The lights in the stands dimmed, and all attention focused on the centre of the field — the team mascots' performance had officially begun.
The Veela's dance electrified the stadium, and nearly every male creature in the boxes and stands promptly descended into the behaviour of a preening gorilla.
Hermione Granger could hardly believe her eyes. Harry was trying to climb the wall of the box with one leg, while Ron had clambered onto his seat and looked ready to dive from a springboard.
"What on earth are they doing?" Hermione asked. She gazed at the luminous creatures sweeping above the arena. "Is it because of the Veela?"
"Exactly. They're magical creatures with human-like appearances — they almost always take the form of beautiful young women," Ginny said, pursing her lips. Hermione detected a note of disdain in her voice. "They possess an innate Charm, especially when they dance. You'll find that almost no wizard can resist their allure."
Hermione studied the Veela with wide eyes. They had light golden hair and skin as pale as moonlight — like fairies pulled from a dream.
She suddenly wanted to know what foolish thing the boy behind her was doing. When he had come upstairs earlier, he'd seemed so calm and indifferent, as though nothing in the world could touch him.
But now? Faced with the allure of the Veela, would his gaze turn as wild and unguarded as Harry's and Ron's? Hermione couldn't help but wonder.
The temptation quietly fermented. She had told herself she wouldn't look back at him — but if she only glanced, quickly, he surely wouldn't notice. Every wizard in the stadium was bewitched right now, weren't they?
She finally couldn't resist. With a furtive turn of her head, she found herself staring directly into a pair of grey eyes that were already fixed on her — calm, composed, and entirely unmoved.
Those grey eyes flashed with amusement, as if to say: Caught you.
Hermione's own eyes went wide. Heat rushed to her face. She spun back around and threw herself into the task of pulling Harry and Ron away from their embarrassing antics, as though keeping busy could undo what had just happened.
"Oh, honestly, how could you!" she scolded the two of them loudly, her cheeks burning.
How had he managed that? she wondered. But she couldn't possibly turn around and ask. She'd already embarrassed herself quite enough. Straightening up, she felt a distinct warmth on the back of her neck.
Draco, for his part, was thoroughly satisfied. She had been watching him — especially the moment the Veela took the field, as if hoping to catch him making a fool of himself.
What a wicked girl. He had no doubt about her intentions.
She was destined to be disappointed. He watched the back of her head — perfectly still now — and his mood lifted considerably. A small smile crossed his lips.
The leprechauns' shower of gold brought another wave of excitement to the crowd. After the mascots' performance, the match itself finally got underway, and the Bulgarian National Quidditch Team swept onto the pitch.
The loudest roar from the stands came with Seeker Viktor Krum.
Draco pulled his gaze from the back of Hermione's head and looked down at Krum. He was lean and dark, with sallow skin, a large hooked nose, and thick, heavy brows — he moved like a great, brooding eagle.
If memory served, the match would end with Krum catching the Golden Snitch, though Bulgaria would still lose.
Draco had complicated feelings about the international Quidditch star he had once idolised. On one hand, Krum was extraordinarily talented. As a fellow Seeker, Draco had enormous respect for his skill. The Wronski Feint he had used to pull Harry out of the path of the Dementors last year was something Draco had modelled from watching Krum at this very World Cup.
On the other hand, Krum would be coming to Hogwarts this year for the Triwizard Tournament, and that would stir up no small amount of trouble around the Black Lake. Not to mention that Harry already had plenty of difficulties ahead of him this year... Draco's eyes drifted, his thoughts pulling him elsewhere.
"Ten-nil, Ireland leads!" Bagman roared, and the whole stadium erupted.
The girl in front of him leapt up with the Weasleys, waving her arms and cheering. Draco watched her back and found himself recalling his own excitement in this very box in his past life — the wild cheering, the thrill of every brilliant goal.
In this life, the roaring crowd felt like noise from another world. Each moment that played out exactly as he remembered left him feeling untethered, uncertain of where — or when — he really was.
He could barely summon any excitement for the match. Instead, he felt only a slow, familiar weariness.
