Clutching all of their purchases with Mr Weasley in the lead, they all hurried into the woods, following the lantern-lit trail. They could hear the sounds of thousands of people moving around them. Hermione couldn't help but let the excitement take over her. There was a spring in her step that she didn't think was possible after their early morning trek. They walked through the woods for almost twenty minutes, but it seemed to fly by. They emerged on the other side and found themselves in the shadow of a gigantic stadium. Hermione stopped in her tracks, gobsmacked at the sheer size of the goliath pitch.
"Seats a hundred thousand," said Mr Weasley to Hermione and Harry. She could tell Harry was as impressed as she was. "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 gotten anywhere near here all year, they've suddenly remembered urgent appointments and had to dash away again, bless them," he added fondly.
Mr Weasley led the way towards the nearest entrance, which was already surrounded by a swarm of Witches and Wizards. Hermione hadn't seen that many people in one place in her whole life. As they got closer to the entrance, the throngs of people seemed to descend upon them. Hermione started to feel frantic - what if she lost sight of Mr Weasley?! She had no idea where to go or what to do! The tight, familiar ball of panic started to rise in her throat. Suddenly, someone grabbed her hand. She looked to her left to see Ron's crooked grin. "Come on," he said, holding on to her so they wouldn't be separated.
They all seemed to queue up as one big group at the gate, and Mr Weasley handed the Ministry Witch the tickets. "Prime seats!" she exclaimed. "Top Box! Straight upstairs, Arthur, and as high as you can go."
The stairs were carpeted in rich purple. They clambered upwards with the rest of the crowd, which slowly filtered away through doors into the stands to their left and right. Mr Weasley's party kept climbing and at last, they reached the top of the staircase and found themselves in a small box set at the highest point of the stadium and situated halfway between the golden goalposts. The stairs were carpeted in two rows. Hermione looked out towards the rest of the pitch.
A hundred thousand witches and wizards were taking their places in the seats, which rose in levels around the long oval pitch. Everything was suffused with a mysterious golden light that seemed to come from the stadium itself. The pitch looked smooth as velvet from their lofty position. At either end of the pitch stood three goal hoops, fifty feet high; right opposite them was a gigantic blackboard. Gold writing kept dashing across it as though an invisible giant's hand was scrawling upon it and then wiping it off again:
The Bluebottle: A Broom for All the Family – safe, reliable and with In-built Anti-Burglar Buzzer... Mrs Shower's All-Purpose Magical Mess-Remover: No Pain, No Stain!... Gladrags Wizardwear – London, Paris, Hogsmeade...
Hermione's awe was interrupted by Harry. "Dobby?!" Harry shouted incredulously.
Hermione followed Harry's gaze to a tiny creature sitting in the second from last seat at the end of the row behind them. The creature, whose legs were so short that they stuck out in front of it on the chair, was wearing a tea towel draped like a toga and had its face hidden in its hands. Harry had told her about Dobby, but Hermione had never had the pleasure of meeting the house elf.
The creature looked up at Harry. "Did sir just call me Dobby?" squeaked the elf from between its fingers.
"Sorry," Harry told the elf. "I just thought you were someone I knew."
"But I knows Dobby too, sir!" squeaked the elf. She was shielding her face as though blinded by light, though the Top Box was not brightly lit. "My name is Winky, sir - and you, sir - you is surely Harry Potter!"
"Yeah, I am," said Harry.
"But Dobby talks of you all the time, sir!" she said, lowering her hands slightly and looking awestruck.
"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 did Dobby a favour, sir, when you is setting him free."
"Why?" said Harry, taken aback. "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?" said Harry.
Winky lowered her voice by a half octave and whispered, "He is wanting paying for his work, sir." Hermione frowned. Why wouldn't he want paid for his work?
"Paying?" said Harry, taking the words out of Hermione's mouth. "Well – why shouldn't he be paid?"
Winky looked horrified at the idea and closed her fingers slightly, so her face was half-hidden again. "House-elves is not paid, sir!" she said 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," said Harry.
"House-elves is not supposed to have fun, Harry Potter," said Winky firmly from behind her hands. "House-elves does what they is told. I is not liking heights at all, Harry Potter –" she glanced towards the edge of the box and gulped, "– 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?" said Harry, frowning. Hermione frowned as well - that didn't sound very fair.
"Master – master wants me to save him a seat, Harry Potter. He is very busy," said 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 gave the edge of the box another frightened look and hid her eyes completely again. Harry turned back to the others.
"So that's a house-elf?" Ron muttered. "Weird things, aren't they?"
"Dobby was weirder," Harry said.
Hermione couldn't help but wonder who Winky's master was. Whoever it was must be a horrible person to send their poor house elf up to the top box despite her fear of heights.
Nonetheless, Hermione's anger towards the unnamed master was soon forgotten with the excitement surrounding them. Ron pulled out the Omnioculars and started testing them, staring into the crowd on the other side of the stadium. Hermione began to leaf through the program. It was stunning - covered in velvet with tassels.
"Wild!" Ron exclaimed, twiddling the replay knob on the side. "I can make that old bloke down there pick his nose again and again and again…"
Hermione sighed. Ron could be so juvenile. She cleared her throat to get his attention back from the disgusting display. "A display from the team mascots will precede the match," Hermione read, pointing to the section in the program to hopefully pull Ron's attention away from that poor man's sinuses. It was no use, and soon Hermione gave up.
The box filled gradually around them over the next half hour. Mr Weasley kept shaking hands with people who were obviously very important wizards. Percy jumped to his feet so often that he looked as though he was on a pogo stick. Hermione wished he would relax just a bit - she could tell the twins were mentally cataloguing every single awkward movement Percy made to make fun of him later.
