A/N: I'm going to make this clear. I don't own the Harry Potter series or it's characters. That right goes to JK Rowling
If you haven't yet, read before this story:
The Son and Nephew of the Maurders: The Sorcerer's Stone
The Son and Nephew of the Maurders: The Chamber of Secrets
The Son and Nephew of the Maurders: The Prisoner of Azkaban
Also if you haven't please take part on voting for which story you want me to update next month
The Quidditch World Cup
Clutching their purchases, minus the miniature Seekers as they were too busy trying to outfly each other, Mr. Weasley in the lead, they all hurried into the wood, following the lantern-lit trail. They could year the sounds of thousands of people moving around them, shouts and laughter, snatches of singing. The atmosphere of feverish excitement was highly infectious; Harry could not stop grinning. They walked through the wood for twenty minutes, talking and joking loudly, until at last they emerged on the other side and found themselves in the shadow of a gigantic stadium. Though Harry could see only a fraction of the immense gold walls surrounding the field, he could tell that ten cathedrals would fit comfortably inside it.
"Seats a hundred thousand," said Mr. Weasley, spotting the awestruck look on Harry's face. "Ministry task force of five hundred have been working on it all year. Muggle Repelling Charms on every inch of it. Every time Muggles have got anywhere near here all year, they have suddenly remembered urgent appointments and had to dash away again… bless them," he added fondly, leading the way toward the nearest entrance, which was already surrounded by a swarm of shouting witches and wizards.
"Maybe I should have changed," Remus said as witches and wizards were eyeing him strangely. Hard for them not to when he was the only one in red out of a group of green.
"Too late for that now, Moony," Sirius said. "Besides, you might not be the only one showing Bulgarian colors."
Tonks watched Remus as Sirius tried to cheer Remus up.
"So Tonks, Harry told me you finally made Auror," Charlie greeted.
"Ah, yeah." Tonks responded.
"Good for you," Charlie said. "Your parents must be very proud of you."
"Yeah, they are." Tonks said.
"Prime seats!" said the Ministry witch at the entrance when she checked the group's tickets. "Top Box! Straight upstairs, Arthur, and as high as you can go."
The stairs into the stadium were carpeted in rich purple. They clambered upward with the rest of the crowd, which slowly filtered away through the doors into the stands to their left and right. Mr. Weasley's party kept climbing, and at last they reached the top of the staircase and found themselves in a box set at the highest point of the stadium and situated exactly halfway between the goalposts. Twenty-eight purple-and-gilt chairs stood in two rows here, and Harry, filing into the front seats with the Weasleys, his dad and uncles. He looked down upon a scene.
A hundred thousand witches and wizards were taking their places in the seats, which rose in levels around the long oval field. Everything was suffused with a mysterious golden light, which seemed to come from the stadium itself. The field looked smooth as velvet from their lofty position. At either end of the field stood three goal hoops, fifty feet high; right opposite them, almost at Harry's eye level, was a gigantic blackboard. Gold writing kept dashing across it as though an invisible giant's hand were scrawling upon the blackboard and then wiping it off again; watching it, Harry saw that it was flashing advertisement across the field.
The Bluebottle: A Broom for All the Family—Safe, Reliable, and with Built-in Anti-Burgular Buzzer… Mrs. Skower's All-Purpose Magical Mess Remover: No Pain, No Stain!... Gladrag's Wizardwear—London, Paris, Hogsmeade…
Harry tore his eyes away from the sign and looked over his shoulder to see who else was sharing the box with them. So far it was empty, except for a tiny creature sitting in the second from last seat at the end of the row behind them. The creature, whose legs were so short they stuck out in front of it on the chair was wearing a tea towel draped like a toga, and it had its face hidden in its hand.
"Whoa! A house elf!" Harry said. "What's your name?"
The tiny creature looked up and stretched its fingers, revealing enormous brown eyes and a nose the exact size and shape of a large tomato. Ron Hermione and Nevil spun around to look as did Mr. Weasley and James looked in interest. Although Harry seen House Elves, he knew it was rare to see a House elf outside the wizard family home they worked at unless their master allows it.
