It was a windy night, and the crisp air brushed against Nicholas's cheeks like a sharp blade, sending a chill through his body. He wrapped his arms around himself instinctively, trying to keep warm. The sound of the coast welcomed his ears, a deep rhythmic crashing of waves against the rocky shoreline. The vast expanse of the sea spread out before him, dark and mysterious under the starry sky, while the cold wind carried the scent of salt and brine. The waves, relentless and powerful, pounded against the land in a steady rhythm, creating a natural symphony that contrasted sharply with the flickering warmth of the fire Godfrey had conjured. Its crackling sound seemed almost out of place in the wilderness of the Welsh coast, but the warmth it provided was a welcome respite from the biting wind.
It had all happened so fast. One moment, Nicholas was standing in the familiar comfort of their family mansion in Wales, and in the next, his surroundings had vanished, replaced by the wild coastline. Apparition. It was his first time experiencing it, and the sensation had been overwhelming. The feeling was like being squeezed through a narrow tube, his body twisted and stretched in ways that defied explanation. The world around him had blurred for a moment, spinning out of control, before solidifying once more in this new location. The disorientation hit him hard, and he wobbled on his feet, struggling to catch his breath.
Despite his best efforts to compose himself, his stomach had other plans. He could feel it churning unpleasantly, the rich dinner they'd had earlier now a regretful memory. Before he could stop it, he felt a belch rise in his throat, followed by the unmistakable urge to vomit. He staggered away from the group, trying to find a discreet place, but it was too late. His dinner came up in a messy, undignified fashion, leaving him feeling queasy and embarrassed.
Nearby, Mark wasn't faring any better. The older man, who usually carried himself with a cool, confident demeanor, was hunched over, hands on his knees, retching into the rocks. His pale face glistened with sweat, his body still reeling from the effects of the sudden transportation. For a moment, he looked up at Nicholas, their eyes meeting in shared misery. It was clear that neither of them had been prepared for the intensity of apparating such a distance.
From a few feet away, Godfrey's deep, rumbling laughter filled the cold night air. The old man was standing tall and steady, completely unfazed by the journey. He looked down at the two with an amused expression, his eyes twinkling with a mixture of affection and amusement. His broad shoulders shook slightly as he chuckled, his breath forming small clouds of mist in the chilly air.
"This is exactly why we couldn't apparate from London," Godfrey quipped, a smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. He folded his arms across his chest, watching as Nicholas and Mark tried to regain their composure. "If you two can't handle a short hop across Wales, I can only imagine the disaster if we had tried apparating all the way from the city."
Nicholas wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, still feeling slightly woozy but determined not to show it. "I'm fine," he muttered, though his voice lacked conviction. He straightened up, trying to shake off the nausea that lingered.
Mark, still bent over, groaned in response. "Speak for yourself, Nico," he grumbled between breaths. "That was awful. How do wizards travel like this all the time?" He looked up at Godfrey, his face pale, his hair disheveled from the ordeal. "I don't think I'll ever get used to that."
"Is the event going to take place around here, Grandfather?" Nicholas asked, his voice laced with genuine confusion as he took in the barren surroundings. Rocks, sand, and the endless stretch of water greeted him in every direction. It was hard for him to imagine that this desolate coastline could be the venue for an event as grand as the Quidditch World Cup. Surely, there had to be something more—perhaps a hidden doorway, like the one he had read about in Diagon Alley, a secret entrance concealed in the heart of London behind a seemingly ordinary pub. His imagination sparked to life, and he couldn't help but wonder if such a magical entrance might exist here.
Filled with a sense of curiosity, Nicholas began to wander the area, kicking at loose rocks and brushing his shoes through the sand, as if expecting a concealed passage to reveal itself underfoot. His eyes scanned the surrounding terrain for anything out of the ordinary—a crack in the rock, an archway, or even the shimmer of an illusion spell. He moved with increasing enthusiasm, his mind racing with possibilities, oblivious to the amused stares of his companions.
After a few moments, the sound of laughter—though stifled—brought him to a halt. He looked up to find Godfrey, Mark, and George all staring at him with puzzled expressions.
"Child, what are you walking and searching about?" Godfrey's voice was filled with a mixture of confusion and amusement as he addressed his grandson. His piercing gaze seemed to probe for an answer.
