Chapter 283. Riot and the Dark Mark
Two Dark wizards hastily raised their wands to cast the Shield Charm, but the oncoming spell tore through their defence with ease.
Harry's Stunning Spell was dodged, but Wesson's Expelliarmus struck one of the wizards cleanly.
"Whoosh—"
The man's wand flew from his hand, arcing through the air; Wesson caught it neatly.
The Dark wizard fell back onto his knees and scrambled away, disbelief written across his face.
"We botched it—fall back!"
Seeing the way things were going, his companion yanked him by the arm. A second later their bodies twisted; with a sharp, splitting crack, both vanished on the spot.
"Damn it, they got away," said Mr Weasley, sounding vexed.
Harry collapsed to the ground, gulping air, his fingers trembling beyond his control.
Thanks to Wesson's drills, he'd managed to counter by instinct.
Even so, he had just brushed shoulders with death.
He knew perfectly well what that curse the two Dark wizards had cast meant—Avada Kedavra. If it had struck him, he would have been done for.
Even now, he felt as if he could still smell the spell in the air.
The scent of death clung like a shadow—like the cold brought by Dementors, only deadlier.
Wesson strode over at once, crouched beside him, and wrapped an arm around his shoulders. "How are you, Harry?"
The others crowded round.
Harry drew a deep breath and forced his voice to sound steady. "I'm fine, Professor."
Perhaps Wesson's presence steadied him; Harry rose slowly, and his fingers no longer shook.
Having just scraped past death, Harry felt a sudden thread of calm.
"Who were they? Why did they attack us?" he asked.
"They were hooded—I doubt anyone saw their faces, but…" Wesson said, showing the wand he had just disarmed. "Ebony, dragon heartstring, fourteen inches. Someone might recognise whose wand this is."
"Ollivander!" Fred and George said together.
"Ah, yes, that's what I thought," said Wesson, tucking the wand into his robes. "Mr Ollivander can identify every wand he's ever sold."
"Perhaps you should turn it over to the Ministry," Mr Weasley suggested.
"I will," Wesson nodded, voice calm. "But first I must learn who destroyed my tent. He owes me a large number of Galleons. Oh, and compensation for my mental anguish."
Mr Weasley didn't know what to say to that.
Was this about Galleons…
Those were two Dark wizards using an Unforgivable Curse!!
Wesson had thought he alone was targeted tonight, but he was wrong.
Soon, a string of explosions rolled from the distant campsite, followed by a rising chorus of screams.
They all turned. Several tents were already blazing.
Witches and wizards poured out of the tents, panic spreading into chaos.
Suddenly, a blinding green light ripped open the night and burst in the black sky.
Everyone looked up. A giant skull took shape, a serpent protruding from its mouth and writhing savagely across the sky.
"All right," Wesson shrugged to the group. "Looks like we've found tonight's culprit."
"What is that?"
Harry stared at the mark on the horizon, grave and bewildered, his hand going of its own accord to his forehead—his scar had begun to hurt. And then, at once, it clicked. In the past, his scar only hurt when he encountered Lord Voldemort or something tied to him.
So…
"That's the Dark Mark," Mr Weasley said, his voice quivering. "You-Know-Who's symbol."
"Let's have a look," said Wesson.
They set off toward where the Dark Mark had appeared.
Mrs Weasley was against taking such a risk at first—what with the children still present.
But after a brief argument, she relented.
She kept Ginny with her in a safe spot, but agreed to let the others go and see what was happening.
They picked their way carefully through the bedlam of the campsite, each gripping their wand.
Burning tents lit the sky; panicked witches and wizards fled in every direction.
Wesson noticed several hooded, suspicious figures mingling with the crowd.
But whenever they drew near, the hooded figures melted away at once—clearly alert to being watched.
Needless to say, they were tied to tonight's riot.
The group had no choice but to move on toward the source of the Dark Mark.
After nearly ten minutes, they reached the place where it had risen—they were at the very edge of the campsite.
Unexpectedly, a large crowd had already gathered there—no fewer than twenty or thirty people.
Plainly, the Dark Mark had drawn them in.
Wesson recognised quite a few familiar faces among them—Cornelius Fudge and Ludo Bagman, for starters.
"Ah, Wesson, you're here as well," Fudge called.
Just now, his expression was tight, sweat beading on his brow—no wonder, for as host of the Quidditch World Cup, this chaos was a heavy blow to the Ministry's reputation.
"What's happened, Minister?" Mr Weasley asked at once, pointing up at the Dark Mark.
"No one knows," Fudge said, irritable. "Someone left that mark—seems they wanted to stir up trouble. When we arrived, there wasn't a soul about."
"There are plenty of Dark wizards in the campsite, Minister," Wesson said evenly. "Two of them torched my tent and used Avada Kedavra on me and Harry Potter. By good fortune, we're alive to speak to you."
Fudge went a shade paler.
"Avada Kedavra?" he said, aghast. "You're certain you weren't mistaken?"
"Absolutely certain," said Mr Weasley.
"How dare they—"
At that moment, a cold, hard voice came from the rear of the crowd. "Is that true?"
People parted. Bartemius Crouch came striding up, his face thunderous—understandable, as Head of the Department of International Magical Co-operation and a principal organiser of the World Cup, he might bear heavy responsibility for this riot.
"Did you see the caster's face, sir?" he asked, icy gaze on Wesson.
"He was hooded and robed—even the densest know to hide themselves before doing wrong," Wesson said with a shrug, then took out a slender wand. "But I did get his wand."
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