In his dream, Harry had seen Sirius in Row Ninety-Seven. Now they were in Row Fifty-Three.
Turning into the passage on the right, Harry felt nervous sweat dampen his palm. He lowered his voice and said, "Get your wands ready."
His friends already had their wands in hand, but at his words they shifted into fighting stances, fully alert.
Wands raised, they kept glancing back, terrified of someone appearing behind them.
Row Eighty-Four, Row Eighty-Five…
Below each glass orb on the shelves was a yellowed little label. Some of the spheres flickered with a strange, liquid-like glow, while others were dim and lifeless.
Harry moved cautiously, ears straining to catch the faintest sound.
But he heard nothing. Could it be that Sirius had already been tortured into silence?
Or…
Was Sirius dead?
Harry's mind was a mess. He hurried to reassure himself that it couldn't be.
While his thoughts spiraled, Hermione's voice came.
"Ninety-Seven," she whispered to Harry.
They gathered at the end of that row of shelves, looking toward the aisle beside it. No one was there.
Harry's mouth was dry. "He's right at the end here. You can't see him from back there."
He didn't dare think he was mistaken. Could Hermione have been right—that it was just a dream?
They had broken into the Ministry of Magic… all for a dream.
And if they were discovered…
He needed to prove he wasn't wrong. Leading the way, he wove between the towering shelves stacked with glass spheres.
"He should be around here," he said, as though with every step Sirius might suddenly appear on the floor ahead. "Right here—it's really close."
"Harry?" Hermione called hesitantly, but Harry didn't want to answer.
He couldn't accept that he might really have been tricked. "He's here—somewhere," he insisted.
They walked from one end to the other, stepping back into the dim candlelight.
There was no one—only dust and an echoing silence.
"He might…" Harry couldn't accept reality and still wanted to keep searching.
"Harry," Hermione said, watching him, "I don't think Sirius is here."
Harry stopped in his tracks. He didn't dare look at the others' faces. It hurt too much.
He had fought bitterly with Hermione before—over a dream.
Now he was being told his dream was wrong.
There had never been anything there at all. It was all his fault—they'd been caught by Umbridge because of him, and now they were in the Ministry of Magic.
He couldn't face it.
"Harry?" This time it was Ron calling him.
"What?"
Harry didn't really want to pay Ron any attention, didn't want to hear what stupid thing Ron might have done, or his suggestion that they should turn back.
He almost wanted to stay here forever, hiding away.
But Ron hadn't done anything foolish, nor was he suggesting they leave. Instead, he said, "Do you see this?"
He pointed to a glass sphere on one of the shelves. For a moment Harry thought it might be some clue Sirius had left behind. He hurried over with quickened steps.
It was just a glass sphere, not a clue.
Harry was disappointed, and didn't understand why Ron wanted him to look.
Ron pointed at the little label beneath the sphere. "Your name's on it."
Harry leaned in for a closer look. Being shorter than Ron, he had to crane his neck.
It was dated sixteen years ago. The label read: "The Dark Lord and Harry Potter."
Harry stared blankly. Why would his name be there?
"What is this?" Ron asked the same question. "Why does it have your name on it?"
He glanced at the other shelves—none of them had his name, or anyone else's.
"Don't touch it!" Hermione snapped the moment she saw Harry reaching out. "Harry, I don't think you should touch that."
"Why not? It's got something to do with me, doesn't it?" Harry asked, confused.
"Don't, Harry," Ginny said as well, feeling it wasn't a good idea.
"But it's got my name on it," Harry insisted stubbornly.
His hand closed around the glass orb. He expected it to be icy cold, but instead it was warm—like it had been sitting under the sun for hours.
Harry hoped something dramatic would happen, something thrilling.
That way, their long journey here would mean something.
With that thought, he lifted the glass sphere from its stand.
The others crowded around, uneasy about him taking such a risk, but since he had already taken it down, they couldn't help but look.
None of them noticed the figures appearing behind them.
A slow, drawling voice spoke.
"Very good, Potter. Just as expected—you really are a Gryffindor."
