The moment the portal to Kamar-Taj snapped shut, the serene silence of the mountains was replaced by the low, ambitious hum of London. The Ancient One's final words still echoed in his mind. 'Sooner than you think.'
It hadn't been a warning, not truly. There was no alarm in her tone, only a calm certainty. Arthur mentally filed the ominous message away. Vague prophecies were a drain on energy. When the future came knocking, he would answer. Until then, he had an empire to build.
Now that the farewells were done, it was time to get back to work.
Within three weeks, Phoenix Group was a finely tuned engine of commerce. The core team Daniel had assembled proved their worth daily, the office buzzing with controlled energy. Analysts poured over the Financial Times and stared into the green glow of Bloomberg terminals, traders shouted into phones, and lawyers ensured every move was insulated by mountains of paperwork.
But the real magic happened each morning in Arthur's study.
On days when the market was poised for a major shift, he would wake to find a crisp note on his desk, written in his own hand. It would detail technology stocks that were about to spike, currencies on the verge of fluctuation, or commodities ready for a dramatic swing.
He'd forward the intel to Daniel, who would then orchestrate the day's trades with the added advantage of prescience.
At the end of the day, Daniel would provide a summary, Arthur would write rewrite the morning's note, and then use a Time-Turner to travel back int time to leave the note for his past self to find, completing the time loop.
On days with no note, he rested.
Phoenix Group didn't just succeed; it exploded. The profits were astronomical.
"Your instincts are uncanny," Daniel said during a review, gesturing to a chart showing a near-vertical profit line. "We're up three hundred percent in six weeks."
"I read the patterns carefully," Arthur replied blandly, gesturing at a stack of newspapers.
Daniel's knowing look suggested he suspected far more, but he was smart enough not to probe. Results spoke louder than methods. Unfortunately, that kind of success drew sharks.
"They're getting bolder," Daniel reported, his voice tight with frustration over their secure line. "Planted articles questioning our stability. Political pressure for forensic audits. Someone's orchestrating this."
"I'll handle it," Arthur said simply.
He knew this was his cue. It was time to play.
It didn't take long to map the conspiracy. A few rival investment firms, two Members of Parliament on their payroll, and a secret push from MI6, who wanted to poke the hornet's nest to see what would fly out. To his surprise, it wasn't Director Morrison leading the charge. A new, ambitious man had taken over the case.
With a list of names in hand, Arthur smiled. They wanted to play games? He was more than happy to oblige.
—
Marcus Fitzgerald, senior partner at Fitzgerald & Associates, was having the worst day of his professional life.
It started during the morning briefing. His secretary's heel caught on absolutely nothing, sending contracts flying across the conference room like confetti. As he bent to help, his coffee mug spontaneously developed a crack, depositing the dark roast across his expensive suit.
"Get me a new shirt," he barked into the intercom.
The replacement arrived as his most important client settled into the conference room. Fitzgerald reached for his Mont Blanc to sign the eight-figure deal. The pen exploded with theatrical timing, destroying contract and shirt alike in an inkpocalypse.
By lunch, he'd slipped on a mysteriously appearing banana peel, split his trousers sitting down too quickly, and somehow managed to knock over an entire filing cabinet, burying the quarterly reports he needed.
"It's like I'm cursed," he muttered to his secretary.
She maintained professional silence while privately wondering if she should update her CV.
—
MP Reginald Thornbury fared no better.
His speech to the Financial Services Committee started well enough. Then the microphone died. The backup microphone produced only ear-splitting feedback.
Later, attempting to impress constituents at a charity luncheon, he reached for his water glass. His hand knocked it over, sending ice water across a noble lady's silk dress. His profuse apologies were interrupted when his chair collapsed beneath him.
"Manufacturing defect," the venue insisted.
By week's end, after his Bentley developed four flat tires simultaneously and his toupee was carried off by an inexplicably aggressive pigeon during a BBC interview, Thornbury was consulting fortune tellers in Hampstead about lifting curses.
—
Deputy Director Hartwell of MI6 maintained his composure longer than the others. MI6 trained its people well.
But even he cracked when the photocopier exploded during his inspection, coating him in toner. In another incident, the fire suppression system that activated only above his desk when he had a lot of papers out. There was also the deeply unfortunate matter of his telephone becoming dysfunctional during important calls.
"It's Hayes," he announced at his morning briefing. "Has to be."
"Evidence?" his aide asked, taking notes by hand.
"I sat on my desk and it collapsed. My desk. The one that's been here since 1952. Made of English oak."
