Hermione, mustering every ounce of her Gryffindor courage, took a deep breath and forced herself to stand. Her legs felt weak, but she steeled herself against the wave of nausea that tried to overwhelm her.
With determination etched on her face, she turned her gaze back to the body, which was still faintly emitting wisps of white smoke, like a grotesque parody of a snuffed-out candle. Her pretty face was etched with sorrow that seemed to age her beyond her years.
The ethical dilemma posed by the situation weighed heavily on Hermione's mind. Professor Watson certainly hadn't intended to kill this wizard - his actions had been in defense of countless innocent lives. Yet, the cold, hard fact remained that this unfortunate man had indeed died by Professor Watson's hand, albeit indirectly. In this complex situation, should Professor Watson bear responsibility for this unintended consequence of his heroic actions?
Even Hermione, with her sharp intellect and encyclopedic knowledge of magical law and ethics, couldn't work out a clear answer. The situation was a moral maze with no easy exit. However, she knew with certainty that the last healer's words, though crudely expressed, were correct.
If the deceased's family sought to hold Professor Watson accountable, they would find little support from the Ministry of Magic. Neither would they find sympathy among the residents of magical Britain or the visiting members of the international Wizarding community who had come to watch the Quidditch match.
The weight of these somber thoughts hung heavily in the air as Hermione, Harry, and Ron silently agreed that they didn't want to discuss the unfortunate wizard's death any further. With heavy hearts and troubled minds, they walked on in silence, each lost in their own reflections.
As they moved away from the tragic scene, the once-brilliant lights of the Quidditch pitch had dimmed considerably, as if in mourning for the night's events.
Above them, the starry sky stretched out in a breathtaking display, a dreamlike canopy of twinkling lights that seemed mockingly beautiful in contrast to the horrors they had witnessed on the ground. However, even this celestial spectacle wasn't enough to fully illuminate the dense forest that surrounded them.
Harry, Ron, and Hermione wandered for what felt like hours, though it was likely only minutes. The forest seemed to have transformed into a labyrinth, its trees looming ominously in the semi-darkness, their branches reaching out like gnarled fingers.
Finally, after aimless wandering, they spotted a familiar landmark - the small hill where they had stopped to watch the unfolding chaos after fleeing the Quidditch stadium. In the aftermath of the night's events, this spot had become the busiest location in the entire forest.
As they approached, they could see several distinct groups gathered on the hilltop. The majority were easily identifiable as wizards from the British Ministry of Magic. Among them, Harry recognized a few faces from his previous encounters at the Ministry, though he couldn't put names to most of them.
The rest of the crowd was an extensive mix. Staff members from both the Bulgarian and Irish Quidditch teams were huddled in small groups, their national colors still visible despite the dim light. But what truly caught the eye were the "mascots" the two teams had brought for the night's match.
"What's going on?" Harry frowned as he listened to the leprechauns and the veela (now in their true forms) arguing heatedly in English with vastly different accents. After a moment, he realized they were still disputing the less-than-sporting tactics employed by the Bulgarian team in the latter half of the match. "Are they still arguing about the match results?"
"What an absolute waste of time!" Ron exclaimed through gritted teeth, his face flushed with frustration. His eyes darted around the hilltop, desperately searching for any sign of his missing money. He was all too aware that with the crowd of people trampling all over the area, any clues the thief might have left behind would have long since been obliterated, if there had been any evidence to begin with.
Ron's gaze swept angrily over the arguing crowd on the hillside, his disappointment palpable. Suddenly, his eyes widened, a spark of hope igniting within them. He turned to Hermione, his words tumbling out in a rush of excitement. "Hold on a minute, Hermione! Do you remember? Besides us, there was someone else on this slope earlier. Let me think... Krum was here, of course, but he wouldn't have any reason to steal my money. But there was also an older fellow. Do you remember his name?"
Hermione's lips pressed into a thin line as she reluctantly supplied the answer, carefully avoiding Ron's hopeful gaze. "Elphias Doge," she said, her tone flat. "But you need to give it up, Ron. He didn't take your galleons."
