Chapter Thirty
The World Cup Pt. One
0o0
Luckily, Astoria had plenty of matters other than drink-tampering to distract her as the week carried on. The Quidditch World Cup was now rapidly approaching—a good thing, too, because she had never been more desperate to escape her aunt's house. George, behaving in a way that was most unlike himself, had been in touch almost daily: an unreliable parent suddenly made present, keen to go over final details and meeting places. The best part about the whole affair, however, was not George's unexpected attention—it was the fact that, at the last possible minute, Belladonna had decided not to join them.
The freedom that her aunt's unexpected absence promised was staggering. For however long the quidditch match lasted, Astoria would be able to do as she pleased. For the first time all summer long, her decisions would be her own and that idea alone (even in light of her recent poisoning) was more than enough to keep her in high spirits.
On the night before the match, their plan was solid enough to be fixed in stone: Astoria's father would pick her up the next morning from Belladonna's and they would set out to catch a local portkey together. (Even this seemingly obvious step had proved to be a bit of a last minute hiccup—George had forgotten that Astoria could not Apparate and was therefore obliged to trade Belladonna's ticket for an eleventh hour reservation.) From there, they would go on to meet up with the Mendels, who would be arriving at the World Cup's campsite in the late afternoon from Monaco. There were no spare tickets left for Tracey (George's absentmindedness had seen to that), but otherwise it was a spectacular plan—a plan so idiot proof that even Belladonna seemed convinced that George would be able to pull it off without assistance.
0o0
On the following morning, Astoria was out of bed at dawn. For more than an hour she paced the hall, sipping coffee in the pale light of sunrise, eager to depart.
As always, George was late. He stumbled in half an hour past their scheduled pickup time, mumbling his usual apologizes. Astoria, more anxious to be un-bothered than she actually was un-bothered, was quick to forgive him. She'd been packed and ready for what felt like ages and she wanted to be away before Belladonna took notice of the time.
George quickly led the way, barreling down the gravel lane until they reached the road. He chattered on happily, setting a speedy pace that was far too fast for either of them in an effort to avoid missing their Portkey. After several minutes (and even more watch consulting) he began to talk less, breaking into a half-jog that lasted for the remainder of the lane. Finally, just when Astoria was starting to really feel a stitch in her side, they veered off into a patch of misty woods. They were not alone in the damp clearing.
"Hello, Astoria!" called Parvati Patil, waving eagerly.
"Hello," Astoria panted back, extending her own wave to include Padma and Mr. Patil (a short, balding man with square spectacles) who were both standing next to her.
Mr. Patil pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose and beamed at her. Astoria was secretly pleased. She had always liked Mr. Patil, who had served as both her and Daphne's primary childhood healer at St. Mungo's. Although he was perhaps not even half as fashionable as her own father, he gave off such a warm aura of cleanliness and civility that she had always been inclined to forgive him for his pocket protectors and his rather dad-like taste in footwear.
"Are we waiting on anyone else?" managed George, speaking through short gasps. He directed his gaze toward a rusty can nestled in the overlong grass; its serrated edges glistened in the sharpening sun.
"The Fawleys' have been camping all week," returned Mr. Patil, checking his own watch. "I can't think of anyone else who would be likely to use this portkey. It's nearly time, shall we?"
Everybody leaned forward to rest a finger on the can, treading awkwardly onto one another's feet to avoid touching any rust.
"Hold on tight," cautioned Mr. Patil, shooting a warning glance at both his daughters and Astoria.
No sooner had Astoria taken this advice into account than she felt the tug that signaled the portkey coming to life. The grassy clearing began to blur, moving illogically, transforming into a startling, Monet-inspired orgy of green slashes. Astoria squeezed her eyes closed and waited for the motion to stop, channeling all of her focus onto maintaining her footing when they reached the campsite.
Next moment, unprepared to let go, Astoria landed flat on her back with an ungainly and limp-limbed thud. Disoriented by brighter bands of less filtered sunlight, she realized that she was now in the middle of a very different field. A few feet away, partially hidden by a row of scraggly shrubs, stood a rustic-looking muggle camp office.
Parvati and Padma, both in similar states of sprawled-out disarray, shot her sheepish grins. Without a word, they helped each other up out of the dewy grass, wincing and laughing because the worst was over.
Still brushing herself off, Astoria held back as her father and Mr. Patil moved forward to negotiate with the muggle campground owner.
"What's dad doing?" moaned Padma, her dismay more than apparent. Astoria turned to watch Mr Patil pull up his pant leg and withdraw several muggle bills from his sock.
"Paying the manager?" suggested Astoria, trying very hard not to laugh.
"Your dad doesn't keep money in his socks," hissed Parvati, blushing her way to a semi-mortified shade of crimson. "He's alright!"
