Chapter Text
Isabella Griffin did not know it yet, but this was the day she would meet the boy who would change her life forever. It was 1986 and today was the day they would travel to the 420th edition of the Quidditch World Cup. America was playing France, and the tickets had arrived three days ago, a celebration for her older brother Idan’s excellent N.E.W.T results. Her father had presented them at dinner with a smile, and Isabella had felt the excitement explode inside her chest like one of Betsy’s sparkler spells. Isabella didn’t believe in fate, exactly (she was nine, and nine-year-olds had more important things to believe in, like magical dolls and perfect white shoes), but later she would look back and wonder if magic sometimes worked in ways no one taught you about.
“Isabella, Isaac, are you ready? It’s nearly time to leave,” called Isabella’s mother, Cassiopeia Griffin, from somewhere downstairs.
“Yes, Mother,” Isabella replied promptly. She was already dressed in the outfit her mother had laid out for her, pale blue robes with her dark curls neatly pinned back with silver clips. She had been ready for nearly an hour, unlike Isaac, who she could hear thumping about in his room across the hall, likely still in his pajamas despite their mother’s third reminder.
She turned her attention back to Betsy, her new doll. Betsy was a present from her Great Aunt (also called Cassiopeia), and she was far superior to ordinary dolls. Aunt Cassie always got the siblings the best presents, as she was fantastic at charms and could make them do things other people’s toys didn’t. Betsy had her own tiny wand and could cast real magic, shooting sparks, conjuring droplets of water and even making tiny flames that danced harmlessly in the air. Isabella was contemplating seeing if Betsy could set fire to one of her quills on her desk, but decided against it and instead made her wave her wand, and a shower of delicate silver sparks fell over the bedspread.
“You’re a very powerful witch,” Isabella told her seriously. “Almost as powerful as me.”
Carefully, she slid off the bed and put on her cloak and shoes. The shoes were her absolute favourite, white leather with silver buckles. A gift from her Great Grandfather Pollux. She had polished them last night and they were shining.
A crash from across the hall made Isabella roll her eyes.
“Isaac Griffin!” Her mother’s voice was sharper this time. “What have you done to your room?”
Isabella peeked out her door just in time to see her mother sweep into Isaac’s room. Her seven-year-old brother was standing in the middle of what looked like an explosion of clothes and toys. He was wearing nothing but his underwear, with his traveling cloak fastened around his neck.
“I’m being a Quidditch star!” Isaac announced proudly. “Look, I’m flying!” He jumped onto his bed and bounced vigorously.
Cassiopeia’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Isaac, we are leaving in twenty minutes. Where are your clothes?”
“I don’t know,” he said cheerfully. “Maybe the house-elves took them!”
Before their mother could respond, a loud CLANG echoed from downstairs, followed by an impressive string of muffled curses that would have earned either of them a scouring charm to the mouth.
“He fell right into my trap!” Isaac crowed with delight, completely forgetting his state of undress as he bolted past their mother and thundered down the stairs.
Isabella grabbed Betsy and hurried after him. The sound had come from the visitor’s lounge, where the Floo was connected. That could only mean one thing.
“Idan!” she called excitedly, darting into the room. The younger siblings hadn’t seen their brother since he had finished Hogwarts, as he had been on long celebratory holiday with friends, enjoying their freedom before they had to settle down with jobs.
Her older brother was indeed there, but he didn’t look around. He was too busy flailing his arms for balance, his feet trapped inside two small bronze cauldrons. Isabella had to clap a hand over her mouth to stifle her giggle. Isaac, meanwhile, had collapsed onto the carpet, howling with laughter.
“ISAAC!” Idan roared as he toppled backwards, landing with a resounding BANG on his backside in front of the fireplace. His face was flushed with embarrassment, his dark curls, so like Isabella’s own, dusted with Floo powder.
Isabella couldn’t help herself. The moment Idan managed to untangle one foot from its cauldron prison, she launched herself at him, wrapping her arms around his neck and sending him straight back to the floor.
“You’re home!” she exclaimed, squeezing him tightly.
“Honestly, my three children,” Cassiopeia appeared in the doorway, looking flustered, a light blush on her normally pale face. “You’ve been together less than a minute and you’ve already made a mess.” She glanced pointedly at Idan and the cauldrons on the floor. “Creased your cloak,” she wrinkled her nose at Isabella, “and… for goodness sake, Isaac! It is time to put on your robes.”
She bustled into the room and took Isaac by the wrist, dragging him back toward his bedroom. Isaac’s cheerful face turned mournful as he realised playtime was over.
“Idan,” she paused at the doorway, glancing over her shoulder with a small smile, “as delightful as it is for us to have you back home with us, you really need to stop corrupting your siblings. They’re so well behaved when you’re at Hogwarts.”
Idan frowned at his mother and opened his mouth to protest, but Cassiopeia swept from the room with Isaac in tow before he could speak.
“Look at my new toy, Idan!” Isabella demanded immediately, still sitting on his lap. She thrust Betsy forward proudly.
Idan’s frown melted away as he took the doll to give her a look over. Betsy gave a little giggle and waved up at him.
