According to history books, long before Diagon Alley ever became the crowded hub it is today, the goblins had already carved their mark into the heart of magical Britain, which over time grew into the colossal organisation famously known today as Gringotts, the wizarding bank.

  It was a symbol of security for the vast majority of the magical community, a place where fortunes slept and secrets rested deeper than bedrock. Even now, as the wizarding world developed with each passing year, the goblins guarded their halls with the same unwavering diligence they had maintained for centuries, and no other party in all of wizarding Britain had even dared to challenge them.

  But was that truly the case? Yes, in the sense that no other party, not even the ancient noble families, had contested the goblins' grip on public wealth. Yet the cause was hardly remarkable. Quite simply, the witches and wizards of England cared too little, or perhaps never even considered the idea of running a bank-like organisation themselves.

  Not surprising, since they have always fallen behind the developing world, and truly, it is the only magical community where the general public recognises another magical species as the leading authority for protecting their valuables.

  This so-called understanding had lasted for so long that many in the public now even believe it is the only wizarding bank in the world. Especially newly awakened non-magical-borns discovering their magical heritage, assume that goblins are the only ones who manage the wizarding world's wealth.

  It's laughable. No wonder many magical communities label the English magical comunity as the most backward in the world. In reality, Russia, India, China, America, and many others already have their own banking systems, run directly by their respective magical governments to safeguard the public's money. They may not have the over-glorified history of Gringotts, but what they do have is the fact that they are run and organised entirely by humans, and not by another species.

  The main headquarters of this goblin-run monopoly stands in the heart of Diagon Alley. It might sound like a large international organisation, but it certainly is not. While they do have branches across borders, none come close to the scale of the structure in England, and most of the others were little more than agents stationed for appearances.

  In fact, many countries had outright banned the greedy creatures from running their business within their territories, and only in Britain could they act with such arrogance, as if without them, the entire financial system would collapse. Sadly, most people believe that notion.

  ---

  It was another quiet day at Gringotts. The main hall stretched high and wide, marble floors shining under the glow of chandeliers suspended in midair. Behind the counters, goblins worked swiftly and silently, their eyes sharp, their hands never idle as they attended to the endless flow of coins and ledgers.

  The general interior layout was already in Maverick's head, so he knew exactly where to go upon entering. He paid no mind to the clients, nor to the arrogant little creatures counting coins. Under true concealment, he made his way deeper inside, masking every movement with illusion magic, slipping through door after door until he finally reached the underground structure.

  Under ordinary circumstances, one would have to endure a ridiculously uncomfortable cart to reach the vault they sought, but he gave it only a cursory glance and plunged headfirst toward the depths of the underground structure.

  While plummeting, he cast a casual glance around, letting his gaze drift lazily over the structure's so-called impenetrable defenses. They could be described as only passable at best, enough to stop witches and wizards of magus rank or lower. For anyone of greatmage rank or above, breaking in would be trivial if they wanted, but would a dignified greatmage, let alone an archmage, rob a bank for gold?

  Any country holds its greatmagi in the highest regard; money and business are placed at their disposal on a silver platter, so the last thing they needed to worry about was wealth.

  To the goblins' credit, though, the place was massive indeed. Even if it had grown gradually over who knows how long, the depth to which the structure extended was truly remarkable. There was no sense of aesthetics or design, yes, but still, remarkable.

  It didn't take him long, and within a couple of minutes he was already in front of the so-called most secure section of the entire structure. But really, it was just the deepest depths and nothing more, and he found not a single ward or magical formation designed to detect unauthorized entry.

  Of course, for any ordinary person, reaching this point the way he did would be impossible, and that was the only reason he rated the security as passable. That said, it did not mean there were no security measures in place to prevent intruders.

  The cart, first of all, he could tell at a glance was laden with enchantments, and along its path, as he fell, he also spotted several magical formations designed to detect disguises.

  There was also the enormous Ukrainian Ironbelly, one of the largest and most dangerous dragon breeds in the wizarding world, stationed in the depths to deter any daring soul who might try to sneak in. Although "guarding" might not be the right word, it was more like being held captive there to intimidate intruders.

  The most important thing was that if one didn't know exactly what they were looking for, it would take a despairingly long time to locate a particular vault. Fortunately, Maverick did not have to worry about any of those problems.

  The Lestrange vault was located in the deepest section of the underground structure. There weren't any names labeling the vault doors, just numbers, but from Griphook's memories, Maverick was certain the door in front of him was his target.

  Although there weren't any magical wards around the area, the door was certainly packed with enchantments to prevent forced entry. And not just simple enchantments, for even his magical sense struggled to pierce the layers upon layers of magic embedded in the entrance.

  But… a smile curled his lips as his eyes fixed on the wall near the vault door, where he detected far fewer enchantments on the rocky barrier separating the inside from the outside.

  Regardless, he wasn't planning on breaking any doors or walls today. His eyes focused, and with deliberate motion, he wove a spell from the sorcery system, and before long, the section of the wall under his focus became transparent, revealing what lay beyond.

  That was all he needed. Then, with another motion of his hand, a portal materialized before him, and a moment later, he finally found himself inside the Lestrange family magical vault.

  Well, I'll be damned…

  There was… a lot of gold. Bricks upon bricks were stacked into hills, and from a rough estimate, if it were regulated into the Muggle world, Maverick was certain the wealth inside could amount to billions at the very least. And it wasn't just gold—rubies, diamonds, and jewels of every kind sparkled among the piles. Ancient-looking artifacts, ceremonial swords and shields, and delicate ceramics lay scattered as if tossed aside. A few shelves were heaped with books, their spines worn from age. Basically everything here spoke of centuries of accumulation, a hoard both priceless and perilous.

  But Maverick had no interest in the gold, nor did he plan to take any of it. To an archmage, money was just numbers. The art pieces, however, were slightly more tempting. Still, not now, as he could feel trigger enchantments scattered throughout the vault, and he had far more important matters to attend to than disarming them and pocketing trinkets.

  Perhaps, once Voldy was dealt with, he would make another stop here, and next time, he don't have to endure the cumbersome journey, as he could portal directly.

  With that thought, he spread his magical sense, scanning every corner of the vault for his objective: the Hufflepuff cup. And speaking of cups, there were countless golden ones scattered everywhere, so without his ability to sense the dark magical signature of the Horcrux, locating it would have been a nightmare.

  In the original story, Harry was able to find it so easily only because he himself was a Horcrux, acting like a trigger radar to pinpoint a Horcrux like himself.

  What Maverick was doing was much the same, as he had already come in contact with other Horcruxes and knew exactly how the dark magic felt to his magical sense.

  Soon, while disregarding the other shady objects that also gave off dark magic and appeared on his radar, his eyes darted to an inconspicuous corner where a small, ornate cup rested alone. This one, in particular, reeked of pure malice and evil.

  From a distance, it seemed unremarkable—a simple golden chalice adorned with faint, intricate engravings—but the aura emanating from it was unmistakable. This was the vessel sealing the final fragment of Tom Riddle's soul.

  Without a second thought, he floated toward the corner, and the closer he got, the more certain he became. Already, the disgusting thing's whispers were trying to probe him mentally, tempting him to take it.

  Don't mind if I do, Tommy.

  Fortunately, there were no other enchantments that would trigger if it was moved, so he acted immediately. After giving one last glance around the space, a portal materialized behind him, and in the same breath, with a nudge of his magic, the cup floated toward him, and they both disappeared from the spot.

  A few minutes later, inside the Chamber of Secrets, the familiar ear-piercing scream once again reverberated through the stone walls before the blob of darkness curled in on itself and burned to ash. The sixth piece of Voldy's soul fragment was now destroyed and only his wraith remained.

  Clasping his hands, he let out a long breath. From the moment he had entered the bank to this very moment, barely half an hour had passed, and the entire operation had unfolded cleanly without a single alarm.

  Next, he needed to stop by the Malfoys and ask whether Voldy had any plans involving the World Cup finals like in the original story. If so, he would prepare countermeasures and send a heads-up to Minister Jameson in the meantime.

  And speaking of, he wondered if Alaster would suffer the same tragic fate he did in the original story next year. He shouldn't, right? After all, the man was a dignified great mage while Barty Jr. was only a magus. On top of that, Barty's situation was drastically different from the original story here, where his father, in a mix of guilt and desperation, secretly rescued him from Azkaban using influence and authority.

  In this world, the madman had only recently escaped during the prison break, so Maverick could not be sure if events would continue to follow the old script. Thankfully, among the many lunatics who fled that day, Barty was one of the individuals he had tagged with a tracking spell.

