Chapter 32 - The Quidditch World Cup pt 2

"Come, Clarice! Let us get to our seats!" Marcell called, excitement buzzing in his voice as he motioned toward the looming stadium. Around them, witches and wizards flooded the footpaths like a sea of color and energy, flags fluttering, laughter and chants rising to the skies. The scale of it all was dizzying—thousands upon thousands of people crammed into the most spectacular venue Ava had ever laid eyes on.

It was just past sunrise, but the stands were already pulsing with anticipation. As they climbed toward their box seats, Ava craned her neck, drinking in the sight: a massive oval stadium with rows upon rows of enchanted stands stacked dizzyingly high, floating platforms for commentators, and glowing advertising banners swirling magically in the air. The pitch gleamed like freshly polished velvet, flawless and lush beneath the morning sun. The towering goal hoops at either end of the field shimmered like golden halos.

When they reached their assigned box, Isabella was already inside, seated primly with Marcell's family, her outfit coordinated in delicate shades of cream and crimson.

"Zere you are!" Isabella cried, leaping up and fluttering toward them. "I 'ave been zo worried about you! I 'ave saved seats for you both!" She gestured grandly to a trio of chairs at the very front of the box, her hand latching onto Marcell's a second later. He smiled politely and let her guide him to the center seat, while Ava settled on his other side, casting a glance at the packed crowd with growing awe.

"This is… incredible," Ava whispered. Before her stretched a sea of cheering witches and wizards, flags of green and red rippling through the stands like fire and clover. The stadium itself was a masterpiece of magical engineering. The towering stands seemed to float above the ground and the pitch at its center was smooth and gleamed like emerald velvet under.

Ava's eyes swept over the towering golden goal hoops, rising high into the sky like enchanted halos. The noise was deafening as thousands of excited voices blended into a wave of sound that vibrated through the soles of her shoes and up into her chest. She leaned forward slightly, her fingers tightening around the edge of her seat. There was something electric about it all, something that made her feel small and alive at once.

"It iz zo interesting!" Isabella chimed in. "Thoze gold rings—zey remind me of my earrings Papa gave me for Christmas!"

Ava blinked and stifled a laugh, the magic of the moment slightly dimmed by Isabella's irrepressible flair. But even that couldn't dull the glimmer in her eyes as she turned back toward the pitch, heart pounding in rhythm with the roar of the crowd.

Marcell chuckled and turned toward Ava. "Zose are ze goals. 'Ave you ever seen a Quidditch match before?"

Ava's smile faltered. She lowered her gaze to the Bulgarian flag folded neatly in her lap, her fingers slipping over the edge of the fabric, smoothing it, then gripping it tighter. "Yeah… I've seen a few." Her voice was quiet, almost lost in the rising buzz of the stadium. "Nothing like this, though."

Marcell's hand brushed against hers gently, his thumb tracing slow, comforting circles over her knuckles. "Iz zere anyzing wrong?" he asked, his voice low, a softness in his eyes that mirrored the quiet concern in his touch.

Ava parted her lips to answer, but before she could speak, a voice boomed across the pitch, amplified by magic and magnified by the sheer roar of the crowd.

"Ladies and gentlemen…welcome! Welcome to the final of the four hundred and twenty-second Quidditch World Cup!"

The stadium exploded with sound. Deafening cheers erupted like thunderclaps, surging through the crowd like a wave. Trumpets blared. Enchanted horns bellowed national anthems that shifted and merged midair. Flags burst into animated motion, rippling in synchrony, while enchanted confetti shot upward like miniature fireworks.

Ava jolted, startled by the sheer intensity of it. But it didn't take long before she felt herself swept up in it, her heart thudding in rhythm with the rising roar around her. She gripped the polished wooden railing with one hand, the other raising her flag high above her head, letting its crimson and black colors flutter in the wind. Marcell whooped beside her, his voice lost in the storm of sound. Isabella shrieked with delight, her curls bouncing as she jumped up and down, waving her miniature Bulgarian banner with dramatic flair.

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

Marcell stood at once, practically bouncing. "Zis will be magnifique!"

Isabella squealed, eyes wide. "It's Veela! Oh, trés jolie! Zey are so beautiful!"

