Chapter Text
Clutching their purchases, Mr. Weasley in the lead, they all hurried into the wood, following the lantern-lit trail. The sounds of thousands of people moving around them flooded the area, shouts and laughter, snatches of singing. The screen changed to show the group emerge on the other side, finding themselves in the shadow of a gigantic stadium.
"That's...wow," Lily's eyes widened.
"Reconsidering your stance against Quidditch?" Sirius asked her.
"...kinda?" Lily asked.
"Speak for yourself, my social anxiety could never," Alice shook her head.
“Seats a hundred thousand,” said Mr. Weasley. “Ministry task force of five hundred have been working on it all year. Muggle Repelling Charms on every inch of it. Every time Muggles have got anywhere near here all year, they’ve suddenly remembered urgent appointments and had to dash away again...bless them,” he added fondly, leading the way toward the nearest entrance, which was already surrounded by a swarm of shouting witches and wizards.
“Prime seats!” said the Ministry witch at the entrance when she checked their tickets. “Top Box! Straight upstairs, Arthur, and as high as you can go.”
"Putting that basilisk corpse to good use, aren't you Ronnie?" Halley grinned.
"Oh come on Hal, what did you expect?" Ron raised an eyebrow.
The stairs into the stadium were carpeted in rich purple. They clambered upward with the rest of the crowd, which slowly filtered away through doors into the stands to their left and right. The party kept climbing, and at last they reached the top of the staircase and found themselves in a small box, set at the highest point of the stadium and situated exactly halfway between the golden goal posts. About twenty purple-and-gilt chairs stood in two rows, and the group filed into the front.
"Best seats in the house," James whistled.
A hundred thousand witches and wizards were taking their places in the seats, which rose in levels around the long oval field. Everything was suffused with a mysterious golden light, which seemed to come from the stadium itself. The field looked smooth as velvet from their lofty position. At either end of the field stood three goal hoops, fifty feet high; right opposite them at eye level, was a gigantic blackboard. Gold writing kept dashing across it and then wiping it off again, flashing advertisements across the field: The Bluebottle: A Broom for All the Family — safe, reliable, and with Built-in Anti-Burglar Buzzer...Mrs. Skower’s All-Purpose Magical Mess Remover: No Pain, No Stain!...Gladrags Wizardwear - London, Paris, Hogsmeade..
Harry looked over his shoulder to see a house elf sitting in the second from last seat at the end of the row behind them. “Dobby?” said Harry incredulously.
"Harry, you are aware that more than one house elf exists, right?" Maliana asked.
The elf looked up and stretched its fingers, revealing enormous brown eyes. “Did sir just call me Dobby?” squeaked the elf curiously from between its fingers. Ron and Hermione spun around in their seats to look. Even Mr. Weasley looked around in interest.
“Sorry,” Harry told the elf, “I just thought you were someone I knew.”
“But I knows Dobby too, sir!” squeaked the elf.
"All house elves know each other. Gossipy little creatures," Narcissa shook her head. Dobby's gossip was the only thing that got her through a marriage with Lucius Malfoy. That, and excessive amounts of alcohol.
She was shielding her face, as though blinded by light, though the Top Box was not brightly lit. “My name is Winky, sir — and you, sir —” Her dark brown eyes widened to the size of side plates as they rested upon Harry’s scar. “You is surely Harry Potter!”
"Winky!" Barty's eyes widened. "That's my family's house elf."
"Should've known your family was at fault," Dorcas teased.
“Yeah, I am,” said Harry.
“But Dobby talks of you all the time, sir!” she said, lowering her hands very slightly and looking awestruck.
“How is he?” said Harry. “How’s freedom suiting him?”
“Ah, sir,” said Winky, shaking her head, “ah sir, meaning no disrespect, sir, but I is not sure you did Dobby a favor, sir, when you is setting him free.”
“Why?” said Harry, taken aback. “What’s wrong with him?”
“Freedom is going to Dobby’s head, sir,” said Winky sadly. “Ideas above his station, sir. Can’t get another position, sir.”
“Why not?” said Harry.
Winky lowered her voice by a half-octave and whispered, “He is wanting paying for his work, sir.”
“Paying?” said Harry blankly. “Well — why shouldn’t he be paid?”
