Hermione Granger had her arm firmly linked through Ginny Weasley's as they trudged after the deceptively quick Mr. Weasley.
They were crossing a desolate, fog-laden moor where visibility dropped to almost nothing. Ginny, like Hermione, was soaked with dew and thoroughly bewildered.
"This doesn't look much like the site of a Quidditch match..." she muttered, stumbling sideways into a hidden rabbit hole.
"That's exactly what I thought," Hermione said, her face pale, sliding on a thick, dark clump of grass. She was still slightly queasy from the Portkey's spinning lurch.
She could never quite get used to that dreadful feeling of weightlessness. In the brief plummeting moment, she had nearly called out his name aloud. Whenever she found herself at height, she always murmured it privately, as though it offered some kind of anchor.
Ginny had gripped her hand the entire way down, falling alongside her; Hermione had done her best to hold on and not lose her composure.
She had only been at the Burrow a few days, but she and Ginny had already grown remarkably close. Sharing a room meant sharing long conversations well past lights-out — about Plumbell perfume, love potions, and Ginny's various crushes. And Ginny, as the sole daughter in a household of six boisterous brothers, had been praying to Merlin for years for the company of another girl.
This summer, her wish had been granted. Overnight, she abandoned her hand-me-down toys and claimed Hermione as a brand new sister she could do entirely as she pleased with. She had barely found time to assist Fred and George with their pranks — a fact that gave Mrs. Weasley no small relief.
"Oh, you're more than welcome, Hermione — it's lovely having you here," Mrs. Weasley had said warmly, peeling potatoes with her wand. "Ginny's talked about you since the start of the holidays. We did worry she'd never have a proper female friend."
As an only child, Hermione found the whole thing rather novel. Once she shed her shyness, she discovered that Ginny was sincere and genuinely funny. She was happy to share everything she knew about the wizarding world from a girl's perspective — and unlike many of their Hogwarts classmates, she had never once mistaken Hermione for a dull, rigid swot.
"You're brilliant, Hermione," Ginny had told her plainly. "Those dreadful people just can't stand admitting that girls have minds worth using. I wouldn't bother with them."
They had been inseparable ever since.
After another twenty minutes of arduous trekking, Ginny gripped her arm and pointed ahead with a gasp of delight. "Look — the tents!"
Hermione looked up and found hundreds of extraordinary tents spread across a gentle slope before her, packed densely together, a dark forest looming beyond. All her tiredness vanished at once.
"Come on!" she said, pulling Ginny forward.
They caught up with the Weasley boys just as Mr. Weasley exchanged a few polite words with a Muggle campsite manager named Roberts, then led the group toward the far end of the campsite along a pair of long tent rows.
Once they reached their pitch and Mr. Weasley set about the tent, a rather alarming truth emerged: the Weasleys had an astonishingly poor grasp of Muggle camping equipment. Hermione and Harry, as the two most familiar with the Muggle world, became the reluctant instructors. Mr. Weasley made things considerably worse by being far too delighted by everything — holding up loose tent pegs and rubber mallets with an expression of pure wonder, peppering them both with questions.
"Don't mind Dad," Ginny said cheerfully, arriving at Hermione's elbow to offer a hand. "The moment Mum takes her eyes off him he's like a boy on Christmas morning."
"It's fine, honestly," Hermione said, hammering a peg in with practiced efficiency. "My father's the same way with anything remotely unusual. The difference is my mother simply lets him get on with it."
"I'd never have guessed — I've seen them in Diagon Alley. They always seemed so collected."
"That's entirely an act. In private, they're rather wonderfully chaotic." Hermione stepped back and assessed the first tent corner with satisfaction.
Across the pitch, Harry had somehow guided the Weasley boys through their tent, and they all streamed over to help with the second. By the time Mr. Weasley had worked out what tent pegs were for, the second tent was already standing — crookedly, but standing.
The two girls had their own slightly smaller tent. Inside, it opened into a two-bedroom flat with a bathroom and a small kitchen.
"Extension Charm," Hermione breathed, looking around with genuine admiration. "Absolutely inspired."
"You knew what it was?" Ginny glanced at her with mild surprise. "You really don't seem like a Muggle-born at all sometimes — you know more than half the wizards I've met."
Hermione smiled. She had seen similar magic before, with Draco. It felt familiar in a way that was comfortable and slightly aching all at once.
*I wonder where he is right now. Has he arrived yet?*
She caught herself and pushed the thought away. She needed to keep busy.
