I walked through the streets of London hidden under the weight of a heavy hood, approaching the telephone booth that served as the entrance to the Ministry of Magic.
What I was about to execute was problematic—a high-risk maneuver—but an inevitable step to keep my plans on course. In other circumstances, with my full power, it wouldn't have been difficult. But now… limited, with only a few operational clones—all occupied with critical tasks—my margin for action was narrow. Even the clone that was with Hannah had to be used here, leaving her alone.
While Castelobruxo dealt with the "disappearance" of its students and Hogwarts sank into chaos following the failure of Dumbledore's plans, I was preparing to bring even more trouble.
I dialed the code 62442 with steady fingers. A female voice emanated from the receiver, requesting my name and the purpose of my visit.
"Red Weasley. I come seeking justice," I replied. My voice sounded dry, devoid of any hint of doubt.
There was no human reply; I suspected the system was nothing more than a pre-recorded automated response enchantment. After a brief silence, the machine dispensed a small metallic identification badge. I took it, and the booth began its descent into the depths of magical London.
Upon entering the Atrium, I headed straight for the reception desk, following protocol. Behind the window, a woman watched me; to the sides, two guards—simple security personnel, not Aurors—monitored the flow of visitors. Seeing that place caused an involuntary sigh. Memories of my time working there alongside Tonks felt, simultaneously, as if they had happened yesterday and an entire lifetime ago.
I approached the counter and, before a word was spoken, deposited my Jarjacha wand into the inspection tray.
"Good morning..." the receptionist said, narrowing her eyes at my hooded figure.
"Good morning. Proceed, please; I'm in a hurry," I countered with a carefully feigned impatience.
My appearance was, by design, suspicious. The cloak hid my features, but my height and the tone of my voice hinted that someone young was hidden beneath the fabric. The woman consulted the visitor list where my response to the telephone had materialized by magic. Her eyes widened as she read the name.
"Red Weasley? Arthur's son?" she asked, her suspicion transforming into pure surprise.
"The very same," I said, allowing a lock of red hair to peek from beneath the edge of the hood.
I wasn't worried about my father finding out about my presence; in fact, it was part of the noise I wanted to generate. I had chosen this moment knowing he would be out of the building, though not for long.
"Shouldn't you be in class, boy?" The vigilance in her tone diminished, replaced by a sort of protective curiosity. Arthur wasn't the most powerful man in the Ministry, but his kindness had won him sympathy in several departments.
"I should," I replied with a cutting coldness.
"Have you run away?" she insisted, unable to contain herself. "Has something happened? That reason for visiting..." She looked at the list again with dismay. "Do you need us to locate your father?"
"That won't be necessary. I handle my own affairs... Just do your job," I stated. Though I appreciated her concern—she seemed like a good person, at least.
The woman pursed her lips, clearly uncomfortable with my attitude. She sensed something was happening in secret, but bureaucracy demanded she continue. That was when the first real obstacle emerged.
As her eyes fell upon my wand, a sensation of absolute vertigo overwhelmed the receptionist. A wicked whisper, like the hiss of a hungry creature, seemed to fill her ears, clouding her judgment for an instant.
The woman recoiled suddenly, tripping over her own chair. Her hand flew toward a panic button hidden under the counter while she drew her wand with trembling fingers.
"Cursed object!" she shouted, her voice breaking with panic. "Containment code at reception!"
The guards, whose slowness betrayed a worrying incompetence, reacted clumsily. They surrounded me with wands raised, pointing at me with erratic aim that revealed their nervousness.
"Drop the wand and put your hands up!" one of them ordered, his voice jumping an octave from nerves.
"I don't have the wand in my hands..." I countered, shooting him a look of absolute disdain while raising my palms barely a few inches in a sarcasm-laden gesture.
The receptionist shot a look of incredulity at her own guard; the man looked like he was on his first day of service, despite having been in the position for months. It was living proof of how unaccustomed the Ministry was to facing real threats in its own home.
"It is not a cursed object," I told the woman, maintaining an icy tone. "It is simply my wand."
"That thing emanates an evil aura that disturbs the mind," she retorted, beginning to regain her confidence. "It is a dark artifact. The Department of Magical Law Enforcement must confiscate it immediately. I assume that's why you're here, boy..." she stated, assuming I was a child coming to turn in a dangerous object to the authorities.
"You're mistaken. It's just a wand with a bad temper," I replied, extending a finger to give the wood a small, bold tap.
My sudden movement was the spark in the powder keg. The guard, gripped by panic, fired a Stupefy without warning. With a fluid movement of my torso, I dodged the bolt of red light, letting it crash uselessly against the floor.
The attack electrified the atmosphere. The commotion drew the eyes of everyone present in the Atrium, halting the constant flow of witches and wizards. In the tense silence that followed, a passing Auror stopped and pushed through the crowd with natural authority.
"What is the meaning of this?" The deep voice of Kingsley Shacklebolt resonated through the hall. "Why have you attacked a civilian, let alone a child?"
"I... he..." the guard stammered, paling before Kingsley's imposing figure.
