Your comments, reviews, and votes really help me out so much and they make me super motivated to keep working on this story! Thank you! Pat*eon : CaveLeather
Pat*eon : Belamy20
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Across the endless slope of the campsite, the screams and cries of witches and children swirled like a howling whirlwind, hanging over the tents and spreading ever farther, growing ever more piercing and desolate.
A boy no older than six stood at the edge of a path, tottering as he tried to reach his tent. But the surging, shoving crowd of wizards blocked his way.
He was shorter than an adult wizard's waist. All he could see were countless swaying legs and feet. When a pushing wizard put even a little force behind a knee, the boy lost his balance and staggered backward.
But the crowd was packed solid everywhere. He couldn't even fall. Someone behind him shoved again, and the little boy completely lost control, bouncing through the mob like a ball.
"That's the boy who was playing with the slug earlier…"
Hermione stood at the doorway of the Prophet's tent. When she spotted the boy in the crowd—his fair little face scrunched up in panic—her heart clenched.
The small boy was like a helpless doll in the crush, his cries swallowed by the roaring wind. He couldn't even keep his feet steady and could be knocked down at any moment, becoming another obstacle in the chaos.
The people around him were all adult wizards—at least a hundred pounds each, many wearing hard-soled dragon-hide boots…
Hermione dared not imagine the bloody outcome. Gritting her teeth, she stepped out of the Prophet's safe zone and pushed toward the crowd, slapping a Bubble-Head Charm over herself.
The Daily Prophet's tent had been placed in a remote corner thanks to Mr. Goode's connections. Although affected by the disturbance, it was still relatively safe. Intern Hermione walked against the flow of people, strikingly conspicuous amid the pandemonium.
"What are you doing? Are you trying to get yourself killed?!"
A hand yanked her back. Tonks, with her purple hair, glared at her and flicked her forehead. "You're only a third-year little witch. Your body isn't strong enough and your magic isn't powerful enough. You really think you can stop this mob?"
"Tonks!"
Hermione's face lit up with relief—she had met the Auror once at the Three Broomsticks. "Quick! There's a little boy over there!"
"Kingsley's already taken people over. Stay here and don't add to the trouble."
Hermione turned and saw the tall, heavily built, dark-skinned Auror Kingsley already directing his team to set up containment lines. He held his wand to his throat and patiently urged nearby people to stop pushing.
Verbal persuasion was one thing; for those who ignored orders and kept causing chaos, he simply fired Binding Charms.
Once the boy near the edge was shielded by several petrified human barriers, he quickly regained his footing. A middle-aged witch hurried over and pulled him out of the crowd.
Hermione breathed a sigh of relief. "Harry said you and Professor Lupin went to monitor the werewolves. What are you doing here?"
"The werewolf situation isn't urgent right now. The Quidditch World Cup is the Ministry's top priority. When Percy sent the message, anyone near a fireplace was ordered to come immediately."
Tonks waved her off, telling her to stay put, then headed toward the worst of the chaos with wand in hand.
…
Emerald-green powder was tossed into the fire like an accelerant. Flames roared upward, the outer edges glowing with an even brighter phosphorescent green. Within the fire, faint human faces flickered in and out.
Pacing back and forth in his office, Percy Weasley, assistant to the Department of International Magical Cooperation, leaned anxiously toward the flames and urged the other side:
"Two Auror teams aren't enough! Send more support!"
"There are at least sixty or seventy thousand wizards on site. No matter how many we send, it won't be enough," the newly appointed Deputy Minister in the Minister's office replied, equally tense. "Headquarters still needs people on duty. Madam Bones is in New York, and Mr. Crouch won't be back until tomorrow at the earliest. Where am I supposed to find more personnel?"
"If you don't send help soon, there are going to be fatalities!"
"Stop pressuring me. I'm calling back everyone who's on leave to watch the match. You've also got colleagues on holiday or retired—plus Aurors from other countries. Mobilise them!"
Every available Ministry hand was being pulled in: beast handlers from the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, Obliviators from the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes—even those who had just gone home to sleep were dragged out of bed.
