"Over here, Arthur! Over here, son, we've got it!"
Mr. Diggory's shots woke Emile from where she was dozing beneath the tree atop a hill. They were on their way to the Quidditch World Cup. Cedric had woken her up very early that morning and the three of them had hiked out to where the portkey to the cup sat. The Weasley's were set to join them at this portkey, much to Emile's delight.
"Amos!" said Mr. Weasley, smiling as he strode over to the group.
"This is Amos Diggory, everyone," said Mr. Weasley after a moment, turning to the group of kids next to him. "He works for the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. And I think you know his son, Cedric,?"
"Nice to see you too, Mr. Weasley," Emile grinned as walked over to the twins, who were grouchy and asleep on their feet. Bill was there, as was another redhead who had to be Charlie.
Hi," said Cedric, looking around at them all.
"Long walk, Arthur?" Uncle Amos asked.
"Not too bad," said Mr. Weasley. "We live just on the other side of the village there. You?"
"Had to get up at two, didn't we, Ced? I tell you, I'll be glad when he's got his Apparition test. Still . . . not complaining . . . Quidditch World Cup, wouldn't miss it for a sackful of Galleons — and the tickets cost about that. Mind you, looks like I got off easy. . . ."
Amos Diggory peered good-naturedly around at the three Weasley boys, Harry, Hermione, and Ginny. "All these yours, Arthur?"
"Oh no, only the redheads," said Mr. Weasley, pointing out his children. "This is Hermione, friend of Ron's — and Harry, another friend —"
"Merlin's beard," said Amos Diggory, his eyes widening. "Harry? Harry Potter?"
"Er — yeah," said Harry a bit awkwardly.
"Ced's talked about you, of course," said Amos Diggory. "Told us all about playing against you last year. . . . I said to him, I said — Ced, that'll be something to tell your grandchildren, that will. . . . You beat Harry Potter!"
Fred and George scowled next to Emile, who hadn't warned them about the fierce pride Mr. Diggory had for his son.
Cedric looked slightly embarrassed.
"Harry fell off his broom, Dad," he muttered. "I told you . . . it was an accident. . . ."
"Yes, but you didn't fall off, did you?" roared Amos genially, slapping his son on his back. "Always modest, our Ced, always the gentleman . . . but the best man won, I'm sure Harry'd say the same, wouldn't you, eh? One falls off his broom, one stays on, you don't need to be a genius to tell which one's the better flier!"
"You must be Charlie, i'm Emile," she said to the older redhead, attempting to forget the conversation behind her.
"Nice to meet you Emile," he smiled and shook her hand. "I've heard a lot about you from the twins."
"Don't flatter her," George mumbled next to her.
"It'll inflate her ego even more," Fred said through a yawn that turned to a groan as Emile elbowed him in the gut.
"Must be nearly time," said Mr. Weasley quickly, pulling out his watch again. "Do you know whether we're waiting for any more, Amos?"
"No, the Lovegoods have been there for a week already and the Fawcetts couldn't get tickets," said Mr. Diggory.
"There aren't any more of us in this area, are there?"
"Not that I know of," said Mr. Weasley. "Yes, it's a minute off. . . . We'd better get ready... You just need to touch the Portkey, that's all, a finger will do —"
With difficulty, owing to their bulky backpacks, the ten of them crowded around the old boot held out by Amos Diggory.
"Three . . ." muttered Mr. Weasley, one eye still on his watch, "two . . . one . . ."
A sudden jerk and swooping sensation surrounded Emile as she felt herself being pulled through the air, holding her breath until her feet slammed onto solid ground again. She clutched onto George's arm for support as a voice sounded behind them.
"Seven past five from Stoatshead Hill,"
They had arrived on what appeared to be a deserted stretch of misty moor. In front of them was a pair of tired and grumpy-looking wizards, one of whom was holding a large gold watch, the other a thick roll of parchment and a quill. Both were dressed as Muggles, though very inexpertly: The man with the watch wore a tweed suit with thigh-length galoshes; his colleague, a kilt and a poncho.
