The sun was setting over the English moors, bringing with it a burst of lights, magic, and cries of euphoria. The Quidditch World Cup camp was a makeshift city of enchanted tents, colorful flags, and wizards of all nationalities singing sports anthems.
From the moment they arrived, it was one big party. Harry, Sirius, and Hermione walked among the crowd and the thousands of magical shops. Everything was fascinating: there were flags from every country, wizards selling Omnioculars, and rosettes shouting out players' names.
"Harry! Hermione! Sirius!"
The reunion with the Weasleys was as chaotic and warm as ever. Arthur Weasley shook Sirius's hand enthusiastically, happy to see the man free and healthy, while Molly hugged Harry so tightly she almost knocked the wind out of him. Ron and the twins appeared shortly after, with Fred and George trying to bet Sirius on the outcome of the match (something Sirius gladly accepted, much to Mrs. Weasley's horror).
They spent the day touring the camp, greeting acquaintances from Hogwarts and soaking up the atmosphere surrounding the championship. They watched the preliminary matches from the general stands, shouting and cheering until they were hoarse. But when night fell and the lights of the colossal stadium came on, the moment of truth arrived.
The final. Ireland versus Bulgaria.
Harry and Hermione separated from the rest of the Weasleys and followed Sirius up the purple carpeted staircase that led to the top of the stadium.
"Remember, Harry," Sirius said as they climbed the stairs, "we'll be with the Minister and probably some 'old friends' from high society. Stay calm and smile. You're Lord Black's godson and a Potter. Act like it."
They climbed until they reached a small private room with twenty golden chairs that had a perfect panoramic view of the playing field.
"Ah, there they are!" exclaimed Cornelius Fudge, who was already seated, wearing a striped robe and wiping sweat from his brow with a handkerchief. "Ah, Lord Black! Harry Potter! Welcome, welcome!"
Sirius greeted Fudge politely, and they sat down in the front row.
The box door opened again moments later, and three figures with platinum blond hair entered. Lucius Malfoy walked in with his usual elegance, followed by his wife Narcissa and their son Draco.
The air in the box froze for a second.
Sirius stood up slowly, facing the man who had been his brother-in-law and ideological enemy.
"Malfoy," Sirius said, his voice neutral but cold.
"Black," Lucius replied, bowing his head just a millimeter. His gray eyes scanned Sirius, assessing his new clothes and his regained status. "I see the Ministry has been... generous with your reparations."
"Enough to buy better seats than yours, I suppose," Sirius replied with a sharp smile before turning his gaze to the blonde woman next to Lucius. "Cissy."
Narcissa Malfoy, impeccable in her silk robe, looked at his cousin. As head of the House of Black, Sirius was technically her patriarch, and she couldn't disrespect him; pureblood etiquette prevailed in public.
"Sirius," she greeted him in a soft voice. "You look... healthy. It's a pleasant surprise."
They sat in adjacent seats, maintaining a diplomatic distance. Fudge, sensing the tension, tried to lighten the mood with his usual clumsiness.
"Excellent! We're all here! The cream of our society," Fudge crowed. "Although it's a real shame that Lord Gaunt couldn't join us. I sent him a personal invitation to the Upper Box, but he politely declined."
Harry clenched his jaw at the name, his hands tightening on the box railing. Even here, Gaunt had to be the center of attention.
"Oh, yes," Fudge continued, pointing toward the field where huge magical banners floated. "After all, Gauntcorp is one of the main sponsors this year. Look down there," he said, pointing to the Irish players warming up. "The entire Irish team is flying the latest Noxums on the market, and I seem to remember that Krum always flies one. They say they're the fastest brooms ever made, and each new version is even better. It's incredible what that young man has achieved."
Sirius let out a short laugh, leaning back in his seat.
"I'm surprised he's not here to take the applause. Could it be that the wonder boy doesn't like crowds?"
Lucius Malfoy, who had taken his seat with elegance, interjected in a drawling voice.
