Twisted Fascination

Clutching our purchases, Mr. Weasley in the lead, we all hurried into the wood, following the lantern-lit trail. We could hear the sounds of thousands of people moving around them, shouts and laughter, snatches of singing. The atmosphere of feverish excitement was highly contagious for the others; none of them stopped grinning. We walked for twenty minutes, the others talking loudly and joking around, until, at last, we emerged on the other side and found ourselves in the shadow of a gigantic stadium. Though we could only see a fraction of the immense gold walls surrounding the field, we could tell that ten cathedrals could fit comfortably inside it.

“Seats a hundred thousand,” Mr. Weasley said, clearly spotting the awestruck look on Harry’s face. “Ministry task force of five hundred have been working on it all year. Muggle Repelling Charms on every inch of it. Every time muggles have gotten anywhere near here all year, they've suddenly remembered urgent appointments and had to dash away again… bless them,” he added fondly, leading the way toward the nearest entrance, which was already surrounded by a swarm of shouting witches and wizards.

“Prime seats!” A Ministry witch at the entrance exclaimed when she checked our tickets. “Top Box! Straight upstairs, Arthur, and as high as you can go.”

The stairs into the stadium were carpeted in rich purple. We clambered upward with the rest of the crowd, which slowly filtered away through doors into the stands to our left and right. Our party kept climbing, and, at last, we reached the top of the staircase and found ourselves in a small box, set at the highest point of the stadium and situated exactly halfway between golden goalposts. About twenty-two purple-and-gilt chairs stood in two rows here, and Harry, Hermione, and I rolled in the front row seats with the Weasleys. We looked down upon a scene the likes of which seemed previously impossible to imagine.

A hundred thousand witches and wizards were taking their places in the seats, which rose in levels around the long oval field. Everything was suffused with a mysterious golden light, which seemed to come from the stadium itself. The field looked smooth as velvet from our lofty position. At either end of the field stood three goal hoops, fifty feet high; right opposite us, almost at my eye level, was a gigantic blackboard. Gold writing kept dashing across it as though an invisible giant’s hand were scrawling upon the blackboard and then wiping it off again.

Watching it with disinterest, I saw ads of various kinds cross the board; The Bluebottle: A Broom for All the Family - Safe, Reliable, and with Built-In Anti-Burglar Buzzer… Mrs. Skower’s All Purpose Magical Mess Remover: No Pain, No Stains! … Gladrags Wizardwear - London, Paris, Hogsmeade…

I easily looked away from the advertisements and towards the entrance of the box, where no one had yet arrived.

Harry, meanwhile, looked behind him and craned his neck to see the house-elf in the seat at the end of the row behind us. “Dobby?”

I immediately looked toward Harry with a raised eyebrow, not understanding how he could envision the crazed house-elf with one that was clearly meek and, quite frankly, terrified.

The tiny creature looked toward Harry with wide eyes. “Did sir just call me Dobby?” The elf squeaked curiously.

“Sorry,” Harry apologized, “I just thought you were someone I knew.”

“But I knows Dobby, too, sir!” The elf squeaked, shielding her face as though she was blinded by the light. “My name is Winky, sir - and you, sir-” She trailed off, her eyes widening to the size of saucers upon realizing who, exactly, my brother was. “You is surely Harry Potter!”

“Yeah, I am,” Harry agreed.

“But Dobby talks of you all the time, sir!” She said, lowering her hands and looking at my brother as though awestruck.

“How is he?” Harry asked, “How have the Malfoys been treating him?”

“Dobby belongs to the Malfoys?” I asked incredulously.

“He did,” Winky said hesitantly.

“Did? He was freed?” I inquired, causing the house elf to nod.

“He disobeyed Lord Malfoy, and he got punished badly,” Winky said in a nervous whisper.

“Oh, so he's free?” Harry asked, sounding glad for one reason or another, “How’s freedom suiting him?”

“Ah, sir,” Winky said, shaking her head, “Ah, sir, meaning no disrespect, sir, but I is not sure Dobby is well.”

“Why not?” Harry asked with a frown. “What's wrong with him?”

“Freedom is going to Dobby’s head, sir,” Winky said sadly, “Ideas above his station, sir. Can't get another position, sir.”

“I imagine not,” I said honestly, causing Harry to give me a side-eyed look. “He tried killing you how many times?”

“Those were accidents,” Harry replied right away.

I forced myself not to roll my eyes at him.

“Anyway, why can't Dobby get another position?” Harry asked curiously.

Winky lowered her voice by half an octave and whispered, “He is wanting paying for his work, sir.”

“Paying?” Harry repeated blankly, “Well - why shouldn't he be paid?”

Winky looked horrified at the mere idea and closed her fingers slightly so that her face was half-hidden once more. “House-elves is not paid, sir! No, no, no. I says to Dobby, I says, go find yourself a nice family and settle down, Dobby. He is getting up to all sorts of high jinks, sir, what is unbecoming of a house-elf. You goes racketing around like this, Dobby, I says, and next thing I hear you's up in front of the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, like some common goblin.”

“Well, it's about time he had a bit of fun,” Harry commented.

“House-elves is not supposed to to have fun, Harry Potter,” Winky said firmly, “House-elves does what they is told. I is not liking heights at all, Harry Potter-” She glanced briefly toward the edge of the box and gulped. “-But my master sends me to the Top Box and I comes, sir.”

“Why's he sent you up here if he knows you don't like heights?” Harry asked with a frown.

“Master - Master wants me to save him a seat, Harry Potter. He is very busy,” Winky explained, tilting her head toward the empty seats beside her. “Winky is wishing she is back in master’s tent, Harry Potter, but Winky does what she is told. Winky is a good house-elf.” She gave the edge of the box another frightened look and hid her eyes completely again.

Harry turned back to the others.

“So that's a house-elf?” Ron muttered, “Weird things, aren't they?”

“Dobby was weirder,” Harry argued fervently.

Ron pulled out his Omnioculars and started testing them, staring down into the crowd on the other side of the stadium. “Wild!” He exclaimed, twiddling the reply knob on the side. “I can make that old bloke down there pick his nose again… and again… and again-”

“That's a ten Galleon device, and you use it to watch someone pick their nose?” I asked rhetorically as I gave Ron a look of disgust.

“Oh, shove off,” Ron grumbled as he pulled the Omnioculars away from his eyes.

Hermione, meanwhile, was skimming eagerly through her velvet-covered tasseled program. “A display from the team mascots will precede the match.”

“Oh, that's always worth watching,” Mr. Weasley said with a grin, “National teams bring creatures from their native land, you know, to put on a bit of a show.”

The box filled gradually around us for the next half hour. Mr. Weasley kept shaking hands with people who were obviously very important wizards. Percy, meanwhile, jumped to his feet so often that he looked at though he were trying to sit on a hedgehog. When Cornelius Fudge, the Minister of Magic himself, arrived, Percy bowed so low, his glasses fell off his face and shattered. Highly embarrassed, he repaired them with his wand and thereafter remained in his seat, throwing jealous looks at Harry, whom Fudge had greeted like an old friend.

