Chương 238: Ch228- Power the Dark Lord Knows Not

A year after the Dark Lord's return... Voldemort moved through the Ministry's main corridor as if it already belonged to him. Behind him came the Death Eaters, masked and silent, all but four. Bellatrix at his left with a wide smile. Barty on his right, half-grinning, wand loose in his hand. Rookwood followed a step behind. And Lucian walked half a pace behind Voldemort. The rest were hidden. Painted masks, old designs, some newer, some passed down. To them, this was revolution.

The final strike after a yearlong silence since their Lord's return. The long-awaited second rise. A move to take control of the country, seize the Ministry from inside. But... they didn't know the real aim of their Lord. Voldemort trusted no one but himself. The atrium echoed with footsteps and soft murmurs, Ministry workers heading toward lifts, a few security wizards loitering near the statue. One man from Magical Transportation looked up, blinked at the group, and went pale.

Emptier than it should've been, as if it was emptied before their arrival. He didn't get to say anything. A spell clipped him in the chest and sent him flying across the fountain, robes smoking before he hit the ground. Then everything cracked open. Screams burst down the corridor. A woman dropped her stack of scrolls and sprinted back toward the lifts. A group of wizards bolted from the wand inspection station, knocking over the velvet rope.

One drew his wand, tried to fire something off, Lucian hexed him mid-cast. The man dropped, twitching. Then the defences kicked in. Wards along the walls lit up. A low buzz shivered through the floor. Spells rebounded in rapid bursts as security teams rushed in from the Department of Law Enforcement. The Death Eaters spread. Bellatrix peeled left, laughing as she vanished down a side hall, leaving screams behind her. Barty moved straight into a cluster of Aurors.

Rookwood stayed close to the lifts, picking off anyone trying to reach them. Lucian went for the records wing. Voldemort walked through the centre of it slowly. A bolt of red light missed his shoulder by inches. He didn't flinch. The next moment, the caster was gone. Someone tried to trap him in a containment hex. The walls flared blue. Voldemort lifted his wand. The blue split. The roof cracked. More screams. The floor began to shake. Spells whipped past columns.

A guard threw himself at Rookwood, got flung through a door without a spell being spoken. A young witch sprinted down the corridor with her wand drawn, yelling for backup. Bellatrix's spell took her mid-stride. She dropped like a puppet.

"We need containment!" a voice shouted from the east stairwell.

"Block off the Atrium, now!" Three Aurors slid into cover behind the reception desk, firing controlled volleys. Rookwood ducked, brows furrowed, as if something wasn't right. He dropped, flung a return spell, dark, twisted. One of the Aurors slammed into the wall and didn't move again. His eyes darting around. Two squads of Ministry Defence stood their ground at the threshold. Robes charmed to resist spells, shields stacked thick, eyes fixed. One barked a command.

"Drop your wands!" The Death Eaters laughed.

"Last warning!" The man raised his shield, wand braced behind.

"You breach this hall, we won't ask again." Lucian stepped forward.

"You won't get another chance to." Spells flared. A chain of concussive blasts lit up the corridor, black-red sparks tearing across the walls. The line broke under impact. One man screamed, another staggered back, blood pouring down his side. Bellatrix leapt past them, wand blazing.

"How's that for an invitation!" One more blast hit the statue, blew the wand clean off the witch's hand. Marble scattered. Half the fountain cracked open. Across the floor, Ministry seals began to burn. Still, a few held. Aurors kept firing from hallways. Curse-breakers showed up near the stairwells, drawing runes mid-spell, flinging trap curses into walls. Rookwood broke the final ward on the records wing with a twist of his wand and vanished inside. Two people tried to follow him in. They didn't come out.

Ministry staff scrambled in all directions now. Some backed into empty lifts that didn't move. Others vanished down staff corridors. One witch had her wand up, pointed straight at him. Voldemort looked at her. Didn't even raise his wand. She collapsed.

"Control the corridors!" Lucian broke off to the flank.

"Push north to the Department of Mysteries! We hold the Hall last!" Barty raised both hands. Fire burst from the chandeliers, raining down. He laughed over the noise. Voldemort stepped through what was left of the golden gates. Behind him, the hallway was ash and smoke. None of it slowed him. His cloak stirred as he passed the shattered Ministry seal. Ahead, black doors waited. The Department of Mysteries sat behind the next corridor, buried under layers of wards, unsaid laws, and badly-kept secrets.

Now he'd come back to take what belonged to him. He raised his wand. The runes peeled back. The entrance to the Department of Mysteries opened without a sound. He stepped through the threshold. The room beyond was wide and dark, round, with spinning doors and shifting walls, designed to confuse intruders, trap them in loops. A weak trick. One door creaked open. He took it. The Hall of Prophecies stretched out before him. Endless rows of glass, stacked high and humming faintly. No torches here.

