The Quidditch World Cup

John walked beside Sherlock as they followed the lantern-lit trail. Despite already knowing the outcome of the match, he was thoroughly enjoying himself. The atmosphere of excitement was highly infectious, and soon all of them were chattering and joking loudly. They walked through the woods for about twenty minutes until they emerged in the shadow of the gigantic stadium. Though they could only see a fraction of the immense gold walls from where they were standing, they could tell that ten cathedrals could easily fit inside it.

There was a Ministry witch checking tickets and directing people at the entrances.

'Prime seats!' she said, checking the Weasleys' tickets. 'Top Box! Straight upstairs, Arthur, as high as you can go.' She directed John and Sherlock the same way, then checked Dean, Sam and Castiel's tickets. 'Right, middle seats, row thirty-six- hold on, Winchester?' she said, digging in her pockets. 'I've got a note about this – hold on – yes. This says you've been requested in the Top Box, by the Minister – wow! Aren't you three lucky! Go on, same way as them, then.'

Sam's mouth dropped open, ecstatic about their upgrade. 'Let's go, Dean!' he yelled, running into the entrance.

'Sam, wait!' Dean called, chasing after Sam and dragging Cas with him.

The stairs into the stadium were carpeted in rich purple and everything had a golden glow.

John found himself having to lead Sherlock the further up they went.

'I didn't realise the Top Box would be so high up,' Sherlock muttered as people around them filtered out into the stands.

'I don't know what else you thought it would be, being called the Top Box,' John said back, smirking slightly.

At las, they reached the very top and found themselves in a small box situated exactly half way between the goalposts. There were two rows of purple chairs, although a few extra ad been squeezed into one corner for the Winchesters and Castiel.

John looked around in awe. A hundred thousand witches and wizards were taking their seats below, seats that rose in levels around the oval pitch.

Sherlock, however, had his eyes fixed on the magical billboard that was floating across them. Gold letters kept writing themselves on the board, then wiping itself away, advertising different magical products, such as Mrs Skower's All Purpose Magical Mess Remover.

'Come on, over here,' said John, taking Sherlock's hand and bringing him to his seat.

Sherlock relaxed a little once sat down, and managed to look around. To his great surprise, there was a house-elf sitting behind them.

'Dobby?' said Harry, also noticing the elf.

But it was not Dobby.

'Did sir just call me Dobby?' the elf squeaked, hiding her face to block out the high view.

John turned around too and found his eyes being drawn to the empty seat beside her.

'Sorry,' said Harry. 'I just thought you were someone I knew.'

'But I knows Dobby too, sir!' squeaked the elf from between her fingers. 'My name is Winky, sir – and you, sir, you is surely Harry Potter?'

'Yeah, I am.'

'But Dobby talks of you all the time, sir!'

'How is he?' said Harry. 'How's freedom suiting him?'

'Ah, sir,' said Winky, shaking her head. 'Ah, sir, meaning no disrespect, sir, but I is not sure you is doing Dobby a favour, sir, when you is setting him free.'

'Why?' said Harry 'What's wrong with him?'

'Freedom is going to Dobby's head, sir,' said Winky sadly. 'Ideas above his station, sir. Can't get another position, sir.'

'Why not?'

Winky lowered her head and whispered, 'He is wanting paying for his work, sir.'

'Paying?' Harry said blankly. 'Well – why shouldn't he be paid?'

Winky looked horrified at the idea. 'House-elves is not paid, sir! No, no, no. I says, next thing I hear, you is up in front of the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, like some common goblin.'

'Well, it's about time he had a bit of fun,' said Harry.

'Who's Dobby?' Dean whispered to Castiel.

'He's a house-elf that used to work for the Malfoys,' Cas whispered back. 'He tried to warn Harry about the Chamber of Secrets, and Harry tricked Lucius Malfoy into freeing him.'

'Whoa. I missed a lot, didn't I?'

'Yes.'

'I is not liking heights at all, Harry Potter,' Winky gulped, glancing over the edge of the box, 'but my master sends me to the Top Box and I comes, sir.'

'Why's he sent you up here if he knows you don't like heights?' Harry frowned.

