0453 The Following Days

The golden rays of the morning sun had barely begun to filter through the windows of the Burrow when Sirius his face etched with concern and a hint of anger, learned of the previous night's escapade. Harry, along with Ron and Hermione, had ventured out to the Quidditch pitch in search for his missing wand. This piece of news was delivered by an exhausted Mr. Weasley who had rushed home for a hasty breakfast before returning to his duties at the Ministry.

This marked the first time Sirius had ever lost his temper with Harry. To punish Harry's reckless behavior, not only did he forbid Harry from accompanying him on the planned visit to St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries to see Remus, but he also confined him to the Burrow for the remainder of the summer holidays, prohibiting any excursions beyond Ottery St. Catchpole, effectively grounding Harry in a way he had never experienced before.

The harshness of this decision sparked an immediate and fierce resistance from Harry. The argument that ensued between godfather and godson was explosive, causing the old house to practically tremor with the intensity of their disagreement. The shouting match reached such a fever pitch that it seemed as though the very roof might lift off its timbers and float away on the waves of their anger.

In the end, it was Sirius who stormed out, his face ashen with anger. Harry, for his part, found himself with little choice but to comply with the punishment. After all, where else could he go? The Dursleys' house on Privet Drive was certainly not an option, and wandering off on his own would only serve to prove Sirius right about his recklessness.

As the days turned into weeks, the wizarding world was caught in a whirlwind of excitement and speculation. News of the dramatic events that had unfolded during the Quidditch World Cup final spread like Fiendfyre through magical communities across the globe. The Daily Prophet, never one to miss an opportunity for sensationalism, had transformed overnight into what amounted to a personal portrait gallery for Bryan Watson, who had become an instant legend.

For a fortnight straight, the front page of the Daily Prophet featured a rotating selection of captivating photographs depicting Bryan's duel with the dark witch Cliodna on the Quidditch pitch. These images, magical in nature, played out the battle in miniature, allowing readers to relive the intense moments again and again. From the second page to the very last, the Prophet was crammed with snapshots of Bryan's rare public appearances before that night. Candid shots of him stepping out of the Ministry, formal portraits taken at hastily arranged press conferences, and even the odd picture of him simply going about his day became the subject of intense scrutiny and admiration.

The entire wizarding world seemed to have nothing but one topic of conversation: the spectacular showdown between Bryan Watson and the infamous dark witch.

To put the magnitude of this event into perspective, one had to look back half a century to find a comparable moment in wizarding history. The last time the magical community had been so universally captivated was during the legendary duel between Albus Dumbledore and Gellert Grindelwald in Paris. That battle, often referred to as the duel of the century, had pitted the two greatest wizards of the age against each other in a clash that had reshaped the course of magical history.

However, the passage of time had dimmed the collective memory of that momentous event. Most of the witches and wizards who had been fortunate (or unfortunate) enough to witness that earth-shattering duel firsthand had long since passed on to the next great adventure.

For the majority of the current magical population, tales of Dumbledore and Grindelwald's confrontation were just that – tales, passed down through generations, growing more mythical with each retelling. Few concrete records existed, and fewer still had ever seen any tangible evidence of the duel's true nature.

In stark contrast, the battle between Bryan Watson and Cliodna had taken place before an audience of over a hundred thousand witches and wizards. The sheer scale of witnesses was unprecedented in magical history. These spectators, hailing from every corner of the globe and representing diverse magical communities, had inadvertently given Bryan a worldwide stage to demonstrate his extraordinary magical prowess.

The aftermath of this display of power sent shockwaves through the highest echelons of magical governments. The International Confederation of Wizards, a body not known for its swift decision-making, passed a resolution at a speed that left many seasoned politicians slack-jawed in amazement. Without so much as a debate, they appointed Bryan Watson as the vice chairman of the council. The fact that Bryan himself was not present for the vote, nor had he expressed any interest in the position, did nothing to dissuade the Confederation. They considered the resolution valid, seemingly operating under the assumption that no sane wizard would refuse such an honor.

