Dawn broke over Hogwarts with a thin, milky light that did little to dispel the morning chill. Arthur's breath formed small clouds as he jogged along the edge of the lake, his pace steady and controlled.
The grounds were silent except for the occasional call of birds and the rhythmic sound of Arthur's footfalls on the frost-hardened earth. Most students were still asleep, particularly after the late night of the welcoming feast. Even Hagrid's chimney remained smokeless, suggesting the gamekeeper hadn't yet risen to tend his unusual menagerie.
This solitude was precisely why Arthur valued these early hours. No stares, no whispers, no carefully maintained distance from the pariah of Slytherin. Just the physical discipline of running, the burn of muscles working, and the clarity of mind that came with exertion.
He was approaching a more remote section of the grounds, where the manicured lawns gave way to wilder growth near the edge of the Forbidden Forest, when he sensed a change in the atmosphere. The hair on the back of his neck rose slightly—an instinctive reaction to magical surveillance that he had developed over years of being targeted.
Without breaking stride, Arthur extended his magical awareness outward, feeling for the telltale signatures of concealment charms and disillusionment spells. They were there, clustered in the shadows of trees and behind boulders—multiple presences attempting to remain hidden while they watched him approach.
An ambush, then. Not particularly surprising given the previous day's events. New audiences often inspired his long-standing adversaries to renewed efforts, especially with foreign students to impress.
Arthur continued running for another fifty meters before stopping abruptly in a small clearing ringed by ancient oak trees. He performed a few deliberate stretching motions, as if cooling down from his exercise, while actually positioning himself optimally within the space.
"If you're planning to watch me all morning," he called out to the apparently empty clearing, "you might as well make yourselves comfortable. Otherwise, I suggest you stop wasting my time and show yourselves."
For a moment, nothing happened. Then, gradually, figures began emerging from various hiding places around the clearing. Some dispelled disillusionment charms, others simply stepped out from behind trees or rocks. They arranged themselves in a loose semicircle, wands already in hand, expressions ranging from nervous determination to open hostility.
It was an impressive assembly—far larger than any previous confrontation Arthur had faced. Rowle and several other Slytherin purists formed the center of the group, flanked by a contingent of Ravenclaws whom Arthur recognized as the more aggressively members of that house. More surprising were the Durmstrang students—five of their burliest males, including the one who had deliberately bumped into him the previous night. Even Beauxbatons was represented by two tall boys with identical contemptuous expressions.
Twenty in all. Apparently, his reputation had inspired a truly collaborative international effort.
"Quite the gathering," Arthur remarked, his tone conversational. "I'm almost flattered."
Rowle stepped forward, his wand pointed directly at Arthur's chest. "You've been allowed to contaminate Hogwarts with your filthy blood for too long, Hayes. Now you've embarrassed us in front of our guests."
"An international incident, clearly," Arthur replied dryly. "Is this what they call magical cooperation these days?"
One of the Durmstrang students spat on the ground. "Ve heard about you. Muggle-born who thinks he is better than proper vizards. This is not right."
"Someone needs to teach you your proper place," added a Ravenclaw—Martin Belby, if Arthur recalled correctly. "You may have fooled the professors with your tricks, but we know what you really are."
"And what might that be?" Arthur asked, making a show of checking his watch as if the conversation was keeping him from more important matters.
"A fraud," Rowle snarled. "A mudblood who doesn't belong in our world, let alone in Slytherin."
"You've had this explained to you repeatedly," Arthur sighed. "Yet comprehension continues to elude you. Perhaps visualization might help?"
He made no move for his wand, which remained in his pocket. Instead, he simply stood, seemingly relaxed despite being surrounded by twenty hostile wizards. The casual confidence in his posture visibly unnerved several of his would-be attackers.
"Twenty against one," Arthur observed mildly. "And you still don't seem confident. Should I close my eyes to make it more sporting?"
That provocation was enough. Rowle's face contorted with rage, and he slashed his wand downward with a snarled incantation. Several others followed immediately, various colored jets of light streaking toward Arthur from different directions.
But Arthur was no longer standing in their path. With a sudden surge of magic that seemed to emanate from his very core, the atmosphere around him shimmered. Objects from the surrounding environment—fallen branches, stones, even clumps of earth—rose into the air and began orbiting his body at increasing speed. As the spells converged on his position, the orbiting materials intercepted them, the magical energy dissipating harmlessly against the improvised shields.
It was a visual echo of the accidental magic Arthur had unleashed years ago, the night his parents died, but now controlled, refined, and amplified to an astonishing degree.
The assembled attackers faltered, many taking involuntary steps backward as they witnessed wandless magic on a scale that defied conventional understanding of what should be possible for a wizard Arthur's age—or indeed, for wizards of any age.
The levitated objects continued their protective orbit, but now they began to transform. Branches twisted and flattened into perfect discs, stones restructured into smooth panels, earth compressed into dense shields. All of these transfigured objects maintained their circular path around Arthur, creating a dynamic, multi-layered defense system that moved with fluid precision.
All of this occurred without Arthur drawing his wand or uttering a single incantation. His only visible action was a subtle gesture of his fingers, as if conducting an invisible orchestra.
"Impressive, isn't it?" Arthur remarked, his voice carrying easily despite the magical display surrounding him. "Now, shall we continue this educational demonstration, or would you prefer to reconsider?"
For a moment, it seemed the assembled group might indeed reconsider. Several of the Ravenclaws exchanged uncertain glances, while two of the Beauxbatons students began whispering urgently to each other in French.