Astoria shrugged. Truthfully, she thought George was looking more then his fair share of smug that morning, although it was hard for her to put her finger on exactly why. It certainly wasn't unusual for her father to dress carefully and with a bit of flair—his vanity all but saw to that. Still, she thought she detected a hint of the intentionally fashionable in the fresh coat of polish on his shoes and in the pertness of his carefully combed hair. An obviousness that he usually was able to avoid. Perhaps it was only the allure of a large gathering? Or—Astoria could not help but wonder—perhaps it was because the MacLaggens would also be in attendance. She had not yet forgotten the way Cormac's mother had been leaning against George at her own party last Christmas.
George finished paying and beckoned for her to join him.
"We've got different campsites," announced Parvati, who was eavesdropping on her father's conversation with the manager. "We'll see you later, then!"
Astoria said goodbye and trudged off to the follow her father, trying very hard not to let any unfounded misgivings spoil her evening.
"Wobbles has already set up camp," explained George, slowing down to trot as they reached the main throughway, a wide-cut path that flowed through an ever-growing sea of many-colored tents. "We're in no rush now."
Astoria listened halfheartedly, mesmerized by the chaos on every side. Most of the makeshift constructions they passed were plain, canvas affairs (no doubt magically expanded on the inside to properly accommodate whole families). But, here and there, she spotted tents that bore traces of such blatant sorcery that it was hard to tear her eyes away in order to keep track of her father.
"That man has a jacuzzi!" Astoria burst, pointing toward a large silk tent on the horizon.
"Yes," snickered George, grinning indulgently, "but you know how it is. Some wizards hardly ever get the chance to show off. I suppose the ministry will have a job of keeping this lot in check once the sun goes down." He paused thoughtfully. "Things will start to get a little rowdy after midnight, if you want to know what I think..."
"George!"
George screeched to a stop; Astoria caught him by the elbow to stop herself from falling.
"I've been wondering when I would see you!"
It was Bertie Higgs, one of Mr. MacLaggen's drunker friends. Dressed in a head-to-toe African Safari suit, he was waving eagerly at them from his campsite. True to form, even though it was barely eleven o'clock, Bertie was already clutching a glass of what look suspiciously like scotch in his right hand—his left, rather inconveniently, appeared to be entirely enveloped by a giant foam finger. Irish green.
Astoria shifted her weight from one foot to the other, not particularly interested in anything Bertie had to say. Just the sight of him reminded her of the MacLaggens—or, more specifically, of Mrs. MacLaggen. To distract herself from this unpleasant line of thought, she began to study her surroundings.
Bertie Higgs's tent was bordered by a low and very obviously magical garden that was closed in by a neat fence. Astoria leaned sideways and peered around Bertie's impressive girth to have a look at his front lawn. Two ornamental trees and a low stone table stood beyond, around which was seated a surprising congregation of familiar faces: Terrence Higgs (a Slytherin who had played seeker in her first year before graduating), another boy Astoria had sometimes heard referred to as 'Pike', Marcus Flint and Draco Malfoy.
Astoria's eyelashes fluttered a surprised staccato. At the same moment, Marcus's eyes locked on hers: he cracked into a wicked grin.
"Greengrass, you old cow!" he hollered, slouching back in his seat. "I knew you wouldn't miss this!"
Astoria's father did an odd double take, evidently unsure if this remark had been meant for himself or his daughter. Waving him off, Astoria suppressed a smirk and went through the fence.
"Who's the bloke you walked over with?" demanded Flint, all casual arrogance. "He looks like he should be in an advertisement."
Malfoy let out a scoff of narrow-eyed amusement, but sat up straighter so that he could have a better look.
"That," confessed Astoria, drawing level with their table, "is my father."
Pike's elbow shot out to nudge Flint's arm, perhaps convinced that his friend had put his foot in his mouth.
"It's easy to see where you get your looks from, darlin'," drawled Flint, content to offend, "but to tell you the truth, he looks like he scares easily."
Astoria bit her lip against a grin, surprised to discover that she had missed Flint's particular brand of cocky ridiculousness. He was an outrage, but he was such a rare and specific type of outrage that (when experienced sparingly) he bordered on hilarious.
"In any case, I'll thank you not to put it into his head to do any advertisements," Astoria cautioned, mock sternly. "He's very vain, you know."
"Did you ever meet Terrence?"
Terrence, who was eyeing Astoria with some interest, extended a hand. Realizing that she was probably standing in his father's garden, Astoria offered her own. Terrence shook it, his eyes moving between her and Flint with an expression of sly surprise.
"She was a first year when you left, Higgs," explained Flint. "Otherwise, I'm sure you would recall. You would have liked Terrence, Astoria. He was always the least likely member of our team to cheat. Very predictable on the field."
"Not cheating never made me predictable," Terrence protested pleasantly. "It only meant that I didn't rack up half as many fouls. What was your final record, Marcus? I bet it read like a rap sheet."
