Hogwarts: I will not become the Dark Lord

As the match concluded, a throng of people immediately gathered outside the stadium, heading back to the campsite in a vast, surging wave. Along the way, the soft glow of lanterns gently illuminated the winding paths. In the night sky, the occasional boisterous song rang out, piercing the clouds, accompanied by the excited, animated figures of the house-elves darting through the air above the crowd, their giggles echoing.

Along the way, the Weasley twins were filled with regret, wishing they had taken up Ludo Bagman's offer to bet!

Finally, the outlines of the tents gradually became clearer in sight, but their weary bodies didn't seem eager to seek the solace of sleep. The surrounding hubbub continued, and Mr. Weasley, seeing this, suggested everyone have a cup of milk before retiring for the night.

And so, a lively discussion unfolded, centered around the recently finished match. A debate arose about whether a collision on the field constituted a foul, with Mr. Weasley and Charlie taking opposing sides, each holding firm to their own opinion, creating an atmosphere that was both passionate and warm.

Late into the night, Ginny inadvertently drifted off to sleep beside the small table, spilling her hot chocolate on the ground. Mr. Weasley smiled and declared the debate temporarily adjourned, urging everyone to get some rest. Hermione and Ginny tiptoed into the adjacent tent, while Jerry, Harry, and the Weasley boys changed into their comfortable pajamas, slowly heading towards their respective bunks.

Even from the other side of the campsite, the melodious sounds of celebration and the strange clatter still echoed faintly under the night sky, unceasing.

“Lucky for me it’s not my shift tonight,” Mr. Weasley muttered, his voice thick with sleepiness, “Otherwise, I’d have to go and persuade those excited Irish fans to stop their celebratory revelry. Just the thought of it makes my head ache.”

Harry lay on the bunk above Ron, tossing and turning, unable to find a trace of sleep. His gaze was fixed on the canvas roof of the tent, and whenever a house-elf carrying a lantern flitted past, leaving a fleeting glimmer of light, his thoughts would drift away.

In his mind, images appeared one after another: He was wearing an England Quidditch uniform, soaring across the Quidditch World Cup field, finally catching the Golden Snitch and bringing glory to England; a hundred thousand spectators cheered in unison, the roar deafening, and Ludo Bagman's exciting voice pierced through the entire stadium, echoing in every corner: "The trophy belongs to you, Potter!"

“Jerry, Ron,” Harry finally couldn't help but ask, lowering his voice and leaning over the edge of the bed, “Do you think I have a chance to join a professional team?”

“Of course, Harry,” Ron yawned, “I also dream of joining the Quidditch national team one day, soaring on a flying broomstick under the spotlight, enjoying the cheers of the audience, how glorious!”

“Jerry, why don’t you join the Slytherin team? Do you really not like Quidditch?” Harry asked, Ron also curiously craning his neck to look at Jerry.

“Don’t you know that Quidditch has height requirements?” Jerry said softly, his eyes closed, “My height isn’t suitable for Quidditch!”

“Besides,” Jerry continued, a hint of playfulness in his tone, “Someone once said that Quidditch is the most idiotic sport!”

“What?!” Harry and Ron exclaimed in unison, their faces even more surprised. “Who said that?” Ron's voice was a little anxious, clearly curious about the person who dared to slander Quidditch, “I bet this guy has never ridden a flying broomstick!”

Harry nodded in agreement, secretly wondering about the identity of this “critic.” Judging from Jerry’s tone, he might even know the person who said that, but Harry couldn’t understand why they hated Quidditch so much.

Harry and Ron wanted to continue to ask, but they found that Jerry had already fallen asleep, and after the sound of his even breathing gently echoed in the darkness, they could only give up for the time being.

… …

“Ron, Harry, wake up, get up quickly, there’s an emergency outside!”

Harry woke up with a start, accidentally hitting his head on the canvas top of the tent. He looked around and found that Jerry's bunk was empty, and an ominous premonition quietly arose. The atmosphere of the campsite had changed dramatically, the singing and celebration had long disappeared, replaced by people's terrified screams and frantic running.

Harry agilely jumped down from the bunk bed, frantically grabbing his clothes, but heard Mr. Weasley anxiously shout: “No time, Harry, just throw on a coat and come out, quickly!” Mr. Weasley himself had hastily pulled his jeans over his pajamas, looking ready for anything.

“Bill, Charlie, your primary mission is to ensure their safety!” As soon as he finished speaking, Mr. Weasley resolutely turned around and rushed without hesitation towards the group of unidentified wizards.

