Chapter 12
Fleeting Moments

The diary leered at him.

Harry leered back.

I know.

It was a message to him. To him and only him. Lady Voldemort knew she had an enemy in Harry Potter. She knew he sought her Horcruxes. She knew he would come snooping around Malfoy Manor, knew he would be there, knew he would find her message.

But how? How had she known he'd be there? How had she caught wind of him? Harry asked these questions over and over, but he already knew the answer, in his heart of hearts. It was the other Voldemort, his Voldemort. The lord had allied with the lady and joined together to defeat Harry. It was the only explanation that made sense.

I know.

It wasn't a Horcrux, this false diary; Harry didn't have the means of destroying a Horcrux even if it had been one, but he could tell just by handling it. There was no evil about it, no malicious intent, no written promises softly whispered.

Harry couldn't get it out of his head, the black, Thestral-drawn carriage. What had been the point of it? Lady Voldemort hadn't intended for it to be a trap, hadn't intended for Harry to die that night. If she had, there would have been more than Thorfinn Rowle and Edwina Crabbe waiting for him. If she had, the carriage would have been enchanted with an Undetectable Extension Charm with a hundred Death Eaters waiting within. Or something to that effect.

But if the message had been her intent, why Malfoy Manor? Why the carriage at all? Why not leave the message for him in the cave by the sea or at the Gaunt shack? Both were secluded, easily accessible locations to which Harry could have easily—and indeed had—visited.

In the end, Harry chalked it up to timing. Perhaps the Voldemorts hadn't joined forces until incredibly recently. Privately, Harry had been hoping that the Voldemorts would sooner war with one another than become partners in crime.

Harry was done glaring at the diary for the day. He stuffed it in the upper drawer of his bedside table, like it was an evil version of a Bible that preached naught but darkness and malice. He'd retrieve it and glare at it again when he needed a gloomy think.

As for the trunk it came in… Harry investigated beneath its lid and along its sides and bottom once more for any secrets before closing and latching it for the final time. He tested its weight, wondering how much a secondhand shop might pay for it.

Harry entered the Hog's Head, blinking against the daylight like an owl. He'd ventured into Muggle London the previous day to get himself a pair of contact lenses, another attempt to change his appearance by the smallest of margins, and the blasted things were terribly uncomfortable. Hermione had suggested a Softening Charm, which helped, but he was still getting used to them.

He found Dumbledore waiting at a table near the entrance and hastened to join him. "Hope you weren't waiting long, professor," he said, reaching to shake the headmaster's hand.

"Not at all, Mister Crossley," replied Dumbledore with a firm and friendly handshake. "You're right on time. Tea?" He gestured to the teapot and extra cup before him.

"Oh, yes, please," said Harry, taken aback by Dumbledore's unexpected formality with his pseudonym. He couldn't recall a time the headmaster hadn't referred to him by his given name.

Dumbledore poured the tea, and the two exchanged a few more pleasantries before the headmaster laced his fingers and adopted a businesslike expression. "I invited you here to discuss your responsibilities this year at Hogwarts."

Harry nodded. Though he already knew what lay in store for him as flight instructor this year in particular—which was to say not much—he was still eager.

"As flight instructor, it will be your job to teach the first years how to properly fly and care for a broomstick. Lessons will be once a week on Fridays, third period, just before lunch."

Harry was bobbing his head. This was all more or less the same. He'd never had to return to flying lessons in his first year thanks to McGonagall's special permission to join the Gryffindor Quidditch team, but he'd heard from Ron and Hermione what else they'd done in that class. And he certainly knew how to care for a broomstick.

"Regarding the first years, Mister Crossley," said Dumbledore with an amused twitch of his silver beard, "you may find them as eager to defy gravity as they are to test your patience. I trust you'll guide them as you would a broomstick—steady and sure.

"Quidditch season begins in October," continued Dumbledore, after pausing for a sip of tea. "Though we expect the usual Quidditch schedule, I would advise some flexibility. This year may hold a few surprises yet, and as such some things are still in flux."

