The path had veered off course, and the crowds had disappeared.
Though the cheers from the stadium still echoed faintly behind him, just a short distance away Draco found himself facing a far more chilling scene.
It was like darkness festering beneath the light.
The contrast was so jarring that it made one question whether the Ministry of Magic's security, or its system for verifying wizards' identities, had failed somewhere—
or if there was a mole no one knew about.
Figures in black robes stepped out of the shadows, their faces hidden, their presence radiating unmistakable malice.
From them, Draco caught a scent—faint but familiar.
He had a vague idea who they were.
Sensing danger, Draco tightened his grip on his wand. Magic stirred around him.
But only he knew the truth: though he could now cast spells, his control was still unstable. Unless it was absolutely necessary, he didn't intend to use magic.
Otherwise, he wouldn't have had to carry Astoria on his back—he could have simply levitated her with a charm.
Just as he was about to act first and draw some attention, Draco caught sight of something small on the ground.
His eyes froze for a few seconds, his wand lowering slightly.
The black-robed figures noticed.
"Well, well, looks like you've spotted our little rat friend. So you're famous, are you? If the Master knew, he might give you a reward. Don't you think so, Dirty? Or is it Ugly?"
"Squeak, squeak!"
"Hehehehe!"
The leader's shrill laughter scraped the air, joined by the rest of the black-robed wizards, their voices screeching like knives dragged across glass.
Draco ignored the sound. The tone in their voices told him where he had seen them before.
But why were they after him?
The leader withdrew his gaze from the trembling rat and turned toward Draco.
"I see... No wonder the Master was interested. Such strong magic... and such composure. Hard to imagine... Wait—too much power too fast, so you can't control it yet, is that it?"
The man's words came out in broken, half-coherent fragments, his mind clearly fractured.
Every few sentences, he muttered "Master," as though clinging to the word like a prayer.
Draco's expression hardened. Facing a madman was one thing—but having one's back weighed down by a girl who hadn't even realized the danger yet, still faintly smacking her lips as if dreaming about food, was another.
He could, of course, abandon Astoria and try to fight his way out.
But friendship wasn't something built on cruelty.
Besides, it didn't feel like they intended to strike—at least, not yet.
"Look at that. A student who hasn't even graduated from Hogwarts has more courage than you, Peter Pettigrew."
"Squeak! Squeak!"
"Hmph. I'll be sure to keep an eye on you—for the Master."
Though Draco had long known the truth about Scabbers' real identity, his heart still gave an involuntary jolt at the words.
Was this arrogance born of confidence—or had Pettigrew's secret simply ceased to matter anymore?
Or perhaps, in the grander scheme of things—compared to who Peter Pettigrew really was, or the injustice of Sirius Black—none of it mattered now.
...
Whether it was because he realized they weren't planning to attack or because he sensed they had something to say, Draco found himself calmly analyzing their words.
Noticing this, the leader of the black-robed wizards let out a sharp, eerie laugh.
"You're clever. I look forward to the day we work together."
"Work together? You mean join you? Or become one of the Death Eaters?"
Adjusting Astoria's weight on his back, Draco frowned, his eyes flicking briefly over the man's arm.
The other wizard didn't seem to hear the sarcasm in Draco's tone, nor did he realize he was being tested. Instead, he spread his arms wide.
"The great Master is returning. Soon, the wizarding world will fall under his rule. As a pureblood, don't you wish to witness it? The glory of the world under the Master's command?"
Fanatical. Extreme. Deranged.
Even without seeing his face, Draco could feel the madness in the man's voice. The other robed figures around him gave off low, shuddering breaths—an unsettling blend of fear and reverence.
Voldemort. In the hearts of these Death Eaters, the name inspired something far more twisted than simple loyalty.
Yet rather than be moved by their ridiculous attempt at recruitment, Draco's thoughts were elsewhere.
The Dark Lord's attention—on him?
Was it because of the diary?
Could Voldemort sense events through his Horcrux?
Or had he simply deduced it from the incident with the Basilisk?
Too many questions, and it was clear none of them would be answered here.
Draco's eyes narrowed on the dark wizard before him as the man's voice grew steadier.
Then, the man did something that made Draco hesitate.
"To show our sincerity…"
He lowered his hood—and the face beneath it made Draco's eyes widen in shock.
It wasn't just unfamiliar—it was disturbingly familiar.
He looked exactly like someone Draco had seen not long ago, in the VIP box at the top of the stadium.
Barty Crouch. Or rather... a younger version of him.
Before Draco could react, the man raised his wand toward the night sky, baring the Dark Mark that burned on his arm.
"And to prove to the world that we have returned…"
The mark began to glow, deep red light pulsing from beneath his skin, casting a blood-tinged hue across the faces of the surrounding wizards.
Draco felt a chill run down his spine. Something was very wrong.
And then—
"Morsmordre!"
The incantation split the silence.
An enormous skull burst into the sky, woven from countless emerald-green sparks. From its mouth slithered a giant serpent, curling outward like a tongue.
The glowing symbol shimmered against the black night, a new constellation burning above the world.
Wizards who had just begun leaving the stadium froze in place, terror washing over their faces.
A second later, the cheers turned into screams.
Because above them burned the unmistakable mark of Voldemort.
...
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