Thank you for the great support of this story and all the kind comments! You all are amazing!
This chapter was not planned as is, but it just flowed and I think it worked out pretty well, feel free to give me feedback in the comments!
Without further ado, have fun!
Silver glinted, catching the light as the spinning arrows danced across the smooth surface of the desk. Each whirred and pulsed with an internal light, casting fleeting shadows across the darkened office.
"How did they not breach the wards yet?"
The cloaked figure watched intently, a loud huff escaping his concealed lips. The air crackled with tension, a palpable weight pressing down on the room.
The insistent hum of the spinning arrows filled the silence. Then a flicker. One of the silver darts stuttered, its light dimming for a fraction of a second before resuming its frantic dance. The cloaked figure leaned closer, his breath catching in his throat. Another flicker, this time from a different arrow. It too dimmed, the light within sputtering like a dying candle. It didn't turn on again.
The arrows suddenly stopped their frantic spinning, now moving in a more cohesive way.
"Finally," the cloaked figure sighed, relief clearly audible in his strained voice. "The wards fell."
But the brief break from worrying came to a sudden end.
More flickers followed. Soon, a wave of dimming swept across the silver arrows, their once-bright luminescence fading into a dull, sickly yellow, slowly losing more of its brightness with every second.
"Fuck!" the cloaked figure yelled, the pure distress of the man distinct. "The boy is injured."
The intercom rune started to glow a brilliant blue, telling him that a message from Martin would come through momentarily.
Martin's booming voice sliced through the muted office. "Team Alpha just reported that —"
"Quiet!" the cloaked figure bellowed, his gaze never leaving the faltering arrows. The sight of them still darkening sent dread through him. "Send a message. Tell Ace the target is severely wounded." The cloaked figure paused, his eyes gleaming with an icy fire.
"And Martin," he added, his voice low and dangerous. "Tell him to hurry. We might not get another chance. Potter cannot die."
"Aye, boss."
He hoped the team would arrive early enough and could save the young man. Should Harry Potter die, the war would be virtually over. He didn't have a single person strong enough to defeat the Dark Lord and Albus Dumbledore's morals prevented the Grand Sorcerer from finally getting rid of Tom Riddle. They would be doomed if Harry Potter were to lose his life today.
The cloaked figure stood motionless, his gaze fixed on the slowly moving silver arrows, frustrated with the limited information he had. The uncertainty was draining the man. Each flicker, each dip in their luminescence, sent a jolt of anxiety through him. Time seemed to stretch, each second an eternity as he waited, a prisoner of his own making.
How much easier had it been when he was still on active duty. When he had been on the front, helping the teams. But he had gotten too old, not fit enough for the challenging tasks anymore.
The flickering intensified. Some arrows pulsed weakly, their light threatening to extinguish entirely. An icy dread crept up his spine. He knew what that meant. The boy was slipping away.
"Come on, Harry," he muttered, his voice raspy with tension. "Fight."
And then, just as he thought the lights would extinguish for good, the flickering subsided just as suddenly as it began. Slowly, agonisingly slowly, the arrows began to brighten, their luminescence returning hope like a long awaited sunrise. He watched, transfixed, as one by one, the arrows regained their brilliance, their dance regaining its frantic energy. Relief washed over him, leaving him weak. He gripped the edge of the desk, his knuckles white with the force of it.
A loud high-pitched chime echoed through the office as the communication rune on his desk pulsed a frantic red light. The team's messages are going to be transmitted to him as well.
"Boss," a gruff voice, Ace, one of his most capable operatives and the alpha team's leader, crackled through the speaker. "Auror and target found. Target in bad shape. Aph preps them for evac. No approx yet. Wolfie on guard. Black on ward stones now."
"Good," the cloaked figure breathed, the word heavy with relief. "Info about hostiles?"
A beat of silence, then. "two zero dispatched on arrival. TR just arrived. Att, Max, and I engage, but…"
The cloaked figure's blood ran cold. "But?"
Wolfie's voice was tight with strain. "We are outmatched. Won't hold long."
Fuck.
"Use everything necessary to bring the target here." the cloaked figure's voice was tinged with a deep sadness. They would probably lose many of their operatives today. But it was necessary. Harry Potter needed to survive, to be brought to them. "I'm sorry, Ace. Godspeed"
"Affirm, Boss. It was an honour. Over and out."
Ace raised his hand, a silent signal, and Att and Max, flanking him like the shadows they were, followed him towards the apparition point of the Dark Lord.
"Everybody clear?" He asked his team, receiving nods from his two friends. "We know our mission. Delay TR. Go!"
