Chapter 621: Shadows Emerging
Wizards were already prone to eccentric fashion—robes paired with pointed hats,
cloaks thrown over silk shirts, and dragon-hide boots were common sights. In
truth, wizarding attire had largely remained isolated from Muggle trends,
showing little evolution since the International Statute of Secrecy was
established in the 17th century.
Their attachment to archaic styles could be viewed as an obsession with
tradition or perhaps a quiet sense of cultural pride. But no matter how outdated
the average wizard's wardrobe was, none of them typically wore heavy,
face-obscuring hoods—especially not when such figures were distributed with
surgical precision across the far stands.
Sean sat in the Top Box, his gaze fixed on those dark silhouettes. He began to
methodically calculate who they might be.
Barty Junior? Is he down there?
Bellatrix Lestrange, Antonin Dolohov, Fenrir Greyback, Augustus Rookwood...
How many of the Azkaban escapees had been mobilized for this strike? Sean
couldn't be certain of the names, but he was certain of the outcome. Whoever
they were, he would ensure they returned to a cell—or to the mists of the Veil.
One by one.
"TROY SCORES!"
Ludo Bagman's magically amplified voice drew everyone's attention back to the
pitch. The stadium vibrated with a roar so loud it felt like a minor earthquake.
"TEN TO ZERO! IRELAND LEADS!"
"That's the way to do it!"
Grandpa Marcus was practically standing on his chair, his glowing green rosette
screaming the names of the chasers: "TROY! MULLET! MORAN!"
"Splendid!" Minerva added. She was maintaining a shred more dignity than her
relative, but the fanatical light in her eyes was unmistakable.
Sean watched her enjoying this rare moment of unfettered joy and cast another
glance at the hooded figures. He wanted to deal with them quickly. He wouldn't
allow them to ruin the Professor's good mood.
Within ten minutes, Ireland had secured two more goals, bringing the score
to 30-0. A green wave of cheers rolled through the stands. Bulgaria managed to
claw back a single goal, but Ireland's offensive was relentless, pushing the
lead to 130-10.
From that point on, the match descended into a level of brutality Sean had never
witnessed.
The Beaters on both sides were showing zero mercy. Volkov and Vulkanov didn't
seem to care whether their bats hit the Bludger or a human being; they swung
with homicidal intent. Dimitrov performed a high-speed dive, slamming into Moran
and nearly knocking her from her Firebolt.
"FOUL!" the Irish supporters screamed as one, a massive surge of green rising
from the benches.
"FOUL!" Bagman's voice echoed. "Dimitrov fouls Moran—intentional collision!
There will be a penalty—yes, the referee has blown the whistle!"
In the stands, the Leprechauns took to the air, forming themselves into a giant,
shimmering hand that directed a very rude gesture toward the Veela section.
The Veela snapped.
They didn't dance; they took flight, soaring across the pitch and launching
handfuls of what looked like magical fire at the Leprechauns. Through his
Omnioculars, Sean saw their transformation. They were no longer beautiful. Their
faces elongated into sharp, beaked bird-heads, and scaly, powerful wings erupted
from their shoulders.
"There you have it, children," Mr. Weasley's voice rose above the din. "Never
judge purely by the surface!"
Ministry officials swarmed onto the pitch, attempting to separate the mascots,
but with little success. The brawl on the ground was becoming as intense as the
match in the sky.
"Levski—Dimitrov—Moran—Troy—Mullet—Ivanova—Moran again—MORAN SCORES!"
Bagman was doing his best to provide commentary, but his voice was drowning in a
sea of Veela shrieks, the bangs of Ministry wands, and the rhythmic chanting of
the Bulgarians. It was total chaos.
Yet, looking at the madness, Sean felt a strange sense of clarity. Perhaps this
was the true nature of wizards. Beneath the thin veneer of civilization lay a
core of "barbaric" confidence and absolute freedom.
The farce finally ended when Viktor Krum, the Bulgarian Seeker, snatched the
Golden Snitch. Despite the catch, Bulgaria remained ten points behind.
The moment the result was finalized, Marcus and Minerva stood up together,
cheering for the Irish victory. The referee, meanwhile, was ushered off the
field, looking battered and being actively scratched by a lingering Veela.
"Sean! Did you see that? Krum, he—"
Hermione turned around, her face flushed with excitement. She scanned the box,
but Sean was gone. Justin had vanished as well.
"Where did they go?" she muttered, her curiosity momentarily eclipsed as the
winning team entered the box to receive the cup.
The Edge of the Forest.
"Let them come. Keep them in the outer perimeter. Do not engage unless
necessary; we will handle the core."
"I can't authorize that, Sirius."
"You must. Their combat proficiency isn't high enough to handle a variable
situation, and I won't have them interfering with the Master's line of fire."
"Do you have any idea what you're asking?!"
"Do you have any idea who we're up against?! When the time comes, we fight
together. But until then, follow the plan. Do not break the formation."
Sirius Black cut the connection on his mirror and glanced at the map display.
Several glowing red dots were currently moving through the campsite markers.
Suddenly, the branches of the thicket before him began to twist and warp. A
tall, slender figure emerged from the shadows of the timber.
"Master Green."
"Good evening, Mr. Black," Sean said. He paused, then added, "I trust you
enjoyed the match?"
"Ha! It was... well..." Sirius grinned, then caught himself. "They're just
ahead. They haven't spotted us yet. They're moving toward the Muggle sector. We
should strike now—"
Sean nodded.
He raised his arm. The trees blocking their view began to bend with an audible
groan of wood. Under Sirius's startled gaze, the "Death Eaters" were revealed.
A group of masked, hooded wizards was advancing on a cluster of Muggles. Sean
recognized Mr. Payne, the site manager, among them.
High above the hooded wizards, a figure was suspended in mid-air, twitching and
jerking into grotesque shapes. It looked as though the masked wizards were
puppeteers, and the human above was a marionette controlled by invisible threads
of magic emanating from their wands.
The sound of mocking laughter and drunken jeers drifted across the clearing.
"Miserable cowards," Sirius growled, his hand tightening on his wand.