Voldemort moved through the Ministry’s main corridor as if it already belonged to him.

Behind him came the Death Eaters, masked all but four. Bellatrix, Barty, Rookwood and Lucian.

The atrium seemed active, clerks moving all around. One man from Magical Transportation looked up, blinked at the group, and went pale. He didn’t get to say anything. A spell clipped him in the chest and sent him flying across the fountain, robes smoking before he hit the ground.

Then everything cracked open.

Screams. Scrambling. Papers hit the floor. Wands came up.

Rookwood cast cleanly, disarmed a man near the lifts, flicked him sideways. Still, as he stepped forward, something off nagged at him. The man had dropped like a sack.

The Death Eaters broke formation. Bellatrix peeled off left. Barty stormed into a crowd. Lucian turned toward the records wing.

Voldemort walked through the centre of it slowly. A bolt of red light missed his shoulder by inches. He didn’t flinch. The next moment, the caster was gone.

The marble cracked underfoot. The statue fractured. The witch’s wand blew off, marble scattering. Across the floor, Ministry seals began to burn.

A curse struck Rookwood in the shoulder. He hissed, but the frown deepened. Bellatrix flicked a spell. A man stumbled.

Voldemort stepped through what was left of the golden gates, boots echoing against the scorched marble. Behind him, the hallway was ash and smoke. Ahead, black doors waited. The Department of Mysteries sat behind the next corridor, buried under layers of wards. Now he’d come back to take what belonged to him.

The Hall of Prophecies stretched out before him. Endless rows of glass, stacked high and humming.

Row Ninety-Seven.

He stopped.

There.

A dust-covered sphere sat at the centre of the shelf. Faint gold light inside. Label wrapped around it.

SPT to APWBD

Dark Lord and ? (Harry Potter)

His mouth curled.

He reached out then stopped.

A figure stepped out from the far end of the row. Cloaked. Hood drawn up. No face visible. He was holding a staff.

Voldemort didn’t move. Neither did the figure.

The cloaked figure’s staff pointed straight at Voldemort.

Voldemort cast.

Green light flared across the Hall of Prophecies, heading straight to the figure.

The figure stood within reach of death, no shield raised. The curse tore across the Hall, green light cutting a straight line through the rows of glass. Voldemort’s mouth curled, pleased.

“Cassian!”

Dumbledore’s shout ripped through the chamber. He moved to help, alas it was too late.

Cassian moved. The staff came down in a sharp arc, wood striking air with a sound like stone splitting ice. The Killing Curse hit the staff and… broke.

The green light tore in two, shearing off at angles that shattered prophecy shelves on either side. The force slammed outward. Wind tore through the corridor, cloaks snapping, shards skidding across the floor. Dumbledore threw an arm up, eyes wide, caught between shock and relief.

Voldemort froze. He was so shocked, he didn’t even turn to smirk at Dumbledore.

For the first time since stepping into the Ministry, he did not advance.

“Tch,” Cassian said. “That’s archival damage. Do you know how long it takes to re‑catalogue this lot?”

Voldemort stared at him.

Dumbledore found his voice. “Cassian.”

“Give me a second,” Cassian said, without turning. “He’s being rude.”

Voldemort’s eyes flicked to the staff. Runes cut deep into the grain, nothing decorative about them.

“What are those runes?” Voldemort asked. Remembering part of the prophecy he heard years ago. ‘Power the Dark Lord knows not.’

Cassian grinned at him. “You think it’s the staff? Cute.”

He turned half over his shoulder. “This noseless bastard is fun.”

Dumbledore didn’t answer.

He was staring at the spot where the curse had split. At the shelves still shaking from impact. At the staff in Cassian’s hand.

The Killing Curse was absolute. It didn’t break. Not unless something else took the spell and died for you. One exception existed in recorded history, and even that one still came with arguments and half‑theories that made academics drink.

Before he could speak again, boots scraped stone behind Voldemort.

“Still playing the fool, Cassy?”

Lucian.

Another voice, colder. “You never did know when to shut up.”

