Get up, Harry."
Hermione's soft voice gently permeated the highest bedroom of the Burrow, where Harry Potter and Ronald Weasley had been sleeping moments prior. The both of them had just been awakened by the third and only female member of the Golden Trio, as they were called, and both of them silently agreed to ignore the constant requests to wake up issued by their friend. Hermione, now thoroughly annoyed by the attempts to sleep, stormed out the door.
"We're leaving for the World Cup in twenty minutes, with or without the two you." she said, closing the door softly behind her. The two boys shot out of their respective beds as quickly as they could, which unfortunately wasn't all that fast. It felt as though not even five minutes had passed since they had been sent to bed.
When Harry and Ron had finished with their showers, the two of them got dressed in the muggle clothing Harry and Hermione had bought with Mr. Weasley from a muggle clothing shop two days prior. After changing into his clothes, Harry observed himself in the mirror.
He had never been the vain type, but he had to admit he was beginning to look fairly attractive (or at the very least he no longer looked like a small child). He quickly combed his hair to the side, and pulled his glasses off. He blindly edged towards the mirror and squinted with his eyes. A few moments later, his eyes widened in shock, rendering him once again unable to see.
The face he had seen in the mirror was uncomfortably similar to that of Tom Marvolo Riddle.
It wasn't the same. Tom had distinctly lacked the scar that marked Harry's forehead. Tom's eyes were closer to brown than the emerald green of Harry's. His cheekbones had been higher, his skin paler, his hair lighter and much neater. Their face shape was slightly different as well. Harry had enough honesty to admit that he was not nearly as attractive as the young Riddle once had. Tom had been the pretty-boy at Hogwarts when he had attended, amongst other things.
Squinting his eyes, he turned back to mirror. He focused his thoughts upon changing the way he looked. His week of practicing with his partial Metamorphmagus powers had led to him being able to change his hair, eyes, skin tone, and even his features. But only just slightly, to the point where it was barely any different in the first place.
His eyes darkened slightly. His cheekbones lifted slightly as well. His skin tone just barely lightened. The same happened with his hair. His face became slightly wider. It wasn't much of a change, but it was still something, even if anyone who had seen him recently would instant recognize him.
He now gazed upon a face very, very similar to one that had belonged to Tom Marvolo Riddle.
Crack.
Harry quietly cursed himself for not paying attention to his emotions. He looked at the small burn on the bathroom wall, created by a small spark of lightning originating from Harry's left palm. He felt a slight tug in his chest, his body straining from the power released. Harry ignored if for now; it was something that happened several times during his stay at the Burrow. Instead, the youngest and final Potter turned back to the mirror, gazing at his reflection.
The face wasn't the same.
Truthfully, it really hadn't been the same. He knew it hadn't been, but that didn't stop him from worrying. He carefully placed his glasses back on and stopped focusing on his metamorphing powers. It was not too much of a change, but it was now entirely the face of Harry James Potter.
Harry exited the bathroom and back into Ron's room, where he saw the redhead laying across his bed in muggle clothing, reading 'Flying with the Cannons' for what had to be the twelfth time. Harry quickly made sure that Ron had not heard the crack of electricity in the bathroom; it would certainly be hard to explain.
Harry had decided against telling Ron or Hermione about his heirships, abilities, or anything related to it. Harry knew for certain that Ron would get jealous, something he was not in the mood to deal with at the moment. As for Hermione, Harry wasn't sure. She had never yet had any real reason to be jealous of Harry, so he did not truly know how she might react. Still, if her bossy attitude was in any way related to her potential reaction, Harry was not interested in triggering it. After quickly stroking Hedwig's feathers gently and saying he would be gone for the day, the Harry and Ron walked down the stairs and into the kitchen.
All the remaining Weasley children sat by the table, with the exclusion of the eldest three sons. Hermione and Mr. Weasley also sat at the table, while Mrs. Weasley stood at the door, berating Fred and George for attempting to sneak Ton-Tongue Toffees to the World Cup.
A short five minutes later the group left the house, with only Mrs. Weasley remaining behind. After a quick yell at the twins to "BEHAVE!", the Weasley Matriarch vanished from view, having returned to the house.
