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"Dark Mark Stuns Quidditch World Cup, Ministry in Chaos"
Last night, during the Quidditch World Cup final, the eyes of the global wizarding community were fixed on the grand event. However, as the celebrations for Ireland's victory unfolded with a parade, a chilling Dark Mark suddenly blazed in the sky, sparking panic among the spectators.
Wizards scrambled in fear, huddling near the forest's edge, holding their breath for reassurance from the Ministry of Magic. Disappointingly, no such comfort came. Shortly after the Dark Mark appeared, a Ministry official stepped forward, announcing that no one had been harmed but refusing to elaborate further. Whether his words could quell the rumors that surfaced an hour later—whispers of several bodies being carried out of the woods—remains to be seen.
Though the Ministry responded swiftly to the incident, it was painfully clear they lacked an effective plan. Minister Cornelius Fudge, in an interview, insisted the Ministry was doing everything possible to investigate, but the culprits remain at large.
This incident exposes glaring weaknesses in the Ministry's security measures. That dark wizards could brazenly display the Dark Mark at such a significant international event is nothing short of a direct challenge to the wizarding world's order.
Despite the Ministry's efforts to bolster security, the dark wizards remain free, casting a shadow of unease over the wizarding community. Many fear this could signal the resurgence of dark forces.
On the international stage, the incident has brought shame to the nation. Wizards from other countries now question the Ministry's ability to maintain order, potentially jeopardizing future global events.
The Ministry urges all wizards to remain calm and encourages the public to provide any information that might help apprehend the culprits. Minister Fudge emphasized in his statement: "We will not let the fear of dark wizards rule our lives. The Ministry will take every necessary measure to ensure the safety of our wizarding world."
Rumors also circulate that, before the Dark Mark appeared, a group of masked, black-robed figures—suspected dark wizards—held a large-scale march through the campsite. Whether the two events are connected remains unclear.
For detailed coverage of the Quidditch World Cup, see page three of The Daily Prophet.
By the time Harry and the others returned to the Burrow via the Floo Network the morning after the match, the latest issue of The Daily Prophet had already spread news of the World Cup incident across magical Britain. Mr. Weasley was predictably furious about the words penned by a certain reporter named Rita Skeeter.
"I knew it would come to this," Mr. Weasley growled, his face grim as he stirred the firewhisky in his glass. "Ministry in panic, culprits still at large, lax security, dark wizards running free… bringing shame to the nation… Who wrote this? Oh, of course—Rita Skeeter."
"That woman's always out to undermine the Ministry!" Percy fumed. "Just last week, she claimed we should be focusing on wiping out vampires instead of wasting time nitpicking cauldron thicknesses! Doesn't paragraph twelve of the Guidelines for the Treatment of Non-Wizard Part-Humans clearly state—"
"Oh, give it a rest, Percy," Bill interrupted with a yawn. "Enough already."
"So, Arthur," Mrs. Weasley asked hopefully, "the bit in the paper about them carrying bodies out of the forest—that's not true, is it?"
"No, Molly… the bodies are real," Mr. Weasley sighed. Before she could respond, he pressed on. "But we've confirmed they were Death Eaters who escaped Azkaban two months ago. We don't know if they died in some internal squabble or were killed by someone else, but at least the team tracking them can breathe a little easier now."
He downed the rest of his drink in one gulp and stood. "Molly, I've got to head to the office. This needs to be explained to the public."
"I'm coming with you, Dad," Percy said proudly. "Mr. Crouch will surely need everyone in their places, and I can deliver my report on cauldron regulations in person."
With that, Percy stormed out of the kitchen.
Mrs. Weasley looked crestfallen. "Arthur, you're supposed to be on holiday! This has nothing to do with your department. They can manage without you, can't they?"
"I have to go, Molly," Mr. Weasley replied. "I've made things worse. I'll just change into my robes and be off…"
After seeing her husband off, Mrs. Weasley turned apologetically to Sirius, who was lounging in a kitchen chair, teasing Crookshanks. "I'm so sorry, Sirius. You're a rare guest, and I haven't been able to properly host you."
"No worries, Molly. Plenty of chances to visit in the future," Sirius said with a casual wave. "I just popped by to say goodbye to Harry. Dumbledore's given me a rather tricky task—probably won't have much free time for the next year."
"What's the task?" Harry asked, curiosity piqued.
"Off to Egypt to look into some things. Won't know the details until I get there," Sirius said, clapping Harry on the shoulder. "Right, everyone, see you next summer!"
With a loud crack, Sirius Disapparated.
Bored and restless, Ron suggested a lively game of Quidditch. He, George, Fred, and Ginny formed one team, while Bill, Charlie, Harry, and—grudgingly—Hermione made up the other.
"Why am I the 'grudgingly' one?" Hermione snapped, glaring at Ron.
"Obvious, isn't it?" Ron shrugged. "Flying's the only class you ever got a 'P' in during first year. If it weren't for balancing the teams, you'd be on the sidelines!"
"You—!" Hermione sputtered, unable to retort. After all, she had only scraped by in Flying, and that was after weeks of Harry coaching her to avoid a complete failure.