'Master – master wants me to save him a seat, Harry Potter, he is very busy,' said Winky, tilting her head at the empty seat that John was still staring at. 'Winky is wishing she is back in master's tent, Harry Potter, but Winky does what she is told. Winky is a good house-elf.' She gave the edge of the box another frightened look, and hid her eyes completely again.

They turned away from WInky, John somewhat reluctantly, and Ron started testing his Omnioculars.

'Wild!' he said, twiddling the replay knob on the side. 'I can make that old bloke down there pick his nose again… and again… and again…'

Meanwhile, Hermione was skimming eagerly through her velvet-covered, tasselled programme. '"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.'

Over the next half an hour, the box began to fill, and the Minister for Magic arrived with the Bulgarian Minister.

'Sam, Dean, good to see you,' he smiled. 'Can't have you boys sitting all the way down the way down there. We've got the best view up here… ah, there's Lucius!'

They all turned and there were the Malfoys, edging along the second row. Lucius, Draco, and a tall, slim woman that had an expression that suggested there was a nasty smell under her nose.

'Ah, Fudge,' said Lucius, holding out his hand. 'How are you? I don't believe you've met my wife Narcissa? Or our son Draco?'

'How do you do? How do you do?' said Fudge. 'Let's see, introductions. You know Arthur Weasley, I daresay?'

It was a tense moment. The last time they had met as in Flourish and Blotts, where they had a fist fight in front of everyone.

Lucius's cold, grey eyes swept over Mr Weasley, then up and down the row. 'Good Lord, Arthur,' he said softly. 'What did you have to sell to get seats in the Top Box? Surely your house wouldn't have fetched this much?'

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,' Mr Weasley said in a strained voice.

Then Dean leaned over and looked Lucius straight in the eye with a big smile on his face. 'Actually, Mr Malfoy,' he said quietly, 'we're all here because we have friends and people like us. See, we don't have to throw money at everything to make things work for us. Of course, Draco would know all about that, right?' Dean's gaze switched to Draco. 'Since he got on the Slytherin team because people liked him and thought he was good, right?' Dean's smile widened as Draco turned slightly pink, then leaned back in his seat.

Lucius's lips curled as his eyes wandered over Hermione and John, but he didn't dare say anything in front of the Minister. Instead, the three of them continued on down the row.

'Slimy gits,' Ron muttered.

'They're just full of it,' Dean said breezily. 'They're sour 'cause no one'll listen to them unless they flash the cash.'

Fred and George sniggered appreciatively.

'I'm here all week,' Dean grinned.

Just then, Ludo Bagman charged into the box. 'Everyone ready?' he said, his face gleaming in excitement. 'Minister, ready to go?'

'Ready when you are, Ludo,' said Fudge.

Bagman whipped out his wand, directed it at his own throat and said, 'Sonorus!' then spoke over the roar of sound that was filling the stadium. 'Ladies and gentlemen… welcome!' he said, voice booming into every corner of the stands. 'Welcome to the final of the four hundred and twenty-second Quidditch World Cup!'

The huge billboard wiped clear of its adverts and now showed BULGARIA: ZERO, IRELAND: ZERO.

'And now, without further ado,' Bagman said, 'allow me to introduce… the Bulgarian team mascots!'

The right-hand side of the stands, which was a solid block of scarlet, roared in approval.

'I wonder what they've brought?' said Mr Weasley, leaning forward in his seat. 'Aaah.' He suddenly whipped off his glasses and polished them hurriedly on his robes. 'Veela.'

'What are Veela?' said John, but his question was answered for him by the hundred Veela that glided onto the pitch. They were women. Beautiful in a superhuman sort of way, with pale skin that was almost luminous and white-gold hair.

Then the music started, the Veela began to dance, and everyone around John began behaving very strangely indeed. Harry, Ron and Dean all rose to their feet, slack expressions on their faces. Sam remained in his seat, looking dazed.

Joh, too, was feeling a lot more relaxed. He turned his head to look at Sherlock and his breath caught in his throat. Perhaps it was the light, or the spell given off by the Veela, but Sherlock's skin suddenly looked so soft and smooth that John had to resist the urge to reach out and stroke his cheek. John bit his lip and tore his gaze away, stomach churning in a mixture of fear and a strange longing he had never felt before.

