201: Chapter 201 Letter from the World Cup

"Quidditch World Cup? You Wizards cram one hundred thousand people into a wasteland and expect a few boundary ropes to keep them in check?" The door knocker slapped the letter against the door panel, the iron ring rattling loudly. "Muggle matches at least have iron railings; you lot are too lazy to even install a gate."

Allen pulled Zabini's letter from beneath the door knocker and smoothed it out on the desk. The perfume on the letter was faint, concealing two layers of code: the surface layer wrote about the weather, while the inner layer detailed the Ministry of Magic's temporary campsite, the tent area, international guests, and the pure-blood boxes.

The family crest's silver threads lit up. "The letter has no Tracking Charm. A second segment is hidden within the fiber seams; it requires Spatial Displacement to read."

Allen did not use Spatial Displacement, instead letting the family crest project the text onto the recording board. Although the round-hatted Wizard had not appeared for three days, the surveillance around Potter Manor remained; any ripples in external space would be written into someone's report.

Zabini wrote quite efficiently. The Quidditch World Cup was set for mid-August; most pure-blood families had received invitations to the boxes, and the Ministry of Magic's Department of Magical Games and Sports, Department of International Magical Cooperation, and Department of Magical Law Enforcement would all be sending personnel. Temporary security was divided into three layers: the outer layer prevented Muggles from wandering in, the middle layer monitored Portkeys, and the inner layer relied solely on the Minister's accompanying Aurors and the event organizers.

The door knocker cursed after hearing this. "The inner layer relies on recognition? These people are truly daring."

Allen opened Draco's letter. The White Peacock was studying etiquette; his father had confirmed the box location, two rows away from the Minister. Lucius would bring him to the venue and had instructed him not to stand too close to people with troublesome identities. The latter half concealed a sentence within childish complaints: Crouch would appear, the Bones family would also be there, and the Bulgarian guests had been arranged in a very prominent position.

"Draco really has written himself as a White Peacock." The door knocker snorted. "Even if his father saw it, he would only complain that the peacock is standing crookedly."

Allen wrote five words on the parchment: Box, Minister, Crouch, Bulgaria, Empty Seat. The more foolish Draco's letter appeared and the cleaner the information was, the harder it would be for Lucius to judge exactly how much his son had handed over.

The third letter came from Nott. Beneath the book list code lay dirtier matters. The Ministry of Magic had deployed a large number of security personnel but focused mainly on isolating the Muggles on the outskirts, while the internal VIP area was mostly accessed by acquaintances. Arthur Weasley had obtained tickets through a colleague at the Department of Magical Games and Sports, Harry Potter would be accompanying them, and the Weasley family's campsite was located near the general stands.

"Harry is going too?" The door knocker paused for a moment. "Trouble buying its own ticket to get in—saves you the postage."

Inside the Portable Space, the Void's tail tip tapped against the cage. After Peter's hearing was unlocked, he huddled in the corner. Hearing the words Quidditch World Cup, Harry, and Weasley, his fingers gripped the bars, and a hoarse sound squeezed from his throat.

Allen granted him permission to speak. "Ten seconds. Tell me something useful."

"Don't go, or at least don't go near them." Peter's voice cracked the moment he opened his mouth. "Large gatherings are perfect for old associates to go mad. Alcohol, masks, children, foreigners—the Ministry of Magic is busy paving the way for the Minister; no one cares about the dirty business on the ground."

The door knocker sneered. "You're quite familiar with it."

Peter ignored it, his speaking speed increasing. "Back then, Death Eaters loved to strike when there were crowds. They would first blend into the respectable crowd, wait until late at night, wait until people were drunk, wait until children were separated, and then put on masks. No one would admit to being there, and no one would remember who raised their wand first."

Allen pushed the quill toward the family crest. "Record the old patterns."

Peter stared at the ebony box, as if afraid the cracked pocket watch inside was also listening. "Someone will also cast the mark. Not to kill anyone, but to make everyone remember the Master. Panic spreads faster than murder; the more chaotic the Ministry of Magic is, the safer the old ones are."

"The Dark Mark?" Allen asked.

Peter bit his tongue and was pressed down another inch by the cage before he squeezed out the answer. "Yes. Few people can cast it, but those who know the incantation are still alive. Rosier, Avery, Crouch's old subordinates—anyone could have taught it to others. And the madmen; madmen love starting fires right under the Minister's nose."

