19th August 1994 — 1:34 am
World Cup Campsite
I shut down the holographic feeds, my work for the night finally complete.
Rising slowly from the chair, I rolled my neck to ease the stiffness that had settled there and made my way outside the tent. The air beyond the canvas was cooler, carrying the distant scent of smoke and the fading echoes of chaos.
I did not have to wait long.
A faint shimmer passed through the darkness, and then my three Loki drones dropped their cloaking fields and hovered quietly in front of me, steady and obedient, having returned triumphant from their task.
I allowed myself a small, tired smile.
That brief Close encounter of the third kind the campsite had just witnessed—
all me.
In the end, it had only required a few drones equipped with basic illusion projection, gravitational manipulation, spatial distortion, and light-based magical systems. Elegant in design. Efficient in execution. Final in outcome.
I had spent a long time considering how to solve the Death Eater problem. Every line of thought, every alternative, every hopeful variation had led to the same unavoidable conclusion.
It was already too late for Lucius Malfoy and the others like him.
They were fixed in their ways—shaped too completely by pride, blood, and hatred to change course now.
But their children…
their children might still be saved.
That belief was the reason I had worked so carefully to build something different at Hogwarts. An environment where old prejudices could weaken instead of deepen. Where the next generation might grow into something better than the last.
For that future to have any real chance, however, the forces poisoning it in the present had to be removed.
Which led, inevitably, to tonight.
I knew exactly what I had done.
Twenty-six lives eliminated in a matter of seconds.
And yet… I felt no true regret.
Perhaps that was because I was no longer entirely human.
Or perhaps...it was simpler than that.
I knew—without a doubt—what those people would have done if they had ever been given the slightest opportunity to act freely again.
They chose their path long ago.
They made their beds.
Now their ashes lay in them.
I let out a slow, steady breath, the tension of the night finally beginning to loosen from my shoulders. I opened a portal to home, warm light spilling softly into the darkness.
Without looking back, I stepped through.
---
19th August, 1994 — 8:07 a.m.
Ministry of Magic
Cameras flashed across the Press Briefing Room in the Ministry Atrium as Cornelius Fudge entered, flanked closely by Amelia Bones, Rufus Scrimgeour, and a cluster of senior Ministry officials.
The chamber was already packed shoulder to shoulder—reporters, photographers, and foreign correspondents pressed together in restless anticipation. Representatives from the Daily Prophet, Witch Weekly, The International Wizarding Times, and several smaller international publications filled the rows, their quills poised and questions ready.
Fudge stepped behind the podium, the gold Ministry emblem gleaming on the wall behind him. For a fleeting moment he simply looked out over the crowd, gathering himself. Then he cleared his throat.
"Good morning. Thank you all for attending on such short notice. As you are aware, an unfortunate disturbance occurred last night at the Quidditch World Cup campsite. I wish to assure the wizarding community that the Ministry is treating this incident with the utmost seriousness, and has the situation firmly in hand."
Several hands shot up at once.
"Yes—Miss Skeeter."
Rita Skeeter stood with practiced grace, her expression bright with barely concealed excitement.
"Minister, witnesses describe enormous flying ships firing beams of light and disintegrating masked wizards. Would you care to clarify whether the Ministry is now acknowledging the existence of extraterrestrial beings?"
A ripple of murmurs swept the room.
Fudge's smile tightened only slightly.
"At present, the Ministry is acknowledging that unidentified phenomena were observed. Any further characterization would be premature until a detailed investigation has been conducted."
"So you are not denying the existence of aliens?" Skeeter pressed.
"I am not confirming speculation," Fudge replied quickly. "Our priority is public safety, not sensational terminology."
Another hand rose—a middle-aged wizard with an ink-stained cuff.
"Barnabas Cuffe, Daily Prophet. Minister, multiple known associates of former Dark factions are reported among the dead. Can you confirm the casualties?"
Fudge shifted his weight.
"It would be inappropriate to release names before families are notified. I will say only that those responsible for the riot are no longer a threat to the public."
A low stir moved through the reporters.
"Minister," called a witch from the foreign press section, "if unknown entities can appear in British airspace, neutralize wizards, and depart without resistance—how can you claim the situation is under control?"