The 100,000 spectators felt less real to him than the expression on the girl's face as she watched. So he spent most of the match watching the back of her head, though she didn't glance back at him again. She seemed entirely absorbed in the game, panoramic binoculars raised.
The match itself was undeniably intense — not just in the air, but on the ground, where a fierce brawl broke out between the leprechauns and the Veela. In the chaos and commotion, Krum took a Bludger to the face — blood streaming freely — yet he still managed to outpace his opponent and snatch the Golden Snitch.
"Another predictable ending," Draco thought. The Irish fans erupted in celebration; their team had won. Despite Krum's capture of the Snitch, Ireland had held a ten-point lead throughout.
The result left Bagman stammering and bewildered, as though he weren't quite sure how to announce it.
Even watching it a second time, Draco couldn't help but admire Krum. Very few Seekers could chase down the Snitch while injured and out of position, and catch it anyway.
He tracked Krum's every move in the air. He flew as though returning home — effortless, light as a banner in the wind, as if the broomstick beneath him were merely a formality.
"He turns Quidditch into a flowing art form," a nearby Ministry official breathed.
It seemed few wizards could resist that particular allure. Not even Hermione, a little witch who was perfectly terrified of flying.
"He's really brave, isn't he?" Draco said, noticing that she had leaned forward to watch Krum on the pitch with what looked rather like admiration. His expression darkened. "He looks absolutely pathetic, though..."
Whatever remained of his good mood evaporated at once. The grim weight that had sat over his holiday settled back over him, heavier than before.
He thought of the way she had called him "just an ordinary friend from the neighbouring college," and his expression grew colder still.
After the match, Draco didn't linger. He had no appetite for small talk. A small, irrational fire of jealousy had caught in his chest, sizzling quietly, refusing to go out.
"Little Dragon, are you alright? You seem a bit listless," Narcissa said as they walked back to their tent.
"I'm a little tired," he replied, pausing at the entrance to watch the crowd spread from the pitch into the camp.
"We're attending a banquet — a cooperative discussion with the Bulgarian Minister of Magic," Lucius said. "Since you're tired, rest. And don't wander off."
Draco nodded. He agreed readily enough. He had no desire to sleep.
After his parents left, he stood alone at the tent entrance and stared out at the camp. It grew livelier by the minute. Rough singing filled the night sky; leprechauns swooped overhead waving their lanterns; the Irish supporters sang and danced, raising their glasses in triumph.
Amidst the deafening noise, Draco was wrapped in a strange, hollow loneliness. He had been tormented all day by her easy dismissal of him, and he was finally nearing the edge of his composure.
He didn't want to retreat into the magnificent emptiness of the tent, nor lie down and surrender to whatever restless dreams were waiting for him.
Perhaps he should go for a walk. Walk aimlessly. Walk without stopping.
But his legs seemed to make the decision without consulting him.
When he came to himself, he was already at the edge of the woods at the far end of the camp.
In a quiet corner, two tents leaned against each other in the shadow of the trees. Hermione, dressed in a pink short-sleeved shirt and Muggle jeans, was crouching beside a campfire, fiddling with a large water jug.
The moment he saw her, the hollow feeling in his chest eased — though the jealousy still burned quietly beneath it.
"Isn't there even a camping stove in this tent?" He frowned at the campfire.
"Draco?" Hermione turned at the sound of his voice, and a small, surprised smile crossed her face. "Mr. Weasley said we ought to respect Muggle safety regulations, so we lit a fire outside."
As she spoke, she opened the lid of the water jug and peered inside. Empty. She sighed and resigned herself to the walk across camp to refill it.
"They won't even give you water?" Draco glanced at the jug and couldn't resist the sneer in his voice.
"Why are you saying that? The Weasleys have been very kind to me..." Hermione said.
The mocking edge in his tone caught her off guard, and her initial surprise curdled into something more uncertain. She didn't look at him — afraid, she realised, of being dazzled by that shimmering platinum hair in the firelight — and set off with the jug. "We simply ran out! Ginny knocked over the last cup of hot chocolate..."
