The Ministry of Magic Hopes You Have a Pleasant Evening

Dusk fell.

The sky gradually took on a faint, hazy purple hue, dotted with tiny silver stars.

Soon, only the lights of Muggle towns told them how high they were above the ground and how fast they were flying.

Harry wrapped his arms around the Thestral's neck, clinging tightly and wishing it would fly faster.

How much time had passed since the moment he saw Sirius lying on the floor of the Department of Mysteries?

How much longer could Sirius hold out against Voldemort?

Harry could only conclude that his godfather had neither obeyed Voldemort's orders nor been killed,

because he was certain... either outcome would have made him feel Voldemort's joy or rage coursing through his own body, making his scar burn as it had on the night Mr. Weasley was attacked.

They flew through darkness. Harry's face felt stiff and frozen, and his legs, clamped tightly against the Thestral's sides, had gone numb. But he did not dare shift his position for fear of falling. He could hear nothing but the roaring wind rushing past his ears, while the cold night air dried and numbed his mouth.

How far had they gone?

He had no sense of it anymore. All his hopes rested on the Thestral beneath him, which still flew steadily and swiftly through the pitch-black night sky, almost never beating its wings as it sped onward.

If we're too late...

He's alive, he's still fighting, I can feel it... If Voldemort decided Sirius would never yield... I should know... Harry's stomach lurched. The Thestral suddenly dipped its head toward the ground, and he slid a few inches forward along its neck.

They were finally going to land.

He thought he heard a scream behind him, so he twisted around nervously, but saw no falling bodies... presumably,