CW: Clearly suggested child abuse including physical marks, mention of fantasy bigotry, veiled homophobia, brief mention of magical & legal slavery and mention of real-world racist dehumanising, body-specific gender dysphoria, brief discussion of sex trafficking/circus 'freak show' type stuff

Now much more relaxed after learning of Hermione’s presence, Rhiannon eventually settled in for a nap on the stretcher and sleeping bag that had been laid out for her, and didn’t wake again until sometime around midday, at which time she, Niniane, Luna and Hermione – Ginny and Dudley were nowhere to be found - set off to wander the camp-ground and take in the sights some more. They spotted a few people they recognised from Hogwarts – Aeden and Aislinn Finnegan with a red-headed young boy of perhaps ten or eleven and a sandy-haired woman who must have been their mother; Percy Weasley trailing around after a stern-faced balding man in charcoal robes; Angelina Johnson, Katie Bell and Alicia Spinnet who were all camping together and who dragged the three younger teenagers into conversation with them about tomorrow’s match for several hours; and many others. But far more numerous than those they recognised were those they didn’t, and Rhiannon was confronted with the sheer size and diversity of the wizarding world for the first time.

At one point they drifted past a patch of Bulgarian tents, several of which had the moving face of a dark-haired, olive-skinned scowling youth with heavy eyebrows and an intense sort of air about him. Rhiannon guessed him to be perhaps one of Bulgaria’s players, a guess that turned out to be correct as Nina sighed and swooned a little over him. “That’s Viktor Krum,” she explained to the others, a little starry-eyed. “Youngest international player in generations, Bulgaria hadn’t got to the final in decades until they brought him on. He’s bloody incredible in the air, real master.”

“Sounds like you fancy him,” Luna remarked in an off-hand sort of way, then startled as Nina spluttered loudly and flushed a brilliant scarlet right to the tips of her ears.

“Nina, you know that just confirms it right?” Hermione told her, shaking her head as Nina tried to hide her face in her hands. But Nina could not be convinced that a crush was such a harmless thing to have, and eventually they dropped the subject and carried on wandering until late afternoon, at which time they retreated back to the tent to read and rest. By then Dudley and Ginny had returned, and were remarkably shifty about where they’d been earlier, but Arthur diverted them all from the interrogation with the announcement that it was time to cook dinner.

“Dad, we’ve got an oven in here,” Ginny protested, but Mr. Weasley would not be moved and the teenagers were all dragged outside to make a rudimentary dinner over the campfire, which had not in fact been started. Mr. Weasley insisted on starting it without magic – for security, he said, but Rhiannon guessed he was just excited to try it ‘the Muggle way’ – but had neglected to bring matches or a lighter. Hermione came to the rescue as she so often did, apparently having attended Girl Scouts right up until she started Hogwarts, and while Fred surreptitiously held off the rain with a muttered charm, she got a friction fire started and helped Mr. Weasley organise food for them all – damper bread, potatoes and sausages in tinfoil and other simple campfire fare that Rhiannon thoroughly enjoyed.

When she awoke the next morning and wandered outside yawning and stretching with plans of an early walk to clear her head, Rhiannon lost her balance and slid straight down to the foot of the hill that had definitely not been beneath the tent the night before. The ground was slick and muddy under the foot or so of floodwater, and what little of Rhiannon hadn’t gotten wet from the fall was soaked in seconds by the torrential rain pouring from the iron-grey sky.

“Don’t bother!” a voice Rhiannon belatedly recognised as Bill’s shouted from back up at the tent. “We had to terraform the whole place in the night just to keep it from flooding, game’s rained off! There’s some boardgames and snacks in there, go in and get dry!”

Rhiannon had to claw her way back up the steep slope on all fours, and when she reached the top she could see all over the camp-ground that just about every tent in the place was lifted up in a similar manner, leaving the floodwater to flow through the valleys carved between them. She shuddered, imagining the headache they’d have in explaining that to the muggle camp-ground owner, Mr. Roberts. More likely they’d just Obliviate him again. With a sigh she stooped and padded back into the tent, dripping mud and water with every step.

