The campsite was alive with activity as wizards from across the globe prepared for the Quidditch World Cup. Everywhere Harry looked, he saw enchanted tents sporting the colors and banners of rival teams, magical cooking fires, and witches and wizards chatting animatedly in dozens of languages.
"This is brilliant," Ron said, his eyes wide as he turned to take it all in.
They followed Mr. Weasley through the winding pathways of the campsite, dodging excited children chasing enchanted Quaffles and vendors selling everything from Firebolt accessories to enchanted snacks. Dean Thomas and Seamus Finnigan waved at them from the far side of a small clearing, where they had set up camp alongside Seamus's mother and a group of other Irish supporters.
"Come find us after the match!" Seamus called, his face already painted in bold green and gold stripes.
"Will do!" Ron shouted back.
Ahead of them, Mr. Weasley paused by a relatively plain tent surrounded by towering Irish flags. "Here we are! Let's get settled."
Harry raised an eyebrow as he followed the others inside. From the outside, the tent looked barely big enough for three people, but stepping through the flap was like entering another world. The inside was enormous, with several beds, a small kitchen, and even a sitting area complete with a crackling fireplace.
"Magical tents," Ron said knowingly, flopping onto one of the beds. "Nothing like them."
"Arthur!" a booming voice called from outside. Mr. Weasley ducked back through the tent flap, and the others heard him greet someone enthusiastically.
"Who's he talking to?" Harry asked.
"Probably one of his Ministry friends," Percy said, setting down a meticulously packed bag. "Father tends to—"
"—run into everyone he's ever met at these things," George finished, smirking.
Fred nudged Harry. "Come on, let's explore. You're not really going to just sit here, are you?"
Harry grinned. "Not a chance."
The campsite market was bustling with vendors peddling every imaginable piece of Quidditch merchandise. Irish and Bulgarian flags fluttered in the breeze, and children ran past waving miniature broomsticks that left trails of sparks.
"Harry, look!" Ron pointed at a nearby stall showcasing colorful Omnioculars. "I've read about these. They can rewind the game, slow it down, even show stats!"
The vendor, a cheerful man with a shock of green hair, demonstrated a pair for them. "Omnioculars! Ten galleons and thirteen sickles! Perfect for catching every move, every save, every goal!"
Ron hesitated, clearly enamored but biting his lip as he eyed the price.
"You want one?" Harry asked casually.
"Of course I do, but I can't—"
"Here," Harry interrupted, pulling out his coin pouch. He handed the vendor the money and grabbed a pair of green and gold Omnioculars.
"Harry, you can't just—" Ron started, but Harry shook his head, grinning.
"You're my best mate, Ron. What's the point of gold if you can't use it to enjoy stuff like this?"
Ron's face turned red, but he accepted the Omnioculars, staring at them like they were the greatest gift in the world. "Thanks," he muttered, a huge smile breaking across his face.
"Now you can tell me exactly how the Chasers pull off their Blazing Blitz," Harry said.
Fred and George exchanged a knowing look. "We taught him everything he knows about generosity," Fred said, nudging George.
"True philanthropists, we are," George replied.
As the sun began to set, the campsite buzzed with anticipation. People began lighting magical lanterns, their soft glows turning the area into a sea of shimmering colors. The Weasleys' tent was no exception, its entrance now adorned with a small Irish flag enchanted to wave on its own.
Inside, Hermione was reading Quidditch Through the Ages, while Ginny and Ron debated the merits of Viktor Krum versus the Irish Chasers.
"Sure, Krum's an amazing Seeker," Ginny said, leaning forward in her chair, "but he can't win the match by himself. Ireland's team is too good. Their Chasers are unstoppable."
"Not unstoppable," Ron countered. "You wait. Krum's going to pull off something spectacular. He's only eighteen, and he's already the best Seeker in the world!"
Harry listened with amusement, fiddling with his Omnioculars. He couldn't help but feel the growing excitement as they discussed the upcoming match.
The walk to the stadium was nothing short of electric. The campsite buzzed with energy as wizards in green and gold or scarlet and black streamed toward the towering Quidditch stadium in the distance. The structure itself was a marvel of magical architecture, rising impossibly high into the night sky, its polished wood gleaming under the enchanted lanterns strung along its perimeter.
Harry, Ron, Hermione, and the rest of the Weasleys followed Mr. Weasley closely, weaving through the throngs of fans. Vendors lined the path to the stadium, calling out their wares: enchanted scarves that sang team anthems, flags that sparkled with magical effects, and miniature Quidditch players zooming about in enchanted glass globes. The air was thick with the scent of roasted nuts and buttery pastries.
