Cutting Losses
Chapter 5: Cutting Losses
Pushing their way through the throng of spectators, Draco, Blaise, Theo and Pansy dragged Daphne and Anthony through the woods and down the lantern-lit path. Shouts of laughter and bouts of singing were bursting forth spontaneously around them. The feverish excitement grew louder and louder as they approached the brightly lit stadium, until it crescendoed at the edge of the trees.
After nearly twenty minutes on the trail, they found themselves standing in the shadow of the largest stadium they had ever seen. Immeasurably tall, gold walls surrounded the pitch, where all of Hogwarts could fit inside…possibly even twice!
The group edged around the stadium to the nearest entrance, swarmed by riotous witches and wizards trying to gain entry to the event.
“Prime seats, of course,” the witch smiled at Narcissa as she checked all of their tickets. “Top Box, straight up these stairs,” she gestured in the direction of the rich purple carpeted steps to her left, “and don’t stop ‘til you reach the top!” She smiled at each of them as they passed before stopping the next group behind them in the line.
Daphne and Anthony split off about two thirds of the way up the stairs and parting eagerly, only sparing a quick wave and invitation to join them in their box later in the game. The rest continued climbing the rising stairs dutifully, until at last they reached the peak. They found themselves in a comparably small box at the very height of the stadium, halfway between the glimmering golden goalposts. They could see everything perfectly, looking down over the pitch, and hundreds of thousands of Quidditch fans taking their seats below. The towers that lined the stadium rose up in levels around the oval-shaped field.
Inside the box, there were two rows of about ten gilded violet chairs each. At the end of the second row sat a House Elf, a nervous little thing, hiding its face in its hands and twisting the end of its tea towel draped around its wrinkly body like a toga.
The field looked as though it were a viridian velvet blanket smoothed across the ground below. At each end, the goal hoops towered over the pitch, rising to what had to be nearly fifty feet high. And directly across from them, a massive blackboard relayed advertisements and messages to the crowds.
“A Bluebottle: A Broom for All the Family — safe, reliable, and with Built-in Anti-Burglar Buzzer……Mrs. Skower’s All-Purpose Magical Mess Remover: No Pain, No Stain!……Gladrag’s Wizardwear — London, Paris, Hogsmede……”
As his eyes continued to roam, much to his dismay, Draco observed that the entire front row was occupied by redheads, contrasted only by Potter’s scrambled jet black hair and Granger’s untamable curls. Just seeing her this close for the first time all summer, Draco’s heart started to race. Emanating from the stands themselves, a strange golden light made her mass of hair appear ethereal—like a halo had formed perfectly around her saintly little head. He nearly had to stop himself from reaching out to touch it when his father turned and interrupted his thoughts.
“Ah, Fudge,” Lucius drawled, “How are you? I don’t think you’ve met my wife, Narcissa? Or our son, Draco?” He stretched out his arm for a handshake with the Minister.
“Yes, how do you do, how do you do?” Fudge said as he shot a smile and bowed politely to Narcissa. “And allow me to introduce you to Mr. Oblank — Obalonsk — Mr. — Well, he’s the Bulgarian Minister of Magic, and he can’t understand a word I’m saying anyway, so nevermind. And let’s see who else — you know Arthur Weasley, I daresay?”
His father and Mr. Weasley tensely stared at each other for a moment, neither willing to compromise and greet each other like adults. However, neither were willing to show their blatant prejudice in front of the Minister, either. It felt eerily like the showdown they had endured so long ago in Flourish & Blotts, and Draco wondered if both men were reliving that same memory too.
Lucius’s gray eyes appraised Mr. Weasley for a moment, looking him up and down, then took stock of who else was sitting in the front row.
“Good Lord, Arthur,” he said quietly. “What did you have to sell to get seats in the Top Box? Surely your house wouldn’t have fetched this much?” Lucius sneered.
Draco agreed with the sentiment and was truly curious how the Weasley family came to possess so many seats this high up, but standing next to the Minister of Magic was no time to degrade another department head, no matter how ridiculous they were.
Luckily, Fudge had been preoccupied with another guest of the Top Box and hadn’t heard the exchange. Turning back to the men, he said, “Lucius has just given a very generous contribution to St. Mungo’s Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries, Arthur. He’s here as my personal guest.”
“How — how nice,” Mr. Weasley said with a strained smile.
Draco was no longer paying attention to the grown men in a silent power struggle, but had turned his attention to Granger. She had finally acknowledged his presence, and turned to watch the Minister’s introductions. Unfortunately, his father’s words had not endeared her to him for the moment, and her cheeks were tinged pink with rage. She silently returned Lucius’s own glare with determination.
