Disclaimer: Hidden within the depths of every mind is a monster waiting to be unleashed. Shackled by the society and contained by our connections, it's in a deep slumber, growing with our pain and suffocating at our happiness. What does it mean to be human? Embracing our inner monster or forsaking it?

I do not own Harry Potter.

As the evening Sun descended into the gloomy depths of the night, the devil ascended into existence.

His hair was a vibrant red, appearing as if coated in blood, and his eyes were a pale shade of green, similar to the Killing Curse's sheen. His face was obscured by a mask, pure white in color and bone-like in texture, with a red lightning bolt splitting the mask in the middle. He slithered through the pathways, ducking and weaving between objects and people, and remaining perplexingly unnoticed by animals and humans alike.

The only sign that he even passed by them was the shiver that traversed down the spines of everyone he came across. They couldn't explain the instinctive fear that gripped their hearts but hurried in their steps with vigilance.

His stride ended at a cargo tent, a shade of green appearing a touch lighter than his eyes, and surveyed the scene. Death's invisibility cloak was wrapped around his entire frame, and it writhed and shifted like a passionate lover under his robes.

Uncaring of the wards placed around the tent, the man walked forward with a confident gait, but not before placing an Anti-Apparition Jinx of his own around the vicinity. It wouldn't do if his prey fled before the hunt began.

The wards could only flicker uncertainly, their magic sensing a presence but their actions bound by the ethereal cloak. No wards could ever stop Death from taking its toll and the cloak contained a shred of the very deity's power. In the hands of a powerful Sorcerer, it's that much more effective.

And there's scarcely anyone more powerful than the Mercenary, Reaper.

His wand appeared in his hand at a flick of his wrist and raising it above his head, he slashed it diagonally and twisted it forward. The entrance to the tent collapsed like a stack of cards. Not stopping there, he cast a dozen stunners in the span of a few seconds, not even giving the person inside the tent a chance to retaliate.

The Mercenary waiting inside, still a fearsome wizard in his own right, immediately cast the most powerful shield he could produce and could only watch in horror as the stunners struck his shield like bullets. His shield managed to stop the first few but when a crack started to appear in his defense, he cut off the spell and jumped to his right in alarm.

The rest of the stunners hit the back of the tent, scorching the thick canvas and generating wisps of acrid smoke.

Not giving his prey any time to recover, Reaper sent a dark, cutting curse at the disoriented man. With reflexes that far surpassed any Death Eater, the mercenary ducked under the spell and retaliated with a blasting curse.

Reaper deflected the spell with the tip of his wand and let the curse hit the ground in front of the mercenary. It exploded with a band and shards of rock rained upon the mercenary, who transfigured a nearby chair into a makeshift shield to block the incoming barrage.

But the shield in front of the mercenary obstructed his view of the enemy and Reaper took the opportunity to send an overpowered piercing hex at the man. The hex drilled through the mercenary's shield like paper and in an amazing display of battle instincts, the man shifted his body to his left.

The spell was too fast and too powerful for the mercenary to escape unscathed. The piercing hex grazed through the right arm of the mercenary, shredding his skin and muscles to the bone. The mercenary let out a loud yell of pain but fortunately, the man was left-handed. His wand arm blurred into motion and whip made of pure fire cut across the expanse between the Reaper and the Mercenary.

Reaper calmly leaned back to avoid the whip but the spell reversed its direction mid-flight and it sprung back to attack him again. The green-eyed teenager ducked under the lash, the scorching heat of the spell threatening to burn away a few of his hairs, and made another diagonal, slashing motion with his wand as he stood back up again.

A depression formed in the air between the two duelists and it raced forward like a blade towards the mercenary. The man could only form another shield in desperation but the spell shattered the shield like glass and struck the man straight on his torso.

The mercenary's chest caved in and his lower ribs splintered in an instant. His intestines twisted upon themselves and the man hurled out the contents of his stomach onto the ground. The man's bellow of agony would've woken up the entire village of match goers if not for the silencing wards of the tent.