Astoria laughed lightly, permitting herself to like Terrence—at least until he offered proof of deeper villainy.
Behind her, the entrance to the Higgs' tent fluttered in the breeze. Gentle snippets of many voices talking over one other suddenly beat against the warm air. Clearly the tent housed a larger gathering than she had thought—probably more than twenty people.
"Yes, well, that's neither here nor there," chortled Flint, taking a sip of something that looked suspiciously like Bertie's scotch. "Of course, you won't have to worry about quidditch fouls at all this year."
"What do you mean?" wondered Astoria, surprised by this.
"You haven't heard?" demanded Malfoy, plainly eager to speak over Marcus, who was doing most of the talking.
"Heard what?" Astoria frowned self-consciously. Clearly a secret was afoot—and one that Draco's expression told her he'd already expected her to know about.
"Doesn't your father work for the ministry?" scoffed Flint.
Astoria shook her head. "He's in the private sector. He's never worked for the Ministry."
"That would explain it," shrugged Malfoy, affecting a look of maddening superiority.
"Your father doesn't work for the ministry either, Draco," needled Pike.
"My father gives the minister advice almost daily," snapped Draco. "What does your father do, Pike?"
Draco's still-sharp eyes suddenly moved past Astoria. Realizing that he had registered a change behind her, Astoria turned. Her father and Bertie had come through the gate. Bertie was distracted by a stranger, but George was crossing the garden toward them.
"I'm popping in for a bit, Muffin," he murmured, putting an arm around Astoria's shoulders. "Are you staying here?"
Ignoring the way that Draco gleefully stiffened at the sound of the word 'muffin', Astoria shrugged.
"I don't know," she admitted, thinking vaguely of the Weasley twins. She leaned uncertainly against the table. Her hip brushed against the stone corner at an uncomfortable angle. In or out?
"If not, we'll meet up again at the campsite before four," suggested George, pulling back his sleeve to consult his watch. "Aston gets in at five and I don't know if his party is coming all at once or not."
"Alright," Astoria agreed, turning her head so that her father could kiss her hair.
"Try to stay out of the woods," George purred, letting out a shallow chuckle. "I don't want you abducted by gypsies!"
"Oh, I reckon the worst threat around here must be Mundungus Fletcher," joked Flint, his smug smile untarnished. "She'll be alright."
"Fletcher?" sneered Draco. "The man's sleeping underneath a cloak propped up on twigs. How's he supposed to abduct anybody?"
"Someone told me once that old Fletcher actually prefers little boys," volunteered Pike, taking a disingenuous stab at something clever.
"Fletcher? Nonsense!" laughed George, his brows raising merrily. "If that were true, he'd dress better."
Flint's eyes sparkled with mirth.
"Four o'clock, darling," George reminded her. Turning on his heel, he disappeared inside the tent.
"Muffin?" drawled Draco ecstatically. "Does he always call you that?"
"No," returned Astoria evasively. "What were you saying about quidditch?"
"You won't be having a tournament this year," Flint explained, pushing Pike's feet off a chair so that Astoria could have the seat between Terrence and Draco. Terrence maneuvered a tumbler of Scotch in front of her. Apparently she was in, a realization that she registered with the faintest appreciation for strangeness. Why was it that she so often wound up in places that she did not belong? And with people that most of her housemates would flee from on sight? Even Theodore, her truest Slytherin friend, would've kept walking.
"Why not?" Astoria persisted, taking absent hold of the glass.
"Because they're resurrecting the Triwizard tournament," declared Flint. He let out wistful groan. "Of course, they would do it the year after I left..."
"Yeah?" sneered Draco doubtfully. "Because you'd have entered otherwise?"
"I might've," admitted Flint. "There's a pretty penny in it for the winner, you know."
"Weasley ought to enter," mused Malfoy cruelly. "I suppose his mother would positively weep if he won. I doubt she'd even care if her son came home in pieces for it—she's got about a dozen spares..."
Astoria cringed. No matter how frequently Ron made it his business to act like an ass around her, this kind of talk to was much too hard (too heartless, really) to appeal to her. And in any case, Astoria cared very much about Fred and George (the spares) and the idea of any harm coming to their family was genuinely dreadful.
She shook her shoulders, trying to dislodge her temporary disgust. The Triwizard Tournament was a thing of legend—she wasn't going to let Malfoy's rude commentary stop her from finding out more.
"Don't people die competing?" Astoria wondered.
"Well, yeah." Flint shrugged unconcernedly. "Of course, that was hundreds of years ago. No one has played in centuries. They're bound to put up an age restriction—and I suppose it'll be the Ministry's job to massage the tasks until they're barely fit to frighten a first year..."
