I'm sorry this chapter is so canon-y. I tried to focus on the characters and add in my AU touches throughout. I also think the QWC is kind of fun, so I wanted to preserve it. I'll have another chapter up for you posthaste to make up for the barrage of canon!

I don't know how accurate the "Northern accent" bit is, sorry. Blame my American-ness!


Although Severus had decided not to Apparate to the World Cup as early as Lupin, he didn't use the time to sleep in. He couldn't. He spent the night rattling round his Muggle trash pile. It had always been like that before he was due to undertake some active bit of espionage; however slight the danger, he could never sleep.

He'd long since given up on giving up smoking.

Dumbledore knew he was doing this. Whether he knew that Lupin and Black were also involved, Severus was less certain, but before he'd left on first of August, when he'd gone, as he always did, to say his (curt) good-byes. . .

He'd run Dumbledore to ground in that old chapel he'd nattered about when Severus was convalescing. It was a derelict little place, quite small, although Severus thought that it must have been larger, once. The ceiling, high and vaulted, seemed to belong to a room of greater size and importance; the room itself was narrow but deep. Perhaps when the denizens of Hogwarts had moved away from religion as a way of life they'd confiscated parts of it for other classrooms, carried away the stones; their necessities slowly eroding a place they had no real use for anymore. It had the look of a church, but the walls were carved with faceless images of Celtic gods. One was a man with horns: Cernunnos, Severus thought. The Horned God.

Dumbledore was seated in an ancient-looking chair with a high, pointed back, like St. Edward's chair. It was situated in the center of a dais that must once have hosted the altar. Even though the chapel itself was a kind of ghost, Severus couldn't help wondering what the Fat Friar, who floated next to him, though of that. No resentment or shock showed on his misted face; in fact, their conversation appeared pleasurably absorbing to both.

"Good morning, Severus," Dumbledore greeted him. "You're off at once, I see."

Severus always dressed Muggle to leave, since the first thing he always had to do at home was stock the fridge (and pick up cigarettes. Several cartons this time, he thought).

"I am." What else could he say?

"Well, I'll be seeing you rather soon this year," Dumbledore said. "Like last year, and the year before, as it happens. . . Do take care of yourself, my dear boy. And try to enjoy yourself, at least a little." He smiled. "I hear Ireland are the favorites to win, but that Viktor Krum is a sight to behold in the air."

Severus had never mentioned the Cup, nor had Lupin (nor, he assumed, had Black). Dumbledore was just like that.

The Polyjuice potion was bubbling on the stove-top, looking foul. He reached into his pocket for the vial of a Muggle's hair. It was time.

He Apparated into the wood from Lupin's coordinates and followed the directions to the Weasleys' camp. He wasn't sure whether to be relieved or annoyed that Lupin's directions were perfect and he found them easily, situated at the very top of the hill on the edge of a busy thoroughfare. The Weasleys had already pitched their tents and found success in building a fire, and everyone (Arthur Weasley, his four youngest hellspawn, Lupin, Black the dog, Granger and Miss Potter) was sitting round it, looking as if they were already enjoying themselves.

Severus told the knot in his stomach that there was absolutely no reason for it to be there and it could fuck off. He didn't look like himself, the Weasleys were friendly people, this wasn't a party he was attending; he was here to make sure Miss Potter didn't get trampled by any Death Eaters or fall afoul of a stray curse. This was business, not pleasure.

Lupin had spotted him and was standing, even walking forward, to meet him. Black-the-dog raised his head from his paws and growled—Severus supposed; he couldn't hear it from there, though he saw the dog's lips pull back from his teeth. Miss Potter put her hand on his head and scratched behind his ears, and he subsided. Severus hated his fucking guts.

"Good, you got here all right, then," Lupin said, and when Severus glared at him, said under his breath, "We're trying to act as if we really are friends, remember?"

Right. Bloody hell.

"Your directions were adequate," Severus said in what he hoped wasn't a Fuck You voice.

"Good," Lupin said genially—but that wasn't a good indication of Severus' acting ability, because Lupin was genial ninety-five percent of the time. "Come meet everyone, then.

"This is Ebeneezer Jones," Lupin said by way of introduction, and then he winced. Severus tried his damndest to to glare at Lupin for getting the fucking name wrong. It was supposed to be Eleazar, not Ebeneezer. "Ah—Ebeneezer, these are the Weasleys. . . Arthur, Fred and George, don't try to keep them strait, Ginny, Ron—and Hermione Granger and Harriet Potter."

The children did not look remotely interested (except Miss Potter, who was looking at him curiously; why?), though Arthur Weasley stood up with a smile to shake Severus' hand-that-wasn't-his.

"How do you do?" he asked, brimming with good nature. "Nice to meet a friend of Remus'."

"Likewise," Severus said shortly.

"You're welcome to some lunch," said Arthur (there were so many Weasleys, Severus might as well just call them by their first names). "We think the fire's finally hot enough for cooking, and the rest of my boys should be along shortly—"

Severus wondered whether it would be appropriate to say There's more of you? Someone else might have made the joke, but knowing himself he was sure it would only come out sounding offensive. He had no reason to want to offend Arthur, despite his deplorable crime of producing far too many children and the twins in particular.

"Want to put your things in the tent?" Lupin asked, and Severus (gratefully, though he wouldn't in a thousand years let on) followed him to the tent and ducked inside.

The tent looked brand new. There was a sterilized, unlived-in feel to it, and all of the furniture had the impersonal imprint of a newly built hotel room. Even the air smelled of a kind of emptiness.

"New purchase?" he asked sardonically, choosing not to say I'm surprised it doesn't already stink of dog.

"Sirius ordered it when he got the tickets," Lupin sighed. Severus got the impression Lupin would rather have slept under a coat propped on sticks.

"How did he order the tickets?"

"He still has access to his vaults. You know goblins: they don't care about prison sentences, only whether the gold is yours. Thank Merlin they're so tightfisted," he said, half under his breath. Severus had to agree: if the goblins weren't as equally bloody-minded about sharing gold as information. . .

Wizarding society: where a man could be sent to prison without trial and have unrestricted access to his funds on the lam (enough to purchase Firebolts and Quidditch World Cup tickets).

"Take whatever bed you like," Lupin said, waving at the bunks in the back. "Though, if everything goes according to our expectations, I don't imagine we'll be doing much sleeping. . .

"By the way," he said as Severus dumped his bag on one of the beds, and the tone of his voice made Severus look at him sharply. "Harriet had a dream about Voldemort that made her scar burn."

Severus flinched instinctively at the sound of that loathed name, but it was quickly subsumed by a different kind of horror altogether.

"She what?"