Reaper sent a stunner at the defenseless man to put him out of his misery and the man lost consciousness before he could even lift a finger in resistance.

When the mercenary returned to the land of the living, he found himself shackled to a chair, with a pair of green eyes staring at him with frightening intensity.

"Hello, Mylos," Reaper greeted with false cheer, with his knees bent and feet on his chair. He twirled the mercenary's wand between his fingers – an annoying habit he couldn't seem to get rid of. "Fancy meeting you here."

"Who the fuck are you?" Mylos spat with disdain. If the sight of his wand in enemy's hands caused any apprehension, the mercenary didn't show it.

"I think I'm more famous by name than appearance," Reaper said thoughtfully, a touch of wistfulness to his tone – he eagerly waited for the day the sight of him sent people running. "Reaper, the up and coming mercenary."

"Reaper?" there was a disconcerting tenor to Mylos's tone but he masked it with acquired skill. "Didn't know you became the attack dog of the French Auror."

"Pot calling the kettle black," Reaper retorted without any ire. "At least I'm not making deals with Death Eaters. Death Eaters, Mylos? Your standards have fallen."

Mylos appeared a touch perturbed at Reaper's knowledge of his plans but he managed to respond with venom. "Anything to get the job done."

"I've always liked your dedication," Reaper said, twirling the wand between his fingers faster. "I'd like to say that I'll let you go if you tell me how many other mercenaries you have working under you, but I'm not Lucius Malfoy. I hate making deals."

The enemy's wand lighted up a violent red, and the tip began to smoke and sizzle. Reaper broke the wand with a twist of his fingers and stabbed the mercenary's right-hand palm with the upper half. Mylos couldn't suppress the cry that broke out of his mouth. The skin around the perforated area began to burn and the cries turned into screams.

The screams only served to heighten Reaper's bloodlust – There's something about the prey's haunting melody of pain that resonated with the hunter.

"Feeling cooperative?"

"Suck my –"

The lower half of the wand went straight through Mylos's left hand and the subjugated moans of the mercenary escalated to muffled yells. Reaper watched unconcernedly as Mylos heaved and panted under the strain, his visage looking like a bloated tomato with all the blood rushing to his face.

Torture was an ineffective method, Reaper knew. More often than not, it only worked on inexperienced individuals who lack conviction, and Mylos was anything but an amateur. But the torture worked an as excellent factor to lower all and any Occlumency barriers that the victim had.

Pain begets clarity and torment disrupts it just as well.

Mylos glanced up, at last, only to find a wand placed squarely between his eyes. His brown eyes rose up to gaze into the pale-green ones of his attacker, and the folly of his action struck his brain; It was too late.

"Legilimens!"

Reaper's probe was a brute force attack, lacking any stealth or subtlety. The already weakened Occlumency barriers of the mercenary folded like paper under the impact. A human's mind was a mess of a million thoughts and emotions, and the mind of an Occlumens was only marginally better. It was like searching for a single file in a computer or a sheet of parchment in the Hogwarts Library – Organized though they might be, it didn't make the task any less herculean.

So, Reaper narrowed his search to the memories created in the past month, and all the thoughts related to killing and French. A web of tangled spires of information greeted his probe and he traveled down the most probable route to settle down a single line of thought.

'Seven ain't necessary for a teenage girl,' Mylos argued with his benefactor. 'There will be five…"

'What if it isn't enough, you say?' the mercenary raised his eyebrows at his benefactor's skepticism. 'I have a plan for that…terrorist groups...Quidditch...the name's what? Flower? ...Oh, Fleur."

Satisfied with his haul, Reaper withdrew from the mind of his prey and Mylos's head lolled down to his chest. The mercenary was breathing but only barely and there was a line of drool slipping down the corner of his mouth.

No mind could handle a battery of such strength. He had seen people losing lives before he could gain any information he needed – it was fortunate that Mylos was an accustomed practitioner of Occlumency.