'Are you all right?' said Sherlock asked, and John silently cursed himself. He had forgotten that Sherlock could tell what he was feeling most of the time, and made a mental note to hide it better in the future.

'Yeah, I'm fine,' said John, ignoring the narrowed eyes in his direction.

Meanwhile, Dean was contemplating exactly what sort of dive from the stadium would impress the Veela the most, when a hand gripped his wrist. He looked back and saw Cas looking extremely concerned.

'What are you doing?' Cas asked, holding Dean's wrist tightly.

'I – I don't –'

Castiel's touch seemed to have broken the spell that the Veela had on him, but now that he was looking, he realised he had never noticed how dazzlingly blue Cas's eyes were…

The music subsided and the Veela stopped dancing. Hermione pulled Harry back to his seat, tutting loudly, and there were angry shouts from around the stadium. Ron was moodily shredding the shamrocks on his hat and Mr Weasley took it from him.

'You'll be wanting that once the Irish have had their say,' Mr Weasley said, smiling slightly.

The Veela settled down on their side of the pitch, tossing their hair every so often.

'And now,' roared Bagman's voice, 'kindly put your wands in the air… for the Irish National Team Mascots!'

What seemed like a huge green and gold comet came zooming across the pitch. It split itself in half and flew across to each of the goalposts. A bright rainbow arched between them, connecting them for a moment before fading again. The two balls came together again in the centre of the pitch, merging to form a huge shamrock.

John squinted up and realised that it was comprised of thousands of tiny men in red waistcoats, carrying either a gold or green lantern.

The shamrock formation soared over the stands and the crowd roared its approval as heavy gold coins rained down on them.

'Leprechauns!' Mr Weasley shouted over tumultuous applause.

The shamrock dissipated and the leprechauns flew down and sat cross-legged on their side of the pitch to watch the match.

'Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome the Bulgarian National Quidditch Team. I give you – Dimitrov!'

A scarlet-clad figure shot out of the entrance below, barely more than a blur.

'Ivanova! Zograf! Levski! Vulchanov! Volkov! Aaaaaand – Krum!'

Viktor Krum was thin, dark and sallow-skinned, with a large, curved nose and thick black eyebrows. It was hard to believe that he was only eighteen.

'And now, please greet – the Irish National Quidditch Team!' Bagman yelled. 'Presenting – Connolly! Ryan! Troy! Mullet! Moran! Quiggley! Aaaaaand – Lynch!'

Seven green blurs shot onto the pitch, each of them flying a shiny new Firebolt.

'And here all the way from Egypt, our referee: acclaimed chairwizard of the International Association of Quidditch, Hassan Mostafa!'

A small and skinny wizard, completely bald, but with an impressively large moustache, strode out onto the field in all gold robes. He was carrying a large wooden crate under one arm and his broomstick under the other. He mounted his broom and kicked the crate open. Four balls, the Quaffle, two Bludgers, and the Golden Snitch, all burst free and flew off in different directions.

John watched one of the Bludgers go. He remembered that Harry had once said he would make a good Beater, and smiled as he briefly entertained the idea.

With a sharp blast of the whistle, Mostafa shot into the air after the balls.

'Theeeeeeeeeey're OFF!' screamed Bagman. 'And its Mullet! Troy! Moran! Dimitrov! Back to Mullet! Troy! Levski! Moran!'

The speed of the players was incredible. The Chasers were throwing the Quaffle around so fast that Bagman only had time to say their names.

John was so enthralled by the speed at which the Beaters were hitting the Bludgers back and forth that he barely noticed when either team scored, nor that he was leaning forward in his seat.

The match quickly became faster and more brutal. The Bulgarian Beaters wacked the Bludgers towards the Irish Chasers with increasing ferocity, forcing them to scatter several times, until the Bulgarians took control of the Quaffle and scored.

'Cover your ears, boys,' Mr Weasley said, hastily stuffing his fingers in his ears.

The Veela had started dancing again, and by the time they stopped, Bulgaria were once again in control of the Quaffle.

