Disclaimer: Everything you recognize is J.K. Rowling's except Jamie, Luka, and Ariana.
Chapter 6- The Quidditch World Cup
Clutching our purchases, Mr. Weasley in the lead, we all hurry into the wood, following the lantern-lit trail. We can hear the sounds of thousands of people moving around us, shouts and laughter, snatches of singing. The atmosphere of feverish excitement is highly infectious; I can't stop grinning and bouncing, the girls beside me doing the same. We walk through the wood for twenty minutes, talking and joking loudly, until at last we emerge on the other side and find ourselves in the shadow of a gigantic stadium. Though I can see only a fraction of the immense gold walls surrounding the field, I can tell that ten cathedrals would fit comfortably inside it.
This is going to be epic, there's no doubt about it! "Seats a hundred thousand," says Mr. Weasley, spotting the awestruck look on my 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've suddenly remembered urgent appointments and had to dash away again . . . bless them," he adds fondly, leading the way towards the nearest entrance, which is already surrounded by a swarm of shouting witches and wizards.
"Prime seats!" says the Ministry witch at the entrance when she checks our tickets. "Top Box! Straight upstairs, Arthur, and as high as you can go." Oh I think that I might burst, we have some of the best seats in the house! Luka rolls his eyes at my excitement, but I can tell from the spark in his eyes that he's thrilled as well.
"Calm down Jamie! I think that you'll start vibrating through the floor any minute." Hermione tells me attempting to force me still. Ginny just laughs evilly and starts jumping to get me going again, mind you that it doesn't take much in order to do so.
"Let her be Hermione this is thrilling!" Harry exclaims and Ron nods his head enthusiastically.
The stairs into the stadium are carpeted in rich purple. We clamber upwards with the rest of the crowd, which slowly filters away through doors into the stands to our left and right. Mr. Weasley's party keeps climbing, and at last we reach the top of the staircase and find ourselves in a small box, set at the highest point of the stadium and situated exactly halfway between the golden goalposts. About twenty purple-and-gilt chairs stand in two rows here, and I, file into the front seats with the Weasleys, looking down upon a scene the likes of which I could never have imagined.
"This must be what its like in heaven." I mutter softly while Hermione shoots me a scandalize look. Fred and George burst into laughter at my comment but they look just as in awe as I do.
A hundred thousand witches and wizards are taking their places in the seats, which rise in levels around the long oval field. Everything is suffused with a mysterious golden light, which seems to come from the stadium itself. The field looks smooth as velvet from our lofty position. At either end of the field stands three goal hoops, fifty feet high; right opposite us, almost at my eye level, is a gigantic blackboard. Gold writing keeps dashing across it as though an invisible giant's hand is scrawling upon the blackboard and then wiping it off again; watching it, we see that it is flashing advertisements across the field.
The Bluebottle: A Broom for All the Family — Safe, Reliable, and with Built-in Anti-Burglar Buzzer . . . Mrs. Skower's All-Purpose Magical Mess Remover: No Pain, No Stain! . . . Gladrags Wizardwear — London, Paris, Hogsmeade . . .
I tear my eyes away from the sign and look over my shoulder to see who else is sharing the box with us. So far it is empty, except for a tiny creature sitting in the second from last seat at the end of the row behind us. The creature, whose legs are so short they stick out in front of it on the chair, is wearing a tea towel draped like a toga, and it has its face hidden in its hands. Yet those long, batlike ears are oddly familiar. . . .
That house elf is not Dobby. "Dobby?" says Harry incredulously.
The tiny creature looks up and stretches its fingers, revealing enormous brown eyes and a nose the exact size and shape of a large tomato. It isn't Dobby — it is, however, unmistakably a house-elf, as Harry's friend Dobby is.
Harry had set Dobby free from his old owners, the Malfoy family. "Did sir just call me Dobby?" squeaks the elf curiously from between its fingers. Its voice is higher even than Dobby's had been, a teeny, quivering squeak of a voice, and I suspect — though it is very hard to tell with a house-elf — that this one might just be female. Ron and Hermione spun around in their seats to look. Though they have heard a lot about Dobby from Harry, they have never actually met him. I have and the elf is a very good person. Even Mr. Weasley looks around in interest.
"Sorry," Harry tells the elf, "I just thought you were someone I knew."
