Hedwig woke us up early, hooting loudly and pecking insistently at the glass until Harry finally let her in and fed her. She flew up to the wardrobe and settled there, silent at last. The clock showed it was barely nine.

  The racket they made made it impossible for me to fall back asleep, so grumbling at the feathery menace, we got dressed and headed downstairs. To our surprise, we found Hermione already there at a far table, sipping tea, reading the Daily Prophet, and surrounded by books with multicolored bookmarks sticking out of them. Typical Hermione—she'd managed to arrive even before the owl post could deliver her reply.

  It was clear she was buzzing with excitement about our upcoming trip to the Ministry. While we ate breakfast, she nervously flipped through her books and started bombarding us with facts we didn’t ask for.

  “Our visit to the Ministry is going to be amazing!” she said, her eyes gleaming with enthusiasm. “There are so many departments! I can’t wait to see the atrium, the courtrooms, the Floo Network, and learn how everything’s organized.” She rustled some pages and slid a book toward us, pointing to a picture of the Fountain of Magical Brethren. “Did you know the Ministry employs thousands of people?”

  “What does it say about Black?” Harry muttered, completely ignoring her. He was spreading butter on his third piece of toast, layering it with three slices of cheese, and then topping it off with a piece of ham for good measure.

  “Nothing new,” Hermione replied, frowning as she hastily moved her book out of the way of Harry’s crumbs. She glared at him, clearly ready to lecture him about his indifference, but I cut her off.

  “How are your parents, Hermione?” I asked, pouring more tea into her cup. “Did they agree to let you stay with us at the inn until the end of summer?”

  “No,” she sighed, her expression falling. “I even showed them my textbook. Look, here.”

  She flipped through A History of Magic and found the page she wanted, holding it out for me to read.

  “When the International Statute of Secrecy was established, the Leaky Cauldron was granted special permission to remain as a refuge and sanctuary for wizards in the heart of the city,” she quoted, her voice full of importance. “That means the Cauldron is completely safe—protected by Ministry-monitored wards. It’s a haven for everyone—criminals, non-humans, even underage wizards.”

  “Like a neutral zone?” Harry cut in unexpectedly. “Kind of like Hogwarts, where anyone can get help if they ask? Or Gringotts, where they don’t care who you are as long as you have an account?”

  “Exactly,” Hermione nodded. “But my parents only agreed to let me come here during the day as long as I’m back home by six. It’s a half-hour by bus from my house to Charing Cross Road. It’s even quicker by the Tube, but the bus stop is closer.” She grinned. “And now I can practice spells too! Hurry up and finish eating—we’ve still got time to do some magic before lunch.”

  “Alright,” I said, exchanging a glance with Harry before lowering my voice and leaning closer to her. “But first, we need to tell you something. It’s a bit of a secret, and we thought you might want to be part of it.”

  Hermione’s eyes narrowed with interest. She studied our faces, as if trying to confirm we weren’t joking, and the way she started bouncing slightly on her stool made it clear she was eager to hear more. We quickly finished breakfast and headed upstairs, where we explained everything.

  Unlike Harry, Hermione immediately started analyzing the situation and, of course, found an inconsistency.

  “How do you know all this, Ron?” she asked, her sharp gaze darting between us.

  “I can’t explain that just yet,” I replied, “but I promise I’ll tell you everything later.”

  “That’s not good enough,” she said firmly. “We’re friends, Ron, and friends trust each other. What you’re suggesting isn’t just breaking school rules—it’s breaking the law. I’m willing to help, but I need to know the full story.”

  “Shall we tell her, Ron?” Harry asked, pleadingly. “She’s right.”

  I sighed and shrugged. Fine. He probably just wanted to use this as an excuse to learn more himself. But I couldn’t tell them the truth—only a version of it.

  “…And that’s how the shaman helped me defeat the piece of Voldemort’s soul,” Harry finished, glancing between a stunned Hermione and me.

