The Sorcerer’s War

The wind howled against the high walls of Castle Black as Harry stood atop the Wall, his cloak billowing in the icy air. The vast expanse of the frozen North stretched endlessly before him, a land of snow, jagged peaks, and creeping shadows.

Jon Snow stood beside him, Ghost at his feet, staring into the distance. "Beyond the Wall, there's nothing but death," Jon murmured.

Harry adjusted his grip on his wand. "Not just death. Something is moving out there."

Jon turned to him, brows furrowed. "You can feel it?"

Harry exhaled slowly. "Magic leaves echoes. The kind of magic the White Walkers use… it's old. Cold. Wrong. It's like feeling a Dementor's presence, only worse."

Jon didn't know what a Dementor was, but the look in Harry's eyes told him enough.

Lord Commander Mormont approached from behind, followed by Samwell Tarly, who looked particularly uneasy.

"Harry," Mormont said, his breath visible in the frigid air. "We're sending out a scouting party at first light. I want you and Jon to go with them."

Harry nodded. "What are we looking for?"

"Anything," Mormont said grimly. "If the dead are moving, I need to know."

Sam shifted nervously. "And what if we find them?"

Harry met his gaze. "Then we fight."

---

The Cold Beyond the Wall

The next morning, the gates of Castle Black groaned open, and the scouting party rode out into the wilderness. Twelve rangers, led by Qhorin Halfhand, accompanied by Jon, Harry, and Ghost.

The deeper they traveled into the forest, the quieter the world became. There were no birds. No movement. Just the sound of horses crunching through the snow.

Harry gripped his wand tightly. Something was watching them. He could feel it.

Qhorin slowed his horse. "We make camp here."

As the men dismounted, Harry knelt and touched the snow. It was ice-cold, but beneath it, he felt something deeper—a pulse, faint but growing stronger.

Jon approached. "What is it?"

Harry's eyes narrowed. "Something's coming."

Then the wind shifted, and a deep, unnatural crack echoed through the trees.

The horses reared, their breath coming in frightened huffs. Ghost let out a low growl, his red eyes locked on the treeline.

A figure emerged from the shadows.

A man—or what used to be one. His flesh was a sickly shade of blue, his eyes glowing an unnatural ice-blue. Frost clung to his armor, and when he moved, it was with an eerie, lifeless grace.

A wight.

Jon drew his sword, and the rangers readied their weapons.

The wight tilted its head, as if studying them. Then, behind it, others began to emerge. One, two… then a dozen. A horde of silent, frozen corpses, their dead eyes fixed on the living.

Harry raised his wand. "Incendio."

A jet of fire erupted from his wand, striking the lead wight. It shrieked as flames consumed it, turning it to ash in seconds.

The other wights hesitated. Fire. They feared it.

"Stay behind the flames!" Harry shouted.

Jon and the others formed a defensive line, swords ready. But the wights did not attack.

Then, the temperature dropped even further.

Harry's breath caught in his throat.

From the treeline, a new figure stepped forward. Not a wight. Something worse.

A White Walker.

It was taller than the others, its pale blue skin gleaming like ice in the weak light. Its armor was intricately crafted, shimmering with frost. In its hand, it held a long, curved ice-blade that seemed to hum with dark energy.

The air became thick with the weight of its presence.

The White Walker tilted its head, fixing its cold, inhuman gaze on Harry.

Then it spoke.

A whisper on the wind. Words in a language ancient and forgotten.

Harry felt the chill seep into his bones. It wasn't just looking at him—it was testing him. Studying him.

Then it raised its blade.

Harry didn't wait. He flicked his wand. "Bombarda Maxima!"

The ground exploded, sending snow and shattered ice flying. The White Walker leapt back, impossibly fast, landing gracefully as if it weighed nothing.

Jon lunged forward, swinging his sword. The White Walker parried effortlessly, knocking Jon to the ground. His steel blade shattered on impact.

"Jon!" Harry shouted, sprinting forward. He raised his wand. "Expelliarmus!"

The force of the spell sent the White Walker's blade flying, but it did not look concerned. Instead, it raised a hand—and the snow itself rose up, forming sharp, deadly shards aimed straight at Harry.

He barely had time to react. "Protego Maxima!"

The ice shattered harmlessly against his shield charm, but the White Walker was already moving.

Ghost leapt forward, his fangs bared, aiming for the Walker's throat. But the creature swatted him aside with unnatural strength, sending him tumbling into the snow.

Harry had one chance.

He aimed his wand. "Fiendfyre."

A monstrous serpent of fire erupted from his wand, roaring as it surged toward the White Walker.

The Walker's expression changed—was it fear? Surprise?

The flames struck, and for a moment, it seemed like victory. But then, impossibly, the White Walker stepped through the fire, wreathed in ice.

Harry's heart pounded. Impossible.

The White Walker raised its hand again, and the fire—his fire—began to freeze.

Before Harry could react, Qhorin grabbed him by the arm. "We need to run!"

The rangers were already retreating, dragging Jon with them. The wights were closing in fast.

"Fall back to the Wall!" Qhorin shouted.

Harry hesitated. He had never backed down from a fight. But this… this wasn't just a battle. It was something far worse.

"Come on!" Jon grabbed his arm, pulling him away.

With one last glance at the White Walker, Harry turned and ran.

The dead did not follow. They simply stood there, watching, waiting.

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A Warning Too Late

They reached Castle Black by dawn, battered and shaken.

Mormont listened grimly as they recounted what had happened.

"A White Walker," he murmured. "And it spoke?"

Harry nodded. "I don't know what it said, but I know what it meant." He exhaled. "It knew me. It recognized my magic."

Jon clenched his fists. "It wasn't just an attack. It was a warning."

Mormont turned to one of the senior rangers. "Send a raven to Winterfell and Dragonstone. The dead are moving."

Harry met Jon's gaze.

The war wasn't coming.

It had already begun.