"But I knows Dobby too, sir!" squeaks the elf. She is shielding her face, as though blinded by light, though the Top Box is not brightly lit. "My name is Winky, sir — and you, sir —" Her dark brown eyes widen to the size of side plates as they rest upon Harry's scar. "You is surely Harry Potter!"
"Yeah, I am," says Harry.
"But Dobby talks of you all the time, sir!" she says, lowering her hands very slightly and looking awestruck.
"How is he?" asks Harry. "How's freedom suiting him?" I bite my lip curious about that as well. I know a fair amount about elves and a lot of them have a hard time adjusting after being broken free from slavery.
"Ah, sir," says Winky, shaking her head, "ah sir, meaning no disrespect, sir, but I is not sure you did Dobby a favor, sir, when you is setting him free."
"Why?" says Harry, taken aback. "What's wrong with him?"
"Freedom is going to Dobby's head, sir," says Winky sadly. "Ideas above his station, sir. Can't get another position, sir."
"Why not?" says Harry. Winky lowers her voice by a half-octave and whispers, "He is wanting paying for his work, sir."
"Paying?" says Harry blankly. "Well — why shouldn't he be paid?" Winky looks quite horrified at the idea and closes her fingers slightly so that her face is half-hidden again.
"Harry we're talking about hundreds of years of conditioning." I tell him softly.
"House-elves is not paid, sir!" she says in a muffled squeak. "No, no, no. I says to Dobby, I says, go find yourself a nice family and settle down, Dobby. He is getting up to all sorts of high jinks, sir, what is unbecoming to a house-elf. You goes racketing around like this, Dobby, I says, and next thing I hear you's 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," says Harry. I wince Harry really doesn't understand the world we live in; neither does Hermione by the look on her face. I can't blame them though, for I don't like it as well.
"House-elves is not supposed to have fun, Harry Potter," says Winky firmly, from behind her hands. "House-elves does what they is told. I is not liking heights at all, Harry Potter" — she glances towards the edge of the box and gulps — "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?" asks Harry, frowning.
"Master — master wants me to save him a seat, Harry Potter. He is very busy," says Winky, tilting her head towards the empty space beside her. "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 gives the edge of the box another frightened look and hides her eyes completely again. We all turn back around.
"So that's a house-elf?" Ron mutters. "Weird things, aren't they?"
"Dobby was weirder," says Harry fervently. Ron pulls out his Omnioculars and starts testing them, staring down into the crowd on the other side of the stadium.
"Wild!" he says, twiddling the replay knob on the side. "I can make that old bloke down there pick his nose again . . . and again . . . and again . . ." I make a face at that.
Hermione, meanwhile, is skimming eagerly through her velvet-covered, tasseled program. "'A display from the team mascots will precede the match,'" she reads aloud.
"Oh that's always worth watching," says Mr. Weasley. "National teams bring creatures from their native land, you know, to put on a bit of a show."
Ginny pulls on my sleeve and I turn to look at her. She is staring around at the stadium in awe. "I want to be here someday Jamie. I want to play in a stadium this size, and show everyone what I can do… do you think that I could?" She asks me softly. I turn my gaze to the redheaded girl next to me and smile softly at the worried and insecure look on her face.
Ginny and I had spent a lot of time with each other over the summer and part of that had been flying and practicing Quidditch when her brothers were busy. They all think that she's a little girl who has no flying talent whatsoever, but I happen to know differently.
She's good, really good for her age and experience level. If the two of us played together on Gryffindor then our team would advance further than ever before. That is as soon as some of the other Chasers graduate.
"Don't worry Gin. I will be coming here one of these days in the future cheering you on, you're a great flyer and if you continue to better, then it will be a pleasure to fly with you in a few years." I tell her. The smile that breaks out on her face is enough to make me smile back.
"You're not half bad yourself Jamie. You might have a shot as well." Ginny tells me leaning forward in her seat. I bite my lower lip and consider the possibilities.
"I don't know, maybe. I'm not sure what I want to do with my life just yet." I tell her.
The box fills gradually around us over the next half hour. Mr. Weasley keeps shaking hands with people who are obviously very important wizards. Percy jumps to his feet so often that he looks as though he is trying to sit on a hedgehog. When Cornelius Fudge, the Minister of Magic himself, arrives, Percy bows so low that his glasses fall off and shatter. Highly embarrassed, he repairs them with his wand and thereafter remains in his seat, throwing jealous looks at Harry, whom Cornelius Fudge greets like an old friend. They have met before, and Fudge shakes Harry's hand in a fatherly fashion, asks how he is, and introduces him to the wizards on either side of him.
