The following few weeks were hectic at the Auror Office, as preparations had to be made for the upcoming Quidditch World Cup. The British Ministry had promised their Aurors to the Moroccan government for additional security, but they would still apparently be spread quite thin. "We're expecting upwards of a million witches and wizards at the event," Robards explained at a group meeting one morning. "We will all need to be on constant alert for the entire weekend, especially considering what happened at last year's Cup."
Harry did not need reminding. He vividly remembered the horrors of four summers ago, watching Death Eaters march through camp, lighting tents ablaze and levitating innocent bystanders in the air for fun. He had been just 14 at the time and unable to do anything to stop it; he resolved not to let it happen again. He doubled his efforts to hone his skills and prepare himself for whatever dangers lie ahead.
The massive board at the front of the room had been transformed into a giant map of the grounds. The stadium sat at its center, while the surrounding land would be used as campgrounds for the many visitors coming into town for the event. "Potter," said Robards, tapping the board with his wand so that Harry's name appeared on the map, "you'll be mainly stationed at the southwest corner. It's designated for overflow capacity, so it'll only be busy if more people arrive than anticipated."
"Brilliant," Harry groaned. He understood why Robards planned it this way; he wanted to give Harry the least important job so there was less risk he would have to see combat. It didn't make him feel any better about things; he was already annoyed that he would be prevented from seeing the match, and it looked likely to be a tedious, boring weekend on top of that.
He did receive some good news, though. "We will all be scheduled for twelve-hour shifts," Robards explained. "That should allow you time to rest and recover on your off-hours. You will each be assigned a tent for personal use, or you can make your own arrangements for lodging." Harry perked up at this; he would have time off to see friends after all? He thought he would have to miss the little things that made the trip so fun, like camping with the Weasleys and celebrating with other fans of the teams, but maybe he would be able to enjoy those simple pleasures!
Harry had also learned that his birthday fell on the day before the match, so he had hoped to have a bit of time off to celebrate. Robards seemed to know this, because he said, "Potter, you will have the day off on Friday. Then you'll work the graveyard shift watching the campgrounds, rest in the morning, and work the following evening during the match."
"Yes, sir," Harry responded, already mentally planning ahead. Ron had been pestering him lately about scheduling as the Weasleys figured out their own plans; he would make sure to send a letter over to the Burrow with Dora tonight to fill them in. It sounded like he would be able to make the Portkey journey with them and set up in the family tent before leaving for his first shift. That eased the blow of missing the Quidditch game a little bit.
Harry had also handed out the cuff bracelets that George had gifted him, and the other Aurors were astounded by their simple brilliance. "This is fantastic!" exclaimed Proudfoot, admiring the bracelet upon her wrist. "Much faster and easier than sending Patronuses, I'll tell you that."
"More secure as well," muttered Savage, who was much tougher to please but nonetheless looked impressed as well. "Won't have our messages heard by everyone within twenty feet."
"I'll use these to remind everyone when their shifts begin and end," said Robards. "Keep them on throughout the weekend, just in case. You never know when we might need them."
Robards also spent more one-on-one time with Harry, giving him a crash course on what he needed to know for his first official field assignment. They walked into the potions lab together, where Robards handed Harry a thin belt with several notches on the side. "This is your basic tool kit," Robards explained. "Room to hold up to three potions, as well as a number of other specialty items. Here's what I would recommend to start…" Robards opened a cabinet and began rummaging through it, pulling out a number of already-brewed potions. "Healing Draught, of course, in case of injury. Veritaserum, in case you have to question a suspect. And a splashable Sleeping Draught...just cover your nose and mouth and throw it at the ground, then everyone within ten feet will pass out for a few minutes."
"Great," said Harry, slipping the potions into the notches in his belt. "What's this for?" He thumbed a small button on the other side of the belt, and heard a faint humming sound.
"I'll show you," said Robards, drawing his wand before Harry could react. "Stupefy!" A red jet of light burst from Robards' wand, aimed directly at Harry's heart, but it fizzled and died a few inches away from his chest. "Shield belt, courtesy of your friend Weasley. It's only good for a few charges, so don't rely on it too heavily."
