The fifteen year old panted as he raced through the atrium, ducking as curse after curse whizzed and screamed overhead. Coming to the Department of Mysteries had been a horrible decision, he knew that now. As it was, he could only hope that he and his friends would survive until help arrived at the very least.

A lull. Harry ducked into a cabinet in order to catch his breath, but he knew that he couldn't stay for long. This place would only be good enough for him to rest before racing back out into the fray. He turned, only to gasp at the sight of the walls. The place was covered in weapons! Long ones, wide ones, thin ones. Staffs and staves and spears and throwing weapons, and glowing orbs and even what appeared to be the almagation of a gun with an oversized bayonet, enlarged to the size of a sword blade.

The sight of one of those swords up on the wall made the young mage back away slowly, a hand wrapping unconsciously around his torso. It was a large blade made from a matte black metal, taller than him and wider as well, with lines in the blade that led up to the hilt, where two holes were in the metal.

He had told no one about his dreams. About the long, shadowy corridor that he now knew led to the Hall of Prophecies. And he had told no one about the other dreams. 

Dreams of green light, of fire and death, and a high insane cackling. 

At first, he thought they were only the shreds of memory he still had of the night the Dark Lord had attacked and killed his family. The incidents with the Dementors back in his third year had seemed to confirm this belief. It was only this year that they had evolved, to include clashing metal, a green dragon in the middle of the rain, a burning town, and a long thin sword clashing with this same hunk of metal before his eyes as he fought with one of two people; a tall violet-eyed man with spiky black hair, or a shorter blond with glowing blue eyes, both wielding that sword, with the screams of '-and I trusted you!' ringing is his ears upon awakening.

He shook his head as he backed away, his free hand groping behind himself to try and lean against the wall. Only to flinch at the touch of cold metal under his hand. Turning, he hissed as he accidentally cut his palm on the razor-sharp blade, red blood bright against the silver shine of the highly polished metal. The blade was beautiful, and he blinked as he suddenly recognized it from his dreams. It was long, thin, and as dangerous as it was beautiful. He felt drawn to it for some reason as he stared, the green of his eyes reflecting against the silver, as if glowing in the dim light. He didn't notice the cut on his palm sealing over, or the bright smear of blood slowly shrinking, as if being absorbed into the blade. Nor did he notice when he leaned back, his other hand plunging into a box of the glowing orbs, many of them lighting up under his touch. Only when one lit up under his fingers with the tingle of snowflakes did he look down, curiously pulling up a quad of the orbs, two green, a red, and a rich purple. They were all the size of large marbles, and glowed with an inner light as he stared into their depths.

A noise. The Death Eaters had finally caught up. As Harry moved to the door to sneak out behind them, he didn't notice his absent-mindedly placing the orbs in his pockets, or the glint of light that reflected off the sword as he ran out into the fray.

Just in time for Sirius to die, one of the last people he had to tie him to his family.