“And who gave you this?” Idan asked, turning the doll over in his hands. He laughed as Betsy waved her tiny wand, sending red sparks shooting out like miniature fireworks. “That’s brilliant!”
“Aunt Cassie,” Isabella said smugly. “We went to visit Uncle Cygnus for dinner and Isaac wanted to play with Ellen.” She waited for Idan’s gasp of shock, Ellen had been her favorite doll for the entire of last year, and she never shared her with anyone, especially not Isaac. “He kept trying to take her but I was holding on and he broke her!”
“No!” Idan exclaimed with appropriate horror.
“I know!” Isabella nodded furiously, her curls bouncing. “I cried and cried and Isaac was holding her in two in his arms. I got so angry with him I just didn’t know what to do! And then…” she paused dramatically, a smirk spreading across her face.
“And then?” Idan prompted, a smile tugging at his lips. Their mother had probably already written to him and told him the story.
“KaBOOM!” Isabella flung her arms high above her head. “Ellen EXPLODED in a massive bang and all the bits caught fire and then Isaac was on fire and Mother had to put him out with her wand.” She paused thoughtfully. “He wasn’t hurt though. The flames were cold. He said they tickled.”
“Flame-freezing,” Idan nodded, clearly impressed. “Complex piece of magic, that. You’ll make an even finer witch than Betsy here.” He tapped the doll’s nose gently.
Isabella beamed at him, pride swelling in her chest. Praise from Idan was better than chocolate frogs.
“Children!” Her father’s voice called from the entrance hall. “It’s time to depart!”
Idan set Isabella on her feet and stood up, brushing Floo powder from his robes. “Ready for your first World Cup, little bird?”
Isabella nodded eagerly, clutching Betsy to her chest. “I packed my own bag. There’ even a pocket for Betsy.”
“That’s my girl,” Idan grinned, ruffling her hair.
“Don’t!” Isabella ducked away, horrified. “Mother will be furious if you mess it up!”
As they walked to join the others, Isabella carefully placed Betsy in the special pocket of her travel bag. The doll would be safe there, and Isabella needed both hands free, one for dragging her younger brother out of trouble, and one for whatever trouble he would drag her into.
In the entrance hall, her father, Elroy Griffin, was checking his pocket watch.
“Father,” Idan said, by way of greeting.
“Son,” Elroy replied with grin of his own. The two men walked towards each other and embraced in the centre of the room. “You’re tanned,” he stated, pulling away and giving him a look up and down. “We’ve missed you, here. It’ll be good to have you home for a while. Maybe you can even help tame the little ones.”
Isabella gave a small frown in response to being called little despite the truth in his words. Isaac was beginning to catch up to her in height even with the two-year age gap. Idan raised an eyebrow likely remembering the two bronze cauldrons still on the floor.
“Really, Father, I was unaware they needed any sort of reining in.”
Their father gave a deep chuckle and they turned as Cassiopeia walked back into the entrance hall with Isaac who had finally been dressed and stood ready. Cassiopeia looked lovely, as always, in deep blue dress robes, a silver cloak and her light brown hair falling loose.
The three siblings all shared their father’s dark hair and dark blue eyes along with their mother’s curls. Elroy, Idan, Isabella and Isaac all looked like typical Griffins, down to their round faces. Cassiopeia however had the classic haughty Black features and cold, grey eyes, passed down by the family she was born into.
Sitting in the Ministry Box was a real show of influence and Cassiopeia loved to match the youngest two for such occasions so Isaac was also wearing wearing light blue robes and a silver coloured cloak. For once, Isaac looked like a little angel with dark curls falling in front of his face. With Isaac’s long hair and Isabella’s short stature, the two really could pass as twins.
Idan wasn't so unfortunate as his brother and sister and he had been allowed to pick his own robes. Cassiopeia looked him up and down, critically, but appeared to be happy with his choice of dark green.
Finally, she moved forwards to the centre of the room and embraced him, kissing both his cheeks.
“Handsome as always, my dear Son,” she said with a warm look. “Cissy and Lucius are camping there so we will be meeting them for lunch. Then we'll make our way to the box a little early. Heaven knows we don’t want to lose a certain someone in the crowds.” She took Isaac by the hand and shot him a warning look as she finished. Isaac smiled up at her, the picture of innocence.
“You can apparate now” Isabella said, rounding on Idan with an almost accusatory tone.
“I can, indeed” Idan replied.
“Then I can side-along with you!” Isabella exclaimed, reaching for his arm.
“No, you most certainly cannot!” Cassiopeia’s eyes narrowed dangerously in their direction. “You will side along with your Father, Isabella, and you Idan, will not lose my little girl half way to Tinworth.”
Idan hastily retracted his sister’s arm from his and took a step back.
“Well, looks like you'll have to put up with your dear old Father, after all,” Elroy sighed, although his smile gave away his amusement. “My lady,” he bowed and offered his arm to his only daughter, “would you do an old man the honour and accompany him to the 420th Quidditch World Cup?”
