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Hello there!

I'm so very glad you clicked on and are considering reading my work. Before you go ahead, though, there are a few things I'd like to get out of the way to any who may be concerned or curious.

While this story is a not-canon-compliant work of fiction, it will still follow the rules governing the Harry Potter universe. Moreover, while it is not compulsory that you read/know the series, there will be spoilers/major references from the books. The timeline will remain the same, with alterations as I see fit.

I also want to firmly state that I do not own the rights to the Harry Potter Books/Movies in any way! All rights go to the original creators. This is just my fictional take on what would happen if certain variables were different. I am in no way taking credit for the characters that I have not specifically created, or the universe the story takes place in.

As for content warnings, there are some mature themes discussed in the chapters ahead; Homophobia, Violence, Romance and so on. I will be putting accurate content warnings at the beginning of every chapter, so if you feel that's something you want to look at, go ahead. Some may be spoilers as to what the chapter pertains, so read at your own risk!

Lastly, for any of those curious, I don't have a set posting schedule. I'll try to find something uniform, but for now I will be posting each chapter as and when I write them, so subscribe and stay tuned as we go on this wonderful journey together!

Cheers and happy reading!

Chapter Text

The Burrow smelled like cinnamon and fried bacon, the familiar, cozy scent curling up the crooked walls and leaking under Hermione’s door. A pale morning light slipped in through the window beside her bed, catching on the tangle of her hair as she sat up, squinting blearily. Her limbs felt heavy, reluctant, the warmth of the patched quilt nearly convincing her to stay just a little longer.

But voices were already rising faintly through the floorboards — Mrs. Weasley bustling in the kitchen, pans clattering, the soft hum of a wireless crooning some old wizarding tune. Hermione swung her legs out of bed, her bare toes pressing against the cool, uneven floor. She rubbed her eyes, yawning, and reached for the sweater she had tossed over the chair last night.

The room she'd been given was fairly small, the cluttered tidiness of it seeming to indicate that Mrs. Weasley had hurriedly stuffed away old rubbish and ran a brief feather duster through the space when she'd heard Hermione was indeed going to stay here for the rest of the summer. Truthfully, Hermione was grateful to have even been asked, for she left so at home here in this crammed little space.

Her suitcase lay half-unpacked by the door. The letter from Mrs. Weasley — inviting her so warmly, insisting she come spend the rest of the summer — was tucked neatly on top of her folded jumpers. Hermione smiled faintly at the memory. Her parents had been... perplexed, to say the least, when an owl tapped at their window bearing a parchment scroll with elegant, looping handwriting. Even after four years, they hadn’t quite adjusted to the idea that invitations could come via enchanted bird.

But they had smiled — a little stiffly — and waved her off at the Leaky Cauldron yesterday afternoon. Her mother gawked with sheer incredulity when the Knight bus had pulled up beside them on the street, it's battered and bruised doors opening to drop off a stranded wizard who tipped his hat absentmindedly at Hermione as he entered the pub. Her father seemed to be examining the odd vehicle, as if wondering how anything that resembled it would even remotely be allowed on the road, let alone carry passengers. Hermione hadn't expected them to understand this world, for even to her it was strange at times. Still, it meant something to her that they had bothered to come all the way to see her off.

The Burrow was messy, chaotic, loud... more often than not it felt more like home than the empty, polished corridors of her parents’ house did.

Pulling on her jeans and smoothing her hair into a quick plait, Hermione padded out of the room, the floorboards creaking with every step. As she descended the crooked stairs, she caught the tail end of a familiar laugh — Harry’s.

She paused halfway down, her heart giving a little thud. Harry was here? Already?
She hadn’t seen him arrive last night; she'd gone to bed early after a long, draining journey, thinking the boys would come in the morning. She vaguely remembered Weasley senior mentioning he'd be picking Harry up later, Fred and George had been eager to go along with him, though not for reason one might think, Hermione suspected. She also assumed the reason the Weasleys be going was because even they knew the condition of Harry's upbringing. How his aunt and uncle would probably faint at the idea of having to step foot into magic soil, even just to drop him off.

Mrs. Weasley's voice floated up warmly, cutting the haze of Hermione's thoughts and inner ramblings. "Harry, dear, pass me that skillet, would you?"
More clattering. The smell of eggs and toast was stronger now, making Hermione’s stomach rumble.

Gathering herself, Hermione finished the descent and stepped into the cozy, overstuffed kitchen.

The sight that met her was almost achingly familiar. Mrs. Weasley at the stove, her wand tucked behind her ear as she flipped sausages onto a massive platter; Harry sitting at the table in his rumpled clothes from yesterday, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes; the clock on the wall spinning wildly, hands pointing to "home," "school," and, amusingly, "quidditch."

"Hermione, dear!" Mrs. Weasley chirped when she spotted her. She wiped her hands on her apron and hurried over to give Hermione a quick, crushing hug that smelled of soap and warm bread. "Did you sleep well? Everything alright in your room?"

Hermione nodded, returning the hug with an awkward squeeze. "It was perfect, Mrs. Weasley. Thank you again for having me."
Her voice was a little hoarse from sleep, but genuine. She meant it — every word.

"Nonsense, you're practically family," Mrs. Weasley said firmly, pulling back to look her over. She tutted and smoothed a loose strand of hair from Hermione’s plait. "You're far too thin, dear. We'll fix that. Sit, sit, breakfast’s nearly ready."

Hermione smiled and slid into the seat across from Harry, who grinned sleepily at her.

"Hey," he said, his green eyes still heavy with tiredness but brightening when he saw her.

"Hey," she replied, hugging herself for a moment against the morning chill. "You got in last night?"

"Yeah," Harry said, reaching for a pitcher of pumpkin juice. "Late. Floo powder." He made a face, as if still tasting ashes. "Nearly ended up in the wrong fireplace."

Mrs. Weasley clucked disapprovingly as she levitated a plate of toast toward the table. "I ran into Dumbledore at a cookery place in Diagon Alley," She starts without batting an eye, and as odd as it sounds to have met one of the wizarding world's most famous idols in a cooking store, nothing was ever really odd when it came to the headmaster. "He asked how we were getting on, I told him we'd be having you two over in a week- That we should have someone escort you after..."

A brief pause filled the room, Molly Weasley clearing her throat as if to skim past the topic of notorious murderers and werewolf encounters. "Well, after last term's troublemaking, but no, he insisted it would be perfectly safe."

