Following the guidance of the Devil's Snare, Adrian led the small group of Ministry officials across a vast span of open field. The grass beneath their feet was wet with midnight dew that soaked through their robes and boots, creating an uncomfortable squelching sound with each step.
Behind him, Fudge's breathing grew increasingly obvious as they navigated the challenging scene. His overweight figure, more suited to the comfortable Ministry office than outdoor expeditions, struggled to maintain pace with Adrian's stride.
"Adrian," Fudge panted between gasping breaths, his voice carrying a tone of growing desperation, "this is turning into a complete waste of valuable time and resources. I remain absolutely certain that Crabbe isn't anywhere in this godforsaken wilderness.
The most logical explanation is that he simply lost his wand, perhaps it was pickpocketed in Diagon Alley, or dropped during his travels to France. We're chasing shadows while real criminals escape justice."
"Is that truly what you believe, Minister?" Adrian asked without breaking his steady pace.
Then, with startling suddenness, Adrian froze mid-step, his entire body going stiff with tension. His voice dropped to a whisper, forcing the others to lean in close to catch his words. "Look over there. But for Merlin's sake, don't make any sudden movements."
Every head turned to follow his gaze, and what they saw sent icy terror racing down their spines. Through the dense vegetation of forest that bordered the field, approximately a dozen figures stood in a circle.
In the center of this ominous gathering, a figure knelt on the forest floor, his body wrecked with violent tremors. Even from their significant distance, the watchers could see that the man was in unimaginable agony, his spine was curved in an unnatural arch as waves of pain coursed through his body.
But what made the blood freeze in their veins was the sight of one Death Eater who had rolled up his left sleeve, revealing the infamous Dark Mark branded into his flesh.
"That's..." Fudge began, but his voice got caught in his throat as what they were witnessing crashed over him.
"A Death Eater gathering," Adrian completed grimly, his hand already moving toward his wand.
Barty Crouch Sr. reacted with the lightning reflexes of a seasoned Auror, his wand had already appeared in his grip.
But in that same crucial instant, their surveillance was shattered.
One of the hooded figures, perhaps alerted by some sixth sense, or maybe responding to a magical ward they had unknowingly triggered, suddenly lifted his head in their direction.
The discovery moved through the circle, and within seconds, every Death Eater had turned to face the unwelcome observers.
Adrian raised his wand defensively, his muscles tensing in preparation for the violent magical duel that seemed inevitable.
However, the anticipated storm of hostile magic never emerged.
Instead, the Death Eaters all as one raised their wands toward sky. Before Adrian and the Ministry officials could even begin to cast their own spells, the entire circle of Dark wizards vanished.
The forest exploded with a rapid-fire series of sharp "pop" sounds. Within moments, the clearing that had moments before hosted a gathering of Voldemort's most devoted followers was empty except for one figure.
The kneeling man remained exactly where he had been, apparently either unable or unwilling to flee with his former companions.
As the group approached cautiously, they could finally see the tortured figure clearly. The twisted, pain-ravaged face was unmistakable, this was indeed Crabbe, the owner of the wand that Adrian still carried.
The man's condition was beyond disturbing. He lay curled in a tight half-circle position on the forest floor, his entire body trembling with the aftershocks of long magical torture.
Deep, bloody grooves marked where his fingernails had clawed desperately at the ground, and white foam leaked from the corners of his mouth like a rabid animal.
From his throat came sounds that no human being should ever make, the inhuman howls and whimpers that spoke of suffering beyond the capacity of words to describe.
"I... was... wrong..." He managed to gasp between spasms, his voice barely decipherable. "Save... save me...."
Then, with a final, heart-wrenching whimper that seemed to carry all the desperation of a soul in torment, Crabbe's devastated body went completely limp.
Crouch walked forward, lifted his eyelids to examine him, his expression grave. "Signs of severe Cruciatus Curse. By the looks of it, this torture session has been going on for quite some time."
"Is he..." Fudge couldn't bring himself to finish the question, though the answer was already written in the motionlessness of Crabbe's chest.
Crouch shook his head. The answer was obvious.
"How barbaric," Adrian murmured. "He must have done something wrong. This is Voldemort's idea of disciplinary action for his followers."
His shoulders shook with either suppressed sobs or panic.
It was clear that despite overwhelming evidence, he remained locked in a state of psychological denial that no amount of proof could penetrate. The political and personal implications of acknowledging Voldemort's return were simply too enormous for his mind to process.
Adrian studied the broken man with a mixture of pity and frustration. Such willful blindness in a position of leadership could prove catastrophic for the entire wizarding community.
Meanwhile, Barty Crouch Sr. maintained his professional composure. His eyes flickered with an unreadable light as he surveyed the scene.
In fact, Crabbe's explosive demise had actually simplified matters for Adrian considerably.
He had originally planned to capture the man and deliver him for trial and imprisonment in Azkaban. But Voldemort was even more ruthlessly pragmatic than Adrian had anticipated.
The casual brutality of it was breathtaking. A follower who had served faithfully for decades was executed without hesitation for what appeared to be a relatively minor failure.
It defied his understanding of how anyone could continue to serve such a merciless leader, yet Adrian knew that fear and fanaticism could drive people to extraordinary acts of self-destruction.
But such philosophical considerations would have to wait for a more appropriate time.