Robards also took Harry out to the training course, where Harry was slowly making progress on his nonverbal spell casting. He still struggled to fire silent hexes at Robards consistently, but he was getting the hang of Shield Charms without needing to say Protego. "That's the most important part," Robards reassured him. "In the unlikely event you are attacked, you just need to defend yourself for a few seconds until reinforcements arrive. Self-defense is more important than aggression, at least for now."
Harry's confidence was growing more and more by the minute. His combat skills were rusty, but he was slowly getting back into fighting shape. It felt a bit like the Dumbledore's Army days – all he needed was a few dedicated sessions to practice his defensive spell kite to feel ready. He also knew that, if push came to shove, he had the Elder Wand in reserve. He didn't want to use it, but if he did find himself in a life or death situation, he could pull it out and improve his chances of victory. The temptation faded day by day as his skills improved, but it was always there, lingering in the back of his mind…
Harry spent the Thursday night before the World Cup at the Burrow, planning to join them for the next day's Portkey journey. Percy had joined them for dinner, giving them explicit instructions for the following morning. "I've set it up myself," he said, chest puffing with pride. "A car tire lying in a ditch just outside of town. It'll be departing at six-fifteen sharp, so plan to be there at six. It'll be you lot, plus the Lovegoods, the Fawcetts, and the Diggorys if they decide to come. You see, I chose a tire because of its unassuming nature, plus its size will allow the maximum number of passengers while preventing—"
"I'm glad he's back on good terms with the family and all," Ron had leaned over and whispered to Harry during his spiel, "but I'd forgotten what a pompous prick he was." Harry stifled a laugh.
Harry was awoken the following morning by a pounding on George's door. "Everyone up!" Arthur was shouting for the whole house to hear. "We leave in fifteen minutes, with or without you!" Still groggy, Harry forced himself out of bed to get dressed. He managed to drag himself down to the kitchen to scarf down a bit of toast before Arthur was shooing everybody out the back door, and the group of half-awake teens followed Arthur down the road that led down to the nearby village.
"C'mon, c'mon, we're already three minutes behind schedule!" Arthur tutted, checking his pocket watch every ten seconds as they marched single-file in the dim morning light.
"Great, so we'll be there twelve minutes early instead of fifteen," Ron croaked from the back of the line. Harry, Hermione and Ginny giggled at this. But they dutifully picked up the pace as Arthur led them through the sleepy wizarding village of Ottery St Catchpole. At just after six, they arrived at the spot: a quiet, dusty road, where they could see a rusty old tire leaning up against a low wall nearby.
A few other people were already there waiting for them. "Oh, hiya Harry!" said Luna Lovegood, beaming at him. "Good summer so far?"
"Great, Luna, thank you," Harry smiled, giving her a hug. She asked it so casually, as though it was a summer like any other and they hadn't just fought a war against the embodiment of evil two months ago.
"Father here was just talking about you," she said, indicating her father behind her who very much looked like he didn't want to be spotted. "I think he hoped that you wouldn't be coming."
"N-not at all the case, Luna!" laughed Xenophilius Lovegood, a little too unconvincingly. "Good to see you again, Potter."
Harry gave the man a brief handshake, but avoided his gaze. The last time he'd seen Mr. Lovegood was at his home earlier that spring, when he had sold Harry's location to the Death Eaters in exchange for his daughter's freedom. Harry still resented him for it, but he later learned that he'd spent a few months in Azkaban after their failed capture, so he figured there was no need to belabor the point. That was punishment enough in his mind.
"I had hoped to see Amos here," said Arthur after greeting the Fawcett family. He looked up and down the road expectantly. "I heard he was considering coming after all—"
"I wouldn't count on it," muttered Mrs. Fawcett. "He's been reclusive ever since losing his son. Hasn't been the same man." Harry felt a pang of guilt at this; he remembered the screams of agony from Amos Diggory when Harry had returned from the graveyard with Cedric's body in tow. He always hoped that Cedric's parents would be able to find peace in the years to come, but it seems that losing their only son was too traumatic to fully recover from.
