章 453: 0452 End of This Night

Amos Diggory, Cedric Diggory's father, suggested going up to the box to take a look. Strangely, Mr. Crouch, who had been practically vibrating with fierce indignation moments earlier, now seemed oddly disinterested in Amos's proposal.

The witch in the dressing gown shook her head, her graying hair catching the eerie green light cast by the Dark Mark overhead. Her words seemed to solve the puzzle of Harry's confusion, at least momentarily.

"Don't bother, Amos, whoever conjured that... that thing," she gestured towards the sky with a slight shudder, "has surely Disapparated by now. We're chasing shadows."

Amos Diggory, however, was not so easily dissuaded. His eyes, glinting with determination, remained focused on the box high above them.

"I don't think so," he countered firmly. "If they wanted to leave, the prankster - if that's what we're dealing with - would have gone already." He paused, his brow furrowing in thought. "I suspect they're either severely injured and unable to move, or they've just regained consciousness. Either way, we can't leave any stone unturned."

Mr. Diggory flexed his wrist, his wand at the ready. It was clear from his stance that he had made his decision. Seemingly believing the twisted and precarious stairway to the box unsafe, he Disapparated directly up there. Harry squinted, noticing Mr. Diggory appear on the outer side of the box. Amos gripped the twisted, deformed railing with one hand, and with his other hand, he pointed his illuminated wand into the pitch-black interior of the box.

The assembled group below held their collective breath, waiting for any sign of danger or discovery. Seconds ticked by, feeling like hours in the tense silence. No spells were fired at Mr. Diggory from inside the box, which could either be a good sign or a trap waiting to be sprung.

After a brief but thorough observation, Amos seemed satisfied that no immediate threat lurked inside. He put his wand between his teeth, freeing both hands to carefully move over the railing. The metal groaned ominously under his weight, a stark reminder of how precarious the situation truly was.

Suddenly, the eerie quiet was shattered by a startled cry from Mr. Diggory. "Ouch!" His voice echoed through the quiet Quidditch pitch, causing everyone below to tense up immediately.

The Ministry officials, their nerves already frayed by the night's events, all snapped to attention, pointing their wands upwards at the box in a synchronized motion.

Mr. Weasley, his balding head shining slightly in the ghostly green light of the Dark Mark, called out loudly, "What's happening, Amos? Do you need backup?" His hand tightened on his wand, ready to Apparate to Amos's aid at a moment's notice.

"It's nothing, it's nothing," Mr. Diggory's voice floated down from inside the box, sounding slightly flustered and out of breath. "I stepped into a hole and almost fell to the next level - nasty surprise, that." There was a pause, filled only by the sound of shifting debris. "Don't come up, Arthur. This structure can't handle any more weight! It's like a game of Exploding Snap up here - one wrong move and the whole thing might come down!"

As Mr. Diggory continued his search, the box emitted a continuous symphony of creaks and groans, each sound making those below wince in anticipation of a catastrophic collapse. The Ministry officials relaxed their stances slightly but remained highly alert, their eyes never leaving the box above.

Harry, his heart pounding with a mixture of fear and anticipation, wanted to call out to Mr. Diggory, to ask him to keep an eye out for his wand. But given the gravity of the current situation, he bit his tongue, knowing that his lost wand was the least of their worries right now.

Suddenly, Amos's voice rang out again, this time with a note of discovery. "Ah, got something here. There's a... oh, unconscious. Ouch... my goodness!"

Harry, Ron, and Hermione exchanged quick, worried glances, their young faces pale in the eerie light. Mr. Crouch, who had been unnaturally still and quiet, suddenly called out in a tone of utter disbelief, his usual composure cracking,

"You've caught someone? Who is it, Amos? Who's up there?"

Before Mr. Crouch's shout had even finished echoing around the decimated Quidditch pitch, the air in front of them exploded unexpectedly with a resounding BANG! Mr. Diggory materialized amidst an expanding cloud of dust and debris, holding a small, limp body in his arms.

As the dust began to settle, Harry's eyes widened in shock as he immediately recognized the figure by its distinctive bat-like ears. His breath caught in his throat, his heart pounding so hard he could feel it in his ears. Beside him, Hermione let out a small gasp, covering her mouth with her hand and taking an involuntary step backward.