"Wormtail was there, and she believes Voldemort killed someone. And is keeping a pet monster snake. She didn't remember all the details," Lupin went on, his tone aware how vague (and disturbing) this account was, "but she woke with her scar hurting."

Severus disliked the sound of this even more than Lupin's regular conversation. "Has it done that before?"

"When Voldemort was close to her—physically present. If it's happening through dreams now, I'm worried. Do you think it's a hold-over from her time-accident? A vision of the future, or of the present?"

"I don't know." He realized his heart was beating harder and quicker than before, as if he were preparing himself for something. "Her scar hurting from a vision. . ."

"Yes," Lupin said quietly. "And in view of what's to happen tonight. . ."

For a moment they were silent. Severus would even have said they were united in grim preparation. But then it was over (thank God), and Lupin was straightening his shoulders and saying in that mild, calm way of his:

"We should probably get back to the fire. They'll be wondering where we've gone."

They probably think we're having it off, Severus thought. But the children might be too young to make a connection like that, however erroneous.

The tent flap was cut low, so they had to duck. Back outside, Miss Potter was starting to cook eggs and sausages, and several more redheads had sprouted up from the ground.

"Harriet, you needn't do that," Arthur was saying rather anxiously, as if it distressed him to see one of his guests cooking.

"It's fine, Mr Weasley, I don't mind."

"Make mine an omelet," said the She-Weasley in what she evidently thought was a regal tone. Then, in a sly, knowing teenage girl tone: "How do you want yours, Bill?"

"Make your own ruddy omelets, Your Highness," Miss Potter said, going bright red. "I'm doing them scrambled."

"Don't be a pain, Ginny," said William, tousling the She-Weasley's hair across her face and earning himself several punches.

Miss Potter had clear practice at cooking eggs: she was able to crack them one handed in the pan. Severus imagined she'd learned it by necessity in Petunia's kitchen.

She hadn't changed one whit in the past ten days. Her hair was still all that which Narcissa would deplore, her glasses were equally terrible, and she'd buttoned her shirt wrong again. He scrutinized her for any signs that she'd been having disturbing dreams and thought she might look more tired than a fourteen-year-old girl on holiday ought to; but her predominate emotions seemed to be pleasure and excitement. Her feckless Weasley friend said something that made her laugh.

Lupin was making himself useful, cutting up sausages from a package.

"Guard your sausages once they're cooked," he told the children as he dropped the slices into a second pan. "Padfoot will steal them off your plates if you aren't properly vigilant."

Black-the-dog gave Lupin what was clearly a You're Sleeping on the Couch Tonight look, which Lupin serenely pretended not to notice. It was good acting.

"Aha!" said Arthur, suddenly getting to his feet, "The man of the moment! Ludo!"

The notorious Ludo Bagman had manifested from the fairly constant stream of harassed-looking Ministry officials and was tripping toward them, an eyesore in his old Wimbourne Wasps robes. Severus knew him on several levels, none of them personal: he was a retired Quidditch player of some old merit; he'd once lost ten thousand Galleons to Narcissa at cards; he'd been tried for (and acquitted of) feeding information to the Dark Lord's supporters. Many people had thought he'd just been taken in, but Severus thought him morally dessicated. He'd probably been paid handsomely for that information, and it hadn't mattered to him who was buying. In fact, Severus had long suspected that Narcissa had had something to do with it: if Lucius had mentioned that Ludo Bagman was a notorious gambler, Narcissa could have fleeced him so he'd be ready to sell information at any price. It was the sort of thing both Malfoys would have done for pure enjoyment. Extortion was a simple pleasure.

With Arthur involved in Ludo Bagman's conversation and the children mostly listening to (or ignoring) that, Severus didn't have to make chat. He was relieved. But then Bagman said something that snagged his attention.

"Fancy a flutter on the match?" Bagman asked Arthur, jingling his pockets, which rang with gold. "I've already got Roddy Pontner betting me Bulgaria will score first—I offered him nice odds, considering Ireland's front three are the strongest I've seen in years—and little Agatha Timms has put up half shares in her eel farm on a week-long match."

"Oh, go on, then," said Arthur. "Let's see. . . a Galleon on Ireland to win?"

"A Galleon?" Bagman looked disappointed, but said, "Very well, very well. . . any other takers?"

"They're a bit young to be gambling. Molly wouldn't like—"

"We'll bet thirty-seven Galleons, fifteen Sickles, three Knuts," said one twin, "that Ireland win—but Viktor Krum gets the Snitch. Oh, and we'll throw in a fake wand. . ."

"Did you mention anything to them?" Severus asked Lupin under his breath.

"Not a thing," Lupin said, twinkling in an annoying, almost Dumbledorian manner. "Very prescient of them."

Bagman was roaring with laughter as the fake wand the twins had given him turned with a loud squawk into a rubber chicken. Thank God they'd both failed to qualify to take Severus' N.E.W.T. class; having them in the same castle was punishment wretched enough.

"Excellent!" said Bagman. "I haven't seen one that convincing in years! I'd pay five Galleons for that!"

The Officious Weasley looked like a stunned and disapproving ice sculpture.

"Boys," said Arthur in a quiet voice, "I don't want you betting. . . that's all your savings. Your mother—"

"Don't be a spoilsport, Arthur!" Bagman took the twins' gold with an air of excitement that Severus knew arose from thinking he was going to make a killing. "They're old enough to know what they want. You reckon Ireland will win but Krum'll get the Snitch? Not a chance boys, not a chance. . . I'll give you excellent odds on that one. . . we'll add five Galleons for the funny wand, then, shall we?"

Severus would have placed a bet himself but for lacking confidence that he'd get anything out of Bagman. He could have advised the twins to save their money, but he thought (with a certain malicious satisfaction) that it would do them good to be swindled.

"Couldn't do me a brew, I suppose?" Bagman asked as he tucked away his notebook. "I'm keeping an eye out for Barty Crouch."

Severus wasn't able to repress a pang of cowardly relief that he was Polyjuiced.

"Any news of Bertha Jorkins yet, Ludo?" asked Arthur as Bagman settled himself on the grass in the sprawling circle of Weasleys.

"Not a dicky bird," said Bagman without an iota of concern. "But she'll turn up. Poor old Bertha—memory like a leaky cauldron and no sense of direction. Lost, you take my word for it. She'll wander back into the office some time in October, thinking it's still July. . ."

Miss Potter was frowning. That was curious. What should she care that Bagman cared for nobody but himself?

Crack!

"Oh, talk of the devil," said Bagman. "Barty!"

Bartemius Crouch had just Apparated to their fireside, looking like the world's grimmest bank manager. His expression said that hunting up Ludo Bagman to get anything out of him was a thankless task, but one he would pursue because it was his job, and needs must.

