The rain came down like a slow, deliberate drumbeat, soaking through cloaks, flags, and euphoria alike. The World Cup final had ended in a crescendo of cheers and chaos. Even now, remnants of celebration clung to the muddy field like the last note of a song that no one wanted to end. Laughter echoed in defiance of the storm. Fireworks sputtered out overhead like dying stars. The revelry tried its best to carry on, but something in the air had shifted.
A tension. A pause between heartbeats.
It was the kind of silence that dogs bark at. The kind birds flee from. The kind that smells like blood before it's spilled.
I felt it before I saw them. The hair on the back of my neck prickled. Magic always leaves a residue—a warning. Old blood knows the scent of predators, and mine was screaming.
Then the first scream ripped through the air. Raw. Wet. Human.
And the crowd began to break.
Not all at once. Not in panic. Not yet. At first, it was confusion. Heads turned. People craned their necks. Curious. Concerned. But when the masked figures stepped out from the mist and torchlight, wands drawn, their cloaks billowing like reapers come to reap—
Panic bloomed like fire in dry grass.
I moved with the current at first. Casual. Measured. Like a leaf floating in a river, just beneath the surface.
They didn't see me. Of course they didn't. Arrogance is blinding, and the Death Eaters wore it like armor.
There were twenty of them.
I counted their steps, their positions. Watched their formation shift and settle like vultures circling a carcass. They spread outward, casting spells into the air—harmless ones, for now. Little theatrics. Sparks. Bangs. Fear-bait.
A man shouted for his child. Another tripped, and someone else kept running, trampling him.
They wanted chaos. They needed it. It was the only thing that made them feel like gods.
But chaos is a double-edged wand. And they were about to learn just how sharp it could be.
I slowed my breathing. Let the storm drown out my heartbeat. Let instinct take over. This wasn't vengeance. Not yet. This was calculation. Strategy. Setting the stage i would say .
I had trained for this. Visualised it. Not this exact moment, no, but something close enough to feel familiar.
Their weakness was always the same. The belief that fear alone was enough to win .
And fear can work. If it's wielded properly.
One of them raised his wand to the sky—Barty Crouch Jr., unless I missed my guess. He shouted the incantation with all the flourish of a stage actor who'd just gotten the lead role.
"Morsmordre!"
A sickly green light tore through the clouds. The Dark Mark exploded into being above us—a skull with a serpent tongue, pulsing like a heartbeat made of bile.
People screamed. Some knelt, sobbing. Others froze entirely, caught in the gravitational pull of terror. It was a symbol designed to unmake courage. It worked because the world remembered. The wars. The deaths. The silence that followed.
But symbols can be hijacked. And fear?
Fear can be redirected.
The barrel sat about ten paces ahead of their formation. A prop, nothing more. Something the event organisers had used to anchor a food stall or a vendor's awning. Now it was just another piece of the detritus left behind after the party.
They never even looked at it.
Fools.
My wand moved before the thought was finished.
"Expulso."
The explosion ripped the night open.
It wasn't just noise. It was pressure, heat, and judgment delivered at speed. The nearest three Death Eaters didn't even have time to scream. They simply ceased to stand. The others were blown back—some flung like dolls, others crumpling where they stood.
Then the screaming began in earnest.
But this time, not from the crowd.
From them.
I moved forward through the smoke. Not running. Not hiding. Letting them see me now. Letting the survivors process the impossible.
They didn't know my name. But they would remember this night.
The second spell came fast—"Stupefy!"—followed by a third before the first even hit its target. I chained them, one after another, no space between. Not elegant. Brutal. Efficient.
They scrambled to regroup, but formation meant nothing now. Their flanks were broken, their centre stunned or worse, and every move they made was reactive.
I was already predicting and reacting.
One turned toward me, wand up. Too slow.
"Incarcerous."
The ropes bit into his wrists before his curse left his lips.
Another came from the left, wand crackling with killing intent.
"Protego Maxima."
The shield shimmered, pulsing, absorbing the curse and spitting it back as steam in the air.
He blinked.
That was all I needed.
"Confringo."
He went down, skidding through mud and shattered stone.
Three left standing now. Stunned bodies littered the ground, some groaning. Some not.
Still breathing. That mattered. For now.
I stopped moving.
Let the rain hit my face. Let the world settle for just a moment.
Then I stepped forward and stood among them—among their fallen, their broken, their unconscious bodies—and let silence reclaim the field.
I was soaked. Alone.
But they'd remember this night.
I'd make sure of it.