London, England — St Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries.
Cornelius Fudge, the Minister for Magic, strode briskly into St Mungo's, surrounded by a cadre of Ministry officials.
"Where is our hero of the Ministry, Mr. Thomas Vole, being treated?" he asked eagerly, barely able to contain his anticipation the moment he stepped through the hospital doors.
Led by hospital staff, Fudge and his entourage soon arrived at a ward where Healer-in-Charge Hippocrates Smethwyck happened to be leaning over the unconscious Thomas Vole, monitoring his condition closely.
The door creaked open, and Smethwyck straightened, turning to see Fudge rushing in, his face lined with urgency.
"Healer Smethwyck, how is Thomas Vole doing?" Fudge asked, peering down at the bed.
Vole lay unconscious, his face pale and drained of all colour.
Smethwyck exhaled slowly before replying, "Fortunately, Mr. Vole sustained no life-threatening injuries. The most severe issue appears to be magical exhaustion. His magical reserves were entirely depleted. But with rest, he'll awaken on his own."
Fudge let out a sigh of relief and said earnestly, "That's good, very good! As long as there's nothing serious. The British Ministry of Magic can't afford to lose someone like Thomas Vole right now."
He meant every word.
Ever since the confrontation with the Alliance, Fudge had maintained a far more cautious stance, terrified they might strike again.
The impact of that encounter had shaken him to the core. It hadn't been a battle — it had been war. Never had Fudge imagined that the war of the wizarding world could come so close to his doorstep.
One question had haunted him ever since: why, despite having the home-field advantage and superior numbers, had the Ministry's forces fought the Alliance to a mere standstill?
In the aftermath, the Ministry conducted a thorough review and came to two conclusions: the Alliance outmatched them in coordination — and in elite magical power.
And it hadn't even been their full strength. Not Rosier, not Abernathy, nor several of their other heavy-hitters had participated.
Even with only the veterans led by Carrow, the Alliance had anchored the entire battle.
That revelation left Fudge pondering one thing — where could he find powerful new witches and wizards to bolster the Ministry's ranks? At the very least, he needed enough high-calibre fighters to match the Alliance.
Dumbledore, of course, would have been the ideal choice. But Fudge rejected that idea outright. With Dumbledore at the Ministry, he might as well hand over his title as Minister — it would mean little more than a name.
So when word came today that the Alliance had resurfaced, launching an attack on Gringotts, Fudge felt the icy grip of despair. Even Scrimgeour, who might've gone toe-to-toe with their strongest, was away in Scotland.
Fudge hadn't even considered going to Diagon Alley himself. After some thought, he randomly chose Thomas Vole, former Head of the Auror Office, to lead a squad.
And to his utter astonishment, that arbitrary choice turned out to be a stroke of brilliance.
Vole had fought alongside Lockhart — and together, they repelled the Alliance's assault.
Fudge couldn't believe it. The powerful wizard he had been searching for had been at his side all along.
Now, looking at Vole lying in that hospital bed, Fudge felt an ever-growing satisfaction. Though Vole hadn't risen through the ranks under his own hand, he was capable. He was useful.
Even with Lockhart's aid, pushing back the Alliance was no small feat.
And honestly, Fudge doubted Scrimgeour could have done the same.
Beside him, Dolores Umbridge — ever attuned to his thoughts — stepped forward and said in a syrupy tone, "Minister, perhaps once Mr. Vole recovers, we should consider a... promotion."
Fudge gave the smallest of nods, but offered no reply.
Just then, a deafening explosion shook the air outside St Mungo's, startling everyone inside.
Before they could process it, the distant but unmistakable sounds of magical combat echoed from nearby. Fudge and Umbridge locked eyes, both faces turning grim.
An Auror assigned to protect the Minister came rushing in, wand in hand, face pale. "Minister, you need to leave — now! It's the Alliance. They've come for us!"
Fudge flinched, visibly trembling.
And the sounds of battle grew nearer — close enough now that they could hear voices shouting spells.
He never imagined the Alliance could move so quickly. His Auror guards were being pushed back in mere moments.
At that instant, a faint sound came from the bed.
Fudge turned sharply — Thomas Vole was struggling to rise.
"I... I think I hear fighting," Vole said, voice weak. "Where's my wand? Give me my wand. I can still fight!"
Healer Smethwyck hurried to press Vole back down, saying firmly, "You mustn't. You've depleted your magical power. Casting any more spells could kill you!"
But Vole shoved him aside, gasping for breath as he forced the words out: "Forget me — all of you get out, Disapparate while you still can! I… I won't make it. They're here for me!"
The sounds of battle crept even closer. It was clear now — the Alliance had breached the hospital.
Their voices echoed down the corridor:
"He's in there — Thomas Vole is inside!"
"The Master said he must die! He's too dangerous to live!"
"Finish him while he's wounded! Today we avenge our fallen brothers!"
Thomas Vole blinked. "Wait… what?"
Fudge stared at him, eyes wide. "You... you really killed dozens of their wizards? But why weren't there any bodies left at the scene?"
Vole coughed twice, then, with a modest and just slightly guilty tone, said, "Well… I didn't do it alone. Mr. Lockhart was there too. As for the bodies — when the Alliance retreated, they took their dead with them. I… I was too spent to stop them."
Fudge nodded slowly, clearly impressed. "Remarkable. Truly remarkable."
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