The Quidditch World Cup
"Hermione, come on!" shouted Ron. "We don't want to be late to the final match!"
Hermione snapped her book closed with a huff. She got out of her seat and followed after Ron. Stepping out of the tent, she grimaced at the cacophony of noise assaulting her. She had been here two days already, and the noise still bothered her. An unintelligible mix of different languages and vendors plying their wares. At first it had been exciting, seeing so many magical people from different places, but now it was just tiresome.
She listened to Ron and Harry chat excitedly about the cup and about Viktor Krum with a roll of her eyes. Honestly, the boy was just a Quidditch player for God's sake.
The way they talk about him, you'd think he came up with a 13th use for Dragon's Blood!
The walk to Top Box was long and the steps were many. By the time they reached the top, she was panting and sure if she took another step she would catch a cramp. Her legs hadn't been this tired since she'd quit playing football.
Stepping into the large box, which was lavishly decorated, her eyes widened at the sight of the just who all was in the box. How on earth did Mr. Weasley get us tickets to the Minister's Box?
"Harry, my boy!" Minister Fudge exclaimed.
Fudge grasped Harry's hand, shaking it vigorously. He dragged Harry away, and Hermione could just barely hear the Minister introducing him to the foreign diginitaries.
"Wow," Ron muttered beside her, glaring at Harry. Only Ron could be so oblivious as to not see how miserable Harry was being dragged around and shown off like a prize.
The door to the box slid open, and Hermione couldn't repress her frown as Draco, his mother and father stepped into the box. Each was dressed and styled immaculately, not a hair out of place. It was so easy to forget how important some of her own classmates were — even those that went out of their way to remind you.
"Ah, Lucius!" Fudge said, bustling over to the man. If Fudge saw the hint of a sneer on Malfoy's face, he didn't act like it. Harry took the opportunity to slip away, finally making his way back to them.
"Come on," Ron said excitedly, his jealousy gone instantly as he finally turned his eyes to the Pitch. "The match is gonna be starting soon!"
Rolling her eyes, she followed after them, taking a seat next to Ginny, who was quietly just as excited as Ron and Harry.
Hermione turned her head as the door to the top box opened once more, and her heart jumped to her throat as Perseus stepped through.
His violet gaze scanned the box in a single sweep, his eyes meeting her's just long enough. He was dressed in a silken black robe, the fibers catching in the bright lights of the stadium. His hair was combed neatly, in the same style it was when she'd last seen him during the summer. He looked — impossibly — like he'd grown even taller, and Hermione swallowed thickly when his disinterested gaze swept the room once more. God he has no right to be that handsome.
Just like Harry and the Malfoys before him, Fudge quickly made his way over, though his expression was more cautious and his countenance all around less exuberant.
"Heir Black," Minister Fudge said, reaching out to shake his hand. Perseus raised a brow, but shook the man's hand, ignoring what Hermione knew was an improper social interaction.
Not even the Minister was equal to even the lowest lord of the Wizengamot. To presume to shake the hand of the highest ranking noble in the country? Hermione was more shocked that Perseus had shaken his hand. And judging by the mockingly raised brow of Lucius Malfoy, it hadn't gone missed.
"Fudge," Perseus said with a nod of his head, not even bothering with the man's title. Fudge's smile tightened and his eyes pinched, but just as Perseus did before him, he ignored the slight.
Again, the box opened, and Fudge seemed eager to separate himself from Perseus, who made his way to the Malfoys — specifically to Draco's mother, who for the first time didn't look like someone had waved a dung bomb in front of her face.
Almost as one, the men in the box turned to the door as if they were under a spell (notably, Perseus, Draco's father, Mr. Weasley and the Bulgarian Minister all seemed oblivious.)
Following their gaze, her eyes widened as she spotted the two most beautiful women she'd ever seen. She had stumbled across her mother's modeling magazines, and more embarrassingly some rather graphic magazines of her father's — and she could say without any shadow of a doubt, the two women standing in front of her were otherworldly.