  “In Romania, when I was in the shaman’s tent, I went into a kind of trance,” I added smoothly, lying without hesitation. “After that, I started having dreams about the future. Charlie said it can happen—like a heightened intuition, an inner voice warning me about trouble.” I hurried on, cutting off Hermione, who was snapping out of her shock and clearly gearing up to ask a million questions.

  “That’s so unfair!” she exclaimed, throwing up her hands. “You two always get the most exciting adventures!” She might’ve kept ranting, but Harry nudged her shoulder and hissed for her to keep quiet, his eyes turning to me.

  “So, what exactly did you see?” Harry asked, his curiosity evident.

  “Just bits and pieces so far,” I said. “The fragment of Voldemort in you, the Hall of Prophecies… My dad might end up guarding the prophecy, and he could get hurt. I want to stop that from happening.”

  “You mean you can see what’s going to happen to us?” Hermione gasped.

  “Not exactly,” I said carefully. “The visions are more about me and my family.”

  “But Harry—”

  “Harry’s practically part of my family,” I interrupted, “just like you. But not every vision involves you both.”

  “Then why not just tell your dad?” Hermione suggested. “He could take care of it.”

  “I’d rather not,” I said firmly. “No one’s going to believe a thirteen-year-old boy about some vague premonitions. Adults always think they know better. Plus, I don’t want to get Charlie in trouble. My parents would never let me visit him again if they thought the shaman did something to me. People fear prophets, Hermione, and I don’t want to become some kind of outcast. Or worse, be controlled and used for some ‘greater good.’”

  "Alright," Harry suddenly interrupted. "Let’s talk about the plan. What do you remember from your vision? Spill it all."

  “Well, from the door, you go right. Ninety-seventh shelf, all the way at the end. There is the glass orb with your name on it,” I answered, silently thanking the shaman for the clarity of those memories. I’d never have remembered such details on my own.

  We dove into planning, and Hermione, as usual, came up with a brilliant addition when we decided not just to take the prophecy but to leave behind a fake to avoid suspicion.

  “We need a small item to transfigure into a glass orb,” Harry suggested. “If we put enough power into the spell, it should hold for a long time. By the time it vanishes, no one will connect it to us.”

  “What if we use a snowball for the transfiguration?” Hermione proposed. “When it melts, the water will evaporate without leaving a trace, so there’ll be no evidence. But none of us can manage double transfiguration on our own—we’ll need to work together.”

  We all agreed enthusiastically and spent the rest of the time divvying up roles and practicing the necessary spells: creating snow, shaping snowballs, and casting muffling charms. I decided that if things went sideways, I’d involve Dad—feeding him the same story I’d told my friends but leaving Harry out of it.

  When the time came, Tom opened up the Floo connection to the Ministry for us.

  We stepped out onto a gleaming parquet floor in a vast, bustling hall and froze for a moment, overwhelmed by the sights. People rushed around, dodging us as they hurried by. The fireplaces on one side constantly emitted new arrivals, while others on the opposite wall swallowed people into green flames.

  The polished floor was so shiny it looked like a mirror, and the deep blue ceiling shimmered with gold symbols that moved about, pausing momentarily as though displaying some magical version of advertisements. Massive golden gates loomed at either end of the atrium.

  “Um... I think we need to find an administrator and check in,” Hermione said, snapping out of her awe and switching to her efficient tone. “But let’s move over by the fountain first—we’re in the way.”

  We followed her lead and stepped aside. However, before we could start looking for anyone, a man began walking purposefully toward us. I recognized him as the same assistant who’d accompanied Fudge during his visit to the inn. When he saw we’d noticed him, he stopped near the fountain and beckoned us over.

  “My name is Patrick Smith,” he announced grandly when we reached him. “I’m the Minister’s personal assistant. We’ll need to register your visit and confirm your passes. Follow me.” He led us to the far end of the atrium, where a lone desk labeled "Security" stood near the ornate golden gates.

  “Goldman, these young visitors are guests of the Minister,” Patrick said imperiously to the older man in a blue robe who had stood politely upon our approach. “They’re here for a tour—here are their passes. I’m leaving them with you; Jones will be along shortly.”

