Arthur's sudden arrival left everyone stunned. Aurora's heart lurched with worry, while Amelia Bones and the surrounding wizards stared, stunned, that Arthur had managed to Apparate into the building despite the warding.
They had sensed the wards go up the moment the Death Eaters arrived—wards that should have blocked all Apparition in or out. Yet Arthur Hayes stood there, calm as a lake on a windless day.
The MI6 director and his agents, relieved that Arthur wasn't an enemy, resumed their evacuation procedures without delay.
"What are you doing here?" Aurora demanded, her voice sharp with worry. "Leave, quickly! This place isn't safe."
"I sensed magical trouble around you," Arthur replied calmly, his tone almost infuriating given the circumstances. "Is it handled?"
Aurora frowned. "How could you possibly know that?"
Arthur gestured toward her neck. "The pendant I gave you last birthday—it alerts me to significant magical activity around you."
Her fingers brushed the delicate silver chain. "This pendant? You mean... you actually care about my safety?"
"Within reason." Arthur said with a casual shrug. "You put up with me for seven years. That earns some reciprocal protection. From magical threats, anyway. Mundane danger, you're on your own."
Despite cursed fire approaching, Aurora's lips twitched. "Still a brat."
Amelia Bones cut in, voice urgent. "As touching as this is, we need to evacuate now! We can't hold the Fiendfyre back much longer!"
Arthur turned to her with polite interest. "Hello, Director Bones. Need help with the fire?"
She looked at him skeptically. "Can you stop Fiendfyre?"
"Stop it? No." Golden rings materialized around Arthur's forearms, spinning with increasing speed. "But I'm excellent at giving directions."
Wind exploded through the building.
Not natural wind—this moved with purpose, with will. The approaching wall of cursed fire shuddered, twisted, then began flowing upward like water in reverse. Death's flames became a pillar, punching through the ceiling in a controlled eruption.
Arthur rose with it.
No broom. No spell they recognized. He simply lifted off the ground and floated upward through the hole his wind had carved.
"Impossible," someone whispered.
Morrison's voice cracked like a whip. "Explanations later. Evacuation now. Move!"
But nobody could look away from the ceiling.
—
Outside, Voldemort and the Death Eaters who had conjured the Fiendfyre stared in shock as their own flames burst through the roof.
They tried to regain control of the fire, but it no longer responded to their commands. Arthur's wind-based spell had overtaken their influence.
From the fiery breach in the ceiling, a figure emerged, flying. Voldemort's eyes narrowed. He recognized the magic but couldn't fathom how this stranger had mastered it—magic he had painstakingly discovered and perfected.
"Who are you?" Voldemort demanded.
"Introductions are earned. Survive my gift first." Arthur replied coolly.
"What gift?"
"This."
Arthur's hands moved in sharp gestures. The pillar of Fiendfyre compressed, twisted, became a sphere of concentrated death the size of a small house. With casual precision, he hurled it at the assembled Death Eaters.
Voldemort's expression darkened. "You dare! Everyone, extinguish your Fiendfyre—now!"
Most of the Death Eaters obeyed immediately, casting the counter-spell. The massive ball of fire diminished as the internal Fiendfyre extinguished.
But not all succeeded. Some lacked the skill or cracked under pressure. The ball remained, though much reduced.
Voldemort's wand became a blur. Curse after curse struck the diminished fireball, each impact reducing it further. His followers added their efforts, desperation lending them coordination.
The flames died.
It looked effortless, but that was because Arthur hadn't truly tried. He didn't want to kill anyone—not yet. For one he did not want to become a wanted criminal in the wizarding world. He knew that would surely happen if he killed anyone.
Another reason for not giving his best was that he knew that stepping in too far would make him responsible for ending the war prematurely, something he had no interest in doing.
Voldemort was the wizarding world's problem, not his.
Arthur touched down gently, applauding. "Brilliant! Though I'd expect nothing less from the great Lord Voldemort."
"You dare—"
"Speak your name? I just threw your own Fiendfyre at you. The name seems rather minor by comparison." Arthur's head tilted. "Unless you'd prefer Tom? Though that might ruin the whole pure-blood mystique."
The silence that followed could have frozen hell.
"You know far too much." Voldemort's voice had gone soft as silk over steel. "Who. Are. You?"
"Arthur Hayes." He gave a mock bow. "Pleasure to finally meet."
Recognition flickered through red eyes. "The Mudblood Slytherin. Potter's rival in the Tournament."
"Such a narrow view of my accomplishments." Arthur sighed theatrically. "But yes, that's me."
"My followers speak of you." Voldemort's lipless mouth curved. "They're quite eager to... educate you properly."
Arthur scanned the assembled forces, noting faces. Many inner circle members remained in Azkaban after the Ministry debacle. But Bellatrix stood among this group, studying him like a cat eyeing a particularly interesting mouse.
"Speaking of education," Arthur said conversationally, "are any of their spawn here? We had such fun at Hogwarts."
Silence.
His gaze swept the ground, pausing on familiar features among the fallen. "Ah. Rowle. Belby. Already dead?" He clicked his tongue. "Killed by Muggle weapons, no less. How embarrassing."
The comment struck a nerve.
A massive Death Eater lunged forward, grief and rage distorting his features. "For my son! AVADA KEDAVRA!"
