Mastermind

The celebratory atmosphere of the Quidditch World Cup was still alive as thousands of fans spilled out of the stadium, talking animatedly about the match. Irish supporters were singing victory songs for their Chasers, while Bulgarian fans proudly chanted Krum’s name. Fireworks lit up the night sky, and vendors hurried to sell last-minute souvenirs.

    Harry, Ron, and Hermione were weaving their way through the bustling crowd toward the campsite when a deafening explosion ripped through the air. The ground trembled beneath their feet, and for a moment, the cheers of the crowd were drowned out by screams.

    “What was that?” Harry asked, instinctively reaching for his wand.

    Before anyone could answer, another blast echoed through the air, and bright flashes of light illuminated the sky—not fireworks, but spells. Above the crowd, figures in black robes and white masks materialized, their wands raised as they marched forward.

    “Death Eaters,” Hermione whispered, her voice trembling. Her face had gone pale, and her hand tightened around her wand.

    The crowd descended into chaos. Families screamed as they grabbed their children, tents were overturned, and people pushed and shoved in their desperation to escape. The Death Eaters, laughing cruelly, began levitating and tormenting a group of Muggles who had been working at the campsite. The helpless Muggles were hoisted into the air, their limbs flailing as the masked figures toyed with them like puppets. Another group torched tents, setting everything ablaze in their way.

    “This way!” Harry shouted, grabbing Ron’s arm as the three of them ducked into the trees at the edge of the campsite. Hermione followed close behind, her wand gripped tightly in her hand.

    “What do we do?” Ron panted, his face flushed with fear and adrenaline. “We can’t just—just leave people out there!”

    “There’s nothing we can do!” Hermione said, her voice urgent but firm. “It’s too dangerous. We’re just children—they’ll kill us!”

    Harry clenched his fists, his eyes darting toward the chaos. He could see flashes of spells between the tents and hear the cackling laughter of the Death Eaters. He hated feeling powerless, but Hermione was right—they were no match for trained wizards, especially ones so ruthless.

    “Come on,” Hermione urged, tugging at his sleeve. “We need to find your dad, Ron. The Aurors will be here soon—they’ll stop this.”

    The trio moved quickly but carefully through the shadows, trying to avoid the roving groups of Death Eaters. The screams and shouts grew louder, and the acrid smell of smoke filled the air as tents caught fire. Harry’s scar prickled faintly, and he fought the urge to scan the ground for death-eater terrorists. The sight of them filled him with a deep, gnawing unease.

    As they rounded a corner, they nearly collided with a group of wizards running in the opposite direction. One of them was Mr. Weasley, his face grim and determined.

    “Dad!” Ron called out, relief flooding his voice.

    “Thank Merlin!” Mr. Weasley said, pulling them into a quick, tight hug. “Are you all right? Where’s Ginny? And the twins?”

    “They’re back at the tent,” Ron said. “We were coming to find you.”

    Mr. Weasley nodded quickly. “Good. Go back to the tent and stay there. Don’t go wandering off—do you understand me? The Ministry is handling it, but it’s dangerous out here.”

    “What about you?” Harry asked, frowning. “You’re not going back?”

    “I’ve got to help,” Mr. Weasley said his tone firm. “People are in trouble. Now go!”

    The screams and chaos in the campsite were growing louder as Harry, Ron, and Hermione hurried back toward the Weasley tent. The acrid stench of smoke filled the air, and the glow of fires burning in the distance lit up the terrified faces of fleeing witches and wizards. Hermione’s heart pounded in her chest, her hand gripping her wand tightly. She couldn’t shake the sickening image of people getting attached; she swore she saw someone get killed by a killing curse as they ran.

    As they rounded a corner, the crack of a nearby curse startled them. A group of Death Eaters had appeared on the far side of the clearing; their masked faces twisted toward them. One of them raised his wand, pointing it directly at Harry.

    “Harry, watch out!” Hermione screamed, stepping in front of him just as a Stunner shot through the air, its red light streaking toward them. Without hesitation, she cast a Shield Charm, deflecting the spell. But as the hex ricocheted, another Death Eater fired a curse in quick succession. This one hit Hermione squarely in the side, sending her flying backward with a cry of pain.