I can't help but feel a little bad for Harry. I've never liked the Minister that much, and Harry seems to have become his Golden Boy.
"Harry Potter, you know," he tells the Bulgarian minister loudly, who is wearing splendid robes of black velvet trimmed with gold and doesn't seem to understand a word of English. "Harry Potter . . . oh come on now, you know who he is . . . the boy who survived You-Know-Who . . . you do know who he is —"
The Bulgarian wizard suddenly spots Harry's scar and starts gabbling loudly and excitedly, pointing at it. I am so glad that I am not the center of all this scrutiny. "Knew we'd get there in the end," says Fudge wearily to Harry. "I'm no great shakes at languages; I need Barty Crouch for this sort of thing. Ah, I see his house-elf's saving him a seat. . . . Good job too, these Bulgarian blighters have been trying to cadge all the best places . . . ah, and here's Lucius!"
Harry, Ron, Hermione, and I turn quickly. I knew this day was going far too well! Edging along the second row to three still-empty seats right behind Mr. Weasley are none other than Dobby the house-elf's former owners: Lucius Malfoy; his son, Draco; and a woman I suppose must be Draco's mother.
Harry and Draco Malfoy have been enemies ever since their very first journey to Hogwarts. So as any good friend he is my enemy as well. A pale boy with a pointed face and white-blond hair, Draco greatly resembles his father. His mother is blonde too; tall and slim, she would be nice-looking if she isn't wearing a look that suggests there is a nasty smell under her nose.
Did I mention that I hate pureblood elitists? "Ah, Fudge," says Mr. Malfoy, holding out his hand as he reaches the Minister of Magic. "How are you? I don't think you've met my wife, Narcissa? Or our son, Draco?"
"How do you do, how do you do?" says 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. And let's see who else — you know Arthur Weasley, I daresay?"
Oh this is going to be good. I'll sit back at watch the hexes fly. It is a tense moment. Mr. Weasley and Mr. Malfoy look at each other and Harry vividly recalls the last time they had come face-to-face: It had been in Flourish and Blotts bookshop, and they had had a fight. Mr. Malfoy's cold gray eyes sweep over Mr. Weasley, and then up and down the row.
"Good lord, Arthur," he says softly. "What did you have to sell to get seats in the Top Box? Surely your house wouldn't have fetched this much?" I can't help but growl lowly at that. His gaze fixes on Luka and I. "Ah, I see. You're siphoning away the Pendragon fortune for yourself." Harry and Mr. Weasley have to hold back Luka, and I for attempting to get out of our seats to attack him.
Fudge, who isn't listening, says, "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." Still not a good enough reason to share such an occasion with the Malfoy family is you ask me.
"How — how nice," says Mr. Weasley, with a very strained smile.
Mr. Malfoy's eyes have returned to Hermione, who goes slightly pink, but stares determinedly back at him. I wrap my arm protectively around her, glaring at the man. I know exactly what is making Mr. Malfoy's lip curl like that. The Malfoys pride themselves on being purebloods; in other words, they consider anyone of Muggle descent, like Hermione, second-class. However, under the gaze of the Minister of Magic, Mr. Malfoy doesn't dare say anything. He nods sneeringly to Mr. Weasley and continues down the line to his seats. Draco shoots Harry, Ron, Hermione, and me, one contemptuous look, then settles himself between his mother and father.
Good I don't want to deal with that smarmy weasel even more than he wants to see us. "Slimy gits," Ron mutters as we turn to face the field again. Next moment, Ludo Bagman charges into the box.
"Everyone ready?" he says, his round face gleaming like a great, excited Edam. "Minister — ready to go?"
"Ready when you are, Ludo," says Fudge comfortably. Oh this is going to be good! I start bouncing in my seat again, a large grin settling on my face.
Ludo whips out his wand, directs it at his own throat, and says "Sonorus!" and then speaks over the roar of sound that is now filling the packed stadium; his voice echoes over us, 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 scream and clap. Thousands of flags wave, adding their discordant national anthems to the racket. The huge blackboard opposite us was wiped clear of its last message (Bertie Bott's Every Flavor Beans — A Risk with Every Mouthful!) and now shows 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 is a solid block of scarlet, roars its approval.