Both had heads of straight silvery hair that seemed to shine in its own light, and blue eyes that seemed to burn like bluebell flames. Their faces were an impossibly seamless blend of sharp edges and soft curves — and their figure seemed to follow that trend from what she could make out through their robes. They were both several inches taller than the man in front of them, who was just barely taller than Harry, and quite portly.
"Director Delacour," Minister Fudge said cordially, struggling to drag his eyes away from what was clearly the Director's wife and daughter. "I'm glad you could make it. Hopefully Minister Bassot recovers from his illness quickly."
Director Delacour nodded politely. He smiled widely at the room, but his gaze was just like that of Perseus and Draco's father — calm and calculating, taking in the room in a single glance.
"Bonjour, Minister Fudge," Director Delacour replied, confirming what Hermione had assumed. There was just something that was so distinctly French about them. I'm glad I was allowed to come in Minister Bassot's place." He motioned to his wife, and who Hermione assumed was their daughter. "This is my wife, Apolline, and my eldest daughter Fleur."
Fudge fumbled over his words, his small, stubby hands trembling. The woman introduced as Apolline watched him with visual amusement, the corners of her lips twitching. Her daughter was the opposite, her gaze dismissing the minister as though he was insignificant, her nose lifted in the air.
"Bloody hell," Ron muttered next to her. Turning to look at him, she found him staring at the Delacour's, his eyes glassy and even a bit of drool slipping out of his mouth.
She dug her heel into his foot sharply. He yelped, glared at her, and returned to staring. She turned away from him with a huff, satisfied that Harry at least was managing to keep his leering discreet.
The person she was most curious about however, was Perseus. Her mouth dried up as thoughts she had tried her best to keep at bay since she'd returned home came flooding back. She couldn't hope to compete with either of the two witches who'd just entered the box. Reluctantly, she turned her eyes to Perseus.
And, somewhat unsurprisingly, she found him staring down at the quidditch pitch, his face a mask of indifference that bordered on boredom. As far as she could tell, he hadn't even paid the two women a single glance. In fact, in the time it had taken the Minister to greet the Delacours, Perseus had moved on from the Malfoys, and was seated in the corner by himself, far removed from the other occupants of the box — something she was sure he was grateful for.
"What's Black doing here?" Harry asked, glancing at Perseus. That finally seemed to snap Ron out of his unwavering stare, as he too glanced over at Perseus.
"Dunno," Ron muttered. "You reckon he's heard from Sirius?"
Harry's eyes lit up, and for a second she thought he was going to march to the opposite side of the box and ask Perseus himself.
"Most likely," Hermione said. "He's his father, after all. Besides, it would probably be more appropriate to ask what we're doing here."
"And what's that supposed to mean?" Ron demanded.
Harry frowned at that, his throat bobbing as he sat back into his seat heavily. Clearly he was just as keen on sharing Sirius as Perseus was. Though Hermione got the feeling that Perseus was more worried about spending time with Harry himself than sharing his father.
"Look," Ron whispered hurriedly, motioning in Perseus' direction.
Hermione's stomach clenched as she watched none other than the Delacours moving towards Perseus, though she could understand why. Even as they moved farther away, the stares still followed. Much to her dismay, the front row had only four seats, with Perseus sitting in the one closest to the wall. Director Delacour sat in the seat farthest from the wall and his wife took the seat next to him, leaving their daughter, Fleur, to take the last remaining seat. Right next to Perseus.
"Lucky bastard," muttered Ron.
"Language, Ronald," Hermione hissed, perhaps more harshly than necessary.
Ron shot her a look of confusion before sharing a look with Harry, who's face clearly said he had no idea what was going on.
Hermione turned away from them, instead surreptitiously watching Perseus out of the corner of her eye. He was now writing in a small brown, leather bound notebook with a runic pen. She wanted desperately to know what he was writing in it, and judging by the way Fleur Delacour was peaking over it with a look of abject interest, she wasn't the only one.
Perseus glanced at Fleur out of the corner of his eye, but said nothing, returning to his book. The girl appeared to meet his gaze, and showed no sign of being ashamed she'd been caught staring. In fact, she leaned even closer.