Barty Crouch stood rooted to the spot, his eyes fixed unblinkingly on the house-elf as Amos gently placed it at his feet. For several long, agonizing seconds, Crouch remained motionless, as if he had been hit with a Petrificus Totalus curse. His already pale face seemed to drain of what little color it had left, his fiery eyes were locked onto the unconscious figure of Winky, his house-elf, lying motionless on the ground before him.

The other Ministry officials all turned to look at Barty Crouch, their expressions a mix of shock, disbelief, and growing suspicion.

When Mr. Diggory had first found Winky, she must have been lying face-down, which had mercifully protected her front from further harm. But her back... Harry felt his stomach lurch as he took in the full extent of her injuries. It was a sight no less horrifying than that of the unfortunate wizard they had seen in the forest earlier.

The house-elf's back was a mess of raw, blistered flesh, unmistakably the result of Professor Watson's powerful magic. The wounds were covered in bloody scabs, some fresh and others already beginning to heal. Given the normal timeline of injury and recovery, the wounds shouldn't have progressed to this stage of healing. It was clear that the little creature must have regained consciousness at some point after the initial injury and taken desperate measures to prevent her own demise.

"This— this is impossible," Barty Crouch finally broke his silence, his words coming out in a stutter, so unlike his usual crisp, authoritative tone. "Impossible!!"

Before anyone could react, before a single word of caution could be uttered, Crouch's face contorted with a mixture of disbelief and something that looked unsettlingly like fear. With another resounding BANG, he Disapparated, reappearing a split second later in the precariously balanced box above.

"It's no use, Mr. Crouch—" Amos Diggory called up, his voice tinged with exasperation and a hint of concern. "I've checked thoroughly, there's no one else up there!"

But Diggory's shout fell on deaf ears. The creaking sounds emanating from the box intensified, a clear indication that Mr. Crouch was conducting his own frantic search, unable or unwilling to accept the reality of the situation.

Amos Diggory's face hardened as he looked down at Winky's unconscious form, his expression a mixture of stern disapproval and barely concealed embarrassment. "This is rather... uncomfortable," he said, choosing his words carefully but unable to keep the edge out of his voice. "Barty Crouch's house-elf, of all creatures. It's a delicate situation, I mean."

Mr. Weasley spoke up quietly, his kind face creased with worry. "Now, now, Amos," he said, his tone pacifying. "Surely you don't really think the elf did it? The Dark Mark is a wizard's sign. It requires a wand and complex magic far beyond the capabilities of a house-elf."

"Yes, well, about that," Amos replied, his eyebrows raised significantly as he reached into his pocket. With a curl, he produced a wand, holding it up for all to see. "She was holding this when I found her."

Harry's eyes widened in shock and relief as he recognized the familiar wand. "That's my wand!" he exclaimed, unable to contain himself. He stepped forward, gratefully taking it back from Mr. Diggory and examined it closely. "I thought it was surely ruined in all this chaos!"

Amos merely shrugged at Mr. Weasley, his expression grim. "You see, Arthur," he said, his tone taking on a more official air, "the elf had a wand. This is a clear violation of Clause Three of the Code of Wand Use: No non-human creature is permitted to carry or use a wand. The law is quite clear on this matter."

Just then, with another pop, Barty Crouch Apparated next to Mr. Weasley. It was immediately apparent that his search of the box had yielded nothing. His hands were visibly shaking, and even his meticulously groomed toothbrush mustache seemed to be twitching.

The situation now seemed painfully clear to all present. As one, the Ministry officials turned their collective gaze to the unconscious Winky on the ground, their expressions a mix of confusion, suspicion, and in some cases, barely concealed disdain. Some, however, couldn't help but cast covert glances at Barty Crouch, clearly wondering how this would affect the career of the famously strict and by-the-book Head of the Department of International Magical Cooperation.

Mr. Diggory, seemingly considering himself the hero of the hour for uncovering this potential conspiracy, showed a small, smug smile. His chest puffed out slightly as he addressed the group, focusing particularly on Barty Crouch.