"Morning, Basil," said Mr. Weasley, picking up the boot and handing it to the kilted wizard, who threw it into a large box of used Portkeys beside him.
"Hello there, Arthur," said Basil wearily. "Not on duty, eh? It's all right for some. . . . We've been here all night. . . . You'd better get out of the way, we've got a big party coming in from the Black Forest at five-fifteen. Hang on, I'll find your campsite. . . . Weasley . . . Weasley . . ." He consulted his parchment list. "About a quarter of a mile's walk over there, first field you come to. Site manager's called Mr. Roberts. Diggory . . . second field . . . ask for Mr. Payne."
"Thanks, Basil," said Mr. Weasley, and he beckoned his group to follow him.
"Will I see you guys later?"Emile said to the twins, who shrugged in response.
"It's a huge place, Em," Fred said with a yawn.
"Maybe we can get a message through to you," George said with a wave as the Weasley group split off from them, walking off to talk to the manager of their field.
Mr. Diggory had gotten them a rather luxurious tent near the water tap. It looked just like any old muggle tent on the outside, but on the inside there were three separate bedrooms, two bathrooms, a sitting room, kitchen, and dining room.
Emile claimed the bedroom on the left side of the tent, unpacking her favorite pillow and putting it among the ones already on the bed. Then she took out her clothes and hung them in the closet and lit a scented candle on the nightstand, making the space seem a bit more homey.
"Cedric my boy," Uncle Diggory's booming voice sounded in the sitting room outside. "Go fetch us some water from the tap, we've got to make sure the muggles don't suspect anything fishy."
After a small silence he turned to Emile, as if he just remembered that she was there too.
"Why don't you go off into those nearby woods and gather up some firewood for a campfire?"
Emile obliged with a nod and walked out of the tent, admiring all the ones she passed on the way there. The Irish had overgrown their area with shamrocks, making their tents no more than holes in hillsides. And the Bulgarian's had themselves a large wizard photo of Victor Krum, stone faced and silent.
"Emile?" She heard a familiar voice behind her.
Emile tried not to groan as she turned around, forcing a smile. "Hello, Oliver. How have you been?"
"Pretty good, actually. I've just been signed on for the Puddlemere United reserve team," he beamed, puffing out his chest.
"That's great, i'm very happy for you." They stared at each other awkwardly.
"I uh," Oliver coughed before continuing,"I see you're still wearing my bracelet."
The silver charm of the Nimbus 2000 stood out on Emile's wrist among the other woven bands and leather straps in her bracelet collection.
"Of course i'm wearing it," she said a bit quietly, fingering the charms around her wrist. "The bracelets around my wrists are all from people who have been important to me at some point in my life."
As Oliver opened his mouth to respond a familiar heavy browed Bulgarian walked up to them and kissed Emile's hand.
"Vlovely to see you again, Emile," Victor Krum said, smiling at the two of them.
Oliver's jaw dropped as he looked from Emile to the famed seeker and back to Emile again.
"Likewise, Victor." Emile grinned, thankful for the interruption. "This is an old friend of mine, Oliver Wood. He was just signed onto the Puddlemere United reserve team."
"Ah, another Quidditch player. I hope to play you in the future." Victor bowed to Oliver, who was struggling to contain his excitement.
"I should really be off collecting firewood," Emile backed away from the two of them and speed walked away towards the woods, turning around once to see Oliver talking very fast and and making jerky hand motions as Victor nodded. She smiled and began to search for wood to take back to the tent.
As evening fell Emile found herself walking alongside Cedric around the campsite, looking at all the merchandise the vendors were selling. She bought a pair of Omnioculars and a Bulgarian scarf with a roaring lion on it.
"I thought you support Ireland!" Cedric said indignantly as she replaced her Gryffindor scarf around her neck with the Bulgarian one.
"I do, but I don't see any scarves from Ireland and It feels weird to be walking around in a school scarf." Emile replaced the scarf around her neck, shivering at the momentary exposure to the evening wind.
