Disclaimer: Why? Why? Why?

Chapter Twenty-One
The Quidditch World Cup

Lizzie's POV
The Stadium

Hanging onto our souvenirs, we followed Mr. Weasley into the woods, following the lantern-lit trail. We could hear thousands of people moving around, shouts of laughter, bits of singing. The atmosphere of zealous excitement, was extremely infectious. I couldn't stop smiling. We walked through the wood for twenty minutes, talking and joking very loudly, until we came to the other side, and we found ourselves in front of a gigantic gold stadium.

"Seats a hundred thousand," Mr. Weasley informed us. "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 to the nearest entrance, which was surrounded by a group of shouting witches and wizards.

"Prime seats!" exclaimed the Ministry witch at the entrance, when she checked our tickets. "Top Box! Straight upstairs, Arthur, and as high as you can go."

The stairs in the stadium were covered with purple carpet. We climbed up with the rest of the crowd, who slowly filtered away through doors into stands on our left and right. Our group, however kept climbing, and finally reached the top of the staircase, and found ourselves in a small box, set at the highest point, and situated exactly halfway between the goalposts. About twenty-five purple and gilt chairs stood in two rows. Strange how the front had fifteen chairs, I thought as we filed into the front row. I looked down.

A hundred thousand witches and wizards were taking their seats. Everything was lit with a golden light that seemed to have come from the stadium itself. Opposite of us was a gigantic blackboard. Gold writing kept dashing across it, flashing advertisements across the pitch.

The Bluebottle: A Broom for All the Family– safe, reliable, and with In-built Anti-Burglar Buzzer… Mrs. Skower's All-Purpose Magical Mess-Remover: No Pain, No Stain… Gladrags Wizardwear– London, Paris, Hogsmeade

The box was empty except for us, and a house-elf, who was sitting in the back row, the second seat from the end, with its eyes covered.

"Dobby?" I heard Harry ask incredulously. I looked behind me. The house-elf had looked up, and parted its finger's enough to see. Its eyes were brown, and its nose was the same size, and looked like a tomato. It wasn't Dobby though.

"Did sir just call me Dobby?" the elf asked curiously. Its voice was higher than Dobby's, and it was probably a female. Ron and Hermione had turned around, and so had Mr. Weasley.

"Sorry, I just thought you were someone I knew," Harry told the elf.

"But I knows Dobby too, sir!" she squeaked. "My name is Winky, sir– and you, sir– you is surely Harry Potter!"

"Yeah, I am," Harry replied.

"But Dobby talks of you all the time, sir!" she said.

"How is he? How is freedom suiting him?" Harry asked.

"Ah, sir, ah, sir, meaning no disrespect, sir, but I is not sure you did Dobby a favour, sir, when you is setting him free," Winky said.

"Why?" Harry asked. "What's wrong with him?"

"Freedom is going to Dobby's head, sir," Winky said sadly. "Ideas above his station, sir. Can't get another position, sir."

"Why not?" Harry inquired.

Winky lowered her voice by half an octave, and whispered, "He is wanting paying for his work, sir."

"Paying?" Harry repeated blankly. "Well– why shouldn't he be paid?"

"House-elves is not paid, sir!" Winky said. "No, no, no. I say 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 of 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."

"Well, it's about time he had a bit of fun," Harry said.

"House-elves is not supposed to have fun, Harry Potter," Winky said firmly. "House-elves does what they is told. I is not liking heights at all, Harry Potter, but my master sends me to the Top Box, and I comes, sir."

"Why's he sent you up here, if he knows you don't like heights?" Harry asked.

"Master– master wants me to save him a seat, Harry Potter, he is very busy," Winky said. "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."

"That's a house-elf?" Henri said to me. "Sorta strange creatures, aren't they?"

"There're a lot of strange things in the world," I said. "Now, let's see if we can't find Rhiannon and Sirius with these Omnioculars."

We lifted our Omnioculars to our eyes and began looking through the crowd.

