The Quidditch World Cup

"How far up?"

I turned my head at the familiar voice from just above us.

"Just a little more," came the response. It was Arthur Weasley.

I glanced up and spotted their lot making their way to their seats—the Weasleys, the Diggorys, and, of course, Harry Potter.

Draco took one look at them and smirked. "Let's put it this way—if it rains, you'll be the first to know."

He chuckled at his own joke, as did most of our group. Even I let out a soft laugh, but I wasn't particularly amused with the insult itself. Sometimes, I truly believed that Draco Malfoy was one of those people—you'd obsess over them from a distance, but the moment they opened their mouth? Goodbye.

"Father and I are at the Ministry's box," he continued, his voice dripping with pride. "With a special invitation from Cornelius Fudge himself."

He was boasting so much that I half expected him to start listing his family's achievements, complete with a genealogy chart.

Lucius Malfoy, standing beside him, didn't even bother hiding his amusement. But just as Draco took a particularly deep breath—probably to elaborate on how utterly superior they were—Lucius suddenly extended his cane and poked Draco in the stomach.

Draco let out an undignified "oof," doubling over slightly, and I immediately giggled.

For a brief moment, I thought Lucius was actually correcting him for boasting too much. Ha! As if.

Then his smooth, icy voice followed: "There is no need of it with these people."

Ah. There it was.

The condescension. The superiority. The pureblood elitism practically dripping off each syllable.

I resisted the urge to roll my eyes as Draco straightened, shooting his father an indignant look before quickly smoothing it over. His need for approval was so strong, it was almost comical.

I glanced at the Weasleys just in time to see Ron glaring at Draco, his ears burning red. Harry looked equally unimpressed. Mr. Weasley, on the other hand, simply sighed and patted Ron's shoulder as if to say, not worth it.

Meanwhile, Cedric Diggory—the golden boy himself—just shook his head with an amused smile, clearly above engaging in petty insults.

"Shall we get to our seats?" Narcissa said lightly, linking her arm through Lucius's as she cast a distasteful glance at the crowd.

I smirked at Draco, who was still recovering from being physically humbled by his father's cane. "You alright there, Malfoy? That looked painful."

He shot me a glare. "Shut up, Blackthorn."

I grinned. "Make me."

He huffed but said nothing as we turned toward the entrance of the stadium, making our way to the far more comfortable Ministry box.

This night was already proving to be very entertaining.

The air around the stadium was electric with excitement. The sheer size of the stadium, the flashing banners, the flickering torches, the animated mascots—it was nothing short of breathtaking.

From the moment we stepped into the Ministry's box, I was utterly captivated.

"Good seats, I must admit," I murmured, leaning slightly over the railing to take in the view. The entire field stretched before us, the grass glistening under enchanted lights.

"Only the best, Selene," Draco smirked beside me, his fingers brushing against mine as he pointed toward the Bulgarian side of the stands. "I mean, Father wouldn't exactly have us sitting up in the sky like the Weasleys, would he?"

I ignored his jab at the Weasleys (he'd probably shrivel up and die if he went an hour without insulting them) and instead focused on the crowd.

"Look at that," I pointed toward the Irish fans, who were waving enormous banners that shimmered with golden letters spelling out 'IRELAND FOR THE CUP!' Each time the letters flashed, they burst into a shower of golden sparks. "Now that's dedication."

Before Draco could respond, a deafening roar swept through the stadium, causing the very ground beneath us to vibrate.

"Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the final of the four hundred and twenty-second Quidditch World Cup!"

The crowd erupted, cheers and applause shaking the air.

"That's Ludo Bagman," Lucius Malfoy said smoothly, not bothering to clap along with the peasants. "Head of the Department of Magical Games and Sports. Utterly incompetent, but here we are."

As Bagman continued his dramatic commentary, I felt Draco shift beside me. His knee bumped against mine, and instead of moving away, he simply... stayed there.

