Harry Potter and the Silent Guardian

The Floo network, glowing emerald green in every atrium fireplace, announced the arrival of Ministry officials. Low-level employees stumbled out first, their faces pale under the eerie light. They stepped into what they thought would be a normal morning—only to find themselves on a battlefield.

The Ministry atrium, once a shining symbol of order, lay in ruins. Broken marble covered the floor, torn tapestries flapped from broken walls, and the air still sizzled with leftover magic. Dozens of masked figures lay stunned like discarded dolls, and two notorious dark lords slumped in defeat at the center of it all.

Then, higher-ranking officials appeared. Leading them was Cornelius Fudge, Minister of Magic, his expression swinging from anger to shock as he marched into the atrium with his chest puffed out. He froze as soon as he took in the devastation—the shattered floor, the unconscious Dark wizards, and finally, the kneeling form of Albus Dumbledore, twisted in agony. His gaze then locked on the glowing figure of Harry Potter, who stood in the midst of the wreckage.

"What in Merlin's name… what is going on here?!" Fudge sputtered, his voice cracking with a mix of alarm and indignation. He turned to Amelia Bones, standing nearby with a grim, calm look. "Amelia! Explain yourself! What is this… this carnage?"

Amelia stepped forward, speaking in a composed, official manner that cut through the chaos. "Minister, we received an urgent alert about powerful Dark magic inside the Ministry. We responded and… as you can see, the threat has been contained." She gestured to the fallen Dark wizards, then specifically at Grindelwald and Voldemort.

Fudge followed her gaze, and his eyes widened to a ridiculous degree. He stumbled forward, legs shaking, once he recognized the two infamous figures: Grindelwald, still radiating a faint aura of malevolence, and Voldemort, his snake-like face slack and unconscious. A ripple of hushed, panicked whispers ran through the crowd of Ministry officials. Grindelwald? Voldemort? Both alive? Could the rumors flying around all year be true?

Fudge's face paled further, if that were possible. He sensed, with sickening certainty, that his carefully crafted political career was collapsing. How could he possibly spin this? His campaign against Charles Potter and Dumbledore, his Ministry's denial of Dark activity—now all of it lay shattered, just like the pieces of marble strewn about the floor.

Following Amelia's directions, the Aurors quickly started securing the captured Dark wizards and evaluating the damage. Meanwhile, Harry turned away. His task was finished. The Ministry, with its swarm of personnel, had taken over, and he had no desire to remain in the spotlight.

He gave one last glance at Voldemort and Grindelwald, lying at his feet. They belonged to the Ministry's jurisdiction now. He felt no triumph, no anger—just a quiet sense of finality. The prophecy and all its absurdities had led to this point. Maybe "vanquish" meant more than one outcome.

Walking across the rubble, Harry approached Sirius, who stood off to the side, sporting a relieved grin. Harry ignored the baffled stares and hushed whispers from the Ministry workers, who were only beginning to grasp that he alone had defeated two of history's most terrifying Dark Lords. Let them stare. Let Fudge worry. It was no longer Harry's concern.

But just as he reached Sirius, a soft sob broke through the low buzz of voices. Charles. Harry turned to see his younger brother kneeling beside Dumbledore, the old Headmaster's head resting in his lap. Despite everything, despite the manipulations and the misplaced fame, Charles clearly held genuine affection for Dumbledore. Dumbledore had, after all, been consistently kind and supportive to him, the chosen one, the Boy-Who-Lived. Now, seeing him on the brink of death, writhing in silent agony, Charles was heartbroken.

Fawkes the phoenix perched near Dumbledore, his brilliant feathers dim with sorrow. Silvery tears dripped from Fawkes's eyes onto Dumbledore's mangled hand, but even a phoenix's miraculous tears had no effect on the merciless curse ravaging him. Black veins marred the Headmaster's entire form, the final marks of a creeping demise.

"Help him! Please, someone help Professor Dumbledore!" Charles cried out, voice thick with tears as he begged the crowd around them.

A mediwitch with a resolute air pushed through the bystanders and knelt at Dumbledore's side. She performed a swift diagnostic spell with her wand, her movements quick and certain. After a moment, she stood, shaking her head, her expression solemn.

Harry approached, despite a faint reluctance. He looked down at Dumbledore—pale, sweaty, struggling for each breath. The curse had spread everywhere. Even with Harry's knowledge of healing spells and Dark magic, he knew there was no cure now. It was far too late.

Tear-tracked, Charles raised his head, his gaze pleading. "Harry… you can do something, can't you? You saved everyone else today… you can save him too, can't you?" After watching Harry's overwhelming power in battle, Charles clung to the fragile hope that his older brother could accomplish any miracle.

Harry met Charles's tearful stare, then turned his attention to Dumbledore once more. He shook his head in a quiet yet firm refusal. The curse was advanced, the Headmaster too old and weakened. Even his abilities had limits.

Another hush settled over the atrium, the onlookers holding their breath as Dumbledore's breathing became shallower and his movements more feeble. Finally, with one last unsteady exhale, Dumbledore went still. His once-bright eyes flicked open briefly, directing a final gaze at Harry. His lips moved in a faint whisper—"Sorry." It was too late for that, and Harry felt nothing, no anger, no relief, no sadness. Just a sense of emptiness.

Fawkes, perched on Dumbledore's shoulder, released a mournful, aching cry that echoed through the ruined hall, silencing every voice. Then, in a brilliant flash of crimson and gold, the phoenix vanished. A single note of sorrow lingered in the air, underscoring the Headmaster's passing.

Harry turned away. He had no wish to remain here, to become the center of more attention, or to deal with the avalanche of shock and rumors. Exhaustion pressed down on him—physical and emotional. He just wanted to leave and get some rest. Enough had happened tonight.

But fate had other ideas. Abruptly, a harsh, throaty growl echoed in the silence, followed by a strange swirling noise. Everyone in the atrium, Aurors, officials, Order members, turned as one, their wands instinctively rising again.

From the spot where Grindelwald had collapsed near the broken fountain, a coil of dark, acrid smoke rose like a living shadow. It twisted in midair, swirling viciously as if taking shape. A figure began to emerge from the darkness.

Grindelwald, awake. And something about him was… different.