"D'you know where he is, Mum?" I asked.

"No, but I imagine he's about as high as us."

Henri and I continued to scan the crowd. We saw familiar faces from school, but no Rhiannon.

"Ugh… there's a bloke down there, picking his nose," Henri said, disgusted. She moved her Omnioculars away randomly. "Hey! I found her!"

"Where?" I asked.

"Over there," Henri said, putting hers down, and pointed.

"Oh… how do we get her attention?" I asked.

"I dunno… oh! She's looking at us!" Henri said, putting down her Omnioculars, and waved at Rhiannon. I did too, and so did Ginny and Mum. Then Rhiannon and Sirius were waving at us.

"'A display from the team mascots will precede the match'," Hermione read aloud from her programme.

"Oh, that's always worth watching," Mr. Weasley said. "National teams bring creatures from their native land, you know, to put on a bit of a show."

The box slowly filled around us for the next half hour. Mum and Mr. Weasley kept shaking hands with very important wizards. Percy kept jumping to his feet so often, one might've thought he was sitting on something sharp. Then Cornelius Fudge, the Minister for Magic himself, entered. Percy bowed so low, that his glasses fell off, and shattered. He repaired them with his wand, and remained in his seat from then on, throwing jealous looks at Harry, whom Fudge had greeted like an old friend. Fudge introduced Harry to the wizards on either side of him.

"Harry Potter, you know," he said loudly to the Bulgarian Minister. "Harry Potter… oh, come on now, you know who he is… the boy who survived You-Know-Who… you do know who he is–"

He suddenly spotted Harry's scar, and started babbling loudly, and excitedly, pointing at it.

"Knew we'd get there in the end," Fudge said wearily. "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!"

I turned, so did Harry, Ron, Hermione, Mum, and Henri. Edging along the second row to three empty seats behind Mr. Weasley were none other than the Malfoys. Lucius Malfoy, Malfoy, and a woman who was probably Narcissa. She was tall and slim with blonde hair.

"Ah, Fudge," Mr. Malfoy said, holding his hand out as he reached for the Minister. "How are you? I don't think you've met my wife, Narcissa? Or our son, Draco?"

"How do you do, how do you do?" Fudge said smiling, and bowing to Mrs. Malfoy. "And allow me to introduce you to Mr. Oblansk– Oblonsk– Mr.– well, he's the Bulgarian Minister for 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, and Lily Potter, I daresay?"

It was a tense moment. Mr. Weasley and Mr. Malfoy stared at each other. The last time they had met, it had come to a fight in Flourish and Blotts. Mr. Malfoy sneered at Mum, before his eyes swept 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 hadn't been 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," Mr. Weasley said.

Mr. Malfoy glared at Henri, who glared back, before his eyes returned to Hermione. She stared determinedly back at him. Mr. Malfoy sneered at Mr. Weasley one more time before continuing to his seats.

"I'll bet he's not pleased to find himself sharing the Top Box with three Muggle-borns," Henri said as we turned to face the pitch. "Gits."

Next second, Bagman came into the box.

"Everyone ready?" he asked. "Minister– ready to go?"

"Ready when you are, Ludo," Fudge responded.

"Sonorus," Bagman said. His voice was now magically magnified. "Ladies and gentlemen… welcome! Welcome to the final of the one hundred and thirty-first Quidditch World Cup!"

Everyone clapped and screamed. Thousands of flags waved, adding their national anthems to the noise. The blackboard opposite us wiped clear its last message, and now read BULGARIA: ZERO, IRELAND: ZERO.

"And now, without further ado, allow me to introduce… the Bulgarian Team Mascots!"

The right-hand side of the stands, which was a solid wall of scarlet, roared its approval.

"I wonder what they've brought?" Mr. Weasley said, leaning forwards in his seat. "Aaah!" He suddenly whipped off his glasses, and polished them on his robes. "Veela!"

