Disclaimer: All characters, proper names, and the world belong to J.K. Rowling
VIII. Chapter: The Beautiful and Damned
When the Dark Mark appeared in the sky, uncontrolled panic erupted. The crowd, which just moments before had been cheerful and excited by the events in the stadium, was instantly plunged into chaos. People screamed in terror, crashing into each other like maddened animals, and their desperate attempts to escape turned into chaotic scuffles. Someone tripped and fell, losing their wand, while another grabbed a child, trying to push them into a safe place, but the disorderly movement of the crowd made any organization impossible. Voices of despair mingled with panic, and the air seemed to thicken with fear.
Those who were not paralyzed by terror drew their wands, trying to prepare for a possible attack. Sparks from spells occasionally flashed against the darkening sky, some hitting random people in the chaos. The Aurors, though trained to work in difficult conditions, struggled to control the situation—they had to not only face the potential threat but also manage the crowd, which behaved like a force of nature. Their sharp, short commands pierced through the cacophony of screams and chaos as they tried to reorganize their forces to locate the source of danger.
Meanwhile, nature seemed to reflect the mood in the stadium. The relentless sky, which just moments earlier gleamed with the clear light of the moon and stars, now covered itself with heavy, dark clouds, as if in response to the fear that had gripped the people below. The air grew thick, and a damp wind heralded a storm, with the first drops of rain beginning to fall, adding to the growing anxiety. The moon disappeared behind a veil of clouds, and the darkness deepened, creating a menacing atmosphere, as though the sky itself had allied with the appearance of the Dark Mark.
Raindrops began to fall on Daphne's face, at first cool and subtle, as if nature was mocking her meticulously crafted appearance. Each subsequent drop blurred the perfect harmony she had built in front of the mirror, making her black, silky-smooth hair stick to her face. With every strike of the rain, their flawless smoothness turned into a chaotic tangle of wet strands, destroying the perfection Daphne had so carefully cultivated. She felt the cold strands of hair clinging to her forehead and cheeks, irritating her skin, where small droplets of water began to appear.
Her black dress, which had been light and perfectly draped over her body just moments before, was now soaking with rain, losing its elegance. The wet fabric, clinging to her slender figure, was merciless—it revealed every shape, every line of her body. The dress, which had previously accentuated her waist rather aggressively, now clung to her body like a second skin, mercilessly highlighting the sharply defined curves of her hips and upper body. The moisture began to seep into the fabric, and she could feel the cold, wet material penetrating her skin, exposing her to the gazes that could now notice every, even the smallest, detail of her silhouette.
Daphne felt an unpleasant shiver run down her spine, cold as the blade of ice. Yet it wasn't the chill of the rain that triggered this reaction—it was the growing frustration and anger that intensified with every passing moment. The rain, which had started as barely noticeable drops, now struck her skin like an uninvited enemy, reminding her that she had lost control of the situation. Every drop seemed to laugh in her face, mocking the perfectly crafted image she had so meticulously maintained, now brutally blurred by the unforgiving force of nature. In an instant, Daphne—proud, composed, impeccably presented—became the victim of something entirely beyond her control.
She felt the wet fabric of her dress clinging to her body in a way that stirred an internal resistance, revealing too much. As soon as she realized that the contours of her rounded breasts had become visibly defined, she instinctively reached to throw on her leather jacket—a symbol of protection and control, which usually gave her a sense of authority over her own image. But her hand met nothing. It dawned on her that in the chaos, it must have been lost, swept away along with the crowd that had scattered in all directions moments earlier.
An irrational anger filled her mind. How could she, even for a moment, allow herself to lose control over something as basic as her wardrobe?
Standing tall, her face frozen in an expression of stone-cold calm, Daphne stared at her father. Jack Greengrass, after issuing a cold-toned command to Kira to take Marry and Astoria to their grand estate, resumed his characteristic stance—calm, almost unreachable in his unshakeable composure. His slender figure exuded confidence, as though even the chaos surrounding him couldn't touch him. One hand rested casually at his side, but the other—the one holding his wand—moved with precision and without hesitation.
From time to time, Jack cast quick, almost imperceptible spells at people who, in the chaos, stumbled into him or Daphne, throwing them several meters away as though they were nothing more than obstacles in his path. Each flick of his wand was graceful and controlled, as though even in this moment, he had absolute command over everything happening around him. The people he cast aside fell to the ground silently, not daring to approach again, their bodies seeming weightless and insignificant compared to his commanding presence.
However, it wasn't these gestures, nor even the power of the spells he cast effortlessly, that captured Daphne's attention. It was his intense gaze, sharp and unyielding, which, despite all the chaos, remained focused solely on her. His gaze pierced her, as if in one moment he assessed her every move, every emotion that might have crossed her mind. Daphne knew that in her father's eyes, she couldn't allow herself any sign of weakness, no matter how small. It was a silent reminder—that even now, in the middle of the storm, she had to be worthy of his attention, she had to meet his standards.