Knowing his presence would only further entwine himself with his father’s apparent prejudice, Draco carefully backed away from the scene, opting to join Theo, Blaise, and Pansy against the back wall several feet behind the back row. He was watching the Weasel mutter something derogatory, based on his scrunched nose, to Potter and Granger, when Bagman burst into the box.
“Everyone ready?” He said, beaming. “Minister — ready to go?”
“Ready when you are,” Fudge replied comfortably.
Pulling out his wand and aiming it at his throat, Ludo cast a quick Sonorous and began to speak out over the roar of the filled stands; his voice echoing and booming into every corner.
“Ladies and gentleman…welcome! Welcome to the final of the four hundred and twenty-second Quidditch World Cup!”
The fans erupted with screams and applause. Flags waved energetically throughout the stands, causing a cacophony of the two national anthems to play both simultaneously and discordantly. The blackboard went blank, emptying itself of the ads before converting to its true purpose as scoreboard, reading Bulgaria: 0, Ireland 0.
“And now without further ado, allow me to introduce the Bulgarian National Team Mascots!” Ludo called out.
To the right of them, the stands and fans were completely blocked out in red, and went wild as their team’s mascots were called forth.
Not knowing what it was quite yet, Draco and his friends rose up on their tiptoes to catch a glimpse. A hundred Veela were gracefully gliding onto the pitch, their skin as bright as moonlight. Theo nearly started howling, and drool pooled from the corner of his mouth as he became entranced. Their white-gold hair was fanning out behind them, though Draco was aware enough to note there was no wind.
The moment the music started, Draco knew they were in trouble. It was for this reason alone, he made sure he focused his entire attention on the back of Granger’s head. He knew the Veela had begun to dance, the only indication necessary was Theo’s jaw hanging open, and Pansy’s harrumphing at Blaise’s distracted demeanor.
Chancing a glance up as the song grew faster and faster, Draco nearly choked on his own saliva as he watched Potter rest a foot on the edge of the box and Weaselbee was about to springboard over the edge with him. Good riddance. Disappointingly, the second the music stopped, Granger snapped them back into reality.
The crowd below grew angry, yelling and shouting for the Veela not to leave. It seemed the entire stadium was scraping any green they wore off their bodies, the Weasley men included. Draco noted how interesting and intense the effects of the Veela were, and he was certainly glad he had chosen to look away when he did.
Granger tugged Scarhead back into his seat, and the Veela lined up at one end of the field.
“And now,” Ludo roared, “kindly put your wands in the air for the Irish National Team Mascots!”
A fiery ball of green and gold zoomed into the stadium, circling before splitting itself in two. Both comets sped toward the goalposts and a rainbow arched over the pitch to connect the two. A fireworks display blasted through the sky, and the crowd stared in raptured awe. The rainbow began to fade out, and the two balls of light merged back into one, transforming into a giant, sparkling shamrock. The glimmering clover flew up over the stands, with what appeared to be golden rain falling from it.
“Excellent!” They heard the Weasel shout as his greedy fingers snatched at every gold coin within reach.
Looking at the source, Draco spotted thousands of Leprechauns making up the floating shamrock, wearing red vests and carrying either green or gold lanterns. Tumultuous applause rang through the stadium, with many spectators reaching to scoop up the gold coins as Weasley had.
The great shamrock fizzled, and the Leprechauns gathered across the field from the Veela, sitting cross-legged, ready to watch the match begin.
“And now, ladies and gentlemen, kindly welcome — the Bulgarian National Quidditch Team! I give you — Dimitrov!”
The Bulgarian fans cheered as a figure on a broomstick shot out from an entrance far below on the field, dressed in a scarlet quidditch jersey, his name plastered to his back in black.
“Ivanova!”
Another player joined the first.
“Zograf! Levski! Vulchanov! Volkov! Aaaaaand Krum!”
Draco focused his omnioculars onto the field, viewing each player as they entered the pitch. Krum’s large, curved nose and severe, dark eyebrows made him look like a harsh and predatory bird. He looked so much older than eighteen, and definitely older than when he had last seen the Seeker at his mother’s annual Malfoy Yule Gala.
“And now, please greet — the Irish National Quidditch Team!” Bagman yelled. “Presenting — Connolly! Ryan! Troy! Mullet! Moran! Quigley! Aaaaaand — Lynch!”