Fudge, who Harry had met before, shook Harry's hand in a fatherly fashion, asked how he was, and introduced him to the wizards on either side of him. “Harry Potter, you know,” he told the Bulgarian Minister loudly.

The Bulgarian Minister of Magic was wearing splendid robes of black velvet trimmed with gold. He feigned not knowing English as he looked at the Minister with confusion, but anyone with a brain could see the mirth in his eyes.

“Harry Potter…” Fudge tried again, “Oh come on now, you know who he is… the boy who survived You-Know-Who… you do know who he is-”

The Bulgarian wizard suddenly spotted Harry's scar and started speaking loudly and excitedly, pointing at it.

I barely bit back a snort, but an amused huff came out anyway. I quickly pulled my hand up to hide my smirk, but I saw the way Fudge frowned.

“It's not nice to laugh at the foreigners, Mr. Potter,” he said sternly.

“It's not them I'm laughing at,” I said with a small smirk.

“Then who-” Fudge cut himself off when he saw who entered the box next. “Ah, and here's Lucius!”

Harry, Hermione, and Ron shot around to look at the three who were silently edging along to the last three still-empty seats right behind Mr. Weasley and I.

“Malfoy,” I greeted politely, “How has your summer been?”

“It's been decent,” he answered before replying, “How has yours been?”

“Better than last year’s break,” I said honestly before flicking my eyes toward the woman who was watching our interaction very cautiously.

“This is my mother,” Malfoy introduced as he motioned to her.

“I know,” I said, “We met briefly before my first year at Wrigley’s Wizarding Supplies.”

The woman's eyes narrowed slightly. “You remember that small detail?”

“Of course,” I agreed, “Just as I remember that they went out of business with your tip.”

She immediately frowned. “Selling counterfeit supplies is no good.”

“That, I agree with,” I said with a nod, “However, I find that humanity is full of people who seek to take advantage of others.”

“That's very pessimistic of you,” she commented.

“I find it to be reality,” I said with a simple shrug before turning my gaze to the man with platinum hair. “Lord Malfoy,” I called, causing to man to stop sneering at Mr. Weasley, “I do hope you'll behave tonight. You wouldn't want to cause a scene in front of the Bulgarian Minister, I assume.”

Lord Malfoy glared venomously at me, to which I smiled back like the insolent brat that I was.

Lady Malfoy and Draco glanced between Lord Malfoy and I.

Before Lord Malfoy could open his mouth, I said in a charming voice, “I heard about Dobby.”

If the man could have struck me, he surely would have. Instead, his pale face turned slightly red, and he said through gritted teeth, “Did you now?”

“Oh, yes, charming little house-elf,” I chirped, “He introduced himself to me before my second year, told me something very interesting about a little black book.”

Lord Malfoy’s face went from a burning red to his usual pale color in an instant, though he quickly went paler. “Did he now?”

“Quite a boring read if I do say so myself,” I said simply.

“You read it?” Lucius asked incredulously.

“Read it, wrote in it, stabbed it…” I shrugged as it was an everyday occurrence to stab a horcrux.

He swallowed thickly as I looked at him with red eyes.

“I won't tolerate being tested by you again, Lucius,” I said in a soft, but stern tone.

“I-” He quickly cut himself off, and his anger returned. “Potter, I believe you need to learn respect for your elders.”

I chuckled, highly amused by his statement. “I suppose I should have realized that you were an elder. You do have white hair, after all. Do forgive me, Elder Malfoy.”

Draco’s lips quivered as his chest flinched a bit, and even Narcissa seemed amused.

Lucius wasn't having it at all, though. “My hair is platinum blonde, and you are to address me as Lord Malfoy.”

“Will you address me as Lord Potter once I become of age and take the Lordship?” I inquired as I raised an eyebrow.

The man scoffed. “As if you'll ever be able to earn the Lordship by the time you turn twenty.”

I frowned at the man, and the Dark Lord, who had evidently been listening in, took control and said, “Lucius, it would be wise to remember that you only received your Lordship when you were twenty-five.”

Lucius looked down at me in shock.

I looked him directly in the eyes and decided to force my magic over his mind quickly, just as a subtle warning.

The man gave the smallest of flinches before tensing up as if I had just hit him with the Petrification Jinx.

I gave a simple smile, my eyes turning back to their normal hazel hue as I reigned my magic back in.

“Dear, sit down,” Lady Malfoy muttered as she and Draco sat down.

Lucius did as he was told, though he did so as if he were some puppet with wooden joints.

I barely bit back a snicker as I watched Fudge realize the three Malfoys had taken their seats.

“Oh, yes. Allow me to introduce 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,” Fudge said dismissively.

I once again felt my lips curl up as I looked at the Bulgarian Minister of Magic with nothing short of amusement.

The man winked at me, clearly knowing that I knew his secret.

“Lucius here has just given a very generous contribution to St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries, you know,” Fudge praised even though he probably only did it for the tax right off, “He's here as my guest.”

“Brown-noser,” I muttered under my breath just soft enough for Lucius to hear.

Lucius shot me a quick glare before saying coolly, “It was nothing at all. If I have money, why not share it with the less fortunate?”

I nodded once. “That's why I donate to Hogwarts every year.”

“You - you donate to Hogwarts every year?” Fudge asked as he looked at me in surprise.

I smiled pleasantly. “Oh, I'm sure it's not nearly as much as Lord Malfoy donated to St. Mungo's. It's just what I can afford in order to make schooling easier for those at Hogwarts who are less fortunate. It really is what we who have money should be doing, yes?”

“Indeed,” Lucius agreed through slightly gritted teeth.

I looked at Lucius with more than a hint of smugness.

Before either of us could continue our little tango, Ludo Bagman charges into the box. Eagerly, he asked, “Everyone ready?” His round face looked like a great, excited Edam. “Minister - ready to go?”

“Ready when you are, Ludo,” Fudge said comfortably.

Bagman whipped out his wand, directed it at his own throat, and said, “Sonorus!” With a roar of sound that echoed over the stadium, he boomed, “Ladies and gentlemen… welcome! Welcome to the final of the four hundred and twenty-second Quidditch World Cup!”

The spectators screamed and clapped. Thousands of flags waved, adding their discordant national anthems to the racket. The huge blackboard opposite of us was wiped clean of its last advertisement (which was for Bertie Bott’s Every Flavor Beans) and now showed:

Bulgaria: 0; Ireland: 0

“And now, without further ado, allow me to introduce… the Bulgarian National Team Mascots!” Bagman finished eagerly.

The right-hand side of the stands, which was a solid block of scarlet, roared its approval.

“I wonder what they've brought,” Mr. Weasley said as he leaned forward in his seat eagerly.

I glanced down, only to frown deeply as I saw the gorgeous women that were magical creatures. “Veela, I see.”

“Veela?” Harry repeated in confusion before staring at the magical creatures in awe as they started dancing to music.