"One problem, Ron," Harry said, raising a hand. "I didn't bring my broom."
"Don't you have a Firebolt?" Ron asked, baffled.
"Left it at home."
"At home?" Ron stared, incredulous. "A Firebolt, and you didn't bring it with you? You left it at home?"
"It's too long to lug around," Harry explained.
For the next week, Mr. Weasley and Percy were rarely home. Aside from Harry, Hermione, and Ron, they were the earliest to rise, leaving before dawn and returning long after dinner.
Finally, the day before term started, a visibly relieved Percy sat at the dinner table, eagerly regaling everyone with tales of easing Mr. Crouch's workload.
"It's been absolute chaos," Percy said importantly. "For a whole week, I've been putting out fires. People keep sending Howlers—if you don't open them quick, they explode. My desk's covered in scorch marks, and my best quill's nothing but charcoal now."
"Why all the Howlers?" Ginny asked from the living room rug, where she was patching up A Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi with Spellotape.
"Complaining about World Cup security, of course," Percy said, spearing a piece of sausage. "They want compensation for damaged property. Mundungus Fletcher tried claiming for a twelve-bedroom tent with a hot tub, but he doesn't fool me. I checked—he was sleeping under a cloak propped up with sticks."
Mrs. Weasley, nibbling at her dinner, glanced at the ancient clock in the corner.
According to her, the Weasley family clock was the only thing Arthur inherited from his father. It had nine golden hands, each engraved with a family member's name. Instead of numbers, the clock face showed places they might be: "Home," "School," "Work," "Traveling," "Lost," "Hospital," "Prison," and, where twelve o'clock would be on a normal clock, "Mortal Peril."
At that moment, eight hands pointed to "Home," but Mr. Weasley's—the longest of the nine—still lingered at "Work."
Mrs. Weasley sighed. "Percy, your father hasn't had to work weekends since You-Know-Who fell. They're running him ragged now, and if he doesn't get back soon, his dinner will be ruined."
"But Dad feels he has to make up for the mistake he made at the final, doesn't he?" Percy said calmly. "To be honest, speaking publicly without clearing it with his superiors wasn't the wisest move."
"It's that wretched Skeeter woman and her nonsense!" Mrs. Weasley flared. "How dare you blame your father for her lies?"
The argument at the table raged on.
Outside, rain pattered against the living room windows. Hermione, Harry, and Ron crouched on the floor, controlling three tiny stone figures racing across a makeshift track—about one and two-thirds feet long and three-fifths of a foot wide. In their last event, a swimming race, Harry had come first, Hermione second, and Ron third. Now Ron was determined to overtake Hermione, who was chasing Harry. As for why Ron wasn't aiming for Harry? The gap was simply too wide.
Their game soon caught the attention of Charlie, Bill, and the others. With a bit of magic, they expanded the track to two feet wide and one and three-fifths feet long. Five nimble stone figures, two clumsy ones, and one barely mobile figure lined up at the starting line. Mrs. Weasley, roped in as referee, gave the signal.
At her word, the five agile figures shot forward at four-fifths of an inch per second with a triumphant "whoosh!" The two clumsy ones managed three successful strides, while Ginny's figure—well, Ginny was still struggling to keep it balanced while lifting its leg.
As everyone crouched around, engrossed in the race, Mrs. Weasley glanced at the clock.
"Arthur's back," she announced.
On the clock, Mr. Weasley's hand had jumped from "Work" to "Traveling." A moment later, it wobbled to join the others at "Home."
From the kitchen, Mr. Weasley's voice called out.
"Coming, Arthur!" Mrs. Weasley shouted, hurrying from the room.
Moments later, Mr. Weasley entered the cozy living room, carrying his dinner on a tray. He looked utterly exhausted.
"It's getting worse," he said, sinking into an armchair by the fire and poking listlessly at some wilted cauliflower. "Rita Skeeter's been sniffing around all week, digging for more Ministry chaos to report. Now she's caught wind of poor Bertha Jorkins going missing. That'll be tomorrow's Prophet headline, mark my words. I told Bagman he should've sent someone to look for her ages ago, but… well…"
"Mr. Crouch has been saying that for weeks," Percy piped up.
"Enough about work," Mr. Weasley said weakly, waving a hand. Then he noticed the circle of people crouched on the floor. "What's all this?"
"Dad, Harry's come up with something brilliant," Charlie said, explaining the miniature race. "I reckon this could seriously sharpen your Transfiguration skills!"
"To be fair, it was really Professor Dumbledore's idea," Harry said, scratching his head sheepishly as Mr. Weasley looked at him in surprise. "I just took his test and added some Muggle Olympic events."
"Looks like fun, doesn't it?" Mr. Weasley said, watching for a moment. He Summoned a pebble from outside and Transfigured it into a redheaded little figure that hopped to the edge of the track, stretching eagerly. "Count me in for the next round! Still racing?"
"Nope, next one's cycling," Harry said, waving his wand. Ten pebbles floated from a nearby pile, twisting in midair to become ten tiny bicycles beside the starting line.
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