Each Person's Duties

Chapter 343 Each Person's Duties (5.2K) (2/2)

Meanwhile, a little earlier, the Weasleys' tent, after the initial chaos and evacuation, had become a relatively stable but tense temporary base.

Mr. Weasley settled his family, Harry, and Hermione in a safer area of ​​the tent, while he stood guard at the door, wand in hand, listening intently to the still chaotic screams, explosions, and the camp gradually being swallowed by the eerie fog outside.

When Arthur saw Professor McGonagall and Sirius emerge from the fog one after the other, looking somewhat hurried, and return to the vicinity of the tent, he visibly breathed a sigh of relief and quickly stepped forward to greet them.

"Professor McGonagall, Sirius! What's the situation outside?" Arthur's voice was anxious as he scanned behind them. "I see fog rising—where's Professor Lynch? Didn't he come back with you?"

Professor McGonagall's expression was more severe than usual, her lips were pursed and pale, but her eyes remained calm.

She quickly straightened her slightly askew pointed hat and replied succinctly, "Professor Lynch went to deal with those causing trouble at the camp."

"Handle?" Arthur was taken aback, then looked worriedly at the thick fog outside, which seemed to be alive, churning and devouring everything, and the chaotic lights and shadows vaguely visible within it. "He's alone? This is too dangerous! Those who started the riots are—"

"Arthur," Sirius interrupted Mr. Weasley. He had been cautiously observing his surroundings, but when he turned around, his face didn't show much tension. Instead, a strange smile appeared on his face, a mixture of understanding and certain certainty.

He patted Arthur on the shoulder, his own clothes covered in dust and taut from running, but his tone was unusually certain: "Trust me, Arthur. When it comes to dealing with these kinds of problems, especially those involving Death Eaters," he gestured with his chin towards the depths of the fog-shrouded camp, a sharp glint in his grey eyes, "there's probably no one more suitable than him in this camp right now."

Sirius Black's words contained not a trace of doubt, but only a profound understanding formed after experiencing war and witnessing true cruelty and power.

He didn't explain in detail, but the absolute trust in his words strangely calmed Mr. Weasley's anxious mood somewhat.

Mr. Weasley looked at Sirius's resolute expression and Professor McGonagall's stern but not objecting attitude. Although he was still feeling uneasy about the commotion outside, he no longer questioned Lynch's decision to go alone.

He nodded and sighed heavily: "May Merlin bless him—and all the innocent."

After saying that, he turned around and continued to watch the commotion outside the tent anxiously, and began to pace back and forth inside the tent.

Slightly towards the back of the tent, Harry, Ron, and Hermione huddled together.

Inside the quiet tent, every word of the adults' conversation reached their ears.

When they heard Sirius say, "I'm afraid there's no one more suitable than him," the three children subconsciously exchanged glances.

Their eyes were filled with a complex meaning that only the three of them could understand—shock, worry, but even more so, a suppressed excitement and certainty from someone in the know.

They knew Lynch's other identity, a terrifying codename shrouded in dark history and rumors.

Ron's face turned bright red first, as if seventeen or eighteen cats were scratching him frantically inside.

He shifted restlessly, his toes scraping the ground, his gaze drifting involuntarily to the canvas walls of the tent, as if he could see through the thick fabric and into the direction from which all sorts of terrifying sounds were coming.

Finally, he couldn't hold back any longer. He lowered his voice to a whisper, almost squeezing it out between his teeth, filled with an overwhelming longing and urgency: "Merlin's—son—I really hope—I really hope we could be outside right now—even just for a glimpse—to see the—" He slammed on the brakes, nearly uttering the forbidden code name, and quickly corrected himself, his voice even lower, "—"

Let's see how Professor Lynch "deales" with those things.

"Ron!" Hermione immediately whispered to stop them, her tone as disapproving and wary as ever. She quickly glanced at Mrs. Weasley and Ron's siblings, who were busy nearby, making sure no one noticed their whispers. "Stop it!"

