The Ministry of Magic elevator descended with a slow but steady clatter until it reached the deepest and most mysterious level of the entire building. The golden gates swung open with a loud screech, allowing the Minister of Magic, Tom Gaunt, to step out into the silent, dark hallway.
Over the past few days, Voldemort had had a thorn in his side. A persistent and deeply troubling idea that nagged at the back of his mind every time he was alone in his office: the prophecy. His mind knew perfectly well that it was nothing more than nonsense babbled by a mad, sherry-drinking fortune-teller. But even so, having regained his body and sanity, he felt an obsessive need to hear it for himself. He needed to confront the words that had shaped his destiny.
He walked down a torch-lit corridor glowing with a soft blue fire until he reached a smooth, black door. Passing through it, he entered a large circular room.
Voldemort looked down. The floor was so incredibly polished that it looked like a mirror, reflecting his handsome image back at him. Around him were twelve identical doors, without handles or any markings. The walls began to spin rapidly—a trick of the Department of Mysteries to disorient intruders—but for an Archmage like him, this kind of magic was completely transparent.
When the movement came to a halt, Voldemort didn't even hesitate. He walked straight to the correct door and pushed it open.
As he opened it, he found himself in the gloomy, cold Death Chamber. The ancient stone archway, whispering promises from behind its torn veil, stood in the center, surrounded by stone tiers arranged in a descending pattern.
Several Unspeakables, dressed in their characteristic gray hooded robes, were on site taking measurements. Upon noticing the Minister's presence, they stopped their work immediately. Without asking questions, they offered him a slight, respectful bow.
Tom Gaunt returned the greeting with a polite nod as he walked along the edge of the tiers.
As he moved forward, he couldn't help but feel surprised once again at the ineptitude of the previous government. Fudge had ruled incompetently, earning the silent contempt of his subordinates. Voldemort, on the other hand, by making only minor structural changes, purging the useless, and demonstrating true power to keep everything in order, had managed to make everyone in the Ministry seem to truly respect and appreciate him. Ruling, he realized, was much easier when the gears ran with complete efficiency.
He opened the next door and entered the Brain Room. The atmosphere here was damp and gave off a smell ranging from food beginning to rot to burnt oil.
In the center of the room, floating lazily inside a huge tank of green liquid, were the brains the Unspeakables were studying. Voldemort's attention soon shifted away from the specimens and focused on the figure standing in front of the glass.
A woman, dressed in the Unspeakables' gray robes, was tapping the glass of the tank with the tip of her wand, teasing the brains into bouncing while she chuckled softly with a slightly deranged tone.
Voldemort shook his head, a hint of amusement crossing his face. He crept closer, and when he was close enough—right behind her—he whispered her name.
"Bellatrix, what are you doing?"
The woman jumped violently, spinning around with her wand raised, ready to attack. But upon seeing who it was, she lowered her weapon instantly. Her features, subtly altered by magic, stretched into a broad smile.
Voldemort had cast a powerful transformation spell on her. Her once wild hair was now straight and chestnut-brown, and her features had softened to make her look like an ordinary witch, ready to blend into the crowd. It was the perfect disguise. He had infiltrated Bellatrix Lestrange as an Unspeakable within the Department of Mysteries. He had done so for two reasons: first, because he needed to keep a close watch on her bouts of madness, and second, because Bellatrix remained his greatest asset; having her embedded at the heart of the Ministry was something he required.
"My Lord!" Bellatrix greeted him in an excited whisper, making a quick curtsy. "I must admit that this new job is turning out to be far more interesting than I initially expected. There are so many curious things to play with down here!"
Voldemort nodded. Bellatrix straightened up quickly, adopting a slightly more serious posture.
"What is the reason for your visit to this level, if I may ask? Do you need me to mutilate someone?" she asked, a hopeful gleam peeking through her eyes.
The Dark Lord began walking toward the next door.
"Not today, Bella, not today. I'm looking for something in the Hall of Prophecy."
Bellatrix nodded immediately and, without wasting a second, walked a step behind him.
They continued on through a couple more rooms until they finally reached the cold vaults of the Hall of Prophecies. Towering shelves stretched out into the dim light like a graveyard, crammed with small glass orbs that gathered nothing but dust, as the room was used solely to store things that many considered mere superstition.
Tom Gaunt intercepted one of the Ineffables patrolling the area.
"Lead me to where the record of the prophecy about Harry Potter is kept," the Minister ordered.
The Unspeakable blinked for a second, surprised by his boss's very specific request. However, knowing that the Minister had complete authority over the department and that the Minister's affairs were none of his business anyway, he nodded quickly and began walking down the long, dark corridors, counting the rows.
"Row ninety-seven, Minister. Here is what you're looking for," the Unspeakable indicated, pointing to a small orb on one of the lower shelves, before bowing and hurrying away to leave them alone.