This time when Perseus looked at her, she spoke, though Hermione couldn't hope to hear what she said, over the roar of the stadium and the distance between them. And even without the noise of the stadium, sometimes she struggled to hear Perseus when she was right next to him.
Fleur's mother was glancing at the pair of them with a look that was equally amused as it was surprised. Hermione turned away, and was happy when the distraction that was the quidditch match began.
The teams were announced, but when the Bulgarian mascots came out, the stadium erupted in screams, and Hermione and Harry had to stop Ron from flinging himself out of the top box. Hermione stared down at them — inhumanly beautiful women with flowing silver hair — and glanced at the Delacours. Both women were on their feet, glaring mutinously at the large group of women on the field and Hermione could see it clearly. They were one and the same.
"What are they?" Hermione asked Mr. Weasley, who was sitting placidly as ever, but it was the eldest Weasley brother, Bill, who answered her.
"Veela," he said. She looked over at him; he was staring at the crowd — and his own brother — in amusement. He had the blue eyes of his father and the flaming red hair of the rest of his family. His long shaggy hair was pulled back in a ponytail that accentuated the fang he had stuck in his ear lobe. He was the first wizard she'd seen with pierced ears. "A magical being that has an allure of sorts that causes most men — and some women — to do ludicrous things to gain their attention."
"So why aren't you, or Mr. Weasley affected?" Why isn't Perseus affected, is what she really wanted to ask.
"My father is such a love struck sap I don't think he's noticed another woman since he's met my mother." Mr. Weasley smiled and nodded. "As for me, I'm a Cursebreaker. It'll take a lot more than a little allure and a pretty face to addle my mind."
"Occlumency," she whispered to herself.
"Yes," Bill said, turning to face her fully now, his curiosity piqued. "I didn't expect you to have even heard of that kind of magic."
Hermione blushed under the unexpected attention. She thought she'd been quiet enough. "I read about it."
Bill frowned. "The sale of books on Occlumency is illegal, and Dumbledore removed all books on the art from the library long before I entered the school."
Hermione's eyes inadvertently flickered to Perseus, who was once more writing in his notebook, Fleur Delacour so close to him her hair was spilling onto his shoulder. Illegal? Why hadn't he told her the book was illegal? "I got it from a friend."
Bill's eyes went right where her's had just been, before snapping back to Hermione's. Her heart thudded in her chest, but Bill merely raised a brow.
"That's some friend," he said, then leaned back in his chair, and turned his gaze to the pitch as the referee finally blew the whistle for the game to begin.
She sat perfectly still for several seconds, her breaths coming in shallow. God, if she wanted to keep her friendship with Perseus a secret, she'd have to do better than that.
Once her nerves had finally settled enough that she could breathe properly, she pulled out the book she'd brought with her. Advanced Practical Applications for Arithmancy. The book had been written by Perseus' Great-Great Grandfather himself, Arcturus Black. She'd had to practically beg him to let her take it before he finally relented, on the condition that she return it when she was finished, and allowed him to charm the cover. The book had never been published, and there was only two people in the world who could give her access to the book.
Opening the book, she was engrossed in seconds. The deafening cheers of the crowd faded, and she became lost in the words.
"Arranging the runes like this will cause the book to self-destruct, non?" Fleur asked, her warm breath washing over his cheek. He was occluding his mind, but even still he could feel her allure on the edges, like warm, gentle waves trying to lure him out.
He nodded, continuing to write. He had enjoyed his conversation with Fleur so far. The girl was incredibly intelligent, offering him small pieces of information and even a few pieces of advice. Her French accent and musical tone were also more than welcome. Apparently the girl was studying to be an Enchantress. And while he was good — better than most would ever be — at runes and charms, the girl was admittedly far better than him, at least as far as runes went. The majority of his free time was spent studying the human body, studying healing magic, and practicing to duel. It didn't lend itself well to other academic interests.