You promised! And it's extremely dangerous outside!

Her refusal stemmed from caution and keeping her promise, but her cheeks were slightly flushed, and her fingers unconsciously twisted the hem of her clothes, revealing that she, too, harbored her own curiosity about this legendary wizard of the magical world.

Harry didn't join their hushed conversation.

He pursed his lips, his emerald eyes peering intently through the gap in the tent flap at the billowing gray fog outside.

His fists clenched quietly at his sides. His feelings were extremely complicated. On one hand, he was angry at the Death Eaters and worried about the innocent people outside. On the other hand, an extremely strong desire was surging in his chest.

He wanted to see it too.

It wasn't out of the kind of curiosity that Ron had, a mixture of fear and worship.

He wanted to see for himself what those scum who created chaos, harmed the innocent, and followed Voldemort's ideology would do when faced with the real...

What would it be like to impose ruthless sanctions?

He wanted to see how Uncle Lynch would clear away the darkness.

This longing even made him feel a little disgusted with himself—it seemed to be a yearning for violence.

But he couldn't deny that the image of "cleaning" held an irresistible attraction for him.

He wanted to draw strength from it, or—to confirm a certain belief.

Inside the tent, Mr. Weasley's anxious pacing grew increasingly rapid, like a trapped pendulum.

He would stop every now and then, listening intently to the sounds outside—the shouts, the occasional explosions, and the unsettling, oppressive feeling that came with the thick fog.

His gaze swept across the canvas walls of the tent again and again, as if trying to penetrate them with his eyes to see the situation outside.

Finally, he abruptly stopped, took a deep breath, and with a determined look on his face, turned and walked towards the tent entrance.

"Arthur?" Sirius, who had been observing from the doorway, immediately stepped forward, not completely blocking the way, but his posture was clearly an attempt to obstruct. "Where are you going?"

"I'm Sirius, an official of the Ministry of Magic!" Arthur's voice carried an unusual firmness and anxiety. "I can't—I can't just cower here and do nothing! Help is needed outside, people need guidance, and—Percy is still out there!" Mentioning his son, who had just graduated and started working, his worry deepened. "I have to go find him, at least find out how his people are doing!"

Hearing the commotion, Mrs. Weasley hurried out of the tent, her face pale and clutching a rag in her hand. She had been trying to calm herself with her busy work, and her voice trembled as she said, "Arthur! You're going out? It's so dangerous out there!"

“I have to go, Molly.” Arthur turned and took his wife’s hand, his voice softening but his eyes resolute. “It’s my duty. And Percy is doing his duty too. I can’t leave him alone—we can’t all hide here and wait for someone else to take care of everything.”

Molly looked into her husband's eyes and saw the unwavering determination within them, as well as his deep concern for their son.

Her lips trembled slightly, but she ultimately didn't say anything more to dissuade him. Instead, she squeezed his hand tightly and whispered, "Be careful—be very careful, bring Percy back safely."

Arthur nodded and gave his wife a tight hug.

Sirius Black watched this scene and lowered his arm that had been blocking his way.

He understood Arthur's decision, both as a father and as an official.

He quickly glanced inside the tent: Professor McGonagall looked serious but calm, and Molly, though worried, was strong enough.

"Alright," Sirius said, his voice regaining its slightly hoarse decisiveness, "Professor McGonagall and Molly are enough to hold this place. Arthur, I'll go with you."

Arthur looked at him with some surprise.

"Two people are always better than one, at least you can look out for each other." Sirius Black twitched his lips, a smile devoid of warmth, filled more with fighting spirit and caution. "I have some experience finding people and directions in—well, chaotic environments." He didn't mention Azkaban or his life on the run, but everyone present understood what he meant.

This time, Arthur did not refuse.

He knew Sirius's abilities well, and having this experienced wizard by his side would greatly increase the safety and the chances of finding Percy.

