The Ministry of Magic was on high alert today.
Mr. Potter was paying another visit.
The last time he came, the Ministry had been turned upside down. It was humiliation, it was fear.
Nearly everyone trembled with anxiety.
When Harry and Dumbledore stepped out of the elevator, the Ministry official responsible for visitor security rushed to greet them.
"Welcome, Mr. Potter, Professor Dumbledore." He was so nervous, his voice shook.
Harry nodded at him. "First time's formal, second time's familiar. No need for inspections today, right?"
"Of course!" the man nodded quickly, his voice going high-pitched. "The Ministry places full trust in Mr. Potter."
He led the way.
As they passed the Fountain of Magical Brethren, the statues began trembling, shrinking back, even ceasing to spray water until Harry had walked by. Only then did they return to normal.
The Ministry was taking Harry very seriously.
They even isolated a separate elevator just for him. No other Ministry staff objected—even if they had to squeeze in tight or wait for the next one, they did so willingly.
Within the Ministry walls, Harry's reputation wasn't far off from Voldemort's—at least Voldemort hadn't physically torn the place apart. But Potter? He would—if you crossed him.
Not even memo paper dared fly into his elevator. In fact, there was no room for it to fly.
The Department of Mysteries was one level below the visitor atrium—Level Nine.
Unlike other departments, the elevator opened into a dim corridor lit by a few oil lamps. Waiting at the entrance was a group of Unspeakables, their black robes setting them apart from the rest of the Ministry. They all wore grim expressions, their thinning hair another British hallmark—not likely users of Potter's Hair Regrowth Elixir. Perhaps they figured in this lightless place, appearance didn't matter.
"Mr. Potter, welcome." The balding man at the front spoke, tone devoid of any actual warmth.
"You don't have to pretend," Harry said mildly, stepping off the lift. "No need to force yourself."
A wave of shivers passed through the Ministry staff.
The greeter introduced, "Mr. Potter, this is the Director of the Department of Mysteries, Cairns Flynn."
Flynn. One of those self-important pure-blood British families.
"Cairns, long time no see," Dumbledore greeted warmly.
"Likewise, Professor Dumbledore," Cairns responded, his expression softening slightly.
"Harry," Dumbledore added, "Cairns was once a brilliant Ravenclaw. Back then, I wasn't even headmaster yet, just Head of Gryffindor House."
"I heard you became an Unspeakable right after graduation—didn't expect you'd rise so far."
Cairns looked at him. "You and Mr. Potter would both make fine Unspeakables, actually."
"Unambitious, yet fascinated by magic."
"What do you say, Mr. Potter? You could take over the Department after I retire. All the truths of magic are here."
Harry looked at him. "Mr. Flynn, I'm not that curious about magic."
"You know why I study as hard as I do."
Cairns paused, thoughtful, and nodded.
The corridor was short. As they chatted, they reached the end—a pitch-black door inscribed with ancient runes.
"Magic comes from the heart; it connects to the world," Harry read aloud.
"Your Ancient Runes is quite good," Cairns looked at him, surprised. "Most young wizards overlook that subject—even I did, before becoming an Unspeakable."
He tapped the door lightly with his wand.
Click click—gears turned, and the black door slowly opened.
"So, Mr. Potter, you were so insistent on visiting us. May I ask why?" Cairns led them in, then turned back to ask softly.
"I can understand young wizards being curious about our dusty old department," he added, "but you don't seem the type."
Behind him was the rarely seen interior of the Department of Mysteries.
A hollow hall, dimly lit by eerie blue torches. Surrounding them, twelve identical black doors, each with the same runes as the one outside.
None had labels.
Harry looked up at one door. "The Death Chamber."
Cairns followed his gaze and frowned. "Mr. Potter, have you studied the Department before?"
He had indeed looked straight at the Death Chamber.
It was correct—but deeply unusual.
The Department never disclosed anything to outsiders. Even most wizards only knew of the round hall. What lay beyond the doors? What did the Department actually research?
Even someone like Dumbledore knew little.
And the rooms themselves—completely indistinguishable. New Unspeakables often took months just to learn which door led where.
But Potter, supposedly here for the first time, identified the right door immediately?
"I can smell death," Harry said, smiling faintly as he stepped forward.
And the whispers. They'd started the moment he entered the Department.
A man and a woman—unfamiliar voices, but he knew them: James and Lily. His parents.
And another pair: Geralt and Yennefer. Familiar, real.
Even Vesemir…
They were calling him, luring him.
Cairns followed, staring incredulously at Dumbledore. "He can smell death?"
Dumbledore nodded. "Don't be so shocked, Cairns. Harry's quite perceptive."
Perceptive? Really?
Cairns thought about the recent leaks from within the Department. His expression darkened.
At the door, Harry paused.
Cairns opened it with a flick of his wand.
Only the three of them entered.
A wave of death surged over them—thick and suffocating. The room was massive, even bigger than the outer hall, yet bore no trace of an Extension Charm. It was as though this enormous space had always existed here underground, a funnel-shaped amphitheater of steep, neat stone steps descending inward.
At the center, a stone platform stood—no taller than a desk—holding a crumbling black archway, draped in a tattered veil.
It fluttered slightly, as if beckoning.
The whispers grew louder.
"Professor Dumbledore, are you alright?" Harry turned, clenching his fists.
Dumbledore's stomach cramped. He waved weakly. "Relax, Harry, I'm fine. I've seen it once before."
"Really?" Harry loosened his fists.
They descended.
"I can explain what I'm allowed," Cairns said. "Though perhaps Professor Dumbledore has told you."
"Has anyone ever gone in and returned?" Harry asked.
"I haven't seen it myself," Cairns replied. "But our archives mention it. When the Ministry was founded over two centuries ago, the first Unspeakables studied it in detail."
"Three great wizards entered the veil—"
"Sorry, Harry, I can't reveal names. What happens here stays here."
"They walked through—and never came back."
"What about before the Ministry? Any records of someone entering and returning?" Harry asked.
Cairns paused. "No records, I'm afraid."
"Professor Dumbledore, do the Hallows connect to this place?" Harry asked.
"Of course," Dumbledore nodded.
"Back then I only had the Elder Wand, but I could feel it—it could briefly destroy the veil."
Cairns looked unsure. "The Deathly Hallows… really exist?"
Dumbledore smiled. "Naturally. But keep that to yourself, Cairns. Consider yourself an honorary Unspeakable."
Harry pulled the Invisibility Cloak from the Sorting Hat. "In the tale, it lets you evade death."
He looked at the veil.
"Maybe… if I wear it and walk in, I can come back—brush against death, stand on that edge?"
Dumbledore grabbed his hand. "Harry, it's possible, but—"
Harry pulled away, eyeing him. "Professor, what are you thinking with that honey-roach-soaked brain of yours?"
"Of course I'm not just going to charge in."
He turned to Cairns.
"Yes, Mr. Potter?" Cairns responded quickly—much friendlier now, even smiling.
Suddenly, Potter didn't seem so terrifying.
Truly worthy of his reputation—the rising star of the wizarding world, heir to Gryffindor.
Cairns had noticed now.
The Elder Wand—one Hallow—was in Dumbledore's hand.
The Cloak—another—was in Potter's.
Cairns, you fool!
Why hadn't he been nicer from the start? Build a relationship—maybe one day they'd let him study the Hallows!
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Powerstones?
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