"If you have no objections, Mr. Crouch," he said, his tone formal but with an undercurrent of excitement, "I think we should wake her up and hear what she has to say for herself."

Crouch showed no visible reaction to this suggestion, his face was unreadable. But Hermione looked at Amos in surprise and growing indignation.

"But sir," she interjected, her voice trembling slightly but gaining strength as she spoke, "the house-elf is severely injured. Surely the humane thing would be to treat her first? I mean, she can't possibly answer questions coherently in this state."

Amos raised an eyebrow at Hermione's outburst, regarding her as if she'd just suggested they all take a break for a picnic. But perhaps considering Barty Crouch's position and delicate feelings, he adopted a more amiable tone.

"That would indeed be the normal procedure, young miss, but you must understand, tonight we've suffered a major loss. The appearance of the Dark Mark is no small matter. We must quickly determine if this house-elf is an accomplice or... something more."

With that ominous statement hanging in the air, Amos pointed his own wand at Winky's prone form. "Rennervate!"

The effect was immediate. Winky stirred feebly, her small form twitching as consciousness returned. She seemed to want to turn over, perhaps to position herself, but this slight movement aggravated her extensive back wounds. Winky let out a heart-wrenching howl of pain, her cries of anguish quavering through the night air.

Mr. Diggory didn't wait for Winky to fully regain her senses or for her pain to subside. Instead, he 'helped' her again, directly waving his wand to flip her over and levitate her slightly off the ground.

As Winky's large, tennis-ball sized eyes fluttered open and she realized who was surrounding her, her cries were suddenly cut off as if someone had cast a Silencing Charm. She stared with blank, wide eyes, her expression frozen in a grimace of fear and shock, as if an invisible hand had grabbed her by the throat.

Harry, watching this scene unfold with growing unease, suddenly felt someone grasp his arm. Turning his head, he saw it was Hermione. Her face was a picture of distress, her slight frame swaying in the night breeze as if the weight of what she was witnessing was too much to bear. Harry pursed his lips, feeling a mixture of helplessness and anger. He watched Winky being interrogated, desperately wanting to offer help but not knowing how, or if he even could in this situation.

....

*scenebreak*

Later, outside Sirius's tent, after Mr. Weasley had given them a stern warning about staying out of trouble and hurriedly left with his Ministry colleagues to deal with the aftermath of the night's events, Hermione could no longer contain her outrage.

"I can't believe Barty Crouch would do that!" she roared, her voice trembling with a mixture of anger and disbelief. Her bushy hair seemed to crackle with indignation as she paced back and forth in front of Harry and Ron.

"There's no substantial evidence proving Winky cast that spell. None! But Barty Crouch just... just dismissed her like that, without a second thought! He didn't even want to treat the injuries of someone who had been loyally serving him for years. What does he think house-elves are, disposable slaves?"

Ron, leaning against the tent pole with his arms crossed, seemed surprisingly nonchalant about the house-elf's fate. He calmly said, "You've hit the nail on the head there, Hermione, whether you meant to or not."

Seeing Hermione's confused look, he elaborated, his voice matter-of-fact. "House-elves are slaves to their masters. It's been that way for centuries. To be honest, Crouch dismissing her might actually be a good thing for her in the long run."

Hermione opened her mouth to protest, but Ron held up a hand, his expression unusually serious. "Hear me out, Hermione. If she were really taken back to the Ministry for questioning, well..." He paused, his freckled face scrunching up as if he was trying to find the right words. "My dad told me about some of the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures' methods. They're not exactly known for their gentle touch, especially when it comes to non-human magical beings suspected of dark magic use."

Ron's voice dropped to a near whisper, his blue eyes darting around as if afraid someone might overhear. "The way Dad describes it, if Winky had been taken in for official questioning, she probably wouldn't have left there alive. At least not with her mind intact."

Hermione's eyes widened in shock, her face paling visibly even in the dim light outside the tent. She stared at Ron, apparently at a loss for words. It was clear that she hadn't expected the Ministry's treatment of non-human magical creatures to be quite so brutal.

