As he had discovered in his earlier studies of Transfiguration, the greatest hurdle was the ntal strain of maintaining direct control over a construct. When he tried to guide every movent, his mind buckled under the weight of the magic.
But what if he let go? What if he simply issued a single, sovereign command and let the ritual handle the rest?
As Uncle Marcus cast a frantic series of Blasting Curses to shred the vines and stones binding his legs, he realized he had only been dealing with the distraction.
"Root of earth, heart of stone—wake to guard the master's throne! Ivy-Stone Guardian!"
Sean intoned the long, rhythmic incantation. It was a sprawling, ancient-sounding command, nearly as long as the dark ritual that would eventually bring Voldemort back to life. It represented the absolute limit of Sean's current Transfiguration mastery.
Sean's knees buckled, his vision swimming as his ntal energy was drained to the dregs. But the price paid bought a scene of pure terror.
A hand—the size of a small hill, woven from thick, pulsating vines and jagged mountain stone—erupted from the frozen soil. With a thunderous groan of shifting earth, it swept through the air and closed around the entire area where Marcus was standing.
Dirt sprayed like geysers, and massive boulders cracked like eggshells under the pressure of the grip.
This wasn't just a Magical Transfiguration, nor was it purely Material; it was a sophisticated hybrid of the two—the result of six months of obsessive research.
The clearing went silent. The roaring fire dragon and the charging stone sentinel dissolved into wisps of smoke. They had been re decoys, ant to force Marcus into a defensive position and drain his focus. In truth, they only had enough power to exist for a few seconds.
The wide, empty field fell into a heavy stillness.
In the distance, beneath the snow-dusted branches of a massive beech tree, a tabby cat sat perfectly frozen. The look of amused expectation in her eyes had been replaced by a flash of stark, maternal worry. She wasn't worried about the boy; she was worried about the old man who seed to have been buried alive.
"Apparate!—Expelliarmus!"
Just as the panic began to peak, Marcus reappeared a dozen yards away, breathless and trembling. The calm, veteran air of an Auror was gone, replaced by a look of profound shock and cold sweat.
rlin's beard, one second later and he would have been flattened into a pancake.
A flash of red light streaked across the field, knocking the wand from Sean's hand.
"Uncle Marcus is... quite impressive," the boy murmured. He didn't even try to resist; he simply plopped down onto the cold ground, his energy spent.
"Aha... well... naturally..." Marcus stamred, wiping his brow. His palm ca away wet. Fortunately, it was just sweat.
"In terms of raw combat... I suspect there isn't much left for to teach you, lad," Marcus said, slowly regaining his composure. He fought down a surge of wild, manic joy.
A wizard whose na would be etched into history had been born of the McGonagall line. Before long, his fa would outshine rlin himself. Imagine it—what would wizards say in the future? 'By Green's wand!'
The thought made Marcus's grin nearly split his face.
"Is that so? Petrificus Totalus!"
Sean spoke suddenly. In his hand was a second, brand-new wand—the untraceable gift Marcus had given him only recently.
Marcus felt a jolt of alarm. He tried to nod, but realized his neck wouldn't move. He tried to blink, but his eyelids were frozen open. Even more terrifying was the realization that the world around him had stopped; the snowflakes that should have been drifting past his face were suspended in the air, held in place by a localized stasis.
Sean had cast an area-of-effect Full Body-Bind. No matter how small the radius, it was a feat that transcended the bounds of ordinary charms.
The field presented a bizarre tableau: a young wizard sitting exhausted in the mud, and an old veteran standing like a marble statue, his wand pointed at nothing.
Sean watched the snow begin to fall again as the spell faded. He had his confirmation: he could indeed hold his own against an elite Auror. Marcus had seed to escape the "Guardian," but that was only because Sean had intentionally slowed the casting. He was here for practice, not to send his relative to the Lands Between for a surprise visit.
If a battle-hardened man like Marcus could be caught off guard, other Aurors would fare no better. As long as he could restrict their ability to Disapparate, Sean didn't believe anyone could face him head-on and win.
Master-level Transfiguration and near-Master Dark Arts had defined his boundaries. Furthermore, he hadn't even called for Snowy or Will's assistance. His true combat potential hadn't even been fully unleashed.
In a state of total preparation, Sean estimated he could put up a decent fight against a Hogwarts Professor. But only a simple fight. Just as the staff didn't know his full arsenal, he didn't know the specific combat "tricks" they had accumulated over decades.
Information asymtry was the ultimate decider. Wizards were the definition of "glass cannons"—high offensive power, low physical defense. Their duels were gas of tactical counters.
In such a ga, Sean held the advantage. No one had seen his "Hebridean Flight," his "Ivy-Stone Guardian," or the prospect of Snowy descending upon the battlefield in the form of a Basilisk.
"Splendid! Absolutely splendid!"
Marcus, finally free from the bind, stumbled slightly. There was no anger in his eyes, only a fierce, radiant pride. The shadow of war was creeping across the land; what could be more heartening than knowing his kin possessed the power and the mind to protect himself?
"Green's beard..." Marcus muttered, looking at the boy. He suspected Sean had "pulled his punches" during the finale.
"Whose beard?" Sean asked, thinking he had misheard.
"Ah—nothing, my boy! Lunch should be ready by now. What do you say? Roast lamb or a sweet treacle pudding?"
Marcus hoisted the exhausted boy up with one arm. In that mont, he rembered that despite the power, this was still a child who needed their protection.
But at this rate...
"Eat up, my dear lad," Marcus said, leading him toward the villa. "Grow strong, and grow quickly. Perhaps the dangers we fear won't be so dangerous after all."
Nothing was as intoxicating as the hope of a new generation.
In the distance, the snow was shaken from the branches of the beech trees. Amidst the white flurries, a tabby cat darted toward the house with feline grace.
[End of Chapter 387]
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