"Look at that!" Ron exclaimed, pointing to a wizard juggling flaming Quaffles while singing a rousing Irish victory song. "Blimey, they've really gone all out, haven't they?"
"They certainly have," Hermione said, glancing around. Her eyes lingered on a group of Bulgarian fans chanting something in their native language, their red scarves enchanted to wave on their own.
Finally, they reached the towering entrance to the stadium. Harry craned his neck, trying to take in the sheer size of the structure. It was circular, with towering stands that seemed to reach the clouds. Magical billboards flickered and shifted along the exterior, displaying images of the players, team logos, and messages of support.
"Welcome to the Quidditch World Cup!" a cheerful witch greeted them at the entrance, her wand flicking over a small counter as she directed them toward their seats.
They climbed a spiraling set of stairs that seemed to stretch on forever. Harry was beginning to think they'd never reach the top when Mr. Weasley finally stopped, his face glowing with excitement.
"Here we are!" he said, gesturing to a wide box with an unparalleled view of the pitch.
Harry stepped forward, his breath catching at the sight. The field below was perfectly illuminated, its lush grass shimmering as though it had been freshly painted. Hundreds of broomsticks darted through the air in a dazzling display of pre-match theatrics, their trails of light weaving intricate patterns in the sky.
The Top Box itself was an interesting mix of people. To one side, Cornelius Fudge sat with a genial smile, chatting animatedly with a man in brightly colored robes, his face ruddy and full of boyish excitement. Harry glanced at him curiously.
"That's Ludo Bagman," Ron whispered, leaning closer. "He's head of Magical Games and Sports. Fred and George keep saying they made a bet with him on the match."
Harry's curiosity deepened, but his attention was quickly stolen by the breathtaking view of the pitch below.
"Oh, wow," Hermione murmured, stepping up beside him. Even she, who didn't share their obsession with Quidditch, looked awestruck by the sight.
"Seats, everyone!" Mr. Weasley called, motioning for them to sit down.
Harry and Ron squeezed into seats near the front, with Hermione and Ginny to their left and Fred and George behind them.
"Ladies and gentlemen!" A magically amplified voice boomed across the stadium, drawing everyone's attention. The crowd erupted into cheers and applause as the commentator continued. "Welcome to the 422nd Quidditch World Cup final!"
Harry leaned forward. The match was about to begin.
"AND THEY'RE OFF!" the announcer bellowed, his voice echoing across the massive stadium. The crowd erupted into cheers as the players soared into the air, emerald green and scarlet streaking against the twilight sky.
"Moran takes possession for Ireland, weaving past Ivanova—she dodges Dimitrov—and PASSES to Troy! Ireland's Chasers waste no time getting straight into formation!"
Troy and Moran darted through the Bulgarian defense like two ends of a whip, their movements perfectly in sync.
"Zograf braces himself—AND MORAN SCORES! TEN-ZERO TO IRELAND!"
The Irish section erupted in cheers, green and gold sparks shooting into the sky. Harry joined in, elbowing Ron as they celebrated the goal.
"Brilliant!" Ron shouted, his face glowing with excitement. "Told you, Harry, their Chasers are unstoppable!"
Back on the pitch, the Quaffle was now in the hands of Bulgaria's Chasers.
"Ivanova charges forward, Dimitrov flanking her left—Mullet closes in for the tackle—NO! Ivanova dodges, clean pass to Levski—"
The announcer's voice sped up as the Bulgarian Chasers launched an aggressive counterattack. Harry watched as Troy tried to block a pass, only for Dimitrov to shoot wide, leaving the Irish Keeper scrambling.
"Bulgaria's strategy is all power," the announcer noted. "And Dimitrov SCORES! It's ten-all!"
As the crowd cheered, Harry's attention was drawn away from the pitch by movement in the Top Box. Lucius Malfoy, flanked by Narcissa and Draco, had entered the row of seats beside Cornelius Fudge, the Minister of Magic. Harry stiffened, his gaze narrowing.
"What's he doing here?" Harry muttered.
Ron followed his gaze and scowled. "Probably bribing Fudge or something. Bet he's funding half the Ministry by now."
"Shh," Hermione hissed, though she couldn't help glancing in Malfoy's direction.
Harry leaned forward, trying to catch snippets of the conversation. Lucius Malfoy sat elegantly, his cane resting against the arm of his chair, but his posture was slightly angled toward Fudge. His tone was low but deliberate, and though the crowd's roar made it impossible to hear most of what he was saying, Harry managed to catch fragments.
