Harry Potter: Dragonborn comes

Chapter 93: 93



N/A: "What a chapter! Honestly, I originally wrote a much bloodier version, because I got carried away with the rage during the trial scene. Hahaha, it was a real literary slaughterhouse. After reading it, I realized it was way too intense—like my pen had taken lessons from Jack the Ripper—so I had to delete it and return to civilization. Still, it was excellent therapy. Haha."

In a vast chamber flanked by ancient columns and surrounded by wizards of all ages, ranks, and bloodlines, a tense silence reigned. At the highest point, like a sacred tribunal, Minister Cornelius Fudge sat in the judge's seat, watching everything with a mix of arrogance and nervousness.

At the center of the room, completely exposed, Harry Potter sat on a large enchanted chair that floated slightly above a platform. Dozens of eyes were on him—evaluating him, judging him. Some were filled with compassion, others with disdain, and many with pure curiosity. It was as if the entire weight of the wizarding world had descended upon his shoulders in that very moment.

A subtle tremor ran through the floor, causing the walls to creak slightly. Murmurs spread like wildfire but were quickly silenced, blamed as usual on the Ministry's alchemists—always suspected of some accidental explosion.

From his seat, Harry could see Percy Weasley sitting beside the Minister, frantically taking notes like his personal secretary. The same Percy who, just weeks before, had had a furious argument with his parents. According to the twins, it all exploded when Arthur reminded him that he'd only gotten the position thanks to being his son—and because of the family's connection to Dumbledore. Percy, outraged, had accused his father of being a joke at the Ministry, someone who never advanced because of his obsession with Muggles. He stormed out, leaving a heartbroken Mrs. Weasley sobbing. Since then, he hadn't returned home. Now, there he was, scribbling coldly, pretending none of it mattered.

"Disciplinary hearing on the twelfth of August, for the crimes committed by Harry James Potter, who currently resides in... where does he live?" asked Fudge, frowning as he scanned an illegible scroll. He looked to Percy for help, but the young man just shook his head, visibly uncomfortable. Other wizards did the same—unable to answer.

"Well, no matter. Present inquisitors: Cornelius Oswald Fudge, Minister for Magic..."

Before he could continue, a solemn voice echoed through the hall, instantly imposing silence.

"Witnesses for the defense. Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore," announced the headmaster, walking with a firm yet composed stride, as if each step measured time itself. Beside him followed a man with long hair and a rebellious expression, carrying himself with a casual air.

"And Sirius Orion Black... the third," added Sirius, lifting his chin with a cocky smile aimed at Dumbledore, clearly competing to see who had the most impressive name.

BOOM. CRASH. STOMP.

Suddenly, the ground shook—this time unmistakably. Sounds of destruction and heavy impacts echoed beyond the doors, as if an army were breaking through from the depths of the world. The atmosphere grew heavy. Sirius grinned with confidence. Dumbledore frowned, already knowing exactly what was coming.

The massive doors of the chamber didn't simply open—they were obliterated. The enchanted wood splintered in every direction, leaving deep gouges in the stone walls. A brutal gust of wind burst through with the intruders, knocking over several wizards from their seats.

Then, a procession of spectral figures entered the hall.

They were warriors—tall and proud—dressed in ancient armor and ceremonial garments that shimmered faintly with ancestral magic. Their presence was not just intimidating—it was nearly lethal. Their aura was so overwhelming that the very air seemed to resist their passage. Some spoke to each other in a harsh, guttural tongue. Others carried—or dragged—several Ministry Aurors, wounded but alive, tossing them aside like broken rags in the corner.

And then… he appeared.

A young man with silver hair, his face so striking it echoed Veela legends, walked forward slowly. His bearing was regal, his gaze fierce. His dark, elegant robe was embroidered with symbols radiating arcane power, and each step he took seemed to shake the world beneath him. His presence was overwhelming. It was like standing before an ancient dragon—one that didn't need to roar to prove its dominion.

"Einar Dovahkiin, the World-Eater. Son of Akatosh and Mara. Witness for the defense," he proclaimed with a voice so deep and resonant that every word seemed carved into stone by fire. Each syllable made the walls tremble, the benches rattle, the hearts pound.

That was when everyone finally understood the truth.

The earlier tremors hadn't been caused by clumsy alchemists or failed experiments.

No.

They had been caused by him.

By the man who had just entered.

Minutes earlier…

Einar emerged from the fireplace wrapped in green flames, his imposing silhouette elegantly rising from the dust of the Floo Network. He had arrived late. The owl carrying the letter warning that Harry was in trouble had only appeared a few minutes earlier—lost, confused, as if something invisible had tried to stop the message from reaching him.