"Sixty seconds!" Arthur announced, checking his pocket watch once more. "Gather around everyone, quickly." The small group converged around the tire, each placing a hand on the dirty old tire. Harry imagined how odd this must look if a Muggle car were to drive by at this precise moment. But before he could share this humorous thought with the others, the tire glowed bright blue, and Harry felt himself yanked off the ground. He felt himself spinning out of control, disoriented, hand still glued to the rubber of the tire. Eventually his feet met solid ground again, and he and the rest of the group detached from the tire and regained their bearings to look around.
Harry was in awe. The sun was just peeking up over the dusty plains of Morocco, a vast and barren landscape. There were already thousands of witches and wizards from all over the world milling about, staking out their own plot of land to set up their campsites. Off in the distance Harry saw a towering structure, rising hundreds of feet into the air, with two golden goalposts peeked out over the top. The Quidditch stadium. Harry was already envious of the others, as he could only imagine how spectacular it would look from the inside.
This year's final would be played between Malawi and Senegal, making it an all-African final in addition to the locale. Harry noted the high percentage of African witches and wizards in attendance, here to support their countrymen; it was a stark departure from the previous Cup, which was held in Britain and featured two European teams. But Harry didn't mind being a minority for the weekend; he was pleased to see the diversity of cultures on display on the campgrounds. It seemed the entire world had come together to celebrate Voldemort's defeat, even though his reign of terror was largely confined to Britain.
Arthur led the way through the campgrounds until they located their designated site near the outskirts of the stadium grounds. Harry helped to magically erect their tent, which only covered a roughly two-by-three foot area but which he knew would be magically expanded inside. Once it was up, they all clamored inside to claim their sleeping areas. There were three separate bedrooms, and Ron and Hermione quickly claimed one for themselves, which left Harry and Ginny to awkwardly figure out what to do next. "You're with me, Harry!" said Arthur jovially when he entered, which thankfully eased the tension.
Harry decided to take a quick nap once they were settled in, knowing he would need his energy later for the graveyard shift. When he awoke in the early afternoon, everyone was waiting for him in the common area to celebrate his birthday. Harry had insisted on a small celebration, so they sang him a brief song and then shared a small pound cake before exchanging gifts. Ron and Hermione had each gotten him trinkets from Australia: an enchanted boomerang from Ron that could travel for miles before returning, and a small kangaroo leather pouch from Hermione that could hold ten times as many items as it appeared able to. Ginny gifted him with a miniature Quidditch board that could project famous matches from throughout the sport's history, while Arthur got him a voucher for a month's worth of free lunches from his favorite food stand at the Ministry.
They spent the rest of the afternoon lounging around the tent, fiddling with Harry's new toys and swapping funny stories. Eventually Ginny got up to excuse herself, grabbing her jacket and hustling out of the tent. "Says she's meeting friends here," Ron muttered. "Popular girl, that one is. Dad'll throw a fit if she's not back by dark; she won't be of-age for another two weeks…"
Harry was disappointed to see her go, and he couldn't help but wonder who she was off seeing. He remembered what she told him earlier that summer: "I can't promise I'll wait for you." Was she meeting boys? Had she already found a new suitor? His insides boiled with envy, though he knew he had no right to feel this way. He'd made it clear that they weren't dating. It was his own fault if she decided to see somebody else. Her departure also meant that Ron and Hermione became consumed with one another once more, making Harry feel like more of a third wheel than ever, so he spent the next few hours outside with Arthur, meeting their camping neighbors and making small talk about work.
As the sun began to set, Harry's bracelet glowed, and he read the message from Robards: Graveyard shift has begun. Everybody to their assigned posts. "Got to go," Harry said, bidding farewell to Arthur. He returned to the tent and retrieved his utility belt, as well as his official-looking Auror badge, which he pinned to his robes before Apparating away.
He could see why Robards had assigned him to the southwest corner of the grounds...they were nearly deserted, with only a few stray tents here and there in the overflow section. Harry sighed...he knew he was in for a long night. He'd at least hoped for a more crowded area so that he could listen in on conversations, have some form of entertainment to keep him company. Harry instead focused on the task at hand, identifying the two exits he was responsible for guarding and pacing back and forth between them, keeping an eye and an ear out for any funny business.
