Bellatrix Lestrange. There was no question that she was the most devoted servant to ever serve under Lord Voldemort, infamous for her ruthlessness and the cruelty with which she carried out carnage in his name.
She was also formidable in her own right. Young, a genius among geniuses, she achieved the rank of a great mage at a very young age, standing among the highest tiers of power in the wizarding world. With a résumé like that, one would expect her to be held in the highest regard by anyone seeking her allegiance, but unfortunately, she found herself under the command of a master who was both a lunatic and deeply paranoid.
Out of all the fools who chose to follow the Dark Lord, she was perhaps the most miserable as well, the one who had it the hardest. The daughter of Cygnus Black was not always the madwoman people now remembered her as. Racist, absolutely. Arrogant, without a doubt. But she was not insane in the beginning, not a woman who could not even recognize her own kin.
Before she fell into fanatical worship of Tom Riddle, it was her upbringing first and foremost, her family's pureblood ideology, that led her to follow the Dark Lord. Tom Riddle, like her, was young, an archmage at that, a so called visionary whose beliefs mirrored her own. Whether it was love, sincerity, or fanatic devotion, no one could truly say, but with all her heart she believed that following that man would bring nothing but glory.
Meanwhile, Voldemort also recognized the young witch's brilliance at a glance, but being the paranoid maniac that he was, he refused to leave any variable unchecked. Who was to say that one day this brilliant witch might reach his level and decide to dethrone him? He, Lord Voldemort, would follow no one. Hence, he made certain she would bend to his absolute will no matter the cost, right from the very beginning.
Torture followed. The most agonizing magic imaginable was inflicted upon her again and again from a young age, until at last Voldemort achieved what he desired. Her mind was broken, reshaped into a perfect puppet who would die for him without hesitation. In the process, she lost her sanity entirely.
Like her cruel master, she developed an obsession with suffering. Over time, during Voldemort's frequent outbursts when he would torment her, that obsession twisted into something far darker. Pain, or more precisely, whenever her most beloved lord chose to torture her, became a warped form of euphoria. Cruelty turned into comfort.
With all that, one would think no amount of agony could ever faze her.
Yet in this very moment, Bellatrix Lestrange was screaming.
Pure, unfiltered agony tore through her as if her very soul were being peeled away piece by piece from its anchor. Her wails echoed across the night sky like a tolling bell, raw and unbearable, carrying a terror she had never known before.
There was physical pain, there was mental torture, and then there was torture inflicted upon one's very will. It took no more than a quarter of a minute for Maverick to break her completely. Simply put, he overwhelmed her spirit like a mountain crushing a stone, reducing it to nothing. By the time he was done, she was like a machine without an operating system, a hollow shell that only breathed.
Her eyes had turned completely white, rolled all the way back, or maybe not, he did not know. Her jaw hung open, not from shock but because her muscles had forgotten the act entirely. Like a carcass, she hung limp while Maverick held her by the head.
"What a miserable woman," he murmured under his breath.
Her will had been so fragile that it took him barely ten seconds to burn through completely.
Of course, if it had been physical pain alone, it would never have broken her so quickly, and might not have shaken her at all, of that he had no doubt. After all, this lunatic had been trained personally under the "gentle" care of her "benevolent" lord.
But his ambush was never aimed at her physically. It targeted the very foundation of her existence. Why, or what, is the greatest reason people commit suicide? Because at some point, they simply lose the will to keep living.
Will is the backbone of a person, like the hull of a ship. As long as it holds, even the wildest storm cannot sink it. Once it shatters, the rest of the structure cannot withstand the weight. The collapse is inevitable.
Anyways, with the woman now out of the equation, he turned his head just in time to see Moody hurtling toward him, but Rosier was nowhere to be seen. Moments after Maverick had revealed himself, he had already noticed Rosier making a run for it, but he did not act, noting as Moody pursued her just as quickly.
"The woman's slipperier than I thought and managed to escape." Moody came to a stop, grunting begrudgingly as he met the single inquiring eyebrow raised at him.
"In other words, you let her apparate right under your nose…" Mavrick said without changing his expression, releasing the now out-cold Bellatrix and letting her hang limply in midair. He turned back to the grumpy man and added, "Bit embarrassing, isn't it, Mr. Greatest Auror in Britain's history…"
"That wouldn't have happened if you hadn't been taking your sweet time," Moody shot back with a scoff, clearly in no mood for any sarcasm. "Besides, she used a Portkey. Otherwise, I would have made sure she left behind at least a limb or two."