The group set out along Ottery St. Catchpole's main path for a few miles before they began walking through the woods. The sky was filled with clouds, something that Harry rather liked.
Once they reached the center of the woods the group stopped. They had arrived upon a hill, which they were soon told to climb by Mr. Weasley. After an hour of climbing, the seven of them arrived at the top of the hill, where they were greeted by Amos Diggory, Cedric Diggory, and a mangy old boot.
After a quick series of introductions (during which Ginny and Hermione blushed furiously while shaking hands with the Diggory heir), Arthur quickly explained to Harry and Hermione what a portkey was, and how to use it. Following his lead, each and every member of the now newly formed group touched the boot, and a second later they vanished.
Another second passed, and the group now found themselves in a grassy field that must have been hundreds of kilometres away. Their camping arrangements were soon explained to them by a wizard by the name of Basil, who wore a muggle apron, as well as a pair of shorts. It had taken quite a while to get Hermione to stop laughing after seeing the man jog off.
They said farewell to the Diggorys upon arriving at campsite two, where they met a muggle named Mr. Roberts. Harry just barely managed to stop Mr. Weasley from handing over three silver sickles as payment. They soon made their way to their own tent, which they would only be using for a short period of twenty-four hours.
After nearly half a day of exploring the camp grounds, night had finally fallen. Clouds were clearly visible in the sky, though they were not low enough to interfere with the match. Harry was more than pleased with that; he had been hoping to try his powers on the clouds during the match if he got bored. He doubted he would accomplish anything, but that wasn't the point.
Percy, Charlie, and Bill all arrived around midday. Harry couldn't really say he really liked any of them; the first was far too much of a brown-noser when it came to abiding by the rules (something which Harry had learnt the hard way over the last three years at Hogwarts.
As for the other two, they were both fully fledged adults that depended on nobody (Percy couldn't do a thing without bringing up a man named Mr. Crouch). Harry's previous experience with adults had rarely ended well. Most of them either hated him, never believed what he said, or were trying to kill him. That wasn't to say he hated them, or anything like that; Harry was simply a bit more wary than most children would be.
Harry had been having loads of fun attempting to make small bolts of lightning hit the Earth (he tried to ignore how obviously weak the bolts were). He was beginning to notice a pattern with the power. After using the ability, he felt cut off from it. There was no pain from using it, he just no longer felt connected to it, as if it took time to regenerate it. He'd have to wait about an hour before he could fully feel the energy fully coursing through him once more. The time between intervals was also shortening slightly, but not by much.
Harry had additionally tried other forms of wandless magic as he had seen in the Gringotts Pamphlet, but had absolutely no progress. He had spent quite a fair amount of time attempting to summon the water jug from the dining table, and had been utterly shocked when the jug started floating. The shock only lasted until Harry realized that Bill had summoned the water jug in order to quench his thirst.
He had even tried wandlessly manipulating other elements, such as fire and water, but to no avail. For now, all he was capable of doing without a wand was creating small bolts of lightning. Harry was more than fine with that, however; it was still progress, and it was certainly something Harry found rather impressive.
Harry had nearly had a heart attack when Hermione had looked up at the sky earlier, having just finished making their tent, and asked "Does overly saturated magic cause some sort of lightning? I mean, electricity is mostly just energy, it would be an excellent way to release overpowered magic. It would probably be the same for other things too, like fire. It would be lovely to learn about it . . ."
Harry had frozen suddenly, his thoughts drifting towards the wizarding school of Hogwarts.
There was lots of lightning at Hogwarts, and the waves of the Great Lake were unnaturally strong. It had only become really noticeable during their previous school year at Hogwarts, but Harry had always assumed that was because of the Dementors.
It had completely passed his notice that Dementors only created mist and cold. Even before the Dementors had arrived, the weather at Hogwarts had always been unnaturally cold. The lightning and thunder had not been their doing. Though to be honest, it was far enough apart that it could definitely have been completely natural.
And besides, the lake had the Giant Squid living in it. Why wouldn't the waves be unnaturally strong?