"Surely Lord Gaunt has more... productive matters to attend to than a simple game, Black. Unlike others who have too much free time now that they're not locked up."
Harry, unable to contain himself at the mention of his enemy and the veiled insult to his godfather.
"Or maybe he's too busy admiring himself in the mirror and polishing his ego," Harry muttered, loud enough to be heard.
"Harry!" Hermione whispered, nudging him in the ribs. "Shut up, this isn't the time!"
From the other side of Narcissa, Draco Malfoy let out a mocking chuckle and leaned forward to look at Harry.
"Envy is a very ugly trait, Potter," said Draco, with that arrogant smile that Harry detested so much. "You should be careful not to drown in it. No matter how hard you try to play the hero, you know perfectly well that you'll never be half the man Aurelian is, and that eats away at you, doesn't it?"
Harry turned, ready to hurl a curse or an insult, his face red with anger.
"You..."
"Draco," Narcissa's voice was soft but firm, "Behave yourself. We're in public."
Draco shut his mouth immediately, though he shot Harry one last look of superiority before leaning back in his seat.
Sirius put a hand on Harry's shoulder, squeezing it to anchor him to reality.
"Calm down, puppy," Sirius said quietly. "It's not worth it. Better watch the field and enjoy the game. Don't ruin the match for yourself."
Harry took a deep breath, swallowing his anger, and looked back at the stadium. He hated the Malfoys, but he hated even more that they were right about one thing: Gaunt was everywhere. On the brooms, in the advertisements, in the Minister's mouth. He was inescapable.
"Ladies and gentlemen!" Ludo Bagman's amplified voice (who was in the commentary booth) echoed throughout the stadium. When he finished, Fudge stood up in the box to perform the formal opening honors.
"Welcome to the final of the 422nd Quidditch World Cup!" Fudge shouted to the roaring crowd. "Let the game begin!"
More than a hundred thousand throats roared, and from the ends of the stadium, the teams' mascots—the Irish Leprechauns and the Bulgarian Veelas—took to the field, kicking off the spectacle Harry had been waiting for. A burst of green and red fireworks lit up the sky, and fourteen blurry figures shot into the air, officially starting the match.
The celebration in the Weasleys' magical tent was deafening. Ireland had won, Krum had caught the Snitch, and the Weasley twins were dancing on the table singing off-key Irish hymns while Ron tried to reenact the best plays using breadcrumbs.
Sirius, butterbeer in hand, laughed alongside Arthur, enjoying the company. Harry, sitting between them, smiled as he hummed along to the twins' songs.
The festive chants from outside were cut short, replaced by something that made the blood of everyone present run cold. Screams. Screams of pure terror, heart-wrenching and very high-pitched, were all that could be heard. Arthur Weasley turned pale instantly. Sirius dropped his bottle and pulled out his wand with great speed.
"Fire!" someone outside shouted. "They're attacking!"
Sirius didn't waste a second. He reached into his robe and pulled out an old, rusty oil can: an emergency portkay he had prepared "just in case."
"Arthur, Molly!" Sirius barked, his commanding voice echoing through the tent. "Touch the can! Now! It will take you straight to Grimmauld Place!"
"What's going on?" Hermione asked, terrified.
"They're Dark Wizards! We have to go now!" Sirius ordered, pushing Ron and Hermione toward can.
But Harry hesitated.
In his mind, Draco's words and his own hatred for Aurelian echoed. "You'll never be like him." Gaunt was a hero. Gaunt took orders of Merlin. If Harry ran away now, he would just be the boy who hid. "I can fight," Harry thought with blind, stupid determination. "I have to prove I'm not a coward."
"Harry, touch the transporter!" Sirius shouted.
But Harry didn't. Instead, he turned around and ran out of the tent into the night, wand in hand.
"I'm going to help!" Harry shouted as he left.
"HARRY, NO!" Sirius's cry was one of pure desperation. "Arthur, take them away! I'll go after him!"
Harry stepped out into the cold air and stopped dead in his tracks.
