Chapter 31- The Quidditch World Cup pt 1
Ava lay stretched across her bed, a worn copy of The Tales of Beedle the Bard open on her chest, though she hadn't turned the page in several minutes. The stillness of Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place was oddly calming. There were no creaking floors, no clanging pots, just the gentle rustle of pages and the soft hum of magic lingering in the air.
Suddenly, a sharp tap at the window startled her. She sat up just in time to see a stunning barn owl sweeping in through the open pane, landing gracefully at the foot of her bed. Ava blinked in surprise, recognizing the elegant bird immediately–Marcell's owl. Tied to its leg was not just a letter, but a small package wrapped in rich green paper and bound with a golden ribbon.
Curious, she gently untied both and unfolded the parchment first.
Ma petite Clarice,
You have no idea how excited I am that you will be accompanying me to the World Cup.
I hope your summer is going well because you are more than worthy of this adventure.
Isabella will be joining us, as you know. I am certain the three of us will have a marvelous time together.
A few days before the Cup, I would like you to travel via Floo Powder to my family's estate in Yorkshire.
From there, we'll take a Portkey directly to the stadium.
I cannot wait to see you.
–Marcell
P.S. I've enclosed a small gift. I hope it brings you joy… and luck.
A smile tugged at Ava's lips as she finished reading. She reached for the package, untying the golden ribbon and carefully peeling back the soft green paper. Inside, nestled in a plush velvet box the color of midnight, sat a gleaming emerald necklace, the pendant cut in the shape of a four-leaf clover. Light from the window struck its facets, making the gem glitter like bottled springtime. Her breath caught in her throat.
Ava sat still, mesmerized. It was exquisite and far more elegant than anything she'd ever owned. The charm bracelet Angelina had given her for her ninth birthday suddenly felt childish in comparison. This was a woman's necklace. A gift that felt both unexpected and intimate.
She ran her thumb along the smooth edges of the clover, feeling the cool metal warm beneath her skin. "Wow…Marcell…" she whispered under her breath, still stunned.
She rose and crossed the room to her mirror, fingers trembling slightly as she fastened the clasp behind her neck. The pendant fell gently against her collarbone, catching the light again. As she looked at herself, she heard a knock at the door.
"Come in," she called, adjusting the pendant one last time.
The door creaked open and Lupin stepped in. He offered a small smile, his gaze sweeping the room before settling on her. "Can I talk to you for a moment, Ava?"
She nodded and turned from the mirror, crossing to sit on the edge of her bed. Lupin lowered himself onto the foot of it, his expression gentle but serious.
"I want to talk to you about your godfather."
Immediately, her smile vanished. The owl took the hint and flapped back out the window, vanishing into the pale sky.
"Have you heard from him?" she asked.
Lupin hesitated, fidgeting slightly. "That's just it… we haven't. Sirius believes Yaxley has gone to join Voldemort. Or at least aligned himself with his circle again."
Ava's stomach dropped. She tried to hide the way her fingers tightened around the bedspread. "Is he… still a threat? To me?"
Lupin didn't answer right away. That silence was answer enough.
"I don't think you're his priority," he said at last. "If he's working with Voldemort again, he's focused on something bigger. But I'd be lying if I said you were entirely out of danger."
Ava nodded slowly. Her mind raced with images she didn't want to revisit. His cruel voice in her ear, his hands pinning her in the dark, that terrible smirk. "So I shouldn't go to the Cup."
"That's not what I'm saying." Lupin's tone softened. "I just want you to be cautious. Stay close to Marcell and Isabella. Stay visible. In a crowd that large, you'll be safer than almost anywhere else."
That made her pause. "Anthony would have just said no."
Lupin looked up at her sharply.
"He wouldn't have cared how much I wanted to go," she clarified. "He'd just shut it down."
Lupin's brow furrowed, but he only nodded, his voice quiet. "You're not your father's daughter, Ava. You're your own person. And I'm here to support that, even when it worries me."