"…urgency…dangerous action after the match…" Malfoy said, his lips curling into a faint smile.
Fudge waved a hand dismissively, but his brows knitted together. "Not now, Lucius," he replied, his voice curt.
Lucius didn't flinch. Instead, he leaned closer, his cane tapping lightly against the floor.
"…critical you leave early. No delays, Minister. Not after…"
Harry strained to hear more, but the roar of the crowd swelled as Moran dodged past a Bulgarian Chaser. Narcissa remained impassive, her gaze fixed on the match as if she wasn't privy to the conversation. Draco, meanwhile, looked bored, his arms crossed.
"Did you hear that?" Harry whispered.
"Something about leaving early?" Hermione guessed.
"Yeah. Something's off," Harry muttered, his eyes narrowing.
Before he could think further, Lucius rose smoothly from his seat. He exchanged a brief nod with Fudge, motioned to Narcissa and Draco, and disappeared down the stairs.
"Where's he going?" Ron asked.
"Dunno," Harry replied, though his stomach churned uneasily.
The announcer's voice snapped him back to the game. "Mullet with the Quaffle—passes to Troy—AND ANOTHER GOAL! FIFTY-TEN TO IRELAND!"
The crowd's cheers pulled Harry back into the moment. He glanced at the scoreboard, shaking off his unease.
The Irish Chasers were hitting their stride. Their passes were seamless, their formations flawless.
"Moran, Troy, and Mullet make another play—Moran dodges Ivanova—AND SHE SCORES! SIXTY-TEN!"
The Bulgarian defense was struggling to keep up. The Irish Chasers darted through the air like lightning bolts, weaving past their opponents with ease.
"Troy to Mullet—Mullet back to Moran—AND ANOTHER GOAL! SEVENTY-TEN TO IRELAND!"
Harry felt a flicker of pity for the Bulgarian Keeper, who looked utterly overwhelmed.
"They're obliterating them," Ron said, his Omnioculars pressed to his face. "Bulgarian defense can't keep up!"
"Bulgaria's got power," Hermione noted, "but no coordination. The Irish Chasers are just too quick."
Fred and George whooped loudly as Connolly sent a Bludger hurtling toward Dimitrov, forcing him to swerve wildly.
"Connolly's got an arm on him, hasn't he?" George shouted.
The pace was relentless. The Irish Chasers scored again and again, leaving the Bulgarian defense in shambles.
"SEVENTY-TEN to Ireland!" the announcer roared.
"And they're not done yet! Troy passes to Moran—Moran to Mullet—AND SHE SCORES! EIGHTY-TEN!"
The crowd roared, the chants of Irish fans echoing across the stadium.
"NINETY-TEN! ONE HUNDRED-TEN!"
As the game continued, Harry's attention was drawn to Viktor Krum, circling high above the pitch. The Bulgarian Seeker hovered like a hawk, his eyes scanning the pitch below.
But something caught Harry's eye. Krum wasn't focused on the Snitch. He was watching the game.
"Krum knows they're losing," Harry muttered, his brow furrowing. "That puts pressure on a Seeker. He has to do something to disrupt the flow."
Ron glanced at him, frowning. "What do you mean?"
"If the Irish keep scoring, Bulgaria doesn't stand a chance," Harry said. "Krum knows their Chasers can't catch up, so he's probably planning something to throw them off."
As if on cue, Krum suddenly dove.
The crowd gasped as Viktor Krum hurtled toward the ground at a breathtaking speed, his broomstick cutting through the air like a falling meteor. Even the Irish Chasers faltered mid-play, their attention drawn to the dramatic dive.
"Krum's seen something!" the announcer shouted, his voice rising with excitement. "He's going for it! Could it be the Snitch?"
Harry leaned forward, his heart pounding. He raised his Omnioculars, scanning the area where Krum was diving. He adjusted the dial, zooming in on the pitch near the Irish goalposts, but no golden glint met his eyes.
"There's no Snitch there," Harry muttered, confusion creeping into his voice. "What's he doing?"
"He must have seen it," Ron said, gripping the edge of his seat. "Why else would he dive?"
"I don't think so," Hermione said, frowning. "Why would the Snitch be so low to the ground in the first place?"
Harry didn't answer. His mind raced as he watched Krum's dive, his movements precise and unrelenting. Was he mistaken? Could Krum really have spotted the Snitch, or was he doing something else entirely?