Onto the field glided a hundred veela, moving with hypnotic grace, their silver hair floating like moonlight. Ava watched in amazement—but then noticed something else. Marcell, like every other man around, had gone slack-jawed, dazed. He leaned dangerously forward against the railing, eyes glazed in dreamy fascination. For a second, Ava feared he might actually throw himself over the edge.

"Marcell!" she said sharply, reaching out to grab his wrist. His skin was clammy with sweat. The moment her fingers closed around his hand, his body jolted slightly. His eyes blinked rapidly as if coming out of a dream, and he looked down at their joined hands in surprise. Color slowly returned to his cheeks. And then, as if nothing had happened at all, he smiled and lifted her hand slowly toward his lips. Yet before his lips could touch her knuckles, Bagman's voice burst through the stadium with gleeful urgency, shattering the lingering spell like glass underfoot.

"And now kindly put your wands in the air…for the Irish National Team Mascots!"

Ava pulled her hand back quickly and turned her attention to the pitch just in time to see the sky erupt in shimmering gold. The air shimmered with flecks of glowing magic, and a rainbow burst across the stadium, bright and vibrant against the morning light. From the grass, a towering shamrock surged upward, glittering with emerald brilliance and trailing beams of golden light in its wake.

Ava's jaw dropped. "What is that?" she breathed, pointing in wonder.

Marcell handed her his Omnioculars, still recovering from the veela-induced haze. "'Ave a look!" he said, his voice hoarse but amused.

She adjusted the dials quickly, zooming in until her breath caught again. "They're—leprechauns!" she gasped, laughing in disbelief.

"Zey are giving away gold! Look!" Isabella shrieked from the other side of Marcell, nearly climbing onto her seat in excitement. She pointed frantically as dozens of tiny figures tossed handfuls of gold coins into the crowd below, where witches and wizards scrambled to catch them mid-air like magical confetti.

With the Omnioculars pressed to her eyes, Ava slowly scanned the crowd, her thumb turning the dial with practiced ease. Faces flickered in and out of focus like ghosts in a sea of color painted in Bulgarian red or Irish green. She wasn't sure what she was searching for. Curiosity, mostly. But maybe… something else.

Angelina? It'd be nice to see a familiar face in this endless forest of strangers. Maybe even– No. She cut the thought off sharply. Don't be ridiculous. There were over a hundred thousand people here. What were the odds?

"And now, ladies and gentlemen," Bagman's voice rang out, practically vibrating through the stands, "kindly welcome the Bulgarian National Quidditch Team! I give you –Dimitrov!" A fresh wave of screams erupted. Scarlet blurs shot across the field, slicing through the sky with astonishing speed. Ava lifted the Omnioculars again, tracking the motion with awe. "Zograf! Levski! Vulchanov! Volkov! Aaaaaaaand – Krum!"

The crowd reached a fever pitch as Viktor Krum soared past the Irish bench, a streak of crimson against the green. Ava caught a crystal-clear image of him in flight—his face fierce, brows furrowed in concentration. His movements were like something out of a dream: controlled, calculated, deadly beautiful.

"He's not zat bad, eh?" Isabella leaned across Marcell, giving Ava a dreamy smile and a nudge.

Ava chuckled faintly. "He's not bad."

"Not zat bad?" Isabella gasped in mock offense. "You know someone better, Clarice?"

Ava shrugged, adjusting the dials. "Maybe." She focused again, this time panning the crowd behind the players, aimless at first–until she froze. There, just behind the Irish bench. A flash of unmistakable red hair. A profile she could have sketched from memory. Fred Weasley. Her breath caught like a snare had pulled tight in her chest. She blinked. Hard. Pulled the Omnioculars away, and rubbed at her eyes like the image might vanish. But it didn't. The afterimage burned behind her eyelids.

"Clarice?" Marcell's voice was suddenly near, a gentle thread of concern. "Iz everyzing alright?"

"I'm fine," she said too quickly, too sharply. Her hands trembled as she snatched the Omnioculars back and rewound the playback. There he was again. Clear as day. Fred Weasley. Laughing at something George had said, nudging his brother with a grin. Watching the pitch, completely unaware that somewhere in the stands she was watching him. The Omnioculars slipped from her hands and clattered against the wooden floor of the box.

Bagman's voice boomed once more: "And here, all the way from Egypt, our referee, acclaimed Charwizard of the International Association of Quidditch—Hassan Mostafa!"

