I Swung a Sword at Hogwarts

"Who's there!"

By the time Voldemort noticed, it was already too late.

John struck without hesitation, slashing toward the hand that held the Philosopher's Stone.

An arm flew off, barely bleeding, and quickly shriveled.

"Show yourself!"

With his remaining hand, Voldemort waved his wand, and a flash of green light shot toward John.

Prepared for it, John rolled to the side and immediately launched forward.

His greatsword swung like a windmill, slicing off Voldemort's other arm.

Drawing his wand, John unleashed the final blow.

Aimed directly at Voldemort's chest, the wand shot out a dazzling white light.

"Reducto!"

Voldemort's feeble body shattered instantly. John collapsed onto the floor, exhausted.

"Thank goodness he was even weaker than in the Forbidden Forest."

Though John had moved with flair, the encounter had drained him immensely.

Especially when dodging the Killing Curse—he realized then that he had made a mistake.

If Voldemort's body had been any stronger, or if he hadn't let his guard down thinking victory was assured, that spell would've sent John to the afterlife.

Thankfully, John's rigorous training had built the instincts that saved him.

After sitting a while, he turned to see Harry still struggling.

Though Voldemort had died, the magic remained.

John walked over and picked up the Philosopher's Stone.

From Harry's perspective, it looked as though Voldemort had been fighting a ghost. In a blink, both of his arms were severed, and then his body exploded.

Still stunned, Harry watched the Stone float into the air.

"Is that you, Professor Dumbledore?"

He looked toward the Stone hopefully. Just as John was about to speak, Voldemort's remains gathered into a plume of black smoke, forming a twisted, ghastly face that rushed toward Harry.

"Stop!"

Without thinking, John threw his weapon at the smoke, trying to block it.

But the smoke wasn't physical—the sword passed through it, just as it passed through Harry.

Screams echoed in Harry's ears. His mind went blank, and he lost consciousness.

By the time John reached him, the black smoke had dispersed. He called Harry's name a few times—no response.

"Don't tell me he's dead?"

Worried, John slapped Harry's face a few times. When that didn't work, he pulled out a pile of potions and began trying them one by one.

"I believe Harry Potter is simply in shock."

A deep, aged voice rang out. John looked up—Dumbledore had arrived, looking like he'd rushed back from elsewhere.

"John Wick, I think you can end your Disillusionment Charm now."

Only then did John realize he was still invisible. Canceling the spell, he scratched his head awkwardly and said, "Professor Dumbledore."

There was a warm, approving look in Dumbledore's eyes. "It seems you've chosen the right path, not blinded by power."

A flicker of understanding crossed John's eyes—so the old man did know he had learned from Quirrell.

Clearly, everything had been under his control. Perhaps he'd never truly left the school. John's interference might've been entirely unnecessary.

Respectfully, John said, "It's all thanks to the school's guidance."

What John didn't know was that Dumbledore had, in fact, rushed back just in time. He had only just learned someone had entered the room containing the Stone. If John hadn't arrived when he did, Voldemort would've succeeded.

Dumbledore lifted Harry into his arms. With a wave of his hand, the wall of fire vanished.

"Let's take Harry to the infirmary. Poor boy—he might miss the Quidditch match against Ravenclaw."

John nodded. As they were leaving, he blinked—he was still holding the Philosopher's Stone.

He glanced at Dumbledore, who didn't seem to have noticed. After a brief hesitation, he spoke up, "Professor, what about the Philosopher's Stone?"

Dumbledore stopped, smiling. "I'm glad you're an honest young man. Do you remember our agreement? I believe my old friend Nicolas Flamel won't mind if a young wizard uses his Stone for a while."

Nicolas Flamel!

John froze in shock, looking like a Niffler that had just lost a pile of coins.

June 9.

Three days had passed, but John was still shaken.

"Mix dragon's blood with marsh soil, scrape some powder off the unicorn horn with a silver blade…"

A bright red stone sat on the table. John, holding dragon blood and other materials, was crafting an amulet.

