chapter three. gossip gone wrong

ALICIA CROCKFORD WAS ALWAYS RIGHT.

It wasn’t arrogance, not really, just a fact she had long accepted. And yet, despite her impressive track record of being right, people still doubted her intelligence. It baffled her, truly. Even she, on occasion, caught herself second-guessing her brilliant mind — moments of temporary insanity, no doubt. But time after time, she proved herself correct, and this time would be no different.

Take the Quidditch World Cup, for instance. When she told her parents that dragging her to the event would be a colossal waste of everyone's time, they simply waved her off, accusing her of being overly dramatic. Honestly, how could they not see she was merely stating facts?

For two months straight, Alicia had warned them, over and over, that the World Cup wasn’t worth the fuss. Her parents, however, were annoyingly optimistic, insisting it would be a grand event, a memory they would cherish. And now here they were — climbing the grand staircase, rich purple carpet beneath their feet, headed to their seats in the top box, only for Alicia to be proven right once again.

The view from the top box was, she supposed, impressive. Gilt chairs, embroidered cushions — it was all very posh. But as the game began, she realized with a sense of satisfaction that she had been absolutely right. It was a waste of time. Boring didn’t even begin to cover it. Alicia let out a long-suffering sigh, glancing at her parents who were oblivious to her growing misery. They were caught up in the excitement of the game, completely unaware that their daughter was mentally planning her escape.

Her friends, Arabella and Ruelle, were just as unimpressed. Alicia caught sight of Arabella checking her manicure for the fourth time, while Ruelle rested her chin in her hand, looking as though she might fall asleep at any moment. Alicia exchanged a knowing look with them — this was exactly what she had warned everyone about.

The only remotely interesting part of the evening arrived in the form of the Malfoys, who entered the top box with their usual smugness. Alicia fought the urge to roll her eyes as Lucius Malfoy swept into the room, his long platinum hair trailing behind him.

“Archer,” Lucius greeted her father coldly, his sharp gaze lingering on him for a moment before drifting to Arthur Weasley, seated just a few places down. “I’m not even surprised,” Lucius drawled, his voice dripping with condescension. “You’ve always had a taste for... colorful company.”

Alicia’s father, Archer, shot out of his seat in an instant, his jaw clenched in barely restrained fury. For a moment, Alicia thought there might actually be a scene, and the idea filled her with a dark sort of amusement. It was one thing to be bored at the World Cup, but to witness a duel in the top box? That might salvage her evening.

But alas, it wasn’t to be. Alicia’s mother, Stella, exchanged a quick glance with Narcissa Malfoy, and whatever silent communication passed between them seemed to settle the matter. Narcissa, ever graceful and composed, placed a hand on Lucius' arm and steered him toward their seats — conveniently located right in front of where Alicia sat.

Brilliant, Alicia thought with a mental groan. Now she had to stare at the back of Draco Malfoy's platinum head for the rest of the match. Could this day get any worse?

As the match dragged on, her boredom grew to unbearable levels. The crowd around her cheered and gasped with every near miss and spectacular play, but Alicia couldn’t bring herself to care. She glanced again at Arabella and Ruelle, both of whom looked as bored as she felt.

Finally, Alicia had enough.

“So,” she said loudly, cutting through the noise of the crowd, “where did I leave off with France?” Her voice carried, causing Arabella and Ruelle to snap out of their boredom and turn to her, wide grins spreading across their faces. Giggles bubbled up between them, their laughter attracting a few irritated glances from nearby spectators.

Draco Malfoy, sitting directly in front of her, turned around with an expression of thinly veiled annoyance. His stormy grey eyes locked onto hers, and he pressed a finger to his lips in a gesture to shush her.

Alicia raised an eyebrow, her lips twitching into a smirk. “Bite me,” she replied bluntly, her tone daring him to say anything else.

For a moment, Draco looked as if he might argue, but then he did something entirely uncharacteristic: he gave up. With a small huff of defeat, he turned back around and returned his attention to the match, clearly deciding it wasn’t worth the effort to engage her.

