Fundamentally, Finite and Finite Incantatem are incantations of the same spell – both incantations for the General Counter-Spell.
But when multiple wizards, deeply versed in the General Counter-Spell, combine their casting, it goes through a qualitative change, with the incantation changing.
Some powerful wizards can cast it alone, requiring exceptional spell mastery and vast magical power.
During the Paris incident, Nicolas Flamel led several elite wizards in jointly casting Finite Incantatem to quell the catastrophic magical flames.
Today, an eerily similar scene unfolded.
Led by thirty Aurors, nearly a hundred Ministry employees, Hit Wizards, and even some foreign volunteers simultaneously pointed their wands toward the sky. Golden light erupted, gradually merging into a unified force that enveloped the firewall.
The opposing forces clashed relentlessly. Many wizards flushed red, their wand hands trembling slightly. Thankfully, most Aurors maintained standards, bearing the brunt of the strain as they gradually suppressed the raging inferno.
When flames reduced to controllable levels, Fudge urgently had Kingsley and Dawlish clear him a path, barging through with an entourage in tow.
What they witnessed would haunt them forever.
Hundreds of wizards were ensnared in black electrical nets, many stacked in human pyramids to conserve space. Dozens of hooded figures grovelled at the feet of a handsome youth, their wands discarded carelessly nearby.
Then a violent wave of bloody scent assaulted them, diverting their attention before their faces turned pale.
"Merlin's beard..." Fudge nearly had another stroke, his head spinning.
Mangled limbs, spilt intestines, charred corpses emitting a sickening aroma – Fudge couldn't hold back any longer, clutching Kingsley's arm as he vomited violently.
Barty Crouch, who seemed more suited to be Minister than him, strode over to Wayne's side and whispered, "Are you alright?"
The young man sighed. "No. These people ruined my good mood. Can you compensate for that?"
Crouch's mouth twitched.
He shouldn't have asked.
"Dawlish, restrain them in groups of ten. Confiscate all wands and try to separate wizards from different countries."
"Kingsley, find some Aurors fluent in foreign languages to register them. Compile a report on which countries these wizards are from!"
"Yes!" Both Aurors instinctively straightened their postures.
"Wait! I'm the Minister here, Crouch. This isn't your jurisdiction." Fudge, still retching, forced down his last mouthful of vomit.
More terrifying than this hellish scene was Crouch stealing his spotlight.
Behind him, an oddly deep female voice spoke up: "I find Mr Crouch's arrangements quite reasonable. Is there a problem?"
Fudge turned to see the speaker – a woman of absurd height.
They'd encountered Madame Maxime of Beauxbatons en route. Fudge hadn't wanted her to come, but she'd insisted on checking for her students' safety, leaving him no choice.
"My apologies for overstepping." Crouch pressed his lips together solemnly. "Then Minister Fudge, please give your orders."
Fudge's face flushed crimson. After a long pause, he simply repeated Crouch's earlier instructions verbatim, tacking on "report to me" at the end.
To mask his embarrassment, he angrily pointed at the hooded figures. "Remove their masks immediately!"
The Aurors had informed him these were the original instigators – their brazen actions had encouraged others to join, escalating the chaos.
But as mask after mask was removed, Fudge's expression contorted further.
Avery. Yaxley. Travers. Nott. Crabbe. Goyle.
Sweat beaded on Fudge's forehead, his lips trembling wordlessly.
He already regretted exposing these faces publicly.
All pure-bloods. Several from the Sacred Twenty-Eight... the very supporters who'd helped him rise to power.
Meanwhile, Arthur shook his head in both satisfaction and confusion.
This didn't make sense...
At such a Death Eater 'carnival', Crabbe and Goyle had attended – so where was Malfoy?
Knowing Lucius Malfoy as he did, that man was never this restrained. Could he have been among those who fled during the chaos?
"Troubled by their identities?"
Fudge nodded instinctively before shaking his head repeatedly. He turned to Wayne, who had spoken, with a smile uglier than tears. "M-Mr Lawrence... I'm just shocked they could do something so outrageous, causing such a disturbance..."
"Minister Fudge," Wayne interrupted, "mind your wording. This was a terrorist attack, not some mere disturbance."
Fudge swallowed hard. "It... it can't be that serious, surely? They were just drunk and acted irrationally. Surely it's not that bad?"
The difference between a public disturbance and a terrorist attack was vast. The former might not even warrant Azkaban—just a fine would suffice.
But terrorist attacks were grave crimes in both the Muggle and wizarding worlds. A stint in Azkaban was inevitable.
Wayne sneered, pointing at the Roberts family still receiving treatment. "Fudge, look at them. Can you still call this a public disturbance?"
To be fair, the wizards who'd joined the chaos bore lighter responsibility—just setting fires or firing random spells. They hadn't participated in torturing Muggles.
That was also why Wayne hadn't killed them all. Life and death were matters of fate—if you died, tough luck.
Of course, part of it was his reluctance to stir greater unrest. Hundreds of foreign wizards dying on British soil would ignite the global wizarding community, ending his peaceful days for good.
Sometimes, killing didn't solve problems—it created bigger ones. This was such a case.
But as for these Death Eaters? He wouldn't be excessive if he slaughtered them all. The only reason he'd held back was because of what those two fleeing Death Eaters had said.
Fudge opened his mouth, but before he could speak, Madame Maxime stepped forward to support Wayne:
"Exactly! In France, the lightest punishment for such people would be wand destruction and life imprisonment!"
Crouch spoke coldly, too: "Same in Britain. Azkaban's doors are always open for them!"
"Lock them up! Lock them all up!"
Suddenly, a furious roar came from behind them. They turned to see the wizards who'd fled in panic earlier had returned.