"My name is Winky, sir," squeaked the elf curiously from between its fingers. Harry noted its voice was higher pitch, which told him it was a female House Elf. Growing up around House Elves, Harry knew female house elves normally have higher pitch voice than male house elves. "You is surely Harry Potter, sir!"
"Yeah, I am," said Harry. "I guess you know me because of Voldemort's downfall, right?"
"Yes, sir. But I also knows you from Dobby, sir!"
"Dobby?" Harry responded.
Dobby was a house elf Harry helped freed and befriended two years ago after Dobby tried repeatedly save Harry's life. Harry even helped Dobby get a paying job at the Hogwarts kitchens which never happened before as House Elves normally worked as slaves to assign families. But Dumbledore was all too happy to give Dobby a paying job.
"You know Dobby?" Harry asked.
"Yes sir. Dobby talks of you all the time, sir!" she said, lowering her hands very slightly and looking awestruck.
"How is that possible?" Hermione asked.
"It's not that uncommon," James said. "House elves from different families often befriend each other if their families know each other."
"You must be James Potter," Winky said. "Dobby speaks of you too. He says you're the kindest master of house elves he has met."
"All I did was stop him from punishing himself." James said.
"But Dobby works for Hogwarts as a free elf," Harry said. "Doesn't that mean he can visit other house elves whenever he wants?"
Winky looked quite horrified at that idea and closed her fingers slightly so that her face was half-hidden again.
"Did he say something wrong?" Hermione asked.
"No Hermione. It's just that freedom and payment is against everything House Elves believes," James said. "They believe in finding a family to work for and settle down and do what they told."
"You mean they are slaves," Hermione said.
"One way to put it, yes. But I never thought of it that way." James said. "But my family treated our house elves as part of our family for generations."
"You see Hermione, each magical families treat their house elves differently," Mrs. Longbottom explained. "You have those like the Potters who treat their elves like family and treat them well. Then you have those who abuse their house elves and mistreat them as property."
"But House-elves does what they is told no matter how we're treated," Winky said. "I is not liking heights at all"—she glanced toward the edge of the box and gulped—"but my master sends me to the Top Box, and I comes."
"Why's he sent you up here, if he knows you don't like heights?" Hermione asked.
"Master—master wants me to save him a seat. He is very busy," said Winky, tilting her head down toward the empty space beside her. "Winky is wishing she is back in master's tent, but Winky does what she is told. Winky is good house elf."
"That doesn't mean you have to keep looking down," Harry said. "Why don't you just look at those around you instead?"
"Arounds me instead?" Winky asked.
"Yeah, that way you're obeying your master and don't have to look down." Harry said.
"Can she do that?" Hermione asked.
"As long as her master haven't told her otherwise, she can," James said. "House Elves maybe considered slaves, but their job is only as restricted as the master makes it. Like say if their master does not want their house elves to communicate with other house elves, they will tell them so, otherwise House Elves will chitchat with each other whether they're working or not."
"Thank you, sirs. Winky will try it." Winky said.
Hermione decided to start skimming eagerly through her velvet-covered, tasseled program. As much as she hates the idea of slavery, she came to trust Harry's dad as both a professor and an adult wizard.
"A display from the team mascots will precede the match," she read aloud.
"Oh that's always worth watching," said Mr. Weasley. "National teams bring creatures from their native land, you know, to put on a bit of a show."
The box filled gradually around them the next half hour. Mr. Weasley kept shaking hands with people who were obviously very important wizards. Percy jumped to his feet so often that he looked as though he were trying to sit on a hedgehog. When Cornelius Fudge, the Minister of Magic himself arrived, Percy bowed so low that his glasses fell off and shattered. Highly embarrassed, he repaired them with his wand and thereafter remained in his seat, throwing jealous looks at Harry and James whom Cornelius Fudge had greeted like an old friend.