Harry pretended not to know what Dumbledore was talking about. "Sounds exciting. Could you remind me what the usual schedule looks like?"

"Ah, forgive my absentmindedness, I forgot you had not attended Hogwarts."

Harry sipped his tea to hide his nerves. Had he been wearing glasses, they would have fogged.

The headmaster settled his teacup onto its saucer with practiced delicacy. "Starting on the second of October, and every third Sunday thereafter, you will referee an official Quidditch match."

Interesting, Harry thought, the Quidditch fanatic within him immediately understanding the implications: That would mean twice the number of games, equaling a double round-robin Quidditch tournament rather than the single he was familiar with. He wished they had adopted the same style in his world; he'd have liked to play more than three matches a year. Still, Harry knew this was all just a pretext because the top-secret, yet-to-be-announced Triwizard Tournament would be taking Quidditch's place this year, though Harry was not to know that.

This was the perfect year to come in as flight instructor.

"Understood, professor," said Harry, restraining a grin.

Dumbledore gave him a penetrating look over the rim of his teacup. "What amuses you, Mister Crossley?"

"Nothing, sir," he said quickly. "I just love Quidditch." Those were perhaps the truest words he'd ever uttered in this world.

Dumbledore accepted his answer with a smile. "Not a requisite for the job, per se, but it certainly helps. In addition, you'll oversee coordination with the Quidditch captains to schedule the pitch for practices, and if a student has a complaint or requires assistance in regards to Quidditch or flying, you'll be responsible for sorting it out and, if necessary, reporting the issue to me. Is that clear?"

"Lessons once a week, Quidditch every third Sunday, schedule practices, deal with complaints," Harry recited confidently. "I believe I can do that."

Dumbledore smiled approvingly. "And I believe that is all I had meant to discuss! Did you have any questions?"

Harry hesitated, fingering his teacup. "Actually, I do have one question, headmaster." He'd been worrying over it for days.

"Yes?" said Dumbledore, leaning forward an inch, as if Harry had offered to share a scandalous secret.

"It's just… I have this job here in the village—at Penny's Potions—and I've grown quite fond of it."

Dumbledore regarded him thoughtfully for a long, ponderous moment. "And your question is?" he prompted patiently.

Harry plunged forward, breathless. "I was wondering if it might be possible for me to do both. I realize Hogwarts is more important, so I'll have to cut my hours at the shop, and I haven't spoken to Penny about it yet, but I know I can handle both positions if you'll allow me the opportunity."

He really did enjoy working with Penny—he couldn't have been more certain of that. Under the burden of his many responsibilities, it felt good to have a regular job and do regular work without his usual brand of stress and anxiety weighing on his soul. Perhaps it was only a distraction, but it was one Harry found he needed, and he didn't want to give it up if he didn't need to. And besides, it wouldn't be all that difficult with Quidditch being cancelled this year, which scrapped about eighty percent of his responsibilities at Hogwarts. So long as he was there for the weekly lessons, he didn't see the harm in it.

Dumbledore must've been thinking the same thing because he seemed all too accepting of it. "I daresay it would be quite the workload on your shoulders, Mister Crossley, but if you feel confident in your abilities, your proposal is fine with me—so long as my students don't suffer because of it. However, you'll have to speak with your other employer to come to some sort of arrangement."

Harry couldn't contain his smile this time as he seized Dumbledore's hand. "Thank you, Professor Dumbledore, you won't regret this!"

Dumbledore chuckled, his eyes twinkling behind his spectacles. "I should hope not. I care a great deal for my students, Mister Crossley."

Harry was still beaming as he said, "Call me Harry."

Harry rather thought he'd found a new friend in Penny, their shared love of Quidditch an ingredient in the mortar that held their bricks together.

