"Come along, Draco."
Seen, not heard. Black robes swept the way for him, and Mother stalked proudly at Father's side. She's not holding his arm. Mother had never walked beside Father as an equal before, not that Draco could remember.
One of many changes since the beginning of the month.
Since the night Father got that scar.
Draco's insides knotted, but he followed Mother and Father up stairs carpeted in rich purple. They were going all the way to the top, and the only way was to climb. Not like getting here – Father had double-Apparated with him, which was technically illegal. Better than a Portkey. He'd never liked the grabbing feeling in his stomach dragging him along.
Then they'd had to get their campground assignment from the Muggle that Father had Memory Charmed almost as soon as he'd spoken. "Muggles have their uses," Father sneered. Draco's hair had stood up at the tone of Father's voice.
Not for long. I won't have to be afraid for long. I'm so close, Nothos, so close. We'd be done if you were here, I bet. Only a few more ingredients; things he couldn't get because even those who dealt in Knocturn Alley wouldn't sell them to anyone underage. But Professor Snape can, and does buy the things I'll need. And if, over the course of the year, some of those items went missing . . .
The carpet got softer as they went higher; less feet mashing and dirtying it. One hundred thousand witches and wizards . . . He kept his face blank, but he couldn't wait to get to the top. Nothos would have loved this. They'd played Quidditch whenever they could –
Nails sliced the flesh of his palms. Don't think about it.
That was easy enough. What are they doing here?!
He saw Weasel twist his ugly face into a scowl, and glared right back. They weren't supposed to be in the Top Box! What were they doing here?! Potter, Weasley, Granger – Professor Lupin too, and Weasley's dad and his slew of brothers. Jealousy flared; Draco sneered.
Fudge was greeting Father, but Draco looked around the Box instead, ignoring his schoolmates. There was a grubby little house-elf saving a seat off to one side, and a short, round wizard who was apparently the Bulgarian Minister of Magic. Draco wanted to hit something when he saw that the only three seats left were right behind the Weasleys.
Father was just as angry. "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?"
Mr. Weasley's face went red.
"Lucius," Professor Lupin cut in smoothly. The frozen hatred in blue eyes had Draco suddenly wary, looking for the closest escape route. Blocked. Father on one side, Mother on the other. No way out –
But this was his Professor. And he had the vaguest of feelings that he could trust Lupin. Edmund does. The eyes flicked up and down, and Draco shivered.
"Demonstrating yet again that money can't buy manners, I see," Professor Lupin continued calmly.
"Lupin," Father spat. The scar twisted; Draco swallowed. "Still hanging about with the blood-traitor? I didn't think teachers were paid enough that you could rise so high." Draco frowned. What does he know that I don't? Because Father knew something, for certain.
Behind him, Draco knew the Bulgarian Minister of Magic was hanging on every word. He kept his face blank, seeing Potter, Granger and Weasley glowering at him. Lupin only raised a brow. "You would do well to watch your words," was the smooth response. "They might deface your reputation."
Father's face froze in a scowl that never boded well. Draco shivered. I've seen that look before. Not two weeks ago, when that fool Gibbon had tried to defy his father. Blood. There was so much blood on his robes –
His parents thought they could hide from him; but watchful as they were, his eyes were everywhere. It meant survival.
Draco shot Potter, Weasley, and Granger one contemptuous look before settling down between his parents. And what would they know about it? Nothing. Naïve fools, trusting blindly to the greater good and that doddering Dumbledore . . . Unlike his Potions professor, Draco did not trust the ancient wizard. He knew from the other side how effective the Order of the Phoenix had been.
"Slimy gits," he heard the Weasel say, not even bothering to keep his voice down. Bay wood was silk against clenching fingers. No. He would not throw a curse at the Quidditch World Cup. He was going to watch the match and have fun.
Plus, Father might be angry if I did something that stupid in front of our Minister of Magic. Or Bulgaria's, at least. The Weasel was not going to ruin his day.
Bright yellow robes holding back a fat belly burst into the Top Box; ice-blue eyes stared. Who in Merlin's name is that? The robes were the old Wimbourne Wasp uniform, one he'd only seen in Quidditch Through the Ages.
"Everyone ready?" the round man said. "Minister – ready to go?"
"Ready when you are, Ludo." The Minister sounded pompously powerful. Draco rolled his eyes. Ludo? Ludo Bagman? Father said he was the head of the Department of Magical Games and Sports. Him? Oh, come on! It was not hard to believe, though, the way Fudge ran the Ministry.
However dumpy the man seemed, his voice sparked the first bit of honest excitement Draco had felt in months. Mother's sharp nudge to his side wiped the grin off his face, but it still bubbled inside.
Bagman's voice sounded normal to those sitting nearby, but the echo boomed throughout the stadium. "Ladies and gentlemen . . . Welcome! Welcome to the final of the four-hundred and twenty-second Quidditch World Cup!"
Awesome!