Nicholas froze, his face flushing a deep shade of crimson as he suddenly realized how ridiculous he must have looked. In his excitement, he had forgotten where he was and who he was with. "Aren't we going to look for the secret passage?" he asked, his voice sheepish. But as the words left his lips, another realization dawned on him. He turned toward the vast expanse of the sea, his mind catching up with his surroundings. "Ah!" he exclaimed softly, feeling his face grow even hotter. Of course, there wouldn't be a hidden door—he was standing in the middle of nowhere on a rugged coastline, not a bustling wizarding alley in the heart of London.
Mark was the first to break the silence, unable to suppress his amusement any longer. "Secret passage?" he quipped, raising an eyebrow. "What have you been reading, Nico? The Adventures of Barnaby the Bold?" His grin widened as he winked at Nicholas, clearly enjoying the boy's momentary embarrassment.
Godfrey and George exchanged knowing glances, their lips twitching as they struggled to contain their laughter. Godfrey, always the composed patriarch, finally allowed a small chuckle to escape, though it was warm and indulgent rather than mocking. He stepped forward and placed a firm but gentle hand on Nicholas's shoulder.
"Now, now," Godfrey said, his voice carrying a hint of mirth. "No need to be embarrassed, lad. Curiosity is a good thing. But," he added, leaning in slightly as if sharing a secret, "not everything magical requires a hidden door." His eyes twinkled as he gave Nicholas a reassuring smile, a subtle reminder that there was much more to the wizarding world than just what was found in books.
"As I mentioned earlier," Godfrey continued, straightening up and turning his attention to the horizon, "our journey to the event will be quite... adventurous. A sea voyage, if you will." He reached into the folds of his long, flowing robes, his hand emerging with his wand in a fluid, practiced motion. "My associates should already be on their way," he said confidently. Then, pointing his wand at the dark night sky, he called out, "Lumos!"
A brilliant pillar of light shot upward from the tip of his wand, piercing through the darkness like a beacon. The light climbed higher and higher, casting an ethereal glow over the beach and the surrounding cliffs. "They'll see the signal soon enough," Godfrey said, lowering his wand. "Now, both of you—prepare yourselves. You're about to meet some of our most distinguished partners."
Nicholas and Mark immediately began adjusting their clothes and straightening their appearances, their casual demeanor from moments earlier evaporating as they readied themselves for the arrival of Godfrey's 'partners.' Mark, ever the pragmatist, quickly smoothed out the creases in his coat and tugged at the lapels of his dress suit, his expression becoming more serious as the anticipation built. Nicholas, on the other hand, fidgeted with his cardigan, checking to ensure that the polo underneath was properly buttoned. His heart raced, not just from the excitement of meeting new people but also from the need to live up to the prestige of the Gryff family name.
As the cold wind whipped around them, Nicholas couldn't shake the weight of his grandfather's words. "Partners." It wasn't the first time Godfrey had mentioned these mysterious allies, and yet Nicholas still had no idea who they were. Of course, they were wizards, but what kind of connection did they share with the illustrious Gryff family? Business partners, perhaps? Political allies? Or could their relationship be something deeper, rooted in the long and storied history of their family? The questions swirled in Nicholas's mind, building a sense of curiosity and unease. His heart raced with anticipation as he tried to imagine the importance of these people.
Before he could dwell too long on his thoughts, a sound broke through the crash of the waves—the unmistakable creak of wood cutting through water. Nicholas's head snapped toward the sea. There, emerging through the mist, was a ship. It appeared as though it had come out of nowhere, materializing through the dark night like a phantom. The vessel, though grand in its stature, moved with an eerie grace. It sliced through the water with such precision that Nicholas barely felt the rush of wind it caused as it slowed to a gentle stop, just before it could crash against the coastline. Remarkably, there wasn't even a hint of the rocking motion one might expect from such a large ship. It simply halted, perfectly still, as if some invisible force had anchored it in place.
As Nicholas stared in awe, the gangplank at the ship's portside lowered mechanically, extending to the rocky shore. Figures began to emerge—wizards, dressed in dark, formal robes, descended from the ship. They moved with a calm authority, and as they drew closer, Nicholas could see that they ranged in age, from middle-aged wizards with silver streaks in their hair to older men whose wrinkles spoke of wisdom and experience. Their expressions were serious, but there was a hint of reverence in the way they carried themselves.