But the Confederation was far from alone in its eagerness to align itself with the new star of the Wizarding world. Major wizarding organizations from various magical societies, sensing an opportunity to bask in reflected glory, extended symbolic olive branches to Bryan. These invitations came in the form of offers to take up prestigious – though notably powerless – positions within their ranks.

The list of organizations vying for Bryan's attention was so extensive that it could have filled an entire page of the Daily Prophet, were the newspaper not already dedicated to singing his praises. Interestingly, and perhaps tellingly, Bryan hadn't responded positively to any of these offers, maintaining a silence that only seemed to fuel further speculation and admiration.

Yet, as with any event of such magnitude, the wave of praise was not without its undercurrent of criticism and controversy. In the days following the incident, as the dust settled and the more somber task of accounting for casualties began, a disturbing picture emerged.

Post-incident statistics, compiled by a joint task force of Ministry officials and St. Mungo's healers, revealed a grim truth. Over a hundred wizards, caught in the crossfire of Bryan and Cliodna's duel, had failed to escape the Quidditch stadium in time.

While the swift and tireless efforts of the staff at St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries managed to save many lives, pulling witches and wizards back from the very brink of death, not all were so fortunate. A significant number of those caught in the magical crossfire lost their lives on the pitch, their final moments spent amidst a spectacle of power that they had not come to witness as entertainment.

The families of the deceased, their grief raw and their anger palpable, were understandably unwilling to let the matter rest. United in their sorrow and their demand for justice, they organized themselves into a group. With determination born of loss, they stormed the British Ministry of Magic and demanded severe punishment for Bryan Watson, the man they saw as responsible for their loved ones' deaths.

The Ministry, caught between the rock of public adoration for Bryan and the hard place of grieving families seeking justice, pulled out all the stops in an attempt to deflect and pacify. For those families willing to accept monetary compensation – though many saw this as an insult to the memory of their lost ones – the Ministry offered substantial additional payments, hoping that galleons might soothe where words could not.

For those adamant about seeing Bryan Watson punished, the Ministry employed a different tactic. They worked tirelessly to shift the blame onto Cliodna, constructing a narrative that painted their loved ones as victims of the dark witch's malice. According to this version of events, promulgated by Ministry spokeswizards at every opportunity, Bryan Watson had done everything in his considerable power to save as many lives as possible. The implication was made clear: without his intervention, the death toll would have been far higher.

This explanation, carefully crafted though it was, failed to convince everyone. Many of the grieving families saw through what they perceived as a transparent attempt to protect a new national hero at the expense of truth and justice. Frustrated by the Ministry's stonewalling, they turned their attention to another powerful institution in the wizarding world: The Press.

The families rushed en masse to the offices of the Daily Prophet. Their hope was simple– to make their voices heard through the pages of the newspaper, to share their stories of loss and their demand for accountability with the wider wizarding world.

The Daily Prophet's response to this emotional plea was, to put it mildly, underwhelming. In what many saw as heartless dismissal of genuine grief and valid concerns, the newspaper mentioned the matter only briefly. This fleeting acknowledgment was buried in a small column on the last page, a spot usually reserved for word puzzles and advertisements for second-hand cauldrons.

After that single, paltry mention, the issue sank like a stone in the Black Lake, disappearing from the public discourse as if it had never existed. The Daily Prophet returned to its regularly scheduled praise of Bryan Watson, and the voices of the bereaved were effectively silenced.

As the days passed and the initial shock of the attack began to wane, another question began to dominate among the general public. Witches and wizards across the country, and indeed across the world, were pondering the same perplexing issue: who was the mastermind behind that night's attack, and what were their motives?

On this question, the British Ministry of Magic, perhaps eager to regain some of the public trust it had lost in its handling of the victims' families, provided what many considered a somewhat satisfactory answer. However, the conciseness and vagueness of their explanation left ample room for speculation and conspiracy theories to flourish.

The day after the attack, as the wizarding world was demanding for answers, the Ministry issued a statement. It was brief, almost frustratingly so, but it offered a grain of information for the public to latch onto.