"I've been looking for you everywhere," he said impatiently to Bagman, who offered him a careless patch of grass to sit on. "The Bulgarians are insisting we add another twelve seats to the Top Box—"

"Oh, is that what they're after? I thought the chap was asking to borrow a pair of tweezers. Bit of a strong accent—"

"Mr Crouch!" Percy's bow twisted him into a reef knot, making him resemble Lucius when confronted with his own mother, or a house-elf at any time. "Would like a cup of tea?"

"Oh. . ." Crouch looked at Percy in mild surprise. "Thank you, Weatherby."

Percy went pink; the twins sniggered. Severus could have told him there was no human being whom Crouch loved one iota as much as rules—and upholding them. It was still as true even now, if not more so.

"I expect you'll both be glad when this is over," said Arthur to Bagman and Crouch.

"Glad!" said Bagman. "Don't know when I've had more fun! Still, it's not as though we haven't got anything to look forward to, eh, Barty? Plenty left to organize, eh?"

His tone was like a joking elbow in the ribs, and Crouch looked about as pleased to hear it as he would have been to get the elbow. "We agreed not to make the announcement until all the details—"

"Oh, details! They've signed, they've agreed—I bet you anything these kids'll know soon enough anyway. I mean, it's happening at Hogwarts—"

"Ludo, we need to meet the Bulgarians, you know," said Crouch sharply. "Thank you for the tea, Weatherby." He pushed his cup back at Percy without having swallowed a mouthful, collected Bagman, who cheerfully promised to see them all in the Top Box, and Disapparated (good bloody riddance).

"What's happening at Hogwarts, Dad?" asked one twin as soon as they'd vanished. "What were they talking about?"

"You'll find out soon enough."

"Do you know?" Miss Potter asked Lupin curiously.

"Why would I know?" Lupin replied, but he was smiling.

"Maybe the other teachers told you."

"It's classified information until such a time as the Ministry decides to release it," Officious Weasley said repressively, looking annoyed that Miss Potter would dare seek information from any non-Ministry source. "Mr Crouch was quite right not to disclose it."

"Oh, shut up, Weatherby," said the same twin as before.

With lunch finished, the children rose to wander away. Black-the-dog trailed after Miss Potter, Granger, the She-Weasley and her brother, and all the rest dispersed.

"I'll mind the camp," said Arthur to Lupin and Severus, "if you boys want to take a look around."

So (after some suitably civil rejoinder from Lupin, and an offer to do the same later), they set off to see who they could find who might look like a masked rioter.

"Interesting to see Barty Crouch in this climate," Lupin said mildly, giving a passing glance to a group of Nigerian wizards cooking round a purple fire.

"He works for Department of Magical Games and Sports," Severus said curtly. "Of course he's here."

"I think you know what I mean. . . Ebeneezer."

"You couldn't even keep the fucking name straight," Severus said in disgust.

"It was an accident," Lupin said. His tone was apologetic, but Severus didn't believe he was really sorry. "I think you piqued Harriet's interest."

"What?" Severus was confused enough to ask. "Why?"

"You didn't do a double-take at her name. Everyone does, the first time they meet her. They look for her scar. It embarrasses her."

Was this Lupin's subtle way of pointing out that Severus was making his own mistakes?

"She kept frowning at Bagman."

"I noticed that, too," Lupin said thoughtfully. "Did you notice what he was saying about Bertha having a terrible memory?"

"Yes. So?"

"Well, Bertha was at school with us, and I don't remember her having a terrible memory at all. To the contrary: she had a tenacious, even rapacious memory for gossip. . . it used to get her into trouble."

Severus had a hard time recalling any girls at school except for Lily. "What would Miss Potter know about her? Or care?"

"There's no telling. Fourteen-year-old girls aren't exactly confiding. . . Harriet least of all. But do you think he was lying?"

"How am I to know?"

"Well, what would he gain from the disappearance of a colleague?"

"Winning a bet, perhaps. He's always up to his ears in it."

"I remember he was brought up on charges of passing information to Voldemort's," Lupin ignored his flinch, "supporters. The jury let him off, but Crouch was. . . displeased that they weren't taking it seriously."

"You think Bertha Jorkins' disappearance has something to do with. . ." Severus refused to say what's-his-face, it was even worse than You-Know-Who. "Him?"

"I don't know. If she's really as forgetful as Ludo Bagman said, it could be nothing. . . but I certainly trust Arthur's judgment more than his, and Arthur thinks she should be found."

And Miss Potter seems to recognize her name, Severus thought. From a dream, perhaps?

"So," Lupin said, as they passed by a segment of tents that, judging by the plethora of photographs displaying Viktor Krum's face, might have possessed some sort of Bulgarian allegiance, "blokes in masks levitating Muggles. . . and then fleeing from the you-know-what. That means they're likely to be former followers of what's-his-face, yes?"

How ironic that they couldn't say You-Know-Who without alarming any eavesdroppers.

"Anyone would flee his mark," Severus said. "Anyone this side of Azkaban. Whether they supported him and renounced him to save their own skins or spent his reign cowering in fear. In fact, the first sort would be the first to flee."

They had gone over this, but every now and then they circled back to it. Lupin returned to looking thoughtful.

"Is Lucius Malfoy here?" he asked, as if inquiring after an old acquaintance for politeness' sake.

Lupin had never asked for names. He had never intimated that Severus might know more about Voldemort's supporters than the rest of them, and he'd never made any reference to Lucius before. That he was doing so now, as if Severus would know, sent cautious ripples prickling along the back of his neck.

He watched Lupin for signs of satisfaction, alarm, disapproval; anything. But it was exactly like last year: Lupin remained unreadable, his face mild and his eyes clear without giving away a single thought. It was like sparring with Dumbledore—only not, because Dumbledore gave things away all the time, as freely as a fast-flowing stream gave water. He was only this inscrutable when he had something to hide.

Lupin was always inscrutable. Last year, he'd definitely had something to hide. Was it only habit now? Or was Lupin hiding something from him?

Just as he'd done last winter, Severus found himself wanting, needing, to find out what it was.

"Yes," he said, watching Lupin, "he is."

"Is his family with him?" Lupin asked, frowning slightly.

"Of course they are."

Lupin kept up that slight frown as they meandered through the camp. They were surrounded by families, both local and clearly far-traveled; groups of friends and colleagues; couples; everyone in a state of spirited enjoyment. As they walked, Severus realized how many faces in the crowd he recognized. He'd gone to school with many of these people, and he'd taught much of the rest. Former students were by-God everywhere, some of them even surrounded now by their own children. . . and so were the men who might be donning masks tonight and trailing a family of Muggles through the sky. Everything looked so bloody normal. It was superficial, and at the same time it wasn't: things, people, were normal until they weren't. There was no excess of the kindly family man that could not be perpetrated by the most depraved soul walking.