"What are Veel–?" Harry began to ask, but his question was answered as a hundred Veela glided onto the pitch. They were women, very beautiful women, and I was quite sure they weren't human. Their hair was white-gold, and their skin seemed to shine. Music started, and the Veela began to dance.

"Look at your brother," Henri giggled, from next to me. Harry was standing up, and one of his legs was resting on the wall of the box. Ron too, was standing up, though he looked like he was about to dive off of a launch pad.

"Harry, what are you doing?" Hermione asked him.

Mum snorted, she had her Omnioculars where Sirius was sitting. "He should know better when Rhiannon's with him. Look at Sirius," Mum said. Henri and I did– I almost burst out laughing.

He had his shirt off, and looked as though he was about to do the same thing Harry and Ron were. I could see Rhiannon yelling, 'DAD! What in the name of Merlin are you doing?' but, he was ignoring her. She finally smacked him on the upside of the head, and threw his shirt at him.

The music had stopped, and the Veela had left, and angry yells filled the stadium.

"And now," Bagman roared, "kindly put your wands in the air… for the Irish National Team Mascots!"

A great green and gold comet zoomed into the stadium. It did a circuit around the stadium before splitting into two smaller comets. Each hurtled towards the goalposts. A rainbow arced suddenly, connecting the two comets. The crowd 'oooohed' and 'aaaaahed.' The rainbow had faded, and the two comets merged; they formed a great, glittering shamrock, which rose into the sky, and began to fly over the stands. Gold coins fell from it. I looked up at the shamrock– it was composed of thousands of tiny men wearing red waistcoats, each carrying a small lamp of gold or green.

"Excellent!" Ron yelled.

"Leprechauns!" Mr. Weasley shouted over the tumultuous applause of the crowd. Some still scrambling to get the gold.

Henri grabbed some, but I hit them out of her hands.

"Lizzie, what's your problem?" she asked.

"It's leprechaun gold," I said.

"Oh, right. It vanishes after a few hours," she said dejectedly.

The shamrock dissolved, the leprechauns drifted down to the pitch on the opposite side of the Veela, and sat cross-legged to watch the match

"And now, ladies and gentlemen, kindly welcome– the Bulgarian National Quidditch Team! I give you– Dimitrov!"

A blurred scarlet figure on a broomstick, shot onto the pitch from an entrance far below, to the applause from the Bulgarian supporters.

"Ivanova!"

A second scarlet player zoomed out.

"Zograf! Levski! Vulchanov! Volkov! Aaaaaaand– Krum!"

"That's him, that's him!" Ron shouted.

"And now, please greet– the Irish National Quidditch Team!" Bagman yelled. "Presenting– Connolly! Ryan! Troy! Mullet! Moran! Quigley! Aaaaaand– Lynch!"

Seven green blurs streaked onto the pitch.

"And here, all the way from Egypt, our referee, acclaimed Chairwizard of the International Association of Quidditch, Hassan Mostafa!"

A small and skinny wizard came onto the pitch, he wore robes of pure gold, matching the stadium. He was carrying a large, wooden crate under one arm, and his broomstick under the other. Mostafa mounted his broom, and kicked the crate opened. The four Quidditch balls burst into the air. I saw the Snitch for a fraction of a second before it disappeared. With a sharp blast of a whistle, Mostafa flew after the balls.

"Theeeeeeeey're OFF!" Bagman screamed. "And it's Mullet! Troy! Moran! Dimitrov! Back to Mullet! Levski! Moran!"

The Chasers were throwing the Quaffle so fast to each other, that Bagman only had time to say their names.

"Troy! Moran! Levski! Mullet! Troy! TROY SCORES!" Bagman roared, and the stadium shook with applause and cheers. "Ten-zero to Ireland!"

"What?" Harry yelled. "But Levski's got the Quaffle!"

