Thought I'd try my luck at writing. Can't promise anything good. Draco/OC potter. Slow-burn.
Chapter 1: The World Cup
Camellia Potter had always been good at going unnoticed. It was a skill she'd perfected over the years, though not entirely by choice. When you're the twin sister of The Boy Who Lived, you learn to exist in the spaces between attention – in the quiet moments when no one's asking about your brother's scar or retelling the story of that Halloween night for the thousandth time. It was both a comfort and a burden.
The sun hung low in the sky, casting golden rays that illuminated the bustling campsite of the Quidditch World Cup, where colorful tents swayed gently in the light summer breeze. Females adorned in vibrant green, intricately decorated robes fluttered around, brandishing flags and charms meant to psych out the opposing team. Camellia sat in a quiet nook, her heart thrumming in tune with the distant roar of the crowd. The sounds of laughter, cheers, and the crackle of magical fireworks filled the air—a cacophony that had the excitement of a dozen festivals. Yet, in her secluded little corner, she found solace in her solitude.
"Oi! Cam!" Fred Weasley's voice cut through her thoughts like a firework bursting in the evening sky. "Stop being all broody and mysterious. George reckons he's found a way to sneak into the Top Box!"
She looked up from her spot under one of the countless technicolor tents dotting the campground, where she'd been attempting to sketch the chaotic vibrancy of the Quidditch World Cup in her worn leather notebook. The Irish supporters, animated and loud, had charmed their tents to sprout giant shamrocks that swayed cheerfully with every gust of wind, occasionally raining down golden coins (which, much to her disappointment, vanished after an hour). In contrast, the Bulgarian section blazed with bold posters showcasing Viktor Krum's scowling face, green and yellow flags flapping in irritation as if echoing the sentiments of their supporters.
"I'm not being broody," she protested, tucking a rebellious strand of dark hair behind her ear. Her hair, unlike Harry's perpetually messy mop, fell in loose waves that cascaded around her shoulders, one of the few visible differences between the twins. That, and her eyes were a shade darker green, more forest than emerald, holding an unspoken depth. "I'm documenting. There's a difference."
George popped up beside his twin, brandishing what looked suspiciously like a handful of Ton-Tongue Toffees. "Documentation is just brooding with extra steps, dear Camellia." He dropped down beside her, leaning to get a better look at her sketch. "Though I must say, you've captured my dashing good looks perfectly."
"That's a shamrock, George," she remarked dryly, though her lips curled into a smile against her will.
"Exactly. Handsome devil, aren't I?" he quipped, puffing out his chest dramatically.
Camellia couldn't help but laugh, a genuine sound that cut through her earlier melancholy. The twins' antics were a welcome relief from the weight of her thoughts. They had taken her under their wing in her first year, after finding her crying in the astronomy tower, overwhelmed by the whispers and stares that followed the Potter twins everywhere. While Harry had Ron and Hermione, she had found her own odd family in Fred, George, and the kind-hearted Neville.
Speaking of Neville... "Has anyone seen Nev? He was supposed to be here an hour ago."
"Gran's giving him trouble about his dress robes," Fred said, rolling his eyes with exaggerated flair. "Apparently, they're not proper enough for whatever fancy event Hogwarts is hosting this year. You know how she can be—meticulously determined about tradition."
"You know what it is, don't you?" Camellia asked, raising an eyebrow and noting the mischievous glint in the twins' eyes, full of unspoken plans.
"We have theories—" George began, clearly relishing the moment.
"Suspicions—" Fred continued, nudging his brother with competitive enthusiasm.
"Hypotheses, if you will—" they chimed together.
"But Dad's been remarkably tight-lipped," Fred finished, glancing around conspiratorially.
Before they could elaborate on their theories, a familiar drawling voice cut through the festive atmosphere, slicing through the camaraderie like a well-aimed spell. "Well, if it isn't the Weasley circus. I suppose you'll be sitting in the nosebleed section? Might want to bring an umbrella; I hear it's supposed to rain."
Draco Malfoy stood a few feet away, his usual smirk plastered on his face, his posture radiating an air of superiority. But something was different this time – his eyes weren't on the twins, or even on Harry, who had just emerged from their tent, laughter dancing at the corners of his mouth. No, Draco's gaze was fixed squarely on Camellia.