  In any case, none of it mattered. Even if the timeline twisted here and there, the general plot would still align because he had placed every necessary card to make sure old Voldy finally received the resurrection he had been chasing for so long.

  —————————

  "…Okay. Tell me the truth. Who is she really?"

  Sunlight filtered through a faint layer of clouds above a vast, misty field in the Scottish Highlands, spreading gently over the grass with a warmth that touched without burning.

  Two figures, a man and a woman, walked together with their arms linked as a soft breeze swept past them, tugging lightly at their clothes. From a distance, laughter and excitement drifted through the air in the direction they were heading, clearly signaling a festive atmosphere, yet as if it had all been expected, their expressions remained unchanged as they continued their leisurely stroll.

  "Nobody," the man said with a weary shrug, glancing helplessly at the woman. "I swear, honey… it's just a random face."

  He glanced for a moment at the arm linked with his, then returned his gaze forward, a faint smile forming as he surveyed the bustling activity ahead.

  He "saw" countless tents spread across the field, creating a sprawling temporary city of simple camping shelters. Tens of thousands of men, women, and children moved among them in clusters, their voices colliding in a vibrant chorus that made the place hum with life.

  "You honestly expect me to believe that?" she asked, lifting one brow as she tilted her head to look at him. "That you just randomly came up with a face this gorgeous?"

  "Ah," he replied lightly, amusement creeping into his voice. "So you do like it."

  "I never said I didn't," she said. "I'm just curious about who she is."

  Though their words could be taken as a light argument, there was nothing sharp about them; the effortless ease between the two made it clearly far from a real disagreement.

  In truth, they were Maverick and Isabella, though neither of them resembled their real selves. Isabella wore the appearance of an Asian woman with fair skin and straight black hair that fell neatly down her back. She was dressed in a clean, casual white outfit, a fitted blouse paired with a flowing skirt that swayed gently with each step.

  Maverick's disguise complemented hers perfectly. Tall and sharp-featured, with short, neatly styled black hair, he wore a crisp white top under a light jacket, brown loose pants, and white shoes, polished yet casual, elegant without formality.

  Early July sun shone over the moors as they moved toward the crowds assembled for the Quidditch World Cup. The vast campground was dotted with tents of every imaginable shape and enchantment, flags rippling above, enchanted trinkets humming and spinning, the air charged with a tangible sense of excitement.

  Woosh, woosh...

  Witches and wizards aboard brooms darted through the sky, some alone, others in groups, laughing as they weaved between tents or set off harmless magical fireworks that bloomed brightly before fading into sparks.

  The air buzzed with noise, yet beneath the chaos ran an unmistakable festive energy. Cheers rose and fell without warning, mingling with shouted greetings and the crackle of spellwork. Vendors called out to passing crowds, while enchanted banners fluttered wildly overhead, swaying as if alive with the excitement of the gathering.

  All around, excitement spilled freely. Wizards from every corner of the world displayed their country's fashions, strangers debated predictions as though lifelong companions, children tugged eagerly at parents' sleeves, and even the oldest, most experienced fans couldn't hide their childlike anticipation.

  For a brief moment, it felt as though the entire wizarding world had decided to set aside its grudges and secrets, choosing instead to celebrate together under an open sky.

  They soon reached the heart of the bustling site. Behind them, uniformed personnel kept the entering crowd in line, yet Maverick and Isabella slipped through effortlessly, their presence seemingly unnoticed by anyone.

  "When does the game start anyway?" Isabella asked. The noisy atmosphere didn't seem to bother her in the slightest, her attention fixed entirely on the man whose arm was linked with hers.

  "Late afternoon, I think," Maverick replied thoughtfully. "There's still a few hours. Why don't we grab something to eat over there?" He nodded toward a live cooking station nearby, where a Middle Eastern-looking couple worked over a sizzling grill, the aroma of spices floating toward them.

  And they were far from the only ones. Food stalls and live cooking stations dotted the grounds in every direction, each offering something unique. Some served steaming meat pies and roasted corn, while others displayed sweet pastries glistening with honey, self-refilling chilled drinks, and exotic dishes representing magical communities from across the globe.

  "Mmm… this is so good!" Isabella exclaimed, one hand holding half a shawarma while the other wiped the corner of her lips. Maverick chuckled at her delight, balancing two cups of a rich, frothy drink in his hands, what he assumed was a Turkish take on butterbeer, but every bit as good.

  "Try it…" she said, bringing the other half closer to his mouth. He took a bite, and the taste was undeniably good, rich, flavorful, saucy, and spicy... in other words, a perfect shawarma.

  "Don't fill your belly all at once, honey… there are food stalls everywhere from all over the world," Maverick reminded her as she turned back toward the stall. There were still a few hours before the game would start, and with nothing else pressing to do, they might as well enjoy the feast laid out before them.

  "But it's so good," Isabella let out a dramatic exhale upon hearing him, then reluctantly turned away from the food stall. Indeed, the grounds were packed with food vendors of every kind, and she wanted to try them all, but alas, a human belly had its limits.

  And just as the thoughts crossed her mind, her peripheral vision snagged on a familiar figure not far away. She murmured without thinking, "Is that Mr. Black…?" and gestured toward a nearby camping tent surrounded by mostly children and a few adults.

  Hearing her, Maverick glanced in the same direction and saw that it was indeed the Mutt, but then his one brow lifted when he spotted someone he definitely had not expected to see here.

  Sirius, the Weasley couple, and another man whom Maverick recognized as Amos Diggory stood among the adults. Harry Potter, Hermione Granger, and Hogwarts' pretty boy, Cedric Diggory, were there as well, along with, of course, an entire pack of redheads. What gave Maverick pause, however, was spotting Jean of all people among them. He was fairly certain the little witch-slash-mutant did not care for Quidditch in the slightest.

  Did she bring the X-Men along as well? He entertained the thought briefly, then extended his magical sense, only to find nothing unusual.

  Strange...

  He didn't recall her asking him to bring her, which meant she must have asked either Ron or Harry to have one of their adults pick her up. Most likely, it was Sirius.

  Well, it didn't really matter, and he shrugged the thought away. At least she was blending into the magical world and its culture, and he preferred it this way, since he did not want to always act as a middleman whenever she decided to stroll over to the magical side.

  "Leave them be. We're just a random Asian magical couple here for the game, remember?" Maverick said, gently tugging her arm and pulling her along toward another stall.

  Because they were in disguise, no one paid them any real attention. On top of that, he had layered a subtle notice-me-not charm over them, masking their presence so that only the people they chose to interact with would truly register them.

  And so, meandering from food stall to food stall and merchant to merchant, the couple savored the leisurely pace of the afternoon, until nearly two hours later, their bellies pleasantly full, Maverick paused near a modest tent on the northern fringe of the vast campsite, the stadium looming just beyond the slope ahead.

  There was still some time before the match began, and until then, it was time for a brief rest, perhaps even a cool shower together. He had set up a tent beforehand, of course, and inside, like most of the camps, it was enchanted with subtle magic.

  It was nothing outrageous like the setups of some wealthier families, just a comfortably spacious area for the two of them, with a small kitchenette, a bed in case the game dragged on, and, naturally, a bathroom.

  "Ah… never thought I'd be this exhausted from just strolling around and eating…" Isabella collapsed onto the sofa, stretching out on her back, and Maverick settled beside her, resting his head gently in her lap.

  At the same time, he snapped his fingers, undoing their disguises, and closed his eyes, content with the idea of taking a quick break. Even an archmage could grow weary after being dragged around for hours by a woman. Anyway, a short rest was the plan... so he thought.

  "So… what's her name?"

  Merlin…

  ---

  The stadium set up for the final game was massive, and from a glance, no one would have guessed it had been built in under a year. At first sight, it resembled a typical modern sports arena, but what set it apart were the spectator stands, rising impossibly high into the sky.

  The sun was beginning to set, casting a warm, golden glow across the ground. Noticing Isabella's astonished expression, Maverick began to explain as they walked. "The former minister kicked off the project, and the current one saw it through to completion, adding a few of his own touches… expanding the capacity from 100,000 to 150,000, installing extra viewing screens at the VIP stands, and even setting up proper betting stations…"

  "Are you sure it's just him… and not you, Ricky, feeding him all those ideas?" Isabella asked, a knowing smile tugging at her lips.