"Harry, if you're not going to watch at normal speed, you're going to miss things!" Hermione shouted, who was dancing up and down, waving her arms in the air while Troy did a lap of honour. The leprechauns were back in the air again, and formed the great, glittering shamrock again. The Veela were watching them sulkily.

Ireland Chasers were brilliant. They seemed to read each other's minds by the way they positioned themselves, and the rosette on my chest kept squeaking their names: 'Troy– Mullet– Moran!' And within ten minutes, Ireland had scored twice more, bringing their lead to thirty-zero, causing a deafening tide of roars and applause from the Irish supporters.

The match became even faster, but more brutal. Volkov and Vulchanov, the Bulgarian Beaters, were belting the Bludgers as fiercely as possible at the Irish Chasers, and were staring to prevent them from using their best moves. Twice, they were forced to scatter, and then, finally, Ivanova managed to break through, dodge the Keeper, Ryan, and score Bulgaria's first goal.

"Fingers in your ears!" Mr. Weasley bellowed as the Veela started dancing in celebration. After a few seconds, the Veela had stopped dancing, and Bulgaria was in possession of the Quaffle.

"Dimitrov! Levski! Dimitrov! Ivanova– oh, I say!" Bagman roared.

One hundred thousand witches and wizards gasped as the two Seekers Krum and Lynch, plummeted through the centre of the Chasers extremely fast. I looked to see where the Snitch was.

"They're going to crash!" Hermione and Henri screamed together.

"There's no Snitch! Only Lynch is!" I shouted.

I was right. At the very last second, Krum pulled out of the dive, and spiralled off, while Lynch hit the ground with a dull thud. A groan emitted from every Irish supporter.

"Fool," Mr. Weasley moaned. "Krum was feinting."

"It's time out!" yelled Bagman. "As trained mediwizards hurry onto the pitch to examine Aidan Lynch!"

"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…"

"Anyone want to explain what just happened?" Henri asked.

"It's a Seeker diversion called Wronski Feint. You attempt to fool your opponent into thinking you have seen the Snitch, and hopefully, they'll do what Lynch did, and crash," I explained. "Krum was feinting the entire time."

"Which explains why you yelled there's no Snitch. Can you do the Wronski Feint, then?" Henri asked.

"Yeah."

"After breaking your nose three times, and your arm twice," Emma added.

"Shut up, Em," I snapped. "Still better than Harry. He can't do it at all."

"That's 'cause you freaked him out when your nose and arm were broken at the same time," Sarah said.

"Girls, be nice," Mum chastised. "Your father couldn't do that move, either."

"Yes, well, Dad played Chaser, didn't he?" I said, though secretly proud I alone could only pull off this move.

Krum was high above the pitch, searching, while the mediwizards revived Lynch with cups of potion.

"Will he be all right?" Henri asked, her Omnioculars trained on Lynch.

"In the two years you have been in the wizarding world, have we ever given you any reason not to trust our healing capabilities?" I asked.

"No," she answered.

"Why would we start now?" I asked as Lynch got to his feet to loud cheers from the green-clad supporters. He mounted his Firebolt, and rose into the air. His revival seemed to give Ireland new spirit. When the referee blew his whistle, the Chasers moved into action with a skill unparalleled by anything I've ever seen.

After fifteen furious minutes, Ireland had scored ten more times, bringing the score to one hundred and thirty to ten. The game was starting to get dirtier.

As Mullet shot towards the goalposts yet again, the Bulgarian Keeper, Zograf shot out to meet her. What happened so quickly, I barely caught. I saw cobbing, followed by a scream of rage from the Irish supporters, and Mostafa blew his whistle.

"What did I miss?" Henri asked.

"It's a foul," I answered.

"I knew that," she snapped, "but what happened to make it 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 when Mullet had been fouled, now had form the words, 'HA HA HA!'. The Veela leapt to their feet, tossed their angrily, and started dancing.

As one, the Weasley boys and Harry stuffed their fingers in their ears. Hermione, along with us, hadn't bothered, and began tugging on Harry's arm.