"I wonder what they've brought," says Mr. Weasley, leaning forward in his seat. "Aaah!" He suddenly whips off his glasses and polishes them hurriedly on his robes. "Veela!"
"What are veel — ?" Harry starts. Ugh! This is going to be insane. I hate Bulgaria now. I grab a firm hold on my brother and he gives me a nod.
But a hundred veela are now gliding out onto the field, and Harry's question is answered for him. Veela are women . . . the most beautiful women I have ever seen . . . except that they aren't — they can't be — human. Their skin shines moon-bright, and their white-gold hair fans out behind them without wind . . . and then the music starts. I keep my firm grip on Luka as the magic starts to take over.
The veela dance and as much as they're beautiful I know that behind the beauty lurks a danger that not every wizard can face. Luckily women aren't affected by veelas like men are.
"Harry, what are you doing?" says Hermione. I glance over at her. She's struggling to understand what's happening with Ron and Harry.
The music stops. Harry is standing up, and one of his legs is resting on the wall of the box. Next to him, Ron is frozen in an attitude that looks as though he was about to dive from a springboard.
Angry yells are filling the stadium. The crowd doesn't want the veela to go. Ugh, men. Ron, meanwhile, is absentmindedly shredding the shamrocks on his hat. Mr. Weasley, smiling slightly, leans over to Ron and tugs the hat out of his hands.
"You'll be wanting that," he says, "once Ireland have had their say."
"Huh?" says Ron, staring openmouthed at the veela, who have now lined up along one side of the field.
"He says that you look like a right foul git." I supply helpfully to my intoxicated friend.
Hermione makes a loud tutting noise, and Ginny rolls her eyes at the boys. Mione reaches up and pulls Harry back into his seat. "Honestly!" she says.
"And now," roars Ludo Bagman's voice, "kindly put your wands in the air . . . for the Irish National Team Mascots!"
Next moment, what seems to be a great green-and-gold comet comes zooming into the stadium. It does one circuit of the stadium, then splits into two smaller comets, each hurtling towards the goalposts. A rainbow arcs suddenly across the field, connecting the two balls of light. The crowd oooohs and aaaaahs, as though at a fireworks display. Now the rainbow fades and the balls of light reunites and merges; they form a great shimmering shamrock, which rises up into the sky and begins to soar over the stands. Something like golden rain seems to be falling from it —
They didn't! "Excellent!" yells Ron as the shamrock soars over us, and heavy gold coins rain from it, bouncing off our heads and seats. Squinting up at the shamrock, I realize that it is actually comprised of thousands of tiny little bearded men with red vests, each carrying a minute lamp of gold or green.
"Leprechauns!" I cry over the tumultuous applause of the crowd, many of whom are still fighting and rummaging around under their chairs to retrieve the gold.
"There you go," Ron yells happily, stuffing a fistful of gold coins into Harry's hand, "for the Omnioculars! Now you've got to buy me a Christmas present, ha!"
The great shamrock dissolves, the leprechauns drift down onto the field on the opposite side from the veela, and settle 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 is blurred, shoots out onto the field from an entrance far below, to wild applause from the Bulgarian supporters.
"Ivanova!" A second scarlet-robed player zooms out. "Zograf! Levski! Vulchanov! Volkov! Aaaaaaand — Krum!"
"That's him, that's him!" yells Ron, following Krum with his Omnioculars. I quickly grab mine from around my neck and focus on him as well. I might not be in love with Krum like Ron is but he still is one of the best Quidditch players in the world.
Viktor Krum is thin, dark, and sallow-skinned, with a large curved nose and thick black eyebrows. He looks like an overgrown bird of prey. It is hard to believe he is only eighteen.
"And now, please greet — the Irish National Quidditch Team!" yells Bagman. I start cheering loudly with my friends. "Presenting — Connolly! Ryan! Troy! Mullet! Moran! Quigley! Aaaaaand — Lynch!"
Seven green blurs sweep onto the field; I spin a small dial on the side of my Omnioculars and slow the players down enough to read the word "Firebolt" on each of their brooms and see their names, embroidered in silver, upon their backs. This is one handy little gadget I'll tell you!
"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 a mustache to rival Harry's Uncle Vernon's, wearing robes of pure gold to match the stadium, strides out onto the field. A silver whistle is protruding from under the mustache, and he is carrying a large wooden crate under one arm, his broomstick under the other. I spin the speed dial on my Omnioculars back to normal, watching closely as Mostafa mounts his broomstick and kicks the crate open — four balls burst into the air: the scarlet Quaffle, the two black Bludgers, and (I see it for the briefest moment, before it speeds out of sight) the minuscule, winged Golden Snitch. With a sharp blast on his whistle, Mostafa shoots into the air after the balls.