Twirling his wand one last time between his fingers, Reaper slashed his wand horizontally to release a cutting charm that sliced straight through the man's neck. The head dropped to the ground at the force of gravity and settled at the feet of the green-eyed teenager.

Reaper gave the severed head an apathetic glance and transfigured it into a mini-sized horn to pocket it, resisting the urge to leave his signature trademark on the ground – Mylos, being the infamous assassin he was, would amount to quite the bounty in the international market.

The headless man was enough of a hint that…

Reaper was here.

Dominique Delacour listened with half an ear as his daughter rambled on about something or the other – she was such a lively girl, and it was one of his greatest regrets that in contesting to become the Minister of France, he put her life in danger.

But with rising tensions in the British Isles and the deteriorating relationship with the MACUSA, the people preferred a war-time leadership to a peacetime one. And him being the esteemed Auror and patriot he was, acquiesced to the demands of the Parliament and the people.

It was then that he realized just how many enemies he had made over the years.

But there was a reason why his people trusted him and part of it was because Dominique Delacour held no reservations towards doing what's necessary.

And if mercenaries were required to deal with mercenaries, he'd hire the best of them to ensure his family's safety.

"I heard our wards now are some of the strongest in the country, Papan!" Fleur remarked in wonder as she gazed up at the invisible wards around their mansion. "Headmistress herself had a hand in this, didn't she?"

"Yes, Flower," Dominique confirmed distractedly, his thoughts still on all the plans he still needed to make.

"Then it must be right," Fleur nodded resolutely as if no one could argue her point any further. "Our Headmistress cast some of the wards around Beauxbatons, and everyone knows our defense is the best in the country. Her charm work is second to none."

"Then why do you still worry so much?" Fleur mumbled in a defeated tone, knowing that there's nothing she could say to make her father take a moment of rest. "No one can infiltrate our home now!"

Dominique's reply to that particular assertion appeared directly behind the Veela, silent as a ghost and scarier than one.

"Did I come at the wrong time?" Reaper asked in a casual tone, as though he hadn't apparated directly into the main chambers of the mansion.

Fleur jumped out her seat in fright, a hand on her chest to calm her thudding heart. She twisted on her heels to see the intruder and stepped back in alarm as a bone-white mask greeted her gaze. The green-eyes of the stranger panned over her visage without a hint of absent-mindedness in his stare despite standing inches away from the Veela and then he dismissed her without a second glance.

Fleur would have been affronted if she wasn't so terrified. There was something about the stranger that made her natural instincts scream at her to get away from him and the bone-chilling aura that permeated the room at his entrance felt more potent than her allure. Her hand went to her wand but her father's voice halted her motion before she could withdraw it.

"No," Dominique said calmly. Fleur didn't know if it was directed at her to stop her before she did something or if it was for the stranger's benefit. Knowing her father, it must be both. "Fleur here was just about to leave."

"What? But –" Fleur tried to argue but a sharp look from her father made her cease her dissent. She gave the stranger a passing glance as she walked out of the room, with her eyes narrowed in thought and a frown on her flawless face.

"You didn't tell me you were about to visit," Dominique remarked offhandedly but there's a hint of reprimand to his tone.

"Hoping to predict disasters is a fool's errand, Dominique," Reaper replied without remorse. "You can only do your best to prepare for them."

Reaper removed the miniature horn from his pocket and placed it on the mahogany table. "Believe me, it's better to leave it transfigured."

"And what's this?"

"The head of the mercenary group sent to kidnap your daughter is losing his head over this whole thing," Reaper chuckled, a sound that resembled a knife chipping away at an iron block. "I saved him the trouble and removed it."

Dominique unconsciously leaned an inch backward – nobody liked a human head on their table. But he steeled his nerves and decided to do away with his curiosity. "Any idea who it is?"

