Chapter 19: The Cup, The Bet, and The Coming Storm (Summer 1994)
The summer of 1994 shimmered with an unusual vibrancy in the wizarding world, largely due to Britain hosting the four hundred and twenty-second Quidditch World Cup. For Corvus Blackwood, it was an event that, under normal circumstances, would have barely registered on his meticulously curated schedule of research and House management. However, his children, Orion and Lyra, now accomplished young adults making their own ways in the world (Orion in discreet Ministry affairs, Lyra in advanced Charms research abroad, though both were home for the summer), expressed a keen interest. More significantly, Corvus, with his perfect foreknowledge of the match's outcome from a life long past, saw an unmissable opportunity for effortless financial gain and valuable sociological observation.
"The Quidditch World Cup?" Corvus had mused when Lyra first broached the subject, his tone neutral. "A rather boisterous affair, if memory serves. Are you certain you wish to endure the… exuberance of the masses?"
Lyra, her Ravenclaw intellect tempered with a growing worldliness, had smiled. "Father, it's Ireland versus Bulgaria! Krum is playing! It will be legendary. And Orion has managed to secure access to a private, warded box through his Ministry contacts – impeccably discreet, of course."
Corvus considered it. Blackwood Manor, with its Aegis, was a sanctuary of profound peace, a stark contrast to the world outside. The faint, spectral whispers from Voldemort's tormented spirit in Albania, still obsessively researching the depleted Philosopher's Stone Corvus had so generously "provided," were a constant, if muted, reminder of the darkness that lingered. The multiplier continued to deliver tenfold insights into Voldemort's alchemical theories, his frustrations, his memories of dark magic, further enriching Corvus's already immense knowledge base. A brief foray into the wider world, especially one with a guaranteed profitable outcome, seemed a reasonable, almost refreshing, diversion.
"Very well," Corvus conceded. "A family outing. It might prove… illustrative." His wife, Isolde, ever pragmatic, simply ensured their preparations were flawless.
Their arrival at the sprawling, chaotic campsite on Dartmoor was an exercise in contrasts. While thousands of wizards and witches revelled in makeshift tents and garish displays of national pride, the Blackwood contingent materialised via a silent, untraceable Apparition directly into their reserved, heavily warded luxury tent, complete with all the amenities of a Blackwood guest suite. Corvus observed the swirling kaleidoscope of magical cultures, the haphazard Ministry attempts at organization, and the sheer, unadulterated joy of the crowds with the detached interest of an anthropologist studying a particularly fervent tribal gathering.
His primary personal objective, however, lay with the bookmakers. Leaving his family to settle in, Corvus, under a subtle Disillusionment Charm that rendered him virtually unnoticeable, sought out Ludo Bagman. He remembered Bagman from the books – enthusiastic, prone to gambling, and ultimately, a rather desperate figure. Corvus found him easily, already taking bets with a flamboyant air.
"Mr. Bagman," Corvus said, his voice altered by a simple charm to be unremarkable, his appearance nondescript. "I wish to place a rather specific wager."
"Lay it on me, my friend, lay it on me!" Bagman boomed, oblivious to the true identity of the wizard before him.
"A significant sum," Corvus stated, naming an amount that would make even a Gringotts goblin blink, drawn from a specially created, untraceable Blackwood holding account. "On Ireland to win the match. However, Viktor Krum is to catch the Snitch. A compound bet."
Bagman's eyes widened, first at the sum, then at the unusual specificity. "Ireland to win, but Krum gets the Snitch? That's a long shot, my friend! A very long shot! The odds would be astronomical!"
"Indeed," Corvus agreed calmly. "I find such odds… appealing."
After some jovial haggling, the bet was struck at odds that would ensure House Blackwood's coffers swelled considerably. Corvus, with a polite nod, melted back into the crowd, his mission accomplished. He felt a faint amusement at the ease of it all. Foreknowledge was a potent advantage, in finance as much as in magic.
The match itself was a spectacular display of athletic prowess and magical spectacle. From their secluded, warded box, high above the roaring stadium, the Blackwoods watched Ireland's Chasers dominate, while Viktor Krum, Bulgaria's prodigy Seeker, performed breathtaking feats of aerial acrobatics. Corvus, while appreciating the skill involved, found his attention also drifting to the crowd, observing their mass emotional responses, the ebb and flow of their collective magical aura. It was a useful study in mob psychology and ambient magical resonance. His children, Orion and Lyra, were thoroughly engrossed, their youthful enthusiasm a pleasant counterpoint to his own analytical detachment. Isolde watched with her usual quiet grace.
