Chapter Text
Junior Auror Harry Potter had fantasized about this moment for more than a year.
He'd be facing down a towering, cloaked figure in a dead-end alleyway, the moon at his back and Ron and Neville flanking him on either side. Ron would demand surrender, the opposing figure would spit in his face, and then suddenly they'd be dueling. Harry would dive out of the way and fire off a few jinxes from the ground. Neville would ultimately take a hit and collapse, and Ron would send a barrage of explosive hexes. They'd sweat. They'd bleed. They'd hurl insults and threats at each other. And finally, Ron would surprise their opponent with a punch to the face, then duck out of the way as Harry cast one final spell and took down Britain's last fugitive Death Eater.
In reality, however, it only took three spells: a Lumos Maxima to blind him, a Bombarda to knock him off his feet, and Petrificus Totalus to neutralize him. The Death Eater didn't cast a single spell. It was as if they'd taken him completely by surprise, which was a load of bollocks. With the innumerable traps he and his fellow Aurors had tripped and disabled, they'd been smashing the equivalent of a dozen battering rams into the wizard's fortress walls for weeks on end. The Death Eater he knew—or at least he thought he knew—would have fired off a volley of curses the moment an Auror stepped into his inner sanctum.
"Is this a trap?" murmured an Auror a few steps behind him. "Surely, it can't be that easy."
Harry paused mid-step. Scenarios flashed through his mind, chief among them one in which the enemy only pretended to be hit with the Full Body-Bind. Without a second thought, he fired off another Petrificus Totalus. The figure on the ground, however, didn't move, and the curse hit again.
"I didn't detect dark magic in front of us," came another hushed whisper. "The cave's clear."
If not a trap… then perhaps a trick. A task force of deadly Aurors would overwhelm ten dark wizards, much less one—had their enemy lured them into this chamber with an illusion to pick off their more vulnerable teammates at the entrance? His gut twisted into a knot. Conjuring a writhing ball of fire, Harry flung it at the back of the cave where the Death Eater had supposedly landed and jogged off after it. A few Aurors behind him hissed at the sudden newfound light, their eyes straining once again to adjust.
The sight awaiting Harry left him gaping in disbelief.
Warm light flickered over a defeated man. He lay rigid atop a bed of milky white crystals, a tattered robe draped about his body like a burial shroud over a corpse. Under the firelight, shadows seemed to swallow him up and spit him out in pieces—a patch of waxy flesh here, a gnarled finger or two there. Strands of oily black hair clung to the bony ridges of the man's face, framing dark, bloodshot eyes and a snarl that'd twist even a demon's innards.
It was like staring at someone he knew through a carnival mirror. He recognized that dark hair, that twisted face, those blazing eyes, but… the man on the ground looked like a caricature of the dark mastermind the Aurors had been hunting—had feared—for years on end.
"Are we sure this is him?" he blurted out. "I mean, this—" He jabbed his arm at the man, speechless.
This was the man who evaded capture for five years, nearly assassinated three heroes of the Second Wizarding War, and constructed a fortress with defenses so formidable it took five squads of Aurors weeks to dismantle them all? His head spun.
Dragonhide boots clacked against crystal as Cerberus Langarm, his tall, burly squad mate, strode forward and crouched down half a meter away from the man. He hummed as he examined the abandoned wand on the ground. "It's got to be. This wand matches his in the registry. And—" he flicked his wand, vanishing the man's left sleeve "—he's got the mark. Unless we missed one, this is Antonin Dolohov."
Harry's grip tightened on his wand. No, they hadn't missed one. They'd made damn sure of that. But hell, this… He wasn't even sure the man's own mother would recognize him. Granted, no one had seen neither hide nor hair of Dolohov for the better part of five years, but to think that the terrifying Death Eater would deteriorate into this starving hermit… Harry shook his head.
"... indicate that it's him. We can dose him just to be sure, if you want?"
Jolting at the sound of his squad mate's voice, Harry tore his gaze away from Dolohov and glanced up. Langarm was now standing and looking at him expectantly. "Er—yeah," he said. "Let's get him secured."
