Chapter 285. Death Eaters and the Exploding Crabbe
Guided by the Devil's Snare, Adrian Wesson led Cornelius Fudge and the others across an open stretch and finally into a dense, lush woodland.
"Wesson, this is a complete waste of time," Fudge panted from behind. "I'm sure Crabbe isn't here—he probably just misplaced his wand."
"Do you really think so?"
Adrian suddenly halted, lowering his voice. "Look over there."
Following his gaze, they saw more than a dozen black-robed figures forming a circle—at the centre, someone knelt, convulsing in pain.
Even more chilling, beneath the rolled sleeve of one of them, the Dark Mark was glimmering with an eerie green light.
Fudge's face turned ashen. "That's…"
"It's a Death Eater gathering!" Bartemius Crouch reacted at once, his wand already out.
At the same time, the Death Eaters noticed their uninvited guests.
Adrian raised his wand at once, ready to fight.
Yet the expected furious exchange never came.
The Death Eaters drew their wands in unison—and before Adrian and the others could react, they Disapparated together.
Only a succession of sharp pops and wisps of black smoke hung in the air.
And the man who had collapsed on the ground remained.
As they approached, they recognised the twisted face at once—it was the owner of the wand Adrian held: Crabbe.
Crabbe was curled on the ground, shuddering violently, his features contorted into something inhuman.
His fingernails gouged deep furrows in the soil; foam flecked his lips; a sound not quite human rasped from his throat: "I… was… wrong…
"Wrong… help… help me."
At last he went limp. With one final whimper he slumped like a puddle of sludge, motionless.
Crouch stepped forward, prised open his eyelids, and examined him, his face grave. "The marks of the Cruciatus Curse. It looks like it's been going on for quite some time."
"Is he still alive?" Fudge asked at once.
Crouch shook his head. The truth was plain.
"How cruel," Adrian sighed. "Likely he did something wrong and Voldemort punished him… poor devil."
"There is no Voldemort!" Fudge denied anxiously, though his voice trembled uncontrollably. "This… this is just an ordinary squabble between dark wizards, that's all."
Just then, Crabbe's body twitched in a grotesque, unnatural way.
His mouth yawned open at an impossible angle, and a chill voice spilled from his throat: "We will meet again, Wesson."
The moment the words fell, Crabbe's body swelled.
"Boom!"
The body burst apart into a rain of blood-mist, spattering the surrounding trunks and the ground.
At the last possible instant, Adrian cast Protego, keeping the filth from splashing onto him.
"You really ought to accept the facts, Minister," Adrian flicked his wand and said, "No one but Voldemort would be this merciless."
Fudge said nothing. He only pressed a hand to his brow, his expression heavy.
Clearly, he still refused to accept reality.
Adrian sighed. What a pitiful fellow.
By contrast, Crouch stood calmer than ever, a hard-to-read light flickering in his eyes; who knew what he was thinking.
Crabbe's explosion, if anything, spared Adrian the trouble.
In truth, he had only meant to send Crabbe to Azkaban, but Voldemort was evidently far more ruthless and decisive than he had imagined.
A follower who had served him so long—executed this brutally for a minor mistake.
One wonders what the Death Eaters who still follow him are thinking.
Of course, now was not the time to ponder that.
While Ministry wizards dealt with the remains, Adrian returned to the campsite.
The riot in the camp had ended.
Aside from a number of tents burned down and a few injuries, there were no more serious casualties.
Clearly, it had been a mere demonstration rather than a large-scale slaughter.
When Adrian reached the Weasleys' pitch, he found their tent already packed away.
Mr Weasley and Harry were pacing the spot; the others were nowhere to be seen.
"Where is everyone?" Adrian called from a distance.
Seeing Adrian return, the two of them hurried over.
Mr Weasley let out a long breath. "I sent everyone else home. You know how it is—special circumstances—so they opened up a batch of emergency Portkeys. As for Harry… he was so worried about you that he insisted on waiting."
Adrian patted Harry's shoulder in thanks.
Harry managed a wan smile, but his hand stayed clamped over the scar on his forehead—the pain hadn't stopped since earlier.
Adrian took one look and understood at once.
Among those Death Eaters earlier, Voldemort might well have been lurking.
Of course, Adrian did not think Voldemort had regained a body; he had most likely possessed someone again, as he had done with Quirinus Quirrell.
Even so, by Voldemort's methods, he would one day return in full.
"Did you find anything?" Mr Weasley asked.
So Adrian recounted what they had run into: the dozen-strong group of Death Eaters and Crabbe bursting like fireworks. "Crabbe was a Death Eater," Mr Weasley snorted. "He had it coming—serves him right."
A complicated feeling flickered through Harry.
He suddenly thought of his Slytherin classmate, Vincent Crabbe—Crabbe's son—the one who trailed after Malfoy everywhere.
What would he be like when he heard the news?
For a moment, Harry even felt a twinge of sympathy.
But he dismissed it almost at once.
They were Death Eaters, after all.
When his parents were murdered by Death Eaters, who spared any sympathy for him?
Near midnight, Mr Weasley obtained an old tyre from the Portkey Office and brought Adrian and Harry back to the Burrow.
Mrs Weasley finally set her mind at ease—she had been waiting in the front garden for her husband's safe return.
By then, the riot was officially over.
At Mrs Weasley's invitation, Adrian and the others enjoyed a fine breakfast at the Burrow.
During the meal, the Daily Prophet landed on the table right on time, dropped by the Weasleys' elderly owl.
Adrian picked it up and skimmed it. To everyone's surprise, news of the Quidditch World Cup had already made it into print.
At this, everyone set down their cutlery and crowded round Adrian.
"Dark Mark Appears at the Quidditch World Cup," Hermione read the headline, then exclaimed, "Who wrote this? So fast?"
"Rita Skeeter," Adrian said with a frown. "Which means I'd take this issue with a pinch of salt."
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