"Harriet's account didn't mention her scar hurting, or seeing a vision of—him," Lupin said as they stopped to let a group of seven piglets painted in the Irish colors stampede past (and, a moment later, their harassed owner). "And she didn't mention staying at Hogwarts for the summer. . . Do you think it's still likely that this part is going to be the same?"

Severus didn't want to say I don't know, not to Lupin. "My original theory was that Miss Potter's vision of the future extrapolated from events built upon what she was likely to guess. She was right about staying with the Grangers and going to the World Cup with the Weasleys—they are people she knows well, who have been kind to her in the past. So far she's been right about everything to do with the Cup, but larger events, things far outside of her scope, seem to have remained dark to her. It's not surprising, considering she isn't a true Seer."

Lupin made a pensive noise.

They had made three rounds of the camp, meandering up and down row upon row of tents, by the time day started to retreat and nighttime begin its first sleepy stretches with the dusk. The Ministry gave up on keeping order around the same time as the air filled with cracks of saleswizards Apparating, and an acrid miasma of fireworks and spells rose over the tents as the crowd's excitement reached a fever-pitch. Severus resigned himself to ending the evening with a headache and streaming eyes.

"Time for the Cup, then," said Lupin. Wonder of wonders, a gleam of anticipation passed over his face. Could it be a real emotion? "Shall we go find the others?"


Clutching their souvenirs, Harriet, Ron, Hermione and Padfoot fought their way through the crowd back to the Weasleys' tents as a deep, ground-reverberating gong echoed from somewhere beyond the dark heads of the trees. Before it had faded, a hundred green and red lanterns flared in the wood, lighting a path to the stadium.

"It's time!" Mr Weasley said, looking as excited as any of them. "Come on, let's go!"

Harriet kissed Padfoot good-bye, and he lay down in front of the tents as if guarding them. She looked around for Remus but didn't see him. She hoped they ran into him on the way to the stadium, then. There would be no point in giving him the present after the game.

She spotted his friend first, loitering near the edge of the wood. He stood out—maybe it was the glare. He had these dark, glaring eyes that seemed to be trying to burn a hole through everything. It reminded her of Snape on the warpath. But he didn't move like Snape or even talk like him; he had a thick Northern accent, and he hunched a bit when he walked instead of swooping.

She knew he wasn't Snape, he just. . . Well, why was she thinking of Snape anyway? She ought to be thinking of the Cup.

"Hi!" she said as she caught up to Remus, who'd stopped with his friend and was waiting for them to catch up.

"I needn't ask if you're excited yet," Remus said, smiling as he fell into step with them.

"No way! Here, I got these for you." She pushed a pair of Omnioculars into his hand.

Remus stared at the Omnioculars blankly. Maybe he didn't know what they were? But. . . the expression on his face seemed to be about something else. She didn't know what, but it made her feel a bit uncomfortable, like she'd committed some sort of gaffe. Why?

"They're Omnioculars," she explained, feeling confused but trying to speak normally. "You can replay action and slow everything down. Well, that's what the saleswizard said—"

"You really shouldn't have," Remus said slowly. It didn't sound like something you said to be polite; it sounded like he really meant it, and that was even more confusing. What was so bad about Omnioculars?

"I—we all got some," she said. "I thought maybe. . ." She glanced at Hermione for help, but she looked equally nonplussed.

"I'll take them if you don't want them," said Remus' friend unexpectedly, and grabbed them out of his hand. "Bloody useful at these matches, where everything happens so fast you can't see a damned thing."

Remus was giving him a look like he wasn't amused, but his friend ignored it. Harriet had forgotten his name—Ebeneezer-something, wasn't it? He didn't look like much of an Ebeneezer, but a lot of wizards had strange names. He was about Remus' age (she guessed) and height but rather stocky, whereas Remus could probably hide behind a broomstick.

Ebeneezer Something was twisting the dial on the Omnioculars, as if looking for a particular setting. Remus gave up on glaring at him and turned to Harriet with a smile that looked rather forced. Or maybe she was just being paranoid.

"Thank you, Harriet. It was very thoughtful. I'm sure they'll come in handy."

Harriet smiled back, wondering if hers looked forced, too.

They walked through the wood for at least fifteen minutes, following the trail lit by the lanterns that hung in the trees. The woods were dense with excited noises—laughter, even snatches of songs—and the Weasleys were all in high spirits, but Harriet couldn't stop wondering why the Omnioculars had been such a bad present. She'd seen them and thought they were something Remus would never buy for himself, though they looked really cool. . . She'd spent half the summer at his rooms with him and Sirius, who was always buying her things and saying, "Consider it from me and Moony". . . She'd just wanted to give back like that, liking that she could, thinking it was just what you did.

Apparently it wasn't.

The woods suddenly fell away, and the crowd poured into the shadow cast by an immense gold stadium decorated along the top with blazing lights. After the lantern-lit gloom of the forest, it was especially dazzling. Harriet's agitation seemed to sizzle away in the beam of all those lights. She was awed to think how much magic could do, hiding this from Muggles. Mr Weasley had told her it could seat a hundred thousand, and, looking at it, she guessed that ten cathedrals would have fit comfortably inside it.

"Prime seats!" said the witch at the door who checked the Weasleys' tickets. "Top Box—straight upstairs, Arthur, as high as you can go. Ah—third floor, Section 32-FG," she added to Remus and his friend.

"You're not sitting with us?" This hadn't occurred to Harriet.

"Arthur's tickets are something rather special," Remus said with his usual smile, as if the odd awkwardness with the Omnioculars had never happened. "When the match is over you'll have to tell me what it's like."

"Or you can spy in there with these," his friend said, twirling the Omnioculars once round in his hand. Remus glared at him again.

Harriet wondered if this was just more of grown-ups' being weird.

The stadium stairs were carpeted in purple velvet the same color as the sky outside, and lights glimmered on the walls like golden water flowing down a rock face. On the lower levels Harriet, Hermione and the Weasleys were pushed along on a tide of other people, but the further they climbed, the more the flood slowed, until at last they reached the top of the stairs all alone.

The Top Box wasn't very large, all things considered (Harriet wondered if the Bulgarians had succeeded in getting their twelve extra seats) and made her feel like she was in an old-fashioned cinema for the rich. Four tiered rows of purple velvet-covered seats trimmed with gold sat facing an enormous picture window that stretched the length of the box from end-to-end and floor-to-ceiling. Soaring from the highest point in the stadium, the box looked down on the emerald oval of the pitch and hundred thousand witches and wizards, all trickling into their seats.

The ticket witch had been right: these were prime seats. Harriet felt her excitement lifting like a balloon.

