Everyone could only stand and watch, frozen in place, as Arthur Weasley laughed, his eyes glowing an unnatural, incandescent green. Before anyone could react, the very air in the vast hall began to shimmer and warp, reality around them seeming to ripple, distort, and twist like melting glass.
The light bent and fractured into a thousand ethereal shards. In a single, disorienting blink, all of the children, Ron, Hermione, Ginny, Harry, Neville, and Luna, vanished from the hall, leaving no trace but the ghost of their presence.
Arthur's bleeding form straightened. The cuts on his face and hands closed as if they had never existed, the blood vanished from his robes, and the tattered material mended itself, becoming pristine once more. And then, before their very eyes, his appearance shifted, flesh, voice, transforming.
Gone was Arthur Weasley, replaced by none other than Harry Potter, standing there, a wide and victorious smirk on his face. He looked at the Death Eaters and Voldemort, whose expressions ranged from stunned silence to profound, barely contained shock. Harry snickered to himself, the sound echoing through the suddenly empty hall, a sound of pure, unadulterated amusement. They had not been expecting this.
(Flashback)
After Harry had left Arthur with Dumbledore and McGonagall, he hadn't gone far. He'd waited. When Arthur emerged from his conversation and began heading back to the Ministry, Harry had acted. A wave of his hand, and calling upon his authority, he had sent Arthur into a deep, dream slumber, his body sinking gently to the ground. Harry had then used his Oneirothrone Authority, the power over dreams, to project the man's consciousness into a blissful, fabricated reality, a sanctuary for his mind.
In this dream, Arthur Weasley was living a happy, carefree life. His children were all grown up, living out their dreams. Bill and Charlie were happily married and prosperous, Percy had become a respected Minister, Fred and George ran a successful joke shop empire, Ron was an Auror, and Ginny was a famous Quidditch star.
The man truly loved his family before and above anything else, and Harry knew this was the ultimate sanctuary for him, a peaceful fantasy where his greatest fears were quelled.
He was safe and would remain so, protected by the illusion until Harry released him. It was a kindness, an act of mercy, ensuring that Arthur Weasley was never in any real danger, after all, he wasn't about to bring the man into a battle with Voldemort.
Hence the dream.
It would keep the man like that until his business was concluded, he carried him to the room of requirement, conjuring a bed and having Dobby watch over him until he was done.
(Flashback Ends)
"God, I just couldn't hold it in any longer," Harry laughed, the sound full of genuine, giddy amusement. He stood there, completely at ease, as if surrounded by friends rather than a dozen armed killers and one Dark Lord. Voldemort had already tensed the moment the laughter began, his eyes flicking around, expecting Dumbledore or the Order to spring from the shadows at any moment, as this was clearly a trap.
He scoured the hall with his senses, searching for the tell-tale signs of a hidden presence, but found nothing. But as Harry's laughter subsided, no one appeared. He was alone.
Voldemort frowned. Was this bravery? Arrogance? Madness? He didn't know whether to be happy that the boy had isolated himself or enraged that a mere child had the audacity to face him alone.
Less than a year ago, this boy had been in a similar position, alone and surrounded, but back then, he had been scared, so afraid that one could taste the fear.
Now, he was being mocked by the same child, his smirk an insult that infuriated the Dark Lord more than any curse.
"Potter," Voldemort hissed, his voice cold and venomous, a low growl of pure malice. "I didn't think you could be more foolish. And yet, here you are, proving me wrong. I don't know how you were able to deceive me with this pathetic trick, but it won't happen again."
He glared at the boy, who just stared back with a casual air of superiority that made Voldemort's blood boil. "What, no friends? No Dumbledore? No Order? You stand alone?" he mocked, a sneer twisting his serpentine features.
Harry just smiled and waved him off dismissively, his hand a lazy arc through the air. "Don't need them for this. Honestly, I didn't think my plan to draw you out would work this smoothly, but I guess I'm just lucky like that." His tone was light, airy, and utterly devoid of fear, as if he were discussing the weather.
"Then that luck ends today." Voldemort retorted, his instincts screaming at him of a danger far greater than the boy's arrogance, a sense of foreboding he hadn't felt in decades. He raised his wand and, without a moment's hesitation, cast the Killing Curse.
Harry seemed to tilt almost lazily, dodging it with a casual ease that was breathtaking. Before Voldemort could even react, a powerful, invisible force slammed into his side, launching him across the room with a sickening crunch. He crashed into the ground, rolled, and rose, seething with a mixture of pain and profound confusion.
What had hit him?
The Death Eaters were speechless, dumbfounded. One moment their Lord was standing, a triumphant snarl on his face, and the next he was sent flying, a crumpled heap of robes and rage. None of them knew what had happened.
Voldemort stood up, his eyes burning with rage. He swept his wand and cast an inferno spell. A colossal wall of fire erupted, roaring toward Harry. The flames licked at the stone walls, charring the ornate carvings and turning the air into a searing oven. Two Death Eaters were too slow to escape the blaze, their panicked screams cut short as they were consumed. The flames hit Harry squarely, a raging inferno engulfing him, searing hot.