Isabella gave a giggle and a mock curtsy before giving him her hand. He pressed a kiss to it before tucking it in to his arm and standing up straight in mock formality.
“Shall we, then?” he asked before twisting his arm away from Isabella. She caught a quick glance at Isaac looking annoyed as their mother did some last-minute fussing over his hair before there was a pop and everything went dark.
The Ministry-approved apparition point was nothing more than a windy point on the cliffs facing out to the sea. Isabella clung tightly to her father’s arm as the suffocating darkness of apparition released them. She always hated the feeling, like being squeezed through a tube far too small for a proper person, but she was determined not to complain. Nine-year-olds didn’t complain about apparition. At least, not Griffin nine-year-olds.
Isaac appeared a moment later with their mother, looking slightly green around the edges but grinning wildly. Idan joined them with a louder crack a few meters away.
“Right on time, Elroy,” called a thin wizard standing beneath an ancient oak tree. He wore Ministry robes that seemed a size too large, with a badge that kept flashing between “Department of Magical Games and Sports” and “International Portkey Coordinator.” In his hand was a dusty wine bottle with a peeling label. “Portkey leaves in three minutes.”
“Ah, hello, Arnold.” Elroy smiled at the thin man. “How’s the wife? She must be due soon.”
“Oh yes,” Arnold puffed his chest, “Two weeks to go. She's just eager for it all to be over.”
“Very good,” Elroy nodded. “I knew her when she was just a baby herself, you know. She always had such a gentle nature.”
“It’s going to be a girl,” Arnold said with a bright smile, “hopefully she turns out just like her mother.”
“How lovely,” Cassiopeia gave him a warm look, “girls are such a delight.” Isabella stuck her tongue out at Isaac and he mimed being sick in return. Their mother shot him a warning glare and Isabella smiled triumphantly. “Boys can be such a handful. Wish her our best, won’t you, Arnold?”
While the adults exchanged pleasantries, Isabella glanced around the clearing. Several other families had already arrived and were clustered near various objects, an old boot, a deflated football, a tattered umbrella, all portkeys waiting to transport wizarding families to France.
“Look at that man’s hat,” Isaac whispered, pointing at a wizard wearing what appeared to be a live ferret wrapped around his head.
“Don’t point,” Isabella hissed back, slapping his hand down. “It’s rude.”
“Children,” their mother called, beckoning them forward. “Come now, it’s nearly time.”
Isabella approached Arnold and the wine bottle, eyeing it with distaste. Portkeys were always disgusting objects, chosen specifically because Muggles wouldn’t want to touch them. This one had suspicious dark stains on its label and smelled faintly of vinegar gone bad.
“Everyone needs to touch the portkey,” Arnold instructed. “Just a finger will do.”
“Isaac, between your father and me,” Cassiopeia directed, positioning her youngest. “Isabella, next to Idan.”
Isabella took her place in the circle and carefully extended her index finger toward the dirty bottle, trying not to wrinkle her nose too obviously.
“Ten seconds,” the official announced, checking a pocket watch.
Isabella felt Idan’s arm bump reassuringly into her own. “Hold tight, little bird,” he murmured. “And tuck in your elbows.”
Before she could respond, the portkey activated. Isabella felt the horrible, familiar hook behind her navel, yanking her forward as the world dissolved into a spinning blur of color. Her finger seemed glued to the bottle as they were all pulled through space, wind howling in her ears. She squeezed her eyes shut, feeling her breakfast threatening to make a reappearance. They really didn’t travel by portkey all that often and these international portkeys took quite some time.
Just when she thought she might actually be sick, her feet slammed into solid ground. She braced but didn’t manage not to fall, tumbling forwards and Idan had to pick her up and plop her down back onto her feet. Looking to the side, she saw her father also helping Isaac back up off the ground.
“Eleven past eleven from Tinworth, England.” A voice declared in a heavy French accent. Isabella looked up and saw a cheerful witch dressed in robes that suggested she worked in the French Ministry.
She took the wine bottle from Elroy’s hand and tossing it into a large collection bin that was already half-full of assorted junk.
“Here,” Cassiopeia said, kneeling next to her daughter with a concerned look. She had taken back hold of Isaac and pulled him over with her. “Just a sip, it was a long journey and you both did well.” She uncorked a small vial of light green liquid and handed it to Isabella. She sipped obediently and passed it over to Isaac. The liquid slid uncomfortably down her throat like a ball of snot.
“Ergh,” Isaac voiced the same opinion, as he swallowed the potion. “What is this? Troll bogeys?”
“Anti-sickness solution.” Cassiopeia sniffed primly as she straightened up and returned the bottle to her robes.
“-and just thirty minutes in that direction. Enjoy the Cup!” Isabella caught the tail end of her father’s conversation with the French Ministry Official and Elroy gave the lady a polite nod.
“Can I run ahead?” Isaac asked, the potion having apparently filled him with renewed energy.
“Absolutely not,” Cassiopeia replied. “Isabella, take your brother’s hand, please.”