She wound up sitting between Ron and Hermione, down at the end of the box nearest the door. Bill was all the way at the other end. She was embarrassed to notice this—and to notice how nice his arms looked in that shirt. . .

She looked desperately around the box for some distraction, and saw someone who looked an awful lot like—

"Dobby?" she said, incredulous.

As soon as she said it, she was pretty sure she was wrong: it was a house-elf, but it was not Dobby. It was just so odd to see a house-elf in the Top Box—odd to see one other than Dobby at all, since, as Dobby had told her, the mark of a good house-elf was that you didn't see it.

The house-elf, whose face was buried in its hands, looked up, parting its fingers to reveal enormous brown eyes that looked permanently startled.

"Did miss just call me Dobby?" the elf said, in a tiny, quivering squeak of a voice. Harriet thought that maybe this one was female.

Hermione and Ron twisted in their seats to look, and even Mr Weasley turned round curiously.

"Sorry," Harriet said. "I thought you were someone I knew—"

"But I knows Dobby too, miss!" The elf had moved her fingers away from her eyes but was still shielding her face like a blinding light was shining into it, though the Top Box was only pleasantly lit. "My name is Winky, miss, and you. . ." Her eyes widened as they found Harriet's scar. "You is surely Harriet Potter!"

"Yes," Harriet said, resigned. Maybe she should invest in bandanas. . . or those exercise headbands. . . she could just picture the look on Lavender's face.

"But Dobby talks about you all the time, miss!" said Winky, finally lowering her hands with a kind of awed reverence that made Harriet determined to stuff Lavender's fashion sensibilities and find something to wear across her forehead.

"You work at Hogwarts?" she asked in surprise.

"Oh no, miss. Winky works for her family." It was firmly said, as if Winky didn't want Harriet getting any wrong ideas about her. "I is knowing Dobby of old, miss."

Harriet hadn't thought about house-elves all knowing each other. She wondered how they found time to meet up, if they always had to be working.

Winky seemed to realize for the first time that she'd uncovered her face enough to see everything. Her eyes widened even more than they had when noticing Harriet's scar. It would have been funny if she hadn't looked so frightened. With a terrified squeak, she pressed her hands over her eyes again.

"What's wrong?" Harriet asked.

"I is not liking heights, Harriet Potter," Winky said, her voice muffled by her hands.

"Shouldn't you get down, then?"

"Oh no, no, miss. Master—wants Winky to save him a seat." She nodded her head toward the empty seat between her and the wall. It seemed wrong to Harriet that she should be up here if heights frightened her so much.

"Well," she said, frowning, "one of us can save it for him, if you want to get down—"

"Oh no, no, no!" Winky shook her head so hard that her ears flapped. "Winky does what she is told, Harriet Potter. Winky is a good house-elf."

Then, with her hands still over her eyes she buried her face in her knees. Harriet slowly turned back to the front, communicating silently with Hermione.

"So that's a house-elf?" Ron muttered, so Winky couldn't hear. "Weird things, aren't they?"

"Now do you see what I mean?" Hermione hissed at Harriet, looking angry, although not with her. At least, Harriet hoped. "It's not right that she should have to follow orders that make her so uncomfortable!"

"What are you on about?" Ron asked, though he seemed more interested in twiddling the knobs on his Omioculars.

Hermione opened her mouth, but Harriet pressed hard on her foot. She didn't want Mr Weasley hearing about them sneaking into the kitchens or calling on house-elves. Granted, the twins had done much worse, but she thought it was better not to risk anyone finding out.

"Later," she muttered to Hermione out of the corner of her mouth.

Ron didn't notice a thing.

"Wild!" he saw saying, now peering through the Omnioculars. "I can make that old bloke down there pick his nose again. . . and again. . . and again. . ."

Hermione shook her head and, taking her velvet-covered program out of her bag, resorted to her favorite pastime: reading.

"'A display from the team mascots will precede the match,'" she read aloud.

"Oh, that's always worth watching," said Mr Weasley.

Harriet looked through her Omnioculars. The lenses bumped her glasses, and she had to hold them out a little. She'd thought about putting on her contacts back at the camp, but she hadn't wanted them bugging her throughout the match. She also hadn't been sure how long she'd take to get them in.

She scanned across the crowd, looking for Remus. It was hard to find one person in a sea of so many, especially since it was such a strange and magical sea that she kept getting distracted. A group of Irish supporters had painted their faces in green paint that kept flickering across their cheeks and foreheads like a slithering snake. A witch wearing a magnificent, jeweled ruff had a boy carrying the long train of her gown. A group of African wizards were carrying ostrich-plume fans that were as wide as their arms were long.

Diagon Alley was nothing to this.

What had the ticket witch said? Third floor, section thirty-something-something. . .

There: she found him. He and his friend were sitting about halfway up the section, with a large group of children on Remus' side and a snogging couple on his friend's. His friend was screwing the lid back on a canteen and storing it inside his jacket, and Remus was saying something sharply to him. Harriet couldn't read lips, but it looked an awful lot like Mind your own bloody business, while his friend looked amused, in a sardonic way.

Odd blokes.

His friend was still holding the Omnioculars. As Harriet watched, he raised them to look—straight at her. She quickly put hers down.

As she brought her arm down, she elbowed Hermione, who'd leaned in to whisper in her ear, in the shoulder. "Ow! Sorry—what?"

Hermione's face was stern, almost frantic, her eyes darted hard to the right. Over her shoulder, Harriet saw that Mr Weasley was standing next to the Minister for Magic, who was giving her an indulgent look. Harriet got uncertainly to her feet.

"Harriet, how are you, my dear?" the Minster asked like a distant uncle, shaking her hand. "This is Harriet Potter," he said to a pleasant-looking man wearing rich robes of black velvet trimmed with gold. "Harriet Potter—oh, come on now, you know who she is—this is the Bulgarian Minister," he said to Harriet, now looking less avuncular and more harassed. "Doesn't speak a word of English, and I'm no great shakes at languages. . . There it goes," he said wearily as the Bulgarian Minister pointed Harriet's scar and started speaking excitedly in Bulgarian. "Knew we'd get there in the end." Then he brightened. "Ah, and here's Lucius!"

With a nasty twist in her gut, Harriet saw three very blond people filing along the row behind the Weasleys' chairs: Draco, his mother and father. They were all dressed impeccably like Muggles, but perhaps fifty years too early: Mrs Malfoy, for example, was wearing a hat with a net. Harriet would have liked to think it looked stupid, but it didn't; it looked glamorous. For a moment she wished she'd worn something other than an old work shirt from Oxfam, jeans and wellies—and then she told herself bugger that; wellies and jeans were more than good enough for some bloody Malfoys. Even a shirt she'd buttoned wrong. . . Shit, how had she not noticed? It had been like that all bloody day!

