The dinner had ended on a bittersweet note. The count and countess of Limberfony, with all their grace and poise, were escorted back to their residence by one of the estate's drivers. As they departed, the lingering tension from the night still hung in the air, casting a long shadow over the evening. Arthur, after making a show of being present for the dinner, had to rush off once again, though not before his assistant had delivered a multitude of gifts to the estate, all intended for Nicholas.
The gifts—expensive toys, rare books, and collectibles—were carefully arranged in Nicholas's room, a lavish attempt by Arthur to compensate for the years of neglect. Nicholas stood by as the boxes were carried in, watching with a mixture of gratitude and sadness. He understood, in some ways, that this was his father's way of trying, but material things couldn't fill the void left by his father's frequent absences.
Arthur, before leaving, had made grand promises—trips to the zoos in London, visits to every carnival Nicholas wanted to go to, and quality time that had been long overdue. "We'll catch up on everything we've missed," he had said, his voice earnest, his deep blue eyes filled with a mix of determination and guilt.
Nicholas had listened quietly, nodding along, though he had heard these promises before. He wanted to believe them, wanted to believe his father would finally keep his word this time.
But then, almost as quickly as he had arrived, Arthur had to leave. "I have urgent matters to attend to back at the office," he'd explained, his tone regretful. His exit was swift, and before Nicholas could even process his emotions, his father was gone again, leaving behind a whirlwind of unfulfilled promises.
His departure did not go unnoticed. Godfrey, Nicholas's grandfather, who had remained silent throughout most of the dinner, could no longer contain his frustration. As Arthur gathered his things to leave, Godfrey erupted in anger. "You think you can waltz in here with gifts and empty promises and call it fatherhood?" His voice was thunderous, his words cutting through the air. "Your son deserves more than this, Arthur! More than fleeting moments and trinkets!"
Arthur had stood there, facing the wrath of his father, guilt etched on his face. But he said nothing. He had nothing to say, really. Deep down, he knew his father was right. Yet, duty called. Always duty.
Godfrey's tirade continued until the old man finally vented all his anger. Arthur, looking weary and defeated, had nodded quietly, offering no rebuttal before slipping out into the night.
A week had passed since that evening, and life at the estate had fallen back into its familiar rhythm. Nicholas spent most of his time in the vast library, where he was finally given permission to explore the family's collection of wizarding books. The shelves were filled with centuries-old tomes, their spines cracked with age, detailing everything from magical creatures to the complex history of wizarding politics. Nicholas, who had only recently begun to understand the depth of his heritage, found himself immersed in this new world.
He eagerly devoured the more exciting books first, reading about magical sports like Quidditch, legendary duels, and the adventures of famous wizards. The educational ones—the textbooks on potions and magical theory—were left to gather dust on their shelves, unappealing compared to the thrilling stories of wizards past.
Today, Nicholas was seated in the front room, a massive leather-bound volume sprawled across his lap. The sun streamed through the tall windows, casting a warm glow over the room, but Nicholas was too absorbed in his book to notice. His eyes flicked over the page, taking in every word about the intricate strategies of Quidditch.
Across the room, Mark was pacing back and forth, his Motorola mobile phone pressed to his ear as he engaged in a business conversation. His voice was low, but occasionally Nicholas could hear snippets of the call—something about investments and meetings. Mark had been distant today ever since his phone kept started ringing. It wasn't that Mark didn't care for Nicholas; rather, he was consumed with his own life, much like Arthur.
Nicholas turned a page, though his mind wasn't entirely focused on the book anymore. His thoughts drifted back to that dinner. For a fleeting moment, it had felt like he and his father had been close again, like the years of neglect were finally about to be made right. Arthur's promises had sounded so sincere, but now, a week later, it felt like they were slipping away, just like every other time.
Would things ever change? Would his father ever keep his word?
Nicholas sighed, sinking deeper into the chair, letting the book rest against his chest as he stared up at the ornate ceiling of the room. The promises lingered in the air, much like the memories of that night. His heart ached with a strange mix of hope and disappointment, the same emotions that had accompanied every interaction with his father for as long as he could remember.
"Maybe next time," Nicholas whispered to himself, though even he wasn't sure if he believed it anymore.
He glanced over at Mark, still busy with his phone call, then back down at the book. The magical world seemed so vast, so filled with wonder and excitement. Perhaps, in this world of spells and enchanted creatures, he could find the adventure—and the belonging—that seemed to elude him in the ordinary world. It took a few minutes when he noticed Mark seemed to have finished his calls.
