Chapter 4: The Quidditch World Cup

"It's got to be Ireland!" Charlie pounded the table emphatically as he spoke.

"Rubbish!" cried Fred at once. "Bulgaria has got Viktor Krum, and besides-"

"Krum's one decent player, Ireland has got seven," George interrupted irritably. "We talked about this!"

They were sitting around the dinner table in what Hermione was quite sure was the most beautiful garden in the world. It was arrestingly large considering the size of the house, and vines and flowers in every imaginable shape and color crisscrossed every which way around them, sometimes so untamed they met overhead and formed delicate little archways across the garden path. Mr. Weasley had conjured candles which hung in midair around the table, reminding her powerfully of the fairy houses girls at school had decorated when she was a child. Crookshanks loped in and out of their feet as they ate and talked, in enthusiastic but unsuccessful pursuit of a gnome who raced, cackling madly, about the perimeter of the garden. The next morning they'd be getting up at the crack of dawn to attend the final match of the Quidditch World Cup, and talk of the outcome had been nonstop and grown increasingly heated all day.

"Wish England had got through," said Charlie forlornly. "That was embarrassing, that was."

"What happened?" asked Harry through a mouthful of potatoes. Evidently Quidditch news was hard to come by at his aunt and uncle's, and he never seemed to tire of listening to debate after ludicrous debate. Hermione, who tired quickly of Quidditch talk and couldn't help but notice the arguments removing themselves further and further from logic as the hour grew later-George, for example, had declared not forty minutes ago that Bulgaria would absolutely, unequivocally, without a doubt, win the match-simply watched Crookshanks's fruitless hunt for the gnome and allowed her attention to drift lazily from one conversation to the next.

"...with a horrible great fang on it," Mrs. Weasley was saying with a shudder, gesturing toward the earring in Bill's left ear. "Honestly, dear, what do they say at the bank?"

"Mum, no one at the bank gives a damn how I dress as long as I bring home plenty of treasure." Bill's long-suffering voice didn't quite disguise the amused spark in his eye.

"Well, if you'd only let me give your hair a trim…"

"Absolutely not."

"I like it," Ginny interjected. "You're so old-fashioned, Mum." Mrs. Weasley gave a deep sigh.

"Honestly, Ginny, someday-"

"Someday I'm going to shave off all my hair," Ginny announced, with such authority that Hermione had to quickly stuff her knuckle into her mouth to stifle her snort of laughter. "And color it green, while I'm at it."

"Ginevra Weasley, you'll do no such thing," countered her mother.

"It's just hair, Mum," sighed Ginny, but she let the subject drop with a wink at Hermione and turned her attention to her brothers' argument. "Ireland's going to win," she said flatly. "But Krum'll get the Snitch." There was a pause, and then the end of the table erupted with laughter.

"Good one," gasped Charlie, pounding the table once again.

"I'm not joking," snapped Ginny. "The way Lynch has played all summer? And Krum-"

"Lynch has done all right," Fred interrupted in a patronizing sort of voice. "Not a chance, Ginny."

Ginny rolled her eyes and opened her mouth to argue, but on Hermione's other side, Ron was carefully scanning the table to ensure everyone else was busy talking. When he was satisfied, he bent forward so that only Harry and Hermione could hear him.

"Have you heard from Sirius then, Harry?" he whispered. Harry mimicked Ron's glance around the table, then gave a short nod.

"Twice," he hissed. "He sounds okay." He paused. Perhaps it was Hermione's imagination, but a shadow seemed to flit across his face, gone as quickly as it had come. "He, er-might write while I'm here, actually." With a glance at Hermione, Ron opened his mouth to speak. However, at that moment Mr. Weasley gave a great sigh and stood.

"Would you look at the time?" he exclaimed. "You really should be in bed now, all of you-we'll be up at the crack of dawn for the Cup!" Everyone rose at once, chattering excitedly.

"...match went on for five days last time," George was saying in hushed, reverent tones.

"Wow," cried Harry. "Hope it does this time!"

"Well, I certainly don't," said Percy sanctimoniously. "I shudder to think what the state of my in-tray would be if I was away from work for five days."

"Yeah, someone might slip dragon dung in it again, eh, Perce?" laughed Fred.

"That was a sample of fertilizer from Norway!" snapped Percy. "It was nothing personal!"

"It was," Ginny whispered to Hermione as they slipped in the back door. "The twins sent it."

Hermione felt as if she'd scarcely closed her eyes when they were startled open again by what sounded very much like a gunshot somewhere above her head. She scrambled to sit up, profoundly startled, and felt foolish at once. It wasn't a gunshot; it was Mrs. Weasley opening the door, clad in a dressing gown and slippers and already looking careworn.