"Ah, Fudge," said Lucius Malfoy, holding out his gloved hand as he reached the Minister for Magic. In his other hand he carried a cane. He'd carried that two years ago when he'd tried to hex her on the stairs. "How are you? I don't think you've met my wife, Narcissa? Or our son, Draco?"

"How do you do, how do you do?" said Fudge, smiling and bowing to Mrs Malfoy, who inclined her head so slightly, you'd have missed it if you blinked. Draco put on a smile that was probably supposed to look aristocratic or something, but to Harriet only made him look like a smarmy git.

Mr Malfoy had taken in the number of Weasleys, Hermione and Harriet with a sneer of well-bred contempt. Mrs Malfoy, for some reason, was staring straight at Harriet. It was a distant sort of stare, as if she was only looking because she had nothing better to do, but Harriet didn't like it at all. It made her skin crawl, and she felt even shorter than usual. She put up her chin, glaring back.

Mrs Malfoy looked away, as if she'd lost interest entirely. Harriet wasn't sure whether to be relieved or furious.

Draco sneered at her as he filed past her with his parents to their seats. Harriet thought about flipping him off, but in the end she sat back down simply trying to pretend as if no Malfoys existed anywhere in the world.

"Slimy gits," Ron muttered.

"I couldn't agree with you any bloody more," Harriet said.

There was flurry of movement at the door, and Ludo Bagman charged in.

"Everyone ready?" he said, his round face shining. "Minister—ready to go?"

"Ready when you are, Ludo," said Fudge.

Mr Bagman pointed his own wand at his throat and said, "Sonorous!"


Severus would have been pleased he'd managed to annoy Lupin so thoroughly, except for realizing that he hadn't done anything more inventively provoking than usual; he'd only stumbled on one of Lupin's major hang-ups. He would have been pleased about that, except it was something so stupid it only irritated him.

"I'd think you'd be thanking me," he said, with a sneer that wouldn't usually have produced any outward effect on Lupin, but now made him glare like a spearhead. "I saved you from having to make some very awkward excuses to Miss Potter about whatever your bloody problem is. Allergic to Omnioculars, are you? Are they part of some debilitating childhood memory?"

"It's none of your business, frankly," Lupin said, looking so annoyed that Severus would have suspected someone had Polyjuiced into him if he'd not been stuck with the bugger the whole day.

"Frankly, I don't care." Ugh, it was time for another dose. He took a mouthful of Polyjuice from the flask in his pocket and did his bloody-minded best not to shudder or gag.

"Then you can mind your own bloody business," Lupin said shortly.

Instead of answering, Severus ostentatiously raised the Omnioculars, pointing them straight at the Top Box. To his surprise, Miss Potter was peering straight at them. When she saw that "Ebeneezer" had discovered her, however, she snatched her arm down, elbowing Granger, who appeared to be trying to get her attention.

Severus watched as Miss Potter shook hands with Cornelius Fudge and was introduced to the Bulgarian Minister. Lupin was right: looking at her face, it couldn't have been clearer that she hated every point-and-gape at her scar, and the Bulgarian Minister was doing it freely.

Now Miss Potter's expression was mingled distaste and surprise, as if she'd gone to pull on her shoes and found something decomposing inside. Ah, Lucius had arrived.

Narcissa was scrutinizing Miss Potter. Shit.

"You keep them, then," Lupin said dryly. "Since you so clearly enjoy spying in the Top Box."

Now it was Severus' turn to be annoyed. It was unfair: Lupin could rankle him by something so simple as existing; anything he said was especially abrasive, and when he was trying to be provoking. . .

"Lucius has arrived," he told Lupin, still looking through the Omnioculars as if spying on the Malfoys filing to their seats was a riveting sight. Miss Potter was now doing a very ostentatious job of pretending the Malfoys weren't sitting almost right behind her. Draco was glaring at the back of her head, and Narcissa was watching the both of them with an expression as remote and cold as the moon.

Now Ludo Bagman was dashing into the Box and raising his wand to his throat.

"Ladies and gentleman, welcome," boomed Bagman's voice as an ecstatic ripple rushed across the thousands in the stands, "to the final of the four-hundred-and-twenty-second Quidditch World Cup!"

Severus did not feel excited, not even a tiny bit, as the scoreboard wiped itself free of advertisements and proclaimed BULGARIA: ZERO, IRELAND: ZERO.

"And now, without further ado, allow me to introduce the Bulgarian Team Mascots!"

"Oh, they've brought Veela," Lupin said, his bad humor now stuffed inside whatever lock-box in which he kept his real feelings. "Let me borrow those Omnioculars, would you?"

Severus would have said something like You mean your Omnioculars, that Miss Potter bought you? but the Veela were gliding into formation, and he needed his hands free to stuff his ears. As they began to dance, his mind started to feel like it was floating on a gently bobbing sea. Blocking the music wasn't enough. He wrenched his attention (which dug in its heals like a mule) away from the Veela and fixed it on Lupin. To his relief, that incinerated any sense of dreamlike arousal the Veela had conjured up.

Lupin was peering at the Veela through the Omnioculars without any sign of the blissful idiocy they were causing in everyone else. The man seated next to Severus had climbed onto his chair and was trying to do a handstand, while his highly displeased girlfriend tried to stop him.

Severus could tell the music had stopped when all the men nearby started regaining their senses. He unplugged his ears to angry shouting as the Veela wafted across the pitch to line up against one side, their preternaturally beautiful faces serene and shining.

"Doesn't work on werewolves," Lupin told Severus in an undertone as Bagman's voice roared above the roars of the crowd, "And now, kindly put your wands in the air for the Irish National Team Mascots!"

As soon as the leprechauns poured into the stadium like a cloud of green bees, Severus and Lupin covered their heads.

"Don't they know it's fake gold?" Severus snapped as the people around them went into an even greater frenzy than before, scrambling to get the coins that were pinging and clattering off the seats and their own fat heads.

"I don't think you can expect dignified forbearance tonight," Lupin said, lifting his foot as one of the children from the group seated next to him crawled underneath his seat to grab the gold that had rolled under there. He seemed to have recovered his spirits entirely. He was watching the Bulgarian and Irish teams assemble in mid-air with every appearance of wholehearted enjoyment.

While Lupin was trying himself into a pretzel so greedy children could paw underneath his seat, Severus stole back the Omnioculars so he could check the Top Box. Miss Potter and her two sidekicks, even Draco, were all watching the Irish and Bulgarian teams' introductions with the breathless excitement of the young. Lucius, being an insufferable ponce, was the picture of dignified forbearance. (Narcissa looked like a queen being driven to the guillotine.)

"Theeeeey're OFF!" screamed Bagman. "And it's Mullet! Troy! Moran! Dimitrov! Back to Mullet! Troy! Levski! Moran!"