But it all sounded distant. Dull. Muffled by the sound of her own blood thundering in her ears. The cheer of the crowd was a haze. Her fingers felt numb. Marcell was speaking, maybe even touching her shoulder, but she couldn't make out his words. She couldn't make sense of the world tilting beneath her feet. She swayed and the flags blurred. Her lungs refused to fill. And just as Bagman's voice roared once more–"Theeeeeeeeeey're OFF!"-everything dropped into darkness.

The last thought that pierced the storm before it all went black: Fred Weasley is at the Quidditch World Cup.


Ava's eyes fluttered open slowly, her lashes brushing against the pillow as the darkness around her came into soft focus. The world felt hushed, as though wrapped in velvet. Her head pounded dully, and her body felt heavy, but she registered the softness beneath her, pillows perhaps, and the gentle weight of a fur blanket draped over her. She tried to sit up, her limbs sluggish and uncoordinated. Before she could shift again, a soft feminine voice spoke from nearby.

"Ah, you are awake!"

Light flared to life with a soft hum as floating sconces lit the room. Ava blinked, squinting against the sudden brightness. A woman in a deep maroon gown and white apron stepped gracefully toward her, her dark auburn hair swept into a pristine bun. She moved with the practiced elegance of someone used to tending to others. "'Eere, let me get you some water," she said gently, retrieving a goblet from the side table. She handed it to Ava with a small nod. "Drink zis. Slowly."

Ava accepted the goblet, the cool metal grounding in her hands. She took a careful sip, her throat parched. The woman stepped quietly into the hallway, leaving the room in silence once more until footsteps rushed in moments later.

Marcell was breathless as he crossed the threshold, his coat half-unbuttoned, his cheeks flushed. "Clarice! Are you alright?" He knelt beside the bed, his hand immediately reaching for hers. His brows were drawn together in concern. "I waz zo worried about you… you've been out since before ze match even started."

Ava winced slightly as she touched her temple, her fingers brushing over the dull ache still lingering there. "I'm so embarrassed," she murmured. "I don't even know what happened. I hope you didn't miss too much of the game."

Marcell shook his head quickly, eyes warm. "Your safety matters more to me zan any match. My father and I brought you 'ere ourselves." He smiled faintly. "I only stepped out to get something to eat when Esmeralda came to tell me you were awake."

Her gaze sharpened. "Wait… you missed the game?"

"Of course I did," he said softly as if it was an obvious answer, his hand reaching up to gently caress the side of her face.

A chill prickled along her skin at the unexpected touch. She looked away quickly, grabbing the goblet and draining the rest of the water in an effort to steady herself, just in time for Isabella to burst through the door.

"Clarice! Mon dieu, you are awake!" she cried, gliding across the room. "Ze match was incredible! Ze Irish won, even though Krum caught ze Sneetch!"

Ava smiled faintly and took another drink of water too quickly. She choked slightly and burped, cheeks flushing. "Sorry… just thirsty." She gave a nervous glance toward Marcell, who was still kneeling, his hand lingering near hers.

Isabella frowned. "Oh no, 'ave you eaten anyzing? I will tell Esmeralda to bring you zomezing immediately!" She swept out as quickly as she had entered, her voice echoing down the corridor in a call for the maid.

Marcell didn't rise. He remained at her side, watching her with unreadable eyes. His voice was softer now, almost hesitant. "You looked so peaceful just now… lying 'ere."

Ava tilted her head slightly, unsure how to respond. "I… wasn't dreaming peacefully."

"I know," he murmured. "You kept saying a name."

Her breath caught but thankfully he didn't press. Instead, he stood slowly, then paused. "Clarice…" His hand rose halfway, like he was going to touch her face again but stopped short. She turned toward him, confused by the tension building between them. And then… he kissed her.

It wasn't harsh or rushed but gentle and searching as his lips brushed against hers with hesitant hope. She didn't expect it. Didn't want it. Her body stiffened instinctively, her arms at her sides, her mouth unmoving beneath his. It didn't take long for Marcell to notice.

He pulled back, his face flushing in embarrassment. "I–I'm sorry. I thought…" He stepped back quickly, running both hands through his hair. "I should not 'ave done zat."

Ava sat stunned, her heart thudding uncomfortably in her chest. "No…it's okay," she said softly, shaking her head. "I just… I didn't see that coming."

