18th August 1994
Quidditch World Cup Campsite
Dusk crept in slowly, the kind that turned the sky a lazy shade of purple and gold, as if even the sun was reluctant to miss the final.
The Wiphone outlet store was quiet.
No customers. No gawking teenagers. No curious Ministry officials pretending they weren't curious. Just the low hum of enchanted lights and the faint echo of distant cheers rolling across the campsite as people began making their way toward the stadium.
I looked around the store once more.
Ten employees. Ten tired but satisfied faces.
"Well," I said, clapping my hands together lightly, "it's been quite the week, huh?"
A few smiles answered me.
"Thank you, everyone, for your hard work and dedication."
That earned me a chorus of nods and appreciative grins. They'd earned it. Long hours, chaos management, customers who still thought pressing every button at once was a valid troubleshooting strategy.
"To show my gratitude," I continued, "I've got something for you."
Malcolm raised an eyebrow.
"Another bonus, boss?"
I chuckled.
"Sure, I could do that."
There was a collective ooh.
"Or," I added casually, reaching into my pocket, "I could give you these."
I pulled out a neat stack of tickets and fanned them slightly.
The reaction was instant.
Gasps. Wide eyes. One very audible no way.
Roxie stepped forward, staring at them like they might vanish if she blinked.
"No way! Are those…?"
I smirked.
"Tickets to the final match? Yep."
For half a second, nobody spoke.
Then they found their voices.
"You're joking."
"Boss, you're serious?"
"How did you even—?"
"They're not premium seats," I said quickly, cutting through the noise. "But they'll get you into the stadium."
Roxie looked at me like I'd just casually offered her a dragon egg.
"These must've cost you a fortune."
I shrugged.
"It's just a few galleons. Nothing much."
That was technically true. Relatively speaking.
"The important thing," I went on, more seriously now, "is that I want every one of you to know how much I appreciate you giving your all to this store. And as long as you keep doing good work, you won't be disappointed in how you're treated here."
Silence again—but this time it was the good kind.
I smiled.
"Now take these, go out, and have fun cheering for your favourite team."
One by one, they stepped forward, taking the tickets like precious artifacts.
"Thanks, boss."
"Thank you, boss."
"You're the best, boss."
Finally, Roxie came forward. She surprised me by giving me a quick hug, then stepped back, grinning.
"Thanks, boss."
Then she was gone too, laughing as she joined the others heading out the front doors.
I took one last look around the empty store, switched off the lights, locked the door, and stepped outside.
Behind the store stood my tent—neat, understated, and warded to within an inch of its life. A little farther off were the tents belonging to Sirius, the Longbottoms, and the Greengrass family, clustered together like a mini campsite of our own.
Inside our tent, the atmosphere was anything but quiet. Rachel was seated in the drawing room, animatedly talking to Ginny, Luna, and Astoria. A little farther away, Hermione was deep in conversation with Daphne and Tracey.
Harry and Neville were probably in Sirius' tent. When Sirius was around, teenage boys gravitated toward him like moths to a rebellious, motorbike-riding flame.
The Weasleys had their own spot farther down the field. Xenophilius Lovegood hadn't come—humongous crowds weren't his thing—but he'd trusted us enough to let Luna join.
After a month-long holiday in Switzerland, the Grangers were back in England. Unfortunately, a work seminar had claimed both of them, so Hermione was staying with us until school resumed. She hadn't complained. Much.
A few minutes later, we were all ready.
Me. Hermione. Harry. Neville. Daphne. Tracey. Rachel. Ginny. Luna. Astoria. Mum and Dad. Sirius. Remus. Mr and Mrs Greengrass. Mr and Mrs Longbottom.
Quite the group.
I briefly considered asking Dobby if he wanted to join us at the stadium—then remembering that the Malfoys would almost certainly be present there, decided against it. No need to ruin the night for the little guy.
As we walked through the campsite, the noise grew louder. The air itself seemed charged, buzzing with excitement and anticipation.
We ran into the Weasleys along the way—Arthur, Bill, Charlie, Percy, Fred, George, and Ron. Harry and Neville greeted their fellow Gryffindors with enthusiasm and good cheer.