Mr. Weasley, still enchanted by the Muggle matchboxes he'd discovered, cheerfully assigned tasks: Harry, Ron, and Hermione were dispatched to fetch water, with Ginny insisting on coming along.
Harry and Ron carried the large water jugs and walked ahead, making a fair effort at gentlemanly behaviour. Hermione and Ginny followed behind empty-handed, taking their time crossing the vast campsite to locate a water tap on the far side.
The return journey was considerably livelier. Hermione spotted Seamus Finnigan and Dean Thomas draped in shamrocks, loudly campaigning for the Irish team. Ernie Macmillan, Justin Finch-Fletchley, and Hannah Abbott waved from beside a Krum poster. Susan Bones passed with her grave-looking aunt, both nodding pleasantly. Cho Chang said hello, and Harry very nearly poured the entire water jug down his front.
"Why does he go to pieces over Cho Chang?" Ginny frowned.
"I think he's been embarrassed around her ever since he beat her in their last match," Hermione said, watching Harry's ears redden. She caught the pensive look on Ginny's face and changed the subject briskly. "Oh, look at that one — come on!"
They drifted through the crowd, marvelling at the extraordinary variety of tents: enormous pyramid-shaped structures, tents complete with ornamental gardens and bird baths, towering four-storey affairs with corner turrets, improbable chimneys and weather vanes, and canvas covered entirely in green shamrocks for the Irish supporters.
Harry and Ron had long since outpaced them, evidently keen to set down the heavy jugs before bumping into anyone else. Hermione and Ginny gave up trying to keep up and wandered at their leisure, swapping stories.
"...and he absolutely refused to change out of his floral nightgown," Ginny was saying, in a tone of great relish. "Said he'd rather let the healthy breeze blow wherever it liked."
Hermione dissolved into laughter, clutching her sides. "Ginny, you're wonderful — I had no idea you were this funny. You could run rings round Ron when you put your mind to it. But why do you go to pieces the moment Harry's nearby? You're nothing like this in private."
"You don't understand," Ginny said, flushing immediately. "I want to be normal. I simply can't manage it. The moment I see him, my mind goes completely blank."
"Well, you really must try and say something. Anything."
"I will," Ginny sighed, then seemed to drift off into her own thoughts.
As they passed the most striking tent on the field — a grand, striped silk pavilion that was practically a small palace — Hermione glanced back at it with quiet interest.
Ginny, however, had recovered her focus. "Speaking of which," she said, "what exactly is going on between you and that study partner of yours — Malfoy? Did you see him at the campsite? Because I thought I caught a whiff of—"
"There is nothing going on! I was being silly before, and I've sorted myself out now. Draco is just a friend from next door!" Hermione said, her cheeks colouring, turning away from the tent and tugging Ginny along. "Come on, let's get back — Mr. Weasley will be wondering where we've got to—"
As luck would have it, those particular words drifted directly into Draco's ears. He had just stepped out of the striped silk pavilion to tend to the peacocks tethered at the entrance when the girl came hurrying past.
*Just a friend from next door.*
He frowned.
Her definition of him was truly — thoroughly — indifferent. What an utterly heartless girl.
He felt a stab of irritation, his pale grey eyes tracking her retreating figure. But despite himself, he couldn't stop looking. She was wearing Muggle jeans and a light-coloured denim jacket, and she looked infuriatingly youthful and vibrant.
She certainly had a talent for making friends. This was nothing like the girl from last summer who had confided she "couldn't make a single friend in Bath." A few days at the Burrow and she was arm-in-arm with a Weasley, looking as though they'd known each other for years — while apparently classifying him as nothing more than an ordinary neighbour.
He exhaled in frustration and set the peacock's feed bowl down.
*Was she trying to collect every redhead in Britain as a "friend"?*
Fred and George didn't give him much time to dwell on it. The twins materialised from behind him without any warning, and Draco spun around with his wand drawn before he could stop himself. The peacock feed bag tumbled to the ground.
"Easy — easy, it's us!" Fred said, both hands raised in exaggerated innocence. "Bit of an overreaction, don't you think?"
"Try walking up to someone like normal human beings," Draco said flatly, pocketing his wand and bending to retrieve the feed bag. "Why must everything be an ambush?"
"We couldn't resist," they said in unison, tilting their heads at him with identical expressions of cheerful mischief.
"It really wasn't funny," he said, frowning. "What do you want?"