"Look at the referee," she said, giggling with us.

Mostafa had landed right in front of the dancing Veela, and was behaving very strangely. He was flexing his muscles and smoothing his moustache.

"Now, we can't have that!" Bagman said, sounding amused. "Somebody slap the referee!"

A mediwizards came running across the pitch, his fingers stuffed in his own ears, and kicked Mostafa in the shins. He seemed to come to himself. He looked very embarrassed, and was shouting at the Veela. They stopped dancing, and were looking mutinous.

"And unless I'm much mistaken, Mostafa is actually attempting to send off the Bulgarian Team Mascots. Now there's something we haven't seen before… oh, this could turn nasty…" Bagman said.

And, it did. Big surprise. It's what you expect at a Quidditch match, isn't it? 'Specially when it's Gryffindor versus Slytherin. Or the Wasps versus the Arrows. Anyway, the Bulgarian Beaters –Volkov and Vulchanov– landed on either side of Mostafa, and began to argue, gesturing at the leprechauns, who now had formed the 'HEE HEE HEE' cheerfully. Mostafa wasn't pleased with their arguments; he was jabbing his finger into the air, obviously telling them to get back into the air, and when they refused, he gave to two short blasts on his whistle.

"Two penalties for Ireland!" Bagman shouted, and the Bulgarian crowd hollered in anger. "And Volkov and Vulchanov had better get back on those brooms… yes… there they go… and Troy takes the Quaffle…"

The match reached a ferociousness beyond anything we had seen today. The Beaters on both sides showed no mercy: Volkov and Vulchanov particularly, seemed not to mind if their bats hit Bludger or human. Dimitrov shot towards Moran, who had the Quaffle, nearly knocking her off her broom.

"Foul!" the Irish supporters roared as one (us in the Top Box too, even the Malfoys…unfortunately), all standing in a wave of green.

"Foul!" Bagman echoed. "Dimitrov skins Moran –deliberately flying to collide there– and it's got to be another penalty– yes, there's the whistle!"

The leprechauns were in the air again; this time, they had formed a giant hand, and were giving the Veela the finger. Needless to say, the Veela lost control. They ran across the pitch, and began throwing what appeared to be handfuls of fire at the leprechauns. The Veela didn't look beautiful now, au contraire, their faces were lengthening into sharp, brutal-beaked bird heads, and long, scaly wings bursting from their shoulders.

"And that, boys," Mr. Weasley yelled over the crowd, "is why you should never go for looks alone!"

Ministry wizards were streaming onto the pitch below to separate the Veela and the leprechauns, but with little success. Meanwhile, that battle was nothing compared to the one above it. We turned this way and that, watching as the Quaffle was passed at the speed of light–

"Levski– Dimitrov– Moran– Troy– Mullet– Ivanova– Moran again– Moran– MORAN SCORES!"

But our cheers weren't heard over –oh, I don't know– the shrieks of Veela, the blasts now issuing from the Ministry's wands, and the furious roars of the Bulgarians. The game continued immediately. Levski had the Quaffle, then Dimitrov–

Irish Beater Quigley swung at a passing Bludger, and hit it towards Krum. He didn't duck quick enough. It hit him hard in the face.

There was a deafening groan from the crowd. Krum's nose looked broken, but the referee hadn't blown his whistle. I couldn't blame him, he had become distracted. One of the Veela had thrown fire, and set his broomtail on fire.

"Shouldn't they call for time out?" Henri asked. "He can't seriously play like that, can he? I mean, his nose is broke–"

"Look at Lynch!" Harry and I shouted.

The Irish Seeker had suddenly gone into a dive. This was no Wronski Feint –why would he need to? Krum's already injured– this was the real thing.

"He's seen it! He's seen it! He's the Snitch! Look at him go!" I yelled excitedly.