According to the official line, the attackers were identified as a group of Voldemort devotees. However, the Ministry was quick to clarify that these were not true followers of the Dark Lord – not Death Eaters in the traditional sense. Instead, they were characterized as misguided individuals who had committed these atrocious crimes merely to pay homage to Voldemort's legacy of terror.

This explanation, while providing a framework for understanding the attack, raised as many questions as it answered. Who were these devotees? How had they organized such a large-scale attack without detection? And perhaps most pressingly, was this an isolated incident, or the beginning of a new wave of dark wizard activity?

In the days that followed, the Ministry seemed determined to demonstrate its efficiency and control over the situation. The wizarding world received daily reports, each one detailing the number of dark wizards involved in the incident who had been apprehended. These reports, delivered with mechanical regularity, painted a picture of a Ministry working tirelessly to bring the perpetrators to justice.

The Wizengamot, the high court of Magical Britain, displayed an efficiency that many found reminiscent of the Death Eater trials that had followed Voldemort's downfall. Every day, several unfamiliar faces – witches and wizards who had never before graced the pages of the Daily Prophet– were escorted out of the Wizengamot courtroom by stern-faced Aurors. Their destinations were always the same: directly to Azkaban, the dreaded wizarding prison.

These processions of the condemned became a daily spectacle, all conducted under the watchful eyes of reporters who dutifully recorded each grim-faced wizard and each witch as they were led away to face magical justice.

The message they wanted to send was clear: the Ministry was in control, and those who sought to disrupt the peace of Magical Britain would face swift and severe consequences.

Meanwhile, in the shadowy corners of various European magical communities, a different kind of upheaval was taking place. Panic spread like corona-virus among those wizards who had been dwelling in the underground world. Rumors circulated, growing more elaborate and terrifying with each retelling, about a powerful madman who was hunting them down.

On the thirteenth day after the attack, just as the wizarding public was beginning to grow weary of the incessant reports about Bryan Watson's heroics and the ongoing roundup of dark wizards, another bombshell was dropped. This new development would reignite public interest and set tongues wagging from Hogsmeade to Horizont Alley.

The usually bustling atrium of the Ministry of Magic, a place known more for its bureaucratic monotony than for drama, suddenly transformed into the stage of a momentous event. Reporters, who had been camping out in hopes of glimpsing Bryan Watson or securing an elusive interview, and Amidst them, witches and wizards who had come to the Ministry on routine business all paused, their attention drawn by something extraordinary.

From the grand fireplaces that lined the atrium, green flames flared with an unusual intensity, heralding the arrival of a procession that caused every eye in the vast hall to widen in disbelief. At the center of this group, looking bewildered and undeniably worse for wear, was none other than Cliodna herself—the dark witch who had dueled Bryan Watson, who had brought terror to the Quidditch World Cup, and who had been the subject of countless nightmares and heated discussions over the past two weeks.

Flanking her on one side was Bryan Watson, on her other side strode Rufus Scrimgeour, the Head of the Auror Office. Behind them came a team of elite Aurors forming a protective and restraining circle around the captured dark witch.

The Daily Prophet, never one to let such a good story slip through its fingers, sprang into action with a speed that would have impressed even the nimblest Seeker. Within hours, a special edition was rushed to print, owl posts were working overtime, and newsstands across Magical Britain were swamped with eager readers, all desperate to learn the details of this shocking turn of events.

That evening, as families gathered for dinner in homes across magical Britain, the special edition of the Daily Prophet was the center of attention.

Harry who was bored and confined to the Burrow, got hold of the special edition of the Daily Prophet.

Across the dinner table sat Mr. Weasley, who was home for the first time in nearly two weeks. The toll of his work at the Ministry was evident in his gaunt appearance and the dark circles that had taken up permanent residence under his eyes. He picked at his food listlessly, his mind clearly elsewhere.

Harry, unable to contain his thoughts any longer, broke the unusually tense silence that had settled over the usually boisterous Weasley dinner table.

"The paper's been claiming that the Ministry learned from interrogations that this dark witch was the mastermind behind that night's attack and the leader of those masked wizards," Harry said, shaking the newspaper. "It says the dark witch has confessed to the charges, but that's clearly problematic, Mr. Weasley. Many people in the box that night saw that the masked wizards and the dark witch didn't even know each other. They were—"

"Let's just let this matter rest, Harry," Mr. Weasley said in an almost pleading tone, dark circles prominent under his eyes.