    “Hermione!” Harry yelled, his voice breaking as he dove toward her. Ron was already at her side, his face pale as he helped her sit up.

    “I’m okay,” Hermione groaned, though her face was pale and her hand pressed against her ribs where the curse had struck. “Just—just get us out of here!”

    Harry’s anger flared as he turned toward the advancing Death Eaters, his wand raised. “Expelliarmus!” he shouted, sending a bolt of red light toward one of the masked figures. The spell struck its target, and the Death Eater crumpled to the ground. But there were more of them, and they were closing in fast. Harry held onto Hermione as they navigated out of the crowd; somebody knocked Harry’s wand out of his hand, and he stopped to search for his wand, but with the masses running around and bumping into them, he decided to keep going.

    “We have to go!” Ron shouted, his voice frantic. He grabbed Harry’s arm and pulled him back toward the trees. “We can’t fight them—there’s too many!”

    Harry hesitated, his wand still raised, but Hermione’s pained expression snapped him out of it. He turned and followed Ron, helping Hermione to her feet. She stumbled but kept moving, her determination stronger than the pain.

    They ran as fast as they could, ducking behind tents and through the forest, the shouts and laughter of the Death Eaters echoing behind them. Hermione’s breathing was labored, and Harry could see blood staining her robes where the curse had hit her. His chest tightened with worry, but he forced himself to focus on getting them to safety. Going back to the tent was not an option anymore.

    After what felt like an eternity, they reached the edge of the campsite. The chaos was still raging behind them, but the Death Eaters seemed to have lost interest in pursuing them. Harry, Ron, and Hermione collapsed onto the grass, gasping for breath.

    A sickening green light flickered among the curses being cast, and the Dark Mark—the skull and serpent—suddenly blazed in the sky, glowing an ominous, sickly green.

    “The Dark Mark,” Hermione gasped as her eyes widened in shock. She slipped from Harry’s shoulder and fell on her side on the ground.

    “Fucking hell,” Ron muttered as he broke his gaze away from the sky and scanned their surrounding, shoving people out of their way.

    “Hermione, let me see,” Harry said urgently, kneeling beside her. Hermione shook her head, her face tight with pain.

    “I’m fine, Harry,” she said weakly. “It’s just—just a curse. I’ll be all right.”

    “You’re not fine!” Ron snapped, his voice uncharacteristically sharp. “You saved Harry and got blasted for it! We need to get you help.”

    “I’ll be fine,” Hermione repeated, but her voice was softer now, and she didn’t protest as Harry tore a piece of his sleeve to press against the wound on her side.

    Suddenly, a sharp pop broke the tense moment, and Mr. Weasley apparated beside them, his face etched with worry. “There you are!” he exclaimed, relief flooding his features. “Thank Merlin, you’re all right. I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”

    “Dad,” Ron said quickly, pointing to Hermione. “She’s hurt, she needs help.”

    Mr. Weasley’s expression darkened. “Right, no time to waste. Everyone grab the hat; it’s a Portkey—we’re going straight to the Burrow.”

    “But the others—” Harry began, but Mr. Weasley cut him off.

    “Everyone else is safe. Bill, Charlie, and Percy are helping with the Ministry’s response. We need to get you three out of here now.”

    Stupefy!

    A chorus of voices banded together and had their wands directed toward them as they crouched on the ground. Multiple red lights flashed from every direction and met at the center, creating a large flash that blinded them.

    “Stop!” Yelled Arthur Weasley as he raised his wand and braced himself for any oncoming spells.

    Aurors and Ministry officials flocked to where they were standing, realized who it was that had spoken they dropped their wands. Multiple witches and wizards remained gathered together to where the voices were heard.

    “Who saw what happened? Who conjured The Mark? Which one of you?” Bartemius Crouch accusingly pointed his wand to Arthur’s face and then to Hermione.”

    Hermione flicked his wand out of her face as she held onto Harry steady, with blood dripping on her side. “This is absurd. We’re Hogwarts students.” she wince in pain.” His eyes from her to Harry, then broke away to look at the crowd; the Aurors and ministry officials scanned around them as survivors came closer in the circle to gather.