For a fraction of a second, Fudge's composure flickered.
"The Ministry maintains extensive defensive and investigative capabilities," he said, voice firming. "There is no evidence that last night's intervention poses any continuing threat to the British wizarding community. Indeed, innocent lives were preserved."
"Preserved by whom?" someone shouted.
Fudge ignored the interruption.
"Yes—next question."
A young wizard rose nervously from the second row.
"Sir, has the International Confederation of Wizards been contacted?"
"Of course," said Fudge, grateful for safer ground. "We are in active consultation with our international partners to determine the nature and origin of the entities witnessed."
Rita Skeeter's hand rose again.
"One more question, Minister. If these… unidentified phenomena… had not intervened, the Death Eaters might have caused significant damage and casualties. Should the public interpret last night as a failure of Ministry protection?"
The chamber went very still.
Fudge's eyes hardened, though the polite smile remained fixed upon his lips.
"The public should interpret last night as proof that violence and bigotry will never triumph in our world. The Ministry responded swiftly, secured the site, protected the Statute of Secrecy, and is now conducting the most thorough investigation in modern history."
He paused, letting the words settle.
"We will not be ruled by fear—whether from masked criminals… or from rumors in the sky."
Quills scratched rapidly across parchment.
"No further questions at this time," Fudge concluded. "A written statement will be distributed shortly. Thank you."
He stepped away from the podium to a storm of shouted follow-ups he did not answer. Ministry officials closed ranks around him, guiding him toward a side corridor as the reporters' voices echoed through the chamber—urgent, uncertain, and far from reassured.
---
Minutes after the Press Conference
Minister's Office
Cornelius Fudge swept into his office with hurried steps, Amelia Bones and Rufus Scrimgeour close behind him, followed by two silent Unspeakables from the Department of Mysteries.
With an irritated flick of his wand, the heavy door snapped shut. A moment later, a faint blue shimmer spread across the walls and ceiling, sealing the room against any form of eavesdropping. Only when the protective magic settled into silence did Fudge finally allow the tension in his shoulders to show.
He crossed to a side cabinet, pulled it open, and retrieved a bottle of Firewhisky.
The cork came free with a sharp pop.
Fudge poured a glass with an unsteady hand and swallowed it in a single burning gulp. The heat hit his throat, then his chest. He drew in a long, steadying breath.
Then he poured another.
Carrying the refilled glass back to his desk, he lowered himself heavily into his chair and looked up at the others—irritation, fear, and exhaustion flickering behind his eyes.
"Well?" he demanded. "Is someone going to tell me what in Merlin's name happened last night?"
For a moment, no one spoke.
At last, Amelia Bones answered, her voice calm and measured.
"What happened," she said, "is that a group of Death Eaters—likely drunk—took a Muggle family hostage and began a riot… only to be swiftly eliminated by a force we do not understand and most likely could not have stopped."
Her expression remained composed, revealing nothing.
But beneath that composure, Amelia felt something she would never voice aloud.
Not satisfaction at the suffering of the Muggle family.
Not wonder at the supposed alien intervention.
What she felt—quiet and deeply buried—was relief.
Because the Death Eaters who had escaped justice thirteen years ago
had not escaped it this time.
The weapons of the unidentified ships had reduced flesh and bone to drifting ash—
yet the wands had remained behind, fallen intact upon the scorched ground, spared only because they had not been physically bound to the bodies they once served.
The Department of Magical Law Enforcement had already identified them.
Lucius Malfoy.
Alecto and Amycus Carrow.
Avery Jr.
Corban Yaxley.
Crabbe Sr.
Goyle Sr.
Marcus Gibbon.
Simon Jugson.
Nott Sr.
Thorfinn Rowle.
Walden Macnair.
And others besides.
All of them had once stood before the Wizengamot after Voldemort's fall,
claiming innocence under the Imperius Curse.
All of them had walked free.
Amelia had known the truth even then.
She had known what they believed.
What they had done.
But thirteen years ago she had been only a young Auror—
without rank, without authority, and powerless to reopen cases the Wizengamot had already declared closed.
Yesterday, she had taken leave from work and brought Susan to watch the match.
The game, though thrilling, had thankfully ended rather quickly.
