Rain poured from the stormy clouds that shadowed the Quidditch field. Yet it made no difference to the man. He sped through the air, pressing his broom to its maximum performance, seemingly unaffected by the violent winds, his colorful garb soaked through, plastered against his lean frame.
The man swooped past other players, from both the opposing team and his own. He rolled under a well-aimed bludger, and stretched forward. His fingers curled around a small, winged, golden ball. And then the whole sequence began again.
"Good game that," came a nonchalant comment. Samantha Core started, unintentionally slamming her head into the table.
Swearing, she turned around, pushing the auburn hair away from her eyes with her index finger. "What?"
Jarom shrugged, "Good game's all. You've been staring at it for the past twenty minutes, reckoned you thought the same.
"Yeah, I guess so. Just dozed off." Samantha looked back to the day's edition of the Daily Prophet spread out on the desk before her, laying open on the sports page. Self-consciously, she turned a few pages, and tried to focus on an article about reform in the Mexican magical government.
She checked the slim leather band on her wrist. Yes, it was officially yesterday's paper now, and had been for seventeen minutes. She yawned. Actually, she'd gotten used to the odd hours. She just wished the job wasn't so boring. This wasn't at all what she'd had in mind when she'd applied to become an auror.
She was certainly new to the job, having gradated from training less than six months previously. But security work didn't discriminate between age. Tonight, she was sharing her duties with two colleagues: Jarom, who was still young, but her senior by a few years and assignments, and Livingston, who was one of the office's senior members. He was currently the only one taking the job seriously, scrutinizing the sprawling map that represented the ministry of magic. Samantha could make out the three dots representing them; neatly labeled blots of magical ink, nestled in a small room nestled off of the main hall of the ministry's main floor.
If nothing else, she recognized that her assignment was important. After the events of some twenty years previously, when a sizable amount of dark wizards, including he-who-must-not-be-named himself, bypassed ministry security wards and entered the complex. They were mostly apprehended after a heated battle with the Order of the Phoenix, along with a handful of students; however, the incident caused great damage to both ministry property and to the morale of the magical community. The newly appointed Minister of Magic saw fit to impose an armed guard to be present at the offices at all times of day and night.
But still, Samantha hadn't undergone four years of grueling training to sit at a desk and wait for an infiltration that would never occur. She had expected more travel, more adventure, more risk, and, frankly, to be doing something more important. She wanted to be like Harry Potter, for heaven's sake, not some desk jockey. She had twice briefly met the head of the reformed auror office. Harry was not only famous, more recognizable even than the Minister of Magic himself, Kingsley Shacklebolt. He was good, the best, at what he did. He hadn't worked in the field much recently, but that was understandable. He had a family now, and, while still perfectly capable, wasn't as young as he had once been. Some had called his methods in his younger days as unorthodox, and even random and unplanned, yet even the critics couldn't argue with his track record. Both as an auror, and even back as a student. If there was one thing Harry had proved over the past years, he certainly had the luck of the devil.
"Merlin's beard!" Livingston exclaimed. "We've got a reading, a real reading. There's intruders in the ministry," he continued, as Jarom and Samantha crowded to him. He was right, new; black, unlabeled splotches had appeared in the main hall.
Jarom grinned, despite the situation. He clapped Samantha on the back, "It looks like its time to actually do our job."
The three exited and disgruntled auror's spilled out into the main hall. However, there was no crowd of hostile delinquents, as expected, but the main hall was fairly empty. The long marble hall, lined with granite fireplaces, seemed deserted.
Except for one. At the end of the hall, opposite the elevators, there was a man. His back was too them, and his clothing was black and simple: dark long-sleeved shirt, stretched by the impressive muscles beneath, black trousers, and black boots. He stood before the onyx memorial, the wall with the names of those many dead from the Second War inscribed, his head bowed, an almost penitent look about him.
"Excuse me sir," said Jarom loudly, taking the lead. "The Ministry offices are closed, unless to certain authorized individuals."
The man turned slowly, "My apologies," he said in a deep Russian accent. "I was not aware."
