Noon was still a couple of hours away, but the Atrium of the Ministry of Magic was already packed to suffocating levels. The usual bustling chatter had been buried beneath a human tide: members of the most prominent families, citizens who didn't want to miss the scandal, and, of course, a pack of reporters ready to turn the outcome into the story of the year, regardless of whose blood ended up being spilled. Obviously, Ministry security did not grant access to just anyone; this venue was not an entertainment center. Nonetheless, ministerial classism dictated the rules: the Sacred Twenty-Eight and other old lineages enjoyed privileged positions to witness the event. All under the convenient veil of... "tradition."
My parents had arrived at dawn. Since their arrival, both had dedicated themselves to frantically roaming the corridors, begging for political support or some legal loophole that would allow the match to be suspended, even if they had to appeal to a decree by popular vote. They tried desperately to intercept Minister Fudge, assuming he possessed the authority to halt the madness. It was all in vain. Some officials simply turned their backs on them for convenience; others, with a cold pragmatism, reminded them that at this stage the process was irreversible without the explicit consent of both parties. To stop this, Arthur needed Lucius Malfoy to step back. And that was an impossibility.
At one end of the Atrium rose an imposing oval stone platform: the arena of defiance. The flashes of Daily Prophet cameras were already lightning across the structure, capturing the stage of morbid curiosity. A few meters away, Cornelius Fudge practiced his postures in front of his advisors, trying to polish the speech of condolences he planned to offer the Weasley family once the ordeal was over. Although the Minister and the elite knew that Lucius would hardly dare commit filicide in broad daylight, accidents in a formal duel were not uncommon, and the aftermath of defeat would be just as devastating for the Weasley name.
Time flowed with a heavy sluggishness until just before eleven in the morning. It was then that Lucius Malfoy made his grand entrance. He advanced with an aristocratic stride alongside Narcissa, who, despite projecting the same mask of haughtiness and confidence as her husband, could not hide a subtle rigidity in her shoulders. Inside her, a shadow of genuine worry was beginning to consume her.
Lucius's appearance ignited the crowd's enthusiasm. Reporters lunged at the couple, drowning them in a sea of photographic flashes, but the Malfoy patriarch didn't even blink. He walked with the absolute certainty of victory. Even so, the scarce information his spies had managed to gather regarding my activities over the last few months, and the number of inexplicable variables surrounding my return, left a persistent bitter taste of unease in his mouth.
My parents, stationed near the security barrier, did not hesitate. Breaking protocol, Arthur shoved his way through the crowd to cut off his advance, seeking one final, far-fetched dialogue of peace.
"Arthur... I see you have already taken your positions," Lucius pronounced, dragging out his words with an icy indifference as he swept his gaze across the Atrium, completely ignoring the other man's physical proximity. "Where is my opponent hiding?"
It was almost comical and cruel at the same time. On Lucius's scale of priorities, Arthur Weasley had just descended a step; the status of a dangerous, interesting rival worthy of the Weasley dynasty no longer belonged to the father, but to the youngest son.
"Lucius, please... Red is just a child. Let us settle this another way..." Arthur pleaded, stripped of any trace of pride. His eyes reflected the absolute willingness of a man prepared to drop to his knees in the middle of the Ministry if it meant saving his son.
Lucius remained silent for a moment, contemplating Arthur with a pure mixture of contempt and pity. Seeing him so... broken, so submissive, forced him to draw an inevitable comparison between this man and the boy who had cornered him at the Ministry the day before. He didn't even allow him to finish his sentence. The words of a desperate father held no value on a chessboard that had already been designed and executed by Red himself.
"You have an exceptional son, Arthur," Lucius stated. The comment floated in the air with the perfect ambiguity of a sincere compliment and, at the same time, a direct insult to the father's weakness. "It is a pity."
Without adding another word, he pushed his way through the tide of officials, leaving Arthur behind as he headed toward Cornelius Fudge.
Arthur didn't know how to process the comment. He couldn't decipher whether Malfoy's words hid a cruel mockery, a veiled threat, or a twisted confirmation of respect. Neither he nor Molly had the slightest idea how to read the ground they were standing on, which ultimately shattered their already wrecked nerves. They were about to lung once more at Fudge and Lucius in a final, desperate attempt to sabotage the event, praying in their hearts for Dumbledore to walk through the Atrium doors at that exact second and put an end to the nightmare, but then...
"There he is!" a voice roared from the crowd.
The entire Atrium suffered a whiplash. Hundreds of gazes snapped in a fraction of a second toward a single direction: the exact spot where I stood. I had appeared there as if the shadows themselves had sculpted me in the middle of the corridor. Without warning, without the green flare of the fireplaces, or any grand entrance. The guards at the entrance hadn't even registered my passage through the wand checks; simply put, one second I wasn't there, and the next, I was walking among them.
"Red!" my parents' gut-wrenching cry tore through the din as they tried to run toward me.
However, before they could close the distance, the pack of reporters closed in on me like a wall of flesh, parchment, and camera lenses. They surrounded me completely, blocking my parents and anyone else who tried to approach, yet reluctantly parting way before my unperturbed advance. Camera flashes blinked in a blinding strobe, accompanied by a barrage of questions; every journalist begged for a statement, a thread to pull to feed the morbid curiosity of the evening edition.