"But if you arrange them this way," she said, pointing at them with a slender, manicured finger, "and anchor a vanishing charm, you could theoretically erase only the contents of the book, and not destroy your entire artifact."
Perseus paused. He glanced at the girl out of the corner of his eye, meeting her superior gaze. Her idea was ingenious, he hadn't even considered it, and she knew it. It was rare that he found someone as smart as him when it came to magic, let alone outright smarter. But when it came to enchanting, Fleur Delacour was simply better.
"I'm more than just a pretty face, non?" she said, a smirk adorning said absurdly pretty face.
He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. Her full rosy lips were quirked in a smile, her blue eyes blazing. "Something like that," he said with a smirk of his own. Her answering glare was playful.
"What other things have you enchanted?" she asked, the French accent rolling the words off her tongue.
"This is my first."
"Oui?" Her surprise was evident. "Very impressive."
He continued to write in the notebook. He chatted with Fleur for the entire duration of the match, even talking briefly with her father about France's participation in the upcoming Triwizard Tournament — which he had just recently learned about from Daphne's father. Fleur was so sure that she'd be selected as the Beauxbatons champion, she even went as far as to say the rest of her school could stay behind. She certainly wasn't lacking in confidence.
He listened as she cursed in French when the Bulgarian Veela transformed in the middle of the pitch, flinging fireballs. The girl had no idea he was nearly as fluent as she was. She raged about the shame they brought upon veela, and he wasn't sure she wasn't about to sprout feathers herself, angry as she was.
Perseus stood to his feet as the announcer's finally ended the match. He offered Fleur his hand, ignoring the electric shock it sent up his arm when she placed it in his. Her magic was warm and caressed his own in a way that made him have to fight a blush. If she felt it, she made no mention of it.
"Merci," she said. "I hope to see you at Hogwarts in a few months." Her smile was radiant, brighter than it had been all night, and he couldn't help but return it, the way it lit up her entire face.
"I look forward to it as well." He'd enjoyed speaking with her most of all. She'd been insightful and her particular brand of dry, wry humor had him constantly fighting to keep a smirk off his face.
"It was nice to meet you, Your Grace," Director Delacour said. Perseus smiled — ever the Diplomat, Fleur's father was. Even though he was technically a Duke, he was very rarely addressed as such. It was an antiquated term, and only ever used in Wizengamot sessions, or when someone wanted something. His aunt had taught him as a child to be wary of people who were more concerned with niceties than business.
Fleur's mother inclined her head with a smile, and as a group, they turned to leave. His eyes fell to the swishing of their robes. Even while loose, they did nothing to hide the incredibly full figures of both women. He tore his gaze away, cursing in his head. The tales of Veela's beauty were not exaggerated — if anything they were understated, and Fleur was more beautiful than the others he had.
"Can't keep your eyes off that beast, can you Black?"
He closed his eyes. He should've known. Draco would take any opportunity he could to be himself, that was clear. Even the presence of his mother and father did nothing to reign in the boy's childish, spiteful nature. He often wondered how Arcturus would've handled someone like Draco, and just as often he reached the conclusion that his Great-Grandfather would've had some great tragedy befall the boy.
If only he wasn't Narcissa's son. Despite being a constant nuisance, the boy was family, some of the few he had left. He detested him, but he'd rather him be alive.
"Did you enjoy the match, Lord and Lady Malfoy?" Perseus asked pleasantly, turning to face the Malfoys. Lucius' stare was cold, and Narcissa's was void of any emotion at all. Draco looked wary. His emotions were clear and easy to see. He was disappointed in Narcissa — it was as clear as ever Draco hadn't been raised a Black.
He lacked the tact, the grace, the sheer presence of a Black. Where Black's went, eyes followed naturally. If it wasn't for his name on the family tree, Perseus might think the boy was adopted. Even then, it was still a possibility.
"It was mildly entertaining," Lucius drawled, tapping his cane at his feet.
"And you, Lady Malfoy?"
Her lip curled, and her eyes flickered first to the Delacours, and then to the Weasleys. "It would've been better without the company of all the rabble."