Hermione smiled, amused at Mrs. Weasley's fussing, but inside, her chest tightened. Dumbledore’s insistence on self-reliance often meant they were expected to handle things alone, even when it was dangerous. And the way the wizarding world had been shifting lately — subtle, sharp, like a knife being drawn behind a curtain — made her worry. Even more so when one considered just how many close calls the three have had over the years.

Pushing the rather dampening thoughts aside, Hermione accepted a slice of toast and buttered it mechanically.

"Your parents well, dear?" Mrs. Weasley asked as she bustled about, Summoning another skillet from a top shelf with a flick of her wand. The iron seemed to groan, the handle of the skillet almost personifying a moody teenager's eye roll as it thumped against the stove before settling.

Hermione nodded again, swallowing her bite before answering. "Yes, thank you. They’re still getting used to...well, everything."

Mrs. Weasley chuckled, a warm, throaty sound. "I imagine a letter carried by owl is still a bit of a shock for Muggles."

Harry snorted into his juice, and Hermione couldn't help but laugh too. "They still jump every time an owl taps on the window," she admitted. "But they were glad for the invitation. So am I."

She meant it more than she could say.

Here, in the cluttered kitchen full of mismatched chairs and hand-knitted tea cozies, she could almost forget the lurking darkness outside the Burrow’s borders. Almost.

The floor above them groaned loudly — Ron, Hermione guessed, finally stirring — and Mrs. Weasley sighed.

"Typical," she muttered. "The one morning we need to be out early and that boy thinks he can sleep through it."

Hermione and Harry exchanged a look.

Quidditch day.

Hermione braced herself for the chaos to come, quietly sipping her juice and letting the Burrow’s noise and warmth soak into her bones. One by one, the wooden floors of the burrow groaned and creaked, signifying the waking of more than one Weasley. It was noisy, messy, when the two oldest sons made their way downstairs about ten minutes past Hermione's own arrival. The table was already cluttered with a half-finished knitting project, a few stray quills, and a copy of The Daily Prophet folded open to the sports page.

Mrs. Weasley hummed under her breath as she turned sausages in a pan, occasionally flicking her wand to Summon cutlery or more ingredients from the various cupboards.

Harry, looking far more awake now after a few sips of pumpkin juice, leaned back in his chair and smirked a little, as if remembering something. He glanced at Hermione, then down at his empty plate, tapping his fingers against the wood in thought.

"You wouldn’t believe what happened when they came to get me yesterday," he said finally, grinning like he could barely hold it in.

Hermione arched a brow. "What happened?"

Mrs. Weasley let out a huff of breath that was half amusement, half lingering exasperation from her spot still rooted in the kitchen, wand poised up almost like a spatula. "Honestly, it’s a miracle they didn’t blow the house up."

Harry chuckled under his breath, clearly enjoying himself now. "Well... Mr. Weasley thought it’d be easier to use Floo Powder, right? So they tried to pick me up straight from the Dursleys' living room."

He paused dramatically. Hermione waited, patient but curious.

"But the Dursleys —" Harry continued, shaking his head with disbelief, "— they don’t have a normal fireplace. It’s electric. One of those fake ones. All boarded up inside. So when Fred, George, Ron, and Mr. Weasley tried to come through..." he started laughing again, barely able to get the words out, "they got stuck behind the wall. Like — actually trapped."

Hermione covered her mouth with her hand to smother a laugh. "They didn’t."

"Oh, they did," Harry said, eyes sparkling. "You could hear them shouting from inside the wall. I think Fred was trying to kick the boards out. Sparks were flying everywhere."

Mrs. Weasley turned around just long enough to give him a stern look — though her lips were twitching. "Arthur really should have checked first. I told him so."

"And the Dursleys?" Hermione asked, imagining the horrified expressions on their faces.

Harry grinned. "Uncle Vernon almost had a stroke. He kept yelling about 'home invasions' and 'property damage.' Aunt Petunia screamed when she saw Fred’s arm come punching through the plaster. Dudley ran behind the couch to hide."

Hermione bit the inside of her cheek hard to keep from bursting out laughing. "Oh no."

"It gets better," Harry said, leaning forward confidentially. "Fred dropped a whole bag of sweets — Ton-Tongue Toffees — all over the floor. One of them rolled into the kitchen and Dudley... well, he wasn’t about to turn down free food, was he?"

Mrs. Weasley made a scandalized noise. "He ate one?!" Oh my, she didn't know. Well, Harry would have to warn the twins later that they'd be in for hell with their mother the moment they were away from company. She never did like the boys' antics and practical jokes.

Harry nodded, nearly vibrating with the effort of holding in his laughter. "His tongue... blew up. Like, three feet long. Purple. Flapping all over the place. Aunt Petunia fainted."

Hermione clapped a hand over her mouth, unable to suppress the giggles now. Even Mrs. Weasley gave in, turning back to the stove with a muttered, "Those boys are going to be the death of me."

Harry sat back in his chair, looking smug. "Anyway, after that, Mr. Weasley blasted a hole in the wall and they just kind of... hauled me through. He stayed back, though, said he'd 'talk it over' with them and figure something out. Dunno if they'll even take me back next summer, though." He joked, grinning from ear to ear, his mind replaying the moment with far too much glee for someone who's aunt and uncle just lost a whole wall and probably some insurance too.

Hermione shook her head, still smiling. "You can't take them anywhere, can you?"

"Nope," Harry said, popping the 'p'. Though he didn't sound a bit upset.

Upstairs, another loud thump sounded, followed by the heavy, dragging footsteps of someone half asleep — Ron, unmistakably.

Mrs. Weasley sighed. "About time. He’ll miss breakfast at this rate — and we’ve got to leave soon if we want to make it to the Cup before the good seats are gone."

The mention of the Quidditch World Cup sobered Hermione slightly. She wasn't particularly excited about the sport itself — she'd read the entire rulebook cover-to-cover, of course, but she found the practical reality of Quidditch rather... chaotic. Still, the event itself was historic. Magical. And a rare chance to see the wizarding world gathered on a grand scale.

And, if she was honest with herself, she wasn’t going for the match. Not really. She was going for the experience — to be with them. With Harry, with the Weasleys. Part of something that felt bigger than the small, careful life she'd lived until now.

Ron finally lumbered into the kitchen, his hair sticking up in every direction, pajama bottoms still wrinkled from sleep. He blinked blearily at them, then scowled.

"’S too early," he muttered, flopping into the seat beside Hermione. "What’re you all so happy about?"

Harry launched immediately into a retelling of the fireplace disaster, though Ron had been there of course, and this time both boys recounted the adventure to Hermione, Mrs. Weasley, Percy — Who felt himself above such juvenile stories — And Bill, who pat Ron on the back and simply told him he'd done far worse one time.