His face was shrouded in shadow even as he turned to face them, but Samantha immediately saw the wand in his grip. She screamed, but it as already too late. There was a flash of green light and Jarom collapsed. He was dead before he hit the ground.
Livingston was quicker to react, sending a powerful impending jinx racing toward the man who had just murdered, Jarom. The man knocked the spell aside easily, striding foreward. As he did so, the other intruders made themselves seen. Dark-clad men and women melted out of the shadows, joining the man. Jets of green light shot from the group, and collided with the older man. Livingston was thrown into the air, a limp corpse.
But Samantha was already running. A spell shot past her shoulder, and collided with the wall, severely damaging one of the stone fireplaces. She sprinted toward the elevator, and threw herself inside. The metal doors clanged shut behind her, as if sensing her urgency. Another curse slammed into the shut doors, bending the metal inward, but not penetrating the elevator.
As the elevator dropped downward, Samantha slumped back against the wall and slowly slid the floor, her wand in her lap. This was what she had wanted, so ignorantly. A full-scale infiltration. Two Aurors dead, an indeterminate amount of dark wizards within the Ministry. She had ran, but there was nothing she could have done, not against so many. She had to get help, the auror office, the whole Ministry, she needed to notify them. Samantha tried to slow her breathing, calm herself, it wasn't over yet, she could still do her part.
There was a chime, and the metal grill before her slid open.
And there was the Russian. Staring straight into her eyes, behind him the main hall, just as she had left it a moment before. Somehow, he had manipulated the elevator, bringing it right back where he wanted. She remained motionless; there was nothing she could do.
"Avada Kedevra!"
Russian watched the girl before him jerk, as her nerves were destroyed by the magic, then slump even further, dead. As an afterthought, he brought his boot down on her head; there was a satisfying crunch as her skull ruptured.
The Russian turned back to face his unit. "The ground floor is secure," he said with a smile.
The unit took the stairs. Simpler, and safer. Their leader had himself demonstrated how easy the elevator system could be manipulated. The met know further resistance, and thereby made it quickly to their destination.
The corridor was formed from the same black stone as the entry hall, though not nearly as wide. After making sure the situation was secure, placing two guards at the end of the corridor, the Russian motioned for the trunk to be set down. Balanced between two of the men, it was featureless and made from smooth black wood. Due to the amount of locks, seven, it could be discerned that this was an 'impossible safe', as it was sometimes called. More inside than muggle laws of physics would suggest.
The man nodded, and the men set to work. He tossed them a key, which was easily fitted into the seventh lock. It was turned, and there was a click as the trunk slid open.
The men reached inside, and hauled out a rumpled man, dumping him on the floor. The man stirred, groaning. He was dressed very shabbily, and his gray hair was in disarray. The Russian nudged him onto his back with a single boot. He scrutinized the man's face. Swollen, stubbled, but over all whole. Not the one.
The men resumed, they reached into the trunk, and removed a second man. He was treated less gently, hurled into the wall. He bounced off and fell to his knees. As the man stood unsteadily, leaning on the wall for support. One of the dark wizards tossed a small object at his feet. The man bent over and picked up the pair of round wire-rimmed glasses, and with an impressive amount of defiance, slid them onto his own face. He pushed an unruly strand of dark hair from his green eyes; upon his foreward was a thin red scar in the shape of a bolt of lightning.
"If you all surrender," said Harry Potter. "I promise to be sympathetic. It'd just be a lot easier for all of us."
"What...what's up," slurred the older man, also getting to his feet.
"I think we've been kidnapped, per say."
"Happens to you all the time, I expect," sighed Mundungus Fletcher.
"Yeah, it does."
The Russian man stepped foreward to Harry, no trace of amusement on his face. Harry examined him. He was big, if nothing else. Fit, but broad and tall, visibly muscled. The man was a powerhouse. His hair was shaved closely, and his face looked as though it was carved from stone. The most lively part of it was his cold blue eyes, which were sizing up Harry in turn. They came away less than impressed.
