The Quidditch match had ended in cheers, laughter, and celebration. Music soared, voices sang, and the night air was thick with joy. Students, families, and fans from every corner of the wizarding world reveled in the after-party, unaware that the warmth of celebration was about to twist into fire.

Then it came. A voice—unnatural, amplified, and cold—tore through the festivities like a blade:

"The Ministry has fallen. The Minister of Magic is dead. They are coming. They are coming."

Silence struck like lightning. And then—chaos.

Screams. Wandlight. Explosions. Death Eaters descended like shadows with teeth, tearing through tents, flinging curses without mercy. The air turned thick with smoke and the copper scent of blood. People fled in every direction, stumbling over bodies, children crying, parents shouting spells in desperation. Fires swallowed the campgrounds, once a place of unity and sport, now a battlefield.

When all was set and done, the fire died down, the last scream stopped screeching. Amongst the ruins, footsteps crunched on scorched earth and collapsed timber. Each step broke what remained upright. Firelight danced off the twisted remains of canvas and bone.

A man strode through it all, deliberate and calm.

He was tall, lean, clad in black. A long leather trench coat rippled with each step, its high collar framing a face pale and sharp, with cold, unforgiving eyes. Tousled brown hair fell just over his brow, and in his hand he held a wand—slender, elegant, and deadly.

He paused in the center of the wreckage, lifting his gaze to the night sky. Then, with a voice like a spell meant to bind the stars themselves, he uttered:

"Morsmordre."

Green light arced into the heavens.

The sky warped. And then it came—the Dark Mark, terrible and unmistakable. A skull, mouth agape, with a serpent slithering through its jaw. Gasps rose from the survivors. A fresh wave of panic surged.

Lord Voldemort’s shadow had returned.

The man’s tongue flicked—a quick, reptilian gesture. A grin spread across his face, all malice and teeth, as if he fed on fear. He turned his head slowly, eyes scanning the chaos. Searching.

Looking for him.

Harry Potter. Or perhaps… worst. Simply for prey.