Harry started toward Dolohov with another squad mate at his heels. Behind him, a low murmur of voices buzzed about the cave as the other Aurors got to work. A couple broke off to examine the area for any lingering curses or hidden traps; one began disabling the disapparition wards and other protections. He heard a few hushed moans as the rest began moving the injured. Glancing back, Harry looked around for Ron or Neville but couldn't spot them; they must still be outside trying to stabilize the cave entrance. Ron had managed to break through the vicious enchantment protecting the chamber, but only while repeatedly casting the countercurse. The backlash had knocked down several Aurors and tied down about a third of their wands.
The chamber they'd stormed was small—just large enough to comfortably fit two squads of Aurors—and it only had one entrance, features Dolohov had no doubt chosen to his advantage. A gaping maw of sparkling stalactites bore down on them from above. They hovered just a few meters above the Aurors' heads, and Harry was suddenly sure that a stronger Bombarda would have collapsed the entire chamber on top of them. He could almost hear his squad leader berating him: Dammit, Potter! What have I told you about being aware of your surroundings? He grimaced. He was already on the man's shitlist for a reckless rescue earlier in the week; hopefully he'd been too busy supporting Ron and Neville to witness Harry's spell tactics this time.
Upon reaching Dolohov, Harry took up position behind the Death Eater's head while Langarm and Angelina Johnson stood to either side. As he shuffled through his Mokeskin pouch for a bottle of veritaserum, Langarm summoned restraints and began wrapping them around Dolohov's wrists and ankles while Angelina pocketed his wand and snapped a couple photos of the scene. Startled by the flash, Harry muttered a low curse as his fingers scraped against something sharp. To his right, Angelina caught his eye and winked.
"Ready," he grunted as soon as he grasped the tiny vial of clear liquid. Uncorking it, he dropped to one knee and let a few drops dribble into Dolohov's open mouth. His nose wrinkled as he caught a whiff of foul breath. Beside him, Langarm reversed the Full Body-Bind; immediately, Dolohov's expression slackened and his eyes turned glassy.
"Can you hear me?" Harry asked.
The man took a deep, shuddering breath. "Yes."
"Are you Antonin Dolohov, an escaped convict and follower of Lord Voldemort?" Tensing, Harry leaned forward slightly in anticipation. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Langarm and Angelina become still as stone.
"Yes."
Harry breathed out. He felt his shoulders relax, and a building pressure dissipated in the back of his head. A part of him had still been expecting the man to say no despite all evidence.
"Do you have any active plans to maim, assassinate, or otherwise injure any other witch or wizard in Britain?"
"No."
Huh. He was half-expecting that they'd have to go chasing after Kingsley to stop some other sinister plot.
"Right," Harry said as he stood up and glanced at his squad mates. "That's all I have. Did I miss anything?"
"No," croaked Dolohov.
Angelina sniggered. "I can't believe I'm saying this, but I agree with the criminal."
Langarm just rolled his eyes.
Lips twitching, Harry stepped back and stunned Dolohov. After a moment of consideration, he also reapplied the Body-Bind. Langarm leaned forward to check the ropes one last time, and after he gave the go-ahead, Angelina levitated Dolohov, who began to bob along in the air after her. Harry followed their plodding progress across the cave, wiping away the sweat trickling down his temples. Despite the frigid cave air, his robes felt hot and sticky against his skin. He was beginning to feel a low throbbing in his left arm and right leg, too.
A bony elbow suddenly jabbed him in his left side, making him wince as a shock of pain vibrated through his torso. "Not exactly the boogeyman we were expecting, huh?"
Turning around, Harry came face to face with Ron, who offered him a tired grin. No longer was he the gangling teenager who'd run off with Harry and Hermione to attempt the impossible. He'd built up some muscle during training, his face had grown leaner, and he now carried himself with the kind of confidence and grace that would have made 16-year-old Ron green with envy.
Harry looked back at Dolohov's body just as it exited the chamber. "I thought it'd feel better to finally catch him," he admitted grimly, "but this kinda feels like… I dunno, anticlimactic?"
Ron laughed. "Speak for yourself, mate. I was just about to collapse out there until Neville and Proudfoot finally destroyed the bloody trap." His eyes turned hard. "I hope that bastard gets Kissed. That's the only way I'd be sure he could never hurt my fiancée or sister again."