Harry waited outside her shop the last Saturday in August. Penny was inside, picking up a few items—"Just in case!"—for their day at the World Cup match. They were meeting here and not at the event because Harry Crossley, his cover identity, didn't yet possess an Apparition license and so for appearances' sake couldn't transport himself in this manner. It was just after six in the morning, post-breakfast, and Harry was already so excited, he was practically vibrating. They wouldn't be spending the night, as had been the plan when Harry had gone with the Weasleys, but rather they would be spending the morning touring the fairgrounds before going to the match at noon; after that, assuming the game didn't last throughout the night or longer, they'd attend the afterparty before calling it a day.

The only thing marring Harry's good mood was the uneasiness in the pit of his stomach at the foreknowledge that something would be happening today. Last time, Death Eaters got drunk and rioted for fun, and Harry would be ready to intervene this time; this time, he would be keeping an eye out. He was reasonably confident that the morning and the match itself would be worry- and carefree, hence his boundless enthusiasm. He could enjoy himself pregame, get lost in the wonderful hysteria and confusion of a Quidditch match, and then keep watch afterward during the celebrations.

"All set!" sang Penny, exiting the shop and locking the door in a hurry. This was the first time Harry had seen her in anything other than her work robes: She was dressed casually in jeans and a red t-shirt, her nails decorated in Norway's red and blue, she wore the straps of a yellow backpack over her shoulders, she'd swapped her high boots for comfortable trainers, and her hair was fashioned into two braids instead of one, which altogether lent her a fun, girlish appearance. She might've been going to the biggest Quidditch match in the last four years or on a hike.

"Got everything?" Harry asked, casting an amused glance at the backpack that was certainly fuller than before.

Penny swept the bag off her shoulders and rummaged around. "Lunch, snacks, face paint, a few emergency potions and pastes, some other things… I think that's everything. Got your ticket, Harry? Good." She held her elbow out to him, grinning so widely that Harry could see her molars. "Shall we away?"

"Let's," said Harry, matching her expression. He looped his arm through hers, and she Apparated them both to Dartmoor, the quiet village atmosphere of Hogsmeade immediately replaced with the loud, rambunctious furor of a crowded fairground.

Rows and rows of a thousand colorful tents were organized into blocks, stretching as far as the eye could see, encircling a colossal stadium like a rainbow sea around a mountain island. At its peak, the stadium alternated gleaming pennants—Norway's white-fimbriated blue cross on a field of red, and Ivory Coast's orange, white and green bands.

Harry and Penny found themselves at the end of a short queue. They shuffled forward as those in front of them had their tickets inspected.

"Ooh, I can't wait!" gushed Penny. "I haven't been to an actual game in quite some time! Liechtenstein was fantastic when I went to France four years ago. Hans was there! He's just so cute, you know!"

"Hans?" Harry asked. He knew, of course, about Liechtenstein's adorable mascot, the giant, gloomy Augery named Hans—the bird had its own fan club that rivaled that of the team it represented—but Harry liked hearing Penny's excitable Quidditch babble.

Penny gasped. "You don't know Hans?! No, I guess you wouldn't, would you? Oh, Harry, I must take you to a Lichtenstein game someday! They have the nicest fans!"

They got their tickets inspected and checked for duplicates—a common scam in the wizarding world, naturally, with the existence of the Duplication Charm—and were directed inside the city of tents.

The makeshift streets were busy already, with people of all backgrounds coming and going in and out of tents, visiting with neighbors or just waking up for the day. Some had brought their pets along with them, whereas others had parked horses and camels in front of their tents. One fabulous, purple tent even had an elephant out front! Smoke from dozens of barbeques and firepits rose in columns in the morning air. Children ran, screaming, amidst the throng. Here and there were stalls, already open for business and selling all kinds of products: Quidditch-themed souvenirs, such as team flags, player photos and jerseys, and other such merchandise; deliciously unhealthy carnival food and snacks; toys and gadgets; scarves, caps and mittens for those who would be in the higher seats; and for the thirsty eventgoers, wagons with great casks of chilled Butterbeer could be found at every corner.