I immediately grabbed the boy that had begun standing, and I pulled him back down, snapping him from his trance as the women continued to dance.

“Wha-”

“They're like Sirens,” I informed my brother as I looked at him rather than at the women. “Grab Ron before he goes over the railing.”

Harry stared dumbly before realizing Ron was ready to jump off the top box into the field below. He quickly grabbed Ron and pulled him back.

Ron whined like a dog as the music stopped and the veela stopped dancing. He grumpily sat down, ripping the shamrocks from his hat.

Mr. Weasley smiled at his son as he gently took the hat away. “You'll be wanting that once Ireland have had their say.”

“Huh?” Ron asked dumbly as he stared open-mouthed at the women who basically strutted their way over to the side of the field.

“And now,” roared Bagman, “Kindly put your wands in the air for the Irish National Team Mascots!”

The next moment, what seemed to be a great green-and-gold comet came zooming into the stadium. It did one circuit of the stadium, then split into two smaller comets, each hurtling toward the goalposts. A rainbow arched suddenly across the field, connecting the two balls of light. The crowd made awed noises as though at a fireworks display. The rainbow faded, and the balls of light reunited and merged. Together, they formed a great shimmering shamrock, which rose up into the sky and began to soar over the stands. Something akin to gold rained down onto the crowd below from the many leprechauns carrying minute lamps of gold or green. These leprechauns were tiny little bearded men with red vests.

I waited for the leprechauns to come over us, and I caught some of the gold before it could hit the ground. I looked at it carefully and rolled my eyes. I allowed them to fall from my hand as I sat back in my seat, not at all interested in the fake gold.

The great shamrock dissolved, and the leprechauns drifted down onto the field on the opposite side of the veela, settling themselves cross-legged to watch the match.

“And now, ladies and gentlemen, kindly welcome - the Bulgarian National Quidditch Team!” Bagman yelled. “I give you - Dimitrov!”

A scarlet-clad figure on a broomstick, moving so fast it was blurred, shot out onto the field from an entrance far below, to the wild applause from the Bulgarian supporters.

“Ivanova!”

A second scarlet-robed figure zoomed out.

“Zograf! Levski! Vulchanov! Volkov! Aaaand - Krum!”

“That's him! That's him!” Ron practically squealed as he looked through his Omnioculars down at the Bulgarian Seeker.

Viktor Krum was surprisingly thin for a boy so tall, but he clearly had muscles built into his thin frame. His eyes were narrowed sharply under his thick, black eyebrows. He had sallow-skin, and his nose was large and curved. He really looked to be in his mid-twenties instead of being only eighteen.

“And now, please greet - the Irish National Quidditch Team!” Bagman yelled. “Presenting - Connolly! Ryan! Troy! Mullet! Moran! Quigley! Aaand - Lynch!”

Seven green blurs swept onto the field, all riding Firebolts.

“And here, all the way from Egypt, our referee, acclaimed Chairwizard of the International Association of Quidditch, Hassan Mostafa!”

A small and skinny wizard, completely bald but with a mustache to rival Vernon’s, wearing robes of pure gold to match the stadium, strode out onto the field. A silver whistle was protruding from under the mustache, and he was carrying a large wooden crate under one arm, his broomstick under the other. The man set down the crate, mounted his broom, and kicked the crate open. At once, four balls burst into the air: the scarlet quaffle, the two black Bludgers, and the miniscule, golden snitch. With a sharp blast on his whistle, Mostafa shot into the air after the balls.

“Theeey're off!” Bagman screamed, “And it's Mullet! Troy! Moran! Dimitrov! Back to Mullet! Troy! Levski! Moran!”

The Quaffle was being thrown as fast as it could, and the Bulgarians were doing their damnedest to get the ball from the Irish, one Beater hitting a Bludger toward the Chaser holding the Quaffle. Even if the Bulgarians managed to get the Quaffle for a moment, that's all they could keep it for. The Irish Chasers were too driven to let the Bulgarians keep it for longer than that.

“TROY SCORES!” Bagman roared, and the stadium shuddered with a roar of applause and cheers. “Ten zero to Ireland!”

Troy did a lap around the field in honor of his score.

On the sidelines, the Leprechauns had all risen into the air again and formed the great, glittering shamrock. Across the field, the veela were glaring sulkily.

The play resumed, and Ireland proceeded to crush Bulgaria. The Irish Chasers scored twice more in ten minutes, a real feat considering the size of the field and the determination of the Bulgarian Keeper.

The match became faster still, but it became more brutal as adrenaline soared.

Volkov and Vulchanov were whacking the Bludgers as fiercely as possible at the Irish Chasers and were starting to prevent the Irish from using their best moves. Twice, the Irish were forced to scatter. Using that, a Bulgarian Chaser, Ivanova, managed to break through their ranks; dodge the Irish keeper, Ryan; and scored Bulgaria’s first goal.

“Fingers in your ears!” Mr. Weasley bellowed in warning as the veela started to dance in celebration.

I ignored their dancing as I watched Bulgaria once again gain possession of the Quaffle.

“Dimitrov! Levski! Dimitrov! Ivanova - oh I say!” Bagman yelled eagerly.

About one hundred thousand witches and wizards gasped as the two Seekers, Krum and Lynch, plummeted through the through the center of the Chasers so fast that it was as if they were parachuting without the parachutes.

“They're going to crash!” Hermione exclaimed fretfully.

At the last second, Krum pulled up and spiraled off, leaving Lynch to crash into the ground with a dull thud heard throughout the entire stadium.

A huge groan arose from the Irish seats.

“Fool!” Mr. Weasley groaned, “Krum was feinting!”

“It's a time-out,” Bagman yelled, “as trained mediwizards hurry onto the field to examine Aidan Lynch!”

Ginny looked horrified as she hung over the side of the box at Lynch.

As Lynch was given potions to help him get back into shape, Krum’s eyes flicked around the field, looking around desperately for the snitch.

At last, Lynch got to his feet to the loud cheers from the green-clad supporters, mounted his Firebolt, and kicked off into the air.

When Mostafa blew the whistle again, the game continued at an even more brutal pace.

The Irish were reinvigorated by their Seeker’s revival, and their Chasers gave absolutely no leniency to the Bulgarians. After fifteen minutes, the Irish were leading by one hundred and thirty points to ten.

The game proceeded to get dirtier from there.

As Mullet shot toward the goalposts yet again with the Quaffle under her arm, the Bulgarian Seeker, Zograf, flew out to meet her. Zograf, being far too emotional, used an excessive amount of force to try and stop Mullet from scoring again.

Mostafa blew the whistle in a shrill manner.

“And Mostafa takes the Bulgarian Keeper to task for cobbing - excessive use of elbows!” Bagman informed the roaring spectators. “And - yes, it's a penalty to Ireland!”

The leprechauns, who had risen angrily into the air like a swarm of glittering hornets before, now darted together to form the words “HA HA HA!”

