To avoid potential trouble, the XY Potion Factory was relocating to a foreign site in phases. Most of the workers chose to move with it. Dylan and Borgin had already set up employee dorms near the new location—four-person rooms with bunk beds and desks, each equipped with a private bathroom, Muggle water heaters, and ventilation systems. The conditions were better than many Muggle university dorms.
Some workers, seeing the setup, were moved to tears. For these down-and-out dark wizards, having a proper place to call home felt like a dream come true. They were beyond grateful to XY Potion, even though they had no idea who the mysterious owner behind it was. But Borgin knew—a generous businessman, surely backed by an even greater philanthropist!
Dylan glanced at the magical watch on his wrist. The hands pointed to 1:00 a.m. At this hour, most Ministry of Magic employees had gone home, leaving only a handful of night-shift workers. It was the perfect time to act.
Recently, Peter Pettigrew had been snatched away, and it was no surprise who was behind it—Voldemort was clearly making his move. This meant he'd likely regained some strength, at least temporarily.
Dylan suddenly had a brilliant idea. The Ministry had been in chaos for days, searching for Pettigrew with no luck, leaving their defenses stretched thin. Since he was already at the Ministry, why not take a look around?
He took a deep breath, focused his mind, and with a faint blue shimmer of Apparition, he appeared at the entrance to a corridor on the ninth basement level—the Department of Mysteries.
The hallway reeked of cold, musty air. The walls were made of heavy gray stone, and the lighting was dimmer than on other floors. As the Ministry's most secretive division, no one knew exactly what the Unspeakables did. Their work was top-secret, off-limits even to the Minister of Magic.
At the end of the corridor, two Aurors on duty leaned against the wall, dozing. Dylan moved silently, slipping behind them, and tapped his wand. "Stupefy!"
The Aurors collapsed soundlessly. To be safe, he added, "Obliviate," ensuring they wouldn't remember a thing when they woke up. Then he continued into the Department of Mysteries.
It was his first time here, and the layout was unfamiliar. Soon, he entered a circular room, entirely black—matte black ebony paneling on the walls, polished black marble on the ceiling and floor. Twelve unmarked, handle-less ebony doors lined the walls, and every few feet, a brass candelabrum held candles burning with eerie blue flames. The faint light reflected off the marble floor, rippling like dark blue water.
Dylan tried each door, passing through the Planet Room, where miniature planetary models orbited in starry patterns, and the Brain Room, with wriggling gray brains floating in glass tanks. Finally, behind the innermost door, he found the Hall of Prophecy.
The room was as tall as a cathedral, with a biting chill in the air. Dark oak shelves lined the walls from floor to ceiling, crammed with dusty glass orbs. Each orb had a yellowed parchment label beneath it, the ink faded with age. Some orbs glowed with mysterious, colorful light, like tiny galaxies trapped inside. Others were dull and black, like burnt-out bulbs. Most sat quietly, unremarkable. Every third shelf held a candelabrum with the same blue flames, casting long shadows from the orbs.
These orbs held prophecies, their contents visible only to those they concerned. Dylan went straight to the shelf marked "97," its metal plate fixed with oxidized copper nails. His eyes scanned the middle row, landing on a slightly larger crystal orb, coated in a thin layer of dust. Its label, written in faded ink, read: "July 31, 1981," with "Harry Potter" faintly visible below.
Dylan pulled a glass vial from his pocket and carefully removed its contents—a still-beating Obscurus heart, its black veins pulsing faintly. Raising his wand, he whispered, "Reducio!" The heart shrank to the size of the orb, its veins thinning to match. Then, with another wave of his wand, a dark aura enveloped the heart. It didn't burn but softened, liquefying into a viscous black fluid that seeped into the crystal orb.
The orb's glow dimmed briefly before returning to its half-lit state, now laced with faint, almost imperceptible black streaks. Dylan etched a holy light symbol on the orb's base—a custom magical marker that would let him sense its location when nearby.
He placed the orb back on the shelf, aligning it perfectly with the others to leave no trace of tampering. He knew exactly what he was doing: setting a trap. To lure Voldemort, who was currently out of sight, he needed bait the Dark Lord couldn't resist. This seemingly crucial prophecy orb hid a deadly secret—the Obscurus heart's volatile magic would erupt if Voldemort or his Death Eaters touched it.
