Locust-Wrackspurt Showdown

Hogwarts Castle had been completely engulfed by a sea of insects. Reinforcements rushing in from Hogsmeade Village had been forced to retreat, the front line shrinking inch by inch as the situation grew increasingly perilous.

"Feel pain! Feel despair!" Herpo spread his arms, his black robes snapping wildly in the gale stirred up by the swarm.

His expression bore an almost pathological devotion, as though he was not unleashing destruction but completing some ancient and sacred ritual. Those hollow violet eyes looked down upon the battlefield being swallowed by the insect tide, as coldly indifferent as a god gazing upon ants.

"I'll give you one last chance—join us. Otherwise, not a blade of grass will remain at Hogwarts." His voice pierced through the droning, every word hard and cold as a nail driven into the heart.

Skylar slowly raised his head.

His gray eyes pierced through the locust swarm and met Herpo's gaze. The corner of his lips rose slightly. It was neither forced bravado nor a bitter smile, but mockery born from the marrow of his bones.

"Despair?" he said calmly. "Not necessarily."

The instant the words fell, the earth gave voice to a second sound.

It was different from the heavy, oppressive roar of the locusts' wings. It was finer, more hurried, like countless needles lightly scraping against glass at once, or thousands upon thousands of unseen creatures whispering within cracks in the stonework.

At first, it was too faint, so faint that it was entirely drowned out by the hum of the insect disaster. No one paid it any mind—until the oldest window frames of the castle began to tremble.

Dust fell from gaps in the stone carvings. The stained-glass windows that had existed for a thousand years began to emit a fine, nearly inaudible resonance within