The Quidditch World Cup final was reaching a fever pitch.
The Irish team, with their seamless teamwork, was steadily widening the gap. The score difference was creeping up, hitting the critical 150-point mark.
Anyone familiar with Quidditch rules knew what this meant: if the gap grew any larger, even if Bulgaria's star Seeker, Viktor Krum, caught the Golden Snitch—worth 150 points—it wouldn't be enough to turn the tide for Bulgaria.
On the field, Ireland was dominating. Their Chaser, McKenna, deftly dodged the Bludgers launched by Bulgaria's Beaters, weaving through the air with the Quaffle tucked under his arm. Time and again, he used the speed of his top-of-the-line Firebolt broom to outmaneuver Bulgaria's Keeper, scoring with ease.
Bulgaria's brooms, mostly last year's models, couldn't keep up with Ireland's shiny new Firebolts. Whether pushing forward on offense or scrambling back on defense, Bulgaria was struggling.
Ireland's Beaters were in sync, anticipating Bulgaria's moves and smacking Bludgers into their opponents' half of the pitch, controlling the game from both ends. The score gap was only growing.
"Look! O'Connor scores again for Ireland!" Ludo Bagman's voice boomed across the stadium, amplified by a Sonorus charm, brimming with excitement.
"The gap's now a staggering 160 points! Even if Krum catches the Snitch right this second, Bulgaria would lose by 10 points!"
The stands erupted in two very different reactions. Irish fans waved their green flags, cheering wildly, some tossing their hats into the air. Bulgarian supporters let out groans of disappointment, though many still waved red scarves, rallying behind their Seeker.
In the top box, Lucius Malfoy sat poised in his chair, back straight, hands resting lightly on the armrests. Despite the roaring crowd, he maintained his aristocratic calm, a silver teacup steaming gently in front of him.
Suddenly, a breeze slipped through the box's window, fluttering the edge of a nearly invisible fabric on the empty chair beside him. The material was so thin it was barely noticeable, like a dragonfly's wing. But as the wind tugged, it revealed a pair of small, black leather shoes, slightly dusty, and below them, pale, skinny legs tied with a faded strip of cloth— unmistakably a house-elf's.
Lucius's eyes narrowed, his grip tightening on the armrest. In a flash, he leaned over and gently pressed the corner of the Invisibility Cloak back into place, his movements swift as a whisper. He glanced around—Hermione was glued to the match, Harry and Ron were high-fiving over Ireland's latest goal. No one had noticed. He exhaled quietly, wiping a bead of sweat from his brow with his sleeve, a flicker of panic in his eyes.
Just then, Bagman's voice rang out again.
"Look! Krum's changed direction—he's spotted the Snitch!"
All eyes snapped to the sky. Krum, hunched low on his Silver Arrow broom, robes snapping in the wind, dove like a black bolt of lightning. Ireland's Seeker, Lynch, reacted instantly, tailing him closely, their brooms leaving streaks in the air. But Lynch was a half-step too slow, unable to close the gap.
"Krum's reaching out—he's got it! He's caught the Golden Snitch!" Bagman's voice was frantic.
"The match is over! Final score locked in—Ireland wins by a 160-point lead!"
The stadium exploded in celebration. Irish fans' cheers threatened to shake the stands apart, while even some Bulgarian supporters stood to applaud Krum's incredible effort.
Under the cover of the roaring crowd, Lucius Malfoy rose, smoothing his wind-ruffled robes. He shot a glance at Draco, who scowled, clearly unhappy with the result, but followed his father as they slipped out of the box.
As they passed Harry, Draco deliberately bumped Ron's arm.
"Look, the Malfoys are leaving," Harry noted, watching them disappear through the doorway.
"Good riddance," Ron muttered, not even glancing back. Clutching his Irish team scarf, eyes gleaming, he grabbed Harry's arm. "C'mon, let's get to the exit! Maybe we can get Ireland's autographs—or even Krum's! I want his blue-and-silver jersey, the one from Quidditch Weekly!"
Hermione rolled her eyes but hurried after them, leaving only a few stragglers in the box, still buzzing about the match. The faint trace of that invisible presence beside Lucius was long forgotten in the excitement.
---
The cheers of the Quidditch World Cup final faded as wizards left the stadium in groups, heading toward their campsite tents. Some were still hyped, reenacting Krum's Snitch catch, waving team flags. Others pushed carts piled with snacks and souvenirs, laughing with friends, the camp buzzing with post-match energy.