She felt her cheeks warm under his intense stare but lifted her chin slightly, unwilling to back down. "At least we'll have a better view of the game than you'll get with your head so far up your—"
"Camellia!" Percy's scandalized voice interrupted from nearby, and she bit back a grin, feeling a mixture of embarrassment and thrill.
Something flickered across Malfoy's face – surprise? amusement? – before his trademark sneer returned. "Careful, Potter. You're starting to sound like a blood traitor." He bore his words like a badge, taunting her with the heritage she had no choice but to wear.
"Better than sounding like a broken record," she shot back, surprising herself with her boldness. "Honestly, Malfoy, don't you ever get tired of the same old insults?"
The twins let out identical low whistles, and even Harry looked impressed, his eyebrows shooting up in surprise. Malfoy opened his mouth to retort, but his father's commanding voice called him away, the authority issuing an unspoken order. As he turned to leave, Camellia could have sworn she saw the corner of his mouth twitch upward, the faintest hint of intrigue breaking through his icy mask.
"That," Fred declared loudly, throwing an arm around her shoulders, a beaming grin on his face, "was beautiful."
"Poetic, really," George agreed, wiping an imaginary tear from his eye, playful admiration glimmering in his gaze.
"Our little Cam, all grown up and trading barbs with baby Death Eaters," Fred winked at her, reveling in the moment.
"Oh, shut up," she mumbled, even as she felt warmth blossom in her chest. The encounter had left her feeling oddly energized, like a spark igniting in the quiet corners of her heart, reminding her of the strength she rarely acknowledged.
The rest of the afternoon passed in a blur of preparations for the match. Camellia found herself constantly distracted by the shiny baubles and colorful enchantments surrounding her. Mr. Weasley kept getting distracted by mundane Muggle objects, wide-eyed with childlike wonder. "But how does the electric kettle know when to stop?" he marveled, cradling the device like a rare artifact.
Meanwhile, Hermione tried to teach Ron the proper pronunciation of "Leviosa" for what felt like the thousandth time, the same arguments and mishaps occurring with each new attempt. "It's Levio-sa, not Levio-sar!" He rolled his eyes but couldn't hide the smile tugging at his lips.
Harry was deep in conversation with Charlie about dragons, animated gestures punctuating his words. Camellia found herself grateful for these moments of normalcy, where she could just be another teenager excited about Quidditch, laughter bubbling around them like the warm evening air.
As dusk approached and they began their climb to their seats, the sky turning from azure to a brilliant shade of pink and gold, Camellia felt her twin's hand slip into hers. Harry didn't need to say anything – they had perfected the unspoken bond they shared, always able to read each other's feelings like an open book. He knew large crowds made her nervous, knew how she hated heights even more than he loved them.
"Together?" he whispered, echoing their childhood promise as the excited murmur of the crowd swelled around them.
"Together," she confirmed, squeezing his hand tightly, drawing strength from him as they stepped beyond the threshold.
They emerged into the Top Box (Fred and George's sneaking plans thankfully forgotten), and Camellia's breath caught in her throat. The stadium unfolded below them like a golden bowl filled with jewels – tens of thousands of witches and wizards, their wands twinkling like stars as they created a breathtaking light show, shimmering over the grand spectacle that was the Quidditch World Cup.
But as she settled between Harry and George, a subtle unease curled in her stomach. Camellia couldn't shake the feeling that something was amiss. The air was heavy, charged with more than just excitement, electrified with lingering tension. When she caught Draco Malfoy staring at her again from across the box, the look in his eyes seemed almost... warning? It was a flash of something – fear, perhaps? Or concern? It sent a shiver coursing through her despite the warm summer air brushing against her skin.
Whatever was coming, she had a feeling this year at Hogwarts would be different than any other. As Harry leaned in, excitement dancing in his eyes, Camellia felt a flicker of foreboding dart through her. She just didn't yet know if that change would be a good thing or a harbinger of something darker.
What she did know was that somewhere between the ground and the Top Box, she'd dropped her sketchbook, the leather cover weathered and soft beneath her fingers. And somehow, she was certain it would turn up in the most unexpected hands, possibly leading her down paths she'd never considered, entwining her fate with those she'd never imagined. The thrill of adventure mixed with the chill of uncertainty sent a rush through her, setting the stage for everything that lay ahead.