Barty.

And that was the set.

Cassian turned. “Brilliant. And here I thought I wouldn’t see your ugly mugs.”

Lucian strode in first. Robes high-collared, wand loose at his side. Barty followed a half-step behind, face pale.

Cassian looked to Dumbledore. “Can you handle Snakeface?”

Dumbledore’s wand was already out, his other hand shifting behind his back. “Leave him to me.”

Cassian nodded and stepped to the side.

“Alright then,” he said. “I’ve got a family reunion to ruin.”

Lucian’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “You’re not supposed to be here, Cassy. I’ve heard you lost your magic.”

Cassian gave an exaggerated sigh, like someone had just told him the pub was out of crisps. “I did. Will you pity me? For old days’ sake.”

Barty laughed under his breath coldly. “For old days’ sake, sure. Let’s reminisce.”

His wand snapped forward.

“Fulmen Septrio!”

Lightning twisted through the air, cracking between the shelves.

Cassian moved sideways. He ducked behind the row to his right, staff catching the trailing spark and deflecting it across the ceiling with a hiss. A shower of stone fragments rained down.

Lucian’s wand sparked. “Ardens Vitreus.”

The prophecy shelves ignited, thin rings of flame blooming along the glass. The heat hit first. Then the sound. Cassian swiped his staff and the flame bent. Smoke curled backwards, sucked into the stone.

He kept moving, one row to the next. Closer now.

Lucian stepped forward. “Aero Spicula!”

Blades. Shimmering, translucent, carved from wind and magic. A cluster of them arced out. Fast.

Cassian spun the staff, let the runes burn across its length. The blades hit and dispersed, wind turning sharp to smoke, then curling off into nothing.

“You know this spell too? I am surprised.” he said, ducking behind another column.

Barty aimed. “Crepa Ossis!”

Cassian raised the staff one-handed, caught the spell midair. It fizzed. Rattled the wood. A thin vibration ran through the shaft. He bared his teeth, stepped again. Shorter distance now.

Lucian raised his wand high. “Rota Umbra!”

The world tilted.

Shadows twisted around Cassian’s feet, thick as water. The row behind him shrank, shelves warping inward like they’d been pulled through a pinhole. Pressure closed in around his skull. Cassian didn’t slow. He muttered through his teeth, slammed the staff to the floor. The shadow buckled. One step. Another. A third. The air snapped back.

Lucian swore.

“Illusions? In front of me? Really?” Cassian said, voice dry.

Barty moved into his flank.

“Confringo!”

Cassian dropped. The spell cracked open the shelf behind him, glass exploding like shrapnel. He rolled. A second curse missed his ribs by inches. He came up low, staff sweeping wide, knocking Barty’s wrist aside.

Barty stumbled.

Lucian’s smile was thinner now. “Still hiding behind sticks and tricks?”

Cassian’s eyes narrowed. “You used to be more creative. Must’ve left your spine at the feet of your master.”

Barty aimed again. “Cruc-“

The staff cracked against his wrist. The spell went wide. He cried out. Staff also fell from Cassian’s hand.

Lucian stepped into view, wand high. “You’re out of tricks, Cassy.”

Cassian raised his hand.

Barty was already lunging for his wand, fingers scrabbling across broken tile. He caught it, spun it toward Cassian just in time to see him smile.

“You think it’s the staff, don’t you?”

The staff at his feet cracked down the middle, then began to fold in on itself, melting like wax left too long in the sun. The runes hissed, flared and burned out.

Only a wand remained. It zipped into the air and smacked into Cassian’s hand.

His fingers closed around it.

“If that’s your conclusion, you’re as stupid as your master.”

Lucian’s wand snapped up on instinct, half a shield already forming. The spell faltered.

Lucian froze.

Barty stared.

Cassian flexed his wrist. “Three months. I’ve trained every minute, every hour of those three months. Drilled it into my bones.”

It was true.

This was the second Ancient Variant of the Shield Charm.

Protego Fracta.