The jet of green light shot straight at Arthur's chest.
Behind him, Aurora screamed his name. It looked like the audience was here.
Arthur didn't flinch. His hands moved in a precise circle, golden sparks flaring between his fingers. A portal opened in the curse's path, absorbing the spell. A second portal appeared beside the caster.
The Killing Curse emerged and struck Rowle Sr. in the chest.
He toppled backward, dead before he hit the ground.
"Technically suicide," Arthur observed. "The Wizengamot will have such fun with that."
A stunned silence fell over the chamber.
"Impossible," Voldemort whispered, staring at his fallen follower.
"Not impossible," Arthur corrected. "Just magic you don't understand."
Voldemort's shock morphed into fury. "Kill him!" he commanded his Death Eaters. "Kill him at all costs!"
Chaos erupted anew as the Death Eaters launched a coordinated assault. Curses of all colors flew toward Arthur.
Arthur's hands moved once. Reality cracked around him like broken glass. He stepped sideways into the Mirror Dimension.
The spells passed through empty air, striking the ground where he'd stood. Smoke and debris exploded upward.
Arthur's mastery over the Mirror Dimension and his swift, fluid movements left onlookers guessing. To them, it seemed as though every spell struck true—exploding violently against the space he occupied. Yet when the smoke cleared, Arthur stood exactly where he'd been. Unharmed. Unbothered.
"Bit disappointing." He brushed imaginary dust from his robes. "Expected more from the Dark Lord's finest."
"What are you?" Fear leaked into a Death Eater's voice.
Voldemort, unwilling to accept what he was seeing, ordered another volley.
The same result.
"Well, you've had your turns." Arthur cracked his knuckles. "Now it's mine. Let me show you why the children at Hogwarts hated me.
Crack.
Arthur vanished.
He reappeared instantly in front of a Death Eater, driving his fist into the man's solar plexus. The wizard collapsed, gasping.
Crack.
Arthur disappeared again. Materialized beside another Death Eater.
A perfectly executed knee strike sent the man sprawling.
Crack. Crack. Crack.
Arthur moved like a deadly phantom. Appearing, striking, vanishing before anyone could react.
Each appearance brought devastating martial arts techniques honed through months of sparring at Kamar-Taj.
A spinning heel kick that dropped a Death Eater like a felled tree.
An elbow strike that shattered a mask and the nose beneath it.
A throw that sent a wizard flying ten feet.
The Death Eaters tried to target him with spells.
Stunning spells, Cutting Curses, and Blasting Hexes flew at him from every direction.
But Arthur disappeared before any could land, causing spells to miss and strike other Death Eaters instead. Friendly fire claimed more victims than Arthur's fists ever could.
Arthur held back—his strikes incapacitated, never killed. But their own spells did the damage he refused to inflict. One Death Eater fell with his neck twisted awkwardly from a misdirected curse. Another collapsed when a Blasting Hex meant for Arthur blew apart her leg.
Despite the madness around him, Arthur moved like a phantom of vengeance. Calm. Calculated. Efficient.
Voldemort's fury morphed into something alien—fear. For the first time in years, he felt outmatched. He raised his wand, his voice trembling. "What are you? You are no wizard with your weird magic and such fighting."
Arthur paused mid-strike. Golden light danced in his eyes like trapped stars.
"Your worst nightmare, apparently."
And then he Apparated directly in front of Voldemort.
With a blindingly fast spin, Arthur landed a thunderous kick to Voldemort's chest. The Dark Lord flew backward like a discarded toy, smashing through the compound's outer wall in an explosion of stone dust and disbelief.
Arthur turned to address the remaining Death Eaters—
Crack. Crack. Crack.
Multiple Apparitions echoed from beyond the compound.
Aurors and Order members flooded the battlefield, wands raised.
From the rubble, Voldemort's voice rang out, raw with fury and something worse—humiliation.
"RETREAT!"
Black smoke erupted as Death Eaters fled skyward, leaving their dead and wounded behind.
Arthur didn't pursue.
He stood motionless amid the devastation, watching the smoke trails disappear into night. His expression was stone.
Two major interventions now. First Sirius. Now this.
According to his memories, Voldemort should have killed Amelia Bones tonight. That timeline was shattered.
The board had shifted dramatically.
Today's casualties, combined with those still rotting in Azkaban after the Department of Mysteries, had gutted Voldemort's Death Eaters. His army was crippled.
Meanwhile, Amelia's survival virtually guaranteed her election as Minister. The light side would be stronger than ever.
If they acted decisively now, the war could end before it truly began.
But Arthur knew better.
Dumbledore would call for mercy. Second chances. Rehabilitation over elimination.
The old fool would handicap every advantage Arthur had just handed them.
Then there were the Horcruxes. Sirius knowing about them could accelerate their destruction—or create catastrophic timeline ripples Arthur couldn't predict.
Too many variables. Too many ways for good intentions to breed disaster.
Arthur's jaw tightened.
The wizarding world had to prove it could save itself. He was done playing guardian angel to people who consistently chose stupidity over survival.
His patience was exhausted.
Next time—if there was a next time—there would be no restraint. No mercy. No concern for becoming a wanted criminal or disrupting timelines.
Only cold, final judgment.