Perseus smiled, his own gaze flickering to Lucius and Draco. "I can't help but agree."
Lucius stiffened minutely, and Narcissa's eyes narrowed, but if he wasn't mistaken he had seen a flash of amusement in those grey eyes of hers. Draco still looked mildly befuddled. A constant state for him, most likely.
Perseus bowed his head to them. After sitting in the same chair for four hours, he was tired. And when he got tired, much of his restraint failed him. The large bed waiting for him back at his tent couldn't be anymore tempting. "Lord and Lady, Draco." He took Narcissa's hand, brushing a kiss on her porcelain skin. "Perhaps we could exchange letters, my dear cousin. We have very little family remaining, after all."
She slid her hand from his with all the grace you'd expect from a Black, the barest of smiles on her lips. She offered him a small, stiff nod. "If you wish."
With one last smile and nod, he took his leave. He met Hermione's gaze just before he left, and let the corners of his lips curl. She'd had her head buried in a book the entire match, the same as him, occasionally talking with who Perseus assumed was the eldest Weasley brother, William Weasley.
He made his way back to his tent, trying his best to ignore the rowdy fans and loud crowds.
Hermione squeezed her wand tighter in her fist, keeping close to Mr. Weasley. After what Perseus had told her about wands, she never let hers go. She had no idea how Harry managed to lose his, or how it ended up in the hands of a house elf. She couldn't even imagine what Perseus would say to her if she ever lost her wand.
And god, that awful Crouch! How could he treat Winky like that? Clearly the elf didn't cast the spell. He'd rather save his own reputation than do what's right.
"Is everyone alright?" Mr. Weasley asked. Nobody had spoken since they'd made it out of the woods. Hermione looked around. Ginny was limping, there was what looked like blood on Ron's forehead, and a sharp pain exploded in her right knee every time she took a step.
Though there were various murmurs of "yeah" and "I'm fine", Mr. Weasley wasn't convinced. He led them over to a large tent in the middle of the campgrounds. It wasn't there when they returned from the match — it must've been just recently put up as a clinic of sorts.
Her breath caught in her throat as they passed a tent that was larger than the rest. The Black family coat of arms was very distinct — the crows and constellations so familiar to her.
Was Perseus hurt in the attack? She doubted it, but she couldn't help but worry. Death Eaters attacking the World Cup? It was madness. She had wanted desperately for Perseus to be by her side when they were wandering aimlessly through the forest. Perhaps only Dumbledore himself would've made her feel safer.
And despite herself, Malfoy's words in the forest kept replaying in her head — a cruel rephrasing of something Perseus had told her during their first year. Was she really at such great risk? Would those wizards have attacked her, and flung her around in the air? She wasn't sure she wanted to know.
Mr. Weasley pushed open the door to the tent: a large wooden door that was out of place on the canvas of the tent.
Stepping inside, it seemed like she'd just stepped into the infirmary. Organized chaos reigned; witches and wizards darted back and forth — Mediwizards and Healers seeing as many patients as they could.
Mr. Weasley pushed his way through the crowd, Hermione, Ron, Harry and Ginny right behind him. The pain in her knee was growing sharper with every step, and Ron's forehead was practically painted red.
"Hello, I have four child—"
"One moment," the witch interrupted Mr. Weasley, scribbling quickly on a large sheet of parchment.
Hermione had to swallow back bile as she looked around. There was burnt flesh, protruding bones — all kinds of grievous injury around her. She squeezed her eyes shut and tried her hardest not to ignore the hellacious smells assaulting her.
"Sorry about that, Mr. Black can see you now."
"Black?" muttered Harry, sharing a glance with Ron.
It couldn't be a coincidence, could it? Hermione knew it wasn't. Perseus had told her if there was ever another wizard in Britain with the surname Black, they were foreign or a muggleborn. His ancestors had seen to that — turning a relatively common name into one that was synonymous with his family.
Mr. Weasley led them to where the lady had directed them, a far corner of the tent. She kept her eyes on Mr. Weasley's back the entire way.
