Chapter 110. Escape
London bled with the blood of the sunset, its streets - the arteries of the metropolis - were congested with a human stream. The city hummed like a disturbed beehive, vibrating with the anger of thousands of voices. For a week now, London had not slept, drowning in protests sparked by the mad decision of the king - to appoint Voldemort as the prime minister.
The years of bloodshed in the war against the Death Eaters ended in their pyrrhic victory, but the people refused to bow their heads to the new regime. The protesters, like a single organism, stood against it alongside the steel monsters - tanks and armored vehicles summoned by the Emergency Committee, the last remnants of the Muggle government that remained loyal to the people. Soldiers in camouflage, their faces frozen in masks of determination, kept their fingers on the triggers, ready to serve as living shields for the uprising.
On the steps of the Westminster Palace, Arthur Pendragon stood like a statue made of black marble. Royal garments clung to him like a second skin, the black armor adorned with cracks burned crimson, as if incandescent in hellish flames. In his right hand, the king clenched the sword Excalibur Morgan, once a symbol of freedom, now turned into an instrument of oppression. His face was concealed by a lion mask, but many already felt - beneath it lurked someone different, someone who once led them to victory.
The powerful voice of the usurper, amplified by magic, cut through the roar of the crowd:
"People of Britain! I see your fear, your anger, and I share it. The appointment of this... man," Arthur swung his blade, pointing towards the palace windows where Voldemort lurked like a spider at the center of his web, "as the prime minister has shaken me to the core. But believe me, I will not allow tyranny! I will protect you..."
For a moment, his voice wavered, and a shadow of doubt flickered in his masked eyes. He hesitated, gripping the hilt of Excalibur as if searching for support.
"I... together, we will find a way out of this situation. I promise you that!"
The crowd froze, then erupted in a roar of approval, like thunder rolling through the streets. Hope ignited on the faces of the people, like the flickering flames of candles in the darkness. The pretender gestured for silence:
"But do not let anger blind you! Retribution begets only more retribution. Only together, acting wisely and decisively, can we... we..."
His words got stuck in the usurper's throat. In his mind, Voldemort's mocking voice resounded: "Weakling! Is that how you speak to the rabble? Show them who's king!"
Arthur clenched his fists, his knuckles turning white. He took a step back, as if recoiling from the crowd, their hopes, and himself. His voice hardened, becoming cold and firm, like steel:
"...we will restore order! But for that, discipline is needed! Obedience! I will not tolerate rebellion! If you do not disperse immediately, I will have to use force!"
The crowd stood frozen, stunned by the change. Had the one they placed their hopes in betrayed them? A foreboding silence settled over the square, broken only by the crackling of torches and the distant sirens of police cars.
The guards in black armor with crimson crests stepped forward, revealing their crossbows. Tank crews aimed their barrels at the palace. Tension thickened in the air, ready to explode into sparks of violence. In the palace window, a pale figure of Voldemort flashed. A sinister smile played on his lips. He reveled in the chaos he himself had sown.
"You heard the king!" the commander of the guards barked. "Everyone, disperse! In case of resistance, arrest the instigators!"
People exchanged glances, doubt giving way to rage, fear, and confusion. Someone from the crowd picked up a stone, then another, and another...
"Traitor! Usurper! Turncoat!" the crowd roared, transforming into a raging sea of anger.
Arthur remained unfazed, the lion mask hiding his face, but inside him raged a storm. "What have I done?" a thought flashed through his mind. "I wanted to protect them... But how? How?"
He raised Excalibur Morgan, and the blade ignited with a crimson blaze, reflecting the setting sun.
"Enough!" His voice, like thunder rolling, silenced the crowd. "I do not wish to plunge Britain into another war. But if you do not cease this recklessness, I will have no choice!"
The mithril blade blazed, threatening to rain down a fiery storm upon the people. Arthur extended his hand majestically.
"Think carefully before going against your king! For my fury has slain dragons in their own lairs!"
A moment of grave silence hung in the air. Then a child's voice, thin and piercing, screamed:
"He's not a king at all! He's an imposter!"
And in an instant, thousands of voices took up the cry. Battle became inevitable.
Arthur nodded imperceptibly, accepting the challenge. He had completely lost himself, succumbing to Voldemort's influence and his thirst for power.
"Well," his voice cut through the crowd's cries, "perhaps it is for the best. You stubbornly refuse to heed the voice of reason."
He dramatically thrust his hand with Excalibur Morgan forward, the blade blazing with a bloody light, casting sinister glimmers on the faces of the protesters.
