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Dartmoor, inside the stadium.
The top-box seats were at the very highest point, so they had to wait for the crowd below to file out first. That meant they were the last ones leaving, swallowed by the tide of ten thousand fans.
At least half the stadium had been rooting for Bulgaria. When the chairman of the International Quidditch Federation handed the World Cup trophy to Ireland, the Bulgarian section filled with angry cursing.
A lot of those fans were die-hard Krum supporters. They blamed the rest of the Bulgarian team for choking and had zero interest in holding back their rage. They were itching for a fight.
For Harry, Sirius, and the Weasleys, the walk along the lantern-lit forest path already felt off—like a pressure cooker about to blow.
Rough singing echoed through the night sky. Leprechauns zipped overhead, waving their lanterns and showering worthless gold coins while cackling. Wizards on the ground glared up at them, gripping their wands so tightly their knuckles went white. If the Aurors on duty hadn't been standing right there, half those wands would have been firing already.
The Veela were nowhere in sight, but every so often a harsh, ugly shriek cut through the darkness, followed by flashes of fire. Then a squad of Aurors would come sprinting past.
"Did you see Hermione? She was in one of the fourth-level boxes with that big Daily Prophet banner out front."
"Seamus and Dean too—they're huge Ireland fans."
"I thought I spotted Professor Levent…"
Ron was still buzzing. He kept chattering nonstop, dragging Ginny along and never shutting up.
A bright-green Ireland supporter's hat sat crooked on his head, and he was cradling a tiny Krum figurine. He wasn't a hardcore fan of either side; he just loved the spectacle.
Harry kept replaying Krum's jaw-dropping moves in his head. As fellow Seekers, the age gap between them wasn't huge, but the difference in skill felt enormous.
"That guy can really fly," Sirius said, shaking his head. "Reminds me of your dad. If the world hadn't gone to hell right after James left Hogwarts, he would've made the national team and brought the Quidditch Cup home."
Harry's eyes lit up with pure longing. He wanted to stand on that World Cup pitch one day, hear a hundred thousand fans roaring his name—and maybe lift the trophy himself.
George and Fred, on the other hand, had zero interest in heroic daydreams. They were huddled together, whispering and calculating exactly how much they'd just won off Bagman.
"Ireland won!"
"Our Galleons just multiplied!"
Back at the tents they drank cups of hot cocoa to wind down, crawled into their bunks, and still heard distant singing and strange thumps drifting through the night—the Irish celebrating their victory.
"James, quit tossing that Snitch around…" Sirius muttered sleepily.
A second later someone pounded on the tent flap. Hermione's voice rang out, sharp and urgent. "Wake up! Sirius! Harry! Get up—there's an emergency!"
Sirius and Harry bolted upright and cracked their heads on the canvas roof.
"What's going on?" Sirius fumbled with the zipper.
Hermione stood outside, fully dressed in Muggle clothes, Daily Prophet press pass clipped to her jacket. She was holding a sleepy-eyed Ginny, who had thrown a denim jacket over her pajamas.
"Some of the Irish fans got wasted and went looking for trouble in the Bulgarian camp. They provoked the wrong people."
Hermione summed it up in a few quick sentences. "The Veela stepped in and whipped up a bunch of drunk wizards. Fights broke out, and now tents are on fire."
Harry was instantly wide awake.
"The mess is getting bigger. The Aurors can barely keep it contained. It could spread this way any second. We need to move—now."
"Let's go!"
Sirius yanked on a denim jacket, told Harry to do the same over his pajamas, and stepped outside. Mr. Weasley and the boys were already there.
Bill, Charlie, and Percy were fully dressed. Mr. Weasley and Ron looked rumpled, just coats thrown over their sleepwear. The whole group hurried down the path.
Out on the open road they could already see firelight in the distance.
The campsite had completely changed. The singing had stopped. Far off came muffled curses, wild laughter, and drunken shouts. Closer by were screams and the sound of people running. Wizards were bolting for the trees.
Tents had been knocked over and were now burning where campfires had spilled onto them.
"I have to help the Ministry keep order!" Mr. Weasley rolled up his sleeves and grabbed his older sons. "Bill, Charlie, Percy—you're with me. The rest of you—Sirius, keep the kids together, head into the forest, and stay close. I'll find you once this is sorted!"
Sirius gripped his wand and took the lead.
…
Barty Crouch Jr. walked with his hands in his pockets, heading toward the trees. A house-elf clutched the hem of his robe, stumbling along behind him.
The colorful lanterns that had lit the path to the stadium were dark now. The only light came from burning tents, and with a Disillusionment Charm wrapped around him, no one noticed the long-dead prisoner in their midst.
Barty was actually starting to enjoy himself.
He wasn't a Quidditch fan and didn't care which team won. Back at Hogwarts he'd only rooted for Slytherin to crush everyone else.
Tonight had been good luck. The match itself was boring, but he'd finally laid eyes on the famous Harry Potter up in the top box. The Boy Who Lived turned out to be nothing special—just another idiot kid.
After the game, the campsite riot had been pure entertainment. His father had been forced to go help the Ministry and had ordered Winky to take him away until things calmed down.
But the old man had forgotten to renew the strong Imperius Curse. Barty's mind was crystal clear, and it felt like Lady Luck herself was walking beside him.