"Победа." Dimitrov's red robes were bunched, their Капитан smiling grimly at all of them. Krum took a moment to gaze about their huddle. Zograf's face was impassive as always, good for a Keeper, while Levski looked sick. Ivanova, their third Chaser, was pale yet steady. Always the same, until we are out on the pitch. Then, then, they could play. Volkov and Vulchanov, the Beaters, were juggling not only their brooms but bats as well, knuckles white on the wood of each.
". . . the Irish National Team Mascots!"
A roar from the stadium shook the air around them; Dimitrov gave him a piercing stare. "I leave you to make the decision, Victor."
Victor nodded. We will have victory. On our terms. They all knew that Ireland was a good team. They were at the Quidditch World Cup, to match themselves against the very best. Krum was honest about his ability, and that of his opponent. Today, he felt at his best. Today, I am better than Lynch.
The crowd ooohed and aaaahed, and applause made the very air tremble. The sound only slowly faded.
"Formation!"
They mounted their brooms, waiting for the call; the gates opened.
"And now, ladies and gentlemen, kindly welcome – the Bulgarian National Quidditch Team! I give you – Dimitrov!"
The Капитан was gone in a blur of Firebolt and red robes.
Rapid-fire, names were followed by each of his teammates. "Ivanova! Zograf! Levski! Vulchanov! Volkov! Aaaaaaand . . ."
Victor leant low over his broom.
"Krum!"
Wind scraped back his hair; black eyes squinted to see through the rush of tears the sudden speed conjured. Any anxiety he'd had was left tied to the ground, while he flew free above it. They circled the goalposts, settling into formation in the middle of the pitch and hovering, in wait.
The speaker's voice was cheerfully blaring out across the stadium, and Victor wanted only to begin. "And now, please greet – the Irish National Quidditch Team! Presenting – Connolly! Ryan! Troy! Mullet! Moran! Quigley! Aaaaaaand – Lynch
The green-clad team burst one by one from the opposite end of the field; Victor watched their control over the Firebolts as they circled the goalposts and approached. The brooms were the fastest things to come out into the market since the Cleansweep revolution fifty years ago – the game suddenly was too fast for thought, and faster by far than reaction. That it was more dangerous, traveling at such higher speeds, was obvious.
They look as they've had much time to practice. He'd expected no less; he'd come across some teams whose budget only recently allowed the upgrade in equipment, but those had been still adjusting, and never even made it to the first round of finals.
"And here, all the way from Egypt, our referee, acclaimed Chairwizard of the International Association of Quidditch, Hassan Mostafa!"
The small, skinny man's gold robes were clearly visible, and Victor spared a moment's humor over the massive moustache dangling from his lip. The man mounted his broom, kicking the crate open; Krum watched Lynch.
There is no use in trying to track every movement of the snitch. Bulgaria would be better served by him disabling Lynch, keeping the other Seeker from catching the Snitch. Both on Firebolts. That part of the game, usually open to much variation given player preference, was leveled. He was better than Lynch, but keeping the other distracted would solidify victory.
The announcer's voice registered, but only faintly. "Theeeeeeeey're OFF! And it's Mullet! Troy! Moran! Dimitrov! Back to Mullet! Troy! Levski! Moran!"
He dove through the air, but efforts to hamper the Irish Chasers came to nothing. Hawkshead Attack - they are very good. But he must give it time. Porskoff Ploy, and then the -
Too late.
"TROY SCORES!"
But the game the others played was inconsequential, to him, although he could see Volkov and Vulchanov lose their nervousness at last in anger. Perhaps this is what we need, to –
"IVANOVA SCORES! And it's 10-10! Dimitrov! Levski! Dimitrov!"
Victor allowed himself a small smile. Lynch was darting through the movement below, actively searching for the Snitch. Perhaps it is time, then. . .
The ground came into alarmingly quick focus; he was diving, down, and Lynch was at his shoulder – Not yet . . .
Wind tore at his robes; Lynch was urging his own broom ahead –
Not yet . . .
And there was no more room between them and the ground for the Snitch to be in without being in plain sight –
Now!
Crunch.
He spiraled up through the air, knowing from the heavy thud of body and dirt that Lynch hadn't pulled out in time.
"It's a time-out, as trained mediwizards hurry onto the field to examine Aidan Lynch!"
Victor had time, now, and black eyes darted around the pitch as he circled slowly.
Dangerous move, the Wronski Feint. One no Seeker could afford to ignore, difficult to pull off correctly. But now, the advantage is mine. Knocked hard against the ground, Lynch would be that much slower, that much more cautious, in the next dive.
Cheering from the crown yanked his attention to the ground; Lynch was mounting his broom again. A shrill whistle started the Chasers' action once more.
"Mullet! Troy! Mullet! Moran! Dimitrov! Ivanova! Troy! Mullet – MORAN SCORES!"
Lynch was watching him carefully. Good. Watch me, and your eyes are too busy to find the Snitch before I do.
Little he could do to aid the rest of his team now. The Irish outmaneuvered them; he would hope Ivanova, Dimitrov and Levski could begin to counter them, but the fight was between himself and Lynch now.