Three against one. Easy, some might call it. But it was not any usual adversary they were going to stand against, but one of the most powerful dark wizards in modern times. What they were planning to do was suicide. But some fights you simply didn't back down from, no matter the odds. Not when the fate of their world hung in the balance.
Harry Potter needed to be safe, Ace knew that. He had the future of the wizarding world in his hand. If he died today, Tom Riddle would be impossible to stop. It wasn't the time yet for Harry to fight the Dark Lord, he still needed to be prepared.
Voldemort materialised from a wreath of black smoke in front of them in the alley of the small muggle village. His crimson gaze swept over the ravaged houses, lingering for a moment on the shimmering shield protecting their remaining two operators and the targets. His pale lips twisted in a cruel smile.
"So, my faithful Death Eaters lie dead, their worthless lives extinguished by … you?" His voice, high and cold, cut through the air. "Playing heroes, are we?"
Silence. The hooded figures didn't move, didn't speak. Their defiance, their unwavering stillness, was more unsettling than any grand display of magic.
"Bring me Harry Potter and I will let you live," Voldemort purred, the sound like silk scraping over broken glass. "Maybe I will even reward you."
Still nothing. Not even the slightest twitch ran through the alpha team. Not a syllable uttered, just endless, suffocating silence, that was only broken by the occasional crackling of the surrounding fires.
There was nothing to say, nothing that would change the outcome of this fight. They would not give him the satisfaction of seeing their fear. Not when every second earned was a moment closer to Harry reaching safety.
"Very well," the Dark Lord ground through his clenched teeth, fury audible in his voice. "Have it your way."
The first spell came as a blinding jet of green light, swift and deadly. Ace rolled, feeling the heat as it singed his robes as he countered with a piercing curse, carefully aimed at Voldemort's wand arm. It hit its mark, but the Dark Lord merely laughed, the sound like shattering of glass, the pierced hole in his arm completely ignored.
"I'm invincible," he gloated, the hole already growing back together, only leaving a dark-purple scar on his forearm. "Give me the Potter boy and you will get a quick death."
The air crackled with raw magic as the three operatives unleashed a torrent of spells: Blasting Curses, Organ-Liquifiers and other nasty curses they'd picked up from the darker side of their line of work. Each one was dodged with effortless grace, deflected or swallowed by the vortex of dark energy swirling around Voldemort. He was a whirlwind of malevolent power, toying with them, herding them toward their inevitable end.
But they were the best for a reason. Att, a master of shields, kept a shimmering barrier between them and the worst of Voldemort's attacks, quickly dispatching of the Unforgivables with conjured slabs of marble. Max, a duelist with reflexes honed to perfection, weaved around the spells, returning fire with deadly accuracy. Every curse, every jinx, every hex was aimed to maim, to slow him down, to buy Harry and the others just a few more precious seconds.
He was their leader, their rock, when the tide seemed to roll over them. Supporting each of his mates whenever necessary, he seamlessly switched between his two roles, barking a command or two every few seconds.
Their teamwork was seamless, a dance of death they'd practised countless times, though never for an audience like this. They moved as one, covering each other's weaknesses, anticipating each other's moves, like they had trained for so many years. Their magic was a unified force against the storm of dark energy, barely holding Voldemort's onslaught of vicious spells back.
Voldemort, for all his power, seemed almost annoyed by their resilience. He hadn't expected such resistance, not from Unspeakables. They were a research unit, after all, and didn't have any reason to have fighters this capable. They were ants beneath his feet, yet they clung to his ankles, biting, stinging, refusing to be swept aside.
"You are powerful," Voldemort hissed, his eyes narrowed, "but, ultimately, insignificant."
He raised his wand, and the surrounding air grew heavy, oppressive. "Let me show you true magic."
A wave of pure, undiluted magic erupted from his wand, pitch black, cold and utterly devastating. It slammed into Att's shield, seemingly having no effect on the golden shimmering barrier. The unbelievably powerful, steady stream of magic flowed into the shield, getting absorbed by the strong magical protection. Ace was thinking the Dark Lord had overestimated his power, right when he noticed a slight glow being emanated from Att's chest.
"Att, stop the shield now!" he shouted, panic in his voice. This couldn't be good. It wasn't what was supposed to happen with this exact shield.
The bloodshot eyes of his friend stared at him. "I can't. My magic doesn't respond anymore." Came a strangled whisper from Att's lips. "Run, Ace."
"COVER!" was the only thing the team leader could shout before his friend's chest exploded like a bomb, sending rays of magic everywhere. Only moments before the strands of pure magic could hit them, both of the remaining operatives hastily conjured big slabs of marble, blocking their path. The force of the impact sent Ace and Max flying backwards, crashing into the cobblestone street.