Severus never bothered going to professional Quidditch games. There were other things he'd far rather spend his money on, and in recent years, his having to watch those benighted Gryffindors pummel his House, a disgrace which the rest of the school took such delight in, had rather soured him on the whole bloody stupid sport. But this game was played at such a speed that there was no time for Bagman to shove in any idiotic commentary; all he could do was belt out the players' names. The Irish Chasers, moreover, were so talented that watching them work provided its own pleasure. There was an artistry to the way they flew, separately and together, and their instinctive interplay was so adeptly executed it seemed almost telepathic.

The Bulgarian Chasers were nothing to them, but their Beaters were doing their best to adjust for the disparity: they slung the Bludgers at the Irish team with a ferocity that increased for each Irish score, and it was they who finally permitted Bulgaria to make their first goal.

Quite a few men were too slow to prevent themselves from being mesmerized by the Veela, who struck up a triumphant dance, and only came back to themselves when the Veela had stopped. Severus only uncovered his eyes when he heard Bagman shout:

"Oh, I say!"

Viktor Krum and Lynch were plummeting through the air, knifing straight down through the formation of Chasers, as fast as if they were Muggle sky-diving. (Miss Potter could probably fly that fast if she tried.)

"They're going to crash!" screamed someone in the stands nearby.

At the last moment, Krum swung out of the dive and spiraled away, ascending almost as fast as he'd descended; but Lynch hit the ground with a thud that they probably heard in the Top Box. The green side of the stadium groaned.

"It's time out as trained mediwizrds hurry onto the pitch to examine Aidan Lynch!" Bagman announced.

"Oh dear," Lupin said, looking torn between sympathy and amusement. "I hope that doesn't give Harriet any ideas. . ."

"I'll take a hundred points off Gryffindor if she tries," Severus said, as a dozen alarming images of Miss Potter plowing herself into the ground popped into his head.

Now Lupin was turning the sympathy-cum-amusement on him. "Is that really necessary?"

Severus just jabbed a finger at the pitch. Below, a half-conscious Lynch was barely visible amongst a cloud of mediwizards.

"I do see what you mean, but I think Harriet's a better flyer than that." Lupin raised the Omnioculars and followed Krum through the air as he circled the pitch, scanning for the Snitch. He twiddled the knob on the Omnioculars and read, "'Wronksi Feint—Dangerous Seeker Diversion'. . ."

"Two hundred points," Severus said.

Lynch was back on his feet and mounting his broom with minimal unsteadiness. Severus didn't know why it had never occurred to him that Miss Potter might pick up dangerous ideas from watching professional Quidditch, and damned if she wasn't the sort to try them. Second year she'd caught the Snitch while hanging from her broom by her knees after that fucking house-elf's Bludger had knocked her off while breaking her arm. She'd probably be attempting the bloody Wronksi Feint the very next time she got on her broom.

Lynch having escaped paralysis, the Irish team seemed to gain new heart, and as their lead steadily increased, the Bulgarians worked more grimly to stave off their own defeat. With the Irish team one-hundred-and-twenty points ahead, the Bulgarians knew that catching the Snitch was their only hope of success, and their endeavors shifted accordingly not to scoring, but to preventing the Irish Chasers from scoring before their Seeker caught the Snitch. As one of the Irish Chasers sped toward the Bulgarian goal posts to make her shot, the Keeper flew out to meet her and actually elbowed her in the face.

"Penalty to Ireland!" shouted Bagman after the Bulgarian Keeper elbowed one of the Irish Chasers in the face.

Even between the mascots, matters were starting to get nasty. The leprechauns formed a gloating formation of 'HA HA HA!' and the Veela started dancing fiercely in response. On the leprechauns this had no discernible effect, but the referee was caught unprepared. In fact, he lost his head, and started strutting up and down in front of them, flexing his arms and smoothing his mustache. Lupin laughed outright, but Severus would have admitted the werewolf wasn't always torturous company before he showed any amusement of his own.

He was almost disappointed when one of the mediwizards ran forward (fingers in his ears) to kick the referee in the shins. But while this knocked the man back to rights, it didn't improve matters: he was clearly so embarrassed that he tried to order the Veela off the pitch.

"Clever," Severus snorted.

"Now there's something we haven't seen before!" Bagman said.

"This can't be good," Lupin said as the Bulgarian Beaters, having flown down, dismounted and started shouting. The referee shouted back, and there was a brief waving of furious arms. Judging by the enraged pointing, the referee was ordering them back into the air, and when they refused to budge, he blew his whistle in two angry bursts.

"Two penalties for Ireland!" Bagman reported, while the Bulgarian crowd howled abuse down at the pitch. "Volkov and Vulchanov had better get back on those brooms. . ."

They did, but that unpleasant, if amusing, interlude didn't improve matters. The stakes were even higher now, and the ferocity of the players was amplified. The Beaters on both sides became ruthless, and the Bulgarian pair didn't seem to care whether they hit Bludger or player.

Severus had watched his Slytherins losing to the Gryffindors often enough to recognize when a team was letting their resentment overtake their sportsmanship: there came a point where you didn't care that you lost or even how you did, as long as you made the other team as angry as you were, and bruised into the bargain.

The Bulgarian Chaser gained his team another foul when he tried to knock the Irish Chaser off her broom; the leprechauns responded appropriately by forming themselves into a rude hand sign. This was the breaking point for the Veela. Although Severus couldn't hear it, he imagined the rippling sound their scales made as they erupted from their moon-white skin, the creak of their beaks from their perfect noses, the susurrus of their leathery wings from their shoulders. The air lit up with red and green as the leprechauns darted down to taunt and weave between the handfuls of fire the Veela tried (and sometimes succeeded) to blast them with.

A stray handful of Veela-fire caught the referee's broomtail on fire, so the mediwizards were left to deal with the dueling mascots, while the Bulgarians and the Irish roiled through the air more furiously than ever. One of the Irish Beaters cracked Krum in the face with a Bludger, and blood exploded out of his nose, surely blinding him. Still on fire, the referee was in no shape to call a time out, and in the next moment quite a few people screamed as the Irish Seeker plunged toward earth.

"Do you think he's seen it?" Lupin asked, trying to wrestle the Omnioculars away from Severus.

"I thought you didn't want them?" Severus demanded, hanging on.

Krum, heedless of his broken nose, went hurtling after Lynch. Blood flecked the air behind him as he dove and poured down his chin, but he not only didn't seem to notice, he seemed perfectly able to see through it. He leveled with Lynch and even overtook him—

"They're going to crash!" shrieked the same person as before.

"They're not!" shouted someone else.

"Lynch is!" yelled a third someone.

