"And what about that Ravenclaw lad?" her mother asked, her voice light but probing.

"Roger Davies?" Fiona felt her cheeks warm and gripped her cup a little tighter. "He's nice. We've talked a few times, but it's nothing serious."

Her mother hummed thoughtfully. "Captain of the Quidditch team, a prefect... He seems like a good lad. It wouldn't hurt to get to know someone like him better, don't you think?"

Fiona set her cup down with a soft clink, a hint of frustration bubbling up. "Mum, we're just friendly acquaintances. He's not interested in me like that." She hesitated, then added quietly, "And I don't think he ever will be."

Her mother was silent for a moment. "Maybe he just needs time to see what I see," she said gently. Fiona opened her mouth to argue, but her mother continued, her voice soft but insistent. "You're growing up, love. Soon, you'll be out of Hogwarts, and I just want to know you've got someone by your side."

Fiona felt a twinge in her chest. "I'll be fine. I don't need a boyfriend to take care of me."

"I know you're strong, Fiona. But someone like Roger—steady, dependable—could be good for you. We won't always be here."

Fiona's throat tightened. "I can take care of myself, Mum."

Her mother's hand found hers on the table, giving it a gentle squeeze. "I know, dear. But it would put my heart at ease to know you weren't alone."

Before Fiona could respond, the familiar sound of footsteps echoed from the hallway. The door creaked open, and Amos Diggory's booming voice filled the kitchen. "Good morning, family!"

Fiona exhaled, grateful for the shift in the atmosphere. Her mother stood up, the conversation drifting away with the comforting clinks of cups and plates as she bustled about preparing breakfast.

Cedric shuffled into the room moments later, still half-asleep but already reaching for the tea his mother handed him. Fiona smiled to herself, feeling the warmth of the familiar routine wrap around her.

"What of the Weasley boys? Molly's always asking after you," her mother teased, her tone light again as she set a plate down in front of Cedric.

Fiona shook her head, rolling her eyes. "Mum..."

Before Fiona could respond further, her father chimed in, his voice hearty and full of energy. "Have you two got everything ready?" he asked, already tucking into his breakfast. "We've got a trek ahead of us."

Cedric and Fiona groaned in unison, their protest a harmonious echo.

"A trek? Why not just fly to the World Cup? I could ride with you or Cedric," Fiona suggested, hopeful.

"Ah, no, no! The risk of muggles spotting us is too great!" Amos countered with a grin.

"The muggles? They wouldn't notice a hippogriff on their roof! Fiona here has a keener eye than any muggle," Cedric teased, nudging Fiona gently. Despite her best efforts to stay composed, a small giggle escaped her. Their mother, however, shot Cedric a look sharp enough to silence any further joking.

Amos, ever the practical one, cleared his throat, glancing at the clock. "A Ministry-sanctioned Portkey is waiting for us at Stoatshead Hill. We'd best hurry if we don't want to miss it," he announced, his tone cutting through the lingering banter.

The clinking of plates ceased as everyone began to move with purpose. Chairs scraped against the floor as Cedric and Fiona stood, gathering their things. They exchanged quick, affectionate kisses with their mother, the warmth of the moment a brief but familiar ritual. With their knapsacks slung over their shoulders, they turned toward the door, ready to leave.

"Fiona, don't forget this." Her mother's voice, now gentle but firm, stopped her mid-step. She hurried over, pressing the cane into Fiona's hand with care. Her expression, equal parts love and determination, left no room for protest.

Fiona sighed softly, feeling the weight of the cane in her palm. "Thanks, Mum," she murmured, offering a small, appreciative smile.

With that, she followed Cedric and Amos out the door, the cool morning air greeting them as they stepped into the world, ready for the journey ahead.

The walk proved longer and colder than Fiona had anticipated. The early morning air was sharp, biting at her skin as they made their way up the hill. Each breath she took seemed to hang in the crisp air, visible for a moment before dissolving. Her fingers gripped her cane tightly, its cool surface a steadying presence as the ground beneath her feet shifted from smooth to uneven.