"I hope Dobby doesn't end up like that," Harry, who had been silent up until now sighed deeply looking up at the deep night sky.

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章 454: 0453 The Following Days

The golden rays of the morning sun had barely begun to filter through the windows of the Burrow when Sirius his face etched with concern and a hint of anger, learned of the previous night's escapade. Harry, along with Ron and Hermione, had ventured out to the Quidditch pitch in search for his missing wand. This piece of news was delivered by an exhausted Mr. Weasley who had rushed home for a hasty breakfast before returning to his duties at the Ministry.

This marked the first time Sirius had ever lost his temper with Harry. To punish Harry's reckless behavior, not only did he forbid Harry from accompanying him on the planned visit to St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries to see Remus, but he also confined him to the Burrow for the remainder of the summer holidays, prohibiting any excursions beyond Ottery St. Catchpole, effectively grounding Harry in a way he had never experienced before.

The harshness of this decision sparked an immediate and fierce resistance from Harry. The argument that ensued between godfather and godson was explosive, causing the old house to practically tremor with the intensity of their disagreement. The shouting match reached such a fever pitch that it seemed as though the very roof might lift off its timbers and float away on the waves of their anger.

In the end, it was Sirius who stormed out, his face ashen with anger. Harry, for his part, found himself with little choice but to comply with the punishment. After all, where else could he go? The Dursleys' house on Privet Drive was certainly not an option, and wandering off on his own would only serve to prove Sirius right about his recklessness.

As the days turned into weeks, the wizarding world was caught in a whirlwind of excitement and speculation. News of the dramatic events that had unfolded during the Quidditch World Cup final spread like Fiendfyre through magical communities across the globe. The Daily Prophet, never one to miss an opportunity for sensationalism, had transformed overnight into what amounted to a personal portrait gallery for Bryan Watson, who had become an instant legend.

For a fortnight straight, the front page of the Daily Prophet featured a rotating selection of captivating photographs depicting Bryan's duel with the dark witch Cliodna on the Quidditch pitch. These images, magical in nature, played out the battle in miniature, allowing readers to relive the intense moments again and again. From the second page to the very last, the Prophet was crammed with snapshots of Bryan's rare public appearances before that night. Candid shots of him stepping out of the Ministry, formal portraits taken at hastily arranged press conferences, and even the odd picture of him simply going about his day became the subject of intense scrutiny and admiration.

The entire wizarding world seemed to have nothing but one topic of conversation: the spectacular showdown between Bryan Watson and the infamous dark witch.

To put the magnitude of this event into perspective, one had to look back half a century to find a comparable moment in wizarding history. The last time the magical community had been so universally captivated was during the legendary duel between Albus Dumbledore and Gellert Grindelwald in Paris. That battle, often referred to as the duel of the century, had pitted the two greatest wizards of the age against each other in a clash that had reshaped the course of magical history.

However, the passage of time had dimmed the collective memory of that momentous event. Most of the witches and wizards who had been fortunate (or unfortunate) enough to witness that earth-shattering duel firsthand had long since passed on to the next great adventure.

For the majority of the current magical population, tales of Dumbledore and Grindelwald's confrontation were just that – tales, passed down through generations, growing more mythical with each retelling. Few concrete records existed, and fewer still had ever seen any tangible evidence of the duel's true nature.

In stark contrast, the battle between Bryan Watson and Cliodna had taken place before an audience of over a hundred thousand witches and wizards. The sheer scale of witnesses was unprecedented in magical history. These spectators, hailing from every corner of the globe and representing diverse magical communities, had inadvertently given Bryan a worldwide stage to demonstrate his extraordinary magical prowess.

The aftermath of this display of power sent shockwaves through the highest echelons of magical governments. The International Confederation of Wizards, a body not known for its swift decision-making, passed a resolution at a speed that left many seasoned politicians slack-jawed in amazement. Without so much as a debate, they appointed Bryan Watson as the vice chairman of the council. The fact that Bryan himself was not present for the vote, nor had he expressed any interest in the position, did nothing to dissuade the Confederation. They considered the resolution valid, seemingly operating under the assumption that no sane wizard would refuse such an honor.