The shelves lit themselves from within, casting pale glow over every orb. Row Ninety-Seven. He stopped. There. A thin, dust-covered sphere sat at the centre of the shelf. Faint gold light inside. Label wrapped around it. SPT to APWBD Dark Lord and? (Harry Potter) His mouth curled. He reached out then stopped. A figure stepped out from the far end of the row. Cloaked. Hood drawn up. No face visible. Voldemort didn't move. Neither did the figure. The air turned colder. He looked at the cloak.

Old, rough, with runes he didn't recognise. Not Egyptian. Not Celtic. Deep cuts, carved like something biting into it. This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it"Move," Voldemort said. No answer. The figure tapped the stone. Voldemort's wand rose.

"You stand between me and knowledge I am owed. Move aside." Still no answer. The figure struck the floor again. Magic surged through the rows. The prophecies hissed. Glass cracked. One orb exploded in the distance, splinters rattling down the shelves. Voldemort raised his wand. The cloaked figure's hands rose. Pointed straight at him. Voldemort cast. Green light flared across the Hall of Prophecy, heading straight to the figure. The figure stood within reach of death, no shield raised.

Whatever trickery this was, it had reached its end. A smile split Voldemort's face. But the figure moved. Striking down, splitting the Killing Curse in two. Voldemort stared in shock as the two streams of his spell fell behind the figure. The figure lowered one hand, raising the other. Another pulse rolled through the air. The lights in the entire Hall blinked out. The Hall held. Then a low hum, like a storm gathering the throat. The rows of shelves behind Voldemort began to shake. He turned slightly.

All the spheres behind him were glowing now. Every one. He looked back at the figure. Then... Magic broke loose... But that moment still lay months in the future.

A week after Dark Lord's return... Voldemort sat at the centre of the hall, elbow hooked over the carved arm of the Selwyn Manor throne. Bellatrix hovered at his left, eyes glittering, half-drunk on proximity. Barty stood on his right, fidgeting with the edge of his sleeve with his metal hand. Behind them, Lucian stood stiff as a board beside Rookwood. The rest knelt across the floor. Rows of black robes and bent heads. Voldemort wasn't looking at any of them.

His eyes were fixed past the walls, past the manor, past anything that could be seen by anyone else in the room. Like he'd stepped out of his body mid-thought and hadn't quite remembered to return. Bellatrix shifted in his direction.

"My Lord?" Voldemort didn't react.

"Is something-""Quiet." The word cracked through the room sharper than a curse. Bellatrix shrank back, wide-eyed. No one else moved. Still, he didn't speak. His fingers tapped against the chair, then stopped again. Lucian glanced toward Rookwood. The older man shook his head. He will have power the Dark Lord knows not... The line looped, again and again in his head. The words bit deeper every time they passed through. Power the Dark Lord knows not. The Rosier had spells he didn't recognise.

Voldemort had seen a couple. Those weren't taught at Hogwarts. Dumbledore didn't know those spells. He was sure of it. Did he learn them from Flamels? Voldemort leaned back slowly. He tapped a long finger against the arm of the chair. Prophecy... After his fall, he started to mind them. Power the Dark Lord knows not... He gritted his teeth. Cassian Rosier had walked into Hogwarts on family connections, run lectures. And they let him. Gave him a classroom. Students. A seat at the table.

He smiled in the face of Ministry oversight. Laughed at duel threats. Taught spells to teenagers, like it was the only thing he cared about. Voldemort had mapped every bloodline. Dug through tombs for forgotten rites. Killed men for less than this. Magic didn't surprise him anymore. Or so he thought. Cassian Rosier had spells that slipped past his grasp. Old, maybe. Or worse, new. And if they were new, someone was capable of creating magic he couldn't understand.

"Lucian," Voldemort said, voice quiet. Lucian scrambled forward, knee hitting stone.

"Yes, my Lord." Voldemort looked down at him.

"Where does your brother learn those spells? Are they Rosier secrets?" Lucian shook his head.

"No, my Lord. No one in the family knows. I asked my father. My grandfather too. They both said I shouldn't meddle in Cassy's business." Voldemort made a low sound in his throat. Then flicked his fingers. Lucian rose, stepped back into place. Before anyone could speak, the doors slammed open. Everyone turned. Wands shifted under cloaks. Lucius Malfoy stumbled inside, robes torn, streaks of blood on one sleeve, hair half undone. He dropped to his knees.

"My Lord." Voldemort's eyes sharpened.

"What happened?" Lucius kept his head down.

"Nott called me to assist. His boy was rebelling. I went to help... bring him in line." Silence prickled across the hall.

"We were in his house. Trying to talk sense into the boy," Lucius continued.

"Then a dragon hit us." A few heads lifted.

"A dragon?" Goyle Sr said, disbelieving. Lucius grit his teeth.

"And that wasn't the worst of it." Bellatrix tilted her head, smile twitching.

"The house," Lucius said, voice tight, "the garden. The flowers. All of it moved." He breathed in sharp through his teeth.

"The trellis tore itself off the wall and wrapped around Nott's legs. The flowerbeds came up in chunks. Roots, thick ones, burst from under the paving and split it open. One of them snapped the wand clean out of my hand." He paused. His hands shook.