Under his meticulous work, a badge gradually took shape—stars circling a wand.

He took a snowy owl feather and a silver-tipped pen, carving runes onto the badge.

"This is the final step."

Wiping sweat from his brow, John placed the finished badges into a crucible to soak.

He tossed the Philosopher's Stone in and stirred. The liquid turned red, then black.

Eventually, it became clear again. John removed the badges and the Stone.

The badges shimmered like starlight. Wearing one on his chest, he knew it could resist three spells, had six empty slots for future enchantments, and could connect with the others.

He had made nine in total, storing the other eight away.

Glancing at the larger crucible nearby, he opened the lid. The molten silver inside was nearly ready.

He added dragon's blood and the remainder of the unicorn horn, closed the lid, and waited for it to fully melt.

He poured the silver into a prepared mold—loud hissing sounds filled the air.

Once cooled, he cracked open the mold to reveal a silver longsword.

He tossed the cooled blade back into the crucible, adding the Philosopher's Stone.

John watched the reactions nervously.

"I sold everything I could just to afford this mithril. Please don't fail now…"

After a long wait, the reactions ceased.

Opening the crucible, John's face stiffened.

"Failed."

The sword had turned gold—an effect of the Philosopher's Stone's transmutation powers.

But John hadn't wanted gold. He wanted to improve the blade's quality.

Disappointment etched across his face. He sighed, "Even with the Philosopher's Stone, it's still too hard to make a sword on par with the Sword of Gryffindor."

He took out the golden sword—maybe he could still sell it for a bit of money.

Seeing the time, it was already the end-of-year feast.

John packed up, slipped the Philosopher's Stone into his pocket, and left the Room of Requirement.

The castle was especially lively today.

In the Great Hall, Harry had returned from the hospital wing. But learning that Gryffindor lost the Quidditch match to Ravenclaw in his absence left him sulking.

Green and silver banners decorated the hall—Slytherin had won the House Cup for the seventh year in a row.

John sat at the Slytherin table. Glancing at Malfoy's smug expression, he noted that Gryffindor was 160 points behind Slytherin.

If it hadn't been for Malfoy, maybe the outcome would've been different.

Dumbledore stood at the podium. As he declared Slytherin the winner, the house erupted in cheers and stomping. John clapped along.

"Yes, yes, well done, Slytherin," Dumbledore nodded approvingly.

Just as everyone thought he was wrapping up, Dumbledore added, "However, recent events must also be taken into account."

The hall fell silent. The Slytherins sensed something was wrong—Malfoy's smile faded.

Dumbledore cleared his throat. "I have a few last-minute points to award. Let me see... ah, yes…"

"First, Mr. Ron Weasley. For playing the best game of wizard chess Hogwarts has seen in many years, I award Gryffindor 50 points."

"Second, Miss Hermione Granger. For keeping her head and solving a logic puzzle in the face of fire, I award Gryffindor 50 points."

"Third, Harry Potter. For his courage and bravery, I award Gryffindor 60 points!"

A reversal.

A stunning reversal!

Gryffindor, previously far behind, now tied with Slytherin. The hall exploded with cheers—except for Slytherin.

Dumbledore raised his hand for quiet, smiling.

"Courage comes in many forms. Standing up to our enemies requires great bravery. But standing up to our friends takes even more."

"Therefore, I award 10 points to Mr. Neville Longbottom!"

Boom. Absolute chaos.

Slytherin shouted "rigged!" while the other houses cheered like they were going to tear Hogwarts down.

Malfoy banged his goblet against the table in protest, and the Slytherins' faces turned sour.

Gryffindor had pulled ahead. Aside from Slytherin, everyone else seemed satisfied with the result.

John couldn't help but mutter, "Gryffindor—always the pointy-dor."

So they're just... adding points, huh?

As the dust seemed to settle, John saw the awkward smile on his Head of House's face and shook his head in sympathy.

"Silence, please. May I have your attention?"

Dumbledore spoke again—but instead of announcing the final result, he turned to John.

"And lastly… Mr. John Wick…"