If Hermione's hypothesis was correct (which Harry decided was likely), then perhaps the weather at Hogwarts was caused by all the ambient magic surrounding the school. Harry had always felt that the school was the most magical place on earth.
After another half hour (which was spent lying around the Weasleys' borrowed tent), it was finally time for the World Cup. Mr. Weasley had managed to procure seats in the Top Box, due to a favour he had done for Ludo Bagman, Head of the Department of Magical Games and Sports. Upon arriving at the Quidditch stadium, which was in the center of the woods, they were led up to their seats by a rather pretty witch.
The climb up to their seats was more than a little uncomfortable. The witch occasionally sent a hungry glance at Harry, which was something he was not at all used to. He wasn't entirely sure how he felt about it, either. On the one hand, she had not yet seen his scar, and he couldn't exactly say it was a bad feeling that he felt at the moment.
But on the other hand, it was a rather uncomfortable feeling. He had never really had anyone look at him like that. It was something he hadn't expected to happen, not just because he was fourteen. Although Tom was very charming when he was fourteen . . .
Crack.
Shit.
Lost in his thoughts, Harry did not notice the way Ginny had glared at the pretty witch, nor the way Ron looked at him with jealousy. The group marched upwards several dozen staircases before they finally reached the highest floor.
"Center box, directly forward." said the witch. She quickly smiled at Harry before retreating down the stairway. Harry and Ron, who had both frozen from the witch's actions (although for different reasons), were dragged towards their box by Hermione.
"I thought the Top Box would be just one box." said Harry to Mr. Weasley. The redheaded man shook his head. He quickly checked his tickets, before turning to Harry and Hermione, who were the only two people interested in hearing his answer.
"There are roughly a hundred thousand people here, from all over the world. The Top Box, as you two may have guessed, is typically for the utmost elite. But considering the amount of wizards present, the number of the supposed utmost elite witches and wizards is fairly high. So in the center box, we have the ministers of magic, the Heads of the departments involved in setting up the whole thing, and Britain's pureblood elite. The other boxes most likely hold important political figures or pureblood elites."
"I thought only Britain really cared about blood status." said Hermione, frowning, "Why do other countries care about blood?"
"They don't." Percy answered, puffing out his chest. "At least, not really. No matter where you go, the only people who really care about blood status are the Purebloods themselves. It usually makes them feel superior, or some rubbish."
Mr. Weasley nodded, holding the door open for the group to enter. As they walked to their seats, Mr. Weasley made one final comment on the matter.
"The fact remains that Britain is one of the few places that has a large number of purebloods. Most of the other purebloods either married muggle borns or half-bloods, or they died out due to wizarding wars. Britain was very fortunate that not many wizarding heirs were killed during the last war. Most other European countries lost their pureblooded heirs thanks to Grindelwald."
Harry looked over the glass railing that prevented them from falling out of the box, gazing around the stadium. Mr. Weasley really hadn't been kidding about the number of people present at the event. Every part of the stadium from the ground up held witches and wizards of all kinds. Floating high about three hundred feet above the ground was a glass screen of some sort.
"It's a Recorder Glass!" whispered Hermione excitedly to him and Ron, "It was invented just a few months ago by Camille Estelle, a French Enchantress. It isn't nearly as good as muggle television, of course; it can only show whatever is being instantly seen by the recording orbs. The orbs can be connected to an infinite amount of mirrors, so people could all see something from other sides of the magical world! It's a waste to only have glasses in the Quidditch Pitch, I mean, we're already here, we can see what's going on. But apparently you need express government permission to use them, and they won't do anything that doesn't make them money. It isn't fair that they took ownership over the creation, they're essentially preventing a potential major step in the magical communi - "
Harry tuned out, looking up at the glass his bushy haired friend was talking about. On the top in fancy font, it read BULGARIA: 0, IRELAND: 0. Harry sat down in the middle row, the twins to his left and Hermione to his right. He casually looked up at the sky, checking the weather.
