The red-haired man groggily lifted his head, mumbling sleepily. He fumbled across the desk, grabbing a pair of glasses and slipping them on.
"Ugh…" He blinked, trying to shake off the drowsiness, squinting at the tall figure standing before him.
His voice carried a hint of irritation at being disturbed. "Sir? Who—who are you? What's the matter at this hour?" Clearly, he mistook Grindelwald for some wizard with urgent late-night business.
Grindelwald didn't answer. He just fixed his gray eyes on the man and asked calmly, "Are you a Death Eater?"
"Death Eater?!" Arthur Weasley recoiled as if the word burned him, his face twisting with disgust and insulted fury. He blurted out, "No, of course not! How could I be one of those filthy, vile scoundrels?"
Only after shouting did he realize where he was. A shiver ran through him, and the color drained from his face, fear instantly overriding his sleepiness.
Mr. Weasley's eyes darted around like a startled rabbit, scanning the shadows for anything lurking.
When he confirmed the empty hall held only the two of them, he let out a long, trembling breath, patting his chest with lingering dread.
He looked back at Grindelwald, his gaze now wary and suspicious. Lowering his voice, he demanded, "Who are you, sir? Why are you asking this?"
As he spoke, Mr. Weasley's hand casually slid downward, inching toward the wand tucked at his waist.
His fingers barely brushed the handle when a faint glimmer flashed.
Without warning, Mr. Weasley felt his waist lighten. His wand flew from his grip, arcing through the air and landing neatly in Grindelwald's outstretched hand.
Grindelwald didn't even glance at the wand, tossing it onto the security desk with a soft clack.
Mr. Weasley's face went pale. His left hand froze in a gripping motion, his expression pure panic.
"So," Grindelwald said, looming over him, his voice still even, "where can I find a Death Eater?"
"Sir," Mr. Weasley swallowed hard, choking back his questions. After a long hesitation, he ventured, "Why are you looking for them?"
Grindelwald's gaze didn't shift, but the chill in it seemed to deepen. Mr. Weasley flinched and quickly backtracked. "There's one downstairs."
"Call him up," Grindelwald said, his eyes flicking to Mr. Weasley's hand, still sneaking glances at the wand on the desk.
Mr. Weasley stiffened, then sighed in resignation. He had no intention of tangling with this mysterious wizard, who wielded silent spells with ease. His family was waiting for him, and his wife was pregnant with their next child.
He raised his hands slowly, showing no threat, then stood and shuffled to a dusty rack in the corner behind the desk.
He reached out and tapped a small, unremarkable brass bell.
Ding!
The clear chime echoed through the cavernous hall.
Moments later, a disheveled barn owl flapped out of a cobweb-covered vent high on the wall.
Clutching a squirming field mouse in its beak, it landed steadily on the rack. Ignoring the two men, it gulped down the mouse with practiced efficiency.
Then, with a nonchalant plop, it left a fresh, steaming pile of droppings on the polished floor.
"Oh, for Merlin's sake!" Mr. Weasley instinctively reached for his wand, only to grasp air. He remembered it wasn't there.
He turned, giving Grindelwald an awkward, helpless smile. "Sorry, sir. These little pests always make a mess—"
Grindelwald barely twitched an eyelid. With a casual flick of his wand, an invisible breeze swept over the floor, vanishing the mess without a trace.
Mr. Weasley exhaled in relief, grumbling, "Ugh, we use owls to send messages between floors, and the mess is unbelievable. Droppings on desks, in corridors—"
Still muttering, he cautiously extended his hand. The sated owl gave him a glance before hopping onto his arm.
Mr. Weasley carried the owl back to the desk, opened a drawer, and rummaged for a small scrap of parchment and a worn quill.
He glanced at Grindelwald, who gave no reaction, then dipped the quill into a half-dried ink bottle and scrawled:
Augustus Rookwood, a gentleman in the atrium needs to see you. Please come up promptly.
He held the note up for Grindelwald to inspect. When Grindelwald gave a slight nod, Mr. Weasley quickly rolled the parchment, tying it to the owl's leg with a bit of string.
Carrying the owl, he walked to a row of lifts near the desk and pressed the "down" button.
A clatter of metal and chains announced the lift's arrival. With a series of dings and clanks, the golden grille slid open.
Mr. Weasley stepped inside with the owl, pressing the button for "Level Nine – Department of Mysteries."
"Go on, little fella, deliver this to Augustus Rookwood in the Department of Mysteries," he murmured to the owl.
The owl hooted softly, flapped its wings, and perched on a wooden stand meant for messenger birds.
The grille clanged shut, and the lift rumbled downward.
Mr. Weasley watched it vanish, then trudged back to the desk, stealing a cautious glance at Grindelwald.
"Death Eaters are openly working at the British Ministry now?" Grindelwald asked, his tone still calm.
Mr. Weasley's face twisted with a complicated expression. He chose his words carefully, sensing this powerful, mysterious wizard wasn't allied with Voldemort, but he still didn't dare reveal his true stance, risking anything that could be seen as "rebellious."
"Since that… gentleman—"
He lowered his voice to a near whisper, "—defeated Professor Albus Dumbledore, everything's changed." He picked his words with care. "Death Eaters don't need to hide anymore."