Harry's face darkened. "He will. I'm sure of it."
Both lapsed into silence, fraught memories hanging like a noose between them.
Closing his eyes for an instant, Harry finally let out a breath. "Let's get out of—" He stopped as he heard boots scraping against rock behind him. Spinning around on his heel, he nearly crashed into his squad leader, who eyed him with suspicion.
"Either of you lads injured?" he asked in a gravelly voice, casting an assessing glance over each of them. A stout, ruddy-faced wizard, Vincent Proudfoot was a veteran of two wizarding wars and didn't let his squad forget it—especially Harry, who he spent half his job berating for reckless behavior and the other patting him on the back.
"No, sir," Ron answered, shaking his head. Harry just shrugged. Eyes narrowing, Proudfoot stared pointedly at his torn left sleeve and the bloody mess it failed to hide. Harry blushed. "Er, well, maybe a little bit."
Proudfoot looked unimpressed. "Bullshit, Potter. I saw you take that potshot for Langarm. Get your arse down to Finnegan."
"But sir—"
"I wasn't asking," Proudfoot interrupted. Turning to Ron, he barked, "Weasley, you're in charge of making sure Potter sees the Healers. Drag him there by the bloody balls if you have to."
Ron shot Harry a dopey grin and swung an arm around his shoulders. "Yes, sir. Right away, sir."
Proudfoot let out a snort before stomping away toward Langarm, who looked like he wanted to bolt. Frowning, Harry tried to free himself from Ron's grip.
"Honestly, it's just a scratch—"
"Shut it, mate."
An hour later, Harry fell into his tent with the staggering gait of a drunkard. The healers had knitted together his wounds and given him a gamut of potions for pain and infection, but they hadn't been able to take away his overwhelming exhaustion. He was looking forward to a long night's sleep tonight.
Sighing, he collapsed onto a folding chair and closed his eyes. Five minutes, he told himself. Those five minutes, however, passed entirely too quickly and by the time they ended, Harry regretted taking them at all. His exhaustion had only deepened. Struggling to his feet, he haphazardly waved his wand. Clothes, dishes, and furniture flew around him, including a rogue dresser that almost clipped him on the shoulder. While the tent packed itself up, he stumbled over to his bathroom and splashed some cold water onto his face. The shock of the chill felt like a slap on the cheek, and he became a little more alert than he had… but not much. He rubbed his face. Just a little bit longer.
Straightening up, he couldn't help but catch a glimpse of himself in the mirror. He grimaced. Apparently, he looked as bad as he felt. His black hair, normally an unruly crow's nest, lay limp atop his head, greased flat with dried blood, sweat, and guts. Drops of red-tinged water trickled down both sides of his dirt-caked face. Puffy and bloodshot, his eyes carried bags the size of Scotland. Worse, his red Auror-issued trench coat looked like a muggle minefield, with a smattering of burns, holes, and slashes, and if he didn't know any better, he would have thought that a werewolf had ripped a chunk out of his left sleeve. Looking down, he saw black, oozing gunk clinging to the hem of his robe.
"Oh, that's just brilliant," he muttered.
He tried his best to vanish most of the potentially hazardous gunk but knew he had to wait on the rest. Post haste, Proudfoot had emphasized before he, Ron, and the rest of the squad left for the ministry with Dolohov in tow. He'd probably missed the booking by now—bugger—but maybe he could catch the moment they carted Dolohov off to Azkaban to await trial. And oh right, he had a statement to give.
Rushing out of the tent, he demounted it and hurriedly stowed it in his Mokeskin pouch before apparating to the Ministry. He arrived in an empty, dimly lit Atrium. Huh. He'd been expecting to smash into a mob of reporters swarming every wizard with even a hint of red coloring on his robes. Perhaps the Ministry just hadn't yet issued the press release… which Harry realized may mean that they hadn't finished processing Dolohov yet—or worse, that something had gone wrong. At the thought, Harry quickened his pace. Snagging a lift, he popped out at Level Two, turned the corner, and jogged the short distance to a pair of heavy oak doors guarding the way into the Auror Headquarters. Pausing, he took out his wand and—
"Ah, Potter! There you are."
