The Return of the King

"Jafar Yahya?" Dumbledore asked softly, his expression extremely grave.

"Albus Dumbledore." The young man stepped forward slowly, his eyes as deep as the abyss of the cosmos, his low voice carrying an ancient pressure. "In this era, you are the only wizard worthy of my regard. To show my respect, there is no harm in telling you my true identity—"

His tone was cold, yet held no contempt. Instead, it carried the respect of one paying tribute to a formidable foe from long ago. He raised a hand slightly, displaying his silver-glinting fingertips to everyone.

"I am the ender of the ancient Greek era of Dark magic, known as Vile Herpo."

Everyone immediately drew in a sharp breath.

Herpo was a figure from the ancient age, nearly two thousand years removed from the present—an existence even older than Hogwarts. Two thousand years ago... Think of that era: Andros, who could summon a Patronus the size of a giant; Moses, who could part the Red Sea with his own power...

At that moment, the Order of the Phoenix members who had been fighting in the other rooms also finished their battle. Having successfully defeated the remaining Death Eaters, they dragged the unconscious captives into the room.

The moment they entered, they sensed that something was wrong. They immediately surrounded the five men, raising their wands nervously. Arthur, Bill, Molly, Diggle, and the others all wore grave expressions—even Diggle, normally the most carefree among them, remained silent as he stared fixedly at the five, sweat beading on his forehead.

They formed a semicircle, shielding Harry and the other three students behind them.

Yet for some reason, even with dozens of wands pointed at them, the presence of those five still weighed so heavily on everyone that they could barely breathe.

It was