Maverick didn't bother to argue, offering only a faint shrug. Regardless of whether Rosier had escaped or not, it didn't truly matter to him as she had long been marked with tracking magic.
His gaze then drifted downward to the campsite below. It was quieter now, with only a few lingering fires sending smoke into the night sky, though even those were being dealt with by the Ministry Aurors.
The scattered crowd had also been corralled, gathering under the Aurors' directions. In one particular spot, surrounded by a small group, Isabella had begun her work as well. She had been portaled down before he made his appearance, taking the initiative to report the night's chaos as breaking news to the wizarding world.
---
"Is it over?"
"What a terrifying feeling…"
"No kidding... What in Merlin's name do you reckon that even was?"
"I felt like I was going to pass out… it was so heavy, like a cow sitting on my head…"
"Since when," huff, huff… "do you know what it feels like to have a fat cow sitting on your head, little Ronny?"
"Is this... really the right time for you both to make jokes?" Hermione groaned, doing her best not to roll her eyes as she pushed herself back to her feet. Her face was also slick with sweat, pale and trembling, as if she had just surfaced from drowning and was finally allowed to breathe.
Not only Hermione, but nearly everyone in the group was either on one knee, both knees, or all fours, only now managing to rise like she did. The sensation had struck so suddenly, yet thankfully, it faded just as quickly, leaving them only shaken but unharmed.
Everyone except Ali and Lupin had felt it, though no one thought to ask why, or perhaps they simply hadn't noticed. While the rest struggled to pull themselves together, Ali and Lupin's eyes never left the sky above, as if they could see and hear everything happening hundreds of meters overhead.
When the oppressive pressure finally lifted, their eyes gleamed with understanding, as if they had received new instructions, and only then did they turn their attention back to the group around them.
"We will return to the campsite," Ali said, or rather, announced.
"To the campsite again? Why?" Arthur stepped forward, sweat beading on his face, his expression tight with concern. "Can't we just get out of here now?" These were his children, after all, and he wasn't willing to risk a thing.
More voices rose from the small crowd as well, as they too failed to understand why they needed to go back. What if those dark wizards ambushed them again?
Beside Ali, Lupin could only let out a helpless sigh. Indeed, his new comrade was the kind of person who never minced words, leaving him to step in, especially in situations like this.
"Things are under control now, everyone," he explained as gently and convincingly as possible. "The Ministry has apprehended every single terrorist, and they are also gathering everyone who came to the camp to compile an overall casualty report. It is better if we go and show our faces as well—"
BOOOM!
And just as he finished speaking, everyone ducked again, startled by the thunderous boom from overhead. When they raised their heads a moment later, they saw the ominous green skull blasted apart from its center, dispersing into nothing as moonlight bathed the field once more.
"See, the scary symbol has been removed as well," Lupin added amid the silence, though the corner of his eye could not help but twitch. Why did everything his new boss do have to be so flashy?
Their group soon strolled back the way they had come, moving through the carnage of what had once been a brilliant campsite and was now little more than ruin.
Above them, luminescent spheres of magic hovered in scattered clusters, casting enough light that navigating the wreckage was no longer difficult. Before long, they reached the area where Ministry personnel were already hard at work, organizing and taking what looked like a careful headcount.
"What's that?"
"Up there, look!" a few people exclaimed, pointing skyward.
Heads tilted up one by one as the crowd followed their fingers, eyes squinting when they spotted two, no, three, figures descending from above.
One rode a broom. The other descended as if it were the most casual thing in the world, his long coat fluttering in the breeze, hands tucked into his pockets, while beside him was...
"Is that a witch?"
"Who's that?"
They saw that the third figure hung limply, arms and legs dangling as if completely unconscious.
"I'm heading to the Minister's side," Moody said, tilting his broom slightly, but his eyes stayed fixed on the limp body and his concern goes without saying.
"Right, take it…" Maverick waved his hand, and the body floated toward Moody, who caught control. "Stay with Jameson until the matters here are resolved. I'll be leaving…" he added, and before Moody could respond, he veered off, his eyes locking on Ali and Lupin in the distance.