Ace struggled to breathe, pain lancing through his ribs. He saw Att, or rather his head, laying a few feet away, his eyes wide in shock and pain. Max was propped against a wall, blood trickling down his chin, his wand lying broken beside him.
They were out of time.
"Pathetic," Voldemort sneered, approaching slowly, savouring their defeat. "Did you truly believe you could stand against me?"
Ace laughed, a dry, rasping sound. "No," he croaked, pushing himself up on one elbow, "But that wasn't the objective."
A flicker of understanding crossed Voldemort's face, replacing his triumphant smirk. "You …" he began, his voice dangerously low, "you were merely a distraction."
His gaze darted to the shimmering barrier. It pulsed with an unnatural energy now, the air around it thrumming. He could sense it - a potent cocktail of ancient magic and raw power. The people behind those wards were performing a powerful ritual, and these … insects … had bought them the time they needed.
"Activate." A sharp, triumphant cry echoed from within the barrier, muffled but audible enough. Before he had any chance of putting anti-transportation wards up, they were gone, Voldemort knew it. The realisation was visible on his face, the look of pure fury tinged with a pinch of fear, showed Ace everything he needed to know.
They had succeeded. Harry Potter would be safe, able to fight another day.
"You dare?" Voldemort spat, each word laced with venom. "You insignificant creatures dared to defy me?"
Ace coughed, a splatter of blood staining his lips, but his voice remained steadily devoid of fear. "He lives to fight another day, Tom," he rasped, a defiant smirk twisting his bloodstained features. "And that's all that matters."
Max, leaning heavily against the rubble, echoed his sentiment, a bloody grin splitting his face. "We did it, brother," he wheezed, his voice barely a whisper. "He's safe."
"Fools!" Voldemort roared, his voice cracking with rage. "Do you think your pathetic sacrifice will mean anything? I will find him. I will find them all, and they will pay for this!"
The Dark Lord raised his wand, a maelstrom of dark energy gathering at its tip, his features twisted in a mask of pure hatred. "But you," he hissed, his voice dripping with malice, "you will not live to see it."
Good luck, Harry Potter. Make our sacrifice count.
It was Gideon Prewett's last thought before a flash of sickly green light hit him and his brother.
The air felt like it was filled with static, thick with the residue of dark magic, a grim testament to the carnage that had unfolded. Dumbledore landed softly amidst the wreckage, his heart heavy with a growing dread. The sweet scent of hot chocolate, once a comforting aroma from the nearby cafe, now mingled nauseatingly with the metallic tang of blood. He surveyed the scene, his gaze swept over splintered wood, shattered glass, and the still forms scattered amongst the debris. Each lifeless face was a hammer blow to his already burdened heart.
He recognised the signs of a dark ritual: scorched earth, strange symbols etched into what remained of the cobblestone street. Death Eaters. They had grown bolder, more brazen in their attacks. A shiver, colder than the lingering chill of magic, ran down his spine. It was an unwelcome echo of a past he had hoped never to relive.
His eyes, however, searched for one specific figure amongst the chaos. He muttered the locating spell, his voice a low rasp, but the familiar pull of Harry's presence remained frustratingly absent.
Where was the boy?
Those wards, he realised while examining the shimmering barrier that currently flickered around parts of the village, were unlike anything he'd encountered. Old magic, yes, but woven with an intricate web of modern enchantments, amplifying its potency tenfold. Someone had gone to great lengths to secure the house in front of him. But why?
His gaze fell upon three figures, their cloaked forms strangely untouched by the surrounding devastation. They stood unmoving, like sentinels in the aftermath of a storm. A flicker of hope, faint yet insistent, sparked within him. Could they hold the answers he sought?
He moved towards them, his steps measured, each one a careful calculation against the unknown. As he reached out, not to touch, not yet, but to draw back their hoods, a faint hum resonated from beneath their cloaks. He recognised the telltale shimmer of a Portkey activating, too late to stop it.
Three blinding flashes of light, one after the other, and then silence. The cloaked figures were gone.
A chill permeated the room, emanating not from the stone walls or the night air creeping through the open door, but from the magical wards that engulfed the entire complex in its protective blanket.
Just moments ago, Croaker had felt a heart wrenching stab into his intestines, an unbelievable pain he had only been subjected to twice before. It had happened right after his instruments tracking Harry Potter had burst into sparks by an energy he couldn't understand. The feeling of hot, blunt knives dug deeper and deeper in his gullet, spreading the fiery feeling throughout his whole body.