And it only got worse.
"Troy! Mullet! Levski – back to Moran! Troy! Moran! TROY SCORES! The score is now 30 to 10, Ireland! And Dimitrov has the Quaffle – Levski, Ivanova, Dimi – no, Moran! Troy! Mullet! MULLET SCORES!"
This was not good. Not fifteen minutes of searching had passed when Victor heard, "Ireland in the lead by one-hundred and thirty to ten! And it's Mullet, Moran, Troy, Moran, Mullet -" A dark noise erupted from the crowd. "And Mostafa takes the Bulgarian Keeper, Zograf, to task for cobbing – excessive use of elbows! And – yes, it's a penalty to Ireland!"
It was over. We cannot win this way. But still, Победа. They would have whatever victory pride and skill could allow. I must get the Snitch. If he could do so quickly, they might still bring the Cup home to Bulgaria.
Victor snared the time waiting for the game to resume by searching for the Snitch – so absolute was his focus, that he didn't realize until he heard the announcer, the voice almost laughing. "Now, we can't have that! Someone slap the referee!"
A glance down showed Mostafa smoothing his massive moustache, flexing muscles before their dancing Veela. A mediwizard raced across the field to kick him – Krum returned his eyes to the pitch, waiting for the game to begin. Where are you – you must be somewhere . . .
Muttering in the spectators rose to a high murmur.
"And unless I'm much mistaken, Mostafa is actually attempting to send off the Bulgarian team mascots! Now there's something we haven't seen before . . . Oh, this could turn nasty. . ."
Victor glared. If they want to remove the Veela, let them, you fools – Vulchanov and Volkov, though, were stubborn and thick-headed Beaters if ever he had known any. The advantage of their distraction has done nothing to Ireland. But turn the referee against us. . . If their teammates were foolish enough to do so, and the Snitch eluded both Seekers for hours, the match would become a slaughter. We would never erase the shame.
He had to find the Snitch.
Air whirled as he scanned the pitch, flying high and searching downward. The gloating Irish mascots were not worth his concentration; but the glint of gold shine from the leprechauns might mask the Snitch.
"Two penalties for Ireland! And Volkov and Vulchanov had better get back on those brooms . . . yes . . . there they go . . . and Troy takes the Quaffle . . ."
He had only a moment to worry about Lynch, however, before he saw Dimitrov shoot forward toward the Quaffle, desperate and ready to try anything.
"Foul!" Green burst out of the stands toward them. The audience was screaming –
And the announcer followed. "Foul! Dimitrov skins Moran – deliberately flying to collide there – and it's got to be another penalty – yes, there's the whistle!"
But the Veela had begun to show their anger; loosing violent tempers to shapeshift into Valkyries. Chaos boiled over on the field below – Victor looked a moment to see Lynch on level with him, but a flash of gold caught his attention and he began to drift down, ignoring the shout of the crowd and blasts of magic below.
"Levski – Dimitrov – Moran – Troy – Mullet – Ivanova – Moran again – Moran – MORAN SCORES! And it's Levski – Dimitrov -"
Movement.
Victor ducked – Лайно
Pain blasted in the crunch of cartilage, the bruising of bones in his face slamming blackness down. Sound trailed away – he couldn't feel his body -
He'd taken a bludger to the face before. The Snitch! Warm wetness trailed from his broken nose, the ringing in his ears drowning out even the noises of the crowd. Victor blinked open blackened, painful eyes. What did I miss! Lynch – where is he –
Green robes plunged downward.
Victor threw himself forward – the wood under his hands slick with sweat and blood – the same dripping in his eyes – green robes, and beyond them, the glint of gold. Closer. Tail of a broom; he could almost reach out and touch.
Closer . . .
Green robes pressed against his own scarlet-clad shoulder. No time for the ground, coming nearer and nearer as breath was ripped from his lungs.
Reach!
Cool, and smooth, and tiny feathers struggling delicately against his grasp.
Up!
Crunch. For the second time, Lynch was so much mess on the grass. Veela stamped angrily across him; the Irish Seeker was momentarily lost to sight. Victor rose higher, determined to have no part of the madness on the ground.
The Snitch. Careful not to crush it, he felt the fluttering of it against one calloused, bloodied palm. It has a heartbeat. This was the moment that made each game worth it.
"IRELAND WINS! KRUM GETS THE SNITCH – BUT IRELAND WINS – good lord, I don't think any of us were expecting that!"
I was. They were headed back to the landing site behind the Top Box now, and Victor felt the Snitch cool against his fingers. Black eyes squinted through a mess of blood and sweat, seeking the scoreboard.
BULGARIA: 160, IRELAND: 170
Dimitrov's face was dark, fingers warm on his shoulder. "It was the right decision, Victor." Vulchanov and Volkov were angry, but the other Chasers and Zograf agreed. "To the Box, then, eh?"
"And as the Irish team performs a lap of honor, flanked by their mascots, the Quidditch World Cup itself is brought into the Top Box! Let's have a really loud hand for the gallant losers – Bulgaria!"
