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A dazzling silver serpent coiled across the pitch-black sky like a river of stars, illuminating the entire campsite. The slope was gentle and flat, with few trees or bushes. Every tent had extinguished its lamps and campfires. Tens of thousands of witches and wizards stared upward at the long-horned water serpent.
A cool evening breeze blew in from the forest. Moon-silver light bathed the campsite.
"It feels… suddenly quiet," Hermione murmured, tilting her small face toward the sky while leaning against the outer wall of the Prophet's tent.
Cecilia thought that was stating the obvious. In the middle of total chaos, a magnificent Patronus had appeared overhead; anyone would freeze in shock, and every scream and shout would pause from sheer astonishment.
But why had Professor Levent summoned his Patronus?
"It feels peaceful… and steady," Hermione said softly, closing her eyes.
"What?" Cecilia looked around.
As if reminded by someone, the Ministry staff quickly recovered from their daze and resumed work. With the silver Patronus providing light, they no longer needed to hold their wands aloft. Evacuating the trapped witches and wizards at the edges sped up dramatically.
"I mean their emotions," Hermione explained, carefully sensing the subtle change. "It's like the way Dementors drain happiness—except the long-horned water serpent Patronus is carrying away the fear, letting the trapped wizards regain their senses and calm down."
"It could also just be the night breeze bringing fresh air and giving them time to breathe."
Cecilia sniffed. She had taken Professor Levent's classes before graduation, and given the professor's personality, she felt her own explanation was more in line with Muggle thinking.
Hermione opened her eyes again in silence. She remembered the professor's lectures on soul and emotion. He was supposedly a Muggle Studies teacher, yet his research topics were profoundly magical.
"Even so, it won't last long…" Cecilia shook her head. "The people who were pushing and crushing each other have only stopped temporarily. Those deepest inside still can't breathe. Calming the panic for a moment isn't enough—the Ministry staff are moving too slowly."
Hermione looked toward the densest part of the slope. Even under the silver glow it remained a black sea of people—tens of thousands of witches and wizards standing still like headless flies, still lost, still jammed together in the campsite.
This wasn't the Ministry's fault. One or two hundred staff members were invisible against tens of thousands of wizards. The numbers were simply too lopsided. It was like a dam after a rainstorm, releasing only the thinnest trickle.
They suddenly looked up. Brilliant light bloomed in the sky not far away. The silver serpent began to shrink, and then an exquisite shield rose into the air:
At its centre was a large capital "H". Around it stood a golden lion, a silver serpent, a black badger, and a bronze eagle. Above and below were a knight's helmet and a scroll.
The Hogwarts crest!?
"Hogwarts students—those trapped in the inner circle, stay where you are. Those still on the outer edges, move immediately toward the northwest of the campsite!"
Professor McGonagall's and Professor Flitwick's voices rang out together. Amplified by Sonorus Charms and harmonising, they carried across the entire campsite.
The shield crest acted like a road sign, providing clear direction. Witches and wizards on the edges began to flow like ants toward the Hogwarts crest. Those closer moved directly; those farther away no longer blundered blindly.
One group of the headless flies had found a direction, and the jammed campsite gradually began to loosen.
Immediately after the Hogwarts crest came the Ilvermorny crest—similar in structure, with a Gordian knot of ribbons at its centre encircled by four beasts: the long-horned water serpent, the thunderbird, the cat-leopard, and the pukwudgie.
"Ilvermorny students… southwest direction." A calm female voice sounded.
Beauxbatons and Durmstrang quickly followed suit. The former displayed two crossed golden wands; the latter showed a double-headed eagle and a stag's head with a line of Cyrillic letters.
The crests of all four schools hung in the night sky. Clear instructions echoed across the campsite. Even without the long-horned water serpent Patronus, the fear and unease that had filled the air gradually dissipated.
Tens of thousands of wizards who had been packed together now had breathing room as one section slowly moved aside like ants carrying crumbs.
…
In a corner at the southeast edge of the campsite, right beside the African wizards' tents, stood a tent bearing a stars-and-stripes emblem.