  Chuckling, Maverick shrugged thoughtfully. Yes, he had given Greengrass a few tips here and there, mostly to help him squeeze a bit of extra gold out of the project.

  As they strolled closer, the sounds of cheers, booming music, and the distant crackle of fireworks reached them, growing louder with each step toward the entrance.

  It was Maverick's first time also witnessing a Quidditch match on such a grand scale. He had attended major sporting events before, of course—inter-school Quidditch finals, his own competitions, and even, in his previous life, big football matches—but the thrill here, the sheer scale and energy of it all, was far greater, charged with an electricity that none of those could match.

  And this year, the match would be witnessed not only by those present in person, but across the globe, thanks to him and the magic vision. His people were already spread throughout the grounds, covering the grand event, and fortunately, his reach had grown enough that he no longer needed to meddle with every single detail.

  "I really hope it doesn't drag on for days…" Isabella muttered.

  "Hm… I have a feeling it won't," Maverick replied, stroking his chin as they reached the entrance, where a guard was checking tickets. Holding VVIP passes meant a separate entrance and almost no queue, and arriving at the last minute while most spectators had already gone inside made the process even faster.

  And this time, he didn't intend to slip by unnoticed. He handed over the documents, and the guard, after a quick glance from the tickets to their faces, offered a polite smile and waved them through. "Mr. Kim Jon Un and Mrs. Ri Sol Ju… welcome. Your tickets are approved."

  "Where are we seated?" Isabella asked as they made their way toward the rows of VVIP elevators. Inside, it was just as quiet as outside, and the couple had the elevator to themselves.

  "At the very top," Maverick replied.

  "Will there be anyone else sitting with us?"

  "Ah… should be a fair number. The entire top section is first-class, like a ring, but since we're in disguise, hopefully no one will bother us."

  Isabella nodded happily, letting out a soft exhale, then tilted her head toward him and asked again, "And when exactly do things start getting interesting?"

  Ding.

  The door slid open, revealing a spacious lounge that stretched endlessly to the left and right. Seats were arranged with generous spacing, clustered mostly at the front near a sleek glass panel offering an unobstructed view of the stadium below.

  A long buffet ran along the back, laden with delicacies from across the wizarding world, while soft, ambient lighting faded gently from the ceiling, casting a warm glow over the room. Wizards and witches in an array of robes and attire from every corner of the globe moved about, the low hum of conversation and clinking glasses filling the air.

  Hearing her question, Maverick glanced at her briefly, a small smile curling his lips before he walked ahead again. "After the game, so I've been told. And we might even get to watch a full-on duel between two greatmagi…"

  —————————

  Little Hangleton, a small village on the southwest side of England, was a quiet, rural place, naturally isolated from its neighbors by surrounding fields and rising hills.

  Throughout the year, it experiences a temperate maritime climate, with generally mild weather that is damp and often overcast rather than extreme. Summers are mild rather than hot, marked by longer days, though rain still appears regularly, sometimes as sudden downpours followed by humid air.

  It was one such evening, and the village was caught in a heavy downpour, with thunder rolling overhead and lightning flashing often enough to make even the streetlights barely visible from afar.

  Over the dim, flickering lights of the village below, blurred and trembling in the sheets of rain, a four-story mansion also rose atop one of the surrounding hills.

  It was indeed a mansion, but a glance revealed that it had long been abandoned. Tall, broken windows stared blindly into the darkness, streaked with age and damp, while ivy crept along the fa?ade like grasping fingers and sections of the roof sagged clearly under years of neglect.

  Boom! Crackle!

  Each roll of thunder caused the structure to shudder in silhouette, and with every burst of lightning the mansion briefly revealed its true shape, sharp and oppressive, before sinking once more into shadow.

  And inside, the darkness was so thick it seemed to press against every wall, heavy enough to suffocate.

  The kitchen, or at least what appeared to be a kitchen, lay buried in shadow, its edges barely visible as lightning forced its way through a grimy window. In the flickering light, a short, fat man could be seen hunched over a wooden table, his shoulders drawn tight, thinning hair damp and clinging to his scalp, and sweat glistening on his pale, rat-like face.

  He appeared to be stirring a murky, pale mixture in a ceramic bowl, his hand trembling so violently that the spoon clinked faintly against the sides with each motion. He was so absorbed in his task that he did not notice the door creak open behind him, and only when a cold, rasping voice, heavy with command and cruelty, came from the shadows did he freeze, his breath catching in his throat.

  "Wormtail!" Every syllable crawled across his nerves, making the hairs on his arms stand on end. "The Master grows impatient… he requires his supplements. Now!"

  The short, fat man with a rat-like face was indeed the heinous fugitive Peter Pettigrew, who had escaped prison months ago, and upon hearing the cold words, he nearly dropped the bowl as he spun around, eyes wide with panic, as if caught committing some unforgivable crime.

  "Yes. Yes, of course," he stammered, nodding rapidly. "They are ready… ready right away. I was just—"

  "Spare me your pathetic whining, rat. It is humiliating enough that I was the one tasked to fetch your useless self." The man cast one final glance of disdain at the shivering creature and, without another word, closed the door, leaving Wormtail alone inside once more.

  At the same time, deeper within the mansion, a large chamber lay steeped in damp, choking gloom. The air was cold and heavy, carrying the scent of decay and dust left to fester. Cloaked figures were scattered across the room, their faces hidden in shadow, forming a loose half-circle around a sagging couch positioned at the center, facing the fireplace. At first glance, it appeared empty, though the way the others avoided looking directly at it suggested otherwise.

  Thunder rolled overhead, rattling the walls.

  A high, thin voice rose from the couch, sharp and piercing, slicing through the silence with unnatural clarity.

  "How proceeds the preparation, my loyal servants?"

  The sound of it made several of the figures stiffen.

  "Exactly as you commanded, my Lord," came a voice, eager and unhinged, as a man stepped forward with jerky, devoted movements and lowered himself onto one knee beside the couch. "The instructions have been delivered according to your will, and they, along with the rest of us, shall act as soon as the closing ceremony concludes…"

  The storm outside answered with another violent crack of thunder, briefly illuminating the faces within the room.

  "And how many of those greedy, feeble-minded insects have pledged themselves to this task?" the piercing voice continued, its tone tightening with contempt.

  "Thirteen, my Lord, including Goyle, Crabbe, Malfoy, Nott, Avery, and a few others," the man replied quickly, then faltered. "Though they have asked, rather insistently, to be granted the honor of seeing you..."

  A hiss of fury filled the room, sharp and venomous upon hearing the reply.

  "Honor," the screeching voice echoed, dripping with mockery. "They mistake their usefulness for worth. They are not loyal, only fearful. Traitors, nothing more."

  "I could not agree more, my Lord," another voice chimed from the shadows, thick with reverence. "They should count themselves fortunate that you even permit them to serve..."

  "I still think this is a reckless idea, Mr. Voldemort." Another voice, feminine this time, cut in. Unlike the others, hers carried little reverence, speaking instead almost as if to an equal.

  "How dare you defy my Lord's brilliance!" another feminine voice shrieked, hysterical and burning with fury as it interrupted her. "I should rip your filthy tongue from your mouth and let the snakes feast—"

  "Enough, Bellatrix."

  "My Lord?" The hysterical voice changed completely the instant her name was spoken. Instead of fear, her expression twisted into something even more fanatical, as though merely hearing her name uttered by the figure on the couch filled her with ecstasy.

  "Do not delude yourself, Rosier. It is you who needs me, not the other way around," the piercing voice continued coldly, ignoring the fanatic woman and addressing the one who had raised the objection.

  "We agreed to cooperate," the woman, now identified as Rosier replied without budging, her gaze fixed squarely on the couch. "I offer my service to help you return to life, and in exchange, once you regain your full strength, you will aid me in freeing my master from prison."

  "And your cooperation falls under aiding me in this operation," the cold voice replied evenly. "Either you agree, or our arrangement ends here."

  From the side, Bellatrix cackled, her laughter sharp and mocking as it cut through the chamber, while Rosier clenched her fists beneath her robes, breaths ragged, yet she held her tongue and did not argue further.

  Already, she was having second thoughts about this so-called cooperative arrangement. The person, or rather, the thing before her was a complete madman, and the rest scattered across the room were no better.

  "What if there truly is a king hiding somewhere in disguise?" she pressed, attempting logic this time. "What if all of this amounts to nothing, and you lose two of your best assets?"