Alicia’s smirk widened. She had won, as usual. Arabella and Ruelle snickered beside her, leaning in closer as if to bask in her triumph. Alicia relished in the moment, feeling a surge of satisfaction. No one crossed her when she was in one of her moods — least of all a Malfoy.

"France," Ruelle said, nudging Alicia with a grin barely held in check. “You were telling us about the Quidditch player and that awful café by the Seine.”

Alicia sighed theatrically, her eyes narrowing as if the memory itself was an insult. “Ah, yes. The café where the waiter couldn’t even pronounce crème brûlée properly,” she said, as if the mere recollection of the event caused her physical pain. “And the tourists were lapping it up like it was the greatest thing they’d ever tasted. Honestly, the standards.”

Arabella leaned in, catching Alicia’s mood immediately. “I bet the decor was hideous, too.”

Alicia waved a hand dismissively, her lips curving into a sardonic smile. “Naturally. Whoever thought checkered tablecloths and floral curtains were a good match should be banned from interior design forever. It was like stepping into someone’s poorly thought-out childhood memory. My eyes are still recovering.”

Ruelle laughed, her head tilting back as Alicia continued her rant, rolling her eyes so hard she almost lost her balance. The trio’s exaggerated laughter filled their corner of the top box, cutting through the cheers of the Quidditch match that was apparently heating up. But Alicia was blissfully uninterested. Sports were, after all, dreadfully predictable.

“Honestly,” Alicia sighed again, dramatically brushing away an invisible speck of dust from her robes, a motion she had perfected. “It’s not like anything exciting ever happens at these things. We just sit here, pretending to care—”

“Nothing exciting?” Ruelle interrupted, arching a brow. “You mean other than watching two grown men nearly duel in the top box?”

Alicia huffed, casting a glance toward her father, who was still sitting rigidly with his arms crossed, his face tight with lingering annoyance from his earlier interaction with Lucius Malfoy. She couldn’t help but let a sly grin form on her lips. “That doesn’t count as excitement,” she said with a wave of her hand, though her tone betrayed her amusement. “Now, if dad had actually hexed Lucius Malfoy and sent him flying across the box — that might have been worth watching.”

The match roared on, the crowd cheering as one team scored, but Alicia’s attention had already drifted. She found herself scanning the rows of excited faces, most of them completely absorbed by the game, while she and her friends remained utterly detached. The boredom was starting to set in again, and Alicia’s fingers itched for some kind of escape.

She leaned closer to her friends, lowering her voice just slightly. “So, girls, what are we thinking? Stick around here, pretending to care about the match, or...?”

“Or...” Ruelle echoed, her eyes gleaming with mischief.

Arabella’s smile grew wider, leaning forward as if they were conspiring. “I think it’s time we stop torturing ourselves.”

Alicia’s lips curled into a wicked smirk. “Now that sounds like a plan.” With a graceful sweep of her hand, she stood, smoothing her robes with exaggerated care. Each movement was deliberate, as though she were performing for an invisible audience. Arabella and Ruelle stood beside her, exchanging amused glances.

The heels of Alicia’s shoes clicked softly against the floor as she made her way to the front row where her father sat. She approached slowly, lowering herself into a crouch beside his seat. “Dad,” she began sweetly, her voice the perfect blend of innocence and charm, “Bella and Rue are going out to get some air. Could I possibly go with them? Please?”

Her father sighed deeply, running a hand over his face. Alicia could see the internal struggle — he didn’t want to let her go, but he knew his willpower was no match for his daughter’s relentless persistence.

“Alicia...” he began, his voice already heavy with resignation.

“Please,” she whined, batting her eyelashes in a move so practiced it was almost impossible to resist. She leaned forward, her eyes wide. “We won’t go far, just outside the box. It’s dreadfully stuffy in here.”

Archer glanced over at her mother, who gave him the tiniest shrug as if to say, ‘What harm could it do?’ With another sigh, he relented. “Fine,” he muttered, rubbing his temples, “but only if you stay close to the tent afterward, and make sure you're back in bed once the match is over.”