He gave her a pained smile. "I know. I just… I'm not used to attention like zis. You're kind. And honest. And you don't pretend."

She stood, brushing off her robes. "You don't need to explain. But I should." She looked at him fully now. "You're a great guy, Marcell. Truly. But right now, I'm not in a place where I can offer more than friendship. My life is complicated, and I need to figure myself out before I figure anyone else out."

Marcell nodded slowly, absorbing her words. Then, after a breath, he asked gently, "Who is Fred?"

Ava wasn't expecting to hear him say his name and she flinched. "What?"

He held up a hand. "You said his name. In your sleep."

She looked down at her hands, suddenly aware of how tightly they were clenched. Her voice, when it came, was flat. "He's of no importance."

"Non," Marcell said kindly, but firmly. "He is someone. But it's okay. You don't have to tell me."

She looked up, guilt and gratitude mingling in her eyes.

"I'll let you rest," he said, offering her a small smile. He turned and stepped out the door, closing it behind him with a whisper of sound.


Ava woke up in the middle of the room was dark, but not silent. Somewhere in the distance, she could still hear the muted laughter of partygoers, probably the same group that hadn't stopped since the Irish clinched the Cup. She shifted beneath the fur blanket, restless. Her eyes flicked to the window, where moonlight spilled across the carpet. The fruit and cheese plate Esmeralda had brought earlier sat mostly untouched on the bedside table. She had told Isabella she was tired. That she needed rest. But the truth was, she needed space. Space to breathe. Space to think.

Fred Weasley was here. Somewhere. Among the thousands.

She hadn't expected her body's reaction when she saw him in the stands. She hadn't expected her knees to give out, her world to blacken. It had been a glimpse, barely a moment, and yet it had unraveled her. She couldn't stop thinking about him. The curve of his smile, the way his eyes lit up just before delivering a joke. The quiet way he looked at her when he thought she wasn't paying attention. The way his fingers always found hers in the dark without needing to be asked. He had a laugh that could crack open the heaviest silence and a voice that used to make her feel like she belonged somewhere.

And when he was angry, or when he was hurt, he didn't hide it behind sharp words like some people. Fred wore his emotions like badges, unpolished and burning. She remembered the fight. The hurt in his voice. The way he had walked away from her that night under the stars. And now… Now he was here. Did he know she was too? Had he seen her? Had he moved on?

Ava exhaled slowly, feeling the weight of questions she wasn't ready to answer pressing in on her chest like fog.

Ava sat up slowly and pulled on her jacket. She had to get out of this tent, even for a little while. Maybe the cold night air would clear her thoughts.

She crept quietly through the hallway, careful not to wake anyone. The house-elf had extinguished most of the lights, casting the space in soft shadow. Only the occasional muffled snore told her she wasn't alone.

Once outside, she inhaled deeply. The air was crisp, tinged with smoke and the remnants of campfire food. She wandered past clusters of tents where people were still celebrating, laughing, drinking, and dancing. A man and woman were snogging openly beside a barrel of butterbeer. Someone played a fiddle off-key. Another group was attempting a very lopsided Irish jig.

Eventually, the noise faded behind her, replaced by the quiet rustling of grass beneath her shoes. The tents disappeared from view, swallowed by the shadows of the surrounding forest. She found a patch of open field just beyond the last campfire and sank to the ground, leaning back against the cool earth. Above her, the stars glittered in a velvet sky. The stillness was soothing and her eyes drifted closed and soon her mind wandered.

She remembered a night not unlike this one…cool, quiet, the stars just as bright. Fred had dragged her out of the common room, insisting they sneak up to the Astronomy Tower to "watch for shooting stars," though he'd really just wanted an excuse to smuggle up a blanket and a stash of Bertie Bott's Every Flavour Beans. He'd made her try them with her eyes closed, laughing so hard when she accidentally ate a sardine one that she nearly spit it on his shirt.

She had pretended to be annoyed, grumbling into the night air, but when she'd looked over and seen him grinning like an idiot, hair wild in the wind and freckles soft beneath the moonlight, her heart had squeezed in her chest. She hadn't told him. Not then. Not what it meant to her. Not how safe she'd felt in that moment like the stars weren't so far away after all.