“Jerry, what on earth happened to the campsite?” Harry was still somewhat dazed, watching the crowd surge towards the depths of the forest like a tide, accompanied by bursts of gun-like booms, filling the air with an ominous feeling. Then, a cacophony of sharp jeers, maniacal laughter, and drunken ramblings pressed in on them.

“Terrorists have attacked the campsite!” Jerry gripped Hermione's hand tightly, his eyes fixed on a point not far away. A blinding green light suddenly slashed across the night sky, illuminating everything around them.

A group of wizards huddled together, their wands pointed forward in unison, forming a firm defensive line, slowly advancing through the campsite.

Jerry frowned, looking with disgust at the Death Eaters, who wore hoods and masks.

The members of the Wizengamot Party, while not exactly good people, at least harbored ideals and ambitions, dreaming of overturning the existing Protection Laws and building a new world where wizards reigned supreme. However, in Jerry's eyes, these Death Eaters were the complete opposite. They exuded only decay and depravity, like a group of madmen driven by insanity, their behavior utterly irrational, their loud roars and hysterical laughter intertwined, as if escapees from a mental asylum, wreaking havoc in the darkness.

Above the Death Eaters, four helpless figures were contorted into horrific poses, suspended in the air. The masked wizards on the ground were the puppeteers, and they were the marionettes controlled by invisible strings. These invisible cords originated from the Death Eaters' waving wands, binding the figures in the air, rendering them unable to move. Among them, two figures appeared particularly small, vaguely revealing the outlines of children.

The Death Eaters emitted bursts of piercing laughter, brazenly pointing at the bodies helplessly dangling in the air. When these figures passed over the burning tents, the flames suddenly illuminated them, making everything even more shocking.

“That’s Mr. Roberts, the campsite manager!” Hermione recognized one of them, and she screamed in alarm. Then the other three victims in the sky must be Mr. Roberts' wife and children!

Just then, a Death Eater below waved his wand maliciously, instantly flipping Mrs. Roberts' body over, hanging her upside down in an extremely humiliating position.

Mrs. Roberts' nightgown slipped, revealing her underwear, a sight that filled her with shame and anger, causing her to struggle desperately to cover herself. But the crowd below showed no sympathy, instead erupting in cheers and mocking laughter.

"That's disgusting," Ron muttered, his eyes fixed on the smallest Muggle child, who was now sixty feet above the ground, spinning like an out-of-control toy top, his head lolling helplessly from side to side, looking utterly lost.

As if attracted by Hermione's scream, a tall figure slowly emerged from the shadows of a tent. He wore a hideous skull mask, covering his entire face, revealing only two eyes that gleamed with an eerie green light.

“Heh heh heh…” The Death Eater let out a chilling laugh, like a demon from hell.

His eyes stared fixedly at Hermione like a venomous snake, sending a chill down her spine.

Hermione was so frightened that her face turned pale, and she couldn't stop trembling. She instinctively hid behind Jerry, clutching his clothes as if grasping at the last straw.

“Are you a filthy Mudblood too?” The Death Eater’s voice was low and raspy, making it difficult to discern his true age. “Don't worry, I'll soon let you taste the feeling of being hung upside down, so everyone can admire your…” As he spoke, he slowly raised the wand in his hand, the tip of the wand shimmering with a dangerous light.

Just then, an unexpected change occurred!

“Ugh… ah…” The Death Eater suddenly let out a piercing scream, as if he was suffering unimaginable pain.

He clutched his throat tightly with both hands, his body convulsing violently, and the mask on his face fell to the ground, revealing a face twisted and deformed by pain.

His eyes, which were originally full of evil, were now filled with fear and despair, his eyeballs bulging, covered with blood vessels, as if they were about to pop out of their sockets in the next second.

With a "bang!" the Death Eater knelt weakly on the ground, his hands feebly scratching at the ground, leaving several deep bloody marks.

He opened his mouth wide, trying to breathe, but could only make a "hoarse" sound, as if an invisible hand was choking his throat, preventing him from breathing.

“Don’t be afraid, I’m here, I’ll help you teach this ignorant person a lesson!” Jerry gently put his arms around Hermione, patted her back lightly, and comforted her, but a cold and ruthless glint inadvertently flashed in his deep eyes. He smiled, the smile seemingly warm, but his voice was terribly low.

As Jerry's voice fell, a thick black smoke gushed out from the Death Eater's orifices, carrying a nauseating burnt smell.

If anyone were to approach and examine the Death Eater's body at this time, they would be horrified to discover that, although his exterior seemed intact, his internal organs were already seventy percent cooked!