Jack approached Daphne with quick, confident steps, his movements as always precise and controlled. Without a word, he pulled off his cloak and draped it over his daughter's shoulders, shielding her from the cold and relentless rain that continued to fall mercilessly. Then he looked her straight in the eyes, his gaze cool but full of expectation.
"I know perfectly well that your dueling skills are at a high level," he began, his voice calm but carrying weight. "But what they teach at Hogwarts is just an illusion of safety. Real combat..."—he paused for a moment, his gaze growing even more piercing—"is a place where there are no rules, and every move, every spell can decide life or death. Here, there is no room for weakness, much less for compassion."
His tone left no room for argument, as if what he was saying was the only truth Daphne now had to learn.
"I believe you are old enough to understand and experience this for yourself. What we are dealing with now will change everything we have known until now." He stepped a little closer, and his words became even more direct. "You know full well how the Greengrass name is perceived. Not only by Dumbledore's supporters but by society as a whole."
He paused briefly, as if wanting every word to resonate fully.
"I want you to be ready for anything. And I mean it - anything," he added, not taking his eyes off her face, making sure she fully understood the weight of his words.
Daphne, listening to her father, maintained her posture, while also feeling grateful for the covering over her body. The last words spoken by her father still echoed in her ears. However, she realized this was a test she could not fail. In response, she nodded, "Yes, Father." At her words, Jack straightened and began walking in the opposite direction from where the fleeing crowd was heading.
Daphne, despite the high heels she wore, matched Jack's pace effortlessly. He moved with the precision of a shadow, his fluid movements underscored by a gaze that was cool and intensely focused. As they descended to the lower levels of the stadium in silence, making their way toward the VIP section where the French delegation was to be seated, Daphne's eyes briefly drifted toward the dancers' tent.
There, she observed a group of girls, with a tall blonde at the forefront. Another girl, seemingly of the same age and almost a mirror image of the blonde, followed closely on her left. Daphne's keen observation immediately led her to conclude that they were likely related—such striking similarity could not be mere coincidence.
Her attention was drawn to a subtle yet significant gesture—the brunette's fingers gently brushed against the blonde's hand, as if seeking a connection despite the damp, chilly environment. Both girls remained in their performance outfits, now drenched by the rain, which clung to their figures and accentuated their curves even more. Despite being escorted by Aurors, they held their wands at the ready, poised for either defense or attack.
Before Daphne and Jack could reach their destination, a blue streak of spell energy shot through the air in front of Daphne's face, almost hitting her. Time seemed to slow down. Another spell, aimed with deadly precision, flew straight toward her chest. Daphne reacted instinctively. Before her mind could fully process the threat, she cast a nonverbal shield spell with practiced ease. The incoming spell was deflected with such force that it redirected toward a massive pillar of the stadium, where it exploded, shattering fragments of stone. Yet, Daphne saw no clear outline of the attacker.
The world around her remained taut, as if it were holding its breath for the next move. A split second felt like an eternity, and although Daphne was focused, she felt an adrenaline surge. Her heart raced, but her mind stayed icy and controlled. She knew she had to maintain control—whatever or whoever had cast the spell was well-hidden, and Jack... she knew he too sensed the danger.
More spells tore through the air, their whistling like eerie cries from the abyss. Two of them raced straight toward Daphne: one aimed at her face, the other at her abdomen, like deadly blades ready to tear her apart. Her heart pounded faster, but her eyes betrayed no fear—only an icy calm, steeped in darkness. Her wand lifted as if in a cold, calculated gesture, and the shield spell she cast deflected the attacks with a thunderous crash, as if the force of the magical energy threatened to shatter reality itself. The air around her thickened, saturated with the stench of burnt magic and blood, as though she was surrounded by an aura of death.
This time, however, Daphne had no intention of remaining passive. She knew the opponent lurked in the shadows, invisible to the eye, but their presence was like a shadow at the edge of her awareness. Instead of waiting, she responded with ruthless fire—casting stunning and disarming spells that cut through the air like cold, merciless blades. Each movement was imbued with a desire for destruction, and the silence following her spells was as ominous as the calm before a storm.
Meanwhile, her father stood at the epicenter of the chaos, surrounded by a maelstrom of spell energy. Some attacks were aimed directly at his face, others sought to tear him apart from the sides, and even more struck his back, as if to level him to the ground. And he... he remained unmoved. He stood still, as if all these attacks were nothing more than an irritating shower. His wand rose in a slow, almost predatory motion. Each spell he deflected shattered with a terrifying roar, tearing through the air and leaving only black streaks of smoke and shadows.
The darkness around him seemed to pulse, and the magical beams encircling him appeared as ghostly apparitions, chasing him endlessly. Each deflected spell exploded in the air, sending echoes reminiscent of distant wolf howls. Jack showed no sign of unease—his eyes were cold, empty as a bottomless well. As more spells flew toward him, he seemed to toy with time, as if everything around him were merely an illusion he could control at will. When one attack pierced the air and struck just beside his head, Jack only gave a slight flick of his wand, and the spell disintegrated, leaving only the acrid smell of ozone and shattered remnants of magic, slowly falling to the ground like ash from a burned forest.