Ginny awoke with a groan and a yawn, wrinkling her nose as she sat up. “God, what’s that smell- Rhi, what the fuck? You’re bloody filthy, get out!” she spluttered, gesturing at the small pond Rhiannon had dripped onto the wooden floor and the flecks of mud that sprayed the tent walls from where she’d shaken herself. “Ugh, no, now I’m gonna have to get Charlie to come clean it up... why are you still inside? How are you that dirty?”

Rhiannon winced, suddenly acutely aware of the mud still clinging to her skin and how her thin cotton pajamas clung to her bony frame, leaving very little to the imagination in a way that made her skin crawl. “Place f-f-f-f-flood-d-d-d-d-ded in the night, I fell right down in it, sorry,” she replied. “Uh, don’t go outside. Just, d-don’t bother.”

Ginny flopped back into bed with a sigh. “There’s a shower in the bathroom, it’s got enough water for emergencies – this qualifies. I’ll pass some of your clothes in in a bit so you don’t track mud over here to get them.” she said. “I’m gonna assume the game’s rained off if it’s flood weather so... board-games day. Great,” she added, with a sardonic emphasis on ‘great’ that told Rhiannon she in fact found the prospect deathly boring.

Despite Ginny’s dour attitude and many mutterings about having told them the weather would be bad, a day inside wasn’t so bad. Bill’s mention of boardgames didn’t quite do the hoard in the cupboard justice, and they all managed to keep themselves occupied for most of the day while Fred and George took up residence in a corner of the tent to experiment with something they called ‘Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes’ without the inconvenient supervision of the grownups. After that, the tent began to smell distinctly like chemicals, sweets and manure, an unpleasant concoction of aromas that after a few hours drove everyone else outside.

“Them and their bloody Wheezes,” Niniane grumbled, casting an eye back at the tent as they all shivered in the rain outside. “Brilliant? Yeah, probably. Difficult to live with? Oh you bet.”

“What’s W-w-w-weasley’s w-wizz-z-z-fuckit you know what I’m ass-s-s-s-s-sking about,” Rhiannon asked, giving up on the name – the repeating consonsants threw her right off. Nina and Ginny both groaned in unison, and Ginny covered her face with her hands in despair.

“It’s this joke shop they want to start,” Nina explained when Ginny seemed unwilling to fill in. “Honestly, they’ve got good ideas for it and it’s something they’d be good at, but it’s a bloody nightmare when they’re experimenting with stuff in the house – and as you just found out, the tent.”

Rhiannon wrinkled her nose in disgust – a joke shop certainly explained the rather distinct smell of manure. “Guess we’d better go h-h-h-hide with your Dad and them,” she replied, casting a baleful eye back at the tent – Charlie had spent a good quarter of an hour drawing wet werewolf scent out of the floor alone.

Going carefully so as to avoid a tumble like Rhiannon had taken early that morning, the six of them trekked across the narrow space that connected their tent with the other, and flung themselves inside out of the still-pouring rain. Sirius and Remus, curled up in a beanbag together, looked up in surprise while Bill and Charlie just groaned. “Let me guess, the twins stunk you out of the tent?” Charlie asked, clearly already knowing the answer. “We’ve got books, settle in and we’ll help you un-stink the place before you go to bed.”

Arthur looked up from his book, his brows drawing together sharply. “You know, when I said they could experiment anywhere but in here, I did not expect them to drive you all out of your tent. I feel as if perhaps I should have been more specific. My apologies,” he said with a wince.

Rhiannon, Hermione and Luna settled in a corner with some of Charlie’s books on Magizoology, while Ginny and Dudley curled up together – remarkably comfortable in eachother’s space Rhiannon thought curiously – with a book of wizarding fairytales to pass the rest of the afternoon. As promised, Charlie helped them clear the twins and their experiments’ smells from the tent before evening fell, and they had a simple dinner of eggs and toast – despite Bill’s teasing Nina was actually a perfectly adequate cook so long as she paid attention, it was Ginny who couldn’t be trusted with so much as buttering toast unsupervised – before falling into their beds to sleep.