'Dimitrov! Levski! Dimitrov! Ivanova – oh, I say!' roared Bagman.

One hundred thousand witches and wizards gasped as the two Seekers, Krum and Lynch, plummeted through the centre of the Chasers.

'They're going to crash!' Hermione screamed.

She was half right. At the very last moment, Viktor Krum pulled out of the dive and spiralled off. Lynch, however, hit the ground with a dull thud that could be heard throughout the stadium. A huge groan rose from the Irish seats.

'Fool,' moaned Mr Weasley. 'Krum was feinting!'

'It's time out!' yelled Bagman's voice. 'As trained medi-wizards hurry onto the pitch to examine Aidan Lynch!'

Castiel leaned over the side of the box, his Omnioculars focused on the medi-wizards. They revived Lynch and made him drink several cups of potion before allowing him to mount his Firebolt.

His revival seemed to give Ireland a new heart. When Mostafa blew the whistle, the Chasers moved into action with a skill unrivalled by anything they had seen before. After fifteen more fast and furious minutes, Ireland had pulled ahead by ten more goals. They were now leading by one hundred and thirty points to ten, and the game was starting to get dirtier.

As Mullet shot towards the goalposts, the Bulgarian Keeper flew out to meet her. Whatever happened was over too quickly to see properly, but a whistle from Mostafa told them it was a foul.

'And Mostafa takes the Bulgarian Keeper to task – excessive use of elbows!' Bagman informed them. 'And – yes, it's a penalty to Ireland!'

The leprechauns, who had risen angrily into the air like a swarm of glittering hornets, darted together to form 'HA HA HA'. The Veela on the other side of the pitch leapt to their feet, tossed their hair angrily and started to dance again.

'Look at the referee!' Hermione giggled.

Mostafa had landed right in front of the Veela, flexing his muscles and smoothing his moustache.

'Now, we can't have that!' said Bagman, though sounding highly amused. 'Someone slap the referee!'

A medi-wizard came tearing across the pitch, fingers stuffed in his ears, and kicked Mostafa hard in the shins.

Mostafa seemed to come to himself and started shouting at the Veela, who stopped dancing and looked mutinous.

'Unless I'm much mistaken, Mostafa is attempting to send off the Bulgarian Team Mascots!' said Bagman. 'Now there's something we haven't seen before… oh, this could turn nasty…'

It did. The Bulgarian Beaters landed either side of Mostafa and began arguing furiously with him, gesticulating at the leprechauns, who had now gleefully formed 'HEE HEE HEE'. Mostafa was not convinced by their arguments, however. He jabbed his finger into the air, clearly telling them to get flying again, and gave two short blasts on his whistle when they refused.

'Two penalties for Ireland!' shouted Bagman, and the Bulgarian crowd howled in anger. 'Vulkov and Vulchanov had better get back on their brooms… yes… there they go… and Troy takes the Quaffle…'

The Beaters on both sides were now acting without mercy. Volkov and Vulchanov in particular seemed not to care whether their clubs made contact with Bludger or human as they swung them violently through the air. Dimitrov shot straight at Moran, who had the Quaffle, nearly knocking her off her broom.

'Foul!' roared the Irish supporters as one, rising up in a great wave of green.

'Foul!' echoed Bagman's voice. 'Dimitrov skins Moran – deliberately flying to collide there – it's got to be another penalty – yes, there's the whistle.'

The leprechauns had flown into the air again, this time forming a giant hand that was making a very rude gesture across the pitch towards the Veela. At this, the Veela lost control. They launched themselves across the pitch, and began throwing what looked like handfuls of fire at the leprechauns. They didn't look remotely beautiful now, either. Their faces elongated into sharp, cruel-beaked bird heads, and long, scaly wings burst from their shoulders.

Ministry wizards flooded onto the field to separate the Veela and the leprechauns, but with little success. Meanwhile, the Quaffle continued to change hands at the speed of a bullet.

'Levski – Dimitrove – Moran – Troy – Mullet – Ivanova – Moran again – Moran – MORAN SCORES!'

But the cheers of the Irish supporters were hardly heard over the shrieks of the Veela, the blasts issuing from the Ministry members' wands, and the furious roars of the Bulgarians.

