Scars We Don't Name

Olivia Middleton's POV

Hermione and I leave for the Burrow early in the morning. The sun is barely up when we tiptoe upstairs to the boys' room. Harry and Ron are still asleep—well, sort of. Harry is twisting in the sheets, face contorted, breath ragged, hand clutching at his scar. He's having a nightmare.

I don't hesitate. I rush to his side, sit down, and gently shake him. "Harry," I whisper, brushing hair from his forehead. "Harry, wake up." He doesn't. I try again, firmer this time. Still nothing.

I glance at Hermione, who's leaning over Ron now. He stirs easily, mumbling something, but Harry's caught deep in whatever dream has him trapped. I press my palm over his heart, lower my forehead to his, and take his hand in my free one. My voice is soft as I murmur the spell.

"Relinquo."

His breathing begins to slow. I feel it—the nightmare letting go. Hermione comes to stand beside me just as I shake him again. "Harry," I say, firmer now. He jolts awake. His arms are around me before I can say anything else. "When did you get here?" he asks groggily.

"Just now. With Mione," I say, rubbing circles on his back. "Now, wake up, both of you," Hermione calls out, already halfway down the stairs. "Mrs. Weasley says breakfast is ready!" Ron groans but doesn't move. I'm still sitting beside Harry when I ask, "Was I in it? The nightmare?"

He nods. It stings, even though I already knew the answer. I notice him rubbing at his scar. "Still hurting?"

"Yeah," he admits, "but it's fine now." I reach for his hand again. "I'm sorry I'm causing all this."

"Don't." His tone is firm. "Don't ever think that, okay?" I nod. "Alright. Now get up, or we're gonna be late." I turn toward Ron, cup my hands around my mouth, and yell, "RONALD WEASLEY!" He shoots upright in bed, eyes wild, and I burst out laughing all the way downstairs. Merlin, I've missed this.

"Hello, love," George greets, sliding in on one side of me. Fred appears on the other. "Morning, sunshine!" They squish me into a hug, one on each side. "Let go of the poor girl!" Mrs. Weasley scolds, giving them each a playful smack on the arm.

I laugh and sit down for breakfast as Harry and Ron shuffle in, Ron still yawning like a bear. "So," Harry starts, taking the seat beside me, "how was your summer?"

A loaded question.

Flashes of fear, pain, and sleepless nights rush back all at once. I fight the lump rising in my throat. He's already carrying too much—I won't add to it. I blink hard and force a smile. "Alright," I say with a shrug. "Just... a lot of pressure from work."

Harry frowns. "Pressure? What pressure is there at a bookstore?"

Right. He still thinks I work at a bookstore.

"Just the usual. Annoying customers. Re-shelving chaos. It's exhausting." He seems satisfied with that answer, thankfully. We finish breakfast quickly, then Mr. Weasley announces there's a surprise waiting for us. We all follow him into the woods.

"Ron," I say, nudging his arm, "where are we actually going?" He yawns again. "No clue."

"You better stay awake. No one's carrying you if you fall asleep." Fred calls up ahead to his dad, "Hey! Where are we going?"

"No idea!" Mr. Weasley shouts back. "But keep up!"

Eventually, we stop when a man steps out to greet Mr. Weasley. "Arthur! About time, son," he says with a big grin. "Sorry, Amos. Some of us had a sleepy start," Mr. Weasley replies, shooting a look at Ron and Harry. I'm walking with the twins while Hermione and Ginny chat behind us.

"This is Amos Diggory, everyone," Mr. Weasley introduces. "We work together at the Ministry." Everyone murmurs polite greetings as we pass him. My heart pounds. Amos Diggory? That's Cedric's father.

I look around—searching for him.

Then—there.

He drops down from a tree like some kind of smug prince. "Looking for me?" he asks, grinning. I don't even try to hide my excitement. I run to him and leap into his arms, wrapping my legs around his waist. He catches me with a soft laugh, holding me tight.

"I missed you too," he says, lowering me gently. Mr. Weasley approaches, eyes twinkling. "Ah, this strapping young lad must be Cedric, am I right?"

"Yes, sir," Cedric replies, shaking his hand. Mr. Diggory looks at me with a knowing smile. "And this lovely young girl must be Olivia, isn't she?" Cedric blushes. I blush harder. "Yes," Mr. Diggory continues. "Cedric's told me all about you."

I smile and shake his hand, heart still thudding wildly in my chest.

We head toward the cliff, and Cedric and I fall into step beside each other. We catch up on our summers—he's barely said three things before I'm already laughing. He always has that effect on me.