"I warned you that my fury has slain dragons! But you still defied my authority. Very well, it is your will. Now I will unleash this fury upon you!"
The crowd erupted in a roar, like an enraged sea monster. The first stones and pieces of debris flew towards the pretender and his loyal soldiers. The battle had begun.
The spectacle was worthy of Bosch's brush, a symphony of horror played on the strings of human lives.
Arthur swung Excalibur Morgan, and a dazzling burst of energy, like a second sun, erupted from the mithril blade, enveloping the entire square. Protesters screamed in primitive terror as an unseen force lifted their bodies, ruthlessly tearing them away as if they were leaves in the wind.
People soared through the air, desperately grasping at emptiness, while a mighty energy beam, resembling a crimson blade, pierced through buildings, slicing them as if a giant knife cut through butter. Flesh and concrete could not withstand its destructive power - houses crumbled and collapsed, burying hundreds of people under the rubble, turning the square into a landscape of nightmares.
Tanks writhed, engulfed in explosions as their ammunition detonated one after another, transforming the steel machines into blazing coffins. Beams of crimson flames and smoldering smoke blossomed amidst the protesters, like infernal flowers. Some were literally torn to shreds upon coming into contact with the beam, turning into scattered clouds of flesh and blood. Others fell to the ground with massive wounds, revealing charred bones. Thirds thrashed in blind panic, seeking mercy and reprieve.
The scene of horror slowed down, stretching into one endless second - hundreds of throats caught intermittent, blood-filled gasps in their final agony. Shreds of flesh, debris, and fragments flew everywhere, creating a mosaic of death. Amidst all this madness, the formidable figure of the pretender towered, motionless and merciless, like Armageddon itself.
Against the backdrop of the massacre orchestrated by Arthur, new figures suddenly emerged, as if born from the nightmare itself. Clusters of black smoke twirled amidst the ruins and debris, taking form. From this ominous mist emerged Voldemort and his Death Eaters, their robes billowing like a flock of ravens descending upon a feast of death.
The Dark Lord's snake-like face contorted with a sinister smirk at the sight of the chaos and death unfolding around him. He greedily inhaled the scent of panic and blood, like a connoisseur savoring a delicacy. The other Death Eaters followed their master's lead, brandishing their wands like conductors ready to orchestrate a symphony of death.
"Avada Kedavra!" one of them hissed, waving his wand like a conductor's baton.
"Crucio!" echoed another, their voice sounding like the screech of metal against glass.
A wave of deadly curses crashed upon the protesters, who remained the sole survivors amidst this hellish nightmare. Inhuman screams and heart-wrenching cries grew louder as invisible forces mercilessly tormented the flesh of the demonstrators, turning their bodies into puppets of pain. Limbs of people convulsed and snapped under the influence of the Cruciatus Curse, like branches of trees in a hurricane.
Green flashes of Avada Kedavra painted everything around in psychedelic hues, draining the lives of dozens of people at once, leaving behind nothing but empty shells.
However, the protesters refused to surrender, desperately counterattacking with whatever they could find - kicking and punching, shielding themselves with placards, hurling sticks and shards of concrete. But their efforts were akin to child's fists against the whirlwind of deadly steel. Voldemort laughed, relishing in the suffering and death of the common folk, like a vampire savoring blood.
Amidst the smoke and burning ruins, the figure of the self-proclaimed king Arthur calmly emerged. His steps were barely audible amidst the symphony of death and destruction, yet each of his breaths resonated like a thunderous strike in the hearts of those who remained alive.
Excalibur Morgan gleamed in his hand, a pale-white spark, mercilessly cleaving through the air. Arthur moved with infernal grace, selecting his victims. None who dared to stand against him could survive - the mithril blade relentlessly sliced through flesh, scattering fragments in all directions, like an artist painting a picture of blood and despair.
From beneath the lion mask, two bottomless abysses glimmered - the usurper's eyes burned with a mad determination, devoid of any trace of past nobility. Each swing of the cursed sword was deadly precise and spawned new whirlwinds of fire and destruction. Arthur moved through the inferno he had himself created, squashing any attempts of resistance, turning the square into his personal hell.
Wherever he passed, even the earth trembled, soaked in blood and cracked from the unleashed magical energy. Charred footprints marked his path, a volcanic mixture of molten stone and metal, like a brand of his madness left on the body of the city.