  Patrick nodded curtly and disappeared into the crowd, leaving us with the security wizard, who quickly retrieved a long golden rod from beneath the desk.

  “Nothing to worry about,” the man said briskly, waving the rod over Harry like a magical metal detector. “Just a routine check for dark artifacts or extra wands.”

  Unauthorized content usage: if you discover this narrative on Amazon, report the violation.

  “What’s that for?” I asked, gesturing vaguely at the rod.

  “Standard screening,” he explained as he moved on to Hermione and then me. I felt a faint buzz of magic, like the hum of electricity under high-voltage power lines, but it wasn’t unpleasant.

  Once done, he returned to his desk and began inspecting our wands, placing each one on a platform attached to a device that produced narrow strips of parchment with our information. He pinned these onto a spindle and handed our wands back along with silver badges that read Guest - Tour, complete with our names.

  At that moment, our assigned guide arrived. He looked young—probably fresh out of Hogwarts.

  “I’m the Minister’s secretary,” he introduced himself with a touch of self-importance, though his grin gave it away. “But you can call me Theo. I’ll be showing you around. Let’s get started.” With that, he led us through the golden gates and toward the elevators.

  To be honest, after an hour, I felt like I’d run a marathon. They took us through every level. The Ministry was like a massive ant colony. Heads of departments worked out of dingy offices barely the size of broom cupboards, and some had to share. Everything looked worn, dusty, and tired—a stark contrast to the flashy atrium with its gaudy golden decor and the over-the-top fountain statue.

  Finally, we finished in the archives and returned to the atrium, only to head through a different set of golden doors and into another elevator.

  “Next, we’ll visit the courtrooms, the Wizengamot chambers, and the Department of Mysteries,” Theo announced.

  “Oh, that sounds fascinating,” Hermione said eagerly. “I’ve read about the Department of Mysteries, but there isn’t much written on it.”

  “No surprise there,” Theo replied with a knowing smile, lowering his voice. “It’s so classified that even the Minister doesn’t have access to certain areas. The staff are hired in secret, and no one knows exactly what they do there. But we’re allowed to see the Hall of Prophecies and the Time Room. They’re not exactly thrilling, though—not much to look at.”

  “Still, just being in such a secretive place will be exciting,” Hermione insisted, while Harry and I exchanged triumphant glances.

  We descended into what could only be described as a dungeon. The air grew damp and heavy, and the walls felt like they were pressing in on us. It was as if we’d been buried alive—the weight of earth above seemed tangible. Even Theo seemed unnerved, his earlier confidence giving way to a strained smile.

  “These are the interrogation and trial chambers,” he explained as we passed a series of doors. “Numbers one through ten. I think we’ll skip the rest and head this way.”

  He darted into one of the rooms, and as we stepped inside, torches flared to life in their brackets, casting light over a circular chamber lined with tiered seating, much like an old arena. In the center of the "stage" stood a single chair bound with chains that slithered ominously across the floor, clinking faintly at our arrival.

  “You may take a seat,” Theo murmured, but unsurprisingly, no one volunteered.

  The Wizengamot courtroom was not unlike the regular Ministry courtrooms, save for its larger size and slightly brighter lighting.

  Finally, we made our way up to a single black door.

  “The Department of Mysteries,” Theo whispered, pushing it open.

  We entered a circular room with numerous identical doors, two of which were marked by glowing red lights.

  “This way,” our guide said brightly, holding his pass to a symbol on the nearest door’s handle.

  The Time Room only seemed to impress Hermione. For me and Harry, it was just a space crammed with clocks and dials of every kind, their relentless ticking gnawing at the edges of our nerves. The only thing of real interest was a bird trapped in a shimmering sphere. Within seconds, it cycled from a swirling mass of glowing silver dust to an egg, a hatchling, then a fully grown hummingbird, before collapsing with a mournful cry back into the dust. The cycle began anew—a mesmerizing but eerie spectacle.

  “A time loop,” came an unexpected voice from behind, making us jump.