Harry spied a vendor hawking Omnioculars, and he steered Penny in that direction.

"I've already got a pair," said Penny, indicating her backpack. "I wouldn't mind sharing if you really wanted, Harry, but I will say it would be much more convenient if we both had our own." And before Harry could so much as pull out his coin purse, Penny had already made the exchange and was pressing the brass device into Harry's hands. "Here you go. Think of it as a bonus for all your hard work at the shop."

Harry's heart melted just a little. "Thanks, Penny!" He put a hand to his chin, a finger tapping. "Now I'll have to think of something to get you…"

Penny laughed and gave him a playful push. "No, you don't, Harry. I said it was a bonus! Who knows, it might even come in handy at Hogwarts this year!"

Harry's anxious chat with Penny last week had gone surprisingly smoothly. She'd been awfully happy for him getting the job at Hogwarts, though a mite disappointed, he could tell. But when Harry had declared wanting to stay on as her assistant even after school started, she'd brightened right up.

"Kind of lucky, actually," she'd told him sheepishly. "I might've slightly overestimated how much work there'd be for a full-time assistant, so this works out!"

They had come to an arrangement where Harry would walk down to the village two days a week and help her at the shop, and in exchange, Harry had offered to ask Dumbledore if she could be invited to spectate Hogwarts' Quidditch games. He still felt guilty making that promise when he knew there would be no Quidditch this year, but he hadn't known what else to say.

Harry and Penny spent the next few hours roaming the maze of tents, buying souvenirs and treats. Penny practically squealed every time they came to a new vendor. With Penny, there was always something to see, something to say. Her spirits were always refreshingly high and had the tendency to buoy Harry up to her level. At ten thirty, they bought Butterbeers and backtracked to just outside the ocean of tents and found a lonely patch of grass that wasn't too murky to have lunch. There they slurped their sodas and ate the ham-and-turkey sandwiches Penny had brought. Afterward, she popped open a container to reveal a pair of her sweet cupcakes, which they shared.

It was possibly the loveliest morning Harry had ever had. He frequently found himself smiling at the most random of times, and a warm fuzziness had settled somewhere between his clavicle and his stomach. Once, he wondered if he'd accidentally ingested some Felix Felicis with his breakfast.

Once their cupcakes were down to crumbs and their sodas to drops, Harry, wearing a recently purchased wristwatch, had just stated the time when Penny gasped and began rummaging through her bag.

"Wait, wait, wait! We can't go just yet…," she said, producing a colorful box. "Quidditch isn't complete without face paint! Here, we'll do each other."

The look on Penny's face was full of such childish wonder and excitement that he wouldn't have refused if she'd asked him to go streaking across the pitch mid-match.

She sat facing him, legs crossed, eyes closed, waiting, her calm exterior betrayed by the occasional twitch of her lips or the faint quiver of her hands.

There were no brushes, so Harry dipped a thumb into some blue and raised his hand to Penny's right cheek. The paint was cold for Penny, too, as she shivered at his touch. Her breath hitched as his thumb drifted vertically down her forehead, through a delicate, golden eyebrow and along a smooth cheekbone. He reloaded his thumb with paint and went for the second stroke. This time he started at her temple and went horizontally across her face, sliding his thumb softly over one fluttering eyelid, the bridge of her nose, another fluttering eyelid, and then ending at her opposite temple, the two lines creating a Nordic cross.

"How is it?" asked Penny, eyes still shut, when Harry went for another color.

"None too shabby," he said as he began fimbriating the blue cross with white.

He spent more time with this color, as he needed to cover the tricky spots around her eyes and along her eyebrows, where he had difficulty keeping the paint from clumping. He finished with the red, filling in the rest of her face from her hairline down to her nostrils and from ear to ear. He apologized for carelessly slipping some red into her golden hair, but she didn't seem to mind. As he worked, he became keenly aware of the scent of her, some flower or spice he couldn't identify.