Jumping out of his skin, Harry spun around with his wand outstretched and a nasty curse on his lips. He relaxed his grip once he saw the balding wizard walking toward him from the other end of the hallway.
Head Auror Gawain Robards was a rotund wizard in his fifties with a bulbous nose, mischievous eyes, and graying muttonchops that creeped up the sides of his face like well-groomed caterpillars. And in that moment, he wore the smirk of a man who'd just swindled a leprechaun out of an enormous pot of gold.
Harry shifted awkwardly. "Er—good evening, sir." Inwardly, he was swearing up a storm and trying to calm his accelerated heartbeat.
He never quite knew how to behave around Robards. The man had headed the Auror department while Voldemort controlled the Ministry—at least until his puppet government had disbanded it—and Harry had publicly accused him of collaborating with the enemy. Harry, of course, had looked like an ungrateful fool when it came out that Robards had been using his position to pass on information to the Order and prevent the new government from putting someone worse in his place. Since then, Harry had done his best to avoid sharing the same space with the man.
"I hear you're the man of the hour," Robards said, clapping Harry on the back. "Good work on taking down Dolohov. I can't wait to announce that the last of those bastards is rotting in a cell! Skeeter's been driving the Press Office mad."
Harry winced. She'd been pestering him, too, asking for daily updates on the hunt for Dolohov. He wouldn't be surprised if the Auror department threw a Ministry-wide party the day she retired.
"So, the news hasn't gone out yet?" he prompted, hoping Robards would tell him the state of things.
"No, we'll probably send out the owls in an hour or two. Dolohov's with the Healers right now."
Harry's eyebrows shot up. "Still? Did they find something?"
Expression souring, Robards crossed his arms over his chest. "We're not sure yet. The Healers found traces of some sort of potion in his system. They're going to keep him overnight to try out a more comprehensive diagnostic charm and figure out what it is."
Harry scowled. So much for watching Dolohov reunite with the Dementors. "What did the preliminary results say?"
"Valerian root and flobberworm mucus. They think it might be some sort of numbing potion or sleeping draught. Could even be a suicide attempt. Who knows? We'll know more tomorrow."
Suicide? Harry thought incredulously. After building a fortress and laying all those traps? There's got to be more to it.
"... sent most of the task force home for the night," Robards was saying. "I'll appoint some Aurors to guard Dolohov overnight, and then we'll all regroup in the morning."
Harry opened his mouth to volunteer, but Robards cut him off with a glare. "Absolutely not, Potter. You've been out in the shitter for weeks, and we need a fresh pair of wands. Go home and rest, kid. I'll have Dawlish collect your statement tomorrow." Sniffing, he coughed and added, "And take a bath while you're at it—you smell like the wrong end of a Blast-Ended Skrewt."
Harry cringed. You try diving into a lake full of dead bodies and see if you come out smelling like daisies, he wanted to say. But to his boss he dutifully replied, "Yes, sir."
Opening the double oak doors to the Auror Headquarters, Robards leveled one last heavy stare at Harry. "Home. Now. I'll see you tomorrow."
And then he was gone, the doors swinging shut behind him.
Harry let himself slump against the wall. After five long years, they'd finally done it—captured or killed every single escaped Death Eater. Only Dolohov's trial remained. Harry would finally be free to put Voldemort behind him—lock away the memories and loss and terror into the farthest corners of his mind and throw away the key. Perhaps he'd break them back out in a decade or two as a lesson for his kids and grandkids … and godson.
Harry closed his eyes in grief as Remus' cold, dead face flashed through his mind. We got him, Teddy. We got the man who took your father away from you.
They'd taken care of the burials, funerals, and memorial services in the first year following Voldemort's defeat. Said their goodbyes, honored their brave sacrifices, and mourned their absences. By the second, Interim Minister Kingsley Shacklebolt had repaired and restructured the Ministry of Magic; Hogwarts, too, had been rebuilt to its former glory, with the addition of a new monument in the courtyard to honor the countless fallen.