A bit further away, the aristocracy of the Sacred Twenty-Eight devoured me with their eyes. They analyzed me like a piece of small game, weighing my chances and placing clandestine bets on how many minutes it would take Malfoy to make me bite the dust. Everyone was anxious to unearth information about the Weasley boy who had remained in the shadows for months—a mystery that this duel had only magnified, skyrocketing my notoriety through several levels. In short, it was a magnificent circus show for the spectators, an insufferable nightmare for my family, and a political headache for Cornelius Fudge, who was sweating cold at the thought of a scandal of this magnitude staining his administration.
When my parents finally managed to break through the press blockade and reach me, there were no reproaches. There were no shouts over the chaos caused, over my disappearance the previous afternoon, or over the mystery with which I had shrouded myself. There was only a suffocating, double, desperate embrace. They tried with all their might to instill a tranquility into me that they themselves did not possess, their hands trembling and their faces pale with terror.
I didn't know if my parents were more interested in understanding the intricate threads I had woven or in avoiding their consequences. Their desperation, in the end, worked in my favor; it spared me the uncomfortable task of explaining and telling white lies under the weight of their gazes.
From that moment on, ministerial protocol began to roll. Lucius held my gaze from the opposite end of the Atrium, a static and severe silhouette. My parents remained by my side, shielding me from the reporters, who were quickly contained and pushed back by a line of elite Aurors. After all, this was an ancient tradition of the wizarding world, so the Ministry strove to maintain a facade of order and solemnity.
The positions were defined as follows: The Malfoy family, surrounded by a retinue of political allies and families akin to their status, occupied the northern end of the oval platform. We, the Weasley family, arranged ourselves at the southern end.
On our side of the board, the space felt desolately empty. A few officials approached with a funeral stride to offer what literally felt like premature condolences—a gesture of terrible taste that only served to grate on my mother's nerves. Others, more daring, clapped my back in a sign of genuine support, secretly grateful that someone had the guts to drag Malfoy into the mud; they wished me victory with a compassionate smile, though their eyes showed they didn't give me the slightest chance of success. To them, my fate was already sealed; they had nothing left but hope. Even Kingsley Shacklebolt diverted from his guard post long enough to offer me a few brief, solemn, and sincere words of encouragement.
But I could not care less about that; time was ticking, and I could not afford the luxury of wasting a single second. The ideal move was to force the start of the duel immediately, ensuring that no unforeseen element—such as a late intervention from the Headmaster—would shatter my staging. I didn't want the facade I had built in front of my parents to crumble if some secret came to light.
I had to pull this forward, but I couldn't be the one to openly request it. I needed someone to do it for me. And that person appeared just in time.
Andromeda pushed through the crowd with the same disdainful elegance and absolute lack of fear she had shown the day before. Seeing her walk through the throng, Narcissa tensed immediately, while Lucius was unable to hide a flash of genuine surprise, especially when he saw the alarming familiarity with which his exiled sister-in-law approached their circle. The Malfoy patriarch remained deeply irritated by the audacious maneuver with which Andromeda had snatched the Black inheritance from his own son; but Lucius was, above all, a political animal capable of smelling danger. He felt a biting curiosity to discover what kind of power had backed Andromeda to reclaim control of her lineage, and despite the resentment he held for her, the ancient logic of pureblood alliances made him harbor a secret hope of adding her as an ally... though the severe warnings Narcissa had whispered to him the previous night kept him in a state of constant mistrust.
Displaying an exquisite audacity, Andromeda went straight to Narcissa and pulled her into an affectionate embrace, a familiar greeting that clashed with the solemnity of the arena. Immediately after, before the astonished eyes of the surrounding dignitaries, she repeated the gesture with Lucius. However, that embrace was entirely devoid of any warmth; it was a purely calculated move with the sole purpose of whispering into his ear.
"He expects you to begin the duel right now; Dumbledore could show up at any moment and ruin everything..."
As soon as she finished delivering the warning, Andromeda stepped back with a sharp smile, articulated a couple of mundane phrases of courtesy, and dissolved back among the other pureblood families.
Lucius stood motionless, frowning as his gaze sought mine across the distance. The simple fact that I was using Andromeda Black as a mere messenger caused him deep discomfort. It was confirmation that all the express research he had conducted over the last few hours had fallen short, merely floating on the surface of a much deeper and more dangerous ocean. But at this stage of the game, doubt was a luxury he couldn't afford. He didn't want to delay the encounter either, nor risk external interference. Although in theory he was the contender with everything to win, in the language of elite business, potential profits lost due to indecision are also counted as losses.
Lucius straightened his posture, swept the Atrium with his steely gaze, and projected his voice, clear and powerful, above the murmuring of the crowd:
"Since both contenders are present in the hall, I see no reason to delay the inevitable. Let us begin the duel immediately. The final outcome will be exactly the same, and my commitments do not allow me to waste today. I am certain that none of the distinguished guests present have come here to waste their valuable time."