I glanced at him out of the corner of my eye. He was watching the field intently, his chin lifted slightly with that signature Malfoy arrogance, but there was something... softer about him tonight.

Before I could dwell on it, a thundering explosion of green and gold illuminated the sky.

"And here come the Irish mascots!"

A wave of leprechauns shot across the stadium, leaving behind a shimmering trail of gold as they spun, flipped, and burst into showers of coins. The Irish fans cheered wildly as the golden Galleons rained down upon them.

I reached out instinctively and caught a coin, turning it over between my fingers.

"Not real," Draco said, leaning slightly into my space. His breath was warm against my ear. "They vanish after a few hours. But go on, keep it, if it makes you happy."

I turned to find him watching me, amusement playing at the corners of his lips.

"Oh, how generous of you," I said dryly, tucking the coin into my pocket anyway.

Then the Bulgarian mascots took the field.

A hush fell over the crowd as a dozen veela emerged onto the pitch, their beauty so otherworldly that even I felt a strange pull toward them.

Predictably, most of the men in the stadium—including Draco—leaned way too far forward in their seats, utterly entranced.

I folded my arms and arched an eyebrow. "Oh, please. Pull yourself together, Malfoy."

Draco blinked rapidly, shaking his head. "What? I wasn't—"

"You were practically drooling," I smirked.

"I was not—"

Before he could finish, the veela began their dance.

Half the men in the stadium stood up at once, some even trying to climb over railings in their hypnotic haze.

Draco slammed his hands down on his seat, gripping it tightly as if physically restraining himself. His jaw was clenched. His knuckles were white.

I burst out laughing. "Oh, Merlin's beard—look at you!"

"Not. A. Word," he hissed, refusing to meet my eyes.

I grinned, leaning just a little closer. "If you need a moment, I can look away—"

"Selene," he growled warningly.

I was still laughing when the veela finally stopped dancing, allowing the game to begin.

The moment Krum and Lynch shot into the air, the stadium went wild.

The speed at which the players zoomed across the field was almost impossible to track. Even with my eyes locked onto them, they were blurs of red and green, their movements unnaturally fast.

Draco and I were both on the edge of our seats, every goal met with a groan or a cheer.

"That was a foul!" Draco snapped as an Irish Chaser was knocked off course. "Blatant, obvious, disgusting!"

"Sit down before you combust," I teased, shoving his shoulder lightly.

"I know you saw that!"

"I did, and I also saw the three fouls Ireland committed five minutes ago, which you conveniently ignored."

Draco huffed, slumping back into his seat with a glare.

As the match continued, the tension only grew. Ireland was leading by a solid margin, but Krum was relentless, dodging Bludgers and weaving through players like a shadow slipping through cracks.

Then—

"He sees the Snitch!" Bagman bellowed.

A collective gasp swept through the crowd as Krum and Lynch dived, both moving at an impossible speed.

The stadium was silent, the only sound being the whoosh of their brooms cutting through the air.

The Snitch darted left. Lynch followed. Krum followed closer.

Then—

CRASH.

Lynch collided headfirst into the ground, sending up a thunderous wave of dirt and grass.

The stadium exploded with noise.

And then—

Krum lifted his hand.

The Snitch was there.

He had caught it.

The match was over.

But—

"Wait, did Bulgaria just lose?" I blinked in confusion.

"He caught the Snitch too early," Draco muttered, running a hand through his hair. "Krum knew Ireland was too far ahead in points. He ended it on his own terms rather than drag it out."

I stared down at the field, watching as Krum hovered midair, looking furious but resigned. The Irish team was celebrating, but Krum... Krum had made the decision himself.

For the first time that night, I felt genuine respect for him.

The crowd erupted into roars of cheers and chants.

Ireland had won.

As we left the stadium, I nudged Draco. "You survived without a single hex or injury. I'm proud of you."

He scoffed. "Please. It would take more than a Quidditch match to injure me."

"Tell that to Buckbeak."

