Chapter 8
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THE FRAGILE PEACE IN DRACO'S HOME WAS HELD BY STRINGS THAT RESIDED IN LUCIUS MALFOY'S GRASP. It was up to the man to decide whether or not he wanted to maintain that peace or not.

Or at least, that was what Draco used to believe. Until one day when he watched his father, his strong and prideful father, sink down to his knees in fear and Draco realised that the strings were, in reality, tied around the man's wrists, and he was doing someone else's bidding.

There was once a time when Draco blindly looked up to his father. Though, that was before, well before Adhara Black spawned out of nowhere and pointed things out. Before Black had called him ignorant, and Draco was nothing if not intelligent, and he would not stand aside as someone called him that. It was a matter of his pride.

Thus, Draco had picked up a book. A muggle book, disguised under many layers of charms because he knew it was something his father would not approve of. In fact, his mother wouldn't approve of it either, despite how much more lenient she was with him than his father.

So, Draco picked up a book. And he read, not expecting anything from it at all. He didn't expect Adhara Black to be right.

But she was, and Draco was dumbfounded.

Muggles weren't...completely daft. It was true that they came up with, dare he say, ingenious, solutions to counter problems that could otherwise be solved with a simple flick of a wand.

Still, their methods were much longer. Much more complicated. Not to mention, they didn't have the solutions to every problem. They were beings without magic, after all. Witches and wizards, they had magic. They didn't need such tedious methods to deal with simple tasks. No, they could do it easily with magic.

And muggleborns. Well, Draco supposed it wasn't their fault if their parents were lesser.

Even then, however. That didn't mean he didn't look up to his father anymore. He still did, of course he did. Just maybe not as much since he watched the man sink to his—

No. That wasn't right. Father did what he had to do. To protect them all, to keep them safe. His father, mother and himself, they were family. And his father did what he had to do to ensure they would all get out at the other end unscathed.

And besides, his father wasn't completely wrong, was he? Muggles and muggleborns, they weren't...they weren't the same as him. Sure, they weren't stupid, but they weren't magic either, like how Draco and his family were. They perhaps don't deserve death, per se, but what was his father supposed to do? Stand up to the Dark Lord? That would be stupid. There was no way to defy the Dark Lord. It simply wasn't possible. Once one came under him, there was no escape, no freedom.

Lucius Malfoy was a marionette, and the Dark Lord his master. If he decided to cut down the strings, Draco's father wouldn't be free. The man would simply crumple to the ground.

━━━━

The top box was incredible. Fireworks and lights sparkled in the sky instead of its stars, illuminating the night. Harry could see every spectator from his seat.

The Weasleys got all the seats in the front row of the box. Harry leaned in as much as he could, hands on the railing to look down at the thousands of people that joined tonight to watch Bulgaria and Ireland go head to head.

Cameras flashed left and right, and random streaks of sparks erupted from wands everywhere. Harry could watch the mesmerising lights all night long.

"Can't believe we're actually here," voiced Ron.

Harry nodded, understanding the sentiment.

Adhara was somewhere in the vicinity, joined with Hermione. Ginny kept herself closer to her father, but the twins seemed to be occupying themselves with Ludo Bagman, trying to secure a better winning. Bill and Charlie, who arrived around midday with Percy, steered the latter away from the twins and from Crouch as much as possible. And Ron was right next to him.

Millie left a while ago, joining her father. The seats at the Top Box were all already sold out, apparently.

Harry wondered who else landed tickets to the Top Box, not realising he had just jinxed himself.

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Adhara didn't need to look to know who placed a cold hand on her shoulder. She turned to meet face to face with none other than Narcissa Malfoy.

The blonde woman didn't smile. Instead, she brought her hand underneath Adhara's chin, bringing it up to examine her properly.

"My, you look exactly like him. Except for perhaps the eyes. Regulus had grey eyes, as it is typical of a Black."

Adhara blinked, taken aback, but she did not pull her head away from the woman's grasp.

Narcissa beckoned Draco close to her, releasing Adhara.

"I know you have met your cousin already."

That was a statement, not a question. Adhara didn't know how to respond.

Hermione stayed close to her. Adhara could feel the Gryffindor's presence, but the girl didn't say anything.

Narcissa Malfoy paid her no mind.

"He tells me you are in Slytherin House."

Adhara wasn't sure what to say. She knew it wasn't a question, but Madam Malfoy looked as though she expected some sort of answer from Adhara. So, she gave her a hesitant nod.

"Excellent. As it should be."

Adhara glanced at Draco, who hadn't said anything yet. Instead, he stood quietly with his nose held high.

The woman's existence itself was a definition of the word poise. She looked down at Adhara, her chin jutted out. Indifferent eyes swarmed over the girl, as though taking into account all of Adhara's flaws.

Narcissa's nose twitched, seemingly unsatisfied with what she saw.

With her long fingers, Narcissa brushed back her son's already gelled hair. She patted it down, firmly keeping any stray hair in place.

"Well. I best be off. It was nice to finally meet you, dear niece."

Once again, Adhara was left perplexed.

Niece?

The woman approached Adhara once more, positioning a hand on the girl's back to fix her posture. The hand was back under Adhara's chin as Narcissa raised her head up.

"Properly, dear. Stand like a Black."

She gave one last pat on Adhara's shoulder before returning to her husband.

Adhara stood there, speechless.

She heard Hermione speak. "I'll be honest. I can't tell if she likes you or not."

Neither could Adhara.

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The Bulgarian and Irish teams hadn't finished with their introductory performance yet when Harry suddenly flinched, the skin on his forehead pinching.

Instinctively, panic rose within him as he tried to subdue the pain of his scar.

"What's wrong?"

Harry shook his head. He didn't realise he had closed his eyes until Ron touched his shoulder.