Hermione laughed helplessly all over again, leaning against the table and watching them with bright eyes. For a little while — just a little while — it was easy to forget that the world outside the Burrow wasn’t so simple.

Here, it was laughter and burnt toast and the creaking of the old clock hands.
Here, she could breathe.

Minutes later, Mrs. Weasley flicked her wand sharply, and plates piled high with bacon, eggs, and toast floated over to land neatly on the table.

"Eat quickly, everyone," she said, bustling over with a large, tartan bag slung over her shoulder. "We’re leaving in twenty minutes — and not a second later!"

Hermione picked up her fork obediently, letting the clatter of cutlery and the hum of morning chatter soak into her skin like sunlight.

She didn’t know what the day would bring — what any of it would bring — but for now, she would hold onto this.
Tightly.

Chapter Text

The Burrow always seemed to exist in a sort of half-organized chaos, but that morning, it was particularly frantic. After breakfast, Hermione stood at the foot of the stairs, adjusting the strap of her small, enchanted bag — magically expanded on the inside, of course — and trying to stay out of the way as the Weasleys tumbled around her in various stages of preparation.

Mrs. Weasley’s voice floated through the air like a persistent charm.
"Ron, your socks! No, you cannot wear yesterday’s! Ginny, darling, where did you put your jacket? Fred — George — I swear on Merlin’s beard, if you’ve packed one more Dungbomb—!"

Hermione smoothed down the front of her jumper, watching as Harry tried, and failed, to stay unobtrusive. He ducked a flying pair of trainers that sailed over his head, courtesy of Fred, and gave Hermione a sheepish smile.

"They’re like this all the time, aren’t they?" he muttered under his breath. He'd only stayed with the Weasleys once before, about three years ago, and back then he had still be new to the world of magic, shocked to see how a real wizarding household was actually run.

Hermione gave a small laugh. "Only when something important is happening." And the quidditch world cup? Was indeed something important.

She could hear Mr. Weasley somewhere nearby, speaking in hurried tones about Portkeys, travel schedules, and Ministry checkpoints. It was only now, really, that the enormity of what they were about to do sank in: they would be traveling across the country, attending an international Quidditch match, mingling with witches and wizards from all over the world.

It made Hermione's stomach twist in both excitement and anxiety.

"All right, everyone!" Arthur Weasley's voice rose above the noise, commanding attention more effectively than a Sonorus charm. He stepped into the kitchen doorway, a battered leather satchel slung over one shoulder, and clapped his hands. "Finish up — quickly! We’re meeting Amos Diggory and his lot on the hill near Stoatshead. We've got to catch the Portkey by sunrise, or we'll be stuck there till the next one!"

Hermione felt Harry shift beside her, and she turned to see him frowning slightly.

"Portkey?" he asked, confused.

Hermione felt her lips quirk upwards slightly, her brows knitting together as her mind raced to recall where she'd heard such a word before. Ah, yes! She remembered a study professor Burbage had referred to sometime last year, a comparison of muggle and wizard methods of transportation. Yes, she'd muttered about apparition, broomsticks, and portkeys. Although at the time, Hermione had been juggling more than seven classes and hadn't caught the proper definition.

Thankfully, Arthur Weasley brightened immediately at the look of confusion of both of their faces, his enthusiasm for all things magical lighting up his whole face. "Ah — yes! Portkeys, marvelous things. Objects that are enchanted to transport you to a prearranged destination at a set time. Very useful for mass travel. Much less conspicuous than using Floo Powder or Apparating — particularly for underage witches and wizards."

Hermione, already familiar with the theory from her readings, nodded along, seeming to recall her muggle studies' professor mentioning something similar. But Harry still looked a little uncertain.

"You just... touch it?" Harry said.

"Exactly!" Arthur beamed. "Everyone has to have a hold on it, and when the time comes... off you go!"

Mrs. Weasley bustled into the room at that moment, pushing Ron ahead of her by the shoulders, his socks now mismatched but at least clean. She fixed Hermione with an approving smile as she adjusted Ron’s collar with brisk hands.

"Thank goodness you’re here, Hermione," she said warmly. "Honestly, I don’t know how I'd keep them all in line otherwise."

Something warm unfurled in Hermione’s chest at that. She ducked her head to hide the smile she couldn't suppress.

"Right!" Arthur called, stepping further into the kitchen. "We’re leaving. Now. Shoes on, everyone!"

There was a mad scramble. Ginny hopped on one foot trying to tug on a boot; Fred and George somehow managed to trip each other up while racing for the door. Percy stalked past them all with his usual look of stern disapproval, clutching a clipboard under one arm like it was a lifeline. As he passed, though, Bill smacked a burn-calloused hand over his brother's back, sending Percy into a ramble of hysterics as he insisted his coat was freshly ironed and that "Mr. Crouch cannot see me so untidy! It's unbecoming of a—"

Hermione didn't catch the rest of his rant, instead grabbed Harry's wrist to pull him out of the way just in time to avoid a collision with a floating trunk.

"Come on," she said, trying not to laugh as they squeezed through the narrow hallway, out into the cool dawn air.

The sky was just beginning to lighten at the edges, soft pink and gold brushing against the horizon. The Burrow stood behind them, tall and crooked, windows winking sleepily in the growing light.

Hermione breathed in the scent of damp earth and morning dew, feeling the chill air bite at her cheeks. It was a long walk to Stoatshead Hill, but she didn’t mind.

They set off across the fields, boots squelching through patches of mud.

Arthur led the way, animatedly explaining how the Ministry had been working for months to arrange for thousands of witches and wizards to travel to the Cup without attracting Muggle attention.

"...and Portkeys are scattered everywhere, hidden in plain sight. Old boots, broken teapots, rusty hubcaps — anything a Muggle wouldn’t think twice about seeing lying around," he said cheerfully.

Hermione listened intently, already cataloguing everything mentally. She stole a glance at Harry, who trudged along beside her, yawning hugely.

Ron stumbled along ahead of them, half-asleep still, and Ginny skipped ahead with the energy only a younger sibling could manage at that hour.

The fields were misty, the grass whispering around their ankles. Somewhere ahead, silhouetted against the paling sky, Hermione could just make out the faint shape of a hill rising up from the land.

Stoatshead Hill. Their destination.

As they walked, Hermione let her gaze drift, her mind's eye already snapping pictures to store away somewhere in her already bursting head — the glint of Arthur’s boots in the damp grass, the lazy sway of Mrs. Weasley’s bag against her hip, the way Harry’s hair was already sticking up wildly from the brisk breeze.