Because of that, Amelia had returned home early with her niece, leaving the campsite behind.
She had barely begun to drift into sleep when the ringing of her Wiphone shattered the quiet.
Scrimgeour's voice had carried the news:
Death Eaters rampaging through the campsite.
Her first feeling had been relief—sharp and immediate—that Susan was safe at home.
Her second had been rage.
Within minutes she had flooed to her office, gathering Aurors and Hit Wizards, preparing to move out—
Only to receive the most impossible report of all.
Unidentified flying objects
appearing over the campsite
and vaporising every Death Eater present.
Even after standing on the scorched ground herself…
after seeing the ash, the torn robes, the abandoned wands—
Amelia still struggled to accept it.
Across the desk, Fudge's expression had tightened with impatience.
"Yes, thank you, Amelia, I gathered that much," he said sharply. "I am asking what they were."
His fingers tapped once against the glass.
"And where the hell is Barty Crouch? I haven't seen him since yesterday morning."
Amelia met his gaze evenly.
"He is still at the campsite," she replied.
"It hasn't been easy securing the scene with thousands of curious witches and wizards trying to get a look for themselves."
Fudge grimaced faintly and leaned back in his chair.
"Oh well," he muttered.
Then he turned his gaze toward the older of the two Unspeakables.
"What have you found, Croaker?"
Croaker inclined his head, his lined face composed but thoughtful.
"We… are not sure," he said at last.
The hesitation alone was enough to tighten the air in the room.
"We have gathered reliable memory strands from multiple eyewitnesses and examined them within a Pensieve," he continued. "All accounts show the same sequence of events—masked wizards in black robes rampaging across the campsite while holding a Muggle family hostage."
His voice remained steady, clinical.
"Then, without warning, three enormous flying saucers appeared in the sky, casting bright light upon the attackers."
Fudge frowned.
"Appeared? You mean they descended?"
"No," Croaker said quietly. "They did not descend from above. Their manifestation resembled the moment an Invisibility Cloak is removed."
A faint stillness settled over the office.
"This suggests," Croaker went on, "that the ships had already been hovering above the campsite—concealed—perhaps for some time. Possibly the entire evening."
Fudge blinked, confusion sharpening into irritation.
"But why? Why would they be there at all?"
Croaker folded his hands.
"Perhaps they noticed the lights and fireworks from above and came to investigate.
Perhaps a gathering of one hundred thousand people in an otherwise empty stretch of land drew their curiosity.
Perhaps they had already been observing the construction of the stadium for some time."
A small pause.
"It is… difficult to say."
Fudge sighed and took another sip of Firewhisky, as though hoping the burn might force sense into the situation.
"All right. Let us assume they were watching us," he said. "My real question is—who are they? Are we certain they are… you know… aliens?"
"It is certainly possible," Croaker replied. "While we possess no documented magical encounters with extraterrestrial beings, Muggles have reported dozens of sightings of so-called UFOs."
He spoke the unfamiliar term without inflection.
"Nearly all descriptions match what we witnessed last night—circular, disc-shaped crafts capable of silent flight, lacking visible propulsion, and able to vanish into the sky at tremendous speeds."
Which was exactly what had occurred.
Fudge swallowed.
"And their weapons?" he asked. "What kind of weapon can turn a man into ash instantly?"
Croaker answered without hesitation.
"That aspect is, in fact, more believable. Certain Muggle researchers have developed high-intensity light beams—lasers—that, with sufficient power, could vaporise the water within a body and reduce remaining organic matter to ash and smoke."
A heavy silence followed.
"Given an extraterrestrial civilisation far more advanced than our own," Croaker finished calmly, "such energy weapons would be entirely plausible."
Fudge looked genuinely horrified.
Even Amelia's composed expression tightened with concern.
"Muggles already have weapons like that?" Fudge demanded. "Why haven't I been briefed about this?"
Croaker's tone remained patient.
"Muggles do not currently possess such weapons, Minister—and are unlikely to for several decades. The lasers I mentioned exist only in controlled laboratory experiments conducted by their most advanced researchers. The few practical laser devices available are used for surgical and medical purposes."
He paused briefly.