Isabella suppressed a sigh but did as she was told, grasping Isaac’s small hand in hers. Being the middle child meant constantly shifting between being treated like a baby herself and being expected to act like an adult for Isaac’s benefit. It wasn’t fair, but she’d long since learned that fairness wasn’t a consideration in family hierarchies.
“Stay on the path,” their father instructed as they set off, the adults leading the way while the three siblings followed behind. “The French Ministry has placed protective enchantments all around, but it’s best not to wander.”
The forest path was dappled with sunlight filtering through the canopy of leaves overhead. The path itself was muddy from recent rain, and Isabella felt her heart sink as she looked down and noticed her beautiful white shoes. She gasped in dismay. The pristine white leather was now speckled with mud. She stopped walking, causing Isaac to jerk backward as their linked hands pulled taut.
“What’s wrong?” Idan asked, turning around.
Isabella pointed wordlessly at her feet, feeling a lump rise in her throat. Great Grandfather Pollux’s gift was ruined.
“It’s just a bit of mud, Bells,” Isaac said.
“It’s not just mud,” she insisted. “These are my special shoes!”
Their mother glanced back, taking in the situation immediately. “Isabella, there’s no need for dramatics,” she said, though her tone softened as she noted her daughter’s distress. She drew her wand and pointed it at Isabella’s feet. “Tergeo,” the mud vanished, leaving the shoes pristine.
“Thank you, Mother.”
“You’re welcome. Now, shall we continue? We‘ve quite a distance to cover.”
The forest path seemed to go on forever. They had been walking for what felt like hours to Isabella, though her father’s pocket watch would probably insist it had only been twenty minutes. The initial excitement of being in France had worn off, replaced by the monotony of putting one foot in front of the other while ensuring Isaac didn’t wander off. She could tell her brother was getting restless; he had progressed from simple hand-swinging to elaborate tugging motions that threatened to dislocate her shoulder.
“How much longer?” Isaac whined, for what seemed like the hundredth time. “My legs hurt.”
“We’ve only been walking for twenty minutes,” Isabella replied, trying to sound mature and reasonable like their mother. “Father said it would take half an hour.”
“That’s forever,” Isaac groaned dramatically, slumping forward as if his spine had suddenly turned to jelly. “This forest is going to go on forever and ever and ever…”
“It will not,” Isabella answered primly. “Nothing goes on forever. Except perhaps Grandfather Lucian’s dinner speeches.”
From ahead of them, she heard Idan snort with barely contained laughter. Her mother glanced back with a raised eyebrow, but there was a hint of something in her eyes that suggested she might not entirely disagree.
Isaac kicked at a pinecone, sending it skittering across the path. “Can we play something? Anything? I’m dying of boredom.”
“You are not dying,” Isabella said, but she had to admit, at least to herself, that the walk was becoming tedious.
Isaac suddenly dropped her hand and darted to the side of the path, where a fallen branch lay partially concealed beneath a drift of leaves.
“Isaac!” Cassiopeia called sharply. “Stay on the path.”
“But look, Mother! I found a wand!” He held up the stick triumphantly. “It’s elder wood with a dragon heartstring core, very powerful.”
Despite her irritation, Isabella felt a smile tug at her lips. She released a long-suffering sigh, then stepped carefully to the edge of the path herself, selecting a straight, slender branch from among the forest debris.
“Mine is walnut,” she declared, returning to the path and examining her impromptu wand with feigned seriousness. “With unicorn hair. Perfect for duelling.”
Isaac’s eyes lit up with delight. “Duel me!”
“Children,” their mother began, but their father placed a hand on her shoulder.
“Let them play, Cass. It will make the walk go faster.” He offered her a smile. “And they’re still on the path.”
Isabella held her stick aloft, mimicking the proper dueling stance she’d seen illustrated in one of Idan’s textbooks. “En garde, little brother.”
“That’s fencing, not dueling,” Idan commented from the sidelines, but he was grinning.
Isaac didn’t seem to care about the correct technical stances. He thrust his stick forward dramatically, crying, “Expelliarmus!” with such force that he nearly overbalanced.
Isabella deftly sidestepped his wild gesture. “Protego!” she countered, drawing an invisible shield in the air with her stick. “Your spell is blocked.”
“You can’t block my super-powerful spell,” Isaac protested. “I’m the greatest wizard in Britain!”
“You’re not even the greatest wizard in this family,” Isabella retorted, then added with a smirk, “Besides, we’re in France now.”
Their mock duel continued as they walked, with increasingly elaborate made-up spells (“Frogify!” “Tickling Tornado!” “Super Slug Hex!”) and equally dramatic defensive moves. Isabella was careful to let Isaac win occasionally, though she made him work for it. After all, she was two years older and therefore obligated to maintain some standards.
The path widened as they proceeded, giving them more room for their theatrical wandwork. Isabella felt herself relaxing into the game, her earlier concerns about muddy shoes forgotten as she dodged Isaac’s wild spell-casting.
“Look out!” Isaac shouted suddenly, abandoning his stick and diving to scoop up a pinecone from the path. “Bludger attack!”
The pinecone sailed through the air toward Isabella, who batted it away with her stick. It bounced off a nearby tree trunk and rolled back onto the path.
