Harry Potter: A Typical Man(SI OC)

The dead came with the wind. No drums, no horns—just the cold silence of death itself rolling across the snowy plain like a tide that would never retreat. I stood at the front gates of Winterfell beside Ghost—though this version of Ghost was no ordinary direwolf anymore. Towering, armored, radiating ancient magic like the old gods themselves had chosen him for their vengeance.

Beside me stood Jon Bonds, the man who had become both a mystery and a brother. The storm howled around us, but the air trembled with something more. Something... divine.

Bonds turned his head toward me, his eyes gleaming with power. No words were exchanged. He simply nodded, stepped forward, and raised his wand.

"Dracothor Voltain."

No chant, no flourish. Just the whisper of ancient magic and the scream of the sky tearing itself apart. Thunder cracked like the wrath of gods. Lightning ripped open the black clouds above, and from the vortex descended dragons—not of scale and fire, but of pure storm. Electric, glowing, furious.

The dragons howled as they dove toward the undead, unleashing blinding bolts of destruction. The front ranks of the wights exploded into ash and broken bones. Wild cheers erupted from the battlements as Northern lords, wildlings, Vale knights, and Unsullied watched their enemy shatter beneath storms forged from magic.

I turned to Ghost, who knelt slightly. Bonds and I climbed onto his massive back—Snow on the right, me on the left. The warmth of Ghost's fur was a strange comfort amid the cold terror of war.

"Ready, brother?" I asked Bonds.

He smirked and unslung the strange weapon strapped to his back—a black, angular thing unlike anything I'd seen.

"This," he said, patting the side of the weapon, "is an HK-437. Science, meet magic. Obsidian-tipped bullets. Kills wights faster than fire."

I blinked. "Where in the seven hells did you get that?"

He grinned. "Other world perks. Long story. Let's go kill a King."

Ghost leapt forward like a beast possessed, crashing through the Winterfell gates and straight into the howling blizzard.

Behind us, the battlefield erupted.

Daenerys's POV:

The storm above was not mine.

My dragons knew fire, not thunder. And yet, the sky had been ripped apart by Bonds's spell, and from it descended the wrath of gods. Dragons made of lightning—thunder-wrought nightmares that tore through the ranks of the dead like blades through silk. I watched them from atop Drogon, Rhaegal and Viserion flanking me in full armor crafted by Gendry's smiths.

Magic pulsed from every edge of their armor. Runes glowed. Metal shimmered. We were gods of war tonight.

"Soves!" I commanded, and the dragons rose.

From above, I saw everything.

The Unsullied held the center line, spears coated in dragonglass and fire. Grey Worm led them with unyielding focus. The Dothraki had surged in earlier—many fell, but those who returned fought like demons, igniting the night with burning arakhs.

The Northern forces held the left flank under Lord Glover, while Brienne and Jaime led the right. Wildfire traps lit the horizon in bursts of green, swallowing the dead whole.

Then, I saw them—Ghost charging across the field like a comet of white death. Jon Snow and Bonds rode him, cutting a path straight through the endless wave of corpses.

Jon's sword—Longclaw—burned with light. And Bonds's... weapon—it spat death at impossible speeds, each bullet tearing through multiple wights at once.

"They fight like legends," I whispered.

Tyrion stood beside Sansa atop the battlements, coordinating messages. Davos waved signals for flanks to fall back where needed. Arya was already a shadow in the chaos—wiping out key necromancers deep in enemy lines.

Below me, one of the lightning dragons dove again, ripping apart a White Walker chariot with a thunderous roar.

I pulled Drogon into a dive.

The Long Night had begun.

And we would meet it with fire, steel, and the fury of the old and the new.

Tormund swung his giant axe, cleaving three wights in a single stroke. "If I die today, let it be after killing a thousand!" he bellowed.

Arya danced through death like shadow. Her new blade, humming with dark thunder runes, turned every strike into a burst of poison and electricity. "You're not taking Winterfell," she growled, eyes ablaze with the thrill of vengeance.

Ser Davos coordinated flanks, his voice commanding yet strained. "Pull back the left! Fold them to the center—drive them into the wildfire trap!"

The wildlings surged. Northern shields braced. The Vale's knights, led by Robin Arryn—surprisingly fearless—formed aerial support from Winterfell's towers with Dothraki wielding dragonglass-tipped javelins.