    “There! An elf with a WAND!” A witch shrieked in horror. Everyone had their heads snapped in the direction of the woman who pointed at a figure in a tattered state, an elf who adorned an old pillowcase, torn at places, stained, and beyond repair.

    “Crouch, isn’t that your house elf?” Amos Diggory questioned as he made eye contact with said owner.

    “Winky!” Crouch yelled at the poor creature.

    The makeshift courtroom crackled with unease, the tension as thick as smoke. The wizards and witches gathered under the lantern-lit sky shifted uncomfortably, their eyes flicking between Bartemius Crouch, stern and statuesque, and Winky, a trembling figure of misery dwarfed by the shadows cast by the tall trees.

    Harry, Ron, and Hermione stood at the edges of the crowd, their hearts sinking as Amos Diggory held Harry’s wand aloft like a damning piece of evidence. Winky stood in the center of the gathering, visibly shaking, her oversized eyes brimming with tears that streaked down her cheeks.

    Hermione knitted her brows in concentration as she stared at the wand in Mr. Diggory’s hand. “Harry, isn’t that…?” she got cut off with a sharp hiss as Harry poked her side.

    Crouch’s voice, sharp and unyielding, rang out once more, demanding an explanation. “The wand was found with you, elf. Explain yourself. Why were you there?”

    Winky clasped her hands together as though begging for mercy, her small body almost crumpling under the weight of his scrutiny. “Winky is not doing anything bad, sir,” she whimpered. “Winky is only obeying Master’s orders. Winky is being good, sir!”

    “Master’s orders?” Amos Diggory frowned, glancing at Crouch. “What orders, exactly?”

    Crouch’s face betrayed no emotion as he responded. “I told the elf to stay in the Top Box. Clearly, she disobeyed.”

    “No, Master, no!” Winky cried, her voice cracking with desperation. “Winky was staying, Winky was! But the noise—Winky was scared, sir. Winky was only left to hide, as Master would wish! Winky is a good elf!”

    The crowd shifted uneasily. A few wizards exchanged murmurs, and one woman whispered loudly, “What sort of master lets a house-elf roam so close to the Dark Mark?”

    Hermione’s hands curled into fists at her sides. “This is wrong,” she whispered fiercely. “She’s terrified—look at her! She’s not responsible for that mark; she can’t be! She must have picked it up to return it.” Harry just nodded as he watched the scene before him.

    Ron nudged her arm, glancing nervously at Crouch. “Careful, Hermione,” he muttered. “You don’t want him coming after you too.”

    But Hermione wouldn’t be silenced. “It’s injustice!” she hissed, her voice trembling with fury and pain as she clutched her side.

    Amos Diggory held up a hand for silence. “All the same, Crouch, the wand does seem to suggest—”

    Crouch’s icy glare cut him off. “Perform the spell.”

    Amos hesitated, clearly uncomfortable, but followed orders. He laid Harry’s wand on the ground, muttering, “Prior Incantato.” A spectral green skull with a snake curling from its mouth erupted from the wand’s tip, twisting and writhing in the air above the crowd. Gasps rippled through the assembly, and several wizards stumbled back as though the symbol itself carried a dark magic that could reach them.

    “Merlin’s beard,” someone whispered.

    “Proof enough,” Crouch intoned, his voice steely. He turned back to Winky, who had collapsed to her knees, trembling so hard she could barely hold herself upright. “You have disgraced my house. Whatever your intentions, your actions have brought shame upon my name.”

    “Master, please!” Winky wailed, her voice breaking as she clutched at her tea towel, the emblem of her servitude. “Winky is loyal! Winky is serving you well! Winky did not mean—”

    “Enough,” Crouch interrupted coldly. “Your failure to carry out your duties is unacceptable. You are dismissed.”

    The air seemed to freeze around them. Winky’s hands fell limply to her sides, her tea towel slipping from her fingers as she stared up at him in stunned disbelief. “Dismissed?” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “No, Master… Winky does not want to be free… Winky only wants to serve!”

    “You no longer serve me,” Crouch said, his tone as hard as iron. “Leave.”

    The crowd watched in silence as Winky crumpled completely, her wails echoing through the clearing. Even some of the wizards who had been watching with judgment in their eyes now looked away, their expressions shifting to discomfort.