"Professor…"
"Professor…"
The children exclaimed the moment they recognized him and came running where he landed.
"Good job," Maverick said, a faint smile curling his lips as he glanced at the four students. He was genuinely impressed by how they handled everything, even Ron, and little Jean too, who, despite being the youngest, didn't fall behind the trio.
Meanwhile, Sirius walked up to him, a complicated expression etched across his face. It was clear what he wanted to know.
"I didn't kill her, if that's what's bothering you," Maverick told him straightforwardly. Of course, not killing her and her brain being fried were two very different things, and Maverick had no intention of explaining all that to him.
"I didn't…"
"Right, of course. Anyways, she's in Alastor's custody and will be sent back to where she belongs. If you want to know more, you'll have to speak with him…"
"What you reckon they're arguing about?"
"Beats me… a woman. You don't think—"
"Shut it…" Arthur interjected, yanking the collars of his two little troublemakers, who thought they were whispering but were actually speaking rather loudly, and leaned down to murmur sharply into their ears.
Sirius, meanwhile, stepped back after hearing Maverick's remark. Knowing she was alive seemed to satisfy him. Even if a faint trace of familial affection remained, it did not mean he wished to spare her from what she deserved.
"Whatever," he muttered, trying to keep his voice flat. "Let her rot in that place for the rest of her life."
Maverick didn't linger long, taking only Jean with him when he left. No doubt she would tell Xavier everything when she got back, and it was better the professor hear the explanation directly from him than some exaggerated tales from her.
Regardless, tonight's chaos would dominate the headlines across the magical world tomorrow, and not just in the Daily Prophet. After all, the Quidditch World Cup was one of the largest, if not the single biggest, international magical events. His own name, too, Mavrick had no doubt, would be plastered across the headlines.
---
Somewhere in Europe, the sun had yet to rise. In front of a nondescript two-story house, amid the still darkness, the air carried a muffled sound as a hooded figure materialized. She paused for a moment, then stepped forward and opened the house door.
When the door closed behind her, she made a lazy wave of her hand, and her robes flew on their own, hanging neatly on the hanger, revealing a woman whose dress was half-tattered but whose face remained fair, although her expression was anything but pleasant.
Without pausing, she walked forward, climbed the stairs, and entered the first dimly lit room that came into view, her footsteps echoing softly against the floor. She continued straight to the dressing table, where she finally stopped and stared at her reflection. Her eyes narrowed, lingering over her own image as if searching for something hidden, and then, suddenly, as if consumed by a burst of uncontrollable rage, she hammered her fist against the mirror, the sound shattering the silence.
"Damn the crazy bitch. Damn the annoying Aurors. And damn the kid. Damn it!"
Boom—boom—boom!
With each expletive, her fist smashed deeper into the glass, shattering it completely, even cracking the wood and splintering the concrete of the wall.
She exhaled sharply, muttering another "Damn it," but this time, she slammed her hand on the table, and in an instant, the wall and the innocent dressing table snapped back to their original form, as if time itself had been rewound.
Letting out two long exhales, she straightened up, as if finished venting her fury. Slowly, she unstrapped the buttons of her tattered dress, letting it fall to the floor and leaving only her undergarments, never once taking her eyes off her reflection, her gaze still burning with anger. This woman was none other than Rosier, the same witch who had escaped Alastor Moody using a Portkey not long ago.
Crackle! Thunder.
Suddenly, a sharp crackle of thunder followed by a blinding flash of light tore through the window, and her eyes snapped toward it, puzzled—she was certain there hadn't been a single cloud in the sky when she arrived.
Instinctively, she moved to investigate, her eyes flicking briefly to the mirror one last time before stepping forward, but the moment she did, they widened in shock. Her heartbeat spiked, and she spun around abruptly, wand already raised, aimed at the sofa against the wall.
In the shadow, someone sat on the very same sofa. The face wasn't clear, but that wasn't the point. How could she, a dignified greatmage, have failed to notice someone in her own room?
"Vinda, Rosier…" The voice was unnervingly calm, too calm for her comfort, sending a chill down her spine. "Since when…" She remained frozen in place as the voice continued, each syllable dripping with scorn, sinking deeper into her bones with every word. "…did the so-called champion of the greater good decide to sell their soul to a madman?"
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Author's Note:
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