Draco glared. "Oh, very original, Blackthorn."

I smirked. "You walked into that one."

He rolled his eyes but—just for a moment—his fingers brushed against mine again. This time, I didn't pull away.

..........................................................

The night that had been filled with the electric thrill of the Quidditch World Cup suddenly turned cold.

My father's face was set in a grim, unreadable expression as he let the sleeve of his robe fall back down, concealing the Dark Mark that had begun to twist and burn against his pale skin.

"You know what this means, Silvia," he murmured to my mother.

She nodded, her lips pressed into a thin line.

My breath caught in my throat as I exchanged a glance with Draco. He was paler than usual, his grey eyes flickering with realization.

We knew.

We knew what it meant.

Voldemort was rising.

A sharp, authoritative voice cut through the murmuring crowd of pure-blood families.

"Move. Now."

Our fathers wasted no time. They turned abruptly, walking toward the growing group of cloaked figures, their pointed hoods and silver masks glinting under the dim light of the enchanted torches surrounding the tented area.

My mother reached for my shoulders, her fingers tightening just slightly before she released me. "Stay inside," she commanded in a voice that allowed no argument.

Lucius Malfoy cast Draco a similar look—one of expectation, one of duty—before stepping away.

And then, they were gone.

Vanishing into the dark woods, their wands hidden beneath their flowing robes.

Draco and I were shoved into what looked like an ordinary wizarding tent from the outside but was a grand, sprawling mansion on the inside.

I had grown up around magic like this, but still, the contrast between the chaotic shouting outside and the pristine silence of the polished marble floors and flickering chandeliers made me uneasy.

The moment we were alone, Draco whipped around to face me.

"Did you know?" he demanded, his voice low but urgent. "Did you know this was going to happen tonight?"

"Of course not!" I snapped, pulling my cloak tighter around me. "I would have told you!"

He exhaled sharply, running a shaking hand through his platinum hair. "They're going to attack," he muttered. "The Mudbloods, the blood traitors, the Ministry officials who won't bow down..."

I swallowed hard, refusing to let the wave of dread overtake me. "We need to stay put. We don't know what's going to happen."

Draco clenched his jaw, turning away.

Through the magical windows of the tent, we could see flickers of green and red sparks exploding against the black sky.

The attack had begun.

For what felt like forever, we sat in the massive lounge, neither of us speaking.

Draco was gripping the armrest of his chair so tightly that his knuckles turned white. His usual arrogance was nowhere to be found.

I shifted closer to him, watching the way his shoulders were tense, his lips slightly parted as though he wanted to say something but couldn't.

And then, finally, he spoke.

"You're scared," he said softly. It wasn't a question.

"Aren't you?" I murmured.

He hesitated.

Then—finally—he nodded.

I swallowed, staring at the flickering torches along the grand walls. "They've always talked about this moment like it was something inevitable. Like we should be proud to witness it."

Draco turned to look at me, his stormy eyes darker than usual. "Are you?"

I bit my lip.

He exhaled, tilting his head back against the chair. "Me neither."

And just like that, an unspoken truth settled between us.

Our families were on the same side.

But we—Draco and I—were not sure if we belonged there.

Hours passed before the doors burst open and our parents returned.

Lucius Malfoy was removing his mask, his expression unreadable. My father was stoic, while my mother had a rare look of exhaustion in her normally impeccable features.

I stood quickly, as did Draco. "What happened?"

My father simply placed a firm hand on my shoulder and muttered, "Not here."

Lucius gave Draco a long look before saying, "Come. We're leaving."

Draco hesitated.

Then, before stepping away, he did something that surprised me.

He grabbed my hand briefly, his grip firm but warm.

And then, he let go.

"See you soon," he murmured, before turning away.

I stood there, my heartbeat echoing in my ears, as our families—so entwined in the dark tides of what was coming—prepared to leave.

But one thing was certain.

Tonight, the world had changed.

And we were caught in the middle of it.