The next day, the rain had lightened somewhat – enough that the flooding had died down but it was certainly not what anyone could honestly call dry – and apparently that was enough for the Quidditch officials, because the match was back on. Remus, Sirius and Bill helped the teenagers enchant their cloaks to repel water, and once again Rhiannon was subjected to a protective charm on her hair lest she give herself away by the distinct smell of wet dog. Remus banned Sirius from cooking as they made breakfast in the teenagers’ larger tent, and at eleven it was time to get into the stands.

Mr. Weasley, Bill, Charlie, Remus and Sirius took on a bit of a long-suffering air as they herded the younger members of their party through the camp-ground and down the winding rural road that led to the Quidditch stadium. Rhiannon had thought she was prepared, but used to the size of the Hogwarts Quidditch stadium she was taken well aback by the sheer magnitude of the one constructed to house the World Cup. Its towers alone were visible well before the rest of it drew into view, and it was a good half hour’s walk before they reached the gates.

The stadium was enclosed by a tall wrought iron fence, and scattered all around on the soggy grass were tents and stalls selling all manner of things – food, trinkets, magical artifacts of many kinds. Rhiannon might have likened it to a fair, but in all honesty she’d never been to one of those either. As it was she was fascinated by the sheer number of things on display all around them, her twitching nose filled with the delicious smells of fried food, and it was only Luna’s firm grip on her wrist that kept her from wandering off and getting entirely lost.

Eventually they all reached the tunnel into the stadium itself, and Arthur let them stop to browse the wares while he negotiated their registration. Rhiannon hadn’t come prepared, so with Sirius’ permission she spent some of her money on a scarf striped in green white and gold and a pot of green face-paint before her attention was stolen by other, stranger things laid out for sale and she drifted over to look closer while her friends each bought their own Ireland-supporting regalia – and in Nina’s case, a tiny moving figure of Viktor Krum who stomped across her palm leaning on a broomstick turned twigs-up like a staff.

A wicker basket of what appeared to be binoculars caught Rhiannon’s eye, and she peered closer to look at the sign hanging on the front. OMNICULARS, it read in bold letters, and proceeded to list their features – extreme zoom, player tracking, play-by-play explanations and rewind. Rhiannon hadn’t the faintest clue how such a thing could work, she just knew she wanted one. Or, well, not one, she decided, as she looked over her friends who’d already spent their money on team colours. Six would about do it. Then she did the mental mathematics – that was sixty Galleons, all that remained of what she had with her, and Xenophilius was going to kill her. But it would be worth it.

“Uh, s-sis-s-six p-pairs p-p-p-p-please,” Rhiannon stammered, as she emptied her purse onto the table. Nina grabbed her elbow and shook her head, but Rhiannon was unmoved and she managed an impish grin. “Call it an extra birthday present. My dad was rich, now he’s dead, I may as well share what he left me with you lot.” she told Nina firmly.

Hermione blinked, clearly taken aback by Rhiannon’s frank statement. “Doesn’t it – bother you – to just, say it like that?” she asked.

Rhiannon shrugged and shook her head as she packed the six pairs of omniculars into her backpack – nobody had any free hands, she could pass them out up in the stands. “Why? They’re dead, no poin-t-t-t-t-t d-d-d-d-dancing around it. You all’re my family now, so I share my stuff.” she replied casually. Then she tilted her head and thought about it a bit more. “Uh, not my food though. Food is separate.”

Luna snickered and leaned over to straighten Hermione’s green, white and gold beanie where the wind had knocked it askew. “Rhiannon, you eat anything that falls on the floor, most of the time nobody but you is thinking about sharing your food,” he teased her wryly.

Ginny groaned and edged away from Dudley playfully. “Merlin, is that a werewolf thing? ‘cos this guy’s the same! It’s like he’s never heard of the five-second rule!” she replied, giggling as Dudley caught her arm and began to tickle her, growling playfully.

Mr. Weasley looked a little harried as he cleared his throat loudly, perhaps he had done so several times already without their noticing. “If we could all get a move on into the stands? The game’s to start at twelve and we’re running out of time,” he told them all, trying to gather the disparate group of teenagers together. Then, once he had them, he and Remus shooed them onwards into the tunnel which led into the stadium. Rhiannon had expected it to be big, but this was something else and she gazed around open-mouthed as she turned in clumsy circles trying to take it all in.