"Hey, Mark, have you ever seen a Quidditch game?" Nicholas asked eagerly, his eyes alight with curiosity. He had just finished reading a book detailing the fast-paced, high-flying wizard sport—a game played on broomsticks where players zoomed through the air chasing enchanted balls, dodging Bludgers, and scoring goals through towering hoops. The whole concept seemed thrilling, and as someone who had competed in Muggle sports for as long as he could remember, Nicholas's interest was more than piqued. He leaned forward, clutching the book, his imagination alive with the thought of experiencing the adrenaline of such a sport.
"I read somewhere that even if you don't have magic, as long as you're part of a wizarding family, you can still get access to the wizarding world. They must have some sort of way, right?" he asked, a hopeful note in his voice.
Mark looked up from his seat, glancing briefly at the book in Nicholas's hands before shrugging nonchalantly. "No, I haven't seen one," he replied, his tone indifferent. "And yes, you're correct. Just because you can't cast spells doesn't mean you're completely cut off. There are ways for Squibs and non-magical relatives to see parts of that world." He paused, letting out a light sigh as if the thought barely held his interest. "But we're not very much inclined towards magic, my side of the family. Never have been."
Nicholas frowned slightly, surprised by his uncle's lack of enthusiasm. "Really? But it sounds so amazing! Broomsticks, enchanted stadiums, magical tournaments—aren't you even a little curious?"
Mark chuckled softly, shaking his head. "Not really. I'd rather spend my time flying planes than watching broomsticks whizzing around. At least when I'm in a cockpit, I'm the one in control, not some enchanted piece of wood. You'll find that for some of us, the Muggle world offers more than enough wonders." He smiled thoughtfully. "I prefer experiencing life for what it presents, without all the spells and charms. Seeing the world's real beauty—the pyramids of Egypt, the Eiffel Tower, or even a breathtaking sunrise over the Swiss Alps—is magical enough for me."
Nicholas tilted his head, digesting his uncle's words. He hadn't considered that perspective before. While magic sounded spectacular, there was something compelling about Mark's appreciation for the tangible, unvarnished beauty of the world. Still, a part of Nicholas longed for the thrill of discovering his magical heritage, of testing his limits, and maybe—just maybe—soaring through the skies in a heated Quidditch match.
"So, you wouldn't want to try it? Even just once?" he asked, a playful grin spreading across his face.
"Perhaps," Mark admitted with a shrug, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "But only if you manage to get me tickets to a game." He winked, and they both laughed, the idea of such an outlandish endeavor momentarily bridging the gap between their two worlds.
"Well, you're the one who should be getting the tickets for me," Nicholas shot back with a grin. "You're the older one here."
"I'm not the oldest one here," Mark quipped, glancing sideways just as Godfrey appeared, his commanding presence filling the room. Mark froze, caught mid-joke, as his uncle's sharp gaze settled on him. But Godfrey, with a chuckle, disarmed the tension.
"I overheard something about tickets," Godfrey said with a raised brow, his deep voice carrying a note of amusement. "Are you two plotting about the Quidditch World Cup?"
Nicholas nodded eagerly. "Yes, Grandfather! I've been reading all about Quidditch, and I can't wait to see it for real instead of just imagining it from books."
"Well, it seems luck is on your side, my boy," Godfrey said, reaching into his coat pocket with a deliberate slowness, heightening the suspense. He pulled out three tickets and held them out. "I managed to get these for the Quidditch World Cup this year. Since your father is... preoccupied with his work, I suppose Mark can take his place."
Mark's eyes lit up at the sight of the tickets, his earlier indifference fading instantly. "You're serious?" he asked, glancing between the tickets and Godfrey.
Godfrey smirked. "I wouldn't joke about Quidditch, especially not in this family." He handed two of the tickets to Nicholas, who accepted them with wide-eyed excitement. "Consider it a reward for taking an interest in our world."
Mark clapped Nicholas on the back. "Looks like I owe you for this one, kiddo."
When Godfrey left, his laughter echoing faintly down the grand hall, Nicholas turned to Mark with a puzzled expression. "I thought you weren't interested in anything wizard-related?"
Mark shrugged casually, a smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. "No one can resist a sport like Quidditch, Nico. It's not every day you get to watch people zoom around on broomsticks, even if you are a squib," he said, his tone laced with humor. "Besides, dignity or not, if I get the chance to see it for free, why on earth would I say no?"