"All for the best," sneered Malfoy. His arm jostled Astoria's shoulder a little as he stretched out into his usual imitation of cocky nonchalance. "Otherwise, you just know Dumbledore would find a way to make sure Potter got to play."
Astoria slid a hostile eye over Draco, wondering where he got off thinking it was okay to casually touch her while actively insulting the relatives of people she knew.
Flint snickered, but Astoria, displaced in her chair (and still chafing a little bit from Draco's comment about Mrs. Weasley) dared to disagree.
"Harry won't want anything to do with it," she insisted.
Pike let out a low cough of amusement.
"You can't take the girl out of Gryffindor tower!" taunted Flint.
"Please," snapped Malfoy, his careless facade slipping slightly. "Potter's always done anything he can for a bit of attention. That's his favorite thing, isn't it? Trying to make people think he's famous?"
"He already is famous," snorted Astoria, determined to keep an even tone. "Besides, don't you think it would be exhausting to have somebody try to kill you every year? Surely he must be tired."
"That's a fair point, actually," admitted Flint, pausing to ponder. "You'd think he would be tried of getting mauled all the time."
"Mauled," Astoria chuckled, "kidnapped, dropped from extreme heights?"
"Bitten, stabbed, pursued by dementors and beaten by trolls?" persisted Flint, rattling off an easy list.
"Don't forget the car crash," Astoria cautioned gravely, prompting Flint to positively wheeze into his glass.
"Oh, never forget the car crash!" he agreed.
Malfoy scowled. Evidently, recalling Harry's many famous brushes with death was not his idea of an amusing diversion.
"We'll see, I suppose," Draco sneered. "If they're planning to pick champions based on merit, Potter doesn't stand a chance."
"I'd put my money on Harry," Astoria announced, partially because she did think that Harry was a skillful wizard, but mostly because she knew the comment would aggravate Malfoy.
"Oh, Greengrass," Flint protested, "stop! I beg of you!"
"No, really, if even half the stories are true!" insisted Astoria. "Wouldn't you think the Tournament would be right in his wheelhouse?"
"You do love a bet, don't you?" purred Flint, cringing in an amused sort of way. "Still, don't put all your eggs in Potter's basket. At least wait to see what the other schools offer up first!"
Pike laughed but Malfoy looked beyond surly. He shifted away from her to sip his drink broodingly and Astoria experienced a pang of remorse. This was not the first time she'd been struck by a powerful instinct to punish Draco for his callous comments about people that she knew. But with awareness came regret. Astoria bit her lip and internally promised herself that she would not go out of her way to instigate him again. After all, no one knew how long the World Cup would last—there was every chance that she'd have to share the campsite with him for days.
The best way of keeping this mental promise, of course, was to leave before she was tempted to break it. Unfortunately, Flint was in a very chatty mood and it was more than an hour before escape seemed possible. At three o'clock, Pike declared that he was going find his parents. Using Pike's exit (and the well-timed reappearance of Bertie Higgs) as cover, Astoria managed to excuse herself, certain that nobody but Draco (who she'd nearly tripped over getting up from the table) noticed her leave.
The world outside the Higgs' garden gate was a circus: the campsite was clearly less organized than she'd originally perceived—and much larger as well. Furthermore, it occurred to her only after she'd lost sight of Bertie's tent that she did not actually know where hers was. George hadn't taken her there when they'd first arrived and she had no way of knowing which of the many thousand sites was meant to be her own now.
Muffled panic snatched the sound from her ears. Slowly—wits dulled by Bertie's Scotch—Astoria racked her brains until the most obvious solution presented itself: it was Wobbles who had put up the tent. Surely she would still remember the way?
"Thank you, Wobbles," Astoria panted several minutes later, ducking under the edge of a unfamiliar (borrowed?) tent flap.
"Is you needing anything else, Miss?" pressed the elf, dithering uncomfortably near the doorway.
"No, Wobbles, you head home," Astoria insisted, privately feeling that only thing more plain than Wobble's desire to help was her obvious fear of the crowd.
She allowed her eyes to adjust to the lack of light in front of her before taking stock. She was standing in a modest tent by wizarding standards: two bedrooms, a largish living room that boasted a round table, several couches and small bar. One bathroom in the back. No kitchen. Astoria sussed out which bedroom was hers (the one with her traveling bag in it) and when it became apparent that there was nothing special about the bathroom, her tour was at an end.
Alone and bored, she showered luxuriously, trying to kill as much time as possible. Dressed in nothing but a towel, she lay on top of her blankets and listened to the sounds of camp-life outside, wishing her father was with her instead of out socializing. After languishing in the semi-darkness for nearly an hour, she dragged herself off the top blanket and dressed herself. She wriggled into a Belladonna-approved white dress, put on the highest pair of heels she had dared to bring with her (they seemed to fit her listless, dramatic mood the best) and went out into the living room to wait.
Four o'clock came and went, as Astoria had known it would. Still, her father had not returned.