When Bellatrix and Voldemort were completely alone in the silent place, the Dark Lord stepped forward. His eyes fixed on the small, yellowed label stuck beneath the shelf:
S.P.T. to A.P.W.B.D. The Dark Lord and (?) Harry Potter.
Voldemort extended his pale hand. Since the prophecy spoke directly of him, the room's magical defenses did not attack him. His fingers closed around the cold crystal sphere and lifted it from its stand.
The crystal ball seemed to come to life in his hand, as a misty light swirled faintly within it, ready to reveal its secrets.
At that moment, Lord Voldemort was surprised to feel no emotion, not even the eagerness to finally know its contents. But as he looked closely at that small, fragile crystal object, a cold, heavy knot formed in his stomach.
He squeezed the sphere tightly. He thought of that night in Godric's Hollow, of the bouncing green beam of light, of his body disintegrating, and of the years of madness that followed the event. But above all that, he thought of the highest price he had paid.
"For this," Voldemort thought with a bitterness so deep it almost burned his throat, "just for chasing the words of this damned, stupid prophecy… I almost lost my family."
He began to infuse a little of his magic into the orb. The mist inside the glass swirled violently, and suddenly—the unmistakable voice of Sybill Trelawney—echoed in the gloom, reciting the prophecy from beginning to end.
"The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches... Born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies... and the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will possess power the Dark Lord does not know... and one of them must die at the hand of the other, for neither can live while the other survives..."
When the last echo of the voice faded among the bookshelves, the light of the orb dimmed until it vanished.
Voldemort closed his eyes and let out a sigh. When he opened his eyes, he looked at the sphere with contempt.
Aurelian had been absolutely right. His son had always been right about this.
He had been a complete and utter fool to blindly believe the words of a mediocre fortune-teller, and even more stupid to follow them to the letter and act when he hadn't even heard the full message. "The Dark Lord will mark him as his equal," he repeated in his mind. He had almost brought about his own downfall. Without his son helping him see reason, he was certain that the stupid boy could have defied him.
What truly annoyed him now was that, because of that past mistake, he would now have to deal with the Potter boy once and for all.
Honestly, Tom was willing to leave him alone. He no longer needed the brat dead; he had the Ministry, he had his son, he had control of the country. Harry Potter was no longer a real threat to his power. But, unfortunately, the boy was a loose end, a symbol for the light side, and a living reminder of his own stupidity. The best course of action was to eliminate him permanently and put an end, once and for all, to that painful and shameful chapter of his life.
Voldemort looked away from the orb and turned to Bellatrix, who had been listening to the prophecy in silence, her brow furrowed beneath her magically altered face.
"Tell me, Bella," Voldemort murmured, weighing the orb in his hand, "what is your opinion on these words?"
Bellatrix narrowed her eyes, analyzing the information with that sharp intelligence often overshadowed only by her even greater madness. She crossed her arms, scratching her chin.
"I really can't give you a definitive answer, my Lord," Bellatrix admitted cautiously. "Prophecies are deceptive and extremely manipulable. But... I believe the best course of action would be to kill the Potter child as soon as possible to avoid taking any unnecessary risks. If the boy is still breathing, Dumbledore will use him. And if, for some reason, that..." Bellatrix extended a finger and pointed at the crystal ball in Voldemort's hands, "…were to come true, we cannot allow him to grow any further."
Voldemort nodded slowly, agreeing with his follower's cold logic.
Immediately afterward, the Dark Lord clenched his fist. The glass cracked under the pressure of his fingers, and with a muffled sound, the sphere shattered. Voldemort dropped the shards to the floor, where they quickly dissolved into a cloud of dust before vanishing completely. He no longer needed it. He would write his own future, not fate.
"As soon as Barty returns from the continent with Wormtail, we'll deal with Potter," Voldemort decreed, brushing the remaining dust from his hands.
Bellatrix bowed deeply at the command, but as she straightened up, curiosity flashed in her eyes.
"My Lord… if I may be so bold," Bellatrix began, tilting her head, "what exactly was the task you entrusted to Barty and that filthy rat on the mainland?"
Voldemort let out a small chuckle that echoed through the room.
"Oh, Bella… I assure you that if I told you what it's about, you would wish with all your being that you were the one tasked with that mission instead of Barty. It's a job… extremely explosive," Voldemort teased her, relishing the confusion on her face. "But you are much more valuable here. Keep doing your work in the department and keep your eyes open for anything."
Turning on his heel, the Minister for Magic set off back toward the elevators, leaving the echoes of the past behind him.
"As you command, my Lord," Bellatrix murmured, bowing one last time toward Voldemort's retreating back.
When she was completely alone among the bookshelves, Bellatrix straightened up. She clicked her tongue and kicked lightly at the air, frowning. She thought with growing annoyance of Bartemius Crouch Jr.
"What on earth is that lunatic doing over there that's so amusing my beloved Lord would hide it from me?" Bellatrix wondered, feeling a sudden wave of envy as she returned to her post in the Brain Room.
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