The most exciting event of the evening came shortly before midnight, when he heard whisperings from up the hill towards the stadium. He turned to see a group of five timid pre-teens, packed tightly in a bunch, approaching him from their cluster of tents. "Excuse me," one of them asked in a quivering American accent. "A-are you Harry Potter?"
"I am," Harry said, and the kids looked at each other in disbelief.
"Awesome!" said another. "Can we get an autograph?"
"Oh. Yeah, alright," Harry said. He took a spare quill from one of them and signed his name across the memorabilia they thrust in his face. A couple held copies of the Daily Prophet article announcing Voldemort's death, with Harry's face plastered across the front; one of them had managed to procure a moving picture of him playing Quidditch at Hogwarts in his sixth year. The kids thanked him and scurried back up the hill to their parents, giggling and talking excitedly amongst each other. Harry smiled a little to himself watching them go. Maybe the whole being famous thing had its perks after all…
The rest of Harry's shift passed by uneventfully and excruciatingly slow. He didn't see another living being for the next several hours, save for the flies buzzing obnoxiously around his head. He started to grow tired around four in the morning, but he forced himself to stay alert, telling himself that Death Eaters could burst their way into the campgrounds at any moment. But that never came to pass, and soon the sun was peeking out over the hill behind him.
Harry finally got the all-clear via his bracelet that his shift was over, and he Apparated back to the Weasley tent to get some shut-eye. Arthur was snoring peacefully in his sleeping bag when Harry arrived, and he managed to slip into his own without waking him. He was asleep in minutes, and the next thing he knew, he was waking up to the sounds of commotion in the common area. He got up and walked out to find Ron and Hermione bickering over the former's choice of attire for the match.
"Absolutely not, Ronald!" Hermione said adamantly. "You cannot wear Hogwarts gear to an international Quidditch event!"
"Why not?" Ron protested; he was wearing his Gryffindor playing robes.
"We're supposed to show support with the host nation or the competing teams!" said Hermione. "You'll just look arrogant in those."
"Oh, come off it—" Ron dismissed.
"She's right, Ron," said Arthur, strolling in from outside. "Put on that yellow jumper your mother packed for you."
As Ron grumbled and returned to his bag, Hermione noticed Harry standing in the corner. "Oh, sorry Harry, hope we didn't wake you!" she said apologetically.
"'S all right," Harry yawned, checking his watch. "Was about to get up anyway. Anything fun happen while I was out?"
"Not really," Ron called out from behind his tent flap as he changed out of the offending robes. "Ginny's already off with friends again. I had half a mind to tail her, find out who she's run off with…" Harry said nothing, but he was secretly thinking the same thing. He buried the disappointment and ducked out of the tent to brew himself a mug of coffee.
As he'd expected, the World Cup wasn't nearly as fun with the specter of Auror duty hanging over his head. Even now, in his supposed free time, he found himself tapping his foot and checking his watch for when his next shift started. He couldn't even enjoy his time with Ron and Hermione, as they no longer seemed to have a filter around Harry and were content to snog in his presence with impunity. Harry wished Ginny were still around just so he didn't feel outnumbered. It would've been nice to have someone else to take the piss out of Ron with...
Soon everybody was getting ready to walk up to the stadium for the match. Harry was just preparing to gather his things and Apparate back to his post when his bracelet glowed. He brought it up to his face and read: Potter, meet me at the northwest corner of the stadium. Robards. Harry had a brief flutter of excitement...he was going up to the stadium? Would he get to see the match after all? He bade Ron and Hermione farewell and Apparated away.
Robards was waiting for him outside one of the corner entrances to the stadium. A long red carpet had been extended down the walkway from the corridor all the way down to the grass. "You're with me at the VIP entrance tonight," he greeted Harry.
"Really?" Harry asked. "I thought you were trying to keep me out of sight?"