"Could be coincidence—"
"My tea tastes like fish. Only mine. We tested it. Same pot, everyone else's is normal."
The aide wisely remained silent.
—
From the Mirror dimension, Arthur enjoyed the show with malicious glee. He was a cosmic prankster, pulling the strings of probability with subtle, untraceable charms.
It was, he had to admit, the most fun he'd had in months. His nights were still free for his own magical studies via astral projection, so it wasn't even cutting into his personal development time. Pranking by day, progress by night. Perfect balance.
Two weeks of escalating mishaps finally brought things to a head. Fitzgerald and Thornbury, convinced they were victims of corporate espionage or political sabotage, took their laundry list of bizarre calamities to the one person they thought could investigate: Deputy Director Hartwell at MI6.
Hartwell listened to their frantic, paranoid accounts with a grim sense of validation. Their stories, combined with his own, painted a clear picture. This wasn't bad luck. It was an attack.
Armed with this new "evidence," Hartwell scheduled a priority meeting with Director Morrison.
"He's tormenting them," Hartwell declared, sliding a dossier across her desk. "Fitzgerald, Thornbury, and my own department. It's targeted harassment on a scale I've never seen."
Morrison's expression was a mask of professional sympathy, but her eyes danced with amusement. "What exactly do you expect me to do? Arrest Mr. Hayes for a series of unfortunate coincidences?"
"It's not a coincidence!" Hartwell snapped. "It's him. It has to be."
"Prove it," she said simply.
He couldn't, of course. That was the beautiful thing about Arthur's campaign. Nothing overtly magical, nothing traceable. Just a sustained series of maybe possible unfortunate events.
"Perhaps," Morrison suggested mildly, "you should consider whether antagonizing Mr. Hayes was wise in the first place."
"It was your initial directive to apply pressure!" Hartwell countered.
"A directive I rescinded after some… reflection," Morrison said smoothly. "I decided it was not a good idea to annoy someone like him. You, however, chose to proceed."
"I'll go to the wizarding authorities," Hartwell threatened.
"Good luck with that." Morrison's smile turned sharp. "Last I heard, they're rather busy with actual Dark Wizards. Somehow I doubt they'll prioritize your wardrobe malfunctions."
She was right. Amelia Bones, when contacted through official channels, had been politely dismissive over the secure phone line. "We're dealing with Death Eater attacks and Voldemort's return. Unless Mr. Hayes is actually killing people, you'll have to sort it out yourselves."
In the end, Hartwell had no choice but to beg. He asked Morrison to leverage her "special relationship" with Aurora Thatcher to mediate a truce.
—
Aurora arrived at Arthur's door with barely concealed amusement. "They're desperate. Hartwell actually cried."
"Did he?" Arthur sipped his tea innocently. "How unfortunate."
"He and the others are willing to compensate you for any... inconvenience their attention may have caused."
"Are they now?" Arthur pretended to consider. "I suppose everyone deserves a second chance."
He then slid her a piece of paper with a number scribbled on it.
Aurora choked. "That's extortion!"
"That's negotiation. They cost me time and energy. Time and energy have value." He smiled pleasantly. "Besides, Phoenix Group can always use additional capital."
The check arrived two days later via courier. The harassment ceased immediately. More importantly, word spread through London's financial district via hushed phone calls and private club conversations: Phoenix Group was protected by forces best left unprovoked.
—
With obstacles removed and coffers filled, Phoenix Group transitioned into its next phase. Arthur gradually reduced his market predictions, forcing Daniel and his team to rely on their own considerable skills and traditional analysis.
"Sink or swim time," he told Daniel during their last strategy meeting, gesturing at the walls covered in charts and printouts. "I've given you the foundation and the tools. Now build something magnificent."
Daniel nodded, understanding the test. "We won't disappoint."
Arthur believed him. The company was in capable hands, the team was exceptional, and the reputation they'd built would carry them far.
Finally, he could rest. He was contemplating a week of doing absolutely nothing when a crack of Apparition echoed through his study.
Winky appeared, holding an immobilized house-elf in front of her like a trophy. "Master Arthur, this elf tried to force his way into the house. I stopped him."
Arthur looked closely. The elf was ancient and wearing a filthy pillowcase. It could only be one creature. "Winky, please release him. I believe that is Sirius's elf, Kreacher."
As the binding spell vanished, the ancient elf stumbled, his gaze fixing on Arthur.
"Hello, Kreacher," Arthur said mildly. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"