Nicholas stared at his uncle, fighting the urge to slap his own forehead. The contradiction between Mark's nonchalant attitude toward magic and his sudden enthusiasm for the World Cup was almost too much to handle. Wow, he thought to himself, he's so unpredictable after all. He then gave Mark a look that said seriously? but couldn't help the small smile creeping onto his face.
Nicholas glanced down at the ticket in his hand, turning it over carefully, as if afraid its sheer beauty might slip from his fingers. The ticket was no ordinary piece of paper; it was a marvel of magical design. Its surface shimmered with layers of enchantments, catching the light in a thousand different ways as he tilted it. The edges were gilded with gold that seemed to glow faintly, almost as though it had been enchanted to emit a soft, radiant light.
Across the front, in bold, swirling script, the words "Quidditch World Cup" were emblazoned in deep, fiery red. The letters seemed to leap off the ticket, occasionally flashing as if alive, while beneath them, intricate illustrations depicted broomsticks racing across a field, and miniature players chasing after the Golden Snitch. The figures moved, enchanted by magic, reenacting breathtaking moments of flight and competition. One player, in particular, wearing a bright green uniform, shot forward at an incredible speed, catching the Snitch with a deft swipe, prompting a tiny, but audible roar of approval from an invisible crowd embedded in the ticket.
The date of the match, November 23, 1990, was printed just below the title in elegant script, glowing faintly against the backdrop of a starry night sky. Surrounding it, the borders of the ticket were adorned with swirling clouds of color—rich blues and purples that looked like they were slowly shifting, giving it a dreamlike quality, as if the very sky of the Quidditch pitch was alive within the ticket itself.
Along the sides, silver lines twisted into ornate patterns resembling runes and ancient wizarding symbols, adding an air of mystery to the design. At the bottom corner, there was an embossed seal of approval from the International Quidditch Association, marked with a holographic emblem that changed colors depending on how you looked at it, displaying both the crest of the Quidditch League and the flags of the competing countries.
Nicholas could hardly believe he was holding it. This was his pass to one of the most exciting events in the wizarding world. Even as a newcomer to the wizarding realm, he knew that the Quidditch World Cup was legendary. His heart raced as he traced his finger over the raised letters, imagining the roaring crowds, the whizzing of broomsticks overhead, and the electric atmosphere of the stadium that awaited him.
He gripped the ticket a little tighter, the excitement bubbling up inside him. It was no longer just about the game—it was about a connection to this magical world, a place where he could be part of something bigger than himself.
...
Two months had gone by, and the fresh wind of autumn galloped through the air, carrying with it the crisp scent of fallen leaves and the promise of colder days ahead. The vast grounds of the Gryff estate, once bathed in summer sun, were now draped in shades of amber and gold, casting a magical glow on the manor. Nicholas had always loved this time of year, but lately, his days were no longer spent lounging by the library's grand windows, absorbed in the wizarding books that had once consumed his curiosity.
He would always find time to engage in conversations with his mother, Marilyn, who would call him regularly. Her voice, filled with warmth and affection, would bring a smile to his face. "I miss you very much, my sweet Nicholas," she would say, her tone a mix of longing and nostalgia. "Filming isn't as exciting as it once was without you around. I wish you could join me here; you would love it!" He could hear the faint sounds of bustling sets in the background, but they were mere distractions compared to the emotional connection they shared during those calls.
Then ever since his grandfather, Godfrey, hired illustrious wizards to tutor him, Nicholas's world had shifted dramatically. These weren't just ordinary lessons; they were a deep dive into the heritage and history of the wizarding world. Nicholas quickly realized that he was part of something much greater than himself—a lineage steeped in both grandeur and mystery. Every day, he sat through lectures on their family history, learning about their connections to powerful wizarding families and their standing in the magical world. He had started to feel a swelling pride for his ancestry, something that had once been an abstract concept to him. The Gryff name, once just a surname, now held weight—something with power, prestige, and a long line of magical blood flowing through it.
At the same time, Nicholas was growing more aware of the weight that came with it. The more he learned, the more responsibility he felt toward his family's legacy. The tutors drilled it into him—his name was not just a name; it was a banner he had to carry with pride and strength. Nicholas found himself thinking about it often—what his place would be, what kind of wizard he would become. But with all the lessons on his heritage, there was one thing noticeably absent—magic itself. His tutors, as instructed by Godfrey, hadn't taught him any spells yet or even the theories behind casting. When he asked his grandfather about it, Godfrey would simply smile and say, "In time, my boy. The time is not yet ripe." It was frustrating, but Nicholas trusted his grandfather's judgment. He knew there was a reason for everything.