The location had been well chosen—close to the water point at the campsite edge, sheltered by rocks, and far from the rival fan zones in the centre. It had remained untouched by the chaos.
The tent looked thoroughly Muggle—canvas and nylon—with a banner strung across the top that read:
Salem Witches' Institute
Unlike the infamous Puritans of the New Salem Charitable Association, the Witches' Institute was dedicated to uncovering that tragic history, hunting down Puritan criminals, pursuing the New Salem Association, and protecting witches' rights.
For decades the Institute had remained obscure. Only after the New Salem story appeared in The Ghostly Report a few years earlier—bringing the Puritans back into the public eye—did it attract widespread attention from American witches and wizards.
After the cult in McLennan County, Texas, was exposed and its crimes rocked the wizarding world, the Institute received massive donations upon taking in the orphaned children of New Salem. It had grown rapidly.
The most generous donor had been the Graves family.
Retired MACUSA President Seraphina Picquery had not only poured real gold and silver into their development but had also, as a hundred-year-old witch, attended banquets and public events to speak on their behalf.
She had even persuaded Headmaster Fontaine to help them establish a school club at Ilvermorny.
This time several middle-aged witches from the Institute had brought a few girls from the school club to watch the World Cup. The tickets had been paid for by Madam Picquery's generosity.
Nancy Boot, who had only just turned seventeen, had joined the Salem Witches' Club the previous year.
The club was guided by the Pukwudgie House Head, who was gentle and kind to the girls—especially after Nancy arrived with a letter of introduction from Madam Picquery. That kindness had turned into deep gratitude.
During the trip the witches had looked after her almost solicitously.
Just moments ago, when the Institute witches saw trouble in the campsite, they had immediately gone to help despite being in a safe area. Thirty minutes had now passed, and the girls left behind in the tent couldn't help feeling worried.
Nancy surveyed the surroundings and noticed the crowd gradually dispersing. She let out a relieved breath. "The people are moving apart… it's okay now…"
A group of witches in Muggle clothing leaned nearby, far from the fan zones and the centre. They had escaped the chaos and felt relatively relaxed.
"Wasn't that Professor Goldstein from school just now?"
"Sounded like it."
"Shame it wasn't Headmaster Fontaine—her voice would have been even louder."
"I heard the Headmaster kept Pickett at school over summer for extra lessons? He's top of the whole school, about to enter seventh year and graduate. What on earth does he still need tutoring for?"
"Ask Nancy—she'd know."
The girls giggled. Everyone at Ilvermorny knew Nancy and Pickett had grown up together.
Looking at her chattering schoolmates outside the tent, Nancy—who was also about to enter seventh year—shook her head. "I don't know either. I heard they're preparing some kind of tournament. Headmaster Fontaine is giving him special training."
"A tournament?" The young witches who hadn't yet graduated exchanged puzzled glances.
…
In the Bulgarian national team's campsite, inside the cheerleaders' tent beside the players' and coaches' tents.
Apolline Delacour's waterfall of golden hair spilled loose as she hid in the room nearest the entrance, patting her chest. "It's fine now… it's fine…"
She glanced back at her husband. Seeing the fine layer of sweat on his forehead—proof he had run all the way back—she felt a pang of distress.
The Bulgarian camp had been at the very heart of the chaos. The frenzied fans had spotted Krum and charged like madmen. The support staff had been caught up in it through no fault of their own.
In their frantic rush back to the tent, several cheerleaders had even lost their shoes and nearly revealed their wings in panic.
While wiping her husband's sweat with a handkerchief, Madame Delacour complained, "If I'd known coaching the Bulgarian cheer squad would be this dangerous, I never would have taken the job. It's far too risky."
"Who else in the world is qualified to coach Veela besides a few members of your family?" Monsieur Delacour smiled helplessly.
Veela might possess intelligence, but they were still magical creatures with wild instincts flowing in their blood. No matter how beautiful and enchanting they appeared normally, the slightest provocation could cause them to shift into their half-human, half-bird form.