"I'm sure you know him by name," Reaper said as he flicked the horn with a finger. "He goes by the title 'Mylos', an American hit-wizard turned mercenary."

Dominique sucked in a breath. Whoever the enemy was, they weren't cutting any corners this time. "Was there anyone else with him?"

"No," the mercenary answered. "But there will be more. Four of them will be targeting her at the Quidditch Finals."

"What!" Dominique seemed rattled out of his wits. "Then I'll immediately cancel –"

"You'll do no such thing," Reaper's voice cut through the air. "Better to deal with them when we have the chance than wait for them to attack at an inopportune time. They'll keep coming until they get their target. That's what mercenaries do."

"Of course, you'll know," the French Auror snapped in agitation.

"Yes, of course," Reaper remarked dryly. "You have to remember I'm not the enemy here, Dominique."

Dominique remained silent.

"You don't want me as your enemy."

The temperature in the room dropped a few degrees and Dominique gulped in unease. "...So, what's the plan?"

"There's no...plan," Reaper waved it off as though such a notion was beneath him. "Your enemy has a plan. And I will disrupt it."

"What should I be doing then?"

Reaper rose from his seat and lazily walked back. "Never ask others what you should be doing, Auror. You should have your own clarity in life."

A cold breeze flowed through the windows, billowing the curtains, and flashing the moonlight ominously onto the bone-white mask of the mercenary. "My suggestion? Sit back and enjoy the fireworks."

As the curtains settled down, Dominique found himself alone in the chamber. A bead of sweat rolled down his temple and landed on the table beside the transfigured head, drawing the contours of the horn into sharp relief under his gaze.

Dominique was staring silently out of the window when his wife entered the chambers a few minutes later.

"You shouldn't be so harsh with her, Dom," his wife, Apolline, rebuked as she stood behind him. "She's visiting after so many months and it's only natural for her to want to spend time with you."

"The situation demanded it, Angel," Dominique sighed regretfully. "If I had a choice..."

Dominique went silent without finishing his sentence, his countenance holding so many emotions that he couldn't express it in words. His wife, as insightful as ever, understood that it had something to do with their visitor.

"Who was that, Dom?"

"That, Angel, is the scariest man I've ever known."

Harry climbed the steps to the top box of the Quidditch Stadium, feeling the imaginary weight on his shoulders double with each ascent.

'Ignorance is bliss,' the statement never sounded truer as he watched his friends look around in excitement, placing bets among themselves and quarreling over trivial things. Knowing that at the finish of the match, the Death Eaters would begin enacting their plan hung like an anchor on his mind.

He reached the top box to find the Minister of Magic, Fudge, shaking hands with dignitaries from other countries and another wave of disgust welled within him. The fact that Fudge was waving at him excitedly to beckon him over didn't alleviate his displeasure.

He plastered a fake smile – he was becoming an expert at it these days – he ambled over to the pudgy Minister and gave a slight bow, disregarding the extended hand of Fudge; He didn't want to know the places those hands traversed to.

Fudge was as oblivious as ever and placed a hand around Harry's shoulders and introduced him to the Bulgarian Minister. "Harry Potter…Boy-who-lived," Fudge enunciated each word as if the Bulgarian Minister didn't understand English.

Judging by the slight shake of the Bulgarian Minister's shoulders, the man was happy to play along with the game. The Bulgarian Minister extended a hand with a commiserating look of misery on his face as he gestured at Fudge and Harry could at least find momentary comfort in a kindred soul.

"Now, Harry," Fudge didn't even give him a moment to rest before parading him over to the new couple who entered the top box. "This is the French to-be Minister Dominique Delacour and his wife..."

Fudge went slack-jawed at the sight of the French Minister's wife and even though a part of Harry cringed internally, he could understand what got the Minister so captivated.

Mrs. Delacour appeared like an angel who descended to Earth. Lustrous blonde hair that glowed despite the dimness of the arena, twinkling blue eyes that shone like gems, and a face carved out of marble. She seemed like perfection given form.