His eyes were stinging, and he could only breathe through his mouth. But as he stepped through the door, the silvery sheen of the Cup broke through even that haze. Dimitrov was first in line, shaking hands with their Minister; Krum stood last. Concentrating on the metal coolness in his hand, he started at his name.
A roar filled his ears – the crowd, cheering. The Minister's hand was firm; Victor clasped it and stood back.
"And the Champions of the four-hundred and twenty-second Quidditch World Cup! Ladies and gentlemen, I give you . . . IRELAND!"
Victor felt the Snitch flutter once more, and tightened his grip.
"What a disaster."
Ben looks how I feel. With torn, spell-seared robes and smoke smudged over round features, the other wizard looked like he'd only just survived a war.
"Veela rampaging all over the place, and then half of the Accidental Magic Reversal Squad getting involved – calming a riot is not the same as correcting someone who's been splinched, for Merlin's sake." The slighter man's frame heaved in a sigh. "Thank goodness those Hit Wizards we do have present had the sense to stay out of it -"
Gawain pinched the bridge of his nose, pushing the headache back. They don't pay us enough for this. "What're the final numbers on it, then?"
The inked calculations on the parchment were busily neatening themselves from Ben's illegible scribble as he took it, but the end results were painfully clear.
"No one was killed, thank Merlin." Ben slumped into one of the stadium chairs not far from where an impromptu tent had been erected on the tent for the mediwitches. The crowd had trickled out to only a few hundred people scattered about; the rest were at their campsites, celebrating. I think I'd rather be here than regulating that. "And only sixteen people were injured with anything more than bangs and bruises. Of those, two are borderline-critical." Lips more used to smiling were pressed thin. "Almost got trampled to death."
"Damn leprechauns." And there are still a few of them running around, no matter that the manager says they got them all. . . The pounding behind his temples got louder.
"Damn Veela," Ben managed a grin. Better. Can't lose all energy now – we still have the whole night ahead of us. "But on the upside, I managed to convince the Department Heads to go back to their campsites, and leave everything to us."
"Good," Gawain grunted, absently popping his spine as he stood. "I'd really like to avoid dealing with Crouch tonight. Have Lin and Hawsley reported back about the Veela yet?"
Hair more brown than blond shook in the negative. "Not to me."
"We'll have to check up on it, then. Ireland's manager told us that she'd gotten the leprechauns settled in and secured, but I think there are still some loose. We'll have to keep eyes on that that all night. I want to check up on them first. And if Hawsley hasn't gotten the Veela squared away by the time we get to the Bulgarian campsite, we can make his life a living Hades."
Ben snickered.
Gawain grinned. Chris really does need to learn how to lighten up. For an Auror, the man was too tightly wound. Hate to think about what he was like before training . . .
Gawain let them out of the pitch, and toward the secluded, hidden spot where the Irish Quidditch Team was camped, with their equipment and mascots and out of the reach of the majority of fans. He nodded to a solemn-faced trainee on guard duty, and was recognized. The two of them passed, and Gawain turned their feet toward the Irish half of the campsites.
"Even have the trainees jumping, huh?"
"We're out in force tonight." Gawain shook his head. They'd been working to secure the area for the Quidditch World Cup while the rest of the Ministry was involved in creating the stadium and enchantments that would support a hundred thousand wizards for as long as three weeks. After all, people not only have to arrive at a scheduled time but leave the same way . . .
Even with the supplementary forces pulled out of reserve and a bit of help from the Bulgarian Guard, they were pathetically understaffed. Less than three hundred Aurors to police over one hundred thousand spectators?
It was too sad to be funny.
We're just not prepared for anything on this scale! And all their drills and protocols had done little to compensate for that. Especially when our own Ministry members take it into their foolish heads to jump right into the thick of it without looking first!
Ben was talking. "– two most serious injuries were given good prognoses, though. And with any luck, that was our disaster for this whole nightmare."
"Didn't you enjoy the match?" Gawain smirked, feeling the grass wet under his feet; one of the first warning wards that they were coming up on the Irish team's campsite. After all, it wasn't quite chilly enough for dew to form the grass, nor was it late enough – but it was something no one would think twice about. Subtle. Black does good work.
"Match? What, was someone playing Quidditch out here today?"
Momentarily distracted, the Head of the Aurors chuckled.
Especially because the dew was simply a warning. Gawain looked back; just barely visible, their footprints showed the straight-line path they thought they'd been walking was a lie. Bare marks in wet grass traced the curve they'd been making as they were, step by step, ever-so-slightly diverted from where they intended to be. Until we passed right by, without realizing it at all.
Only the correct password would let them move forward and actually reach their destination.
"Slante."
And the feel of power rippling away shivered over their skins.
"Wow. Who put that up?" Ben looked a little unnerved; Gawain didn't blame him. The magic that had so carefully threatened them was potent in a way few magics were. Without being deadly to the caster, at least.