But the calm didn't last. A sharp scream pierced the air from the nearby woods, shattering the festive mood.
Wizards froze, turning toward the sound. People were sprinting out of the trees, faces pale, as if fleeing something terrifying. In the distance, a strange green glow flickered in the forest, pulsing faintly, accompanied by sharp pops like Muggle gunfire. Each sound tightened the air with tension.
Then came a mix of noises from the woods—mocking laughter, cruel cackles, and drunken shouts, growing louder as they moved toward the camp's center.
A blinding green light flared, illuminating tents and trees.
In its glow, the source became clear: a group of wizards marched slowly down the path, exuding menace. They wore dark hoods pulled low, black masks covering their faces, leaving only cold, glinting eyes visible. Their wands were raised, tips glowing faintly green in a deliberate show of power.
Above them, four figures floated in the air, their bodies twisted into unnatural shapes—arms bent backward, legs curled against chests, like puppets on invisible strings. The masked wizards below controlled them, wands tethered to the figures with shimmering threads.
Two of the floating figures were smaller, clearly children.
As more wizards poured out of their tents, some joined the grim parade, while others stood by, laughing cruelly and pointing at the floating bodies. The crowd swelled, trampling tents, snapping poles, and scattering belongings, but no one cared.
The four figures were Muggles who'd been camping near the World Cup, unlucky enough to cross paths with these dark wizards. Now lifeless, their stiff bodies were props in a terrifying display, making every wizard nearby shudder.
The colorful magical lanterns that had lit the paths to the stadium were dark now, leaving the camp in shadow, lit only by the eerie green glow of the wizards' wands.
In the woods, dark shapes stumbled through the trees—some searching for lost loved ones, others fleeing the chaos. Children's cries mixed with adults' anxious shouts, echoing through the cold night, turning the once-lively camp into a nightmare.
---
At the camp's edge, a house-elf struggled with a small suitcase, her steps unsteady. She wore a tattered gray dress, her ears drooping, hands trembling as she gripped the suitcase handle.
"Young Master Crouch, we have to hurry," she whimpered, voice thick with fear. It was Winky, glancing back nervously. "Master set the carriage location ages ago. If we're late, he'll scold us—maybe even punish us…"
"No, Winky, you listen to me," a sharp male voice cut in, firm and commanding.
A figure stepped from the shadow of a tent, pulling off a nearly invisible Invisibility Cloak. His pale face emerged, clutching a worn wand of unknown origin.
He looked up at the floating Muggle bodies, a glint of excitement in his eyes. His lips curled into a slight smile, and he licked them unconsciously, his gaze cold and cruel.
Ignoring Winky's pleas, he stood transfixed by the scene, as if mesmerized. His excitement twisted into something manic. Raising the unfamiliar wand with a trembling hand, he pointed it at the sky and rasped, "Morsmordre!"
As the spell took effect, he swiftly draped the Invisibility Cloak over himself, leaving only half his pale face visible. He shoved the wand into Winky's trembling hands.
"Listen," he hissed, his voice icy and threatening. "You say nothing about what you saw today—not to anyone, not even Father. If you breathe a word about me, the Crouch family will cast you out, and you'll be a homeless elf!"
Winky shook harder, clutching the still-warm wand, her head bowed, ears drooping. She mumbled a faint agreement, too scared to look up.
As he raised his hand to Disapparate, Winky mustered her courage and stepped forward, reaching for his cloak, her voice breaking. "Young Master, please, you can't! If you leave, Master will be heartbroken—he'll be furious. Let's go back, apologize…"
But Barty Crouch Jr. didn't care about Winky or his father. He didn't even glance at her. A faint blue glow flickered at his fingertips, and his form blurred, vanishing with a faint magical ripple.
Winky was left alone, tears streaming down her face.
At that moment, a blinding green light flared in the sky. A massive skull formed, its outlines made of countless shimmering green stars, chillingly clear. A giant serpent, also green, slithered from the skull's mouth, twisting like a grotesque tongue, stark against the night sky.
The skull and snake rose higher, wreathed in green mist that spread as it climbed, glowing brighter. Against the dark sky, it looked like a terrifying constellation hanging over the camp, visible from every corner.
Screams erupted from the woods, one after another, as panic spread.