Soon a horn sounded, drawing everyone towards the field. Emile couldn't believe the size of the Quidditch field. From the outside it looked huge, but when they got to their seats you could see that five cathedrals could fit inside the stadium with room to spare. They were sitting in the top box alongside Lucius Malfoy and Cornelius Fudge, the minister of Magic.
Ludo Bagman 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 (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 a solid block of scarlet, roared its approval.
A team of Veela, enchanting women with white blonde hair much like that of the Malfoys, came out and began dancing. Emile rolled her eyes and leaned back in her seat as members of the male gender all around became entranced by their mystical dancing.
Angry yells were filling the stadium. The crowd didn't want the veela to go. Next to Emile Cedric had his hand over his heart and had stopped breathing.
"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 oooohed and aaaaahed, 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. The giant shamrock was made of tiny little leprechauns who showered the crowd in 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!"
Emile cheered with the rest of the crowd as her friend flew out of formation, pumping his fis in the air.
"And now, please greet — the Irish National Quidditch Team!" yelled Bagman. "Presenting — Connolly! Ryan! Troy! Mullet! Moran! Quigley! Aaaaaand — Lynch!"
"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, 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.
Through the Omnioculars Emile watched closely as 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.
"Theeeeeeeey're OFF!" screamed Bagman. "And it's Mullet! Troy! Moran! Dimitrov! Back to Mullet! Troy! Levski! Moran!"
Cedric was yelling next to her, his face digging into his Omnioculars.
"TROY SCORES!" roared Bagman, and the stadium shuddered with a roar of applause and cheers. "Ten zero to Ireland!"
The Irish team was the dream team on the field today. They worked together flawlessly, leaving the veela on the right side of the field flipping their hair as they tried to act as if they didn't care. As the match became more brutal the Veela's resumed their dancing. At first they danced just when Bulgaria scored, but when Ireland received a penalty they didn't stop.
Emile found herself laughing as the referee flew down to the veela and flexed his muscles as he watched them. One of them giggled and winked, causing him to smooth his mustache.
"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; he looked exceptionally embarrassed and had started shouting at the veela, who had stopped dancing and were looking mutinous.
"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 . . ."
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!"
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 seemed to be handfuls of fire at the leprechauns.
"Wow, what a woman," Cedric said next to her as he stared at the Veela, a dazed expression on his face.
At that moment their faces were elongating into sharp, cruel-beaked bird heads, and long, scaly wings were bursting from their shoulders. Cedric fell out of his seat in fright and EMile laughed out loud before helping him back up.
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.
"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 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 Hassan Mostafa didn't blow his whistle. He had become distracted, and Emile couldn't blame him; one of the veela had thrown a handful of fire and set his broom tail alight.
"I hope he's alright," Emile fret as Krum fly by, blood streaming from his nose.
"Time-out! Ah, come on, he can't play like that, look at him —"
"Look at Lynch!" Uncle Amos yelled.
For the Irish Seeker had suddenly gone into a dive, and Harry was quite sure that this was no Wronski Feint; this was the real thing. . . .
"He's seen the Snitch!" Cedric 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. How he could see where he was going, Harry had no idea; 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.
For the second time, Lynch hit the ground with tremendous force and was immediately stampeded by a horde of angry veela.
"He's got the snitch! He's got the snitch!" Emile screamed next to Cedric, jumping up and down.
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!"
Emile put her Omnioculars to her eyes again. It was hard to see what was happening below, because leprechauns were zooming delightedly all over the field, but she could just make out Krum, surrounded by mediwizards. He looked surlier than ever and refused 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.
"Vell, ve fought bravely," said a gloomy voice in front of Emile. She looked around; it was the Bulgarian Minister of Magic.
"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.
"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. Squinting toward the entrance, two panting wizards came carrying a vast golden cup into the box, which they handed to Cornelius Fudge, who was still looking very disgruntled that he'd been using sign language all day for nothing.
"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; thousands and thousands of Omniocular lenses flashing and winking in their direction.
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.
"Are you alright?" Emile said as he sat down behind her, wincing.