Out of restlessness, she inspected a small bookcase in the corner of the room: it housed several dull volumes on birds and one excellent history of the goblin wars. Wondering idly whose tent her father had borrowed (it really was an odd reading selection) Astoria let the book about goblins fall open to the bloodiest illustration she could find and attempted to distract herself.
At five o'clock, still sitting alone on the living room floor, her anger began to morph into nervousness. What if her father had forgotten about her? Would she be expected to find her seat for the quidditch match by herself? Or would Aston Mendel make some kind of effort to find her on his own? The vague temptation to remain still and do nothing shuttered her senses.
Five o'clock became six o'clock. Astoria began to pace the room, listening to the sound her heels made on the floor. The bar caught her eye again: she sloshed something clear from one of the bottles into a glass and took a spiteful sip.
She was halfway through her dash of jittery vodka when she heard someone calling her name. Recognizing Maudlin Mendel's voice, she had just begun to mentally prepare for him when he stuck his head though the doorway.
"There you are!" he insisted irritably, his soft french lilt striking her like an upbraiding. "Where have you been?"
"Where have I been?" Astoria shot back unreasonably. "Where have you been?"
Maudlin ducked under the tent flap, revealing a dark evening jacket and a pair of velvet smoking slippers that made her want to cry out with scorn.
"You and your father were supposed to meet us at the portkey two hours ago," Maudlin insisted. "Neither of you showed. I had to get your address from the man who owns the campground. It took me nearly forty minutes, too, because your ministry has cursed him loopy."
"My father was supposed to collect me at four," Astoria admitted, throwing him a resentful vodka salute. "I've been wallowing here since noon."
"Off chasing kitties, is he?" clucked Maudlin sympathetically. He peered at her glass. "Where did you get that?"
Astoria motioned toward the bar, privately relived to have been found, no matter what she said. Maudlin crossed the room and was superseded in the doorway by his friend Alec Hundin.
Alec was dressed (if it was possible) even more outrageously than Maudlin.
Tall, pale and lean, Alec shared Draco's impossible shade of white-blond hair and his anemic coloring, but that was where any real similarity between the two ended. Unlike Draco, whose features were of a sharp and decidedly anglo-saxon set, Alec was as soft-angled and un-symmetrically perplexing as a dorsal fin in a Picasso painting. Indeed, almost crooked. In photographs he tended to appear faintly hideous, but in real life his expression was like a swirl of clever mercury, quickly reacting to his surroundings and absorbing his findings. The only heir of a very old Russian family, Alec always carried the look of winter about him. Even when he was wearing a suit made entirely of pale pink linen—as he was now—and leering suggestively.
Between the two, there could be no comparison: Maudlin was undoubtedly the more attractive, but Alec had a quality that seemed to lure the eye in a way that stole the attention away from his more physically charming friend.
"Hello, Alec," Astoria ventured, flipping over a page of the goblin book unread. "Nice suit."
"Hello, Astoria," returned Alec, matching her tone precisely. His clear blue oracle eyes swept the room. "Your tent is very small."
"Do you want something?" Maudlin asked Alec, holding up a glass to indicate his intent. "Astoria's father's gotten himself lost somewhere and we have time before we have to meet my father."
"I'll have what she's having." Alec took on seat on the couch that Astoria had abandoned. She shut her book with a snap and stood up to return it to the shelf.
"Have you seen where the Irish are pitched?" prattled Maudlin, stirring the contents of his glass with a little spoon. When no one responded, Astoria realized that he must have been talking to her.
"No," she admitted. Bertie's green foam hand floated up behind her eyes. "I suppose there are shamrocks involved?"
"Try leprechauns," Maudlin sniffed scornfully, passing Alec his drink. "Awful things. I came prepared to support Ireland, you know. As it is, I'm thinking of switching to Bulgaria. They have Veela."
"Bulgaria will put up a better show, anyway," Alec murmured, propping one patent leather foot up on his knee. "Ireland has a superb team, but Bulgaria only has Krum. They'll have to leave the gate fighting for it."
"You don't think Bulgaria will win?" Maudlin wondered.
"Oh, no," breathed Alec. "Ireland will destroy them."
Astoria frowned. "I thought Krum was supposed to be the best."
"Ah, Krum..." sighed Alec rebukingly.
"He is," Maudlin confirmed, his tone hardening rather suddenly. "The only reason Alec doesn't like him is because he'll have to share a dormitory with him in the fall. A fear of being out-shined, I presume."
Astoria turned curiously toward Alec. "You're leaving Beauxbatons?"
"I'm not leaving Beauxbatons," Alec admitted delicately, his eyes taking on a humorous shine.
"He's been expelled," explained Maudlin flatly. "They've been threatening to kick him out for years. Now he's finally achieved his life's purpose and made them do it. He'll be going to Durmstrang, just like his father always wanted."