"Speaking of which — why is that red-haired brat always hovering around you?" Draco followed her, his voice carrying a sharpness she hadn't heard before.
"Don't call her that. She has a name — Ginny. Didn't you go with Harry to rescue her in second year?" Hermione said, frowning. "She's a kind person."
Whatever she privately thought about Ginny's habit of teasing Draco — she kept to herself.
Draco moved to close the distance between them, reaching to take the jug from her, but Hermione stepped back on instinct.
"Oh, I can manage," she said, her voice a touch unsteady.
The small retreat stung him. He studied her expression — stubborn, and laced with something that looked almost like wariness.
He let it go. He fell into step behind her, deflated but unable to leave, like a dog following at a reluctant heel.
"You two seem like sisters already. It's only been a few days," he said in a lofty tone, picking up the thread of conversation more to provoke a response than anything else. Even an argument would do.
"Draco, what's the matter with you tonight? You've been horrible since we left the box. Who upset you?" Hermione stopped and turned to look at him, her eyes searching his face.
He seemed agitated — almost skittish — nothing like the coolly composed person he'd been in the Minister's box.
"Nobody upset me," Draco muttered, kicking a pebble and watching it skitter away into the dark. He couldn't look at her.
"When I was at the Burrow, I shared a room with Ginny — of course we grew close," Hermione said, giving him a sideways glance and, in a rare concession, a brief smile.
By the moonlight, his sharp profile carried a strange, quiet melancholy that left her uncertain how to feel — too unsettled to be properly cross with him.
Draco did not find her explanation comforting. The thought of Hermione having a wonderful time at the Burrow sat unpleasantly in his chest.
As they walked on, the path through the centre of camp narrowed, forcing them into single file. They wove through the thickening crowd — where there are large gatherings, unexpected things happen, and tonight was no exception.
An intoxicated leprechaun lurched directly into their path. Hermione stumbled back to avoid it, caught her foot, and pitched backwards with a sharp cry.
When it came to Hermione Granger, Draco's instincts were always several steps ahead of his thoughts.
He caught her by the waist before she hit the ground, his chest braced against her back.
Hermione's heart hammered.
She couldn't be certain whether it was the shock of nearly falling, or the warmth that radiated from his hands at her waist. She had fallen, and he had caught her — without hesitation, without question.
The realisation left her briefly dazed, and something in her carefully maintained composure gave way.
This was the first time he had touched her all day. It felt like far longer since the last time. The unexpected contact sent a tremor through her she couldn't quite suppress.
She shouldn't have felt like this. He shouldn't have caught her quite like that. It was completely outside what she'd been prepared for.
Before she could collect herself, she turned to look at him, and found him already watching her — close, and plainly concerned.
Too close, she thought. Far too close. His features were precise and familiar and thoroughly distracting, and beneath the noise of the camp she could catch the faint, clean scent of cedarwood.
"Thank you," she whispered, turning quickly back to face the path ahead, her neck rigid.
"You're welcome," he murmured near her ear. The warmth of his breath against her neck sent a shiver down her spine that she was powerless to stop.
The tremor didn't escape him. His hands were still at her waist, acutely aware of every small shift.
Her blouse was thin and short, and the contact was direct — like steadying something warm and fragile and alive. The emptiness that had haunted him all evening settled, just slightly. The restless burning in his chest quieted.
"Are you cold?" he asked, swallowing. His voice came out rougher than he intended.
He couldn't bring himself to move his hands — reluctant to let go, not quite daring to hold on.
"No," Hermione said quietly. Her voice was not entirely steady.
The directness of the contact had made one thing undeniably clear to her: she didn't mind it. Not at all. Quite the contrary. A flutter had taken up residence somewhere behind her ribs, unfamiliar and faintly alarming.
What did that mean?
After a considerable internal struggle, she gathered herself, stepped out of his hands, and walked on with her water jug, her chin lifted.
Draco followed in silence, quietly closing his right hand — the hand that had been at her waist. A faint warmth still seemed to linger there. He resisted the urge, mostly successfully, to do something thoroughly undignified with it.
He was fairly sure he was blushing. He was grateful she couldn't see his face.