He became lost in the serenity of the moment, his eyes tracing an intangible path across her lashes, her nose, her parted lips, which faintly trembled in the teensiest of pouts as if demurely demanding to be kissed.

"How do I look?" she asked, startling him, and Harry was surprised by her breathy tone. He made to reply and found his own voice rather hoarse.

"Erm, almost done… There."

She opened her eyes and peered at him from behind a Norwegian mask. "Your turn," she whispered. She unfolded her legs to sit on her knees, and she was an inch or two taller than him this way.

In that moment, Harry felt a ghost of something he hadn't felt in a long time.

Swallowing past a lump in his throat, Harry closed his eyes and waited. Her touch came hesitantly and with an electricity that made Harry flinch. "Cold, I know, sorry," she said, low and slow like an artist consumed by their masterpiece. Her breath was warm on his face; she was closer than Harry imagined. He'd put his contact lenses in that morning, so his glasses weren't in the way as her fingers danced across his face, expertly outlining the corners of his eyes and nose. Her hands were gentle but firm like Harry thought a sculptor's might be when working with clay, her palms cupping his cheeks as her thumbs made smooth strokes across his skin. The electric, titillating tingling presented itself everywhere she touched, following her deft, careful digits like the wake of an elegant boat.

Harry was caught off guard by the unexpected sensuality of it. He idly wondered how many times she'd done this before and for whom.

Penny's hand cradled his jaw, and his pulse quickened, his fingers flexed, and he caught himself envisioning those lips again. How close were they to him now? Harry steeled himself against the hormones attacking his senses, attributing it to his increased libido; why, only two nights ago Olivia had shown him the joys of keeping chocolates in the bedroom.

Then Penny's fingers left him.

When she next spoke, Harry was disappointed to hear her voice had returned to normal. "All done."

He opened his eyes and saw Penny putting the paints away.

"I hope you were planning to root for Ivory Coast, because your face is orange and green now," she said to the paints. She almost seemed embarrassed, but the red of Norway obfuscated any telling blush.

Harry was unsure, but he thought he felt something different between them. A melancholy, perhaps? Harry wondered if she were saddened again at the thought of spending significantly less time together come September. Harry felt similarly. Though they'd only known each other for a month, they'd given a literal meaning to the expression fast friends.

In an effort to cheer her up, Harry touched her arm and said, "You look like a loony Quidditch fan."

She smiled wryly at him. "You're one to talk!"

A loud roar, the kind heard only at raucous sporting events, surged from the ocean of tents, and Penny started. "Oh! They must be letting people into the stands now."

Harry checked his watch again and yelped. "It's eleven forty—we've only got twenty minutes!"

And so, they hastily stuffed the box of paints and empty food containers in Penny's backpack and hurried into the packed streets, fighting against the crowd as everyone fought to get their seats. Harry and Penny shuffled along behind a quartet of ladies, three teenage girls and a woman, whose hair colors collectively spanned the natural spectrum. They wore a collection of team-branded hats and talked rather animatedly, which Harry could only discern from their wildly gesticulating hands, but he kept his attention on Penny as she listed Norway's players.

The last time Harry had been here, he'd joined the Weasleys at the very top of the stadium, where he'd had the entirety of the pitch in his field of vision; this time, Penny's tickets got them a pair of seats squeezed together amongst the middle tiers. It was so close to the field that Harry would need to turn his head back and forth to see everything.

They were treated to the teams' mascots taking to the field in wild ways: Norway's mountain trolls, outfitted in the apparel and equipment of a marching band, performed an ear-grating rendition of their national anthem, whereas the Ivory Coast's singular water genie surfed around the stadium in a tuxedo and top hat, splashing the cheering crowd and endearing itself to the masses just as the trolls had done the opposite. Then the match began, and the players raced back and forth near the speed of bullets. Harry did his best to keep up with the action via his new omnioculars and struggled to keep from replaying every wicked maneuver in slow motion lest he fall behind.

