"You just said... the Dark Lord?" Barrett choked out, stumbling back in disbelief.
Sean stepped forward, the corners of his lips curling into a cold, cruel smile. Wisps of thick black smoke seeped from his robes, curling through the air like ink in water. The smoke thickened, coalescing before everyone's eyes, gradually taking the form of a tall figure with serpentine features and glowing crimson eyes.
The unmistakable visage of Lord Voldemort emerged.
"The Dark Lord..." Sean said slowly, his voice laced with mockery, "...is right here."
None of the surrounding dark wizards so much as flinched. They simply turned and bowed in unison, saluting the manifestation of Voldemort. Marwood stepped forward, wand in hand, as the rest of the dark-cloaked figures closed in, tightening the circle around Barrett and his companions.
Barrett's mouth moved, but no sound came out at first. He stared at the black smoke Voldemort, then at Sean, and the dawning horror twisted his face.
"You… it was all you... You planned this from the start!" he shouted hoarsely.
Sean gave a theatrical shrug. "You're only realizing that now? You're a bit slow for someone who wanted to serve the Dark Lord."
Before Barrett could respond, Sean whipped out his wand in a sudden motion. "Cruciatu—ah, wait. Let's be efficient."
With a flick, the smoky Voldemort dissolved into five writhing ropes of shadow, which slithered through the air and bound Barrett and his companions before they could react. One around each, tightening like serpents.
Sean glanced at his system panel—five duels successfully triggered.
Perfect.
He took a step back.
"Marwood," Sean said calmly, "they're all yours."
Without hesitation, Marwood raised his wand. The surrounding dark wizards surged forward, spells erupting in a burst of chaos and light.
The battle erupted in an instant.
A cacophony of spells filled the air—blinding flashes of light, arcs of fire, and the sharp crackle of curses colliding mid-air. Barrett and his followers fought back with the standard spellwork taught at Hogwarts, reinforced by a smattering of crude black magic. Marwood and his dark wizards, on the other hand, cast hexes and jinxes that twisted unnaturally in the air—magic that screamed of forbidden origins and vicious intentions.
If viewed from a safe distance, the whole clash might almost resemble a dazzling firework display—colorful, chaotic, and utterly deadly.
Sean stood back, calm and focused, his eyes scanning the battlefield with predator-like precision.
Then he saw it—one of Barrett's men, isolated, struggling to fend off two attackers and clearly on the verge of collapse.
Sean stepped forward.
"Sectumsempra."
The word was barely spoken before its effect was felt. A deep gash ripped across the man's chest and neck, blood spurting from the fatal wound. He dropped without so much as a scream, lifeless before he hit the ground.
Sean's eyes gleamed. His first kill of the night—quick, efficient, and clean. There was a thrill to it, not just the magic, but the control. Snape's spell truly was a masterpiece: fast, silent, and brutally effective.
He didn't stop.
The second target went down minutes later, another Sectumsempra finding its mark. Then a third. In quick succession, Sean claimed two more lives, his movements swift and deliberate—never staying in the center, always circling the edges, letting the dark wizards draw fire while he finished the job from behind.
The dark wizards paid a price too—three of Marwood's men were cut down, one of them screaming until silenced by a particularly cruel curse.
But Sean had anticipated that. This wasn't a battle he expected to win cleanly. Sacrifices were part of the plan. The important thing was that Barrett's faction was collapsing.
A flash of red light slammed into Dickey's chest, sending him hurtling backward. His body crashed into the trunk of a thick tree with a dull thud. When his vision cleared, the first thing he saw was Sean standing calmly in front of him. Not far off, Barrett was pinned to the ground by four dark wizards, utterly immobilized and incapable of helping anyone—not even himself.
Dickey's face twisted into a pitiful grin, desperate and trembling. "S-Sean... Barrett misled me! I didn't mean for this—I swear! We're both in the Slytherin Brotherhood Reserves, right? Spare me. I'll follow you. I'll serve you in the Brotherhood, I swear it—"
His plea was cut short.
A thin, crimson line suddenly bloomed across his throat. Blood surged out, bubbling and choking his next words. His expression froze in disbelief and horror as he staggered forward. Reaching out with a blood-soaked hand toward Sean, he tried to grasp something—anything.
But before his fingers could make contact, a slicing curse took his arm clean off at the elbow.
Dickey stared down at his severed limb, pupils dilating, his mouth gaping wordlessly. A second later, he crumpled to the ground, lifeless, eyes still wide in shock.
Sean looked down at the body for a moment, his expression unreadable.
In that instant, something clicked in his mind—he finally understood why Voldemort always brought others along for these kinds of tasks. There was a cold, satisfying efficiency in having followers ready to assist when blood was to be spilled. The work was cleaner. The control, sharper.
Even though Sean didn't enjoy killing.
But these people—they were the ones who came after him first.
And they paid the price.
Turning, Sean walked to where Barrett lay pinned, stopping just a few feet away. Marwood stepped forward to stand beside him, silent and steady. Sean had to admit, Barrett's strength was impressive. Of the six dark wizards lost in the skirmish, three had fallen to Barrett alone.
Now, aside from Marwood, only six remained.
That was just enough.
Once this was over, two of the more unruly dark wizards could be discarded—turned into scapegoats and handed over to the Ministry. Including Marwood, he'd have five loyal, manageable subordinates left. Exactly as planned.
Barrett lifted his bloodied face, breathing heavily. His eyes swept the circle of dark wizards, then locked onto Sean.
"You're not the Dark Lord," he said coldly. "And you sure as hell aren't Sean Bulstrode. A son of a Squib could never gather this kind of power. This isn't your doing—it can't be."
Sean smiled faintly. "You're wrong on both counts. I am Sean Bulstrode. And I am Voldemort."
Barrett sneered. "Liar."
Sean gestured casually to the men around him. "Ask them. Go ahead."
Marwood stepped forward without hesitation. "You are the great Dark Lord. Our master."
Sean's grin widened, mockery dancing in his eyes. "See? Consensus. Who needs bloodlines when you have loyalty?"
Barrett's expression tightened, the last trace of arrogance melting into resignation. "It doesn't matter now. I see it clearly—this was all a trap. From the start, I walked straight into it. I was stupid to get involved with your Bulstrode business. Stupid to believe you."
He laughed bitterly, blood on his teeth. "But don't think it'll end neatly. You want to kill me? Fine. But I'm taking more of your pawns with me. That's the price. I'll die, yeah—but I'll leave you a 'Dark Lord' without an army."
He straightened slightly despite his injuries, eyes defiant, daring them.
Looking at Barrett, Sean suddenly smiled. "You're right," he said calmly. "I've been meaning to streamline my ranks anyway. But if too many of them fall here tonight, it would be inconvenient. So let me take care of this myself."
He stepped forward, cloak shifting slightly with his movement. The dark wizards around him immediately understood. At the subtle wave of Sean's hand, they withdrew in silence, forming a loose circle at the edges of the clearing.
Sean wasn't someone who sought out duels for pride or sport.
Sean keen on dueling, mostly using it to gain others' abilities. But over time, without even noticing, something had shifted slightly.
If Aldridge had been there, he might have stepped in, urged caution, questioned the risk.
But Marwood wasn't Aldridge.
Marwood didn't question. He didn't doubt.
If Sean wanted to duel Barrett, then Barrett was already dead. That was the logic Marwood understood, and that was enough.
Barrett's eyes flicked around, calculating. For a second, he seemed to see the smallest flicker of hope in the loose formation of the circle. Maybe, just maybe, he could break out. Maybe he could survive.
His fingers tightened around his wand. His jaw clenched. Then—