"Absent an existential threat, we do not expect Muggles to invest the immense resources required to develop true energy weaponry for at least fifty years. At present, they remain… quite content to kill one another using conventional projectile weapons."
Fudge nodded slowly, absorbing this with visible unease.
"I see," he murmured.
He hesitated, then looked back at Croaker.
"One last question," he said quietly.
"Is it possible… that they were not aliens at all? That someone merely wanted it to look that way?"
For the first time, Croaker did not answer immediately.
He considered.
Carefully.
"At the extreme edge of probability… yes," he said at last. "It is possible."
The words landed heavily.
"It would require an individual—or a group of individuals—capable of constructing three vessels each the size of a Quidditch pitch. Each would need invisibility cloaking, sustained levitation and controlled flight, spatial distortion abilities as well as advanced energy weaponry or an unknown form of light-based magic."
His gaze drifted briefly toward nothing in particular.
"Such a person would also need extensive knowledge of both arcane magic and Muggle science…
advance awareness that the Death Eaters would start a riot…
and preparation to extract hostages, eliminate targets, and depart without leaving a trace."
Silence filled the office.
Fudge stared at him in disbelief.
"Someone could build three ships that size?"
Croaker met his eyes calmly.
"As I said—extremely unlikely."
A faint pause followed.
"But a man with sufficient resolve… knowledge… and resources…"
He inclined his head slightly.
"…can accomplish just about anything."
---
27th August 1994
Diagon Alley
It had been about a week since the whole alien intervention incident.
Things had… mostly cooled down.
The newspapers were still having a field day, of course—publishing breathless theories about watchers in the sky, quoting Muggle tabloids about UFO sightings and supposed alien abductions, and generally squeezing every last drop of hysteria from the story. But day-to-day life in Wizarding Britain had largely returned to normal.
I suspected that had a lot to do with the fact that the "aliens" hadn't stayed long or harmed anyone.
Well—anyone except the Death Eaters who had chosen that particular night to crawl back into the open and promptly got themselves disintegrated by the watchful visitors from the heavens.
Not everyone approved of that interpretation.
The families of the fallen pure-bloods were loudly demanding that the Ministry take action against the dangerous extraterrestrials who had so cruelly murdered their innocent husbands, brothers, and fathers who just happened to be taking a peaceful midnight stroll through a riot-torn campsite.
Since the alleged perpetrators were supposedly from outside the planet—let alone outside the United Kingdom—there wasn't much the Ministry could realistically do.
Which, all things considered, suited me just fine.
Today, however, none of that mattered.
Today was for school shopping.
The booklists had arrived a few days earlier, so the group of us—me, Rachel, Hermione, Mum, Harry, Neville, and Mrs Longbottom—had come to Diagon Alley to get everything sorted before term began.
Our first stop had been Gringotts, since Harry needed to withdraw money from his vault.
We had barely stepped inside the marble halls when a goblin banker hurried forward, bowed politely to me, and asked what they could do for us today. Around us, witches and wizards in the queues turned to stare.
I calmly explained our purpose.
Moments later, Harry was being escorted to his vault by another goblin while the rest of us were invited to wait in a private lounge.
One of the small but undeniable perks of being one of the richest wizards in the world:
You don't wait for service.
Service comes to you.
From the bank, we made our way to Flourish and Blotts.
As fourth-years, Harry, Neville, and Hermione only needed The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 4 by Miranda Goshawk—which I already owned. We each picked up rolls of fresh parchment as well.
Rachel's list was… considerably longer.
The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 3.
Intermediate Transfiguration.
The Essential Defence Against the Dark Arts.
Magical Drafts and Potions.
Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them.
Rune Dictionary.
Numerology and Grammatica.
Her arms were full by the time we finished.
Next came the Apothecary to our restock potion supplies.
I say our supplies, but what I really meant was everyone else's.
During the past couple of months running my shop in the Alley, I had already purchased every ingredient I would need for the year—along with a selection of exotic, rare, and obscenely expensive additions that would have made most potion masters faint.
Perks of absurd wealth, part two.
Once outside, Mum and Mrs Longbottom gently steered Hermione and Rachel toward a row of salons and fashion boutiques farther down the street.
Apparently, preparations for the Yule Ball had begun.
I watched them go with a faint smile before turning with Harry and Neville toward Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions.
