Following Harry, Hermione emerged, clutching her wand and draped in a cloak over her pajamas. Her small face was taut with tension as she scanned the living room.
"What's going on? It sounds like chaos out there," she asked.
"Good question," Harry replied, stepping toward the tent's entrance. He cast Hawk-Eye, and a transparent orb, invisible and intangible to ordinary eyes, materialized in the air outside, emitting a faint glow.
Focusing on the orb, Harry's gaze revealed a scene starkly different from the one before he'd gone to sleep. The lively celebration was gone, replaced by scattered debris, burning tents, and a panicked crowd fleeing toward the stadium. As Harry wondered what they were running from, a group of masked figures in black robes, bathed in green light, appeared from the darkness. Their mocking laughter rang out as they gleefully destroyed tents, advancing toward Harry's position.
Above them, four figures—two adults, two children—twisted like marionettes under invisible forces, their distorted forms shrieking in agony. One adult, suspended midair, was suddenly flipped upside down by a spell from below. Her desperate attempts to cover herself, judging by her voice, only drew louder jeers from the tormentors beneath.
Harry snapped back to reality. Even after witnessing death countless times, his face darkened at the sight of such cruelty.
"Bill, Charlie, Percy! You three, come with me to help restore order! Sirius, you're in charge of Ginny and the others!" Mr. Weasley barked, already dressed and gripping his wand. He rushed out of the tent with Charlie, Bill, and Percy in tow.
"Hermione, wake Ginny! Harry, get Ron—" Sirius began, but before he could finish, Ron stumbled into the living room, bleary-eyed in pajamas and a cloak. Behind him, George and Fred trailed with identical looks of bewilderment, as if wondering who they were and where they'd landed.
"What's happening out there? Where'd Percy and the others run off to?" Ron asked, but no one had time to answer.
Hermione soon dragged Ginny out, and Sirius took the lead. Harry brought up the rear as the seven of them bolted from the tent, heading for the relative safety of the woods.
The colorful lanterns that once lit the forest for visitors had gone dark. A chaotic throng stumbled through the trees, their cries mingling with children's wails and other discordant noises. Despite Sirius's guidance, the group was inevitably scattered by the surging crowd. Fred and George clung tightly to Ginny, swept toward the right side of the woods. Sirius and Ron were carried straight ahead, while Harry and Hermione, gripping each other's arms, were pushed to the left.
Though Harry was fourteen and Hermione nearly fifteen, the two teenagers stood no chance against the relentless tide of people. When their feet finally found solid ground again, they were disoriented, surrounded by dense trees that blocked the moonlight, plunging them into near-total darkness. Hermione instinctively cast Lumos, and seconds later, Harry, after repairing his glasses, slapped a Luminos spell onto his clothes.
A faint white glow illuminated their surroundings—and revealed a figure neither Harry nor Hermione was thrilled to see.
Draco Malfoy leaned casually against a tree, arms crossed, his pristine wizard robes untouched by the chaos. His eyes raked over Harry and Hermione with a smug glint.
"Having a pleasant evening, Potter?" Malfoy drawled, lowering his arms, hands slipping into his sleeves. "Out for a stroll with Granger? Pity it's not the best night for it, eh? Your little tent's probably ashes by now. Where's our great Savior going to sleep tonight? Perhaps with Gran—"
Before Malfoy could finish, Harry lunged forward, seizing his collar and slamming him against the tree trunk.
"Think before you speak, Malfoy," Harry said icily, his eyes boring into him. Malfoy's breathing grew labored, his face reddening as he clawed at Harry's iron grip, but Harry's hands held firm, pinning him in place.
"If I were you, I'd grab Granger and run," Malfoy gasped, struggling for air. "Unless… you want her to be… found."
"What's that supposed to mean?" Hermione stepped forward, her voice sharp with indignation.
"Granger, they're after Muggle-borns," Malfoy managed, his words strained but dripping with malice. "What, fancy showing off your knickers in midair?"
Crack!
A punch from Harry sent a dozen of Malfoy's teeth flying.
Harry shook out his hand and delivered another blow, this time knocking out the rest of Malfoy's bloodied teeth.
"Congratulations, Malfoy. You've officially pissed me off," Harry said coldly, releasing Malfoy's collar. Malfoy crumpled to the ground, clutching his mouth, tears streaming down his face. Harry raised his right hand, searing magical energy gathering in his palm.
But a hand grabbed his wrist from behind.
"Harry, let him go. He's not worth it. He's really not," Hermione urged, her voice steady but pleading.
Harry relented, sparing Malfoy a final spell. But as he turned to leave, Malfoy's legs twisted into grotesque arcs with a sickening crunch.
"Hahaha!" Malfoy's manic laughter erupted as Harry and Hermione took a few steps away. "You're finished, Potter! Think I provoked you for fun? They're here! They're here… hahaha!"