“Seats a hundred thousand,” came a mischievously smug voice from beside them and Rhiannon jumped, only settling when she took in the figure before her. He was about five foot ten and somewhere in his mid-forties, still certainly wiry with muscle but softened by years off the field, as by the way he carried himself he’d almost certainly been an athlete. His face was rounded, with a rather weak chin and he kept himself clean-shaven as if trying to cling to his youth, though he could have rather improved his looks with the addition of a small beard; and the lines carved around his pale grey eyes and thin mouth told Rhiannon that he liked to smile, though perhaps not always honestly.

“Ah, Ludo!” Arthur said, and strode forward to shake the shorter man’s hand. “Everyone, this is Ludovic – Ludo - Bagman. Head of the Department of Magical Games and Sports, former Beater for the Wimbourne Wasps and the English national Quidditch team – and also the commentator for this afternoon’s match.” he explained to Rhiannon, Hermione and Dudley, the magical-born members of their party seemed to recognise the man – in fact, Sirius was positively bristling with dislike at the sight of him.

“Arthur!” the man, Ludo, cried, greeting him with equal enthusiasm. “No need to flatter me, my Beating days are long behind me. Best leave that to the young folks. Fancy a flutter on the match?”

“Oh, no Ludo, you know I don’t gamble,” Arthur replied wearily, as if this were a conversation he’d had many times before. “And I’ve really got to get everyone up to our seats...”

But Ludo would not be diverted, and Rhiannon felt like sinking into the soggy ground as he zeroed in on her. “Well, well, well! If it’s not Rhiannon Potter – a right budding Quidditch star herself! Go on, lass, what d’you think could happen?”

Rhiannon shook her head, her words vanishing as so often they did when she was put in the spotlight, and she retreated back into the wall of Weasleys who closed around her. “Rhi doesn’t like bein’ pestered, she’s fourteen, leave her be,” George told Ludo grumpily.

Fred chimed in with a sideways look at his brother. “Gotta be sixteen to make any sort of formal bet, didn’t you write that law?” he added, as he fished around in his pockets. “Now on the other hand, we’ve been sixteen for months, so... thirty-seven Galleons, fifteen Sickles and three Knuts that, ah... Ireland win, but Krum gets the Snitch.” he finished decisively.

George grinned, clearly in on the idea with his brother, while Mr. Weasley spluttered furiously.

“Boys! That’s all your savings, your mother’s going to kill me!” he protested, but the twins would not be deterred as they handed over their money to a beaming Ludo Bagman.

“Oooh, Krum gets the Snitch but Ireland win... long shot that, serious odds. Uh, lad, I think you need your wand though,” he added, gesturing awkwardly to the wand George had deposited on top of his clipboard along with the money. Fred and George shared a brief glance, and Ludo awkwardly shifted his clipboard to one hand so that he could return the wand. In his hand, it changed from wood to a rubber chicken, which squawked loudly and pecked at his hand while he yelled with shock and dropped it, the clipboard and the assorted coins all over the muddy grass.

“Ah, see what you’ve done, boys?” Arthur chastised them, but Ludo held up a hand, his startled spluttering changing to wheezing laughter.

“Oh, that’s bloody brilliant that – haven’t seen one that convincing in years, well done lads. I’ll make it an even fifty Galleons for the additional prank,” he told them, as he retrieved his own wand and summoned the scattered coins back into his hand, whereupon he then stowed them safely in his pocket. “I’d pay five Galleons for that in a shop, easily, very clever work,” he added, and patted them each on the shoulder in a rather patronising sort of way before he tipped a nonexistent hat to the whole group and gestured past them to the pitch. “Best be getting on with my job, though. Enjoy the match!” he told them, and then began to hurry away.

Arthur sighed, and Remus patted Sirius’ arm in what was clearly intended to be a comforting gesture but only served to make the tall, thin man bristle more. “Oh, don’t try to placate me Moony, you know why I don’t like the man,” he grumbled, though there was little heat in it.