A few clouds littered the sky. They were sure to provide entertainment if the match went on for too long. Apparently, the last Quidditch Cup had gone on for five days. Harry looked at the clouds, focusing hard on forcing a bolt of lightning out, even though he had created a bolt of lightning just a quarter of an hour ago.
Nothing happened. Harry forced himself not to swear.
This sucks.
The time spent before the game passed fairly quickly, with only a few events of note. The most unpleasant of which had definitely been the arrival of the Malfoy family. After listening to Draco's taunts for about half a minute, Harry was struggling to keep himself from showing any sign of a reaction. It was a good thing that he still could not feel his magic flowing through him, as he was very tempted to strike the blonde with an overpowered bolt (or as overpowered as he could make one).
Fortunately, the Malfoys were seated directly in front of them. Harry and the twins took turns poking the back of Draco's head whenever the blonde boy's parents weren't watching. Harry had been cautious at first, before listening to the twins' reasoning. He had to concede that they did indeed have a point; Draco couldn't stop them without attracting attention to himself, which was not a good idea in such a place. Sadly, the young blonde quickly learnt to sit slightly further away from the back of his seat, muttering a few choice words as he did so.
Harry also noticed the foreign Ministers of Magic looking at him after Fudge had whispered something to them. He ignored the jealousy that had returned to Ron's face (although he did discreetly stick his tongue out at Draco when he noticed the young blonde's expression distort in anger). It wasn't Harry's fault that he was famous, as he had told his redheaded friend countless times.
The next (and last) event of interest had been when Harry turned around to the sight of an upset house elf, whose hands covered their face. Harry had quickly said Dobby's name, wondering if the elf in question was the one he had met years ago.
Hermione and Ron's eyes widened in curiosity before they turned around at breakneck speed, as did Draco (although his eyes had widened in horror). As it turned out, the elf was not Dobby. Her name was Winky, and she belonged to Mr. Crouch. She was saving a seat for her master, something which Hermione did not seem to like very much. It was clear to them that she was deathly afraid of heights.
Harry, Hermione, and the Weasleys now sat waiting impatiently in their seats. After some time, Minister Fudge, who had been sitting in the very front and center of the box, stood up with Mr. Bagman and walked to the edge of the box. After a brisk nod in Fudge's direction, Bagman cleared his throat, and whispered "Sonorous."
The recording orbs zoomed in on the Top Box, specifically at Bagman. He waved as the crowd roared with excitement. After the crowd had somewhat calmed down, the ex-beater began to address them.
"Ladies and Gentlemen, allow me to welcome you to the four hundred and twenty-second Quidditch world Cup!" The crowd roared once more, as thousands of flags were raised into the air.
"And now, the Bulgarian Mascots!" roared Bagman, and a sudden silence (as silent as a hundred thousand witches and wizards could get) enveloped the stadium. Harry spun his head up to the recording glass, and froze.
They're the most beautiful women I've ever seen.
For a few seconds, Harry felt a slight pull as he looked at them. He could feel emotions building up in his body, emotions he was not interested in feeling in front of everyone else. The realisation was enough to get Harry to snap out of his daze.
Unfortunately, Harry was now beginning to develop a slight headache. Putting a hand to his forehead, Harry looked around the box and checked everyone's expressions.
If the reactions of everyone else in the top box meant anything, they were going through the same struggle as he had, although without success. Each and every Weasley male's eyes had glazed over (although Mr. Weasley's were slightly less so), and locked onto the Recorder Glass. The same could be said about the other males in the box, although both Malfoys males tried (and failed) not to.
The females in the top box could not have acted more differently than the men. Each and every one of them had a scowl present on their faces, glaring at the beautiful witches who were dancing upon the pitch.
"Veela . . ." Harry heard Mr. Weasley mutter under his breath.
Harry watched the Veela with interest, although it wasn't just because of their looks. He was trying to figure out what that pulling feeling he had felt was. It had broken a while back, as he could now look away if he wanted to. But the others with him clearly couldn't. It was more than likely some sort of magical effect, but he still wanted to know why he wasn't affected.
Or maybe I am affected. I haven't exactly looked away.
With the sole purpose of proving himself wrong, Harry looked away.
