In Shadow and Signal (Book 2)

Harriet Potter's POV

I had never seen the world so alive.

The Quidditch World Cup wasn't just a match - it was a miracle stitched together with magic and madness. Tents as tall as houses. Enchanted lanterns that danced to the beat of laughter. Children racing on toy brooms. Entire families in matching robes, faces painted in national colors.

It was the kind of place you couldn't dream about unless you'd lived in a world that survived something.

And I had.

The Weasleys had invited me - and Hermione - and I'd nearly said no. After last year, after everything with Pettigrew and Sirius and the Ministry's silence, I wasn't sure I could handle the noise.

But then Oliver's letter arrived.

Emerald,
Go. Laugh. Watch the sky light up. I'll be with you in spirit - probably yelling at my radio. You deserve the kind of magic that doesn't hurt to hold.
I love you.
-O.

So I went.

And for a few hours... I felt weightless.

-

The stadium was carved into the hills like a coliseum of light. Rows upon rows of wizardkind from every corner of the world roared with anticipation. Irish green clashed against Bulgarian red. Spells flew overhead like fireworks.

I couldn't stop smiling.

Not even when I noticed the Minister.

Cornelius Fudge made his rounds before kickoff, flanked by tight-lipped assistants and Ministry officials with the kind of polished arrogance that made my skin crawl. One of them - tall, silver-haired, eyes like slate - lingered just a little too long when his gaze fell on me.

I turned away before I could wonder what it meant.

The match blurred in a storm of motion - Veela swaying like silk in the wind, leprechauns launching gold into the air, brooms moving faster than my eyes could follow. Krum was incredible. The Irish team? Unstoppable.

Magic thundered through the stands like a second heartbeat.

I found myself wishing Oliver were there - shouting tactics over the roar of the crowd, dissecting every play with that intense glint in his eyes. He would've hated the showboating, loved the strategy, and found a way to hold my hand when no one was looking.

But he wasn't there.

And just hours later, it wouldn't matter.

-

I woke to screams.

Flames tore through the fog. The sky had turned a sick, smoky red.

Someone was shouting about Death Eaters.

I scrambled to my feet just as Ron grabbed my arm. Hermione was already awake, pale and shaking, clutching her wand like it was the only real thing left.

"We have to move!" Ron yelled.

Smoke choked the air. Tents were collapsing. Spells exploded in the distance.

And overhead - green.

The Dark Mark, high in the sky.

Someone laughed. A masked figure cast a spell that sent a tent crashing into itself.

A father threw himself over his children.

I didn't breathe. I couldn't.

My hand flew to the chain around my neck.

The Portkey Oliver had given me.

It was warm - pulsing.

Alive.

The contract between us hummed against my skin like it knew I was in danger. Like it was reaching across the miles between us, warning him.

I didn't use it.

But I held it.

And I ran.