Whispers were beginning to go around. Mother's face had a permanent pinched look to it, and father was never home much, always off on "work." Draco and I knew better.
Rumors about the Dark Lord's power growing again spread quickly, and they sounded stronger and scarier the more time went by. Draco and I had never agreed on much, but on this we did: the Dark Lord returning could mean nothing good for our family.
So when father asked if both Draco and I would like to go to the Quidditch World Cup with him, I was suspicious. Even mother, who hated the prospect of me learning the sport, didn't argue. We ended up obliging, but I really only consented to go because I knew that Potter, Granger, and Weasley's family would be there as well.
So, when the day of the match came, father called us into the drawing room. There, a cracked, dirty teacup sat. A Portkey.
"I need you both to stay with me the entire time. Don't go wandering off, and don't go talking to others that I wouldn't talk to," father instructed us sternly.
"Yes, father," we both obeyed.
"Any minute now," father muttered, looking down at his pocket watch. A second later he said, "Now."
Draco and I touched our hands to the broken china.
"Be good!" My mother called out faintly as we were hurled through space. We landed hard on the grass a couple miles from a small, dinky stand. The closer we got, the more sights suddenly appeared. The once empty fields of grass now held hundreds of thousands of tents, voices could be heard yelling to each other and laughing, and folk music played in the background.
"Davies. Wilson," my father nodded cooly to each in turn. Next to them, a ginormous box of used Portkeys sat, overflowing.
"Malfoy," the both replied, respectfully but nervously.
Father handed them the Portkey and a small pouch of Galleons, and they gave us our tickets.
"Have a good afternoon," my father sniffed, and whisked us away. When we were out of ear shot he muttered, "Low class Ministry workers. Pathetic."
As we made our way through the sea of people, I kept an eye out for familiar faces. Unfortunately, none were spotted. It was extremely crowded though, and people on low brooms kept speeding over our heads.
Eventually, we found our tent. It was modest for father, but, then again, that wasn't saying much. The material of the tent was created from some shiny, deep green fabric, and it glinted beautifully in the slowly dimming light. A clean, white stone path led up to the flap, and white peacocks strutted about.
The inner area was separated into a gleaming, blank kitchen, small sitting area, and three beds. Two were smaller, right next to each other, and one was much more large and grand, evidently father's.
A house elf from home cooked us a quiet dinner of meat and some fancy cheeses that I didn't know the names of. Then Draco and I walked outside, father trusting enough to allow us to find fellow students to socialize with.
Draco quickly found his friends from school, and I cursed under my breath when Nott saw me.
"Alexandra!" He exclaimed in feigned, delighted shock. "Fancy seeing you here. What brings you to this old hill out in the middle of nowhere?"
"Just an international Quidditch game," I replied dryly.
"Really? That's happening today?" He asked with a teasing expression on his face.
"Nott, you aren't as funny as you think you are," I said.
He put a hand over his heart and gasped in hurt. "And here I was, thinking we were friends."
"You must be mistaken," I smiled, and moved back over to Draco, immediately regretting it when I saw Parkinson hanging onto his arm.
"What's she doing here?" She asked obnoxiously, pointing at me.
"Have you forgotten? I'm related to him," I said.
"No, I haven't forgotten," she scoffed, but turned away just the same. Obviously she still remembered my little piece of friendly advice from the last day of term.
Thankfully, all our fathers, who were talking to each other quietly near Draco and I's tent, called us back.
"The match is about to begin," Zabini's current stepfather announced. "I'm sure we'll see you all at a later date." And he took Zabini's arm and pulled him away. Riddle must have been staying with them, because he followed. When Nott and Parkinson left, father began the walk with us over to the stadium.
Reaching the great, circular structure was slightly unreal. A golden glow seemed to emit from the stands themselves, and the steady hum of people was increasing. We climbed higher and higher. I assumed father had purchased the best seats possible.
A vendor nearby was yelling out advertisements.
Then a voice that I recognized yelled out, "Blimey, dad, how far up are we?"
"Well, put it this way," my father said. I whipped my head around. "If it rains, you'll be the first to know."
I beamed when I saw Weasley, Potter, and Hermione, accompanied by Mr. Weasley and the rest of his children behind him. Potter sent a small smile back down to me.
"Father, Alexandra, and I are in the Minister's box," Draco bragged. I elbowed him in the side, and father glared at me. "By personal invitation of Cornelius Fudge himself," he continued.
"Don't boast, Draco," father said, jabbing him with his completely unnecessary walking stick. "There's no need with these people."
Hermione sent a grimace to me. I couldn't meet her eyes. I was ashamed to be related to the man I called my father. Their group went to turn away, but father extended out the sharp end of his walking stick and held Potter's had fast against the railing.
"Do enjoy yourself, won't you?" Father said. "While you can."
I stared at him in horrid disbelief. Just as we were walking away, I gathered up all my courage. "I'll find you!" I yelled back to them. Potter, Hermione, and Weasley grinned.
"You most certainly will not," my father hissed, and forcefully turned me around. I struggled against his tight grip. When we were far enough away, he let me go.
"How dare you shout such things in the presence of others. We can't have people thinking that we associate with families such as that one," father scolded me. I dug my nails into my palm and bit my tongue to keep silent.
The match was well enough. All I knew was that Ireland won, because for most of the game my thoughts kept trailing to Potter, and how much more fun he was undoubtedly having than me. Sure, plenty of people stared up at us enviously when they noticed father on Fudge's right, but I didn't care for the attention.
