Year 7 (pt.2)
Michael moved through the castle like a storm—cleaving through curses, knocking aside rubble. Screams echoed from every hall. The sky itself seemed to be falling, cracks of thunder splitting the roof above as magic collided and combusted.
He didn’t stop. Couldn’t. Not until—
“Mike?!”
His whole body froze. He turned.
Ginny stood there, dust and blood streaked across her cheeks, wand tight in her hand, red hair wild. Her eyes, though—they were shining. Fierce. Scared. Alive. She didn’t wait for him to speak. She just ran to him and threw her arms around his chest, squeezing him like she was afraid he’d disappear if she let go. He dropped the sword, arms wrapping around her like it was all he’d ever needed.
“I thought—” she whispered, choking, “I thought you were gone. You stopped writing. Hermione said you—”
“I know,” he breathed. “I’m sorry. I—I lost myself for a while.”
“I don’t care,” she said. “You’re here now.”
They pulled back just enough to look at each other. Ginny punched his shoulder—not hard, but hard enough. “Don’t you ever do that again.”
“I won’t,” Michael promised, voice raw.
Then another voice, soft, dreamy, cutting through the chaos like the eye of a storm:
“Mike…”
He turned to see Luna standing just behind Ginny. Her eyes were exactly as he remembered, pale, calm, distant and clear all at once. There was ash on her sweater, a rip in her skirt. But she smiled when she saw him. That strange, Luna smile like she knew more than anyone ever could. He didn’t think. He just hugged her too.
“Hello,” she said softly, pressing her cheek to his shoulder. “You smell like dragon.” He laughed, choked, but it was the first real sound of life he’d made in months.
“You came back,” Luna whispered.
“I had to,” Michael said. “For you both. For all of this.”
A loud boom shook the castle beneath their feet. Screams echoed from the Great Hall. Ginny pulled back and looked at him, eyes burning now. “We need to find Hermione before we go after him.”
~
Michael stood in the middle of the crumbling corridor, blood on his sword, smoke in his lungs—and one thought stabbing deeper than any blade: He had forgotten one. One Horcrux. Just one.
Nagini.
However, they needed to do one thing first. Find Hermione.
Michael paced the broken halls of Hogwarts, eyes wide, every nerve pulled taut like a frayed wire. Smoke drifted through the air, mixing with the stench of blood and burnt stone. And still—no sign of her.
“Hermione!” he shouted again, voice ragged.
Ginny caught up with him, panting. Her cheeks were streaked with ash, and her wand-hand shook slightly. “No sign of her in the east wing. But there are survivors regrouping near the greenhouses.”
Michael shook his head. “We have to keep looking. She’s alive—I know it.”
Luna appeared beside them as if summoned by the wind, quiet and calm despite everything. “The library’s mostly collapsed. If she was there, she’s not anymore. But I heard something near the Astronomy Tower. Someone crying.”
Michael didn’t hesitate. “Let’s go.” They ran—together.
They cut through shattered stone, past dueling Death Eaters and the wounded. Michael pushed ahead, Luna’s voice a steady thread behind him, Ginny’s spells flashing red and gold to shield them. The castle moaned around them, old magic groaning under the weight of war.
And then they heard it. A cough. A rustle of movement beneath a pile of broken beams and glass. Michael rushed forward and lifted the debris, his metal arm screeching as it strained. And there she was.
Hermione.
Covered in dust and blood, but alive. Her eyes widened when she saw them. “Mike?” He dropped to his knees and pulled her into a tight embrace before she could even stand. Ginny knelt beside them, laughing through tears.
“We thought we lost you,” she said.
Hermione smiled weakly, “Not yet.”
Luna helped her up, brushing glass off her sleeves. “It’s good you’re here,” she said softly. “There’s still one piece left.”
Michael stepped back, breathing hard. “Nagini. The last Horcrux.” Hermione froze.
“Voldemort’s still alive,” Michael said. “But if we destroy the snake, it ends.”
There was a silence between them, a knowing. He drew the Sword of Gryffindor from his back and held it out to her.
“You should be the one,” he said. “This is your moment.”
Hermione hesitated.
“I mean it,” Michael said. “I nearly threw everything away trying to protect you. But you don’t need me to protect you. You’re stronger than I ever was.”
Hermione took the sword. Her hand shook at first, but then steadied. “I’ll finish it,” she said.
They made their way through the rubble together, the four of them. Ginny, wand raised high, casting light over the darkened path. Luna walking beside her, her voice a quiet chant of protective spells. Michael, leading them with fury in his gut. And Hermione, with the sword that had seen too much and was about to see the end. The snake waited in the west wing. Coiled, glistening, fangs bared.
It lunged.
And Hermione met it head-on—her blade catching the light of the burning castle, and with a single, clean arc, she brought it down. The sword sank deep. Nagini screamed, light split the air, and her body exploded into dust and dark smoke.
The last Horcrux was gone.
And somewhere, far off in the castle, Voldemort felt it. His scream echoed through the halls like a curse.
Michael looked at Hermione, at Luna and Ginny. “It’s time.”
~
“We don’t have time, Mike!” Hermione yelled as the walls shook around them. “You can’t fight him alone!”
“I’m not asking your permission,” Michael said, his voice calm but fierce. “There are still students trapped. The south wing’s on fire. You three can help them.”
Luna looked at him with those deep, knowing eyes. “You think this is goodbye.”
Michael smiled. “I think it’s necessary.”
Ginny gripped his arm. “Then at least let us fight with you.”
He gently pulled away. “You’ll do more good saving lives than throwing yourselves at Voldemort. If I can hold him—just for a little while—that’s all we need.”
Hermione’s eyes brimmed with tears, but she nodded. “We’ll come back for you.”
“I know,” Michael said. “Now go.”
~
“VOLDEMORT!!!”
Michael’s roar split the air, echoing through the crumbling halls of Hogwarts. Dust fell from the ceiling like ash from the sky.
He stood alone in the courtyard now, sword strapped to his back, breath steady despite the war blazing around him. His eyes locked on Voldemort—pale, smug, cruel.
“You again,” Voldemort said, amused. “Didn’t you have people to save, Butcher? Or are you finally ready to die?”
Michael didn’t flinch. “I already sent them away,” he said. “The girls—Hermione, Ginny, Luna—they’re helping the wounded. Saving who they can. That’s what matters. You and me? This ends now.”
Voldemort sneered. “You sent children to clean up your mess? Brave of you. Or stupid.”
Michael drew the sword from his back, its metal gleaming with war and memory. “They’re stronger than you think. And smarter. I trust them.”
“Trust won’t save you.”
“Doesn’t have to.” Michael stepped forward. “I’m not here to win. I’m here to keep you busy.”
Michael sprinted through the battlefield, spells blasting past him. He charged Voldemort like a missile, sword raised.
Their duel was brutal—magic against muscle, rage against calm. Voldemort’s curses burned craters in the earth; Michael’s fists cracked the stones beneath them. Time felt warped, suspended between every blow and scream.
“You’re wasting your strength!” Voldemort shouted. “They’ll all die anyway!”
“No,” Michael gasped. “Because I’m still standing.”
He slammed his sword into Voldemort’s side—just a graze, but enough to draw blood.
“You BLEED,” Michael said, smiling through the pain. “And bleeding things can die.”
Voldemort snarled, his wand lighting up with a blast of green fire, but Michael spun, slashing with the sword. The blade bit into Voldemort’s robes, tearing skin, but missing anything fatal. Voldemort screamed and retaliated with a spell that launched Michael across the stones.
He skidded and coughed blood, but laughed. “That all you got?”
Voldemort screamed. He flung out his hand, and chains of black flame wrapped around Michael’s arms and legs, burning deep into flesh. Michael roared in pain but ripped the bindings apart with sheer strength. Skin sloughed from his wrists. His metal arm sparked.
“Voldemort,” he panted, rising. “You hurt people. You kill the innocent. You don’t fight. You hide behind power.”
He charged again. Their second clash was vicious.
Michael punched Voldemort in the ribs. A crack. Blood gushed from the Dark Lord’s mouth.
Voldemort screamed a spell, blades of ice slashed Michael’s side, one slicing through muscle and ribs. Michael stumbled, dropped to one knee, and spit out a tooth. Then he grinned, and threw his metal fist into Voldemort’s jaw.
The jaw snapped sideways. Michael grabbed Voldemort by the throat, lifted him up, and slammed him into the stone.
Over.
And over.
And over.
Blood sprayed from Voldemort’s mouth and nose, the ground painted with it. Michael’s fists were red, slick, broken.
Voldemort’s eyes blazed with fury as he hissed, “You think you’ve won?” With a final, guttural roar, he thrust his wand forward, unleashing a wave of dark magic that surged like a tidal wave of destruction. The spell ripped through the air, tearing into the very fabric of reality, and Michael was flung backward, his body crashing through a stone wall with a sickening crack. The explosion of energy consumed Voldemort entirely, and as the dust settled, only silence remained.
Michael lay motionless, a broken figure amidst the rubble, his pulse faint—barely there.