Moments like this felt suspended. Safe.

The morning air was still cool and damp a half hour later, carrying the fresh scent of grass and woodsmoke as they all spilled out onto the uneven lawn of Stoatshead Hill. Hermione hugged her cardigan a little tighter around her shoulders, balancing her small knapsack against her hip.

Everyone was in various states of barely-controlled chaos — Ron was struggling to stuff a handful of Chocolate Frogs into his pocket without splitting the seam, Fred and George were noisily arguing over who had nicked the last pack of Exploding Snap cards, and Ginny, nimble and quick, darted between them all like a cat, smirking.

Arthur Weasley stood a little apart, consulting a fraying piece of parchment and muttering to himself, his wand occasionally tapping against the paper to update little scribbled notes.

"There’s going to be quite a crowd at the Portkey," he said loudly enough for them to hear, looking up with a bright, eager smile. "All organized, of course — Ministry’s very keen on making sure everything runs smoothly. First international event we've had in Britain for centuries, after all..."

Hermione nodded politely, even as she shifted from foot to foot. She was excited — truly — but there was a nervous flutter under her ribs too. She hated not knowing exactly how things would go. Portkeys, though widely used on numerous locations across the wizarding world... were not very appealing to her. The mechanics of it sounded, frankly, a bit alarming.

Ron —who was wide and awake now, after Ginny squealed into his ear in excitement— noticed her hesitation, grinning as he closed the gap between them to bump his shoulder lightly against hers.

"You’ll be fine, Hermione," he said, looking absurdly proud of himself for managing a little casual reassurance. "Just hang on when it pulls. S'like a really fast... really violent tug."

"Wonderful," Hermione said dryly, tugging the strap of her bag higher.

At that moment, more figures appeared at the edge of the field — a second group, all carrying similar, bulging bags and looking equally disheveled.

"Ah! Amos!" Arthur called, waving his hand enthusiastically.

Amos Diggory approached with a broad grin, dragging a heavy-looking tent behind him. His son — Cedric — walked beside him, relaxed and easy in a way that made Hermione, for a fleeting second, feel awkward about the stiffness in her own posture. She'd only met the Hufflepuff seeker once before, mostly because they were in entirely different houses and years apart. From what she'd heard, he was one of the school's celebrity— If only for his charming looks and apparent chivalry.

Cedric was tall for his age — taller than Ron by an inch or two, though he didn’t seem to lord it over anyone. His Hufflepuff robes, though casual and a bit wrinkled, still looked somehow neater than anyone else's clothes. There was a sense of ago that swelled around him, though, a glint in his eye that suggest he didn't need to prove anything to anyone, an easy and supposedly harmless arrogance.

"Morning, all!" Amos boomed, clapping Arthur on the back hard enough to make the older wizard stagger a step. "Gorgeous day for it! Perfect flying weather, if you ask me!"

Ron rolled his eyes behind his mother’s back, muttering something about "Right, 'cause he's such an expert—" when Mrs. Weasley shot him a glare sharp enough to cut steel. Ron had never liked the Diggorys much, Hermione supposes it's because he's envious in some way.

That wasn't the opinion all the Weasleys carried, though.

Ginny edged closer, her cheeks already pink. Hermione hid a small, knowing smile. She wasn’t blind — Ginny might have still been young, but the way she looked at Cedric Diggory wasn’t exactly subtle.

"Hope we haven’t kept you waiting," Amos said cheerfully, setting the tent down with a heavy thud. "Portkey's supposed to go off in ten minutes, right?"

"Right you are," Arthur said, checking his watch. "How's your wife doing, Amos? A pity she couldn't join us—"

Hermione listened absently as the adults exchanged greetings.

About five or so minutes went by in awkward silence among the younger wizards before it was broken by Cedric, who offered Hermione a warm, polite nod. "Morning, Hermione. Looking forward to it?" He seemed genuine enough that Hermione returned the nod with a small, slightly formal smile.

"Yes. It should be... fascinating." She never was very inclined to sports— Muggle or otherwise. No, she didn't understand why anyone would want to spend the day outside, drenched in sweat and adrenaline when they could be in a quiet library curled with the latest copy of Arithmancy.

Cedric didn't seem to mind her subtle distaste for it though, he grinned, easygoing. "You’ll love it. Nothing like seeing it live. Way better than reading about it."

Hermione’s mouth twitched at the gentle teasing, but she let it slide without protest.

Nearby, Fred and George had roped Ron into some kind of whispered argument about betting odds — she caught snippets of words like "Ireland" and "firewhiskey" and "mum’ll kill us" — but she didn’t bother trying to intervene.

The field stretched wide around them, mist curling along the edges like the ghost of an old river. A cluster of Portkey supervisors — Ministry officials in deep blue robes — had begun to gather around a battered old boot sticking out of the grass a few yards ahead, occasionally glancing at their pocket watches.

"First time using a Portkey?" Cedric asked her conversationally, hands shoved into the pockets of his jacket.

Hermione nodded. "I've read about them, but..."

"You'll be fine," Cedric said, echoing Ron’s earlier words but with a calm, steady assurance that somehow made it more convincing. "It’s over before you even have time to think about it."

"That’s what worries me," Hermione muttered, but the corner of her mouth twitched.

"Come along, everyone!" Mrs. Weasley called not long after, bustling her small army of children (and honorary children) into something vaguely resembling a line. "We’ve got to all touch the Portkey at the same time!"

Hermione tightened her grip on her bag strap.

Beside her, Harry shifted closer, giving her a small, crooked grin. "See you on the other side, Hermione."

She took a steadying breath and nodded once.

"Everyone grab on," Arthur was saying, demonstrating by reaching for the battered boot with a look of almost reverent excitement. "Finger, hand, anything — just make sure you’re touching it!"

Hermione squeezed in between Ron and Harry, reaching out gingerly to place two fingers on the cracked leather.

The air seemed to vibrate around them, faint and sharp.

She had just enough time to glimpse Fred and George shoving at each other, Mrs. Weasley’s anxious hovering, Cedric’s hand settling firmly on the other side of the boot — and then —

The world yanked sideways.

Her stomach lurched violently.

There was no up, no down, just the hard, merciless pull behind her navel dragging her forward through a hurricane of color and sound—

And then, with a violent, bone-jarring crash, they all hit the ground together in a tangled heap.

Someone groaned loudly. Fred, probably.