In retort, the veela on the other side of the field rose, tossed their hair angrily, and started to dance again.

I quickly turned my gaze to the referee, who foolishly looked at the dancing veela and started to try and impress them.

Mostafa began to flex his muscles and smooth his mustache excitedly.

I shook my head in disapproval, not at all impressed with the man’s lack of pride.

Hermione giggled loudly as she pointed it out to Harry.

Bagman snorted loudly as he glanced up to see what the referee was doing. Sounding highly amused, he said, “Now, we can't have that! Somebody slap the referee!”

A mediwizard came tearing across the field, his fingers stuffed into his own ears, and kicked Mostafa hard in the shins.

Mostafa came back to reality and looked exceptionally embarrassed about his behavior. He started shouting at the still, mutinous-looking veela about their behavior.

“And unless I'm mistaken, Mostafa is actually attempting to send off the Bulgarian team mascots!” Bagman said, “Now there's something we haven't seen before… Oh, this could turn nasty…”

It did: The Bulgarian Beaters landed on either side of Mostafa and began to argue furiously with him, gesticulating toward the leprechauns, who decided that rubbing salt in the wounds of the Bulgarians was appropriate. Mostafa wasn't impressed by any stretch of the imagination, and he made that apparent by jabbing his finger into the air, clearly telling them to get flying again. When they refused, he blew his whistle in two short blasts.

“Two penalties for Ireland!” Bagman shouted, causing the Bulgarian supporters to howl with anger. “And Volkov and Vulchanov had better get back on those brooms… yes… there they go… and Troy takes the Quaffle…”

The Bulgarians, having all lost their tempers, proceeded to play even dirtier. Their Beaters began swinging wildly, clearly not caring if they hit the Bludgers or their opponents, and Dimitrov shot straight at Moran, nearly knocking the Chaser off her broom to get the Quaffle.

“Foul!” The Irish supporters roared as one, all standing in great waves of green.

“Foul!” Bagman’s magically magnified voice echoed, “Dimitrov skins Moran - deliberately flying to collide there - and it’s got to be another penalty - yes, there's the whistle!”

The leprechauns formed a giant hand which proceeded to flip off the veela across the field. In retort, said veela (who now begin to transform their heads into cruel-beaked ones reminiscent to those of birds with long, scaly wings bursting from their shoulders) began to throw handfuls of fire at their leprechaun enemies. Ministry wizards flooded the field, trying with very little success to split the two magical species from each other.

Meanwhile,  above the field, the Irish continued to decimate the Bulgarians.

“Levski - Dimitrov - Moran - Troy - Mullet - Ivanova - Moran again - Moran - MORAN SCORED!”

Though the Irish supporters cheered, their voices were primarily drowned out by the veela’s shrieking, the blasts now issuing from the Ministry workers’ wands, and the furious roars of the Bulgarians.

The game recommenced immediately; now Levski had the Quaffle before passing it to Dimitrov-

Quigley, one of the two Irish Beaters, swung heavily at a passing Bludger right toward Krum, who didn't duck fast enough.

Krum was hit face-on by the Bludger, which broke his nose and caused blood to shoot everywhere. Krum quickly shook his head as Mostafa failed to blow his whistle (his broom’s end was lit on fire thanks to a straw fireball from the veela). He then looked toward Lynch, who had suddenly gone into a dive. Krum decided that he'd deal with a broken nose and shot after the other team’s Seeker. He hurtled toward the ground just as Lynch did, and he managed to stretch out his fingers and just barely catch the snitch, pulling up at the last second to avoid crashing into the ground.

Lynch, of course, didn't. He merely slammed into the ground with tremendous force and was immediately stampeded on by a horde of angry veela.

Krum, his red robes shining with blood from his nose, was raising gently into the air, his fist held high with the golden snitch glinting in his grasp.

The scoreboard was flashing Bulgaria: 160, Ireland: 170 across the crowd, who were all too busy watching everyone else but Krum.

As realization slowly set into the crowd, the Ireland supporters gradually erupted into screams of delight.

Bagman’s brain finally caught up with what happened, and he yelled, “IRELAND WINS! KRUM GETS THE SNITCH - BUT IRELAND WINS - good Lord, I don't think any of us were expecting that!”

Fred and George looked at each other smugly, clearly having predicted that such a thing would happen.

I turned to the Bulgarian Minister and said, “Your team was very good today.”

“Ve fought bravely,” Minister Oblansk agreed in a gloomy manner.

“You can speak English?!” Fudge exclaimed in outrage, “And you've been letting me mime everything all day!”

“Vell, it vos very funny,” the man replied with a shrug as if he couldn't help it before motioning to me. “This boy figured it out very quickly.”

Fudge looked at me in betrayal, but I shrugged myself.

There was no helping the chronically stupid, after all.

“And as the Irish team performs a lap of honor, flanked by their mascots, the Quidditch World Cup itself is brought up into the Top Box!” Bagman roared.

Two panting wizards began to carry a vast golden cup into the now magically illuminated Top Box, and they handed the cup off to Fudge, who was still upset over the fact he had to resort to crude sign language for the entire day for no reason other than to entertain someone else.

“Let's have a really loud hand for the gallant losers - Bulgaria!” Bagman yelled.

And up the stairs, into the box, came the seven defeated Bulgarian players. The crowd below applauded appreciatively as the Bulgarians filed between the rows of the seats in the box. They were made to shake hands with both Fudge and Oblansk as Bagman called their names.

Krum, who was last, still had a bloody nose, and his eyes were now darkening from the effects of being hit with a Bludger to the center of his face. He was slightly duck-footed, and his shoulders were distinctly rounded. He was awkward around the others in his team, and the way he shifted made it clear he wasn't very happy to be in a foreign place with less than two handfuls of people he knew.

I glanced at my brother for a moment, only to see him watching Krum closely. I rolled my eyes before gently nudging him, causing the boy to look at me. “He’s a person, not an animal at a circus. Stop gawking.”

Harry immediately flushed, and he looked away from Krum.

“Get Ron under control,” I then demanded.

Harry glanced toward Ron, only to see that the Weasley was staring at Krum with hero worship, mouth agape and everything. In a very gentle manner, Harry nudged Ron and leaned over to mutter something in his friend’s ear.

Ron closed his mouth quickly, and he shot me a small glare, before looking back at Krum with a look of awe that was more composed than his last one.

Krum’s name was announced, and the entire stadium seemed to give him a resounding, ear-splitting roar of approval.

Politely, I clapped as I kept my mouth shut.

The Bulgarians took their leave, and the Irish team came in next.

Lynch was being supported by Moran and Connolly, his eyes unfocused, his facial expression signaling he had absolutely no idea what was going on. The poor man was probably concussed. Regardless of his evident confusion, he was still happy as Troy and Quigley lifted the cup in the air, causing the crowd to thunder its joy.

The Irish team, after leaving the box, did a celebratory lap around the field once more (Lynch was clutching Connolly’s waist tightly as he sat on the back of the broom and grinning in a bemused manner).