Still growling and casting sideways looks across at the commentator’s box, Sirius fell into step with the others and guided them up through the winding walkways of the stadium, surreptitiously aiding Dudley when Ginny’s shoulder wasn’t quite enough. “How’d you get these seats, Arthur?” he asked, panting a little, as they stopped for a break about three-quarters of the way up.

“Ah – Ludo, actually,” Mr. Weasley confessed, with a wince as Sirius growled darkly. “He got hold of good tickets for just about anyone at the Ministry who wanted to go, said we had to make a good showing of supporting Ireland in the final since our governments seceded and all that. Still had to pay him a bit but, nothing like it would have been otherwise.”

Rhiannon peered down into the stadium, amazed by how high they were – and that they still hadn’t arrived at their seats yet. “S-so, where are we actually s-s-s-sitt-t-t-ting?” she asked, as they all moved off again.

Mr. Weasley bounced excitedly for a few steps, gesturing up with one hand. “Oh – great seats, we’re in the top box and that’s on an angle to the Irish-scoring goalposts.” he replied cheerfully. “Just a few more levels to go.”

Groaning and complaining, they all managed to haul themselves up to the prime boxes of the stadium – not at the very top, mind, those were cheap seats given you couldn’t see the goalposts so well, about 2/3 of the way up and clearly indicated as better than all the other seats in the stadium by the gold-trimmed, Impervious navy velvet covers surrounding each box. Inside were perhaps twenty or thirty comfortable chairs in rows, most of which were occupied, and Rhiannon guessed that their group would take up the last spaces. Most of the others inside were dressed in Ministry teal or teal-edged charcoal, and Rhiannon squashed down a growl as she recognised several by scent before sight.

There, seated in the front row of the box, were several figures Rhiannon knew at once. Two in particular had her heart sinking into her shoes – sleek-haired, smirking Lucius Malfoy and the Minister for Magic, Cornelius Fudge. With them was a tall woman with hooded eyes and striking silvered black hair pinned into an elegant updo, wearing an expression of disgust as she looked over the motley pack of Weasleys and their friends; and beside her, a thin, sullen figure who elicited more mixed emotions – Draco Malfoy, his silver-blond hair longer than it had been when last Rhiannon saw him, barely hiding shadows on his face and neck that, if she was not mistaken, looked to be fading bruises.

“Hey, Potter,” Draco greeted her with a tentative sort of smile, and nodded to the rest of her companions. “Mr. Weasley, all of you. Looking forward to the match?”

He tried to hide it, but Draco was not quite fast enough to muffle the hiss of pain that escaped from between his teeth as the woman beside him – presumably his mother – dug her nails into his arm. She smiled pleasantly, but to the three werewolves facing her it came across more as a territorial baring of teeth – back off, she was telling them. Rhiannon sniffed derisively and curled her lip – she had every right to be here, thanks all the same.

“Yeah, I am,” Rhiannon replied, meeting the hard eyes of Draco’s parents and the Minister himself in turn. She despised eye contact, but in wolves and humans alike it was a gesture of confidence – and right now, that was what she needed to portray. She wouldn’t be bullied out by a few scowls, and she wouldn’t let them punish Draco in front of her either. “N-n-nice to see you here, before school starts and all. What house d-d-d-did you get put in this year?”

At her innocent question, Rhiannon saw Draco relax a little and let go of a withheld breath, there was a soft rustle of cloth as his mother released his arm, still smiling that brittle smile. Draco immediately shifted an inch or so away from her, perhaps not even consciously, and hugged his arms around his chest. “Ravenclaw again,” he replied, casting an anxious glance sideways at his father. “I like the common room – the seniors change the enchanted ceiling every year, and there’s a whole library up there, it’s great.”

Lucius Malfoy sniffed derisively but refrained from commenting, turning his attention instead to Arthur. He had this way of looking people over from top to toe, his expression slowly darkening so that the target of his disdain knew he found them lacking, and while it had lost much of its effect on Rhiannon, the same was not as true of Mr. Weasley. He wilted a little and his pale blue eyes darted from side to side while he chewed anxiously on his lower lip and fiddled with his hem. “Surprised to see you here, Arthur. I hope your wife is well – she has quite the left hook on her.” he sneered, drawing a simpering titter from Draco’s mother – Rhiannon couldn’t quite recall her name. Cornelius Fudge looked a little scandalised, and Lucius waved away his concern with an insincere smile.