Hermione lay sprawled on damp grass, blinking dazedly up at the sky, hair plastered across her face. Her ribs ached. Her knees ached. Even her eyelashes felt bruised.

But when she finally managed to sit up, she caught her first glimpse of a campground — and the incredible, sprawling expanse of tents and banners stretching out as far as the eye could see — and her heart gave an unexpected, wild leap.

Yards ahead, a banner in bright red and green — colours of Bulgaria and Ireland — read:

Welcome to the 422nd Quidditch World Cup!

Chapter Text

The world slowly steadied around Hermione as she rose stiffly to her feet, brushing grass and dirt from the front of her cardigan. Her heart was still hammering from the experience of travelling through Portkey, and frankly she felt more woozy than she'd care to admit. However when she looked around, her breath caught — not from the nausea, but from pure wonder.

Stretching out in every direction was a mad, colorful sea of tents, wizard flags, and towering banners that waved gently in the breeze. It was chaos, but it was beautiful chaos filled with bursts of laughter, spells lighting campfires and fireworks into sky in glittery representations of players or team flags, enchanted pennants fluttering with their own mischievous life. The scent of roasting meats, smoke, and fresh earth filled her nose.

She didn't realize she was smiling until Harry elbowed her lightly.

“Welcome to the World Cup,” he said, grinning. His glasses were crooked from the landing, but he didn’t seem to care. This was his world more than hers, and she could tell how excited the boy was just to witness the grandiose of a professional quidditch match.

The group slowly gathered their bags and belongings as Mr. Weasley herded them off the field, just in time before a second group of wizards landed in heap that would have surely broken a few bones if they'd stayed resting on the grass. Waving cheerily at a harried-looking Ministry witch who was attempting to direct the incoming groups, Mr. Weasley seemed much in his element here. Amos and Cedric Diggory trailed behind, hauling their tent, chatting with easy familiarity about which match-ups they were most excited to see.

"Come along, everyone, stay close!" Mr. Weasley called as they weaved through the growing crowd. "Don't wander off! It's a maze out here if you don't know where you're going!"

Hermione stuck close to Harry and Ron, her wide eyes drinking in every detail. Wizards were bustling everywhere, some already dressed in their nation's colors — she spotted Irish fans in gleaming green robes, Bulgarians draped in scarlet and gold, the occasional group of Americans loudly trading enchanted fireworks. A group of witches floated a teapot behind them on a velvet cushion, chatting idly about which team's seeker would look more handsome on a poster.

It was complete, wonderful madness. As were most events in the wizarding world.

“Look at that tent,” Ron muttered, pointing at an elaborate, three-story canvas structure, complete with ivy growing up the sides and what looked suspiciously like a working fountain in front.

Hermione couldn’t help but chuckle. "Subtle," she said under her breath.

"Ministry's trying to keep the Muggles from noticing," Harry said, grinning. "Bet they're having a right fit about it."

As if summoned by the comment, a tall, straight-backed wizard in somber grey robes appeared on the path ahead of them, flanked by two junior officials carrying clipboards. His hair was silver, neatly combed, and his expression could have frozen water solid.

"Barty Crouch, Senior," Mr. Weasley said quietly, dipping his head respectfully.

Mr. Crouch nodded briskly at them. "Weasley. Diggory," he said in clipped tones, his eyes flickering briefly over the children before returning to Arthur. "All in order, I trust?"

"Of course," Mr. Weasley said. "No trouble at all."

"Good. The Bulgarian Minister will be arriving shortly. Ministry presence is to be maintained at all times."

With that, Mr. Crouch swept away, his subordinates scrambling after him like anxious ducklings.

Ron leaned closer to Hermione as they resumed walking. "That bloke's got a broomstick shoved so far up his—"

"Ron," Hermione hissed warningly, though she had to bite the inside of her cheek to hide her amusement.

It took another ten minutes to reach their assigned spot — a stretch of lumpy ground near the edge of the main campground. Mr. Weasley dropped the battered old tent to the ground and rubbed his hands together.

"Right! Let’s set her up!"

It took some effort — and no small amount of muttered spells — but eventually the tent stood upright, a small, dingy-looking thing with a crooked sign that read "RENTED." It didn’t look like it could hold more than two people comfortably.

Hermione, skeptical but trying not to be rude, glanced at Harry.

He shrugged.

When they stepped inside, Hermione’s mouth dropped open.

The tent was enormous inside — a complete, comfortably furnished sitting room with mismatched armchairs, a threadbare carpet, and a small kitchenette where an old stove coughed quietly to itself. Three doors branched off into separate bedrooms.

"It's — it's bigger on the inside!" Hermione said, delighted despite herself.

"That's magic for you," Mr. Weasley said, beaming proudly.

"Blimey," Ron muttered, flopping into one of the armchairs and making a cloud of dust puff out.

They spent the next little while sorting beds and settling their things. Fred and George claimed one room, Harry and Ron the next, and Hermione got the smallest, but coziest, corner room tucked behind the kitchen.

Afterward, they ventured back outside, drawn by the pull of excitement buzzing in the camp.

The sky had brightened into full morning now, sunlight catching on the rainbow sea of tents. Wizards roamed the paths, selling all manner of souvenirs — sparkling green shamrocks that attached to your clothes, tiny hand-held models of the stadium that shouted cheers when shaken, omnioculars that could slow down and replay the match.

"Omnioculars, get yer Omnioculars!" shouted a squat wizard with a mouthful of gold teeth. "See the game in slow motion!"

Ron practically dragged Harry and Hermione to the stand.

They were just handing over their coins when another familiar figure strolled up — Ludo Bagman, former Beater for the Wimbourne Wasps and current head of the Department of Magical Games and Sports.

Bagman looked thoroughly out of place, dressed in an old Wasp uniform that clashed horribly with his round, boyish face. He beamed when he spotted Arthur Weasley and the kids.

"Arthur! There you are!" he said loudly, clapping Mr. Weasley on the shoulder. "Fine day for it, eh? Spot of betting, anyone?"

Fred and George exchanged gleaming looks.

"We were just thinking about that," Fred said eagerly.

"Excellent, excellent!" Bagman said, pulling a large, bulging sack of gold coins from his pocket. "Place your bets now! Ireland to win, but Krum to catch the Snitch — that's where the smart money's going!"

Fred and George sidled closer, their heads nearly touching as they conferred in whispers. Hermione watched warily, recognizing the gleam of mischief in their eyes.

In the end, they handed over a sizable handful of Galleons.

Bagman grinned broadly, pocketing the coins without a moment's hesitation.