After a few minutes of dancing, the Veela bowed to the crowd, before moving to the side. The audience didn't seem to like that. Thousands roared in protest, none wanting the Veela to go. Harry didn't really care at the moment; he was too busy trying to get his headache (which was beginning to come back) to go away.
"Kindly welcome . . . the Irish Mascots!"
What looked like tiny and sparkly green meteors shot around the stadium, before forming an image in the sky. It was a giant dancing Leprechaun, just as each of the individual green dots were. They did a few quick Irish dances (with a few obscene gestures here and there), before flying over the crowd, money raining down upon the audience.
"Excellent!" roared Ron, as he began to greedily pick as many galleons as he could of the floor.
"That won't cure your poorness, Weasel." Draco whispered snidely from in front of them, "It's leprechaun gold, it'll vanish in a few hours. Unlike these, of course. He quickly pulled out a dozen or so real galleons from his pocket, discreetly waving them in front of Ron's face.
"Leave it, Ronald." said Hermione, stopping the redhead from making a fool of himself. Once she was sure he wouldn't do such a thing, she turned to her left, where Harry was still rubbing his forehead, "Are you alright, Harry?" She looked around them, before turning back and whispering, "Is your scar hurting?"
"No, just a headache." He had sent a letter to her and Ron at the start of the summer about his scar hurting, even mentioning the dream of Voldemort and the old man. He had regretted it almost instantly. Both of them had immediately told him to tell Dumbledore, something he had not been interested in doing after being returned to the Dursleys' for the third year in a row.
Thankfully, his headache was swiftly fading away. He raised his head and smiled at his friend, ignoring Ron's shriek of delight as Victor Krum was called. He did, however, join in with the cheers as the game finally began. It was nice to be normal, even if it only was every once in a while.
"Victor, I love you!"
"Victor, I do!"
"When we're apart, my heart beats only for you!"
"Shut up you lot!" roared Ron, throwing his blanket on the floor. Fred and George, however, did not listen, continuing their chant as they danced across the tent.
It had been hours since the Quidditch World Cup had ended; Ireland had triumphed over Bulgaria, even though the latter's seeker had been the one to catch the snitch. Fred and George had been very pleased at the results, having made a bet with Bagman on that exact outcome.
The Irish were pleased as well, having spent many hours dancing outside in the fields. They were still at it, somehow managing to get even louder.
"Reckon the Irish brought their pubs with them?" asked Fred, having just finished the final verse of his song.
"Reckon they did, dear brother of mine." responded George.
"Maybe they're going after those Veela." guessed Harry.
"Yeah, I reckon they are. I know I would, if I knew dad wouldn't tell mum." said Fred, staring blankly ahead.
Hermione's eyes narrowed as she huffed, throwing her hands in the air. She slammed her book shut, before turning to Harry, Ron, and the Weasley twins.
"Did you not see the way they got covered in feathers? Besides, you've never even been within a hundred metres of one! What if they're horrible?"
"Doesn't matter though, does it? I mean, if you look like that, you're free to be as horrible as you want." said Ron dreamily.
Just before Hermione could respond, the group all heard a shriek coming from outside. Mr. Weasley's eyes narrowed slightly, before walking outside of the tent to check. A moment later he rushed back into the tent, his eyes now suddenly wide.
"Get up, get up! We need to leave now!" he shouted urgently, quickly grabbing his jacket and pulling out his wand. Bill, who had just looked out of the tent, immediately ran back and began to toss robes at everyone, yelling, "A fight must've broken out and gone overboard!"
The effect was immediate. The remaining Weasleys, Hermione, and Harry all scrambled to put their robes on, before following Arthur out the tent. They were instantly surrounded by the panicking crowd, all rushing to get away from a scene that appeared to come out of a nightmare.
A group of wizards wearing pure black robes marched through the field, setting fire to everything in their path. A few were chasing after the men and woman attempting to flee, though mostly the latter. Harry, who knew enough to figure out what they might be trying to do, began to shake in anger, as did the Weasleys and Hermione.
