Harry Potter: Dragonborn comes

"The Gaze That Broke the Serpent"

A massive serpent coiled around Arthur, moving with a slow, calculated intent that seemed designed to inflict more pain than death itself. Each time it struck with its fangs, Arthur raised his hands to fend it off, though every bite tore a strangled groan from his throat. Blood soaked his sleeves, mingling with the sickly gleam of dark magic that clung to the creature.

For an instant, as he struggled to stay conscious, Arthur saw someone take the crystal sphere he had managed to activate. Someone would come. He only had to endure a little longer.

Then, suddenly, the serpent froze, as if receiving a silent command. Slowly, it turned its head, ready to slither back into the shadows. But before it could retreat, it realized someone was watching.

There stood Einar, perfectly upright, his black cloak billowing in the wind pouring through the shattered windows.

His golden eyes blazed with an inhuman gleam. They weren't the eyes of a serpent. They were something above any creature of this world.

The snake, which had withstood curses and fire, fell utterly still. A tremor rippled through its body as it understood it could no longer move—that it couldn't even flee.

In the span of a heartbeat, Einar's hands closed around its neck with a force no human should possess. The scaled body began to writhe as a high-pitched shriek pierced the air. And then, with a dull crack, the serpent's form exploded into a cloud of dark blood and fragments of corrupted magic that sputtered before fading into nothing.

Arthur could barely keep his eyes open, but even so, he managed a weary smile when he saw him arrive.

Einar didn't waste a second. He strode over, murmuring a string of healing incantations that flowed from his hands in waves of pale light. From his belt he drew several vials, some violet crystal and others amber-colored, and began carefully pouring them over the open wounds. The last one he placed in Arthur's trembling hand.

"Drink."

"You made it in time…" Arthur murmured, feeling the potion's warmth spread through his chest as the injuries began to mend.

"Why didn't you use the leather armor I gave you?" Einar asked, his voice a mix of reproach and concern. His eyes remained fixed on each wound as he cast more healing spells.

"I'm sorry… I gave it to Percy. He… he might be in danger too… being, you know…" Arthur replied with a faint, awkward smile, as if he couldn't quite bring himself to say the word spy aloud.

Einar sighed, though there was not a trace of reproach in his gaze. Only understanding.

"It's fine. I understand. I didn't have time to give him anything when he left with Fudge. I didn't expect him to try this without warning."

As he continued chanting spells that lit the room in rhythmic pulses, he heard hurried footsteps approaching down the corridor. He didn't need to turn to know who they were.

"Einar, what happened here?" Kingsley demanded, stepping in with his wand raised and taking in the blood staining the floor. Behind him, Tonks stifled a gasp when she saw the creature's remains.

"Is Mr. Weasley all right?" Tonks asked anxiously, moving closer to see how the torn skin was slowly knitting back together.

"I'm better now…" Arthur replied with a sigh, letting his head rest against the wall as the potion did its work.

"Come on, help me get him back to base," Einar said firmly.

Kingsley moved immediately, slipping an arm under Arthur's shoulders to help lift him.

—

"Arthur, for Merlin's sake!" Molly exclaimed, pacing the room with a face as white as parchment. Bill sat by the fire, his expression tight with worry. When they saw the figures appear through the fireplace, they rushed forward.

"I'm fine… Just a little dizzy," Arthur said, trying to reassure his wife as Bill took his other arm.

Einar drew a small leather case and produced several potions, handing them to Molly with steady hands.

"Make sure he drinks them all. He needs to replenish the blood he lost. There are no open wounds, but the venom was potent—or his resistance wasn't enough. I've neutralized most of it, but he must rest for a few days."

"Yes… Thank you, Einar. Thank you so much," Molly whispered, her voice trembling as she struggled not to cry.

"We'll be going back. We can't stay away from our post too long," Kingsley said, nodding to Tonks.

"Wait," Einar called, before tossing them two reinforced leather vests he retrieved from his inventory without further explanation. "Wear these under your clothes. Just in case."

"Thanks," Tonks replied with a tired smile. With a last glance at Arthur, they stepped back into the fireplace and vanished in a swirl of green flames.