  A middle-aged man appeared beside us, his face strangely distorted, as though enchanted to blur his features. Not that he was invisible—we could see him perfectly—but it was impossible to commit his appearance to memory. Clever magic. The only thing I managed to retain was that he might have been blond.

  “Let’s step out,” he suggested, his tone kind but firm. “The ticking can be unnerving.”

  He led us into a smaller, brighter room that looked like a staff break area. After pouring us each a glass of juice, he introduced himself as Bob. Hermione, naturally, seized the opportunity to bombard him with questions.

  “All Time-Turners were confiscated by the Ministry back in the 19th century,” Bob explained, his voice calm and measured, “after a particularly devastating accident. They’re classified as highly dangerous artifacts. Every member of the old wizarding families was sworn to a magical oath prohibiting them and their descendants from using, creating, or studying Time-Turners anywhere outside the Department of Mysteries. The risk was deemed too great.”

  “Are they really that dangerous?” Hermione asked, her tone a mix of fascination and doubt.

  “Extremely,” Bob replied, his expression grave. “You saw that bird, didn’t you? Under the wrong circumstances, the same could happen to anyone attempting to use a Time-Turner. They’re powerful, but they’re not flawless. A malfunction could cause catastrophic consequences.”

  “But I’ve read that they’re supposed to only take you a short way back in time and, apart from a bit of strain on the body, they’re relatively safe,” Hermione countered, her curiosity unabated.

  “Aging isn’t the main issue,” Bob corrected her. “Time-Turners don’t just act on the user. They affect everything around them. The magic they require forces the user’s body to stretch beyond its natural limits, aging them in bursts that can be harmful. But the energy for the actual temporal shift comes from the surrounding environment.”

  “I don’t understand,” Harry said, looking lost while Hermione froze, her hand over her mouth as though she’d just worked something out.

  Bob sighed, glancing at Harry with a hint of pity.

  “Let me simplify,” he said. “Say you had a Time-Turner, Harry, and wanted to go back an hour. The rules advise doing so in isolation, away from others, especially yourself or anyone you interacted with during that time. Even so, your presence would still influence the timeline in ways you might not realize.”

  “Always?” I asked. “Even if you just sat quietly in a room?”

  “Always,” Bob confirmed. “Let’s say Harry stepped on a tiny bug without noticing. To him, nothing’s changed. But in the original timeline, he didn’t step on it. Maybe that bug would’ve crawled into someone’s trousers and caused a moment of distraction—enough for them to fall down a staircase, break a leg, and miss an important meeting. Whether the resulting changes are good or bad, the future Harry knew has been altered, even if he’s unaware of it. The timeline he lived has been erased from that point onward.”

  “So that’s why everyone handed over their Time-Turners willingly?” I asked.

  “Exactly,” Bob said with a nod. “The magical community agreed to surrender them to the Department of Mysteries, and the Wizengamot enacted strict penalties for anyone caught breaking the laws regarding their use. Controlling your own reality is one thing, but allowing someone else to alter it? That’s a nightmare. Here in the Department, we conduct controlled experiments that don’t affect the outside world, sacrificing years of our own lives—or the lives of test creatures—for the sake of research.”

  “Thank you,” Hermione said, her voice soft as she offered a hesitant smile. She seemed too caught up in thought to even defend the poor test creatures, which was saying something. “That was a fascinating and very enlightening lecture. How do you recruit people to work here?”

  “Same as most places,” Bob replied with a smile. “We review applications and select the best candidates. But not everyone makes it. You need a particular mindset and dedication for this kind of work. The research takes up all your time, leaving almost nothing for personal pursuits. Not everyone can live for their job. But it’s worth it,” he added with a wink as he opened the door for us. “Good luck, future scholars.”

  We stepped out, still reeling from what we’d seen, and Theo opened the next door for us. Honestly, I was so drained I could barely muster the enthusiasm to fetch the prophecy anymore.

  We entered a massive, dimly lit room. For a moment, it felt like we’d walked into a deserted Gothic cathedral. Rows upon rows of towering shelves stretched around the perimeter, each lined with identical glowing orbs, all coated in a thick layer of dust.