As they trudged along, the world around her was alive with sounds she couldn't see. The distant rustling of leaves, the faint trill of birds waking with the first light of dawn, and the rhythmic crunch of grass and dirt beneath their feet filled the quiet. Fiona could sense the vast, open space around them; the way sound traveled without bouncing off walls told her they were in an expansive area.

The cold seeped into her bones as they climbed, making her movements stiffer. Fiona tugged her cloak tighter around her, the woolen fabric scratching against her skin as it shielded her from the early chill. Cedric and Amos had fallen into a spirited debate over the merits of each Quidditch team, their voices rising and falling like waves beside her.

"Rubbish! With Viktor Krum as a Seeker, the Irish haven't a hope!" Cedric's voice carried over the hill, brimming with conviction.

"A team needs more than just a stellar Seeker to win," Fiona teased, her breath catching slightly in the cold. As she spoke, she could feel the frost in the air tightening her chest. Cedric muttered something under his breath, clearly vexed.

"You're spot on, Fiona," Amos chuckled, his deep voice reverberating through the cool morning air. "Even the finest players can find themselves on the losing end sometimes."

Fiona smiled faintly, feeling the warmth of her father's voice despite the chill. But the cold earth beneath her shoes wasn't as forgiving. The grass had grown thicker as they climbed, and her cane tapped against the occasional stone. Fiona's steps grew more cautious. The ground was uneven, pockmarked with rabbit holes that seemed determined to trip her up. She felt her cane snag, and before she could catch herself, she stumbled, pitching forward onto the damp grass.

"Oh, bloody hell!" she groaned, mortified as she fell forward, her knees sinking into the damp grass. The smell of earth filled her nose, rich and heavy, as Amos rushed to her side.

"Fiona, dear, are you alright? You aren't hurt, are you?" he asked, his hands gripping her shoulders gently.

"I'm fine, just these rabbit holes," Fiona muttered, her cheeks flushing with embarrassment as she brushed the wet dirt from her palms. She could feel Cedric's steadying hand as he helped her to her feet, his grip warm and reassuring.

"She's fine, Dad. It'd take more than a rabbit hole to keep Fiona down," Cedric assured their father, though his voice held a note of worry.

Fiona murmured her thanks to Cedric, trying to shake off the lingering cold and the sense of vulnerability that came with falling. The dampness from the ground clung to her, the chill settling into her clothes.

"Don't worry about it, I've been tripping over the blasted things all morning," Cedric whispered, his tone light with amusement. "Here, hop on my back." Fiona felt his hand gently nudge her as he offered.

With a nod, Fiona clambered onto Cedric's back, her arms wrapping around his shoulders as he hoisted her up with ease. She could feel his warmth through his cloak, a stark contrast to the cold air biting at her face.

The world shifted around her as Cedric climbed the hill, each step heavier now as the incline grew steeper. Fiona pressed her cheek against his shoulder, feeling the coarse fabric of his cloak beneath her skin. The sounds of their footsteps mingled with the rustling wind, carrying with it the scent of damp earth and fresh grass.

After what felt like an eternity of climbing, they finally reached the summit. Cedric set Fiona down gently, and she felt the uneven ground beneath her boots once more, this time more careful with each step.

"Now, where's that blasted thing?" Amos muttered, his voice tinged with frustration as he searched the area.

"I think I've got it, Dad," Cedric called out, his voice a few paces ahead. Fiona carefully made her way toward his voice, the damp earth still clinging to her boots as she shuffled forward. .

"Over here, Arthur, over here son!" Amos's voice boomed as he called out to Mr. Weasley. Fiona turned her head toward the direction of the new voices approaching, though the words were lost in the murmurs of the growing group around them. The chill of the morning air lingered, but the warmth of familiar voices—Mr. Weasley, Fred, George, and the rest—soon filled the hilltop.