“Two can play that game,” she declared, grabbing a pinecone of her own and tossing it lightly at her brother.
What had been a sedate magical duel transformed instantly into a much more physical battle. Isaac darted behind Idan, using him as a human shield while pelting Isabella with a barrage of forest ammunition. She retaliated by gathering her own stockpile, taking cover behind a large oak tree just off the path.
“No fair hiding behind Idan!” she called out, launching a particularly well-aimed pinecone that bounced off Isaac’s shoulder.
Their parents had paused further up the path, watching the battle with varying expressions. Their father seemed amused, one corner of his mouth quirked up. Their mother’s face held its usual composure, but she wasn’t calling for them to stop, which Isabella took as tacit approval.
“Bombardment spell!” Isaac yelled, throwing three pinecones in rapid succession. One sailed past Isabella, one fell short, but the third caught her squarely on the hip.
“Ouch! That was too hard!” she protested.
“Was not!”
“Was too!”
Isabella narrowed her eyes and selected a larger pinecone from her pile. She took careful aim, calculating the trajectory like she’d learned in her mathematics lessons. The pinecone flew true, hitting Isaac right in the middle of his chest.
“Oof!” he gasped dramatically, clutching his heart and staggering backward as if mortally wounded. “You’ve killed me! I’m dying! I’m dead!” He collapsed onto the path in an exaggerated heap, tongue lolling out of the side of his mouth.
Isabella couldn’t help but giggle at his theatrics. “Get up, you goose. Dead people don’t giggle.”
Isaac immediately popped back up, grabbing more pinecones. “I’ve risen from the dead! I’m an Inferius!”
The battle escalated, pinecones flying in all directions as their laughter echoed through the trees. Isabella felt her hair coming loose from its careful arrangement, but for once, she didn’t care. Then Isaac wound up for a particularly ambitious throw, aiming at Isabella but miscalculating terribly. The pinecone sailed past her and directly toward their mother’s perfectly coiffed head.
Isabella gasped. Time seemed to slow as the pinecone arced through the air. Their mother hadn’t seen it yet; she was looking at something their father was pointing out in the distance.
Before disaster could strike, Idan’s hand shot out, plucking the pinecone from the air.
“I think that’s enough ammunition for one day,” he said smoothly, pocketing the pinecone. “Mother, look at the time. We should probably pick up the pace.”
Cassiopeia turned, her gaze flickering over her children’s disheveled appearance with a slight frown. “Indeed. Isabella, your hair is coming undone. Isaac, brush those leaves off your cloak.”
Isabella quickly patted her hair, feeling the loosened pins. She caught Idan’s eye, and he gave her a wink. She smiled gratefully.
“Come along now,” their father called, resuming their walk. “The path opens up just ahead.”
Isaac bounded forward to take his place beside Isabella again, his energy apparently doubled by the pinecone skirmish. “That was brilliant,” he whispered. “Next time, we should bring exploding pinecones.”
“I don’t think there's any such thing,” Isabella informed him, but she was smiling as she took his hand again.
The forest ended so abruptly that Isabella nearly stumbled. One moment they were surrounded by the close, green quiet of the woods, and the next they stood at the edge of what had to be the most extraordinary sight she had ever seen in her nine years. The Quidditch World Cup campground spread before them in a vast, sprawling expanse that made her mouth fall open in a decidedly unladylike manner. Her mother would have corrected her immediately, but even Cassiopeia Griffin seemed momentarily distracted by the spectacular view.
“Merlin’s beard,” Isaac breathed beside her, for once neither shouting nor bouncing. “It’s… it’s…”
“Incredible,” Isabella finished for him, equally awestruck.
“Quite a sight, isn’t it?” their father said, smiling at their expressions. “The Ministry’s been planning this for months.”
Isabella nodded mutely, her eyes wide as she tried to absorb everything at once. Spread before them was a valley filled with thousands upon thousands of tents. They were magical dwellings of every shape, size, and colour imaginable. Some resembled ordinary Muggle camping tents (or what Isabella assumed Muggle tents looked like, having never actually seen one), while others were elaborate multi-story structures with smoking chimneys, spinning weather vanes, and gardens sprouting improbably from their sides.
The nearest section of the encampment seemed to be draped predominantly in deep blue and white, the French national colours, with miniature silver fleurs-de-lis floating above many of the tents like tiny constellations. Further along, she could see what looked like a veritable jungle of red white and blue tents that she guessed belonged to American fans.
“Look!” Isaac pointed excitedly. “They’re flying!”
Isabella followed his gesture and saw that he was right. In the spaces between the tent clusters there were children flying small brooms and teenagers playing with Quaffles. There were magic carpets flying through the air and Isabella could see some children who must be from Russia as they were riding on upturned trees instead of broomsticks. And in the distance was the Quidditch pitch, seats going up and up and up all the way to where they would be sitting at the top in the Ministry Box later in the evening.
“Is that legal?” Isabella whispered to Idan, eyeing several young witches and wizards lounging on a magic carpet together as if they were relaxing in their drawing room. “I thought flying carpets were banned.”