I doubted the Weasleys could've afforded that many tickets on their own. But apparently, Arthur Weasley had once helped Ludo Bagman get his brother Otto out of a spot of trouble, and Bagman had repaid the favour with World Cup tickets.
Luck had a funny way of working.
In another timeline, Neville wouldn't have been here. His grandmother would've forbidden it. Yet here he was—walking beside his parents, smiling like he belonged.
In another world, Sirius would've been in hiding and Harry would've been invited to the World Cup final by the Weasleys. Instead, he'd spent the summer with Sirius and Remus, and was here with them.
So much had changed. Yet, I was counting on some things staying the same.
At least until tonight.
Soon, darkness fell like a curtain being drawn across the campsite. And with it, the last scraps of restraint vanished.
The Ministry seemed to have bowed to the inevitable and stopped fighting the signs of blatant magic now breaking out everywhere. Apparition cracks echoed every few feet as salesmen popped in and out of existence, weaving through the crowds with trays and carts stacked high with enchanted merchandise.
And Merlin help me, it was an impressive sight.
Luminous rosettes hovered everywhere—green for Ireland, red for Bulgaria—squealing player names at top volume. Pointed green hats bobbed past us, shamrocks dancing across their brims. Bulgarian scarves roared like actual lions as their owners waved them overhead. Flags from both countries played their national anthems when swung hard enough.
Tiny Firebolt models zipped through the air, looping and diving. Collectible figures of famous players strutted across open palms, flexing, posing, and preening like they were already signing autographs.
My sister and my friends drifted happily from stall to stall, buying souvenirs.
Irish souvenirs, obviously.
Even though Harry and Neville both had a soft spot for Viktor Krum, loyalty won out. Home team it was. Ron, however, was less subtle—I caught him buying a small figure of the Bulgarian Seeker when he thought no one was looking.
Fred and George didn't buy a thing.
Which told me everything I needed to know. They'd absolutely bet every last Knut they had with Bagman. Poor sods.
I shook my head and wandered toward a cart piled high with what looked like brass binoculars—except these were bristling with knobs, dials, and tiny switches that screamed overengineered.
"Omnioculars!" the saleswizard announced eagerly. "You can replay action, slow everything down, and they flash a full play-by-play breakdown if you need it!"
"Blimey," Neville said from behind me. "That sounds brilliant."
He leaned closer.
"How much?"
"Ten galleons each," the wizard said smoothly.
I did a quick headcount.
Then I reached into my money bag.
"Ten pairs, please."
Harry turned sharply.
"Ben, you don't have to—"
I looked at him flatly.
"Harry, my stores sold tens of thousands of Wiphones in the last two months. Do you really think a hundred galleons means anything to me?"
That shut him up beautifully.
I paid the suddenly very happy saleswizard and passed the Omnioculars around to grins and murmurs of thanks.
In my peripheral vision, I noticed Ron glance a little too long at Ginny's Omnioculars… then look away quickly, pretending he hadn't.
Hermione accepted hers with a warm smile.
"Thanks."
She handed me something in return.
"Here. I got you a program."
I took the velvet-covered, tasseled booklet with a grin.
"Perfect. Fair trade."
Just then, a deep, booming gong echoed from somewhere beyond the woods.
Instantly, green and red lanterns flared to life in the trees, lighting a wide path toward the stadium through the wood separating it from the campsite. The crowd surged forward as one, energy spiking, voices rising.
"It's time!" Dad said, looking as excited as any of us. "Come on, let's go!"
---
Quidditch Stadium
We followed the lantern-lit trail through the wood, green and red lights bobbing ahead of us like will-o'-the-wisps. With every step, the noise grew louder—thousands of voices layered together, laughter, chants, snatches of song drifting through the trees. The excitement was thick enough to taste.
After about fifteen minutes, the trees began to thin.
And then the stadium revealed itself.
It rose out of the darkness like a golden mountain, its immense walls gleaming softly under their own enchantments. I found myself staring despite myself. Mock wizards all you like for clinging to a nineteenth-century aesthetic—but when they chose to build something, they did it on a scale that bordered on arrogance.
One hundred thousand seats.
Five hundred wizards.
One year.
A Muggle project of this size would still be arguing over permits.