Harry wondered how exactly he had reached this situation. He recognized the lower levels of the Ministry of Magic, yet the last thing he remembered he had been in Cardiff attending a celebratory dinner, commemorating some magical, historical event, he didn't remember, he never had cared for history of magic as a subject. Blame it on the teacher.
He had been abducted, that much was sure. And despite his confident appearance, Harry felt far less than his best. He remembered Mundungus as being there also; palming the silverware, but that didn't explain why he had also been taken.
"So sorry if I sound uninformed," he began, "But what exactly are we doing here."
The Russian answered him, slowly. "We wish for you to assist us in the recovery of an exceedingly valuable object."
"I've heard that one before, and I've learned my lesson. If you want my help, kidnapping me and stuffing me in a truck isn't the way to do it. The answer is no, plain and simple."
The Russian said nothing, he simply punched. Harry had not been expecting the blow, but managed to roll slightly as the man's fist collided with his jaw. He managed to remain standing, but he felt his teeth severely loosened. He had felt the power behind the punch was restrained as well, the man could have taken the head of his shoulders had he wanted to.
Harry coughed, trying to ignore the darkening bruise, "I don't see how harming me would help you get what you want," he mumbled, "just saying."
"Correct," the man nodded. "That was just for fun. Miss Gen?"
Harry knew what was happening before he turned. Mundungus was on the floor, writhing, screaming shrilly. One of the dark wizards, a hard-faced woman, was pointing her wand at him, unmoving.
"Funny thing," said the Russian. "The cruciatus curse. It's usually classified as preferable to the killing variety. However, if applied correctly, it can permanently destroy the victim's mind. A fate worse than death, some would say."
Harry looked away, but he couldn't shut the screams. These people wanted him, not Mundungus. They would have no qualms about killing the man. Meanwhile, Mundungus wouldn't be here if not for Harry, so it would, by default, be his fault.
"Okay, okay, I'll do what I can," Harry sighed. Immediately, the screaming stopped. Panting for breath, Mundungus got to his feet.
"Thanks mate," the smaller man mumbled, before collapsing. Harry caught him, supporting him.
"Dovchenko!" came a voice, a woman, from farther down the corridor, revealing the Russian's name. "You must treat our guests well, they are the key to our ends."
A few more dark wizards came down the corridor to join those already gathered. Making it a group of about fifty. And with them came the girl.
She was the one who had called Dovchenko, the one who, by his reaction, seemed the true leader of the group. Not only that, but there was something about her that just felt wrong, twisted, incorrect, like she shouldn't have existed at all.
That said, she was rather striking. She was slim and tall, about Harry's height. She dressed identically to the others, though the black clothing was more apparent against her incredibly pale skin. Her black hair was straight and cropped neatly about her shoulders. Framing a face that was unblemished and smooth, given an almost elven quality by high cheekbones. Her eyes were green however. Jade, nearly the same color as Harry's own. But by far the most startling thing about her was her youth. While certainly mature, the girl couldn't have been older than eighteen.
She walked to him. She seemed almost to glide, poised with a grace he had never seen before in a witch. "Harry Potter" she said quietly, stopping only when they were a few inches apart. Her accent was odd; mild, but not one he recognized.
She brought her hand up, and touched his scar, tracing it with her finger. He practically expected it to burn, as it had in the past, when in the presence of Voldemort, but he felt quite the opposite, and an intense cold jetted throughout his spin.
"The boy who lived. The savior of the magical realm. The chosen one." Somehow, the terms often used to refer to him in honor sounded the vilest of insults slipping from her lips.
"Do I know you?" he whispered, and the moment was shattered.
"No, you don't," she said, stepping away. "But you knew my mother."
Then, to the dark wizards, "Let's move in, we need to find the correct chamber. Time is wasting, and daylight is approaching. Perhaps you could have been a bit less…cinematic. Imagine if one of the corpses upstairs had managed to alert the authorities."
Harry was seized roughly from behind. He and Mundungus were forced down the corridor, moving with the group of dark wizards.
"Wait," he shouted, "Who are you."
The girl glanced back, "Many things," she answered. "But my name is Natasha Lestrange."