He'd seen the effort that went into putting this up. Considerable, yes, but by no means the limit of that particular wizard's ability. If rumors are anything to go by. It seems purebloods do have a reason for their ideals. Not one he agreed with, but he now knew why so many of them went to such lengths to ensure solid Wizarding ancestry. "Black."
Ben paused a minute before answering, and Gawain could see he'd been surprised. "Huh. But I know I'm going to enjoy the match when I finally get to see it," he returned to their original conversation. "I was so busy making sure that the Veela didn't rip apart members of the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, that I completely missed the end of the match. Administrators." Green eyes flicked to the sky in irritation. "If any one of them ever actually saw anything more dangerous than a Diricawl, I'll eat my shamrock hat. Anyway. My son and daughter were up in the stands with a pair of Omnioculars and orders to record it for me."
Second ward – where's the ward-key – Silver whisked through the sun's last rays. Not subtle at all; a rising sheen of power preventing them from moving further. Anne Lin's work he was more familiar with. Gawain smiled. The two of them do work well together. "Boiled Boxty."
Ben snorted. "Anne's sense of humor just keeps getting better and better . . ."
And finally the third ward, most frightening of them all, since five wizards had joined forces to raise it. But beyond that stood the impressive tent of Ireland's Quidditch team, with another large canvas construction some ten meters away. Shimmering gold bands formed a net adhering to the material. The leprechaun cage.
They were classified as Magical Creatures and regulated by the Ministry. Even better, they were native to the British Isles, and less troublesome than the foreign sirens and harpies rolled into one. Better find the manager. He pushed the team's tent flap back and stepped inside, freezing when he saw who was waiting. "What are you doing here?"
At his side, Ben stiffened.
"Hey, Gawain." Rob Channesy, lead investigative reporter for the Daily Prophet, grinned up at him from the middle of Ireland's tent. "Getting exclusives, of course. Want to tell me what happened with cleaning up that disaster on the pitch?"
Ben was almost ready to burst. Gawain spared an eye for him, and then smiled at Rob. "Later, Rob. Ah, Ben, this is Rob Channesy, with the Daily Prophet. Rob, this is Auror Ben Travers."
"Pleased to meet you," Rob offered a smile and a handshake.
Ben kept his hand on his wand. "How did you get in here?" The name had garnered a softening of features – Rob Channesy was the only reporter that Gawain Robard, head of the Auror division, would deal with. But the fact that he was a reporter put a glint of wariness in every Auror's eye.
Unfazed, hazel eyes sparked with mischief. The reporter shrugged innocently. "How does anyone get anywhere, Gawain? I followed the team, asked nicely, and they let me in."
Of course he wasn't going to tell me. But he found himself laughing nonetheless. "You're a menace, Rob. You know that?"
"So is that a yes to an interview on the riot?"
That finally wrestled a small smile from Ben. "I see what you mean," he muttered to Gawain. The Head of the Aurors had built a small reputation on his ability to convince anyone to join their ranks – and had only ever been out-stubborned by the reporter standing a few steps away.
"I thought you were here to interview the team?" A glance around the green tent, illuminated by gently glowing golden lanterns, revealed that the main entrance room to the tent was empty. Where are they?
"I really wanted to talk to Lynch, but that last hit left him a little dazed." Rob fingered the Muggle-style pad of parchment and the strange pen that he always carried. Odd habit, but he was Muggle-born. "The rest of the team members are celebrating with their families for a bit before the late-night partying starts." The reporter waved towards the sides of the tents; for the first time, Gawain noticed that doors lined each wall, emblazoned in gold with each player's name.
"Do you know where the manager is?" Safe bet; Rob usually knew everything he could before starting in on a story. How he does it, I'll never know – but for 'research', he gets better info than we do, sometimes. If it had been anyone else, he would have tried to wriggle it out of them, but Rob had remained steadfast in never betraying a source.
Rob walked to a side hallway hidden by a corner. "Moyra Donovan's room is down here. What do you want her for?"
"Just to inspect the leprechauns, make sure they're properly contained." And since I already know they've missed a few . . . Yeah. This is going to be fun. Gawain tugged a hand through his own hair, snagging a few curls with a wince.
"Mind if I tag along?"
This was why he'd never been able to persuade the man to join the Aurors. Relentless bugger. "No," Gawain gave in. Better just to save face now. If it can be called that.
Ben wasn't able to quite hide his smirk; but that was Rob. People liked him against their better judgment, at times. Gawain heaved a sigh. Pushed around by a reporter. I might live it down one day. Maybe.
"Could be worse," Ben snickered.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah. It could be Skeeter."
Six hundred ninety-five . . . what a way to turn a profit!
Bagman had given them incredible odds. George smirked. Then again, he thought he was taking our money for sure."Don't tell your mother you've been gambling."
George rolled his eyes.
"Don't worry, Dad," his twin said gleefully. Fred had another sack stowed away in his pocket. They'd totaled it with Bagman. No way do I trust him further than I can throw him. "We've got big plans for this money. We don't want it confiscated."