Lynch, the Irish Seeker, had no such hesitation. He dove after Krum without a second thought, his broomstick shuddering as he pushed it to its limits. The crowd roared louder, the tension mounting with every second.
"Krum's gaining—Lynch is right behind him—AND—"
At the last possible moment, Krum pulled up sharply, his broom carving a near-vertical arc just a few feet from the ground. Lynch, caught completely off guard, couldn't adjust his trajectory in time. He crashed into the turf with a sickening thud, tumbling across the pitch in a tangle of limbs and broomstick.
"WHAT A MOVE!" the announcer bellowed, his voice nearly drowned out by the crowd. "THAT'S THE WRONSKI FEINT! A BRILLIANT TACTICAL PLAY FROM VIKTOR KRUM!"
The Bulgarian supporters erupted in cheers, their red-and-gold flags waving furiously. Even some of the Irish fans clapped, acknowledging the sheer skill behind the maneuver. Meanwhile, mediwizards rushed onto the field to attend to Lynch, who groaned as he tried to sit up.
"That was… incredible," Hermione admitted, lowering her Omnioculars. "Dangerous, but incredible."
"He's a genius," Ron said. "Dirty trick, but you can't deny it worked."
Harry, however, sat back in his seat, his brow furrowed. He replayed the dive in his head, trying to make sense of it. "It wasn't about the Snitch," he said finally, more to himself than to anyone else.
"What do you mean?" Ron asked, turning to him.
Harry gestured toward Krum, who was now circling high above the pitch again. "He knew the Snitch wasn't there. That dive—it was never about catching it. He did it to throw Lynch off his game, maybe even to buy Bulgaria a bit of time."
Ron frowned, tilting his head. "So, what? He just did it for fun?"
"No." Harry shook his head. "He's trying to disrupt the Irish Chasers. Krum knows they're running away with the game. If he can rattle Lynch—and the rest of the team—it might stop their momentum."
As Lynch was helped off the field, the Irish Chasers quickly regrouped. Mullet snatched the Quaffle from Ivanova, pivoted midair, and hurled it toward Moran.
"Moran in possession—passes to Troy—AND SCORE! ONE HUNDRED TEN-TEN!"
The crowd roared again as the Irish team reclaimed their momentum. Krum's feint had shaken things up, but it hadn't stopped the relentless dominance of the Irish Chasers.
"Looks like Krum's gamble didn't pay off," Fred quipped, leaning over to Harry. "Not much point in throwing off the Irish when their Chasers are this good."
"Maybe," Harry said. "But he's not done yet."
The stadium was electric with noise, the Irish fans chanting and singing as their team continued to dominate. Moran passed the Quaffle to Troy, who looped around Ivanova with ease and launched it straight through the Bulgarian hoop.
"ANOTHER GOAL FOR IRELAND! ONE-TWENTY-TEN!" the announcer roared.
High above the pitch, Viktor Krum was a blur of motion, darting back and forth in search of the Snitch. His face was tense, his movements sharp and hurried. Below, Ivanova tried to rally the Bulgarian Chasers, but the Irish trio—Moran, Troy, and Mullet—were relentless.
"TROY TO MORAN—MORAN TO MULLET—AND MULLET SCORES! ONE-THIRTY-TEN!"
The Irish section roared again, the noise drowning out even the announcer's booming voice. Zograf, the Bulgarian Keeper, looked utterly defeated as he hovered by the goalposts, his broom sagging under the weight of his frustration.
On the pitch, Ivanova managed to reclaim the Quaffle, weaving past Mullet with a determined burst of speed. She passed to Dimitrov, who lobbed the Quaffle to Levski in a last-ditch effort to close the gap. Levski dodged an incoming Bludger and sent the Quaffle hurtling through the hoop.
"BULGARIA SCORES! ONE-THIRTY-TWENTY!"
The Bulgarian fans roared their approval, but the noise was quickly swallowed by the Irish crowd as Moran intercepted the next pass with ease. Within moments, the Quaffle was flying through the Bulgarian hoop again.
"ONE-FORTY-TWENTY! IRELAND IS UNSTOPPABLE!"
Krum, still circling high above, suddenly veered sharply to the left. His broom dipped as he sped toward the edge of the pitch, his hand clutching the handle with white-knuckled intensity.
"THE SNITCH!" the announcer bellowed. "KRUM SEES IT!"
The golden ball flitted near the Irish goalposts, its wings fluttering erratically as if taunting him. Lynch, still shaky from his earlier crash, pushed his broom into a steep dive, desperately trying to close the distance.