Awakened last year after he’d taught four schools. Four ways of casting. Four approaches to the same shield charm. Emotion, structure, repetition, stillness.

Fracta didn’t simply block. It was an ancient Druid counter-shield designed to shear incoming spells at the moment of contact. When cast with perfect timing and precise aim, at the exact point where a hostile spell would hit, the barrier carved the magic into diverging paths. Split its intent. Cut through its momentum. Unmade it.

Even the Killing Curse.

But the margin for error was nonexistent.

Too early and too late, and you took the full hit. And with something like Avada Kedavra, that meant one thing… death.

It was one of two spells he could still use when his magic was gone. When he’d been trading shots with Sirius earlier that year he hadn’t been dodging only. He was splitting spells into shreds. Was a bit easier, since Sirius wasn’t trying to kill him.

“Oh, just so you know…” His grin spread, wide and lazy, as if sharing a bedtime story. “I haven’t actually lost my magic. This was me warming up.”

Lucian’s mouth pulled tight. Barty blinked, lips parting. No clever line came out. Lucian had faced monsters before. His grandfather was one. Voldemort was another. But strangely, this felt worse.

Cassian took a step forward, wand still relaxed at his side. “Next part’s less fun. That’s when I make you regret walking into this room.”

***

Rookwood’s wand arm was starting to shake. He tried to stand steady, but the twitch in his shoulder wouldn’t stop. Sweat rolled down the side of his neck. The floor beneath them had cracked, scorched from repeated impacts.

Across from him, Magnus Rosier wasn’t breathing hard at all. The old bastard stood unfazed, robes scorched at the edges, sleeves rolled back to his elbows.

Rookwood fired a hex wide, reflex at this point more than plan, and got nothing for it but smoke. Magnus didn’t even lift his wand this time. He tilted his head, eyes sharp under the grey fringe, and stepped to the side.

Rookwood knew this was bad. He’d known the man was a monster. Everyone did. Half a century back, Magnus, the Curse-Eater, was a feared name, he was the reason other monsters got nervous. And now, looking at the way Magnus moved, how he read each step before Rookwood even twitched, he realised something else.

Age hadn’t dulled the bastard at all.

A gout of flame licked across the side wall, cast from another corridor. A crash followed, then a scream cut short. Rookwood turned his head to catch the tail-end of Bellatrix duelling Kingsley and Charity.

Bellatrix laughed through it all, twisting mid-air, robes trailing smoke as spells flew past her like she was dancing.

He looked again at the others, scattered across different wings of the false Ministry floor. One of the Lestranges was already down. Avery wasn’t moving. A few masked Death Eaters still fought, but the lines were buckling.

Rookwood then realised why everything felt off since they stepped in.

They weren’t in the Ministry. Well, not really.

He knew this spell.

They’d only ever called it a theory. An artificial space, a magical construct that mirrored the real world, built to confuse, to trap. He’d seen early prototypes of it while he was still an Unspeakable. Back then, it was half-finished junk, too unstable to use. The structure collapsed under spell pressure. Time warped. Doors led to walls.

It seemed they’d finished it.

Rookwood stepped back, trying not to show the twitch in his hand.

Behind them, Bellatrix screamed something and was nearly blown back by a joint spell from Kingsley and Charity. She hit the wall hard, rolling, then scrambled up again, blood trickling down her cheek. Still laughing.

Rookwood’s grip tightened. His spell fizzled out before he cast it. Magnus raised his wand.

Rookwood fired first. A scatter-curse, meant to disorient.

Magnus didn’t even flinch. He batted the curse aside with a lazy arc of his wand. The spell hit a Death Eater wanting to ambush him.

The old man sighed. “That’s enough.”

Rookwood knelt, one hand to the floor, sweat stinging his eyes.

And he knew, sooner than anyone else, that they’d lost.

(Check Here)

Bathsheda saw a reality where readers responded. She lost her mind after it.

—

To Read up to 50 advance Chapters and support me…

patreon.com/thefanficgod1

Please drop a comment and like the chapter!

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep