"Avada Kedavra!"
"Kill!"
"Lay down your wand, surrender, and the great Dark Lord will spare your life!"
"Hold the castle! The Ministry of Magic will soon send reinforcements!"
"Beauxbatons will never fall!"
"Avada Kedavra!"
The once grand and pristine Beauxbatons Academy of Magic was now a battlefield of ruin and despair.
The towering Magic Castle, once filled with elegance and grace, had been reduced to rubble. Walls lay in ruins, corridors were littered with debris, and the once-majestic halls now echoed with the cacophony of war—shouts of defiance, cries of agony, and the eerie silence of the fallen.
Dark green and deep crimson spells streaked through the air, the Killing Curse and Cruciatus Curse raining down mercilessly.
Blood pooled across the castle grounds, its crimson sheen mixing with shattered bones and scorched stone. The dead and dying lay where they had fallen, their expressions frozen in terror, as if bearing witness to the end of the world itself.
Above, the defensive golden-purple shield protecting the academy was crumbling—cracks spread across its shimmering surface like fractures in glass.
The sky was thick with black death fog, its corrosive miasma slowly eating away at the protective enchantments.
From time to time, inky-black droplets fell from the mist, sizzling upon impact. The moment they touched the ground, plants withered, the earth cracked, and animals collapsed as their bodies shriveled into lifeless husks. The poison spread relentlessly, seeping into the land, leaving only eerie wisps of black mist in its wake.
It was the creeping shadow of death itself.
This was Beauxbatons Academy, France's most prestigious institution of magic, a place once hailed as the safest sanctuary outside the French Ministry of Magic.
But now—
Now, it was on the verge of collapse.
Beyond the castle walls, the once-lush green fields had been stained yellow and crimson, a grotesque blend of decay and blood.
Dark wizards and Death Eaters roamed freely, their black robes billowing as they moved with ruthless efficiency.
Some sprinted toward the castle, eager to join the fray, their wands crackling with Dark Magic. Others strolled leisurely, eyes gleaming with malice as they took in the devastation around them.
Bodies of fallen students and professors littered the ground, their lifeless forms discarded like broken dolls. Yet, their deaths evoked no remorse—only cruel amusement.
A few Death Eaters even paused to admire their handiwork, the twisted expressions of terror on the faces of their victims serving as entertainment.
Beauxbatons, the untouchable beacon of magic, was now a crumbling relic.
The once-revered professors, figures of authority and wisdom, now lay at their feet, broken and pleading for mercy.
But mercy was not in the vocabulary of the Dark Lord's followers.
Instead, the air was thick with ecstasy and bloodlust.
The thrill of destruction.
The pleasure of domination.
The sheer euphoria of murder.
The massacre fueled them, driving them forward, deeper into the heart of the castle.
There was only one last barrier to break.
The final line of defense.
And when it fell, Beauxbatons would truly be theirs.
Boom!
Crack!
A khaki-colored barrier shimmered before the main castle, its protective glow holding firm against an onslaught of spells.
Beyond it lay the final sanctuary—the last stronghold of Beauxbatons' surviving professors and students.
Outside the barrier, scores of dark wizards and Death Eaters stood gathered, their wands raised as they unleashed spell after spell, hurling their most destructive magic against the enchanted walls.
Flashes of light illuminated the battlefield, as streaks of crimson, violet, and green slammed against the barrier, sending ripples across its surface.
And then—
Crack.
A visible fracture split across the shield.
It mended itself quickly, but not before igniting a frenzy among the attackers.
A chorus of cheers erupted, voices rising in triumph.
The end was near.
They redoubled their efforts, hurling curses with renewed vigor, each spell widening the cracks, stretching the defenses to their limit.
Beauxbatons' last battlefield.
Its last breath.
Once the barrier fell, the same fate would await the castle's remaining inhabitants—
Death. Slaughter. Ruin.
From above, the scene of carnage unfolded like a grotesque painting.
The earth pulsed with deep, twisting veins of dark red, snaking across the landscape like living tendrils.
If one looked closely—
If one magnified their vision tenfold, a hundredfold, even a thousandfold—
They would see the truth behind the eerie mist that now cloaked Beauxbatons.
It was not mere fog.
It was alive.
The haze was composed of countless microscopic purple insects, so tiny they were imperceptible to the naked eye.
A plague in motion.
And high above, a lone shadow watched in silence.
A figure clad in midnight robes, his deathly pale face eerily illuminated by the battlefield below.
Lord Voldemort.
His crimson eyes gleamed, flickering with unrestrained excitement as he observed the unfolding sacrificial ritual.
Licking his lips, he let a bloodthirsty grin curl across his face.
The castle still resisted.
But not for long.
His yew wand moved with deliberate precision, tracing invisible patterns in the air.
And at that command—
The purple mist surged.
Like a wave of death, it rushed toward Beauxbatons, flooding through the academy's courtyards and corridors like a living entity.
Wherever it touched—
Nothing remained.
Blades of grass withered into dust.
Corpses were erased, leaving behind only fragments of bone—if that.
Even the dying cries of the fallen were silenced, swallowed by the swarm.
The only thing untouched—
Beauxbatons' castle itself.
Under Voldemort's command, the buildings would remain standing.
Only the people would perish.
It was an exhibition of power.
A declaration of absolute dominance.
The Death Eaters, in the midst of their attack, suddenly sensed something ominous behind them.
Turning, they saw the tide of purple mist creeping toward them.