"Theeeeeeeey're OFF!" screams Bagman. I wince at the volume. "And it's Mullet! Troy! Moran! Dimitrov! Back to Mullet! Troy! Levski! Moran!"
It us Quidditch as we have never seen it played before. The speed of the players is incredible — the Chasers are throwing the Quaffle to one another so fast that Bagman only has time to say their names. I spin the slow dial on the right of my Omnioculars again, press the play-by-play button on the top, and I am immediately watching in slow motion, while glittering purple lettering flashes across the lenses and the noise of the crowd pounds against my eardrums.
This is like a dream come true from me. Ginny is just squealing in awe at this point. I shut mine off not able to stand being behind the play.
"TROY SCORES!" roars Bagman, and the stadium shudders with a roar of applause and cheers. "Ten zero to Ireland!"
I return my gadget to normal and watch the match. Troy does a lap around the field in celebration. Ireland draws first blood!
I know enough about Quidditch to see that the Irish Chasers are superb. They work as a seamless team, their movements so well coordinated that they appear to be reading one another's minds as they position themselves, and the rosette on my chest keeps squeaking their names: "Troy — Mullet — Moran!" And within ten minutes, Ireland has scored twice more, bringing their lead to thirty–zero and causing a thunderous tide of roars and applause from the green-clad supporters.
The match becomes still faster, but more brutal. Volkov and Vulchanov, the Bulgarian Beaters, are whacking the Bludgers as fiercely as possible at the Irish Chasers, and are starting to prevent them from using some of their best moves; twice they are forced to scatter, and then, finally, Ivanova manages to break through their ranks; dodge the Keeper, Ryan; and score Bulgaria's first goal.
"Fingers in your ears!" bellows Mr. Weasley as the veela started to dance in celebration. I grin as all the boys follow his instructions. And who said that there is a disadvantage to being a girl?
"Dimitrov! Levski! Dimitrov! Ivanova — oh I say!" roars Bagman.
One hundred thousand wizards gasp as the two Seekers, Krum and Lynch, plummet through the center of the Chasers. I follow their descent through my Omnioculars, squinting to see where the Snitch is —
"They're going to crash!" screams Hermione next to Harry. She is half right — at the very last second, Viktor Krum pulls out of the dive and spirals off. Lynch, however, hits the ground with a dull thud that can be heard throughout the stadium. A huge groan rises from the Irish seats.
"Fool!" moans Mr. Weasley. "Krum was feinting!" Great.
"It's time-out!" yells Bagman's voice, "as trained mediwizards hurry onto the field to examine Aidan Lynch!"
"He'll be okay, he only got ploughed!" Charlie says reassuringly to Ginny, who is hanging over the side of the box, looking horror-struck. "Which is what Krum was after, of course. . . ."
Lynch gets to his feet at last, to loud cheers from the green-clad supporters, mounts his Firebolt, and kicks back off into the air. His revival seems to give Ireland new heart. When Mostafa blows his whistle again, the Chasers move into action with a skill unrivaled by anything I have seen so far.
After fifteen more fast and furious minutes, Ireland has pulled ahead by ten more goals. They are now leading by one hundred and thirty points to ten, and the game is starting to get dirtier.
As Mullet shoots towards the goalposts yet again, clutching the Quaffle tightly under her arm, the Bulgarian Keeper, Zograf, flies out to meet her. Whatever happens is over so quickly I don't catch it, but a scream of rage from the Irish crowd, and Mostafa's long, shrill whistle blast, tells me it is a foul.
"And Mostafa takes the Bulgarian Keeper to task for cobbing — excessive use of elbows!" Bagman informs the roaring spectators. "And — yes, it's a penalty to Ireland!"
The leprechauns, who have risen angrily into the air like a swarm of glittering hornets when Mullet had been fouled, now dart together to form the words "HA, HA, HA!" The veela on the other side of the field leap to their feet, toss their hair angrily, and start to dance again. Oh brother, battle of the mascots! Not that this is entertaining though.
As one, the Weasley boys, Luka, and Harry stuff their fingers into their ears, but Hermione, who hasn't bothered (like me), is soon tugging on my arm. I turn to look at her.