By the third, Hermione—clever, wonderful Hermione—was leading a governmental campaign to root out systemic corruption and open the doors to Muggleborns who had never imagined becoming an undersecretary, much less a department head. She'd decided to go back to Hogwarts for her last year and take her NEWTs; Harry and Ron, of course, didn't bother. They'd received personal invitations to join the dangerously depleted Auror ranks and had accepted almost right away.
By spring of last year, the Ministry had caught, tried, and sentenced almost all surviving Death Eaters and collaborators, including the Malfoys, who only managed to escape Azkaban thanks to Harry's testimony.
Only one remained at large: Antonin Dolohov.
That cunning snake had managed to give Professor Flitwick the slip after the Battle of Hogwarts and hadn't been seen since. Every time the Aurors caught even a whiff of his scent and raided his hideout, he was long gone, everything wiped clean in his wake.
If Dolohov were just hiding, he might have managed to escape altogether, but the bastard had opted for revenge and began attacking the heroes of the Second Wizarding War one by one. Neville almost died by mandrake cry when he entered his greenhouse and found several baby mandrakes de-potted and weeping. Only his nightly noise muffling charms saved him. Hermione collapsed shortly after drinking a glass of wine from a bottle a colleague had gifted her—and like Harry saved Ron in sixth year, Ron saved Hermione with a bezoar he had always kept handy since. A few months later, Ginny received a fan letter designed to wring the life from any who touched it.
Furious, Harry and Ron surrendered themselves completely to Auror work and began putting in 60- to 80-hour weeks. Ron had proposed to Hermione just before she'd been attacked, and Harry had bent the knee to Ginny a few days later. But they didn't dare hold any wedding until Dolohov had been apprehended and locked away.
That was just over a year ago—a year of stolen kisses, empty beds, and just a few more months. Twelve months of pure hell, intense training, and dozens upon dozens of dead ends.
A month ago, they finally struck gold. A casual informant let slip about a recluse who'd constructed a fortress in the middle of a magically hidden Somerset cave system. After verifying the information, the ministry secretly dispatched five squads of Aurors to investigate. Twenty-five Aurors, including Harry, Ron, and Neville, converged on the area, constructing defenses, building wards, and mapping out their enemy's fortifications.
On the sixth day, they tripped Dolohov's first trap—and so began a few hellish weeks of unraveling, evading, and fighting what felt like hundreds of dangerous magical traps, creatures, and wards. The lake full of Inferi had been particularly unpleasant—especially since Harry had been the only idiot to fall into the sinister lake that practically screamed I-am-a-trap!—but he'd wasted no time dispatching them with the same firestorm spell Dumbledore had used all those years ago. Thanks to Dolohov's Anti-Disapparition Jinx and their own countermeasures, no one could travel in or out to secure help or additional supplies, but at least it meant the enemy couldn't either. He blinked—huh, now that he thought about it, maybe they'd actually starved Dolohov out in the end. The Aurors had at least been able to supplement their food supplies with foraging, but Dolohov would have been more or less stranded inside his cave, unable to leave without risking capture or battle.
At that realization, tension he hadn't even known he'd carried melted away. That's probably what the potion was for, he told himself. I bet he was trying to numb the hunger pangs. Harry took a deep breath. Whatever it was, he'd done his part—now it was up to Hermione and the newly reformed court system to deliver justice. He felt exhausted and boneless and free.
Kicking off the wall, he made his way back to the lifts. He allowed himself to fall into thoughts he'd pushed away for over a year, thoughts of rings and weddings and children. I need to tell Ginny, he thought with a rush of excitement. They had so much to do, to plan! What day is it? Muttering a quick Tempus, he discovered it was Friday, October 26, 2003. He'd finish the week out and then take a few days off, he decided; he'd earned it a thousand times over by now.
His smile faded, however, when he realized Ginny was likely overseas with the rest of her team, training for the upcoming Quidditch season. Bugger. He'd hoped to go home to Grimmauld Place, slide quietly into bed next to her, and restart their lives. Merlin, he'd missed her this past month. Ever since Robards had made Dolohov's capture priority number one, he'd stolen a few nights and weekends with her here and there, but had spent the majority of the last year in forests, caves, alleyways, and the Ministry itself. She'd been busy, too, traveling all over Europe to play Quidditch. Their schedules rarely lined up even though they lived together, and it'd been absolutely maddening.
