A dark forest, not far from where the great tragedy was unfolding in the dungeon.
The first green flash lit up the forest when Filvor cast Avada Kedavra, but Philip reacted quickly, throwing himself to the side with agile movement. An explosion of leaves and shattered branches scattered into the air as the curse struck a nearby tree, charring its bark.
"Confringo!" shouted Philip, aiming directly at the hunter.
A blazing explosion cut through the distance between them, but Filvor—reflexes honed from years of hunting—threw up a quick Protego, deflecting the blast into a nearby bush, which burst into flames.
The forest groaned and shuddered with the force of the spells.
"You're more resilient than I imagined, but not enough," said Filvor with a sly smile, twirling his wand in the air. "Sectumsempra!"
Philip barely raised a protective barrier before the air around him sliced with razor-sharp waves of dark magic. Though he managed to deflect most of them, an invisible slash grazed his arm, opening a deep wound. He gritted his teeth, feeling the blood soaking through his robes.
"Depulso!" he cried, launching a blast of energy that hurled Filvor several meters back, slamming him against a tree trunk.
Seizing the advantage, Philip swung his wand in an arc and whispered, "Incarcerous!" Instantly, thick magical ropes appeared from nowhere, wrapping around Filvor's body like serpents. For a moment, Philip thought he had him, but a dangerous gleam lit up in the hunter's eyes.
"Diffindo!" roared Filvor, slicing through the bindings with precision. Wasting no time, he extended his arm and hissed, "Imperio!"
Philip felt a heavy fog invade his mind, a seductive voice whispering that he should drop his wand, surrender. But he clenched his fists, resisting with all his will.
"No…" he growled, with titanic effort. "Expelliarmus!"
A red flash burst from his wand, disarming Filvor momentarily. The hunter staggered back, surprised by Philip's resistance. Yet his smile returned as quickly as it had vanished.
"Not bad, but this ends now," Filvor murmured, raising his wand and pointing it straight at Philip's chest. "Avada Kedavra!"
Philip tried to dodge, but his wound and exhaustion slowed him. The green bolt struck him, flinging him backward. He hit the ground with a heavy thud, and for an instant, everything seemed to freeze.
Filvor exhaled slowly, watching Philip's body sprawled on the ground. But his grin faltered when he saw the boy still moving. The curse had grazed his side, sparing him a fatal blow. With what little strength remained, Philip whispered, "Bombarda!"
The ground between them erupted in a massive explosion, sending debris and dust flying everywhere. Filvor, caught in the blast, was thrown violently against a tree, his neck snapping at an unnatural angle. He moved no more.
Philip tried to rise, but his strength betrayed him. Wounded and dizzy, he managed only a few steps before his legs gave out. With blurred vision, he collapsed into the forest undergrowth.
As his consciousness faded, he glimpsed figures moving among the trees—silent shadows emerging from the darkness. Perhaps it was an illusion, or perhaps he wasn't alone. The forest filled with distant murmurs, and with the moon's last glimmer upon his face, Philip finally slipped into unconsciousness.
The forest fell into sepulchral silence, as if the battle had never happened.
______________________________________________________
Outside the dungeon, after the disaster.
Little by little, I regained consciousness, jolted awake by a strong swaying that shook me from side to side. My vision was still blurry, and it took me time to focus on the person carrying me through the corridor. My head throbbed violently, a sharp pain pierced my side, and every part of my body ached.
"Dion! Can you hear me?" a familiar voice asked.
I blinked several times until the figure became clear—Aelric. He was carrying me on his back, worry etched into his face.
"What… what happened?" I managed to ask weakly.
Aelric lowered his gaze, jaw tightening before he spoke. Like a true Gryffindor, he glanced around and then down again, summoning courage where none seemed to remain, and answered:
"We got out of the dungeon. The professors cleared the way as soon as they realized something was wrong," he said in a low voice. "They pulled us out… but…" Aelric fell silent, as if the words weighed too heavily to continue.
As I became more aware of my surroundings, I saw several students helping the weaker and wounded to walk—some on floating stretchers, others bandaged and still bleeding down their faces. I tried to move on my own, but my body was too battered.
"And the others? Where are they? Patrick and Phylicia?" I asked, heart tightening, terrified that everything I had done might have been for nothing.
"They're safe. Most of our group is fine—some more injured than others, but alive. As for the other teams… some didn't make it. Others are hurt, but survived. Still… this is one of the worst tragedies in the school's history for first-years. It won't be something Hogwarts can boast about." Aelric lowered his head.
The silence between us was broken by Iolite, who had escaped with only minor wounds. She leapt down from the arms of a student carrying her, limped on one paw, and with a graceful bound perched again atop my head.
"I thought we weren't going to make it," I whispered softly to Iolite.
"Everything will be alright," said a voice in my head.
The voice startled me so much that I slipped from Aelric's back, collapsing to the rocky ground. He quickly turned and helped me up again.
That voice… could it have been Iolite? Impossible. Cats don't speak through telepathy… but then again, Iolite isn't exactly a normal cat. The thought sent a chill racing down my spine.
I closed my eyes for a moment, caught between guilt and relief. I knew this night would be remembered for years at Hogwarts. And worse, I sensed that this tragedy was not the end of what had begun in that dungeon.
Slowly, I opened my eyes again. My head pounded, and dizziness blurred everything. The dungeon's cold was gone, replaced by a comforting warmth.
Reality hit me like a lightning strike. My last memory was chaos in the dungeon—creatures emerging from the shadows, classmates screaming, the desperate attempt to escape… the darkness. My mind strained to recall the final image: the shadows of the dungeon, spells flashing through the air, then the blow that knocked me unconscious.
As we moved forward, the sound of healing spells and professors' voices giving orders grew louder. Outside the dungeon, the teachers had set up an improvised camp to treat the wounded. I saw Professor McGonagall overseeing it all, her expression lined with contained grief.
"Severus, how many…?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
"Eight dead. Fourteen gravely injured. The rest… traumatized, but alive." Snape's face was unusually pale, his words cold but tinged with regret.
A murmur rippled through the group of professors. Flitwick closed his eyes, visibly shaken.
"We will inform their families at once," said Dumbledore, who had arrived with a grim expression. "And we shall begin the funeral protocols."
Hogwarts' protocols in such tragedies required notifying the affected families and holding ceremonies in honor of the fallen. A memorial would be erected on the school grounds, and emotional support would be offered to survivors. In addition, an investigation would be launched to determine what went wrong and to prevent such horrors from happening again.
Meanwhile, Madam Pomfrey, the school's nurse, moved quickly among the injured, applying healing charms and administering potions.