The lump in her throat tightened.
He nodded at the necklace around her neck. "That's a beautiful piece. Marcell?"
Ava sighed and rolled her eyes. "Yes, but don't give me that look. He probably sent Isabella one, too."
Lupin chuckled. "I'm sure he did." He stood and patted her shoulder lightly. "Dinner's in an hour. Come down when you're ready."
She smiled faintly as he stepped out and closed the door behind him.
When she turned back to the mirror, her reflection looked less like a girl hiding in another country under a false name… and more like someone reclaiming a piece of herself. Still cautious, still hurting…but a little more whole. For the first time in a long time, Ava looked forward to something. And it felt good.
When she stepped out of the Floo into the grand stone hearth of Marcell's family estate, the scent of lavender and old wood greeted her first. The room was vast and warm, with dark paneled walls, high ceilings, and flickering sconces that danced against the polished floors. She barely had a moment to take it all in before Isabella swept into view.
"Clarice!" she squealed, her arms already outstretched as she rushed toward her in a flurry of silk and perfume. "I am zo 'appy zat you are 'ere!" She embraced her tightly, the familiar cadence of her accent washing over me like a song she hadn't heard in too long. "'Ow waz your zummer?"
Ava smiled as she pulled back, momentarily dizzy from her perfume and enthusiasm. "Mellow and quiet. Which, honestly, was exactly what I needed."
Isabella gave a breathy sigh. "Ah, c'est magnifique! We went to za Riviera, and we saw The Phantom of ze Opera in ze Americas. It was divine. Truly, I weeped! You must come next time, Clarice. It would be–how do you say–the dream!" Her eyes sparkled, but she caught the way they flicked subtly toward Marcell as she spoke. That same softness she remembered from before still lingered there, hopeful, lingering, and completely transparent.
As she continued gushing about velvet box seats and romantic sunsets, Ava took a step back and let Isabella's voice fade into the background, quietly studying her body language. The subtle tilt of her body toward Marcell. The way her fingers fidgeted with the hem of her sleeve whenever he looked her way. That same infatuation she'd clocked at school hadn't changed in the slightest.
They really would make a beautiful pair, she thought absently. Regal, graceful, poised. The kind of couple people noticed immediately when they entered a room. But as she glanced at Marcell, she wondered… Did he see her that way?
He approached as Isabella finished her dreamy monologue, his warm brown eyes lighting up as he pulled me into a more reserved, but sincere hug.
"I am glad you're 'ere," he said, voice quiet but genuine. He stepped back, his smile soft. "Come, to ze dining hall. Ze cooks 'ave prepared a marvelous dinner. Afterward, I'll show you your room. Tomorrow morning, we leave for ze Cup."
She followed them down the grand hallway, the echo of footsteps bouncing off the marbled floor, trying to quiet the fluttering in her chest. For a Quidditch game, it certainly felt like the start of something much bigger.
Ava didn't think waking up at 4 a.m. would be that hard, but she was horribly and painfully wrong. Every part of her ached as they stepped off the portkey at exactly 5:15 a.m., landing in a disorienting swirl of wind and magic onto a misty stretch of moor. The fog clung low over the damp grass, curling around their ankles like curious spirits.
They began a twenty-minute trek through a hushed, dew-covered wood, the only sounds the crunch of their footsteps and the occasional flutter of wings overhead. As the mist began to thin, Ava caught sight of flickering lantern light in the distance, followed by rows and rows of tents climbing up a broad hill. It was a breathtaking sight.
Hundreds, maybe thousands, of wizarding families had already arrived. The tents looked deceptively mundane at first glance: plain canvas in varying shades, with the odd kettle smoking or child poking their head out of a flap. But closer inspection revealed their magical charm: chimneys puffing without fires, banners fluttering with team colors, enchanted fairies circling tent poles. To a passing Muggle, it might've looked like a quirky camping expo. But to them, it was the beating heart of the wizarding world, buzzing with pre-match energy.