How long had it been since he'd seen Hermione? The Weasleys? And oh Merlin, Teddy—what if the little rascal had forgotten his Uncle Hawwy? He couldn't remember the last time he'd stopped by Andromeda's house. Had he missed Teddy's fifth birthday?
Tomorrow, he promised himself. I'll visit them tomorrow.
Turning the corner, Harry emerged into a long, narrow corridor housing at least twenty lifts. A few people hovered around the nearest ones, waiting like him for one to arrive. Most of them wore the dark red robes Harry had come to associate with his fellow Aurors. He nodded at several as he approached, recognizing them from basic training or Operation Dolohov (which was more colloquially known in the Auror offices as Operation Catch-That-Cunt). After a few minutes, a lift to his left rumbled to a stop. As soon as its golden grilles opened, a half-dressed Zacharias Smith hurried out and around the corner, probably to draft the press release of his life. Poor bloke wouldn't be going home tonight. Harry couldn't quite keep the grin off his face as he and several others stepped into the emptied lift.
By the time he reached Level Eight, he was alone on the lift. He stepped out into the hallway, and just as the grilles closed behind him, his stomach gurgled. Right. He'd need to pick something up to eat. Unless Ginny had done some shopping before she left, he had nothing in his kitchen and no energy to cook. What he wouldn't give for some of Mrs. Weasley's cooking right now… He and his colleagues had been subsisting on duplicated meals, berries, and overcooked squirrel for the past week while hunting Dolohov, and Harry was ready for something with a bit more flavor.
But first, he thought as he discretely sniffed his right armpit, a shower. A long, hot shower. He gagged as he caught a whiff of his stench. Maybe it was a good thing Ginny wasn't home; she'd probably lock him out of the flat if he walked into the bedroom smelling like he'd popped right out of a dung beetle's arse.
"Oi, Potter!" called a familiar reedy voice from behind him. "You might want to wipe that grin off your face. I hear Dawlish is after you for missing reports. Again."
Whipping around, Harry caught sight of a smirking Anthony Goldstein at the end of the hallway, dressed in plain black robes, jeans, and a pair of beat-up trainers. Relaxing, he let go of his wand inside his hidden holster.
"Dammit," he groaned. "I was hoping he forgot about those. We've had more important things to do than write the next edition of the Auror Diaries."
Anthony huffed a laugh. "And just how many reports do you owe him?"
Harry made a face. "Three." Anthony whistled. "Yeah, I know. Ron and I caught a few potion smugglers in Knockturn six or seven weeks ago, but we just haven't found time to finish writing it up."
"You know, the longer you take to finalize those, the longer it'll be before those smugglers get prosecuted."
"Would it be such a bad thing if they spent a little more time in the cells reflecting on their mistakes?" Harry replied, smirking. "What are you doing here so late, anyway? I thought you'd sworn off all overtime?"
Antony folded his arms and scowled. "I have to close out a case before I head out on holiday."
Harry winced in sympathy. "Robards?"
"Robards," Anthony confirmed with a grimace. A beat of silence rested over them, and Anthony fidgeted a little. "Anyway, good seeing you, mate."
"Yeah, you too, Goldstein," Harry said as Anthony made to leave.
Turning around, Harry quickly rounded the final corner into the Atrium, intent on Apparating home. Maybe he'd call Kreacher from Hogwarts; he bet the elf would be willing to smuggle him a meal or two from—
Harry froze.
A few meters from the nearest fireplace floated an oblong, silvery mass twice his height. It shimmered softly in the dark, abandoned Atrium, like a tapestry of shattered glass. Tensing, Harry flicked his wrist, summoning his wand from its holster. Looking around one last time, he silently cast Homenum Revelio. Nothing—or rather no one. His grip tightened around his wand.
What is that? he wondered. He tried a few more diagnostic spells to detect dark magic, but each and every one came back clean. Slowly, carefully, he approached the foreign… thing, making sure to stay at least two meters away at all times. It was paper thin, whatever it was, and cast no shadow.