Suddenly, like a predator sensing new prey, his movements slowed down, becoming measured and precise, while the sword rang out, deflecting yet another stream of bullets as if they were annoying flies. Arthur turned, his piercing gaze, like a blade, fixed directly on Voldemort and his Death Eaters.
The ground quaked as if an ancient giant had awakened beneath his feet. People scattered in panic, their screams blending into a chorus of terror, pleading for mercy that no one intended to grant. Suddenly, a blinding flash erupted from the midst of smoke and burning debris, like a lightning bolt splitting the world in half, and at the center of the blinding light appeared a colossal pillar of death, resembling the finger of divine wrath.
The pretender swung his blade, and a wave of searing energy, akin to a tsunami of molten lava, swept away the nearest structures, turning them into piles of smoldering rubble. People choked on their screams as beams of scorching light mowed them down, leaving behind only charred silhouettes.
Arthur Alter and Voldemort advanced, relentless as fate itself, as if Death itself had taken a stroll through the streets of London.
But in certain places, like sparks in the ashes, resistance ignited. Desperate soldiers, their faces contorted with grim determination, marched forward to meet the deadly onslaught, brandishing bayonets and cannons, ready to face death head-on. In their eyes burned a resolute spirit: they would not retreat, they would not submit, even in the face of the abyss itself.
Gunshots thundered, resembling the roar of thunder, as soldiers threw themselves into the thick of battle, like moths to a flame. They fought with the ferocity of the doomed, holding the line against merciless conquerors, transforming the square into a bloody arena. Cries, curses, and the clashing of weapons filled the air - a deadly spectacle of violence, conducted by madness.
Bullets whistled, shattering against the false Arthur's and Voldemort's magical barriers like raindrops against glass. Projectiles struck the ground around them, exploding fountains of dirt and stones, but the villains only curled their lips in a contemptuous smirk, as if watching the futile play of senseless children. Their protective charms were impenetrable to conventional weaponry, like an invisible wall separating them from the mortal world.
However, the soldiers did not retreat. Men and women in British Army uniforms boldly charged into the attack, unafraid of the enemy's return fire, like heroes from ancient legends. Artillery teams worked feverishly to reload their cannons, their faces blackened by gunpowder smoke, their hands moving with mechanical precision. Rifle squads unleashed a ceaseless barrage of fire upon enemy silhouettes, as if trying to breach the wall of darkness.
In this critical moment, a roaring tornado swept across the battlefield - fighter jets unleashed a deadly deluge of missiles and bombs upon the usurpers, like messengers of divine retribution. The earth erupted with thousands of fiery flashes, transforming the square into a semblance of a volcanic crater.
Amidst the wailing of sirens and the thunder of explosions, as if through a veil of madness, the figures of the false Pendragon and Voldemort could be discerned. They stood in the midst of the inferno, surrounded by shimmering shields, unperturbed amidst this chaotic hell, like demons indifferent to human suffering. Their armors blazed brightly, reflecting each salvo, as if mocking the futility of human efforts.
With a furious roar, reminiscent of the cry of a wounded beast, Pendragon Alter swung Excalibur Morgan, and thousands of crimson lightning bolts erupted from the blade, monstrous bursts of energy, as if a storm itself had descended upon the earth. They struck through the aerial armada, one plane after another, turning them into blazing torches falling from the sky. Flashes of light pierced the heavens, mowing down the winged machines as if they were made of paper, leaving behind only trails of smoke and ash.
Voldemort moved his pale lips as if uttering some forbidden incantation, and from beneath his feet rose monstrous tendrils of darkness, resembling the roots of a giant tree of evil. They reached out, constricting and suffocating all living things within a mile radius, turning military vehicles into piles of useless metal. Tanks sank and floundered in the hellish mire, like flies caught in a spider's web, while soldiers gasped for breath, as if denied access to the very air.
The monstrous evil emanating from Excalibur Morgan enveloped all of London, infiltrating every street and building like a poisonous fog. Windowpanes cracked and shattered, raining down shards like a storm of fragments, while everything around trembled and shook, as in a powerful earthquake. The ground beneath their feet split open, tearing chunks of asphalt and pavement, like the maw of a colossal beast.
Sounds of destruction echoed from afar - buildings crumbled like toy blocks, swept away by the terrifying claws of an invisible monster. Stone blocks tumbled onto the streets, burying parked cars, turning the city into a labyrinth of debris. Columns of smoke and dust enshrouded the sky, through which the crimson flashes of Excalibur struggled to pierce, like bloody tears mourning the city's demise.