Winky looked quite horrified at the idea and closed her fingers slightly so that her face was half-hidden again. “House-elves is not paid, sir!” she said in a muffled squeak. “No, no, no. I says to Dobby, I says, go find yourself a nice family and settle down, Dobby. He is getting up to all sorts of high jinks, sir, what is unbecoming to a house-elf. You goes racketing around like this, Dobby, I says, and next thing I hear you’s up in front of the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, like some common goblin.”
"So even house elves have prejudices against other animals? Interesting," Dean mused. "Not that it surprises me. Discrimination is in the DNA."
“Well, it’s about time he had a bit of fun,” said Harry.
“House-elves is not supposed to have fun, Harry Potter,” said Winky firmly, from behind her hands. “House-elves does what they is told. I is not liking heights at all, Harry Potter” — she glanced toward the edge of the box and gulped — “but my master sends me to the Top Box and I comes, sir.”
"Dick," Barty scoffed.
“Why’s he sent you up here, if he knows you don’t like heights?” said Harry, frowning.
“Master — master wants me to save him a seat, Harry Potter. He is very busy,” said Winky, tilting her head toward the empty space beside her. “Winky is wishing she is back in master’s tent, Harry Potter, but Winky does what she is told. Winky is a good house-elf.”
"A slave is what she is," Hermione scoffed.
She gave the edge of the box another frightened look and hid her eyes completely again. Harry turned back to the others. "So that’s a house-elf?” Ron muttered. “Weird things, aren’t they?”
“Dobby was weirder,” said Harry fervently.
Ron pulled out his Omnioculars and started testing them, staring down into the crowd on the other side of the stadium. “Wild!” he said, twiddling the replay knob on the side. “I can make that old bloke down there pick his nose again...and again...and again...”
"Really Ron?" Fred said while George pretended he wouldn't do the exact same thing.
Hermione was skimming eagerly through her program. “‘A display from the team mascots will precede the match,’” she read aloud.
“Oh that’s always worth watching,” said Mr. Weasley. “National teams bring creatures from their native land, you know, to put on a bit of a show.”
The screen changed to show the box more filled, and Mr. Weasley shaking hands with different people. Fudge walked in, and Percy bowed so low that his glasses fell off and shattered.
Fred and George cackled with laughter, and Percy rolled his eyes.
Highly embarrassed, he repaired them with his wand and thereafter remained in his seat, throwing jealous looks at Harry, whom Cornelius Fudge had greeted like an old friend. Fudge shook Harry’s hand in a fatherly fashion, asked how he was, and introduced him to the wizards on either side of him.
“Harry Potter, you know,” he told the Bulgarian minister loudly, who was wearing splendid robes of black velvet trimmed with gold and didn’t seem to understand a word of English. “Harry Potter...oh come on now, you know who he is...the boy who survived You-Know-Who...you do know who he is —”
"I really appreciate this little dance everytime I meet someone new," Harry said sarcastically.
The Bulgarian wizard suddenly spotted Harry’s scar and started gabbling loudly and excitedly, pointing at it. “Knew we’d get there in the end,” said Fudge wearily to Harry. “I’m no great shakes at languages; I need Barty Crouch for this sort of thing. Ah, I see his house-elf’s saving him a seat...Good job too, these Bulgarian blighters have been trying to cadge all the best places...ah, and here’s Lucius!”
"The fact they speak english and are just using this to laugh at Fudge," Maliana whispered to Halley.
Harry, Ron, and Hermione turned quickly. Edging along the second row to five still-empty seats right behind Mr. Weasley were none other than Lucius, Narcissa, Draco, and Maliana Malfoy, along with an older blonde girl.
"This is so weird," Leta frowned at the screen.
"I know right," Charlie agreed.
“Ah, Fudge,” said Mr. Malfoy, holding out his hand as he reached the Minister of Magic. “How are you? I don’t think you’ve met my wife, Narcissa? Or our son, Draco, and daughters Leta and Maliana?”
“How do you do, how do you do?” said Fudge, smiling and bowing to Mrs. Malfoy. “And allow me to introduce you to Mr. Oblansk — Obalonsk — Mr. — well, he’s the Bulgarian Minister of Magic, and he can’t understand a word I’m saying anyway, so never mind. And let’s see who else — you know Arthur Weasley, I daresay?”
"Oh here we go," Ron sighed.
