She is immortal, born in the highlands of Scotland over three hundred years ago. She is not alone. There are others like her – some good, some evil. For centuries she has battled the forces of darkness, with holy ground and Hogwarts Castle her only refuges. She cannot die, unless you take her head, and with it her power, for in the end, there can be only one. Among the wizarding world, she is Minerva McGonagall, Deputy Headmistress and Professor of Transfiguration at Hogwarts. But in the Game of the Immortals, she is Fiona MacLeod – the Highlander.

*Highlander: The Series version of Princes Of The Universe plays*

Chapter 7

In the dim-lit chambers of Malfoy Manor, the Death Eaters gathered around the long, dark table. Their black robes pooled like shadows around them, and the air was thick with anticipation. Lord Voldemort sat at the head, his pale fingers curled tightly around the armrest of his chair, his red eyes glowing with a hunger for knowledge.

A hushed murmur rippled through the group. Lucius Malfoy, ever the obedient servant, leaned forward, his expression betraying a mixture of unease and curiosity. "My Lord, the prophecy... it's true, isn't it?" Voldemort's voice slithered through the air, cold and commanding. "The prophecy is true, Lucius. And it is mine. All that remains is to claim it."

Bellatrix Lestrange, her black eyes gleaming with fervour, laughed a low, breathy laugh. "The prophecy is within. Soon, we'll have everything we need to end this war, to destroy the Potters and anyone else who stands in our way."

Voldemort's lips curled into a sneer. "Yes, everything we need... except for one small detail." The room fell into tense silence. Lucius, his eyes locked on the dark lord, raised a pale blonde eyebrow. "What do you mean, my Lord?" Voldemort turned his gaze to one of his spies. "Rookwood… explain to Lucius." Rookwood hesitated, choosing his words carefully. "A prophecy... cannot be claimed by just anyone. You see, it is bound to the very essence of those it concerns. Only those truly part of the prophecy may touch it. There is a binding magic, a law, that requires a subject of a prophecy to remove it from the Hall. It can only be claimed by one the prophecy speaks of."

The Death Eaters exchanged looks of confusion. Bellatrix's lips curled in a sneer, clearly disbelieving. "That's impossible! How could the prophecy know who is worthy to claim it? It is an object, not a living thing!" Rookwood nodded slowly; his expression unreadable. "You may believe that, and yet it is so. Only one the prophecy speaks of—either you, my Lord, or Potter—can even touch it, let alone remove it from its place on the shelf. If someone else tries... they will fail. Even if they were to use a method of removing it from the shelf without directly touching it, say, knocking it off the shelf with a stick and onto a cushion, they would still suffer the consequences when they tried to leave the Hall of Prophecy. Nor can the prophecies be Summoned, Hovered, or affected by any other spell that makes an object move without being touched."

A silence fell over the room, and the implications of Rookwood's words hit the Death Eaters with a harsh force. The idea that the prophecy could only be claimed by Harry Potter, the very person they sought to destroy, sent a wave of unease through the group. Lucius Malfoy's hand tightened around his wand. A low murmur swept through the group as the significance of the revelation hit them like a curse.

Bellatrix let out a strangled gasp, her face twisting with confusion. "But... then... what must we do, my Lord?" "It is simple, Bella. We shall assault the Ministry, but quietly. Once it is empty for the night. Rookwood, you shall be our guide through the Department of Mysteries. Lucius, discover the soonest opportunity for this to happen."

With a final flick of his wrist, Voldemort dismissed the meeting. The Death Eaters filed out, their faces a mixture of excitement and dread. In the flickering candlelight of the Manor, one thing was certain—the next stage of the war had begun. And it would begin with an assault upon the Ministry of Magic.

Three nights later

The night of the raid on the Ministry arrived, and the Death Eaters descended like a swarm of locusts, their dark forms swirling through the halls of the Ministry in a deadly blur. Their goal was clear—reach the Hall of Prophecy and claim the prize.

They made their way swiftly through the Ministry, their cloaks billowing like shadows in the dark corridors. Bellatrix was in the lead, her face twisted with excitement, her wand raised, prepared for the fight that was sure to come. But Voldemort's mind was elsewhere, consumed by the knowledge that the prophecy would not be so easily obtained. Only he or Harry Potter, the boy who lived, could claim it.

"You know what is at stake," Voldemort said, his voice cold and commanding. "The prophecy is within our grasp. Once it is in my hands, nothing—nothing—will stop me from destroying the Potter boy and fulfilling my destiny." A dark smirk crossed Voldemort's face. "The prophecy will be mine. I will make it so."

At the entrance to the Department of Mysteries, they encountered the first of many obstacles. The Department was protected by layers of complex enchantments, each one designed by the Unspeakables to thwart intruders. But what one Unspeakable could put up, another could take down, and Rookwood did so.

The shelves stretched high into the air, filled with thousands of glowing orbs. Each orb contained a prophecy—one for every person in the wizarding world whose fate had been foretold. It was an overwhelming sight, and the realization struck Voldemort with the force of a physical blow. The prophecy he sought was here. Thanks to their previous attempt at stealing the prophecy, by Imperiusing the now deceased Broderick Bode, Voldemort and the Death Eaters knew that it would be found in row ninety-seven. They quickly reached it, and Voldemort strode down the row, before stopping suddenly. The Death Eaters froze, knowing what this signified. Their lord was displeased.

Then Voldemort spoke, his voice as low as the grave, filled with an ominous tone. "Lucius. Explain why you did not know of this. Your answer shall determine how long you suffer the Cruciatus."

Lucius looked up; eyes wide with confusion. "What do you mean, my Lord?"

Voldemort hissed and pointed, and the room fell deathly still as the Death Eaters followed their lord's finger and gaze. Voldemort's red eyes were locked onto the place where the glowing orb should have been. All that sat there was a dusty stand and a label. They were too late.