Chapter 91
The rest of the squad from the first unit veered off in another direction, leaving Michael, Sarad, and Hyper to press forward.
They reached the designated spot—but found nothing.
"Damn it," Michael hissed. "I knew the fugitive would try to lay a trap for us. Where is he now?"
He stood at the front, eyes narrowing as he noticed something on the ground: the faint imprint of two sets of footprints. Kneeling, he ran his fingers over the marks. They were fresh. Very fresh.
Without looking back, he muttered, "Sarad, give me your notebook. I need to record this."
Silence.
Michael frowned. No response. Slowly, he turned his head—
And something dropped from the tree above, slamming into his skull with brutal force.
It was Albert. The boy's boot connected with Michael's head, driving his face into the dirt.
Dazed, Michael understood, too late, why Sarad and Hyper had vanished from behind him.
He staggered up, wiping blood and dust from his face. His glare burned.
"Who are you? What are you doing in this forest at this hour?"
Albert said nothing. He knew well enough that Michael had split his forces; the rest were likely hunting his father even now.
Michael's gaze sharpened as Albert raised his wand, pointing it directly at him. That was all the answer he needed.
Snarling, Michael lunged for his own wand, which had been knocked from his hand when Albert's earlier ambush cracked his skull. He was inches away—
But Albert was faster. He'd predicted the move.
"Stupefy!"
The jet of scarlet light struck Michael squarely. His body flew back five meters, slamming into the trunk of a tree with a bone-jarring crash. Albert had poured considerable magical force into the spell.
For Albert, with his vast reserves of power, it was nothing. For Michael, it was devastating. Blood trickled from his mouth, his ribs groaned under the impact—yet he smiled.
"Well, well," he rasped. "Didn't think a child your age could do this much damage. Twenty years of combat experience, and I'm—hah—struggling against a boy."
Albert frowned, puzzled by the words.
Then, in an instant, his face shifted to shock. Michael had already raised his hand, wand pointed directly at him.
"Reducto!"
Albert cursed under his breath. Too fast. He hadn't expected it. He had no time to dodge.
A blazing torrent of fire shot from Michael's wand and exploded against him, hurling Albert backward across the clearing.
Michael laughed, cruel and mocking. He remembered those few moments earlier—when he had almost reached his wand, only for Albert's spell to knock him back. By sheer fortune, the impact had sent the weapon tumbling perfectly into his hand.
Good, he thought darkly. That Reducto must have torn him apart. The Reductor Curse is powerful, destructive. It crushes vital organs—abdomen, chest, limbs. No way that boy survived it intact.
He brushed dirt from his robes, paying Albert no more attention. His arrogance blinded him.
But when he looked again, Albert was standing. Unharmed.
Michael froze. His blood ran cold.
"What… what is this?! Why are you still standing?!"
Albert stepped forward, calm and steady.
"Ever heard of the Scalera Charm?"
Michael stiffened. He knew the name—but this, this was impossible.
"That's a minor defensive spell," he spat, voice trembling. "It only shields against simple hexes, not high-level curses! And Reducto—Reducto tears through stone! How did it fail?! And you—" His voice cracked into rage. "You didn't even cast aloud! You just stood there and took it!"
For the first time, fear crept into Michael's eyes.
Albert scratched his head awkwardly, almost embarrassed by the reaction of a Ministry officer.
"Well, the reason you didn't see me cast Scalera—that's your mistake. And as for how it blocked your spell…" He smirked faintly. "I poured a great deal of magic into it."
The truth was simple: Albert hadn't used his wand at all. He'd cast the Scalera Charm silently, wandless, channeling raw magic into its protective weave. It was a skill born of brutal training with his father during those years in Azkaban.
He had also discovered a unique strength within himself: by infusing ordinary spells with excess magical energy, he could transform even the simplest charms into formidable defenses or devastating attacks.
And in this case, it had saved his life.
Albert's thoughts whispered to himself:
I was lucky. If I hadn't mastered this in Azkaban, I'd be dead. If it had been Harry, Hermione, or Ron instead of me they'd be in St. Mungo's for half a year, recovering from that curse.
To be continued …