"Lynch is following—IT'S A RACE!" the announcer roared.
The Bulgarian fans roared with renewed hope, their cheers echoing through the stadium.
"Moran with the Quaffle—passes to Troy—AND SCORE! ONE-FIFTY-TWENTY!"
The two Seekers streaked across the pitch, Krum leading by a hair as the Snitch zigzagged unpredictably. Lynch pushed his broom harder, closing the gap inch by inch.
"Lynch is gaining on him—can he make it in time?!" the announcer cried.
Meanwhile, on the pitch, Mullet intercepted a weak pass from Ivanova, darted through the Bulgarian defense, and launched the Quaffle straight through the middle hoop.
"ANOTHER GOAL FOR IRELAND! ONE-SIXTY-TWENTY!"
The Bulgarian Keeper, Zograf, barely moved. He looked utterly defeated, his shoulders slumped as the Quaffle sailed past him yet again.
"Mullet in possession again—she dodges Dimitrov—AND SCORES! ONE-SEVENTY-TWENTY!"
Above the chaos, Krum reached out, his fingers brushing the Snitch's golden wings. Lynch lunged forward, his hand outstretched, but Krum twisted sharply to the left, cutting him off.
The crowd roared with deafening enthusiasm. The Irish fans were on their feet, chanting and waving enchanted flags as their team's lead grew even larger.
The Bulgarian Chasers looked utterly destroyed, their faces drenched in sweat, their movements sluggish and unfocused. Even Ivanova, usually a powerhouse, faltered as she tried to block the Irish plays.
"Moran intercepts a desperate pass from Ivanova—she passes to Troy—AND HE SCORES! ONE-EIGHTY-TWENTY!" the announcer roared, barely keeping pace with the game.
With one final burst of speed, Krum pushed his broom forward, his hand finally closing around the Snitch.
"KRUM CATCHES THE SNITCH!" the announcer bellowed. "BUT IT'S NOT ENOUGH!"
The scoreboard flickered:
Ireland: 180
Bulgaria: 170
"What a match!" the announcer shouted, his voice barely audible over the cheers. "Ireland wins by TEN POINTS! A stunning display of skill and strategy from the Irish Chasers, and what a fight from Viktor Krum!"
The stadium erupted. The Irish supporters leaped to their feet, their cheers echoing across the stands, while the Bulgarian fans clapped politely, some shaking their heads in frustration. Fireworks painted the sky in emerald and gold as the Irish team circled the pitch in victory, waving at the roaring crowd.
"He caught it," Ron said, shaking his head in disbelief. "He caught the Snitch, and they still lost."
Fred collapsed into his seat, wide-eyed and uncharacteristically quiet. George looked at him, then at the pitch, his face a mix of disbelief and smug satisfaction. For once, neither twin said a word.
Ron noticed and raised an eyebrow. "You two all right? It's not like you to go speechless."
Fred gave a slow, almost dazed nod. "Yeah. Just… processing," he muttered, staring at the Irish team as they made their victory lap.
"Processing what?" Ron asked, but Fred waved him off, muttering something unintelligible to George, who gave him a sly grin.
Ron shrugged and turned back to Harry, his ears still pink from excitement. "Did you see that? Ireland was unstoppable! The Blazing Blitz? Unbelievable! And Krum—blimey, he's a genius. The way he pulled that Feint… even if he didn't win the match, he's still the best Seeker I've ever seen."
Harry gave a small smile at Ron's enthusiasm but didn't reply. His focus was elsewhere.
As the crowd began to stir, celebrating fans filtering out of the Top Box, Harry's gaze lingered on Ludo Bagman. The once-boisterous man stood at the edge of the box, his grin gone. Instead, his expression was tight, his eyes darting nervously as though searching for someone—or avoiding them.
Harry watched as Bagman adjusted his robes, his hands twitching. He exchanged hurried words with an older wizard before descending the stairs, his movements stiff and hurried.
"Harry?" Hermione's voice pulled him back. She was standing now, waiting with Ginny and Mr. Weasley. "Coming?"
"Yeah," Harry said quickly, shaking off the moment.
The campsite was ablaze with life and energy, a cacophony of laughter, singing, and magical fireworks lighting up the night sky. Irish fans in green and gold celebrated wildly, their cheers mingling with the occasional grumbles of Bulgarian supporters. Streams of emerald and gold sparks from enchanted fireworks painted the air, bursting into shamrocks and leprechauns that danced across the campsite.