  “This is appalling,” Hermione grimaced, wrinkling her nose. “Looks like no one’s cleaned in here for a hundred years.”

  “Not a hundred, miss—much longer,” croaked a raspy voice. An ancient-looking man emerged from the shadows, making Hermione startle and retreat behind me.

  “No magic allowed in this room,” he rasped, “and you can’t touch the prophecy orbs, or you’ll lose your mind. That’s why it’s so dusty.”

  “Sorry, I didn’t know,” Hermione mumbled, visibly flustered. “Can we look around, though?”

  “You may, just don’t touch anything,” he said with a curt nod, before settling into a rickety chair by a lone desk near the door.

  “Excuse me, sir,” I said as I approached him. “Where’s the restroom? Our tour’s been going on a while, and I—”

  “Down the aisle to the right, all the way to the end, then left along the wall. You’ll see the door,” he replied.

  “Thank you, sir,” I said, smiling to hide my relief. It was pure luck the restroom was exactly where we needed it to be.

  “I’m going first,” Hermione said quickly, shooting me a meaningful look before disappearing through an inconspicuous door.

  “Harry, you coming?” I asked.

  “Nah, I’ll look around with Theo for now,” he replied, wandering off with our guide down one of the aisles.

  Once Hermione came back, I ducked into the small restroom. On the counter near the mirror, I found the snowball waiting for me. Quickly, I transfigured it into a glass orb and pocketed it. Thankfully, magic worked here in the restroom—everything from the sink to the toilet functioned with basic spells. If magic had been restricted, our plan would’ve fallen apart.

  While Hermione made her way to the ninety-seventh shelf, I caught up with Harry and Theo. Discreetly, I rolled the orb along the floor under the shelves until Hermione retrieved it. As she moved closer to the end of the aisle, I let a bag of marbles tumble from my pocket. They clattered noisily across the stone floor, drawing the attention of Harry and Theo.

  “Sorry!” I exclaimed, adopting a sheepish look as I crouched to pick them up. Harry and Theo joined me, helping gather the scattered marbles.

  “I told you not to bring those to the Ministry, Ron,” Harry muttered as he collected some marbles near the edge of the aisle.

  “I forgot about them, alright? Didn’t have time to drop them off before we left,” I replied, subtly tossing the collected marbles further down the aisle to keep Theo moving.

  “Harry!” Hermione called from a distance, sounding exasperated. “Can you help me? My sandal strap broke, and I can’t use magic in here.”

  “Be right there!” Harry shouted before heading off in her direction. Our distractions were unnecessary, really. No one was paying us much attention—there wasn’t much to steal without getting caught, and magic was prohibited. The only real damage you could do here was knocking over an entire shelf, and even that wasn’t easy.

  By the time we picked up the last marble, Hermione and Harry had returned, moving so briskly I didn’t even have time to feel nervous.

  “Let’s head back,” Hermione suggested with a touch of feigned irritation. “This place isn’t as creepy as the dungeons, but it’s dreadfully boring. Besides, isn’t there a cafe in the Ministry? I’m starving.”

  “Absolutely,” Theo said, clearly relieved. “The pastries there are excellent.”

  “Oh, I must try them!” Hermione said theatrically as she started toward the entrance. “The ones the Minister eats every day, right? They sound divine.”

  “Excuse me, sir,” Harry said politely when we reached the main aisle, “but could I visit the restroom as well?”

  Theo nodded solemnly, and we waited while Hermione peppered him with questions. Harry returned quickly and gave us a subtle wink, easing the tension. We left the dusty archives with lighter hearts, thanking the grumpy old caretaker on our way out.

  The cafe, as it turned out, was quite decent. We spent about twenty minutes there, sampling the famous pastries Theo had mentioned. They gave us them for free, which made them even better. Not long after, Fudge’s pompous assistant reappeared and escorted us to the Floo network, setting up a connection back to the Leaky Cauldron.

  Once we were back at the inn, we ordered lunch from Tom and locked ourselves in our room, brimming with anticipation to learn the details of the “operation”.