Arthur Weasley walked briskly through the dim, labyrinthine corridors of the Ministry of Magic. It was well past working hours, the sun having long since set, and the vast offices and towering halls were nearly deserted, bathed in the eerie, flickering glow of enchanted gas lamps that cast long, dancing shadows.
He glanced around every so often, his head swiveling, ensuring he wasn't being followed, his senses on high alert for any tell-tale sign of a lingering presence. The silence of the place, broken only by the soft echo of his own hurried footsteps on the polished stone and the distant, almost imperceptible hum of magic deep within the Ministry's foundations, did little to ease his tension.
After another pass through a deserted side corridor, ensuring their path was clear, he made it to the main entrance where, waiting just beyond the security checkpoint, Harry and his friends stood cloaked in darkness, their forms barely visible against the deeper shadows of the night.
At Arthur's urgent, almost frantic wave, they slipped in through the heavy, magically reinforced door. It swung open and then shut with a soft click that echoed like a gunshot in the stillness, sealing them inside the Ministry's vast, silent halls.
"Quickly now," Arthur whispered, his voice low and urgent, laced with a nervous energy, ushering them inside with a series of frantic hand gestures. "Shoo, shoo! No dawdling, children. Every second counts. We haven't much time before the night patrols begin their rounds."
The group murmured quick greetings, their own tension palpable in the hushed atmosphere, and fell into step behind him, their movements swift and silent. As they walked through the eerily quiet Ministry, you could notice how grim and serious Mr. Weasley looked.
The usual warmth and jovial curiosity in his eyes, typically alight with fascination for Muggle artifacts, were replaced by a focused determination, a grim resolve that spoke volumes of the gravity of their situation.
They ducked around corners, avoiding the last few lingering, overworked Ministry employees who were burning the midnight oil, weaving through deserted departments and silent, echoing halls.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity of tense navigation through the Ministry's bureaucratic maze, they reached the Department of Mysteries. The massive, circular doors, devoid of handles or hinges, slid open silently at Arthur's touch, revealing the famed prophecy room within.
Endless shelves, reaching impossibly high into the gloom, seemed to stretch into infinity, filled with countless glass orbs that shimmered faintly with an inner, ethereal light, each one holding a whispered fragment of fate, a destiny yet to unfold or has already been told. It felt like walking through the collective memories of destiny itself, a vast, silent library of untold futures, each sphere a potential timeline.
Hermione gasped, her eyes wide with awe, her academic mind reeling at the sheer scale and profound implications of the place. "There are so many... I never imagined... It's like a temporal archive, a record of every possible future and past." Her fingers twitched, longing to reach out and touch.
Arthur turned to them, lowering his voice to a hushed tone, the reverence for the place evident even in his urgency. "This is where they store prophecies that have been made. We're here for the one about Harry and You-Know-Who. We must be quick, we don't know how long we have before… others arrive. This place is not as secure as it seems."
The group split up and began searching the seemingly endless rows of prophecies, their wands dimly lit, casting dancing shadows on the dusty shelves. Ron muttered complaints about how dusty everything was, his nose twitching with every step, clearly unimpressed by the historical significance.
Hermione, however, marveled at the structure of the shelves and attempted to read the labels on the orbs, her fascination overriding the urgency, occasionally muttering Latin phrases to herself.
Luna wandered curiously, humming under her breath, her ethereal gaze seemingly seeing beyond the physical, occasionally pausing to peer at an orb with a knowing smile, as if she already understood its contents. Ginny stuck close to Neville, who seemed unusually focused, his eyes scanning the shelves with a surprising intensity.
Eventually, after what felt like a long, tense search that stretched their nerves thin, Neville called out, his voice surprisingly clear and steady in the vast silence, "Over here! Ginny found it!" His finger pointed to a specific orb, nestled among thousands.
They all rushed over, their footsteps echoing softly. Harry stared at the orb nestled carefully in place, its surface faintly glowing, faint, almost imperceptible whispers emanating from within, a soft, ethereal hum. Ron frowned, peering at the small glass sphere. "It's so small."
Hermione, ever the pragmatist, responded, her voice low, almost a murmur. "Sometimes, it's the smallest things that bring the most pain, Ron. The most changes. The most devastating consequences. History is full of such ironies."
Harry nodded solemnly, his gaze fixed on the orb, a grim understanding settling over him. This was the catalyst, the spark for so much suffering. "We have what we came for. Let's leave. Now. Before we overstay our welcome."
