HP: god of potions

Chapter 154

That thought stayed with him as he reached the entrance to the vault, his instincts prickling. The stone doorway was heavily warded, but wards were something Grey had mastered long ago. With a flick of his wand and a silent, intricate twist of his fingers, the magical barriers unraveled like thread. The heavy iron door groaned open just a sliver — and then he heard it. A soft click. Grey's eyes narrowed. He whirled around — too late.

The shadows themselves shifted and began to move. Figures stepped forward, silent and fluid, draped in black from head to toe. Their faces were masked, and their forms rippled with dark magic, blending into the night. Their presence was suffocating — and Grey realized then that the weak security hadn't been oversight. It had been bait.

"Well," Grey said dryly, "I suppose this was inevitable." He straightened, his wand already in hand. "You lot have gone through quite a bit of trouble, haven't you?" The assassins didn't answer. They merely moved, fast as striking vipers. Grey flicked his wand with deadly precision. "Confringo!"

The air shimmered with heat as an explosion erupted from his spell, hurling stone and flame toward the approaching assassins. But they were faster. One darted aside with inhuman speed, the blast scorching the ground behind it. Another came from his right — too quick — and Grey barely managed to deflect a shadowy blade with a Protego that snapped into place like a glass shield.

He didn't stop moving. His wand danced in tight, efficient arcs, sending a silent Stupefy into one attacker's chest — but the assassin shrugged off the spell, barely staggered. Another closed in, and Grey twisted, his hand slashing downward — a silent Diffindo carved through the air like an invisible blade, slicing through the assassin's arm.

But they kept coming. Stronger, faster, more durable than anything Grey had expected. He gritted his teeth, flinging curses and hexes in every direction — Reducto, Petrificus Totalus, Bombarda — but they were relentless. One assassin blurred toward him, and Grey barely managed to raise a Protego Horribilis, the advanced shield sparking violently as a shadowy weapon struck it with enough force to crack the stone beneath his feet. Grey stumbled back, his breathing ragged. They weren't tiring — but he was. He was being pushed into a corner, and he knew it.

"Alright then," he murmured, pulling a small vial from his belt — a shimmering blue liquid that pulsed with power even contained. He uncorked it and downed it in one motion. The effect was immediate. Magic surged through his veins like fire. The air around him shuddered, rippling outward in waves of force that threw the assassins back. His skin glowed faintly, his eyes flaring white as the sheer pressure of his magic intensified. The wand in his hand? Unnecessary.

One assassin lunged — and with a mere thought, Grey sent them flying backward with a wordless Expulso. Another advanced, and Grey's eyes flicked toward them — the air froze solid around their limbs, a silent Glacius encasing them in ice.

Grey turned his palm upward — and a wave of pure concussive force blasted forth, sending two more assassins crashing into the far wall. He moved like a storm, spells manifesting with nothing but will: fire and ice, light and shadow. Sectumsempra slashed through the air without a word, carving through one attacker's armor. Incendio erupted without a gesture, flames roaring toward his enemies. They were strong. They were fast. But Grey Snape was power. And they had made a terrible mistake.

Grey stood among the bodies, his chest rising and falling with heavy, ragged breaths. The surge of power from the potion had faded, leaving him drained — both physically and mentally. His legs trembled under him as he planted his hand against the stone wall for support. The room still crackled with the aftershocks of his magic, the air thick with the scent of scorched stone and blood.

He stayed there for a minute, willing his heart rate to slow, his mind to clear — but the exhaustion sank deep into his bones. Every inch of him ached, his magic worn thin from the sheer magnitude of his spells. But there was no time to rest. Grey pushed off the wall and began to search. The vault was empty — no sign of the artifact that had supposedly been here. His eyes narrowed as suspicion twisted his gut. "Thought so," he muttered darkly, his voice barely above a whisper.

It had been a trap from the start. He moved toward the fallen assassins, his wand flicking with methodical efficiency as he checked their bodies for clues. They were formidable — their weapons enchanted, their armor reinforced with layers of protective magic. But it wasn't until he turned over one of the corpses that something slipped from the folds of their robe.

A photograph. Half-burned and crumpled, it fluttered to the ground. Grey's hand froze mid-motion as his eyes landed on it — and for the first time in longer than he could remember, true fear bloomed in his chest.

Hunter's bright, innocent face smiled up at him. Hermione stood beside their son, her arm wrapped protectively around him. And beside them — the third figure's face was burned beyond recognition, but Grey knew. He knew. The blood drained from his face. He didn't think — there was no time for that. The world shifted with a crack as he Apparated, and then again, and again, his jumps frantic and uncoordinated as he tore through space, heading for the anchor point of his personal dimension.

When he arrived — his stomach dropped. The entrance shimmered with unstable magic, fractured like broken glass. The very air around it warped and cracked, pieces of the dimension bleeding through as it collapsed in on itself. "No—" Grey's throat closed, his heart pounding so hard it threatened to leap from his chest. He didn't waste another second, diving into the collapsing realm.

The devastation hit him like a punch to the gut. His golems — the guardians and the domestic ones alike — lay shattered across the ground. Stone, metal, and arcane crystals were strewn like wreckage after a storm. The garden he had cultivated with such care was ruined, the air thick with the scent of burnt foliage and scorched earth. Buildings were broken and crumbling, his factory and laboratory reduced to ruin. But none of it mattered.

He Apparated again, his mind focused on only one thing.

His home. When he reached it, his heart seized in his chest. The courtyard was a battlefield. The bodies of assassins were scattered everywhere — but they weren't alone. "No," Grey whispered, his throat closing as his vision blurred. "No, no, no—"