21. World Cup

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Fourth Book

August 18th, 1994
Summer of Sixth Year

Ara liked Quidditch as much as the next girl, and under different circumstances, she would've been absolutely ecstatic to be attending the final Quidditch World Cup match, which featured Ireland and Bulgaria.

However, having to attend the match with her father put a damper on things.

Especially after the summer they'd had.

You see, if you were to ask Narcissa, or even Draco, they'd tell you that this had been the absolute worst summer that Ara and Lucius'd had in terms of arguments ever.

Not that anyone could tell. With Lucius walking around boastfully and Ara stopping to talk to his colleagues while sporting a big smile, it would seem as if everything was perfect.

But it wasn't, and it never would be.

The Malfoys, to no ones surprise, had the best seats in the Top-Box of Quidditch stadium, which Ara was secretly dreading.

There'd only be boring old men, whose eyes tended to linger on a certain sixteen year old for far too long, their snotty wives, and people who thought working at the Ministry made them royalty, sitting in those seats. With that horrendous fact ricocheting in her head, Ara stepped into the Top-Box begrudgingly. Fortunately, the ricocheting, which would've surely caused an eventual headache, stopped nearly immediately. Ara was so wonderfully surprised to see familiar heads of red hair, belonging to the Weasley's, that she couldn't even bother to hide her smile.

That is, until Lucius decided to make everyone aware of his pretentious personality.

He made a very snide remark towards Arthur Weasley and his financial situation. Biting her tongue, Ara tried to remain calm.

She was in front of the Minister of Magic, after all.

After taking a deep breath and shooting her father an angry glare, which Lucius pretended not to notice, Ara proceeded to politely shake hands with everyone in the Top-Box. She laughed and smiled at their remarks about how she'd matured.

After playing the part of perfect daughter for a few moments, Ara allowed herself to relax, she quickly sat down.

"Your hair," Fred mused breathlessly, practically dazed by the young witch next to him.

She'd made an effort to sit as close to him and George as possible without looking too suspicious.

Ara glanced at her father, who was boasting about Draco to Cornelius Fudge, and then gave the two boys a soft smile.

"Do you like it?" She asked, nearly timidly, while subconsciously touching the ends of her hair.

Ara had, after a lengthy argument with Lucius, hacked her hair off.

"I will not be glamouring my hair," Ara hissed over dinner, Lucius was seething, "-And I don't care if the World Cup is tomorrow, your colleagues will have to put up with staring at a colour that does resemble white for a few hours!"

"Do not speak to me in that tone, you-"

"You what?!" Ara snapped, more angrily then she intended too.

Lucius chose not to finish his sentence. He and Ara continued to glare at one another silently.

Later that night, after countless hours of nagging, Ara stood in front of her bathroom mirror, radiating anger.

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