"Nothing, nothing."

Ron didn't look convinced. "You—"

"Children!"

Ron and Harry turned around.

"I'd like you all to meet a coworker of mine," announced Mr. Weasley. He was introducing a woman, one that Harry hadn't noticed had joined them at the Top Box.

"She's part of the Sports Department and helped organise the tournament. Miss Bertha Jorkins."

A plump-looking woman stood near Ron's father. She glanced at them all, starting from Bill at the far right. She smiled kindly at them, though her gaze was cold as it skipped over their faces.

When it landed on Harry, the woman paused, her smile becoming more cheerful. Her green eyes met Harry's own, and the boy couldn't help but wince.

"Harry!"

Harry hissed, his scar stinging more. "It's fine. I'm fine." He waved his friend off.

He looked back at the woman, but she was already speaking with someone else.

She sneaked one last peek at him, and Harry could've sworn her eyes were red when she did. But between one blink and another, they were green again.

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"Isn't she a bit...odd?" thought Ron, out loud.

Harry shared the same thought but he couldn't pinpoint why. "What makes you say that?"

Ron shrugged, following the woman with his eyes. "I dunno. Just a feeling, I suppose."

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The moon was almost full, but not quite. Still missing a few chunks, it hid behind the clouds as though unable to reveal itself yet.

Lamps and campfires illuminated the campsite, though most people had already retreated into their tents.

The match finished, marking the end of the World Cup with the Irish victory. The Weasleys and their friends walked back to the campsite, save for the ones who could apparate directly inside the tent.

However, joy that came with the jocund atmosphere of the tournament couldn't last. Not long after the family withdrew, an ominous veil of silence fell over the campsite.

A rumble shook through the site, the ground trembling as low voices became louder and louder. From afar, a group of people approached.

People, not monsters, not inhuman creatures, but people marched over to the camp. A faceless mask covered them, not hiding their nature but their identities.

The first spell was thrown, and the first tent went ablaze. Chaos took over the camp in mere seconds. They didn't look, they didn't hesitate. They threw spells and curses, forbidden magic leaving them as though they belonged. Death eaters shouted, laughed, and tortured.

Until a loud Mosmordre! echoed over the screams, making everyone go still.

Emerald light spilled over the sky, the clouds twisting to form the mark of the dead. A lull of silence consumed the scene once more.

People slowly stopped in their tracks, wide eyes finally finding the skull that covered the sky. Those who remembered the mark, even those who had it staining their arms, knew to run first.

Silence thereafter was nonexistent.

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Tom grinned. Bertha's lips curled in, her face cracking open into a wicked smile as Tom took in the Dark Mark. It illuminated the sky, bringing light to the site, unlike the absent moon.

It was a sign, Tom thought. A sign that his servants still stood, a sign that Tom was close.

He walked through the chaos, sparing no glance at the injured muggles trying to crawl to safety, completely ignoring the servants who fled, hiding behind a cloak and a mask.

No. Tom did not care for them. Rather, he walked straight on, searching for the one servant who was brave enough to call for him.

Tom did not bother to hide his red eyes.

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"Adhara! Adhara! Adz!"

Adhara coughed, air finally rushing into her lungs. She tried to cover her mouth, muffling her coughs as the income of air was too sudden for her to handle.

Someone hauled her up then, positioning her to lean against something rough and uneven.

"Adz!"

"Adhi!"

She recognized the voices the instant she came to herself. But the air still smelled like smoke. Adhara couldn't open her eyes.

Arms enveloped her. She was coughing into someone's chest, but the person didn't seem to care.

"What's wrong with her?"

"Sod off, Malfoy!"

Adhara kept her eyes squeezed shut.

"It's gone, Adz. The fire's gone," murmured Harry into her ear.

"No, it's — not. I can still — smell it."

"It's far away. It can't hurt you."

Adhara kept her eyes closed, allowing herself a moment of vulnerability.

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Harry tried to ignore the anxiety that bubbled in his gut. The walk back to the tent didn't help much. With one hand holding Adhara's, he tried to avoid everyone's stare as they muttered among each other when they passed by.

Mr. Weasley did his best to shield them all — Harry, Adhara, Ron, and Hermione. Malfoy had disappeared a while back. Harry couldn't help but wonder if he was alright. Git or not, no matter how much the blond thought himself to be safe, Harry didn't think those people would contemplate much before choosing a victim. As long as someone looked vulnerable, powerless, weak.

Also, Malfoy looked, dare he say it, downright worried about Adhara when he realised she wasn't alright.

Harry didn't want to imagine. He didn't want to think what would have happened had any of them still been at the campsite. Death Eaters had taken over the site. Death Eaters, followers of the man who murdered his parents.

Yet, people still talked. They still speculated about the impossible. Mr. Weasley shouted at them back, looking outraged at the mere prospect of the accusations, just as he was when Amos Diggory accused Harry Potter of casting the Dark Mark.

But that wasn't what sparked Harry's anxiety. It wasn't the whispers, nor the inquisitive looks that were thrown in his and Adhara's direction. It wasn't even his sister's tight grip on his hand, though he was fully aware she was still lost in her own thoughts.

It wasn't any of those.

Harry was still thinking about the Death Eaters. About their masks and the hats. About the skull embellishing the sky, a sight that was now engraved in his mind.

And then he thought of his aching scar, about the burning sting that cooled him to his bones, and wondered if the two were related in any way.

Trelawney's words echoed in his head:

"It will happen one night. The Dark Lord lies friendless, abandoned by his followers. His one true servant has been chained these twelve years. One night, before midnight....the master will find his loyal servant and break him free. The Dark Lord will rise again with his servant's aid, greater and more terrible than ever he was. One night... before midnight... the servant... will set out... to rejoin... his master..."

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