"Up you get, girls."

"Nooo," moaned Ginny from somewhere in the depths of her pillows.

"Go on now, it's time," repeated Mrs. Weasley, retreating down the hallway toward the twins' room.

"I don't believe you," came Ginny's plaintive retort.

"This had better be...spectacular," Hermione muttered darkly, shoving aside her blankets and placing an experimental foot on the floor. It was cold, but her legs still seemed to work.

"It will," sighed Ginny. They pulled on their jeans and sweaters in a daze and stumbled downstairs, but the minute they entered the kitchen Hermione felt a hundred times more awake.

Mr. Weasley was standing in the center of the room, face radiant with pride and arms outstretched to show off his outfit. He was wearing a pair of teal corduroy pants several sizes too big for him and held up with a length of rope. This might've been inoffensive enough except that he paired them with a Hawiian shirt in such violent yellows, blues, and pinks that it strained her eyes to look directly at it. Ginny buried her face in her hands and sank down into a chair between the twins, shoulders quaking with silent laughter. Hermione glanced at Harry, who seemed to be using every ounce of willpower he possessed to control his face.

"I tried," he whispered, so only Hermione could hear. "There was a hat before." She stifled a laugh with extreme difficulty.

"How do I look?" Mr. Weasley asked, beaming around. "Do I look like a Muggle?" Hermione supposed, technically, that he did; a Muggle who had suffered a stroke and never quite recovered, perhaps, but a Muggle nonetheless.

"Very nice," she managed.

"You'll want to get going, Arthur," said Mrs. Weasley, appearing in the doorway behind Hermione. "Look at the time."

"Oh, crikey!" exclaimed Mr. Weasley, with a glance at his watch. "Yes, best be off. We've got a bit of a walk."

"Walk?" said Harry curiously. "Are we walking to the Cup?"

"Oh, no, that's miles away." Mr. Weasley waved a gently dismissive hand in the air. "We'll only need to walk to the Portkey. Nearest one's at the top of Stoatshead Hill." This was Greek to Hermione, but Fred, George, Ron, and Ginny all let out a collective groan.

"Portkey?" Harry mouthed to Hermione. She shrugged. They'd find out soon enough, she supposed.

"George!" cried Mrs. Weasley suddenly, in a voice so sharp everyone jumped.

"What?" asked George. His innocent tone did little to distract from his shaking hands and darting eyes.

"What is that in your pocket?"

"Nothing!"

"Don't lie to me!"

"C'mon," sighed Ginny, with a gentle tug on Hermione's arm. "I'd rather not witness this." They slipped out the kitchen door and into the cool pre-dawn air outside. Harry and Ron followed close behind them, and together they set off up the road. The moon was faintly visible just above the horizon, and the barest hint of blue shone through the dark sky. It was rather pretty, thought Hermione vaguely. Perhaps she ought to get up earlier.

"What is a Portkey?" she asked keenly as Mrs. Weasley's yells rang out behind them. Ron groaned, and Ginny snorted.

"They're...objects," Ron began, gesturing helplessly at the air around them. "Used to transport wizards from one place to another. Sort of like Aparating, but you need to be touching the Portkey to do it."

"It's bloody horrible," sighed Ginny. "Worse than Floo Powder." This meant nothing to Hermione, who had never traveled by Floo Powder before. Harry, on the other hand, shuddered.

"What sorts of objects are Portkeys?" he asked, after a moment. Ron shrugged.

"They can be anything. Old bits of rubbish, normally, so Muggles don't find them and mess about." They slowed gradually, coming to a stop at the base of the steepest hill Hermione had ever seen in her life.

"Stoatshead Hill," sighed Ron, craning his neck upward to see the top. "What're they playing at, putting a Portkey at the top?"

"Well, let's go," muttered Ginny, and set off at a frankly offensive pace up the hill. Sharing a glance of mutual dread, Harry, Ron, and Hermione followed.

To say it was an unpleasant journey was a gross understatement. The combination of the dim light, the film of drowsiness around their eyes, the uneven ground, and the sheer steepness of the hill meant they stumbled every other step, and by the time they reached the top Hermione wasn't entirely confident she'd ever be able to breathe properly again. Ginny reached down to help Harry up the last few steps to level ground; Ron extended his hand to Hermione, who waved it away impatiently and forced her way to the top.

"Whoa," she breathed, in spite of herself. The valley that unfurled below them rivaled the ravine Ginny had shown her the afternoon she'd arrived, and the violet half-light now bathing everything made it look positively otherworldly. Harry stood beside her, likewise transfixed, as Ron and Ginny bickered and scoured the hilltop for the Portkey.

Quite suddenly, loud footsteps rang out behind them and Fred and George clambered over the top of the hill, looking very grumpy indeed.