God, she hoped it was Perseus. Just seeing his face, looking him in the eye would settle her racing heart.
She knew it was him before he even turned around. His tall, slim figure was draped in a silken black robe that caught in the light. The way he practically glided around the bed. The way his hair curled slightly at the ends, already longer than it had been that summer.
He turned around, feeling them approach — however it is he did that. His eyes met hers, never once wavering. Hermione wanted desperately to run to him, to bury herself in his chest and forget everything that had happened. Not for the first time, she was angry about having to hide their friendship.
"Uhhh, Mr. Black?" Mr. Weasley asked, surprised.
"Yes." Perseus replied with a nod. His eyes swept over the group, taking in their injuries. "You first, Weasley." He nodded to Ron.
Ron grumbled, but trodded forward and sat on the bed. Hermione watched in fascination as Perseus waved the wand around Ron's head, muttering incantations to himself. The blood vanished from Ron's forehead and a decent sized gash became visible — it had probably happened when Ron tripped over the tree root. With a wave and whisper, the cut sealed itself closed.
"Merlin," said Mr. Weasley, looking closely at Ron's head. "You're in Ron's year, aren't you?"
Perseus nodded, and gestured Ginny forward after Ron got off the bed, rubbing at his forehead.
Ginny limped forward. She blushed crimson all the way down her neck when Perseus had to help her on to the bed. Ron grumbled beside her, and Hermione rolled her eyes. It wasn't Ginny's fault Perseus was ridiculously handsome. And it wasn't like Ginny would take well to any over protectiveness on Ron's part; last Hermione had heard — from the spouts of unverified information that are Lavender and Parvati — Ginny and Dean were becoming quite close.
"And you've been licensed by the ministry as a Mediwizard?"
"The ICW," Hermione corrected. All eyes turned to her, including Perseus. Her face caught fire under their combined gazes. "What?" she said defensively. "I read it in the Daily Prophet. The youngest Mediwizard in recorded history."
Hermione ignored the amusement in Perseus' eyes, and thankfully he turned his attention back to Ginny.
He twisted her ankle back and forth, watching as she grimaced, before pulling out his wand. "A total break." He twisted his wand sharply with a mutter, and Hermione flinched at the sickening snap of Ginny's ankle mending, but she couldn't look away. Watching Perseus do magic was as good as any book, even this.
He handed Ginny a vial full of shimmering green potion. "You'll be out of sorts for a bit after this," he said. "A Benumbing Draught," he said to Mr. Weasley, who had a look of dawning understanding, his blue eyes twinkling.
Ginny looked between them dubiously, before taking the potion and throwing it back. Perseus smirked as she gagged, glaring at him. Her glare didn't last long, her eyes turning glassy.
She jumped down off the bed, stumbled, and fell directly into Perseus. He caught her easily, stiffening as he wrapped his arms around her to stop them both from falling. She broke into a fit of giggles. "Sorry."
Hermione didn't think she was sorry. In fact, she didn't think it was an accident at all. And from the look in his eye — irritation — neither did Perseus.
Perseus released her and stepped back. His facial expression hadn't changed — still placid as ever — but there was a coldness to it now that wasn't present before. You could feel the bite of ice from his violet gaze alone. The look he gave Ginny was one that Hermione rarely saw, and one that worried her greatly. There was a darkness that sometimes lurked in his pools of violet; a cold, harsh, unforgiving darkness that would snuff out any light and swallow you whole. Then he blinked, and it was gone so fast that if Hermione hadn't seen it before, she would've thought she imagined it.
Perseus glanced at Harry.
"I'm fine," Harry said.
Perseus didn't look like he believed him, but he didn't spare him another glance. She knew what he was thinking — If he says she's fine, who am I to disagree?
She swallowed thickly as Perseus turned to her now, his piercing gaze sweeping over her, before finally focusing on her knee. She'd been standing with her leg extended slightly in front of herself, removing all weight from the limb.