The Irish team swooped out onto the field on a pack of Firebolts as one, synchronized green blur, their names glinting in silver on the back of their robes.
“And here, all the way from Egypt, our referee, acclaimed Chairwizard of the International Association of Quidditch, Hassan Mostafa!”
A man made up almost entirely of his mustache, dressed in enough gold to rival that of the Snitch and stadium itself. The silver whistle protruding from under his massive mustache looked as though it might weigh more than the small, skinny wizard, and that he might topple over at any moment. He had a wooden crate in one arm and his broom tucked under the other.
Once kicked open, four balls burst forth from the crate, and the Egyptian wizard mounted his broom. The two black bludgers whooshed out of sight once freed, and the Golden Snitch sped away as well. With a sharp blast from his whistle, the referee was airborne.
“Theeeeeeey’re OFF!” Bagman screamed. “And it’s Mullet! Troy! Levski! Moran!”
The game started as expected; players showing off a bit and pushing their brooms to the absolute speed limit. Lowering his omnioculars, Draco tried to hone in on each play as it occurred—with the omnioculars, it was easy to get lost in the replays and then miss what was happening in real time.
The first big play resulted in Troy scoring for Ireland very early in the game, and set the tone for the remainder of it.
“TROY SCORES!” Bagman called out, the crowd exploding with cheers. “Ten zero to Ireland!”
Even Granger was on her feet, jumping up and down while Troy did a victory lap. The Irish mascots had gotten back into formation—a glittering shamrock—while the Veela across the field were sulking.
Ireland continued to score in quick succession, and Draco leaned around Theo to see Blaise cheering his heart out, fist pumping into the with each great play. With each maneuver, the match grew even more brutal, the Bulgarian Beaters causing mayhem as they whacked the Bludgers fiercely at the Irish Chasers. Finally, Bulgaria scored, and the Veela started to dance in celebration. This time, they were a bit more prepared, and quickly shoved their fingers in their ears and squinted their eyes shut.
Bagman’s voice allowed them to know when the dancing had stopped only a few seconds later. “Dimitrov! Levski! Dimitrov! Ivanova — oh I say!”
The entire stadium gasped as they watched the two Seekers dive for the Snitch. Both Krum and Lynch were moving faster than Draco had ever seen anyone fly, and inevitably toward the ground, no less.
Granger screamed from her spot in front of them, “They’re going to crash!” She was only half right though. Draco saw it for what it was—he and Potter had used the same maneuver on each other repeatedly over the years—the Wronski Feint. It did exactly as it was intended to do, and Krum pulled up at the last second, while Lynch crashed to the ground below. Disappointed groans echoed through the Irish half of the stadium.
“It’s time-out!” Bagman boomed, “as trained mediwizards hurry onto the field to examine Aidan Lynch!”
Krum continued to fly, circling overhead of where Lynch was being administered various healing potions to revive him. He was clearly using Lynch’s time out of commission as a chance to search for the Snitch without competition. Finally, the green-clad Seeker got back to his feet, earning whoops and cheers from the Irish fans in the crowd.
Draco got so lost in the throws of the game after that, he hardly noticed when Pansy left to go find Daphne and Anthony, until Theo elbowed him in the side.
“You comin’ mate?”
“Wha—yeah, coming!” He followed his friends down a few levels of stairs. When they came to the level Daphne had turned off upon arrival, they exited just as she had.
The box was significantly larger than the one they had just left, however, it seemed Cho Chang, Roger Davies, Cedric Diggory, and Marietta Edgecombe had already joined the Goldstein party in the back section of the box.
“Up here!” Daphne called, flashing them a luminous smile.
Daphne’s calls caught their attention, but not theirs alone. Marietta zeroed in on Draco the second she turned her head toward them, and he sighed in defeat. The fifth year girl latched onto his arm once again, and Draco refused to be ungentlemanly in front of so many of their classmates.
Draco checked the score board, it appeared in just nearly the ten or fifteen minutes it had taken them to switch parties, Ireland had pulled ahead by another ten goals—leading by one hundred and twenty points now. The Bulgarians didn’t take lightly to this, and the Irish, in turn, lost their sense of sportsmanship. Fouls were being called, and the mascots were revving up for a fight.
Hassan Mostafa, the referee, had landed in front of the Veela and started acting oddly indeed. He started flexing his minuscule muscles and smoothing out his wiry mustache.
“Now we can’t have that!” Ludo Bagman’s voice echoed amusedly. “Somebody slap the referee!”