"You’ll thank me when you’re rich!" he said cheerily, before disappearing into the crowd, waving to someone else he recognized.

"Are you two mad?" Hermione demanded once he was out of earshot. "What if you lose?"

Fred just winked.

"Then we lose spectacularly," George said, throwing an arm around her shoulders. "But if we win, Hermione... think of the possibilities."

She sighed, but secretly, she admired their recklessness just a little.

The excitement in the camp was palpable now. Wizards sang and laughed, campfires flickered with enchanted flames, and banners soared higher into the sky. Somewhere off in the distance, a group of Bulgarian fans sent a giant glowing dragon roaring into the air, to the delighted screams of nearby children.

Hermione hugged her arms around herself, feeling the electric tingle of anticipation in every breath she drew.

Tonight, they would see the greatest Quidditch players in the world.
Tonight, they would be part of history.

And for the first time all summer, she allowed herself to forget about everything else — the uncertainty, the looming school year, the unspoken tension that always hovered just out of reach.

Tonight was magic, pure and simple.

The sun was climbing higher by the time Mr. Weasley called them back to the tent, his cheeks flushed with excitement and a rolled-up program clutched in one hand.

“Time to head for the stadium!” he announced breathlessly, wiping his forehead with the sleeve of his robes. “Best be quick! They’ll be closing the gates soon!”

Hermione, already tugging on the jumper she'd changed into, shouldered her bag and fell into step beside Harry and Ron. Fred and George bounded ahead, still laughing over some private joke, and Ginny clung tightly to her father’s side, her hair flashing like fire in the afternoon light.

The procession to the stadium was a slow, crowded affair, every path filled with witches and wizards clutching banners, scarves, and Omnioculars. Hermione clutched her own new set to her chest, her thumb nervously spinning one of the adjustment dials.

"Look at that," Harry murmured, nudging her with his elbow.

She turned her head — and her breath caught.

The stadium loomed ahead of them, vast and impossible, stretching higher than she could have imagined, its towering walls glittering with spellwork. It made Hogwarts look modest. Hundreds of flags flew from the turrets, their colors dazzling against the clear blue sky.

They queued up at one of the many enormous entrances, slowly inching forward as Ministry officials checked tickets and wands. The air was electric with excitement; everywhere Hermione looked, people were shouting greetings to each other, laughing, snapping pictures with magical cameras that gave off brilliant white flashes.

Their group was ushered up a long, spiraling staircase that wound dizzyingly high along the side of the stadium. Hermione clung to the rail, feeling the wind tugging at her hair as they climbed higher and higher.

When at last they emerged into the stands, the view nearly knocked her off her feet.

The pitch stretched out below them, a gleaming expanse of perfect green grass lined with the tall golden goalposts. Thousands of seats wrapped around the field, and even now, witches and wizards were pouring into them, shouting, waving, and setting off little bursts of colored smoke.

"Here we are!" Mr. Weasley said brightly, pointing toward a row of seats near the very top of the stadium. "Top Box! Best view in the house!"

They squeezed into their seats, Harry taking one side of Hermione, Ron on the other. The Top Box was already partially filled — to one side, a group of elderly witches chatting animatedly, to the other, a space that looked deliberately reserved, the seats velvet and gleaming.

Hermione barely had time to settle herself when something small and jittery appeared at the edge of her vision.

A house-elf.

It was a female, judging by the squeaky voice and the tatty, lace-edged tea towel she wore. She twisted her hands nervously, enormous brown eyes darting around the box.

Hermione stiffened immediately, her heart aching. She’d read plenty about house-elves — she knew how they were treated.

“Hello,” Harry said uncertainly, peering down at her. “Who are you?”

The elf gave a low curtsy, bobbing awkwardly on the balls of her feet.

“Winky, sir! I is Winky! I is saving a seat for my master, Mr. Crouch, sir!”

Hermione felt her fists clench in her lap. The little creature looked absolutely terrified to even be speaking.

“You’re saving a seat?” Harry repeated, frowning.

“Oh yes, sir! It is not proper for a wizard of Mr. Crouch’s standing to be late! I is holding his place, sir, most carefully!”

Hermione opened her mouth — she wasn’t sure what she meant to say — but just then there was a sudden shift in the air, and a familiar, unwanted voice broke across the Top Box.

“Well, well. If it isn’t the Weasleys… and company.”

Hermione’s head snapped around.

Lucius Malfoy stood a few feet away, his pale hair catching the sunlight like polished silver. Narcissa Malfoy hovered behind him, a statuesque shadow in emerald-green robes, while Draco lounged casually between them, wearing a smirk that made Hermione’s blood boil.

Mr. Weasley straightened stiffly, his smile vanishing.

“Malfoy,” he said curtly.

Lucius Malfoy’s pale eyes drifted over the group, lingering on Harry, then Hermione. She felt the weight of his disdain like something physical.

"Enjoying the fruits of your... connections, I see," he said, voice oily with mockery.

"We’re here by invitation," Mr. Weasley said sharply. "Same as you, I expect."

"Quite," Malfoy drawled. "One must know the right people, after all. A pity you can't join us in the VIP seats."

Hermione forced herself to turn away. She refused to let them ruin this. Subtly, though, she did make note of all of them, or lack thereof.

Narcissa said nothing, her face a cold, beautiful mask. Draco, meanwhile, was busy sneering openly at Harry and Ron.

She was grateful when, a few moments later, Mr. Weasley gestured toward a portly man in heavy robes who was making his way to the box, flanked by several stern-looking aides.

"That’s Mr. Oblansk," Mr. Weasley said, a bit too loudly, paying no heed as the Malfoys spun and sauntered off to their better section. "Bulgarian Minister for Magic. Doesn’t speak a word of English — or so he claims."

Hermione watched, half-smiling, as the Bulgarian Minister shook hands vigorously with Fudge, the English Minister, who was red-faced and flustered but beaming all the same.

The commotion distracted the crowd long enough that when a booming voice echoed across the stadium, everyone fell instantly silent.

“Ladies and gentlemen... welcome to the 422nd Quidditch World Cup!”

The stands exploded into cheers and shouts, the noise deafening. Hermione clapped her hands over her ears, laughing with the sheer thrill of it.

The booming voice continued.

“Please welcome — the mascots for the Bulgarian National Team!”

At once, the pitch was filled with an eruption of movement. A dozen veela — dazzling, inhumanly beautiful — floated onto the grass, their silver hair streaming, their movements hypnotic. Even from this distance, Hermione could feel the magic thrumming off of them, a dangerous, seductive pull that made half the men in the stadium lean forward unconsciously.

