The chaos of the crowd was like a massive boulder rolling downhill—once it started moving, even the ones who set it in motion could hardly stop it. Of course, nobody intended to stop it anyway.
For those reckless enough to get their own professors hospitalized, not burning their own camp meant expulsion, and burning it meant the same. Their only sliver of hope was to inflict massive damage on Hogwarts' camp—only then could they escape their strict headmaster's wrath.
And so, the vast crowd surged straight toward Hogwarts' camp—completely unbeknownst to Allen.
After all, who would imagine anyone coming just to burn down a camp? Even in the wizarding world, this was blatantly illegal and suicidal behavior.
Sure, British wizarding law didn't include the death penalty, but in the United States, the stakes were far higher. While there wasn't a three-year minimum like for Muggle crimes, rot in a wizarding prison was not a small matter.
But this was all advice meant only for the sober—those already intoxicated by flames and alcohol couldn't comprehend a word.
While Allen and his friends idly played cards, the tent flap suddenly swung open. A face, flushed with excitement and urgency, poked in.
"Stop playing! Get out here! There's something amazing to see!"
It was Lee Jordan, a friend of the twin brothers. Sweat dripped from his forehead from sprinting, and he panted heavily, eyes alight with excitement.
"Hurry! Hurry! What are you even doing playing cards? Come see what's happening at the Beauxbatons camp!"
The boys dropped their cards in an instant. Throwing on their cloaks in a rush, they followed Lee Jordan out.
As night fell, the fire blazing across Beauxbatons' camp looked mesmerizing—flames of all colors leapt wildly, utterly uncontrolled, growing ever stronger. Among the roaring flames were the mournful cries of destroyed magical items, and some claimed to see fire sprites—the legendary spirits born when fire burns at its peak—dancing recklessly within the inferno.
"My god… they've probably lost a fortune. How many magical items are destroyed in this fire?"
"God knows… hope no one got hurt. A lot of people from our side joined that parade too. Are they all crazy?"
Soon, news arrived from the prefects—some good, some bad.
Luckily, no one had died or been seriously injured. When the tents caught fire, the Beauxbatons students had all rushed outside, drawn by the commotion, so no casualties occurred.
This had been verified by several professors who had entered the fire-protected zone, making it highly reliable.
Hearing this, everyone relaxed—people were safe. As for the belongings? Don't think Hogwarts and Beauxbatons had a perfect relationship.
But their relief was short-lived. New information arrived—the rioters showed no signs of stopping. A horde of lunatics was now heading straight for Hogwarts' camp.
"Merlin's wool socks! They aren't even sparing their own school?"
The prefect delivering the message shrugged. "Who knows what they're thinking. According to the professors' orders, you'd better return to camp, secure all valuables, and gather everyone as instructed. And if anyone's asleep or drunk, give them a wake-up splash with some fresh water!"
"What about the professors? Why didn't they stop them?"
The prefect rolled his eyes. "Do you know how many people there are? That many combined could overthrow a small nation. And those are students—do you really think the professors are going to launch large-scale destructive spells to stop them? Another thing—do you really think any professor could handle those lunatics?"
Truthfully, it was extremely difficult.
The saying "even a master can be beaten by a flurry of punches" applied here—stupefying spells rained down like raindrops. Even the strongest wizard would kneel in submission.
Of course, no one tried to resist head-on. Experienced wizards could gradually incapacitate clustered fools, and a Voldemort-level wizard could easily take out half of them from a distance—without the targets even touching him.
But the biggest problem now was—these weren't enemies. They were students.
Even a group that had burned down an entire school camp were still students, not criminals. Dumbledore, or any other headmaster, could easily disperse them—but the moment they saw blood, even the most unruly students would panic.
Yet—no one could give the order.
Even the strictest headmaster would not make that decision. Proposing such a measure would lead to a duel in fiery red eyes. These were their students! Their own kids! No matter the mistakes, they could be disciplined, but no headmaster would ever sanction lethal force.
In the end, even Dumbledore chose the safest option: have students collect valuables and move them to a secure area. Once the rioters sobered up, they would face the consequences of their chaos—a reckoning worthy of their recklessness.
Although it wasn't yet a full-blown crisis, the tension was palpable. Everyone scrambled to gather their belongings; some were even disassembling their tents at lightning speed.
"Good heavens—why are these people so slow?"
Marshall banged his head in frustration, watching others barely start packing. Their own tents had been the first to be organized, expecting minimal losses, but the boys' tents were untouched, and the girls' side—filled with ornaments and personal items—was even slower.
Others looked on in confusion—at a time like this, what are you complaining about? Get your stuff together!
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