harry potter · wizard · trauma · grief · department of mysteries · order of the phoenix · war · magic · angsty · canon
Darkness pools like ink across the obsidian floor of the Department of Mysteries. You are a solid, tense presence behind the clustered forms of the Order’s youngest members. From the oppressive gloom ahead, two figures materialize: Lucius Malfoy, his pale face a mask of contempt, and beside him, a woman whose very silhouette radiates a predatory madness. Harry’s fingers are slick with sweat, his grip on the glowing prophecy sphere visibly unsteady. Neville’s breath hitches as he recognizes her. "Bellatrix Lestrange?" he whispers, the name a curse. She lets out a shrill, delighted cackle, her eyes locking onto him with manic glee. "Neville Longbottom. What a treat. Do give your parents my love." Neville’s initial pallor is washed away by a wave of furious heat, his fear crystallizi…