"Harry and James Potter, you know," he told the Bulgarian minister loudly, who was wearing splendid robes of black velvet trimmed with gold. "Harry Potter… oh come on now, you know who he is… the boy who survived You-Know-Who… you do know who he is—"
Remus, figuring that the minister must not speak a word of English, translated much to Fudge's relief. The Bulgarian wizard started gabbling loudly and excitedly. He then must have said something funny because Remus laughed.
"I'll leave you to it," Remus said sitting back down.
"What was that about?" James asked quietly.
"It turns out Bulgarian Minister know English and just pulling Fudge's leg in thinking he doesn't so Fudge make funny gestures," Remus replied.
James burst out laughing earning a look from Sirius. James then told Sirius who burst out laughing.
"Any idea what they're laughing about?" Neville asked Harry.
"No clue," Harry replied.
"Ah, and here's Lucius!" Fudge said.
Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Neville turned quickly. Edging along the second row to three still empty seats right behind Mr. Weasley were none other than Lucius Malfoy; his son Draco; and a woman that they guess were Draco's mother.
With both parents with him, it was obvious Draco resembles his father with pointed face and white blond hair. His mother also had blond hair, tall and slim, and she had a look that suggested there was a nasty smell under her nose that worsen when she saw Tonks.
That is when Harry remembered that Tonks' mother Andromeda was Draco's aunt through his mother. Even now, it was easy for Harry to forget that the woman who helped James raised Harry to the point Harry saw Tonks' parents as his aunt uncle just as he saw Sirius and Remus as his uncles, was closer related by blood to Draco, much less his mother, than Sirius who was their distant cousins.
"Ah, Fudge," said Mr. Malfoy, holding out his hand as he reached the Minister of Magic. "How are you? I do not think you have met my wife, Narcissa? Or our son, Draco?"
"How do you do, how do you do?" said Fudge, smiling and bowing to Mrs. Malfoy. "And allow me to introduce you to Mr. Oblansk—Obalonsk—Mr.—well, he's the Bulgarian Minister of Magic, and he can't understand a word I'm saying anyway, so never mind." James, Sirius, and Remus snickered quietly. "And let us see who else—there's James Potter and his son Harry. Remus Lupin. Augusta Longbottom and her grandson Neville. Sirius Black—"
"I know Nymphadora Tonks and Sirius Black," Narcissa said with a scowl.
"Long time no see, cousin," Sirius greeted as if greeting an old enemy.
"Oh, right," Fudge said. "And you know Arthur Weasley, I daresay?"
The moment even grew tenser. Mr. Weasley and Mr. Malfoy looked at each other. Mr. Malfoy's cold gray eyes swept over Mr. Weasley, then up and down the row.
"Good lord, Arthur," he said softly. "Did James get you these seats or did you sell your house?"
Fudge, who wasn't listening, said, "Lucius has just given a very generous contribution to St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries, Arthur. He's here as my guest."
"How—how nice," said Mr. Weasley, with a very strained smile.
Mr. Malfoy's eye had returned to Hermione, who went slightly pink, but stared determinedly back at him. As always, the Malfoys prided themselves on being purebloods, and consider anyone of Muggle descent second-class. Only thing holding Malfoy back from saying more was the Minister of Magic, but he did nodded sneeringly to Mr. Weasley and continued down the line to his seats. Draco shot Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Neville one contemptuous look, then settled himself between his mother and father.
"Slimy gits," Ron muttered as he, Harry, Hermione, Neville turned to face the field again. Next moment, Ludo Bagman charged into the box.
"Everyone ready?" he said, his round face gleaming like a great, excited Edam. "Minister—ready to go?"
"Ready when you are, Ludo," said Fudge comfortably.
Ludo whipped out his wand, directed it at his own throat, and said "Sonorus!" and then spoke over the roar of sound that was now filling the packed stadium; his voice echoed over them, booming into every corner of the stands.
"Ladies and gentlemen… welcome! Welcome to the final of the four hundred and twenty-second Quidditch World Cup!"
The spectators screamed and clapped. Thousands of flags waved adding their discordant national anthems to the racket. The huge blackboard opposite them was wiped clear of its last message (Bertie Botts Every Flavor Beans-A Risk with Every Mouthful!) and now showed BULGARIA: 0, IRELAND: 0.