"Careful," Hermione muttered out of the corner of her mouth to Harry and Ron. Hermione would be lying, though, if she didn't feel herself pull a little closer too.

Both of them blinked, as if waking from a trance.

The veela danced, their bodies moving with impossible grace, and then, with a collective, breathy laugh, they vanished.

The cheers barely had time to die down before the announcer boomed again:

"And now — the mascots for Ireland!"

From the opposite side of the pitch, a tide of green and gold swept forward — leprechauns, dozens of them, whirling and laughing and tossing handfuls of gold coins into the air. Fireworks burst overhead, filling the sky with shamrocks and rainbows.

The noise was deafening. Hermione couldn’t stop grinning.

And then —

"Let the match begin!"

The teams exploded onto the field in two dazzling streaks of color, green for Ireland and red for Bulgaria, their brooms carving wild patterns against the sky. The announcer rattled off the names at top speed — the Irish players waving enthusiastically, the Bulgarians cold and focused, their Seeker Viktor Krum drawing an enormous roar of approval even from neutral fans.

Hermione adjusted her Omnioculars, her heart pounding as the players took their positions.

And then —

The referee blew his silver whistle.

The Quaffle soared into the air —

And the game began.

Chapter Text

The game exploded into action so quickly Hermione barely had time to adjust her Omnioculars before the Quaffle was swept into Irish hands.

She gasped aloud as Troy, one of the Irish Chasers, shot forward with blinding speed, weaving in and out of the Bulgarian defense like a golden thread. The stadium roared as he tossed the Quaffle clean through the far left goal hoop.

"AND IRELAND SCORES!" the commentator bellowed, his voice cracking with excitement. "First goal of the match goes to Troy! Ireland leads, ten–nil!"

Beside her, Ron was on his feet, shouting, both fists in the air. Harry grinned so widely his face looked like it might split. Even Hermione, though not quite as wild as the boys, couldn't help the jolt of exhilaration rushing through her. The pace, the energy—it was infectious, electric.

The Irish team worked with a breathtaking synchronicity Hermione hadn’t expected. Mullet, Troy, and Moran — the three Chasers — moved as if they shared one mind, passing the Quaffle so quickly it blurred through the air, leaving the Bulgarian Beaters and Keeper scrambling helplessly behind.

But the Bulgarians weren’t going down without a fight.

A loud groan rippled through the stadium as one of the Bulgarian Beaters, a hulking wizard named Volkov, smashed a Bludger so hard it whistled past Moran’s ear, causing her to swerve dangerously. Hermione saw the Bulgarian Captain barking something furiously to his players, gesturing sharply with gloved hands.

"That’s the third blatant foul in under five minutes!" Mr. Weasley said darkly, leaning over to Hermione and Harry. "They're getting desperate already."

Indeed, the Bulgarian team began resorting to more and more underhanded tactics—Grabbing the broom tails of the Irish Chasers, elbowing them midair, even one incident of deliberately knocking into Moran so hard she spun three full times before regaining control.

The referee, a stern-looking witch with her hair pulled into a razor-sharp bun, blew her whistle again and again, frantically awarding penalties to Ireland. But the Bulgarians hardly seemed to care.

"Clearly decided fouling's their best strategy," Fred muttered, squinting through his own Omnioculars.

Hermione scowled. She hated unfair play. It made her stomach knot.

Still, despite it all, the Irish team remained composed and unstoppable.

The score climbed higher — twenty, thirty, forty points to nil — and the green-clad Irish fans in the stands were losing their minds. Leprechauns were now showering handfuls of gold over their side of the pitch, sending delighted children scrambling to grab fistfuls.

Out of the corner of her eye, Hermione caught sight of Viktor Krum — the famed Bulgarian Seeker — weaving high above the game, his dark eyes narrowed, his broom slicing through the air with a deadly, silent precision. He barely glanced at the chaos below. He was hunting. Waiting.

Hermione swallowed hard.

He was magnificent to watch. Not beautiful — he was hunched, with a long nose and heavy eyebrows — but in the air, he was like a creature born for flight. Smooth. Relentless.

“There he goes!” Ron yelled suddenly, nearly knocking Hermione sideways in his excitement.

Krum had spotted something.

He dived so fast it looked like he’d fallen off his broom. The stadium gasped as one — a collective, sucking intake of breath.

Irish Seeker Lynch, determined not to be outdone, plunged after him — but too steep, too uncontrolled —

There was a sickening CRACK as Lynch slammed face-first into the ground. The crowd winced collectively.

Hermione clutched the edge of her seat, heart hammering.

Medics sprinted onto the pitch, conjuring stretchers, but even as they worked, Krum didn’t hesitate — he looped back up into the air, eyes scanning restlessly again for the Snitch.

Minutes bled together. Scores continued to mount for Ireland. Fouls kept flying from the Bulgarians. Krum circled like a shark.

Hermione wiped her palms on her jeans, so tense she could barely breathe.

And then —

There it was.

A flash of gold near the Irish goalposts.

Krum saw it.

He shot forward like an arrow, the world narrowing to the tiny, gleaming Snitch. The Irish crowd screamed in panic. If Krum caught it now — even with Bulgaria trailing so far behind — it would end the match. The Irish would win on points — but catching the Snitch was a blow to pride, a dagger to morale.

Faster than anyone else could move, Krum's fingers snapped around the Snitch.

The referee’s whistle cut the air like a blade.

The stadium exploded into noise.

Hermione stood, stunned.

The scoreboard flared high overhead:

IRELAND — 170
BULGARIA — 160

Ireland had won.

Hermione barely heard the booming announcement. She was too busy watching the scenes of chaos unfolding around her — Irish players hugging and screaming with laughter, Bulgarian players shouting in frustration, fans setting off green and gold fireworks that turned the sky into a seething mass of color.

Fred and George were howling with triumph.

“We did it!” Fred bellowed, nearly lifting George off his feet in his excitement.

"That’s it! That’s it! " George whooped, his cheeks flushed. "We beat Bagman! We bloody beat him!"

Across the box, Ludo Bagman himself was trying — and failing — to look cheerful as the twins bounded over to him, hands gleefully outstretched.

"Ahem," Fred said, grinning from ear to ear. "About our little wager, Mr. Bagman..."

"Yes, yes," Bagman said hastily, mopping his forehead with a large spotted handkerchief. "Of course. Well done, boys, well done indeed..."

He pulled a bulging pouch of gold from his robes and thrust it into Fred's hands without meeting their eyes.