Voldemort smiled, certain of his victory. But the smile vanished, replaced by a deep frown, when Harry simply walked out of the flames, completely untouched, his robes unblemished, his face serene.
This seemed to set him off. Voldemort began a relentless barrage of spells, stunners, bone-crackers, blood curses, and more exotic, dark magic. Harry barely even paid attention to them, unconcerned as he stood there.
He waved his right hand, and a glowing pink shield, a shimmering wall of his raw magical power, appeared in front of him, effortlessly blocking the spells. The curses slammed into the shield with deafening thuds and bright flashes of light, but it held firm, a silent testament to his impossible power.
Voldemort, understanding that things had changed, started yelling at his followers, "Kill him! KILL POTTER!" he shrieked, his voice filled with a desperate, unhinged fury.
His followers, snapped out of their stupor, obeyed, raining down spells on the boy. Harry was honestly just disappointed. He had expected more from the man, had been subconsciously hyping him up in his head, because villains always seemed to have something up their sleeves.
But seeing him here and now reminded him why Jacob had always preferred Gellert Grindelwald. That man had vision, style, and was by far a better villain. He sighed, a flicker of genuine disappointment crossing his face.
A spell came at him fast from his right. He simply raised his left hand and bitch-slapped it aside like an annoying insect. Even if the man was a disappointment, that was not going to stop Harry from flexing on him.
Most of the other spells just harmlessly washed off his body, their mortal magic dissipating against his skin like water on a waxed surface.
The only spells he took seriously were the Unforgivables, and he continued to casually dodge them. Even as a Campione, he wasn't 100% immune to magic, just so highly resistant that mortal magic meant nothing to him. That was why gods could still affect Campiones with their magic.
He was sure nothing would happen even if one of the curses hit him, but he would be a fool to take an instant kill attack just to prove a point. His caution was born of strategy, not fear.
As the 'fight' continued, Harry started culling their numbers, methodically redirecting spells back at other Death Eaters. A Cruciatus Curse aimed at him was turned mid-air and struck its caster, who collapsed into a writhing heap.
A stunner flung back knocked two masked figures into a stone shelf, leaving them unconscious. He was slowly reducing their numbers as he marched forward towards Voldemort, making sure to keep unbroken eye contact with the man. With every step forward, Voldemort seemed to grow more frantic, his expression fraying under the pressure.
Then reality twisted again.
A being of darkness materialized into being. Colossal, nightmarish, it was a pitch-black, liquid form of pure death, with countless red eyes that seemed to burn with malevolence. It glided through the room, consuming anything foolish enough to approach.
Harry smirked, a flicker of dark joy in his eyes. He waved his right hand, and the ground split open with a seismic roar. A giant titan of stone rose from the crack, a colossal creature of rock and earth, its form carved from the very foundations of the Ministry itself. The two beings were killing anyone who got too close to them.
Eventually, their numbers were drastically reduced. Bellatrix, Lucius Malfoy, Avery, Nott, and others had all fallen. Only three remained, their bodies and minds bruised and battered. And then there was Voldemort, who also looked as if he was on his last legs, his breathing ragged, sweat beading on his pale forehead.
His face grew serious, the amusement gone. As much fun as this was, it was time to end it.
He brought his hands together in a slow, deliberate motion.
CLAP.
The sound boomed with divine force, a raw explosion of energy that tore through the hall. It wiped out the remaining three Death Eaters, their bodies turning to dust in an instant. Voldemort staggered back, bleeding from his mouth, his reserves utterly depleted by the sudden, overwhelming force of the magic.
He tried to speak, tried to summon what little power he had left.
But then,
The Floo Network roared to life. Red emergency flames burst into every fireplace. Aurors, led by Minister Fudge, spilled into the room, wide-eyed and disheveled. Rita Skeeter was right behind him, scribbling furiously in her notebook.
Voldemort blinked. His surroundings seemed to shift with a sickening lurch. His once tattered robes were now clean and regal. His Death Eaters, who had been dead just moments ago, stood by his side, battered but alive. Around them, on the floor, were the bodies of dozens of Ministry workers, a carnage of his own making. He didn't even have time to process what was happening when Dumbledore appeared, wand in hand.
Voldemort cursed inwardly. Had he been at full power, he would have no doubt killed the old man here and now, but after his fight with Potter (or was there even a fight? He discreetly looked around, finding no evidence of it), he was weakened. He gritted his teeth.
"Retreat!" he snarled.
He fired a spell that Dumbledore blocked. He fired another, and then vanished with his Death Eaters, Apparating out of the Ministry, leaving the old wizard to deal with the chaos.
The Ministry exploded in an uproar.
"He was here!"
"The Dark Lord is back!"
"Dumbledore and Potter were right!"
"Why did the Ministry lie to us?!" a voice yelled over the others.
Fudge tried to speak, but the crowd turned on him, a chorus of angry voices drowning him out, his carefully constructed political facade crumbling.
"Are you working with him?!" another asked, making everyone face the man.
"What has the Ministry been doing?!"
Fudge fumbled for words, utterly drowned out by the uproar, his political career shattering around him. There was no coming back from this.
And as the chaos surged, a young man smiling, slipped quietly out of the hall, unnoticed in the panicked throng.
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