The wind shifted, and a strange orange haze began to creep into the sky. Ava sat up slowly, blinking the sleep from her eyes. That wasn't dawn. The acrid scent of smoke hit her nose a second later—sharp and unmistakable. Then came the sound: distant shouts, not joyous or drunk with celebration, but panicked. Raw. She twisted around, her heart suddenly pounding. The camp… was in chaos.

Tents blazed like torches, their canvas walls curling and collapsing in flame. Families screamed as they fled in all directions, parents clutching children, some tripping, some abandoning luggage in their mad dash for safety. The thunder of spells echoed through the valley in sharp cracks like gunfire. Flashes of red and green tore through the smoky air like fireworks.

Ava's breath caught in her throat. She couldn't move. She couldn't look away as figures in black cloaks and silver masks marched in tight formation across the field, a chilling contrast to the chaos around them. Their movements were calm. Deliberate. Wands raised, they flicked spells with practiced ease, sending bodies flying, twisting midair with shrieks of pain. One woman was lifted high off the ground, limbs contorted unnaturally as her screams were drowned out by laughter…. Death Eaters.

Ava's stomach turned to ice. Every part of her screamed to move but her legs refused to obey. She was frozen, her body locked in place as if rooted to the earth beneath her. She watched in horror as the masked figures levitated a group of terrified Muggle campsite workers into the air, twisting them into grotesque shapes, and dangling them like puppets. It was then that her instincts finally kicked in.

She darted into the woods, her heart pounding like a drum. Branches scratched at her face and arms, her feet stumbling over roots and rocks. She didn't know where she was going, only that she wanted to get away from the fire. She hadn't been running for long when she collided with someone. She fell backward with a yelp, her wand already in hand. "Expelliarmus!"

A crack of light burst from her wand, striking the figure squarely in the chest. They flew back with a grunt, landing hard on the damp earth several yards away. A second figure sprinted toward the fallen one, dropping to their knees beside them.

Ava scrambled upright, gasping. Her ankle shrieked with pain as she put weight on it, buckling slightly. She clutched a nearby tree trunk to steady herself. Her wand shook in her hand. "Don't come any closer!" she shouted, voice high and sharp with panic.

Before either figure could respond, a third presence rushed up behind her. A hand gripped her shoulder, firm and familiar, and spun her around. She raised her wand on instinct, ready to cast another spell when her breath caught in her throat.

"Ava?" Fred's voice cracked like thunder in a storm. His chest was heaving, his cheeks flushed, and his eyes were wide with disbelief and something else she couldn't quite place.

Her lips parted, stunned. "F–Fred? Is that really–"

She didn't get to finish. Fred closed the distance between them in a single, breathless heartbeat. His hands gripped her arms, tugging her forward, and then his mouth crashed onto hers. He kissed her like a man starved. Like he'd been holding his breath since the day she left and could finally exhale. His arms wrapped around her tightly, one hand sliding up to cradle the back of her head as if afraid she might disappear again.

Ava gasped into the kiss, staggered by the heat of it, the sheer force of want behind it. Her thoughts dissolved. Everything else, the terror, the exhaustion, the chaos erupting all around them faded into nothing and she clung to him. Her fingers curled into the fabric of his jacket, fisting it as if it were the only real thing she could hold onto. Her other hand reached up, threading through his hair, pulling him closer with a desperation she hadn't even known she had. He tasted like fire and wind and something aching and familiar, like home.

The kiss deepened, mouths parting with instinct and urgency. Their teeth grazed. Their breaths hitched. Her body pressed flush against his, chest heaving against his own. It wasn't perfect. It was messy, uncoordinated, too much and not enough but she didn't care.

Fred's hand slid down to the small of her back, anchoring her, grounding her as her knees buckled beneath her. She broke the kiss only to draw in a ragged breath, only to meet his gaze.

"Bloody hell," he whispered against her lips. His voice cracked. "You're really here. I didn't imagine it…"

Ava touched his cheek, her thumb brushing the curve of his jaw. "I didn't think I'd ever see you again." And she kissed him again, slower this time, letting herself fall into him completely. Letting herself feel it all. For one impossibly sweet moment, everything else fell away, the screams, the distant roar of fire, the chaos unraveling around them. It was just them. Just this.

But in the shadows behind them, unnoticed a wand rose. And its tip ignited with a deadly, emerald light.