A mediwizard sprinted across the field, plugging his own ears with his fingers. He sent a swift kick to Mustafa’s shins, bringing him out of his stupor. In his embarrassment, the referee turned and started yelling at the Veela who in turn looked like they were about to riot.
“And unless I’m mistaken, Mustafa is actually attempting to send off the Bulgarian team mascots!” Bagman shouted.
Suddenly things went topsy turvy, and several Bulgarian players landed on either side of the referee, arguing and shouting. The situation only spurred on the leprechauns to increase their taunting and for Mustafa to call two penalties!
“I don’t understand one bit,” Marietta pouted. “Could you explain the plays and calls to me, Draco?”
“Er—sure. Uh, the two penalties were for arguing with the ref, and um, well…oh, now Dimitrov’s tried to knock Moran off her broom so that’s a foul.”
The whistle sounded crisply. The Leprechauns had provoked the Veela now, and the once beautiful creatures were now much more bird-like with beaked faces and long, scaly wings bursting from their backs.
“Finally showing their true colors,” Marietta said vengefully. “Oh, look! The Ministry’s finally stepping in to put those creatures back in their place,” she said gleefully.
Ministry wizards flooded the field from all sides, attempting to separate the two sets of mascots. Meanwhile, above, the Quaffle was changing hands and teams so quickly, it was difficult to keep up.
“Levski — Dimitrov — Moran — Troy — Mullet — Ivanova — Moran again — Moran — MORAN SCORES!”
The entire box went wild with cheers as the Irish scored another ten points. They were nearly drowned out, however, by the wand blasts coming from out on the field. The Ministry members were unsuccessfully still attempting to force peace between the Veela and the Leprechauns, earning enraged shouts from the Bulgarians.
Above, the game continued. One of the Irish Beaters smashed a Bludger right into Krum’s face and while many cheered or laughed, Blaise whooped loudly at the Seeker’s misfortune. Blood dripping from a broken nose, Krum and the game moved on as no call was made on account of the Veela setting Mustafa’s broom and robes on fire. The Bulgarian coach called for a timeout, but it was no use, Lynch had seen the Snitch and was in a nosedive after it.
Half the crowd seemed to notice it at once, but Krum was faster. He was gaining on the Irish Seeker and it looked as though they would both crash to the ground this time. And Lynch did. The Irish Seeker was stampeded by a host of ferocious Veela.
“What’s all the excitement about?” Marietta pestered.
When the commotion cleared for a split second, Krum lumbered to his feet, thrusting his fist in the air. He’d caught the Snitch.
The scoreboard flashed: Bulgaria 160, Ireland: 170.
Realizing the game was over, and Krum did not, in fact, win the game for Bulgaria, the Irish fans throughout the stadium roared with cheers and excitement. Their rumbling grew louder and louder, taking on a life of its own in the excitement.
“IRELAND WINS!” Bagman shouted, taken aback by the abrupt and unusual ending of the match. “KRUM GETS THE SNITCH — BUT IRELAND WINS — good lord, I don’t think any of us were expecting that!”
“Wait, why would he catch the Snitch if they were still going to lose?” Marietta chirped in his ear gratingly as she twirled a limp curl around her finger.
“A bit of dignity, I suppose. Better to lose by ten than by a hundred,” Draco considered.
“It’s still losing,” she snorted indelicately.
“I hope he’s not hurt too bad,” Draco could hear Pansy say to Daphne. The blondes both rolled their eyes, but Pansy legitimately looked concerned for Krum’s injury.
“Still be just as ugly as he was before,” Blaise grunted gruffly.
The Irish National Anthem played loudly throughout the stadium, and fans were waving their flags high in the air to the tune. The Irish players gleefully did a jig as the Leprechauns dumped gold over their heads in celebration.
…
“So much for Krum being a prodigy,” Blaise announced triumphantly. “If he really was as great as everyone made him out to be, he’d have caught the Snitch sooner!” When no one replied, he carried on with a swig of his butterbeer, “And another thing! How stupid is it to catch the Snitch and end the game if you’re still gonna lose?” He snorted.
Draco couldn’t help but think he’d probably have done the same thing—end the game to save face. Losing by only ten points is still an honorable feat, and much preferred to being completely annihilated.
The teens had slowly exited the stadium with the rest of the crowd, heading toward the large tent Cho had pointed out to them earlier. Once inside, the place had been made to replicate an old pub, not unlike the Leaky Cauldron in Diagon Alley, or the Three Broomsticks in Hogsmede.
Anthony, Roger, and Cho were the first ones to enter, in a heated debate about several questionable plays from the match.