The announcer was belting names rapid fire: "Madani slips the Quaffle past Olsen! Ivory Coast scores! It's back to Dahl—who fumbles!—and Moreau recovers it, passes it back to Madani, who— Ooh! Madani takes a Bludger, courtesy of Norway's Jørgensen, and Berg and Haugen regain the Quaffle! Haugen shoots—! Ghorbani blocks the shot! And the Quaffle is back to Moreau!"

Penny, who was already pressed close against Harry by virtue of the crowded stadium, leaned closer to whisper in his ear. "This is so much fun, Harry. Thanks for coming with me."

Harry tore his eyes away from the match to smile at her. They held gazes for just a moment until she turned back to the match. He didn't.

She'd said she'd wanted to take someone else originally… Who? The person whose face she'd painted before? Harry found himself suddenly interested in this mystery person and their mystery relationship to Penny. Was it an ex-boyfriend? Surely not a current boyfriend, as she'd never mentioned anything of the sort to him, and anyway she would have gone with her boyfriend instead if such a boyfriend existed. Maybe a family member that she'd fallen out with? What if they'd died?

Maybe Harry wouldn't ask.

His attention was drawn from Penny's painted face as Norway's trolls began an all-out brawl amongst themselves on the pitch whilst the players raced overhead; Ivory Coast's dapper water genie looked on disapprovingly.

The match lasted near to four hours before ending in the blink of an eye when Captain Traore of the Ivory Coast beat Ibsen to the Snitch and won four seventy to three ninety. A tumultuous roar of cheers and boos and cries and screams shook the stadium. Penny, passionate fan that she was, protested Norway's loss, shouting and booing at the victors. But her joy for Quidditch eventually overtook her passion, and she joined in the cheering, albeit halfheartedly, as the players left the field, the commentator announcing their names one last time.

Afterward, they extricated themselves from the congested stadium amid a throng of eventgoers high on victory and defeat and shared passion. Penny babbled excitedly beside him, but Harry's good mood had begun to turn cautious, his eyes on the crowd, sharp for a dark robe or forbidden mask; he'd had his fun, but now was time to keep watch.

The afterparty was really one great collection of mini parties: Everyone who stayed to celebrate had either divided into private groups amongst the tents or otherwise roamed throughout, socializing with strangers and partaking variously of the fare and fun. Harry joined in as much as he dared, but he could never keep his eyes from wandering to the crowd. As the party wore on, impatience began to encroach on his heart; he knew the Death Eaters were lurking somewhere at that very moment, partying toward inebriation and recklessness, and Harry would need to be ready when they struck.

Penny brought him a Butterbeer at some point, returning before he'd even noticed her disappearance. She handed it over with an uncertain smile. "Are you feeling alright, Harry?"

Harry blinked at her. "Hmm? Yes, of course."

Penny seemed unconvinced. "Well, alright… It's just that you've been distracted since the game. Do you… want to leave?"

Harry couldn't leave—not until the Death Eaters were stopped, not until he'd caught every last one of them. But he was disappointed with himself for bringing worry to Penny.

"No, I want to stay. Do you want a churro? C'mon, I'll buy you a churro."

Harry tried to be better about dividing his attention between Penny and his duty. They snacked and smiled, and when they ran into some of Penny's old school friends, they chatted for a while. Introductions were made, japes were had, and there was more than one attempt by Penny's friends to embarrass her, in good nature, by regaling Harry with stories of her as a young Hufflepuff lass. One story in particular, regarding the unfortunate spilling of a Shrinking Solution on her uniform, left the group in stitches, Harry and protesting Penny included.

It was a jolly few minutes, but Harry couldn't keep his eyes from inexorably drifting back to the crowd pressing in around them, and he found himself only half listening to Penny and her friends. He introduced himself twice more and shook some hands as they were joined by other friends, but he wouldn't remember any faces or names or anything that was said. Once, Penny had blushed and looked his way, though Harry's ears had been deaf to the joke.