Tyrion stood atop the battlements beside Sansa and Lady Olenna, watching with horror and awe. "And here I thought I had seen every kind of hell," he muttered. "That wizard—what is he?"

"Hope," Sansa whispered. "Or the last breath of it."

The dragons—Drogon, Rhaegal, and Viserion—armored in obsidian-forged plates, dove from the storm skies. Their roars cleaved the air. They unleashed hellfire across the ranks of the dead, burning paths through the snow.

Still, the Night King did not move.

We pushed through, tearing through the thinning ranks until only wights remained around us. Then… we saw him.

He stood at the hill's edge, cloaked in wind and silence. The Night King.

Jon and Bonds reached the clearing first, Ghost at full speed, kicking up frozen mist as his jaws snapped bone. The Night King… didn't move. Not an inch. His gaze fixed on Jon Snow. No… Aegon Targaryen.

I watched from Drogon's back, the wind searing my face, heart hammering. I wanted to burn him. To end this. But something in me… said no. This moment was not mine.

Behind me, the cries of death grew louder. Jaime Lannister had taken a spear for a Mormont soldier. He bled, but stood. "We hold this gate," he hissed. "Or we die trying."

Lord Gendry of Storm's End was nearly limping, one leg soaked in blood. "Bastards and lords die the same way," he told his men. "But we die fighting."

Princess Arianne Martell rode with spear and flame beside a Martell phalanx. "The sun does not die at night," she shouted. "It rises after!"

So many fell.

Lord Royce of the Vale was crushed beneath a wight giant.

Lady Mormont… gods, brave Lyanna Mormont… stabbed the eye of the beast that killed her as it died on top of her.

So many losses. So many names that would be carved into Winterfell's stone.

But Jon Snow was still standing.

He stepped off Ghost as Bonds and Ghost slowed, flanking him. And for the first time, three legends faced the Night King.

Ghost snarled, his fur bristling with the wind of the storm. "You've come far, king of corpses."

Bonds' eyes glowed with power, his wand humming at his side. "Let's end this."

And Jon… his blade Longclaw gleamed with frostlight and fire.

"I've seen death," he whispered. "Now I'll end it."

And the final duel began.

Jon Snow's POV:

The air crackled with tension. Frost and ash danced like ghosts in the dim, flickering blue of the battlefield. Ghost stood beside me, larger than any direwolf had the right to be, his body covered in glowing runes of ice. Beside him, Jon Bonds—the other Jon, the sorcerer-wolf—towered in his armored, hybrid form, twin katanas humming with power. His silver-white fur caught the light of burning pyres, glistening like starlight.

And in front of us, the Night King.

He waited in silence, his frost-blue eyes void of all but malice. In his skeletal grip, the Blade of Victory glowed with a frozen, sinister flame. The silence before the storm.

"Now," Bonds growled.

Ghost summoned a massive glacial wall behind us with a stomp of his paw, sealing off the battlefield. None would interfere.

I shifted fully into my Fenrir form—taller, stronger, faster. My armor gleamed white, carved from valyrian steel and woven in spells by Bonds. Longclaw glowed in my hand, matching the storm in my blood.

We charged.

Bonds moved like liquid lightning, his twin blades flashing with impossible speed. Ghost surged forward like an avalanche, crashing into the Night King with full force. But the undead king didn't flinch—he twisted his body, parrying Ghost with one swing and slashing toward Bonds.

Bonds blocked it, sparks exploding from steel meeting ice.

I dove low, spinning under the Night King's blade, Longclaw slashing across his back. The sound was like ice cracking across a frozen lake. He turned—fast—but I was faster. I leapt, slammed into him with my shoulder, knocking him back.

But he landed perfectly, not even staggering.

His blade sang.

He lunged.

We split—Bonds above, Ghost to the side, and me low again. We struck as one. I buried Longclaw into his thigh while Bonds crossed blades with him mid-air. Ghost's maw opened and launched a beam of pure ice that encased the king's left arm.

"He can see our attacks!" Bonds shouted. "Observation Haki! Predictive vision!"

I gritted my teeth. "Then we overwhelm him."

Bonds blurred, launching into a deadly dance. The katanas moved too fast to follow, clanging against the Night King's blade. Each block sent out shockwaves, flattening the snow beneath their feet.