"Merlin, what a game!" Ron said, his face flushed with excitement as they made their way back to the tent. "Did you see Krum's dive at the end? Bloke's a genius, even if Ireland crushed them!"
"Genius or not, Ireland still won," Ginny said smugly, flipping her red hair over her shoulder. "And their Chasers were spectacular. I told you they were unstoppable!"
"Unstoppable my—" Ron started, but Hermione cut him off.
"Enough, you two," she said, exasperated but smiling. "Honestly, it's like the match hasn't even ended with the way you're carrying on."
Behind them, Fred and George were huddled together, their voices low and hurried as they spoke to a grinning Ludo Bagman near the edge of the clearing. Harry caught snippets of their conversation as they passed—something about odds and doubling down—but when he glanced back at them, they waved him off with identical, mischievous grins.
"Everything all right?" Harry asked.
"Oh, perfectly," Fred said, a little too quickly.
"Just securing some… future investments," George added, his tone airy.
"Right," Harry said. He decided not to press.
As they reached their tent, the night seemed to grow quieter, as if the jubilant celebrations were softening into the background. Harry slowed. He couldn't quite put his finger on it, but something about the atmosphere felt… off.
It was then he heard it—a faint scream, carried on the cool night breeze.
Harry stopped abruptly, turning his head toward the sound. His heart skipped a beat as he scanned the dark horizon. Around him, the campsite still hummed with revelry, the rhythmic chants of Irish victory echoing through the air. No one else seemed to have noticed.
"What is it?" Mr. Weasley asked, his face lined with concern as he noticed Harry's hesitation.
"I thought I heard something," Harry said, his voice quiet. "A scream, I think."
Mr. Weasley's expression turned serious, though he attempted to reassure Harry. "The Irish are celebrating—they've been screaming like th—"
"No," Harry interrupted, shaking his head, his voice firm. "Not that kind of screaming, Mr. Weasley. This is different. Something's wrong—I can feel it."
Mr. Weasley frowned, studying Harry closely. There was something about the certainty in his voice, the way his hand had instinctively gone to his wand, that made him pause.
"All right," Mr. Weasley said quietly. "Fred, George—come with me."
The twins, who had been standing off to the side whispering to each other, straightened up immediately. Fred shot a glance at George, his usual grin replaced by a look of wary curiosity.
"What's going on, Dad?" George asked, but Mr. Weasley was already moving toward the tent flap, signaling for them to follow.
Inside the tent, Percy was reading by the dim light of a lantern, while Ron, Hermione, and Ginny sat around a small table, talking in low voices. They all looked up as Mr. Weasley entered.
"Listen closely," he said, his voice serious. "Fred, George, Harry, and I are stepping out for a moment. The rest of you stay here. Percy, you're in charge."
"What's going on?" Ron asked, standing up immediately.
"Stay here," Mr. Weasley repeated, cutting him off. "Ginny, Hermione—keep close to Ron and Percy. Ron, keep your wand out. Don't leave this tent unless it's absolutely necessary."
Ron frowned, his hand moving to the pocket where his wand was tucked. "Dad—"
"This is serious," Mr. Weasley said sharply, and no sooner had the words left his mouth than a chorus of panicked screams erupted from somewhere beyond their tent.
All heads snapped toward the sound. It was distant but unmistakable—a blend of fear, chaos, and urgency. Before anyone could speak, the flickering glow of fire lit up the edges of the tent flap, casting jagged shadows that danced ominously.
Fred and George exchanged a look.
"Stay here!" Mr. Weasley barked, already reaching for his wand. "Fred, George, Harry—come with me. Quickly!"
The four of them hurried outside. The once-celebratory campsite was now a picture of chaos. Tents were ablaze, flames licking the sky as smoke billowed upward in thick plumes. People were running in all directions, some clutching children, others dragging belongings as they screamed for loved ones.
"Stay close," Mr. Weasley ordered, his eyes scanning the chaos. With a swift flick of his wand, he sent a silvery Patronus streaking into the night. "That will alert the Diggorys. They'll contact the Ministry."
He twisted his wrist, revealing a compact magical watch, and murmured into it. "Arthur Weasley, emergency at the World Cup campsite. Immediate support required."
Fred and George had already drawn their wands, standing on either side of Harry as their father motioned for them to move forward cautiously.
The path was a tangle of fleeing witches and wizards, faces pale with terror. A child stumbled near Harry, wailing for her parents. Fred knelt quickly, scooping her up and passing her to a nearby woman who looked equally distraught.
"Move toward the forest!" Mr. Weasley shouted to the scattering crowd. "It's safer there!"