A fierce face and shrill voice were one thing, but communication became impossible.
The Bulgarian national team had assembled a group of Veela as cheerleader mascots. To make a stunning impression on the World Cup stage, they needed a dance expert who could communicate with Veela and train them.
Worldwide there were only a handful of Veela-hybrid witches—all relatives of the Delacours—and Apolline was the most suitable.
Of course, the pay had been generous, and the World Cup tickets had been included.
"Thank goodness we didn't bring Fleur and Gabrielle along," Apolline grumbled.
"It's fine. Even if they had come, the Beauxbatons professors would have looked after them," Monsieur Delacour said, slipping an arm around her shoulder and kissing her forehead.
Apolline pushed the annoying man away and turned to the real issue. "That magic just now—the Beauxbatons crest… could it have been Madame Maxime?"
"Madame Maxime went to New York for the International Confederation of Wizards conference."
Monsieur Delacour thought for a moment. "That was probably Professor Rocier…"
…
The noise gradually died down.
Inside the Bulgarian national team's main tent, a figure sat by the window—thin and dark, with sallow skin, a hooked nose, and an expressionless face. Thick eyebrows cast shadows that made his eyes look even gloomier.
Behind him a group of adult wizards were talking: the team manager, several coaches, and the other players.
Outside the door, fans were still packed together. Angry curses erupted from those being shoved; adoring cheers rang out from others. Compared with half an hour earlier, however, things had improved considerably.
After the entire Bulgarian national team had arrived at the campsite that day, they had planned to head straight to the stadium for acclimatisation training. But after negotiations, the Organising Committee said the pitch was not yet ready and suggested the team rest for half a day—perfect timing for Krum to give interviews.
The manager, coaches, and players—exhausted from the long journey—had been happy to rest.
Krum, however, had refused. He said the Irish lot had arrived days earlier, were already training on the pitch, and they couldn't afford to waste time…
He had added that their team's raw strength was never enough; they had reached the final only by snatching the Snitch in every match.
Beater Volkov had snapped back that he was a monster—cursed by dark magic, a creature without humanity.
The argument had once again chilled the team atmosphere.
Krum had refused interviews and had no pitch to train on, so he had simply hidden inside his tent room. Somehow the news had leaked, triggering the riot in the campsite.
At that moment the Bulgarian team manager was speaking quietly: "The Minister is still in New York for the International Confederation conference, but he's paying close attention to the World Cup. We've caused such a big mess now… The only solution is to have Viktor give an interview and calm the fans. I'll speak to the British Ministry."
"Will he agree?"
The coach glanced sideways at the star player. Even though they were all in the same room and could hear everything, he still lowered his voice. "He refused interviews earlier and hid in his tent."
"Try talking to him?"
"Who can talk sense into him except on the pitch?"
"Ugh…"
The manager turned to look at the solitary figure and felt a headache coming on.
On the other side of the room the main players also relaxed. Seeing the chaos subside and the campsite returning to order, they felt the familiar relief.
Having a young star player like him in the team meant they had grown used to such incidents.
The figure sat by the window, shoulders hunched. Even though he could hear the discussion in the room, he refused to turn around and say anything. His attitude left the players seething—especially since the chaos had been caused by him.
"Monster thing…"
"Shh—don't say that!"
Senior player Dimitrov silenced the others and turned toward Krum by the window. "Viktor, I remember you haven't graduated from Durmstrang yet, right? That crest just now—was that your school? Did Headmaster Karkaroff come too?"
"No," Krum answered quietly, turning his head. "It was the Dark Arts professor. The Headmaster said he didn't want to see an old friend."
"Old friend?"
"Headmaster Karkaroff used to be a British wizard. He graduated from Hogwarts. For some reason he left Britain fourteen years ago, took a teaching post at Durmstrang, and eventually became Headmaster."
Similar conversations were happening in every corner of the campsite. Having escaped the suffocating chaos, the survivors were too excited to sleep.
The silver serpent that had dominated the sky and the crests of the four schools had temporarily replaced the Quidditch World Cup final as the midnight topic of conversation.