At that moment, anonymity had served its purpose, and it was time to show myself. With a sharp movement, I pulled back my hood. My hair, a red so intense it looked like blood, was revealed, making me instantly recognizable.
"Arthur's son?" Kingsley asked, with a mix of surprise and recognition.
"Yes, it's his son, Red. He brought a..." The receptionist shifted her gaze toward the inspection tray, but the words died in her throat.
The ghostly whisper that had drilled into her ears had vanished. The Jarjacha wand now lay on the metal like a simple, inert piece of wood, devoid of that wicked aura that had almost made her press the panic button.
"Why have you attacked an underage wizard?" Kingsley insisted, directing a stern look at the guard upon seeing the receptionist was speechless.
"He... he made a sudden movement," the guard blurted out. He knew his reaction had been hasty, and in the eyes of an Auror of Shacklebolt's caliber, his excuse sounded pathetic.
"You attacked him just because he moved?" The irritation in the wizard's voice was palpable.
"He brought a cursed object!" the other guard intervened, trying to save his partner from Kingsley's scrutiny.
"What cursed object?" Kingsley asked, his expression hardening.
All eyes converged on the tray. With deliberate sluggishness, I picked up the wand. It no longer radiated malice because I had ordered it to contain itself; of course, the Jarjacha would collect on the favor later, demanding acts of a much darker nature, but that was for the future.
"This is a wand with a Jarjacha core, acquired in Brazil," I explained with a calm that clashed with the tension in the Atrium. "Technically, it could be considered a dark object under certain Ministry standards, but it only poses a danger to those who do not know how to carry it. If you're curious, check the records for 'Famous Wands of the Americas'; I assure you it's quite famous. I didn't think it right to hide it, so I presented it as it is to avoid misunderstandings. Now, can we proceed? There is an entire line of people waiting to get in."
I motioned with my chin toward the crowd beginning to huddle behind me, watching the spectacle with a mix of morbid curiosity and annoyance. The receptionist and the guards looked at Kingsley. Although it wasn't his department, his prestige as an Auror was unquestionable, and everyone preferred to delegate the decision to him before the incident escalated to the ears of superiors.
"I will handle the pertinent checks myself," Kingsley stated immediately. He considered Arthur a close friend and a loyal ally in the Order of the Phoenix, and he wasn't going to allow his son to end up in a detention cell due to the ineptitude of some reception guards.
Without hesitation, I handed him the wand. Kingsley performed a quick inspection, moving the object with the skill of an expert. Despite my orders, the essence of the Jarjacha was not totally suppressed; Kingsley must have felt that trace of visceral malignancy common to the darkest creatures of the Amazon. He asked me to repeat the previous situation and I did so, leaving him visibly impressed. The darkness emanating from that wood, coupled with a vibration of raw, savage power, was something rarely seen in the corridors of the British Ministry.
"This wand should be referred immediately to the Department of Dangerous Artifacts for study," Kingsley stated, driven by a protective instinct bordering on professional mistrust.
"I doubt that's possible," I countered calmly. "If you investigate a little more, you'll understand: this wand does not leave its owner without seeking others. Besides, I have no intention of surrendering it. It is valuable, it is mine, and I need it. As sinister as it may seem, it is still just a tool made from the materials of dark creatures; it's not the first of its kind, nor will it be the last."
My words sounded reasonable, at least to the curious onlookers witnessing the scene. Kingsley frowned, caught in a legal and personal dilemma. The Ministry could not confiscate a young wizard's wand without an open criminal case, and although the laws on dark artifacts were severe, applying them against the son of a colleague—especially after the scandal of Ron's flying car—would irremediably damage Arthur's reputation. Even just this brief scene and the idea that I carried a malignant artifact would already bring trouble. Kingsley wanted to close this incident as soon as possible.
They proceeded to the final check using the Prior Incantatem charm. The result was an erratic mist. I only used the Jarjacha wands for magic at a level that most present wouldn't reach in ten lifetimes; without the proper flow of power from its wielder, the wand could not reveal its history adequately. What erupted from its tip were amorphous flashes and scattered magic, giving the impression of a temperamental object that hadn't even managed to channel a spell correctly.
Kingsley let out a sigh of relief. Detecting no obvious curses or traces of common black magic, there was no scandal, and he considered the matter settled.
"Everything in order," he announced, returning the wand to me with a nod to the receptionist. Then, he turned to me. "I will escort you to your father's office. Arthur is out on an investigation, but he won't be long."
"That won't be necessary," I replied, tucking the Jarjacha into my robes. "I haven't come to see him. I'm going straight to the source."
"I'll accompany you anyway. In the meantime, you can tell me how things are going at Hogwarts and, above all, why you aren't there. I don't think your professors or your Head of House would be pleased to know you've decided to take a stroll through London," he commented in a friendly, almost joking tone, while gesturing for me to follow him.
I walked beside him, allowing his presence to clear a path through the crowd. During the walk, Kingsley didn't stop talking, throwing out subtle questions with the skill of an expert Auror trying to extract information without seeming inquisitive. Inside, I couldn't help a bitter smile; his vast experience was still far from mine. He was playing cat and mouse with a child, never suspecting that the child already knew every corner of the labyrinth.