Arthur, on the other hand, looked positively furious and Rhiannon could see his hands trembling at his sides as he struggled not to clench them into fists. A low growl rose from Remus, setting a greyish tinge of fear in the Minister’s cheeks, and with a sigh Sirius stepped forward to take command of the situation. “If you don’t quite mind, we’ll take our seats, since it’s quite clear there’s no resolving our mutual loathing, I’d prefer that it not interfere with enjoying a perfectly good Quidditch match – if that’s alright with you, Lord Malfoy?” he drawled, a teasing glint in his eye.

Lucius Malfoy sniffed, clearly dissatisfied – and if anything, a little put-out by Sirius’ presence. “Lord Black – now there’s a surprise... and the other mutt too, of course, you always did come as a matched set,” he hissed, as Sirius passed him with his head held high. Sirius’ pale, prematurely lined skin reddened with the temper he held back, but he did not respond verbally as he led the Weasleys and the rest past the Malfoys and up a couple of rows to where they had a row to themselves and three seats in the row below – which would put whoever sat in them almost behind Draco, though luckily enough not the rest of his group – they were to the other side.

“So, do we draw lots for the hot seats?” Bill asked, casting an eye down at the three seats on the end of the second row. Charlie snorted, and Nina shook her head with a sigh.

“Nah, Draco’s not so bad since Hermione whacked some sense into him,” she replied. “Actually wished Gin a happy birthday this year, I think maybe he feels guilty about how bad her first year went.”

Dudley grimaced, and wrinkled his nose. “He smells – stressed, fearful,” he added, scowling down at Draco Malfoy’s mother. “Something’s not right with him and his mum, probably dad too. I’ll go too, you too Gin?” he suggested.

Ginny managed a wan smile. “Yeah. Like Nina said, he’s... been kind of nice, almost, lately. Don’t get me wrong, his dad still gives me the shivers after first year, but, maybe if we’re sitting there his parents won’t be able to do anything.” she replied.

With that, Nina, Dudley and Ginny settled themselves in the three lower seats, and the rest of the Weasley party filed into the third row up. Rhiannon was sandwiched between Luna and Hermione, and she noticed something peculiar as she found her way to her seat. In the row behind her was a small figure she almost mistook for an old friend – but no, he wouldn’t be here, Dobby was free and a paid employee at Hogwarts. Her stomach churned as she realised this was another house elf, quivering with fright, their eyes firmly closed and their knobbly fingers knotted in the hem of the ratty pillow-case they wore as a makeshift dress.

“H-hey, are- are you alright?” Rhiannon asked, turning as she took her seat so she could still talk to the elf freely. “What’s your name?”

The elf opened their eyes and immediately gulped, then fixed them firmly on Rhiannon’s face – Rhiannon guessed by their body language that the elf was afraid of the height, and her discomfort only grew – elves could not disobey an order from their master, and if this elf was up here it was likely on an order from their family, since the rough clothing marked them as enslaved. “This one’s name is Winky, m-m-miss,” the elf replied in a high-pitched voice. “It – it does not matter whether this one is alright, m-m-miss, M-master ordered it to keep His seat for him and so it does.”

Rhiannon’s heart wrenched in her chest, recognising the same patterns of speech that Dobby had used when she first met him. The Elfbind disallowed them from recognising any of their own identifying characteristics in speech save for their name, which in truth was a human-given and often insulting thing rather than the names their kind had once used. Not only was the enslaved elf not permitted to refer to themself using any sort of gendered identifiers – gender was for humans, and they were not such by the Elfbind’s strict rules – they were also prevented from referring to themself as a person at all. Because by wizarding law, personhood required humanity, and the Elfbind was an expression of wizarding law in its purest heavy-handed cruelty.

