The Ministry of Magic looked nothing like Hogwarts.
It was sharp angles and shadowed halls, wards so layered even the air buzzed with them. Gone were floating candles and moving staircases—replaced by cold, echoing corridors of polished stone, dimly lit and heavily watched. It smelled faintly of ink, dragon-hide, and something else—like secrets.
Alastor Moody was the first to arrive at the security checkpoint, ten minutes early. His wand was holstered at his wrist, his eyes sharp and alert despite the early hour. He had pressed and re-pressed the crease in his new robes that morning, and now they already looked rumpled from his pacing.
"Name?" the wizard at the desk asked, already bored.
"Alastor Moody."
"Wand?"
Alastor handed it over with hesitation. The security wizard gave it a perfunctory scan and returned it without ceremony. "Training level, lower atrium. Wait by the black door."
Alastor turned away, scanning the grand atrium. The Ministry bustled around him—paper memos flapping overhead, witches and wizards walking briskly to their departments, robes swishing behind them.
Kingsley Shacklebolt arrived next—tall, poised, expression calm. His dark eyes flicked around the space once, memorizing every detail. He moved like someone who didn't need to prove anything but was always quietly measuring everyone in the room.
"Al," he greeted with a grin.
Alastor offered a tight nod, his jaw unclenching just slightly. "I was starting to think you'd slept in."
"You know I don't sleep the night before anything important."
"Did you eat?"
Kingsley raised a brow. "Did you?"
A pause.
"…I had tea."
"Figures."
They both turned at the sound of approaching footsteps—Rufus Scrimgeour, robes perfectly pressed, jaw set with quiet determination. He looked like he belonged here already.
"Look at us," he said with a crooked grin. "Future heroes of the Ministry."
"Or cannon fodder," Alastor muttered.
Rufus smirked. "That too."
They stood together before the black door, a solid, unmarked slab of iron embedded into the stone like it had always been there. No handle. No hinges. Just a smooth surface that pulsed faintly with enchantments.
At precisely eight o'clock, the door hissed open.
They stepped inside.
⸻
The training chamber was nothing like they'd imagined. The stone gave way to a vast, underground space filled with enchantments that shifted the walls, floors, and even light at will. It was part dueling arena, part labyrinth, and part war room. Auror Headquarters sat above it, but this—the training floor—was the forge.
A woman waited for them at the center. Tall, lean, and grim-faced, she wore no cloak. Her robes were dark gray and simple, and her wand was already in her hand.
"Cadets," she said sharply. "My name is Commander Thorne. Welcome to hell."
Alastor grinned.
Thorne's eyes were cold as winter. "You've been chosen because someone believed you might have what it takes. Most of them are wrong. Half of you won't last three months. A quarter of you won't last the year. And if you're still standing at the end of it—you won't be the same people who walked in today."
No one spoke.
Thorne stepped forward, wand flicking with precision. Behind her, a magical board sprang to life with names—twelve recruits in total. Alastor, Kingsley, and Rufus were the only three from Hogwarts.
"You'll work in trios for the first phase. Partners you trust. Partners you'd bleed for."
Alastor glanced sideways—first at Kingsley, then at Rufus.
No words needed.
They were already a unit.
⸻
The first task was simple in theory: navigate a conjured maze, disarm traps, and retrieve a sealed scroll. But "simple" was relative in Auror training.
The walls shifted. Shadows moved. One trainee triggered a curse and was immediately escorted out—wand smoking, robes singed.
But Alastor, Kingsley, and Rufus moved as one.
Kingsley led with observation, analyzing the traps before they stepped too close. Alastor took point in motion, shielding and firing without hesitation. Rufus kept the team grounded, watching their flanks and pulling them back when things got too far.
When the scroll was finally in their hands, they weren't even out of breath.
Thorne watched them from the balcony above, unreadable.
"They're either reckless," one of the other instructors murmured beside her, "or very well-prepared."
Thorne didn't look away. "We'll find out soon enough."
⸻
By the end of the day, the twelve recruits had become nine.
Kingsley sat on the floor, back against the wall, breathing evenly as he unwrapped a bruised hand. "How long do you think we've got before the next trial?"
Alastor slumped beside him, a faint burn mark across his collar. "Long enough to regret this."
Rufus dropped down with a tired sigh. "Speak for yourself. I've never felt more alive."
They were exhausted. Battered. Grinning.
They didn't say it aloud, but each of them knew it:
They had survived the first day. Together.