An Irish Beater swung heavily at a passing Bludger, and hit it as hard as possible towards Krum, who did not duck quickly enough. It hit him hard in the face.

There was a deafening groan from the crowd; Krum's nose looked broken and there was blood everywhere. Mostafa did not blow his whistle, however, distracted as he was by the fire throwing Veela.

'Time out!' Ron roared. 'Come on, he can't play like that!'

'Look at Lynch!' Harry yelled.

The Irish Seeker had suddenly gone into a dive.

'He sees the Snitch!' Sam shouted excitedly, jumping up and down.

Half the crowd seemed to have realised what was going on. The Irish supporters screamed their Seeker on, but Krum was on his tail, then drew level with him as they hurtled closer to the ground.

'They're going to crash!' shrieked Hermione.

'Lynch is!' yelled Harry.

And he was right. For a second time, Lynch hit the ground with tremendous force, and was immediately stampeded by a horde of angry Veela.

'The Snitch! Where's the Snitch!' Charlie bellowed down the row.

'He's got it – Krum's got it – it's all over!' shouted Harry.

Krum, his red robes shining with blood from his nose, was rising gently into the air. His fist was held high, a glint of gold in his hand. The scoreboard was flashing BULGARIA: ONE HUNDRED AND SIXTY, IRELAND: ONE HUNDRED AND SEVENTY.

Slowly, the rumbling from the Ireland supporters grew louder and louder, and erupted into screams of delight as they realised what happened.

'IRELAND WIN!' shouted Bagman. 'KRUM GETS THE SNITCH – BUT IRELAND WIN – good Lord, I don't think any of us were expecting that!'

John smirked and looked over at Fred and George, whose identical dumbstruck expressions turned into pure glee.

The mascots finally separated, the Veela shrinking back into their usual, beautiful selves looking dispirited and forlorn, and the leprechauns zooming around, showering the Irish team in gold.

'And the Irish team performs a lap of honour, flanked by their mascots. The Quidditch World Cup itself is brought into the Top Box!' Bagman announced.

They were all suddenly dazzled by a blinding white light as the Top Box was magically illuminated. Two wizards entered the box and handed Fudge an immense golden cup.

'Let's have a really loud hand for the gallant losers – Bulgaria!'

And up the stairs into the box came the seven defeated Bulgarian players. The crowd applauded appreciatively, and a thousand Omniocular lenses flashed in their direction.

One by one, the Bulgarians filed between the rows of seats, and Bagman called out their names as each of them shook hands with their own Minister, then with Fudge.

Krum, who was last in line, looked a real mess. Two black eyes were blooming spectacularly on his bloody face. He seemed much less co-ordinated on solid ground. He was slightly duck-footed and round-shouldered, but when his name was called, the whole stadium gave an ear-splitting roar.

Then came the Irish team. Lynch was being supported by Moran and Connolly. The second crash seemed to have dazed him. His eyes were unfocused, but he grinned happily as Troy and Quiggley lifted the cup into the air. They then left to perform another lap of honour, Lynch on the back of Connolly's broom, grinning in a bemused sort of way.

Bagman pointed his wand at his throat and muttered, 'Quietus,' then massaged his neck a little. 'They'll be talking about that one for years,' he said, a bit hoarsely, but at normal volume. 'A really unexpected twist, that… shame it couldn't have lasted longer… ah, yes… yes, I owe you… how much?'

Fred and George had scrambled over their seats and stood in front of Bagman, hands outstretched and with broad grins on their faces.

What's up guys, welcome back! Thanks to RHatch89, Sherlock Harry Winchester, Guest, TimedragonD, Guest, Guest, CrystalClearNightmare and another Guest for the lovely reviews :)

It's been a crazy few weeks guys :L I was working for a bit as a charity fundraiser and it was a wild ride. I'm also writing my first book hooray! I have a wicked cold right now so I apologise if the typos are worse than usual.

As a side note, I'm thinking of doing some kind of supernatural/game of thrones sort of thing, what do you guys think?

Anyway, I hope you all enjoyed it and I'll see you all next time!