CHAPTER THIRTY ───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───── "Looks like we'll be watching the game together."
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Y/N POV
The morning sunlight filtered through the thick curtains of my bedroom, shining a golden light over my sheets. I blinked, slowly waking up from my deep sleep, when I heard a familiar voice appear from outside my bedroom door.
"Y/n, wake up! We need to get going soon!" My mother's voice called.
I groaned softly, rolling over to glance at the clock on my bedside table. My heart skipped a beat as I remembered — today was the Quidditch World Cup. I sat up quickly, brushing my hair out of my face, and the excitement ran through me. The world cup was always a grand event, and this year, the match will be the Irish versus the Bulgarians.
"Coming!" I called back, throwing off the blankets and jumping out of bed.
I quickly dressed in a soft white sundress, throwing over a knitted jumper. Then, I grabbed my packed bag from the corner of the room. After one last glance in the mirror, I slung my bag over my shoulder and hurried downstairs, where my mother was waiting by the door.
"Finally," my mother smiled. "Your father's already set up the Portkey. Let's not keep him waiting."
We stepped outside into the crisp morning air, and I could already see my father standing by an old, slightly bent garden rake that was lying in the grass. The sight of it made me laugh; it seemed ridiculous that such an ordinary object could transport us to one of the biggest magical events in the world.
"Ready?" my father asked.
I nodded, and as soon as my fingers touched the rake, the familiar pull yanked me forward. The world spun, colors blurred, and in an instant, my feet hit solid ground again.
As cheers sounded through my ears, I looked out at the scene around us. We had arrived in the middle of a large field, already filled with witches and wizards representing their favorite Quidditch team. Hundreds of tents stretched as far as the eye could see.
"Look at the crowd already," I muttered, my eyes scanning the atmosphere.
"We'd better find our spot before it gets too chaotic," my father said, already searching for familiar faces.
I was about to follow when something—or someone—caught my eye.
Cedric Diggory was walking beside his father, Amos Diggory. My father had always been good friends with Mr. Diggory, and I had grown up knowing Cedric well. However, it had been years since I'd seen him, so I almost hadn't recognized him.