  "There will not be any," a man's voice interjected calmly as lightning flashed, briefly illuminating his face. "I have scrutinized the attendance records repeatedly. Only Alastor Moody presents any conceivable threat, and perhaps Minerva McGonagall among the guests, should she even decide to intervene. "The rest are magus rank Aurors and ordinary witches and wizards, along with a handful of Muggles. No other archmage is recorded to attend—"

  "Kekeke! What's the matter, old hag?" Bellatrix sneered, turning her wild eyes toward Rosier. "Scared of a crippled man and some mudblood-licking teacher?" She cackled madly as she spoke.

  Of course I am, you dumb cunt. Crazy—every last one of them was mad to the core. Rosier's thoughts raced as she clenched her wand tightly, anger and disbelief warring within her.

  Yet what choice did she have if she wanted her master freed? Moreover, this was a cooperative arrangement, and she had been the one to seek out these freaks in the first place. Shaking her head, she forcefully brushed the thoughts aside, logic or not, and finally nodded in reluctant surrender.

  "Then I want command of the operation," she said firmly, ignoring the hysterical woman and looking toward the couch.

  "That can be arranged," the hoarse voice replied.

  But Rosier was not finished, as more thoughts churned in her mind, she pressed on. "Does it truly have to be that boy? You know how heavily guarded he is."

  "I have my reasons for using the boy, as I have already explained," the piercing voice replied, sharper now. "I will use no other. I have waited thirteen years, and a few more months will make no difference. As for the protection surrounding the boy, I believe my plan will be effective. All that is required is a little courage from my servants, and from you."

  Listen to yourself, you lunatic. Of course, Rosier did not say it aloud. Instead, she nodded, again, reluctantly. This was not the first time she had questioned it as well, and she had received a similar answer each time. As for this so-called plan the madman referred to, it was risky and fraught with uncertainty, but… still possible.

  The real problem lay with these lunatics and their tendency to change terms without warning. Like now, she thought, why was it necessary to cause such a ruckus?

  She released another resigned sigh. At least she would command these crazed lunatics, and with the hysterical woman working alongside her, even if Alastor and Minerva both intervened, she was confident the plan could still succeed.

  That was, of course, assuming no other monsters lurked among the audience.

  And just as the thought settled, the slow creak of a door echoed through the room, and all eyes turned toward its direction.

  Wormtail crept into the chamber, gripping the ceramic bowl as if it were a lifeline, his feet faltering and his breath shallow, uneven, and quick. Slowly, he approached the couch and attempted to lower himself in a show of respect, but his foot slipped, sending him lurching forward, face-first, nearly spilling the bowl across the floor.

  "Wormtail!" the voice from the couch shrieked at the pathetic moron, fury reverberating through the chamber.

  "I— I... beg your forgiveness, my Lord," Wormtail cried, bowing so deeply his forehead nearly struck the ground. His arms shook violently as he lifted the bowl with both hands, holding it out in a trembling offering. "It is milk, freshly drawn from your familiar, combined precisely with the remedy you prescribed. If I may be permitted, my Lord, I would be honored to feed you—"

  Booom!

  He did not get to finish before the air suddenly cracked with magic, and his fat body was ripped from the floor and hurled aside, smashing against the wall with a dull, painful thud before collapsing in a heap.

  Bellatrix lowered her wand, breathing heavily, her presence sharp and electrifying. Dark hair tumbled wildly around her face, framing eyes that burned with feverish devotion. Before sending the piece of flesh hurtling across the room, she had, of course, snatched the bowl from him. The sheer audacity of this wretched creature even daring to think of being intimate with her most beloved master infuriated her.

  "Disgusting creature," she spat, her voice high and trembling with fervor. "How dare you presume to place your filthy hands anywhere near my Lord."

  She then lowered herself gracefully, her movements reverent, almost worshipful. Scooping a portion of the mixture from the bowl, she held it up eagerly.

  A few chuckles of disdain crackled through the chamber, mingling with the rumble of thunder and flashes of lightning that revealed Peter Pettigrew sprawled like a lifeless ghost, half-collapsed against the wall, the object of everyone's silent scorn. Only Rosier remained composed, her mind already racing ahead to the task she would have to lead these mindless fools through.

  More lightning tore through the sky outside, its pale glow spilling into the chamber, revealing who, or what, lay upon the couch.

  It was a small, twisted form that lay there, swathed in dark cloth. Hairless and pale, its skin stretched taut and glistening, the shape was disturbingly infantile—somewhere between human and goblin at a mere glance.

  Its limbs were thin and weak, its head grotesquely large, the flattened face marked by slitted nostrils and a thin, lipless mouth. Red eyes burned within deep sockets, alive with cold, merciless intelligence.

  Those eyes fixed upon Bellatrix, and the room seemed to bow beneath the weight of that gaze, as thunder roared overhead and the storm raged on...

  ---

  Hundreds of miles away, many hours later.

  Boom! Booom! Roaaaar!

  The titanic stadium exploded in a deafening roar. Fireworks tore into the night sky, streaking gold, crimson, and sapphire across the darkness. The crowd surged as one, voices raw from cheering, clapping, and whistling, waves of jubilation rolling over the stands.

  Spectators leapt to their feet, arms raised, faces alight with pure exhilaration. Flags and banners snapped in the wind, catching the brilliance of the fireworks, as if the sky itself had ignited in celebration.

  Candles, flares, and magical sparks danced through the air, illuminating faces turned heavenward, laughter and shouts mingling with the crackle and boom of the pyrotechnics.

  Then, cutting through the chaos, the announcer's voice thundered across the arena, sharp and electrifying, sending a ripple of confirmation through the throng:

  "And the winner of this year's Quidditch World Cup is… Ireland!"

  —————————

  Cheers and applause detonated through the stands, a white hot surge of sound that tore across the stadium in endless waves, sealing the night in thunder and fire. The roar became a living thing, swelling and crashing back upon itself as fireworks split the sky above, scattering gold and emerald light across tens of thousands of upturned faces.

  At the stadium's highest level, within the VIP stands, the celebration was erupting in perfect harmony with the chaos below.

  Fred and George were on their feet, leaping and screaming at the top of their lungs, arms flailing as if they might take flight themselves. George nearly tripped over the bench, laughing wildly as Fred grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him in triumph.

  Ron seized Harry by the collar, hauling him halfway out of his seat as his face burned red with excitement. "Did you see that, Harry? Did you see that?"

  Harry nodded helplessly, his glasses slightly askew from the shaking. "I saw it, Ron, I saw it."

  "That was a Skycorkscrew," Ron shouted, jabbing a finger toward the pitch as the cheers surged again. "Merlin, a Skycorkscrew!"

  "I know," Harry said, raising his voice just to be heard. "I saw it."

  Ron barely listened. "Did you know that guy Krum's almost our age?" he went on breathlessly. "How in Merlin's name is that even possible?"

  Harry rolled his eyes, though a faint smile tugged at his mouth. Honestly, it did not feel quite as unbelievable as everyone made it sound to him. After everything he had been put through during training with his alchemy professor, the months of relentless drills, he was fairly certain he could pull off something similar if given the chance. Especially on a broom, he had far more confidence.

  And while the group were celebrating along with the rest, not far away an Asian couple sat within the same VIP section, joining the festivities as well, though with polite applause rather than shouting.

  Isabella clapped absently, her gaze still fixed on the pitch, while Maverick mirrored her, slowly bringing his hands together in an unhurried rhythm. Without turning her head, she muttered, "Thank Merlin it did not drag on. I was starting to get bored already."

  Maverick chuckled softly, also without looking at her. "That's Quidditch, honey. You never really know…" In truth, he was a little surprised, because in the original story he remembered the match ending quickly as well. Was there really some invisible hand making sure things unfolded along a set, fated line of trajectory?

  After all, this universe was an entirely different setting from the original story, and yet, some events still seemed to unfold the same way.

  Isabella finally glanced sideways at him. "So... what's next?"

  He hummed softly at her words, considering. According to Lucius, Voldy's thugs would move only after the closing ceremony, meaning tonight it was only a matter of time. He let a slow smile form as he watched the vibrant fireworks erupt before him. "Now... we simply wait," he said quietly, eyes fixed on the spectacle.

  Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

  The closing ceremony followed soon after. Champions were crowned, medals awarded, and standout players recognized as the crowd roared approval once more.

  Amid the celebration, from the corner of his eye, Maverick noticed a man several seats to his right rise quietly. He leaned down, murmured something to the woman and child beside him, and slipped away without drawing attention. His expression was solemn, sharply at odds with the electric atmosphere, and he made his way toward Maverick, stopping just behind him as if waiting for instructions.