“Who – ‘s – who’s your master, Winky? And – that’s a question, not an order to tell me,” Rhiannon asked, feeling Hermione’s hand trembling in hers. Behind her she could dimly hear advertisements blaring across the pitch airspace but she gave them little thought – Winky was her main concern, now.

Winky shook their head, ears flapping – unlike Dobby’s they were a little folded at the tips and unscarred, which gave Rhiannon some small hope that their master was kinder than the Malfoys had been to Dobby – or perhaps Winky simply followed orders more closely out of fear or some twisted loyalty. “Mister Crouch, misses,” they replied, with an anxious nod to Luna and Hermione also. Luna grimaced at the honorific and Winky looked as if they had been struck. “Oh, I am sorry miss – no, that’s wrong, wrong, all wrong – this one is sorry, very sorry, what might this one call you instead? So as to be respectful, see – it’s not seemly for this one to simply, address wizards like anyone else.”

“Mx is fine,” Luna replied uncomfortably, one hand fluttering against the chair between him and Rhiannon. “Although, we are like everyone else, mostly everyone here is a magic-user of some sort.”

Winky clapped their long-fingered hands over their ears, and Rhiannon noticed that oddly they had four fingers on each hand instead of five. There was no scarring or stump so she guessed it was a quirk of birth, and wondered if all elves had it and she simply hadn’t noticed on Dobby, or if only some like Winky did. “No, no – no, not allowed to talk like that,” Winky murmured, rocking and slapping their hands against the sides of their head. Clearly they felt the need to punish themself, but perhaps their master had forbidden them from doing so in public.

“We’re sorry, Winky. Would it be easier if we didn’t talk to you anymore?” Hermione asked, her voice trembling. Rhiannon squeezed her hand tightly, sympathising with her friend’s complete discomfort and distress. The elf couldn’t even ask them to stop the conversation – they weren’t allowed to ask wizards for anything, and every possible punishment for the future that Winky was tallying up, they were at least partially responsible for. Winky nodded fervently, then resumed slapping their head quietly, eyes once again tight shut.

The three teenagers turned away, profoundly disturbed. Hermione was visibly the worst affected, chewing on her knuckles and rocking in her seat with tears and sweat staining her glasses where they touched her cheeks. “That’s...” she whispered, shuddering. Luna squeezed her hand and Rhiannon squished herself up in her chair so that she pressed against Hermione’s other side.

“Slavery,” Luna agreed heavily. “Chattel slavery. Outlawed in Britain since 1833 – unless you aren’t human, in which case it’s free game.”

“They used to say Black people weren’t proper humans,” Hermione hissed, her voice choked with rage. “They – they c-c-can always shift th-th-th- the g-goal-post, if it suits them.”

“T-t-technically, it’d be legal to enslave me,” Rhiannon replied, more a growl than a whisper as she felt anger welling up in her throat. “I – I know we came up w-w-w-w-with the idea for S.P.E.A.R. last year a-and it – d-d-didn’t r-really go anywhere, but – maybe this year, I – I think we should d-d-d-do something.”

What Rhiannon didn’t say was that she was the Girl Who Lived – she had social power she could bring to bear, although she had little practice in wielding it. She had dipped her toes in the water that summer, guiding the article put out to counter the misinformation about lycanthropy that sprang up from Snape outing Remus. Even without revealing her own lycanthropy, the platform of the Girl Who Lived was a strong one to lend to any campaign, and didn’t that give her a responsibility to use it?

Hermione squeezed her hand tightly and nodded, clearly unable to speak. Luna grinned mischievously. “I can send plans to Dad and have him copy them out, we can put things all over school when we’ve got a solid idea of what we’re doing,” ze suggested.

“Hey, pipe down you lot, the match is starting!” someone a few rows behind them complained, shaming the three into silence. Rhiannon suddenly remembered the Omniculars and fetched her backpack from under her seat, retrieved her own and those for Luna and Hermione, then nudged Dudley with her foot and handed the bag down to him so he could get his own and those for Niniane and Ginny. Rhiannon held them to her eyes, grimacing as she mashed the rims of her glasses into her cheeks and brows, twiddling the zoom knob and sweeping from side to side until – there, a stir of movement on the grass far below.