Bagman pointed his wand at his throat and muttered, “Quietus.” In a hoarse tone, he said at normal volume, “They'll be talking about that one for years for sure. A really unexpected twist, that… Shame it couldn't have lasted longer… Ah, yes… Yes, I owe you… how much?”

Mr. Weasley gave a small smile as he was given his winnings for Ireland winning the Quidditch World Cup. Then, we began to depart from the Top Box and down toward the land below. “Don't tell your mother that I've been gambling,” he muttered to his children.

“Don't worry, Dad,” Fred said gleefully, “We have different things on our minds.”

Mr. Weasley looked as though he was going to ask what things happened to be on their minds, but seemed to decide, upon reflection, that he didn't want to know.

Soon, we were caught in the crowd flooding out of the stadium and back to their campsites. Raucous singing was borne toward us on the night air as we retraced our steps along the lantern-lit path, and leprechauns kept shooting over our heads, cackling and waving their lanterns. When we finally reached the tents, it seemed as though no one felt tired and in the mood for a long rest.

Given the level of noise around us, Mr. Weasley agreed that we could all have one last cup of cocoa before turning in. As he and Charlie started a debate on the cobbing, poor Ginny fell right asleep at the tiny table and spilled hot chocolate all over the floor. Mr. Weasley quickly halted the debate and decided that bed was the proper place for everyone.

We guys changed into pajamas and headed off toward the bunks to get some good sleep. Of course, it was only after we all stood there did we realize there were eight bunks for the nine of us.

“I'll sleep on the couch,” I offered, but Mr. Weasley waved me off and sent himself off to the main room of the tent. I bit back a sigh before getting on the top bunk where Percy was laying, the only bed left open. I stared at the canvas ceiling of the tent for a long while before eventually closing my eyes. I didn't manage to fall asleep, only silently allowing the hours to pass. When the singing and banging died down quickly, I opened my eyes. I slipped out of the top bunk as screaming started up, and I grabbed my wand from the pocket of my jeans. I cautiously approached the front entrance, only to see Mr. Weasley already there and peering out.

“Wake the boys,” he demanded as stepped out and headed toward the girls’ tent.

I did as he instructed, rushing back toward the room where the seven boys slept. “Wake up!”

At once, Bill, Charlie, and Percy shot up.

“What's wrong?” Percy asked as he fumbled around, trying to feel for his glasses.

“Something bad is happening. Let's get up and go,” I advised as I began to climb up the bunk where my brother was. “Harry! Ron! Fred! George! Up!”

Harry sat up slowly, groaning as he did so. “What time-”

“Here are your glasses. We have to get going,” I said as I handed Harry his glasses before jumping down. “Ron, get up!”

The boy merely grumbled into his sheets as he defiantly kept his eyes closed.

Fred and George slid from their bunks, and George said, “‘Gotta shake him.”

I huffed before rudely shaking Ron.

“I'm up!” Ron yelled as he shoved my hands away

I turned my eyes red and threatened in a calm tone, “If you don't get out of bed now, I'm going to drag you out by your ankles.”

At once, Ron threw the covers back and stumbled from the bottom bunk.

“Good,” I approved, “Coats and shoes, now.”

Mr. Weasley returned at that moment. “Are you all ready?”

“What's going on, Dad?” Percy asked as he quickly changed into clothes suitable for a duel.

“Can’t say for sure,” Mr. Weasley said as he motioned for us to get going.

The few fires still burning illuminated people running away into the woods, fleeing away from something across the field moving toward us. That something was emitting odd flashes of light and noises like gunfire. Those things were loudly jeering, roaring with laughter, and drunkenly yelling. Those things were obviously wizards who were up to no good.

A strong burst of green light suddenly illuminated the scene.

That crowd of wizards, tightly packed and moving together with wands pointed upwards, were slowly marching across the field toward us. These wizards, obviously drunk, were masquerading around with black robes, their hoods over their heads and their faces hidden away by masks. These wizards were using magic to make four struggling people levitate above them. They made their victims contort into grotesque shapes as they approached, seeming to have a good old time as they continued to approach. More wizards added themselves into the growing bunch, and they paid no mind to anything else around them. They crumpled and blasted tents in their way, causing several to catch on fire.

As the four victims passed over a burning tent, they were illuminated. Mr. Rogers was the man, and the other three appeared to be his wife and their children.

One of the marchers below flipped the poor woman upside down, causing her nightgown to fall towards the earth, revealing her voluminous drawers and making her struggle to keep herself decent in front of her children and husband. As she struggled, those disgusting bastards laughed and hooted.

“That's sick,” Ron muttered in a disgusted tone, watching as the muggle child was being spun like a top sixty feet above the ground, their head flopping all around in a manner that signaled the child was unconscious from the abuse. “That is really sick…”

Hermione and Ginny came hurrying toward us, pulling their coats over their night dresses.

At the same moment, Charlie, Bill, and Percy stepped from the tent while fully clothed, their sleeves rolled up and their wands out.

“We're going to help the Ministry!” Mr. Weasley shouted over the noise, rolling up his own sleeves, “You lot - get into the woods, and stick together. I'll come and fetch you when we've sorted this out!”

The three eldest Weasley children were already sprinting towards the gathering mass, and the patriarch chased after them.

Ministry wizards were already dashing from every direction to the growing mass of trouble.

“Let's move,” I demanded as I motioned for everyone to get going.

No one argued, instead moving toward the woods where safety seemed to linger. As we made it to the edge of the campground, we glanced back at the still-growing group of drunken wizards who were now combatting the Ministry wizards, who were afraid to cause the Roberts family to fall with any spells that may have casted.

I frowned deeply before turning to the group. “We don't want to get hit in the crossfire.”

Begrudgingly, the other six began to move deeper into the woods with me on their heels.

The colored lanterns that had once lit the path to the stadium were extinguished. Dark figures were blundering through the trees, children were crying, and anxious shouts and panicked voices were reverberating around us in the cold air. People pushed past us as fast as they could, and everything seemed to be going somewhat decently until Ron yelled in pain.

“What happened?” Hermione asked anxiously.

“Ron fell,” I said as I cautiously stepped forward and pulled the Weasley to his feet.

“Tripped over a tree root,” Ron grumbled angrily as he dusted his clothes off.

“Well, with feet that size, hard not to,” a voice drawled from behind us.

“Malfoy,” I said, recognizing the voice immediately. “Is your mother with you?”

“No,” the boy answered casually.

I sighed heavily before turning to the others. “Get moving. None of us want to get caught up in that.”

The group began to shuffle again off toward the stadium where safety was hopefully waiting for them.

“You aren't going with them?” Malfoy asked.

I stepped toward my fellow Slytherin and said softly, “Look, I'm saying this because I know you have a brain up there: Get away from the edge and just go a few yards deeper. You don't want to be hit by a stray spell. Your mother will be okay, and hopefully, your father only gets away with minimal cursing.”

The boy snorted. “You really don't like my father.”