It was a tense moment. Mr. Weasley and Mr. Malfoy looked at each other. Mr. Malfoy’s cold gray eyes swept over Mr. Weasley, and then up and down the row. “Good lord, Arthur,” he said softly. “What did you have to sell to get seats in the Top Box? Surely your house wouldn’t have fetched this much?”
Fudge, who wasn’t listening, said, “Lucius has just given a very generous contribution to St. Mungo’s Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries, Arthur. He’s here as my guest.”
“How — how nice,” said Mr. Weasley, with a very strained smile. Mr. Malfoy’s eyes had returned to Hermione, who stared determinedly back at him. Hermione was not phased by his scrutinizing gaze, merely leaning back in her seat and raising a single eyebrow. Mr. Malfoy nodded sneeringly to Mr. Weasley and continued down the line to his seats.
"I love watching you intimidate people," Halley laughed.
"Didn't even have to pull the 'Black Heiress' card and people are already intimidated," Maliana agreed.
"Leta, good to see you," Charlie grinned, and the older girl smiled.
"Charlie, you've cleaned up," she teased.
"Leta works with me in Romania. One of our expert dragon wranglers," Charlie explained.
"Hell yeah, that sounds like fun," Sirius whistled.
"You're Mal's older sister. It's nice to finally meet you. Heard a lot about you," Hermione greeted.
Leta paused, glancing over Hermione. "You look familiar, have we met before?" she asked.
Leta exchanged a look with Sherlock. "I wonder why," she whispered.
"I was in France the same time as Narcissa and Mal were last year and we ran into each other, you may have seen me in some photos?" Hermione guessed.
"Oh really?" Leta smirked.
"You shush," Enola grinned.
"That must be it," Leta said. "Well, it's nice to meet my sister's friends."
"Nice to meet you too," Harry smiled.
Next moment, Ludo Bagman charged into the box. “Everyone ready?” he said, his round face gleaming like a great, excited Edam. “Minister — ready to go?”
“Ready when you are, Ludo,” said Fudge comfortably.
Ludo whipped out his wand, directed it at his own throat, and said “Sonorus!” and then spoke over the roar of sound that was now filling the packed stadium; his voice echoed over them, booming into every corner of the stands.
“Ladies and gentlemen...welcome! Welcome to the final of the four hundred and twenty-second Quidditch World Cup!” The spectators screamed and clapped. Thousands of flags waved, adding their discordant national anthems to the racket. The huge blackboard opposite them was wiped clear of its last message and now showed BULGARIA: 0, IRELAND: 0.
"Here we go," James sat up, bouncing in his seat.
“And now, without further ado, allow me to introduce...the Bulgarian National Team Mascots!” The right-hand side of the stands, which was a solid block of scarlet, roared its approval.
"This should be entertaining," Maliana leaned back
“I wonder what they’ve brought,” said Mr. Weasley, leaning forward in his seat. “Aaah!” He suddenly whipped off his glasses and polished them hurriedly on his robes. “Veela!”
“What are veel — ?”
A hundred beautiful women with skin that shone moon-bright and white-gold hair that fanned out behind them without wind. The veela started to dance, and the boys started to act really weird. By the time the veela had stopped dancing, Harry was standing with one of his legs resting on the wall of the box, with Ron next to him frozen in an attitude that looked as though he were about to dive from a springboard.
"Idiots," Enola shook her head.
Angry yells were filling the stadium. The crowd didn’t want the veela to go. Ron was absentmindedly shredding the shamrocks on his hat. Mr. Weasley, smiling slightly, leaned over to Ron and tugged the hat out of his hands. “You’ll be wanting that,” he said, “once Ireland have had their say."
“Huh?” said Ron, staring openmouthed at the veela, who had now lined up along one side of the field.
Hermione made a loud tutting noise. She reached up and pulled Harry back into his seat. “Honestly!” she said.
"A summary of our entire dynamic right there," Enola sighed. "Me restraining the two of them for doing stupid things."
“And now,” roared Ludo Bagman’s voice, “kindly put your wands in the air...for the Irish National Team Mascots!”
Next moment, what seemed to be a great green-and-gold comet came zooming into the stadium. It did one circuit of the stadium, then split into two smaller comets, each hurtling toward the goal posts. A rainbow arced suddenly across the field, connecting the two balls of light. The crowd ooohed and aaahed, as though at a fireworks display. Now the rainbow faded and the balls of light reunited and merged; they had formed a great shimmering shamrock, which rose up into the sky and began to soar over the stands.
