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HP: Bloodraven Chapter 293 - Brooms, Cheers, and a Dash of Chaos (III)
🕑 Added 2025-12-17 16:33:00 +0000 UTCCheers and applause detonated through the stands, a white hot surge of sound that tore across the stadium in endless waves, sealing the night in thunder and fire. The roar became a living thing, swelling and crashing back upon itself as fireworks split the sky above, scattering gold and emerald light across tens of thousands of upturned faces.
At the stadium’s highest level, within the VIP stands, the celebration was erupting in perfect harmony with the chaos below.
Fred and George were on their feet, leaping and screaming at the top of their lungs, arms flailing as if they might take flight themselves. George nearly tripped over the bench, laughing wildly as Fred grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him in triumph.
Ron seized Harry by the collar, hauling him halfway out of his seat as his face burned red with excitement. “Did you see that, Harry? Did you see that?”
Harry nodded helplessly, his glasses slightly askew from the shaking. “I saw it, Ron, I saw it.”
“That was a Skycorkscrew,” Ron shouted, jabbing a finger toward the pitch as the cheers surged again. “Merlin, a Skycorkscrew!”
“I know,” Harry said, raising his voice just to be heard. “I saw it.”
Ron barely listened. “Did you know that guy Krum’s almost our age?” he went on breathlessly. “How in Merlin’s name is that even possible?”
Harry rolled his eyes, though a faint smile tugged at his mouth. Honestly, it did not feel quite as unbelievable as everyone made it sound to him. After everything he had been put through during training with his alchemy professor, the months of relentless drills, he was fairly certain he could pull off something similar if given the chance. Especially on a broom, he had far more confidence.
And while the group were celebrating along with the rest, not far away an Asian couple sat within the same VIP section, joining the festivities as well, though with polite applause rather than shouting.
Isabella clapped absently, her gaze still fixed on the pitch, while Maverick mirrored her, slowly bringing his hands together in an unhurried rhythm. Without turning her head, she muttered, “Thank Merlin it did not drag on. I was starting to get bored already.”
Maverick chuckled softly, also without looking at her. “That’s Quidditch, honey. You never really know…” In truth, he was a little surprised, because in the original story he remembered the match ending quickly as well. Was there really some invisible hand making sure things unfolded along a set, fated line of trajectory?
After all, this universe was an entirely different setting from the original story, and yet, some events still seemed to unfold the same way.
Isabella finally glanced sideways at him. “So... what’s next?”
He hummed softly at her words, considering. According to Lucius, Voldy’s thugs would move only after the closing ceremony, meaning tonight it was only a matter of time. He let a slow smile form as he watched the vibrant fireworks erupt before him. “Now... we simply wait,” he said quietly, eyes fixed on the spectacle.
The closing ceremony followed soon after. Champions were crowned, medals awarded, and standout players recognized as the crowd roared approval once more.
Amid the celebration, from the corner of his eye, Maverick noticed a man several seats to his right rise quietly. He leaned down, murmured something to the woman and child beside him, and slipped away without drawing attention. His expression was solemn, sharply at odds with the electric atmosphere, and he made his way toward Maverick, stopping just behind him as if waiting for instructions.
“Is it time?” Maverick asked calmly, without turning.
“Yes, leader,” Lucius replied in a low voice. Though controlled, his tone carried an undercurrent of anxiety that Maverick could sense without looking. “I’ve been summoned… we’ll be marching from the northeast side of the camp.”
Maverick waved his hand, nodding. “Good. I take it you have the portkey with you?”
A brief look of relief crossed Lucius’s face as he nodded, slipping his hand inside his coat pocket. “I have it…”
“…Very well. Be careful. And don’t worry about your wife or little Draco, I’ll keep an eye on them. Signal me when it’s about to begin.”
Lucius exhaled slowly, as if a heavy weight had been lifted, nodded once more, and then turned toward the elevators. His face was calm, resolute, the two things that had haunted him most—his family’s safety and his own—finally accounted for.
He knew the mission given by the Dark Lord was essentially a suicide assignment, yet inaction would be far more dangerous. Voldemort would not tolerate hesitation. At the same time, his position as a double agent left him with no real choice. At least now, his new leader had given him a chance to survive—for himself and for his family.
Minutes later, Maverick and Isabella also rose, making their way toward the elevators. The stands still buzzed with energy, but no one paid them any attention, and even if someone had glanced their way, they would not have noticed. Already, they were geared up, invisible to sight and senses, and soon, they vanished from the stadium entirely.
Time dragged on as fireworks thundered overhead, each explosion followed by waves of cheers that rolled through the stadium again and again. At last, the World Cup finals drew to a close. By the final announcement, it was already past one in the morning. Streams of spectators made their way toward tents, though most remained on the grounds, planning to sleep under the stars and depart at sunrise.
“Do not tell your mother you have been gambling,” Mr. Weasley implored quietly as they shuffled down the stairs with the crowd.
“Don’t worry, Dad,” Fred said gleefully. “We’ve got big plans for this money. We wouldn’t want it confiscated.”
Mr. Weasley hesitated, clearly tempted to ask what those plans were, then thought better of it. Soon they were swept along the lantern lit path back toward the campsite. Raucous singing drifted through the night air, and leprechauns zipped overhead, cackling as they waved glowing lanterns.