"Turns out a lot of foreign dignitaries showed up hoping to meet you," Robards said, unable to hide the annoyance in his voice. "So it's your lucky day. You'll be stationed at the top of the walkway to guide people into the stadium. Just look sharp and don't let any stragglers slip through from the wings."
"Understood," said Harry. He jogged up the walkway towards the mouth of the stadium, standing just off to the side, looking as casual as he could. He nodded politely at everyone passing through; nearly everyone did a double-take when they saw him. It didn't seem to matter what country they came from or what team they were supporting – everyone in attendance knew who Harry Potter was. It gave him an odd sense of pride, but also made him feel naked and exposed as face after face gawked at him passing by.
Fortunately, not every passing face was as tactless. "Well, well, well," said Ron, grinning ear to ear as he led the way up the walkway towards Harry. "They've got you greeting the nobility, then?"
"Something like that," Harry grinned back as Hermione, Ginny and Arthur came up behind him. "What're you guys doing here?"
"We're in the Minister's box!" Ginny said excitedly. "Kingsley pulled some strings for Dad. Isn't that grand?"
"Remember Malfoy bragging about this four years ago?" Ron said. "Bet he won't be here this year...if he hasn't been chucked in Azkaban by now…"
"Wish I could join you guys," Harry said wistfully. "I'll want a full play-by-play after."
"C'mon, gang, we've got to find our seats!" Arthur called out from ahead. Ron, Hermione and Ginny gave Harry sympathetic looks before following Arthur down the corridor. Harry watched them go, disappointed...
"Potter!" Harry turned towards the commanding voice and came face to face with a woman about ten years his elder, with a physically-imposing build and three inches taller than him. He shook her hand in awe. "Gwenog Jones. Pleasure to meet you."
Harry had heard that name before, but he couldn't place it at first. Then he remembered his sixth year, attending Professor Slughorn's private get-togethers, listening to him brag about his many connections in the wizarding world. "Wait, you're captain of the Holyhead Harpies!" Harry said in recognition. "Professor Slughorn spoke very highly of you."
"Please, he speaks highly of all his famous ex-students," said Gwenog, rolling her eyes, which drew laughter from her gathered throng of supporters. "I'm sure he'll have nothing but glowing praise for you in ten years' time."
"You're right about that," said Harry, remembering his sudden potions expertise thanks to a certain Half-Blood Prince. "Who're you supporting this year?"
"Malawi," she scowled. "Senegal have no business being here if you ask me. We were s'posed to play them in the quarterfinals before all the cancellations happened."
"You were on the British national team?" asked Harry, excited.
"Sure, top Beater in the nation," Gwenog said casually as though it were a proven fact, and nobody around seemed to dispute the claim. "Our Seeker was rubbish though; can't say we were favorites for the Cup by any stretch. Though I hear you're quite the Seeker yourself, Potter!"
"Oh, I was alright…" Harry said humbly.
"Youngest in a century at Hogwarts, rumor has it!" she said loudly so that her gathered admirers could appreciate it as well. "Very impressive. Shame you're a bloke; the Harpies could use someone like you."
"You should look into Ginny Weasley then," Harry said quickly. "She'll be trying out for the league next month. She was the real star of our Gryffindor teams."
"Weasley, eh?" Gwenog mused. "I'll look her up then. Seeker as well?"
"And Chaser," said Harry. "She played both brilliantly."
"Interesting, interesting," said Gwenog. "Well I'd better get to my seat. Nice meeting you, Potter." And she marched through the archway into the stadium, with her gaggle of supporters following along in her wake. How cool, Harry thought to himself, and he made a mental note to geek out about this later with Ron. No wonder Slughorn was so enamored with her...she knew she was the coolest person in the room, and even the Chosen One couldn't faze her.
One of the final arrivals was Kingsley Shacklebolt himself, flanked by British Ministry officials and a number of African witches and wizards that Harry presumed to be from the local Ministry. "Ah, Harry!" Kingsley smiled, extending a hand in welcome. "I'd like to introduce you to the Moroccan Minister of Magic, Abel Alami." Harry shook the elder man's hand; he did not speak English, but there was no mistaking the look of recognition at Harry, the glance at his forehead towards his scar, the reverence he radiated.
