Read up to 40 chapters ahead on Patreon - patreon.com/Dark_sym
This fic is completed in patreon
-----
The ground was littered with shattered rubble and dust, evidence of the fierce battle that had taken place here.
Moody stood on the top floor, carefully inspecting the fallen Aurors.
Every so often, he would mutter curses under his breath, furious at the Death Eaters who had escaped.
When he noticed Ethan approaching, he gave him a brief wave in greeting.
"The Ministry of Magic suffered too great a loss this time—six good young men!"
Moody growled, slamming his cane against the ground in frustration.
Ethan let out a sigh. Only the most skilled witches and wizards could become Aurors, making them the elite forces of the Ministry.
Losing six of them in a single incident was a devastating blow.
Stepping forward, Ethan examined the gaping hole in the wall.
The jagged edges of black stone and twisted steel reinforcement bars made it clear: the explosion had come from the inside.
Frowning, he sniffed the air. No trace of gunpowder or sulfur. This wasn't the work of explosives.
It had to be magic.
"Did the Death Eaters manage to get their wands back? Or is there someone capable of casting spells without one?" Ethan asked.
"No! It's impossible!" Moody barked, his face twisting in frustration.
"God knows how they pulled this off!"
With no immediate answers, Ethan decided to search the dark wizards' cells again.
One after another, he sifted through the filth-ridden chambers, but all he found was rotting garbage and the lingering stench of decay.
Just as he was about to abandon the search, something glinted in the corner of Bellatrix Lestrange's cell.
He crouched down, reaching out cautiously. A tiny shard of mirror lay in his palm.
"Do the prisoners get mirrors?" Ethan asked, holding it up to Moody.
"Of course not— not that know of at least," Moody confirmed.
His one good eye narrowed as he took the fragment from Ethan, turning it over in his hand.
"I'm certain this wasn't here before," he muttered.
But no matter how closely he examined it, it offered no immediate answers.
Ethan exhaled sharply. "Alright, I think we've done all we can here. We should head back to the Ministry. Things must be chaotic by now."
The news of Azkaban's mass breakout had sent shockwaves through the wizarding world.
Fear spread like wildfire, and speculation ran rampant—rumors swirled that Voldemort's return was imminent.
Meanwhile, the upcoming Triwizard Tournament at Hogwarts was becoming a matter of fierce debate.
Many within the Ministry argued that now was the worst possible time to host such an event.
But Dumbledore, unwavering as ever, insisted that the tournament would go forward as planned. His decision was met with considerable criticism.
Ethan, however, had little time to concern himself with the politics of it all. The Ministry's manhunt for the escaped Death Eaters was already in full swing.
The Aurors, like frantic hounds on a scent, combed through every lead. Yet their efforts yielded little. The Death Eaters had vanished without a trace.
Despite their relentless pursuit, only a handful of dark wizards who had fled Azkaban were captured—an outcome that further damaged the Ministry's already fragile reputation.
The wizarding world was growing more tense by the day.
Yet, despite everything, the Triwizard Tournament proceeded as scheduled.
And in the chaos of his work, Ethan had missed the first task entirely.
Ethan deeply regretted missing the first task, but he still followed the tournament's progress closely.
Thank goodness, Cedric had completed his challenge smoothly.
Even Neville, despite his struggles, had managed to finish—though not without consequence.
The dragon's fiery breath had singed most of his hair, leaving him looking quite the sight.
Fortunately, after Madam Pomfrey's treatment, some of his hair had begun to grow back.
But for the sake of symmetry, Neville decided to shave off the remaining patches, evening out both sides.
The result was… amusing, to say the least.
Despite his responsibilities, Ethan made sure to attend the second task of the Triwizard Tournament.
Not as a spectator, though—he was there for security.
With tensions at the Ministry of Magic at an all-time high, cheerful faces were a rare sight.
The Triwizard Tournament had become the only event where people could momentarily relax.
Dumbledore had even allowed students' parents to attend, making Hogwarts livelier than ever.
The Ministry had taken no chances, stationing Aurors across the grounds for added security.
They would not repeat the fiasco of the Quidditch World Cup.
The viewing stands stretched along the lake, already packed with spectators.
Their reflection shimmered on the water's surface, adding to the surreal atmosphere.
At the judges' table, Neville, Cedric, Fleur, and Krum stood speaking with the tournament officials, the golden tablecloth beneath them gleaming in the sunlight.
Ethan scanned the area, but Dumbledore was nowhere to be seen. A flicker of unease settled in his chest.
"Professor Ethan."
A cold voice came from behind.
Ethan turned to see Snape watching him with an unreadable expression.
"Come with me," Snape said curtly.
"Dumbledore wants to see you."
There was something off in Snape's tone. Ethan didn't ask questions—he simply followed.
The moment they entered the headmaster's office, Ethan knew something was wrong.
A strong scent of blood hung in the air.
Dumbledore sat behind his desk, but he looked frail—far more than usual.
His face was pale, his lips nearly colorless, his body weak and thin.
"Dumbledore, what happened to you?" Ethan asked, hurrying forward.
Dumbledore gave him a faint smile and attempted to sit up straighter.
With slow, deliberate movements, he pulled back his sleeve, revealing his wrist.
Ethan's breath caught.
Two deep, blackened puncture wounds marred Dumbledore's skin, with fresh blood trickling from them.
Beneath the desk, a silver basin had already collected a substantial amount of his blood.
But that wasn't the most disturbing part.
The wounds carried an unnatural, putrid scent—neither dark magic nor an ordinary curse.
Even stranger, translucent, crystal-like formations had begun to grow from the edges of his injuries.
"Merlin's beard…" Ethan whispered, horrified.
This wasn't the Dumbledore he knew.
Dumbledore had always been a master strategist, exuding an air of quiet confidence. He was the most powerful wizard Ethan had ever known—almost untouchable.
But now?
Now, he looked fragile.
How had things changed so quickly?
---------
The story is reaching its climax. The final battle approaches. Voldemort's resurrection will happen in a way no one expects. The Master of Mirrors, lurking in the shadows, will finally step into the light. And between life and death, unseen eyes will watch as the world teeters on the edge of war.
A war between mortals and gods. A game of life and death. And the end is near.