"The Dark Mark…"
Mr. Weasley's voice was hoarse.
When the Dark Mark first appeared in the sky, many Ministry officials in the box had already Disapparated in panic. Now, only Crouch, Bagman, the two ministers, the petrified Quidditch players, Harry and his friends, and Cohen remained.
"Arthur, get your children out of here," Mr. Crouch said, his old Auror instincts kicking in as he took charge with cold efficiency.
After all, the Minister seemed too stunned by the assassination attempt and the Dark Mark to react.
"Winky!" Crouch called, and with a soft pop, his terrified house-elf appeared in the box, trembling under her tea towel.
The box was high up, and Winky was afraid of heights—not that Crouch cared.
"Alert the Aurors. Check the lower boxes for registrations and magical traces. And you—" He turned to the frozen Quidditch players. "Return to the campsite. Our Aurors will reinforce the protective charms around it."
"We're taking our people and leaving now, Cornelius," the Bulgarian Minister snarled at Fudge. "Your Ministry's security is a disgrace—"
"By all means, go," Crouch said calmly. "I'm sure Bulgaria has a better method to screen a hundred thousand spectators in half an hour."
The Bulgarian Minister and his team Disapparated in a huff.
"Honestly, Barty, I doubt the Aurors can do much now," Arthur gasped after making several trips to evacuate his children. "It's chaos down there—a group of Death Eaters is marching through the campsite. We'll have to—"
"No, no…" Fudge muttered, staring at the Dark Mark before shifting his gaze to the others still in the box. It can't be You-Know-Who's return. It must be a plot by someone with an agenda.
Naturally, his first suspect was Cohen.
Or… Sirius Black? Framing Sirius would be easier—he did have a criminal record…
"Does anyone recognize the attacker?" Crouch's sharp voice cut through Fudge's muttering.
But clearly, no one did.
"I—I sold him a ticket," Bagman stammered, pale-faced. "He said he was Moody's friend—who'd have thought he'd turn out to be…"
"Edward, Sirius, what are you still doing here?" Mr. Weasley urged the only two non-Ministry figures left. "Get the kids somewhere safe—"
"Before the Minister adds us to his suspect list," Sirius said flatly, glaring at Fudge. "Unless my ears were ruined by the Dementors, I did hear you muttering about who to blame."
"This was a premeditated political assassination and anti-government riot," Crouch declared, ignoring Fudge entirely—and the fact that he was now head of International Magical Cooperation, not Magical Law Enforcement.
But Cohen, watching from the sidelines, saw the truth: This man is excited. Which means…
Crouch had been waiting for his moment to seize power.
"The attacker was just a tool. The mastermind wouldn't risk showing up after setting him loose," Crouch said, speaking for Fudge.
"Let's go," Arthur muttered, pulling Sirius and Edward aside. "We need to reinforce your tent's protections. The stadium's locked down, and the remaining Aurors are rounding up stragglers and hunting Death Eaters—"
The Campsite
By the time Cohen and Edward returned, the campsite was in ruins. Tents lay trampled, the nearby forest burned with eerie green flames, and the sky glowed like dawn.
Those who could Disapparate had fled, while the rest—stuck with Portkeys—scurried like panicked ants, begging Ministry officials to take them home.
Luckily, no one had touched Cohen's tent.
"Thank Merlin…" Edward sighed in relief as they reached their tent, passing rows of flattened shelters. "Martha's old photos are in there. She'd never let me hear the end of it if they were lost."
"There's a riot outside, and you're worried about photos? How… Cohen-like of you." Cohen smirked, pleased at Edward's growing resemblance to himself. "Slow down—"
He tried to warn Edward that the Chimaera had escaped its crate and was invisibly blocking the entrance, but it was too late. Edward walked face-first into the lion's invisible, fluffy mane.
"Roar?"
The lion affectionately rubbed its fur against Edward's face, sending him into a sneezing fit.
"Someone tried to burn your tent," the Chimaera's goat head said after they entered, dropping its invisibility.
"Thanks," Cohen said.
"—!" Edward was still in the bathroom, blowing his nose violently—a few lion hairs had lodged up his nostrils.
[Did the Minister die?] the horned serpent hissed in Parseltongue.
[No.] Cohen shook his head. [This is enough for now. Fudge's death doesn't matter. We might need to 'remind' the Ministry that the attackers weren't just Death Eaters—but the Silver Key, too.]
[So the Ministry takes the Silver Key seriously—clever.] The goat also switched to Parseltongue—Edward was the only one here who couldn't understand it.
"When was the last time this lion bathed?!" Edward emerged, wiping his damp face. "It reeks of rotting meat!"
"Probably from the spoiled rabbits the baby basilisk left in the crate," the goat explained. "If you don't mind, I can clean you up."