And for the first time since the battle began—
They felt fear.
The Death Eaters did not immediately realize the origin of the purple mist creeping through the battlefield.
To them, it was an unknown force—one that moved with unnatural purpose.
But Lord Voldemort had no intention of explaining his methods to his subordinates.
It was only when the purple mist slithered past them without harm that realization struck.
This was their master's doing.
And then—
The mist reached the castle's defenses.
A deep, unsettling chittering sound filled the air, like thousands of insects gnawing at flesh.
Within seconds—
A hole appeared in the earthy-yellow barrier, its edges corroded away by the swarming mist.
Before the magical defenses could repair themselves, the mist poured inside, flooding through the gap like a living tide.
The wizards and professors stationed at the castle gate reacted instantly.
"Protego Maxima!"
"Repello Inimicum!"
Golden shields flashed as layers of protective charms sprang to life.
For a moment, it seemed they had successfully blocked the invasion.
But then—
The mist twisted and surged, swirling around the enchantments like a viper.
Crack!
The barriers shattered, the golden glow extinguished in an instant.
A chorus of screams erupted.
The purple mist engulfed them, and their spells—so desperately cast—were useless against its overwhelming force.
Cries of agony, despair, and frantic pleading filled the air.
And then—
Silence.
When the mist dissipated, all that remained were bones.
Not even a scrap of flesh.
The Death Eaters, watching from a distance, felt an instinctual chill crawl up their spines.
These wizards had resisted them for so long—
And yet, in mere seconds, they had been erased.
A fear they did not yet understand settled deep in their subconscious.
And that—
That was exactly what Voldemort wanted.
He ruled through fear and power.
And what greater demonstration of power than instant, merciless death?
The purple mist continued its work, infiltrating every hallway and chamber of Beauxbatons.
It hunted down the remaining survivors, devouring those who dared resist, consuming them in an instantaneous, excruciating death.
And when it was done—
When no more life remained to be taken—
It returned to its master.
A gust of cold wind swept across the battlefield.
High above the castle, Voldemort stood motionless, eyes closed, basking in the symphony of death.
The sacrificial magic circle below surged to life.
The once purple mist began to shift—dyed crimson by the essence of those it had consumed.
The change was immediate and violent.
The once-misty fog boiled and churned, twisting into thick, blood-red waves.
Then, with a single flick of his wand—
The blood-red mist surged upward, rushing toward him.
Voldemort breathed in deeply.
He inhaled the very essence of the fallen, the accumulated life force and magic of those who had perished.
He was a black hole, devouring everything.
His body trembled—not from weakness, but from power.
Below, the Death Eaters and dark wizards watched in awe and terror.
Their master—already a force of destruction—was growing stronger before their very eyes.
Minute by minute, breath by breath, he absorbed every last particle of the blood mist.
And as he did—
His form began to change.
His deathly pale skin darkened into a deep crimson hue, as if his body were being reborn in blood.
Then—
The color softened.
His skin lightened, shifting from blood red to a healthy, natural tone.
His face changed.
The serpentine features that had defined him—the flat nose, the sunken cheeks—began to reshape.
His nose reappeared, his facial structure refined.
Where once stood a gaunt, monstrous figure, now stood a handsome, middle-aged man.
Powerful.
Commanding.
Radiating an unshakable aura of dominance.
But one thing had not changed—
His eyes.
Scarlet. Piercing. Unforgiving.
No matter how human his exterior had become, the essence of Voldemort remained unchanged.
Cruel. Calculating. Unstoppable.
His transformation was complete.
He had not merely restored his strength—
He had ascended beyond it.
A final gust of wind swept through the ruined battlefield.
Voldemort descended from the sky, his black robes billowing as he landed before his army.
The Death Eaters and dark wizards—seeing the new form of their master—were struck silent.
Then—
In one synchronized motion, they dropped to one knee, wands raised above their heads.
"Congratulations, Master! Congratulations, Master! The French wizarding world is now your domain!"
"Hail, the Dark Lord!"
"Hail, the ruler of France!"
"Hail, the master of magic!"
Their voices rose in unison, growing louder and louder, filled with devotion and awe.
They had witnessed history.
A wizarding nation had fallen.
A living empire had been conquered.
And at its helm stood Voldemort, undisputed, unchallenged.
The French Ministry of Magic had fallen first.
Now, Beauxbatons—the final symbol of resistance—had crumbled.
The entire French wizarding world was now in the grasp of the Dark Lord.
Voldemort's smile was faint—but his ambition burned fiercely.
This victory—this conquest—meant nothing.
It was merely the beginning.
A trivial exercise compared to the real war ahead.
France was weak.
Dumbledore. Tom Riddle. Gilderoy Lockhart.
They were the true obstacles in his path.
They had humiliated him.
Trapped him. Toyed with him.
Now, it was his turn.
Voldemort's expression darkened.
"I will have my revenge."
Kamar Taj: The Training Grounds
Far away from the battlefield, in a realm untouched by Voldemort's war, a massive snow-white dragon rested on an endless green lawn.
Its golden eyes were locked onto the figures battling nearby.
A woman, flames dancing in her hands.
A man, moving with precision, wielding a wand as he manipulated the very earth beneath him.
Clang! Clang! Clang!
Blades of fire met shields of steel, the air between them crackling with raw magical energy.
Wanda Maximoff.
Her opponent—Ian—moved with unnatural speed, conjuring objects from the ground in rapid succession
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