"Why not?" Ron protested, his voice rising with indignation. "It could have been anyone! We don't know these people!"
Hermione's patience, already stretched thin by the night's events, finally snapped. She fixed Ron with a sarcastic glare and her voice was sharp as she retorted, "Didn't you listen at all when Sirius introduced that wizard to us? Elphias Doge is a good friend of Professor Dumbledore. Do you honestly think someone like Dumbledore would be friends with a common thief?"
Ron opened his mouth to argue further, but found himself at a loss for words. Hermione's logic, as usual, was impeccable, leaving him with no room for rebuttal.
Sensing the rising tension between his friends, Harry intervened quietly. "Come on," he said, his voice laden with worry. "Let's go check by the stadium. My wand was left in the box, and after seeing what happened to that poor wizard... well, I'm worried it might have met the same fate."
The reminder of the tragedy they had witnessed earlier casted a shadow of gloom over the group. They began to move towards the boxes, Ron trailing behind with a dejected slump to his shoulders.
"Wait—" Hermione's sudden exclamation brought them to an abrupt halt. Ron, lost in his gloomy thoughts, failed to stop in time and bumped his nose into the back of Hermione's head.
"What now?" Ron snapped, his temper frayed by the loss of such a substantial sum of money. He rubbed his stinging nose, his tone harsher than he intended.
But Hermione, focused intently on something in the distance, didn't seem to register Ron's irritation. Her eyes were fixed on the group of veela and leprechauns, still surrounded by the various wizards attempting to mediate their dispute.
"The money pouch Charlie gave you," she began slowly, her mind clearly racing with possibilities, "it didn't have any holes in it, right?"
Ron's patience, already worn thin to the limit, finally snapped. "Do you really think a thousand gold galleons could have fallen out of the pouch onto the ground without any of us noticing? Come on, Hermione, that's not up to your usual standard!"
"It's not possible," Hermione said slowly, her eyes flashing with the intensity of her thoughts. "The pouch Charlie lent you isn't an ordinary one, Ron. Its interior has been magically expanded, similar to what Professor Watson did to the classroom where we practice dodging spells. This kind of pouch typically has anti-theft charms woven into its fabric. Apart from its rightful owner, even if someone found it, they wouldn't be able to open it. But the pouch you showed us was intact, while the thousand gold galleons inside had vanished without a trace."
"Have you gone utterly mad, Hermione?" Ron exploded, his face flushing red with anger and frustration. "Are you suggesting that I didn't want to share the money with Harry, so I secretly hid the thousand Galleons myself? Is that what you think of me?"
"For heaven's sake, Weasley, can you use your brain for just one moment?" Hermione's face turned blue with suppressed anger, her voice trembled with the effort of maintaining her composure. Pointing at the Irish leprechauns still embroiled in their heated argument, she said through gritted teeth, "What I'm trying to say is, the pouch shows no signs of damage, yet the gold inside is gone. It's possible – just possible – that the gold galleons Ludo Bagman gave you was conjured by the Irish leprechauns!"
"Galleons conjured by the Irish leprechauns?" Ron and Harry's gazes followed the line of Hermione's outstretched finger, focusing on the shouting leprechauns in the distance. A few seconds of confused silence passed before their eyes returned to Hermione, filled with bewilderment. Ron furrowed his brow, his mind struggling to make the connection. "So what?" he asked, still not grasping the implications. "Does the gold galleons scattered by the Irish leprechauns disappear or something?"
"Oh, thank goodness, your brain is finally working, Weasley!" Hermione exclaimed, rolling her eyes dramatically as she placed her hands on her hips. Despite her exasperation, there was a hint of relief in her voice as she continued, "You've actually guessed correctly. The gold conjured by the Irish leprechauns is just an illusion, Ron. It does indeed disappear!"
Ron stood motionless; his freckled face frozen in an expression of utter disbelief for a full thirty seconds before coming to his senses. He stared at Hermione, who was standing close by, and whispered in a voice barely audible,
"The gold... the gold conjured by those Irish leprechauns disappears? But weren't those leprechauns the mascots brought by the Irish team for the match? I thought... Blimey, Harry, quick as you can, check how many Galleons you've got left in that money pouch of yours!"
