King's Cross Station
Inside the concealed loading platform hidden from Muggle eyes, Bryan had just seen off Kingsley and the others as they rushed toward the waiting platform.
Professor McGonagall who had been fully prepared to step onto the battlefield alongside the younger fighters to fight the Death Eaters had instead been redirected by Bryan. He'd dispatched her to St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries.
Turning on his back, Bryan made his way back into the specialized train car loaded with countless gold galleons. Inside the now-empty command compartment—
Tafir stood frozen in shock. He stared with wide eyes at the flickering images displayed on a sleek black screen on the train car's wall. The magical monitoring device showed real-time views of Diagon Alley, where both opposing sides were rapidly assembling their forces in the ruins.
The suffocating, oppressive atmosphere of impending slaughter seemed to spill through the very screen.
"Quite fascinating, isn't it—"
Bryan's sudden voice startled Tafir so badly that the old man leapt up from the sofa seat as though he'd been struck by lightning. His walking stick shot up defensively in front of him, held in both trembling hands, as he stared in alarm at the wizard who had just silently entered the compartment—a handsome face wearing a faint, almost amused smile.
Bryan Watson!
According to the official Ministry of Magic records, this remarkable wizard was about twenty-five years old.
A twenty-five-year-old wizard whose known combat achievements were so formidable, that when looking across the entire history of magical civilization spanning thousands of years, only Albus Dumbledore could be said to slightly surpass him.
The man standing before him was a prodigy of monstrous, terrifying proportions.
"I—I've already—already—" Tafir stammered.
"Don't worry—"
Seeing Tafir so frightened he could barely speak, Bryan raised one hand and waved it with a gentle, reassuring smile.
"We're on the same side here, aren't we?"
'The same side.'
Tafir's tensed lips twitched as a hint of astonishment rose in his heart.
A magical genius rare throughout all of history—young, already bearing great international renown, wielding power that most wizards couldn't dream of attaining in multiple lifetimes.
Tafir had fully expected Bryan Watson to be an incredibly arrogant wizard in private, perhaps even cruel or dismissive toward those he considered beneath him. The truly powerful often were.
But unexpectedly, the man seemed rather... down-to-earth. There was no condescension in his tone, no meanness in his demeanor.
Stealing a cautious glance at Bryan from beneath his eyebrows, Tafir noticed he was now examining Thanatos who lay collapsed and unconscious on the sofa cushions. A strange, contemplative smile appeared across Bryan's young face that Tafir couldn't quite decipher.
After a moment's hesitation, Tafir said docilely, "Thanatos... is he—will he be all right?"
"Oh, he's perfectly fine—nothing to worry about there."
Bryan's tone was light. "Just severe magical exhaustion from overtaxing his reserves. He needs proper rest for a while. That Titan skeleton summon was still far too taxing for his current power level. He pushed himself well beyond his limits. Of course,"
Bryan added meaningfully, his purple eyes flickering toward Tafir, "he'd best go to St. Mungo's for a thorough professional examination. Just to be certain there's no lasting damage to his magical channels."
Tafir immediately understood what Watson was subtly hinting at with that suggestion.
Though Watson had consistently shown nothing but courtesy and maintained an easy, relaxed manner throughout their interaction, there was still an unconscious pressure that radiated from him with every casual gesture and small movement.
It was simply too overwhelming for comfort, like standing too close to a barely doused fire.
"I'll take him to the hospital right now!"
Tafir said hurrying forward to carefully prop up the unconscious Thanatos.
As he reached the train's door and stepped out onto the platform outside—not a single soul in sight gave Tafir a moment's pause.
After another moment's hesitation, he slowly turned back to look at Watson who stood in the doorway, backlit by the compartment's warm lighting, calmly watching them prepare to leave.
"I... I heard that this train—" Tafir began carefully. "The gold it's carrying will be transported under guard to the Ministry of Magic."
"Actually, it won't—"
Bryan smiled calmly. "After the battle in Diagon Alley ends—this gold will be relocated back to Gringotts, to the Ministry of Magic's underground vault there."