There was another reverberating thud as Lynch hit the ground with tremendous force, and was immediately stampeded by a hoard of angry Veela. Severus actually laughed (only once before he caught himself).

"Where's the Snitch!" screamed the nervous person who kept predicting crashes half-accurately.

"Krum has it!" Lupin shouted back.

He was right: glistening with his own blood, Krum was rising into the air, the fist held over his head showing a glint of gold.

The scoreboard flashed several times in succession, as if trying to get everyone's attention. BULGARIA: ONE HUNDRED AND SIXTY, IRELAND: ONE HUNDRED AND SEVENTY.

There was a moment of hushed silence, as if the crowd had not quite caught up with what had happened. Then an enormous roar began to build among the Irish supporters, starting as a rumble and then powering into wave after wave of screams of delight that made Severus' arms prickle with gooseflesh and his ears ring.

"IRELAND WIN! KRUM GETS THE SNITCH—BUT IRELAND WIN—good Lord, I don't think any of us were expecting that!" Bagman bellowed.

"Some of us might have," Lupin murmured, his eyes shining with enjoyment.


"That was so cool!" Harriet said as they headed down the velvet-covered stairs. She felt like someone had hexed her ankles with a Bobbing Curse; she couldn't stop bouncing.

"He was very brave, wasn't he?" Hermione said. "Krum, I mean. He looked a terrible mess."

"He was brilliant," Ron said, looking a mixture of dead-serious and ecstatic. "I can't believe we got to see him so close. . . !"

"You can dream about it for years to come, little brother," said Fred, but he sounded very cheerful. He and George were having trouble finding a place to put all their gold.

"Don't tell your mother you've been gambling," Mr Weasley implored.

"Don't worry, Dad, we've got big plans for this money. We don't want it confiscated."

Harriet wondered if it had anything to do with Weasleys Wizard Wheezes. Mr Weasley seemed to be thinking the same thing, because he didn't pursue the matter any further.

The walk back to camp was chaotic. People kept bellowing songs out of tune and in a hundred different languages; the leprechauns went streaking back and forth over the forest, cackling; and some people who had already started drinking fell sprawling across the path, so you had to climb over them. At the camp, the noise was even greater: people settled in to celebrate, some of them with fireworks and instruments, and everyone was flourishing even more alcohol and even louder singing. Harriet wondered how anyone was going to sleep tonight.

Padfoot knocked her flat again in his enthusiasm, but she was in such a good mood that she only thought this was very funny, and wondered if it was midnight yet so that she could say she had gone the rest of the day without ending up on the ground.

Once again, Remus appeared overhead, hauled Padfoot off and helped her up.

"Did you enjoy the game?" he asked, smiling, as he dug an admonishing knee into Padfoot's side.

"It was amazing!" she said, hugging Padfoot.

"We're all having hot chocolate," Mr Weasley told Remus as his sons and Ginny ducked into the bigger tent, "if you and your friend would like to join us. I should warn you, though: there will most likely be constant game replay, so if you've had enough of Quidditch for one night. . ."

Remus laughed. "How could they talk about anything else?"

But he declined coming over. He did it so nicely that Arthur chuckled and nodded, but Harriet felt doubt squirming into her stomach. Was Remus not coming because he was still upset with her?

As everyone else settled round the kitchen table with mugs of hot chocolate, she peered out of the tent flap and saw Remus and his friend walking off into the camp, talking to each other. It struck Harriet that for all Remus had pitched his tent with the Weasleys and Mr Weasley expected him coming, Remus had spent hardly any time with them and almost all of it with his friend.

Just then, his friend glanced over his shoulder—straight at her. Her heart jumped, and she pulled back from the tent flap. There was an almost unnerving intensity to it that reminded her, to her irritation, of Snape all over again. At that moment, it was Snape-catching-her-snooping.

For some reason, after that she couldn't stop feeling jittery. Her jitters weren't helped by the fact that she'd somehow wound up sitting at the table next to Bill. At least he was caught up in a debate with George about the Hawkshead Attacking Formation.

She didn't know how long they all stayed at the table, only that they'd gone on talking Quidditch for so long that Hermione was looking unutterably bored. A few minutes after Harriet noticed that, Ginny fell asleep right at the table, spilling hot chocolate all over Percy.

"Bed," said Mr Weasley firmly. "Everyone."

In the Girl Tent, Harriet pulled on her brand new nightgown that Jean had insisted she buy to replace her tatty old Oxfam pajamas. She took off her glasses and climbed into the top bunk, since Hermione was afraid of rolling off. Ginny, already tired and used to sleeping through ruckus, was the first to pass out, while Harriet lay dreamily watching shadows flicker and dance on the canvas overhead. It reminded her of the way the Irish Chasers flew.

"Harriet?" Hermione whispered, so quietly that Harriet barely heard her over the singing and the occasional firework bang.

"Mm?"

"Oh, good. I can't sleep with all this going on. . ."

Harriet rolled over until she was peering over the edge of the bunk. Hermione had twisted to the side so that her head was hanging off the bed, the pale shadow of her face turned up toward Harriet.

"Want me to read you Quidditch replays until you get so bored you fall asleep?" Harriet whispered.

"Please no," Hermione muttered. When a particularly explosive firework netted the tent in light and shadow, Harriet saw that she was smiling.

Harriet climbed down from the bunk and crawled into Hermione's so they could talk without waking Ginny. Though they couldn't possibly be any louder than that group singing "Ruby Tuesday."

"Why do you think Remus acted like that about the Omnioculars?" Harriet asked, hogging Hermione's pillow.

Realizing this was a Serious Question, Hermione stopped trying to elbow her off the pillow. Harriet obligingly shifted to the left so Hermione could claim her half.

"You know him much better than I do, Harriet. . ."

"But why would someone do that?"

The bunk filled with a Thinking Silence. "Well," Hermione said slowly, "Ron didn't want you to buy him a pair at first. . . it was only when you said 'There's your Christmas present for about ten years, mind,' that he was able to be pleased. Lupin's never seemed like he had much money. . . I know there are all these horrid laws about werewolves that make it really difficult for them to have a job. . . Maybe he felt embarrassed, like Ron did?"

The more Harriet rolled that in her mind like a marble in a jar, the more she thought Hermione was probably right. Remus' clothes were shabby and everything he owned fit into a suitcase—a magically enlarged suitcase, maybe, but still a suitcase. Sirius lavished presents on her but never seemed to buy Remus as much as a butterbeer. Was that because Remus didn't want it?

She and Hermione lay in silence, listening to the singing and laughter, maybe even drifting half into sleep. Harriet kept seeing Krum moving through the air as if he was weightless, and Remus pulling away from her, and wasn't sure whether she was daydreaming or night dreaming.

She came fully awake when outside the tent, Padfoot started barking.


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