  "Is it time?" Maverick asked calmly, without turning.

  "Yes, leader," Lucius replied in a low voice. Though controlled, his tone carried an undercurrent of anxiety that Maverick could sense without looking. "I've been summoned… we'll be marching from the northeast side of the camp."

  Maverick waved his hand, nodding. "Good. I take it you have the portkey with you?"

  A brief look of relief crossed Lucius's face as he nodded, slipping his hand inside his coat pocket. "I have it…"

  "…Very well. Be careful. And don't worry about your wife or little Draco, I'll keep an eye on them. Signal me when it's about to begin."

  Lucius exhaled slowly, as if a heavy weight had been lifted, nodded once more, and then turned toward the elevators. His face was calm, resolute, the two things that had haunted him most—his family's safety and his own—finally accounted for.

  He knew the mission given by the Dark Lord was essentially a suicide assignment, yet inaction would be far more dangerous. Voldemort would not tolerate hesitation. At the same time, his position as a double agent left him with no real choice. At least now, his new leader had given him a chance to survive—for himself and for his family.

  Minutes later, Maverick and Isabella also rose, making their way toward the elevators. The stands still buzzed with energy, but no one paid them any attention, and even if someone had glanced their way, they would not have noticed. Already, they were geared up, invisible to sight and senses, and soon, they vanished from the stadium entirely.

  Time dragged on as fireworks thundered overhead, each explosion followed by waves of cheers that rolled through the stadium again and again. At last, the World Cup finals drew to a close. By the final announcement, it was already past one in the morning. Streams of spectators made their way toward tents, though most remained on the grounds, planning to sleep under the stars and depart at sunrise.

  "Do not tell your mother you have been gambling," Mr. Weasley implored quietly as they shuffled down the stairs with the crowd.

  "Don't worry, Dad," Fred said gleefully. "We've got big plans for this money. We wouldn't want it confiscated."

  Mr. Weasley hesitated, clearly tempted to ask what those plans were, then thought better of it. Soon they were swept along the lantern lit path back toward the campsite. Raucous singing drifted through the night air, and leprechauns zipped overhead, cackling as they waved glowing lanterns.

  By the time they reached the tents, sleep felt impossible, and with the surrounding noise still rising, Mr. Weasley decided they deserved one last cup of cocoa before turning in. They laughed and debated over the match until Ginny dozed off at the tiny table, sending hot chocolate pooling across the floor, and at last, everyone decided it was time to call it a night.

  Hermione, Jean, and Ginny retreated to the ladies' area, while Harry, Ron, Sirius, Mr. Weasley, and the others changed into pajamas and climbed into their bunks. Even then, singing and the occasional distant bang echoed across the campsite.

  "Bet telling the Irish lot to quiet down would be a bit… hopeless, eh?" Ron said from the top bunk, staring at the canvas ceiling as a leprechaun lantern zipped past. He couldn't stop thinking about Krum's spectacular moves, especially that last-minute catch.

  He imagined himself on a Firebolt, robes bearing his name, the roar of a hundred thousand voices filling the stadium as the commentator's voice boomed, "I give you... Ronaaaald Weeeeeasley."

  He never knew when the fantasy slipped into sleep. All he knew was that his father's voice suddenly cut through the darkness.

  "Get up. Ron, Harry, come on, get up. This is urgent."

  "What's happening?" Harry shot upright, narrowly avoiding a bang with the bunk above, while Ron groaned from his own bunk, rolled over, and squinted sleepily at his father.

  The campsite sounded different now, or at least it seemed that way at first. The singing had stopped, replaced by screams that pierced the night, accompanied by the heavy thud of running feet.

  "No time," Mr. Weasley said hurriedly, tugging jeans over his pajamas.

  Sirius was no different, hopping on one foot as he wrestled into his own pants. "Grab a jacket and get outside. Quickly."

  They obeyed, and soon everyone stumbled out of the tent, where they were met with complete chaos. Fires flickered across the field, and people scattered, fleeing toward the woods as if running for their lives.

  "Girls, with me! Stay close," Sirius called, beckoning the three witches to follow.

  "What's going on?!" Miss Know-It-All rushed over, Jean and Ginny close behind, panic written on all three faces. All around them, screams tore through the night, the thunder of running feet echoing across the field as terrified faces darted in every direction.

  "Don't know… just hold hands and stay with me," Sirius replied, then glanced at Arthur. "We get to a clearing and Apparate out, immediately!"

  Branches snapped underfoot, and the roar of the crowd's fear pressed in from all sides.

  "I know… come on, let's go!"

  They saw, at some distance, a group moving through the campsite—masked faces advancing, spells flashing from their wands like gunfire. Jeering laughter and drunken shouts rolled toward them from that direction, and worst of all, bursts of vivid green light made it clear exactly what it was.

  There was no time to think. Led by Arthur and Sirius, the group rushed in the opposite direction toward the woods, hoping to find a clearing away from the avalanche of fleeing people. Only then could they Apparate safely, with all the children together.

  Meanwhile, high above the chaos, Maverick and Isabella stood on a shimmering magical construct, watching the turmoil unfold below. Neither looked surprised, as if everything happening was exactly as they had anticipated.

  Reflected in their pupils were flames dancing everywhere, while cries and shouts echoed upward, striking their ears. Maverick's expression hardened as he raised one hand, pushing his magic outward in invisible waves that swept through every corner of the campsite.

  Then he brought his other hand to his ear. "Get moving," he said calmly. "Start clearing the crowd."

  "I really hope you know what you're doing, Ricky," Isabella murmured, staring down at the chaos below, her face serious and her hand clenched firmly around her wand.

  "Ali and Lupin are leading the team," he replied evenly. "I trust them. Besides, my magic is watching everything."

  His eyes flicked toward the Weasley group as the two adults led them toward the woods, joined by a stream of others, some screaming, some crying, and some stumbling as they struggled to run steadily.

  Elsewhere, he saw Ministry Aurors locked in battle with the masked assailants, spells flashing wildly. Bodies were strewn across the field, cursed or stunned, the ground marked by the chaotic aftermath of magic.

  From the start, Maverick had counted two or three dozen masked attackers emerging from the woods, fanning out into separate groups. Voldemort's plan was simple, apparently. Sow chaos, shed blood, and raise his flag for all to witness.

  Beyond that, Maverick couldn't see any benefit this act of terrorism would bring the madman. Moreover, it would draw the authorities straight to him, not just the British but the ICW as well, since the World Cup was an international event.

  Or was it all purely for his twisted ego, a way to announce he would soon be back in such a sick, albeit flashy, manner?

  He shook his head. Anyways, trying to make sense of that madman would be pointless. Slowly, he then turned his head, narrowing his eyes on the distance where tall trees rose under the pale glow of the moon.

  According to Lucius, for tonight's operation Voldemort had thirty to forty Death Eaters of Magus rank on the ground, and two Greatmagi leading from the skies. For now, though, those two hadn't taken action.

  Rustling on the breeze even from where he stood, the maniacal laughter reached him, and he didn't need to second-guess the identity of one of those lunatics. The other was no stranger either; he recognized the magical signature from the prison break months ago.

  If no other party of equal power intervenes when they take action, Maverick will have to step in. That said, within the reach of his magical senses, he also spots two familiar figures, equally matched in magic, seemingly waiting as well.

  —————————

  "Kekekek… just look at them, running for their mommies…"

  Under the moonlight, above the tall trees lining the forest's edge, two silhouettes hovered on magical brooms, watching the chaotic campsite spread out beneath them.

  One remained perfectly still, a silent shadow against the sky. The other swayed and rocked as though their broom were a horse out of control, yet instead of panic, shrill, maniacal laughter spilled from their mouth and rang freely through the night.

  "How long must we wait?" The seemingly crazy individual was none other than Bellatrix Lestrange, second only in madness to Voldemort himself.

  A breathless, feverish laugh escaped her, sharp and trembling with anticipation. She twisted toward the figure beside her, eyes glittering with frantic delight. "Do you have any idea what this feels like? To watch them scatter and scream and not be allowed to touch. Ahhhh... It is agony. All those lovely little toys, and I am forced to keep my hands to myself."

  The other silhouette, when the moonlight fell across her face beneath the hood, revealed a luminous, fair complexion, soft rosy lips, and perfectly arched brows. Strands of black hair framed her delicate features, highlighting high cheekbones and a serene elegance that made her beauty striking, composed, and subtly commanding, a woman seemingly in her early thirties.