“I’m tellin’ ya! Lynch shoulda seen it comin’!” Roger howled.
Cho patted him on the back patronizingly, “They still won, didn’t they?”
“I need a drink!” Pansy called over the growing din as the tent filled up with patrons.
Blaise nodded, volunteering to help her push through the thick throng of people. Draco’s eyes scanned the room, looking for a certain head of honey brown curls, hoping he could get a few moments alone with her to smooth things over.
“Oh, good idea,” Marietta leaned against him as their personal space tightened even further. “We can look for a table. Let’s go—“ she yanked on his arm, dragging him through the crowd. Taking advantage of the lessened level of physical contact with her, he begrudgingly obliged.
They searched several corners of the room, finally beating another circle of fans to a table with six chairs—it would have to do. As their friends found them, the chairs quickly filled. Pansy and Blaise returned with three full sized bottles of Ogden’s finest, and Daphne and Theo had brought over a tray of butterbeers.
Pansy opted to sit on Blaise’s lap to make more room, and Marietta quickly followed suit. Draco glared at the raven haired witch across the table, but her responding smile was syrupy sweet, though he glimpsed the mirth dancing in her eyes. Draco flashed her two fingers behind Marietta’s back and she feigned a gasp that only lasted about three seconds before she burst into a loud cackle and downed her first drink.
Blaise, who had missed the entire exchange, looked on in confusion as he had been watching the awkward event of Daphne trying to decide if she wanted to stand next to Theo and talk to her friends, or sit on Anthony’s lap at the other end of the table while he and the other Ravenclaws droned on about every single play from the match in great detail.
“C’mon, Daph,” Theo flashed her a dopey grin and gestured to the space at their end of the table waiting for her.
Marietta scoffed a bit too loudly, but Draco was the only one who seemed to hear her.
Daphne took one long look down the other side of their table, where Anthony was watching Roger’s very animated recap of some Quidditch maneuver, she sighed and scooted closer to Theo. This earned her a lopsided smile from the lanky boy, and he slung an arm around her shoulders as he handed her a butterbeer.
Marietta went rigid. After her earlier comments pre-Quidditch, Draco was sure she was scrutinizing every move Daphne and Theo made—even more so now that they were making physical contact.
Draco attempted to distract her, placing a hand around her waist. She relaxed ever so slightly in response to the new contact, but her hawkish gaze never left the other pair.
“So—uh—Marietta,” he fumbled for something—anything really—to say to her, but he honestly hadn’t listened to a single word she’d said all day. “Do you like Firewhisky?”
She finally broke focus, blinking at him blankly.
“What?”
He offered her a swig from the Ogden’s bottle he was nursing. She stared at him dumbly before sneering at him.
“Trying to get me drunk, Malfoy? Take advantage of me like the rest of you slimy snakes?” She condescended, her nose turned up in the air.
At her words, their end of the table went silent.
“Er—no?” He hadn’t, truthfully, but maybe if she thought he had, she’d finally leave him alone.
Her face fell a bit as if she was almost disappointed. What the hell is wrong with this girl?
“Maybe we should go,” Blaise started to push Pansy off his lap.
The scraping of the chair drew the attention from the other end of the table. “Everyone leaving?” Anthony asked, his eyes drifting immediately to Daphne who still stood with Theo’s arm around her shoulder.
“We can all head back to our tent if you want? This place is getting a bit stuffy,” Draco offered, trying to ease the building tension.
Everyone began to gather their things, and it would seem Cho and Roger had finally exhausted all possible Quidditch-related discussion topics.
“I think I’ll turn in,” Cho said through a stifled yawn.
Roger nodded concurrently, and Anthony turned to Daphne. “Well, what do you say? Keep the party going? Or should we turn in as well?”
“You’re really bringing her back to your family’s tent?” Marietta whined as if she should have been consulted on the matter instead of Daphne.
“What’s wrong with Daph?” Anthony asked defensively.
Marietta crossed her arms, posturing for effect, “she’s one of them.” She waved her arm in the direction of Draco and company.
Anthony inched closer to her, stepping to block Daphne’s view of the accusatory girl. “What about them?”
“They’re Slytherins!” She shrieked, no longer trying to hide her meaning. “You can’t trust them!”
“You like one of them too!” He shouted back jabbing his pointer finger into her shoulder.
“Yes, but he’s dark and mysterious! She’s just a—a SLAG!” Marietta screeched, pushing her way back from the corner she had been corralled into. “Don’t you see it, Tony? She’s practically a simpering puddle at that one’s feet!” She pointed in Theo’s direction this time.