With a flick of his wand, Godfrey extinguished the glowing pillar of light that had summoned their guests. "Right on time," Godfrey said with satisfaction, his deep voice cutting through the chill air. Without another word, he began striding toward the approaching wizards, his steps purposeful and steady. Nicholas, though slightly hesitant, followed close behind, his heart thumping in his chest. As they neared the group, one wizard stepped forward—a man with thinning hair and a slight build. His eyes sparkled with a mixture of pride and deference.
"Cornelius Fudge!" Godfrey's voice boomed with a warmth that felt practiced, yet genuine, as he extended his right arm in a formal greeting. His grip was steady, and the man in question—a rotund, balding wizard with a lime-green bowler hat—immediately mirrored the gesture, clasping Godfrey's hand with both confidence and deference.
"Or should I say, our dear Minister Fudge," Godfrey added, a wry smile playing at the edges of his mouth, his words carrying an unmistakable note of irony. Nicholas, standing nearby, felt the weight of that title as though it were laced with a hidden meaning.
Fudge returned the smile, his demeanor humble, yet laced with the pride of his position. "An honor to meet you again, Lord Godfrey," he replied, his voice smooth yet imbued with genuine respect. "I would not have acquired this position without your support."
There was no mistaking the sincerity in Fudge's tone. It wasn't mere flattery; it was a confession of sorts—an acknowledgment that Godfrey Gryff had been instrumental in shaping Fudge's ascent to the role of Minister for Magic. Nicholas, observing the exchange, felt a new realization sink in. His grandfather's influence stretched far beyond mere wealth—it shaped destinies, controlled the very levers of power within the wizarding world.
Cornelius Fudge, still holding Godfrey's gaze, gestured to the wizards that had accompanied him. "Allow me to introduce my esteemed companions," he said with a practiced flourish. "To my right is Madam Amelia Bones, Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement."
Amelia Bones stepped forward, her appearance striking—she was a stern-looking witch with a square jaw and a monocle that glinted under the moonlight. Her presence commanded authority, yet there was something deeply noble about her manner. She extended her hand to Godfrey, who accepted it with a nod of acknowledgment. "Lord Godfrey," she said, her voice crisp yet respectful, "it is a pleasure to stand before such a distinguished figure."
"And you, Madam Bones," Godfrey replied, his tone cool but courteous. "I hear nothing but praise for your leadership within the Ministry."
Amelia inclined her head in gratitude, stepping aside as the rest of the Ministry officials followed her lead. There was a quiet reverence as each wizard approached to shake Godfrey's hand, murmuring greetings and words of admiration. From the Department of International Magical Cooperation to the Wizengamot, each representative seemed to regard Godfrey not just as an ally, but as a cornerstone of the wizarding community itself.
Nicholas watched the scene unfold, silently absorbing the gravity of his family's status. The way these powerful figures deferred to his grandfather made him realize that Godfrey wasn't merely a wealthy patriarch—he was a kingmaker, a man whose bloodline carried a legacy that stretched back to the founding of Hogwarts.
Finally, after the introductions had been made, Godfrey turned to Fudge, his tone shifting slightly, becoming more authoritative. "I've chosen well in my support of you, Cornelius," he remarked, his words laced with both approval and a subtle warning. "You've shown yourself capable of leading the British wizarding world, as I expected."
The air seemed to tighten with the weight of Godfrey's words. Nicholas could sense the power dynamics at play—the unspoken agreement between his grandfather and the Minister. It wasn't just political clout or financial backing that had placed Fudge in power; it was the Gryff family's unyielding influence. Though Nicholas was still young, he could grasp the enormity of what was unfolding—the machinations that existed behind the veneer of politeness and prestige.
After a moment, Godfrey turned his gaze to Nicholas and Mark. His posture straightened, and his voice took on a formal air, the weight of tradition hanging in the balance. "Now," he began, "allow me to introduce my grandson and heir, Nicholas Gryff."
A ripple of interest swept through the assembled wizards as their attention shifted to Nicholas. Their gazes were no longer casual; there was a spark of curiosity, even reverence. While they had given Mark—the squib cousin—a cursory nod of respect, it was clear that their true focus now rested on Nicholas. He was, after all, the future of the Gryff lineage, a direct descendant of Godric Gryffindor himself, and the next in line to uphold the family's ancient legacy.
Nicholas felt a flush of nerves but stepped forward as his grandfather beckoned him with a graceful wave. "Come, child," Godfrey said, his voice warm but expectant, "meet the backbones of our world."