“I don't,” I agreed, “Now, I'm going with the others. Being a Slytherin isn't going to guarantee me shit when it comes to these assholes.”

“Yeah,” Malfoy agreed softly.

“Be safe,” I urged before turning heel and getting ready to leave.

“Hey,” Malfoy called, causing me to pause. “You be safe, too.”

“I’ll try,” I assured my housemate, and I left him behind to follow after the others. I walked quickly, but it seemed that they had left me behind during that short period. I quickly came to a stop, however, as I nearly collided with a group of teenagers in pajamas who were arguing vociferously. “Pardon me-”

A girl with thick, curly hair suddenly turned and asked, “Oú est Madame Maxine? Nous l’avons perdue-”

“I'm sorry,” I interrupted quickly, “I don't speak French.”

“Oh,” the girl said with a frown as she stared at me. “‘Ogwarts.”

“Beauxbaton,” I replied curtly.

“‘Ave you… see tall woman?” The girl tried.

“No,” I answered simply before pointing behind me. “Bad wizards - Dark wizards - Curses.”

The girls gave each other grim expressions, clearly finding that their fears were realized.

I tried to move past them, but the one who spoke with me quickly stepped into my path.

“You help us?” She asked, sounding hopeful.

I shook my head. “Brother missing.”

Immediately, one of the girls seemed sympathetic towards me and finally allowed me to pass.

I left them behind without another thought.

Along the path, some goblins were looking over their Galleons, clearly very pleased by their winnings and unperturbed over what was happening at the campsite.

Further along, in a patch of silvery light, were three veela surrounded by a gaggle of young wizards.

I rolled my eyes as I yelled, “Are you idiots all having fun in the hopes of dying young?!”

Several of the wizards scowled and yelled a few profanities at me, but those with brains seemed to quickly realize their situation. Those with brains begrudgingly left the veela and the other wizards.

I moved on, not at all interested in helping anyone else further. I finally get away from them in the darkness, and I had to feel my way around with my left hand, drawing my wand with my right.

That's when something emerged from a tree right ahead of me.

I cursed loudly as I jumped back.

“Merlin! Not so loud!” A man hissed, clearly inebriated.

“Bagman?” I asked incredulously.

“Yeah?” The man replied questioningly.

Immediately, I felt anger swell up inside of me. “The Ministry is fighting other wizards that got a hold of a muggle family at the campgrounds, and you're out here getting drunk?”

“Damn it,” he cursed before Disapparating.

“What a complete waste of space,” I commented aloud before continuing along. I walked around blindly, remaining silent and cautious. Finally, as I was about ready to start yelling out my brother's name, I paused.

It sounded as though someone was staggering up the path behind me.

I turned my upper body, not risking my lower half which may have stepped on a twig wrong and given away my location. I pointed my wand wordlessly toward the upcoming intruder, and as if by reply, the footsteps came to a sudden halt.

There, the two of us stood in complete darkness, simply sensing the other's presence.

Finally, someone calmly uttered, “Morsmorde.”

Something vast, green, and glittering came from a wand pointed up toward the sky.

I watched as the wizard became illuminated for just a moment, and I took in as many details as I could in the darkness.

The man was pale with barely any freckles, and he had a mop of fair hair. He appeared to be in his late thirties if the lines on his face were any indication.

I watched as he then tossed the wand aside and Disapparated from the scene and glanced up toward the sky.

A colossal skull with a serpent riding from its mouth, composed of what appeared to be emerald stars, shot into the sky and drifted higher and higher. The blazing haze of green smoke seemed to be a constellation etched into the black, starless night.

I recognized the symbol at once to be that of the Dark Lord, and I knew I only had a mere few seconds to act. I threw myself to the nearest tree and sat with my back to it, ready for the extra protection that'd surely be needed.

Twenty or so wizards came popping into the clearing, wands drawn and aimed right where the Dark Mark had come from.

Immediately, I placed my wand down as the group of wizards pointed their wands at me. I slowly raised my hands in the air to show that I was unarmed and not a threat.

“Stup-”

“Wait!” Mr. Weasley yelled as he stepped forward from the crowd. “Colton?!”

“Yes, it's me,” I confirmed.

“Are you alr-”

“Out of the way, Arthur,” came a cold, curt voice. Crouch stepped out from the crowd, approaching with an expression taut with rage. “You, boy-”

“Before you senselessly accuse me of conjuring the Dark Mark, you can check my wand to see the last spell I used,” I interrupted before holding my wand out toward the man.

“Prior Incantato!” Crouch exclaimed as he pointed his wand at mine.

A flick of light came from the end of my wand, showing that the last spell I used was a Levitation Charm.

“How do we know you didn't perform a spell in the time it took for you to conjure that and for us to appear?” Crouch barked.

I remained silent for a moment, glancing through the crowd of witches and wizards before nodding once. “I, Colton Seth Potter, will reveal the truth without the need of Veritaserum, and I will be forthcoming and answer all questions that you may have in accordance with what transpired here tonight. May my magic be stripped from me if I am deceitful under the watchful eye of Lady Magic. May each of you bear witness to this oath I am making.”

A glow of white shot out from my body before small white threads connected the twenty or so wizards to myself.

I felt like I had been thoroughly winded from the affair, and I barely bit back a groan of annoyance.

“Did you cast the Dark Mark?” Crouch demanded at once. 

“No, I did not cast the Dark Mark,” I said irritably.

“Why are you at the scene of the crime then?” The man pressed.

“Because I can't Apparate away like the one who performed that spell did,” I replied.

“How do you know he was a man?” Crouch asked with a smirk, “With it being so dark out, you surely couldn't have been able to tell.”

I felt like running my temples, but I refrained from doing so. I then paused before looking up at Crouch suspiciously. “I never said it was a man.”

“Only male Death Eaters remain out of Azkaban-”

“Are you insinuating that I, a mere fourteen-year-old, am a Death Eater loyal to the Dark Lord?” I asked as I narrowed my eyes sharply.

“Are you?” Crouch demanded to know.

I reached over to my left sleeve and pulled it up. “Does it look like I have been marked by the Dark Lord? Does it seem feasibly possible that I, who watched the Dark Lord disappear, have sworn my loyalties since I was an infant to that man? Do you truly think with that twisted mind that I would ever be loyal to someone who murdered my mother in front of me and laughed about it?”

Crouch didn't answer - didn't get the chance to, rather.

“I am not marked,” I stated, “My loyalties certainly don't lie with the Dark Lord, and I will certainly never follow the person who wronged me. If you say otherwise again, I'll have no choice but to duel you until one of us meets Lord Death.”

Crouch stared down at me, clearly testing my resolve, and I glared back with as much disgust as I could.

“Crouch,” Amos Diggory finally stepped in, “He's already made a Magical Oath to everyone. So long as he still has his magic, he's not the one-”

“Cast a spell,” Crouch demanded of me immediately.

I narrowed my eyes sharply. “Will I be able to without being expelled?”

