Ole Lukkøje. A name whispered in old bedtime tales, a dream-weaver from forgotten storybooks.
Perhaps he wasn't as famous as the Greek gods, nor as wise as Odin from the Norse legends. He wasn't even as revered as the spirits of the Celtic myths. Yet among the scattered pages of children's fairytales, the Dream-God held a uniquely curious place.
They said he could guide children into lands spun from fantasy, where dreams flowed like rivers and impossible things became real. Within those dreamscapes, he ruled, bending them to his will.
When Ino acquired the Dream-God's artifact set, something had clicked. The pieces of the puzzle - especially after his conversations with Gellert Grindelwald - had started falling into place. He realized that some of the most bizarre phenomena surrounding him weren't as random as they seemed.
The Three Oak Trees, for instance. Many believed them to be mere relics, but they were more akin to a wishing well. Their magic was deeply tied to the valley itself.
It reminded him of the Philosopher's Stone. The difference was that Nicolas Flamel had poured years of alchemical labor and a great deal of luck into shaping a single Rune of ancient power. The oak fruits, on the other hand, simply manifested abilities - wild, unpredictable, and utterly illogical.
Still, despite their different methods, both the Stone and the oak fruits were built upon the same foundational truth: you can only manifest what already exists.
You couldn't, for example, produce a magical device like a Foe-Glass in a world where magic never existed to begin with. No matter how hard you tried, no spell would work. It wasn't about power, but possibility.
Ino had long realized this.
And the Dream-God's powers? They weren't random gifts from the trees. They were rooted in magic and personal desire - an embodiment of wonder and will. The perfect fruit, conjured from a perfect blend of miracle and magic.
He had often found himself reflecting on this. Every artifact he'd received over the years... hadn't they each answered a silent wish buried deep inside him?
Inside the grand Lestrange manor's hall, the tension had grown thick.
After Ino laid bare his stance, Voldemort slowly rose from his seat, stepping toward the center of the room.
His pace was unhurried. Calculated. To outsiders, he seemed composed, confident even.
But inside, the Dark Lord's mind was racing.
There was no point in wondering how they'd discovered the Horcruxes. That no longer mattered. What mattered was survival. Right now.
The hall was large, but crossing it only took ten or so steps. And in those few seconds, Voldemort's thoughts spun at incredible speed.
Apparition? Impossible. The Ministry would've blocked it the moment they sensed something amiss. The fireplace? No chance. The Floo Network would be disabled too, and besides, his opponents wouldn't give him the time.
Running wasn't an option either.
And a duel?
Voldemort glanced at Dumbledore. Even with his pride, he wasn't foolish. A two-versus-one was a losing game. Especially with Ino involved.
As for the Death Eaters behind him? Useless. He'd have better luck hoping Dumbledore and Ino got into an argument mid-duel.
Still, he couldn't simply sit here and wait for the end.
He opened his mouth, attempting diplomacy. "If we think carefully, this conflict isn't necessary. There's still time to--"
"You're wasting your breath, Mr. Riddle," Ino interrupted coolly.
Some things were never meant to coexist. He and Voldemort were two ends of a spectrum that could never meet in peace.
The moment he found the dice, the moment he learned the truth, there had only been one path forward.
Voldemort had always appeared rational - but only when he still had hope. Once the relics were gone, and his desperation returned, who would he look to? Who would he blame?
They both knew the answer.
At that moment, Voldemort abandoned his final illusion.
His wand - thirteen inches, yew, phoenix feather - was suddenly in his hand.
And just like that, the Dark Lord returned.
Gone was the calm mask. In its place, raw magic surged. The very air twisted under the weight of his hatred and power. A chilling fog of death swept across the hall, sending shivers down even his own followers' spines. A few showed wild-eyed devotion. Most, fear.
But Ino stood still.
He opened the umbrella in his hand. Slowly. Calmly.
It was the first time he'd ever used it outside a dream.
The moment the umbrella unfurled, something stirred.
It wasn't wind, nor heat, nor cold. It was rhythm. A melody that rose from nowhere and everywhere. A resonance of life and joy, of wonder and generosity. It swept through the hall, brushing away the darkness like sunlight breaking a stormcloud.
Even Voldemort's chaotic presence faltered, as the warmth pushed back the shadows.
Then, just before either of them could strike, an elderly, grumbling voice echoed through the air.
"Oh no. Not again. Fighting? Really? That's it - I'm leaving."
Everyone turned.
The ancient Lestrange Manor began to shimmer.
Before anyone could react, the entire house warped, twisted, and shrank into a tiny, three-foot-high model of itself.
But that wasn't the oddest part.
It had a face.
And limbs.
And as dozens of stunned eyes watched, the miniature house turned and sprinted away down the garden path like a startled dog.
It ran. The house ran away.
And it wasn't alone.
Chairs. Tables. Couches. Teacups. Even silver forks and kettles - all of them sprouted limbs and faces. Some had mustaches. Some wore little hats. And they all bolted after the house in a panicked exodus.
A long-legged chair was first to dash off. A table followed, tripping over a lamp. The last was a whole family of teapots dragging a tea tray behind them like a pram.
All of them shouting.
Some cried. Some shrieked. And one little teacup wailed, "Muuuummmyyy!" in a voice so heart-wrenchingly squeaky that it was almost tragic.
If you hadn't seen it, you'd think a war had broken out.
In less than a minute, the last of them - an especially heavy sofa - bounced its way over the hill and disappeared behind a hedge.
Silence.
The once-grand hall was now just a patch of grass beneath the open sky.
The Death Eaters stood frozen, utterly dumbfounded.
Dumbledore, on the other hand, looked like Christmas had come early. His eyes sparkled with childish glee. He hadn't looked this delighted in years.
"Clap, clap!" Voldemort applauded with a grin that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Spectacular. Truly. You never cease to surprise me."
He turned, voice oily.
"Honestly, we're both classic Slytherins, aren't we? Perhaps we shouldn't be enemies after all."
Still trying to win him over, even now.
Ino didn't answer immediately. He gazed at the man in front of him - a man so warped by black magic that he was no longer truly human - and let out a quiet sigh.
"Magic," he said softly, "is vast. Boundless. A force of beauty, of dreams, of balance."
He looked around slowly. At Dumbledore. At Lucius. Bellatrix. Fenrir. Then, back at Voldemort.
"But like all things with light, there are shadows. Even the most forgiving magic draws a line. And once that line is crossed…"
He didn't finish the sentence.
He didn't need to.
"Avada Kedavra!"
The Killing Curse came without warning. Fast. Unforgiving. A streak of green death, launched at point-blank range.
But Ino didn't flinch.
Because the moment the umbrella had opened, the world had already changed.
Dream and reality had merged.
And here, in this realm shaped by his will, nothing followed the ordinary rules.
The curse twisted in midair. The green light, meant to end a life, spiraled upward, veering away from its target.
Boom!
A sparkling firework burst into the sky - a glittering green blossom of harmless magic.
Once a harbinger of death, now it bloomed in silence, beautiful and hollow.
Just like Voldemort's threat.