On site, Kingsley led the effort to calm one corner of the campsite. Percy and Bagman took teams patrolling back and forth, wands pressed to their throats, voices magically amplified as they shouted:
"Anyone on leave—stop what you're doing and come help!"
The cry drifted toward a cluster of tents near the Irish fans' area. One tent had a vulture specimen hanging from its peak and a brass plaque engraved with the name "Longbottom."
Hearing the shout outside, Frank and Alice Longbottom exchanged a glance. They looked at their son, their elderly mother, and said nothing.
Their tent was also within range of the disturbance, but before the chaos had spread this far, the veteran Aurors' instincts had kicked in. Realising something was wrong, they had called to their neighbours to take shelter inside and close the doors.
The tent was a family heirloom—left by pure-blood ancestors. It was fireproof, waterproof, and resistant to ordinary spells. The door carried an Anti-Unlocking Charm. As long as they stayed inside with the door sealed, they could wait safely until the trouble passed.
"…"
The shout came again—Ludo Bagman from the Department of Magical Games and Sports. His voice had grown hoarse from shouting.
Alice pulled Neville tighter into her arms and gently stroked his back.
Though he was already a teenager, Alice still treated him like a little boy. Perhaps because she had missed so many years of his growth, she wanted to make up for it twice over.
Neville gently pulled away from his mother's embrace, his face slightly flushed. "Mum, Dad—people outside need help."
"The Ministry's people are already here. They don't need two Aurors on holiday," Mrs. Longbottom snapped, glaring at him.
The elderly witch had once constantly preached about Longbottom glory, urging her grandson to make something of himself and be a brave Gryffindor like the heroes of old. She had feared others would look down on him.
But after Frank and Alice recovered and left St Mungo's, she no longer cared so much about Neville's achievements. She had even begun discouraging him from dangerous work.
She used to want him to become an Auror after graduation. Lately she had been saying that growing herbs might be nice—he could help manage the family business too.
Neville ignored his grandmother. He looked straight into his parents' eyes—eyes so similar to his own.
Frank ruffled his son's soft short hair. "Your mother and I will go take a look. I'm giving you a task: protect your grandmother. Can you do that?"
Neville grinned.
The Auror couple had been on medical leave for over a decade. After recovering, they had focused on family business. Though they had not formally retired from the Ministry, they had stepped back from active duty. Stepping up again felt surprisingly good.
The moment they stepped out of the tent, before they could even assess the slope, a familiar figure grabbed them.
"Come with me—there's a shortage of hands over there!"
Tall, ruddy-faced, with a short brown beard.
It was Amos Diggory from the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. He had been on the holiday list too, originally planning to arrive on match day. When he received the message at home he had rushed over immediately to help maintain order—a warm-hearted man.
Only…
Frank hesitated. "It's so dangerous—why did you bring the boy?"
Amos Diggory glanced at his tall son and smiled kindly. "You mean Cedric? He's already taller than me. He's not a boy anymore."
Cedric rubbed his nose, looking a little helpless. "The notice said the situation was urgent. I wanted to come see if I could help."
Before they could reply, Mr. Diggory started running again. He had spotted another acquaintance and waved excitedly before they even got close.
"Arthur! Arthur! You're here too!"
…
"In a way, you caused this disturbance by sending the Roberts family away," Professor Flitwick said with a completely straight face.
Melvin's expression was pure helplessness. He had spent the entire day in the Organising Committee's office at the stadium, reviewing documents from the Club and the Committee. When he heard the commotion outside and stepped out, he found two professors waiting in the corridor.
Professor McGonagall, in emerald-green robes and black square-framed glasses, her grey-streaked hair pulled into a tight bun, wore a stern expression.
Beside her stood the half-goblin duelling champion and perennial Quidditch Cup cellar-dweller who planned to watch the match standing on a stool—Professor Flitwick.
"What are you two doing here?" Melvin asked, surprised to run into colleagues.
"The Quidditch World Cup only happens once every four years. This time the final is in Britain. Did you really think Minerva would miss it?" Flitwick smiled.
"I thought you two would be busy preparing the Triwizard Tournament and planning to spend the whole summer at school."
McGonagall gave him a withering look. Melvin thought about it—yes, that had sounded bad. He himself constantly refused overtime, yet here he was expecting others to work through the holidays and not even allowing them to watch the match.