I would rather be cheering with Hermione, laughing with the Weasleys, and most definitely not flirting just a little bit with Potter.
Draco and I were about to collapse into our beds, throats sore from shouting and hands red from clapping, when father called us back.
"Both of you, go to the little forest behind our tent and wait. Stay together, and don't move once you get far enough inside. I'll be back," he said, and left, wearing all black and with a strange gleam in his eyes.
I shared a worried glance with Draco. "Let's go," he said, and we walked into the trees. Not even a moment later, screams rose from the fields. A bright, orange light gleamed dangerously from ahead, and the smell of smoke filled the air.
"How did father know about this?" I breathed.
"He couldn't of. Unless he's taking part in it," Draco replied with real fear in his voice.
We must have stood there for half an hour, listening to chaos unfold around us. More and more people were evacuating into the clearings of the forest. Somewhere nearby, a couple boys were drunkenly talking about achievements that couldn't be true.
"I once flew a Cleansweep to Jupiter!" One was saying.
Another declared, "I hunt dragons for the Ministry for a living!"
I assumed that is was a Veela they were crowded around. Draco started to stumble towards the boys, opening his mouth to say something preposterous, but I pulled him back. "Oh, no. There will be none of that tonight."
Hours later, the screaming had faded. There was so much smoke in the air that it was difficult to see, and I coughed if I took too deep of a breath. Still, Draco and I didn't dare move from our position. Finally, when it was so late that we had resorted to sitting against a tree trunk, half asleep, father Apparated in front of us.
"Come. Get up. We're leaving. It's over," he said frantically, half pulling Draco and I from the ground. We tripped after him through the smoldering ruins of tents and the once-bustling area.
I had no idea where he obtained it, but father took a watering can nearly split in half and pressed all our hands to it. Too tired to care what was happening, I allowed father to lead Draco and I back up to our front doors and through the manor.
Mother jumped up from the couch the moment she saw us, face pale and wearing only her nightgown. She quickly hugged her children close, sent us up to bed with a house elf, and pulled father into a completely concealed room.
When we reached the two doors next to each other, Draco's bedroom and mine, Draco opened his and gestured for me to go inside. I stumbled in gratefully. Feeling like a young child again I slipped under the covers, still in my formal day clothes. The comfort I felt that night was surprising but pleasant, and made me ache for simpler days. As much as we hated to admit it, Draco and I needed each other.
The first thing I did when I saw Potter, Weasley, and Hermione on the train was wrap them all in a tight hug.
"I'm sorry," I whispered.
Hermione pulled away in shock, angry at everyone for me. "What do you have to be sorry for?" She demanded.
"My father was one of the Death Eaters in the masks, burning people's tents down and tormenting that Muggle family," I said in disgust. The only reason I knew about the events that took place that night was because father left out the Daily Prophet one morning after breakfast.
"That was not your fault in any way, and don't think for one minute that it was," she said.
"But if I could have found a way to stop them-" I began.
"Remember what Sirius said?" Potter interrupted. "Your father's actions don't define who you are."
"He's right you know," Weasley said, obviously not knowing how to console me but wanting to be a part of the conversation just the same.
"I still can't help feeling terrible," I sighed, as we settled in a compartment.
Much later, when we were about halfway there, Potter started to unconsciously rub at his scar.
"It's hurting again, isn't it?" Hermione asked, looking up from her book. "Your scar."
"I'm fine," Potter replied easily, but I watched him wince as he said it.
"You know Sirius would want to hear about this," Hermione said, leaning in closer. "What you saw at the World Cup, and the dream."
"What about the World Cup? And what dream?" I asked, extremely confused.
"I had a dream about Voldemort," Potter mumbled, not meeting anyone's eyes. "He was in an old abandoned house, with Peter Pettigrew and another man, and his snake Nagini. They were talking about their plans to kill... me."
I sucked in a shaky breath. "What about at the World Cup?"
"After everything had died down, I saw the man who cast the Dark Mark in the sky. He didn't notice me until Ron's dad and everyone else found me," he said reluctantly.
"You were that close to a Death Eater?" I asked in horror. "Do you have any idea how lucky you are that he didn't kill you on the spot?"
"I do now," Potter replied grimly.
After a moment's hesitation I added, "You're sure it wasn't..."
"It wasn't your father," he assured me. "The man that I saw was taller, and he had short black hair."
I let out a breath of relief. I don't know what I would have done if my father was the one the Ministry was searching for relentlessly. Nevermind what I would do, my own mother would be in a very tight situation.
Finally, Potter agreed to write to Sirius. He quickly scratched out a long piece of parchment and sent it off with Hedwig out the train window. As we pulled into the Hogsmeade station, a group of girls huddled outside our compartment.
When we exited with our trunks they surrounded us, giggling over Potter and twirling their hair flirtatiously. He looked very overwhelmed and a little horrified, so Hermione and I pushed him forward.
"He's not interested," I said sweetly, smiling at each throughly annoyed face in turn.
When we got into a carriage I felt very grumpy, Hermione was laughing but trying to pretend like she wasn't, and Weasley was in absolute hysterics.
"Did you see his face?" He asked me, barely getting the words out. "Did you see his face?"
Potter face was still slightly shocked, like he had been electrocuted and he couldn't quite believe it.
"I was there, Weasley," I replied coldly.
Hermione looked at me strangely, but said nothing of it, to which I was appreciative. Really, who did those girls think they were? They only liked him because he was famous, and if Potter couldn't see that, he was stupid.
I was in a bad mood the remainder of the evening.