"This is my wife, Apolline Delacour, and behind her is my daughter, Fleur Delacour," Dominique continued the introductions unperturbed as if he was used to such a scene.

It was only then that Harry noticed that the entire populace of the top box appeared to have entered a trance, their eyes dull and their postures slackened.

"You definitely know how to make an entrance," Harry said without thought.

Judging by the expressions on the visages of the Delacour family, he wasn't the only one surprised by the remark. Then Dominique broke the tension with a chuckle and extended his hand forward for a handshake.

"You live up to your name, Mr. Potter," Dominique commented as he shook Harry's hand.

Harry had no idea what he did to elicit such a remark but he accepted it with grace. Apolline seemed more at ease now that he wasn't praying at her feet like the others. But there was a curiosity lurking behind her glances.

Then their daughter stepped forward and he understood what charm enchanted the entire top box.

If her mother was an angel, then Fleur Delacour looked like a goddess. Lush, silver hair glided down her shoulders, framing her beautiful face like a bride's veil. Her eyes were a pearly shade of blue, containing an innocence that was as charming as it was captivating. Thin, rosy lips contrasted against her pale skin and her body could lead a saint to sin.

He couldn't shift his eyes away from her and he probably wouldn't have for all eternity if the Greengrass family hadn't entered the box just then.

His eyes alighted upon the stunning radiance of Daphne Greengrass and his senses stormed back to full tilt. The issue at hand flashed to his mind at the sight of his crush and a name rushed to the forefront of his mind. Delacour.

Holy hell. The deal between the Death Eaters and the mercenaries; It had something to do with the Delacour Family.

But the French Minister appeared entirely at ease, as though he didn't have terrorist groups and assassins after his family. Did he know? Had he already made plans? Was that why he was looking so calm?

A million questions assaulted his brain and Harry gave the Delacour family an apprehensive smile before slipping away to a lone corner to gather some time to think.

For the second time that day, someone ignored her allure as if it wasn't there.

At first, Fleur didn't perceive what impressed her father about the lean, unassuming, green-eyed boy. She saw how mesmerized he was at the sight of her and figured her allure was at play on the mind of another vulnerable teenager.

Then the boy dared to shift his stare away from her to look at another blonde-haired, blue-eyed girl behind her. Fleur glanced back at the regal-featured girl, finding her to be a beauty that could rival her own but that girl wasn't a Veela. And it was common-sense that Veela always had an upper hand in a battle of appearances. It was as absolute as it was unfortunate.

But that boy had the same look of rapture when staring at the other girl. Maybe he had a fetish for the blue-eyed ones? Whatever it might be, she just might've found a person who was immune to her allure.

This demanded more experimenting.

Lost in her thoughts about the green-eyed oddity, she ignored a part of her mind that kept nagging at her that she had seen an almost similar set of fascinating green-eyes on another person that very same day.

Harry leaned by the barrier at the edge of the top box, peeking down at the pitch as he waited for the teams to appear. Daphne acted like she didn't know who he was as she sat beside her father and he consoled himself by presuming that she didn't want to let her father know about their budding friendship; A boy could hope.

"Wotcher, Harry," A pink-haired woman dressed in Auror robes came to stand by him, with a mile-wide grin on her face.

He had no idea who she was and why she was so happy at seeing him. "I'd like to say that I remember who you are but I honestly don't."

Her grin bubbled into a laugh. "You don't know me, Harry. We never met at our time in Hogwarts. I'm Tonks. Proud, former Hufflepuff."

Harry sighed in relief, disregarding the fact that she hadn't told her full name. "Harry Potter, as you know. Confused Gryffindor. I'm hoping you're here to give me company?"

Judging by her unending cheer, he supposed it's her default state – he certainly wasn't that funny. "Nah, I am part of the security. Thought it's better to stay here with you than with those grumpy politicians."

"I'm better company than Fudge?" Harry gave an exaggerated gasp of disbelief, with a hand placed over his heart. "Don't flatter me, young miss. You've already made my day."

