Harry Potter and the Blind Seer of Durmstrang

Chapter 3

In August, Harry had been invited to stay with the Weasley family for the week leading up to the Quidditch World Cup. Although Sirius and Lupin were also invited, Sirius still felt weak and ill, and opted to stay home. Lupin and Harry had discussed Sirius in low worried tones together; he simply was not regaining his strength as he ought. Lupin opined that the years in Azkaban had weakened his constitution, but neither of them could come up with a solution and both were worried.

Lupin promised Harry that he'd care for Black while Harry was away at the Weasleys, and so Harry left by himself through the Floo network one blisteringly hot August afternoon. Rather than packing his trunk, he took what he needed in the mokeskin wallet, and he found it to be quite adequate to hold whatever he wanted.

It occurred to Harry as he sat on Ron's bed that evening, listening to his friend babble enthusiastically about the upcoming event, that he wouldn't be able to see the action. He felt idiotic for not having considered this before, but suddenly he was not looking forward to going to the World Cup in quite the same way he had all summer. He felt cut off from Ron in a way he never really had before, and the thought stung him, as if a part of him had been made invisible.

"...Bulgaria, you know," Ron was saying as he paged through the Quidditch section of the Daily Prophet. "Victor Krum is their Seeker, even though he is only seventeen and still in school. Can you believe that? They say he's one of the best fliers in the world."

"Mmm," said Harry noncommittally.

"Of course, Ireland's the favorite to win," continued Ron. "They flattened Peru in the Semis. Don't you think..."

"Oh, I don't care!" shouted Harry and flung himself out of the room. He suddenly could stand Ron's happy chatter no longer. He slipped on the way down the Burrow's narrow, twisting stairs, further fueling his internal frustration.

Ginny poked her head out of her room. "What's eating you, Harry?" she asked in surprise.

"Nothing," said Harry with a scowl and continued past her down the stairs and out the back door of the Burrow, tripping as he went over a rusty cauldron that had toppled into his path from the uneven stack by the back door. Once in the back garden, he threw himself down in the shade of one of the big trees that separated the garden from the orchard beyond.

What had gotten into him? Usually, he loved to talk Quidditch with Ron. He lay on his back on the dry grass looking up at the blurred branches of the tree, faded and washed out against the glaring hot sky, and then he closed his eyes with a tired sigh.

All that week, Harry tried to be congenial with the Weasleys, but he secretly found their easygoing banter irritating. The fact that he constantly tripped over clutter left here and there in their mismatched house added to his bad mood until he really had trouble hiding it. Fortunately, everyone else was so excited about the upcoming adventure, nobody paid much attention.

At last, the day arrived when they were to travel to the World Cup. Mr. Weasley bustled around packing the tent and supplies and double-checking the portkey he had set up. It seemed to Harry to take decades before everyone was ready to go and they began walking up the land toward the hillock where they planned to take the portkey to the World Cup grounds. No matter how much he tried to shake the feeling and enter into the excitement of the day, Harry still felt distanced from the action, aloof and alone.

When they arrived at the World Cup stadium, Harry halfheartedly joined in the work of setting up the old, smelly tent. He was surprised to discover that the inside was about the size of a small flat, complete with a camp stove and several bunks. Tiredly, he threw himself into one of them, not wanting to take the trouble just yet to learn his way about yet another unfamiliar place.