"Fine, fine—I can't stand this smell!" Edward snorted, still trying to clear his nose. "Cohen, should we just go home? It's a mess here. Since you can Side-Along Apparate—"
"I'm still underage," Cohen said, feigning a yawn. "We'll leave tomorrow. The lion will guard us tonight… I'm going to sleep."
"No one will break in," the goat assured Edward.
Whether anyone would sneak out, however, was another matter.
"Alright, rest well." Edward ruffled Cohen's hair and tucked him into the top bunk before settling into the lower one.
"And no licking faces tonight," Edward suddenly added, glaring at the lion.
"Roar…" The lion slumped dejectedly to the floor.
Though Edward wanted to stay awake, his soft snores filled the tent before midnight.
Once Cohen's soul slipped free from his body, he left the tent.
His priority now was to find the remaining Silver Key members and confirm their next move.
Fudge wouldn't have left yet—if the Minister fled while tens of thousands of spectators were trapped with rampaging Death Eaters, the Daily Prophet would have a field day tomorrow.
After over an hour, the Death Eaters had vanished too. Clearly, Voldemort had no truly loyal followers left—the old crowd had Disapparated the moment the Dark Mark appeared.
Betrayal was how they'd stayed comfortable after the Dark Lord's fall.
The Silver Key's Tent
Cohen floated in, invisible, to find the four remaining members—still bald, having used the last of their Polyjuice.
"This is our last chance," Bald Man No. 3 said. "Rivers is dead, but the Master has welcomed his soul. His loyalty earned divine favor…"
Cohen had no comment—he hadn't even wanted to eat that fanatic's soul. The man had died too fast; Cohen had to chase his corpse midair just to absorb it.
"The Aurors are guarding the Minister's tent. Our job is to break through—"
"You'll create a diversion while I sneak in with this…" No. 3 held up a shoddy Invisibility Cloak—made from Demiguise hair, its effects lasted less than a month and faded over time.
When he put it on, it looked more like a faulty Disillusionment Charm. My own spellwork is better than this, Cohen thought.
"Once I'm inside… you know what to do."
"Shout the Master's name!" the other three chanted.
"Wrong."
Cohen's Dementor-like form materialized behind them, his voice icy.
Ignoring their frenzied worship, he continued:
"You will not shout my name. You will shout the Silver Key."
"But Master, we are your followers—" No. 4 trembled.
"Silence! This is the Master's will!" No. 3 barked, already rationalizing Cohen's orders. Perhaps to recruit more followers… The Silver Key is still too small… The Master deserves more devotion.
He kowtowed, lost in fervent speculation.
Under Cohen's command, they set off—with his soul following unseen.
If they risked exposing Cohen's name, he'd devour their souls on the spot.
His plan was taking shape:
Fudge hadn't died in the first attack, and his incompetence was now undeniable. Killing him outright wouldn't ruin his reputation—the Ministry would spin him as a martyr.
But if Fudge was publicly humiliated, the Ministry's credibility would crumble. Then, once Voldemort returned, Cohen could play the hero, overthrow him, and seize power.
Ugh. If only the Silver Key weren't so insane. A sane cult could've stormed the Ministry outright. But no—these fanatics were obsessed with "awakening" him while also sabotaging him.
I never enjoyed being an evil god…
The Minister's Tent
The four soon reached Fudge's heavily guarded tent, where five Aurors patrolled.
Cohen helped subtly—dulling the guards' focus so No. 3 could slip past.
Inside, Fudge was fretting:
"Barty, what if we say I was gravely injured? The Dark Mark was just old Death Eaters causing trouble—it doesn't mean You-Know-Who's back! He's dead—"
"We can't be sure, Minister," Crouch said coldly. "Not with the Dementor revolts. The two are connected—"
"I told you, that was Cohen Norton's doing! Dumbledore should've never let that thing live—Edward and Rose, treating a Dark experiment like a son—"
"I see no danger in him," Crouch snapped. "Dumbledore insists the boy's soul is still their child. His heart is in the right place."
He repeated the last phrase, as if remembering something.
"How do we handle Rita Skeeter tomorrow—" Fudge's words died as Crouch shoved him under a table and fired a spell at thin air.
A vase in the corner shattered.
"Show yourself," Crouch hissed.
"Your time is up, Minister… a sacrifice chosen by the Master," No. 3 whispered from the shadows.
"For the Silver Key!"
The moment he said it, an unseen hand yanked off his cloak.
No. 3's eyes widened in betrayal—the Master had exposed him?
Before he could react, Crouch's spell struck him.
No. 3 managed one last, silent Sectumsempra—slicing off Fudge's right ear before collapsing.
Blood sprayed.