Satisfied, Dylan left the Hall of Prophecy, checking for any signs of his presence. He avoided areas with heavy magical energy, noting that the Ministry had plenty of intriguing spots worth exploring later with better preparation. Focusing again, he Apparated from a shadowed corner of the corridor, vanishing from the Ministry.
Meanwhile, in the darkness of the Riddle family's ancestral home outside Little Hangleton, the dilapidated manor loomed like a slumbering beast under the faint moonlight filtering through broken windows. Inside, an elderly man with silver hair—Frank Bryce, the Riddle family's old gardener—carried a kerosene lamp, limping up a creaking wooden staircase. Decades after the Riddles' deaths, Frank still tended the empty house, keeping its dusty rooms marginally tidy.
The chandelier above, rusted and neglected, swayed with his steps, its chains grinding with a shrill "creak—creak" that echoed through the hollow halls. Frank frowned, quickening his pace. The sound always unnerved him.
As he climbed, memories of the Riddle family's deaths decades ago surfaced. He'd found them sprawled on the living room floor, eyes wide with terror, as if they'd seen something horrifying. Their bodies were cold and stiff, dead for hours, yet bore no wounds, their clothes pristine. No poison was found, and after a fruitless two-week investigation, the police chalked it up to sudden illness and closed the case.
Tonight, the manor's atmosphere felt eerily similar—cold, suffocating, the air almost frozen. The chandelier's chains screeched louder, as if about to snap. Frank gripped his lamp tighter, its flickering light illuminating his wrinkled face as he pressed on.
Then, a faint rustling reached his ears, like someone rifling through objects or whispering, coming from old Tom Riddle's bedroom at the far end of the top floor. Frank froze, straining to listen. No one else should be here. A thief? But he'd checked the house earlier—doors and windows were intact, no signs of forced entry.
Clutching his cane, its metal tip polished from years of use, he moved cautiously. At the landing, he turned right and noticed the bedroom door, usually shut tight, now ajar. A faint orange glow spilled through the crack, stark against the surrounding darkness.
Holding his breath, Frank edged along the wall, careful not to creak the floorboards. Three steps from the door, he peered through the gap. The light came from a fire in the fireplace, which surprised him—he'd cleaned it yesterday, and it had been empty.
Then he heard a man's voice, timid and fearful, pleading softly. "There's still some left in the bottle, Master. If you're still hungry, you can have more."
Frank's blood ran cold.
"Later," came another voice, male but unnaturally high and sharp, like winter wind over ice. The sound made the sparse hairs on Frank's neck stand up.
"Move me closer to the fire, Wormtail," the cold voice ordered.
Frank pressed his ear to the door, straining to hear. A clink followed, like a glass bottle set on a stone table, then the grating screech of chair legs dragging across the wooden floor.
Through the door's narrow slit, Frank glimpsed a short man in a long black cloak, a bald patch on his head, struggling to push an oak armchair. The cloak's hem stirred dust as he moved, and soon he disappeared from view, the chair now by the fireplace.
"Where's Nagini?" the cold voice asked, tinged with impatience.
"I-I don't know, Master," the timid voice stammered. "I think… she's probably patrolling the house…"
"Master, we followed your orders and went to Alastor Moody's place, but it was empty. Nothing there," the timid voice continued, trembling harder. "Just a Foe-Glass ticking away. Barty and I waited two hours, but we found nothing!"
It was Peter Pettigrew, head bowed, clutching his cloak's hem. Failing Voldemort filled him with dread. He could never forget the agony of his "rescue"—the Cruciatus Curse's nerve-shredding pain. He'd rather die than endure it again.
"Fool!" Voldemort's voice spiked with rage. "You botched a critical opportunity!"
His frail body shook with fury, chest heaving. "My carefully laid plan, ruined by a useless worm like you! I need that boy's blood to break that damned protective magic!"
"You've disappointed me, Wormtail," Voldemort added, his voice fading into weary exhaustion. His temporary body was too weak for such outbursts. Though furious, he restrained himself—loyal servants were scarce, and killing Pettigrew would only isolate him further.