Harry Potter: Magic and Guns

Support me and be 30 chapters ahead of webnovel:

patreon.com/Draco_

******

Bang— 

The deafening crash of the luxurious manor's front gates being kicked open roused everyone inside the opulent mansion, including all those who weren't exactly human. 

Voldemort, who had yet to regain a proper body, was not considered human in any sense. However, even in his spectral form, he still adhered to a habit of "sleeping." This was something he had maintained since his time as a wretched fugitive in the Albanian forests. Sleep was a practical way to conserve energy, as every second in his ghostly form slowly drained the magic that kept him tethered to existence. 

Tom Riddle had known hardship. Even now, residing in the grandeur of Malfoy Manor, he clung to his frugal ways—a habit so moving it could bring tears to one's eyes. However, Lucius Malfoy had a different perspective on the matter. 

Since his living conditions had improved, Voldemort no longer deprived himself of comfort. Judging by Lucius's pallid and utterly drained appearance, it was evident how harshly his master had been siphoning from him. Although Voldemort only took a small amount of life force and magic each time, the relentless, 24/7 nature of the drain made it unbearable. Even the most heartless of vampire capitalists would shed tears witnessing this exploitation. 

"Please, my Lord, have mercy!" 

When jolted awake, Lucius's first reaction wasn't to investigate the source of the noise. Instead, he immediately dropped to his knees beside his bed, groveling in the most pitiful tone to the man who, just a moment ago, had been "sharing" the bed with him. 

Voldemort had no tolerance for disloyalty among his followers. How Lucius had endured this for nearly two years was anyone's guess—perhaps his love for his wife or concern for his son, Draco, gave him the strength. 

As a person, Lucius Malfoy was far from noble—he was a conniving, spineless opportunist. Yet as a father and husband, he showed surprising resilience. When it came to protecting his family, this habitual fence-sitter displayed a rare determination. 

"Silence!" 

A sharp, commanding voice interrupted him. The speaker was a striking young man. Resurrected from the Horcrux diary, this version of Voldemort wasn't the withered figure in his sixties or seventies but a man in his early twenties, radiating the peak of youthful beauty. However, the dark malice in his expression marred his otherwise handsome features. 

Harry's unabashed bellow—"Hogwarts, OPEN THE DOOR!"—left no room for doubt. Even if Voldemort were a fool, he could easily deduce what had happened. His plans at Hogwarts had been exposed, and now the very target of his schemes had come knocking. 

What puzzled him, though, was how this had occurred. Nagini had already completed the transfer and fusion of the Basilisk's curse. Its lethal "death gaze," capable of killing anyone who met its eyes, was not something Voldemort himself was confident in resisting. Ancient magic, while crude in execution, was undeniably potent—often more so than the modern spells used by today's wizards. 

In terms of instant death, the Basilisk's curse was superior even to the Killing Curse. After all, the Killing Curse wouldn't petrify someone mid-cast if it failed to fully take effect. At worst, a poorly executed Killing Curse might cause a nosebleed—hardly a guaranteed death sentence. 

Could someone truly withstand the Basilisk's deathly gaze? The question gnawed at Voldemort's mind. He trusted Nagini, and she had never failed him. 

"Was it Dumbledore's doing?" he wondered. His thoughts raced as he considered various possibilities. Instinctively, he prepared to Disapparate and flee. If someone dared to storm his manor so brazenly, they must have been well-prepared. Voldemort wasn't at full strength yet, and like any serpent, he knew the value of patience and cunning. Indeed, Voldemort was the most ruthless and enduring serpent in Slytherin's history. 

But as expected, Harry had accounted for this. Anti-Apparition charms had been activated just before the gates were broken, covering a 500-meter radius around Malfoy Manor with the aid of alchemical tools. 

Realizing escape was impossible, Voldemort drew his wand. It resembled a twin to Dumbledore's—except, in Voldemort's hand, it transformed into a magical Desert Eagle aimed at the ground. 

The influence of Dumbledore on Voldemort's mind was undeniable. As a young Tom Riddle, his model for learning and imitation had always been Dumbledore, the man who left a deep, indelible impression on him. 

 "Finite Incantatem." 

The trigger of the Desert Eagle was pulled. The spell it unleashed, capable of erasing even the Fiendfyre, was a nemesis to all known magic. Simple enough for even a first-year wizard to grasp, it was called Finite Incantatem, but its essence lay in its incantation: "All Spells End." With sufficient magical power, this spell could dismantle the very core of any magic, disrupting its fundamental principles. It wasn't intricate or subtle but instead aimed directly at the simplest and most universal truth underlying all spells. 

A ripple of invisible magical energy surged outward. The antiques and artifacts meticulously displayed in Lucius Malfoy's bedroom suffered immediate destruction. These alchemical relics, once imbued with intricate magical enchantments, were rendered mundane—little more than piles of useless junk after their enchantments were obliterated. 

Yet, the Anti-Apparition Jinx remained intact. Voldemort, who had spent his entire life entrenched in England's magical traditions, was completely unprepared for how much the magical world outside his narrow sphere had evolved. The English wizarding community, steeped in its medieval practices, was woefully disconnected from the advancements of the broader magical world. 

Meanwhile, on the ground floor of Malfoy Manor, a pair of terrified, bulging eyes stared in disbelief. The shattered remnants of the door had whizzed past, narrowly missing Dobby the house-elf. The impact could have easily turned him into a pile of strawberry jam covered by a tattered rag. Clutching his broom, frozen in shock, Dobby didn't know what to do until the massive figure towering over him spoke, its colossal shadow engulfing him completely. 

"Run, Dobby. If you don't, you'll die." 

Dobby instantly recognized the voice. Overwhelming excitement coursed through his tiny body, nearly causing his heart to burst. Following orders was a primal instinct etched into the essence of every house-elf. Reflexively, he snapped his fingers, attempting to Apparate away. But nothing happened. 

The Anti-Apparition field deployed by the Umbrella Squad was modeled after the advanced alchemical anti-transportation arrays used by Nicolas Flamel's alchemical legion. Its strength was unparalleled, comparable only to the magical infrastructures employed by Durmstrang and Beauxbatons, institutions with a history of competitive rivalry. Apart from rare magical creatures like the Snallygaster, which could effortlessly traverse restricted zones, neither house-elves nor goblins could move a single step through spatial magic under such restrictions. 

As Dobby stood frozen in confusion, the towering figure before him stomped down hard, shattering the lavish marble floor beneath his feet. A thunderous crash echoed as the floor above collapsed, obliterating the boundary between the first and second floors in the most brutal fashion imaginable. 

"Good evening, Tom." 

From within the swirling cloud of dust, a young voice rang out. 

"Don't be afraid. I'll make sure you get a nice, long sleep." 

(End of Chapter)