On that fateful day forty years ago, when his wife had died while in the organisation's duty, was the first time Croaker had been punished for his mistakes, for his overconfidence in their training. He had lost himself in continuing their efforts ever after, not willing to accept his wife died for nothing, a death that wouldn't change the world if he didn't fight for her legacy. It was time to finish the Dark Lord for good this time, rid the evil from the face of earth.
The second instance of the wards' punishments had happened mere hours later, causing him even more pain and almost snapping his mentality. It had been a close call, and only his close friend had saved him from the inevitable madness that had begun to overcome the once powerful magician.
Today, the wards were furious. Not only had one of his operatives died, he understood that much. It would be a dark day in the organisation's history, tainted by the death of three close friends, two people he had worked with for many years. He didn't know how many it was yet, or if they accomplished the main objective: Rescuing Harry Potter.
Croakers' thoughts were suddenly put to a halt, as Martin entered the room.
"I've already given Arc the news. He is preparing to contact the families and prepare the burial," the towering man spoke softly, sorrow deeply ingrained in his features. "It was a tough decision, Croaker. But you should know that both Arc and I are standing behind you. You did what was necessary, even if it cost us many lives."
The face of their training officer was uncharacteristically soft, willing Croaker to believe him. It wouldn't do for one of their leaders to fall back into the hole of darkness they had barely escaped only a few years ago.
Croaker sighed, his shoulders sacking back. "Thank you, Martin." They had been friends ever since he had come here, supported each other through every backlash and fight necessary, and with Arc they made a team that was able to accomplish almost anything. But not anymore. They were old, not as powerful anymore as they had once been.
The new generation had taken over only a couple of years ago, well trained and supported with every single method the trio could think about. They had focussed their own strengths together, achieving a much stronger and more resilient Alliance.
"What is the status of the mission, Martin?" He had to know. Was the sacrifice made by his friends enough? Did Harry Potter survive? Was the Dark Lord still defeatable?
"The mission … was a success, mate," Martin exclaimed, but his unsteady voice betrayed the agony that Croaker felt as well. They had both lost friends, companions for years and most importantly: Family.
"Ace?"
"He … fulfilled his objective, Croaker. But at the ultimate cost."
The still hooded man remained silent. He didn't need to ask. The silence itself was an expectation, a demand for every gruesome detail.
"It took significantly longer to stabilise Harry than expected. Ace, Att, and Max held the line, but … they are gone. Voldemort's fury demolished them mere seconds before Aph and Wolfie could extract the Auror and Harry."
Croaker turned slowly, the dim light briefly illuminating his hazel eyes. "And what about Harry?"
"Alive. Barely. The remaining team brought him to our Hospital Wing. He is under constant surveillance, should anything change. He is on the brink, Croaker. He may not …"
But the man held up his hand in a silencing manner. "Harry is strong. He'll recover." His voice was filled with a chilling certainty, the distorted sound of it unwavering.
Martin fidgeted for a few seconds before he spoke again. "We may have a problem, bud. The girl I was supposed to recruit … she was still with him." The enormous man shuffled his feet, not knowing how to tell his old friend what had happened in the last minutes of the village's battle.
"What happened, Martin? What has thrown you out of balance so much?" Croaker questioned, his voice retaking the steely glint that had been absent for most of their conversation.
"Aph explained that the potential recruit owed Harry a life debt. She believes the girl is in love with the boy."
"That is not a problem, right? Love is a powerful magic that should be used."
Martin visibly grinned, remembering the many lessons of arcane magic and how much he had learned from the mentor in front of him. "True, but when Aph told the recruit that Harry was going to die and there wasn't anything she could do, the Auror combined their both magical cores in an attempt to supply Harry with enough energy to heal."
Croaker stiffened, shock freezing him into place momentarily. "She did WHAT?"
"Their magic … is now intertwined, bud. The healers are baffled. They say they've never encountered such a thing. Aph's ritual was only supposed to transmit power, but …"
Now Croaker got agitated. All the stuttering and beating around a bush didn't help them right now. "MARTIN! Tell me what happened!"
"Their magic never left each other's core. Both of their magic is basically a perfect mixture. We don't know how that will affect each of them and will have to wait until they wake to conduct further tests."
Only the future would show what had happened to the pair and how it would affect Harry Potter and Nymphadora Tonks. Croaker desperately hoped that the joining of their cores would provide a benefit. It may even be "The power the dark lord knew not". Love, even if not yet acknowledged, was a powerful protector, a magic much more powerful than anything else he had ever researched.
"Details of this discussion will not leave this room. I will meet Arc to get him up to speed. Take a break Martin."
Thank you Reynair for editing this story once again, you are a great help and speed up my writing a ton.
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