“Ye-”

I grabbed my wand and pointed it toward the place where the man once was. “Revelio.”

Immediately, there was a loud squeak and a small creature was illuminated briefly.

“Stupify!” A Ministry wizards exclaimed as he pointed his wand at the illuminated figure.

Immediately, Crouch looked at me suspiciously. “What was that for?”

“That was where the unknown person who conjured the Dark Mark was,” I said calmly, “Who knows who may be tampering with evidence over there?”

Immediately, Diggory headed over to where wthe creature was no longer illuminated by the spell. He knelt down, only to pause. “Blimey…”

“You've got something?!” Crouch exclaimed, sounding as though he was in disbelief, “What? What is it?”

Amos Diggory hesitated before picking up something and bringing it over.

That thing was Winky, and that house-elf was holding a wand.

Crouch didn't move or speak as Diggory deposited the house elf at his feet. He stared down with a mixture of emotions at the elf before one overcame them all: wrath. Before he could start beating his poor house-elf within an inch of its life, there was a pop.

Bagman had arrived on the scene, and he stumbled as if he was more than three sheets to the wind. “The Dark Mark! Who did it?! Did you get them?! Barty! What's going on?!”

“For starters,” I drawled out, completely unimpressed with the man, “You're beyond late to the scene of the crime. No one has been apprehended because they Apparated away, and no one knows who conjured the Dark Mark. Of course, you would know all that if you could actually perform as a decent member of society.”

Bagman stared at me incredulously. “And who are you?”

“I'm Colton Potter, and you're a joke,” I replied.

As Bagman stared at me in shock, Diggory struggled to hide a smirk. He then turned his focus to the house-elf while twirling the wand he grabbed from her stunned hands. “Clause three of the Code of Wand Use has been broken. No nonhuman creature is permitted to carry or use a wand. If it's alright with you, Mr. Crouch, I think we should hear what she’s got to say for herself.”

Crouch didn't make a move, just glaring down at his elf with contempt.

Diggory took that as the go-ahead, and he pointed his own wand at Winky. “Rennervate!”

Winky stirred feebly. Her great brown eyes opened, and she blinked several times in a bemused sort of way. Watched by the silent wizards, she raised herself shakily into a sitting position. She caught sight of Diggory’s feet, and slowly, tremulously, her eyes raised to stare up at his face. Then, even more slowly still, she looked up at the sky and saw the Dark Mark. Immediately, the house-elf gave a gasp, looked around the crowded path wildly, and burst into terrified sobs.

“Elf!” Diggory barked, “Do you know who I am?! I'm a member of the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures!”

Winky began rocking back and forth on the ground, her breath coming in short bursts. She was obviously terrified and ready for a bad punishment for being disobedient.

“As you see, elf, the Dark Mark was conjured here a short while ago,” Diggory said loudly, “And you were discovered moments later, right beneath it! An explanation, if you please!”

“I - I - I is not doing it, sir!” Winky cried out, “I is not knowing how, sir!”

“You were found with a wand in your hand!” Diggory barked, brandishing said wand right in front of the house-elf.

“I is not doing magic with it, sir!” Winky squealed, tears streaming down the sides of her squashed and bulbous nose. “I is… I is… I is just picking it up, sir! I is not making the Dark Mark, sir! I is not knowing how!”

“We'll see about that,” Diggory growled, “There's a simple way of discovering the last spell a wand performed, elf; did you know that?”

Winky trembled and shook her head frantically, ears flapping, as Diggory raised his wand and held it tip-to-tip to the other wand.

“Prior Incantato!” The man roared.

A smaller, gray Dark Mark came from the end of the wand, causing a few Ministry workers to gasp.

“Deletrius!” Diggory shouted, and the smoke skull vanished into a wisp of smoke. Diggory, looking down at the shaking Winky with contempt, said in a kind of savage triumph, “So…”

“I is not doing it!” Winky shrieked, “I is not, I is not, I is not knowing how! I is a good house elf! I isn't knowing how!”

“You've been caught red-handed, elf!” Diggory roared, “Caught guilty with the wand in your hand!”

“Amos,” Mr. Weasley said loudly, “Think about it… precious few wizards know how to do that spell… Where would she have learned it?”

“Perhaps Amos is suggesting,” Crouch said, cold anger in every syllable, “That I routinely teach my servants to conjure the Dark Mark?”

There was an unpleasant silence.

Diggory looked horrified as he said, “Mr. Crouch… not… not at all…”

“You have now come very close to accusing the one person in this clearing who is least likely to conjure that Mark!” Crouch barked, “Me! I trust you remember the many proofs I have given, over a long career, that I despise and detest the Dark Arts and those who practice them?!”

Diggory muttered, now reddening behind his scrubby brown beard, “Mr. Crouch, I - I never suggested you had anything to do with it!”

“If you accuse my elf, you accuse me, Diggory!” Crouch shouted furiously, “Where else would she have learned to conjure it?!”

“She - she might have picked it up anywhere-”

“Precisely, Amos,” Mr. Weasley interjected, “She might have picked it up anywhere.” He turned to the house-elf and said kindly, “Where, exactly, did you find that wand?”

Winky was twisting the hem of her tea towel so violently that it was fraying beneath her fingers. “I - I is finding it… finding it there, sir…” She whispered, “There… in the trees, sir…”

“You see, Amos?” Mr. Weasley asked, “Whoever conjured the Dark Mark could have Disapparated right after they'd done it, just like Colton suggested, leaving the wand behind. A clever thing to do, not using their own wand, which could have betrayed them. And Winky here had the misfortune to come across the wand moments later and pick it up.”

“But then, she'd have been only a few feet away from the real culprit!” Diggory snapped impatiently, “Elf? Did you see anyone?”

Winky, trembling worse than ever, flickered between Diggory, Bagman, and eventually landed on Crouch. She gulped down a lump in her throat before saying, “I is seeing no one, sir… No one…”

“Amos,” Crouch called out curtly, “I am fully aware that, in the ordinary course of events, you would want to take Winky into your department for questioning. I ask you, however, to allow me to deal with her.”

Diggory clearly didn't think too much of the idea, but he didn't say anything to go against the important member of the Ministry.

“You may rest assured that she will be punished,” Crouch added coldly.

“M-m-master…” Winky stammered, looking at Crouch with eyes filled with tears. “M-m-master, p-p-please…”

Crouch stared back, his face sharpened, and each line upon said face seemed more deeply etched. There was no pity in his gaze, only that burning wrath. “Winky has behaved tonight in a manner I would not have believed possible,” he said slowly, “I told her to remain in the tent. I told her to stay there while I went to sort out the trouble. And I find that she has disobeyed me. This means clothes.”

“No!” Winky shrieked, prostrating herself at her master's feet. “No, master! Not clothes, not clothes!”

Crouch took a step backwards, freeing himself from her grasp. As he did so, he looked down at her as though she were something filthy and rotten that contaminated his over-shined shoes. “I have no use for a house-elf that disobeys me. I have no use for a servant who forgets what is due to her master, and to her master's reputation.”

