For demons skilled in illusion and disguise, they could weave visions so vivid and convincing that they could lead their targets toward a desired outcome. Such visions were especially persuasive to those whose prophetic abilities had never failed and who were utterly confident in their own prowess.
This described someone like Gellert Grindelwald, that stubborn old man... Come to think of it, Albus Dumbledore was much the same.
Perhaps it was a glimpse of some vision or the whisper of a voice, but whatever the cause, it was enough for Grindelwald to abandon Nurmengard. Harry wasn't worried that Grindelwald's intentions were pure; he feared they were orchestrated by some malevolent force pulling the strings.
Dumbledore, meanwhile, was once again swept up in a whirlwind of activity, forced to relive a decades-old chase—scouring the world for Grindelwald, a memory that still set his heart racing.
As for Harry, it wasn't long before he returned to Britain after nearly two months abroad.
In the Minister for Magic's office, Cornelius Fudge dismissed everyone irrelevant to the conversation.
"What? You want to go to the Department of Mysteries?" Fudge's eyes widened in shock. "I thought you came back to help the Ministry deal with the growing number of elemental spirits—why the Department of Mysteries?"
"It's important, Minister," Harry sighed. Unlike with Dumbledore, he hesitated to share such critical information with Fudge, a man who lacked the courage to bear such weight. Telling someone like him too much wouldn't help—it might even make things worse under pressure. "I need to inspect the Death Chamber."
"Inspect?" Fudge's expression turned peculiar. "The Unspeakables won't let an outsider poke around, Harry. They don't answer to anyone, not even me, the Minister."
Perhaps because of their past cooperation during the Crouch affair—at least, Fudge saw it as cooperation—and because Rita Skeeter had exposed certain truths when contacting him, Fudge was surprisingly candid when alone with Harry.
In truth, Fudge's tenure as Minister had been anything but authoritative. He'd been battered by criticism from the start, never given the chance to cultivate any real gravitas.
Not to mention ministerial pride—that simply didn't exist.
The world, Muggle and wizarding alike, was spiraling into chaos, and Britain was no exception. If his term wasn't still ongoing, and if he hadn't dreaded the humiliation of resigning in disgrace, Fudge would have fled the job long ago.
"That lot might as well not be Ministry employees, do you understand, Harry?" Fudge sighed deeply. "I don't know if you've heard, but the Department of Mysteries existed long before the Ministry itself was founded. Of course, it wasn't called that back then—I don't know what it was called, and frankly, it doesn't matter."
"They have their own rules," he continued, "and it's not just me who's powerless against them. No Minister in history has ever managed to control them. It's not my fault." Fudge took a disgruntled sip from his teacup before asking, "Why not go to Dumbledore? A wizard like him would surely know a way to get you in."
"I can't reach Dumbledore," Harry said gravely. "I've tried calling for Fawkes, but there's been no response. The last time we spoke was about a week ago, but I don't know exactly when I lost contact."
"Wait, hold on!" Fudge sat up straight, eyes bulging. "You're saying—Dumbledore's missing?!"
"Exactly," Harry nodded.
"Dumbledore?"
"Yes."
"The Headmaster of Hogwarts? President of the International Confederation of Wizards? Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot?"
"Yes."
"The greatest wizard of our time? The modern Merlin?"
"I didn't know he'd earned that title," Harry said dryly, "but yes, we're talking about the same person."
"That's impossible," Fudge declared, his voice firm. "Even I—er, I mean, Dumbledore can't be in trouble. He's Dumbledore!"
Much like Ron's blind faith in Harry, Fudge, despite resenting Dumbledore's overshadowing presence and craving true authority, still believed in him.
"I'm not here to debate how great Dumbledore is," Harry said, exasperated by Fudge's agitation. "I'm telling you the facts. I can't reach Dumbledore, and even Fawkes hasn't responded. Normally, when I call for her, she appears."
"Sounds like your phoenix," Fudge muttered. "Alright, alright. I don't know what you cryptic types are planning, but Dumbledore—Merlin's beard, if he's really gone, what's Britain supposed to do? What's Hogwarts supposed to do?"
Could he, Cornelius Fudge, truly shoulder the weight of the British wizarding world?
Was he capable? Truly?
"I can't tell you much, Minister," Harry said, sensing Fudge's uselessness as the man fidgeted nervously. "But the world—Muggle and wizarding alike—is facing a crisis. As the leader of wizarding Britain, you need to stand—"
CRASH!
The door to Fudge's office burst open, and a frantic Auror stationed outside rushed in, shouting, "Emergency, Minister! Professor McGonagall sent her Patronus—Hogwarts is under attack!"
"Pfft!" Fudge choked, spraying tea everywhere. "What?!"
An attack on Hogwarts was no small matter. As the only designated wizarding school in Britain, any harm to its students would be tantamount to destroying the future of the wizarding world—a responsibility no one could bear. Fudge, as the Minister who failed to protect Hogwarts, would be etched in magical history as a disgrace.
