The red-haired man groggily lifted his head, muttering under his breath with sleep-heavy eyes. He fumbled blindly on the desk, grabbing a pair of glasses and slipping them on.
"Ugh…" He blinked, trying to shake off the drowsiness, straining to make out the tall figure standing before him. His voice carried a trace of irritation at being disturbed. "Sir? Who… who are you? What's the matter at this hour?" He clearly mistook Gellert Grindelwald for some wizard with urgent business in the dead of night.
Grindelwald didn't answer the question. He merely fixed the man with his gray eyes and asked calmly, "Are you a Death Eater?"
"A Death Eater?!" Arthur Weasley recoiled as if the term had scalded him, his face twisting with disgust and a flash of insulted fury. "No, of course not! How could I be one of those filthy, vile scoundrels?"
The words burst out before he realized where he was. A shiver ran through him, the color draining from his face as fear overpowered his grogginess.
Mr. Weasley's eyes darted nervously, like a startled rabbit, scanning left and right, dreading that something might be lurking in the shadows, watching.
When he confirmed the empty hall held only the two of them, he let out a long, trembling breath, patting his chest with lingering dread.
He turned back to Grindelwald, his gaze now wary and suspicious, his voice lowered. "Who are you, sir? Why are you asking this?"
As he spoke, Mr. Weasley's hand casually slid downward, stealthily reaching for the wand tucked at his waist.
His fingers had barely brushed the wand's handle when a faint glimmer flashed.
Without warning, Mr. Weasley felt a lightness at his side. His wand slipped from his grasp, arcing through the air and landing neatly in Grindelwald's outstretched hand.
Grindelwald didn't even glance at the wand. He tossed it onto the security desk with a soft clack.
Mr. Weasley's face went pale, his left hand still frozen in a gripping motion, fear etched across his features.
"So," Grindelwald said, looking down at him, his voice still even, "where can I find a Death Eater?"
"Sir," Mr. Weasley swallowed hard, choking back a question. After hesitating for several seconds, he stammered, "What… what do you want with them?"
Grindelwald's gaze didn't waver, but a chill seemed to deepen in his eyes. Mr. Weasley's heart skipped, and he quickly amended, "Er… there's one downstairs…"
"Call him up," Grindelwald said, his eyes flicking to Mr. Weasley's hand, still sneaking glances at the wand on the desk.
Mr. Weasley stiffened, then sighed in resignation. He had no intention of challenging this mysterious wizard, who wielded wandless magic with ease. After all, his family was waiting for him at home, not to mention his wife, pregnant with their newest child.
He slowly raised his hands to show he meant no harm, then stood and walked to a dusty shelf in the corner behind the security desk.
He reached out and lightly tapped a small, unremarkable brass bell.
Ding!
The crisp sound echoed through the cavernous hall.
Moments later, a disheveled barn owl flapped out from a cobweb-covered vent high on the wall. It clutched a struggling field mouse in its beak, landing steadily on the shelf. Ignoring the two men, it deftly swallowed the mouse whole.
Then, with a nonchalant flick of its tail, it left a small, wet pile of fresh droppings on the polished floor.
"Oh, damn it!" Mr. Weasley instinctively reached for his wand, only to grasp at air, remembering it was no longer at his side.
He turned, giving Grindelwald an awkward, helpless smile. "Sorry, sir. These little pests always make a mess…"
Grindelwald didn't so much as blink. With a casual flick of his wand, an invisible breeze swept over the floor, and the mess vanished without a trace.
Mr. Weasley exhaled in relief, grumbling, "Ugh, we use owls to send messages between floors, and the mess is unbelievable—droppings on desks, in corridors, everywhere…"
Still muttering, he cautiously extended his hand. The sated owl glanced at him, then obediently hopped onto his arm.
Mr. Weasley carried the owl back to the desk, opened a drawer, and rummaged out a small piece of parchment and a worn quill.
He glanced at Grindelwald, who gave no reaction, then dipped the quill into a nearly dry ink bottle and scrawled:
Augustus Rookwood, a gentleman in the hall has business with you. Please come to the hall as soon as possible.
He held up the note for Grindelwald to see. When Grindelwald gave a slight nod, Mr. Weasley quickly rolled the parchment, tied it with a bit of string, and secured it to the owl's leg.
Carrying the owl, he walked to a row of lifts not far from the desk and pressed the button marked "Down."
A clatter of metal and the grinding of chains announced the lift's arrival. With a series of clinks, the golden grille slid open.
Mr. Weasley stepped inside with the owl and pressed the button for "Level Nine - Department of Mysteries."
"Go on, little one, deliver this to Augustus Rookwood in the Department of Mysteries," he murmured to the owl.
The owl hooted softly, flapped its wings, and perched on a wooden stand designed for messenger birds.
The grille slammed shut, and the lift rumbled downward with a dull hum.
Mr. Weasley watched it disappear, then slowly shuffled back to the desk, stealing a cautious glance at Grindelwald.
"Death Eaters are openly working at the British Ministry of Magic now?" Grindelwald asked, his tone still calm.
Mr. Weasley's face twisted with a complicated expression. He chose his words carefully, sensing this powerful, mysterious wizard was no ally of Voldemort's, yet he dared not voice anything that could be construed as rebellious.
"Ever since that… gentleman…" His voice dropped to a whisper, "…defeated Professor Albus Dumbledore, everything's changed." He picked his words with care. "Death Eaters don't need to hide anymore."