Brass bells chimed softly as we stepped inside.
An assistant behind the counter—who had been idly tapping away on her Wiphone—looked up, noticed us, and broke into a polite smile.
"Ah, Mr. Carter. Welcome back."
She dipped her head slightly toward Harry and Neville.
"Hello."
They returned the greeting with small nods.
A moment later, Madam Malkin herself emerged from the back room. Her eyes found me at once, and her expression brightened with recognition.
"Ah, yes," she said warmly. "I had a feeling I might be seeing you soon, Mr. Carter. School uniforms, I expect?"
I smiled.
"Yes, ma'am. I'll need four sets—two for winter and two for summer. All with cooling and warming charms, and the usual self-cleaning enchantments."
"Of course," she said without hesitation, already turning to the others.
"And what about you two, dears?"
Harry and Neville exchanged a quick glance before Harry answered,
"We'll have the same, please."
"Very good," Madam Malkin replied. "If you'd step this way, we'll take your measurements."
I gestured toward the back room.
"You two go ahead. I'm going to have a look at the formal wear."
They followed her inside while I lingered near the display.
Dress robes in deep blues, forest greens, and silver-trimmed blacks shimmered softly under enchanted light—undeniably elegant, undeniably fashionable…
…and entirely not my style.
After a moment, I joined the others in the back room, where Harry and Neville stood atop low footstools while enchanted measuring tapes fluttered busily around them like obedient ribbons.
Madam Malkin glanced up as I entered.
"Find anything you liked, Mr. Carter?"
I offered a faint, apologetic smile.
"Not really, I'm afraid. None of the robes quite… spoke to me."
"That's a pity," she said thoughtfully.
I considered for a second before asking,
"Out of curiosity—do you take custom orders? Something non-traditional?"
Her interest sharpened immediately.
"What sort of non-traditional?"
"A tuxedo."
Neville blinked.
"A what?"
"A formal evening suit," I explained. "Satin on the lapels and buttons, a matching stripe down the trousers. Muggles wear them for formal night events."
I turned back to Madam Malkin.
"I'm thinking midnight blue. Peak satin lapels. Single-breasted, one satin-covered button. Clean, tapered silhouette. I can provide reference images if that helps."
She studied me for a moment—then smiled, clearly intrigued.
"Well," she said, "I do enjoy a creative challenge. Yes… I believe I could make that work."
Measurements completed, the three of us stepped back out into the sunlit bustle of Diagon Alley and immediately corrected a grave injustice by purchasing ice-cream cones from Florean Fortescue's.
As we wandered along, lazily enjoying the rare peace of an uneventful day, I decided to address a matter of obvious strategic importance.
"So," I said casually between bites, "have either of you worked out who you're asking to the Yule Ball yet?"
Silence.
I chuckled.
"Come on, it's just a dance. Not a duel to the death."
"That's easy for you to say," Harry muttered. "You already have a girlfriend."
"True," I admitted cheerfully. "Which is why you should learn from my excellent example and secure dates before all the pretty ones are taken."
I nudged Neville lightly with my elbow.
"Alright, Neville. Out with it. Who's the lucky girl?"
"Well… I was thinking about… asking Luna."
I broke into a grin and clapped his shoulder.
"Attaboy. Excellent taste. I'll be rooting for you, brother."
Neville smiled shyly, clearly relieved.
I turned to Harry.
"Your turn. Fess up."
He stared very hard at his melting ice-cream before mumbling,
"…Cho."
I let out a low whistle.
"Going for a senior, huh? Bold move. When did this happen?"
"Last year," he said quietly. "Gryffindor versus Ravenclaw. We didn't really talk or anything, but… she looked nice."
I nodded thoughtfully.
"Well, she's pretty and popular. Which means if you want even a remote chance, I strongly recommend asking her before someone else does."
He gave a small, determined nod.
We kept walking through the warm afternoon light, slowly finishing our ice-creams like three perfectly ordinary students with perfectly ordinary worries.
Personally, I might have preferred a slightly different romantic trajectory for Harry's future—
—but I wasn't tyrannical enough to impose my shipping preferences on real life.
They deserved to choose their own paths.
And as long as they were happy…
I would be too.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
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