  The corner of her eyebrow twitched as she fought to suppress the urge to hex the crazed woman-child beside her. "A little longer…" she murmured, her voice barely audible, reluctant, yet still answering.

  Below her, she saw the campsite had now descended into utter madness. People ran blindly in every direction, their terrified screams tangled with jeers, shrill laughter, and the occasional staggering shout of those chasing them, while flames licked the tents and sparks danced across the night sky.

  The first objective, according to that twisted madman, was to give the people a taste of absolute fear, she thought inwardly as time seemed to crawl. Up next was to raise his flag gloriously, she scoffed, and finally to capture a certain "chess piece" convenient for the final plan.

  What she was waiting for was that individual, yet the chess piece seemed to have vanished the moment the ruckus began.

  Anyways, watching the bodies collide and stumble over one another, panic rippling through the crowd, she thought this should count as the first objective complete, right?

  And just then—

  "Aaah…"

  A sharp cry suddenly cut through the chaos, loud enough to rise above the screams of the panicked crowd. She tilted her head, tracing the sound, and saw it wasn't coming from the terrified masses, but from someone on their own side.

  Her eyes narrowed, settling on a single figure in her line of sight. Finally, she thought, the next objective had finally arrived.

  "Kekekek…"

  Beside her, Bellatrix giggled, the sound bubbling from her throat with delighted malice as she cast a brief sideways look, recognizing the subtle change in her demeanor. For all her madness, she was still a great magi, her awareness just as sharp as anyone in her rank.

  "You can start," Rosier intoned, her gaze locking with hers, while she braced herself, knuckles white on the broom's handle. "Do nothing unnecessary… your target is Alester, and nothing else."

  Bellatrix's tongue flicked across her lips and her grin widened as the thrill of what was about to unfold coursed through her veins. She offered no retort, too consumed by exhilaration to bother with words, her mind already dancing ahead to the chaos she would unleash.

  "Kekekeke…"

  Cackling like a lunatic, she surged into the sky, wand raised high, eyes burning with anticipation while every nerve in her body trembled. It was the moment she had been waiting for, the moment to let her lord's mark rise in all its terrifying glory for the entire world to see.

  With a decisive clockwise flick, she unleashed her magic, shouting the spell aloud, "MORSMORDRE!" A thick bolt of green tore into the night sky, accompanied by a deafening crack of thunder. It had been so long, well over a decade since she had last cast it, and yet it launched with effortless ferocity, as though it were the most natural thing in the world.

  Lowering her wand, her lips curled into a fanatic grin as she waited. A heartbeat later, the spell detonated high above, scattering even the clouds overhead in a violent bloom of eerie green light.

  Everyone below, the panicked crowd, the attacking Death Eaters, and the pursuing Aurors all turned their heads upward, drawn by the deafening crack and the ominous green spreading across the sky.

  "What is that?"

  "Some kind of signal?"

  "Are reinforcements coming?"

  Speculation rippled through the chaotic crowd as the noise collapsed into a tense, collective silence. Fearful gazes followed the spreading green above, watching as the mist roiled and folded in on itself, slowly shaping into a skull of sickly light, its bony jaws parting as if to announce its presence.

  "That… that does not look like a signal for reinforcements," one onlooker muttered.

  Gasps spread like a wave, and in stark contrast, those who had been waiting for this moment answered with shrill, fanatical laughter that rang across the field.

  From the skull's gaping jaws, they watched as a massive serpent emerge, coiling slowly as if waking from slumber. Some, especially those from Britain who remembered the dark days a decade ago, felt recognition strike them immediately.

  "That's… isn't that the symbol of the Dark Lord?" A terrified woman, past middle age, lifted her trembling hand toward the sky, clutching her equally frightened husband tightly.

  The sea of people below was bathed in the eerie green light, their faces pale with dread, while high above, the instigator cackled even more maniacally at the sight. Yes, yes. This was exactly what her most beloved lord had wanted. A declaration, a most glorious announcement.

  However, she didn't get to savor the moment, for in the next instant her magical sense flared at an imminent threat. Instinctively, she jerked her broom to the side just as a thick bolt of red streaked past, vanishing into the night sky.

  "Kekekekek!" Her laughter rang fanatically through the brief silence, sharp and wild, as she steadied herself effortlessly and unleashed a counter hex toward a second surge of terrifying magic hurtling in her direction.

  Booooom!

  Below, every eye was drawn to the spectacle above. Two thick bolts of magic collided in the air, sparks and arcs of power crackling between them. Two figures on magical brooms circled slowly, high above the chaos, their surges of magic locked in a tense, frozen stalemate.

  Boom! Boom!

  Strands of lightning arced from the clashing spells, tearing through the air, sending dust and debris flying, and obliterating anything in their path.

  Screams erupted again as the dark wizards resumed their hunt. Above and below, the campsite had fallen into complete chaos, magic tearing through the sky while terrified figures scattered across the ground.

  "Kekekeke!" Bellatrix's face lit up in the wake of her own magic, her hair whipping wildly as she laughed and poured more power into her spell. On the other side, Alastor Moody gripped his wand tightly, his one eye gleaming with lethal focus at the madwoman trying to overwhelm him.

  "What's the matter, cripple? Cat got your tongue, hmm? Kekekekeke… and here I was thinking that mudblood-licking bitch would stick around to join the fun…"

  "Damn it!" Moody muttered under his breath. He didn't respond to her taunt, only an idiot would, and focused entirely on the duel. This crazy woman, mad as she was, was no easy opponent.

  And indeed, if only Minerva had been here, he thought, but she had departed right after the game, long before the chaos even began, leaving him to face this treacherous situation alone.

  Reinforcements had, of course, been requested, but with it being the middle of the night and the Patronuses still en route to their recipients, he feared it might be too late by the time they arrived. If it were only the lunatics below, he was certain he could have handled the situation swiftly, but facing a mage of equal rank on the other side made that impossible.

  Booom! Booom! Booom! Booom! Booom! Booom!

  Spell after spell, unleashed from their immense reserves of magic, collided in a frenzied storm, explosive bursts meeting concussive detonations. Each strike cut through the darkness, trailing searing green, fiery red, and shimmering white, while shockwaves hurled sparks and debris toward the panicked crowd below.

  The two great magi twisted and spiraled on their brooms, locked in a relentless, deadly dance. Such was the clash of magi at their rank that, if left unrestrained, it could obliterate everything nearby in its aftermath.

  Moody, unfortunately, found himself in a precarious position, unable to unleash his full power even if he wanted to. The woman was far from an easy opponent, and to make matters worse, she kept lowering their altitude, dragging the clash of their magic closer to the ground and forcing him to divide his attention between their deadly duel and the panicked crowd below.

  "You know you won't get away with this. Terrorizing an international event will put the ICW straight on your trail."

  Moody tried to reason with her, then realized he was wasting his breath. After all, what good was trying talking to a madwoman?

  "Kekeke…"

  Sure enough, her cackles grew even wilder after his warning, as if none of it mattered. "I'd worry about yourself first if I were you, you stupid dog," she shouted back, intensifying her barrage of spells hurling toward him.

  The hell does that mean? he wondered, and almost immediately the answer came as a surge of warning jolted through his magical sense.

  Instinctively, he twisted his broom as a powerful burst of magic hurtled past him, but the maneuver left him exposed, and Bellatrix showed no mercy, unleashing a blasting hex squarely at him.

  "Damn! Protego maxima!"

  Unfortunately, it was just a hair's breadth too late. The spell tore through his semi-formed shield, slamming into him and send him, along with his broom, hurtling across the sky.

  Excruciating pain seared through his chest leaving him nearly breathless, but fortunately the semi-formed magical barrier had atleast managed to absorb most of the impact.

  That said, Alastor Moody was no stranger to pain, nor to life-and-death situations like this. Mid-flight, blasted through the air, he twisted with precision, clenching his chest against the searing ache, and shot upward again, his magical senses ablaze with warning that danger was far from over.

  Booom! Booom!

  More spells were hurled at him, thick bolts of red and blue streaking toward him from two different directions, leaving him with no choice but to evade. He twisted left and right, dodging each by mere hair's breadth, and surged higher into the sky. At the very least, he needed to draw the clash away from the crowded campsite, and there was nowhere else to go but upward.

  The sky soon erupted in a blaze of color, lightning-like jolts streaking through the air like a furious storm, until at last the crackling ceased. Moody turned, sensing the onslaught had stopped, only to find the culprits hovering motionless, their eyes fixed on him.