But the Confederation was far from alone in its eagerness to align itself with the new star of the Wizarding world. Major wizarding organizations from various magical societies, sensing an opportunity to bask in reflected glory, extended symbolic olive branches to Bryan. These invitations came in the form of offers to take up prestigious – though notably powerless – positions within their ranks.

The list of organizations vying for Bryan's attention was so extensive that it could have filled an entire page of the Daily Prophet, were the newspaper not already dedicated to singing his praises. Interestingly, and perhaps tellingly, Bryan hadn't responded positively to any of these offers, maintaining a silence that only seemed to fuel further speculation and admiration.

Yet, as with any event of such magnitude, the wave of praise was not without its undercurrent of criticism and controversy. In the days following the incident, as the dust settled and the more somber task of accounting for casualties began, a disturbing picture emerged.

Post-incident statistics, compiled by a joint task force of Ministry officials and St. Mungo's healers, revealed a grim truth. Over a hundred wizards, caught in the crossfire of Bryan and Cliodna's duel, had failed to escape the Quidditch stadium in time.

While the swift and tireless efforts of the staff at St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries managed to save many lives, pulling witches and wizards back from the very brink of death, not all were so fortunate. A significant number of those caught in the magical crossfire lost their lives on the pitch, their final moments spent amidst a spectacle of power that they had not come to witness as entertainment.

The families of the deceased, their grief raw and their anger palpable, were understandably unwilling to let the matter rest. United in their sorrow and their demand for justice, they organized themselves into a group. With determination born of loss, they stormed the British Ministry of Magic and demanded severe punishment for Bryan Watson, the man they saw as responsible for their loved ones' deaths.

The Ministry, caught between the rock of public adoration for Bryan and the hard place of grieving families seeking justice, pulled out all the stops in an attempt to deflect and pacify. For those families willing to accept monetary compensation – though many saw this as an insult to the memory of their lost ones – the Ministry offered substantial additional payments, hoping that galleons might soothe where words could not.

For those adamant about seeing Bryan Watson punished, the Ministry employed a different tactic. They worked tirelessly to shift the blame onto Cliodna, constructing a narrative that painted their loved ones as victims of the dark witch's malice. According to this version of events, promulgated by Ministry spokeswizards at every opportunity, Bryan Watson had done everything in his considerable power to save as many lives as possible. The implication was made clear: without his intervention, the death toll would have been far higher.

This explanation, carefully crafted though it was, failed to convince everyone. Many of the grieving families saw through what they perceived as a transparent attempt to protect a new national hero at the expense of truth and justice. Frustrated by the Ministry's stonewalling, they turned their attention to another powerful institution in the wizarding world: The Press.

The families rushed en masse to the offices of the Daily Prophet. Their hope was simple– to make their voices heard through the pages of the newspaper, to share their stories of loss and their demand for accountability with the wider wizarding world.

The Daily Prophet's response to this emotional plea was, to put it mildly, underwhelming. In what many saw as heartless dismissal of genuine grief and valid concerns, the newspaper mentioned the matter only briefly. This fleeting acknowledgment was buried in a small column on the last page, a spot usually reserved for word puzzles and advertisements for second-hand cauldrons.

After that single, paltry mention, the issue sank like a stone in the Black Lake, disappearing from the public discourse as if it had never existed. The Daily Prophet returned to its regularly scheduled praise of Bryan Watson, and the voices of the bereaved were effectively silenced.

As the days passed and the initial shock of the attack began to wane, another question began to dominate among the general public. Witches and wizards across the country, and indeed across the world, were pondering the same perplexing issue: who was the mastermind behind that night's attack, and what were their motives?

On this question, the British Ministry of Magic, perhaps eager to regain some of the public trust it had lost in its handling of the victims' families, provided what many considered a somewhat satisfactory answer. However, the conciseness and vagueness of their explanation left ample room for speculation and conspiracy theories to flourish.

The day after the attack, as the wizarding world was demanding for answers, the Ministry issued a statement. It was brief, almost frustratingly so, but it offered a grain of information for the public to latch onto.