"Whew," cried Mr. Weasley, close behind them. He panted heavily for a moment, and checked his watch. "We've made good time, still got ten minutes…."

"Got it!" cried Ginny, emerging from behind a tree holding a moldy-looking old boot.

"Arthur!" came a shout from the other side of the hilltop. "Arthur, old boy, is that you?"

"Amos!" roared Mr. Weasley. A stout wizard with a broad, good-natured face ambled into view accompanied by Cedric Diggory, a handsome sixth-year boy Hermione knew by sight but had never spoken to. She vaguely recalled Draco mentioning him to her, but at the moment she couldn't imagine why.

"This is Amos Diggory, everyone," Mr. Weasley was saying. "He works for the Department for the Regulation and control of Magical Creatures. And his son, Cedric."

"We've met," said Cedric pleasantly. "All right, Harry?" Fred and George scowled and muttered darkly to one another behind their hands. Quidditch, thought Hermione. That's why Draco had mentioned Cedric.

"We'd better get ready, we're a minute off," said Mr. Weasley, glancing skyward. "Bring it here, Ginny." Ginny stepped forward and held out the boot, and one by one, everyone edged closer to touch it. Harry and Hermione shared a quizzical look, but shrugged and followed suit.

"Any second now…" murmured Mr. Weasley, eyes fixed once again on his watch. "Three...two...one…"

Before the word one had entirely left his mouth, Hermione felt an imaginary hook seize her around the middle and yank her forward so roughly that she was certain half her organs must've been left behind. Wind picked up around them, so strong it felt like being slapped mercilessly by a group of angry giants, and then they were spinning. Hermione could see exactly why Ron and Ginny had complained; this was awful, it was heinous...and then it was over. Her feet slammed into the ground with such force that she marveled her legs didn't snap. Harry stumbled into her and Ron into him, and they collapsed in a heap on cold, sodden grass.

They got to their feet, weak and shaking, and glanced around. They were standing in what appeared to be a deserted and wholly unremarkable stretch of misty moor, but the moment she turned her head, Hermione had to stifle a laugh. A pair of wizards she assumed worked for the Ministry were standing before them, clutching clipboards and looking harassed. They were dressed as Muggles, she supposed, though she questioned whether either of them had ever actually seen a Muggle before. One wore a tweed suit jacket with a hideous orange sweater underneath and a pair of green thigh-length galoshes, the other a thick woolen kilt and an arrestingly yellow rain poncho. This was slightly transparent so as to reveal he wore nothing underneath; Hermione averted her eyes, face growing slightly warm. She didn't dare catch Harry's eye for fear she'd burst out laughing, so she kept her gaze firmly on the ground as the wizard in the kilt gave Mr. Weasley directions to their campsite. Twenty minutes' walk from the edge of the moor brought them to a small wooden cabin at the edge of an enormous field, and as they approached a man emerged from the open door. Hermione could tell at once that this man was the only real Muggle for miles around.

"Morning!" he greeted them cheerfully.

"Morning!" said Mr. Weasley brightly. "Would you be Mr. Roberts?"

"Aye, I would. And you are?"

"Weasley-two tents, booked a couple of days ago?"

"Aye," repeated Mr. Roberts, consulting a list tacked to his clipboard. "Just up by the wood there. If you reach the hill, you've gone too far." He paused. "You'll be paying now, then?" Mr. Weasley jumped slightly, and then, to Hermione's horror, pulled a small pouch of what she suspected were galleons and sickles out of his shirt pocket. Realizing his mistake at once, he shoved it quickly back inside and extracted a fistful of crumpled bank notes.

"Help me, you two," he hissed, beckoning to Harry and Hermione. "This one here's a….a ten? Ah, yes, I see the little number on it now. So, then...this one'll be...a five?"

"A twenty," Hermione corrected. Harry was biting his lip furiously to keep from grinning, and Hermione suspected he couldn't speak. "You'll want these two, and…" she paused and examined the notes in Mr. Weasley's hand. "This one. That should do."

"Thank you, Hermione," sighed Mr. Weasley, giving her a sheepish smile. "I don't know, these little bits of paper…"

"You foreign?" asked Mr. Roberts, as Mr. Weasley passed him the notes.

"Eh?" said Mr. Weasley, puzzled.

"You're not the first to have trouble with money," said Mr. Roberts wisely. "Had a boke try to pay me with great gold coins the size of hubcaps not twenty minutes ago." Mr. Weasley froze, but at that moment a wizard in a bright blue pajama set adorned with little red and yellow cars appeared next to the front door.

"Obliviate," he said sharply, pointing his wand at Mr. Roberts. At once, Mr. Roberts' eyes went fuzzy and a look of dreamy unconcern slid onto his face.