"Business." George glanced about and lowered his voice. "Too many ears here. Come with us."
They wove through the crowd, chatting loudly about the packed road to the stadium and the difficulty of locating the Weasley campsite, until they reached a quiet stand of trees well away from the noise.
"The Anti-Jinx hat — it works," Fred said, unable to conceal his excitement. "We've found a consultant. An expert in Defence Against the Dark Arts."
"You'll be surprised when you see who it is," George added, with a particular smile directed at Draco.
"I can hardly wait," Draco said, leaning against an oak tree and affecting his most languid manner. He was still quietly seething about Hermione's comment.
The twins exchanged a glance — something flickered between them.
"He hasn't begun his post yet," George said. "We've arranged to meet at the Hogsmeade open day once term starts, to discuss the details properly. We'll need your agreement before confirming the arrangement, so you'll have to be there."
"Fine." Draco looked at him. "Who is this consultant, exactly? Why are you both so agitated about it?"
The twins only smiled and said nothing.
"Here." Fred reached into his jacket and produced the Marauder's Map, pressing it into Draco's hand. "We've no further use for it."
"You've already unravelled the Tracking Charm?" Draco asked, genuinely startled.
"We've found something better," Fred said. "Our consultant knows a great deal about tracking magic. We're hoping to learn from him and see what can be done with it."
Draco turned the Map over in his hands with a slight frown. Did they realise how extraordinary the craftsmanship of the Marauder's Map truly was? Very few wizards alive could hope to surpass its makers.
Still — judging by their tone, this consultant was no ordinary person.
"I look forward to seeing what you produce." With a flicker of genuine curiosity, he tucked the Map into his robes and said his goodbyes to the Weasley twins.
━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━
Hermione Granger had no idea she had just walked past Draco.
She spent the rest of the afternoon burying herself in novelty and distraction, doing her level best to stop thinking about the boy who had taken up entirely too much room in her head.
For the most part, it worked.
The extraordinary tent decorations held her attention effortlessly. Running into Hogwarts classmates every few minutes was a constant source of delight. In the afternoon, traders arrived by Apparition with carts piled high with souvenirs — badges, scarves, top hats, flags, figurines, enchanted models — and she and Ginny got thoroughly swept up in the stalls, losing all sense of time until Mr. Weasley was bellowing at them from across the campsite.
"Isn't it magnificent?" Mr. Weasley shouted over the roar of the crowd as he led them through the stadium gates. "One hundred thousand spectators from all over the world. Five hundred Ministry staff worked for a full year on this alone. Every inch of the grounds is covered in Muggle-Repelling Charms—"
They followed a Ministry witch up a crimson-carpeted staircase to the uppermost level. The Top Box held approximately twenty chairs upholstered in purple and gold, arranged in two rows. They settled into the front row at the very edge, looking out over the breathtaking expanse of the stadium below.
Thousands of witches and wizards were filing into their seats. Hermione peered down into the arena and found it bathed in a warm golden light, the pitch smooth as green velvet. Directly opposite, a vast enchanted scoreboard blazed with shifting text and advertisements.
Over the next half-hour the box filled steadily. Mr. Weasley moved along the row shaking hands — his children clearly already acquainted with most of his colleagues. Hermione recognised Cornelius Fudge, the plump Minister for Magic, now speaking warmly to Harry. Mr. Weasley did his best to introduce them both to the assembled Ministry officials, though once Hermione had grasped the gist of their various responsibilities, she found her attention beginning to drift.
And when her attention drifted, the thought she had been carefully suppressing all day rose quietly to the surface.
*Draco — where is he?*
For what felt like the thousandth time that evening, she cast an anxious glance toward the darkened stairwell below, and found herself hoping, against her better judgement, that he would appear soon.
As though she had summoned him, he did.
The sharp jaw, the composed expression, the neatly combed platinum-blond hair that seemed to catch the light even in the dim stairwell below — and then, as if he felt her gaze, those grey eyes lifted and found hers with unerring precision.
A quiet smile surfaced in his sharp eyes. Hermione looked at him, and before she could stop herself, she had smiled back. He seemed taller than she remembered, straight-backed, carrying that particular self-possession that was entirely his own.
She found she couldn't look away. The noise of the box around her — the Minister laughing, chairs scraping, a dozen overlapping conversations — seemed to fade entirely, as though someone had cast a Muffliato over the world.
*Draco.* She murmured his name somewhere very private inside her thoughts, and watched him begin to climb the stairs.
