The World Burns Bright
The Quidditch World Cup campsite was nothing like Harriet expected.
She’d seen a lot of magic in her time—giants, dragons, Time-Turners—but nothing quite prepared her for an entire enchanted forest turning into a multicolored, multi-national, completely chaotic wizarding carnival overnight. Tents the size of cottages were stacked like shrunken villages. Wizard flags fluttered proudly from tall pikes. Vendors shouted in at least seven different languages.
And yet, as Harriet stepped out of the Portkey and caught her balance on the dry grass, none of it stirred anything in her.
Not wonder. Not joy.
Not even excitement.
She clutched her bag tighter. The one from Gringotts.
Its weight against her shoulder was heavier than it should have been. Inside sat the documents. The truths. The proof that everything—everything—she’d been told about herself was a lie.
Harriet Lyra Malfoy.
The name still echoed in her head like a ghost she couldn’t shake.
“Brilliant, isn’t it?” Ron asked beside her, grinning ear to ear. “We’re not even inside the stadium yet! Just wait till you see the Irish mascots—Merlin, they were ridiculous last year—”
“Mhm,” she murmured.
He didn’t notice. He was already sprinting ahead with the twins, who had launched into some competition over who could spot the most elaborate tent.
Hermione stayed beside her, lips pursed in disapproval at all the spectacle.
“We should find our tent quickly,” she muttered, “before someone gets trampled or the twins blow something up.”
Harriet didn’t reply.
She kept her head down as they walked. Around them, families were cheering, children running with miniature broomsticks, spells lighting up the sky in bursts of color. But it all felt like static behind glass.
How many of these people believed Dumbledore’s lies?
How many would hate her if they knew the truth?
They reached their assigned pitch after some confusion with the Muggle campsite manager. Mr. Weasley’s cheerful bumbling made it bearable, but Harriet could hardly sit through it. Her skin prickled. Every step she took felt watched.
She didn’t unpack. Just laid her satchel near the head of her cot and sat quietly.
---
Later that afternoon, Cedric Diggory and his father arrived at their neighboring tent.
Cedric was kind.
Too kind.
He smiled easily, offered to help Ginny with her bag, and greeted Harriet with a polite, “Nice to see you again, Harry.”
Harry.
Her stomach twisted. She gave him a faint nod.
Amos Diggory was louder and a bit pompous, going on and on about Cedric’s performance at school. When he brought up the match last year—“Would’ve won if your boy hadn’t fallen off his broom!”—Harriet just smiled.
Ron was less gracious, muttering something dark under his breath.
Hermione whispered something about tact.
Harriet said nothing.
---
The sun dipped below the hills just as they made their way to the stadium. The air vibrated with excitement. Thousands of witches and wizards streamed along enchanted paths, laughter and cheers echoing as lanterns floated overhead.
Harriet walked in silence, flanked by Ron and Hermione.
And then, suddenly, they were there.
The stadium was massive—more like a city than a sporting venue. Towering walls wrapped around the pitch like a fortress, layered with magic so dense Harriet could feel it pressing against her bones.
Inside, it was brighter than day. Seats soared into the clouds, banners flapping, music pulsing from unseen horns. The Top Box—their seats—had a perfect view of the entire pitch.
Harriet could barely take it in.
She felt Hermione grip her arm. “There! That’s the Irish team!”
A flurry of emerald-clad players shot from the locker tunnel, streaking across the pitch on gleaming broomsticks.
Cheers exploded.
“AND NOW—BULGARIA!”
The announcer’s voice boomed.
A second squad shot out of the opposite tunnel in tight formation—sleek, controlled, efficient.
And at the center, trailing just behind them, was him.
Viktor Krum.
Harriet’s breath caught.
He wasn’t beautiful. Not in the way magazines made him out to be. His features were sharp, his build lean but powerful. His hair was cut short, his uniform impeccable. But it wasn’t that.
It was the stillness.
He didn’t wave. Didn’t smile.
He just flew with a sort of silent, terrifying focus that made the hairs on the back of her neck rise.
And then he looked up.
Directly into the Top Box.
Directly at her.
Harriet’s heart stopped.
Their eyes locked—for a moment that felt like a century.
And then he blinked, turned, and descended toward his team.
She exhaled shakily.
“Bet he thinks he’s special,” Ron muttered, folding his arms. “He lost last season, didn’t he?”
Harriet didn’t answer.
She was still watching Viktor Krum.
---
The match was chaos.
The Irish played with flamboyant grace, their Chasers weaving like ribbon dancers. The Bulgarians countered with brutal, pinpoint aggression. And Viktor? Viktor was lightning. Controlled and untouchable.
He caught the Snitch.
But they lost.
The crowd erupted regardless.
He landed first. Silent. Unbothered.
And as the players filed off, he looked back toward the Top Box—one last time.
Harriet couldn’t look away.
---
Back at the campsite, the air was still electric with post-match energy. Wizards lit up the night sky with green and gold fireworks. Songs rang out in strange languages. Food, music, dancing.
Harriet slipped away.
Just for a moment.
She wandered toward the edge of the woods, the satchel still on her shoulder.
And then, from behind her—screams.
She turned.
The sky above the tents had changed—black smoke rising in serpent swirls.
Death Eaters.
They were marching, masks glinting in the firelight, curses flashing like lightning. Wizards fled in all directions. Families screamed. Tents exploded.
Harriet ran.
Not away—toward the danger.
She found Ginny near a collapsed tent, blood running down her cheek. Fred and George were shouting nearby.
“Take her!” Harriet yelled, pushing Ginny toward them.
She turned again—and something collided with her. A massive man, cloaked and masked. He raised his wand.
Harriet threw herself backward—
And hit the ground hard.
The spell missed—but she didn’t have time to recover. He advanced again.
Then—
A flash of magic.
The man froze.
And collapsed.
Harriet scrambled up—and found herself staring into the eyes of Igor Karkaroff.
He wasn’t wearing a mask. He looked furious.
“You fool girl,” he hissed, grabbing her arm. “What are you doing here?!”
“I—I was—”
“You are not safe. Not here. Not now.”
He dragged her through the trees. His movements were fast, sharp, trained. They ducked under hexes, through smoke, until they found cover near the edge of the woods.
“You need to leave,” he growled. “Before someone recognizes you.”
“I’m not—” she began.
“You think we do not know who you are?” Karkaroff spat. “Do you think we’ve forgotten what was taken from the Malfoys?”
Her blood ran cold.
“You—what?”
He sneered. “You wear the mask well. But masks crack. And when yours does, you’ll be in more danger than you can imagine. Especially if you continue to play the Light’s favorite pawn.”
She stared at him, heart pounding.
“I don’t trust them anymore,” she whispered.
Karkaroff’s expression softened. Barely.
“Good.”
And then he was gone.
---
She returned to the Burrow at sunrise.
Covered in ash.
Clutching her satchel like a lifeline.
When Molly asked, gently, what happened—Harriet just said, “I got turned around.”
But in her pocket, there was a note.
Pressed and perfumed.
Written in sharp, slanted Bulgarian script:
“They will not touch you. Not while I breathe.”
It wasn’t signed.
But she knew.
Viktor had seen her.
---