  He froze as well, knowing he could not let them retreat. At least until reinforcements arrived, he had the confidence to keep them occupied, even if it meant drawing them through the sky in pursuit. Besides, the Aurors with him, now trying to stop the chaos below, were no nobodies either, and with some luck, even before reinforcements arrived, they might even manage to bring the situation under control.

  "Kekekeke. Let me guess…" Bellatrix cackled mockingly at him. "...planning to make us chase you until sunrise?"

  Damn. Isn't this woman supposed to be a brainless, stupid maniac? Moody thought inwardly, clutching the handle of his broom.

  Ignoring her briefly, he then glanced at the other figure, only to be taken aback. It was indeed the same woman he had glimpsed during the prison break. Back then, he hadn't seen her face clearly, but now there was no mistaking her identity.

  "Didn't think you, of all people, would change masters," he said coldly, his brow furrowing. "You know this won't end well for you… or are you ready to say goodbye to that pardon you received?"

  "What does it matter to you, Alester Moody?"

  The three of them hovered in a tense triangular formation, each figure locked in place under the vibrant, eerie glow of the green, ominous mark above.

  "You're right," Moody said, feigning a casual shrug. Despite the pain still burning through his chest, he forced himself to appear calm, drawing out the conversation. Every second he bought mattered.

  "Why do this?" he continued, his voice steady as his gaze briefly flicked upward before settling back on the two of them. "Terrorizing helpless people… no matter how flashy that mark is, it doesn't change the fact that Riddle is dead—"

  "Avada Kedavra!"

  The instant that name left his lips, Bellatrix snapped. In a fit of absolute rage, she lunged forward and slashed her wand through the air, unleashing the deadliest spell in her arsenal.

  But something as instinctive as dodging was etched into his very bones by now, a lifetime hunting dark wizards having sharpened every reflex to perfection. He slipped sideways just in time, the sickly green curse tearing through the space where his head had been a heartbeat ago.

  "How dare you, you stupid dog, utter that cursed name!" she shrieked, already flicking her wand again.

  "Enough!" Rosier shouted, seeing her crazy partner lose control again and quickly stepped in. "Did you forget? We need him alive, you idiot! Your master needs him alive."

  Merlin have mercy. Working with a tantrum-throwing child would be easier, she thought bitterly.

  Meanwhile, Moody's eyebrows lifted as a cold, ominous feeling coursed through his spine the moment those words reached him. That's right. Why had they suddenly stopped pressing him so relentlessly, and more importantly, why hadn't that blasted curse appeared amid the relentless stream of hexes earlier?

  "What twisted conspiracy are you lunatics plotting now?" he growled, brows knitting together as his grip tightened around his wand, every muscle coiled and ready.

  Beside Rosier, Bellatrix trembled, barely restraining her fury, her fingers twitching as if aching to strike again. Rosier, however, turned back to him calmly and slowly curled her lips into a thin, knowing smile.

  "I suppose there is no point in hiding it any longer," she said coolly. "Tell you what. If you surrender honestly, I swear the chaos below ends immediately. No more innocent people will be harmed." Her eyes gleamed faintly as she tilted her head. "How does that sound?"

  "Hahahahaha!"

  Moody let out a loud, booming laugh that rang through the night before he forced himself to rein it in, fixing them with a hard, unyielding stare. For a brief moment, just a brief moment, his gaze flicked past them toward the distance, then snapped back to the two witches before him.

  "You think I'm some righteous fool like Albus Dumbledore?" he snarled. "No matter what you do, you freaks won't get away with this. This half-baked conspiracy of yours will never succeed. Reinforcements will arrive sooner or later, and I'd rather drag myself to death than let the likes of you take me with you."

  "Why the fuck are we still talking!"

  "You cannot win against the two of us, Alastor," Rosier replied coolly, ignoring both the fool beside her and Moody's outburst.

  "Heh… I know, you stupid cunt!" Moody growled back, then his laughter faded, replaced by a wide, dangerous grin. "But…"

  —————————

  What was supposed to be a wonderful day, bursting with epic fun, thunderous cheers, and heated Quidditch debates, how has it shattered into complete chaos in the blink of an eye...

  Harry ran, moving with everything he had, his boots tearing through trampled grass while spells burst and flared around him, his mind spinning as he tried to make sense of what had gone wrong and what was happening, yet the surge of adrenaline and the roar of bangs and screams kept any clear thought just out of reach as chaos erupted all around him.

  Not only him—everyone around him was caught in the same frenzy. The children, Sirius, and Mr. Weasley pushed through the panic, their wands flashing constantly, sending hexes at anyone who even hinted at danger.

  "Keep moving, don't stop, eyes up..."

  Colorful spells jolted like a storm from their tight circle, and shimmering shields flared briefly before collapsing into sparks, yet their momentum never faltered, pressing forward like a single unit.

  Behind them, Sirius pivoted, unleashing a stunning spell at a masked figure struggling to rise from the ground. Ahead of the group, Arthur was just as relentless, calm amid the chaos, shouting quick warnings and directions, deflecting curses with precise flicks of his wand while guiding children and terrified spectators toward the dark outline of the woods.

  The children, likewise, weren't just running either. At least Harry's wand flashed constantly, as did Ron's, Hermione's, and Jean's, hexing enemies with deadly precision.

  Their strikes weren't frantic panic but controlled. Today, they truly felt the difference—or rather, finally got to measure the training of the past three years. Their spells landed harder and faster, their shields held longer than they should. They moved with frightening composure, firing precise hexes without breaking stride. Even Jean felt it. Having joined them for only half a year, her magic, coupled with her mutant abilities humming beneath her skin like a second heartbeat, kept her from falling a single measure behind.

  Percy, Fred, and George fired a hex or two as well, but their eyes couldn't help darting to the four flanking them on the left and right, despite all the chaos around them. Especially their little brother—their seemingly very, very ordinary little brother, Ronald Weasley.

  How, or when, in Merlin's name, had their little Ronald gotten this good? Had they been missing something? Little Ginny, too, stared at her brother with sparkling eyes, clutching his arm as he was pulled forward. Perhaps it was the first time she truly saw him as… cool. She had half a mind to praise him aloud but swallowed the urge, knowing it was neither the time nor the place for such admiration.

  Meanwhile, the redhead in question had no idea his standing in the eyes of his family had just risen several levels, far too busy dropping enemies left and right.

  "Who are these masked freaks?" he shouted between breaths, blasting a hex into the ground that sent two masked figures sprawling at once, his face flushed with effort while his eyes remained sharp and fiercely focused.

  "Bad guys, terrorists, what else," Hermione answered from his right while deflecting a curse that would have caught Percy in the shoulder.

  "But why here?" Harry's breath burned in his chest as he, too, hurled a stunner backward without even looking, rewarded by the thud of a body hitting the grass. "What good will terrorizing civilians do?"

  "Blimey, who cares…"

  "Bad guys, blast them…"

  George and Fred ranted in quick succession while Arthur subtly adjusted their course, guiding them as the woods loomed ever closer.

  Hexing and shielding, they ran, and were almost there when, all of a sudden, a cluster of masked figures spilled out from between the trees and behind overturned tents, trapping them along with dozens of other fleeing spectators as taunts rang out and cruel laughter echoed through the smoke-filled air.

  "Well, look at this," one of them called, his voice distorted behind the mask, wand already raised. "Some fish trying to escape the net, eh—"

  "Expelliarmus!"

  "Bombarda!"

  Too bad for the grunts—before they could even relish their taunts, spells erupted from the group they had just labeled as "fish." They had no choice but to raise their shields as Sirius and Arthur advanced together, curses slamming into them hard enough to stagger. The trio dove in just as quickly, and the clearing instantly erupted into a riot of color and sound.

  It was messy and tight, yet somehow briefly evenly matched despite the ratio of adults, all thanks to the golden trio, until a single, vicious curse from a grunt broke through the shields and hurtled straight toward a terrified Ginny.

  Arthur turned his head, wide-eyed and horrified, and the one closest to her, her brother, felt it before he even saw it. A cold twist ran through his gut as the spell bore down on her far too fast for him to assist and for her to dodge.

  Ginny!

  Her family screamed while the grunts laughed maniacally, but then suddenly everyone's eyes widened as out of nowhere a shimmering barrier, far more solid than any they had seen before, snapped into existence around Ginny with a sound like crystal ringing.

