Hogwarts: I Am Such a Model Wizard

Cedric led the group forward.

For some reason, the lush vegetation that once covered the Hebrides Islands had been almost entirely scorched away. Even though it was night, visibility was clear across the open terrain.

After they crested a hill, a chorus of gasps rippled through the crowd.

It was obvious this had been a battlefield—but the scale was almost unbelievable.

They were met with the sight of a vast, gray swamp nearly the size of a Quidditch pitch. A deep, jagged crack—nearly three feet wide—split the ground, bottomless and dark. The cliff walls on either side were gouged and blasted, unmistakable signs of powerful spellwork.

It was hard to imagine what kind of duel could leave destruction like this in its wake.

Mr. Weasley stepped up to a massive boulder nearly as tall as himself, staring at it in a daze.

The stone had fallen directly into the chasm and seemed to have crushed something underneath—black, ashy marks surrounded it. On the adjacent cliff wall, there was a matching indentation.

"This was carved out with magic," Scrimgeour said as he approached, offering his assessment.

He raised his wand and tried to move the boulder off the crack, but it barely budged before slamming back into place.

It took both Mr. Weasley and another Auror working together to finally lift the boulder using a Levitation Charm and set it upright in the cliffside gap.

It fit perfectly.

"Did You-Know-Who do this too?" someone asked nervously, swallowing hard.

A rock that size… if it hit someone, it wouldn't just bruise—it could kill.

"I'm not sure. It might've been someone else," Mr. Weasley said, crouching down to inspect the scorched fragments.

They looked like shards of stone contaminated by dark magic. Even shattered, they still radiated a strong corrosive energy.

He pulled a scrap of parchment from his pocket and tossed it onto the fragments. In mere seconds, the parchment withered, turned yellow and brittle, and was carried away by a breeze in a flurry of powder.

It wasn't hard to imagine what would happen to a wizard who touched it directly.

"Now this feels like the Dark Lord's handiwork."

Several of the older Aurors nodded in agreement. They'd encountered him more than a decade ago, and they'd seen firsthand the kind of horrific magic he was capable of.

Yes—this fit his style perfectly.

Although, in most encounters, You-Know-Who rarely bothered with anything beyond the Killing Curse. Only when facing Dumbledore had he shown a wider range of spells.

They'd had the misfortune—or perhaps fortune—to witness those rare moments.

"Arthur… are you saying someone actually fought You-Know-Who here?" Mrs. Weasley clutched at her chest.

What if he was still nearby? The thought of Fred and George charging in so recklessly made her feel faint.

"Molly," Mr. Weasley said gently, "I don't think he's still here."

If You-Know-Who were nearby, there's no way he wouldn't have noticed them. The fact that he hadn't shown himself by now spoke volumes.

"Someone else must've arrived before us… and driven him off."

Someone drove off You-Know-Who?

"Headmaster Dumbledore?" an Auror blurted out instinctively.

In their minds, only Albus Dumbledore had the power to face the Dark Lord head-on.

"Yes, probably," Mr. Weasley agreed—it was the only explanation that made sense to him.

But Cedric, standing nearby, fell silent in thought.

He was considering another possibility.

Kyle.

After all, Kyle had been the one to send him the message—which meant he had been here too, and arrived before them.

But… could Kyle really have driven away You-Know-Who?

It seemed impossible.

It wasn't that Cedric didn't trust his friend—he knew Kyle's strength had long surpassed theirs. But to say he could force the Dark Lord to retreat… Cedric couldn't believe that.

Everyone knew: only Dumbledore had ever truly stood against You-Know-Who.

Kyle had only just graduated. How could he possibly be compared to Dumbledore?

No one would believe it.

But if it wasn't Kyle… then where was he?

Cedric quietly slipped toward the back of the group and, with a faint sense of unease, scribbled a line onto the enchanted communication parchment he carried.

There was no reply.

But even that gave Cedric a bit of relief.

The words remained crisp and unfaded—meaning the message hadn't vanished. The only explanation was that Kyle was too far away, outside the parchment's range.

Which meant… Kyle had already left the Hebrides Islands.

Good.

Cedric's greatest fear had been that the parchment would work—but Kyle would be nowhere to be found.

"Hey, everyone! Come take a look at this!"

A shout rang out from nearby, snapping Cedric out of his thoughts.

He immediately turned toward the voice.

It came from a partially collapsed cliff. Judging by the damage, it had clearly been blasted apart by magic. More importantly, this appeared to be the origin point of the Fiendfyre stretching across the entire island.

This was where it had all started. Even now, drops of lava-like substance continued to drip from above.

"Bloody You-Know-Who. Was he trying to destroy the entire Hebrides Islands?" someone said furiously.