A very weak storm formed overhead, a light rain starting to pour. It wasn't at all large in size, or even slightly harmful, but the crowds of witches and wizards became even more panicked. The Weasleys, Harry, and Hermione themselves began to panic as they were slowly separated by the crowds. Harry most of all, he could tell that he was somehow causing the miniature storm, but couldn't control it in the slightest. It had to be him, he could feel his magic pounding angrily through his veins.
"Get to the woods!" yelled Mr. Weasley at Harry, Ron, and the youngest four Weasleys, "Get to the woods and hide, we'll find you when this is all over, we need to help the Ministry!" He then ran after Bill, Charlie, and Percy, all of whom had already run over to help the ministry members attempting to end the commotion.
"Come on, let's go!" yelled Hermione, her voice hoarse. She grabbed ahold of Ron and Harry's hands, attempting to drag them out of the crowd. The screaming witches and wizards, however, seemed to have a different plan, as they continued to panic and run as far away from the source of danger as they possibly could. Harry was pushed away from his friends, suddenly alone in a crowd of foreign magicals.
I could potentially die, and I'm worried about whether or not they're foreign.
Harry laughed quietly to himself, before remembering the seriousness of the situation and began attempting to separate himself from the crowd. A few long and painful minutes later, he had succeeded. No longer slowed down by the struggles of others, Harry bolted towards the forest, and began his search for Ron and Hermione. He was losing sight due to the dark, and therefore shoved his hand into his pocket in search of his wand.
It isn't there.
Harry cursed under his breath. He was now completely alone and without his wand in the woods, while a potential massacre occurred just a few hundred metres away. He had heard of powerful witches and wizards being capable of doing magic without their wands. He wasn't entirely sure he met the description, but he had performed some incredibly impressive magic in the past. The Patronus he had cast by the lakeside had to be an example of it.
Wait a moment. I literally spent the entirety of the last few weeks trying to work on wandless magic.
Harry stuck out his hand, trying hard not to curse at his forgetfulness, and muttered, "Lumos."
Nothing happened.
He tried again, and again, and again. He was met with the same results. He was getting tremendously annoyed now. His friends might be lost, or hurt, or maybe even worse. Those thoughts did not help much to calm him down. He focussed his mind on creating a means of sight, any possible way for him to see where he was going. At the same time, Harry was so completely drunk on his anger that he couldn't help but imagine a giant bolt of electricity, smiting everything in his path.
Opening his mouth, he yelled, "LUM - "
He instantly quieted down, staring at his hands in shock. A few miniature bolts of electricity were sparking across both hands, jumping from one finger to another. When he lowered his hands to the side of his body, a few of the sparks jumped towards the ground, creating singe marks on the forest floor. He raised his hands once more, suddenly noticing something.
He could see. The lightning sparks were giving off a beautiful blue glow, allowing him the gift of sight once more. The sparks did not seem particularly powerful, but they were immensely bright. He had no idea how, but he had created a source of light.
Harry continued to run through the woods, arms outstretched like a makeshift magical flashlight. It was comforting to realize that he wasn't defenseless. He could still . . . talk to snakes, and slightly change his looks, and even could use wandless magic . . . which he had no idea to use, and couldn't even control at the moment. He no longer felt half as comforted as he had moments prior.
He stopped suddenly, hearing a shriek to the left of him. He immediately turned, running in the general direction that the panicked voice had originated from. He eventually reached a small clearing in the woods, where he quickly stopped and pulled his hood up.
There were nine other magicals in the clearing, six of whom were males wearing the same black robes as those in the camp. The last three were all female, wearing satin robes. Each seemed to be around twenty.
All nine had their faces obscured by hoods. One of the girls was lying behind the others, clearly unconscious. Two of the six men were also lying on the floor, incapable of movement. The rest were locked in a ferocious duel. It was a very impressive sight; the young witches were holding their own against four fully grown wizards, although it was clear that none of the men were all that talented. Another one of the males fell to the ground.
Those witches could wipe the floor with me in a fraction of a second.
The two remaining women both dodged a few curses sent at them before one turned to the side, sending a stunner at one of the remaining three men. Her aim was on point; the man fell to the ground, unmoving.