—

"Nagini!"

Voldemort's roar thundered through the hall like a storm rising from the bowels of hell. The stone table cracked under the pressure of his long, pale fingers, whose nails looked like the claws of a corpse.

All around him, a chorus of shivers ran down the spines of the Death Eaters, who clung to silence with a terror that stank of desperation. No one dared to lift their gaze. Their master's wrath filled the air like an invisible poison—suffocating, deadlier than any curse.

A dark gash split open across his forearm, deep as an abyss. From it oozed a thread of black blood, so thick it resembled rotting ink. Voldemort drew ragged breaths, each exhalation a hiss laden with hatred, while his serpentine pupils contracted with an almost inhuman fury.

One Death Eater mustered enough courage to step forward. His hands were shaking so badly he could barely point his wand at the wound to cast a clumsy healing charm.

Voldemort didn't move. But his eyes, burning coals of rage, never blinked as he felt the connection to his serpent dissolve into nothing.

"Send someone to find out what happened to Nagini—now!"

His voice shattered the silence with a blade that cut into their will. Several Death Eaters nodded in jerky motions before fleeing the mansion in a rush.

"Master... I believe it would be wise to summon a healer from St. Mungo's," stammered the Death Eater tending to the wound, his face livid with panic.

"It's useless. Nothing can heal this. Do you think I haven't tried?"

The final word became a roar before his wand erupted in a crimson blaze.

"Crucio!"

The Death Eater collapsed to his knees, convulsing, screaming with a broken voice that no longer sounded human. The others turned away as if that might spare them from sharing his fate.

Voldemort held the curse for long seconds, savoring the torment like a twisted balm. At last, he released the man with a snap of disdain.

"M-Master... mercy..." the wretch whimpered between sobs, eyes rolling back in his skull.

Voldemort looked away, his lips curling in a sneer of disgust.

Then, the door creaked open.

A gaunt man stepped inside, his body covered in scars as if they'd been carved there with deliberate cruelty. His presence carried the sickly calm of someone who looked upon the world like a dying animal.

"I don't know if this is the right moment to interrupt," he said in a deep voice, almost amused, "but it seems someone has discovered your hiding place."

"Who?" Voldemort spat, his words barely a venomous whisper.

"The boy from the newspapers."

The man crossed the room and sat in a chair without haste, as if none of it truly concerned him. His empty eyes glimmered with a mocking light.

"Send someone to silence him at once," Voldemort commanded, turning to another Death Eater. "What happened with the giants?"

The chosen Death Eater swallowed hard, unable to meet his gaze.

"They... they refused us, my lord..."

His voice trembled so much it seemed he might collapse on the spot.

"What did you say?"

The silence grew thicker than the darkness seeping through the windows.

"T-they refused us... It was because of the giant that serves Dumbledore."

A flash of green lit the room a heartbeat before the man's body fell lifeless to the floor. No one moved. No one breathed.

"Accelerate all plans."

Voldemort straightened slowly, his robes stained with a trail of black blood soaking his shoulder—a wound that would not heal. A reminder of his defeat.

"Yes, master," they chorused in unison, their voices charged with fearful devotion. In the blink of an eye, the hall was nearly empty.

Nearly.

The scarred man still sat in the shadows, a crooked smile never reaching his eyes. He slipped a hand into his coat and drew out a wand of dark wood, its surface etched with a spiral of corroded runes and a serpent coiled along the handle.

And if one looked closely, they would realize it was no ordinary serpent. Its jaws were far too wide. Its scales, far too ancient.

"How foolish..." he murmured in a low voice, caressing the wand with long, almost tender fingers. "Seven fragments... when one alone is enough."

A dry laugh, devoid of any warmth, twisted across his lips.

"It's clear these wizards have forgotten what true power was. If only they'd been born in times when gods walked among men... when ancient magic wasn't a secret... but the language of the world itself..."

His voice trailed off into a whisper heavy with contempt. Then he lifted his gaze to the door, as if he could see something no one else perceived.

And he smiled.