"They're Dark Wizards! Demons who must be severely punished!"
"Useless Ministry fools! The criminals are subdued, yet you still hesitate to arrest them?!"
The roars startled Fudge. Faced with the bloodshot eyes and twisted faces of the crowd, he staggered back in fear. Aurors nervously positioned themselves as buffers, desperate to prevent further conflict.
"Don't hesitate, Minister," Kingsley murmured.
Finally, overwhelmed by public outrage, Fudge cracked. "All hooded individuals are to be detained!" he declared loudly. "They'll face trial by the Wizengamot and the Department of Magical Law Enforcement!"
Only then did the crowd erupt in victorious cheers.
The Aurors exhaled in relief, quickly leading the wizards away.
As for the dead? No one cared anymore.
Once labelled a terrorist attack, there was no such thing as excessive self-defence. They'd deserved to die.
Just as Kingsley and the others moved to take the Death Eaters away, Wayne stopped them.
"Wait. I still have questions for them."
Kingsley and the other Aurors didn't dare intervene.
How could they possibly stop someone who could overpower hundreds of wizards single-handedly?
Wayne casually pointed at a burly man and gestured towards the diamond statues. "You're Goyle's father, right? Do you recognise these people's identities?"
"Especially the one who used the Killing Curse earlier."
Goyle's father nodded repeatedly. "That was Flint, Parkinson, Rosier, Wilson, Zellingberg, Sivell, and..."
Crabbe's father hastily added from the side, "And Gibbon."
"Yes, yes! Gibbon! I'd completely forgotten about him!" Goyle's father exclaimed.
"Flint?" Wayne instantly understood why this person had harboured such intense hostility towards him.
As for the others, Parkinson was an old acquaintance, and Rosier...
Borgin and Burkes' efficiency clearly left much to be desired. Why were members of the Rosier family still causing trouble?
Seeing he had no further questions, Kingsley and the others finally dared to lead the Death Eaters away.
As all the captured prisoners were escorted past Wayne, not one dared raise their head to meet the young man's gaze. Though they'd survived by sheer luck, today's experience would be forever etched in their memories.
Perhaps before long, Wayne's name would become as taboo as Voldemort's in many mouths.
No – Grindelwald would actually be a more fitting comparison.
After all, even at Voldemort's most rampant, his notoriety had been confined to the British Isles. To other countries, he'd merely been another brutal Dark Wizard without deeper significance.
Fudge still wanted to talk, but Wayne had already lost interest. He left the scene with Sirius, who similarly wished to depart.
On the return journey, Sirius seemed unusually excited and proposed joining Harry's remedial lessons – an idea Wayne rejected without hesitation.
"I don't have time to tutor you. Besides, I teach Harry and Malfoy at Hogwarts. You can't possibly come weekly? Dumbledore would never allow it."
Undeterred, Sirius mused, "What if... I applied for the Defence Against the Dark Arts position?"
"Wouldn't that solve everything?"
Wayne stared at him incredulously. "A student tutoring their teacher? You can't be serious."
"Well... when you put it like that..." Sirius laughed awkwardly before reluctantly abandoning the idea.
Their brisk pace soon brought them back to the original campsite.
Their tent remained intact, securely protected by Nagini's serpentine guards, with numerous Hogwarts students gathered nearby.
Only upon seeing Wayne's figure did Nagini finally relax, dispersing the snakes.
The girls immediately rushed to Wayne's side, anxiously checking him for injuries.
"Not a scratch on me," Wayne said with a smile. "Just a bunch of drunkards who could barely hold their wands steady. Took them down easily."
Sirius opened his mouth – wanting to argue the opponents hadn't been nearly as incompetent as Wayne claimed – but understood this was Wayne's way of preventing unnecessary worry.
Noticing Fred and the others' hesitant expressions, Wayne anticipated their questions and spoke first:
"Mr Weasley and Mr Diggory are maintaining order with other Ministry of Magic staff, dealing with those criminals. They weren't injured either."
Everyone breathed a sigh of relief. Fred asked again, "What about Charlie and the others?"
Wayne frowned in thought. "Bill and Charlie are fine, but Percy was with Crouch and got a minor leg injury."
Far from being concerned, Fred actually smirked. "Typical Percy Crouch."
When the commotion first began, Percy eagerly clamoured to find Crouch. His display of loyalty left the Weasley children feeling rather uneasy.
After briefly exchanging words with a few other familiar classmates, Wayne led the group back to the tent.
With such events unfolding, no one was in the mood for sleep anymore—some even considered leaving tonight.
However, remembering that Mr Weasley and the others were still busy, it wouldn't be right to depart now. They could only suppress their restlessness and try to get some sleep.
Yet the rooms buzzed with discussion. Sirius was in Ron and Harry's quarters, recounting the true events of what had just happened, leaving the two utterly stunned.
"S-several hundred wizards' spells... all blocked?" Harry couldn't believe his ears.
"Is the Shield Charm really that powerful?"
His own Shield Charm could barely withstand two or three of Malfoy's curses before failing. If hundreds of spells came at him at once, he was certain he'd drop dead on the spot.
"Must be some ancient magic," Sirius shook his head. "A beautiful spell—like a river of stars shielding Wayne."
"Harry, if you study hard under Wayne, you'll definitely become a powerful wizard. Cherish this precious opportunity."
Sirius had high hopes for Harry's future.
Harry nodded vigorously.
Meanwhile, after calming the girls, Wayne excused himself to check on the situation outside and stepped out of the tent.
Then, with a sharp crack, he Apparated deep into the woods.
There, two hooded figures trembled at his arrival, prostrating themselves on the ground.
Wayne planted his foot on one man's head, grinding his face into the dirt.
"Selwyn... a year apart, and you've grown quite bold..."