"This is Amos Diggory," Mr. Weasley announced as he appeared, his voice a familiar warmth in the chilly air. Cedric and Fiona were in the same year as Mr. Weasley's twin sons, Fred and George, but the separation of their houses had waned their interactions.

"He works for the Department of Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, and I believe you know his children, Cedric and Fiona," Mr. Weasley continued. Fiona rubbed her elbow awkwardly and gave a half-hearted wave in his direction. Being introduced alongside Cedric always underscored the contrast between them.

There was Cedric, a celebrated Seeker, Quidditch captain, and house prefect. And here was Fiona, the girl who wrestled with the ever-shifting staircases of Hogwarts.

A chorus of voices answered their greetings, their discomfort as palpable as Fiona's own. Mr. Weasley went on to introduce Fiona's father to the group, which included the four youngest Weasleys, Harry Potter, and Hermione Granger.

"Merlin's beard! Harry? Harry Potter?" her father's voice quivered with astonishment.

"Ugh, yeah," Fiona heard the distinctive timbre of Harry's voice. Even separated by years and houses, Harry Potter was not one to slip from her awareness, even for a blind girl.

"Cedric's spoken highly of you, of course. Told us all about playing against you last year," Amos Diggory said, his voice brimming with pride, as though trying to contain it was a losing battle. "I told him, 'That'll be a story for the grandchildren! You beat Harry Potter!'"

Fiona felt the awkwardness ripple through the group like an icy draft. The soft murmurs and the shuffle of feet filled the space around her as everyone gathered near the Portkey. She winced slightly, wishing her father hadn't brought it up. Harry stood silent, clearly uncomfortable, the awkward weight of Amos's bragging heavy on him. Cedric, too, seemed less at ease than usual, his voice losing some of its usual calmness, tinged with frustration.

"Harry fell off his broom, Dad," Cedric muttered, his tone taut with the desire to set the record straight. "I told you...it was an accident."

Before the tension could thicken any further, Fred Weasley's voice cut through the air, light and teasing. "Well, if it isn't the Hufflepuff Princess," he called out from behind her, the nickname hanging playfully in the morning air.

Fiona stiffened, a flicker of irritation sparking within her. The nickname was one she tolerated, but today, it grated on her more than usual. She exhaled slowly, rolling her shoulders in a practiced motion to shake off the annoyance. Not today, Weasleys. Not today.

"We were hoping you'd grace us with your presence," George chimed in, echoing Fred's tone with playful exaggeration, as though they were welcoming royalty to some grand event.

Fiona crossed her arms, tilting her head slightly in their direction. "And why's that?" she asked, her voice a mixture of curiosity and exasperation. The twins usually only bothered with her when they were plotting a prank, and their sudden focus on her now made her suspicious. She could practically feel the familiar hum of mischief they carried with them like a cloak.

Fred stepped closer, his voice soft but warm, carrying that conspiratorial charm. "You see, Miss Diggory," he began, a touch of mock formality creeping into his words, "we've been noticing a thing or two over the past five years."

"Quite a thing or two," George added quickly. "We've been keeping our very sharp, very handsome eyes on you."

Fiona smirked. "Oh, please don't tell me it's taken you five years to realize I'm blind," she replied dryly, letting her sarcasm seep into every word. She could tell they were teasing, and even though part of her wanted to brush them off, she found herself playing along almost without thinking.

Fred chuckled, clearly delighted by her response. "On the contrary, Princess. Blind you may be, but you've got the sight."

"Quidditch sight," George cut in smoothly. "It's a rare talent, you know."

Before Fiona could muster a comeback, Fred gently took her arm, steering her away from the group. "Let's take a little walk, Princess," he said, lowering his voice as though sharing some grand secret. Fiona hesitated for a moment, suspicion prickling at the back of her mind, but curiosity soon won out. She allowed herself to be guided away, George falling in on her other side to ensure her steps were smooth.

"Wait, where are you—" she began, but Fred interrupted her, his teasing tone still light and breezy.