"What?" Harry's voice was laced with confusion, his emerald green eyes blinking rapidly behind his round spectacles as he tried to process Ron's sudden outburst. Despite his bewilderment, he instinctively followed his best friend's urgent advice.
Harry hadn't yet made his usual trip to Gringotts Wizarding Bank to withdraw his living expenses for the upcoming term at Hogwarts. Moreover, he had spent a considerable amount of gold on various magical trinkets and souvenirs from small vendors in the campsite before the match. As a result, when he carefully opened the drawstring of his pouch, he found it contained mostly bronze Knuts—with only a sparse scattering of gold Galleons glinting among them.
Harry's fingers fumbled through the coins, eventually picking out the few Galleons he could find and held them out towards Ron in confusion.
"This is all I've got left, Ron. What's the matter? Is something wrong?"
The color drained from Ron's face so rapidly it was as if someone had cast a Disillusionment Charm on him. Still refusing to believe what his eyes were telling him; Ron snatched the pouch from Harry's outstretched hand and searched frantically for any stray Galleons that Harry might have overlooked. After a moment, he finally confirmed that Harry hadn't miscounted.
"They're gone, Harry." Ron said, crestfallen. "Don't you remember? Before the match kicked off, I handed you a fistful of gold Galleons—the ones that Irish leprechauns had showered down on us all. I recall watching you stuff all that glittering gold into your pouch. And now... now it's all gone, like it never existed in the first place!"
Harry furrowed his brow and thought for a moment before vaguely recalling something of the sort. Ron had indeed given him that gold to repay him for the Omnioculars.
"Your memory has suddenly become frighteningly sharp, Ronald!" Hermione's voice cut through the tense atmosphere, her tone dripping with sarcasm. Her lips were pursed tightly, a clear sign of her disapproval of the entire situation.
The wrinkles on Harry's forehead hadn't smoothed out. He hesitantly said,
"So, what you're saying is... Ludo Bagman paid us—and Fred and George too—with fake gold? Gold that was conjured by those leprechauns and would disappear?" Harry paused, struggling to wrap his mind around the concept. "But... but surely it must have been a mistake? I mean, Bagman is the head of the Department of Magical Games and Sports, surely he wouldn't... it couldn't possibly have been intentional, could it?"
Hermione bit her lip but didn't say anything.
"I've got to go back and check!" Ron's words came out in a rush, his breathing heavy and slightly panicked. "I need to find out if Fred and George's gold is still there, or if it's vanished too!"
"Ron, we didn't come all the way out here just to chase after some leprechaun gold," Hermione's voice was stern, tinged with irritation. Her brown eyes flashed dangerously as she glared at Ron. "We're supposed to be helping Harry find his wand! Have you forgotten that already?"
"Wand?" Ron repeated the word as if it were in a foreign language, his face a picture of utter befuddlement. For a moment, it seemed as though he had completely forgotten about the original purpose of their risky excursion. Then, like a bolt of lightning, realization struck him. "Oh, right! Harry's wand! He left it in the box during all that chaos. Blimey, how could I forget? Right then, let's get a move on!"
With a renewed sense of purpose, Ron took the lead, setting off towards the Quidditch pitch with long, determined strides. Harry followed close behind, his own worry about his missing wand now competing with concern over the potentially fraudulent gold.
Hermione followed up at last, her eyes fixed on the back of Ron's head with a complex look before she let out an inward sigh and quickened her pace to keep up with the boys.
The trek to the Quidditch pitch was a tense affair. Harry's mind was consumed with worry about his wand. Ron, on the other hand, was laser-focused on finding Fred and George, desperate to confirm whether their gold had also mysteriously disappeared. This shared sense of urgency meant that the three of them paid little attention to their surroundings, instead choosing to move as stealthily and quickly as possible towards their destination.
Twenty minutes later, they were once again standing outside the entrance to the stadium. The contrast between what they saw now and what they had witnessed earlier this evening was shocking, to say the least.