Now she had her target, Rhiannon could zoom in and she watched through the Omniculars in awe as an enormous flare of red sparkles spread out across the pitch below them. As it dissipated, the sparks left figures in their wake – a hundred or more beautiful women, all tall and stately, their hair silver and impossibly long as they glided, rather than walked, out onto the pitch. Rhythmic music with a strangely electric, blood-stirring current running under it began to play through the stadium speakers, and as Rhiannon watched, red-faced and unsure whether she wanted desperately to be them or kiss them, the women on the pitch far below began to dance, singing something high and dangerous-sounding that floated up to Rhiannon with her sensitive ears so high above. Distantly she realised she was on her feet and clamouring towards the front of the box, Hermione and Luna just in step with her and in fact most of the inhabitants of the box all crowding for the best view. Rhiannon saw George stripping of his shirt from the corner of her eye, but her body was consumed with a need to get closer, to get to these women and tell them how they affected her, profess her devotion, she had to... perhaps she could fly, surely it was possible...

All of a sudden, the heady rush the dancing women had brought on was cut off along with her hearing in general. Rhiannon spluttered and rounded on the person who’d cast the spell, fully ready to claw at them for interrupting her, but deflated when she found Charlie. He smiled wryly and gestured back to her seat – some ten feet away, she was almost to the front of the box; and to Rhiannon’s further embarrassment she found that parts of her body other than her mind had responded to the seductive appearance of the dancers, creating a mortifying tent in her jeans. Rhiannon hunched and shuffled back to her seat, then set her backpack on her lap and hugged her stomach, wishing desperately for it all to stop – the desire, the racing thoughts, the nausea at her own body’s functions, all of it.

Slowly, the rest of those who had been affected settled back into their seats around Rhiannon, embarrassed to have been seen by those who were not. Hermione wouldn’t meet Rhiannon’s gaze and Luna flushed so dark he appeared purple. Something was clearly settled, and Charlie Weasley modified the spell he’d cast over them all – everyone in the box, an impressive feat - so that only the music was filtered out. “Sorry about the spell – those are veela. It’s... not exactly their fault, it’s just their nature, but bringing them here constitutes a distraction foul – and a violation of international trafficking law. Don’t look at the pitch for the next few minutes until I’ve solved this.. bah, nevermind, of course you will... Excuse me, I’ll be back, I have to go and speak with whoever’s running this bloody circus,” he explained briefly, and threw up a glittering blue curtain of magic that obscured their view of the pitch, before disappearing down the stairs.

At that, Sirius began to laugh, letting Remus lean on his shoulder as they made their way back to their seats. “Well, I suppose that’s one way of everyone clearing up their own interests!” he crowed, still cackling to himself. Arthur Weasley looked askance at him, and Sirius shook his head wearily. “Purebloods, honestly, no practical knowledge,” he grumbled, though his smile made it clear he wasn’t serious. “Veela affect anyone interested in their gender – male Veela affect people interested in men, female Veela the same. It’s commonly thought female Veela entrap men and male ones women, but it’s got nothing to do with their target’s gender, it’s their sexuality. And Charlie’s right – it’s not something they’re doing on purpose, it’s a sort of natural aura, but whoever told them to dance like that chose the pattern specifically to magnify it.”

Rhiannon flushed, but then she recalled something else Charlie had said – international trafficking law. “They – they’re n-n-not h-here willingly, are they?” she murmured, feeling a sick anger well up in her stomach. “Th-they’d not dress like that, d-d-d-dance like that, un-unlesss-s-s-s someone was-s-s forcing them.”

Luna shrugged. “There are people who do such things of their own volition,” xe replied cautiously. “But no, they likely are not. Veela are commonly trafficked for sex and entertainment trading because of their natural aura, my father’s been involved with campaigning for their rights for some time, puts out information in the Quibbler sometimes, that sort of thing.”

Hermione put her face in her hands, an ugly crunching sound suggesting she’d broken her glasses in doing so, and by the shaking of her shoulders she was crying with exhausted anger. Rhiannon hugged her tightly but she too felt hopeless – there was just so much wrong, all at once. How could three people so small as they were hope to fix it?