Theo grunted indignantly at being referred to as “that one”.
“Piss off, Marietta, you’re just jealous no one wants to snog you!” Anthony turned his back on the girl and started to usher Daphne from the tent, when the blonde stopped abruptly outside.
“She’s right…” Daphne whispered, her blue eyes shining in the starlight with tears.
“WHAT?!” Anthony and Theo growled at the same time.
“You are NOT a SLAG!” Theo shouted as he stormed toward Marietta with his wand raised, but Daphne intercepted him. She placed her hands on his chest to stop him moving any further toward the fuming girl behind them.
“Not that part,” she said quietly. Turning to Anthony, she smiled weakly. “I really do care about you, you know?”
The Ravenclaw boy smiled back sheepishly, “yeah, I know. I really care about you too, Daph.”
“I’m sorry,” she gave him a sweet, chaste kiss on his cheek, leaving only the remnants of a tear behind.
Anthony took her hand gently and kissed her knuckles before letting it drop back to her side. “I think I always knew, but it was fun anyway,” He turned and walked back into the tent.
“What the—“ Theo started in confusion.
“Just kiss me you moron,” Daphne turned and grabbed Theo by his shirt, pulling his face down to hers.
He didn’t need to be told twice.
Theo curled a hand awkwardly around her waist and her arms wrapped naturally over his shoulders and neck.
Ahem
Neither of the pair even acknowledged the sound.
AHEM
“Some of us are still here!” Pansy sing-songed at the newly reunited couple.
Theo pulled away just a fraction to tell them to “Fuck off” before continuing to snog Daphne’s face off.
Completely forgotten, Marietta harrumphed as she stormed back into the tent muttering, “you’ve got to be kidding me!”
Finally free of the clingy woman, he looked around. There weren’t many fans left milling about. Nearly everyone had taken their celebrations or mournings into a tent or around a fire, and the remaining witches and wizards had long since been in bed for the night.
Something silver caught his eye, flashing behind a tree at the edge of the field.
“What’s that?” He pointed to where he had seen the metallic glow.
Theo and Daphne ignored him, sucking each others’ faces even more gruesomely, if at all possible. The slurping and sucking sounds grew louder, causing Draco’s stomach to roil.
Pansy and Blaise, on the other hand, peered into the darkness with him.
“What did you see?” Blaise questioned.
“I thought I saw a—something silver—over there, behind that tree,” Draco squinted.
This time, though it was faint, Draco could see the glinting of several metallic floating spots just barely through the haar in the fading glow of red and green lanterns.
“There!”
Daphne and Theo had stopped their groping, “What are you dunderheads on about?” Theo joked.
His face fell. Draco’s face fell. The rest simply stared as the shining orbs grew closer and more distinct.
Granger.
Draco spun on his heel, nearly tripping over his own feet as he sprinted back toward their tent. He wasn’t sure if he was even running in the right direction as he elbowed and shoved past the lingering revellers. Ignoring shouts of “oi!” and “watch it, mate!”, Draco sped over the campgrounds, weaving between row after row of tents.
Finally a white peacock stood out like a beacon in the darkness.
The tent was still dark inside—no one had returned yet, or if they had, they were tucked quietly in their beds. Draco whipped his wand overhead, casting a quick lumos maxima as he rifled through bags and boxes of things in his room.
He muttered to himself as he worked, “it has to be here. Come on! It has to be here!”
The feel of the familiar parchment grasped in his hand definitively ended his search. He snatched a self-inking quill from the bureau, scrawling a rushed and barely legible:
RUN.
Granger you have to go now. They’re coming for you!
He didn’t hold out any hope she had brought her twinned parchment with her. Why would she? They hadn’t discussed the World Cup, considering she couldn’t stand the topic of Quidditch to begin with. Draco wasn’t even sure why she’d come tonight, but he knew she was here. It wouldn’t matter how much she hated his father, or even him. He had to warn Granger. Out of everyone here, she would be the prized jewel if they got hold of her: Potter’s Mudblood Friend.
A violet light glowed evenly beneath his fingertips.
Leave me alone.
.
.
.
Granger please! They will torture you—kill you. Go now!
.
.
.
Who, your friends? Maybe your father??
.
.
.
NO! THE DEATH EATERS!
.
.
.
It was too late. He could hear the screams and panic flooding the campground. The rest of the Slytherins poured into the tent as if on cue.
“Death Eaters,” Theo croaked, face ashen.
“Stay here.”