Few hours ago, the Quidditch World Cup Final stadium had been, without a doubt, the largest and most impressive structure Harry had ever laid eyes on in the wizarding world. Mr. Weasley had emphasized repeatedly that the construction of a sports arena capable of comfortably seating one hundred thousand spectators was no small feat. The British Ministry of Magic had deployed hundreds of witches and wizards who had been working on this project since the beginning of the year, finally completing this magnificent structure just a couple of weeks before the match began.
But now, in the span of half a day, this marvel of magical architecture had been reduced to little more than a pile of ruins.
Perhaps fearing that the remaining structure might collapse again, the Ministry of Magic had thoroughly evacuated the area after removing the injured and the dead. However, this also conveniently facilitated the movement of Harry, Ron, and Hermione.
They nervously traversed the now unrecognizable passageway, trying their best to avoid touching anything. They weren't sure if knocking something over might trigger a chain reaction, causing the fragmented passage to completely collapse.
Upon entering the Quidditch pitch and confirming that there wasn't a sound in any direction, Harry lifted the Invisibility Cloak in a patch of shadow.
When they had fled the stadium earlier, it was just before Professor Watson and the witch named Cliodna had begun their duel. At the time, they had been blissfully unaware of the destruction their battle would wreak upon the stadium. Now, finally able to survey the aftermath, they were struck speechless by the sheer scale of devastation caused by the clash between two of the most powerful magic users in the Wizarding world.
The once lush, meticulously manicured grassy field that had filled the stadium had vanished completely, as if it had never existed. In its place was an enormous crater.
As moonlight spilled over the scene, the trio noticed something peculiar—the edges and interior of the pit seemed to glitter with an odd, bright luster. His curiosity piqued; Ron cautiously approached the edge of the crater. With a quick glance back at his friends, he reached down and broke off a small piece of the reflective material from the crater's lip. Bringing it close to his face, he examined it carefully in his palm, turning it this way and that to catch the moonlight.
"Blimey, is this some sort of gemstone?" After a few seconds of intense scrutiny, Ron turned around, looking at Hermione with a slightly bewildered expression.
Hermione stepped closer; her own curiosity evident in her furrowed brow. She leaned in, her eyes narrowing as she carefully examined the shard in Ron's palm. After a moment, she straightened up.
"No, it's not a gemstone, Ron. It's glass," Hermione stated with her usual air of confidence. Her tone took on a slightly lecturing tone as she continued, "It's a result of Professor Watson's magic. The intense heat generated by that massive fireball he conjured must have been hot enough to melt the sand in the soil. When it cooled rapidly, it formed this glass."
Ron's face scrunched up in confusion as he looked from Hermione to Harry, clearly lost. "What kind of explanation is that? Since when does fire turn dirt into glass?"
Harry, caught between his two friends, could only offer a helpless shrug. "It's probably some kind of Muggle science thing," he suggested, not entirely sure himself but trusting in Hermione's knowledge.
Disappointment clear on his face now that he knew the shard wasn't some valuable gemstone, Ron tossed the piece of glass aside carelessly. His attention quickly shifted back to the ruined pitch stretching out before them.
From their vantage point, the once oval-shaped Quidditch pitch was now completely unrecognizable. Nearly a third of the entire structure had crumbled into nothing more than a chaotic heap of rubble and twisted metal. The remaining spectator stands were in complete disarray, large sections torn asunder and others barely clinging to what remained of the main structure. Enormous, gnarled vines snaked through the wreckage, wrapped tightly around beams and through gaps in the rubble as if trying to drag the entire stadium back to the earth.
The fact that the entire magnificent Quidditch stadium hadn't been reduced to a pile of rubble was partly due to the Ministry of Magic's thorough and meticulous efforts in its construction. However, it was also due to an unexpected side effect of the battle—the steel beam connections in the main structure had been completely welded together by the intense heat of the Fiendfyre conjured by Bryan during the duel.