    Hermione pushed forward, unable to remain still any longer. “You can’t do this!” she cried, her voice trembling with outrage. “She didn’t do anything wrong! You’re punishing her for something she couldn’t even have done!”

    Crouch turned his cold gaze on Hermione. “This is not your concern, Miss Granger. The matter is closed.”

    “No, it’s not!” Hermione snapped, her cheeks flushed with anger. “You’re just taking the easy way out! You’re blaming her to save yourself from embarrassment!”

    “Enough, Hermione!” Ron hissed, grabbing her arm and pulling her back. “You’re going to get us in trouble!”

    “She’s right,” Harry said quietly, his gaze locked on Winky’s crumpled form. “This isn’t fair.”

    Crouch ignored them all, his face a mask of rigid authority. He turned on his heel and walked away, his movements brisk and mechanical, as though he felt nothing for the creature he had just condemned.

    Amos Diggory cleared his throat awkwardly. “Well, that seems to conclude matters…” He glanced at the devastated elf, then back at Harry and the others. “Winky, you will come with me; I know just where to put you.” He grabbed the elf by the back of her tattered dress and apparated away.

    Hermione glanced back over her shoulder, her mind heavy with the image of Crouch’s retreating figure and the lingering green glow of the Dark Mark above the trees. A seeing pain stabbed her side as she yelped in pain. For a moment, she forgot about it as she was angry with the mistreatment of Winky. Now, that moment has been overtaken by pain.

                                                                                                                      ***

“No time to dally; grab the hat.” Arthur Weasley ushered quickly. With no time to argue, Harry, Ron, and Hermione grabbed hold of the hat that Mr. Weasley held out for them. The world spun around them as the familiar sensation overtook them. When they landed, slightly off-balance, they were standing in the garden of the Burrow. The warm glow of the house’s windows was a sharp contrast to the horror they’d just escaped.

    “Inside, now,” Mr. Weasley said firmly, guiding them toward the house. Molly Weasley was already at the door, her face pale and stricken.

    “What happened? Are they all right?” she demanded as they stepped inside.

    “They’re safe,” Mr. Weasley assured her, though his voice was tense. “Hermione’s hurt—she needs tending to.”

    Molly hurried over, her motherly instincts kicking in immediately. “Oh, you poor dear,” she said, guiding Hermione to a chair. “Sit down. Let me see.”

    As Molly evaluated her wound, her eyes widened. Her wound was severe and out of her area of motherly expertise, but she did manage to stop the bleeding briefly with Dittany. “Hermione dear, we need to get you to a proper healer. I managed to stop the bleeding, but the wound will open up again; you must have been hit by a dark spell,” she said worriedly. “Perhaps Dumbledore or Severus will know what to do.”

    “Thank you, Molly; I think I can manage until we get back to Hogwarts.” She gave her a faint smile.

    “Oh no, that won’t do; Minerva will have our heads. We’ll hear from Albus soon enough and get you sorted.” Molly assured her.

    Harry sank into a chair, his head in his hands. The events of the night played over and over in his mind: the Death Eaters, the Dark Mark, and Hermione’s bravery. He felt a surge of guilt as he remembered her stepping in front of him.

    “Hermione, you shouldn’t have—” he began, but she cut him off, her voice gentle but firm.

    “I wasn’t going to let you get hit, Harry,” she said simply. “You’d have done the same for me.”

    Harry couldn’t argue with that, but the weight of the night still pressed heavily on him. He looked up at Ron, who was pacing the room, his fists clenched.

    “This is bad, isn’t it?” Ron said quietly. “The Dark Mark… It’s not just some random attack, is it? They’re death-eaters. They’re back.”

    Harry nodded, his jaw tightening. “Yeah. They’re back, But Voldemort’s not back. At least not yet”

    “How do you know?”

    “He doesn’t,” Hermione grunted as she held the dressed wound on her side. “Maybe it’s just a warning, an attack to scare people.” She hoped they would buy into her bullshit but didn’t think it’ll work.

    The room fell into a heavy silence, the weight of what they’d witnessed settling over them like a dark cloud. The night had been a stark reminder that the Wizarding world was far from safe, and the shadow of Voldemort’s followers was looming once more.