As soon as he read the letter, Einar immediately dropped what he was doing. At that moment, he had been in the middle of a lush jungle, observing a strange and fascinating creature: a small being that resembled a fawn, its body covered in golden bronze scales, deer legs, the torso of a lion, the tail of a fish, and a pair of delicate horns. He had never seen anything like it.

For no apparent reason, the little creature had grown attached to him, following him with near-desperate loyalty. Einar, unable to simply ignore it, helped it find its mother, tracking her across kilometers of magical wilderness. Only when he finally reunited them did the little one accept parting from his side.

Without wasting another second, Einar used his newly mastered Apparition technique to cross half the world in a blink and arrived at Sirius's house. The moment he appeared, Molly hurriedly pushed him toward the fireplace, exclaiming, "Go! Go quickly!"

And so he did.

But as soon as he appeared in the Ministry of Magic, his presence immediately caught the attention of the guards.

"Name and wand," one of them demanded.

Einar paused for a moment—only to be surrounded by a dozen Aurors in tight formation.

"Sorry, sir. You'll have to come with us. There's an international arrest warrant from Greece… for assaulting Aurors and attacking the Minister himself," said one of the British Aurors, eyes locked on Einar, reciting his duty as if it could shield him from the obvious danger standing before him.

Einar looked at them without a trace of surprise. He immediately recognized the intent. It was an attempt to stop him. Delay him. Maybe even provoke him into giving them an excuse. Fudge was clearly behind it all.

Among the Aurors, he recognized Kingsley Shacklebolt, whom he knew from Sirius's house. With a barely perceptible gesture, Kingsley pointed at his watch. Time was running out.

Einar sighed.

"I don't have time for this," he said calmly as he slid a mask beneath his face.

And then he spoke.

"HUN KAAL ZOOR."

The words in the Dragon Language echoed with a supernatural resonance, tearing through the veil between worlds. A portal of blue energy opened beside him with a sharp hum, as if the skies themselves answered his call.

From the portal, spectral figures emerged—warriors from ages long past, clad in ancient armor with eyes that had witnessed more battles than any living human could imagine.

"Hey, kid. Looks like you need help with these weaklings," said one of the first to emerge: a tall Nord with golden hair and a mighty beard, wearing hand-forged iron armor and radiating an aura nearly as powerful as Einar's.

Ysgramor.

Founder of the Hundred Companions. A living legend—or rather, an undead one.

"They're kind of like security guards. I can't hit them or I'll get arrested," Einar replied, not moving an inch, absolute calm in his voice.

"Pfft. Politics, huh? Annoying," said Ysgramor as more specters surged out of the portal, eager for battle.

Before the Aurors could even raise their wands, they were tossed through the air like dolls. Some slammed into columns; others rolled across the Ministry floor, completely overwhelmed.

"Don't kill them! You'll get Einar in trouble!" cried a more refined figure—a young man with a golden circlet on his forehead: Torygg, the King of Solitude.

"Shut up, Torygg! If an enemy gets in the way, you knock them down," snapped Ulfric Stormcloak, his tone lofty and mocking.

"Don't talk to me, Ulfric, you cheater! We're here to help, not to make things worse!" growled Torygg, casting sleep spells at the Aurors who kept arriving from all directions.

Meanwhile, Einar walked calmly toward the source of the energy he recognized as Harry's. On his left walked Kodlak Whitemane, hand on his weapon's hilt, escorting him like a loyal guardian. On his right, Jurgen Windcaller moved silently, his grey robes billowing gently as if he were entirely ignoring the chaos around him.

Upon reaching the great courtroom door, Jurgen exhaled softly.

The wood shattered like paper, flying into a thousand splinters.

The spectral heroes surged in like an unstoppable tide—proud and smiling, as if they owned the entire scene.

And behind them, with steady steps and unwavering gaze, walked in Einar.

"Einar Dovahkiin, the Destroyer. Son of Akatosh and Mara. Witness for the defense," he declared with thunderous voice.

The walls trembled.

Present:

Sirius moved immediately upon seeing him, leaving his spot beside Harry so that Einar could stand next to him. Harry, for his part, smiled as his mentor arrived, unable to stop himself from feeling protected.

He watched the specters with fascination—the warriors with hardened faces and dominating presences, who looked at every wizard in the room as if they were mere apprentices.

"You! What are you doing here? You should be in prison for attacking Aurors! And now you're attacking mine!" shouted Fudge, losing his composure at the sight of Einar standing before him.

