When all was said and done, and the chaos gradually gave way to silence,
The snow, too, ceased its delicate waltz.
At some unknown moment, it quietly withdrew from the stage of Hogsmeade.
Leaving behind a world cloaked in white, so serene it felt as though time itself had frozen—
A beauty so still, it was almost heartbreaking.
With Voldemort's departure,
Ino slowly drifted down from midair,
Like the last snowflake of winter.
When his feet touched the ground, he paid no attention to the multitude of eyes upon him.
Without a word, he turned and walked straight back to where his little cottage once stood.
Now, faced with the ruins and rubble, he stood in silence.
His home—was gone.
Perhaps it was a lingering attachment rooted deep in his memories.
Perhaps it was because, ever since arriving in the magical world, he had drifted aimlessly.
But somehow, over time, that small cottage in Hogsmeade had come to feel like home.
A place he belonged.
And now…
Because of Voldemort's schemes—
Although their battle had seemed to unfold in the skies, in reality, the cottage had already been destroyed.
After all, in the confined space of the battle's beginning, the Boggart had genuinely suppressed Voldemort.
And Voldemort, in turn, had retaliated with devastating force.
At that very moment—
While many were still stunned into silence or simply observing from a distance,
Professor McGonagall was the first to act.
She flew in on a broomstick, landing quickly, and hurried toward Ino.
"My dear boy, are you alright?" she asked with concern, reaching out to steady him by the arm.
"I'm fine, Professor. But…"
Ino turned his head slightly to look at her, his voice quieter, "My home is gone."
He then looked once more at the ruined remains of the cottage.
Hermione's morning arrangements were now in shambles.
The transfigured owl Professor McGonagall had once gifted him—a long-lasting magical companion—
Had reverted to its original form: a simple teapot.
"As long as you're alright, that's all that truly matters. Everything else can be fixed," McGonagall said gently.
She raised her wand and swept it through the air.
With the powerful effects of the Reparo charm, the broken walls and damaged furniture began to reform—
Restoring the cottage to how it had once been.
Reparo was a simple spell, but one with astonishing potential.
At Hogwarts, it remained on the curriculum for all seven years—
One of the few spells never removed from the syllabus.
Ino had already grasped its potential the moment he learned of the time-reversal magic in the tower.
The difference was: Reparo restored the recent physical state of non-living objects,
While time magic reversed the caster's own existence.
Watching his little home return to its former state under Professor McGonagall's magic,
Ino felt a quiet warmth in his heart—though little of it showed on his face.
Fixing the house hadn't been the issue.
He hadn't acted because a strange numbness had settled over him,
A kind of hollow stillness in his heart—
Or perhaps he simply hadn't processed it yet.
The unrestrained use of his ice magic…
Had it started to influence his mental state?
The cottage stood whole once more, yet Ino didn't step inside.
He simply stood there, silently.
Though his body remained still, his mind was racing with thoughts.
His ice magic—foreign to the world of Harry Potter—
Had no clear master or precedent to turn to.
He thought of Lina, still in Middle-earth…
Of his first mentor, Hans…
Maybe even the continent of Arad, if he could find it.
But how vast was the gap between an elemental mage and a wizard?
Professor McGonagall watched him quietly, her concern growing.
"Come," she said gently. "Let's go back. Let's return to Hogwarts—to the castle."
At the mention of Hogwarts, a flicker of emotion finally returned to Ino's face.
"…Alright. Let's go."
Hogsmeade.
As the figures of Ino and Professor McGonagall faded into the distant sky,
England's only all-wizarding village erupted like a boiling pot.
What they had witnessed today left them not only stunned—
But terrified.
The Dark Lord had returned.
For the younger students, the name "Voldemort" was merely a whisper,
A shadow spoken of in hushed tones by anxious parents.
But for the adult witches and wizards—especially those over thirty—
The memories were very real.
Memories of madness.
Of chaos.
Of slaughter.
They remembered how the Ministry of Magic had been crushed under his power—
How, once, they had sent fifty Hit Wizards—
The Ministry's elite combat force—
And he had obliterated them single-handedly.
To clarify, Hit Wizards were not Aurors.
Hit Wizards belonged to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement,
The strongest of the Ministry's forces.
Unlike Aurors, who were trained in investigation, espionage, and tracking—
Hit Wizards had only one requirement: sheer magical firepower.
If you were strong enough to kill, you were a Hit Wizard.
They were soldiers.
Aurors were the magical equivalent of police.
An interesting note: when Sirius Black escaped Azkaban,
Cornelius Fudge once publicly declared that only Hit Wizards could recapture someone that dangerous.
So while the students at Hogwarts often spoke of Aurors as heroes,
The truth was, the Ministry rarely deployed Hit Wizards—
Because most threats were dealt with long before they were needed.
And yet Voldemort had once wiped out fifty of them.
That was only a fraction of what he'd done.
During the Dark Years,
Even Albus Dumbledore—regarded as the greatest white wizard of the 20th century—
Spent most of his time defending Hogwarts.
His efforts to intervene were occasional, and largely symbolic.
But it made sense:
No matter how many titles he held,
Dumbledore was first and foremost the Headmaster of Hogwarts.
Still, this spoke volumes about Voldemort's strength.
His dominance was unquestionable.
He ruled by fear—unchecked, unrivaled.
And in the end, it wasn't a spell or duel that defeated him,
But a prophecy—
And a baby.
An absurd, theatrical conclusion to years of bloodshed.
Today—
Voldemort had appeared openly in Hogsmeade.
In the heart of wizarding England.
Shock and terror quickly gave way…
To rage.
And the fury of the people turned squarely on the Ministry of Magic.
How could something this serious happen without a single warning?
Had Voldemort not appeared before their very eyes,
They would have remained completely in the dark.
If he could show up in Hogsmeade today,
He could show up in their homes tomorrow.
He could use the Killing Curse on them the day after.
The traditional English mindset, so often passive,
Was now fully ignited with fear-fueled anger.
And as the final remnants of battle—the fire and snow—began to fade,
A new flurry swept the skies above Hogsmeade.
Owls.
Dozens—hundreds—of them.
Carrying letters, packages, and magical memory spheres,
They soared into the clouds, scattering in every direction.
No doubt tomorrow, Muggle scientists would stand on television again,
Spouting theories of migratory shifts or rare meteorological events…
But none of that mattered to Ino.
Right now,
He was being escorted by Professor McGonagall to the second floor of the Hogwarts castle—
To a private recovery room next to Madam Pomfrey's office—
Where he was, rather sternly, instructed to rest.