"I grabbed the boy. I got to him. Thought we were clear, then the flowerbed underneath him cracked. It opened. Roots pulled him straight in." He looked up then. Pale. Bloody at the temple.

"It didn't kill him. It took him. It took the boy away. But Nott... he couldn't make it." Rookwood's jaw worked soundlessly.

"It's Cassy," Barty said, snorting, as if the thought still offended him.

"Has to be. He and his whore had a dragon. I saw it myself." Bellatrix tilted her head.

"Didn't he lose his magic?" Barty blinked, then shrugged.

"Yes. Maybe it was the whore." Voldemort's fingers curled loose, as if holding something invisible. He turned his head slowly. Looked past Lucius, past the floor of kneeling Death Eaters, past the heavy doors. Power the Dark Lord knows not.

"Get ready to raid the Ministry in a year."

Cassian sat slouched in the armchair across from Regulus and Magnus, hands resting on his knees. Regulus stared.

"You lost your magic?"

"That's the fifth time you've asked."

"Well, say it slower." Cassian scratched at his jaw.

"Yeah. The Cup took it." Regulus's frown deepened so hard it looked permanent. Across from him, Magnus let out a short sigh and reached for his pipe. Cassian leaned his head back, staring at the ceiling.

"I stepped in. The Cup flared up. Big show, dramatic glow, and then, poof. Nothing." Magnus squinted at him.

"You mean nothing as in-""Gone. Nil. Zilch. I tried to light a bloody Lumos and it laughed at me." Regulus gave a short, breathless laugh.

"Back to where you started." Cassian squinted at him.

"You can say that." Magnus tapped ash into the tray.

"Go back and rest." Cassian pushed to his feet. Just up and out, one hand shoved into his pocket, the other curling tighter the longer he walked. His room was quiet. Towel had left food on the table, half-covered with a tea towel and still warm. Bit of rice, curry, some flatbread. There was also a folded newspaper and a stack of letters someone had dumped into a basket. Cassian sat. Towel hadn't left tea. Rude. He pulled the paper closer. AZKABAN BREACHED. AGAIN. He scanned the rest. Third breach in five years.

Bellatrix Lestrange, Augustus Rookwood, Antonin Dolohov, Walden Macnair, and six others remain unaccounted for. Cassian let the paper drop. His jaw clicked as he clenched it. He leaned forward, elbows on knees, fingers laced tight. Did he regret it? No. He didn't. Stopping the Tournament looked stupid now, sure. But at the time, waiting wasn't an option he could afford. He'd run that moment over so many times, it was starting to look like a looped film reel.

If he hadn't stopped it, Cedric would've reached the Cup first. And what then? What would Barty do to him? Bathsheda had answered that. No Cassian in Hogwarts meant Cedric died. Simple. And Potter? Could he escape again? He'd done it, according to her. Dragged himself out of Voldemort's grip like some cursed escape artist, even brought Cedric's dead body with himself. But things had changed. Cassian had changed them. Barty was there this time. So were the Death Eaters. The Longbottoms...

Would Harry have summoned the Cup and escaped again? Cassian rubbed a hand down his face. He couldn't bet on that. He wouldn't. But it cost him his magic. He sighed and dragged the pile closer. The first few letters were harmless, mostly fussing. McGonagall asking after his health. Neville's gran offering soup and unsolicited potions advice. Bathilda's handwriting popped up on two envelopes, both neatly written, one with notes about her new book, the other a snide "don't die before sending feedback."

He flicked through the rest. Three from former students. Tonks mocking him being weaker than her now. The last envelope stopped him. Plain parchment. No seal. No sender. He slit it open with the knife Towel set for the meat. Splotchy ink. Some red marks. Hand must've been shaking. A smear crossed the P in 'please'. Ink. Or blood. Or both. Cassian stared at it. Sir... please help me. -Theo Cassian didn't move for a second. Then he crushed the letter in one hand.

Bathsheda stared down at her left ring finger. The rune there pulsed. Then again. Calming her restless heart. The room was packed. Ji stood near the hearth, arms folded, shoulders square. The Flamels flanked the desk. Dumbledore, as usual, lurked by the window.

"Cassian's information saved us a chunk of time," Ji said, eyes squinted.

"Mingyu admitting the Feng Shui Marauder lives and that they're working together gives the Flamels what they need." Nicolas gave a nod.

"Tomorrow," Ji said, "we make it official. I'll host you at the tower. Then I expose the network." He looked to Albus, then Bathsheda.

"I want containment. Everyone in the school held in place. Albus and Bathsheda. No one leaves. No owls. No Floo. No Portkeys. Nothing." Bathsheda gave a sharp nod.

"What about staff?"

"Contain them too. If anyone pushes, throw them into stasis." Ji turned toward the map again.

"I'll trigger the dragons. Wards go up as soon as the meeting starts." Bathsheda took a breath. The rune thrummed again. Slower this time. She could feel her heart syncing to it. Dragons, containment, a public takedown. Cassian would've loved it.