But before they could even turn, before the words had fully left his lips, a slow, cold voice, dripping with malice and a chilling amusement, rang out from the darkness behind them, echoing through the vast chamber, making the very air vibrate.
"Leaving so soon, Potter? Without saying hello? How rude of you, after all the trouble we went through to meet you here."
From the deepest shadows, as if conjured from the gloom itself, emerged masked figures, their black robes billowing like predatory wings, their wands raised, tips glowing ominously.
At the front, his face obscured by a gleaming silver mask that reflected the faint light, stood Lucius Malfoy. His voice, though muffled by the mask, was unmistakable, laced with its usual sneering arrogance and a triumphant sneer.
"That prophecy doesn't belong to you, Potter. It belongs to the Dark Lord, its rightful master. Hand it over, and we may allow you and your… pathetic little friends… to leave with your lives. Perhaps with a few fewer limbs, but alive nonetheless."
More Death Eaters materializing on their side, surrounding them from all sides. Among them, a cackling Bellatrix Lestrange, her wild, dark hair a chaotic halo around her head. She sneered at the students, her eyes glittering with unhinged madness, her laughter echoing eerily off the high walls, a chilling, unhinged sound that promised pain and revelry in suffering.
Arthur, his face grim with a mixture of fear and defiance, stepped forward, wand drawn, placing himself protectively in front of the kids, his body a shield against the encroaching darkness. But they were completely surrounded, Death Eaters materializing from all sides, cutting off any escape route. Lucius stepped closer, his voice a silken threat, almost a purr.
"Just hand it over, Potter. You're outnumbered and outmatched. There's no need for anyone to get hurt. This can all be very… civilized. A simple exchange, and you walk away. Or rather, limp away."
Harry slowly raised the orb, examining it, turning it over in his hand, a faint, almost imperceptible smirk playing on his lips. He met Lucius's masked gaze, his eyes cold and unwavering, a silent challenge in their depths.
"This is what you want, Malfoy? This little glass ball? This fragile piece of glass and whispered words?" Harry asked, "Then go get it."
And with that, he chucked it across the vast room with surprising force, sending it spinning through the air, a shimmering projectile of fate. The Death Eaters, caught off guard by his audacity, turned as one, their greed overriding their caution, diving toward the rapidly moving orb, a desperate scramble for the prize.
Just as Lucius, his hand outstretched, his fingers brushing against the glass, was about to catch it, a powerful, crimson spell from Harry's wand struck it mid-air. The orb exploded in a blinding blast of light and shimmering mist, showering the room with glittering fragments of glass and ancient whispers that dissolved into nothingness, utterly destroyed.
Shouts of rage erupted from the Death Eaters, a collective roar of fury and frustration, their faces contorted with disbelief and thwarted ambition. Arthur, seizing the moment of chaos and the Death Eaters' momentary distraction, yelled, "Run! Everyone, run! Don't look back!"
They scattered. The Death Eaters, enraged by the destruction of their prize and the audacity of Potter, gave chase, their spells flying wildly, streaks of light and dark magic crisscrossing the vast chamber.
The group raced through the labyrinthine corridors, their footsteps pounding, reaching the circular room with many doors. Arthur, thinking quickly and remembering the Ministry's layout, barked out, "Middle one! Everyone through the middle one! It leads to the Atrium!"
Luna and Ginny dashed through first, narrowly avoiding a searing spell that shattered stone above their heads, sending shrapnel flying and dust cascading down. The rest, seeing no clear path through the Death Eaters who were now blocking the middle door, scattered through different doors to avoid being cornered, the sound of spells crashing and echoing in the halls, a chaotic symphony of battle and desperate flight.
Harry raced through the twisting corridors, firing spells. Three Death Eaters fell to his attacks, their robes smoking and bodies crumpling to the ground, their screams cut short as his spells found their marks, far from friendly.
He ducked, dove, and cast shield after shield, weaving through the labyrinthine halls as if he knew every turn, every hidden alcove. Each turn was chaos, a blur of light and shadow, and he saw fleeting glimpses of his friends, Neville dueling fiercely, his usually clumsy movements replaced by a surprising agility and determination.
Hermione shielding Ron, her face set in a grim mask of concentration, Luna using her odd but incredibly effective magic, confusing and disorienting their pursuers with unexpected bursts of light and strange spells.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity of running and fighting, dodging curses and returning fire, he burst into the Floo Network Hall, a vast, circular chamber lined with glittering fireplaces that served as the Ministry's primary transport hub, and stopped dead in his tracks, his breath catching in his throat, a cold dread washing over him.