For a moment, he considered that Dolohov might have—somehow—created it, but he'd entered the Ministry stunned, paralyzed, and under guard of at least a dozen Aurors. He wasn't even sure they'd come this way either, and this thing wasn't here the last time Harry had passed through the Atrium.
Squinting at the foreign mass, he tried to envision other possibilities. Maybe it's something the Unspeakables are working on and it just, I dunno, escaped? Wait… Did Goldstein see this and just walk away?
Harry groaned. At this rate, he wouldn't make it home before midnight. He stood still for a moment, and when the mass didn't move, he decided to experiment. First, he tried to vanish it, Unspeakables project or not. Unsurprisingly, that didn't work. It's probably been charmed against most types of magic. Bloody brilliant. Conjuring a large rock, he hurled it at the mass before he could think better of it.
At the same time, a voice that sounded suspiciously like Hermione's cried out, Harry, you idiot—!
He cringed and prepared to summon a hasty shield… but as it turned out, there was no need. The rock sailed right through. No explosion, no nothing. The surface of the glowing mass didn't even ripple.
A chill ran down Harry's back. He thought of another oblong structure just a floor above, one that housed a tattered black curtain and the whispers of the dead. Rushing a few meters behind the mass, his eyes swam across the darkened floor for any sign of his conjured rock.
"Accio rock," he whispered.
No rock emerged. He swallowed hard. Was this glowing mass a gateway too, some sort of one-way portal to a world beyond the living? But if that were the case, what in the blazes was it doing here? Unless… He stilled. Could the Unspeakables be trying to create another Veil? Or worse—his mind flashed back to his sixth year—could it be something like a Vanishing Cabinet to transport people and objects? But that would mean it could be anyone from an unknown enemy of the Ministry to a lazy Unspeakable trying to search for his missing keys. He sighed.
As he stared at the foreign mass and debated what to do, Harry could feel exhaustion crash over him like a tidal wave. Dammit, he'd been awake for nearly 20 bloody hours with little to no rest, hadn't eaten for nearly 10, and was covered in blood and literal mincemeat. Someone else could deal with this cock-up. Hell, maybe he'd call Goldstein; even dying was better than paperwork.
With a brief look behind him, Harry trained his eyes on the glowing mass, taking several careful steps away from it until he'd created at least a three-meter buffer. Well, it didn't look like the thing was going anywhere… and it didn't even react when Harry threw something at it. It'd probably be fine for a few minutes.
Still… if it did turn out to be some newfangled transport spell, he'd feel really stupid about just letting it float along. A pulse of violet light sprung from his wand and circled the foreign mass, coalescing around it into a sturdy metal box the size of a tree and twice as wide. As the box solidified, wisps of silvery and violet light slowly faded from view, and the Atrium once again fell into darkness, even blacker than before.
Harry stared at the box. It was a bad idea to leave it unattended, he just knew it but… He rubbed his eyes. He was too tired to think rationally, and perhaps Goldstein was still waiting for a lift around the corner. The bloody things were slow as molasses when they wanted to be.
Yawning, Harry sheathed his wand and turned on his heel to head back to the lifts—
—only to crash headfirst into the damn glowing thing itself.
What? But it wasn't—!
He tried to backtrack, but it was too late. Bolts of electricity pierced his skin like daggers, burrowing further and further into him. The pain overwhelmed him in an instant, and his body toppled forward like a ragdoll. White light consumed him, and even as the bolts fried his nerves, he could feel himself fa l l…
…i
n
g…
A sharp pain in his back startled him awake. Where… what? His eyes fluttered but didn't open. Everything felt heavy.
"…a commoner? More like a vagabond! … filthy … unconscious … injured?"
"…thinking calling a half-dead commoner with Summon Servant…"
Voices. He heard voices. It didn't sound like English. French? Or… his mind blanked. What was the other one? He couldn't remember… His awareness was beginning to dim again, as if he were sinking into a blanket of static. A void slowly began to silence his thoughts and swallow his mind. And finally, he let go.
“… seal the con t r …
…a
c
t…”