In a move that was a far cry from how stiffly he'd handled Ginny just seconds before, he bent down beside her, wrapped her arm around his shoulders — which are unreasonably firm — and lifted her onto the bed as though she weighed nothing at all.
Her heart thudded harshly in her chest. She was flushed and flustered, her stomach fluttering and her face burning. But his comfortability — his willingness to touch her and be touched by her — filled her with warmth. She had worked long and hard to get him used to her touch, and it made her unbelievably happy every time he initiated contact.
"Couldn't you have just levitated her?" Ron grumbled, crossing his arms.
Hermione frowned, his usual ignorant input far from welcome at the moment. "Don't be silly, Ronald," she said, brushing a stray, bushy curl behind her ear. "It is notoriously unsafe to use magic on people with unknown injuries."
She gasped as her knee grew incredibly cold, almost to the point of burning, but it ended as quickly as it began. Perseus' wand disappeared and he took a step back. Meeting his eyes, she hesitantly slid herself off the bed.
Her eyes widened in wonder as her feet hit the floor. Seconds before, pain would've lanced up her leg. Four years later, and she still couldn't grasp just how amazing magic truly was.
"How come you can use magic here anyway?" Harry asked, his arms crossed over his chest. Ron and Harry had moved closer now, leaving the three of them in a small semi-circle, with Perseus in front of them. Perseus looked at Harry in very well hid contempt — from everyone but her, that is.
"Well isn't it obvious?" Hermione said quickly, before Perseus could say whatever acerbic jab he was no doubt thinking. "He must've been given permission to perform magic here to heal people." She looked around the tent. There were maybe five people besides Perseus healing. They needed all the help they could get.
Ron frowned, but Harry looked chagrined, stuffing his hands in his pockets. He looked around before leaning in closer, and Hermione knew exactly what he was going to ask. It was a question she herself had been meaning to ask.
"Have you — have you heard from Sirius?"
Perseus stared at him for several seconds, and Harry was quickly becoming agitated. Hermione didn't blame him; Perseus' stare was unnerving, even to her at times. His high cheekbones and height gave him the effect of looking down his nose at you in a way that couldn't be interpreted as anything other than arrogant disdain, and the eerie almost luminescent purple of his eyes seemed to pick your thoughts right out of your mind.
He turned around, effectively dismissing them. She pulled Ron back when he went to say something. Sirius was a sensitive topic with Perseus, and he clearly had no interest in talking about it.
Just before they fully turned around, Perseus' faint, hoarse voice said, "Be sure to read the paper tomorrow."
They turned back around, but he was gone, his lithe figure gliding across the tent away from them, where he stopped in front of a small child.
"Come on kids," Mr. Weasley said. They followed him reluctantly, the three of them glancing back at Perseus, who was currently shooting sparks out of his wand to entertain the child.
She couldn't help the smile that spread across her face. "That's very sweet of him," she said to herself.
"Sure it is," Ron muttered. "Probably just trying to set the little tyke's hair on fire."
Hermione rolled her eyes and followed Mr. Weasley and Ginny out of the tent. Mr. Weasley was practically carrying the younger girl now, his arm around her shoulders and her leaning heavily into his side, nearly stumbling with every step.
Hermione giggled. Perseus wasn't lying when he said she'd be out of sorts. Ginny looked like her father on the occasions he had a few too many glasses of wine.
"What did he mean, 'Be sure to read the paper tomorrow'?" Ron mimicked Perseus' voice, the words coming out hoarse and weak, and Hermione rounded on him with a glare.
"Ronald Weasley!" She exclaimed. "Do you have a single considerate bone in your body, or do you take pleasure in making fun of others' incapabilities?"
Ron looked away, seemingly contrite. Hermione turned around with a huff. "And either he was just winding us up, or there will be something in the paper tomorrow about Sirius." Perseus wasn't the type to play practical jokes, so she was sure it was the latter. He had likely planned for the information to be released following the World Cup, so it would be pushed farther back in the paper. With the attack happening, his plan would work even better. Whatever was said about Sirius Black, it wouldn't be headlining.
Perseus had done something, that much was clear. The only question now, was what?