Heavy gold coins rained from it, bouncing off their heads and seats. Harry directed his Omnioculars towards the shamrock, showing it was actually comprised of thousands of tiny little bearded men with red vests, each carrying a minute lamp of gold or green.
“Leprechauns!” said Mr. Weasley over the tumultuous applause of the crowd, many of whom were still fighting and rummaging around under their chairs to retrieve the gold. The great shamrock dissolved, the leprechauns drifted down onto the field on the opposite side from the veela, and settled themselves cross-legged to watch the match.
"Leprechauns? That's what they brought? That seems... I dunno... like a stereotypical and ignorant cliche?" Mary asked.
"Not to mention these people are fighting for the gold when it's common knowledge that it disappears after a few hours," Evan rolled his eyes.
“And now, ladies and gentlemen, kindly welcome — the Bulgarian National Quidditch Team! I give you — Dimitrov!” A scarlet-clad figure on a broomstick, moving so fast it was blurred, shot out onto the field from an entrance far below, to wild applause from the Bulgarian supporters. “Ivanova!” A second scarlet-robed player zoomed out. “Zograf! Levski! Vulchanov! Volkov! Aaaaaaand — Krum!”
“That’s him, that’s him!” yelled Ron, following Krum with his Omnioculars, Harry copying him.
"Here comes Ron's celebrity crush," Maliana giggled.
“And now, please greet — the Irish National Quidditch Team!” yelled Bagman. “Presenting — Connolly! Ryan! Troy! Mullet! Moran! Quigley! Aaaaaand — Lynch!”
Seven green blurs swept onto the field; Harry spun a small dial on the side of his Omnioculars and slowed the players down enough to read the word “Firebolt” on each of their brooms and see their names, embroidered in silver, upon their backs.
“And here, all the way from Egypt, our referee, acclaimed Chairwizard of the International Association of Quidditch, Hassan Mostafa!”
"He vas a terrible ref," Krum scoffed.
A small and skinny wizard, completely bald bar a mustache, wearing robes of pure gold to match the stadium, strode out onto the field. A silver whistle was protruding from under the mustache, and he was carrying a large wooden crate under one arm, his broomstick under the other. Mostafa mounted his broomstick and kicked the crate open — four balls burst into the air: the scarlet Quaffle, the two black Bludgers, and the minuscule, winged Golden Snitch. With a sharp blast on his whistle, Mostafa shot into the air after the balls.
"Here we go!" James, Marlene, Barty, and Evan shot up.
"Should we spoil it for them?" Fred whispered.
"Don't you dare!" Marlene threw a pillow at him.
“Theeeeeeeey’re OFF!” screamed Bagman. “And it’s Mullet! Troy! Moran! Dimitrov! Back to Mullet! Troy! Levski! Moran!”
The speed of the players was incredible — the Chasers were throwing the Quaffle to one another so fast that Bagman only had time to say their names. “TROY SCORES!” roared Bagman, and the stadium shuddered with a roar of applause and cheers. “Ten zero to Ireland!”
Seamus and the other Ireland supporters erupted into cheers.
“What?” Harry yelled, looking wildly around through his Omnioculars. “But Levski’s got the Quaffle!”
"Stupid boys," Dean shook his head.
“Harry, if you’re not going to watch at normal speed, you’re going to miss things!” shouted Hermione, who was dancing up and down, waving her arms in the air while Troy did a lap of honor around the field. The leprechauns watching from the sidelines had all risen into the air again and formed the great, glittering shamrock. Across the field, the veela were watching them sulkily.
"Watching the veela and leprechauns was a thousand times more entertaining than watching the game," Enola whispered to Theo.
The Irish Chasers were superb. They worked as a seamless team, their movements so well coordinated that they appeared to be reading one another’s minds as they positioned themselves, and the rosette on Harry’s chest kept squeaking their names: “Troy — Mullet — Moran!” Within ten minutes, Ireland had scored twice more, bringing their lead to thirty-zero and causing a thunderous tide of roars and applause from the green-clad supporters.