Nicholas obliged, walking with purpose toward the assembled officials. Each wizard greeted him with a look that ranged from curiosity to awe. Amelia Bones, her sharp eyes gleaming behind her monocle, gave him a firm handshake. "A fine young heir, Lord Godfrey," she said with approval. "I foresee great things for him."
One by one, they acknowledged Nicholas—not just as a boy, but as the continuation of something far larger than himself. He could feel the weight of their expectations, the centuries of history that seemed to flow through him at that moment. It was both daunting and exhilarating.
As the greetings concluded, Nicholas found himself standing at his grandfather's side once more. He glanced up at Godfrey, searching his face for clues, but the older man's expression remained inscrutable. Whatever lay ahead for the Gryff family, Nicholas knew one thing for certain—his place in this world was far more significant than he had ever imagined. And tonight, standing on the windswept shore with some of the most powerful wizards in the world, that reality had never felt more real.
…
As the ship glided silently toward the shore, Nicholas felt a flutter of anticipation. He leaned over the side, catching his first glimpse of the island—a rugged, windswept coastline, its jagged rocks illuminated by the pale glow of moonlight. The air was thick with salt and magic, as though the island itself hummed with power. "Skokholm," the name echoed across the deck, rolling off the tongue of Minister Cornelius Fudge, who stood proudly beside Godfrey Gryff, his eyes twinkling with a blend of excitement and self-importance. Nicholas, standing next to his grandfather, could feel the weight of Godfrey's presence, his towering figure exuding an effortless air of command and authority.
"Thanks to the most generous contributions made by the Gryff family for this year's Quidditch World Cup," Fudge proclaimed with more than a hint of sycophantic flattery, "we have been able to construct the finest stadium the wizarding world has ever seen!"
Nicholas's gaze drifted across the landscape, but his attention remained fixed on his grandfather. Godfrey's face remained impassive, though Nicholas knew his grandfather well enough to sense the satisfaction lurking beneath that stern exterior. Godfrey Gryff was not one to revel openly in praise, but Nicholas could tell he took quiet pride in being instrumental to such a grand event.
Fudge continued, waving a hand toward a blue-eyed, blond man standing just behind him. "And here," he said, with a flourish, "is Ludovic Bagman. He shall be overseeing every detail of the tournament. Should you require anything in my absence, Lord Godfrey, Bagman will be at your full disposal."
Bagman stepped forward with a beaming grin, his blond hair tousled by the sea breeze. His excitement seemed barely contained, and his eyes sparkled as he addressed the group. "It's a true honor, Lord Gryff," he said, his voice full of enthusiasm. "Rest assured, everything's been planned down to the last detail. This year's Quidditch World Cup will be nothing short of spectacular, I guarantee it."
Godfrey gave a slow, deliberate nod, the corner of his mouth twitching into a faint smirk. "I trust you will ensure that things proceed smoothly, Bagman. It would be… unfortunate if our guests were to be disappointed."
Bagman's smile wavered for a brief moment under the weight of Godfrey's cool gaze, but he quickly regained his composure, nodding eagerly. "Of course, my lord. Every precaution has been taken. We've spared no expense. Everything is in place for the grandest spectacle the wizarding world has seen in centuries!"
Satisfied, Godfrey turned his attention back to Fudge. "Very well, Minister. See to it that we are properly received."
With that, the group began disembarking from the ship. Nicholas, curious yet quietly taking everything in, followed closely behind his grandfather. The moment his feet touched the ground of Skokholm, he was struck by how eerily desolate the island appeared. A vast expanse of empty land stretched in every direction, with only the rhythmic sound of waves crashing against the shore to break the silence. Surrounding them was nothing but a boundless sea and a cold breeze that whispered across the island.
At the center of this barren landscape stood a single structure—a small, gated cottage that seemed entirely out of place amidst the emptiness. The stone walls and sloped roof looked almost too simple for the grandeur Nicholas had expected for the Quidditch World Cup. It piqued his curiosity as he tried to reconcile the setting with the wizarding world he had come to know.
As the group of wizards began walking toward the cottage, Nicholas and Mark exchanged uncertain glances. What was so special about this place? From all appearances, it was an unremarkable island in the middle of nowhere. Yet, the way the Ministry officials led them forward with such purpose made him feel as if something far more magical awaited.