"Just taking you somewhere quieter. You know, away from all the noise and bragging." He nodded back toward Amos, who could still be heard loudly recounting Cedric's victory over Harry. "It's hard to have a proper conversation with all that going on, don't you think?"

Fiona felt a familiar pang of concern creep in. Normally, Cedric was always nearby in unfamiliar places, keeping a watchful eye on her without making it too obvious. But a quick listen confirmed he was otherwise occupied, his voice drifting faintly through the trees as he defended Harry against their father's relentless pride.

"I'm sure Harry'd agree, wouldn't you?" Amos Diggory's voice boomed out. "One falls off his broom, one stays on—doesn't take a genius to know who the better flier is!"

Cedric's mortified protests echoed faintly through the distance, and Fiona couldn't help but wince in sympathy for Harry and Cedric both.

"See? Nice and quiet now," George said, pulling her attention back as they came to a stop under the wide branches of an old oak tree, a few steps removed from the bustling crowd. Fiona turned her head slightly toward him, her curiosity beginning to outweigh the flicker of suspicion she had felt earlier.

"Alright, so what is it you two really want?" she asked, folding her arms. A smile, small but undeniably there, tugged at the corner of her lips.

Fred straightened up immediately, assuming an air of mock seriousness. "Don't think we haven't noticed. Five years, and you've called every Hogwarts Quidditch Cup winner right."

"You've been calling the shots better than a Seer in Divination," George chimed in with a theatrical flourish. "Honestly, we're starting to think you've got some secret strategy."

"Or a crystal ball hidden in your dormitory," Fred whispered conspiratorially, his voice dropping to a low, teasing tone.

Fiona snorted softly, shaking her head. "I just keep getting lucky. It's nothing special," she said, twirling her cane absentmindedly. If only they knew how little Quidditch actually crossed her mind most of the time.

Fred leaned in, lowering his voice further to a playful murmur. "No one gets that lucky, Fiona. Not even us—and we know a thing or two about luck."

"Oh, do you now?" she shot back, her tone sharp with skepticism. She shifted her weight slightly, sensing the grin spreading across Fred's face even before he responded.

"Naturally," George cut in smoothly, his timing as impeccable as ever. "We make our own luck. But yours—yours is something else entirely."

Fiona crossed her arms, her foot tapping lightly against the dirt beneath them. "So, what is it you two are after?"

Fred, ever the performer, straightened up, putting on an air of deep offense. "After? Fiona, do you really think we'd take advantage of your mystical abilities for personal gain?"

"Us? Never," George added, his hand on his heart, his expression the very picture of fake sincerity.

"Maybe once or twice," Fred admitted with a grin that was nothing short of mischievous. "But only for research purposes, mind you."

Fiona sighed dramatically, shaking her head. "Right. Research."

"But," Fred continued, his voice turning smooth again, "if you were to share your insights on the World Cup outcome... well, I think we could manage a deal. Say, a few galleons, perhaps?"

Fiona tilted her head, feigning deep thought, though the amusement in her smile gave her away. "You two aren't exactly known for your fair deals."

"Now, that's hurtful," Fred said, his voice dripping with exaggerated drama. "We're nothing if not fair. Isn't that right, George?"

"Of course, Fred. The fairest in all the land."

Fiona couldn't help but grin. She'd been expecting something ridiculous, and they'd delivered. "I'll give you this much: Ireland's got the better Chasers, but Krum? He's going to catch the Snitch."

Fred let out a low whistle. "A bold prediction, Princess."

"Very bold," George echoed, looking impressed. "But then again, you haven't been wrong before."

Fred stepped a little closer, his eyes alight with mischief, as if the challenge was irresistible. "So what do you say? Care to place a bet? Or are you too modest to accept victory before it even happens?"

"I think I'll hold onto my galleons for now," she replied, her tone light and teasing. "Besides, I wouldn't want to leave you both Sickleless after the match."

"Smart. I like that in a girl."