The match became still faster, but more brutal. Volkov and Vulchanov, the Bulgarian Beaters, were whacking the Bludgers as fiercely as possible at the Irish Chasers, and were starting to prevent them from using some of their best moves; twice they were forced to scatter, and then, finally, Ivanova managed to break through their ranks; dodge the Keeper, Ryan; and score Bulgaria’s first goal.
"Wouldn't be Quidditch if someone didn't almost die in a game. Most of the time that person is Harry, but the point stands," Oliver grinned.
“Fingers in your ears!” bellowed Mr. Weasley as the veela started to dance in celebration. After a few seconds, the veela stopped dancing, and Bulgaria was again in possession of the Quaffle.
“Dimitrov! Levski! Dimitrov! Ivanova — oh I say!” roared Bagman.
"What now?" Marlene bounced in her seat.
One hundred thousand wizards gasped as the two Seekers, Krum and Lynch, plummeted through the center of the Chasers insanely fast.
"Have they seen the snitch?" Neville asked.
"No, it can't end this early, that's rubbish," Frank leaned forward.
“They’re going to crash!” screamed Hermione. At the very last second, Krum pulled out of the dive and spiraled off. Lynch, however, hit the ground with a dull thud that could be heard throughout the stadium. A huge groan rose from the Irish seats.
“Fool!” moaned Mr. Weasley. “Krum was feinting!”
“It’s time-out!” yelled Bagman’s voice, “as trained mediwizards hurry onto the field to examine Aidan Lynch!”
"He'll be fine, he's still got his bones," Harry waved a hand, and Enola snorted.
“He’ll be okay, he only got ploughed!” Charlie said reassuringly to Ginny, who was hanging over the side of the box, looking horror-struck. “Which is what Krum was after, of course...”
Krum was now circling high above Lynch, who was being revived by mediwizards with cups of potion. He was using the time while Lynch was revived to look for the Snitch without interference.
"Clever move," Charlie nodded.
Lynch got to his feet at last, to loud cheers from the green-clad supporters, mounted his Firebolt, and kicked back off into the air. His revival seemed to give Ireland new heart. When Mostafa blew his whistle again, the Chasers moved into action with a skill unrivaled by anything thus far. After fifteen more minutes, Ireland had pulled ahead by ten more goals. They were now leading by one hundred and thirty points to ten, and the game was starting to get dirtier.
As Mullet shot toward the goal posts yet again, clutching the Quaffle tightly under her arm, the Bulgarian Keeper, Zograf, flew out to meet her. Whatever happened was over quickly followed by a scream of rage from the Irish crowd and Mostafa’s long, shrill whistle blast. “And Mostafa takes the Bulgarian Keeper to task for cobbing — excessive use of elbows!” Bagman informed the roaring spectators. “And — yes, it’s a penalty to Ireland!”
The leprechauns, who had risen angrily into the air like a swarm of glittering hornets when Mullet had been fouled, now darted together to form the words “HA, HA, HA!”
"Here we go," Enola grinned, remembering how entertaining this next part was.
The veela on the other side of the field leapt to their feet, tossed their hair angrily, and started to dance again. As one, the Weasley boys and Harry stuffed their fingers into their ears, but Hermione tugged on Harry’s arm. He turned to look at her, and she pulled his fingers impatiently out of his ears.
“Look at the referee!” she said, giggling. Mostafa had landed right in front of the dancing veela, was flexing his muscles and smoothing his mustache excitedly.
"How embarrassing," Halley giggled.
“Now, we can’t have that!” said Ludo Bagman, sounding highly amused. “Somebody slap the referee!” A mediwizard came tearing across the field, his fingers stuffed into his own ears, and kicked Mostafa hard in the shins.
"So...that's assault," Justin said.
"How else did you expect them to snap him out of it?" Ernie asked.
"Plugging his ears? Like, that clearly works for everyone else. Or telling the veela to stop dancing? Literally anything other than assault," Justin repeated.
Mostafa seemed to come to himself, looking exceptionally embarrassed and began shouting at the veela, who had stopped dancing and were looking mutinous.
"Oh dear," Fleur rested her head in her hands.
“And unless I’m much mistaken, Mostafa is actually attempting to send off the Bulgarian team mascots!” said Bagman’s voice. “Now there’s something we haven’t seen before...Oh this could turn nasty...”