"Thank you, Sirius," Mr. Weasley said solemnly.

"Watch out, you two!" Professor McGonagall stepped forward, her voice serious and her eyes full of concern. "Don't be reckless. Prioritize finding Percy and assisting with the evacuation. If you encounter large-scale hostile actions, do not force your way in; retreat immediately or send a signal."

"Make sure you are safe," Molly added, trying to keep her voice steady.

Arthur and Sirius nodded and gave their wands a final check.

Arthur took off the scarf with the strange dragon pattern he had bought earlier, which made him feel more formal and more like he was on official business. He then took a deep breath and was the first to lift the tent flap.

Outside, thick fog swept in like a cold veil, instantly swallowing the warm yellow light coming from inside the tent and making distant sounds blurry and distorted.

The damp, chilly air was filled with smoke and a faint, almost imperceptible, burnt smell.

The two exchanged a glance, wands raised in front of them, and in a standard wary stance, one in front of the other, cautiously stepped into that unknown darkness shrouded in chaos and fog.

Their figures were quickly swallowed up by the thick, gray-white fog, leaving only Molly clenching her hands tightly, Professor McGonagall standing upright by the door in the tent behind them, and the children's breathless, worried gazes.

"Just like—back then," Mrs. Weasley murmured in an almost inaudible voice, whether referring to her husband's duty or that familiar, heart-wrenching feeling of a loved one in danger.

At the edge of the tent camp, on a patch of land that had been temporarily cleared, Rufus-Scringer paced back and forth like a restless lion.

His grayish-yellow, mane-like hair and thick eyebrows were covered with night dew and soot, and the scars on his face looked even more grotesque in the flickering light of the nearby torches.

Before him, twenty Aurors had just assembled. They were all elites urgently drawn from various riot hotspots. Although many of them bore the marks of fatigue and recent battles, their eyes remained sharp, their wands gripped tightly, awaiting orders.

Scrimgeour stopped, his sharp beam of light sweeping across his ranks.

He had just spent considerable effort and time, braving the ongoing chaos and communication disruptions, to bring this core force together.

His plan was simple and direct: using this elite force as a spearhead, he would start from the relatively stable area on the edge of the camp and advance layer by layer towards the center, forcibly suppressing the riots, arresting any troublemakers who dared to resist, and restoring basic order.

He was fed up with the piecemeal firefighting; he wanted a decisive cleanup.

"Listen up!" Scrimgeour's voice, rough but penetrating, echoed in the relatively quiet clearing. "Those masked cowards think they can get away with anything by hiding in the fog and chaos? We'll show them that the Auror Office isn't retired yet! Our mission is simple: start here, and comb through like a comb! Anyone found illegally using magic, causing destruction, or resisting arrest, subdue them with all your might! The primary objective is to restore order and disperse the crowd to a safe zone; arresting people is secondary! Understand?"

"Understood, Master!" the Aurors roared in unison, their morale high.

Scrimgeour nodded in satisfaction, and was about to swing his thick arm down to give the command to advance when—whoosh! bang!

That incredibly familiar yet chillingly pale green light suddenly tore through the night from somewhere deep in the forest, shot into the sky, and exploded with a deafening roar!

The emerald skull spat out venomous snakes; the evil symbol bared its fangs against the dark sky, piercing the churning mist below.

The burning flames, and even the suddenly pale faces of Scrimgeour and his Aurors, were all bathed in an eerie and ominous glow.

Time seemed to stand still for a moment.

All the noisy background sounds—distant screams, the crackling of fire, the sporadic spell explosions—seemed to be drowned out by the appearance of this mark.

The decisiveness and subtle excitement that had appeared on Scrimgeour's face in anticipation of the upcoming operation instantly froze and shattered, replaced by a deeper, colder shock and solemnity.

The muscles in his cheek twitched involuntarily, making the scar appear even more glaring.