"Good to meet you, sir, thanks for having me," Harry said politely. He shook the hands of the rest of the Minister's cabinet, who filed into the stadium one by one. Robards came up the ramp behind them.
"I'll be in the Minister's box," he announced in a bored tone. "You'll be alright out here?"
"No chance you'd want to switch places?" Harry asked in a final, feeble attempt to watch the match. But Robards was having none of it.
"Can't let you take the fall if anything happens to the Minister," Robards smiled sadly. "What a PR disaster that would be, eh?" And he patted Harry on the back on his way through the tunnel, disappearing down the long winding corridor.
A few more people arrived late to enter the stadium, until soon Harry found himself completely alone at the entrance. He could hear the roar of the crowd brewing, followed by the booming voice of what he assumed was the Moroccan Minister of Magic. He strained to listen to the words, but was unable to make anything out. Soon after, he could hear the faint sounds of player introductions, followed by a bang! signaling the start of the match.
Harry strained to make out anything the commentators were saying, but their voices echoed uselessly down the cavernous hall towards him. He closed his eyes and tried to paint a mental picture of the match, the yellow-and-brown jerseys of Malawi versus the purple-and-black of Senegal. But then he remembered that he was supposed to be keeping watch, so he opened his eyes and tried to distract himself by searching the nearby area for movement.
There were several campers who didn't have tickets to the match, and he could see many of them clustered farther along down the stadium wall where the match was being projected to them. Every so often one side or the other would cheer raucously, indicating a scored goal. Harry tried to keep track of the score just based on their reactions, but it seemed to be a high-scoring match and he lost track after around six goals apiece. Harry then tried counting all the trees in visible range; he got up to a hundred and thirty-seven before giving up out of sheer boredom. He almost wished somebody would rush the entrance to try and get in, just so he'd have something to do. Now he understood why the other Aurors said field work was not as exciting as it sounded…at least in the office he had the Daily Prophet to read…
Harry started to wonder how long he would be expected to stand here. What if the match went long? He had heard of matches lasting hours, even days...would he need to stand watch the entire time? The very thought of it made him tired...he fought to stay awake, wishing he'd managed to get another hour or two of shut-eye in the tent…
Then a great roar emerged from within the stadium. Harry craned his neck to try and discern what had happened – could the match be over? The answer came a minute later, as his bracelet glowed with a new message from Robards: The match has concluded. Expect guests to exit the stadium any moment. Sure enough, fans began trickling out of the corridor and down the walkway, nodding politely to Harry as they passed. They were all talking excitedly about the game, making Harry more jealous than ever.
Soon Arthur, Ron, Hermione and Ginny emerged, looking wind-swept and excited. "Blimey Harry, what a match!" Ron said as he ran up to him. "You should've seen it...Senegal was dominating, but then the Malawi Seeker made the most incredible catch...bloody hell…"
"Let him breathe, Ron," Hermione laughed. "He can watch the replay later. It's only a game." Harry was quietly thankful for her downplaying it, because he didn't know if he could take the disappointment of knowing the game was a must-see affair. The group was forced to shuffle down the walkway by the oncoming deluge of exiting guests; Harry watched them go, seeing Ginny split off from the group and head her own direction at the bottom of the walkway.
As the departing crowd thinned, Harry saw Kingsley walking down the corridor towards him, accompanied by Robards. "Good work, Potter," said the Auror, as Kingsley left them with a friendly wink. "I can take over from here. Head back to your assigned post for the rest of your shift. And stay vigilant; folks are sure to get rowdy tonight!"
"Will do," said Harry, and he departed down the walkway with the rest of the crowd. He could have Apparated, but he thought he ought to stretch his legs and enjoy the fresh air first. Last night's shift was so relentlessly dull, he was sure tonight's would be no different. No need to rush...
He headed down the main thoroughfare, passing by some delicious-looking food carts and souvenir shops selling jerseys. Then he heard a familiar voice: "Step right up, check out our collection of fireworks and sparklers! Customizable colors for your favorite teams!" Harry veered left towards the sound, and soon found the large purple tent housing Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes.