Tonks restrained her giggles with a fist. "You know what, Harry? I think we'll get along pretty well."

"My life will do its best to prove you wrong," Harry said ruefully but he had a smile playing on his lips.

Their bonding was interrupted by the whole stadium rising to their feet, hollering and jumping out of their seats in some cases. Harry looked down at the pitch to find a dozen or more exotic females dancing sensually, making the whole crowd go mad. People in the top box rushed to the barrier, performing over the top stunts in an effort to catch the attention of the females.

Harry didn't understand what's the big deal. So he asked the young Auror beside him, "Is there something I'm missing?"

Tonks stared at him with wide eyes. "You aren't affected?"

Harry could feel a slight tingle in his brain and the figurative sense of a steady knocking on a door returned. He was feeling a rush of adrenaline but it's more similar to what he felt when he was dealing with Adrian and his duo of friends than what he was witnessing here. "Should I be?"

"They're Veela, Harry," Tonks explained with a sideways glance at the mascots of Bulgaria. "Magical creatures that can enchant males with their allure. It's near irresistible at full capacity. You're a boy, aren't you?"

"Hey! Don't blame me," Harry said defensively. The steady knocking in his mind only amplified the longer the Veela stayed. He was anxious about what would happen if he was exposed to more of it.

Thankfully, the Veela stopped their dance after a few seconds, prompting groans of disappointment from all the males in the stadium. Harry released the breath he didn't realize he was holding as the knocking in his mind ceased abruptly.

Then the match began, pushing all the thoughts about his peculiar reaction to the allure from his mind.

Meanwhile, Fleur was watching the whole scene with a narrow-eyed stare. It was suspicious when he managed to hold off her unfocused allure but his lack of reaction to a Veela coven confirmed her doubts.

Allure acted like a compulsion charm on the male's mind, triggering all the hormones that lead to physical attraction and arousal. A master Occlumens could resist most of the effects but even then, it's impossible to completely ignore it. It's why it's so hard for Veela to figure out whether their lover was attracted to them or attracted by their charm; Both instances produced similar physical reactions.

Harry Potter was immune to the effects of allure. Somehow.

She suppressed the excitement that threatened to well up within her. It wouldn't do become hopeful before she fathomed the reason behind his resistance – it might be something specific to the boy-who-lived. After all, no one could still discern how he survived the Killing Curse. This might be an after-effect or the cause behind his victory against the Dark Lord.

So, she paid no heed to the Quidditch Finals and began to discreetly direct her allure at the green-eyed boy. She saw his body jolt in surprise as her allure hit him but he didn't even turn back.

It only served to make her more determined.

Harry was watching the match with half a mind – he liked Quidditch because he loved flying, not because he loved to watch a dozen males zoom around in the air for hours. Tonks was busy looking around for hidden threats and occasionally following the game, and Daphne made it her mission to not even glance at him once during the entirety of the game.

He didn't anticipate that boredom would be one of the issues he'd be tackling that night.

He was surveying the pitch for a glimpse of the snitch when the tingle hit his mind again. This time it didn't stop after a few minutes. Throughout the game, his body writhed in barely contained energy as the tingles traversed down his nerves again and again.

It was as though someone was hitting him with an energizing spell repeatedly.

Nerves began to pop under his skin and the steady knocking on the door turned into an incessant ramming. Adrenaline started to shoot through his veins like blood, pushing him to the edge with each passing second. His body was like a figurative balloon and someone kept filling in air, as though waiting to see when he'd burst.

His fingers began a steady drum on the wooden barrier and his foot tapped the floor in an unknown rhythm. His eyes flickered from one side to the other, and when a glitter of gold raced scant inches further from the top box, he leaned forward and swiped it out of thin air.

The golden snitch fluttered in his palm.