'Send the gold back?!'
Tafir's face showed astonishment at this unexpected revelation. The entire operation, all this risk and violence and death, just to move gold in a circle? What was the point?
But when his confused gaze accidentally met Bryan Watson's remarkable purple eyes directly—eyes that seemed as deep and fathomless as an ocean trench, holding secrets and schemes far beyond his ability to comprehend—he very quickly collected himself.
Wisely, exercising the survival instinct that had kept him alive through decades of dangerous work, he asked nothing further. He simply nodded once in understanding and acknowledgment then hurried off the train with his unconscious burden quickly.
Bryan stood still in the doorway, hands clasped behind his back and watched in silence until Tafir managed to maneuver the limp Thanatos into position and disapparate.
Only then did he turn away.
Returning to the bar area of the command compartment, Bryan picked up his wine glass from where he'd left it. He took a light sip savoring the complex flavors then fell into silence as he turned his attention to the magical screen.
He watched as the two torrents of magical warriors finally clashed in fierce, chaotic combat.
The death of Emmeline Vance, a good woman, loyal and brave—drew little visible emotion from Bryan.
Many people would die in today's war. He'd accepted that reality when he'd set this entire sequence of events in motion.
He watched as a furious Kingsley charged forward to engage the Carrow siblings.
In a short span of time, Alecto Carrow fell to Kingsley's hand. Though Kingsley paid dearly for that victory—one of his legs was severed.
How lamentable.
The position of Head of the Auror Office seemed to carry some kind of curse attached to it, just like the notorious Defense Against the Dark Arts professorship at Hogwarts. Everyone who held that particular position eventually had serious trouble with their legs.
On the screen, Amycus Carrow screamed with heart-rending, animalistic grief. He charged forward with murder in his eyes to finish off the now-incapacitated and helpless Kingsley where he lay bleeding in the mud.
Fortunately, Hagrid finally emerged from his grief to intercept Amycus, physically blocking the Death Eater's path with his massive body and engaging him in combat.
Kingsley, barely conscious and losing blood rapidly, was then evacuated from the battlefield by a pair of the Ministry's professional Strikers. They grabbed him under the arms and disapparated with a crack, presumably heading directly to St. Mungo's.
Bryan's attention shifted across the chaotic battlefield.
He also saw Arthur Weasley and Moody working together in coordination to battle Antonin Dolohov, one of Voldemort's most brutal and experienced fighters.
In an exchange amid flying dirt and spell-light, Antonin Dolohov was pierced directly through the chest by a curse from Arthur.
Dolohov's brutal face immediately went stiff. The unwilling, desperate light in his dark eyes flickered and then faded rapidly as death claimed him. He toppled back like a felled tree.
But his final curse casted before his death exploded with terrible force against Arthur's abdomen as well.
The results were catastrophic. Flesh was torn to shreds by the magic.
Alastor roared as he immediately rushed to Arthur's side. Another Striker wizard who had been fighting a pair of dark wizards nearby saw what had happened and quickly disengaged. He sprinted over and, with Moody's help, managed to get a grip on the critically wounded Arthur before disapparating from the battlefield.
Bryan also observed the desperate struggle between Frank and Alice Longbottom and the deranged Bellatrix.
The departures of Arthur and Kingsley from the battlefield drew no emotional response from Bryan. But when he saw Bellatrix beginning to fall into a defensive position under the Longbottoms' surprisingly well-coordinated combined assault, his eyebrow unconsciously furrowed and his grip on the wine glass slowly tightened.
It wasn't until a wizard so large he appeared almost bloated joined this "private duel" and successfully relieved the pressure on Bellatrix that Bryan released a soft sigh of relief.
The duel between Sirius and Lucius remained fairly evenly matched for the moment. Bryan's gaze flowed ahead.
He watched as Malfoy searched frantically through the rubble.
The very instant that golden cup came into view on the screen—
CRACK!
Thunder seemed to flash directly in Bryan's purple eyes. Every single wine bottle on the rack behind the bar suddenly shattered in unison, under a trace of the magical power unconsciously leaking from Bryan's!