Alicia grinned, her eyes lighting up with victory. “Of course, Dad, you won’t even notice we’re gone!” She rose to her feet, giving him a quick peck on the cheek before gliding back over to her friends. “Come on, girls,” she whispered conspiratorially, “we’ve got better things to do than watch wizards chase after a flying ball.”

Arabella and Ruelle followed her eagerly, their laughter barely concealed as they slipped out of the top box.

They practically ran down the purple staircase, skirts swishing and laughter bubbling up as they disappeared into the darkened forest, the noise of the Quidditch World Cup fading behind them. The thick canopy stretched overhead, casting long, tangled shadows over the forest floor. The occasional flicker of moonlight pierced through the gaps in the trees, creating a mosaic of light and shadow. Alicia led the way, her wand raised high, casting a dim, flickering glow in front of them. The leaves crunched softly beneath their feet, muffled by the thick carpet of moss and decaying foliage, and the cool night air sent an invigorating chill through them.

"Honestly, why did we even bother coming to this thing if we were going to leave halfway through?" Arabella muttered, her arms tightly crossed as she trailed behind Alicia, her steps more tentative than before. "All that talk about Krum, and I didn’t even get to see him score a single decent goal. He missed more shots than I thought possible."

Alicia turned, her eyes sparkling mischievously in the dim light. "Because it’s the Quidditch World Cup, Bella," she replied, as if that explained everything. "It’s practically tradition to attend and then immediately complain about it. And besides, you can't deny the atmosphere — thousands of wizards from all over the world, the roar of the crowd, the way the magic buzzes in the air. It’s electrifying."

"Electrifying? More like deafening," Arabella huffed. "And don’t even get me started on the overpriced snacks. Outrageous." She kicked a stray twig, sending it skittering into the underbrush, her expression sour.

Alicia’s lips curved into a grin as she shook her head. Arabella’s grumbling was as much a tradition as the event itself. But Ruelle had drifted away from their conversation, her attention fixed on the dense tangle of trees around them. She was several paces ahead now, her steps light and deliberate, her gaze flicking between the shadows.

"Rue?" Alicia called, raising a brow as she watched her friend kneel down in the underbrush, nearly disappearing into the foliage.

"Look at this!" Ruelle’s voice was hushed, filled with quiet wonder as she brushed aside some fallen leaves. "These are nettles. Muggles use them for tea... and sometimes for soup." Her fingers lightly brushed the serrated leaves, her eyes gleaming with interest.

Arabella let out an exaggerated groan. "Rue, no offense, but we didn’t come all the way out here to watch you marvel at weeds."

Ruelle shot her a quick, indignant look as she stood up, brushing the dirt from her knees. "They're not weeds! Muggle plants are fascinating. They don’t have magic to rely on, so they’ve had to find creative ways to use plants for healing. Don’t you think that’s interesting?"

Arabella snorted, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "Absolutely riveting. I can’t wait for Professor Sprout to quiz us on it as soon as we're back at Hogwarts."

Alicia smirked and placed a hand on Ruelle’s shoulder, drawing her away from the plant and back toward the path. "Don't listen to her, Rue. I think Bella’s just hungry. But seriously, we should head back soon. The match will be over before long, and we don’t want to miss the post-match fireworks or celebrations. You know how wild it gets."

Ruelle stood, still trailing her fingers over the plants as if reluctant to leave them behind. "Always about the celebrations with you, isn’t it, Alicia?" she teased, stepping over a fallen log and venturing deeper into the forest with the others. She reached down to pluck a small leaf, rubbing it between her fingers as she continued. "But seriously, these plants are so much more than—"

She broke off as a distant, muffled roar echoed through the trees, quickly followed by a burst of shimmering green and gold light flashing through the treetops. All three girls froze, their heads snapping up in unison, eyes widening as they stared at the night sky.