They moved through the field until they stopped in front of something that looked less like a tent and more like a sultan's personal retreat. It was a towering silk structure striped in navy and gold, with shimmering drapes and embroidered sigils glowing faintly in the morning light. A perfectly manicured peacock strutted across the lawn like it owned the place. Hammered into the ground before the grand entrance was a sleek, golden sign: DELAUER.
Ava stared. "This is your spot?" she asked, half-laughing in disbelief.
Marcell merely shrugged, grinning. "What can I say? We like to live in style."
He placed a warm hand against the small of her back, guiding her up the velvet-lined path to the tent's entrance.
"We also find eet… 'ard to resist showing off," he added with a wink.
Ava laughed under her breath. "Could your family be any more ostentatious?"
But the moment she stepped inside, her teasing caught in my throat. She dropped my bag, stunned.
This wasn't a tent. It was a home. No... not a home. An estate. The air inside was cool and lightly scented with rose water and vanilla. A wide, sweeping foyer stretched out before me, its polished marble floor veined with silver and gold. A crystal chandelier (yes, a chandelier, in a tent!) hung from the magically extended ceiling, casting soft rainbows across the curved staircase that led to the second level. The banister shimmered with inlaid mother-of-pearl, curling upward like the neck of a swan.
Directly ahead stood an antique grandfather clock with golden Roman numerals, ticking softly beneath a hovering oil painting of Marcell's family crest: an elegant phoenix wrapped around a fleur-de-lis. To the left, tall arched doors opened into a formal dining room that would put most ballrooms to shame. A long, lacquered mahogany table stretched the length of the room, set for breakfast with floating crystal goblets, delicate silver cutlery, and fine china etched in gold. The seats were velvet-cushioned and covered with plush pillows.
Beyond the dining room, a gleaming open kitchen buzzed with activity. Two house-elves in smart white tunics flitted from one brass-handled cupboard to the next, arranging platters of warm croissants, glazed fruit tarts, and a bubbling pitcher of enchanted crème chocolat that stirred itself. Sunlight, whether real or an illusion, streamed through enchanted windows, catching on the crystal sugar pots and polished wood like stardust.
Marcell wandered in like it was nothing, his hands in his pockets and a casual smirk on his face.
"My tent is your palace," he said lazily, sweeping one hand toward the grandeur around them as if he were simply offering her a cup of tea.
She was still staring in awe, blinking at the massive gilded portrait of a woman in a ballgown that winked at her, when Isabella burst through the entrance like a perfume-scented breeze.
"I am starved!" she declared dramatically, dropping her pale lavender luggage beside the staircase as if she'd done it a hundred times. She floated toward Marcell with her usual effortless elegance, eyes shining, hair perfectly curled despite the early hour.
"When are we 'aving breakfast?" she asked, her voice sweet as spun sugar. "And when ze match starts, you must show me 'ow zis game works! I've never been to a Quidditch match before!" She trailed her fingers down his arm, lightly, deliberately.
Marcell gave her a patient smile but then turned toward Ava, his eyes lighting up with something warmer, more genuine. "'Ave you seen a Quidditch game, Clarice?" he asked.
She opened my mouth, then hesitated. All at once she was back at Hogwarts, in the stands with Fred, George, Lee, Angelina, and the others…laughing, yelling, elbowing each other during plays. Her throat tightened.
"No," she said, forcing a smile. "No, I haven't."
The lie settled heavily in her chest, but she said nothing more. The past wasn't something she wanted to unpack, not here. Not now. Not when she was trying to enjoy herself. She tugged off her sweatshirt, and as she did, the necklace Marcell had given her caught the morning light. It gleamed vividly, catching Isabella's eye.
Isabella gasped. "Mon Dieu! Clarice, zat iz beautiful! Where did you get it?"
Ava froze. Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted Marcell turning abruptly, becoming deeply invested in a book on the nearby shelf. A book on… gardening?
