Chapter 292: The Ambush Begins
It was already evening. Sirius and the others were about to appear.
The suitcase fell to the ground and instantly released a puff of white smoke that enveloped Phineas. The wizards who had been tailing him sensed something was wrong and rushed to check—only to be engulfed by the white fog as well.
Soon, they could no longer see or hear anything.
This smoke had been prepared by Phineas earlier in the day. Though ordinary, it had become significantly more potent with the aid of his snakewood wand. It merely required time to prepare—unsuitable for use in the midst of battle, but perfect as a preemptive trap.
Vincent Parkinson, from a branch of the Parkinson family, had graduated from Durmstrang School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Following his family's wishes, he became a Dark wizard in preparation for the Dark Lord's return.
After ten years, their efforts bore fruit: the Dark Lord had returned.
Vincent had been following his orders, searching for the base of Dumbledore's Order of the Phoenix. Eventually, he and his men concluded it was in Ottery St. Catchpole.
There, he seized a remote hotel using magic, converting it into their base of operations for observation and reconnaissance.
A day ago, his family informed him that Sirius Black, known Order supporter and member of the Black family, would be passing through the alley behind his hotel this very evening.
To the Death Eaters, Sirius was a dangerous threat. So Vincent was tasked with laying the ambush.
He had been fantasizing about killing Sirius—earning the Dark Lord's favor, rising in rank, and basking in glory.
But then a small wizard arrived at the hotel. Too convenient.
Vincent, seasoned in the ways of the Dark Arts, knew it wasn't a coincidence. This wizard must be connected to Sirius. Clearly, there was a leak in their operation.
But now wasn't the time to seek out traitors. The priority was dealing with the intruder.
Disguised as hotel staff, Vincent knocked on the door.
"Who's there?" a cautious voice responded.
Vincent replied smoothly, "Good evening, sir. The hotel's offering breakfast. May I bring you some?"
He knew his excuse was flimsy—but he didn't care. He only wanted to observe the boy's reaction.
"No thanks," came the reply. "And don't bother me. Oh, and remind me in the afternoon—I have a train then."
Trying to get me to let my guard down?
Vincent smirked. This child was inexperienced. Didn't he know that in this line of work, the less suspicious something looks, the more dangerous it often is?
Even the tone of voice reeked of tension.
Now certain the boy was a threat, Vincent left the door. He had time to deal with him later.
That afternoon, the boy left the hotel carrying a suitcase.
Seeing this Vincent chuckled and followed, his fellow Dark wizards in tow. They could deal with the boy first—Sirius could wait.
They were prepared. The ambush involved members from the Parkinson, Goyle, and Crabbe families. It was said the plan was devised by an executioner secretly placed within the Ministry of Magic. Strange, that such brutality came with such strategy.
As they tracked the young wizard, Vincent noticed something odd.
The boy's suitcase fell.
Not unusual—until thick smoke began to pour from it.
Vincent's heart raced. His head throbbed. His instincts screamed: run.
It was his unique gift—whenever danger approached, his body gave him a warning. It was how he'd survived in the dark underworld for so long.
Without hesitation, Vincent Disapparated.
Not far. Just enough to watch safely.
And then he saw something that shattered his worldview.
The cautious, supposedly naive boy suddenly became deadly. The white mist enveloped Vincent's men. Within it, the boy waved his wand—Vincent couldn't see its form, but he could feel its immense power.
The terrain around the station warped. The earth heaved and rolled like ocean waves, mercilessly crushing Vincent's companions. Their screams filled the air. The proud enforcers of Voldemort's will were reduced to broken flesh and tattered robes, unable even to lay a finger on the boy.
As the fog cleared and silence fell, the boy vanished.
Vincent stepped forward, trembling. Blood soaked the ground. Limbs, wands, robes—all strewn across a battlefield that no longer resembled a train station.
Panic overtook him. He would not be joining the attack on Sirius.
He fled—not via magic, but Muggle means. He knew the magical world well: no wizard could trace another using Muggle transportation. He would vanish.
He would leave Britain. Leave Europe. America sounded nice.
Sirius would seek revenge—of that he had no doubt. The Goyle, Crabbe, and Parkinson families had all taken part openly. Retribution was inevitable.
And judging by the cold efficiency and raw power of that boy, the outcome was not in question.
Vincent's decision to flee turned out to be the right one.
Let's return now to Phineas.
That morning, he had realized he'd been compromised and began laying the groundwork for his counterattack—not only to disappear from sight, but to weaken the forces targeting Sirius and Lisa.
At the train station, he used his usual method: smoke spell and transfiguration. He didn't intend to kill anyone—only incapacitate them. But even these simple spells, amplified by the snakewood wand, became monstrous.
The massacre had been unintentional.
If not for Sirius and Lisa being in danger, he might've stayed to clean up the scene.
As he approached the alley behind the hotel, spells lit the sky like fireworks.
The dusk-darkened sky was aglow with red, blue, and violet light.
The ambush had begun.
He rushed into the alley.
There, he found werewolf wizards already dead, Lisa and Sirius fighting desperately, and several Black family wizards holding the line.
All surrounded.
Death Eaters had them encircled, wands raised, pouring down spellfire like rain.
No shield charm could hold out long.
"Damn it!" Phineas cursed inwardly. Voldemort, this is overkill. You sent half your army?!
With his left hand, he drew his old wand. In his right, the snakewood wand appeared. He removed his gloves, which rose into the air above him.
"In that case… let's fight."
His resolve was firm; his attack, ruthless.
Blades of wind. Explosions of fire. Invisible slashes. All erupted from his two wands—and the gloves—striking enemies in three directions at once.
From combat spells to curses—Avada Kedavra, Fiendfyre, Cruciatus—he unleashed them all.
The Death Eater ranks collapsed into chaos.
"Damn! There's another one!"
"They had reinforcements!"
"Watch out—he's strong!"
Panic spread among the Death Eaters.
Not all of them were zealots. Many were pure-blood supremacists, clinging to ideology but unwilling to die for it. Self-preservation kicked in. Some Disapparated immediately.
But the fanatics remained, throwing themselves at the resistance.
Black family wizards fell, one by one. Sirius and Lisa were exhausted.
Phineas reached them just as the last Black wizard fell.
Only the three of them remained.
"You shouldn't be here!" Sirius gasped.
"Master, what are you doing?!" Lisa snapped, furious.
Her anger clouded her judgment. A red spell shot toward her.
Her wand flew from her hand—Disarming Spell.
A wizard without a wand is helpless.
Without a word, Phineas tossed her his original wand. "Stay focused. Fight."
He spun the snakewood wand and drew a glowing circle on the ground. A protective dome sprang up around them.
It was a Universal Protection spell—typically used to create safe campgrounds. But now, in Phineas's hands, it became a barrier of survival.