Arthur, clad in the guise of the Black Knight, advanced, trampling everything in his path, like a colossal titan conquering the land. His steps shook the city, unleashing waves of destruction, turning streets into canyons. Each swing of his mighty sword sheared through multistory buildings, tearing them to pieces, rending bridges and roads like a pair of scissors, slicing through the fabric of reality.
Voldemort hovered nearby, surrounded by a cloud of corrosive mist, from which grotesque tendrils emerged, entwining the ruins like serpents constricting their prey. His pallid face exuded ecstasy at the sight of the atrocities, as if he relished the city's suffering and the anguish of its inhabitants. He extended his hands, and torrents of cursed energy surged forth, reducing everything around to ash and dust, as if erasing the very concept of life from the face of the earth.
Terrified people darted through the ravaged streets, clinging to life like a straw in a raging sea. Many lay motionless, crushed beneath collapsed debris, their bodies becoming part of the landscape of destruction. The wail of sirens and the cries of terror intertwined with the cascade of destruction, creating a symphony of despair, conducted by madness and evil.
From the hands of the black knight in his mask, holding the accursed sword, erupted a powerful crimson beam of energy that rent the sky above the city, as if a scorching blade cleaving through the fabric of reality. Blinding radiance pierced through the darkness and silence, heating the air to an unbearable temperature, unleashing waves of destructive force like ripples on water, only these ripples eradicated everything they touched.
Historic buildings, once the pride of London, exploded one after another in a raging fire and whirlwinds of dust, like a fireworks display of death. They shattered into millions of fragments that seemed to evaporate from the intense heat, leaving emptiness in their wake. Roads cracked and split open with deafening creaks and crevices, disappearing into the gaping maw of destruction, as if the earth itself had opened its jaws to swallow the city whole.
The sounds of explosions, crumbling structures, and screeching metal shattered eardrums, filling the air with an unbearable cacophony, as if the world had transformed into a colossal orchestra of chaos. Shockwaves knocked pedestrians off their feet, mercilessly hurling them onto shards of glass and concrete, like leaves in the wind.
Amidst this chaos, Voldemort gazed upon the unleashed apocalypse with bestial delight, like an artist admiring his masterpiece. His gaunt face was bathed in the crimson glow of the blazing ruins, giving him the appearance of a demon risen from the depths of hell. He laughed, raising his hands in a triumphant gesture, and streams of black fire burst forth from his palms, adding new flashes of heat to the inferno, as if he wanted to incinerate the entire world.
Charred ruins and melted debris were all that remained of once magnificent and majestic London - before the insane fury of Alter-Saber and Voldemort, nothing could stand. The city, once a symbol of civilization and progress, had become a graveyard, a monument to human madness and the thirst for power.
1
Hermione, Ron, Harry, and Elen rushed out of the house onto Grimmauld Place, horror and determination etched on their faces. Sirius, his forehead creased with worry, awaited them by his old motorcycle, now belonging to Hagrid. The half-giant, breathing heavily with anxiety, carefully lifted Mrs. Weasley into his arms and gently placed her in the sidecar of his colossal motorcycle. She remained unconscious after yesterday's attack, but her wounds had healed, as if mended by the fabric of time, and the bleeding had ceased.
The group struggled to stay on their feet as another terrifying explosion in the distance made the ground tremble, as if the abyss had opened beneath their feet. Panic-stricken cries and wails, reminiscent of seagulls before a storm, echoed from all directions, creating an atmosphere of collective madness. But they fought against succumbing to fear, striving to maintain composure like tightrope walkers, balancing over the abyss of despair.
They understood that it was impossible to overcome the insane power of Alter Arthur and his accursed Excalibur Morgan - it was like trying to stop a tsunami with bare hands. They knew that their loyal servants and friends from the Order of the Phoenix were probably fighting to the last breath, buying them time to escape and avoid imminent death, acting as a rearguard sacrificing themselves for the salvation of others.
In the sky above the ravaged city, like wounds on the body of a giant, clouds of smoke and dust billowed shamelessly, illuminated by a baleful crimson glow, as if reflections of infernal flames. The thunder and rumble of explosions merged into an endless cacophony of destruction, akin to the music of madness. Shrieks of dislodged projectiles, like the cries of dying birds, and debris from buildings and machinery rained down everywhere, transforming the streets into a lifeless field of mangled remains.
"We must hurry!" Sirius exclaimed with concern as he settled into the motorcycle saddle, as if a ship captain giving the order to set sail. "The pretender and Voldemort will soon make their way here, there's no time left!"