It hit her then. He hadn't given Isabella a necklace. Only her. Her throat tightened. She looked at Isabella's bright smile, the glint of envy in her eyes carefully tucked behind polite curiosity. Ava forced a smile. "It's been in my family for years, actually." She cleared my throat and grabbed her bag again. "Hey… I think I'll take a walk around. See what's here."
Isabella's expression cooled ever so slightly. "Zat iz nice," she said, brushing invisible dust off her blouse. "But I zink I'll stay 'ere. Take een ze scenery." She glanced at Marcell, expectantly.
Marcell shut the gardening book and set it aside. "I'll walk with you," he said simply, turning to follow after Ava. "See you soon, Isabella."
Isabella said nothing but flashed a tight smile. Ava gave her a small nod as she and Marcell stepped back outside into the soft mist, the roar of distant morning chatter and tents rustling in the breeze.
Fred and George weaved through the crowds at the campsite, their pockets considerably lighter than they had been an hour earlier.
"I hope we win this bet," Fred muttered, eyes scanning the various stalls.
"Bagman's face when the Irish win and Krum catches the Snitch?" George grinned. "That alone is worth every last Galleon."
They turned a corner, narrowly sidestepping two small children wobbling through the air on toy brooms, their shrill giggles echoing across the misty morning campsite. Just as Fred opened his mouth to complain about the early hour, a sharp pop! cracked through the air—followed by a crash and the screech of squeaky wheels.
A wizard had apparated directly in front of them, nearly colliding with Fred as he staggered behind a wildly teetering cart piled high with Quidditch merchandise. The man wore a flashing Irish flag waistcoat, had three missing teeth, and a shock of hair dyed Bulgaria's red and black.
"'Ello lads!" he barked with a grin. "Fancy a bit of pride, eh? I've got scarves that wave themselves, hats that sing the national anthems, miniature enchanted players that reenact the highlights–'ere, check this out!" He held up a gleaming green and gold flag that unfurled with a triumphant blare, blinding Fred momentarily as it screamed, "GO IRELAND!"
The cart groaned under the weight of glowing rosters, fluttering foam fingers, snitches in glass orbs, and what looked suspiciously like butterbeer-branded socks.
"Come on, come on…only a limited run before the match begins! Show your colors, gents!"
George raised an eyebrow, unfazed. "Sorry man but we are plenty broke right now. Bugger off!"
The vendor scoffed. "Philistines," he muttered, and with another loud pop, he vanished, his cart disappearing with a flash of green and gold confetti.
As they strolled along the packed path between tents, Fred and George spotted a pair of girls up ahead, both clearly not from Hogwarts. One had a platinum-blonde pixie cut and bright red lipstick, the other with long, glossy black curls that bounced with each step. They couldn't have been more than fifteen, maybe sixteen, but the way they giggled and whispered as the twins approached made it very clear they knew exactly who they were dealing with.
George, never one to miss an opportunity, straightened his posture like a peacock, puffed out his chest, and gave them a flashy grin. He blew a dramatic kiss in the air with a flourishing bow that nearly knocked over a passing butterbeer vendor.
The blonde practically swooned, elbowing her friend and whispering something that made them both burst into another round of giggles.
George winked and flexed one arm, then the other, neither of which had ever been inside a weight room. "Bit of international diplomacy, you think?" he muttered out of the corner of his mouth.
Fred let out a long, theatrical sigh and turned on his heel, heading in the opposite direction.
Undeterred, George waved goodbye to the girls like he was departing on a ship to war, then jogged to catch up. "What is your problem?" he huffed. "Those girls were clearly charmed. I was about ten seconds away from securing a pen pal in Luxembourg."
"They were twelve, George."
"She was at least fifteen! And that accent? Probably Veela." He elbowed Fred playfully. "You take the brunette. I'll suffer through the blonde."
Fred gave him a dry look and shrugged his hand off his shoulder. "There are more important things in life than flirting with strangers."
George stopped walking and threw up his hands dramatically. "Says the man who used to write poetry about someone's ankle! Don't go all monk on me now."