In between lessons, Nicholas found solace in the moments he spent with his father. Arthur, to his surprise, had miraculously made time for him, keeping the promise he had made that night after dinner. It wasn't much time—Arthur was still busy with his work in the House of Parliament, but the time they spent together was enough to start mending the rift that had grown between them over the years. They would often spend time with Mark at the estate, engaging in activities that brought out the playful side of his otherwise distant father.
One of their favorite pastimes became shooting plates or even birds, a sport Nicholas had never really tried before. Arthur, surprisingly, was a skilled marksman, and Nicholas found himself wanting to impress his father by improving his aim. The moments spent together were simple yet fulfilling, filled with laughter and camaraderie that had once felt impossible. Mark, ever the jokester, would often compete with Nicholas, turning every outing into a friendly rivalry that only added to the fun. They would mock each other's missed shots, and sometimes even Godfrey would join in, offering playful critiques and advice that made the whole experience even more enjoyable.
For the first time in a long while, Nicholas felt like he was truly getting to know his father. The seemingly aloof, distant man he had thought of for so many years was not the reality. Arthur, when he wasn't lost in his work, was thoughtful, kind, and had a sharp wit that made Nicholas laugh more than he had expected. It wasn't perfect—there were still moments of awkwardness and things left unsaid, but they were making progress. Slowly but surely, the wall that had stood between them was beginning to crumble.
But as much as Nicholas cherished these moments, there was always an underlying sense of impatience gnawing at him. He yearned to start practicing magic, to learn the spells he had read so much about. Every time he passed by the bookshelves in the library, his fingers would itch to grab a book on spellcasting, but he knew better than to go against his grandfather's wishes. Godfrey's word was law in the estate, and if he said it wasn't time, then Nicholas had to trust him.
Then came the day before the start of the Quidditch World Cup, and the excitement radiating from Nicholas and Mark was palpable. Their expressions were filled with anticipation, and their demeanor exuded a childlike enthusiasm that was infectious. Though Mark was middle-aged, he eagerly prepared his luggage well in advance. Nicholas, too, had succumbed to the thrill of the upcoming event, and he hadn't slept at all since the night before, the thought of the match swirling in his mind like a whirlwind.
The whole manor was alive with the sound of roaring laughter as Godfrey, the patriarch of the family, surveyed the two scions with a mix of pride and amusement. "I'm impressed by your enthusiasm," he began, his voice booming with warmth. "As it should be! Our family's tradition lies in our extraordinary talent in Quidditch." He paused for dramatic effect, a sly smirk spreading across his face. "And also," he continued, leaning in conspiratorially, "we're one of the main sponsors of each World Cup."
Aroused by this sudden revelation, Mark mustered his courage to ask, "Then why haven't I received any free tickets ever since?" His brows knitted together, and a playful pout graced his lips, emphasizing the childish side that he seemed to embrace in moments like these.
Godfrey's laughter rang out once more, echoing through the grand hall. "You've never asked me for one, boy," he replied, his eyes twinkling with mischief. "Your mother shouldn't be informed of our trip this time, Mark. We are all well aware of the repercussions, aren't we?"
The question hung in the air for a moment before both Nicholas and Mark nodded solemnly, knowing all too well the consequences of Elizabeth's anger once she learn of everything, she was a woman strict and quick to temper regarding non-exposure to the wizarding world. "Very well, hand your things to George. He will be accompanying us as our driver and companion," Godfrey announced, his authoritative tone leaving no room for argument.
George, as if hearing his cue, took charge of their luggage. Nicholas watched with wide eyes as George laid a briefcase on the ground before expertly tossing their bags inside. He and Mark exchanged shocked and awed glances, their mouths agape in disbelief.
"Is this a case with an extension charm, George?" Nicholas asked, his curiosity getting the better of him.
"Indeed, Young Master," George replied with a nod, his demeanor always calm and composed.
Nicholas marveled at the extension charm, a concept he had read about in his wizarding books but had yet to experience firsthand. The idea that such a small briefcase could contain an almost limitless amount of luggage was mind-boggling. It was as if the briefcase was a portal to another world, capable of holding countless treasures and belongings without ever becoming unwieldy. He imagined all the things he could store inside it—books, snacks, even his favorite Quidditch memorabilia.
"Now come along; we have a long trip ahead," Godfrey said, ushering the two toward the entrance where a sleek, elegant limousine was parked. The vehicle glistened in the afternoon sun, its polished exterior reflecting the vibrant colors of the surrounding garden.