Hermione narrowed her own, feeling something twist in her gut. Bagman didn’t look pleased in the slightest. In fact, he looked downright panicked.

But Fred and George were too busy crowing over their winnings to notice.

"Loads of galleons!" George said in an awed whisper, shaking the bag and making it jingle merrily.

“We're going to start our joke shop!" Fred said excitedly. "Just you wait!"

Hermione smiled despite herself, shaking her head. Typical Fred and George.

The celebrations around them were rising to a fever pitch. Music erupted from somewhere in the stands, leprechauns whirled overhead in dizzying spirals, and the sky was a storm of green and gold confetti.

Hermione leaned back against the rail, her heart still thundering from the match, her ears ringing from the noise.

It was only just beginning, she thought, watching the crowds cheer and dance and throw their arms around each other.

This night — this whole summer — was only just beginning.

By the time the match ended, darkness had begun to creep around the edges of the sky, bruising it with deep purples and black. The camp buzzed with life. Wizards and witches spilled into the narrow paths between tents, singing, shouting, laughing, setting off fireworks that exploded into roaring emerald shamrocks. Drunken groups stumbled past, arms flung around each other's shoulders, waving flags and bottles of mead.

Inside their own tent, Hermione sat cross-legged on her camp bed, brushing tangles from her hair with hurried, distracted strokes. Ron was lying on his back on the mattress across from her, grinning dopily up at the canvas ceiling. Harry hadn't even bothered to change out of his robes; he was snoring quietly, utterly dead to the world.

She couldn't blame him. The match had been exhausting. Even as a spectator, Hermione’s heart had pounded the entire time.

Still, she found she couldn’t sleep. Her mind was spinning. Flashes of players streaking across the sky. The heavy clatter of Bludgers. Krum’s hunched figure diving like a hawk. Fred and George's shouts of victory.

Hermione finally set the brush down and pulled the thin blanket up around her shoulders, leaning against the wooden pole in the center of the tent. The Weasley family’s snores filled the space, mixed with the distant roar of camp-wide celebration. She closed her eyes, trying to will herself into rest.

Minutes stretched. The sounds outside grew louder.

Then a loud bang shattered the heavy night air.

Hermione’s eyes flew open.

Another bang. Closer this time. Screams followed — not joyous ones. Fearful.

Harry shot up, gasping, his glasses askew. Ron cursed, falling off his mattress in a tangle of limbs and blankets.

"What the—?" Harry muttered, scrambling for his wand. Hermione had already shoved aside her blanket and was on her feet.

Outside, shrieks echoed. Boots pounded past their tent.

"Stay here," Mr. Weasley barked, already pulling on his cloak. His face was pale, his jaw clenched tight. "Don't leave the tent. I'm going to see what's going on."

Without waiting for an answer, he ducked out into the night, his wand raised.

Bill, Charlie, and Percy followed seconds later, their faces grim.

The tent felt suddenly very empty.

For a few terrible moments, they waited — Hermione pressing her hand to her racing heart, Harry clutching his wand so tightly his knuckles turned white.

Then the noise outside swelled into an unbearable roar.

Someone ripped open the flap of the tent. It was Charlie, hair wild, cheeks flushed. "Come on!" he barked. "It's not safe!"

No more instructions needed. Hermione grabbed Harry's arm, Ron grabbed hers, and they all tore outside into the chaos.

The scene that met them was nightmareish.

Masked figures in black robes stormed through the camp, wands raised. Screams filled the air as jets of light shot from every direction, lighting up the night like a violent storm.

Above the mob, four figures floated high into the air — Mr. Roberts, the Muggle campsite manager, and his family. They were suspended upside-down, spinning helplessly, as the masked wizards jeered and howled with laughter.

Hermione’s stomach lurched.

"This way!" Ron yelled, tugging at her arm.

They fled into the woods, weaving through trees, stumbling over roots. The shouts grew fainter behind them, but not by much. Sparks rained from the sky; Hermione ducked instinctively, heart slamming against her ribs.

They didn't stop running until the sounds of the riot were muffled by thick undergrowth and heavy tree trunks.

Hermione bent over, gasping for breath, her hands on her knees.

"We have to find somewhere to hide," she said, trying to sound calm. "Somewhere off the path."

Ron nodded mutely, face pale. Harry wiped his forehead with his sleeve, glasses askew again.

They plunged deeper into the forest.

The trees pressed in tight. Twigs snapped underfoot. The only light came from the occasional burst of spellfire through the distant branches.

They weren’t alone for long.

A rustle to their left made them freeze.

A familiar, drawling voice broke the silence.

"Well, well," said Draco Malfoy, stepping out from behind a tree, his arms crossed lazily over his chest. Crabbe and Goyle flanked him, both looking stupidly pleased with themselves.

Hermione’s blood went cold.

"Out for a stroll, Granger?" Malfoy sneered, eyes glittering maliciously in the faint light. "Running away from the scary grown-ups?"

"Get lost, Malfoy," Harry snapped, his fists clenching at his sides.

Malfoy smirked. "Scared, Potter?"

A blast echoed through the trees, closer this time. Malfoy flinched despite himself.

"Better watch yourselves," he said, voice snide but tense. "Not everyone's going to be so friendly tonight. Especially not with your lot," he added, giving Hermione a pointed, nasty look.

Ron swore under his breath, stepping closer to her.

But Malfoy didn’t linger. Another burst of light made him blanch; without another word, he turned and disappeared into the shadows, Crabbe and Goyle bumbling after him.

Hermione let out a slow breath she hadn’t realized she was holding.

"We have to keep moving," Harry said, voice tight. "Come on."

They pushed deeper into the forest, trying to find some clearing, somewhere to wait it out.

It wasn’t until they finally stopped — at the base of a thick oak tree — that Harry let out a small, horrified noise.

"My wand," he said hoarsely, patting his pockets frantically. "It’s gone. I’ve lost my wand."

Hermione spun around, heart plummeting.

"You had it," she said, voice high and panicked. "You had it when we left the tent, I saw you—"

"I know!" Harry raked a hand through his hair, wild-eyed. "I—I must’ve dropped it—when we ran—"

They stared at each other in horror.

Without a wand, Harry was defenseless.

And the woods were full of dark shapes and darker magic.

Hermione tightened her grip on her own wand, swallowing hard.

"We’ll find it," she said firmly, though fear clawed at her throat. "We’ll find it after this stops. Right now we just have to stay out of sight."

The three of them huddled close to the tree, barely daring to breathe, as the sounds of the riot raged through the forest like a growing storm.