A Second Channe Through Time

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Page count: 9

Worcestershire — Wednesday 28th April 1982

The battlefield was eerily silent.

On one side stood the White Lions, robed in shimmering white, wands raised with disciplined precision. On the other, Voldemort and his Death Eaters loomed in tattered black robes and gleaming silver masks. The contrast was stark — light against darkness, purity against corruption. Hope against despair.

Good against evil.

Hermione stepped to the front of the White Lions, her white robes billowing in the cold evening breeze, the moon a silver crown above her.

Voldemort glided forward, skeletal and smirking.

"I will give you one more chance, Miss Granger... join me."

Her chin lifted. "It's Mrs Potter-Black," she corrected coolly. "And I would rather die."

His lipless mouth curled. "So be it. But remember—everything that follows... is on your head."

He raised his wand.

The first curse split the air like lightning.

Hermione flicked her wand sharply, deflecting his magic with effortless precision. The moment the curse shattered, the battlefield erupted around them — spells flying, bodies clashing, screams echoing through the night.

The final battle had begun.

Hermione moved like fire.

"Confringo!"

The explosion caught the edge of Voldemort's robes, flames licking upward before he extinguished them with a snarl, tossing up a shimmering shield to deflect her next strike.

Back and forth they went — curse for curse, shield for shield — neither giving ground, both pushing the other harder and harder. Time became meaningless. Hours could have passed or only minutes.

Hermione could tell he was growing impatient. Bored. Frustrated.

Good.

It wasn't a full moon, but it hung high, radiant, watching her. Strengthened her. The Moon Goddess was with her tonight.

"Stupefy!"

Voldemort twirled away from the crimson bolt, laughing.

"Child's play. You are no match for me."

Hermione ducked a Dismembering Curse and shot back, "And yet here we are — I've already outlasted Dumbledore. Surely that tells you something about who you're dealing with."

His eyes flashed.

"Serpensortia!"

A massive king cobra materialised, hissing violently as it slithered toward her, fangs bared.

Hermione didn't even blink.

She hissed softly — a whisper of Parseltongue rolling off her tongue like silk.

The cobra paused... turned... and glided away from the battlefield entirely.

Voldemort stared — stunned.

He had never worn a human expression so close to disbelief.

"Who are you?" he hissed, voice cracking. "How do you know Parseltongue?"

Hermione smiled.

This was what she wanted — his anger, his confusion, his focus slipping one minute at a time. He was far more dangerous when calm. But angry? Unbalanced? Frustrated?