"Now that's top of the class, Nico! I could finally ride Uncle's Rolls-Royce Silver Spur Limousine," Mark whispered with a sense of wonder in his voice. "A dream come true."
As they approached the limousine, Nicholas couldn't help but admire its grandeur. The door swung open smoothly, revealing a luxurious interior adorned with rich leather seats in deep burgundy that seemed to beckon them inside. Soft ambient lighting illuminated the cabin, creating a warm and inviting atmosphere. The upholstery was complemented by gleaming wood accents that lined the walls, giving the space a classic yet modern feel. Nicholas stepped inside, his senses overwhelmed by the aroma of polished leather and the faint scent of rich mahogany. The spacious interior boasted plush seating for at least six passengers, with a small bar stocked with various beverages nestled discreetly to one side.
As they settled into the plush seats, Mark leaned back with a satisfied grin. "I could get used to this," he said, glancing around at the opulent surroundings. Nicholas nodded in agreement, feeling a thrill of excitement at the thought of the adventure that lay ahead.
With a gentle hum, the limousine began to glide smoothly down the driveway, leaving the grandeur of the manor behind. The landscape outside the window shifted from the manicured lawns of Windsor to the winding roads of the English countryside. Trees lined the route, their leaves dancing in the cool breeze, while fields of vibrant green rolled on for miles, dotted with patches of golden wheat swaying in the wind.
As they traveled, Godfrey engaged them in light conversation, recounting tales of his own youthful adventures attending Quidditch matches. The stories flowed like the scenery outside, each one filled with humor and nostalgia. Nicholas listened intently, absorbing every detail, his imagination painting vivid pictures of the exciting matches and the electrifying atmosphere of the crowd.
The ride from Windsor to Wales felt like a journey through time, each mile unveiling the beauty of the countryside and the promise of the upcoming Quidditch World Cup. Nicholas's heart raced with anticipation, the thrill of the event mingling with the joy of being with family. As the limousine glided along the scenic routes, he felt a sense of belonging and excitement wash over him.
When they finally arrived in Wales, the sun was beginning to dip below the horizon, casting a warm golden glow over the picturesque landscape. The limousine rolled up the long, winding driveway of a magnificent mansion, a residence that rivaled their own manor in size but had a unique charm of its own. This grand estate, owned by their family, stood proudly amid sprawling gardens adorned with vibrant flowers and manicured hedges, giving it an air of timeless elegance.
As they stepped out of the limousine, Nicholas took a moment to admire the mansion's facade. The stone walls were intricately carved, and large windows glinted like jewels, reflecting the fading light of the day. Despite the mansion's grandeur, it felt welcoming rather than intimidating, a testament to the warmth of their family heritage.
Inside, the atmosphere was lively but intimate. A small number of servants bustled about, setting the table and preparing a hearty dinner. The scent of roasted meats and fresh herbs filled the air, making Nicholas's stomach growl in anticipation. He could hear the soft clinking of cutlery and the faint murmur of conversation as the family of three settled into the dining room, their laughter and banter mingling with the comforting aromas wafting from the kitchen.
Over dinner, they shared stories and laughter, relishing the time spent together before the whirlwind of the Quidditch World Cup began. Godfrey regaled them once more with tales of past family adventures, interspersed with anecdotes about famous Quidditch players from their line and legendary matches.
Once they had finished their meal, Godfrey cleared his throat, drawing their attention. "Now that we've eaten, it's time to prepare for the next leg of our journey," he announced with a twinkle in his eye. "We need to apparate to a designated spot where a hidden path lies ahead."
Nicholas's excitement bubbled over, but it was quickly met with curiosity. "Why can't we just apparate from London?" he blurted out, eager to understand the intricacies of their travel plans. Mark chimed in, echoing his cousin's question, his brows furrowing with confusion. "Yeah, it seems simpler that way."
Godfrey let out a disgruntled huff, the corners of his mouth twitching in amusement. "It wouldn't be a worthy trip if we took a shortcut, would it?" he replied, a hint of mischief in his voice. He leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, clearly enjoying the moment of playful confusion he had created.
Nicholas and Mark exchanged incredulous glances. "But isn't that the point of apparating?" Mark pressed, still not entirely convinced. "To make travel easier?"
Godfrey chuckled heartily, his laughter resonating through the room. "Ah, but part of the joy of traveling lies in the journey itself! There are experiences to be had and sights to see along the way. Plus, I promise you, the hidden path we'll traverse is quite an adventure in itself," he explained, his eyes sparkling with enthusiasm.