"Look at the referee!" she says, giggling Ginny looks as well and soon we're all giggling. I look down at the field. Hassan Mostafa has landed right in front of the dancing veela, and is acting very oddly indeed. He is flexing his muscles and smoothing his mustache excitedly.
"Now, we can't have that!" says Ludo Bagman, though he sounds highly amused. "Somebody slap the referee!" Now that will be a sight to see.
A mediwizard comes tearing across the field, his fingers stuffed into his own ears, and kicks Mostafa hard in the shins. Mostafa seems to come to himself; I watch through the Omnioculars again, and see that he looks exceptionally embarrassed and has started shouting at the veela, who have stopped dancing and are looking mutinous.
"And unless I'm much mistaken, Mostafa is actually attempting to send off the Bulgarian team mascots!" says Bagman's voice. "Now there's something we haven't seen before. . . . Oh, this could turn nasty. . . ."
It does: The Bulgarian Beaters, Volkov and Vulchanov, land on either side of Mostafa and begin arguing furiously with him, gesticulating towards the leprechauns, who have now gleefully formed the words "HEE, HEE, HEE." Mostafa is not impressed by the Bulgarians' arguments, however; he is jabbing his finger into the air, clearly telling them to get flying again, and when they refuse, he gives two short blasts on his whistle.
"Two penalties for Ireland!" shouts Bagman, and the Bulgarian crowd howls with anger. "And Volkov and Vulchanov had better get back on those brooms . . . yes . . . there they go . . . and Troy takes the Quaffle . . ." Well this is certainly the most interesting game that I have been to in a long time.
Play now reaches a level of ferocity beyond anything we have yet seen. The Beaters on both sides are acting without mercy: Volkov and Vulchanov in particular seem not to care whether their clubs make contact with Bludger or human as they swing them violently through the air. Dimitrov shoots straight at Moran, who has the Quaffle, nearly knocking her off her broom.
"Foul!" roars the Irish supporters as one, all standing up in a great wave of green.
"Foul!" echoes 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!"
This is like Slytherin tactics on steroids! The leprechauns rise into the air again, and this time, they form a giant hand, which is making a very rude sign indeed at the veela across the field. At this, the veela lose control. Instead of dancing, they launch themselves across the field and begin throwing what seems to be handfuls of fire at the leprechauns. Watching through my Omnioculars, I see that they don't look remotely beautiful now. On the contrary, their faces are elongating into sharp, cruel-beaked bird heads, and long, scaly wings are bursting from their shoulders —
"And that, boys," yells Mr. Weasley over the tumult of the crowd below, "is why you should never go for looks alone!"
Ministry wizards are flooding onto the field to separate the veela and the leprechauns, but with little success; meanwhile, the pitch battle below is nothing to the one taking place above. I turn this way and that, staring through my Omnioculars, as the Quaffle changes hands with the speed of a bullet.
"Levski — Dimitrov — Moran — Troy — Mullet — Ivanova — Moran again — Moran — MORAN SCORES!"
But the cheers of the Irish supporters are barely heard over the shrieks of the veela, the blasts now issuing from the Ministry members' wands, and the furious roars of the Bulgarians. The game recommences immediately; now Levski has the Quaffle, now Dimitrov —
The Irish Beater Quigley swings heavily at a passing Bludger, and hits it as hard as possible towards Krum, who does not duck quickly enough. It hits him full in the face. Oh, that's going to hurt when he breathes! And his nose was already so hurt to begin with!
There is a deafening groan from the crowd; Krum's nose looks broken, there is blood everywhere, but Hassan Mostafa doesn't blow his whistle. He has become distracted, and I can't blame him; one of the veela has thrown a handful of fire and set his broom tail alight. This is definitely one crazy game of Quidditch! I wouldn't have it any other way; the grin that Ginny and I share shows our agreement.
I want someone to realize that Krum is injured; even though I am supporting Ireland, Krum is the most exciting player on the field. Ron obviously feels the same.
"Time-out! Ah, come on, he can't play like that, look at him —"
"Look at Lynch!" Harry yells. For the Irish Seeker has suddenly gone into a dive, and I am quite sure that this is no Wronski Feint; this is the real thing. . . .
"He's seen the Snitch!" Harry shouts. "He's seen it! Look at him go!"
