reforms are underway," Dumbledore replied, looking visibly uncomfortable. "Hogwarts is seeking innovation and progress." 

To be fair, this wasn't entirely Dumbledore's fault. He wasn't fond of politics, and the Ministry of Magic had never stepped in to address such issues. If blame were to be assigned, it ought to fall on the Minister for Magic. As the headmaster of a mere school, Dumbledore had neither the authority nor the means to control England's progress—or lack thereof. 

"Sure, let's go with that," Harry said dismissively. Slinging his shield over his shoulder, he mounted his Nimbus 2001. However, as he attempted to take off, he realized, rather awkwardly, that his broomstick was struggling. Severely overloaded, the Nimbus 2001 ascended at a snail's pace—slower than Harry could walk. 

Alchemical rockets were limited by their design. Though magic was inherently a force of will, inanimate alchemical tools lacked the flexibility to adapt. That privilege belonged to the spellcaster alone. 

"This thing can't even handle a ton," Harry grumbled. "Time to retire this piece of junk." 

Left with no other choice, Harry stowed his Nimbus 2001 and took off running, shield in hand. At his current superhuman pace, the five-mile distance would take only three to five minutes. The run also allowed him to adjust to the sudden increase in his body's weight. While the half-ton shield was lighter than the weighted gear he used during training, it still required some minor adjustments to his balance. 

As the manor's gates came into view, three soft knocks sounded in his earpiece. It was the prearranged signal: the Umbrella Squad had completed their setup and were converging on his position. 

Only Leon, the squad captain, came to meet Harry. The rest of the team was stationed around the perimeter of the manor's walls. These elite wizards, trained to the highest standards, were capable of holding their own against Voldemort—at least long enough to buy critical time—rather than being instantly overwhelmed. 

"The rest is up to you, Mr. Leon," Harry said with a nod, hefting his shield as he prepared to move forward. 

"Pardon me, but may I ask what your plan is?" 

Harry had not shared any details of his strategy. This unprofessional and decidedly reckless "raid" left Leon deeply uncomfortable. He'd never fought a battle so poorly planned. If not for Dumbledore's explicit instructions to "follow Harry's lead today," Leon would have taken command and drafted plans A, B, and C—plus contingencies D through E—within three minutes. 

Leon's team had taken down no fewer than eighty dark wizards and completed countless classified missions without fail. While defeating Voldemort wasn't a guaranteed success, creating the perfect opportunity for Dumbledore to deliver a decisive blow was well within their capabilities. 

In the highly specialized world of magic, teamwork could offset individual disparities in power. With the wards in place, trapping their prey within a confined area, the Umbrella Squad could very well take Voldemort down on their own. Stripped of his former power and still reliant on Harry's flesh for his resurrection ritual, Voldemort was far from the level of strength he once shared with Dumbledore and Grindelwald. 

This was the very reason Harry dared to prod the metaphorical tiger. Still, for the sake of caution, he had Dumbledore standing by as backup. Things would have been even more interesting if Grindelwald were present. That infamous dark wizard relished ambushing people with ruthless precision, delighting in the terrified, despairing expressions of his victims. He embodied true chaotic evil—not merely as a label. If not for his bond with Dumbledore, Grindelwald would have long since become a scourge, leaving behind a trail of destruction. 

When Leon asked his question, Harry simply moved forward in silence. Then, in a low mutter incomprehensible to the others, he chanted: 

 "Mul—strength, Qua—protection, Slen—body." 

The Runic Magic of the Awakened was something Harry could barely wield. Even so, its effect was undeniable, even at less than ten percent of its full potential. When these three runes for physical enhancement were activated, the shield that once felt appropriately heavy suddenly became feather-light. Strength, defense, endurance—the three foundational attributes of a brawler—were amplified dramatically. 

Next, Harry unscrewed the cap of a vile-looking potion. Its color was disgusting, its taste revolting, and its texture just as unpleasant. With a grimace, he pinched his nose, braced himself, and downed the potion in one go. 

The familiar formula worked flawlessly—Snape's potions always did. Harry's veins bulged against his skin, his forehead lined with pulsating vessels as he bent slightly, suppressing the overwhelming urge to vomit. 

Already broad and muscular, Harry's frame grew another half foot taller. His rippling muscles strained against and ultimately tore through his oversized Hogwarts robes, revealing the high-elastic, stab-resistant bodysuit he wore underneath. 

Behind him, Leon stood frozen, watching in disbelief as a man transformed into a towering humanoid beast. Even as Harry stood still, Leon could feel an overwhelming sense of danger emanating from him. They were too close—so close that Leon knew he wouldn't have time to raise his wand before this monster of a man could crush his skull like a soft fruit. 

It was a sensation Leon had only felt once before, during a hunt for a rampaging giant king in Italy. Back then, as a young wizard, he had watched in horror as the giant wielded half a dragon's corpse like a weapon, wreaking havoc among their ranks. That scene was forever etched into his memory, and now, staring at Harry, he felt the same paralyzing dread. 

"Five minutes. If I don't finish the job by then, it's all yours," Harry said, his voice hoarse from the effects of the strength-releasing potion. 

"Now, what I need to do is—" 

With a deafening thud that shook the ground, Harry launched himself forward like a cannonball, covering over a hundred meters in an instant. He slammed into the ornate gates of Malfoy Manor with his massive tower shield, the invisible cloak material covering its surface shredding through every magical barrier protecting the gate on contact. 

The ear-splitting screech of twisting metal had barely begun when the bear-like figure kicked open the manor's grand entrance. 

"HOGWARTS! OPEN THE DOOR!" Harry bellowed, his voice roaring through the night. 

(End of Chapter)