When the first of the Ministry officials passed through the cottage gate, something strange happened—they simply vanished. Nicholas's eyes widened in surprise. "Where did they go?" he whispered to Mark.
Mark, equally puzzled, halted beside him. George, their ever-reliable butler, gave them a gentle nudge forward. "Go on, Young Master. It's just a simple illusion."
Gathering their courage, Nicholas and Mark stepped through the gate. The instant they crossed the threshold, the world around them changed entirely. It was as though they had passed through an invisible barrier and emerged in an entirely different dimension.
Gone was the plain, desolate landscape. Before them now lay an enormous magical encampment, sprawling as far as the eye could see. Tents of every shape and size dotted the expanse of the island, but they were nothing like ordinary Muggle tents. These were enchanted in a way that only the wizarding world could imagine.
Some tents resembled miniature castles, complete with turrets and pennants fluttering in the breeze. Others were adorned with grand, Gothic architecture, while still others were draped in luxurious fabrics of gold, silver, and emerald green. Smoke puffed lazily from chimneys that extended impossibly high into the air, and Nicholas could see that many tents had windows and balconies as if they were multi-story homes packed into deceptively small exteriors.
Nicholas's eyes gleamed with awe as he took it all in. The magic was palpable here. Wizards strolled in and out of their tents, laughing and chatting, their robes flowing behind them. Children were playing with enchanted toys that zoomed through the air, leaving trails of sparkling light in their wake. Vendors had already set up stalls selling all manner of magical goods—from charmed scarves that adjusted to the weather to enchanted brooms that hovered above the ground, awaiting purchase.
From a distance, Nicholas could see a colossal structure rising above the rest of the camp. It looked like a cross between a grand museum and a palace, its towers and spires reaching toward the sky. This, he realized, must be the entrance to the Quidditch stadium. Its design was breathtaking, with gold detailing and massive banners of different Quidditch teams flying high. The air around it seemed to shimmer with anticipation, as though the very atmosphere buzzed with excitement for the matches to come.
The tents closer to the stadium were larger and more extravagantly designed than the ones near them. These, Nicholas suspected, must belong to the wealthiest of wizarding families or dignitaries attending the World Cup. He could spot crests of the noble families he had read about in books, their house crests hang proudly on large tapestries in front of their tents.
"Grandfather," Nicholas began, his voice laced with wonder, "is this… where the World Cup is being held?"
Godfrey, who had been watching Nicholas's reaction with a knowing smile, nodded. "Indeed, Nicholas. This is no ordinary campsite, as you can see. Wizards from all over the world gather here for events like this. It's a grand affair—one befitting our world."
As they made their way through the camp, Nicholas marveled at the sheer scale of everything. Wizards in colorful robes wandered the paths between the tents, speaking in languages he didn't recognize. He caught sight of strange, magical creatures in cages or being led on leashes by their owners. The sights, sounds, and smells were overwhelming, all combining to create an atmosphere of magic and wonder that left Nicholas breathless.
He glanced over at Mark, who seemed equally taken in by the spectacle. "This is incredible," Mark muttered under his breath. "I've never seen anything like it."
Nicholas nodded in agreement, his mind racing with the realization that this was just the beginning. If the campsite was this extraordinary, what wonders would the World Cup itself hold?
As they approached the larger tents near the stadium, Nicholas noticed that the Ministry officials had begun to separate, each one heading off to attend to their own duties. Fudge lingered for a moment to exchange a few final words with Godfrey.
"Everything is in place, Lord Gryff," Fudge said, his voice brimming with confidence. "The Ministry has ensured that this will be the finest World Cup in history."
Godfrey gave a curt nod as he bid farewell to Fudge, his expression one of practiced indifference, though there was a glimmer of satisfaction in his eyes. He turned to Nicholas and Mark, who were still entranced by the vast magical world that unfolded before them. Their eyes wandered to every tent, every witch and wizard passing by, and every enchanted artifact sold by vendors. The air hummed with excitement, a subtle vibration of magic that seemed to make the very ground beneath them feel alive.
Noticing their awe, Godfrey gently nudged Nicholas, his tone unusually warm and paternal, though still laced with the authority of a patriarch. "Take it all in, boys. Soon enough, you'll see far more wonders than this. But for now, let us settle first. Once we've done so, you may indulge in the festivities. Remember, this is your world now. Not just a spectacle to behold, but a legacy to uphold."