At that moment, seven or eight masked figures appeared with loud cracks of Apparition, blocking Harry and Hermione's path. The leader, Harry noted with a jolt, was oddly familiar—a cascade of platinum-blonde hair and a body trembling with rage at the sight of Malfoy's crumpled form.
"Crucio!" the masked figure roared, wand raised, unleashing the Cruciatus Curse toward Harry and Hermione.
But Harry was faster. As the figure's wand arm twitched upward, Harry grabbed Hermione, and with a swirl of silver mist, they Disapparated.
High above the trees, Harry reappeared with a startled Hermione in tow. He cast Wingardium Leviosa on both of them, keeping them aloft. Raising his right hand, he began channeling a surge of gray-green energy.
"Damn it! Potter can Apparate?!" one of the masked figures snarled, turning on Lucius Malfoy. "Lucius, you didn't tell us he could Apparate! The Master said we had to bring Potter to him!"
Lucius, already seething at the sight of his son's injuries, whirled on the speaker. "Shut—"
A gray-green orb materialized among the masked figures. Before they could react, it expanded rapidly, engulfing them. Those touched by its edges screamed in agony, collapsing limply to the ground. Two seconds later, the orb reached its peak and dissipated, leaving only two figures swaying unsteadily.
"We must… fulfill the Master's orders," one of them rasped, her voice shrill and unhinged—a woman's. She raised her wand to the sky and bellowed, "Morsmordre!"
A massive, green-glowing shape erupted from her wand, soaring past Harry and Hermione. It twisted in the air, coalescing into an enormous skull with a serpent slithering from its mouth like a tongue. The Dark Mark hung high in the night sky, a sinister new constellation.
The chaos below stilled for a moment, then erupted into greater panic. Ministry officials, far from calming the fleeing crowd, joined the stampede in droves.
"That's… no, it can't be!" Mr. Weasley's wand slipped from his hand, clattering to the ground. He knew the Dark Mark all too well. During Voldemort's reign, it had been the hallmark of his terror, conjured wherever he or his Death Eaters claimed a life. It had become as feared as the Dark Lord himself. After Harry defeated Voldemort, the wizarding world had known thirteen years of peace, and Mr. Weasley had dared to hope the Mark was gone forever. Yet here it was, blazing above the Quidditch World Cup.
Meanwhile, back on the ground, Harry pulled Hermione through the darkened woods. Though he burned to return and finish off the masked figures, her safety came first. He needed to get her to Sirius or Mr. Weasley.
They navigated a shadowy path deeper into the forest. Along the way, Harry spotted a group of goblins clutching a sack of gold, chattering merrily as if oblivious to the chaos and the Mark looming above. Further on, they encountered a young girl with thick, curly hair, speaking in a heavy southern French accent.
"Où se trouve Madame Maxime? Nous ne la trouvons pas!" she said rapidly.
Harry and Hermione exchanged glances, neither understanding her words.
"Sorry, we've got to go," Harry said, tugging Hermione away before she could attempt her shaky French to ask questions.
"Another Hogwarts lot?" came a grumbling voice with a thick French accent behind them.
"Harry, she's from Beauxbatons," Hermione whispered as they hurried along. "I read about it in An Appraisal of Magical Education in Europe. Beauxbatons Academy is as prestigious as Hogwarts, and they—"
A figure leapt from the bushes, cutting her off.
"Harry! Hermione! Thank Merlin you're alright!" Neville sheathed a longsword on his back and rushed forward, pulling Harry into a warm hug.
"Neville, you've got yourself a sword?" Harry asked after a quick greeting, eyeing the finely crafted blade slung across Neville's back. To his surprise, he sensed a faint hum of magic emanating from it.
"Over the summer, my gran had it forged for me," Neville said proudly, showing it off to Harry and Hermione. "The smith even added some kind of spell-conductive metal, or so they say."
"Neville, have you seen Mr. Weasley, Sirius, or Ron?" Harry asked.
"Ron? Yeah," Neville said, pointing behind him. "About five or six minutes ago, I saw him heading that way with some adult wizard. Not sure if it was Sirius Black, though."
"Thanks, Neville," Harry said, and with a nod, he led Hermione toward the direction Neville indicated.
A sudden rustling in the bushes made Hermione whip out her wand, nearly casting Bombarda. But Harry, quicker, grabbed her arm, preventing a spell that would've obliterated a familiar house-elf they'd met before.
The elf, Winky, was struggling to crawl out of the undergrowth, her movements frantic and labored, as if an invisible force were dragging her back.
"Bad wizards everywhere!" she squealed, straining to break free. "People high—high up! Winky must escape!"
Gasping and shrieking, she fought against her unseen tether and finally dove into the bushes on the other side of the path, vanishing from sight.
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