Fleur couldn't believe that he dared or even managed to catch the snitch. The sheer ridiculousness of his action made her stop her casting in befuddlement and Harry used the reprieve to pant in relief. He didn't what made the tingles stop but he sent a prayer of gratitude. He couldn't fathom what craziness he might get up to if the rush of energy persisted.

But there was a restless snitch in his hand and he didn't know what to do with it. The devil in his mind encouraged him to sow chaos, so he turned to the closest adult, who happened to be the unfortunate metamorphmagus.

"Tonks!" he called in a whisper, placing the hand containing the snitch in his pocket. "I have a little problem."

Tonks turned to face him and immediately noticed the twitching bulge near his pocket. "Yikes, Harry! Have some shame!"

"What?" Harry furrowed his brows in confusion. Then he glanced down to see how it appeared from other's perspective. His face flushed as if caught on fire. "It's not what you think it is, Pervert! I have the snitch in my pocket."

He retrieved the snitch and flashed it to her discreetly. Tonks's eyes widened to the size of dinner plates, literally – Harry could swear his invisibility cloak that there's some magic bullshit involved.

"How did you get it?"

"I caught it."

"You caught it?!" Tonks didn't know whether to yell at him or congratulate him. "You're not the seeker here, Harry."

"I did it out of instinct," Harry tried to justify in vain. "What do I do now?"

"It's Azkaban to you if people find out you meddled with the game," Tonks's lazy expression conveyed absolutely nothing about the gravity of the situation. Knowing her for the short duration he did, Harry couldn't understand if she was joking or not.

"Azkaban? People at least get a trial for murder," Harry said, affronted. "These British people really need to get their priorities straight."

"So, what are you going to do now?"

"I'm just gonna release it."

"Just release it?" Tonks looked like she couldn't wrap her mind around why he sounded so nonchalant. "What if people notice?"

"They didn't notice me catching it, did they?" he replied, looking for all intents like it made complete sense.

Tonks had no answer to that. So she gave a shrug and decided to keep vigil for him. Harry remembered that the Weasley twins bet that Krum would catch the snitch so he released it when Krum came the closest to the Top Box.

Only three people were aware of the match-fixing that occurred at the Quidditch World Cup Finals, '94.

An inferno blazed near the tents after the Quidditch Finals, engulfing the entire arena in a storm of fire. Fifteen hooded figures, wearing silver, demonic masks ambled through the soot and dust, paying no heed to the screams of terror and wails of agony.

After all, that was their intention.

A dozen bodies littered the grounds, amputated and charred, creating a scene straight out of the visions of hell. A man ran along with his family of four, shielding his wife and children with his body, and he abruptly dropped dead to the ground.

The wife shrieked in terror and the next moment, her voice was silenced. The two muggleborns stumbled back in fright, their backs hitting a burning tent. The elder sister pushed her brother behind her, bravely brandishing her wand in defense.

The Death Eater walked forward, fearless of the wand in her hand. A flick of the hand of the lead Death Eater relived the girl of her wand and another sent her flying into the burning tent. The brother shouted in shock and ran inside the tent, hoping against hope that his last living family wasn't lost to the world.

Just as the fire was about to overwhelm the tent's foundation, the fire stilled as if it's frozen. The Death Eaters glanced at each other in bewilderment, wondering if it was the handiwork of one of their comrades.

The flame began to writhe and twist and rose into the sky in a crescendo before descending to the ground like lightning. The onslaught of fire and gravel that accompanied the attack encompassed the surroundings, obscuring everything from sight.

The Death Eaters began to mumble among each other in alarm, expert four masked figures who readied themselves for the fight of their lives.

The conflagration of fire and dust settled and began to take form of a man, dressed in a simple blue shirt and jeans. But what caught the attention of the entire group was the blood-red hair and the bone-white mask of the interloper.

Then the figure began to speak. "Hello, Gentlemen! Thank you for attending the game."

The wand in the interloper's hand began to twirl between his fingers and a cackle resounded throughout the suddenly silent arena. "I am the post-match entertainment!"