We were swept along toward the nearest entrance, where a Ministry witch was frantically checking tickets as the crowd pressed in around her. When she saw ours, she looked up sharply.
"Prime seats," she said briskly. "VIP Box. Straight upstairs, Mr Carter. As high as you can go."
So we climbed.
With every flight of stairs, the crowd thinned as people peeled away into their respective sections. The roar softened, fading into a distant hum, and even the air seemed to change—quieter, more refined. At the top, we emerged into a small, exclusive box set precisely halfway between the golden goalposts.
Thirty purple-and-gilt chairs were arranged in three neat rows.
I moved to the railing and looked down.
The view was staggering.
The stadium was filling rapidly now, tier upon tier of witches and wizards settling into their seats, all bathed in a warm golden light that seemed to emanate from the structure itself. From this height, the pitch below looked flawless, smooth as velvet. At either end of the field, the goal hoops rose fifty feet into the air. Directly opposite us, almost level with my eyes, a massive enchanted billboard flickered through animated advertisements.
I turned back as our group of eighteen began to take their seats. It appears we were early, for no one else had arrived yet.
Well, almost no one.
In the second from last seat at the far end of the third row, sat a house-elf.
Her legs were so short they stuck straight out in front of her, barely reaching past the edge of the chair. A tea towel was draped around her like a toga, and her face was buried in her hands, narrow shoulders trembling faintly.
I didn't even need MageSight.
My enhanced senses told me immediately that the seat beside her wasn't as empty as it looked. The air there felt wrong—compressed, subtly displaced. The faint smell of old wool and human sweat lingered where no one should have been.
Someone was sitting there under an Invisibility cloak.
A smile tugged at my mouth, and I crushed it at once.
Showtime.
I drifted away from the group and made my way toward the back row, stopping beside the elf—and the supposedly empty seat.
"Hi there," I said lightly. "I'm Benjamin Carter. And you are?"
The elf looked up, fingers spreading apart as she peered at me through them.
"W-Winky, sir," she said.
Internally, I fist-pumped.
Yes! Winky. Crouch's elf.
Which meant the invisible lump of bad decisions next to her could only be one person.
Still, confirmation never hurt.
"Nice to meet you, Winky," I said. "Here to watch the match?"
She shook her head miserably and darted a glance at the seat beside her.
"No, sir. Master sent Winky to save him a seat. He is very busy."
Bingo.
Behind my back, my hand moved slightly. With a thought, I drew something from my storage ring—a matte-black drone no bigger than a small ant. It dropped soundlessly onto the tip of my finger, then scurried down the back of my trousers and vanished, its surface bending light as it turned invisible.
I kept my attention on Winky.
"No offence," I said, "but you look pretty uncomfortable. Everything alright?"
"Winky is fine, sir," she said quickly. "Winky just does not like heights."
She glanced toward the edge of the box and gulped.
"But Master sends Winky, and Winky comes. Winky is a good house-elf."
"I have no doubt about that," I said sincerely.
The drone crossed the short stretch of floor between us. Through the subtle overlay of my glasses, I spotted a narrow gap between the hem of the Invisibility Cloak and the ground and guided it through.
Up a shoe.
Along a trouser seam.
If Crouch Jr felt anything at all, he didn't react. Crouch Sr's Imperius held him tight.
I smiled gently at Winky.
"If sitting near the edge bothers you, you're welcome to sit with my friends in the middle of the row."
She shook her head at once.
"Thank you, sir, but Winky wishes to stay where she is."
"Very well."
The drone reached the back of Crouch Jr's hand.
For a fraction of a second, it stayed there—precisely over the nerve cluster.
Then it released the payload.
No needle. No sting.
Just a colourless, odourless, skin-absorbent compound spreading silently across the back of his hand, seeping through the pores and into his bloodstream. Lethal—but dormant. Waiting for a signal only I could give.
The drone then climbed up, settling just behind Crouch Jr's shoulder, feeding me a clear, uninterrupted visual.
I straightened.
"Enjoy the match, Winky," I said. "I'll let you be."
She nodded faintly, already hiding her face in her hands again.
I turned and walked away, leaving the house-elf and the soon-to-be-dead Death Eater behind.
The idea for a manually activated poison had come to me after meeting Agent Galla—
Saul Croaker.