“In Britain, yes,” Idan replied. “But we’re in France now, and they have different regulations. International magical cooperation at its finest, each country pretending not to notice when visitors break their laws.”
“Father,” Isaac tugged insistently at Elroy’s sleeve. “Father, can we go explore? Please? I promise I’ll be careful!”
“Absolutely not,” their mother interjected firmly. “We will proceed directly to the Malfoys’ as planned. This crowd is far too unpredictable for wandering.”
“But Mother!” Isaac protested,“Look at all those kids on brooms! And the flying carpets!”
Isabella felt a stab of sympathy for her brother. She too wanted to race off and explore, though she’d never admit it out loud. The proper thing was to stay with the family. She knew this, just as she knew that her white shoes should stay clean and her hair should remain neatly pinned. But still, the sight of children darting freely between tents made something in her chest tighten with longing.
“Isaac,” Cassiopeia said, her voice taking on the firm tone that meant the conversation was over, “we are staying together as a family. We have people to greet, and you will accompany us. It’s expected.”
Isabella watched Isaac’s face fall and felt another pang. She glanced up at her mother, wondering if there was any chance of persuading her, but Cassiopeia’s expression was resolute. Appearances mattered. Proper behaviour mattered.
“The Malfoys are expecting us for lunch,” her father added. “We shouldn’t keep them waiting.”
Isaac looked so deflated that Isabella almost reached out to take his hand again, but before she could, Idan stepped in.
“Mother,” he said, “I was thinking that after lunch, perhaps I could take Isabella and Isaac for a short walk around the campsite? Just to see the highlights. I’d keep them out of trouble, of course.”
Cassiopeia hesitated, looking at her eldest son with a mixture of skepticism and fondness. “We’ll discuss it after lunch,” she said finally. “Depending on how well everyone behaves.”
It wasn’t a yes, but it wasn’t a no either. Isabella felt a small spark of hope. Idan caught her eye and gave her the tiniest smile, and she knew he would find a way to make it happen.
The crowd thickened as they made their way deeper into the campsite, following the main thoroughfare that wound between the tents. Isabella stayed close to Idan, occasionally reaching to check that Betsy was still secure in her bag. The doll would love all this excitement, but Isabella knew better than to take her out here where she might get lost in the chaos.
“Father,” Isaac asked as they passed a particularly impressive tent that resembled a miniature medieval castle, complete with a moat where tiny boats sailed in circles, “can we camp here next time? Please? With our own tent?”
Elroy glanced down at his youngest with a thoughtful expression. “The next World Cup is in four years, Isaac. I imagine by then you’ll be old enough for a camping adventure.”
Isaac’s face lit up. “Really? You promise?”
“Of course, son.” Elroy ruffled his hair affectionately. “We can’t have you missing out on all this once you’re old enough.”
Isabella felt a small twist of uncertainty in her stomach. “Will I be allowed to camp too?” she asked carefully. She knew sometimes boys were permitted adventures that girls were not.
Her father looked surprised “Of course, little bird. Why wouldn’t you be?”
“Girls camp too,” Isaac said, as if explaining something obvious. “They just bring more stuff.”
Isabella felt a small wave of relief, followed by an unexpected surge of excitement at the prospect. She’d never camped before, not even in their own garden. The idea was thrilling.
“Are you looking forward to the match?” Idan asked, changing the subject. “France has an excellent Seeker, Sylvain Lemoine. He’s supposed to be the fastest flyer in the world.”
“But America has better Chasers,” her father added. “It should be a close game.”
“I hope there are lots of Bludger hits,” Isaac said enthusiastically. “And crashes!”
“Isaac!” Cassiopeia scolded, though without much heat. “That’s not the point of the sport.”
“It’s rather the point of the Bludgers, Mother,” Idan pointed out with a grin.
“ISABELLA!”
The shout cut through their debate. Isabella turned to see a boy about her age barreling toward them, weaving through the crowd with impressive determination. Lucian Bole was dressed in haphazard Quidditch gear, elbow pads over his regular robes, a leather helmet askew on his sandy hair, and he was carrying what looked like a child-sized Beater’s bat.
“Hello, Lucian,” she replied politely, feeling her mother’s approving gaze on her back. It wouldn’t do to shout back, even if Lucian apparently had no such compunctions.
He skidded to a halt before their family, remembering his manners just in time. “Mr. Griffin, Mrs. Griffin,” he said sheepishly. “Good morning.”
“Hello, Lucian,” Elroy said with a smile. “Did you come with your family?”
Lucian Bole’s family was close to the Griffins, and Lucian was actually named after Isabella’s Grandfather.
“Yes, sir! My father set up a small pitch behind our tent. Nothing fancy, just some hoops and a practice Snitch that can’t go more than twenty feet high, but it’s brilliant fun!” He turned back to Isabella, his face flushed with excitement. “We’re playing right now. Want to join?”
Isabella hesitated. She enjoyed flying and was actually rather good at it, but they were expected at the Malfoys’, and her mother would never approve of her getting sweaty and disheveled before a formal lunch.