With a smooth motion, he took her elbow, the gesture surprisingly gentle. "Come on, Princess. We'll guide you to the Portkey."

Fiona hesitated. Trusting the Weasley twins with anything—especially her well-being—felt risky, even in jest. But before she could protest, George had already swooped in on her other side, his voice bright and cheerful. "Can't have you tripping over any rabbit holes, can we?"

Fiona sighed, but allowed herself to be led, relaxing slightly under Fred's light but steady grip. George, ever the dramatic, kept up a running commentary as they walked, like a narrator guiding her through an adventure.

"Look at that, Fred—helping a damsel in distress. Mum would be so proud," George said, his voice dripping with mock heroism.

"I reckon we'll earn a medal for this," Fred added with a wink. "Maybe even a statue."

Cedric's voice, warm and familiar, interrupted their banter. He chuckled lightly as he caught up to them, though his protective edge was unmistakable. "I've got her, thanks," he said, his voice calm but with that undercurrent of brotherly concern.

Fiona felt the familiar shift in her twin's mood, the way he always hovered just close enough to intervene if needed. Cedric didn't mind the Weasley twins and their antics, but he was cautious, knowing how unpredictable they could be.

"Just lending a helping hand," Fred said, his face the picture of playful innocence.

Cedric, still smiling, responded dryly, "Like when you helped by charming her cane to always lead her in the wrong direction last year?" There was a playful glint in his eye. "She spent half the day running into walls while you two hid behind a suit of armor, laughing yourselves silly."

George grinned, entirely unapologetic. "She was getting too good at navigating. A bit of a challenge seemed only fair."

Fred nodded eagerly, a spark of quiet delight in his eyes. "A little practice with tricky situations never hurt anyone. Builds character, don't you think?"

Fiona sighed, shaking her head with mock frustration. "Ah yes, the famous Weasley 'character building.' You know, one of these days I might just return the favor. Be a shame if a mimbulus mimbletonia found its way under your Transfiguration desk, don't you think?"

Fred's grin softened, his gaze warm. "We'd welcome that challenge, Princess."

Fiona couldn't help but laugh, though she tapped her cane meaningfully. "Well, at least give me a heads-up next time before you turn Hogwarts into a Weasley obstacle course."

Fred winked. "Wouldn't be half as fun that way, Princess."

Cedric chuckled, shaking his head, his amusement still apparent even as he smoothly stepped between Fiona and Fred. With a light but deliberate touch, he eased her arm from Fred's grasp, his movements unhurried, but leaving no room for argument. "Come on, Fi," he said, his glance at the twins lighthearted but firm. "No more character-building today, thanks."

Fiona smiled to herself, fully attuned to the familiar dynamic. Cedric's protectiveness had always been a quiet presence in her life, and while she could navigate just fine on her own, there was a certain comfort in the way he always stepped in when he felt it was needed. She allowed him to guide her toward the Portkey, his hand resting gently over hers to ensure she was securely positioned on the grimy old boot.

"We're a minute off!" Mr. Weasley's voice rang out across the group, his words carrying over the early morning air. In an instant, the mood shifted, thickening with a sense of anticipation as everyone scrambled to get into place. Cloaks rustled, feet shuffled, and hands quickly reached for the Portkey.

Fiona's fingers curled around the grimy old boot, its rough texture anchoring her to the moment. She felt Cedric move beside her, his familiar presence steadying as he murmured, "Hold on tight," his hand briefly resting over hers in a gesture both protective and reassuring.

From behind her, Fred's voice floated, light and teasing as always. "Don't worry, Princess. We'll see you at the match—try not to miss us too much."

Fiona couldn't help the small smile that tugged at her lips, a flicker of excitement stirring within her as the familiar banter continued. She opened her mouth, ready with a retort, but before she could respond, the world twisted sharply around her. The Portkey tugged her from the ground, the familiar sensation of being pulled through space engulfing her as the air rushed past, cutting off whatever words she might have spoken.

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