Ghost howled—a roar of ancient winter—and the temperature dropped sharply. Ice grew like claws across the king's legs.

I used that chance.

I struck again. High. Low. Feint. Left. Right.

We weren't trying to land one perfect blow—we were trying to overload him. Make him choose wrong.

It worked.

Ghost pinned his sword with a bite, giving Bonds the opening to slash across the king's chest. I struck next, plunging Longclaw through the wound. But it didn't end him.

He screamed—a horrible, frozen wail—and unleashed a wave of frost.

It threw us back. Ghost crashed into the ice wall. I slid across the battlefield, slamming into the frozen earth. My vision spun.

Bonds didn't stop.

He threw his swords into the ground and raised his claws to the sky.

"Nihil Umbra!" he roared.

A dome of darkness erupted, devouring light. Time seemed to halt. The Night King hesitated.

"He can't use magic in here," Bonds growled. "But we can."

We attacked as one. A storm of blows. Bonds cast chains of fire to hold him. Ghost crushed his leg in his jaws. And I—

I called to the blade.

Longclaw sang.

I lifted it high, wrapped in wildfire and ancestral power.

And I struck.

The Blade of Victory shattered. The Night King screamed—not in rage, but in fear.

My sword cut down through his neck, through the frozen chest, into the very core of the darkness.

And then—

Silence.

Cracks spread across his form like a mirror breaking.

He exploded in a burst of icy dust.

Ghost slumped beside me, panting, his side bloodied. Bonds fell to one knee, exhaustion etched in every line of his wolfen face.

The dome vanished. The frost began to melt.

The dead collapsed.

A new wind blew through Winterfell. It was not the wind of death, but of dawn.

I looked down at the shattered remains of the Blade of Victory.

Bonds picked up the hilt and placed it in my hand.

"You wielded it. You ended him. The blade is yours."

I shook my head. "It was all of us."

Ghost nudged the sword toward me. "Jon Snow, King of the North, Slayer of the Night King. Accept it."

I sighed, overwhelmed, but I nodded. I held the hilt high as the sun began to rise.

Winter was over.

We had won.

The Night King was gone.

A new wind began to stir, slow and low, brushing past the bloodied snowbanks and ash-coated stones of Winterfell. And then—

The clouds parted.

And from the east, beyond the shadow of the Wall, the sky split open in brilliant hues of gold and rose. Sunlight—true, pure sunlight—cascaded across the battlefield, touching the carnage like a blessing from the gods.

It washed over the broken bodies of the brave, the burned remnants of undead giants, the shattered weapons and craters torn into the earth by fire, steel, and spell.

And with it came the sound that shattered the stillness.

Cheers.

Laughter.

Weeping.

Roars of relief and triumph rose from the ramparts of Winterfell, from the trenches, the towers, the walls and gates. From the mouths of men, women, and even dragons.

We had survived.

The living had won.

The first to howl was Ghost—his cry long, wild, and victorious—rising into the sky like a proclamation of ancient power. His massive white-furred form shimmered in the new sun, glowing like a beast born of ice and stars. And when he finished, the dragons echoed him, their roars crackling through the morning like thunder.

Bonds turned to me, blood on his fangs and armor scorched, eyes gleaming. "You did it, Snow," he said, his voice low and hoarse but proud. "You ended the Long Night."

I looked at him, then at Ghost, then at the hilt of the shattered Blade of Victory now reforged into something else in my hand. My breath trembled in my chest. It wasn't just me. It was all of us.

I raised the sword.

The sunlight caught it.

And every voice in Winterfell cried out in unison.

"VICTORY!"

"KING IN THE NORTH!"

"THE NORTH REMEMBERS!"

"LONG LIVE THE WOLVES!"

Some cried out my name, others the names of Bonds or Ghost, and some simply fell to their knees and prayed. I heard Davos's voice shout hoarsely through the crowd. Arya's laughter—raw and tearful. Tormund's roar louder than a bear. Sansa sobbing into Daenerys's shoulder. Dragons screeching high above.

And I felt something break inside my chest.

Not pain.

Not grief.

But relief. Hope. The kind of hope I hadn't allowed myself to believe in since the very first time I saw a White Walker at Hardhome.

We'd done it.

We'd truly done it.