On the winding path to Hogsmeade—
Professor McGonagall's expression turned visibly rigid the moment she spotted a familiar figure hovering in the distant sky.
There was no mistaking that silhouette.
A single man, responsible for plunging the entire British Isles into more than a decade of darkness and fear—Voldemort.
"Orim, go with Filius and help evacuate below. I'll handle Ino myself."
McGonagall turned, her voice firm as she addressed Madame Maxime once again.
She had no choice. Maxime was not only the Headmistress of Beauxbatons but also a foreign guest. If anything happened to her here, the consequences would be dire.
What she had assumed was a simple security incident had escalated into a crisis. And regardless of the danger, Hogsmeade was still teeming with students who hadn't yet been evacuated.
…
After issuing her orders, Professor McGonagall flew alone toward Hogsmeade, her resolve clear in her eyes.
As she drew closer, something peculiar happened.
The snowfall stopped—not that it ceased entirely, but rather, all the snowflakes in the sky over Hogwarts, Hogsmeade, and the vast surrounding lands simply froze in place.
Thick, downy snowflakes—large as goose feathers—suspended motionless in midair. Then, they began to turn, slowly and rhythmically, as though stirred by an invisible force, forming a graceful, clockwise spiral.
At that moment, every witch and wizard in Hogsmeade, professors included, bore witness to a breathtaking sight.
…
High in the air—
Ino floated like a deity of ice and snow, the sky above shrouded in a swirling storm of white.
In a matter of seconds, the frozen snowflakes coalesced into a great white curtain, gathering and rippling in midair before surging forward in a tidal wave—all aimed at Voldemort.
As the wave swept forth, the snowflakes transformed.
No longer mere flakes, they morphed into pure-white Billywig insects, each bristling with inch-long stingers.
A true swarm—an overwhelming sea of magical insects.
And above them, the skies blackened.
And far above, cloaked within the Bogart black mist—an eerie, unnatural fog—an army of cursed mountain spirits descended.
Hundreds of spectral archers released volleys of arrows, while others, armed with spears and swords, plunged down like phantoms.
This time, Ino was holding nothing back.
His brush with death had unleashed the full extent of his power.
Though furious, he kept his composure.
He made sure the Bogart mist stayed clear of Hogsmeade—and didn't summon his companion Fidd, either. Too many witches and wizards were watching below.
…
As the swarm of magical insects and ghostly warriors surged together, Voldemort raised his wand.
"Protego Maxima! Confringo!"
Calm and cold, he cast two of the most effective spells available to him.
The Blasting Curse, often underestimated, was a devastating force in capable hands. In the original story, Peter Pettigrew used it to destroy an entire street, and Seamus Finnigan once brought down the massive Covered Bridge with it. Its destructive power scaled with the caster's skill.
And now, Voldemort demonstrated the spell's full potential.
Before the eyes of every wizard in Hogsmeade, he taught them firsthand what the Blasting Curse could truly do.
With a sharp incantation, a beam of crimson light—thick as a baby's arm—shot from his wand tip like a lightning bolt tearing through the sky.
It struck the insect swarm.
The moment it made contact, it was like a red-hot iron rod plunging into soft cheese—easily melting its way through.
But strangely, no explosion followed.
One second… two seconds…
A delay—
Then a thunderous BOOM erupted, the air itself trembling with the force of the blast.
Though the explosion occurred in the sky, wizards below could feel the tremor in their bones, as if the very ground had quaked beneath their feet.
That was the moment many finally realized the true scale of the threat—and silently began retreating.
It said something about wizards and their lack of modern distractions that, even amid this chaos, many still had one hand firmly clutched around their three-inch magical recording mirrors, making sure to keep the battle in frame.
Just like Muggles recording a swaying chandelier during an earthquake.
…
The retreating crowd, however, did nothing to affect the clash above.
Ino could feel it—over half the swarm had been obliterated in the blast, and many of the Cursed Highlanders had also been torn apart.
But he didn't care.
The Billywig insects, born from transformed snowflakes, and the Highlanders, shaped from boggart fog, were both expendable—and practically immortal.
"Infernal Winter!"
Ino raised his wand again—this time not casting wandlessly, but channeling power through the Wand itself.
With the full force of his Ice and Snow Inheritance, he cast the second inherited spell.
The skies over Hogwarts and Hogsmeade split open once more.
This time, it wasn't just snow.
A blizzard erupted.
Snow didn't float anymore—it poured. Torrents of snow and howling winds poured down like an avalanche from a cracked sky.
The air thickened with snow so dense, it became hard to breathe.
In seconds, the entire sky vanished into a blinding, icy white.
The swarm that had been destroyed?
Instantly replenished.
And not just that—they had grown.
The new Billywig swarm was easily ten times larger than before. Fat and swollen as if they'd drunk an engorgement potion, they roared back into the sky, howling as they descended upon Voldemort again.
"Ice Lance Barrage!"
With another cry, Ino called upon the first spell of the Ice and Snow legacy.
It was a spell he had long since shelved—after mastering Sectumsempra, such a basic offensive magic seemed unnecessary.
But today, facing Voldemort, he resurrected it.
This time, there were no limitations. No measly three or five arrows born from a young wizard's meager reserves.
Having trained for years—decades, even—Ino had mastered his magical reserves to unnatural levels, like a character who'd hacked his way past the game's limits.
And the results showed.
Behind him, countless pale blue ice arrows formed in the air.
An endless volley.
Each arrow fired like a bullet, rapidly replaced by the next in an unceasing cycle. The barrage tore through the sky alongside the surging insect swarm—like ants devouring a dragon.
…
Even now, Ino did not lower his guard.
Back in the cottage, Voldemort's curses had truly threatened his life. That space-rending Killing Curse—swift and silent—had nearly ended him.
Were it not for the sanctuary's protections, he'd be dead already.
The memory stirred not just fear, but fury.
He'd offered civility. He'd even brought out his prophetic dice. Voldemort had responded with a Killing Curse.
Eyes narrowed, Ino brandished his wand once more.
"Sectumsempra! Sectumsempra!"
Using the boggart fog as support, he maneuvered through the air, launching the invisible, slashing curse from unexpected angles. One after another, each strike targeted Voldemort with surgical precision.
…
Earlier, during their standoff, Ino had already devised his plan.
If Voldemort's strength lay in powerful, high-casting-time spells, then he would drown him in relentless, overwhelming force.
Even the strongest spells are useless if the caster can't find time to use them.
And that was his strategy.
Endless attacks. No pauses. No mercy.