In the candle-lit halls of Hogwarts, where magic stirs with every whisper, Harry Potter begins his first year - unaware that fate has woven another soul into his journey.
Elsa Scamander, silent as snowfall and powerful as a storm, arrives cloaked in...
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"I wasn't about to let them steal my attention. I already have what they could never be."
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ELSA POV
We were climbing what felt like an endless staircase, spiraling higher toward the World Cup seats reserved for us. The wind nipped at our faces, and Ron, ever dramatic, groaned, "We've been going upstairs for hours."
"How far up are we, Dad?" he asked breathlessly.
Mr. Weasley chuckled just as a cold, haughty voice cut through the crowd. "Well, put it this way: if it rains, you'll be the first to know."
Lucius Malfoy.
He strolled past with his usual sneer, Draco at his side like an over-polished shadow.
"Father and I are in the Minister's box, by the personal invitation of Cornelius Fudge himself," Draco boasted, chin lifted.
Lucius jabbed his son lightly with his cane. "Don't boast, Draco. There's no need. Not with these people."
As he passed, Lucius let his cane brush Harry's ankle. "Do enjoy while you can, won't you?" he murmured before disappearing up the stairs.
I glared at his retreating figure. Coward.
We finally reached our seats, just in time to hear Fred and George erupt with patriotic glee.
"LET'S GO IRISH!"
The Irish team soared onto the field in a whirl of emerald and gold, trailed by leprechauns that tossed gold into the crowd.
"That's Ireland!" Fred whooped, nearly falling over the railing.
Next came the Bulgarian team—five players in deep crimson robes. And then... the Veela.
Their arrival was like a spell. Golden-haired, ethereal, glowing—Veela danced across the field, and every boy in our section leaned forward like puppets on strings.
Then, without a word, Harry turned to me, took my face in his hands, and kissed me.
It wasn't rushed. It wasn't for show. It was grounding. His lips moved softly against mine, and when he pulled away, emerald eyes locked with mine.
"I wasn't about to let them steal my attention. I already have what they could never be."
The chanting began.
"Krum! Krum! Krum!"
We took our seats again. Harry's hand rested on my thigh, warm and possessive. He didn't look at me—his gaze stayed fixed on the field—but I felt every subtle motion of his fingers tracing idle patterns against my skin.
The announcer's voice rang out: "It gives me great pleasure to welcome each and every one of you to the final of the 422nd Quidditch World Cup. Let the match begin!"