"Sending Mr. Roberts away was the right decision," McGonagall declared. "But the Ministry failed to manage crowd control properly. No one expected that removing the Muggle would cause such a large disturbance. We have a duty to help."
Flitwick led the way with his short legs moving surprisingly fast as they headed from the stadium back toward the campsite. "The Ministry is desperately short-staffed over summer. The senior officials are all in New York."
"The International Confederation of Wizards is in chaos over the Muggle trade issue. Some insist it's a serious violation of the Statute of Secrecy. Madam Picquery of MACUSA strongly opposes it—understandable, given the large-scale breaches she witnessed in her youth. Muggle-wizard tensions are far more intense there…"
Flitwick, who hadn't seen Melvin in a while, chatted nonstop. "Speaking of which, members of the Salem Witches' Institute are here to watch the match too. I saw their tents."
McGonagall shook her head. "Dumbledore is the Chairman and doesn't want to get involved. The others probably won't reach any conclusion. Everyone will just mind their own business."
Following the lanterns out of the woods, they reached the chaotic campsite.
To prevent the fire from spreading, Ministry staff had extinguished all open flames outside. They now held their wands aloft for light. The silvery glow illuminated the sea of heads and reflected on faces still streaked with tears and terror.
Melvin's steps faltered. He suddenly realised this really might be the butterfly effect he had caused.
He looked up and saw Mr. Weasley, the Longbottoms, and others gathered at one corner of the campsite, guiding people to disperse. But even with nearly a hundred Ministry personnel, it was impossible to control a campsite of sixty or seventy thousand witches and wizards.
Even if only half were crowded onto the slope, it was still a black tide stretching as far as the eye could see.
Thanks to the Ministry staff's efforts, the pushing and crushing at the edges had eased slightly. But deeper inside, people were still packed shoulder-to-shoulder—so tightly that many couldn't even draw their wands. Messages couldn't get through.
Grey mist rose in Melvin's dark pupils. He could smell the emotions fermenting in the air. Fear was spreading and deepening—from the outside in, growing thicker the closer one got to the centre.
Some people wanted to push inward to reach their tents; others wanted to push outward to escape the crowd. Like headless flies in a narrow space, they shoved and crushed one another until the entire mass was completely jammed.
Some were already struggling to breathe. Oxygen deprivation caused their vision to darken. The resulting anxiety and irritation increased oxygen consumption, while the darkness only deepened their terror. They could no longer wait for the Ministry to slowly evacuate them one by one.
Percy and Bagman spotted the three professors from afar and hurried over. "Professor…"
"First restore the lighting and dispel the crowd's panic," Melvin said in a low, steady voice.
The two men blinked. "How?"
…
"Seamus, Dean—don't touch the tent zipper!"
Mrs. Finnigan slapped away Seamus's wandering hand and warned sternly, "There are Bulgarian fans everywhere outside. This riot was started by them. If you provoke them, who knows what trouble you'll cause!"
Seamus muttered sullenly.
He was half-blood—his mother a witch, his father a Muggle from Kent who had not joined this wizarding trip.
Beside him, Dean looked uneasy.
He was also half-blood—his mother a Muggle, his father killed during the last wizarding war. Seamus had invited him along.
Mrs. Finnigan had looked after them well the entire trip. Everything had been fine for the past few days. No one had expected tonight's sudden disaster.
It was all the fault of those barbaric Bulgarian fans!
Seamus pressed his ear against the tent fabric. "I think I hear something outside!"
"You two stay inside the tent. I'll go have a look."
Mrs. Finnigan had already tied back her pale yellow hair and changed her impractical long skirt for trousers. She gripped her wand tightly, looking brisk and capable.
A Gryffindor graduate never hid inside crying when trouble came.
Seamus and Dean exchanged a glance, drew their wands in unison, and followed Mrs. Finnigan as she prepared to open the tent flap. She scolded them several times, but when they refused to listen she finally allowed them to help.
The three reached the entrance. Mrs. Finnigan grabbed the zipper and yanked it all the way down. The moment they stepped outside, they drew in sharp breaths and stared silently at the sky.
"That's… Professor Levent's Patronus?"