Hermione nodded, wiping tears from her reddened eyes, as if trying to erase the traces of terror from her face. What would happen to Ron and Harry if they didn't make it? Would these malevolent monsters ultimately prevail, and darkness swallow the light? She placed her last drop of hope into their escape with their friends, like fragile vessels that would protect them from any turmoil. To run, to fight again, like a phoenix rising from the ashes.
"LA GRONDEMON DU HEINE!" a thunderous cry resounded in the distance, carried by a gust of hot wind, like an echo of battle reaching them from the depths of hell.
Ritsuka Fujimaru, standing next to Sirius, nodded with satisfaction - his faithful Jeanne d'Arc Alter had, it seemed, attempted to delay the self-proclaimed King Arthur. How long could she hold on...
The accursed black knight inexorably approached with his unstoppable stride, like the grim and unyielding fate. His presence, filled with darkness and destruction, enveloped the entire city in hopelessness and despair, like a shroud cast over the dying.
They witnessed how massive tornado-like wings rose from beneath Alter Arthur, as if emerging from the very earth, carrying with them a maelstrom that devoured everything in its path, like giant vacuum cleaners sucking the life itself. Debris from buildings, battered cars, and fragments of the landscape whirled in these apocalyptic whirlwinds, like toys in the hands of an aggressive child.
People fled in a mad panic, desperately trying to escape this incomprehensible force of destruction, resembling ants fleeing from a fire. Yet their helpless figures were caught up by the tornadoes and scattered, like fallen leaves, becoming part of the chaotic ballet of death.
The scorching wind struck Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Elen with force, searing their skin and blinding their eyes, like the breath of a dragon. The hems of their clothes fluttered like flags, threatening to slip from their grasp, like birds trying to escape a storm.
"Faster!" Sirius shouted, revving the motorcycle, his voice barely audible in the chaos. "We're running out of time!"
Sirius squeezed the handlebars of his roaring motorcycle with all his might, as if trying to extract life itself from it, nervously glancing over his shoulder at the chaos raging behind them, like a tempest sweeping everything in its path. London, once the majestic capital of Muggle Britain, had now transformed into hell on earth - blistering cobblestone pavements, resembling wounds on the city's body, crumbling under the onslaught of fiery tornadoes; historic buildings collapsing like card houses; clouds of acrid smoke obscuring the sky, resembling a shroud draped over the dying.
"Hold on tight!" he shouted to his passengers, casting a glance at Hagrid, who clung desperately to the rear seat, like a drowning man clutching a lifebuoy, and Mrs. Weasley, who had just regained consciousness and was frantically trying to extinguish the flames that had ignited on her robe, as if attempting to quell the fire within her own heart.
Ahead of them, cutting through the dense clouds of ash, flew Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Elen on broomsticks, their silhouettes barely distinguishable in the chaos.
Flashes of spells rent the air like lightning, as cutting curses, reminiscent of venomous snakes, whizzed past their ears, threatening to sink their fangs into flesh at any moment. Hermione bravely repelled the most dangerous ones with powerful defensive charms, like a shield protecting her friends from the deadly storm, while Ron distracted a couple of Death Eaters pursuing them, like hounds on the scent of prey.
"Over here, quickly!" called out Elen, pointing to a narrow alleyway where the shelter of dilapidated ruins could be seen, like the last bastion of defense against the encroaching darkness.
Sirius sharply veered, nearly tipping the motorcycle over, like a daredevil performer teetering on the edge of a fall, and for a moment, they were enveloped in a cloud of swirling dust from shattered bricks, concealing them from the enemy's gaze. Ahead, a few figures of rebels in ambush came into view - providing cover for their retreat, like the last line of defense against the oncoming darkness. Poisonous green beams flew in all directions, sweeping everything in their path. The situation seemed hopeless, like a game where all the trump cards were in the enemy's hand, but they couldn't simply surrender to death.
Harry, frozen with terror, like a statue, watched as the once bustling streets of the British capital transformed into mass graves, like pages of history stained with blood and tears. Deafening explosions still shook the ground, sending clouds of brick dust and debris into the air, like a volcano spewing ash. He saw the shattered walls of buildings, like wounds on the city's body, charred skeletons of once-standing structures, resembling giants' remains, and piles of rubble, resembling tombstones in a cemetery of hope. Dead bodies littered the streets, like silent sentinels of this sea of blood and suffering, a reminder of the price of human folly and the thirst for power.