The Bulgarian Beaters, Volkov and Vulchanov, landed on either side of Mostafa and began arguing furiously with him, gesticulating toward the leprechauns, who had now gleefully formed the words “HEE, HEE, HEE.” Mostafa was not impressed by the Bulgarians’ arguments, however; he was jabbing his finger into the air, clearly telling them to get flying again, and when they refused, he gave two short blasts on his whistle.
“Two penalties for Ireland!” shouted Bagman, and the Bulgarian crowd howled with anger. “And Volkov and Vulchanov had better get back on those brooms...yes...there they go...and Troy takes the Quaffle...”
"This is so stupid," Enola rolled her eyes.
Play now reached a level of ferocity beyond anything they had yet seen. The Beaters on both sides were acting without mercy: Volkov and Vulchanov in particular seemed not to care whether their clubs made contact with Bludger or human as they swung them violently through the air. Dimitrov shot straight at Moran, who had the Quaffle, nearly knocking her off her broom.
“Foul!” roared the Irish supporters as one, all standing up in a great wave of green.
“Foul!” echoed Ludo Bagman’s magically magnified voice. “Dimitrov skins Moran — deliberately flying to collide there — and it’s got to be another penalty — yes, there’s the whistle!”
"Boys are so stupid - they're practically giving away goals with these penalties," Angelina shook her head.
The leprechauns had risen into the air again, and this time, they formed a giant hand, pulling the finger at the veela across the field. At this, the veela lost control. They launched themselves across the field and began throwing what seemed to be handfuls of fire at the leprechauns.
"You can do that? I want to be a veela!" Marlene threw herself against the couch cushions.
"You are aware you have a magic wand that can 'bibbity bobbity boo' fire into existence, right?" Ginny reminded her.
"Just let me have this," Marlene shook her head.
They didn’t look remotely beautiful now; their faces were elongating into sharp, cruel-beaked bird heads, and long, scaly wings were bursting from their shoulders.
“And that, boys,” yelled Mr. Weasley over the tumult of the crowd below, “is why you should never go for looks alone!”
"I-sure, let's go with that," Maliana shook her head.
Ministry wizards were flooding onto the field to separate the veela and the leprechauns, but with little success; meanwhile, the pitched battle below was nothing to the one taking place above. The Quaffle changed hands with the speed of a bullet. “Levski — Dimitrov — Moran — Troy — Mullet — Ivanova — Moran again — Moran — MORAN SCORES!”
"To be so honest, I completely forgot about the game with this whole drama," Halley gestured to the veela and leprechauns.
But the cheers of the Irish supporters were barely heard over the shrieks of the veela, the blasts now issuing from the Ministry members’ wands, and the furious roars of the Bulgarians. The game recommenced immediately; now Levski had the Quaffle, now Dimitrov.
The Irish Beater Quigley swung heavily at a passing Bludger, and hit it as hard as possible toward Krum, who did not duck quickly enough. It hit him full in the face. There was a deafening groan from the crowd; Krum’s nose looked broken, there was blood everywhere, but Mostafa didn’t blow his whistle.
"Oh bloody hell - how is this even fair!?" James threw his hands in the air.
He had become distracted; one of the veela had thrown a handful of fire and set his broom tail alight. Ron threw his hands in the air. “Time-out! Ah, come on, he can’t play like that, look at him-”
"I agree," Seamus admitted.
“Look at Lynch!” Harry yelled. For the Irish Seeker had suddenly gone into a dive. “He’s seen the Snitch!” Harry shouted. “He’s seen it! Look at him go!”
Half the crowd seemed to have realized what was happening; the Irish supporters rose in another great wave of green, screaming their Seeker on...but Krum was on his tail. There were flecks of blood flying through the air behind him, but he was drawing level with Lynch now as the pair of them hurtled toward the ground again.
“They’re going to crash!” shrieked Hermione.
“They’re not!” roared Ron.
“Lynch is!” yelled Harry. For the second time, Lynch hit the ground with tremendous force and was immediately stampeded by a horde of angry veela.
"Foul! Mascots shouldn't be allowed to attack players!" Seamus argued.
"This match descended way past fair a long time ago, Shay," Dean shook his head.
“The Snitch, where’s the Snitch?” bellowed Charlie, along the row.
“He’s got it — Krum’s got it — it’s all over!” shouted Harry.