"It's You-Know-Who—we all know there's nothing he wouldn't do," another muttered darkly. "It's not like this is the first place he's wrecked."

The first speaker choked on their response... Thinking back, it was true. More than a decade ago, he'd even blown up the Ministry of Magic.

"Enough chatter," Scrimgeour barked. "Instead of standing around talking about You-Know-Who, we should be figuring out how to put out this Fiendfyre. If we let it keep burning, the Hebrides Islands really will be scorched through."

The Aurors immediately fell silent.

"If it's about extinguishing Fiendfyre..." Mr. Weasley thought for a moment. "The General Counter-Spell. It's probably the most effective charm we've got."

"No problem," Scrimgeour said. "Larry, take a few people and keep watch on the perimeter. The rest of you who can cast the spell, form a line and press your wands into the ground—it'll give us better coverage that way."

At his words, the team split up naturally—some moved to secure the area, while the rest positioned themselves at the edge of the Fiendfyre.

On Scrimgeour's command, everyone drove their wands—glowing orange—into the earth beneath their feet.

"Finite Incantatem!"

The ground seemed to split with a crackling orange seam, and a surge of flame erupted, sweeping over the golden Fiendfyre and rapidly consuming it. Within moments, it was gone.

As the Fiendfyre vanished, the magma-like substance began to cool and harden, releasing a sharp, acrid stench.

"Hmm. Effective," Scrimgeour said, straightening up. The coordinated effort had managed to extinguish nearly fifty feet of Fiendfyre. The result was impressive. As for the rest... well...

Scrimgeour looked at the endless golden line of fire stretching into the distance and sighed.

"Keep at it... Let's try to put it all out before sunrise. Damn You-Know-Who."

"Yeah. Damn You-Know-Who," others echoed, silently cursing along with him.

Though the area covered by Fiendfyre wasn't especially wide, it was long, and even with so many people working together, they'd barely cleared a fraction.

Thank Merlin the flames weren't spreading—or they'd already be out of options.

"Arthur, stop dawdling!" Scrimgeour called sharply.

Mr. Weasley jogged back into formation, plunged his wand into the ground once more, and resumed the now-repetitive process.

...

Scrimgeour had been too optimistic.

By the time they extinguished the last stretch of Fiendfyre, it was already midday the next day.

After working through the night, the exhausted group collapsed to the ground, gasping for breath, their stomachs growling with hunger.

Several people pulled out their wands for a look—only to grimace at what they saw. Their faces showed the kind of despair that came when crying wasn't even worth the energy.

Their wands were ruined.

Though casting Finite Incantatem normally generated a protective magical layer over the wand, it still couldn't withstand prolonged use.

After being driven into the earth who-knows-how-many times, the outer layer had worn down entirely, exposing the wand cores. Some wands had even snapped clean in half.

Mr. Weasley looked stunned. His wand was among the casualties—and replacing it wouldn't come cheap...

"It's alright, Dad. We'll cover it," Fred and George said as they walked over with a rare moment of sincerity.

They hadn't known how to cast Finite Incantatem, so they'd escaped with their wands intact—though they also missed the chaotic scene of nearly everyone needing replacements at once.

If anything, they rather wished they'd been part of it. Imagining the look on Ollivander's face when half a battalion turned up for new wands was almost too good to miss.

"Bloody You-Know-Who," someone muttered, sparking murmurs of agreement all around.

They weren't Hogwarts first-years—there were no student discounts on wands. A replacement would eat up nearly half a month's salary.

Still, some considered themselves lucky. Compared to running into You-Know-Who face-to-face, the cost of a new wand was a small price to pay.

"Rufus, shouldn't the Auror Office reimburse us for our wands?" someone piped up. "Doesn't have to be much—twenty Galleons would do."

It was Mundungus, who'd been missing for most of the operation. No one had seen him during the chaos, but now that there was a potential handout, he suddenly reappeared.

Normally he wouldn't dare show his face in front of the Head of the Auror Office, but today was different—he was here on behalf of the Order of the Phoenix.

Scrimgeour frowned. He didn't like Mundungus. In fact, he found him rather repulsive. Too many vices.

Petty theft. Cowardice. Opportunism… Honestly, he had no idea why Dumbledore had ever recruited a man like that into the Order.

Was the old man just getting senile?

And now he had the gall to ask for money—despite doing nothing?

Scrimgeour inhaled deeply and was about to speak when a sudden roar of dragons split through the air.

It grew rapidly, echoing across the entire island.

Even those unfamiliar with dragons could hear the fury in those cries.

"It's... the Hebridean Blacks!" Cedric was the first to react, his voice laced with alarm.