Even the distant, spectral Voldemort seemed to briefly register the immense surge of celebratory magic from Britain, a faint flicker of annoyed curiosity passing through Corvus's mind via the multiplier before the Dark Lord's consciousness returned to its obsessive, fruitless attempts to coax life from the spent Stone in his desolate Albanian hideaway.
As Corvus knew it would, Ireland eventually triumphed, their score insurmountable despite Krum, with a stunning dive, catching the Golden Snitch. The stadium erupted. Amidst the celebrations, Corvus discreetly dispatched a house-elf to collect his winnings from a stunned Ludo Bagman. The influx of gold was substantial, another layer of security and influence for his House.
Night fell, and the joyous revelry continued, but Corvus felt a subtle shift in the atmosphere, a prickling at the edges of his awareness. His foreknowledge of the canon events of this night was a cold knot in his stomach, not of fear for himself, but of responsibility for his family.
The Death Eater attack began as a distant series of screams and flashes of green light, rapidly escalating into full-blown chaos. Masked figures in dark robes marched through the campsite, levitating and torturing Muggles, their laughter cruel and amplified by Sonorus charms. Panic erupted. Wizards and witches fled in terror, the Ministry's attempts at control utterly overwhelmed.
Corvus Blackwood acted instantly. "Orion, Lyra, Isolde, to me. Now." His voice, though quiet, cut through the din with an authority that demanded immediate obedience. As his family gathered around him, he didn't bother with Apparition, which could be risky in such a chaotic, anti-Apparition warded area. Instead, he drew upon the deep, ancient magic of his lineage, a form of spatial manipulation he had perfected, inspired by Voldemort's own amplified experiments with bypassing Hogwarts' wards.
With a single, almost imperceptible gesture, the interior of their warded box seemed to fold in on itself, the chaotic sounds of the riot outside dimming to a distant murmur. For a moment, they were suspended in a silent, silver-grey void, a pocket dimension of Corvus's own making, utterly shielded from the turmoil. It was over in a heartbeat. When reality reasserted itself, they were standing not in the ravaged campsite, but in the familiar, comforting Grand Hall of Blackwood Manor, the Aegis thrumming gently around them.
Orion and Lyra stared at their father, their faces pale but filled with a new level of awe. They had witnessed his power before, but this effortless, instantaneous transportation, this complete negation of an unfolding catastrophe, was something else entirely. Isolde simply squeezed his arm, her trust in him absolute.
"You are safe," Corvus stated, his composure unruffled. "The Ministry will eventually regain control. The perpetrators will scatter."
From the sanctuary of his home, through the still-active, if faint, multiplier, Corvus could sense the distant echoes of the Death Eaters' activities. He felt no direct feed from any of them – Voldemort was too weak to maintain such connections with underlings who weren't actively seeking him out or performing rituals in his name. However, the general nature of their dark magic, their shared ideology which was a perversion of Voldemort's own, resonated faintly. He noted their tactics – the use of fear, the targeting of Muggles and Muggle-borns, the disorganized but brutal nature of their assault. He also felt the casting of the Dark Mark into the sky, a defiant, ugly stain against the night, a symbol of Voldemort's lingering influence, even in his absence. It was a useful, if distasteful, observation of how his former "Knights" behaved without their master's direct command – a rabble, but a dangerous one.
"They were bold," Orion commented later that night, as a semblance of calm returned to his features, his Slytherin mind already analyzing. "To attack such a public event, with so many Ministry personnel present."
"Bold, or desperate," Corvus corrected mildly. "Perhaps a show of force to remind the world their master's ideology endures. Or simply bored thugs enjoying a night of wanton cruelty. Their motivations are largely irrelevant. What is relevant is the Ministry's predictable ineptitude in containing them."
He reflected on the night's events. His canon knowledge had once again proven invaluable, both for profit and for protection. The Death Eater attack was a clear sign that the old guard, Voldemort's first followers, were restless, perhaps sensing a shift in the magical currents, or simply tired of lurking in the shadows. It was a harbinger of the troubles he knew were brewing, the troubles that would inevitably surround Harry Potter's upcoming years at Hogwarts, particularly the events of the Triwizard Tournament he knew were slated for the boy's fourth year.
His decision to retire from Hogwarts after this past academic year felt more prescient than ever. The world was stirring, the pieces on the board beginning to move towards a new conflict. Corvus Blackwood, however, had his winnings, his family was safe, and his research into the Philosopher's Stone, fueled by Voldemort's unwitting, spectral efforts, was progressing steadily. He would watch the coming storm from the unbreachable sanctuary of Blackwood Manor, his power a silent, unseen shield, his knowledge a weapon held in reserve. The Dark Lord's return was inevitable. And Corvus, as always, would be prepared to capitalize on the unique insights that return would undoubtedly provide.