The voice dripped with mockery and scorn. "Now turn around. Slowly. And hand it to me."
It was only then that Harry and the others realized they were surrounded—dark figures had appeared on both sides, blocking every path. Dozens of wands, held by masked and hooded figures, were pointed straight at their hearts.
The one who had spoken, Harry recognized.
Not just him—everyone except Luna recognized him.
Lucius Malfoy.
The handsome, silver-haired man drawled, "Give it to me, Potter."
He stretched out his hand, his face twisted in a mixture of amusement and disdain. "Give it to me."
Harry tightened his grip on the glass sphere. "Where's Sirius?"
"Bahahaha!"
Several Death Eaters burst into laughter. A harsh, manic woman's voice rang out, "The Dark Lord truly is a master strategist!"
Their mocking was sharp and cruel, but Harry clung desperately to his dream.
"I want to know where Sirius is!" he shouted.
"I want to know where Sirius is! Ahahahaha~~" the madwoman parroted in a singsong tone before erupting into wild laughter.
Lucius didn't laugh. He was, after all, a refined middle-aged gentleman—though of course he allowed himself a suitably mocking smile.
"You've got him," Harry shouted. "He's here, I know it!"
"Bhahaha~ The little baby woke up frightened, thinking his dream was real."
The madwoman drifted slowly to Lucius's side. Her pale, almost corpse-like face gleamed under the dim light, but below her neck was a body marred by grotesque burns and riddled with nails.
"Little… sweetheart… darling Potter…"
Bellatrix Lestrange.
Her presence made Ron flinch; they had all seen her face before in the papers.
Lucius regarded Harry as though he were some pitiful, useless scrap of rubbish. His tone was cool, almost bored. "You really should learn to distinguish dream from reality, Potter. What you saw was nothing more than what the Dark Lord allowed you to see."
"Don't do anything," Harry muttered under his breath to Ron. "Not yet."
"Did you hear that? He's giving orders to the other children—as if he plans to fight us!"
Bellatrix's laughter rang out again, shrill and unhinged. She clutched at Lucius's arm for balance, laughing so hard she nearly staggered.
Lucius extended his hand, his voice sharp with impatience. "Give me the prophecy. Otherwise, we'll be forced to use our wands."
Harry's thoughts were a tangled mess. He kept dodging the truth—that it was his stubbornness that had dragged everyone here for nothing.
But now, it wasn't just that he had dragged everyone here for nothing—he had put them in real danger.
"Then go ahead," Harry said, raising his wand to his chest.
Not just him—Ron, Hermione, Ginny, and Luna all made the same choice, wands lifted, eyes sharp.
They braced for the Death Eaters' sudden strike.
"Arrogant," Lucius said coldly. "Who do you think you can stand against? Hand over the prophecy, and no one will be harmed."
But the moment Lucius finished, Bellatrix suddenly lashed out—"Accio Prophecy!"
Harry's nerves snapped taut. "Protego!"
The prophecy ball nearly flew from his grasp, but he caught it just in time.
Lucius's heart nearly leapt out of his chest. He roared, "I told you not to risk breaking it!"
Those words struck Harry like a spark—he seized on them instantly, mind racing.
Bellatrix, though, had no patience. Ever since the blast that had scarred her and Voldemort's dark magic that had patched her back together, she had only grown more deranged.
"Grab the smallest one—make him watch while we torture the little girl. Leave it to me!"
At her command, the Death Eaters advanced a step.
Harry and the others immediately closed ranks around Ginny. Holding the prophecy aloft, Harry shouted, "If you want to lay a hand on any of us—you'll have to smash this first!"
But such a threat meant nothing to Bellatrix—already too far gone into madness. To her, it was as worthless as a fart.
"Accio Prophecy!"
"Protego!"
Harry shielded the orb again. He shouted quickly, "This prophecy—why does Voldemort want it?"
The moment that name left his mouth, the Death Eaters froze, their eyes narrowing on him with murderous glares.
"How dare you defile his name with your filthy half-blood tongue!"
"Stupefy!"
Bellatrix shrieked, whipping her wand up and firing a jet of red light.
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