At that moment his name was announced and a deafening roar from the crowd blocked out his response. Emile gave a small smile and turned around.
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.
At last, when the Irish team had left the box to perform another lap of honor on their brooms (Aidan Lynch on the back of Connolly's, clutching hard around his waist and still grinning in a bemused sort of way), 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?"
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.
"Don't tell your mother you've been gambling," Mr. Weasley called from where he was sitting with Bill and Charlie.
They were soon caught up in the crowds now flooding out of the stadium and back to their campsites. Raucous singing was borne toward them on the night air as they retraced their steps along the lantern-lit path, and leprechauns kept shooting over their heads, cackling and waving their lanterns.
Emile got permission from Uncle Amos to go visit the Weasley's in their tent, and joined them for a cup of hot coco. They were soon enjoyably about the match; Mr. Weasley got drawn into a disagreement about cobbing with Charlie, and it was only when Ginny fell asleep right at the tiny table and spilled hot chocolate all over the floor that Mr. Weasley called a halt to the verbal replays and insisted that everyone go to bed.
Emile followed Hermione and Ginny into their girls tent. Once Ginny was tucked into bed she talked with Hermione about the OWL's for another half hour until Hermione said she was too tired to continue. Emile went over to the boys tent and talked with Bill and Charlie for a bit.
"Any particular reason you don't want to go back to your tent?" Charlie asked with a grin.
"I'm not too excited to walk past all of the drunk Irish supporters celebrating," Emile said with a shrug. "I'm not a large fan of drunk people."
Charlie opened his mouth to respond as loud screams came from outside, followed by a stampede of feet. Mr. Weasley ran out of the tent as Bill let out a laugh.
"Sounds like the Irish have got their pride on," Bill smiled as Mr. Weasley ran over to them, gasping.
"That's not the guys have to go." Mr. Weasley drew his wand and ran over to the rooms. "Charlie, go outside and help. Bill, wake the twins. Emile, go get the girls."
Emile nodded and ran to the next door tent, momentarily passing through the chaos outside and running into the girls tent.
"Wake up, wake up you two! Can't you hear the screams?!" She yelled as she shook the girls awake. Once they two of them had pulled on shoes and a jacket they ran back to the boys tent, wands drawn. Emile nearly ran into the twins outside, and the group joined together.
"We're supposed to get back to the portkey!" Fred yelled, grabbing Ginny's hand and pulling her into the crowd.
George copied his brother and grabbed Emile, the two of them squeezing each other as they followed Fred through the crowd. Emile thought she caught a glimpse of Percy and Charlie at one point but there was too much going on to be sure.
It was chaos. A crowd of wizards, tightly packed and moving together with wands pointing straight upward, was marching slowly across the field, their heads were hooded and their faces masked. High above them, floating along in midair, four struggling figures were being contorted into grotesque shapes. It was as though the masked wizards on the ground were puppeteers, and the people above them were marionettes operated by invisible strings that rose from the wands into the air. Two of the figures were very small.
More wizards were joining the marching group, laughing and pointing up at the floating bodies. Tents crumpled and fell as the marching crowd swelled. Once or twice one of the marchers blasted a tent out of his way with his wand. Several caught fire. The screaming grew louder. The floating people were suddenly illuminated as they passed over a burning tent and Emile recognized one of them: Mr. Roberts, the campsite manager. The other three looked as though they might be his wife and children. One of the marchers below flipped Mrs. Roberts upside down with his wand; her nightdress fell down to reveal voluminous drawers and she struggled to cover herself up as the crowd below her screeched and hooted with glee.
"Don't look at them Emile, just run!" George yelled, pulling her along with the crowd.
At that moment a test next to them was struck by a fiery blast, sending the two of them flying through the air. George flew one way and Emile the other, the burning tent between them. AS Emile struggled to get up amongst the running crowd, she was vaguely aware of George calling her name in the distance. Before she could get up a boot hit her on the back and pinned her to the ground, facedown in the dirt.
"Say hello to your mother for me," a rough voice growled into her ear.
Emile opened her mouth into a silent scream as her world caught on fire before turning black.