As the three young wizards stood there, taking in the full extent of the destruction, an indescribable pressure seemed to settle on their hearts. They dared not imagine what might have become of them if Professor Watson hadn't had the foresight to give them time to escape before engaging in battle with Cliodna. Their fate, they realized with a collective shudder, would likely have been no better—and possibly far worse—than that of the unfortunate wizard who had just perished outside the stadium.
The weight of this realization hung heavy in the air between them for several long moments before Hermione finally broke the silence.
"Come on, Harry," she said, gently pushing at his shoulder to spur him into action. "We need to find your wand quickly—" Her eyes darted nervously around the ruined stadium as she continued in a suppressed voice, "Someone from the Ministry could show up at any moment to inspect the damage. We can't afford to linger here for too long."
Harry let out a long, weary sigh. "To be honest, I've already started to prepare myself mentally for the possibility of having to buy a new wand from Ollivander's—"
Indeed, as Harry surveyed the sorry state of the once-magnificent Quidditch pitch, he couldn't help but feel that the chances of his wand remaining intact amidst such devastation were minuscule at best.
Despite his pessimistic attitude, Harry knew they couldn't simply turn back now. They had taken an enormous risk in coming here, so they couldn't just look around and leave.
With renewed determination, the three friends began to look around trying to identify their seat location within the ruined stadium. The once-familiar layout had been so thoroughly destroyed that it took them several long, frustrating minutes of debate and careful observation before they could finally determine the approximate location of their box from the evening's match.
Their efforts were rewarded with a mixture of good and bad news. On the positive side, they discovered that the section of the stadium containing the top-level box where they had watched the Quidditch final hadn't been completely reduced to rubble. Its main structure, while damaged, was still largely intact—a small miracle given the destruction surrounding it.
However, the bad news was that the stairway leading up to the top-level box had become extremely unstable. Chunks of masonry and twisted metal were scattered haphazardly across the steps, creating a treacherous obstacle course.
The entire staircase seemed to be hanging in a precarious balance, as if the slightest additional weight might cause it to give way entirely.
Harry stood at the foot of this broken staircase, his green eyes roaming up its length as he assessed the danger. After a moment of tense silence, Harry walked to the lowest point of the staircase, hesitated for a moment, then turned to Ron and asked.
"Ron, could I borrow your wand for a moment?"
Ron frowned, "Hold on, you're not planning to go up there alone, are you?"
Harry nodded solemnly. "This staircase might barely support the weight of one person, but it would be far too dangerous for all three of us to attempt the climb. There's no need for you both to risk your lives alongside me."
"I don't like the sound of that one bit, mate," Ron clicked his tongue and said shaking his head. "Should I start counting how many times we've risked our lives together over the past few years, Harry? Because I reckon we'd be here until sunrise if I did."
However, Harry's concern wasn't without reason. The structure before them was indeed in a precarious state, and it would be foolish for all three of them to recklessly attempt to climb it.
Hermione had been quiet during this exchange, her mind clearly working overtime to find a solution. Her eyes were fixed on the box high above them, a frustrated frown creasing her forehead. Finally, she spoke, her voice tinged with a mix of annoyance and disappointment:
"If only we could fly up there," she said, her gaze still locked on the distant box. "But flying isn't simple magic. It's far too advanced for us."
Ron's eyes lit up at the mention of flying, his expertise in all things related to Quidditch coming to the front. "Actually, flying itself isn't that hard," he said, a hint of excitement creeping into his voice. "If we had a broomstick, even an old Shooting Star would do the trick."
As Ron spoke, his eyes began to scan the area, searching for any safer alternative route to approach the box. Meanwhile, Harry, like Hermione, continued to gaze up at their destination and sighed.
The trio stood in contemplative silence for a moment, each lost in their own thoughts as they tried to devise a plan.
Then, without any warning, the silence was shattered.
A voice, harsh and grating, suddenly cut through the still night air. This off-key voice was filled with a painful hoarseness, as if its owner had been screaming for hours. But what it uttered wasn't a cry for help or a shout of surprise at finding intruders in the ruins.
No, what they heard was unmistakably an incantation - a spell.
"Morsmordre!"
The next second, something enormous and blindingly glittering green appeared in the top-level box and swiftly soared into the sky!
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