She walked stubbornly ahead of him, gripping the water jug with great purpose, still refusing to let him carry it.
He couldn't begin to understand what she was thinking. There was genuinely no one more difficult to read than her.
The camp, however, offered them no peace. Drunk wizards staggered through the celebration, reckless and careless, pressing in from all sides. Draco moved closer instinctively, raising his arm to block the jostling crowd — much like a dog standing over its dinner, he privately thought, with no small degree of self-awareness.
He could not endure the thought of some drunken wizard or goblin crashing into her. Even if she was too stubborn to accept any help he offered, she hadn't objected to him staying close.
Hermione's own thoughts were in complete disorder. Amidst the noise and press of the crowd, she was pushed into his arms more than once, and every time he caught her — sometimes his chest against her back, sometimes a hand at her arm, sometimes steadying her waist. Each contact sent a small spasm of sensation through her that she was making a very poor job of ignoring.
She had no idea what he was thinking. She didn't dare look back at that face — it was simply too much of a distraction. His presence alone was nearly intoxicating. Once the crowds thinned, he would step back, as he always did. He was being polite, she told herself. Protective, the way an only child might feel towards a younger sibling — hadn't she grown rather fond of Ginny herself, for much the same reason?
At last, they cleared the worst of the crowd and passed through the quieter stretch of Bulgarian tents.
Normal distance between them. No longer crammed together like two bewildered crabs.
Krum's image stared down from the canvas of a nearby tent, brooding and watchful.
"I imagine you were rather impressed by Krum?" Hermione glanced up at Draco, casting about for safe, ordinary conversation. She was going quietly mad from the barely perceptible tension in the air, and the way he looked in the moonlight — silent, unreadable — was making it worse.
She understood now what she was dealing with. She liked his touch. She liked the feeling of his hands, the warmth of him at her back. If she let herself keep following that thought, maintaining any sensible distance would become very difficult indeed.
"You like him?" His voice came out cool, almost indifferent, as though Krum's performance had made no particular impression on him at all.
That seemed unlikely for a Seeker.
Hermione chose her words carefully. "He — he was very brave. I think he showed people the real beauty of Quidditch."
"You like Krum." Draco repeated it, slowly, as though testing the weight of it. He felt a faint ache in his jaw.
"Who wouldn't? He caught the Snitch in that condition — it was magnificent!" Hermione said, matter-of-factly.
Whatever remained of Draco's improved mood collapsed.
"I didn't realise you were so easily impressed," he said, his voice sharpening. "Fame and a dramatic finish, and that's all it takes?"
"What on earth are you on about?" Hermione stopped and turned to look at him, genuinely startled. "He's a world-class player — it's perfectly normal to admire skill. Harry and Ron both admire him! Are you implying something?"
"Dating a famous Quidditch player — that's what I mean," Draco said, with a sour look that he was doing a poor job of concealing. "Can you honestly say the thought's never crossed your mind?"
"There is something seriously wrong with you tonight," Hermione said irritably. "I admire his flying. He's an international Quidditch star — it's not as though someone like him would ever have any reason to notice someone like me!"
As she'd intended, the charged atmosphere between them was thoroughly disrupted. But it didn't make her feel better. She hadn't wanted to argue with him; she'd only wanted to keep a careful distance. Yet somehow, they bickered all the way to the water collection point — two ridiculous, childish fools.
The area around the fountain was quiet now, well away from the main celebration — just a few dark tents and the sound of distant singing.
It was, Hermione thought tiredly, an ideal location for a row.
"An international Quidditch star," Draco said curtly, pressing on with the relentlessness of someone who had well and truly taken the bit between his teeth. "What if he did notice you? What if he appeared in front of you and said something? Would you — would you go on a date with him? Would you —"
"Oh, he's being completely unreasonable," Hermione thought, her temper finally snapping under the weight of Draco Malfoy's persistent needling.
"Yes!" she said, her voice sharp with sarcasm. "Why not? Perhaps he wouldn't think I'm too young. Perhaps he'd think I was perfectly suitable for that sort of thing!"
The colour drained from Draco's face.