"And now, without further ado, allow me to introduce… the Bulgarian National Team Mascots!"
The right-hand side of the stands, which was solid block of scarlet, roared its approval.
"I wonder what they've brought," said Mr. Weasley, leaning forward in his seat. "Aaah!" He suddenly whipped his glasses and polished them hurriedly on his robes. "Veela!"
A hundred veela were now gliding onto the field. Veela were women… the most beautiful women ever seen… except that they were not human. Their skin shine moon-bright and their white-gold hair fan out behind them. When the music started, the veela started dancing, completely and blissfully blank. They danced faster and faster.
Then the music stopped, and boys were standing in their seats as if enchanted.
Angry yells were filling the stadium. The crowd did not want the veela to go. Most Irish fans started shedding anything having to do with the Irish team.
"And now," roared Ludo Bagman's voice, "kindly put your wand in the air… for the Irish National Team Mascots!"
Next moment, what seemed to be green-and-gold comet came zooming into the stadium, then split into two smaller comets, each hurtling toward the goalposts. A rainbow arched suddenly across the field, connecting the two balls of light. The crowd oooohed and aaaaahed, as though at a fireworks display. Now the rainbow faded, and the balls of light reunited and merged; they had formed a great shimmering shamrock, which rose into the sky and began to soar over the stands. Something like golden rain seemed to be falling from it—
Excellent!" yelled Ron as the shamrock soared over them, and heavy gold coins rained from it, bouncing off their heads and seats. Squinting up at the shamrock, Harry realized that it was compromise of thousands of tiny little bearded men with red vests, each carrying a minute lamp of gold or green.
"Leprechauns!" said Mr. Weasley over the tumultuous applause of the crowd, many of whom were still fighting and rummaging around under their chairs to retrieve the gold.
"Don't even try," Remus said. "They disappeared after some time."
The great shamrock dissolved, the leprechauns drifted down onto the field on the opposite side from the vela, and settled themselves cross-legged to watch the match.
"And now, ladies and gentlemen, kindly welcome—the Bulgarian National Quidditch Team! I give you—Dimitrov!"
A scarlet-clad figure on a broomstick, moving so fast it was blurred, shot out of onto the field from the entrance far below, to wild applause from the Bulgarian supporters.
"Ivanova!"
A scarlet-robed player zoomed out.
"Zograf! Levski! Vulchanov! Volkov! Aaaaaand—Krum!"
"That's him, that's him!" yelled Ron, following Krum with his Omnioculars. Harry quickly focused his own.
Viktor Krum was thin, dark, and sallow skinned, with a large, curved nose and thick black eyebrows. He looked like an overgrown bird of prey. It was hard to believe he was only eighteen.
"And now, please greet—the Irish National Quidditch Team!" yelled Bagman. "Presenting—Connolly! Ryan! Troy! Mullet! Moran! Quigley! Aaaaaand—Lynch!"
Seven green blurs swept onto the field each using a Firebolt broom stick like Harry's own fire stick and their names embroidered in silver upon their backs.
"And here, all the way from Egypt, our referee, acclaimed Chairwizard of the International Association of Quidditch, Hassan Mostafa!"
A small and skinny wizard, completely bald with a mustache to rival Uncle Vernon's, wearing robes of pure gold to match the stadium, strode out onto the field. A silver whistle was protruding from under the mustache, and he was carrying a large wooden crate under one arm his broomstick under the other. Mostafa mounted his broomstick and kicked the crate open-four balls burst into the air: the scarlet Quaffle, the two black Bludgers, and the miniscule, winged Golden Snitch. With a sharp blast of his whistle Mostafa shot into the air after the balls.
"Theeeeeeeey're OFF!" screamed Bagman. "And it's Mullet! Troy! Moran! Dimitrov! Back to Mullet! Troy! Levski! Moran!"
The speed of the players was incredible—the Chasers were throwing the Quaffle to one another so fast that Bagman only had time to say their names. The group's Omnioculars describes each strategy used.