I could expose Crouch Jr right now. Drag both Crouches into the light. Send them straight to Azkaban.
But that kind of spectacle would ripple outward. It might make the others cautious. Restrained.
And I didn't want that.
I wanted the Death Eaters confident. Reckless. Loud.
So Crouch Jr would die quietly.
And if everything went according to plan, the rest—would die spectacularly.
As I rejoined the group, Hermione glanced toward the back row, where Winky sat trembling.
"What was that about?" she asked.
I shrugged.
"Just making friends."
---
Over the next half hour, the VIP box slowly filled up.
Important-looking wizards arrived in small clusters, some clearly British, others unmistakably foreign by accent, dress, or sheer self-importance. Dad and Lord Greengrass moved easily among them, shaking hands, exchanging pleasantries, the kind of practiced diplomacy that came from years of dealing with people who expected respect as a given.
Then Cornelius Fudge arrived.
He entered with a flourish, accompanied by another wizard dressed in immaculate black velvet robes trimmed with gold. Fudge worked the room immediately—shaking hands with Dad, Lord Greengrass, Sirius, Harry, and Frank Longbottom. He paused to ask after Alice and Frank Longbottom's health, his tone earnest enough to sound almost genuine.
Then he turned to me.
"Evening, Benjamin," he said cheerfully, shaking my hand.
He gestured toward the man beside him.
"Allow me to introduce you to Mr Oblansk—Obalonsk—Mr—well, he's the Bulgarian Minister of Magic, and he can't understand a word I'm saying anyway, so never mind."
I raised an eyebrow, amused.
Fudge looked back at me.
"Your flying cameras ready for the evening?"
"Ready and waiting for your signal, Minister," I said smoothly.
That pleased him. He nodded several times.
"Good. Very good."
"Thank you for arranging the tickets for me and my friends, by the way," I added. "Though I had no idea you'd be putting us in the VIP box."
Fudge chuckled.
"Think nothing of it, Benjamin. I was rather glad you asked—gave me an excuse, you see." He cast a fleeting, irritated glance toward the Bulgarian minister. "These Bulgarian blighters have been trying to cadge all the best places."
"I would hardly describe asking for five seats as 'trying to cadge all the best places,'" said the Bulgarian minister calmly, in a thick but perfectly clear accent.
Fudge froze.
"You can speak English?!" he demanded, sounding outraged. "And you've been letting me mime everything all day?!"
The Bulgarian minister shrugged.
"Well. It was very funny."
He then turned to me and extended his hand.
"I am Aleksandar Oblansk. And you, sir, need no introduction. It is an honour to meet an outstanding inventor such as yourself, Mr Carter."
I shook his hand.
"You're too kind, Minister."
"Not at all," he replied.
He pulled a Wiphone from inside his robes and held it up.
"I purchased this from your store yesterday. Ingenious device. My people tell me our top researchers are still theorising about some of the charms involved. Remarkable work."
He leaned in slightly.
"I was hoping to acquire a few more for our Ministry personnel. Perhaps we could speak after the match?"
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the Malfoys enter the box—Lucius, Draco, and a tall, elegant blonde woman I assumed was Narcissa. Lucius scanned the room, spotted me standing with Fudge and Minister Oblansk, and fixed me with a look of pure, undiluted loathing before guiding his family to three still-empty seats in the third row.
I smiled inwardly.
Turning back to Oblansk, I said,
"Absolutely. Why don't we meet tomorrow morning at the store—assuming the match doesn't run that long."
He laughed.
"Sounds good to me."
At that moment, Ludo Bagman burst into the box like an overexcited cannonball.
"Everyone ready?" he boomed, face shining. "Minister—ready to go?"
"Let's get on with it," said Fudge, still looking very disgruntled at having spent an entire day communicating in sign language for nothing.
Everyone took their seats.
Ludo raised his wand, pointed it at his throat, and said, "Sonorus!"
His voice exploded outward, rolling over the stadium and echoing into every corner of the stands.
"Ladies and gentlemen… welcome! Welcome to the final of the four hundred and twenty-second Quidditch World Cup!"
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
If you like the story, don't forget to leave a couple of stones on your way out 😊😉😊