At this mention of his father, Alec betrayed a rare grimace. Uncrossing his legs, he insisted: "Of course it doesn't really matter what school will have me. Not with the tournament in play this year. With any luck, I'll spend less than two months on the Durmstrang grounds."
"Do Beauxbatons and Durmstrang play in the Triwizard Tournament?" Astoria persisted, her curiosity giving way to alarm at the thought.
"Both schools play," Maudlin confirmed mildly. "I was hoping you wouldn't have heard yet—I thought we might surprise you."
"My friend Marcus was talking about it earlier," Astoria admitted in a rush. "He didn't seem to think it was a very well kept secret. And the way Malfoy made it sound, people have known for weeks..."
"Malfoy?" wondered Alec, teasing this recognizable surname with a touch of interest. "Lucius Malfoy's son? What's he like? Will he be old enough to enter?"
"That depends on how old you have to be to enter." Astoria shrugged doubtfully. "Draco is my age."
"He's out, then," Alec turned his attention back to his drink. "They've decided on an age limit. Students have to be of legal age to enter."
"Can you imagine if Alec and I are both chosen as champions?" suggested Maudlin, grinning wistfully. "It could happen, you know. Now that we're both going to different schools..."
Astoria recoiled from this idea as surely as she would have recoiled from a venomous snake. Of course Maudlin would be part of the suggested pool of students that Beauxbatons put forth as potential champions. Academically, he was a high achiever. Socially, he was pleasant and handsome and rich. The idea that he might actually be chosen as a champion did not strike her as likely—he was too silly, too impractical, too fond of comfort. But then, it didn't really matter if they chose him or not. Just being nominated meant that she would have to spend an entire year with him at Hogwarts, on her home turf. It was a very sobering thought, indeed.
"Why not?" insisted Maudlin. He'd plainly caught her expression because his face had darkened considerably. "You don't think I'm clever enough to play?"
"No," Astoria backtracked, "no, of course you are. It's just—"
Astoria paused, trying mask her extreme discomfort. It wasn't really Maudlin's fault that she couldn't strand the idea of seeing him at school...
"Well," she finally managed, "champions sometimes get hurt don't they?"
Maudlin studied her. Astoria did her best to mask her freshly minted horror with a look of benign worry.
"Yes, well," Maudlin sniffed, "I don't suppose they'd hold a really dangerous tournament nowadays. It's not the dark ages anymore."
"Hogwarts will be interesting," Alec reflected. "People certainly do talk about it. We'll have you as a native guide, Astoria—our ticket to the inside."
He smirked at her wickedly.
"None of of that, Alec," cautioned Maudlin sternly.
Astoria was certain that Alec was only joking, but Maudlin had an annoying habit of becoming very big brotherly whenever the opportunity presented itself.
"We should start making our way toward the woods," said Alec, peering past the tent flap. "The sun is going down."
It was beginning to get dark outside and the game was slotted to begin just after sunset. Astoria finished her drink, stomach growling. She had not eaten since breakfast.
Together, they joined the surging crowd. Their path before them lead though a field of vendors and across a wide patch of barren lawn before it suddenly plunged into the close-hedged darkness beneath the trees. Fairy lights hung from the lowest branches, illuminating a bumpy, root-torn track.
Ernie Macmillian waved as he went past with his father, his plump face wide with excitement. Astoria waved back distractedly, afraid of tripping up and toppling over in her heels.
Ahead, the mouth of the stadium entrance split into a three pronged fork. Each stairway seemed meant to funnel guests up to various levels. Astoria (who had no idea where she was going) followed Maudlin closely through the ticket check, past the gate and down the third hallway. The stairs here were lushly carpeted and lit by a strange golden glow. Try as she might, Astoria could not seem to pin the light to any recognizable source.
Up, up, up they went, past the nosebleed seats (where people were jammed in without chairs) and past the wide boxes (where people sat along lines of benches). The higher they climbed, the smaller the boxes became until it was obvious that they had reached the point of nearly private compartments.
Maudlin dithered on the second to last story, apparently trying to decide whether to go left or right.
"Father!" he called out, pivoting toward the correct box at last.
Aston was already in his seat, making conversation with a tiny (albeit very animated) man with patchy facial hair and a bald monk's head.
"Ah," exclaimed Aston. He motioned toward Maudlin, but continued to nod along to the short man's chatter.
Maudlin allowed Astoria and Alec to file past him and pushed into his seat. They were not the only occupants of their particular box: a swift glance about showed Astoria that they were sharing space with Mr. MacLaggen, his wife, and Cormac. Astoria's father, however, remained conspicuously absent.
"Astoria!" jolted Cormac amiably. He pushed up in his seat, surprised to see her.
"Hello, Cormac," returned Astoria. She made a great show of settling down in her chair and re-arranging her skirt so that it would not bundle up behind her. She really hoped that Cormac would not try to chat with her.
