Silence reigned over the runway, a stillness thick with magic and dread. The assembled Aurors stood taut with anticipation, wands trembling in hands slick with sweat. The line between negotiation and violence had long since vanished—what remained now was a standoff in its purest form. Words had become weapons, and the next exchange would decide everything.
Thane stood at the base of the stairway, his robes fluttering gently in the wind like the calm before a storm. His iridescent green eyes shimmered under the moonlight as they locked onto Fudge with clinical precision.
"Your move, Minister," he said coolly, voice cutting through the silence like tempered steel. "I'm giving you the honor of the final say. You get to choose how this story ends."
Fudge's jaw clenched so tight it could've snapped bone. His voice erupted, laced with desperation and rage. "This isn't some game, you arrogant child! This is the real world! You act without care, and there are consequences! And as Minister, it's my duty to ensure that you are held accountable for those you've hurt through your recklessness!"
That struck a nerve.
Thane's smile withered into a snarl, and his aura surged—a silent pulse of force that made nearby Aurors flinch.
"Carelessness?" he echoed, venom in his tone. "Of all the insults you could hurl at me, you choose the one that is furthest from the truth."
He took a step forward, each word gaining momentum, his voice rising not in volume, but in weight—each syllable landing with unmistakable gravity.
"You know nothing of the calculations I make, the prices I've paid, the burdens I carry. What you think you know of me is a carefully curated illusion, a projection I allow the world to see. You see a boy with power. But I— I am far more than that."
"And your sanctimonious talk of justice—for whom? Who are these invisible victims you claim to defend? Show me one! One life that has truly suffered at my hand. My creations have healed the sick, fed the hungry, and had the potential to bring an age of prosperity. I've done more for this country than your entire term in office."
His voice dropped into a growl, low and laced with fury.
"And do not mistake this as a plea for mercy, Fudge. I do not require your understanding, and I certainly don't need your permission. If you believe so devoutly in this crusade of yours—then stop wasting our time. Issue the order. Call for the strike. Let's end this farce once and for all!"
For a long, brittle moment, Fudge stared at Thane—who now stood less than ten feet from the nearest Auror, poised like a blade on the cusp of being drawn. The confidence in the Minister's stance faltered, his bravado bleeding away as reality finally caught up with him. The man who had spent his career hiding behind titles and paper shields was now face-to-face with something far beyond his control.
"I-It doesn't have to be like this," Fudge stammered, his voice cracking as he searched for ground beneath his feet. "I'm only enforcing the—"
He never finished.
Thane's aura detonated.
It wasn't the usual pressure—no measured force of domination, no calculated display of might. This was raw. Primal. A silent roar of unfiltered wrath that surged out like a tidal wave of barely-contained magic. It wasn't heard—it was felt, in the marrow, in the lungs, in the soul. Aurors recoiled as if struck, flinching backward, shields and stances forgotten. The ground itself groaned beneath Thane's feet, the magic in the air thickening into something nearly physical.
The very sky dimmed as if the heavens themselves chose not to witness what came next.
"Congratulations, Minister," Thane said, his voice cold and steady despite the storm radiating from his form. "You've succeeded in driving me to the edge of my patience."
He took a single step forward, and wands lifted instinctively—but not a single one fired.
"Since you clearly can't make up your mind...I'll decide for you."
His eyes glowed with an inner light—green laced with silver—and the sheer force of his presence seemed to suck the breath from the air.
"We're done here."
And with that single, absolute declaration, Thane turned his back to the Ministry, daring them to act.
Fudge stared at Thane's back, his heart pounding in his chest. The tension in the air was suffocating, the very fibers of reality pulled taut by Thane's presence. The Minister's mouth opened—words trembling on his lips, his sense of self-preservation finally overpowering his ego.
"Everyone stand—"
"AVADA KEDAVRA!"
The words tore through the air like a jagged scream, laced with the kind of hatred only a shattered soul could muster. The Killing Curse erupted into existence, a sickly, luminous green bolt that slithered across the tarmac like a serpent made of vengeance and void.
Gasps filled the runway as every head snapped toward the source, but it was too late to stop the spell. It howled through the air, twisting unnaturally as it cut through space—not just fast, but wrong, as if propelled by something beyond mere will: obsession.
But Thane had felt it the moment it was birthed into the world.
The instant the curse coalesced, he felt the unique vibration—a ripple of soul magic. The spell's intent pierced through the background noise of the world, a venomous beacon of annihilation honed in on his very essence.
To many, the Killing Curse was the pinnacle of destructive magic—a spell so absolute, so final, that it stood as the darkest point on the magical spectrum. In Britain, it was steeped in dread and whispered about with reverence or revulsion, a name that silenced rooms. The lowest form of Dark Magic. A spell born not from complexity or technical brilliance, but from raw, merciless will.
But to Thane, unburdened by the cultural stigma surrounding curses and hexes, Avada Kedavra was... unremarkable.
Yes, the instantaneous and painless death it caused made it a terrifying weapon. And yes, its ability to bypass conventional shield charms was formidable. But from Thane's perspective—armed with a deeper understanding of mana, intent, and the metaphysical nature of the soul—it was little more than a blunt instrument.
In truth, the spell's simplicity was its most fascinating quality… and its greatest weakness.
Unlike most spells, the Killing Curse didn't draw upon mana. It couldn't. Its fuel source was far more intimate, far more costly: the soul of the caster. Their conviction. Their intent.
To perform the curse, one had to mean it. Not in the hesitant, half-hearted way most spells were cast—but in the purest, most unfiltered form of will. The caster had to either feel no remorse or possess such overwhelming desire to kill that doubt could not survive.
It was, in essence, a weaponized prayer to the void—one soul petitioning the universe for the erasure of another.
And that was where most people misunderstood its power.
Because it wasn't the soul of the caster that truly determined the spell's outcome.
It was the soul of the target.
Normally, the curse would seek out that soul—unguarded, unaware—and extinguish it in a single, unfailing stroke.
But Thane's soul was anything but unguarded.
Turning around, Thane lazily raised his hand and caught the emerald lightning mid-flight. The curse hissed and popped in his grip, the air crackling with the sound of burning ozone and spite. Like an eel, the Killing Curse twisted and writhed around his arm, desperate to fulfill its singular purpose—destruction.
But it couldn't.
It coiled uselessly, powerless against the depth and complexity of the soul it had been aimed at.
Thane glanced down at the writhing light, then back up at the sea of horrified faces staring at him—Aurors frozen mid-spell, wands trembling in their hands, and Fudge pale with terror, lips parted but unable to speak.