To keep the Quidditch World Cup under control, the Ministry had mobilized nearly every senior official and field agent it had. Some of them hadn't slept properly in days.
As Rowan made his way through the stadium corridors, he spotted familiar faces everywhere. Amelia Bones from Magical Law Enforcement. Barty Crouch from International Magical Cooperation. His colleague Amy. Nearly the entire Ministry leadership was present.
Even Lucius Malfoy was there.
Along with several other Death Eaters who had always hedged their loyalties and kept one foot on each side of the war.
"Good," Rowan thought. "Everyone's here. Makes things easier."
Far from the stands, in the marshland beyond the stadium's outer wards, another group waited.
Rowan's double, disguised as Voldemort, stood at the center of a loose circle of Death Eaters who had escaped from Azkaban.
"Master," Bellatrix said eagerly, drawing her wand. "Do we charge in and start killing?"
Her eyes were alight with anticipation.
Aside from Peter Pettigrew, every one of them looked much the same. Restless. Thrill-hungry. Unstable.
Years of murdering with Dark Magic had twisted their minds. Years of Dementor torment in Azkaban had finished the job. They weren't much saner than Voldemort had been after tearing his own soul apart.
"Not yet," the false Voldemort said coldly. "We wait until the match begins and everyone is inside the stadium. Then we enter."
His gaze slid to Pettigrew.
"And listen carefully. No one kills without my permission. Anyone who disobeys will end like this."
A flash of green light.
Pettigrew didn't even have time to scream. His body collapsed and vanished into ash.
The remaining Death Eaters froze.
Even in their broken mental states, their fear of Voldemort was absolute. They nodded violently, terror snapping them into obedience.
The point was made.
These people needed a short leash. Let them lose control and they'd start slaughtering spectators at random, ruining everything.
Rowan's double had refined the plan overnight.
If everything stayed on schedule, it would work cleanly.
By 1:30 p.m., a hundred thousand witches and wizards streamed out of their tents and into the stadium, cheering as they found their seats.
At exactly two o'clock, Ludo Bagman stepped onto the commentator's platform and pressed his wand to his throat.
"Sonorus!"
His voice boomed across the stadium.
"Ladies and gentlemen… welcome! Welcome to the 422nd Quidditch World Cup!"
The stands erupted.
Flags from dozens of countries waved wildly. Anthems clashed into chaotic noise. The enchanted scoreboard erased its final advertisement and replaced it with:
England: 0
Ireland: 0
"Now," Bagman continued, "please welcome… the Irish National Team's mascot!"
The green-clad section of the stadium roared.
Something enormous, shimmering gold and green, flew into the arena. It burst apart midair into fireworks, then re-formed into a massive glowing shamrock.
A rain of gold coins poured down into the stands.
Inside the shamrock, dozens of tiny bearded figures fluttered about, tossing the coins from baskets.
Leprechauns.
Their gold wasn't real, but most of the children in the audience didn't know that yet.
They screamed and scrambled for it anyway.
"Now!" Bagman's voice thundered again. "Wands in the air, please… and welcome the English team's mascot!"
A flock of brilliant red birds with long, trailing tail-feathers swept into the stadium. They circled once, then hovered in formation and began to sing.
The music was soft, luminous, and strangely soothing.
Arguments over fake gold stopped. The crowd quieted, spellbound.
Fawlins.
England's mascot. Their song calmed emotions and eased aggression.
When the birds finished and vanished, both teams entered on broomsticks.
Ireland wore green.
England wore red.
The stadium exploded with cheers.
Rowan's name echoed louder than any other.
The Ministry's projection team immediately gave him a close-up, his face magnified across the floating screens.
"Now introducing our referee," Bagman announced, "flown all the way from Egypt, President of the International Quidditch Federation, the widely respected—Hassan Mostafa!"
A small, wiry wizard in a gleaming gold robe marched onto the field, clutching a large wooden crate under one arm and his broom under the other.
After sternly restating the rules, he kicked the crate open.
Four balls shot into the air.
One red Quaffle.
Two black Bludgers.
And a tiny golden Snitch, which vanished instantly.
The Snitch was far faster than any used in school matches.
But Rowan already knew exactly where it was.
He didn't move.
Not yet.
His double had just led the Death Eaters past the outer wards and into the stadium.
Ten minutes later—
"Troy scores again! Ten–nil to Ireland!"
England was being crushed.
It wasn't surprising.
Without Rowan, they weren't even a top-ten team.
They only made it this far because he always ended matches by catching the Snitch at the last possible moment.
Rain began to fall.
Light. Cold.
Rowan looked up at the darkening sky.
"That's the signal," he thought.
He kicked his broom and shot forward in a red blur, straight toward the Snitch's hiding place.
Below him, a hundred thousand people screamed.
The first act was complete.
It was time for the second.
...
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