The forest canopy lit up with the glow of fireworks, the colors bright and vibrant against the darkened sky. Each explosion cast fleeting, eerie shadows across their faces, and the noise of the crowd erupted louder than ever from the distant stadium.

"That’s the signal!" Alicia gasped, her voice high with excitement, her dramatic boredom forgotten in an instant. She spun around, her wand light flickering as her face lit up with elation. "Harry was right, Ireland won! We need to get back now before we miss all the celebrations!"

Arabella cast one last glance over her shoulder, the vibrant noise of the Quidditch match a distant hum, now smothered by the dense foliage of the forest. Her earlier boredom had evaporated, replaced by an uneasy tightness in her chest. "Wait, that means the match is over already? We’ve been gone that long?"

Alicia, who had been absently twisting a lock of her hair between her fingers, turned on her heel with dramatic flair, her robes swishing. “Looks like it," she said, a touch too casually, though her eyes darted to the darkening sky. “Come on, let’s go. I don’t want to be stuck in this forest when everyone else leaves. Can you imagine the chaos?”

Ruelle, still crouched low, her fingers gently brushing the delicate leaves of a patch of nettles, sighed wistfully as though parting with an old friend. She stood slowly, eyes lingering on the plants. “I suppose we can come back later,” she murmured, her voice soft and almost regretful.

With that, the three girls set off down what they assumed was the path they had come from. At first, their footsteps were confident, the soft thud of their shoes on the forest floor the only sound that accompanied them. But soon enough, something strange began to happen. The forest, which had seemed so straightforward on their way in, now felt like it was shifting around them. The path beneath their feet seemed less clear, the familiar markers — odd-shaped trees and large stones — they had passed earlier were gone. The once-spacious trees now crowded together, branches twisting above like skeletal fingers clawing at the sky, blotting out what little moonlight had been guiding them.

Arabella’s eyes darted nervously from side to side. The prickling feeling of unease crept down her spine. “Are you sure this is the right way?” Her voice was tense, the earlier nonchalance now replaced by a flicker of doubt. The unfamiliar woods felt like they were closing in, suffocating the laughter that had seemed so free only minutes before.

“Of course it is,” Alicia replied sharply, though her pace had noticeably slowed. She was scanning the surrounding trees with growing unease, her earlier bravado faltering. “We just need to keep going straight."

Arabella cast another glance over her shoulder, biting her lip as the distant noise of the stadium faded to nothing more than a whisper. “Straight into where, exactly? I don’t remember passing that tree. Or... was it that one?” Her voice wavered, the knot of tension in her stomach tightening.

Ruelle had stopped mid-stride and was now frowning at the ground, her eyes darting across the forest floor as if searching for some kind of clue. “No, no, we definitely came from this way,” she muttered, more to herself than the others. She pointed toward a lopsided boulder partially buried beneath the underbrush. “I remember that boulder.”

But Alicia wasn’t paying attention anymore. She had frozen in place, her eyes wide and fixed on the inky darkness beyond the trees. A loud, unmistakable crack echoed through the forest, making her breath hitch in her throat. She lifted her wand higher, the light from its tip flickering weakly as though it, too, sensed the danger lurking just out of sight. The once-comforting glow now seemed fragile, the light casting long shadows that twisted and warped, making the trees appear as though they were alive and watching.

“I... I don’t think this is right,” Alicia finally admitted, her voice no longer carrying the same confidence.

Arabella swallowed hard, her pulse quickening as the oppressive silence of the forest pressed in on them. “We’re lost, aren’t we?”

Another crack — a loud snap, closer this time — sent a jolt of fear through all three of them.

Ruelle’s grip on her wand tightened, her knuckles white in the faint glow. The noise from the Quidditch pitch was gone now, completely swallowed by the thick woods. Even the distant hum of the crowd had vanished, leaving only the eerie rustle of leaves and the faint creak of branches shifting overhead.

“Yes,” Alicia whispered, her voice barely audible, her earlier confidence now fully shattered. She glanced between Arabella and Ruelle, her chest rising and falling in quick, shallow breaths. "We're lost."