Winky was crying so loudly that her sobs were echoing around the path.

There was a very nasty silence, one that Mr. Weasley broke hesitantly. “Well, I think I'll take Colton back to the tent, if no one's got any objections. Amos, could Colton have his wand back?”

The man held my wand out toward me, which I gently took. I then stood up, brushed my pants off, and went to stand by Mr. Weasley’s side.

“Come on,” the man said softly as he rested his hand on my shoulder and began to guide me away.

I waited until we were further down the path to ask, “Are Bill, Charlie, and Percy alright?”

“They will be,” Mr. Weasley answered before asking, “How did you end up alone out there?”

“I lost track of the group after Ron fell,” I admitted, “It was too dark to see them, so I couldn't find them again.”

“Why not use your wand?” Mr. Weasley asked.

“I didn't want to get expelled,” I explained, “Underage magic, and all that.”

Mr. Weasley gave an exasperated sigh. “Colton, I think that that would have counted as an emergency situation and wouldn't have gotten you expelled.”

“I figured it was better to not take a chance,” I said with a simple shrug.

We reached the edge of the wood, and our progress back toward the tent was impeded.

There, a large crowd of frightened-looking witches and wizards congregated. When they saw us, a great few immediately surged forward.

“What's going on in there?”

“Who conjured it?”

“Arthur - it's not - Him?”

“Of course it's not Him,” Mr. Weasley said impatiently.

Before he could get himself into a tough spot, I explained, “The matter is still being investigated, and I'm sure you know that the Ministry doesn't appreciate misinformation spreading around. Please wait for the official debrief from the Ministry.”

Mr. Weasley nodded once before once again guiding us toward the two tents.

All was quiet now. There was no sign of the masked wizards, though several ruined tents were still smoking.

Charlie's head was poking out of the boys’ tent. “Dad, what's going on? Everyone but Colton got back okay-”

“I've got him here,” Mr. Weasley said, bending down to enter the tent.

I followed suit.

Bill was at the table, holding a bedsheet to his arm, which was bleeding profusely. Charlie had a large rip in his shirt, and Percy was sporting a bloody nose. The others appeared unharmed, but shaken nonetheless.

“Did you get them, Dad?” Bill inquired sharply, “The person who conjured the Mark?”

“No,” the man denied, “We found Barty Crouch’s elf holding the wand used to commit the crime, but we're none the wiser about who actually conjured the Mark.”

“What?” Bill, Charlie, and Percy asked in unison, all three sounding to be in disbelief.

“A wand?” Fred repeated.

“Mr. Crouch’s elf?” Percy questioned, sounding thunderstruck.

With some assistance from myself, Mr. Weasley explained what happened in the woods.

When we finished, Percy swelled indignantly. “Well, Mr. Crouch is right to get rid of an elf like that! Running away when he expressly told her not to… embarrassing him in front of the whole Ministry… how would that have looked, if she'd been brought up in front of the Department for the Regulation and Control-”

“She didn't do anything - she was just in the wrong place at the wrong time!” Hermione suddenly interrupted, causing most to look at her in surprise.

Percy, of course, frowned at the girl. “Hermione, a wizard in Mr. Crouch's position can't afford a house-elf who's going to run amuck with a wand!”

“She didn't run amuck,” Hermione snapped, “She obviously just picked it up off the ground.”

“Look,” Ron cut in, sounding quite irritable, “Can someone just explain what that skull thing was? It wasn't hurting anyone-”

“Not physically,” I denied as I sat back in my chair, “However, it could have opened some emotional scars.”

“Huh?” Ron asked dumbly.

“It's You-Know-Who’s symbol, Ron,” Hermione said with a frown, “I've read about it in The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts.”

“Well, how can a symbol open emotional scars?” Ron questioned.

“It's a symbol that hasn't been seen in thirteen years, Ron,” I said with little patience, “Because for the past thirteen years, the Dark Lord and his Death Eaters haven't been killing off families.”

Immediately, Ron looked to his father as in disbelief. “That's what it means?”

“Yes, Ron,” Mr. Weasley agreed grimly, “The terror it inspired… you have no idea, you're too young. Just picture coming home and finding the Dark Mark hovering over your house, and knowing what you're about to find inside…” The man winced. “Everyone's worst fear… the very worst…”

There was silence for a moment.

Then, Bill, removing the sheet from his arm to cut his cut, said, “Well, it didn't help us tonight, whoever conjured it. It scared the Death Eaters away as soon as they saw it. They all Disapparated before we got near enough to unmask any of them. We caught the Roberts before they hit the ground, though. They're having their memories modified right now.”

“Death Eaters?” Harry finally spoke up.

“Oh, for Merlin's sake, Harry, you really need to pick up a book,” I groaned as I rubbed my temples. “They're the Dark Lord’s cult following.”

“They're a cul?” Harry asked in surprise.

“Mind as well be,” I answered honesty, “They all support the Dark Lord, and they would follow his every command, even till death. They killed for him, destroyed houses for him, and if they didn't do a good enough job, he'd torture them. They accepted all of that, though, because of their blood supremacy beliefs and the disgusting idea that they would make for excellent rulers over muggles and other magical beings.”

Harry looked rather grim at the thought of the Dark Lord having such avid followers.

“Of course, if they all scattered like roaches, that means they fear the Dark Lord’s return,” I mused aloud, “They fear the wrath that their Lord will surely bring down upon them if they ever cross paths again.”

“Why would Voldemort-” Harry watched the Weasleys and Hermione flinch. “Sorry - why would You-Know-Who be angry with them?”

“It's been thirteen years, and no one out of Azkaban bothered looking for Him,” I stated, “They were all loyal to the cause, willing to harm and kill others, yet they don't seem very loyal to their master. They spent the last thirteen years in freedom, and it doesn't appear as though they want his return any time soon.”

“Well… Why were they levitating those muggles? What's the point?” Ron questioned.

“The point, believe it or not, was to have fun,” I explained as I crossed my arms over my chest. “Half of the muggle killings done back when the Dark Lord was at the height of his power were to have a good time.”

Mr. Weasley nodded grimly. “I suppose they had a few drinks tonight and couldn't resist reminding us all that lots of them are still at large. A nice little reunion for them.” The man sneered in disgust at the mere thought.

“So… Whoever conjured the Dark Mark…” Hermione said slowly, “Were doing it to show support for the Death Eaters, or to scare them away?”

“Your guess is as good as ours, Hermione,” Mr. Weasley answered, “But I'll tell you this… it was only the Death Eaters who ever knew how to conjure it. I'd be very surprised if the person who did it hadn't been a Death Eater once, even if they're not now… Listen, it's very late, and if your mother hears about what’s happened, she'll be worried sick. We'll get a few more hours sleep and then try and get an early Portkey out of here.”

We all got back into bed at nearly three in the morning, and everyone was tired from the ordeal. We drifted off to sleep, hoping for a couple peaceful hours to finish the night.