Three Irish Chasers zoom closely together, Troy in center, slightly ahead of Mullet and Moran in Hawkshead Attacking Formation. Then Troy made as though to dart upward with the Quaffle in Porskoff Ploy, drawing away the Bulgarian Chaser Ivanova and dropping the Quaffle to Moran.
One of the Bulgarian Beaters, Volkov, swung hard at a passing Bludger with his small club, knocking it into Moran's path; Moran ducked to avoid the Bludger and dropped the Quaffle; and Levski, soaring beneath caught it be, but then Troy took the Quaffle head straight to the post and threw the Quaffle into one of the hoops. The Quaffle entered with ease.
"TROY SCORES!" roared Bagman, and the stadium shuddered with a roar of applause and cheers. "Ten zero to Ireland!"
Troy did a lap of honor around the field. The leprechauns watching from the sidelines had all risen into the air and formed the great, glittering shamrock. Across the field the veela were watching them sulkily.
The Irish Chasers were superb to say the least. They work as a seamless team, their movements so well coordinated that they appeared that they appeared to be reading one another's minds as they positioned themselves and rosette kept squeaking their names: "Troy—Mullet—Moran!" and within ten minutes, Ireland had scored twice more, bringing their lead to thirty-zero and causing thunderous tide of roars and applause from the green clad supporters.
The match became still faster, but more brutal. Volkov and Vulchanov, the Bulgarian Beaters, were whacking the Bludgers as fiercely as possible at the Irish Chasers, and were starting to prevent them from using some of their best moves; twice they were forced to scatter, and then, finally, Ivanova managed to break through their ranks, dodge the Keeper, Ryan, and score Bulgarian's first goal.
"Fingers in your ears!" James bellowed as the veela started to dance in celebration. They had stopped dancing, and the Bulgaria was again in possession of Quaffle.
"Dimitrov! Levski! Dimitrov! Ivanova—oh I say!" roared Bagman.
One hundred thousand wizards gasped as the two Seekers, Krum and Lynch plummeted through the center of the Chasers, so fast that it looked as though they had just jumped from airplanes without parachutes. Harry followed their descent through his Omnioculars trying to find the Snitch.
"They're going to crash!" screamed Hermione.
She was half-right-at the very last second, Viktor Krum pulled out of the dive and spiraled off. Lynch, however, hit the ground with a dull thud that could be heard through the stadium. A huge groan rose from the Irish seats.
Harry recognize the move as he used it many times himself: Wronski Defense Feint. It was a risky move that takes a lot of concentration.
"It's time-out!" yelled Bagman's voice, "as trained mediwizards hurry onto the field to examine Aidan Lynch!"
Krum was now circling high above Lynch, who was being revived by mediwizards with cups of potion. Anyone that focus on Krum would see his dark eyes darting all over the ground a hundred feet below. He was using the time while Lynch was revived to look for the Snitch without interference.
Lynch got to his feet at last, to loud cheers from the green clad supporters, mounted his Firebolt, and kicked back off into the air. His revival seemed to give Ireland new heart. When Mostafa blew his whistle again, the Chasers moved into action with a skill unrivaled.
After fifteen more fast and furious minutes, Ireland had pulled ahead by ten more goals. They were now leading one hundred and thirty points to ten, and the game was starting to get dirtier.
As Mullet shot toward the goalposts yet again, clutching the Quaffle tightly under her arm, the Bulgarian Keeper, Zograff, flew out to meet her and then elbowed her, hard. A scream of rage could be heard from the Irish crowd, and Mostafa's long, shrill whistle called foul.
"And Mostafa takes the Bulgarian Keeper to task for combing-excessive use of elbows!" Bagman informed the roaring spectators. "And—yes, it's a penalty to Ireland!"
The leprechauns, who had risen angrily into the air like a swarm of glittering hornets when Mullet had been fouled, now darted together to form the words "HA, HA, HA!" The veela on the other side of the field leapt angrily, and started to dance again.