"No kidding," George whispered. Dad looked almost as if he wanted to ask what, precisely, their plans were, but then sighed and turned to Professor Lupin instead.
"What is that?"
George listened, mimicking his twin. But the music was too far for them to hear; until the people in the crowd around them, all decked in green, recognized the tune and began to sing. "- drink, and drink, and drink, and drink, and drink, and fight! Oh, we'll drink and drink and drink and drink and drink and drink and fight! And if I see a pretty girl, I'll sleep with her tonight!"
"Oooh," Fred snickered. George grinned.
"Behave, you two," Bill interjected. Hah! Never! But Charlie was still talking about the Wronski Feint with Harry; their oldest brother's attention didn't last long.
And then the song started up again. George couldn't resist, and knew his twin wouldn't either. He opened his mouth. "Oh, we'll drink and drink and drink and drink and drink and drink and fight!"
Ssshhhhhzoooom!
Crack!
"What the -"
"Look up!" It was Ginny, waving excitedly toward the sky.
Ssshhhhhzoooom!
Green streaked the darkening sky. When did it get so late?
"Leprechauns!"
"Yes." In the light from the green-clad creatures' lanterns, Professor Lupin looked amused. "I'm glad I'm not in Sirius' shoes. Nothing is going to keep the Irish quiet tonight."
Weird as it was to have their Professor with them, seeing him verbally take out Malfoy had been great. Dad couldn't have said much, and George still boiled over with anger at the pureblood's snobbery. Berk. It had been worth it to see him embarrassed in front of the Minister, not that Fudge had really noticed.
"What do you think?" He nudged Fred.
"I think we've almost got enough to start off," was the low answer. Something exploded overhead in a shower of sparkling gold; the Irish all around them were singing loud enough that none of the family would overhear. It's not that they wouldn't care. It's that they'd tell Mum, and then we'd be done for.
"All we need to do now -"
"- is find a few more investments," George finished, one hand casually testing the weight dragging down his pocket.
Fred had an identical hand on his own bag of gold. "So it's Hogwarts for another year, then."
Ssshhhhhzoooom!
Pop!
"Have to." George grimaced, ducking as an enthusiastic Irish fan popped a bottle of sparkling wine. The alcohol sprayed their clothes. "Ahh, Mum's going to kill us -"
"Not as long as she doesn't find out," Fred hissed. His wand came out. "Scourgify."
"Fred, what about Underage Wizardry?" Hermione caught the whispered spell.
George snorted, turning the spell on himself. Ducked an exuberant rain of shamrocks from another fan's overenthusiastic spell. "Hermione, right now I think the Ministry's got bigger problems."
Harry snorted, brushing the tiny green plants from his hair. Something banged to their right; the refrain of another raucous song was drifting toward them through the crowd. "Like getting the Irish to shut up -"
"Are we there yet?"
"Quit whining, Ronniekins." Fred took the words straight from George's brain. Dirt smeared across their younger brother's nose, but at least he and Ginny, Harry and Hermione got to be on the inside. He and Fred were stuck on the outer edges of their group, along with Percy, Bill and Charlie. Dad and Professor Lupin had the worst of it, shoving a path for them through the celebratory Irish.
Ron growled. "Fred -"
Hermione interrupted. "Wait, Professor Lupin, what did you say?"
Just ahead of them, their professor turned as much as the crush of the crowd would allow, and smiled. "I heard that Binns is retiring, and Dumbledore's already hired a replacement."
Ssshhhhhzoooom!
Damn leprechauns are everywhere . . . George blinked, and pushed Ginny a little further inside the group, away from the various elbows digging into his left side. "You mean, History of Magic's going to be an actual class?"
"With work?" Fred sounded as disgusted as he felt.
Hermione looked thrilled.
Harry and Ron traded looks best described as alternately interested and dismayed.
Professor Lupin laughed.
Oops. Well, it was really hard to treat him like a teacher all the time, especially when he'd been cheering Ireland on as loud as they had. And for a Hogwarts professor, Lupin's pretty cool. He managed to be interesting for a whole year. George was actually glad they'd have another year of him before they dropped out. If Mum and Dad were paying, we'd just take our tuition and start off. But financial aid was earmarked only for education, according to the Ministry guidelines and rules that saw they got any at all.
"So d'you know who it is?" Ginny pressed forward; hard not to, even though at the back Bill was doing his best to give them all a little room. Thick crowd – don't some of these people camp around here?
Most though seemed to be going at least as far as they were, on the outer campsites. Further to walk, but also further from the chaos surrounding the stadium.
"His name's Will Stanton." George caught a glimpse of a smile he'd seen in the mirror, on the morning of a prank. "A Muggle."
"Really?" And Dad was off again; George glanced at his twin, and the two shared a shrug. Pranking opportunities – to test their products, of course – looked plentiful. But if Dumbledore puts half the protections on him that the Pevensies got, there'll be no luck there.
Still . . . there were possibilities.
"Ah, here we are!" Dad led them away from the mad crush and down a lesser-traveled route through tents toward their campsite.