“Thank you for the invitation,” she said, using her best company manners, “but we‘re on our way to visit family.”
Lucian’s face fell momentarily before he rallied. “Later, then? We’ll be playing all afternoon!”
“Perhaps,” she replied noncommittally, knowing her mother would intervene if she made promises she couldn’t keep.
“We’ll see how the day unfolds,” Cassiopeia said smoothly. “Isabella’s schedule is rather full.”
Lucian nodded eagerly, apparently taking this diplomatic refusal as potential encouragement. “Right! Well, I should get back, they’re waiting for me. See you later, Isabella! Mr. and Mrs. Griffin, good day to you!” He dashed off again, nearly colliding with a group of elderly witches who scowled at his retreating back.
“A spirited boy,” her father remarked as they resumed walking.
“Indeed,” her mother agreed, a hint of approval in her voice as she adjusted her gloves. “Though perhaps lacking in…” she paused, searching for the right word, “restraint. You handled that well Isabella.”
Isabella felt a warm glow of pride. Praise from her mother was always to be treasured.
“The Boles are a respectable family,” Cassiopeia continued. “Old lineage, proper values. Lucian seems quite fond of you.”
“Lucian is an idiot.” Isaac deadpanned, pulling a bit of a face.
“Isaac!” Cassiopeia’s voice was sharp with disapproval.
“But he is,” Isaac insisted. “Isabella says so all the time. She says he’s got pudding for brains.”
Isabella felt her cheeks heat as her mother’s gaze swiveled to her. “I never said that,” she protested. Though she might have thought it once or twice.
Cassiopeia looked utterly horrified. “Lucian is good and polite young boy from a well-respected family!”
“You can be a good and polite young boy and an idiot,” Idan offered helpfully, “they aren’t mutually exclusive.”
Their father tried and failed to hold back his grin, and as he patted his offended wife on the arm.
“Perhaps,” he interjected diplomatically, “we could all agree that young Mr. Bole is enthusiastic rather than academically inclined?”
“A charitable assessment,” Cassiopeia conceded with a small smile.
“He is quite good at Quidditch,” Isabella offered, feeling she should defend Lucian at least a little. “And he always remembers my birthday.”
“A gentleman‘s most important quality,” Idan said solemnly. “Remembering birthdays and being able to hit things with sticks.
That made even Cassiopeia laugh, a light, pleasant sound that Isabella didn’t hear often enough.
“The Malfoy tent should be just ahead,” their father announced, clearly deciding it was time to change the subject. “Remember your manners, all of you.”
“Yes, Father,” Isabella and Isaac chorused.
They halted in front of a particularly elaborate tent that looked more like a small manor house. Its white exterior gleamed and a silver carpet extended from the doorway several yards outward. But what truly caught Isabella’s attention was the peacock. An albino peacock, its white plumage spread in a perfect fan as it strutted imperiously in front of the tent. The creature seemed to be eyeing approaching visitors with the same haughty disdain Isabella remembered the Malfoys themselves often wearing.
“Rather… elaborate, isn’t it?” her father murmured to Cassiopeia.
“Cissy never did understand the concept of subtlety,” Cassiopeia replied quietly, though Isabella caught the words. “But we should expect nothing less.”
Isabella had met the Malfoys several times before at various social gatherings. Narcissa Malfoy was her mother’s cousin, which made her son Draco some sort of second cousin to Isabella.
The peacock let out a harsh cry as they approached, spreading its feathers even wider and blocking their path to the entrance. Isabella took an instinctive step closer to Idan.
“Extraordinary creature,” her father remarked. “I believe Abraxas started the tradition of keeping them. Lucius has clearly maintained it.”
A house-elf dressed in a pillowcase stood at attention beside the door.
“The Griffin family to see Master and Mistress Malfoy,” her father announced formally.
The house-elf bowed so low its pointed nose nearly touched the ground. “Master and Mistress are expecting you, sirs and madams. Please to be following Dobby.”
The interior of the Malfoy tent was even more impressive than its exterior. Isabella blinked as they stepped inside, momentarily dazzled. The entry hall, and it truly was a hall, not simply the opening of a tent, had marble floors.
Narcissa, Cassiopeia’s cousin was in an armchair in the entrance, waiting for them. Isabella didn’t know Narcissa that well, even though she was Cassiopeia's cousin. Isabella and her siblings had always spent more time with their father’s side of the family.
“Cissy!” Cassiopeia called warmly as they all entered the tent. “It’s been too long.”
“Cass, darling,” Narcissa cooed, standing and opening her arms for an embrace. The two women kissed each other’s cheeks lightly. “I was just telling Lucius that you must have been held up, you’re never late without reason.”
“I have three children, Cissy,” Cassiopeia replied with a knowing glance towards her cousin. “That is reason enough.”
Isabella had to secretly wonder what they both meant by that. They were perfectly on time.
Elroy stepped forward to greet Lucius with a firm handshake. “Lucius, good to see you again. The tent is magnificent.”