"Okay, safe tip," he says with a grin. "When we land, keep your feet moving. Like you're walking." I nod, taking it in. We form a circle around the old, worn boot lying on the ground. It's a portkey. As soon as we all grab it, there's a tug behind my navel—and in a flash, we're gone.

When we land, almost everyone crashes to the ground. Mr. Diggory, Mr. Weasley, Cedric, and I stay on our feet. Cedric winks at me. "A little tip would've been nice, Liv," George groans as he hauls himself up.

We walk forward, and my breath catches. The scenery opens up like something out of a dream—thousands of tents, tens of thousands of people, laughter, magic in the air. It's surreal. "Well, kids," Mr. Weasley shouts with a wide grin, "welcome to the Quidditch World Cup!"

We reach our tent—it's different from Cedric's, unfortunately. He kisses my cheek, and I return it before we part. "See you at the match, Mr. Diggory." "See you later, Cedric," the twins chime in, teasing him as we wave goodbye.

Harry gives our tiny tent a skeptical look, like he's wondering how eight people are meant to fit inside. But the moment we walk in, his eyes widen. "I love magic," I hear him whisper. I plop down at the table with Fred and George, and almost immediately Fred smirks.

"So... Diggory, huh?" he says, bouncing his eyebrows.

I laugh, shaking my head. "I don't know. I mean, he definitely likes me—hasn't said it outright, but I can tell. He's a good guy—"

"Yeah, better than Malfoy," George interrupts. I freeze and look at him, wide-eyed. "What?" he shrugs. "We know everything, love," Fred says, kissing my cheek. I sigh, rolling my eyes. "Alright, just keep it to yourselves."

We start getting ready for the match.

A couple of hours later, Cedric and I head to the stadium early. We're at the topmost level, and just looking down makes my stomach twist. I hate heights. But Cedric doesn't stop talking, and his voice keeps me grounded, focused on him instead of the drop.

We chat and laugh until the others arrive. We all share snacks and settle in as the stadium roars around us. The Irish fly overhead, glittering green and gold. Then the Bulgarians blaze in like a storm, and just like that—the match begins.

It's electric. The crowd's wild, the players fierce. Cedric's shouting and clapping like a child and I can't stop smiling.

After the match, we're back at our tent, still buzzing with energy, when I hear it—screaming. I rush outside, my pulse racing. Chaos. People running everywhere. Tents ablaze. My chest tightens. I sprint back in.

"Sounds like the Irish have got their pride on," Fred jokes, but I cut him off, panic rising. "Mr. Weasley, that's not celebration. It's the Death Eaters," I say, chewing my nails. He runs outside, then bursts back in. "You all have to get out of here. Now! And stick together!"

"I can help," I say, already pushing people toward the exit. "Quickly—Hermione, Ron, stay with Harry. Don't leave him alone, not even for a second. Fred, George, take care of Ginny. Go back to the portkey!"

"But, Liv—" Harry grabs my wrist. "No!" I shout, spinning to stun a Death Eater behind him. "Go, now! I'm trained, remember?" I bolt after Mr. Weasley and Mr. Diggory. Cedric's with them. "Olivia!" he yells, starting toward me. "Cedric, go! Go to the damn portkey! Now!" I scream back.

"But you—?"

"I'll be fine!" I shout, blasting another Death Eater without missing a beat. "Don't worry about me. Please—go!"

And then I'm gone again, into the fire and shadows.

After the crime scene clears out, I stay behind with the others from the Ministry, scanning the area for any lingering trace of Death Eaters. The sky above us still crackles with tension—The Dark Mark hangs high and ominous, shifting slowly in the clouds. My hand throbs like it's on fire, but I don't flinch. I've learned how to handle the pain.

Hermione and Ron come sprinting toward me, breathless and wide-eyed. "Harry..." Hermione pants. My chest tightens instantly. "Where is he?" I ask, already moving. "He—he ran—" Ron starts, but I don't wait to hear the rest. I take off at full speed, dodging debris and ash.

"Harry!" Hermione shouts behind me.

We spot him crouched behind the charred remains of a tent. I rush to him, dropping to my knees. His hand is clutched to his forehead, fingers digging into the scar. The Dark Mark in the sky pulses, and I feel a sharp jolt through my palm, that all-too-familiar pain, but I grit my teeth and push through it.

I reach out and grab Harry's hand. "I'm here," I whisper. Before I can say more, Ministry wizards surround us, wands raised. I see it in their eyes—panic, suspicion. They're about to cast. "Stupefy!" Without thinking, I flick my wand and cast a protective shield around us just in time. The spells bounce off it in bursts of red light.