His heroic fantasy crashed against the cruel and brutal reality he saw before his eyes.
The camps were burning. Magical flames devoured the tents, and hooded figures wearing skull masks marched in formation, hurling curses at anyone who crossed their path. The bodies of Muggles and wizards floated in the air, contorted into unnatural positions.
Harry could only run, not knowing where he was going as the smoke burned his eyes.
"Desmaius!" he shouted, casting a weak spell at one of the shadows, but he missed miserably.
He kept running, blinded by panic, until he stepped on something soft and wet, slipping, his hands hitting the soggy ground. When he looked down to see what he had tripped over, his world came crashing down.
It wasn't mud. It was blood. Lots of blood.
What he had stepped on was a woman's torso. Just the torso. Her legs were three meters away, separated by a cut so clean that her entrails spilled grotesquely onto the grass. The woman's eyes were open, staring at Harry with silent accusation.
"Blargh."
Harry couldn't hold it in any longer. He turned and vomited violently onto the grass, his body and mind shaken by the horror. He realized that this was not a school duel. It was not an adventure.
It was death.
He was trying to get up when something invisible hit him in the stomach with the force of a truck.
"Ugh!" he groaned.
Harry flew backwards, hitting his back against a tree and knocking the wind out of him. His wand rolled out of reach.
He tried to focus his eyes on the figure emerging from the shadows of the trees.
It was a man with straw-colored hair and pale skin dotted with freckles. His eyes looked at Harry with utter disdain, as if Harry were an annoying insect.
Bartemius Crouch Jr. was standing in front of him.
Barty didn't even speak to him. With a lazy wave of his hand, Harry's wand flew toward him. He caught it in midair and examined it with a grimace.
"Pathetic," Barty muttered, his voice hoarse from disuse. "This is what defeated my master, a child wallowing in his own vomit."
Barty raised Harry's wand toward the night sky. His eyes glowed with madness.
"Morsmordre."
A colossal skull of emerald green smoke, with a snake emerging from its mouth, exploded in the sky, illuminating the destruction with its sickly light. The Dark Mark.
Barty contemplated his work with a wry smile.
"Thank you, Father," Barty thought ironically. "You were stupid enough to bring me to this ridiculous event under your invisibility cloak. You dared to think you could control me. Poor old fool, I was just waiting for the right moment."
Barty closed his eyes for a moment, feeling the magic of the atmosphere. Years of captivity would not be healed overnight, even as a Invoker. He knew his Master was not here, but he could sense him. And he needed his most loyal servant.
"I will find you, my Lord," Barty whispered into the wind. "Wait for me."
Voices and hurried footsteps could be heard approaching. The Aurors were arriving.
Barty looked down at Harry, who was still on the ground, gasping for breath. With a gesture of contempt, Barty threw his wand at Harry, hitting him in the face.
"You're safe for today, boy."
With a loud snap, Barty Crouch Jr. disappeared into thin air, leaving only the echo of his laughter as a reminder.
Seconds later, strong arms grabbed Harry and lifted him off the ground.
"HARRY!"
Sirius Black was there, his face contorted with fear and rage. As soon as he saw that Harry was alive, he hugged him tightly, burying his face in the boy's shoulder.
"I've got you! I've got you!" Sirius gasped.
A moment later, he pulled him away roughly, shaking him by the shoulders.
"You're a fool!" Sirius shouted, his eyes filled with tears. "A bloody fool! You could have been killed! What on earth were you thinking?! Never do that again! Never!"
Harry, still shaking and with the taste of vomit in his mouth, couldn't respond. He looked up at the figure in the sky and realized with great clarity that Draco was right. He wasn't like Gaunt. Gaunt wouldn't have vomited. Gaunt wouldn't have lost.
Harry Potter felt smaller than ever.
------------------
I have a Patreon account. If you would like to support me, I would greatly appreciate it. You will be able to read up to 15 more chapters, listen to all chapters as audiobooks, and view images of the characters in the story for free. Thank you very much for reading my story :D
patreon.com/Daoistrg