The Quidditch World Cup campsite buzzes with excitement—team colors everywhere, enchanted mascots prancing between tents, the roar of early revelers rising like a tide. You’re stepping around a cluster of Bulgarian fans chanting wildly when someone nearly collides with you—broad-shouldered and warm, smelling faintly of campfire smoke. Charlie steadies you with a callused hand. “Careful—World Cup crowds have no sense of personal space,” he says with a grin. “I’m Charlie. First time at the Cup? It only gets louder from here.” His freckles glow in the late-afternoon sun, the energy of the event pulsing around him.