"What the hell are you doing?!" I yell, standing in front of Harry. Mr. Weasley pushes his way through the crowd. "No! That's my son!" The others hesitate. One of the Ministry wizards lowers his wand. "Sorry, Miss Middleton. We thought—you might've been Death Eaters."

I scoff, shaking my head. "Yeah, great job nearly stunning four teenagers."

That's when Barty Crouch Jr. storms over, wand drawn and ready. "Which of you conjured it?" he demands, eyes wild. I stare at him. "Seriously? You think we conjured that?" I motion toward the sky. "Use your head, sir."

Harry speaks up, still pale. "I saw someone. A man. He ran that way." He points off into the distance. "Did you see who it was?" I ask, crouching beside him again. Harry shakes his head. "No. I didn't see his face... but he saw me. Right before he could do anything, you all showed up and he ran."

We don't linger. The moment is over. The air still tastes like smoke and fear, but it's time to go.

We make our way to the portkey and return to the Burrow. My body aches—my hand burns. Mr. Weasley's injured too. Percy patches us up quietly, and for once, no one speaks much. The day ends heavy and silent.

Days pass. We recover slowly.

When we finally get to King's Cross Station, there's a familiar pull in my chest. I'm excited—nervous—to see Draco again. I hadn't spotted him at the World Cup. I thought he'd be there. Maybe he left early.

But right now, all I feel is exhaustion. My bones feel like lead, my hand still aches from the fight, and I haven't slept properly since that night.

The moment we step onto the train, I collapse into our compartment. Harry slides in beside me, and I barely register the sound of the door clicking shut. I rest my head on his shoulder and let sleep take me.

We've just arrived back at Hogwarts, and the castle feels both familiar and buzzing with something new. I make my way toward Dumbledore's office, the enchanted box of Yule Ball recordings tucked safely under my arm. Some students are still unpacking, others are already lounging in the Great Hall, and a few are out in the courtyard, probably waiting for the visiting schools to arrive. We're meant to welcome them this year—our castle, our stage.

After handing off the recordings to Professor Dumbledore, I head back down toward the Great Hall. It's mostly empty—too early for dinner—but I like this part of the day. The quiet hum before the chaos. I'm halfway down the stairs when I see him.

Draco.

He's standing at the entrance, laughing with Crabbe and Goyle about something—shoulders relaxed, head tilted slightly back. That stupid, perfect smirk on his face. My stomach does a ridiculous little flip.

"Malfoy!" I call out before I can stop myself. His head snaps toward me and his whole face lights up. A full smile. No pretense, no sneer. I don't think. I just run. Straight to him. I leap into his arms, wrapping mine around his neck and my legs around his waist like we're alone in the world.

He catches me easily, spinning me around, and presses kiss after kiss to my forehead and cheeks. I can't stop smiling. "Oh, I missed you so much, darling. How are you?" he murmurs, holding me close like it's been years instead of weeks.

"Better now that I saw your dumb face," I mumble into his shoulder, burying my nose there like it's the only safe place left. He gently sets me down, eyes gleaming. "Perhaps I didn't hear you properly. I guess you meant 'handsome.'"

I roll my eyes. "Keep dreaming, Malfoy."

Then it hits us.

Where we are.

The entrance to the Great Hall. Wide open. Anyone inside could've seen that.

I feel my heart drop a little when I see the flicker of panic in his eyes too. Draco turns stiffly toward Crabbe and Goyle. "Not. A. Word. To. Anyone." His voice is firm—dangerous.

They both nod, practically tripping over themselves to obey.

I look around, trying to assess the damage. At the Gryffindor table, I spot most of my usual crowd. My stomach sinks when I see Hermione staring at me with her eyes wide and her mouth slightly open. She doesn't look mad... yet. But that look? That's her I-know-you've-done-something-stupid-and-we're-talking-about-it-later face.

I silently thank every known magical deity that no one else seemed to catch it— Except... I forgot to check the Hufflepuff table. And there, clear as day, is Cedric. Watching me. Having clearly seen everything.

Brilliant.

"Erm... I guess I'll see you around?" I ask awkwardly, stepping back from Draco. He nods once, gives me an apologetic smile, and walks away like nothing happened. I walk over to the Gryffindor table and slide into the seat next to Hermione. She doesn't even blink.

"I'll tell you later, Mione. Please, for now, just... shh," I whisper quickly.

She holds up her hands like she's surrendering but her eyes stay glued to mine.

The hall slowly fills, buzzing with excitement. The sorting of the first years wraps up, but there's still a noticeable space left at the front of the room—for the students of Beauxbatons and Durmstrang. They're staying the year with us.

And this is only the beginning.