I don't own it. If I did, then I certainly wouldn't be still living with my parents, and owning almost nothing. Yeah. Also, this is the first time I'm posting on this site, and I admit, I took the whole chapter from the book and just changed the POV. Also, the Quidditch World Cup ends different. As in, no Death Eater attack. There's a small mention of child abuse, so if you don't like, DONT READ. Please reveiw, follow, and favorite this story!
I see Lucius walking toward us, angry. Tony, Lynch, and Moran step in front of us.
Twelve hours before
The Quidditch World Cup. Ireland vs Bulgarian. I was the Ireland team reserve Seeker. The real one was Lynch. I was sitting with the other reserves, Luke Cameron, Jade Radar, and four others. I started looking for my family. I saw the Weasley's, and the Minister, and three empty seats in the second row.
Then, edging along the second row to three still-empty seats right behind Mr. Weasley, were none other than Lucius Malfoy; my brother, Draco; and my mother; Narcissa. I look nothing like my parents, with light brown hair and blue eyes, while Draco took after Lucius, pale with a pointed face and white-blond hair. Mother was blonde too; tall and slim, and she had a scowl on her face. She doesn't like me flying.
I see Lucius holding out his hand as he reached the Minister of Magic. Then, the minister smiles and bows to Mother. They talk for a bit, and there was a tense moment. Mr. Weasley and Malfoy looked at each other, Malfoy's cold gray eyes swept over Mr. Weasley, and then up and down the row. Mr. Weasley gave a very strained smile.
Malfoy's eyes had moved from Mr. Weasley to a girl with kinda bushy hair, who went slightly pink, but stared back at him. Malfoy nodded sneeringly to Mr. Weasley and continued down the line to his seats. Draco shot a dark haired boy, Ron, and the girl a sneer (which I know was fake), then settled himself between mother and Malfoy.
Next moment, Ludo Bagman charged into the box.
Ludo whipped out his wand, directed it at his own throat, 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 was free of its last message (which was Bertie Bott's Every Flavor Beans - A Risk With Every Mouthful!) and now showed BULGARIA: 0, IRELAND: 0.
"And now, without further ado, allow me to introduce. . . the Bulgarian National Team Mascots!"
The right-hand side of the stands, which was solid scarlet, screamed its approval.
A hundred veela were drifting out onto the field. The veela had started to dance, and I knew many minds had gone completely and blissfully blank. All that mattered in the world was that they kept watching the veela, because if they stopped dancing, terrible things would happen. I didn't go for it.
"And now," came Ludo Bagman's voice, as loud as a lion, "kindly put your wands in the air. . . for the Irish National Team Mascots!"
Then, what seemed to be a great green-and-gold comet came zooming into the stadium. It did one circle of the stadium, then broke into two smaller comets, each charging toward the goal posts. A rainbow arched across the field, connecting the two balls of light. The crowd oooohed and aaaaahed, like as if it was fireworks. 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. Golden rain seemed to be falling from it - Galleons.
"Nice idea," my teammates praised me, because I had thought of it. The applause of the crowd was still happening, 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.
"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!"
I studied him through my Omnioculars, because he was the other Seeker, and I was the reserve Seeker. Viktor Krum was thin, dark, and sallow-skinned, with a large curved nose and thick black eyebrows. He looked like an overgrown raptor. It was hard to believe he was only eighteen.
"And now, please greet - the Irish National Quidditch Team!" yelled Bagman. "Presenting - Connolly! Ryan! Troy! Mullet! Moran! Quigley! Aaaaaand - Lynch!" The team shot off, seven green blurs swept onto the field. The firebolts were so fast, that it was hard to keep up, even with the Omnioculars.
"And here, all the way from Egypt, our referee, acclaimed Chairwizard of the International Association of Quidditch, Hassan Mostafa!" A small and skinny wizard, completely bald but with a mustache that looked really silly of him, 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. I watched as Mostafa mounted his broomstick and kicked the crate open, and four balls exploded into the air; the scarlet Quaffle, the two black Bludgers, and the winged Golden Snitch, small enough so that I could only see it when I squinted my eyes.
With a sharp blast on his whistle, Mostafa shot into the air after the balls. "Theeeeeeeey're OFF!" screamed Bagman. "And it's Mullet! Troy! Moran! Dimitrov! Back to Mullet! Troy! Levski! Moran!"
Chasers were throwing the Quaffle to one another so fast that Bagman only had time to say their names. I was keeping an eye out for the Snitch, while the noise of the crowd pounded against my eardrums like drums.
Our three Chasers suddenly zoom closely together, Troy in the center, slightly ahead of Mullet and Moran, racing down to the Bulgarians. Troy pretended to dart upward with the Quaffle, taking the Bulgarian Chaser Ivanova with and dropping the Quaffle to Moran. One of the Bulgarian Beaters, Volkov, swung hard at a passing Bludger with his small club, knocking it into Moran's path. I gasped, along with Jade. Moran ducked to avoid the Bludger and dropped the Quaffle; and Levski, shooting beneath, caught it and - "TROY SCORES!" roared Bagman, and the stadium shuddered with a roar of applause and cheers. "Ten zero to Ireland!" The rest of us scream. Troy did a lap of honor around the field, winking at me as he passed. I rolled my eyes at him. Always flirting with me. Then, the leprechauns watching from the sidelines had all risen into the air again and formed the huge, shimmering shamrock. Across the field, the veela were watching them sulkily.