The troubles that Harry had once only studied in historical treatises now came to life before his eyes. The nightmare became reality. He saw how the bodies of men, women, and children were scattered everywhere in grotesque poses - bloodied limbs hanging limply, like broken wings; faces frozen in silent screams of eternal horror, like masks concealing souls forever lost in the labyrinth of death. The stench of burnt flesh and smoke, like the stench of hell, hung in the air, penetrating lungs and poisoning the very soul.
Harry swallowed convulsively, feeling nausea rise in his throat from the sight of the merciless slaughter unfolding before him, as if he had swallowed a piece of hell itself. He could never have imagined that he would someday face such a nightmare in reality. But now, the horrifying chronicles of the past took on vivid colors and came to life, consuming him entirely. Now, fear gripped his heart in icy vise - what if this madness consumed them all, like a black hole, sucking everything in its path? What if all this cruelty would soon catch up to Ron and Hermione, inscribing their names on another page in the book of death?
With each passing moment, Harry, Hermione, and Ron left their former sanctuary on Grimmauld Place behind them, like a ship sailing away from a shore engulfed by a storm. The trio's gaze was fixed on the apocalyptic ruins surrounding them - massive ulcers on London's once majestic body, like scars left by madness and evil. Charred skeletons of buildings, torn-up asphalt arteries, a bloodied mess of stones and flesh...
All this destruction was too tangible, too merciless to deny the obvious - their old world, which they had once known, had irreversibly vanished, turned to dust and putrid ashes, like a parchment burnt to ashes. That friendly, magical London they had once wandered through, like pages in a beloved book, no longer existed. Only mournful ruins remained, like tombstones in a cemetery of memories.
They sailed in a stormy ocean of hopelessness, in the pitch-black darkness where no glimmer of salvation could be seen, like travelers lost at sea, devoid of compass and sails. Hope? Salvation? These concepts had lost all meaning amidst the madness and chaos that raged around them, like words erased from the face of the earth by madness and evil. None of them knew what awaited them ahead, like explorers stepping onto uncharted land. Perhaps only inevitable death lay under the debris of the collapsing city, like the final act of a tragedy played out on the stage of existence.
Hermione swallowed and suppressed the sobs welling up inside her, as if trying to hold back the torrent of sorrow threatening to engulf her. Ron clenched his teeth, his fists whitening with tension, as if trying to contain the anger ready to burst forth. And Harry felt the cold flow through his veins instead of blood, as if the winter realm itself had settled in his heart. All their instincts screamed for them to run, to escape as far as possible from this kingdom of death and destruction, like from an inexorable plague. But where to run when the whole world had turned to ashes, like a giant bonfire consuming all hopes and dreams?
They knew that every step could be their last, that every mistake could result in death, like playing Russian roulette where each shot could be the final one. But they didn't give up, like stubborn delicate flowers forcing their way through the hardened asphalt. They continued moving forward, trying to find remnants of hope and light in this dark world ruled by Alter Saber and his merciless power, like searching for a needle in a haystack.
Every second of their flight over the ruins of once-great London could be their last, like a countdown to the explosion of a bomb. Any misstep or delay could become a deadly trap amidst this nightmarish labyrinth of ruins and debris, like a step into an abyss veiled by mist. The air practically hummed with tension, like a taut string, and the wail of sirens and the rumble of explosions reverberated as a dull echo in their chests, like drumbeats marking the rhythm of death.
However, despite the surrounding dangers, Harry, Ron, and Hermione pushed forward, determined to overcome the obstacles. In their eyes burned the resolve not to give up, no matter the barriers. Somewhere ahead, there had to be surviving pockets of resistance against the tyranny of Voldemort and Arthur Pendragon, once a liberating king turned ruthless dictator.
Hermione flew, clutching the ancient book of spells to her chest - she wanted to see in it the key to victory over their enemies, like the ark of the covenant that needed to be safely delivered. Ron kept a watchful eye for any signs of danger, tightly gripping his wand and never taking his gaze off the nearest rubble, like a hunter stalking prey. And Harry... Harry stubbornly marched forward, trying to cast aside thoughts of possible futility of their efforts, like warding off a pack of hungry wolves. No, they had to traverse this hell and break free! To win at any cost or fall, but never surrender!
To defeat the alliance of the Dark Lords, they would have to delve into the depths of darkness, descend into the heart of hell itself. For the light always shines brighter after the night, like a star whose rays penetrate through the clouds. Someday, their weak flickering flame of hope would ignite and dispel the darkness, like the sun driving away the shadows. They firmly believed in this.