There it was. Clear as day.
That explained why he was merely "just an ordinary friend from the neighbouring college."
Hermione Granger — that wretched, heartless girl — had a new object of admiration: Viktor Krum.
She'd probably spent half the summer sighing over his poster.
The thought made his stomach turn.
What was Draco Malfoy against Viktor Krum? Very likely, nothing at all. She hadn't sought him out once this past month. She'd shown no particular concern for him in any direction.
"Very well." He said it flatly, turned on his heel, and walked away from her with long, deliberate strides.
"Draco!" she called after him. He slowed for one moment, then quickened his pace again, walking with the studied nonchalance of someone who was thoroughly and visibly unhappy.
He caught the edge of her expression from the corner of his eye: confused, and oddly desolate.
He was being rude and ungentlemanly, and he knew it. He hated himself for it. But if he stayed a moment longer, he was going to say something considerably worse.
He walked back toward his tent, miserable and restless.
The camp roared on around him — singing, laughter, none of it anything to do with him.
And then the singing stopped.
In its place: screaming.
Draco snapped out of his jealous spiral as the screams multiplied. People were fleeing in every direction, crashing through the camp as though something were bearing down on them. Strange flashing lights flickered through the dark. A sound like cracking wood and breaking spells split the air.
By the light of a few still-burning campfires, Draco saw several blurred figures floating high above the camp. In the distance, orange fire and thick smoke rose from a cluster of tents. Hooded, masked figures moved between them, their laughter and shouts cutting through the chaos.
Hermione.
The thought hit him like a cold fist, and he was already running back before he'd finished it. He shoved through the surging crowd, forcing his way against the tide of fleeing wizards.
He knew exactly what day this was. He had walked away from her in a fit of injured pride, and left her there. He could have laughed at himself — or wept.
The air filled with the sound of children crying, women screaming, men shouting curses into the dark. Overhead, by the flicker of the burning tents, Draco recognised the Muggle family from the front gate — hanging upside down in the air, spinning slowly, their terrified wails carrying over everything else.
He pushed on, his chest tight. He broke through the last press of the crowd and came back to the water collection point.
A slight, pink-clad figure was on the ground, trying to get up.
He crossed to her in three strides and pulled her upright. "Are you alright?"
She looked up at him. Her face was streaked with dirt. Her eyes were wet, and her voice trembled on the edge of tears. "What are you doing here? Didn't you — didn't you say you weren't going to speak to me?"
"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry — I should never have left you here." He checked her quickly — her knees and elbows were muddy, but she was in one piece. He took her arm. "Can you walk? We need to go. Now."
"I can't move my ankle properly," she said, sniffling. She was in only her thin blouse, and the night had gone cold; he heard her sneeze.
He exhaled, shrugged off his black suit jacket, and draped it around her shoulders without a word. She looked up at him with a pitiful expression, but didn't refuse.
"I'll carry you. Get on." He crouched down. She hesitated for only a moment, then wrapped her arms around his neck and held on.
He hoisted her easily onto his back and followed the flow of people deeper into the woods. She was very light — almost weightless against him, like a small, trembling creature. He could feel her shaking, and wasn't certain whether it was cold or fear.
"Are you still cold?" he asked quietly, tilting his head toward her.
"No — it's warm now," she said, pressing her face against his shoulder. Her voice was still unsteady with tears.
Behind them, the camp continued to rumble and flare. Draco moved with purpose, threading through the dark between the trees.
Hermione, for her part, was still frightened. Everything had happened too quickly. After Draco had gone, she'd been slowly filling the water jug when the crowd noise shifted — low and strange, then suddenly urgent and close. She'd grabbed the jug and started back, but someone fleeing in panic had caught her from behind, and she'd gone down hard, her ankle twisting beneath her.
She'd had her wand. She hadn't known the right charm.
A wave of despair had washed over her — followed almost immediately by the furious, miserable thought that this was Draco Malfoy's fault, for leaving her standing there alone over something so utterly stupid.
How could she possibly like such an irrational, infuriating boy? She'd despised herself for it, struggling in the mud.