Alec slung himself into the last seat, separating Astoria from the McLaggen party. He proceeded to pat down the upper portion his linen pants and withdrew a gold zippo lighter.
"Only in England," Alec leered, studying Cormac through the glare of his Zippo flame. "A friend?" he wondered in a quieter voice, inclining his head toward Astoria.
"What do you think?" Astoria projected darkly, certain that her tone would answer Alec's question precisely as he had meant it.
"Is your father here?" puzzled Cormac, oblivious to the side chatter. His head shot up to scan the stairway for George.
"Presumably."
Cormac turned toward his dad: "Father, did you know George Greengrass is here?"
The gun-crack of a magically magnified voice just above their heads caused Cormac to fall silent.
"That'll be Bagman, will it?" murmured Aston, betraying a sly grin. "I've always said the British do an awfully queer job of electing their heads of office..."
Aston had a very rare way of employing scorn without causing offense. The small man on his left had a British accent but he obviously agreed, because he launched into a lengthy assent. Astoria's eyes ticked back toward the field to watch Bagman announce the members of the Irish National Quidditch team.
The Irish players swept out in a fashion she was entirely unused to seeing at Hogwarts. There was a dazzling, fluid speed to their movements—a kind of lightning-quick assurance that left Astoria feeling simultaneously dizzy and envious. After a brief display involving leprechauns and fake gold, Bagman announced the Bulgarians.
The stands, which had heartily applauded each member of the Irish team, now positively stomped and howled for Krum.
The arrival of the Veela prompted the Mendels and Alec to clap hands over their ears. Cormac, who was not so quick, had to be pulled down off the side of the box by his laughing father.
The game itself was exceedingly hard to watch. Each player was world-class talented and equipped with a Firebolt: Astoria rapidly began to loose track of who was in possession of the Quaffle and the muscles in her face ached from the effort of trying to follow the red and green player-blurs.
Somebody scored and Alec let out a long breath. "I can't even tell which team is in possession."
"Yes, you can," insisted Maudlin sharply, his eyes still locked on the match. "Pay more attention to uniform color and player size."
Alec (who was much less of a sports fan than Maudlin was) let out a snort and began to poke a tendril of Astoria's hair. The gesture was so obviously calculated to be pestering that Astoria had to conceal an amused grin. Maudlin, distracted by the match, did not notice.
"I'm going to have a walk about," announced Alec. "I thought saw some vendors selling binoculars."
Astoria understood that what Alec really meant was that he wanted a chance to stretch his legs, so she volunteered to go with him. Maudlin waved them both by without budging an inch, unwilling to take his eyes off the active sky.
Outside their box they found a thin, railing-bordered walkway that appeared to cut along their circuit of boxes. Astoria followed Alec onto it, gasping for breath as she took in the dizzying height that they had climbed to. Alec cast his eyes downward lazily, apparently unaffected by vertigo. Hundreds of feet separated them from the grass, but he didn't so much as flinch.
They looped along until they were directly behind the goal hoops. One of the Irish chasers (Astoria could tell this time, because the keeper was in Bulgarian red) scored a goal. His quaffle shot through the middle-most hoop and fell short of their railing by less than twelve feet. Astoria braced herself for impact, prepared to die and Alec roared with laughter at the look on her face.
"Astoria!" a familiar and very eager voice called through the ball's jet-stream. "Oy! OY-OY!"
Astoria turned about. Sure enough, Fred and George Weasley were stuffed into a row between the rest of their siblings just behind her. She pressed her dress down against her thighs as the breeze from the rocketing Irish Chaser hit them, then she started up the steps toward the twins.
"We've been looking for you all day!" hollered Fred, hanging over the banister.
"I know, I'm sorry!" Astoria called back apologetically. "Camp is huge."
"What plot are you on?" insisted George, scooting forward as well.
"I'm not really sure..." Astoria tapered off, taking in the rest of the company that occupied the Weasleys' box. She lowered her voice. "Are you sitting with the Minister?"
"Why, ye-eees," drawled George, affecting his fanciest accent. "Ludo got dad the tickets. Isn't this mad?"
It was mad—particularly because Draco, Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy were occupying the seats directly behind the twins heads.
Draco turned away from the match to watch her approach—she could feel the insolent intensity of his gaze now—but the presence of his parents seemed to be acting as a check. She doubted he would lean past the Weasleys to speak to her in front of them.
Alec slouched up behind Astoria, his hands in his pockets. The grins on Fred and George's faces faltered almost comically as they examined him. Both of their heads slowly turned at an identical angle, perhaps wondering why Astoria would take it upon herself to stroll about with anyone who wore so much pink.
"Look for us later!" insisted Fred, doing his best to stop himself from staring. "There's loads of us, we shouldn't be hard to spot!"
