Hogwarts: Third Dark Lord

As Dumbledore spoke, the remaining wizard hunter behind him raised his wand. Upon seeing this, Wentworth couldn't help but exclaim:

"Headmaster, whether you meant to or not, if this happens again, I swear I'm not leaving Hogwarts!"

While speaking, Wentworth aimed his wand at the wizard hunter before him. Simultaneously, with a swift flick of his left thumb, he uncorked the vial of Felix Felicis he had been holding and took a decisive gulp.

"Confringo!"

As the wizard hunter fired his spell, Wentworth, with Felix Felicis still in his mouth, muttered indistinctly:

"Expelliarmus!"

At the same time, Wentworth darted to the side, hoping to avoid the incoming curse.

Perhaps thanks to the Felix Felicis, Wentworth's Disarming Charm collided mid-air with the wizard hunter's spell. The two curses exploded upon impact, sending shockwaves rippling through the space between them. Debris flew from the force of the blast, and a shard of rock grazed the wizard hunter's brow, causing blood to gush from the wound.

"Damn you, brat! When I catch you, you'll regret it! Petrificus Totalus!"

The wizard hunter, clutching his bleeding eye, shouted curses as he unleashed another spell at Wentworth.

However, whether due to the blood obscuring his vision or the lingering effects of the Felix Felicis, the accuracy of the wizard hunter's attacks was noticeably diminished. Wentworth managed to dodge while occasionally counterattacking.

Meanwhile, the rest of the wizard hunters were focused on attacking Dumbledore with all their might. A barrage of multicolored spells lit up the night as they relentlessly targeted him.

Dumbledore, for his part, concentrated on maintaining the protective enchantment encircling himself and Wentworth. Though the barrier rippled under the onslaught of spells, it held firm.

As Dumbledore and Wentworth clashed with the wizard hunters, a pair of eyes watched the battle intently from the depths of the surrounding forest.

By the faint light of the moon filtering through the branches, two figures crouched silently behind a bush, observing the scene. Suddenly, the rustling of leaves came from the other side of the thicket. Instantly, the two concealed figures drew their wands, pointing them toward the source of the noise. It became clear they too were wizards.

Emerging from the other side of the underbrush was the blonde-haired, green-eyed wizard hunter who had left earlier. Upon recognizing him, the two hidden wizards exhaled in relief and lowered their wands.

The blonde wizard approached, muttering in irritation, "What rotten luck—running into Dumbledore! If he weren't so focused on training that boy, I might not have made it out alive."

In the moonlight, one of the other wizards questioned skeptically, "Is Dumbledore really that formidable? From the looks of it, he seems to be struggling against those hunters. Could it be you're overestimating him? He's just an old man now, after all."

The blonde wizard sneered, "Perhaps Voldemort once thought the same. Fool. I'm leaving. Stay here if you like, but don't blame me if you're caught."

Another wizard seemed reluctant. "Are we really just going to give up? We've invested so much—ten thousand Galleons to hire these hunters, not to mention the effort you put into infiltrating them. Are we just walking away?"

The blonde wizard paused but replied coldly, "As long as our target remains unharmed, we'll have other chances. They're in the open; we're in the shadows. And as for the cost, well, expenses can always be 'adjusted' later."

He smirked, adding, "Remind me to submit an invoice for fifteen thousand Galleons when we're back."

With that, he Disapparated into the night. The remaining two exchanged a glance, their eyes gleaming with shared understanding. Without further hesitation, they too Disapparated.

Meanwhile, as the trio vanished, Dumbledore, locked in a standoff with the wizard hunters, cast a brief, knowing glance toward the forest's edge but did not react further.

The wizard hunters' barrage continued, unrelenting. Behind Dumbledore, Wentworth was still dueling the injured wizard hunter. Both seemed to be nearing their limits. The hunter, pale from blood loss, swayed unsteadily while clutching his wounded eye.

Wentworth, visibly fatigued, was panting heavily, his hands on his knees.

"You've got stamina, I'll give you that," the hunter sneered. "For someone so young, your magic reserves are impressive. But let's see how much longer you can last!"

Despite his bravado, the hunter's movements grew sluggish, his footing increasingly unstable.

At that moment, Wentworth straightened, aiming his wand at the hunter. His lips moved silently as he cast:

"Sectumsempra."

The hunter braced himself for the spell, but to his surprise, Wentworth's wand emitted no light, no sparks—not even the faintest shimmer.

Believing Wentworth had exhausted his magic, the hunter began to laugh. However, his laughter turned to a scream as an invisible blade severed his fingers. His wand fell to the ground alongside the dismembered digits.

Stunned silence followed. All eyes turned toward Wentworth, whose expression was a mix of determination and exhaustion. The hunter, clutching his mutilated hand, stared in disbelief at the blood pooling beneath him.

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