And then he had come back. Wild-eyed, his usually immaculate hair in complete disarray — nothing at all like the coolly composed figure he'd cut in the Minister's box. The moment his eyes found her, something in his face had shifted — a flash of visible relief.
And just like that, he had become again the Draco she knew best. Gentle, careful, unhesitating. He had helped her up as though she were something fragile and precious, lifted her onto his back without a second thought, and walked them away from the fire.
She rested her cheek against his shoulder, closed her eyes, and let herself breathe in the faint warmth of cedarwood. It was strange, she thought, how much better that made everything feel. He always made her feel safe, even when she'd just been furious with him. His jacket was around her shoulders, and his hands were steady at the backs of her knees, and she found she couldn't summon any of the walls she usually kept in place.
His back was broader than she'd noticed before — certainly stronger than when he'd carried her in second year. His breathing stayed even and easy, despite the terrain and the noise and the weight of her on his back.
"Draco — what happened?" she asked softly, unable to hold back any longer.
"Death Eaters," he said. His tone was quiet but certain. "They've attacked the Muggles — the campmaster's family."
Dark shapes stumbled through the trees around them. Distant shouts rose and fell. Behind them, the camp still flared with that eerie greenish light.
"How could they? That family hadn't done anything to anyone —" She stopped, her voice catching.
"Death Eaters don't require reasons," Draco said simply. "They take pleasure in exactly this sort of thing." He glanced around, adjusting his course. "The tents aren't all burning at once. It's targeted. We need to go deeper — further from the explosions."
Targeted. Hermione understood what he wasn't saying. She was Muggle-born. Her trembling hand tightened in the fabric of his shirt, creasing it.
"Draco," she said quietly, after a moment. "Were your parents — were they Death Eaters?"
"My father was. My mother wasn't, but she supported the Dark Lord." His voice was neutral, the way stone is neutral. He didn't slow his pace. "Both of them."
"Are they — are they among the ones out there tonight?" Her voice was very small.
"Honestly? I don't know." A pause. "They had a meeting with the Bulgarian Minister of Magic tonight. I don't think they'd had the chance — but I can't be certain."
More figures moved between the trees around them. Draco's eyes swept the shadows methodically, looking for somewhere quieter to shelter.
Hermione shifted slightly against his back. "Draco — why weren't you affected by the Veela tonight?"
He let out a small breath, almost a laugh. "I wasn't looking at them."
He'd been looking at her.
"Then why were you so horrible to me tonight?" she asked. Her lips were close to his ear, and he could feel the warmth of her breath against his cheek.
"It was nothing," he said quickly. He was becoming extremely aware, all over again, of how little separated them — only his shirt and her thin blouse. He focused very hard on the path ahead.
"You're lying. I can tell. Tell me." She pressed closer, lips nearly brushing his ear.
He stumbled badly over a tree root. The girl — apparently oblivious to what she'd just done to his composure — assumed he couldn't see properly in the dark, drew her wand, and cast a quiet "Lumos" to light the uneven ground ahead.
"It was foolish of me," Draco said, with the stiff awkwardness of someone confessing under duress. "I was bothered that you chose to go to Ron's house instead of — instead of keeping the appointment we'd discussed. I know it wasn't reasonable."
He could hardly tell her the truth. He could hardly say it was because she'd admired Krum. Krum hadn't even arrived at Hogwarts yet; there was nothing in it. The reason was absurd and entirely untenable.
His thoughts weren't helping him. There were too many distractions at the moment.
"You silly thing," Hermione whispered, half-laughing and half-exasperated. "If you cared that much, you should have asked me sooner — not waited until the last minute..."
"You're right," he said, and the relief of it surprised him.
"...and then left me standing there alone over it?" Her voice shifted — suddenly, genuinely sharp. "Draco —"
"I know. I'm sorry," he said, quietly.
"Draco Malfoy." She said his name very deliberately, directly into his ear. "Don't ever do that again. Don't ever just leave and walk away like that. Not ever." Her voice dropped. "It's awful, being left behind like that. I hate it."
"I know," he said softly. "I promise — it won't happen again."