In what felt like no time at all, the sky was dark, and the fairground was lit by its many bonfires and magical illuminations, casting shadows in every direction and certainly not helping to ease Harry's paranoia.

Flashes lit the sky, and a series of bangs made Harry flinch: Festive fireworks were donating temporary stars to the night's collection. Harry surreptitiously returned his wand to his pocket with an inaudible curse.

Harry felt a tugging at his elbow. He looked over to find Penny giving him a pointed look. Her face paint was cracked and chipping, and her braids were coming loose. She looked tired.

With a start, he realized they were alone in their own little bubble. "Did your friends leave to get drinks?"

"They left half an hour ago, Harry."

Harry felt a chill at her tone. Had it really been that long?

"Oh…"

"Yeah…" She shuffled awkwardly. "I would've gone with them, but… I didn't want to ditch you."

Shame gnawed at his heart. Had he been too vigilant? Had he ignored his new friend? Yes, he supposed he had. But why hadn't she said anything to him about it? Had she and gone unheard? Had her words fallen on preoccupied ears?

He rubbed the back of his neck. "I suppose I've been pretty lousy to you today, haven't I?"

"Everything was great this morning. I really thought… I don't know what I thought." She crossed her arms. "I think I'll go."

Harry started when he saw a flash of green, but it was only the flare of a firework.

"You're not staying for the fireworks?" he asked, gesturing helplessly toward the sparkling hippogriff prancing overhead.

Penny sighed. "No, I'm not. Do you need a lift back to Hogsmeade?"

Harry felt like he should say something here. He began to, almost, opening his mouth to offer an explanation, but he stopped. What could he possibly say? He didn't have an excuse for his behavior that wouldn't leave him sounding like a madman. And anyway, he didn't feel that there was an excuse good enough.

His shoulders drooped. "I'll manage."

Penny's face fell further. "Alright then… See you Monday, Harry."

And she was gone with a twirl of her blond braids, her figure melting into the crowd. Harry watched her go. He could have called her back, could have told her the truth—or at least something close to it—but the words stayed lodged in his throat, heavy as stones.

Defeat pulled at Harry's posture.

She'd been right—their morning together had been great. Harry only wanted to catch the Death Eaters and keep everyone safe, but he'd been so wrapped up in his own confident righteousness that he'd ruined Penny's night. He was kicking himself now—he should've said goodbye to Penny after the game and returned in disguise to keep watch, and that way she might've had a good time without him.

In between muttered oaths at his own stupidity, Harry conjured a simple wooden stool in the alley between two tents and slumped into it, and there he continued his sentry.

The pyrotechnics continued for some time. The display elicited many ooh's and ah's from the partygoers, but from Harry they inspired only sadness. Penny was like a firework, he decided, as a rocket exploded overhead, filling the sky with vibrant color. Penny was gone, and with her, any trace of the brightness that had filled his day. All that remained now was the blackness left in the wake of dying stars.

Beautiful yet fleeting.

Harry slumped deeper into his seat, eyes scanning the crowd, waiting for a scream to kick things off. Fireworks continued to blast and screech, but to Harry, the night remained silent, the shadows empty. And though Harry kept a lonely vigil throughout the night and into the dawn, nary a Death Eater showed.

Author's Note

What did you think of this chapter, dear readers? I tried to balance plot development with fun and drama. I think the Death Eaters not showing was probably a bit predictable for at least some of you by this point, but realistically, Harry couldn't have afforded the risk of not going, just in case. And it provided the perfect opportunity for Quidditch fun, and I love Quidditch so much!

This chapter marks the end of August in this other world. That means we're moving from the summer holidays to a new school year and, with it, the start of Part III. But first, a note on the next chapter: Chapter 13 will be a bit of an interlude between parts. As such, it's quite short, the shortest by far, so prepare for that. I almost want to apologize for it being so small, but it wouldn't do the chapter justice to tack it onto the end of this one or stick it to the front of the one after.