By the time they reached the tents, sleep felt impossible, and with the surrounding noise still rising, Mr. Weasley decided they deserved one last cup of cocoa before turning in. They laughed and debated over the match until Ginny dozed off at the tiny table, sending hot chocolate pooling across the floor, and at last, everyone decided it was time to call it a night.
Hermione, Jean, and Ginny retreated to the ladies’ area, while Harry, Ron, Sirius, Mr. Weasley, and the others changed into pajamas and climbed into their bunks. Even then, singing and the occasional distant bang echoed across the campsite.
“Bet telling the Irish lot to quiet down would be a bit… hopeless, eh?” Ron said from the top bunk, staring at the canvas ceiling as a leprechaun lantern zipped past. He couldn’t stop thinking about Krum’s spectacular moves, especially that last-minute catch.
He imagined himself on a Firebolt, robes bearing his name, the roar of a hundred thousand voices filling the stadium as the commentator’s voice boomed, “I give you... Ronaaaald Weeeeeasley.”
He never knew when the fantasy slipped into sleep. All he knew was that his father’s voice suddenly cut through the darkness.
“Get up. Ron, Harry, come on, get up. This is urgent.”
“What’s happening?” Harry shot upright, narrowly avoiding a bang with the bunk above, while Ron groaned from his own bunk, rolled over, and squinted sleepily at his father.
The campsite sounded different now, or at least it seemed that way at first. The singing had stopped, replaced by screams that pierced the night, accompanied by the heavy thud of running feet.
“No time,” Mr. Weasley said hurriedly, tugging jeans over his pajamas.
Sirius was no different, hopping on one foot as he wrestled into his own pants. “Grab a jacket and get outside. Quickly.”
They obeyed, and soon everyone stumbled out of the tent, where they were met with complete chaos. Fires flickered across the field, and people scattered, fleeing toward the woods as if running for their lives.
“Girls, with me! Stay close,” Sirius called, beckoning the three witches to follow.
“What’s going on?!” Miss Know-It-All rushed over, Jean and Ginny close behind, panic written on all three faces. All around them, screams tore through the night, the thunder of running feet echoing across the field as terrified faces darted in every direction.
“Don’t know… just hold hands and stay with me,” Sirius replied, then glanced at Arthur. “We get to a clearing and Apparate out, immediately!”
Branches snapped underfoot, and the roar of the crowd’s fear pressed in from all sides.
“I know… come on, let's go!”
They saw, at some distance, a group moving through the campsite—masked faces advancing, spells flashing from their wands like gunfire. Jeering laughter and drunken shouts rolled toward them from that direction, and worst of all, bursts of vivid green light made it clear exactly what it was.
There was no time to think. Led by Arthur and Sirius, the group rushed in the opposite direction toward the woods, hoping to find a clearing away from the avalanche of fleeing people. Only then could they Apparate safely, with all the children together.
Meanwhile, high above the chaos, Maverick and Isabella stood on a shimmering magical construct, watching the turmoil unfold below. Neither looked surprised, as if everything happening was exactly as they had anticipated.
Reflected in their pupils were flames dancing everywhere, while cries and shouts echoed upward, striking their ears. Maverick’s expression hardened as he raised one hand, pushing his magic outward in invisible waves that swept through every corner of the campsite.
Then he brought his other hand to his ear. “Get moving,” he said calmly. “Start clearing the crowd.”
“I really hope you know what you’re doing, Ricky,” Isabella murmured, staring down at the chaos below, her face serious and her hand clenched firmly around her wand.
“Ali and Lupin are leading the team,” he replied evenly. “I trust them. Besides, my magic is watching everything.”
His eyes flicked toward the Weasley group as the two adults led them toward the woods, joined by a stream of others, some screaming, some crying, and some stumbling as they struggled to run steadily.
Elsewhere, he saw Ministry Aurors locked in battle with the masked assailants, spells flashing wildly. Bodies were strewn across the field, cursed or stunned, the ground marked by the chaotic aftermath of magic.
From the start, Maverick had counted two or three dozen masked attackers emerging from the woods, fanning out into separate groups. Voldemort’s plan was simple, apparently. Sow chaos, shed blood, and raise his flag for all to witness.
Beyond that, Maverick couldn’t see any benefit this act of terrorism would bring the madman. Moreover, it would draw the authorities straight to him, not just the British but the ICW as well, since the World Cup was an international event.
Or was it all purely for his twisted ego, a way to announce he would soon be back in such a sick, albeit flashy, manner?
He shook his head. Anyways, trying to make sense of that madman would be pointless. Slowly, he then turned his head, narrowing his eyes on the distance where tall trees rose under the pale glow of the moon.
According to Lucius, for tonight’s operation Voldemort had thirty to forty Death Eaters of Magus rank on the ground, and two Greatmagi leading from the skies. For now, though, those two hadn’t taken action.
Rustling on the breeze even from where he stood, the maniacal laughter reached him, and he didn’t need to second-guess the identity of one of those lunatics. The other was no stranger either; he recognized the magical signature from the prison break months ago.
If no other party of equal power intervenes when they take action, Maverick will have to step in. That said, within the reach of his magical senses, he also spots two familiar figures, equally matched in magic, seemingly waiting as well.
Comments
QuantumServer
Thanks for the chapter