He lived through that era and witnessed firsthand how this symbol, once it bloomed in the night sky, often signified the massacre, the spread of terror and despair.

This is no longer an ordinary riot!

"Dark Mark—" Beside him, a senior Auror gasped, his voice hoarse.

Scrimgeour snapped back to his senses, a terrifying glint flashing in his eyes.

All plans were overturned in an instant!

Suppressing ordinary riots?

Do not!

The situation has completely changed!

"Plan changed!" he practically roared, his voice distorted with urgency and an awareness of the gravity of the situation, but the command was unequivocal. "Target: Mark the release point! Full speed ahead!"

He no longer considered the cautious tactic of advancing step by step. The appearance of the marker meant that there was likely a key figure there, a larger conspiracy, or at least the key point of all the chaos tonight!

He must get to the scene immediately!

"Keep up!" Scrimgeour said no more, taking the lead and striding forward with an agility that belied his burly frame, rushing toward the general direction where the Black Mark had risen.

He pounced on a new, more dangerous prey like an enraged lion.

The twenty Aurors behind him followed without hesitation.

The group transformed into a silent yet swift torrent, breaking through the thin mist, bypassing the burning tent ruins and scattered panicked crowds, and sprawling towards the depths of the forest where the evil mark had just flashed, now shrouded in even greater unease and danger.

The only sounds in the air were their hurried footsteps, the rustling of their robes in the wind, and the new, even greater wave of panic that had been stirred up in the distance by the appearance of the Black Demon Mark.

Led by Scrimgeour, twenty elite Aurors arrived at the vicinity of the release point—a clearing deeper in the woods, far from the main camp—as quickly as possible, like a pack of wolves that had caught the scent of blood.

The surroundings were eerily silent.

There was no sign of the expected enemy, the violent fluctuations left by the spell, or even any trace of a hasty escape.

Only the rustling of the night wind through the treetops and the faint, lingering noise of the distant campsite could be heard.

The fog thinned slightly here, but the night deepened, and the shadows of the trees loomed large, as if hiding countless eyes.

"Warning!" Scrimgeour whispered, raising his fist.

All the Aurors instantly dispersed, skillfully using the trees and terrain to form a loose, mutually supportive encirclement.

With the wand tip pointing forward, everyone's senses were heightened to the extreme, capturing any unusual magic or sound.

Scrimgeour gave a gesture, and the encirclement began to slowly and silently shrink towards the center.

The sound of boots stepping on fallen leaves and soft soil was deliberately kept to a minimum, making it seem as if breathing had stopped.

Everyone was on edge, ready to face any black magic that might come from any direction.

However, even as the Aurors on the periphery could almost see the wary silhouettes of their companions in the darkness, the anticipated resistance or ambush still did not materialize.

The central area appeared to be completely empty.

This unusual calm only made the atmosphere more oppressive.

Just then, an Auror on the right suddenly stopped, crouched down, pointed his wand at a certain spot on the ground, and at the same time quickly made a series of standard tactical hand signals in the direction of Scrimgeour—anomaly detected!

Scrimgeour frowned, a sharp glint in his eyes. He quickly made a response gesture: illuminate, control, prepare for contact.

Upon receiving the order, an Auror positioned to the side and rear of the central area immediately raised his wand high and uttered a low shout: "Flash!"

A bright but not dazzling orb of light rose from the tip of his staff and hovered several meters above the center of the open space. The soft and clear light instantly dispelled the darkness of the place, illuminating every inch of land and every blade of grass.

The remaining Aurors immediately pointed their wands at the core area illuminated by the orb of light—a patch of grass that looked slightly messier than the surrounding area.

However, under the clear light, what they saw was neither vicious Death Eaters nor any dangerous magical trap.

A small, thin figure lay quietly in the grass.

It was wrapped in a worn but still relatively clean tea towel, its large ears drooped limply, its big, bulb-like eyes were tightly closed, and its long nose was motionless—a comatose house-elf.

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