While the Ministry officials dealt with the gruesome task of collecting and cataloging what remained of Crabbe's corpse, Adrian made his way back through the forest toward the campsite.
The chaos that had engulfed the World Cup grounds had finally subsided.
In the pale light of approaching dawn, the true extent of the damage became clear. Dozens of tents bore the blackened scars of magical fire, their colorful fabric reduced to charred fragments that fluttered in the morning breeze like prayer flags in a war zone.
Emergency medical stations had been established throughout the area, staffed by Healers from St. Mungo's who had been summoned to tend to the injured.
Fortunately, most of the casualties appeared to be relatively minor, burns, cuts, and the occasional broken bone from people who had fallen while fleeing the chaos.
The Death Eaters' assault had been designed more as a demonstration of power than a wholesale massacre, which explained why the casualty count remained blessedly low.
When Adrian finally reached the location where the Weasley family's tent had been pitched, he found the area conspicuously empty except for two familiar figures pacing anxiously in the early morning light.
Mr. Weasley and Harry were waiting exactly where he had expected to find them, though the absence of the rest of the family was immediately noticeable.
"Where are the others?" Adrian called out as he approached.
Both men turned at the sound of his voice, their faces immediately brightening with relief at seeing him safe and unharmed.
Mr. Weasley practically sagged with the release of tension he had been carrying for hours.
"Thank Merlin you're back safely," Arthur breathed, running his hands through his thinning red hair.
"I was beginning to worry that something terrible had happened. As for the rest of the family, I made the decision to send them home ahead of us. Given the circumstances and the fact that the Ministry opened emergency Portkey authorizations several hours early, it seemed wise to get them away from here as quickly as possible."
He gestured toward Harry, who had remained silent but whose relief was obvious in his posture. "Harry here was concerned about your welfare and absolutely insisted on waiting for your return. I couldn't convince him to leave with the others, no matter how much I argued that you could take care of yourself."
Adrian felt a warm surge of gratitude. He placed a reassuring hand on Harry's shoulder, noting how Harry's smile was somewhat strained around the edges.
Harry's other hand remained pressed against his forehead, covering the lightning-bolt scar. The pain that had begun when the Dark Mark first appeared in the sky showed no signs of subsiding, which told Adrian everything he needed to know about the night's events.
The persistent agony meant that Voldemort had indeed been present during the Death Eater gathering, not in his original body, of course, since that had been destroyed years ago, but in some other form.
Most likely he was possessing another unfortunate victim, just as he had done with Quirrell during Harry's first year at Hogwarts.
The method might be different, but the threat remained very real. And given Voldemort's demonstrated talent for manipulation and his seemingly inexhaustible supply of followers willing to sacrifice themselves for his cause, it was only a matter of time before he found a way to return to full power.
"What did you discover out there?" Mr. Weasley asked, his voice dropping to a more serious tone as he prepared himself for news that would likely be far from pleasant.
Adrian provided a complete account of their forest expedition, describing in detail the Death Eater circle they had seen, Crabbe's torture and death. He spoke straightforwardly, but both listeners could hear the underlying severity in his voice.
"Crabbe was a Death Eater from the very beginning," Mr. Weasley responded with a cold snort of contempt. "His death is richly deserved, if you ask me. The man helped murder countless innocent people during You-Know-Who's first rise to power. The world is better off without him."
Harry's reaction was more complex.
As he listened to the explanation of Crabbe Senior's demise, his mind immediately turned to Vincent Crabbe, his Slytherin classmate who spent most of his time following Draco Malfoy around like an oversized, dim-witted shadow.
For a brief moment, Harry found himself imagining how Vincent would react to learning of his father's death. Despite their hostile relationship at school, despite Vincent's cruelty and his family's dark history, Harry couldn't help but feel a fleeting moment of sympathy.
But the emotion passed quickly, replaced by a harder, more pragmatic perspective. These were Death Eaters they were discussing, people who had chosen to follow Voldemort, who had participated in torture and murder.
Near dawn, as the eastern sky began to show the first faint traces of pink and gold, Mr. Weasley managed to obtain emergency transportation (an old tire) from the harassed Portkey officials who had been working through the night to evacuate displaced families.
After reaching the portkey point near Stoatshead Hill, the journey back to the Burrow passed in a blur, and soon they were standing in the familiar garden outside the Weasley family home.
Mrs. Weasley, who had been pacing the front yard finally allowed herself to relax when she saw them appear near her vegetables.
The chaos was officially over.
At Mrs. Weasley's invitation, Adrian and the others enjoyed a fine breakfast at the Burrow.
During the meal, the Daily Prophet was delivered on schedule by the Weasleys' old owl, landing on the table.
Adrian casually picked up the paper and glanced at it. Surprisingly, news about the Quidditch World Cup had already been published.
When the others noticed his expression, they abandoned their breakfast and crowded around him, eager to see how the wizarding world's most influential newspaper had chosen to present the story.
"'Dark Mark Appears at Quidditch World Cup Site,'" Hermione read aloud, in a tone of amazement at the speed with which the story had reached print. "How did they manage to publish this so quickly? The attack only happened a few hours ago."
Adrian's expression darkened as he spotted the byline at the top of the article.
"Rita Skeeter," Adrian frowned. "Oh, then the accuracy of this paper is questionable."
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