There they were. His friends had been captured, rounded up like cattle. Ron, Hermione, Ginny, Neville, and Luna stood huddled together, wands gone, disarmed and surrounded by triumphant Death Eaters. Arthur was bleeding heavily on the ground, clutching his side, grimacing in pain, a dark stain spreading rapidly on his robes. The Death Eaters circled them, their masked faces radiating cruel triumph, their wands pointed menacingly at the trapped students.
Lucius sneered, his voice dripping with venomous satisfaction. Bellatrix laughed like a banshee, a high-pitched, unhinged shriek that grated on Harry's nerves, a sound of pure, unadulterated madness.
Then, a cold, cruel laugh, deeper and more terrifying than any other, a sound that seemed to chill the very air, cut through the cacophony, silencing even Bellatrix's cackles.
Everyone froze. The Death Eaters stiffened, their heads bowing in immediate, terrified deference, their triumphant sneers replaced by masks of fear.
Lord Voldemort had arrived.
He glided forward, robes whispering across the polished floor like hungry shadows, his serpentine face twisted into a chilling smile that promised death and despair. His red eyes, slitted like a snake's, locked onto Harry, a possessive, triumphant gleam in their depths, a silent declaration of ownership.
"So good to see you again, Harry," Voldemort hissed, his voice soft, yet resonating with immense power, echoing ominously in the vast hall. "You brought me the prophecy. I must thank you for your… unwitting assistance in leading me to it."
Before he could continue, one of the Death Eaters, a nervous, thin man, stammered, his voice trembling, "My Lord, he... he destroyed it. The prophecy. He blew it up into a thousand pieces."
Voldemort's gaze turned icy, his smile vanishing, replaced by a look of profound, terrifying rage that made the air crackle. The room seemed to grow colder, the very light dimming under the weight of his fury.
"Destroyed... it?" he hissed, the two words drawn out, each one a whisper of death, a promise of agonizing retribution.
None of his Death Eaters dared meet his eyes, their heads bowed deeper in fear, trembling visibly.
He hissed low, a sound like a viper, rage boiling beneath his pale skin, a storm of fury gathering in his crimson eyes. But then, with a visible effort, he reined in his temper, forcing his features into a semblance of calm, turning back to Harry, his eyes hardening his features.
"No matter. A minor setback. A mere inconvenience. I have you, Harry Potter. And I don't need the prophecy if you're dead. Your death will be a far greater victory, a testament to my ultimate triumph."
He raised his wand, its tip glowing with a sickly green light, aimed directly at Harry's chest, the Killing Curse forming on his lips.
Suddenly, with a roar of displaced air and a crackling surge of raw magic, the Floo flames in every single fireplace burst alight, and the torches that lit the room, but instead of their usual emerald green, they glowed a furious, pulsating red, bathing the entire hall in an ominous, blood-like light that pulsed with urgency.
The emergency alert. A full Ministry lockdown and call for reinforcements.
Voldemort turned, his eyes widening almost imperceptibly as he realized the implications. The hall would soon be flooded with reinforcements, with Aurors.
He turned back to the potter.
Then he noticed it. Harry's face. It was blank. Emotionless. Not fear, not rage, not surprise. Just... still. Like a perfectly crafted mask, devoid of all human reaction.
The others, too. Ginny, Luna, Hermione, Neville, Ron, they looked like dolls, their expressions oddly serene, their eyes wide and unblinking, fixed on nothing. Too calm. Too quiet. An unnatural stillness had fallen over them.
Then Arthur Weasley, still bleeding on the ground, his face pale with pain, began to laugh.
It started slow. Low. A guttural chuckle that seemed to come from deep within his chest, a sound utterly out of place. But it grew steadily, until he was laughing loudly, a booming, mirthless sound that echoed through the hall, his eyes wide and unblinking, fixed on Voldemort, a strange, knowing glint in their depths.
Everyone turned to him, Death Eaters and students alike, bewildered by his sudden, insane mirth, unsure if it was a sign of madness or something far more sinister.
He stopped abruptly, his laughter dying in his throat.
His eyes, which had been a clear, worried blue moments before, now glowed a bright, unnatural green, a familiar, terrifying hue that pulsed with raw power.
And the room went utterly, terrifyingly still, every living soul holding their breath, sensing the terrifying shift.
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