Chapter 110: The Ministry of Magic
In the library, Madam Pince lay crumpled on the floor. Hermione's eyes, usually bright with determination, were now wide with a terror she had never known. She couldn't accept that a teacher she saw every day could be gone, just like that.
"No!" The thought came a fraction of a second before the word, and she was already scrambling toward Madam Pince before the cry of anguish left her lips. She knelt beside the librarian, clutching her hand, and was relieved to find that she was still breathing. But there was a gaping hole in her abdomen.
"Run," Madam Pince rasped, blood frothing at the corners of her mouth. The arrow hadn't been a fatal blow, but it had sapped all of her strength. With immediate medical attention from Madam Pomfrey, she would have been fine. But there was no time for that. The enemy was at the door.
She, an adult witch, had been taken down in a single shot. She pushed herself up, leaning on Hermione for support, and cast a hasty spell to stop the bleeding and dull the pain. Hermione could feel the librarian's arm trembling, her fingers digging into her flesh. "Go! Run!" Madam Pince whispered, and pushed the students behind her, hoping to buy them a few precious seconds.
But this was not a movie. The enemy did not wait for them to finish their tearful goodbyes. As Madam Pince prepared to make her last stand, she saw, to her astonishment, that the monstrous centaur statue was now nothing more than a pile of rubble. Two young students, a boy and a girl, stood in the doorway. Perched atop the boy's head was a small, wolf-riding creature, brandishing a large spear.
"Looks like we got here just in time," the boy said.
At the Ministry of Magic, the grand atrium was a gaudy explosion of gold and marble, the very picture of new money. Dumbledore's face, usually a mask of serene wisdom, was alive with a very uncharacteristic expression of distaste for the decor. Professor Flitwick, however, was unfazed, though he seemed to be walking a bit awkwardly, as if he wasn't used to his new height. And the man of the hour, Ryan Welles, soon to be the recipient of the Order of Merlin, Second Class, was observing his "own" reactions with a great deal of detached curiosity.
The assembled witches and wizards, of course, had their own interpretation of the young prophet's demeanor. They saw it as a sign of his humility. He was not being honored for his prophecies, but for his contribution to the wizarding world, for bringing them all closer together with his revolutionary new communicator. The subtext, however, was clear to all the political players in the room: Ryan's powerful backers were rebranding him. He was no longer just a prophet, but a magical prodigy, an alchemical genius, a figure to be trusted and admired.
It must be nice to have friends in high places, many of them thought, including some of the most influential figures in the Ministry. Even though they recognized the brilliance of the communicator, they still saw it as a product of Ryan's connections, not his own talent. It was the age-old story: anything invented before they were born was a natural part of the world; anything invented in their youth was revolutionary; and anything invented after they turned thirty-five was an abomination.
And most of the sycophants buzzing around Ryan were well past thirty-five.
"Master Welles, it is an honor," they gushed, swarming around him. They didn't care about his invention or his long-term plans. All that mattered was getting on his good side. He was the heir apparent to both Dumbledore and Nicolas Flamel. Only a fool, still clinging to the faded glory of Voldemort, would fail to see which way the wind was blowing.
But Ryan Welles, or rather, the person playing him, was unimpressed by the flattery and the champagne. "Ladies and gentlemen," he said, his voice cool and dismissive, "the ceremony is about to begin. Perhaps we can continue this conversation afterward."
He was Ryan Welles, the most powerful prophet of the century, the protégé of Dumbledore and Flamel, the master of the Tower of Wonders. Whether they liked it or not, he was a major player in the wizarding world, and his suggestions were not to be ignored. The crowd of well-wishers quickly dispersed.
"So this is what it's like," the false Ryan whispered to the false Dumbledore and Flitwick.
"Indeed," the false Dumbledore replied with a slight nod. "They will treat you with the utmost respect, regardless of their true feelings."
"But if it were really us here," the false Flitwick added, his voice dripping with scorn, "they wouldn't give us the time of day."
"I've heard of fawning over the powerful," the false Dumbledore said with a smile. "I've never heard of fawning over the weak."
To the casual observer, it was just the three Hogwarts representatives, sharing a quiet, pleasant conversation. The onlookers smiled in response, and the whole atrium was filled with a warm, cheerful atmosphere.
A few moments later, the Minister for Magic, Cornelius Fudge, began his opening remarks, followed by a representative from the Order of Merlin, who read the official declaration of Ryan's award.
Back at Hogwarts, skirmishes continued to break out across the grounds. Some students fought, some protected their classmates, and some followed the golem army as it cut a swath through the invaders. While the wolf-rider Doro and the other students loyal to Ryan were busy driving back the enemy, a lone figure walked calmly through the chaos of the fourth-floor corridor. He stepped through the smoke and flames, past the groaning, crumbling stone, his every step precise and unhurried.
"Fluffy, my dear," he said, pushing open the door.
The three-headed dog, cowering in the corner, tried to put on a brave face, baring its teeth and letting out a low, rumbling growl.
"You are nothing but a beast," the intruder said, and with a flick of his wrist, the dog collapsed into a deep, unnatural sleep.
~~~
Get early access to 50+ advanced chapters on Patreon!
https://www.pat-reon.co-m/c/Hollowborn