“Merely adequate for the occasion,” Narcissa said with a modest wave of her hand that fooled no one. “Lucius insisted on bringing a few comforts from home.”
“One must maintain standards, even while traveling,” Lucius drawled. His gaze swept over the Griffin children, lingering momentarily on Idan. “Congratulations on your N.E.W.T. results, young man. Your father must be pleased.”
“Thank you, sir,” Idan replied politely. “I was fortunate to have excellent professors.”
“And natural ability, I’m sure,” Narcissa added smoothly. “The Black intelligence always shows itself.”
Isabella noticed how her mother straightened slightly at this comment. The Blacks were her mother’s family, and Cassiopeia was proud of her lineage.
Draco Malfoy appeared then, peeking out from behind the green sofa with a toy broomstick clutched in his small hands. “Mother, may I show them my broom?” he asked in a high, slightly imperious voice.
“Of course, darling,” Narcissa said, reaching over and smoothing back his hair. “Draco’s quite taken with it. It only hovers a few inches off the ground, but he’s been practicing his turns and dives.” She smiled indulgently. “Haven’t you, my love?”
Narcissa was never as beautiful as she was when she was smiling at her son. Most of the time, she looked like had just eaten a particularly strong acid pop, but all that melted away when she interacted with Draco.
Draco puffed his chest out, his little face a mixture of pride and self-importance. “It’s not a real broom,” he declared solemnly, addressing Isabella and Isaac as though delivering a grand proclamation, “but Father says I’ll get one when I’m older. I’ll be a Seeker like him.”
Isaac’s eyes lit up with fascination. “Can I try?” he blurted, stepping forward eagerly.
“Absolutely not,” Draco said with a frown, clutching the broom tighter. “It’s mine.”
Isaac’s face fell, but before Cassiopeia could intervene, Isabella stepped forward with what she hoped was a charming smile. “That’s a brilliant broom, Draco. Can it really hover all by itself?”
Draco’s frown faltered, and he nodded. “It’s charmed not to go too high, though. Mother says it’s for safety.”
“That’s smart,” Isabella said, trying to keep her tone warm and encouraging. “You don’t want to crash into anything before you’ve had a chance to show everyone how good you are.”
Draco blinked, visibly pleased by her response. “Exactly,” he said, stepping closer to show her the broom. “Look, it hovers just like this!” He placed it on the floor, and the broom floated a few inches off the ground, gently bobbing. “See?” he said, with an air of triumph. “It’s the best toy broom there is. Father says it’s almost like a real one.”
Isabella crouched down, feigning awe as she examined the broom closer. “It’s amazing, Draco,” she said.
“You must be really good at steering it. Maybe you could show Isaac how you do it? I bet he’d love to see how it works.”
Draco glanced at Isaac, his expression still sceptical. “I don’t know… it’s my broom.”
“It’s yours, of course,” Isabella said quickly, hoping that her tone was light and understanding. “But imagine how impressive it would look if you taught someone else how to use it. That would show how
talented you are, don’t you think?”
Draco straightened, his little chest puffing out once more. “Well… I suppose I could show him. But just for a minute.”
Joy flickered instantly across Isaac’s face and he stepped forward eagerly. “Really? Thanks, Draco!”
Draco nodded with a slight sniff, as if granting a royal favour. “Just don’t crash it,” he said sternly, handing the broom over with deliberate care.
“I’ll be careful!” Isaac called back, already hopping onto the broom.
True to its charm, the broom hovered just a few inches off the ground, but Isaac’s face was filled with delight as he began to move forward in a slow, wobbly line.
“Steady your hands!” Draco instructed, stepping closer to supervise. “You don’t want to tip too far to the left.”
Isaac adjusted his grip, and the broom steadied, gliding forward with a little more confidence. Isabella clapped her hands together, giving Draco her brightest smile. “You’re a great teacher, Draco. Look how well he’s doing!”
Draco’s cheeks flushed faintly with pride. “Well, it’s not that hard if you know what you’re doing.”
Idan strolled over. “Good on you, Draco,” he said with a small nod. “Helping others is a sign of true skill.”
Draco beamed at the praise, his earlier hesitation now replaced with satisfaction. “I’ll teach him how to turn next,” he announced, already stepping forward to take the broom back and demonstrate.
Isaac hopped off the broom reluctantly, handing it back to Draco. “Thanks,” he said earnestly. “That was brilliant!”
Draco gave a small nod, pleased. “It’s the broom, really,” he said, but the smug tilt to his head showed he wasn’t entirely humble.
“Alright, children,” Narcissa’s voice floated across the tent, drawing their attention. “Lunch is ready. Come, Draco. You can play more later.”
Draco turned back to his mother, the broom tucked securely under his arm. “Coming, Mother,” he said before glancing back at Isaac and Isabella. “Maybe I’ll let you try again after the match.”
“Maybe?” Isaac asked, grinning.
Draco tilted his head cheekily. “If you’re lucky.”
Isabella bit back a laugh, sharing a knowing look with Idan as they followed the others to the dining table.
“You handled that well,” Idan murmured to her. “Charming Draco like that. Maybe there’s hope for you yet.”