Half the crowd seemed to have realised what was happening, the Irish supporters rose, screaming their Seeker on… but Krum was catching up. How he could see, I had no idea. Flecks of blood were trailing the air behind him, as he and Lynch hurtled towards the ground again–

"They're going to crash!" Hermione and Henri shrieked.

"They're not!" Ron shouted.

"Lynch is!" Harry and I yelled.

And we were right– Lynch hit the ground with tremendous force, and was immediately stampeding on by an angry group of Veela.

"The Snitch, where's the Snitch?" Charlie bellowed.

"He's got it –Krum's got it– it's all over!" Harry shouted.

Krum, his red robes covered in blood, was rising slowly into the air, his fest held above his head, clutching the Snitch.

The scoreboard was flashing BULGARIA: ONE HUNDRED AND SIXTY, IRELAND: ONE HUNDRED AND SEVENTY across the crowd, who didn't seem to realise what had happened. Slowly, the cheers from the Ireland supporters grew louder and louder and changed to screams of delight.

"IRELAND WIN!" Bagman shouted, who sounded as though he was taken aback at the abrupt end. "KRUM GETS THE SNITCH –BUT IRELAND WIN– good Lord, I don't think any of us were expecting that!"

"What did he catch the Snitch for?" Ron bellowed, even though he was jumping up and down and applauding with his hands over his head. "He ended it when Ireland were a hundred and sixty points ahead, the idiot!"

"Bulgaria was never going to catch up, were they?" Henri asked. "Ireland was too good. Mind you, he was brave."

"Is Miss Henrietta developing a crush?" I asked her teasingly.

"What? No way. He's too old," she said.

"He's only eighteen," I told her.

"What?!" she exclaimed.

"Changing your mind?"

"Nope," she answered. "I'm too young for love."

The mediwizards had to battle through leprechauns and Veela to reach Krum. But now the leprechauns were zooming gleefully around the pitch. Krum refused to let the mediwizards clean him up. His team-mates were around him, looking dejected. The Irish team was dancing happily underneath a shower of gold provided by their mascots. The Irish national anthem came from all sides as the flags were waved. The Veela were beautiful once again, though dispirited and forlorn.

"Vell, ve fought bravely," said a gloomy voice behind us. I turned around, it was the Bulgarian Minister.

"You can speak English!" Fudge exclaimed, outraged. "And you've been letting me mime everything all day!"

"Vell, it vos very funny," the Bulgarian Minister said, shrugging.

"And as the Irish team perform a lap of honour, flanked by their mascots, the Quidditch World Cup itself is brought into the Top Box!" Bagman roared.

I was suddenly blinded by a bright, white light, as the Top Box was magically illuminated so everyone else could see inside. Shielding my eyes, I turned towards the entrance where two panting wizards carried into the box a vast, golden cup, which they handed to Fudge, who still looked annoyed that he'd been using sign language all day for nothing.

"Let's have a hand for the gallant losers– Bulgaria!" Bagman shouted.

The seven defeated Bulgarian players came into the Top Box. The crowd applauded politely. Omnioculars flashed in our direction.

They filed between the rows of seats, and Bagman called their names out as the shook hands with their own Minister, and then Fudge. Last in line was Krum, and he looked like a real mess. Two black eyes were beginning to show on his bloody face. When Krum's name was called, the entire stadium gave him an ear-splitting roar.

And then the Irish team came next. Lynch was being supported by Connolly and Moran, he seemed dazed. His eyes seemed unfocused, but he smiled happily as Troy and Quigley lifted the Cup into the air, and the crowd bellowed their approval. My hands were starting to hurt from clapping so much.

When the Irish team had left the box to do another lap of honour on their brooms (Lynch on the back of Connolly's), Bagman pointed his wand as 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?"

Fred and George had just climbed over their seats and where standing in front of Bagman with huge grins on their faces, and their hands outstretched.

Author's Note: I know in the book it says the four hundred and twenty-second World Cup, but if you look in Quidditch Through The Ages, it says the World Cup is held every four years, which makes one hundred and thirty-first right, technically.