It was madness, pure chaos, just like it had been ten years ago.
Flames erupted and spread, engulfing the entire grounds. Wizards in the tents screamed and scrambled to get out. Figures darted everywhere, spells flew wildly, and a terrible laughter echoed through the air, mixing with the cries of terrified Muggles.
The Ministry of Magic was utterly useless. A Quidditch World Cup with a hundred thousand wizards, and not a single Auror to keep order? To expect wizards to follow rules on their own? Was that even possible? You couldn't get a thousand Muggles to follow the rules without anyone in charge, much less a hundred thousand witches and wizards from all over the world.
And there were no security measures or background checks. There was no telling how many Dark wizards had snuck into this crowd of a hundred thousand. This was the perfect opportunity for some real trouble. It would be a waste not to take advantage of it.
"Does tormenting ordinary people give you some kind of satisfaction?"
"You lot are nothing but trash."
Just as the mad wizards were about to inflict more torment, a deafening roar echoed through the air. The wizards who had been shouting clutched their ears in pain, the sudden ringing leaving them temporarily deaf.
The magic holding the Muggle groundskeeper and his family in the air vanished, and they began to fall. But less than a half-meter from the ground, a soft breeze caught them, gently placing the family on their feet.
When everyone's hearing returned, a strange rhythm of music filled the air.
"Auntie! Pressure! Pressure!"
A massive moon had risen, illuminating the path ahead. Three muscular, hulking men came into view.
The one in the lead, with a sassy look on his face, put his hands on his hips and crossed his legs (Dudley Dursley). The one on the left crossed his arms and splayed his fingers just in front of his face (Neville Longbottom). The one on the right took a half-squat, putting his hands in a cross shape in front of his chest (Harry Potter).
Not far from them, a stereo blasted the bizarre music. A fight just didn't feel right without a soundtrack.
A cold gaze swept over the crowd. It seemed like a bunch of drunk wizards making a ruckus, but in reality, this was a planned, organized attack. The chaos seemed random, but the path and the goal were clear. They were getting closer to the boys' tent.
The answer was simple: they were here for Harry, for Harry Potter. Were they Death Eaters? Or just simple drunken hooligans? Dudley was curious. He couldn't believe any Death Eaters would be bold enough to show their faces, especially since the Dark Lord still hadn't returned.
Whoosh!
Without a word, a dozen curses with a sickly green glow flew toward the three of them. They weren't Avada Kedavra. Just ordinary jinxes. Even the most evil Dark wizards wouldn't risk using the Unforgivable Curses before Voldemort's return, especially with the Ministry still in power. So, they only dared to make a bit of mischief. Otherwise, why not just attack the Ministry directly?
Faced with the flying spells, Dudley simply puffed out his chest and took all dozen curses without flinching. The curses hit his chest and had no effect. It was as if they had simply vanished into thin air. His immense magical resistance made him impervious to the attacks.
This level of magic was pathetic. Dudley immediately dismissed the group as a disorganized rabble.
When the wizards saw their first attack had failed, they immediately launched a second wave—another dozen spells, all aimed with clear, coordinated intent. On his end, Dudley slowly drew his wand, the magical crystals on its side glowing faintly. With a flick of his wrist, the spells vanished, as if they had fallen into a deep ocean.
It was just as Dumbledore had faced countless Death Eaters twenty years ago—effortless and easy. With power far beyond an ordinary wizard, he effortlessly neutralized the threat. He had the calm demeanor of a true master.
Before the wizards could react, Dudley flicked his wand again. Ropes made of earth shot out from the ground, disarming the wizards who had attacked him and bundling them up into balls. At the same time, Harry and Neville charged into the crowd. They were incredibly fast; the wizards only felt a gust of wind as they were knocked to the ground.
In the past month, they'd both developed quickly, but they weren't this strong on their own. Their exaggerated strength was all thanks to the potions Dudley had given them, a draught that gave them the abilities of four beasts.
The Eyes of the Eagle let them precisely track the trajectories of the curses. The Ears of the Wolf let them hear their enemies' slightest movements. The Speed of the Leopard let them effortlessly avoid the volley of curses. And the Strength of the Bear let them turn their enemies into spinning tops with a single punch.
A wizard's strength lay in their versatile, incredible magic. Their reflexes, endurance, and physical strength were not much different from a Muggle's.
With the power of the four animals, Harry and Neville were unstoppable. As Dudley watched over them, they tore through the wizards, leaving them no chance to fight back. Their speed was like lightning, and their power was unmatched. Their fists were unstoppable, and their martial arts skills were like something out of a legend. They were using a fighting style called "Great Ancestor's Long Fist," a style Dudley himself had taught them.
Dudley used magic, while Harry and Neville used their fists. This was clearly on purpose. He wanted to show the world that wizarding battles weren't just about waving wands like a bunch of fools. He was making a statement:
Times have changed.