Nicholas felt a swell of pride rise within him at his grandfather's words, though the weight of responsibility that followed them wasn't lost on him. He glanced at Mark, who nodded back, equally struck by the significance of Godfrey's statement. Both of them knew they weren't merely visitors; the blood that coursed through their veins carried a lineage to something much larger than they could fully grasp at that moment.
Ludovic Bagman, the boisterous yet now noticeably careful Head of the Department of Magical Games and Sports, led the Gryff family toward their assigned quarters. As they approached their tent, Nicholas's breath caught in his throat. Unlike the extravagantly gilded tents surrounding the stadium—some with enchanted spires, floating banners, or magical beasts guarding the entrances—the Gryff tent seemed comparatively modest.
It was not adorned with the glowing chandeliers, animated decorations, or the floating, kaleidoscopic colors that many of the nearby tents boasted. In fact, it seemed rather plain. The fabric was a deep crimson with subtle gold accents, the colors muted rather than dazzling. However, upon closer inspection, Nicholas noticed the crest that hung on the front of the tent, embroidered in gold threads that shimmered with a magic of their own. The crest of the Gryff family—a lion rampant, its mane roaring with ancestral strength—was unmistakable. Surrounding the crest were the intricate tapestries that spoke of ancient heritage, their designs weaving tales of valor and wisdom passed down through generations.
The sight of the Gryff family crest drew whispers from nearby wizards and witches. Many paused to stare, their eyes wide with both awe and disbelief. The Gryff family had long kept a low profile, and there were many in the wizarding world who believed their direct lineage to Godric Gryffindor had been lost to history. Yet here they were, standing at the Quidditch World Cup, their family crest displayed for all to see.
Bagman, sensing the attention the tent was garnering, turned to Godfrey with a deferential bow. "As per your instructions, Lord Godfrey," he said, his voice unusually subdued and respectful, "we ensured that the tent's exterior appears modest, though it still reflects the dignity of your house. Fret not, however—the interior has been fitted with the finest comforts magic can offer. We commissioned the most skilled tent-makers from across the globe for this—Egyptian, Peruvian, and even a few specialists from the Tibetan plateau. Nothing was spared."
Godfrey gave a small nod, clearly satisfied, but his gaze was already elsewhere, scanning the crowd, evaluating the eyes that lingered on their crest. "Good. Let them think us humble," he murmured with a sly smile. "A lion's roar need not always be heard, but it should never be forgotten."
Bagman's demeanor around Godfrey was noticeably cautious, a far cry from the typically jovial and carefree attitude he displayed at public events. His nervousness did not escape Nicholas's attention. As they neared the tent, the buzz of intrigue from those around them grew louder. Nobles, wealthy wizards, and even officials from the Ministry of Magic exchanged furtive glances and whispers. The resurgence of the Gryff family into public life, especially at such a prestigious event, was clearly a matter of interest. Some of the older wizards tilted their heads in recognition, recalling stories passed down through their own families about the legendary Gryffindors. Younger witches and wizards, unfamiliar with the family's legacy, gazed in awe, wondering what sort of power lay behind that crest.
As they reached the tent's entrance, Bagman stepped aside, gesturing for them to enter. "I trust you'll find everything to your satisfaction, Lord Godfrey," he said, his voice nearly a whisper now.
With a swift movement, Godfrey parted the crimson flaps of the tent and strode inside, followed by Nicholas, Mark, and George. The moment Nicholas crossed the threshold, his breath caught in his throat once more—but this time, for an entirely different reason.
The interior was nothing short of spectacular. What appeared to be a simple tent on the outside had transformed into a grand, opulent manor on the inside. Chandeliers floated high above their heads, casting a warm, golden glow across the room. The walls were draped in rich, velvet tapestries, each depicting a scene from the Gryff family's storied history. Ornate furniture, made from the finest dark woods and inlaid with shimmering silver runes, was arranged around a vast sitting area. A roaring fireplace at the far end of the room crackled with magical flames that shifted between emerald green and fiery red, a subtle nod to the family's ties to both power and courage.
The room was divided into various sections—dining areas, plush seating, and even a small library filled with ancient tomes that Nicholas instinctively knew were priceless. There was a balcony that opened up to the Quidditch pitch, offering them the best view in the house when the games began. Every inch of the tent's interior spoke of wealth, power, and the prestige of a family whose name had once shaped the very foundation of the wizarding world.