"They're all over the Ministry. As for Rookwood, I honestly didn't know he was one. Never saw any signs—"
Time crawled by. Mr. Weasley kept sneaking glances at the lift entrance and Grindelwald's impassive face.
Finally, the lift's clanking and chain-rattling echoed again. Mr. Weasley's heart leapt to his throat.
The grille slid open, and a short, stocky man with thin, greasy hair stepped out. He clutched Mr. Weasley's note, his face sour with annoyance at being interrupted.
"Arthur!" Rookwood snapped, scowling. "What's so urgent I had to come up? I'm in the middle of—"
His words cut off as a red beam shot from Grindelwald's wand, striking his chest.
"Urgh!" Rookwood let out a choked grunt, his eyes rolling back. He collapsed like a sack of potatoes.
But before he hit the floor, Grindelwald flicked his wand again.
A massive force seized Rookwood's body, yanking him by his robes through the air toward the desk.
His robes tore under the strain, nearly ripping. A second later, his bulky frame slammed onto the floor at Grindelwald's feet, limp as a dead fish.
Mr. Weasley leapt from his chair, his neck shrinking back, voice trembling. "H-he's the—" He pointed at Rookwood, too scared to meet Grindelwald's eyes.
Grindelwald ignored him. He stepped over to the unconscious Rookwood, nudging his left arm with his foot, then flicked his wand.
A dark red mark of a skull and serpent appeared under the dim light.
Even though he'd braced himself, Mr. Weasley gasped, stumbling back half a step at the sight of the terrifying, deathly symbol.
Grindelwald glanced at the Dark Mark and asked flatly, "What time is it, Arthur?"
"Huh?" Mr. Weasley, still reeling from the mark's horror, blinked before hurriedly checking his watch. "F-four thirty, sir."
Grindelwald nodded slightly, muttering to himself, "Then we wait a bit longer." His gaze drifted to the shifting symbols on the ceiling, lost in thought.
Seizing the moment, Mr. Weasley crept to Rookwood's side, bending down to wrestle the note from his limp hand. He crumpled it like it was cursed and shoved it into his robe pocket.
Summoning his courage, he pleaded, "Sir, can I go now? My shift's almost over. I swear I won't say a word—"
Grindelwald gave him a piercing look and slowly shook his head. "Not yet."
Mr. Weasley's heart sank. He shuffled back behind the desk, standing rigid. Before he could settle, the hardwood chair behind him twitched, floated up, and settled beside Grindelwald.
Grindelwald sat down with poise, crossing his legs, as if waiting for a show to begin.
Time dragged on, each second heavier than the last. Mr. Weasley felt crushed by the pressure.
Sweat soaked his robes, beads dripping from his forehead.
Finally, Grindelwald seemed to decide the moment was right. He rose and approached the unconscious Rookwood.
Under Mr. Weasley's horrified stare, Grindelwald leaned down, expressionless, and grabbed Rookwood's limp right hand, pressing his fingers firmly onto the faded Dark Mark on his left arm.
"No—"
Mr. Weasley let out an uncontrollable wail, trembling violently. He could already envision the apocalyptic scene to come, his legs nearly giving out.
As he screamed, Grindelwald released Rookwood's hand and stood, as if he'd just done something trivial. He turned to the terrified Mr. Weasley and said calmly, "You can go."
The words were like a pardon. Driven by instinct and sheer survival, Mr. Weasley scrambled over the desk, snatching his wand and stumbling toward the nearest gilded fireplace.
He grabbed a handful of Floo powder from a bucket, flung it into the grate, and shouted with his last ounce of strength, "The Burrow!"
A burst of emerald flames roared up, swallowing him whole.
Grindelwald smoothed the slight wrinkles in his robe from sitting, then settled back into the chair, waiting patiently. He felt a flicker of curiosity about the impending meeting with Voldemort, though it was laced with heavy disdain.
The wait wasn't long.
In the hall, a gilded fireplace erupted with vibrant flames, casting an eerie green glow across the dark wood panels.
A tall, gaunt figure wrapped in a billowing black hooded robe stepped slowly from the blazing green fire.
Beneath the hood's shadow was a pale, gaunt face, snake-like and terrifying.
The figure's slitted red eyes locked onto Grindelwald by the desk.
"You're Voldemort?" Grindelwald rose gracefully, a polite curve to his lips. "Good evening. I've heard some things about you—"
"Avada Kedavra!"
Voldemort's response was a blinding green beam surging toward him.
He had no interest in conversation. A wave of unspeakable rage and icy killing intent flooded the hall.
Facing the Killing Curse, Grindelwald's eyes flashed with contempt. He didn't even move his feet, just flicked his wrist. The wooden chair behind him morphed into a textured shield, blocking his front.
The green light slammed into it, exploding in a dazzling burst. The shield shattered into flying splinters, which then twisted into thin vines, growing toward Voldemort like a cocoon of branches.
"Tch," Grindelwald said, his voice tinged with irritation at being interrupted. "No manners at all, young one? Not even basic courtesy—"
A furious, ear-piercing screech erupted from the tightening vine cocoon, drowning out Grindelwald's words and rattling the hall's vaulted ceiling.
In an instant, the wooden cocoon binding Voldemort ceased to restrain him. Each vine blackened and charred, transforming into a massive, jet-black serpent.
It released Voldemort and turned on Grindelwald, hissing angrily.
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