The family crest enlarged "Crouch's old subordinates." Allen glanced at Peter but did not press further. Peter's reaction to the Crouch family was too quick—too quick, as if his tail had been caught in an old door.

The door knocker muttered on the side. "Large event, Minister, old Death Eaters, Harry, Weasley. It's all gathered here; if you add a fire-breathing dragon, you've got a recipe for disaster."

Allen layered the three letters by source. Zabini was responsible for the social circle, Draco for the box and Lucius, and Nott for Ministry of Magic security and the old letters directory. All three lines pointed to the same place: the Quidditch World Cup would become an open chessboard.

He replied to Zabini, talking only about the weather. In mid-August, the winds were strong, so tent ropes needed to be tied securely, and the temporary campsite should be as far from the water source as possible. The second layer of code wrote: keep an eye on those who leave an hour before the match and two hours after, especially those wearing hoods, refusing guidance from House-elves, and avoiding the Minister's box.

The reply to Draco was shorter. The White Peacock stands high; don't lower your head to pick up feathers dropped by others. Allen added one sentence at the end: take etiquette classes seriously; every empty chair next to the Minister's box is worth more than a report card.

The door knocker laughed after reading it. "You're getting more like Snape when you insult people."

Allen did not look up. "He charges a fee; I do it for free."

Nott's letter required caution. He replied with a page of ordinary book lists, recommending "Quidditch Tactics and Weather Changes," "A Brief History of Portkey Registration," and "Ministry of Magic Large-Scale Event Safety Regulations." The hidden layer only wrote three things: confirm the Weasley campsite location, record Crouch's entourage, and stay away from Azkaban rumors.

In the cage, Peter heard "Crouch" and his throat moved twice. The Void's tail tip pressed down lightly, and he immediately swallowed the words that were about to come out.

"Are you afraid of Crouch?" Allen asked from across the spatial rift.

"I'm afraid of everyone in his family." Peter hugged his knees. "Old Crouch would send people to Azkaban, and Barty Crouch Jr. ... he should have rotted in there long ago."

Allen stopped writing. He wrote "Barty Crouch Jr." separately into the old Death Eater file, with a note on the side: Peter's out-of-control reaction, Quidditch World Cup high risk.

The family crest projected images from outside Potter Manor. The person changing shifts at the street corner had changed from the old-scarfed Witch to a short, stout Wizard, who had flipped through his newspaper three times, his gaze never leaving the second floor of Potter Manor. Behind the curtains of the empty house opposite, there was a residue of flame affinity; the Order of the Phoenix's line was still there.

"They are also waiting for the Quidditch World Cup." The door knocker lowered its metallic voice. "Dumbledore's people are watching you, the Ministry of Magic is watching abnormal space, Snape is watching his thesis, and the old Death Eaters are watching the Minister's box. Lively, truly lively."

Allen sealed the Quidditch World Cup file into the thin wall. "Only when it's lively is it convenient to sift through people."

Peter looked up, his eyes bloodshot from exhaustion. "You still want to go?"

"I want to see who moves first." Allen placed three knuts on the edge of the table; they were not activated, just used as ordinary coins. "But I won't stand in the arena beforehand."

The door knocker was about to curse when the family crest suddenly lit up with a circle of pale gold patterns. The cracked pocket watch inside the ebony box emitted a short, sharp sound, like a watch hand hitting a gear. The Void looked up, its silver pupils aimed at the north.

Allen looked at the recording board. Quidditch World Cup, Harry, Crouch, Barty Crouch Jr., Dark Mark—the lines of text lit up one after another under the silver threads.

"Add one more." He pressed the quill down. "Large gatherings are not just points of chaos; they could also be a testing ground for the return of the old ones."

The door knocker slowly clicked the iron ring back onto the door panel. "Sounds ominous."

"Ominous or not, it must be recorded." Allen closed the file. "Before August, downgrade all letters. Cast fewer spells, write fewer replies, and give them fewer chances to catch a living shadow."

Outside the window, car headlights swept across the crack in the curtains, and the observer at the street corner flipped through the newspaper for the fourth time. In the study, the three letters were pressed on the desk, and the date of the Quidditch World Cup had been circled twice by Allen.

Deep within the Portable Space, Peter shrank back into the furthest corner of the cage. The Void's tail tip rested on the ebony box, and the golden threads of the pocket watch quietly pressed across the centerline, as if waiting for the next tide.