The abrupt end to the conversation left an uncomfortable silence hanging in the air. Harry opened his mouth as if to protest further, but something in Mr. Weasley's exhausted expression made him think better of it. He closed his mouth, his teeth clicking audibly, and slumped back in his chair, frustration evident in every line of his body.

Just as the silence was becoming increasingly unbearable, George's voice cut through the silence. "Dad—" he said, an unusual note of seriousness in his tone that immediately drew everyone's attention. "Have you seen Mr. Bagman recently?"

The question seemed to come out of nowhere, and for a moment, Mr. Weasley looked confused.

Beside Harry, Ron, who had been listlessly pushing food around his plate, suddenly perked up. His posture straightened, and he pricked up his ears, his eyes fixed intently on his father.

Mr. Weasley sighed, running a hand through his thinning hair. "No, Ludo's gone to Paris recently," he said, his tone carefully neutral. "He's there to, um, prepare for another event." A pause, then, almost as if he couldn't help himself, he added, "Honestly, he's quite crafty, dodging all the trouble. I rather envy him—"

He broke off suddenly, as if realizing he'd said more than he intended. Quickly, he attempted to redirect the conversation. "Why, did you need him for something?"

The question was accompanied by a wide yawn that seemed to crack Mr. Weasley's jaw. He rubbed his bloodshot eyes, showing his exhaustion.

George opened his mouth to respond, a determined look on his face, but before he could get a word out, Mrs. Weasley bustled in from the kitchen. Her eyes immediately zeroed in on her husband's exhausted state, and her face softened with sympathy.

"Go get some sleep, Arthur," she said gently, laying a comforting hand on his shoulder. "The Ministry might send word again in the middle of the night."

"That's a certainty—" Mr. Weasley muttered between yawns. No longer concerned about why George was asking about Ludo, he stood up unsteadily and wobbled towards the stairs.

"You all need to turn in early tonight too!" Mrs. Weasley said to the others. "Hogwarts has sent the list of items you'll need for next term. We need to go to Diagon Alley tomorrow to buy your school supplies."

"Can I go too?" Harry asked, his eyes lighting up.

"Oh, of course, dear!" Mrs. Weasley looked at Harry affectionately.

"But Sirius—"

"My word is final in this house, Harry—" Mrs. Weasley said with a smile. "I think you've learned your lesson, and besides, we need to buy a couple of special items of clothing. You simply must come along!"

"What special clothing?"

Ron, who had been watching his father climb the stairs until he disappeared from view, immediately turned his head back upon hearing his mother's words.

"Oh—" Mrs. Weasley's eyes twinkled. "You'll find out tomorrow, Ron. Now, off you go— shower and get to bed."

Harry, Hermione, and the Weasley siblings gradually stood up and headed upstairs. The prospect of going to Diagon Alley greatly improved Harry's mood, making him less eager to discuss with Ron and Hermione about Professor Watson bringing the dark witch to justice.

"I wonder if Professor Dumbledore has found a new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher?" Harry thought aloud.

"He'll figure something out," Hermione said. "And if no one else is willing to take the job, I'm sure Professor Watson would step in."

'If Professor Watson were to teach them again, that would be the best possible outcome.'

Harry didn't voice this thought, but it was on his mind. After witnessing that duel on the night of the Quidditch World Cup final, no one would pass up the chance to learn a thing or two from Professor Watson. Harry had made up his mind that no matter how challenging it might be, he would stick with Professor Watson's physical education class.

Reaching the third floor, Harry opened the door and was about to enter. Hermione, not ready to sleep yet, followed Harry into the room, intending to discuss the recent news from the Ministry of Magic. However, Ron stopped at the doorway. Faced with Harry and Hermione's puzzled looks, Ron hesitated before saying,

"I need to talk to Fred and George about something—"

With that, Ron headed up to the fourth floor. Harry and Hermione exchanged glances and simultaneously let out a sigh.

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