"There are plenty of them in the Ministry. As for Rookwood, I honestly didn't know he was one. There were no signs…"
Time ticked by. Mr. Weasley occasionally stole glances at the lift entrance and Grindelwald's impassive face.
Finally, the clatter of chains and the groan of the lift echoed again. Mr. Weasley's heart leapt to his throat.
The grille slid open, and a short, stout man with thinning, greasy hair stepped out, clutching the note Mr. Weasley had written. His face was etched with irritation at being interrupted.
"Arthur!" Rookwood snapped, frowning. "What's so urgent that you dragged me up here? I'm in the middle of—"
His words were cut off as a red beam shot from Grindelwald's wand, striking him square in the chest.
"Urgh—" Rookwood let out a brief grunt, his eyes rolling back as he crumpled like a sack of flour.
But before he hit the ground, Grindelwald flicked his wand again.
A tremendous force seized Rookwood's body, yanking him by his robes through the air toward the security desk. The fabric tore under the strain, and his heavy frame slammed onto the floor at Grindelwald's feet, motionless as a dead fish.
Mr. Weasley leapt from his chair, his neck shrinking back, voice trembling. "He… he's the…" He pointed at Rookwood, unable to meet Grindelwald's gaze.
Grindelwald ignored him. He stepped over to the limp Rookwood, nudged his left arm with a toe, then flicked his wand to lift the sleeve.
A dark red mark of a skull and serpent gleamed in the dim light.
Despite bracing himself, Mr. Weasley gasped, stumbling back half a step, horror-struck by the sight of the Dark Mark.
Grindelwald glanced at it and asked lightly, "What time is it, Arthur?"
"Huh?" Mr. Weasley, still reeling from the Mark's terror, blinked, then fumbled to check his watch. "F-Four… four-thirty, sir."
Grindelwald nodded slightly, murmuring as if to himself, "Then we'll wait a bit longer." His gaze drifted to the shifting symbols on the ceiling, lost in thought.
Seizing the moment, Mr. Weasley crept to Rookwood's side, bending to pry the note from his clenched fist. Like it was burning him, he crumpled it and shoved it into his robe pocket.
Mustering his courage, he pleaded, "Sir… can I go now? My shift's almost over, and I swear I won't say a word…"
Grindelwald gave him a measured look and slowly shook his head. "Not yet."
Mr. Weasley's heart sank. He stiffly returned to the desk, but before he could settle, the hardwood chair behind him shifted, floating to Grindelwald's side.
Grindelwald sat with ease, crossing his legs, as if awaiting a grand performance.
Time crawled. Mr. Weasley felt crushed by the weight of dread, his robes soaked with cold sweat, beads dripping from his brow.
At last, Grindelwald seemed to deem the moment right. He rose and approached the unconscious Rookwood.
Under Mr. Weasley's horrified stare, Grindelwald leaned down, expressionless, and grasped Rookwood's limp right hand, pressing his fingers firmly onto the dark pattern on his left arm.
"No—" Mr. Weasley let out an involuntary cry, trembling violently. He could already envision the apocalyptic scene to come, his body going limp, barely able to stand.
As he screamed, Grindelwald released the hand and stood, as if he'd done something trivial. He said calmly to the terrified Mr. Weasley, "You may go."
The words were a reprieve. Driven by instinct and desperate survival, Mr. Weasley scrambled to the desk, snatched his wand, and stumbled toward the nearest gilded fireplace.
He grabbed a handful of Floo powder from a bucket, flung it into the hearth, and shouted with his last ounce of strength, "The Burrow!"
A burst of emerald flames roared up, engulfing him.
Grindelwald smoothed the slight creases in his robes from sitting, settled back into the chair, and waited leisurely. He felt a flicker of curiosity about the imminent arrival of Lord Voldemort, though it was laced with heavy disdain.
The wait was brief.
In the hall, a golden fireplace erupted in a blaze of flames, casting an eerie green glow across the dark wood panels.
A tall, gaunt figure in swirling black robes stepped from the roaring green fire.
Beneath the hood's shadow was a pale, gaunt face, snake-like and terrifying.
The figure's slit-pupiled red eyes locked onto Grindelwald at the security desk.
"You're Voldemort?" Grindelwald rose gracefully, a polite curve to his lips. "Good evening. I've heard some things about you…"
"Avada Kedavra!"
A blinding green beam answered him.
Voldemort had no interest in conversation. Unfathomable rage and icy killing intent flooded the hall.
Facing the Killing Curse, Grindelwald's eyes flashed with scorn. Without moving his feet, he flicked his wrist, and the chair behind him morphed into a wooden shield, materializing before him.
The green light slammed into the shield, bursting in a dazzling flare. The shield shattered into splinters, which twisted into thin vines, snaking toward Voldemort, weaving a cocoon of branches around him.
"Tch," Grindelwald said, irritation creeping into his voice. "You younger generation—don't you have any manners? Not even basic courtesy…"
A furious, piercing shriek erupted from the tightening vine cocoon, drowning out Grindelwald's words and echoing off the hall's vaulted ceiling.
In an instant, the cocoon ceased to bind. Every vine blackened, carbonized, and twisted into a massive, ebony serpent.
It released Voldemort and turned on Grindelwald, hissing with rage.
————
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