But the flow of people soon overwhelmed them. Harry felt himself jostled by the stampeding crowd, as bodies pressed in from every side. A woman cried out, clutching a toddler as she was pulled along by the surge of panicked wizards.
"Stay together!" Mr. Weasley called.
Harry barely heard him over the din. He stumbled sideways, the crowd sweeping him away from the others.
"Harry!" Mr. Weasley's voice rang out, but Harry was already being pushed further toward the edge of the campsite, the fire and chaos growing dimmer as he neared the dark treeline of the forest.
Panting, he broke free of the crowd and stumbled into the trees, the sudden quiet almost disorienting. He paused, his eyes darting through the shadows. The distant sounds of chaos still echoed behind him—screams, curses, and the crackling roar of flames—but here, in the forest, it was eerily still.
Harry pressed forward cautiously, the undergrowth crunching softly under his feet. The trees loomed high above, their branches casting twisting shadows across the forest floor.
And then, he heard it—a scream.
This one was close, sharp and raw, cutting through the stillness like a blade. Harry froze, his heart hammering in his chest as he strained to pinpoint the direction.
There it was again, weaker this time but unmistakable. A girl's voice, desperate and pleading.
He moved toward the sound, his steps careful and deliberate. The forest seemed to close in around him, every rustle of leaves and snap of a twig amplifying his unease. The scream came again, drawing him closer, and soon he saw it—a clearing up ahead, bathed in pale moonlight.
Harry crouched low, his pulse pounding as he edged closer, his wand raised. He peered through the thick underbrush and felt his stomach drop.
A girl—blonde, about his age—was lying on the ground, writhing in agony. Her screams had turned to hoarse cries, her body jerking violently.
Standing over her was a tall figure cloaked in black, a silver mask gleaming in the faint light.
"Crucio!" the Death Eater hissed, his wand pointed mercilessly at the girl.
Rage exploded in Harry's chest. Before he could think, he stepped into the clearing, his voice ringing out with fury.
"Expelliarmus!"
The spell hit the Death Eater squarely, sending his wand flying as the force of the magic threw him backward. He collided with a tree, the sickening crack of bones audible even over the echo of Harry's spell. The masked figure crumpled to the ground, unmoving.
Harry's breath came in ragged gasps, his wand still raised as he edged closer. The girl lay motionless now, her chest rising and falling faintly.
Before Harry could reach her, another figure emerged from the shadows.
"You little—!" The second Death Eater's voice was venomous, his mask twisted into a grotesque sneer. His wand snapped up, and his voice dripped with malice. "You'll pay for that, boy!"
Harry barely had time to react as a curse sizzled past him, narrowly missing his shoulder. He raised his wand, his adrenaline spiking.
"Wait," the Death Eater said, his tone shifting as his wand hand steadied. "I know that face. Potter." His laugh was cold, sending chills down Harry's spine. "What luck. The Dark Lord will reward me handsomely for finishing you off."
~~~~
The forest was alive with shadows.
Silver light from a swollen moon filtered through the trees, creating shifting patterns on the forest floor. Each branch seemed to reach for Harry, every rustle of leaves a whisper of danger. His breaths came shallow and fast, the metallic tang of blood sharp in his mouth.
Across the clearing, the masked Death Eater stood motionless. The moonlight glinted off the cruel curves of his silver mask, making it seem almost alive—a grotesque face sneering at him.
"Do you feel it, Potter? That lovely taste of fear? You wear it well." The Death Eater's voice slithered through the clearing, soft yet sharp, each word cutting like a dagger.
With a flick of his wrist, a jet of pale green light hurtled toward Harry, carving a searing path through the air. Harry's instincts screamed louder than his thoughts; he dove to the side, rolling into the damp underbrush as the spell scorched a tree trunk behind him. Splinters exploded outward, the tree groaning as its bark smoked.
Harry scrambled to his feet, raising his wand. "Petrificus Totalus!"
"Not bad, Potter," the Death Eater sneered, deflecting spell with a lazy flick of his wand. "You've got fire—shame it'll be snuffed out tonight."
The clearing burned with chaos, sparks and embers flying as curses collided mid-air. Across from him, the Death Eater advanced like a storm given form.
Harry dodged to the left, his body reacting before his mind could process the taunt. The next curse blasted a shallow crater where he'd stood. Dirt and debris pelted his side, and he gritted his teeth, raising his wand.
"Expelliarmus!"
The red streak hurtled forward, but the Death Eater sidestepped with practiced ease, his silver mask glinting in the firelight.
