Chapter 15: Chapter 15: The Final Year

The Hogwarts carriages trundled up the winding path toward the castle, their skeletal thestral drivers visible only to those who had witnessed death. Arthur Hayes sat alone in the last carriage, watching as the ancient school emerged from the twilight mist. The familiar silhouette of towers and turrets against the darkening sky stirred no nostalgia in him—merely a clinical acknowledgment that this would be the last time he made this particular journey.

Seven years. It seemed both remarkably brief and inexplicably long. He had learned and grown considerably within the walls of this ancient castle, though not in the ways its founders might have intended.

As the carriage rolled to a stop before the main entrance, Arthur descended and gathered his thoughts. He hoped this year would mirror the previous ones—productive and relatively quiet. He had no desire to become entangled in any of the events surrounding the “Boy Who Lived” and his inevitable drama.

As he walked through the castle gates, he noticed a subtle shift in the atmosphere. Younger students, excitedly discussing their holidays, immediately fell silent and moved aside when they spotted him. The crowd parted before Arthur like water, no one daring to block his path.

This pleasant state of affairs lasted until he neared the Great Hall, where a cluster of Slytherins had positioned themselves in his way. They were led by Alexander Rowle, a seventh-year whose family’s Death Eater connections were an open secret among Slytherin’s elite circles. They stood waiting for him like caricatures of first-Chapter villains—all swagger and no substance.

“Well, look who it is,” Rowle drawled, his aristocratic features arranging themselves into a practiced sneer as he positioned himself directly in Arthur’s path. “Hayes, contaminating Hogwarts for one final year.”

The others arranged themselves in a loose semicircle—not directly threatening, but clearly attempting intimidation.

Arthur sighed with undisguised annoyance. “Seven years wasn’t enough to convince you I belong exactly where I choose to be? Though I do think you people were sorted into the wrong house,” he replied, his tone more bored than confrontational. “I had hoped repetition might eventually lead to comprehension, even in your limited intellectual capacity. This behavior would suit Gryffindor house perfectly.”

Rowle’s face darkened with anger, his hand twitching toward his wand pocket. “You dare compare us with those blood traitors? You’ve been allowed to play at being a wizard for too long, mudblood. This year, things will be different. It will be our time again soon.”

Arthur understood the source of their renewed confidence. The antics of a few Death Eaters at the Quidditch World Cup had reignited their pureblood fervor. Arthur had skipped the event entirely, having no interest in Quidditch, though in retrospect, he might have enjoyed testing himself against those silver-masked fools.

Now these students, likely children of those cloaked troublemakers, had found the courage to confront him again. Arthur cared little; he would be leaving Britain within a year, and Voldemort’s impending return was Dumbledore’s and Potter’s problem, not his.

“Threatening me has historically proven unwise,” Arthur observed mildly, making a show of checking his watch. “But some lessons need frequent repetition, it seems.”

“You arrogant—” Cassius Warrington, a sixth-year Slytherin, stepped forward with his wand half-drawn, apparently having had enough of Arthur’s dismissive attitude.

The transformation happened so quickly that several onlookers who had paused to watch the confrontation missed it entirely. One moment Warrington stood there, wand half-raised, teeth bared in a sneer; the next, a small, green frog sat blinking confusedly on the stone path where the Slytherin had been standing.

No incantation had been spoken. Arthur hadn’t even reached for his wand, which remained in his pocket. Just a brief flicker of concentration crossed his features, a subtle gesture of his fingers at his side, and Warrington was… amphibious.

A stunned silence fell over the assembled students. Human-to-animal transfiguration surpassed NEWT-level magic under any circumstances. To perform it silently was impressive even for accomplished wizards. To do so wandlessly, with such apparent ease, was something few professors at Hogwarts could manage. None of the onlookers had ever witnessed anything like it.

Rowle’s eyes widened in shock, his own wand frozen halfway out of his pocket. The casual display of power—power that so vastly exceeded his own—clearly rattled him more than he wanted to admit.

“What did you do?” he demanded, his voice higher than normal. “Change him back immediately!”

“He’ll revert in approximately thirty minutes,” Arthur replied calmly, stepping past the now-scattered group. “Unless, of course, someone attempts a counter-transfiguration improperly, in which case the results might be… interesting.”

One of the younger Slytherins quickly scooped up the frantically croaking frog, and the entire group backed away, giving Arthur a wide berth as he ascended the steps to the entrance hall. Behind him, he could hear Rowle’s urgent whisper—”Get him to Snape, now!”—followed by the sound of hurried footsteps retreating toward the dungeons.

Arthur allowed himself a small measure of satisfaction as he resumed his way toward the Great Hall. He had enjoyed the fear on the blood purists’ faces at his display of power. He hoped they might finally learn their lesson, though experience suggested they would eventually return, their arrogance overriding their self-preservation instincts.

The Great Hall buzzed with activity. Students filed in, chattering excitedly as they found seats at their house tables. Arthur moved to his usual isolated position at the far end of the Slytherin table, the empty spaces around him as familiar as they were convenient.

From his vantage point, he surveyed the staff table with calculated interest. Most of the familiar faces were present—McGonagall engaged in conversation with tiny Professor Flitwick, Hagrid taking up more than his share of space at one end, Snape looking as sour as ever. The notable addition was the scarred, weather-beaten face of who appeared to be Alastor “Mad-Eye” Moody, the new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher.