It was like one of those odd moments in old films where the camera slows down and makes an unremarkable thing look significant. She noticed the crisp black dress robes he wore, elegant and understated; the silver tie tack at his collar, precise and restrained. Even the measured tap of his shoes against the wooden stairs seemed somehow to carry.
She had to admit — he looked extremely well in formal robes.
*Stop it, Hermione.* She told herself firmly. Her body, however, had apparently been hit with a full Body-Bind Curse and refused to cooperate.
She tried to look away. She failed. She sat there, rigid and speechless, thoroughly mortified at herself.
At that moment, she understood Ginny entirely.
*What right did she have to give anyone advice about Harry?*
Draco drew level with her row, close enough that she could have reached out and touched the sleeve of his robe. He glanced at her briefly, one eyebrow lifting — a small, private acknowledgement — before his gaze moved ahead and he continued walking steadily past.
He was gone in a moment. She lowered her eyes and watched the hem of his black robes sweep past her in the aisle, the edge of his sleeve grazing the armrest of her chair, passing within an inch of the strand of hair that had fallen over her shoulder. A faint tingle moved through her scalp.
Then a scent reached her — cedar, clean and faintly warm — sliding past her and disappearing as he moved on.
"Hermione." Ginny tugged at her sleeve with barely suppressed glee, leaning in to whisper, "Your face is entirely red. Don't tell me you've gone and fallen for Draco Malfoy."
"Yes—" Hermione whispered, still slightly dazed. A beat passed.
"Oh — no! Of course not!" she said quickly, snapping back to herself.
But Ginny gave her an extremely knowing look, and said, in a tone of rich satisfaction, "Just a friend from next door. Right. I feel so much better now."
"We are just friends," Hermione said softly, giving Ginny a guilty smile and looking resolutely forward. She sat up very straight, determined not to turn around.
━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━
Draco had spotted Hermione the moment he entered the box.
She was sitting in the front row with a slightly unfocused expression, lips parted, eyes fixed blankly in his direction. On her left was Ginny Weasley; beyond her, Harry, Ron, and what appeared to be the entire Weasley family.
Had his parents not been present, he might have said something. But Lucius, walking ahead of him, had never been on civil terms with Arthur Weasley, and Draco had no intention of drawing attention to himself — or to her — today.
He allowed himself a few more glances as he climbed the stairs. Her eyes were bright, and she was looking at him with a small, open smile that his chest had absolutely no business reacting to.
*So this is what "ordinary friendship between neighbours" looks like,* he thought. *A smile like that.*
He had fully intended to make a show of his indifference to this irresponsible girl. Instead, he found his eyebrow rising before he'd made any decision to lift it. She seemed startled by something and immediately dropped her gaze.
He wanted to touch her hair. In public, it was out of the question. He allowed his sleeve to brush against it as he passed, which was not nothing, and told himself it would have to do.
He walked on without a word.
He was mildly annoyed. He knew better than to show it. Every movement he made was being observed by Lucius and Narcissa, and the last thing he wanted was to draw either of them toward Hermione. So he set his irritation aside, followed his parents to the second row, exchanged pleasantries with Fudge, and took the aisle seat directly behind Hermione, crossing his legs.
The seating arrangement pleased him more than it should have. He was close enough to lean forward and catch the faint cedar scent that always clung to her hair — or was it the other way around? He almost smiled.
Ginny Weasley, however, was whispering something in her ear without pause, which was distinctly less pleasing. What could possibly require that much whispering? Whatever it was, it was apparently enough to keep Hermione from turning around even once.
She sat perfectly upright and proper, staring ahead, as though there were nothing behind her but empty air.
*Heartless girl,* he thought darkly.
He fell silent, affecting the same composed expression he wore at every event, and let his gaze move around the box. As in his previous life, it was filled with high-ranking Ministry officials — he even spotted the Bulgarian Minister for Magic.
In the far corner, a house-elf he didn't immediately recognise was hunched in the second-to-last seat in the back row, face buried in its hands.
*Whose elf is that? Saving a seat?* He didn't remember it being there before.
But before he could think further on the matter, Ludo Bagman burst through the door in his old Wimbourne Wasps robes like an oversized bumblebee, shook hands with half the box, roared with laughter at his own jokes, then pressed his wand to his throat and cast a Sonorous Charm.
"Ladies and gentlemen — witches and wizards — the four-hundred-and-twenty-second Quidditch World Cup is about to begin!"
The stadium erupted.