"Really, boy?" he mocked, lowering his wand slightly as if to show his disdain. "You're trying to disarm me? How quaint. Did they teach you that in your little school? Let me show you how it's done."
He slashed his wand downward. The violet spell struck Harry hard in the chest, sending him sprawling backward into the dirt. Pain flared through his ribs as he gasped for breath, his wand nearly slipping from his trembling fingers. His mind raced, but his body was slow to follow, sluggish with shock.
Another curse crackled through the air, this one a whip of orange flame. Harry rolled to the side, the heat licking at his arm as he narrowly avoided the blow. The flames struck the ground, searing the earth where he'd lain just seconds before.
"Expelliarmus!" Harry shouted again.
The spell wasn't precise, but it caught the Death Eater off guard. His wand jolted slightly in his grasp, though not enough to disarm him completely. Death Eater let out a low growl.
"Expelliarmus? Expelliarmus?" he mocked, his tone dripping with disdain. "That's your great defense? Pathetic."
With a sudden, sharp movement, man lashed his wand, sending a jagged bolt of deep red light slamming into Harry's shoulder. Harry cried out as the curse bit into his flesh, a cold numbness spreading through his arm. He stumbled, nearly dropping his wand as he clutched at the wound.
"Do you feel it now, Potter?" he said, advancing on him like a predator savoring the chase. "The sting of reality? You're out of your depth."
Harry forced himself upright, the world tilting slightly as he steadied his footing.
"Why don't you just end it, then?" Harry shot back, his voice hoarse but defiant.
Death Eater paused, tilting his head as if amused. "Because breaking you is far more satisfying. And besides," he added, his voice turning almost conversational, "you deserve to know who had the honor of killing you. Adrian Selwyn. Remember the name, Potter. It will mean something to the Dark Lord."
Harry's mind was a storm of fear and fury. Selwyn's name meant nothing to him now, but the man's deliberate cruelty was clear in every word. Every step closer he took felt like a countdown.
"Expelliarmus!" Harry bellowed again.
This time, Selwyn sidestepped entirely, his wand flashing as he retaliated. A slicing curse arced toward Harry, catching him across the side. He doubled over with a choked gasp, his free hand flying to the wound as warmth spread beneath his fingertips—blood.
Selwyn's laughter rang out, cold and triumphant. "Bleed, boy. That's all you're good for."
Blood streamed down Harry's face, dripping from his nose and pooling with the crimson soaking his side. His breaths came sharp and shallow, pain lancing through his shoulder, his leg trembling beneath him. But all of it—the agony, the blood, the fear—faded into a distant hum. His world had narrowed to the man in front of him.
Balance. Leverage. Precision.
Selwyn's wand slashed downward, a curse roaring toward him like a burning spear. Harry's body moved before his mind caught up, his wand snapping up. The spell ricocheted, cracking into a tree and sending sparks flying as Harry slid across the damp ground, pivoting sharply.
Harry's own wand snapped up, a single spell forming in his mind.
"Diffindo!"
The severing charm screamed through the air, sharp and sudden. For a split second, Selwyn's expression froze in disbelief. Then his arm, still clutching the wand, fell to the forest floor with a sickening thud.
Selwyn staggered back, clutching at the bleeding stump where his elbow had been. A howl of pain and fury erupted from him, echoing through the trees like a wounded animal.
"You filthy little boy," he spat, his voice guttural and venomous. "This isn't over. You'll wish you'd died tonight, Potter."
Harry stumbled forward, his body trembling but his wand steady. He didn't lower it. Not yet.
And then—movement. To Harry's right, the underbrush rustled. His first thought was another attacker. He turned sharply, but before he could raise his wand, he heard it—a voice that cut through the haze.
"Harry! Harry, where are you?"
It was Mr. Weasley.
Harry's knees buckled, and he stumbled, the wand slipping from his grasp. His lips parted to call out, but no sound came. From the corner of his eye, he saw Selwyn's retreating form shimmer and vanish, the distinct crack of Apparition splitting the air.
A second later, arms caught him, steadying his collapsing frame. Harry tilted his head and saw Mr. Weasley's wide, panic-stricken eyes.
"Harry! What happened? Are you hurt?" Mr. Weasley's voice was urgent, his hands gripping Harry's shoulders.
The world spun, and Harry felt his knees give way entirely. His head lolled against Mr. Weasley's chest, his breaths shallow and uneven.
"Girl…" Harry croaked, his voice barely above a whisper.
And then the darkness swallowed him whole.