As one, the male spectators stuffed their fingers into their ears, but the crowds was not the target of the Veela's spell this time.
Down at the field, Hassan Mostafa had landed right in front of the dancing vela, and was acting very oddly indeed. He was flexing his muscles and smoothing his mustache excitedly. The crowd erupted into a fit of laughter.
"Now, we can't have that!" said Ludo Bagman, though he sounded amused. "Somebody slaps the referee!"
Bagman was right. In Quidditch World Cup, the appointed referee per game is always someone from a different country than the ones playing so there be no favoritism.
A mediwizard came tearing across the field, his fingers stuffed into his own hears and kicked Mostafa hard in the shins. Mostafa seemed to come to himself and looked exceptionally embarrassed and had started shouting at the vela, who had stopped dancing and were looking mutinous.
"And unless I'm much mistaken, Mostafa is actually attempting to send off the Bulgarian team mascots!" said Bagman's voice. "Now there's something we haven't seen before… Oh, this could turn nasty…"
The Bulgarian Beaters Volkov and Vulchanov, landed on either side of Mostafa and began arguing furiously with him, gesticulating toward the leprechauns, who had now gleefully formed the words "HEE, HEE, HEE." Mostafa was not impressed by the Bulgarian's arguments, however; he was jabbing his finger into the air, clearly telling them to get flying again, and when they refused, he gave two short blasts on his whistle. Harry knew quidditch players were not allowed to purposely land on the ground for any reason unless referee calls timeout.
"Two penalties for Ireland!" shouted Bagman, and the Bulgarian crowd howled with anger. "And Volkov and Vulchanov had better get back on those brooms… yes… there they go… and Troy takes the Quaffle…"
Play now reached a level of ferocity beyond anything they have yet seen. The Beaters on both sides were acting without mercy: Volkov and Vulchanov seemed not to care whether their clubs contacted Bludger or human as they swum violently through the air. Dimitrov shot straight at Moran, who had the Quaffle, nearly knocking her off her broom.
"Foul!" roared the Irish supporters as one, all standing up in a great wave of green.
"Foul!" echoed Ludo Bagman's magically magnified voice. "Dimitrov skins Moran-deliberately flying to collide there-and it's got to be another penalty—yes, there's the whistle!"
The leprechauns had risen into the air again, and this time, they formed a giant hand, which was making a very rude sign indeed at the veela across the field. At this, the veela lost control. Their faces became belonging into sharp, cruel-beaked bird heads, and long scaly wings were bursting from their shoulders as they launched themselves across the field and began throwing what seemed to be handfuls of fire at the leprechauns.
"As the muggles say these days: Don't Judge a book by its cover," James said.
Ministry wizards were flooding onto the field to separate the veela and the leprechauns, but with little success; meanwhile, the pitched battle below was nothing to the one taking place above as the Quaffle changed hands with the speed of a bullet.
"Levski—Dimitrov—Moran—Troy—Mullet—Ivanova—Moran again—Moran-MORAN SCORES!"
Irish supporters' cheers were barely heard over the shrieks of the vela, the blasts now issuing from Ministry members wands, and furious roars of the Bulgarians. The game recommenced immediately as Quidditch does not stop when ministry fights mascots unless it starts hurting the players. Leveski had the Quaffle, now Dimitrov—
The Irish Beater Quigley swung heavily at a passing Bludger, and hit as hard as possible toward Krum, who did not duck quickly enough. It hit him full in the face.
There was a deafening groan from the crowd; Krum's nose looked broken, there was blood everywhere. Unless Krum was after the stitch, that would have been called foul by the referee, and Harry did not see any sign of Krum going after the Snitch. However, Hassan Mostafa did not blow his whistle. He had become distracted by one of the veela that had thrown a handful of fire and set his broom tail alight.
"Time-out! Ah, come on, he can't play like that, look at him—" Ron shouted despite supporting the Irish team.
"Look at Lynch!" Harry yelled.
The Irish Seeker had suddenly gone into a dive.
"He's seen the snitch!" Harry shouted. "He's seen it! Look at him go!"
"Come on Lynch!" James shouted.