According to the official line, the attackers were identified as a group of Voldemort devotees. However, the Ministry was quick to clarify that these were not true followers of the Dark Lord – not Death Eaters in the traditional sense. Instead, they were characterized as misguided individuals who had committed these atrocious crimes merely to pay homage to Voldemort's legacy of terror.

This explanation, while providing a framework for understanding the attack, raised as many questions as it answered. Who were these devotees? How had they organized such a large-scale attack without detection? And perhaps most pressingly, was this an isolated incident, or the beginning of a new wave of dark wizard activity?

In the days that followed, the Ministry seemed determined to demonstrate its efficiency and control over the situation. The wizarding world received daily reports, each one detailing the number of dark wizards involved in the incident who had been apprehended. These reports, delivered with mechanical regularity, painted a picture of a Ministry working tirelessly to bring the perpetrators to justice.

The Wizengamot, the high court of Magical Britain, displayed an efficiency that many found reminiscent of the Death Eater trials that had followed Voldemort's downfall. Every day, several unfamiliar faces – witches and wizards who had never before graced the pages of the Daily Prophet– were escorted out of the Wizengamot courtroom by stern-faced Aurors. Their destinations were always the same: directly to Azkaban, the dreaded wizarding prison.

These processions of the condemned became a daily spectacle, all conducted under the watchful eyes of reporters who dutifully recorded each grim-faced wizard and each witch as they were led away to face magical justice.

The message they wanted to send was clear: the Ministry was in control, and those who sought to disrupt the peace of Magical Britain would face swift and severe consequences.

Meanwhile, in the shadowy corners of various European magical communities, a different kind of upheaval was taking place. Panic spread like corona-virus among those wizards who had been dwelling in the underground world. Rumors circulated, growing more elaborate and terrifying with each retelling, about a powerful madman who was hunting them down.

On the thirteenth day after the attack, just as the wizarding public was beginning to grow weary of the incessant reports about Bryan Watson's heroics and the ongoing roundup of dark wizards, another bombshell was dropped. This new development would reignite public interest and set tongues wagging from Hogsmeade to Horizont Alley.

The usually bustling atrium of the Ministry of Magic, a place known more for its bureaucratic monotony than for drama, suddenly transformed into the stage of a momentous event. Reporters, who had been camping out in hopes of glimpsing Bryan Watson or securing an elusive interview, and Amidst them, witches and wizards who had come to the Ministry on routine business all paused, their attention drawn by something extraordinary.

From the grand fireplaces that lined the atrium, green flames flared with an unusual intensity, heralding the arrival of a procession that caused every eye in the vast hall to widen in disbelief. At the center of this group, looking bewildered and undeniably worse for wear, was none other than Cliodna herself—the dark witch who had dueled Bryan Watson, who had brought terror to the Quidditch World Cup, and who had been the subject of countless nightmares and heated discussions over the past two weeks.

Flanking her on one side was Bryan Watson, on her other side strode Rufus Scrimgeour, the Head of the Auror Office. Behind them came a team of elite Aurors forming a protective and restraining circle around the captured dark witch.

The Daily Prophet, never one to let such a good story slip through its fingers, sprang into action with a speed that would have impressed even the nimblest Seeker. Within hours, a special edition was rushed to print, owl posts were working overtime, and newsstands across Magical Britain were swamped with eager readers, all desperate to learn the details of this shocking turn of events.

That evening, as families gathered for dinner in homes across magical Britain, the special edition of the Daily Prophet was the center of attention.

Harry who was bored and confined to the Burrow, got hold of the special edition of the Daily Prophet.

Across the dinner table sat Mr. Weasley, who was home for the first time in nearly two weeks. The toll of his work at the Ministry was evident in his gaunt appearance and the dark circles that had taken up permanent residence under his eyes. He picked at his food listlessly, his mind clearly elsewhere.

Harry, unable to contain his thoughts any longer, broke the unusually tense silence that had settled over the usually boisterous Weasley dinner table.

"The paper's been claiming that the Ministry learned from interrogations that this dark witch was the mastermind behind that night's attack and the leader of those masked wizards," Harry said, shaking the newspaper. "It says the dark witch has confessed to the charges, but that's clearly problematic, Mr. Weasley. Many people in the box that night saw that the masked wizards and the dark witch didn't even know each other. They were—"

"Let's just let this matter rest, Harry," Mr. Weasley said in an almost pleading tone, dark circles prominent under his eyes.