Arthur studied the impostor with clinical detachment. The magical eye that gave the real Moody his nickname swiveled constantly, scanning the hall with unnatural vigilance. The man’s posture was too rigid, his movements too controlled for someone supposedly as paranoid and unpredictable as the legendary Auror.

Barty Crouch Jr., Arthur thought, watching the Death Eater play his role with admirable commitment. He was doing a reasonably convincing job with his disguise. Voldemort had likely provided him with a crash course on how to behave and perhaps some memories of the old Auror to avoid detection.

The fact that Dumbledore either hadn’t noticed or—more likely—was allowing the charade to proceed was interesting. The Headmaster’s tendency to use people as chess pieces in his long game against Voldemort was something Arthur had recognized both from his knowledge of the books and from his observations over the past six years at Hogwarts. Too many coincidences, too many questionable decisions suggested either that Dumbledore and the other professors were incompetent or that they were deliberately allowing events to unfold. This year would be no exception, with Potter being maneuvered toward the inevitable confrontation in the graveyard that would mark Voldemort’s return.

None of it was Arthur’s concern. The machinations of a self-styled dark lord and a manipulative headmaster were problems for magical Britain to solve, not diversions from his own carefully crafted plans.

The sorting ceremony proceeded with its usual tedium—nervous first-years, the ancient hat’s declarations, applause from respective house tables. Arthur paid minimal attention, his mind already planning his future beyond Britain’s shores. The Marvel world contained numerous fascinating events, and Arthur could hardly wait to witness or participate in them.

His contemplation was interrupted by Dumbledore rising to his feet after the last first-year had been sorted. The Headmaster’s silver beard gleamed in the candlelight as he spread his arms in welcome.

“To our newcomers,” he said, his voice carrying effortlessly through the hall, “welcome! To our old hands—welcome back! There is a time for speech-making, but this is not it. Tuck in!”

Food materialized on the golden plates, provoking appreciative gasps from the first-years and immediate activity from everyone else. Arthur served himself with methodical efficiency. Around him, conversations bubbled with the usual beginning-of-term topics—summer activities, class schedules, speculation about the new Defense teacher.

As the main courses faded and were replaced by desserts, Arthur noticed an undercurrent of unusual excitement running through the student body. Fragments of conversation reached him—whispered references to some special event, knowing looks exchanged between older students, vague allusions to “what’s happening this year.” Evidently, information had leaked about the Triwizard Tournament, though Arthur doubted it had ever truly been a secret in the wizarding world. The Slytherins, at least, should have known from the very beginning.

When the desserts finally disappeared and Dumbledore rose again, the hall fell into an expectant hush with remarkable speed.

“Now that we are all fed and watered,” the Headmaster began, “I must once more ask for your attention while I give out a few notices. Mr. Filch, the caretaker, has asked me to tell you that the list of objects forbidden inside the castle has this year been extended to include Screaming Yo-yos, Fanged Frisbees, and Ever-Bashing Boomerangs…”

Arthur tuned out the standard announcements, focusing again on his own thoughts until Dumbledore’s tone shifted.

“It is also my painful duty to inform you that the Inter-House Quidditch Cup will not take place this year.”

This provoked immediate reactions from the Quidditch enthusiasts—particularly the Weasley twins at the Gryffindor table, who appeared too shocked to speak.

“This is due,” Dumbledore continued, raising his voice slightly, “to an event that will be starting in October, and continuing throughout the school year, taking up much of the teachers’ time and energy—but I am sure you will all enjoy it immensely. I have great pleasure in announcing that—”

“The Triwizard Tournament will be taking place at Hogwarts this year.”

“You’re JOKING!” exclaimed one of the Weasley twins.

As Dumbledore explained the history and nature of the Tournament, Arthur found his interest waning rapidly. He had no interest in the tournament, its promise of eternal glory, or the measly one thousand galleons. The prize seemed pitiful compensation for the risks involved.

“Eager though I know all of you will be to bring the Triwizard Cup to Hogwarts,” Dumbledore was saying, “the heads of the participating schools, along with the Ministry of Magic, have agreed to impose an age restriction on contenders this year. Only students who are of age—that is to say, seventeen years or older—will be permitted to put forward their names for consideration.”

This announcement provoked loud protests from younger students, particularly the Weasley twins, who would miss the age cutoff by mere months.

“The delegations from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang will be arriving in October,” Dumbledore continued over the disgruntled muttering, “and I know you will all extend every courtesy to our foreign guests while they are with us. And now, it is late, and I know how important it is to you all to be alert and rested as you enter your lessons tomorrow morning.”

As the students rose in a cacophony of scraping benches and excited chatter, Arthur remained seated, waiting for the initial rush to subside. He had no intention of interfering with the canonical timeline. Why should he? The eventual outcome—Voldemort’s defeat after several years of warfare—was a problem for magical Britain to solve, not him. By the time the real conflict ignited, he would be far away and perhaps forgotten by everyone here.

With this decision firmly in mind, Arthur rose and made his way toward the Slytherin dormitories, moving against the flow of excited students speculating about the Tournament. Let them have their games and their wars. His destiny lay elsewhere, in a world of genuine power and possibility that none of them could even imagine.

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