Memories of the Heart || Harry Potter x Reader

Y5 ~ The Prophecy

The grand hall of the Ministry of Magic was a battlefield frozen in the aftermath of destruction. Shards of shattered glass glittered like cursed stars across the polished marble floor. The once-majestic Fountain of Magical Brethren was a shadow of its former glory, its golden statues sprawled in disarray, broken and tarnished, as though the very heart of wizarding society had been struck down. The room pulsed with urgency—a relentless cacophony of shouts, hurried footsteps, and the blinding staccato of camera flashes.

Ministry workers darted about like frenzied bees, their robes billowing as they carried scrolls, patched up damage, or whispered into enchanted quills. Reporters stood on tiptoe, their voices rising in overlapping demands. "Miss Nightingale! Over here!" "Mr. Potter, a statement for The Daily Prophet?" The questions fired off like spells, their urgency bordering on desperation.

Y/N crouched on the cold marble floor, her trembling fingers gripping Harry's arm as she helped him to his feet. Her heartbeat pounded in her ears. "Harry, are you alright?" she whispered, searching his face. His glasses were askew, a fresh cut above his brow smeared with blood, but his green eyes were sharp, determined.

Before Harry could respond, a voice cut through the chaos, calm yet commanding. "Now, Miss Nightingale and Mr. Potter, do you mind coming back to the castle immediately?"

Y/N and Harry turned as one. Professor Dumbledore stood a few feet away, his serene presence an island amidst the storm. His blue eyes twinkled beneath his half-moon spectacles, but there was an unmistakable steel beneath his calm facade. His long silver beard swayed slightly as he approached, his hands clasped behind his back.

"Right now, sir?" Y/N asked, her voice wavering as she stood, brushing dust from her robes. She darted a glance behind Dumbledore at the swarm of reporters pushing against magical barriers. "What about Remus? He doesn't know I'm alright yet. And the reporters—they're shouting our name. They want answers. Harry and I—"

"The reporters," Dumbledore interrupted gently but firmly, "will have to exercise patience and learn to respect the privacy of children." His eyes softened as they rested on her. "As for Professor Lupin, I will personally inform him of your safety. He knows you are in good hands."

Y/N hesitated, her gaze flickering to the chaos behind them. "But—"

"Miss Nightingale," Dumbledore said, his tone now brooking no argument, "it is imperative that you leave now. Harry as well. There will be time for explanations later."

Harry, still pale but resolute, spoke up. "Sir, aren't you coming with us?"

"I must stay to speak with the Minister," Dumbledore replied, his eyes drifting momentarily to Cornelius Fudge, who stood stiffly in the center of the room. The Minister's face was ashen, his lips moving soundlessly as though grappling with a spell he could not cast. "I will join you shortly in my office. Fifteen minutes at most."

Dumbledore reached into his robes and retrieved a small, battered object—a golden head from the wrecked fountain. He held it out to Harry, who accepted it with a confused frown. "This is your portkey. It activates in ten seconds."

Y/N glanced past Dumbledore again, her eyes finding Remus Lupin amidst the chaos. He was pushing through the crowd, his expression frantic, his wand clutched tightly in his hand. Their eyes met for the briefest moment, his worry etched deeply into his face. Y/N offered him a faint, weary smile, her fingers already gripping the portkey.

"I don't like this," she muttered under her breath as she glanced at Harry.

"Neither do I," he admitted quietly, his hand tightening around the golden head.