Half the crowd seemed to have realized what was happening; the Irish supporters rose in another great wave of green, screaming their Seeker on… but Krum was on his tail with flecks of blood flying through the air behind him. Krum was drawing level with Lynch now as the pair of them hurtled toward the ground again—
For the second time, Lynch hit the ground with tremendous force and was immediately stampeded by a horde of angry veela.
Meanwhile Krum, his red robes shining with blood from his nose, was rising gently into the air, his fist held high, a glint of gold of the golden snitch was in his hand.
The scoreboard was flashing Bulgaria: 160, Ireland: 170 across the crowd, who did not seem to have realized what had happened. Then, slowly, as though a great jumbo jet were revving up, the rumbling from the Ireland supporters grew louder and louder and erupted into delightful screams. In a rare moment in Quidditch History, a team won despite the fact the opposing team got the Snitch.
"IRELAND WINS!" Bagman shouted, who like the Irish, seemed to be taken aback by the sudden end of the match. "KRUM GETS THE SNITCH WINNING 150 POINTS, BUT WHEREAS IRELAND HAD A GREATER LEAD THAN 150 POINTS, THEY WIN! Good lord, I don't think any of us were expecting that!"
Krum landed as a swarm of mediwizards blasted a path through the leprechauns and veela to get to him. Meanwhile Krum's team members were around him, shaking their heads and looking dejected, a short way away.
"They had no chance of winning. Ireland was just too good this year," James said. "But Krum was brave ending the game like he did."
Harry nodded as he agreed.
The Irish players were dancing gleefully in a shower of gold descending from their mascots. Flags were waving all over stadium, the Irish national anthem blared from all sides; the veela were shrinking back into their usual beautiful selves no, though looking dispirited and forlorn.
"Vell, ve fought bravely," said a gloomy voice behind Harry—it was the Bulgarian Minister of Magic.
"You can speak English!" said Fudge, sounding outrange. "And you've been letting me mime everything all day!"
"Vell, it vos very funny," said the Bulgarian minister shrugging. "I told your translator not to tell you." He blinked at Lupin, reassuring him that the Bulgarian Minister will take blame for this.
And as the Irish team performs a lap of honor, flanked by their mascots, the Quidditch World Cup itself brought into the Top Box!" roared Bagman.
A blinding white light illuminated over the top box so that everyone in the stands could see the inside. Two panting wizards carrying a vast golden cup into the box, which they handed to Cornelius Fudge, who was still looking very disgruntled that he had been using sign language all day for nothing.
"Let's have a really loud hand for the gallant losers—Bulgaria!" Bagman shouted.
And up the stairs into the box came the seven defeated Bulgarian players. The crowd below was applauding appreciatively; Harry could see thousands and thousands of Omniocular lenses flashing and winking their direction.
One by one, the Bulgarians filed between the rows of seats in the box, and Bagman called out the name of each as they shook hands with their own minister and then with Fudge. Krum, who was last in line, looked a real mess. Two black eyes were blooming spectacularly on his bloody face. He was still holding the Snitch. Krum was not as coordinated on the ground as he was in the air. He was slightly duck-footed and distinctly round shouldered. But when Krum's name was announced, the whole stadium gave him a resounding, earsplitting roar.
And then came the Irish team. Aidan Lynch was being supported by Moran and Connolly; the second crash seemed to daze him, and his eyes looked strangely unfocused. But he grinned happily as Troy and Quigley lifted the Cup into the air and the crowd below thundered its approval.
At last, when the Irish team had left the box to perform another lap of honor on their brooms as Aidan Lynch was on the bac of Connolly's clutching hard around his waist and still grinning in a bemused sort of way.
Bagman pointed his wand at his throat and muttered, "Quietus."
"They'll be talking about this one for years," he said hoarsely, "a really unexpected twist, that… shame it couldn't have lasted longer… Ah yes… yes, I owe you… how much?"
For Fred and George had just scrambled over the backs of their seats and were standing in front of a Ludo Bagman with broad grins on their faces, their hands outstretched.