The Basement Kitchen of Grimmauld Place
Though there was no wind indoors in the basement, the wavering light from the candles on the silver candlesticks on the wooden table flickered uncertainly, dancing and jumping in response to some disturbance.
The uncertain light seemed to perfectly mirror the unstable, anxious mood of everyone gathered in the kitchen, waiting for news they desperately wanted and terribly feared equally.
Except for the three eldest Weasley sons—all the remaining Weasley children sat arranged around the table in tense silence.
Fred and George had completely lost their usual infectious liveliness and constant mischief. The normally uncontainable twins sat unnaturally quiet and still in their chairs staring blankly at the flickering candlelight with hollow eyes.
Ron wore the same dazed, shell-shocked expression, his face was alarmingly pale even in the warm candlelight. He stared with intensity at his hands spread open on his knees, as if he'd never seen them before, lost in troubled thoughts he couldn't or wouldn't share.
Ginny was curled up in her chair with her thin arms wrapped around her legs, her face was buried between her knees so that no one could see her expression.
Harry's clenched fists, resting on the table, were squeezed so tightly that his short nails had embedded themselves in his palms.
The corner of his right eye kept twitching and his green eyes flickered restlessly with reflected candlelight, as if fearing something.
Hermione looked anxiously at everyone gathered around the table. Her teeth worried constantly at her lower lip, biting down hard enough to hurt. Several times she opened her mouth, clearly wanting to say something but each time no words would come.
CRASH—
The sudden sound of breaking pottery made everyone jump.
By the old-fashioned stove, a ceramic plate slipped from Mrs. Weasley's trembling fingers and fell to the hard floor, shattering into dozens of pieces across the stone.
Mrs. Weasley crouched down in panic to gather up the scattered fragments.
"Hiss—"
In her distracted, clumsy rush, her finger was cut by a sharp edge of the broken porcelain. Bright red blood immediately welled up.
Mrs. Weasley sucked in a sharp breath and only then seemed to remember she was actually a witch. She stood up again in a flustered rush, nearly losing her balance, and fumbled for her wand with her uninjured hand to repair the broken plate.
But she, who was so remarkably skilled at household magic found her spells completely awkward now. No matter how she manipulated her wand, making the proper movements and speaking the familiar words, the scattered fragments on the floor only trembled and shifted slightly but stubbornly refused to come back together.
"Let me help, Mrs. Weasley—"
Several of the Weasley children at the table were so deeply trapped in their own private fears and dark imaginings that they showed little reaction even when they saw their mother's finger injured and bleeding.
Hermione's breathing quickened sharply for a moment. She immediately pushed back her chair with a scrape and hurried across the kitchen to Mrs. Weasley's side.
With a simple Reparo charm, Hermione quickly repaired the shattered plate, making it whole again. Then she hastily retrieved clean bandages and antiseptic from the cupboard.
"Oh, thank you, dear Hermione—thank you so much."
Mrs. Weasley gave a hurried, strained smile. "This doesn't usually happen to me... I'm normally much more careful. The magic just suddenly failed. I don't know what's wrong with me."
Her voice cracked slightly on the last words.
Hermione said nothing in response. She only gripped Mrs. Weasley's trembling hand tightly in both of her own.
WHOOSH!
Just then, the weak flame in the kitchen fireplace suddenly blazed up into roaring green life.
The children, who had seemed frozen in place immediately came to life as though released from a spell.
They all pushed back their chairs at once and stared in stunned silence at an official-looking letter that came flying out from the flames with a trail of sparks!
"A Ministry letter!"
George forced out in a hoarse, cracking voice from his throat. "I—I saw the seal on it."
Harry also stood up abruptly from his chair. He stared at the letter now circling slowly above their heads with an expression mixing longing and dread.
Then a male wizard's voice they'd never heard before—breathless and urgent, rang out, making every single Weasley child's body tremble:
"Arthur Weasley critically injured in combat operations at Diagon Alley. Has been sent under emergency conditions to St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries. He needs immediate family care!"
The letter burst into flames and vanished.
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