"Expelliarmus!" roared one of the two remaining men, not a second after other had fallen
Unfortunately, turning to the side did not prevent the witch from being hit by the disarming charm. Her wand soared through the air, landing just behind the two wizards.
"Stupefy!" yelled both remaining wizards. A red beam of light shot out of each man's wand, hitting both girls straight in the chest. They swiftly dropped to the floor.
"Well, well, well." said the other man, both of them now moving closer to the girl as they began to pull off their robes, "We're going to be having a bit of fun now, aren't we?"
The sky over the clearing slowly filled with clouds, thundering weakly, yet violently. Three or four small bolts of lightning struck within the clearing. A gentle drizzle started falling upon the remaining magicals.
Before he could stop himself, he ran into the clearing, separating the witches from the remaining two men.
"Leave them alone!" he whispered, not particularly interested in speaking loud enough for them to realize who he was. If they were at all associated with Voldemort (and Harry was beginning to suspect that they were), then finding out who he was would not be the best course of action.
The men turned their attention to him, before laughing madly. The man to the right stepped forward, before looking at Harry's hands with interest.
"That's a neat trick, kid, but I don't care for parlour tricks. You can either get lost, or we'll make you watch before we kill you."
Harry remembered the way women had acted during the duel, as though it were a normal occurrence for someone to try and take them for their own, as if after years of running, they had finally been caught. They shouldn't have to feel like that. Nobody should.
Once more, several miniature bolts of lightning struck different parts of the clearing. A bolt even landed on one of the unconscious men. Harry had no doubt in his mind that the man was dead.
The men grew slightly wary. The two of them looked around them, watching as the sky darkened, as the wind strengthened slightly, and as the bolts of lightning running around Harry's arms began to encompass his entire body. The bolts became far more violent than they had been previously, as though they were desperate to find something to harm. Harry could feel his body being bruised and burnt underneath his robes by the bolts, but it didn't matter. It was highly unlikely he could have stopped it, even if he wanted to. He even tried to get the bolts to weaken slightly. Nothing happened.
Harry focused every part of his mind and anger onto the males before him, attempting to stop them in any way possible. As he did so, he felt his body burn with pain, far worse than any he had ever felt before. He tried not to scream, but within only a few seconds he could no longer hold it, and so he yelled.
As he did so, thin bolts of lightning shot from his hands, repeatedly striking each of the six men before him. The pressure of the wind completely decimated the higher parts of the few trees in front of him in front of him, turning what was once wood into particles almost as small as dust.
The men were not spared; their bodies broke down into hundred of pieces, and the two that were still conscious screamed in agony. Once the bodies were far from recognizable, the lightning that had been striking the men disappeared . The storm that had been raging above, vanished entirely. So did the bolts that had run across his body. Unfortunately for Harry, the bruises and burns did not. Even worse, his magic was gone. It was not cut off from him, as it had been when he had been messing around with electricity earlier. It was completely gone, Harry couldn't at all feel it within him. Whatever he had done had seriously drained his magic.
But that was something he would have to worry about later. Right now, Harry needed to get out of here, as far away from the unconscious women as possible.
Checking that his face remained unseen, he turned back to the girls. They were now slightly injured, small rips and tears appearing in their robes here and there. There was also the occasional scorch mark here and there. Harry instantly turned to leave. He didn't have his wand on him. If he was seen, there was nothing he could do to make anyone forget. He doubted he would have wiped someone's mind either way. He hadn't yet forgotten about Lockhart. Besides, he didn't yet understand the theory behind the spell, not having properly learnt it.
Harry couldn't believe what had just happened. He had killed not one, but six different people. He was panicked; did this mean he was a dark wizard of some sort? He couldn't be a killer. He quickly remembered that he had killed Quirrell in his first year, which slightly calmed him down. Nothing had happened then, he didn't become some sort of dark entity; he had done it to help people, to save others.
Regardless, it did not stop the internal war he was going through. He had killed people, how could he have done such a thing?
But they were horrible. They would have done things worse than death if I hadn't done anything.