Then one of the Durmstrang students—the largest of them, with a shaved head and a prominent scar across his jawline—stepped forward aggressively.
"Enough tricks!" he bellowed. "Incendio Maxima!"
A massive jet of flame erupted from his wand, far more powerful than the standard fire-making spell taught at Hogwarts. It engulfed Arthur's position entirely, momentarily obscuring him from view.
When the flames cleared, Arthur stood untouched. The rotating shields had seamlessly merged into a complete dome that had absorbed the full force of the attack. The dome now separated back into its component parts, resuming their orbit as if nothing had happened.
"Not bad," Arthur acknowledged. "But rather predictable."
Now the entire group attacked simultaneously, a barrage of spells flying toward Arthur from all directions. Stunning spells, binding hexes, blasting curses—a chaotic mixture of offensive magic that should have overwhelmed any conventional defense.
Arthur's shields intercepted everything, the transfigured objects dancing through the air with impossible precision, always exactly where they needed to be to block incoming attacks. Throughout this onslaught, his expression remained calm, almost bored, giving the unsettling impression that he was expending minimal effort.
The attackers grew increasingly desperate, each failed attempt only heightening their frustration. They began casting more dangerous spells—cutting curses, bone-breakers, even what appeared to be borderline dark magic from some of the Durmstrang students.
Nothing penetrated Arthur's defenses.
After allowing this to continue for several minutes—primarily to assess whether any of them possessed magical techniques he hadn't previously encountered—Arthur decided he'd indulged their efforts long enough. It was time to conclude this confrontation in a way that would send a clear message.
"I believe you've had sufficient opportunity to demonstrate your abilities," he announced, his voice cutting through the chaos of spell-fire. "Allow me to respond in kind."
Instead of retaliating with magic, however, Arthur did something that momentarily confused his attackers—he stepped forward, allowing his shields to continue their protective orbit while he began moving toward the assembled group.
It took them a moment to realize his intention, and by then, it was too late.
Arthur moved with the fluid grace of someone who had spent years honing his physical reflexes alongside his magical abilities. He ducked beneath a hastily cast hex, stepped inside the guard of a Ravenclaw, and delivered a precise strike to the boy's solar plexus. The student crumpled immediately, wand falling from nerveless fingers as he struggled to breathe.
Before the others could react, Arthur was already moving to his next target—a Durmstrang student whose bulky frame couldn't compensate for his slow reactions. A quick sweep of the legs sent him crashing to the ground, followed by a calculated blow to the temple that left him dazed but conscious.
The sight of Arthur engaging in physical combat—"fighting like a Muggle"—seemed to both confuse and outrage his opponents. Wizards, particularly pure-bloods, were notorious for their disdain of non-magical fighting techniques, viewing them as beneath their dignity. Arthur's choice to fight this way was deliberate, a calculated move to undermine and humiliate them.
He moved through their ranks with methodical efficiency, his shields continuing to intercept magical attacks while he engaged them physically. A precise strike to the throat here, a joint lock there, a sweeping kick followed by a controlled throw—all executed with the practiced skill of someone who had studied multiple martial disciplines.
The Beauxbatons students fell back, clearly unnerved by this unorthodox approach. One attempted to create distance for spellcasting, only to find himself grabbed by the wrist, his momentum used against him as Arthur flipped him onto his back with enough force to drive the air from his lungs.
Rowle, seeing his allies falling one by one, abandoned any pretense of wizarding dignity and charged Arthur directly, attempting to use his superior size as a weapon. It was a mistake. Arthur sidestepped smoothly, caught the Slytherin's extended arm, and applied precise pressure to nerve points that sent shocks of pain up to his shoulder. Rowle howled, dropping to his knees as Arthur released him with a dismissive push.
Within minutes, the entire group lay scattered across the clearing—bruised, dazed, some clutching injured limbs, others simply trying to recover their breath.
None had suffered any truly serious injuries; Arthur had deliberately controlled his strikes to cause pain and temporary incapacitation without lasting damage. The message would be clearer if they were all mobile enough to be seen at breakfast, their visible injuries testament to their failed ambush.
Arthur stood in the center of the clearing, surveying the results of his handiwork with clinical detachment. His breathing remained steady, his appearance almost entirely unruffled except for a light sheen of sweat that could easily have come from his morning run.
"Consider this a practical lesson in several subjects," he addressed the groaning figures around him. "Magical defense, certainly. Tactical assessment. And perhaps most importantly—" his gaze swept over them with cool indifference, "—the folly of underestimating an opponent based on preconceived notions."
He turned to leave, then paused, looking back over his shoulder. "I would suggest visiting Madam Pomfrey, but I suspect you'd rather avoid explaining how you acquired these injuries. Cold compresses should help with the swelling. The discoloration, unfortunately, will need to fade naturally—a visible reminder for the next few days."
As he walked away, resuming his jogging pace as if the entire incident had been nothing more than a brief interruption to his morning exercise, Arthur allowed himself a small, satisfied smile. Tonight would be the Halloween feast and the selection of champions. The bruised faces and stiff movements of his would-be attackers would be clearly visible to the entire student body—a powerful statement without a single word needed.
Let them explain to their peers how twenty wizards armed with wands had been physically overcome by a single Muggle-born. Let them try to reconcile their beliefs about blood superiority with the undeniable evidence of their own failure.
Some lessons, Arthur reflected, were best taught through practical demonstration rather than theory.