  The expected bang didn't even snap, as if the hex had been swallowed whole, only rippling the surface. At the same time, the air thickened and a heavy pressure descended over the clearing, so intense it forced nearly everyone to their knees for a heartbeat.

  Before that feeling even registered, a crack of thunder split the air, followed by a blinding flash overhead. Bolts of magic then rained down in a furious storm, each one striking a masked figure with deadly precision, flattening them to the ground and turning them to charred husks before they even had a chance to react.

  Silence followed in stunned waves.

  Not a single masked terrorist was spared then everyone instinctively looked up just in time to see two figures descending slowly on faintly shimmering magical constructs, their robes snapping in the heat rising from the scorched ground.

  "Professor Lupin…"

  "Mr. Ali…"

  Two youthful voices broke out, relief cutting through the fear as they clearly registered the identities of the two figures.

  Lupin landed lightly, eyes already sweeping the crowd with sharp precision as he asked, his voice calm but carrying, if anyone was hurt, while Ali moved like a shadow around them, checking the fallen attackers with quick, efficient motions.

  "I'm glad you're all alright," the werewolf said, ushering them toward the trees as distant screams and explosions echoed from every direction, the fire painting the sky in shades of orange and red. "We will move into the woods and transfer you to a safer location." His gaze landed on the unfamiliar dozen or so civilians, and he gave them a reassuring smile.

  "How bad is it?" Sirius asked quietly as they moved, also glancing briefly at the introverted man he knew very well.

  "Not as bad as you think, Padfoot," Lupin answered with a wry smile. He didn't go into detail, giving only a brief overview. "The screams you're hearing are mostly from the dark wizards… Jameson is personally leading the hunt—oh…" He paused, then added with a teasing smirk, "Bonsey is there as well. The Aurors will have everything under control soon..."

  "What about body count?"

  "None!" Ali answered without looking at Arthur's question, his gaze fixed firmly ahead.

  "Like I said, it's not as bad as you all think," Lupin added, shrugging his shoulders.

  They had barely gone a dozen steps and came to a sudden stop again when a loud, thunderous crack tore through the air. Instinctively, everyone looked up to see a sickly green mist burst high above, spreading outward like ink in water before twisting and coiling into a form that made some of the adults go deathly pale in recognition.

  "Merlin's beard… is that a skull?" Ron's mouth was half agape as he stared at the obviously ominous sight. After all, it was a human skull, and that couldn't possibly be a good sign.

  Hermione also swallowed hard, eyes wide, but unlike her half-brained friend, she recognized it instantly from all the books she had read. "That's the Dark Mark, right?"

  Arthur nodded grimly at the name, one he hadn't heard in a long time. "Indeed. We need to leave. Now. I have a very bad feeling about this."

  But then he felt a hand gently on his shoulder, turned, and saw Lupin shaking his head. "There's no need to panic. With us here, no one will be in danger. The camp is largely under control."

  Arthur blinked, then realization struck. He cast another glance toward the duo that had descended, and his eyes widened as it sank in. That's right, he thought. Pure magical construct. That could only mean one of them was a great mage, and his gaze fixed on the most likely person.

  He wasn't unfamiliar with Ali—in a way, he was his boss, the general manager of all Caesar's businesses—but this was perhaps the first time they were meeting face to face.

  Lupin met his gaze, smiled, and nodded once. "Yes. Mr. Ali is an ascended mage. Moreover, we've been moving everywhere, taking out those Death Eaters and assisting the Aurors before coming here. That's why I can confidently say the situation is under control."

  And just then, before Arthur could respond again, another deafening boom echoed from the sky, and every head snapped upward once more to see what was happening.

  Two silhouettes streaked high across the sky like comets on brooms, the deafening sound coming from their spells colliding in blinding flashes. Clearly, it wasn't just two random witches or wizards dueling—both were at least above magus rank, otherwise it couldn't be this fierce.

  The intensity was overwhelming, as if lightning were striking overhead, shockwaves rippling through the air and forcing even them all the way down to shield their faces.

  "What kind of duel is that?" someone gasped, a hand over their face, barely audible over the roar. Given the few numbers, most of the wizarding population never experiences the true magical might of a great mage in their entire lives, and the sight before them left most of them gaping in awe and fear.

  Even the children, including the trio, were wide-eyed as they watched the thick bolts of magic light up the sky like fireworks. Although they were students of Hogwarts, a school that had two archmages and two great magi, they had never truly witnessed any of them in real action up close.

  Arthur, likewise, stared in awe, muttering under his breath, "That is a duel between two great magi."

  Only Ali and Sirius showed no outward reaction, having witnessed far greater power exchanged up close during the alien war just half a year ago. However, Sirius's brows were furrowed at this moment, his gaze fixed on one of the silhouettes as he pieced together their identities.

  "That's Mad Eye, right?" Arthur said slowly, then hesitated.

  "And the other is Bellatrix Lestrange," Sirius finished, the name hissing from his mouth like a curse.

  Hermione's breath caught at the name. As a walking encyclopedia in the making, she knew the story behind the name as well. "I read… she's You-Know-Who's most formidable lieutenant… an infamous dark witch known for her… cruelty."

  Arthur tore his attention away, shaking himself, then glanced at the quiet, Middle Eastern-looking man calmly watching the sky. "That, Mr…" He hesitated, but went on. "Mr. Ali, don't you plan to go and help?" Out of everyone in their group, he could think of only one person qualified enough to intervene in a duel of that scale.

  In return, Ali gave him only a brief glance, then, without saying a word, continued to watch, sending a wave of awkwardness over Arthur.

  The duel didn't last long, at least seemingly, and before long the sky above them fell silent again. The ominous Mark of the Dark Lord still hung in the sky, bathing it in a brilliant green, but everyone's attention had long been captured by the brief yet epic duel that had just unfolded.

  "Who won?" someone finally asked amidst the silence, but no one answered. The figures were too high, silhouetted against the green light, impossible to make out.

  "Right," Sirius said at last. "Shouldn't we be leaving… what's the point of staying any longer?" In fact, his heart was in turmoil—confusion, anger, and… a twinge, just a twinge of worry he wanted to push aside as quickly as possible. After all, no matter how ruthless or mad a bitch Balatrix was, she was still his sister.

  The chaos around them had dulled to distant echoes by now, just as Lupin had said it would, and for a brief moment, it seemed like things had finally turned alright.

  However, just as everyone had finally let out a sigh of relief, they felt a sudden change in the atmosphere again, quite literally this time.

  A suffocating, overwhelming pressure descended over them without warning, heavy as if a tsunami hovered above, stealing their breaths and freezing their blood. Every person present felt it at once, eyes widening in shared dread as something vast and terrible made itself known.

  It was a stark contrast to when Ali and Lupin had descended, feeling the weight of a great mage's magic. In fact, this felt nothing like that. This was more primal, as if reckoning itself had descended upon them. Before they knew it, everyone in the area fell to their knees, unable even to lift their heads. No one was spared—not children, not adults—and every breath seemed to catch in their throats.

  ---

  A little while earlier, high above the devastated campsite.

  "You cannot win against the two of us, Alastor," Rosier said coolly, his gaze fixed on the one-eyed, fierce-looking man, trying to convince him to give up willingly in exchange for their promise to stop the carnage unfolding below.

  But Moody gave her only a verbal middle finger, as if laughing at her audacity. "Heh… I know I can't take on the two of you, you stupid cunt..." His growl then cut off, laughter fading into a wide, dangerous grin. "But… what about him?"

  As he spoke, his gaze fixed just behind the maddest of the two, to which Balatrix only tilted her head, as if silently asking what madness he was spouting. Still, she turned, not even bothered if she would be attacked as she did, and while doing so, she chuckled, saying, "Who–"

  Only to be met with a hand covering her face before it gripped her forehead.

  "Me…" was all she heard.

  In the next instant, a gut-wrenching, agonizing wail tore from her lungs as a monstrous force of absolute power enveloped her, shocking her body to the core as if she were being electrocuted, making her tremble violently as though seized by a convulsion.

  With his current mastery, Maverick could focus his dominant spirit on a single target, but when unleashing his ocean of magic all at once, some of it was bound to leak. He wanted to obliterate the lunatic completely, body and soul, so he held nothing back, but a small fraction of his momentum still radiated outward from him at the center.

  Apart from the crazy woman, the two closest to him—Rosier and Alastor—felt it most, nearly losing their grip on their brooms. But great magi were still great magi, and they held on, albeit barely, their faces etched with horrified expressions as they looked at him. And down below, well, for now, he had no idea.

  —————————

  Author's Note:

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