Something about this forest path felt… right. Like the opportunity he'd waited years for was finally here. Tonight the doors to freedom were about to swing open.
Dark shapes moved through the trees ahead—wizards and witches stumbling along, children crying in their parents' arms, frightened voices echoing. Someone had been shoved and fallen.
"Ouch…"
"What's wrong, Ron?" a familiar voice asked.
"Tripped on a root."
In the glow of a lit wand, Barty saw them clearly—the same group he'd watched in the top box earlier: the Boy Who Lived, his godfather, and their friends.
Ron was curled on the ground, clutching his ankle and groaning. It was his wand lying there in the dirt.
Barty slowed down, tucked Winky behind a bush, and peered through the branches.
"Mudblood, Black family traitor, red-headed Weasley…" A faint smile curled his lips. "Only one adult wizard."
"We should keep moving, Master…" Winky whispered, trembling.
House-elves were smart and loyal. She could feel the malice rolling off her young master. She remembered Mr. Crouch's orders: keep the young master safe and hidden.
Barty frowned.
"Master told me… there are bad wizards everywhere!" Winky's eyes were wide with panic. She tried to pull him forward. "They're coming—behind us, above us—we have to run!"
Barty grabbed her arm, ignoring her squeaks, and dragged her deeper into the brush.
"Quiet. That's an order."
Winky looked up at the cruel light in his eyes—the same eyes that usually looked glassy and empty—and shivered. "Y-yes, Master…"
Barty glanced back. The group had scattered a little. The adult wizard and the older twins were already out of sight. Only Potter and his two friends remained.
Right where Ron had tripped lay an eleven-inch wand.
It felt like a gift from Lady Luck herself.
Barty waited a few moments. The panicked crowd pushed deeper into the forest. The path grew quiet. Moonlight glinted off the wand.
He stepped out, picked it up—holly and phoenix feather.
Barty smiled. The Dark Lord's wand had a phoenix-feather core too. It felt like fate.
"No, Master…"
"Please…"
Winky dropped to her knees, begging.
Barty ignored her. After more than a decade without a wand, the feel of magic in his hand was intoxicating—even if the wand fought him a little.
He wasn't stupid enough to try advanced magic right away after so long. He needed something simple.
The annoying house-elf was still clinging to his robe. One wrong move and she'd run straight to his father.
Barty stroked the wand, glanced at the dying riot in the distance, and smirked. Time to give them a little surprise.
He raised the wand to the sky, voice shaking with excitement.
"Morsmordre!"
A brilliant green spark burst from the tip and swelled into thick fog. A skull formed inside the mist, a snake slithering from its mouth.
Barty's eyes burned with fanatic joy as he watched the Dark Mark rise.
Then a surge of power slammed into it.
Winky yanked him backward. For a split second it felt like something enormous had noticed them—something that made his heart skip and his breath freeze.
"What the—?"
"Master…"
Barty stared at the Mark. The green light should have climbed into the sky like a constellation. Instead it was trapped beneath the treetops, the skull and snake squeezed inside an invisible bubble that refused to let it expand.
"Good thing I made it in time."
A calm voice spoke from the shadows.
Barty spun around. A young wizard strolled toward them, completely at ease. He reached out, plucked the floating bubble like an apple from a tree, and tucked it away.
Winky stepped in front of Barty, breathing hard.
Barty edged sideways. The stranger's eyes followed him. The Disillusionment Charm did nothing.
"Who are you?"
"Your father's friend. You can call me Professor Levent."
Melvin's tone was mild and friendly. If he hadn't been holding a bubble containing the Dark Mark, he would have looked like the world's most pleasant teacher.
"That old man…"
Melvin ignored Barty. He crouched in front of the trembling house-elf. "Go tell Mr. Crouch I've taken his son. He can find me at Hogwarts."
Winky glanced up at those dark eyes, then quickly looked away. She grabbed the hem of Barty's robe and refused to move.
Melvin tapped his wand lightly on her head. The house-elf collapsed in a sleepy heap.
Barty stared at the young professor. His lips twisted in a sneer, eyes glittering with open cruelty. He whipped the wand up.
"Avada—"
Before he could finish the Killing Curse, a simple Transfiguration spell washed over him.
Barty's body twisted. A faint white glow flared. He shrank rapidly—head, limbs, everything pulling inward—until he was a small white mouse squeaking in outrage.
The holly wand clattered to the ground.
Melvin picked the mouse up by the tail and dropped it into the bubble with the Dark Mark. The tiny rodent curled up inside the glowing skull and snake, looking like a cheap novelty toy.
Melvin stared at it for a second, then pocketed the wand and shook his head.
"Dropping your wand like that… guess the basics from the Duelling Club didn't stick."
…
Thanks to the experience from a few nights earlier, the Ministry handled the campsite riot quickly. Aurors swarmed in, rounded up the drunk troublemakers, and locked the Veela back in their tents.
The damage was minor. A handful of tents had caught fire, and the World Cup organizing committee—along with the Mirror Club—promised full compensation.
No one was seriously hurt. A couple of unlucky Bulgarian players got punched in the chaos, and most injuries were just scrapes from people tripping while they ran.
Once the mess was cleaned up, everyone headed back to their tents, chatting excitedly about the riot and the match.
Except for one unlucky kid with a lightning-shaped scar on his forehead. He and his friends were still stumbling through the dark forest, searching for a lost wand.