The abrupt end to the conversation left an uncomfortable silence hanging in the air. Harry opened his mouth as if to protest further, but something in Mr. Weasley's exhausted expression made him think better of it. He closed his mouth, his teeth clicking audibly, and slumped back in his chair, frustration evident in every line of his body.

Just as the silence was becoming increasingly unbearable, George's voice cut through the silence. "Dad—" he said, an unusual note of seriousness in his tone that immediately drew everyone's attention. "Have you seen Mr. Bagman recently?"

The question seemed to come out of nowhere, and for a moment, Mr. Weasley looked confused.

Beside Harry, Ron, who had been listlessly pushing food around his plate, suddenly perked up. His posture straightened, and he pricked up his ears, his eyes fixed intently on his father.

Mr. Weasley sighed, running a hand through his thinning hair. "No, Ludo's gone to Paris recently," he said, his tone carefully neutral. "He's there to, um, prepare for another event." A pause, then, almost as if he couldn't help himself, he added, "Honestly, he's quite crafty, dodging all the trouble. I rather envy him—"

He broke off suddenly, as if realizing he'd said more than he intended. Quickly, he attempted to redirect the conversation. "Why, did you need him for something?"

The question was accompanied by a wide yawn that seemed to crack Mr. Weasley's jaw. He rubbed his bloodshot eyes, showing his exhaustion.

George opened his mouth to respond, a determined look on his face, but before he could get a word out, Mrs. Weasley bustled in from the kitchen. Her eyes immediately zeroed in on her husband's exhausted state, and her face softened with sympathy.

"Go get some sleep, Arthur," she said gently, laying a comforting hand on his shoulder. "The Ministry might send word again in the middle of the night."

"That's a certainty—" Mr. Weasley muttered between yawns. No longer concerned about why George was asking about Ludo, he stood up unsteadily and wobbled towards the stairs.

"You all need to turn in early tonight too!" Mrs. Weasley said to the others. "Hogwarts has sent the list of items you'll need for next term. We need to go to Diagon Alley tomorrow to buy your school supplies."

"Can I go too?" Harry asked, his eyes lighting up.

"Oh, of course, dear!" Mrs. Weasley looked at Harry affectionately.

"But Sirius—"

"My word is final in this house, Harry—" Mrs. Weasley said with a smile. "I think you've learned your lesson, and besides, we need to buy a couple of special items of clothing. You simply must come along!"

"What special clothing?"

Ron, who had been watching his father climb the stairs until he disappeared from view, immediately turned his head back upon hearing his mother's words.

"Oh—" Mrs. Weasley's eyes twinkled. "You'll find out tomorrow, Ron. Now, off you go— shower and get to bed."

Harry, Hermione, and the Weasley siblings gradually stood up and headed upstairs. The prospect of going to Diagon Alley greatly improved Harry's mood, making him less eager to discuss with Ron and Hermione about Professor Watson bringing the dark witch to justice.

"I wonder if Professor Dumbledore has found a new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher?" Harry thought aloud.

"He'll figure something out," Hermione said. "And if no one else is willing to take the job, I'm sure Professor Watson would step in."

'If Professor Watson were to teach them again, that would be the best possible outcome.'

Harry didn't voice this thought, but it was on his mind. After witnessing that duel on the night of the Quidditch World Cup final, no one would pass up the chance to learn a thing or two from Professor Watson. Harry had made up his mind that no matter how challenging it might be, he would stick with Professor Watson's physical education class.

Reaching the third floor, Harry opened the door and was about to enter. Hermione, not ready to sleep yet, followed Harry into the room, intending to discuss the recent news from the Ministry of Magic. However, Ron stopped at the doorway. Faced with Harry and Hermione's puzzled looks, Ron hesitated before saying,

"I need to talk to Fred and George about something—"

With that, Ron headed up to the fourth floor. Harry and Hermione exchanged glances and simultaneously let out a sigh.

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