"If you're talking about Greece, that was a misunderstanding caused by a corrupt minister—who is now in prison. And if you're referring to your Aurors... I didn't touch them. They did," Einar responded calmly… with a mocking smile.

"Tsk! I despise foolish rulers. Why don't we just rip his head off and use it for target practice in Sovngarde?" growled Ysgramor, shooting a murderous glare at Fudge, who paled in fear.

"That's why you don't understand politics. They're battles too—just fought on a different field. You must crush the enemy… at his own game," added Ulfric with a sage tone.

"Yeah, sure. Spoken like the vile cheat you are," muttered Torygg with contempt.

"Enough, you two," intervened Kodlak, his voice firm. "It's best if we just observe… unless Einar wants us to slaughter everyone here. But honestly… he doesn't need us for that."

At those words, everyone present felt an invisible pressure in the air. It was as if what Kodlak said wasn't just heavy—it was true. Many witches and wizards began gripping their wands with a mix of doubt and fear.

"ZUN HAAL VIIK," murmured Jurgen in a serene voice, and at once, every wand in the room flew through the air, slamming into walls and ceilings before landing far from their owners.

"It's better if we try to resolve this peacefully," said the monk, his tone calm yet immovable, like a mountain facing the wind. All were left speechless; they had been disarmed by mere words. Words that did not belong to this world.

"Very well, the trial may proceed. Consider us... interested visitors in the laws of this land," added Torygg with a calm smile, arms crossed with dignity.

No one knew what to think. Especially Cornelius Fudge, who looked at the ghosts—if they could be called that—with the same terror a child has when staring at a shadow in the night. They were too real, too imposing. Too... alive.

CLACK! CLACK! CLACK!

"O-order in the court," Fudge stammered, still trembling before the figures who stared at him with the gaze of ancient predators. In that moment, he realized clearly that Einar was not someone they could simply imprison or eliminate. And that those specters… would protect him with divine fury if needed.

"Einar Dovahkiin's actions—and those of his... companions—will be investigated later. If the arrest warrant proves to be the result of a misunderstanding, it will be annulled. For now, let's return to the main issue: Harry Potter," said Fudge, attempting to regain some semblance of control.

"The charges?" asked Dumbledore seriously, aiming both to protect Harry and to avoid giving Einar any excuse to act. It was a double strategy: end the trial as soon as possible and avoid a massacre.

"The charges are: that with full knowledge of the illegality of his actions, young Potter cast a Patronus Charm in front of several Muggles," Fudge stated loudly.

Sirius immediately frowned.

"That's a lie. There were no Muggles nearby," he said firmly, before Fudge raised a hand to silence him.

"That will be heard later," he replied, then looked directly at Harry.

"Do you deny having cast the Patronus?"

"No, but—"

"Are you aware that it is forbidden to use magic outside of Hogwarts until the age of eighteen?"

"Yes, but I—"

"Witches and wizards..." Fudge turned to the Wizengamot members, ready to declare his sentence—but before he could continue—

THUD!

The ground cracked from a single stomp by Ysgramor. A fracture ran from his foot straight to Fudge's, leaving the man frozen in place. An invisible wave of ancient bloodlust fell over him like a river. It was so intense, so primal, that even the Wizengamot members recoiled.

"This doesn't look like a trial," said Ysgramor in a deep voice, locking eyes with Fudge as if he'd already judged his soul worthless. "I am a warrior, not a judge. But tell me, Torygg, does this look like justice to you?"

"Not at all. Even as High King I let others speak. That's why I accepted Ulfric's duel... though he used tricks to win," replied Torygg, his voice severe.

Ulfric, of course, scowled in irritation, but Galmar placed a hand on his shoulder to calm him. This was not the time for old arguments.

Meanwhile, Einar remained standing beside Harry, unmoved. There was no anger on his face, not even a clear emotion. Only unshakable calm, like someone who already knew how everything would end.

The heroes of Sovngarde had taken it upon themselves to play the villains. They intimidated. They acted. Not out of malice, but to protect him. So that no blame would fall on Einar. He knew that if he acted in anger, they would label him a threat, expel him from Hogwarts, or isolate him from the students he now protected. This wasn't just a provocation toward him—it was also toward Dumbledore.

That was why, from the beginning, he had summoned the great ones. Those who could not be judged by any law of this world. Eternal heroes who feared no one... especially not politicians.

And while the old fossils of the Wizengamot trembled in their seats, Einar knew that in the end, everything would collapse under its own weight.

Because true justice… didn't need permission to be felt.


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