Half the crowd seems to have realized what is happening; the Irish supporters rise in another great wave of green, screaming their Seeker on . . . but Krum is on his tail. How he can see where he is going, I have no idea; there are flecks of blood flying through the air behind him, but he is drawing level with Lynch now as the pair of them hurtle towards the ground again —
"They're going to crash!" shrieks Hermione.
"They're not!" roars Ron.
"Lynch is!" yells Harry and I. And we are right — for the second time, Lynch hits the ground with tremendous force and is immediately stampeded by a horde of angry veela.
"The Snitch, where's the Snitch?" bellows Charlie, along the row.
"He's got it — Krum's got it — it's all over!" shouts Harry. Well Merlin's Beard! The twins were right! Krum, his red robes shining with blood from his nose, is rising gently into the air, his fist held high, a glint of gold in his hand.
The scoreboard is flashing BULGARIA: 160, IRELAND: 170 across the crowd, who doesn't seem to have realized what has happened. Then, slowly, as though a great jumbo jet is revving up, the rumbling from the Ireland supporters grows louder and louder and erupts into screams of delight.
"IRELAND WINS!" Bagman shouts, who like the Irish, seems to be taken aback by the sudden end of the match. "KRUM GETS THE SNITCH — BUT IRELAND WINS — good lord, I don't think any of us were expecting that!"
"What did he catch the Snitch for?" Ron bellows, even as he jumps up and down, applauding with his hands over his head. "He ended it when Ireland were a hundred and sixty points ahead, the idiot!"
"He knew they were never going to catch up!" I shout back over all the noise, also applauding loudly. "The Irish Chasers were too good. . . . He wanted to end it on his terms, that's all. . . ."
"He was very brave, wasn't he?" Hermione says, leaning forward to watch Krum land as a swarm of mediwizards blast a path through the battling leprechauns and veela to get to him. "He looks a terrible mess. . . ." Oh please no Hermione, please don't do this to me! I'm not ready to give our relationship advice!
I put my Omnioculars to my eyes again. It is hard to see what is happening below, because leprechauns are zooming delightedly all over the field, but I can just make out Krum, surrounded by mediwizards. He looks surlier than ever and refuses to let them mop him up. His team members are around him, shaking their heads and looking dejected; a short way away, the Irish players are dancing gleefully in a shower of gold descending from their mascots. Flags are waving all over the stadium, the Irish national anthem blares from all sides; the veela are shrinking back into their usual, beautiful selves now, though looking dispirited and forlorn.
"Vell, ve fought bravely," says a gloomy voice behind me. We looked around; it is the Bulgarian Minister of Magic.
"You can speak English!" says Fudge, sounding outraged. "And you've been letting me mime everything all day!"
"Vell, it vos very funny," says the Bulgarian minister, shrugging.
"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!" roars Bagman.
My eyes are suddenly dazzled by a blinding white light, as the Top Box is magically illuminated so that everyone in the stands can see the inside. Squinting towards the entrance, I see two panting wizards carrying a vast golden cup into the box, which they hand to Cornelius Fudge, who is still looking very disgruntled that he's been using sign language all day for nothing.
"Let's have a really loud hand for the gallant losers — Bulgaria!" Bagman shouts.
One by one, the Bulgarians file between the rows of seats in the box, and Bagman calls out the name of each as they shake hands with their own minister and then with Fudge. Krum, who is last in line, looks a real mess. Two black eyes are blooming spectacularly on his bloody face. He is still holding the Snitch. I notice that he seems much less coordinated on the ground. He is slightly duck-footed and distinctly round-shouldered. But when Krum's name is announced, the whole stadium gives him a resounding, earsplitting roar.
And then comes the Irish team. Aidan Lynch is being supported by Moran and Connolly; the second crash seems to have dazed him and his eyes look strangely unfocused. But he grins happily as Troy and Quigley lift the Cup into the air and the crowd below thunders its approval. My hands are numb with clapping. I didn't think that we were going to get this close to the players and the cup!
At last, when the Irish team has left the box to perform another lap of honor on their brooms (Aidan Lynch on the back of Connolly's, clutching hard around his waist and still grinning in a bemused sort of way), Bagman points his wand at his throat and mutters, "Quietus."
"They'll be talking about this one for years," he says 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 have just scrambled over the backs of their seats and are standing in front of Ludo Bagman with broad grins on their faces, their hands outstretched. I can't believe it those two seem to be the true winners of this World Cup Match it seems.