Krum, his red robes shining with blood from his nose, was rising gently into the air, his fist held high, a glint of gold in his hand. The scoreboard was flashing BULGARIA: 160, IRELAND: 170 across the crowd, who didn’t seem to have realized what had happened. Then, slowly, as though a great jumbo jet were revving up, the rumbling from the Ireland supporters grew louder and louder and erupted into screams of delight.
“IRELAND WINS!” Bagman shouted, who like the Irish, seemed to be taken aback by the sudden end of the match. “KRUM GETS THE SNITCH — BUT IRELAND WINS — good lord, I don’t think any of us were expecting that!”
"HEM HEM!" Fred and George cleared their throats in a very good impersonation of Umbitch.
"I don't think any of us were expecting that except for George and Fred!" James rephrased.
“What did he catch the Snitch for?” Ron bellowed, even as he jumped up and down, applauding with his hands over his head. “He ended it when Ireland were a hundred and sixty points ahead, the idiot!”
"It's pretty hard to focus on maths when you're in this-" Harry gestured to the screen.
“He knew they were never going to catch up!” Harry shouted back over all the noise, also applauding loudly. “The Irish Chasers were too good... He wanted to end it on his terms, that’s all...”
“He was very brave, wasn’t he?” Hermione said, leaning forward to watch Krum land as a swarm of mediwizards blasted a path through the battling leprechauns and veela to get to him. “He looks a terrible mess...”
Leprechauns were zooming delightedly all over the field. Krum was surrounded by mediwizards, looking surlier than ever and refusing to let them mop him up. His team members were around him, shaking their heads and looking dejected; a short way away, the Irish players were dancing gleefully in a shower of gold descending from their mascots. Flags were waving all over the stadium, the Irish national anthem blared from all sides; the veela were shrinking back into their usual, beautiful selves now, though looking dispirited and forlorn.
"At least that's over," Enola breathed.
“Vell, ve fought bravely,” said a gloomy voice behind Harry. He looked around; it was the Bulgarian Minister of Magic.
"Wait, they can speak English?" Dean blinked.
“You can speak English!” said Fudge, sounding outraged. “And you’ve been letting me mime everything all day!”
“Vell, it vos very funny,” said the Bulgarian minister, shrugging.
"I try, but I can never be as funny as the Bulgarians during the summer of '94," Fred shook his head sadly.
"Peak comedy," George nodded.
“And as the Irish team performs a lap of honor, flanked by their mascots, the Quidditch World Cup itself is brought into the Top Box!” roared Bagman. The Top Box was magically illuminated so that everyone in the stands could see the inside. Two panting wizards carried a vast golden cup into the box, which they handed to Cornelius Fudge, who was still looking very disgruntled.
“Let’s have a really loud hand for the gallant losers — Bulgaria!” Bagman shouted. And up the stairs into the box came the seven defeated Bulgarian players. The crowd below was applauding appreciatively.
One by one, the Bulgarians filed between the rows of seats in the box, and Bagman called out the name of each as they shook hands with their own minister and then with Fudge. Krum, who was last in line, looked a real mess. Two black eyes were blooming spectacularly on his bloody face. He was still holding the Snitch. When Krum’s name was announced, the whole stadium gave him a resounding, earsplitting roar.
And then came the Irish team. Aidan Lynch was being supported by Moran and Connolly; the second crash seemed to have dazed him and his eyes looked strangely unfocused. But he grinned happily as Troy and Quigley lifted the Cup into the air and the crowd below thundered its approval. Harry’s hands were numb with clapping.
At last, when the Irish team had left the box to perform another lap of honor on their brooms, Bagman pointed his wand at his throat and muttered, “'Quietus.' They’ll be talking about this one for years,” he said hoarsely, “a really unexpected twist, that...shame it couldn’t have lasted longer...ah yes...yes, I owe you...how much?”
"Yeah, I expect they'll be talking about the raging players and the warring mascots," Sherlock corrected
For Fred and George had just scrambled over the backs of their seats and were standing in front of Ludo Bagman with broad grins on their faces, their hands outstretched.
"Like I said," Pandora turned to the twins. "Anyone with a drop of Seer blood can make a prediction. Your brother may have more, but that doesn't mean you have nought."
"That doesn't mean start a gambling career, remember that happened last time?" Ron reminded them.