"Thank Merlin," muttered Charlie; he and Bill had gotten the roughest part of the crowd, tailing their group to make sure no one got separated. Percy's hair was upended; George stifled a snicker. Perfect Percy, rumpled from mingling with us common folk.
Ssshhhhhzoooom!
"Someone should get those under control." Percy, again – but George was starting to agree. Hex me now. I'm agreeing with Percy? The noise was good for surprise, but from a distance it was just annoying, and the light from the leprechauns' lanterns didn't carry as far between the tents.
Really dark – oof!
George found his feet again, almost smacking the person in front of him between the shoulder blades. "Sorry, Harry." Didn't want to be damaging their own Seeker after all, what with school starting so soon.
"You alright?"
"Yeah." He'd tripped over the WEEZLY sign that marked their campsite. George looked at the snapped-off end of the sign, and shoved it back in the dirt where it tilted drunkenly.
"And we're here!"
"Dad sounds relieved," Fred whispered. Behind canvas, the sounds of the crowd were muffled.
"I'm relieved," Percy sniffed, catching the words. That's the thing with big families. There are people all over the place! "When I think of how Mr. Crouch must be dealing with this unruly -"
"Yes, Weatherby, I'm sure you'll get an emergency call if he needs to hold your hand," George snorted. All summer of 'Mr. Crouch' this, and 'Mr. Crouch' that, and he even knows Dad, but he doesn't know Percy's name. This is going to be good for at least the next three months.
Percy reddened, sitting down at the table.
"All right, then." Dad's Muggle clothes were a bit stained, but he still hadn't gone for his robes. "It's getting late, I think everyone should be off to bed -"
"Oh, no!"
"Come on, Dad!"
"No way!"
"Remus, please?"
"Oh, Mr. Weasley, it's still early yet -"
"Daddy, do we have to?" Ginny's plea was the one that seemed to clinch it. Soulful eyes fixed on their father until he sighed.
Professor Lupin shook his head, fighting a grin.
Dad's wand came out; George traded a grin with Fred and immediately claimed a seat at the table. A flick had the kettle on, and mugs shot across the tiny kitchenette toward the rickety table.
"Well then. How about something warm to drink?"
Hot chocolate heated the ceramic under her fingers.
"- have to pull it off just right," Charlie was saying down the table. "If you don't manage to make the other Seeker smear himself over the pitch, then you lose the advantage."
What, that Wonky Faint thing? Harry, don't try it! But she had the feeling he would anyway, from the furor of the argument that had just burst into life between him, Ron, the twins, and Charlie.
"It's only when the elbows are used offensively that cobbing's considered a penalty," Professor Lupin pointed out.
"Well, how do you define 'offensive'?" Bill drawled. Ceramic rested emptily on the table before him.
"Well, not just sticking out like this." Mr. Weasley brought both fists level with his chest, elbows jutting out. Hermione hid a smile in her coca. "But that does depend on the referee. Mostafa was being pretty strict about it -"
"But then Bulgaria was playing dirty," Bill added.
Were they ever! If they weren't trying to use the Veela to cheat, why did they bring them? But it hadn't seemed to work – at least on the opposite team, though the fans were fair game. I wonder why . . .
"It wasn't as bad as the last World Cup," her Professor interjected. Hermione leant forward over the table. The last World Cup?
Mr. Weasley frowned. "I missed that one; couldn't even hear the radio commentary. It was in France, wasn't it?"
"Yep," Bill fiddled a moment with the tie to his hair. "Transylvania against Canada. Lasted five days."
"How often is the World Cup held?" Hermione asked. Her coca was chilled, but still sweet. I've never heard of it before, but then again, I have better things to do in the library than read about Quidditch.
"It's a biannual tournament," Professor Lupin responded. He took a careful sip of coca, and made a face. Cold, probably. "Held every other year. It started not long after the game's invention, when better spells for broomsticks began to be developed. Nine hundred years ago or so. But I'd think your new History of Magic professor would know more."
"You said he was a -"
Splash!
"Ow!"
"Yikes!" Harry pushed away from the table, avoiding the stream of coca rushing toward him.
Hermione righted the coca mug, but the damage was done. "Ginny, are you all right?"
Ginny's front was dripping chocolate, and the younger girl was glaring at a bruised elbow with sleepy eyes. At her left, the argument between the twins, Charlie and Ron never faltered.
"Oh dear," Mr. Weasley sighed, wand coming out once more. "Ginny, sweetheart, turn this way – Scourgify. There."
Professor Lupin muttered another spell that wiped the table clean of the sticky-sweet mess. "I think that might be enough for one night," he sighed.
Mr. Weasley nodded. "All right, you lot, to bed."
"Awww, Dad -"
"Now, George."
"Goodnight," Hermione said brightly.
"G'night, Hermione. G'night, Ginny!"
Fun as the day had been, it was awfully cramped in that tent, and the smell kept making her think that she needed to change Crookshanks' litter tray. And there's to be nine of them sleeping in there. Thank goodness the girls got a tent to themselves! It was smaller than the boys', but positively spacious after the crush of people crammed in there.