Figures began to emerge from the shadows, as if the darkness of the night was taking on human forms. Some of the attackers wore hats that obscured their faces, casting additional shadows that merged with the surrounding gloom. Others hid their faces with masks or hoods, partially concealing their features and giving them a mysterious, ominous appearance. Each of these figures exuded an aura of menace and determination, their approaching footsteps adding a palpable sense of danger to the already tense atmosphere.
With every passing moment, more shadows tightened their circle around Daphne and Jack, confining them in an ever-narrowing ring. The dark figures approached silently, as though their aim was to completely deprive the pair of any chance of escape. The shadows, seeming to come alive, filled the space, creating an atmosphere thick with tension and hopelessness.
Amidst the chaos, one of the spells struck Daphne, slicing her arm and causing blood to flow down her hand, forming dark stains on the ground. The pain was sharp, but in the whirlwind of battle, Daphne barely noticed that an earlier spell had also torn a hole in her elegant dress on the left side of her hip. The fabric, once meticulously arranged, now hung tattered and soaked from the rain and blood. The dampness and rips exposed more of her silhouette, erasing the elegance and refinement that had previously defined her appearance.
Every movement Daphne made was quick and frantic, her breath coming in sharp gasps that betrayed her tension and exhaustion. Her dress, instead of accentuating her figure, was now a burden, clinging to her skin due to the blood and rain, revealing every detail of her body. In the face of the relentless assault, each piece of her clothing and every drop of blood became a testament to her struggle, determination, and the constant threat that surrounded her.
Suddenly, Daphne felt her back pressing against her father, who stood as a solid, unyielding bastion in the midst of the chaos. His presence was both reassuring and terrifying—unyielding as rock, amidst the swirling danger that surrounded them on all sides. Her back almost touched his arm, and the warmth of his body seeped through their clothes, reminding her that, at this moment, they were united in the face of peril.
Despite the increasing number of opponents closing in on him, Jack remained unwaveringly focused. His wand moved with a life of its own, executing rapid and precise movements in the air, as though it were an extension of his will. Each motion was fluid yet decisive, reminiscent of a conductor's baton orchestrating a chaotic symphony. His wand's swift, graceful movements were akin to a dance—precise and ruthless, like the lashes of a whip in the hands of a master. Each flash of magic and single movement of the wand created an invisible shield around them, effectively neutralizing incoming spells and attacks from adversaries.
Daphne watched as his wand moved through the air, casting lightning-fast spells that pushed back the attackers or deflected their assaults. He was like a sophisticated maestro in an orchestra of chaos, controlling every note, every sound in this battle, not giving the enemies a moment to catch their breath. His movements were smooth, yet full of resolve, and the precision with which he wielded his wand underscored his mastery and absolute confidence.
Every flick of the wand, every spell cast, created a protective aura around them, visible in the shifting directions of magical projectiles and waves repelling the enemies. Jack, unfazed by the growing crowd of foes, remained composed as if no incoming spells stood a chance of reaching him. His stance was one of unwavering determination and strength, and his wand, dancing in the air, was a testament to his absolute control over the situation.
The sight of her father in action struck Daphne like a cold shower, altering her perception of her own skills. Jack, standing at the heart of the chaos, displayed a level of mastery that seemed beyond her reach. His wand moved with flawless precision, as if it were an extension of his will, and each spell he cast was a testament to his unparalleled control and skill. Every motion he made, every flash of the wand in the light of spells, reminded Daphne of the distance separating her from his perfection.
Watching Jack fend off attacks with an innate grace and certainty, Daphne suddenly realized the vast distance she still had to cover. What had once seemed like an ambitious goal now revealed itself as a monumental challenge. In trying to match her father's level, she felt the weight of reality—how much more she needed to learn, how many more times she needed to practice her skills, to achieve even a fraction of what Jack so effortlessly demonstrated. His mastery had become not only a model for her to emulate but also a reminder of the difficult but necessary path she must traverse to fully realize her ambitions.
At that moment, a man emerged from the group of surrounding figures, dressed in an elegant suit, although his hat was slightly tilted. He raised his wand, menacingly bringing it close to Daphne's face. With a tone that brooked no argument, he shouted to his companions to cease their attack immediately. Then, almost shouting, he turned to Daphne and her father: "You are under arrest on charges of casting the Dark Mark and colluding with Death Eaters! You have no right to defense! Any violation of the law will be severely punished!"
Daphne still held her wand at the ready, prepared for defense or attack depending on how the situation unfolded. At first, she couldn't recognize the face of the man who had nearly poked her eyes out by waving his wand in front of her face. But as he came closer, she realized who he was. It was none other than Barty Crouch.