"Well, howdy there boss!" said George with a wink as Harry approached. "Come to check on business?"
"This looks brilliant!" said Harry, peering inside the tent to see it teeming with young children of all nationalities. "Doing alright then?"
"Alright?" said George. "We've had to replenish our stock twice already! Dunno if we'll have enough to last the night! This is all thanks to you, of course."
"Nah, you're the brains behind the operation," Harry said, winking back. "I'm just skiving off the top for doing nothing."
"Hey, you said it, not me," George laughed, giving Harry a playful punch on the arm. "Oi, you two! Did you pay for those Dungbombs?" And George rapidly turned to pursue two eight-year-olds who were attempting to sneak out of the tent with armfuls of product. Harry smiled to himself; George hadn't looked this happy and energetic in months. He only hoped the good times would last into the fall months, when all these kids were back in classrooms…
Harry continued walking down the path, figuring he shouldn't dawdle too long away from his post. He shoved his way through the crowd, which was beginning to swell with more and more people leaving the stadium and looking to celebrate. Then, he heard it. A scream rent the air in two, followed by sounds of a scuffle. Harry's heart rate quickened. Could this be what they all feared? A copycat attack on the campgrounds by Voldemort sympathizers?
Harry sprinted up to the scene, which was in chaos; people were screaming and shouting over one another in languages he didn't understand. "Make room!" he bellowed, drawing his wand and forcing his way to the center of the fray. "What's going on here?" The crowd parted for him, and Harry noticed a young witch lying immobile on the ground. A witch with a freckled face and fiery-red hair...his heart stopped beating…
"Ginny!" Harry yelped, dropping to his knees to check on her. He placed a hand on her chest, and to his immense relief, he could feel a heart beat. She was just unconscious. He leapt back to his feet, brandishing his wand menacingly at the gathered crowd. "Who did this to her?!" he demanded, wand tip pointed from frightened face to frightened face. The crowd was still chattering loudly, and he couldn't make out a single word. His desperation grew...he considered firing off hexes and asking questions later…
"Step aside, you vultures!" growled a voice, and Robards shoved his way into view. He pointed his wand at a nearby witch, who was speaking hysterically to no one in particular, and yelled, "Translocutus!"
Suddenly the witch was speaking perfect English, and Harry caught the tail end of her ramblings: "...Showed up out of nowhere swinging a cane! He grabbed the redhead and started shouting at her—"
"Who did?" Harry demanded, swinging his wand around to her. "Where is he?"
It took several minutes of chaos and a few more Translation Charms from Robards to piece together what had happened. A man had walked up to Ginny and shouted something at her, waving some kind of cane or staff at her (the crowd couldn't form a consensus on the matter). Ginny tried to push him off, calling for help, until the man hit her with a Stunning Spell and Disapparated when the crowd converged on him.
"What did the man look like?" Robards asked calmly. The gathered wizards and witches, who were clearly not British, did a poor job of describing the man beyond saying that he was a tall European with dark brown hair.
"Right," said Robards. "You all can leave now; nothing more to see here—"
"What d'you mean, they can leave?" Harry protested. Ginny was still lying unconscious on the ground. "We need answers! We need to figure out who did this!"
"Look Potter, as far as World Cups go, this barely registers as an incident," Robards shrugged. "Probably just some bloke who got too drunk and rowdy, nothing to make a scene about…"
Harry knelt again to tend to Ginny. She was slowly beginning to stir, but her breathing was uneven; the Stunner must have hit her square in the chest. Robards seemed to pick up on Harry's agitation, because he asked, "Potter, d'you know this girl?"
"Yes," said Harry. "She's my—a friend. I'm here with her family."
"Ah, of course. Wonderful," Robards muttered, clearly not thrilled with this news. "Okay Potter, you're dismissed. Take the girl down to St. Mungo's and wait for further instructions."
"Yes sir," Harry nodded, scooping up Ginny and hoisting her over his shoulder. "Can you send a Patronus to Arthur Weasley to let him know what's happened? It's his daughter." Robards nodded, and Harry turned on the spot, Disapparating himself and Ginny back to England in an instant.