"Why does this keep happening?!" Fudge wailed, still reeling from the shock.
"Who's attacking Hogwarts? How many enemies?" Harry asked, grabbing his suitcase and standing up, ignoring Fudge's meltdown.
"Professor Potter! Thank Merlin you're here!" The Auror, despite his age, visibly relaxed at the sight of Harry. "We don't know the details. Professor McGonagall's Patronus only said to send help immediately before it vanished."
"Got it. Does the Ministry have a Floo connection to Hogwarts?" Harry asked quickly.
"Yes, to the Headmaster's office," Fudge stammered, sweating profusely. "Harry—what if the Ministry is attacked too—"
"Now's not the time for that, Minister," Harry snapped, glaring at him. "I'll head to Hogwarts via the Floo Network immediately. Send Auror reinforcements as soon as possible."
"Y-yes, of course," Fudge mumbled, wiping his brow. "But the Ministry—"
"If anything happens to those students and the Ministry does nothing, you'll face the wrath of every wizard in Britain, Minister."
With that, Harry strode out, suitcase in hand, leaving Fudge behind.
Before Harry reached Hogwarts, let's step back for a broader perspective.
The Scottish Highlands, Hogwarts.
Gilderoy Lockhart had never felt so alive.
Never.
Not even when he'd ambushed that limping old wizard, stolen his stories, his adventures—bah! Some "adventure master," unable to resist a simple Memory Charm.
He'd never forget the thrill and terror of stealing someone's life for the first time, nor the satisfaction and triumph that followed. All glory and honor belonged to Lockhart, for he was the center of the world, and the world should revolve around him.
Yet Lockhart was a thief, and somewhere deep in his heart, he knew it. The fear of being exposed, of being confronted by his victims, of losing everything—it haunted him.
But not anymore.
For the past six months, ever since he became a Hogwarts professor, Lockhart had felt like he was living in hell. But now, it was finally over.
As he strolled along Hogwarts' stone paths, his gaze darted over the elemental spirits—some darting through the courtyards, others streaking through the gaps between castle towers. Students' belongings had come to life, chasing their owners, who shouted in panic. Chaos—the only word that filled Lockhart's mind.
This was the state of Hogwarts lately. No, the state of the entire world.
Such chaos.
And yet, in this moment, that chaos felt... beautiful to Lockhart.
Chaos was good. Chaos was opportunity. Only in chaos could he seize what he wanted. When the dust settled, perhaps he'd even write another book.
My Year as a Hogwarts Professor—he'd already chosen the title.
The content didn't matter much, except for the climax: Lockhart saving Hogwarts, saving its clueless students. It would be the perfect ending, one no one could challenge or change—absolutely not.
"Let's see... this part of the design seems off..." Humming casually, Lockhart sprawled on the floor of a cleared-out dungeon classroom, inspecting a pattern etched into the ground.
Nearby, a group of students—wands confiscated, hands and feet bound, mouths gagged—writhed in terror, tears streaming down their faces, muffled pleas escaping their throats. But Lockhart ignored them, focused entirely on the pattern.
It was drawn in blood—not his own, of course, but the warm, magic-infused blood of the captured students.
Their faces were pale from blood loss, but their fear was even greater. Even the youngest, most inexperienced students could tell that their Defense Against the Dark Arts professor was wielding no benign magic. What kind of spell required human blood? It was unmistakably dark magic, the kind only the most wicked would use. The symbols forming the pattern weren't the elemental runes or Taur-ahe script Harry had shown them, nor the familiar runic alphabet of wizards. This unknown terror pushed the students' sanity to the breaking point.
Lockhart had lured them to secluded spots with various excuses before ambushing them. They'd watched, fully conscious, as he drew their blood to create this sinister magical array. They prayed he was the incompetent fool they'd always thought him to be, but the faint green glow emanating from the unknown symbols told a different story—one that worked.
The array was a reverse pentagram formed by three concentric circles, inscribed with demonic script. If Harry were here, he'd recognize it instantly as text written in the language of demons.
A faint sulfurous smell, its source unknown, began to permeate the air, mingling with the metallic tang of blood. As Lockhart completed the final blood-soaked rune, the dimly glowing symbols seemed to come alive, rising from the floor in swirling green patterns.
The lines, which should have been straight or smooth, twisted unnaturally, as if growing. Yet, when stared at closely, they remained still, etched into the stone.
Lockhart stood at the center of the array, his eyes glazed, as if listening to an unseen voice.
"You are ready," it said, reverberating through his soul.
It wasn't his voice—Lockhart knew that with absolute certainty. It wasn't his true self, nor words he'd spoken.
But it was real, not a delusion.
"Is it... true?" Lockhart's voice grew strange. "If I sacrifice them, I'll gain all their magical talents?"
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