As he spoke, the sky darkened. Dozens of massive black dragons wheeled above, blotting out the sun.

"We're dead…"

Someone collapsed where they stood.

With that many dragons, if even one decided to attack—let alone all of them—they wouldn't stand a chance.

"I thought this island was black dragon territory—and those dragons hate magic."

"We're finished. It must've been the Finite Incantatem spells that caught their attention."

"No, it's probably not us." As a former dragon handler, Charlie had some idea of how these creatures behaved.

"If it was because of Finite Incantatem, they'd have reacted right away. No reason to wait until now."

"And don't forget, Fiendfyre is also magic—dark magic at that. And yet they were silent until just now. That's what's strange."

Charlie couldn't understand it. Why had the dragons remained completely silent when the Fiendfyre was raging? He'd assumed they weren't even nearby.

But now, just as they'd finished putting it out—here they were.

"So what do we do now…"

No one bothered to consider what the dragons were thinking. The moment they saw them, everyone jumped to their feet and pulled out their battered wands.

Use these cracked sticks to fight dragons?

Yeah, right.

Even Scrimgeour looked grim as he raised his head to glare at the circling beasts.

"Don't attack. Do not attack. Lower your wands, now!"

Miles came sprinting from the distance, gasping for breath. "Put your wands down! Don't provoke them any further!"

"And you are...?" Scrimgeour asked warily, eyes narrowing.

"Miles MacFusty."

"You're from the MacFusty Clan?"

"Yes," Miles nodded. "And for Merlin's sake, stop using magic. You don't want to see a flock of Hebridean Blacks flying into mainland Britain, do you?"

"What the hell happened here?" Scrimgeour demanded. "Where were you earlier?"

"On the far side of the island—trying to calm the dragons," Miles said evenly, showing not the slightest hint of fear. "Trying to keep them from being slaughtered by You-Know-Who."

"You-Know-Who can kill dragons?" someone blurted out.

"If you'd ever seen him, you wouldn't ask such a stupid question," Miles shot the Hit Wizard a glance, not even bothering to elaborate.

The truth was, several black dragons had already been killed by You-Know-Who. And not just one.

A flicker of regret crossed Miles's face, but he turned without comment and gave a sharp whistle.

The dragons in the sky quieted slightly at the sound—but they didn't descend. They continued to circle above, their thunderous roars rattling the earth.

"What exactly happened here?" Scrimgeour asked again, his tone sharp.

"You-Know-Who was chasing another wizard," Miles replied grimly. "I don't know his name. As for what exactly happened between them—like I said, I was on the other side of the island the whole time. I didn't see it."

"Then what's with these black dragons?" Charlie asked. "Maybe I'm imagining it, but I think... I heard fear in their voices."

Fear—in dragons? The very idea was hard to believe.

"It was fear," Miles confirmed, glancing at Charlie. "If you'd seen that Fiendfyre spell—it looked like a natural disaster—and the way You-Know-Who blew apart half a mountain, you'd be afraid too."

"Is there anything we can do to help?" Mr. Weasley stepped forward.

"No. And honestly, you wouldn't be able to help even if you tried..." Miles paused, then admitted, "Alright, fine—this disturbance is too large. It's going to be hard for us to calm the black dragons on our own in a short amount of time.

"If possible, could you contact a specialist and ask them to come here?"

"A specialist?"

"Mr. Chris Chopper from the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures," Miles said. "He's been here before and knows how to handle black dragons. He could really make a difference."

Everyone instinctively turned to look at Cedric. Out of everyone present, he was the only one from that department.

"Uh, sorry," Cedric stepped forward, scratching his head. "The Director left two days ago to deal with some remaining Dementors and hasn't been back since. I looked for him before coming, but his office was empty."

"I see," Miles said, shaking his head. "Forget it. I'll just write to Mr. Scamander. Hopefully, he'll have time."

"Then we..." Mr. Weasley started, but Miles cut him off.

"I really do appreciate your help putting out the Fiendfyre," he said, waving a hand. "But you're all used to solving problems with magic. That won't help here. When it comes to calming black dragons, your presence would only make things harder."

"If you have questions, wait until we've settled the dragons. Once that's done, I'll tell you everything I know."

Scrimgeour still hesitated. He didn't want to overlook even the slightest clue about You-Know-Who.

But just then, a column of fire dropped from the sky—close. Only a few feet away. The black dragon responsible looked like it was moments from tearing through them. The only reason it hadn't moved yet was Miles, standing at its side.

"We'll be back," Scrimgeour said quietly.

With the black dragons in a frenzy, this was clearly not the right time for questions.

Besides, they urgently needed to replace their broken wands.