Troy, Mullet, and Moran worked as though they had one mind, their movements so well coordinated that they appeared to be reading one another's minds as they positioned themselves. They probably were. They grew up together. And, within ten minutes, Ireland had scored twice more, bringing our lead to thirty-zero and with a thunderous wave of roars and applause from the green-clad supporters.
The match became 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. They were forced to scatter twice, and then, sadly, Ivanova managed to break through our players; dodge our Keeper, Ryan; and score Bulgaria's first goal.
The Veela started dancing. Not as many people watched, but some did. Then, Bulgaria was again in possession of the Quaffle.
"Dimitrov! Levski! Dimitrov! Ivanova - oh I say!" roared Bagman.
One hundred thousand wizards gasped as the two Seekers, Krum and Lynch, plummeted through the center of the Chasers, so fast that it looked as though they were racing cheetahs and winning. I watched intensely their ride down through the Omnioculars, squinting to see where the Snitch was - They're going to crash, I panicked, but at the very last second, Viktor Krum pulled out of the dive and circled around. Lynch, however, hit the ground with a huge thud that could be heard throughout the stadium. A huge groan rose from the Irish seats.
"It's time-out!" yelled Bagman's voice, "as trained mediwizards hurry onto the field to examine Aidan Lynch!"
Krum was now circling high above Lynch, who was being revived by mediwizards with cups of potion.
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. He then started off the field, signaling for me to shoot out. As he was leaving, they groaned, but when I came out, Ireland seemed to have a new heart.
"Annnnnnd, the reserve Seeker, Katie Malfoy is out!" Bagman's voice echoed. When Mostafa blew his whistle again, the Chasers moved into action.
After fifteen more fast and furious minutes, we had pulled ahead by ten more goals. We 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, I didn't see, as I was looking for the Snitch, but a scream of rage from the Irish crowd, and Mostafa's long, shrill whistle blast, said it had been a foul.
"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!" The veela on the other side of the field leapt to their feet, tossed their hair angrily, and started to dance again.
I looked down at the field. Hassan Mostafa had landed right in front of the dancing veela, and was acting very oddly indeed. He was flexing his muscles and smoothing his mustache excitedly.
"Now, we can't have that!" said Ludo Bagman, though he sounded 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. Mostafa seemed to come to himself; and he looked very embarrassed and had started shouting at the veela, who had stopped dancing.
"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. . ." It did: 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..." The game 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. I was looking everywhere for the Snitch. I slowly flew closer to my family. I was looking for the Snitch, and out of the corner of my eye I saw Draco wave. I smiled. Then, 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!"
The leprechauns had risen into the air again, and this time, they formed a giant hand, which was making a very rude sign indeed at the veela across the field. At this, the veela lost control. Instead of dancing, they launched themselves across the field and began throwing what looked like handfuls of fire at the leprechauns. 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 was moving a mile a minute. "Levski - Dimitrov - Moran - Troy - Mullet - Ivanova - Moran again - Moran - MORAN SCORES!"
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 started 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 Hassan Mostafa didn't blow his whistle. He had become distracted, because one of the veela had thrown a handful of fire and set his broom tail alight.
"Time-out! Ah, come on, he can't play like that, look at him -"
"Look at Katie!" Draco yelled. I had suddenly gone into a dive. Half the crowd seemed to have realized what was happening; the Irish supporters rose in another great wave of green, screaming me on. . . but Krum was on my tail. He was pulling up next to me now as we raced toward the ground-
And for the second time, and the second Seeker, I hit the ground with tremendous force and was immediately stampeded by a horde of angry veela. It felt like a group of elephants were walking on me. When the ministry wizards got the Veelas off, I saw Krum, his robes sprinkled with blood from his nose, rising gently into the air, his fist held high, a glint of gold in his hand. Troy came over to me and helped me walk over to my broom. We went up in the air, and started flying the victory laps.
Then, I got a look at the scoreboard, flashing BULGARIA: 160, IRELAND: 170 across the crowd, who didn't seem to have realized what had happened. Then, slowly, as they realized what happened, the shouts from the Ireland supporters grew louder and louder and burst 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!"
I watched Krum land as a swarm of mediwizards blasted a path through the battling leprechauns and veela to get to him. I couldn't really see, because leprechauns were zooming delightedly all over the field, so I flew lower, and saw Krum surrounded by mediwizards. He looked more sour than ever and refused to let them help him. His team members were around him, shaking their heads and looking beaten; a short way away, my team was dancing gleefully in a shower of gold raining from the 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 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 lit up so that everyone in the stands could see the inside. There were two wizards carrying a golden cup into the box, which they handed to Cornelius Fudge.
"Let's have a really loud hand for the gallant losers - Bulgaria!" Bagman shouted. And the seven defeated Bulgarian players went up to the box. 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. I was on Moran's back, and Connolly was helping Lynch, who was already up there. We grinned happily at each other as Troy and Quigley lifted the Cup into the air and the crowd below thundered its applause. At last, we had left the box to perform another lap of honor on our brooms (Lynch on the back of Connolly's, and me on Troy's).