"Alec?" called another eager voice—this one rougher and more adult.
Alec cast his eyes across the box. When he found who he was looking for, he brightened.
The voice had belonged to a man in long black robes on Fudge's left. Without so much as an explanation, this man brushed past the minister and shook hands with Alec over the banister, chattering in rapid Bulgarian. Astoria stared, unable to understand a word until Alec noticed and introduced her.
"Astoria, this is Mr. Oblanski," explained Alec, moving aside so that she could draw nearer. "The Bulgarian Minister," he added in an undertone. "He and my father were in school together."
Astoria dropped Mr. Oblanski a swift curtsy, feeling that he looked rather familiar.
"I'm sorry," she breathed, smiling somewhat uncomfortably. "I can't understand a word. Alec, would you tell Mr. Oblanski that his robes are fantastic?"
Alec did as she said and Astoria was surprised when the statement finished with the two of them smirking at each other. The Bulgarian minister indicated something behind him and then mimed slurping soup off a spoon. Alec laughed boisterously and Mr. Oblanski bowed very kindly in Astoria's direction.
"He says thank you," Alec informed her, but Astoria knew this could not have been all that Mr. Oblanski had said.
Unfortunately, they were beginning to verge on lingering too long. So much chatter and laughter was bound to cause distraction and, a second later, Fudge too was leaning precariously over the box's railing.
"Ah!" cried Fudge. His eyes danced past Alec with a curiously dismissive air and then landed—most peculiarly—on Astoria. "Haven't I met you before?"
"I, yes, I think so," Astoria dipped into a second, even less ready curtsy. "At Hogwarts. I'm Astoria."
"Astoria! Yes, I remember now—I met you on my tour of the grounds with Lucius," exclaimed Fudge in his best fatherly-tolerant voice, pushing up onto the balls of his feet. "Your friend speaks Bulgarian, does he?" he pressed, cutting to the chase. "Thank Merlin! Please ask him to ask the Bulgarian Minister which player he wants the cup handed over to on the off chance the Bulgarians win. None of his lot seems to speak a lick of English and Barty must have been dragged off into to deal with some mess back at the camp—bless the man..."
"Oh," Astoria jolted. She was somewhat flattered that Fudge remembered her, but there was an undercurrent in his attitude toward the Bulgarians that struck her as being nearly rude. Almost certain that Mr. Oblanski's foreignness was the true cause of Fudge's irritation, Astoria turned toward Alec awkwardly.
But Alec had ears and he had clearly overhead; he and Oblanski were both whispering to each other again in a delighted, snickering way.
"He says he'd like the cup handed to Krum," Alec announced, his smirk as perfect as his English.
"Hmm," sighed Fudge wearily, "you speak English too, do you?"
He threw his eyes up toward the heavens.
Several feet away, Fred and George were both repressing laughter.
"What?" whispered Astoria, creeping back towards them.
"Only you go for a stroll and end up convincing the magical leaders of two countries to hang over railings," Fred chuckled.
"Give it a rest, why don't you?" added George. "You make the rest of us seem boring!"
Astoria slapped his arm and retreated toward Alec, who was saying goodbye to Mr. Oblanski. Astoria nodded along respectfully, eager to get back to her seat and away from the stress that both the Malfoys and the various political officials in their box were causing her.
"Is Mr. Oblanski so hilarious?" Astoria wondered as she and Alec started back along the walkway.
"Quite hilarious," Alec jeered, "and, of course, absolutely fluent in English..."
It was Astoria's turn to laugh.
"That took you long enough," complained Maudlin when they reached the stairs that led to their seats. "Where are your binoculars—did they sell out?"
"We ran into Mr. Oblanski of Bulgaria," Alec shrugged. "Who's winning?"
"The Irish," answered Maudlin, "by more than two hundred—"
He broke off and pointed toward the sky. Krum had dipped into a steep, lethally swift dive. Behind him, Lynch, the Irish seeker, attempted to follow suit.
"Noo," Maudlin groaned. "Don't dive! Stay in the air, you thick bastard! You're up by two hundred and sixty points!"
Astoria understood what Maudlin meant by this (it took a lead of two hundred and fifty points to win) at almost precisely the same second that Lynch collided with the turf. There was a great stampede of Veela across the grassy field and she lost sight of Lynch. Krum meanwhile (although bleeding profusely) remained seated. He rose gently upward, clutching the snitch in his fist, ten points short of victory. The stands had gone haywire. There was a distinct possibility that Ireland's seeker lay dead on the field below, but it seemed as though the Irish had won the game anyway.
0o0
A couple of new characters here! I've mentioned most of them on and off, but as you'll be seeing quite a bit of Alec and Maudlin come Triwizard time, I thought it was a good time to bring them in.
I'll have part two up soon. As always, reviews are always such a mighty treat to read!