"Nice to meet you!" he said brightly, disappearing back into his cabin. The wizard in blue pajamas sighed deeply and beckoned them onward down the road.

"Don't know what we'll do about him," he muttered. "Needs a memory charm every ten minutes to keep him happy. Blimey, I'll be happy when all this is over. See you, Arthur." He Disapparated.

"Well, come on, then!" Mr. Weasley urged them forward. "Nearly there!"

Harry and Hermione shared a grin as they fell in step behind Mr. Weasley. If the morning was anything to go on, the World Cup would be well worth the early hour and the trudge over Stoatshead Hill.


"Poor bloke's not going to know which way's up till Christmas," sighed Theo, sticking a wad of Muggle money back into his jacket pocket with a rueful laugh. The Muggle man at the gates waved them through with a vague "Merry Christmas!" and tottered back into his small wooden cabin, as though he'd forgotten how to properly work his legs. Judging by the harassed-looking Ministry officials rushing about, Draco suspected he'd been on the receiving end of a higher-than-average number of memory charms this afternoon.

"Where'd you get Muggle money?" asked Daphne wonderingly, as they set off down the road toward a distant tree-lined moor. Theo raised an eyebrow.

"Is that what I gave him?" Daphne frowned at Draco, who shrugged, equally lost.

"Well, I-yeah," she stammered. Theo gave her a subtle, mischievous grin and handed her a note from his pocket.

"Look again." Daphne was quiet for a moment, then gasped so dramatically that Draco glanced back to see for himself. Though he could've sworn, a moment ago, that the paper contained the ornate, colorful pictures that decorated Muggle bank notes, now it was utterly blank.

"Theo!" cried Daphne, scandalized. Draco, on the other hand, snatched the paper to examine it more closely, torn between intense fascination and annoyance that he couldn't work out Theo's trick.

"How d'you do this?" he demanded. Theo shrugged.

"Mum invented it," he said casually. "She uses it to travel, mostly-forges Muggle documents when she'd rather take the train than Apparate, that sort of thing. I don't really know how it works, but if a Muggle looks at it, they'll see whatever you want them to see." He paused. "Mum doesn't exactly...like me to use it as money," he said slowly. "Says it's not right-"

"Well, it's not," Daphne interjected.

"He'll never know the difference," Theo countered. "And nor will whoever he gives it to, and whoever they give it to, and so on."

"What d'you mean, you don't know how it works?" Draco asked, still studying the paper. As far as he could tell it possessed no distinguishing physical properties-it looked and felt exactly like an ordinary slip of paper.

"Oh, it's probably some sort of Switching Spell," said Daphne dismissively. "Theo, I really don't think-"

"It's not-for the hundredth time, a Switching Spell is the simultaneous Transfiguration of two objects to resemble one another," snapped Draco. "Not a catch-all term for anything that changes an object's appearance." Daphne rolled her eyes.

"Yes, Draco, and for the hundredth time-"

"Keep it down," hissed Theo. "If that Muggle hears you talking about Switching Spells…"

"Oh, now you're concerned about the Muggle," sniffed Daphne.

"Can I keep this?" Draco asked, already pocketing the enchanted paper. Theo shrugged.

"I mean...if you like, yeah."

The drone of voices reached their ears as they neared the end of the road, punctuated by shouts of laughter and occasional bouts of singing. They crossed the line of trees protecting the moor, and Draco had the impression of stepping from one world into the next. Though dusk had scarcely begun to gather, red and green lanterns floated in midair, illuminating the largest burst of color and activity he'd ever seen in his life. It brought to mind the glittering, bustling Christmas markets in Paris-people jostling every which way, radiating carefree delight in all directions as they went, flitting between a hundred tents in a thousand colors and laden with a million different wares and decorations. He wanted to look everywhere at once, and his eyes weren't keen to accept that this was impossible; within seconds he was dizzy, but he didn't mind.

"C'mon," said Daphne's voice in his ear. "We'll have a job spotting the others in this."

Within minutes, however, they'd found Blaise and Pansy loitering near a large wooden stall overflowing with every kind of souvenir imaginable.

"You've been ages," cried Pansy, beckoning them over impatiently. "It's nearly time!"

It was. Draco could feel it in the sudden uptick in activity around them, as if the air had filled to the brim with collective anticipation and it was bursting back out to infuse them anew. It was impossible to keep still. A grin lit his face of its own accord as a gong sounded from somewhere beyond the tents.

"It's time." He sounded like a child on Christmas morning, but he didn't care. "Let's go."

Arms linked so as not to lose one another in the bustling crowd, they joined the flood of footsteps and feverish chatter leading down the path toward the field.