There were two twin beds in a small bedroom off the main room of the tent. Mr. Weasley kissed Ginny goodnight, told them to lock the door behind him, and went back to his tent.
"Today was the best day ever!" Ginny's voice trailed off into a yawn.
"It was a lot of fun," Hermione agreed. She waited for a bit, but nothing else came from the other side of the room. "Ginny?"
Closed eyes, even breathing. Asleep.
Hermione rolled a little, trying to get comfortable in the small bed. Seeing how everything was set up had been interesting! Anti-Muggle and anti-Apparition wards. But they still used Muggle campsites. Poor Mr. Roberts.
It was necessary, of course – but to Memory Charm the poor man so many times . . . It's not as if there are long-term effects from a Memory Charm. No one but the caster knows that a good one's been placed. But there'd been an awful lot of wizards casting the charm on him, and not all of them were certified Obliviators. Hermione chewed her lip. I don't know that it seems right . . . After all, her parents knew about the Wizarding world, and they didn't need to be Memory Charmed.
She didn't want to think about it anymore. Hermione twisted again, determined to blank her mind and go to sleep. The sugar from the hot chocolate was probably keeping her up. She concentrated on breathing, slow and steady, and thought about nothing.
What is that?
A roar was growing, like faint thunder punctuated with explosions. The Irish were still celebrating. Can't they keep it down? Some people are trying to sleep!
BOOM!
Heart leaping in her throat, Hermione grabbed her wand. What was that?! "Ginny!"
The younger girl just snuggled her head deeper under her pillow. Hermione blinked, swallowing her racing heart. How does she sleep through that? Well, Ginny was used to things exploding, living with the twins –
Bang!
A little softer, but she still started. She could take apart the roar of the crowd now – the noise of spells blowing things up, and raucous laughter. I really hope the Aurors get here soon and calm them down-
Bang! Bang-bang-bang!
Not spells, Hermione reassured herself, staggering out of the bed. Someone's knocking. Who –
"Ginny! Hermione! Wake up, now!" Mr. Weasley. And he sounded desperate.
Hand on the lock, Hermione stared out the door. "Mr. Weasley, what's -"
"Daddy?"
"No time, girls." He'd pulled on some clothes over his pajamas, but his hair was still ruffled from sleep. "Grab your wands and a coat – get outside, quickly. Come on!"
Stuffing shoes on her feet took precious seconds; grabbing her coat, Hermione pushed Ginny ahead of her out the door. Ron, Harry, Fred and George were waiting.
By the light of the few fires that were still burning, she could see witches and wizards darting into the woods, running away from the mob that was moving toward them. Odd flashes of light and noises like gunfire burst intermittently from the crowd. Loud jeering, roars of laughter, and drunken yells were drifting towards them; then came a burst of strong green light which illuminated the scene.
Oh my god . . .
Death Eaters.
Their robes were black, and they were wearing hoods and masks just like she'd seen in pictures in the books about the rise of the Dark Lord. Then she saw their wands. Pointing . . . up?
"That's sick," Ron muttered, disgusted. "That is really sick."
"Mr. Roberts and his family. . ." Hermione gasped. It was the campground manager who had given them their campsite. The four figures were being contorted, manipulated into grotesque shapes by the laughing crowd below. Two of the figures were very small. They're just little children!
And – I can't believe it! – more wizards, not wearing Death Eater robes, were falling in with the crowd, blasting tents out of their way and laughing. Small fires burned everywhere now, and the screaming was getting louder. Oh my god – they're headed this way!
"Hermione. Hermione." Professor Lupin had a hand on her elbow. "Ron, Harry, Fred, George, Ginny! Come on!"
Four figures brushed by them. Wait – Mr. Weasley? Bill? Charlie? Percy? What are they -
"Come on!" Professor Lupin was shouting. "We've got to get to the forest. Grab hands, and stick together!"
Ron protested, even as Fred and George grabbed Ginny tightly by both hands and started to follow Lupin, who had one hand in Harry's and wasn't letting go. "But what about -"
"Your dad and brothers went to help the Ministry," Lupin urged them all together. Something dangerous was glittering in his eyes. "They'll find us when it's over. Move. Now!"
"Come on, go!" Fred shouted to be heard over a swell of noise.
Hermione glanced back at a sudden roar of laughter from the crowd. They'd flipped Mrs. Roberts upside-down, her nightdress falling to reveal voluminous drawers. But the woman didn't move to cover herself up, limbs hanging limply. The crowd screeched and hooted with glee. The littlest child was spinning like a top – but none of the Roberts' family were moving on their own.
Dread curled her stomach as the sight was obscured by tree trunks. What have they done?
A/N: A few translational notes.
Победа – victory (Bulgarian).
Капитан – captain (Bulgarian).
Лайно – damn (Bulgarian).
Slante – pronounced 'slan-cha', meaning "health" (Irish). Usually a toast.