Nicholas could barely contain his amazement. He had seen magic before, of course, but this—this was something else. It was as though the tent was not just a home, but a living monument to the Gryff family's glory.
Godfrey, observing Nicholas's reaction, placed a hand on his grandson's shoulder. "This is just the beginning, child," he said quietly, his voice filled with both pride and expectation. "Your place in this world will become clearer with time."
Nicholas nodded, though the enormity of what his grandfather said weighed heavily on him. There was so much to understand, so much to live up to.
Bagman, who had been standing near the entrance of the grand tent, offered one final, low bow. "If there's anything further you require, Lord Godfrey, do not hesitate to send for me," he said, his voice dripping with deference, clearly aware of the status and influence that the elder Gryff commanded.
Godfrey gave him a dismissive wave, not even deigning to look Bagman directly in the eye. "Thank you, Bagman. That will be all. You may go," he said, his tone measured, as though he were speaking to a servant rather than the Head of the Department of Magical Games and Sports. Bagman quickly retreated, the flaps of the tent fluttering in his wake as he exited.
Once the tent was quiet again, Godfrey turned to George and gave a simple nod. "George, if you would."
Without missing a beat, George stepped forward with the case he had been carrying. With the practiced precision of someone who had performed this task many times, he laid it carefully on the polished floor of the tent. With a gentle flick of his wand, the case unlatched itself, and from it, all the Gryff family's baggage levitated gracefully into the air. Each trunk and bag floated for a moment before gently lowering itself to the ground.
Nicholas and Mark eagerly reached for their belongings, their eyes alight with excitement. The grandeur of the tent's interior had captivated them, and now the thought of selecting their rooms was almost too much to bear.
Before they could dash off, Godfrey's voice, though calm, commanded their attention once again. "You may choose whichever room you find to your liking," he said, his tone leaving no room for argument. "However, George will accompany you on your stroll outside, once you've settled in. I trust you will not wander too far. Am I understood?"
The two young men nodded quickly, their excitement bubbling just beneath the surface. "Yes, Grandfather," Nicholas replied eagerly, with Mark echoing his agreement.
With that, they hurried toward the hallway that led to the rooms, the sound of their footsteps fading as they disappeared deeper into the luxurious tent. Each door they passed seemed to open into an increasingly grander chamber, with high ceilings draped in velvet, four-poster beds adorned with intricately woven tapestries, and magical windows that displayed ever-shifting views of enchanted landscapes. Nicholas and Mark exchanged grins, clearly overwhelmed by the wealth of choice at their disposal.
Once the boys were out of sight, Godfrey turned back to George. "See to it that they behave themselves. I expect you'll keep them in line."
George gave a respectful nod. "Of course, Lord Godfrey. You needn't worry. I'll ensure their safety."
Satisfied with the response, Godfrey straightened his robes and ran a hand over the smooth surface of a nearby table, his fingers brushing the delicate woodwork. His eyes scanned the room, but his mind was already elsewhere, planning, calculating. "I have much to discuss with the other families," he muttered, more to himself than anyone else. With a final glance toward the hallway where Nicholas and Mark had disappeared, he turned on his heel and strode out of the tent.
The moment the flaps of the entrance closed behind him, George sprang into action. He gathered a few items from the case and silently made his way toward the rooms the boys had chosen, knocking gently on each door to ensure they were settled.
Inside his own room, Nicholas was taking it all in. The room was larger than he could have imagined, with deep red and gold hues covering the walls, matching the regal colors of the Gryff family crest. His bed, adorned with sheets that seemed to shimmer with every movement, looked more like something from a palace than a simple tent at the World Cup.
Mark, too, was equally enthralled by the grandeur of his room, which featured a magical fireplace crackling with sapphire-colored flames. The heat it gave off was gentle, soothing, yet the magic was palpable, filling the air with the kind of wonder that even the most extravagant Muggle luxuries could never provide.
After taking in his surroundings, Nicholas caught sight of George standing at the doorway, his expression as stoic as ever. "Shall we explore, Master Nicholas? I trust the grounds outside will be just as impressive," George said with a hint of a smile.
Nicholas glanced at Mark, who had just emerged from his own room, wide-eyed and grinning. "Yes, let's," Nicholas replied, unable to suppress his excitement.