He slowly walked to the end of the clearing, his body (and conscience) aching like it never had before. Harry couldn't help but think back to the lack of magic he felt. He could no longer feel the magic within him. It was something he had always felt, his magic, even if he had never before known what it was. Now, however, it was gone.
It wasn't even like how it had been earlier, when he had been summoning small lightning bolts for fun. At those times, the power had been just out of reach, but not gone.
He spent the next five minutes walking aimlessly around the woods, falling more than a few times. The pain was utterly unbearable; he would definitely need to see a healer within the next hour. Suddenly, he heard a rough voice from a few dozen metres to the right scream, "Morsmordre!"
Up in the sky, Harry saw a strange green skull appear, with an similarly coloured snake slithering out of the mouth. From the same place he had heard the incantation, Harry heard what must have been a half dozen witches and wizards yelling, "Stupefy!"
He slowly made his way over, pushing through the bushes and low branches. The moment he stepped out and into the clearing, he saw four wands all pointed at him, all belonging to Ministry officials. Another four wizards all had their wands pointed at what appeared to be the body of a young man.
At the other side of the clearing, stood a group of ministry officials all yelling at the man who Harry learnt earlier to be Mr. Crouch. To their side, stood Hermione, Ron, and Mr. Weasley.
"HARRY!" they all yelled, before rushing towards him, "They found your wand, Harry! Barty Crouch Jr. used it to cast the dark mark!" said Hermione, before quickly getting shushed by a number of nearby Aurors. Her eyes finally met his, and she paled as she looked him over, seeing the tears, damages, and bruises.
"What happened to you? Are you alright? Should we call for help?" she asked at a very fast pace. Harry shook his head in the negative. He would be fine for the most part. The only thing that really concerned him was the loss of that strange energy that he had felt flowing through him, although that was not something he was interested in discussing with others. As long as he saw a healer within an hour, nothing would likely be a problem.
I mean, it's not like this is the first time I've been through something like this.
Harry was questioned by a few ministry members on how he had lost his wand. Apparently, Barty Crouch Jr. (who had been sentenced to Azkaban more than a decade ago, supposedly dying there less than a year later), had somehow made his way to the cup, and managed to steal Harry's wand.
Since Crouch Jr. had been killed after being on the receiving end of several stunning spells, the Aurors could not question him. After Harry told them about how he had not been able to find his wand after the match, and how Mr. Crouch's elf was sitting directly behind him, he was pushed to the side, with Winky being brought forward for questioning.
As they waited for Winky to be questioned, an number of healers were brought over to help them out. Harry was surprised to see that he was not the only one in bad shape; Fred, George, Bill, Charlie, Percy, and even Mr. Weasley had all sustained injuries of some sort, although none of theirs were quite as bad as Harry's. When asked by the healer, Harry merely stated that he was lost in the crowd for quite some time.
They left the woods a half hour later. Apparently, Mr. Crouch had managed to smuggle his son out of Azkaban, using Polyjuice potion. Yet somehow, he had not gotten in much trouble, other than a rather hefty fine. The Weasley children, Harry, and Hermione had all been told by Mr. Weasley that they would have to keep quiet about what had happened or risk provoking the Ministry.
"Why is he only being fined?" asked Hermione indignantly. She had not been feeling particularly sympathetic towards Mr. Crouch after hearing how he told Winky to sit up in the Top Box, "It's not exactly a fair punishment, is it?"
"He isn't being punished harshly because the ministry needs him very much for the upcoming year. I expect they'll punish him once it's all over." replied Mr. Weasley, leading the group back toward the makeshift portkey station.
"Once what's all over?" asked Fred, his eyes narrowed. Throughout the past week Harry had spent at the Weasley's, the eldest members of the redhead clan had been talking of some sort of event that would be occurring during the coming year. Percy in particular had taken to speaking of it in rather loud voices, greatly irritating everyone else.
"You'll see, soon enough." said Bill.
After waiting for another few hours for a portkey back to Ottery St. Catchpole, the group finally arrived back on the hill they had climbed nearly twenty-four hours prior.
The rest of the walk back was in silence.