Fred turned slowly. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"It means," George said, stepping closer, "you need to wake up. Since Ava left, you've been walking around like Nearly Headless Nick. You don't eat, you don't flirt, you don't even prank anymore. It's depressing."
Fred's jaw clenched.
George's tone softened, but his words stayed sharp. "You're miserable. Either go after her, mate… or move on. But stop pretending you're fine because we both know you're not."
Fred looked at him, eyes flashing, but didn't say a word. He just turned away and kept walking, faster now.
George watched him for a beat, then shook his head and muttered under his breath, "Bloody poets, the lot of us." Then he jogged to catch up.
Deep down, he knew his brother was right. He always did. George had a way of cutting to the heart of things, whether Fred liked it or not.
On the outside, Fred had carried on, laughing, pranking, joking with Lee, playing the role everyone expected of him. But on the inside, there was nothing but static. A kind of dull, persistent ache that he never let anyone see. Since the day Ava left, something in him had gone quiet. The world hadn't stopped, but it had certainly dimmed.
He hadn't written to her. Not because he didn't want to. He did want to, a thousand times over. But because putting pen to parchment would have made it real. That she was gone. That she chose to go. It was easier to pretend she'd never existed in the first place… except everything reminded him of her. Every hallway, every joke she used to roll her eyes at, every late-night firewhiskey-fueled conversation where she called him an idiot and kissed him anyway.
He couldn't even be around Angelina for the longest time. She didn't push, thank Merlin, but he knew she was biting her tongue every time they passed in the common room. The sympathy in her eyes nearly broke him.
Still, lately… he'd started to believe he was moving on.
And then he saw her.
At first, he thought he was imagining things. But then his heart jolted. No, that was her. A Quidditch pitch's length away, near the line of vendor carts. She stood with her back mostly to him, hood up, but a few wind-tossed strands of familiar hair slipped free. Burgundy hoodie, jeans, casual and effortless, like no time had passed.
A boy jogged up beside her, waving two Bulgarian flags like a prize. Tall, slim, annoyingly stylish in a black turtleneck and a red-and-black scarf. Fred watched as the boy leaned close, and said something in her ear. She smiled and then she blushed.
Fred's stomach twisted. His hands curled into fists at his sides, and he yanked them through his hair, tugging hard at the ends.
What the hell is she doing here? With him?
The jealousy was instantaneous. So was the fury. After all this time, after the silence, the storm she'd left in her wake, she had the nerve to show up here like nothing happened? Laughing? Blushing over some smug-looking guy in a turtleneck?
He forced himself to look away, trying to tamp down the storm rising inside him.
"Fred?" George's voice broke through. "You look like you just saw You-Know-Who in a Speedo. What is it?"
Fred ignored him and snapped his head back around to the spot where he'd seen her. But she was gone.
The burgundy hoodie, the glint of her necklace, and the boy beside her, all vanished into the tide of Quidditch fans. Fred's eyes darted across the crowd, heart racing. He turned in a slow circle, scanning tents, faces, and flags. But he couldn't find any sign of her.
"Fred?" George asked again, slower this time, less joking. "Mate, what did you see?"
Fred stood frozen for a beat longer, then shook his head as if trying to clear it. "I… I thought I saw…"
Fred blinked, still searching the crowd as if she might reappear. "I… I thought I saw…"
"Saw what? A streaker in a leprechaun hat?"
Fred finally dragged his gaze away, rubbing the back of his neck. "Nah. Just… thought I saw someone. Must've been nothing."
George squinted at him. "You sure? You've got that dazed, 'I-just-saw-Mum-in-a-swimsuit' look again."
Fred huffed a laugh despite himself. "Cheers for that image. Really needed it."
They turned and began walking back toward their tent, the sounds of the crowd swelling behind them. Fred shoved his hands in his pockets and stared at the grass as they walked. It couldn't have been her, he told himself. No way. He'd imagined it. Had to have.
He was completely mental.
