Harry Potter: The art of divination

Nicholas stepped back, his face pale but resolute. "The modifications are complete. Are you ready?"

Morpheus nodded, his eyes fixed on the anchor. "Let's begin."

They positioned the anchor within the first Vanishing Cabinet, its light intensifying as it settled into place. Nicholas activated the cabinet, its runes glowing brightly. Simultaneously, Morpheus focused on the receiving cabinet, channeling the pyramid's energy to reinforce its structure.

A low hum filled the chamber, growing louder as the transfer commenced. The anchor's light pulsed rapidly, and the cabinets vibrated with the strain of containing the energy.

Suddenly, a crack appeared on the surface of the receiving anchor, and the light flickered.

"Stabilize it!" Morpheus shouted, pouring more energy into the reinforcement spells.

Nicholas gritted his teeth, adjusting the synchronization runes to compensate for the fluctuation. "Almost there…"

With a final surge of light, the energy settled, and the hum subsided. The anchor within the receiving cabinet glowed steadily, its surface smooth and unblemished.

Morpheus exhaled, relief washing over him. "We did it."

Nicholas nodded, a faint smile on his lips. "For now. But this is just the beginning. We need to monitor the anchor closely. Any instability could be disastrous."

Morpheus hummed in agreement before a scowl formed on his lips, "The Veil cracked a little bit, but luckily it looks like we are stable for now." 

As he finished speaking the sound of hurried footsteps entered their ears, "Bloody hell! I thought we were done for." 

Morpheus turned to the man and noticed Albus, Tenzin, and Herpo behind him, "Almost, luckily we were able to transfer the energy properly. We must focus all of our efforts into building the illusion now." 

Morpheus turned back and examined the nearly empty Anchor, "It wasn't a full transfer, its destruction will still weaken the veil but it shall not be as dramatic." 

Nicolas gathered his work before heading to the exit, "I will not be here when it does, send Negary if you need me." 

Morpheus nodded but did not reply, "I need to finish some things here then I will join you all to finish the illusion and then talk about strategy." 

Herpo nodded and left promptly followed by Albus and Tenzin. 

He knelt by the fractured anchor, placing his palm against its scorched surface. The runes surrounding it were broken, incomplete, but their memory still hummed beneath the stone magic clinging to structure like breath on cold glass.

He extended his hand, channeling threads of his own power into the structure. The room darkened as he drew from his internal reserves, weaving magic into the residual netting of the anchor's framework. What had once been a warding core and a stabilizing force, he was about to transform into a weapon.

He began with containment. A shell of stabilized runes formed around the anchor's heart a skeletal framework to hold what would come. Next came compression. He layered contraction glyphs, binding circles, energy refraction loops, all set to collapse inward once the spell was triggered. Every layer etched by hand, inscribed in glowing violet across the floor.

Sweat beaded on his brow. His body trembled with strain. Even now, the lingering magic in the pyramid twisted around him like smoke. It knew it was being repurposed. Morpheus muttered a curse under his breath and drew a new rune one Nicholas had once called dangerous and inelegant. It pulsed, ugly and unstable, but it would work.

As he bound it into the anchor's side, the structure shuddered violently.

The floor groaned. Cracks spiderwebbed across the stone, and the residual magic surged up like a geyser. The vortex began pulling at the loose magic in the air, drawing light and heat toward the core of the bomb. Loose dust and rubble swirled, drawn into orbit.

Morpheus steadied himself, shouting a spell in ancient Greek. The vortex snapped taut, like a rope yanked straight.

Then suddenly one of the inner glyphs began to unravel.

His eyes widened.

"No—no—no—"

He dove forward, fingers slashing through the air, rewriting the symbol mid-collapse. He burned the fix directly into the stone with a flash of heatless fire. The air snapped, and the vortex lurched but stabilized.

For a moment, everything held.

Breathing heavily, Morpheus stepped back. The anchor, once a monument to stability and endurance, now hummed with unstable potential. It looked dormant, inert but beneath the surface, it was a sleeping god of fire and magic. When triggered, it would release all of its compressed residual energy in one singular detonation localized.

He drew a simple rune at the base one that meant "choice." He would decide when to trigger it.

***

beyond the veil, Odin convened with his Einherjar, his chosen warriors of Valhalla to strategize their impending assault on the pyramid. The veil, a barrier separating their domain from the mortal world, had been weakened, allowing a narrow passage just sufficient for Odin to traverse. This deliberate constriction was a calculated move, concentrating their remaining strength to ensure Odin's entry, as his full power would otherwise be too immense to pass through. 

Within the war room, maps and arcane symbols adorned the walls, detailing the pyramid's defenses and the veil's fluctuating energies. Odin, wielding Gungnir, his unerring spear, stood at the helm, his single eye surveying the gathered warriors. The Einherjar, ever battle-ready, awaited his command, their spirits undeterred by the sacrifices made to facilitate this breach. 

The plan was audacious, Odin would lead the charge, exploiting the narrow opening in the veil to spearhead the attack and dismantle the pyramid's defenses from within. The Einherjar would follow, their numbers overwhelming any resistance. The success of this operation hinged on the fact that his men would be sacrificing themselves to let him enter.

silence fell as Odin rose from the obsidian dais at the chamber's heart. His lone eye, glowing like molten gold, swept across the ranks of the Einherjar his deathless champions. They stood like statues clad in gleaming armor, some mortal once, now made into legends by fire, blood, and time.

He took a breath. The air shimmered with restrained might, the veil trembling at the edges, waiting for its master's word.

Odin's voice was like thunder trapped in flesh.

"Sons and daughters of war, hear me. For too long, we have watched from behind this veil as the mortals toy with power that does not belong to them. For too long, we have let them defy fate, defy death, defy us. They destroyed my sons. My sons!"

His voice cracked like a whip on that last word. Murmurs rippled through the Einherjar ranks grim, dark, bloodthirsty.

"They believe themselves safe, behind wards and shields. But we are gods. And gods are not deterred by such weakness."

He began pacing, Gungnir gripped in his left hand, each footstep echoing with purpose.

"The veil is narrow. It will not let all of us through. Not yet. So we have done what gods should never do we have sacrificed our might, our force, our strength so that I may pass through first. So that I may strike first."

He turned, firelight casting shadow over half his face.

"I will carve the path. I will tear through their wards, their illusions, their desperate hope. And when the veil opens wider, when the gate can hold no longer, you—my warriors, my chosen—will come like the tide, and you will drown them."

"What awaits us on the other side is no mortal army. It is desperation, clawing to look like resolve. It is weakness, dressed up as resistance. It is fear pretending to be defiance. Break it."

He raised Gungnir to the sky, and the chamber itself seemed to bend around it.

"We do not march today for conquest. We do not march for glory. We march because we are owed. By the blood of the gods and the dust of the dead, we are owed. And now… we collect."

He drove Gungnir down into the floor, and a shockwave rolled out from it. The veil trembled violently—thinner now, stretched like parchment before flame.

Odin's eye narrowed. He looked at his warriors, his voice suddenly quieter but colder, sharper.

"Let them pray. Let them scream. Let them hope that their last tricks will save them. I will show them what becomes of mortals who dare play gods."

Then he turned toward the thin slice in the veil, now opening like a crack in a dam, humming with unstable magic.

"To the pyramid."

And the Einherjar roared.