When Cornelius Fudge, the Minister for Magic himself, arrived, Percy bowed so low that his glasses fell off and shattered. Highly embarrassed, he repaired them with his wand and thereafter remained in his seat. Fudge shook Harry's hand, asked how he was, and introduced him to the wizards on either side of him.
"Harry Potter, you know," he loudly told the Bulgarian Minister, who was wearing splendid robes of black velvet trimmed with gold and didn'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 spotted Harry's scar and started gabbling loudly and excitedly, pointing at it. Hermione knew Harry was holding back an eye roll at yet another person staring at his scar.
"Knew we'd get there in the end," said 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!"
Hermione, Harry, and Ron turned quickly. Edging along the second row to three still-empty seats right behind Mr Weasley were none other than Lucius Malfoy, his son, Draco, and a woman Hermione supposed must be Draco's mother.
"Ah, Fudge," said Mr Malfoy, holding out his hand as he reached the Minister for Magic. "How are you? I don't think you've met my wife, Narcissa? Or our son, Draco?" His slimy voice made Hermione shiver despite the summer heat.
"How do you do, how do you do?' said Fudge, smiling and bowing to Mrs Malfoy. "And allow me to introduce you to Mr Oblansk – Obalonsk – Mr – well, he's the Bulgarian Minister for 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?"
It was a tense moment. Mr Weasley and Mr Malfoy looked at each other, and Hermione vividly recalled 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 grey eyes swept over Mr Weasley and 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?"
Hermione gasped at his arrogance but wasn't surprised. He and his whole family were despicable human beings. Fudge, who wasn't listening, said, "Lucius has just given a very generous contribution to St Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries, Arthur. He's here as my guest."
"How – how nice," said Mr Weasley, with a very strained smile.
Mr Malfoy's eyes had returned to Hermione, who went slightly pink but stared determinedly back at him. He nodded sneeringly to Mr Weasley and continued down the line to his seats. Draco shot Harry, Ron and Hermione one contemptuous look, then settled himself between his mother and father.
"Slimy gits," Ron muttered as he, Harry and Hermione turned to face the pitch again. She realised she had been holding her breath and let it out in a loud, angry sigh. She knew that if Finn was right about his suspicions, Lucius Malfoy would be in the thick of it.
Hermione's thoughts were interrupted by Ludo Bagman's appearance in the box.
"Everyone ready?" he said, his round face gleaming like a great, excited Edam. "Minister, ready to go?"
"Ready when you are, Ludo," said Fudge comfortably.
Ludo whipped out his wand, directed it at his own throat and said, "Sonorus!" and then spoke over the roar of sound that was now filling the packed stadium; his voice echoed over them, booming into every corner of the stands: "Ladies and gentlemen... welcome! Welcome to the final of the four hundred and twenty-second Quidditch World Cup!"
The spectators screamed and clapped, and Hermione found herself screaming and clapping along with them. Thousands of flags waved, adding their discordant national anthems to the racket. The huge blackboard opposite them was wiped clear of its last message (Bertie Bott's Every Flavour Beans – a Risk with Every Mouthful!) and now showed BULGARIA: ZERO, IRELAND: ZERO.
"And now, without further ado, allow me to introduce the Bulgarian Team Mascots!"
The right-hand side of the stands, which was a solid block of scarlet, roared its approval.
"I wonder what they've brought?" said Mr Weasley, leaning forwards in his seat. "Aaah!" He suddenly whipped off his glasses and polished them hurriedly on his robes. "Veela!"
"What are Veel—?" Harry started to ask but went dead silent while he stared at the other side of the pitch.
Hermione followed his gaze and watched as a hundred beautiful women with white-gold hair and moon-bright skin poured onto the field. They were peculiar looking, but not as peculiar as the behaviour of almost every male (and quite a few females) in the audience. Hermione watched helplessly as Harry, Ginny, and all of the Weasley boys joined thousands of onlookers in a sort of hypnotic trance. Mr Weasley was one of the few exceptions; he had his hands over his ears and eyes tightly shut. Hermione waved her hand in front of their eyes with absolutely no reaction.
Hermione glanced at the field. The Veela had started to dance, and more than half of the stadium seemed to sway in time with them. She kept snapping her fingers in front of Ginny's eyes, but there was not even a flinch. Suddenly, non-rhythmic movement caught the corner of her eye. To her horror, the motion was Harry flinging his leg over the wall of the box.
"Harry, what are you doing?" said Hermione incredulously.
As the music stopped, she could see consciousness return to Harry's eyes. She looked around and saw that most of the audience, including Ron and Ginny, were also waking up. Angry yells filled the stadium. The crowd didn't want the Veela to go. Hermione watched with confusion as Harry, and the Weasleys started tearing off their shamrocks. What on earth was going on?
Mr Weasley, smiling slightly, leant over to Ron, who was trying to rip off the shamrock pinned to his chest and tugged it out of his hands. "You'll be wanting that," he said, "once Ireland have had their say."
'Huh?' said Ron, staring open-mouthed at the Veela, who had now lined up along one side of the pitch.
Hermione made a loud, tutting noise. She reached up and pulled Harry back into his seat. "Honestly!" she said.
"And now," roared Ludo Bagman's voice, "kindly put your wands in the air for the Irish National Team Mascots!"
In the next moment, what seemed to be a great green-and-gold comet came zooming into the stadium. It did one circuit of the stadium, then split into two smaller comets, each hurtling towards the goalposts. A rainbow arced suddenly across the pitch, connecting the two balls of light. The crowd 'oooohed' and 'aaaaahed' as though at a firework display. Now the rainbow faded and the balls of light reunited and merged; they had formed a great shimmering shamrock, which rose into the sky and began to soar over the stands. Something like golden rain seemed to be falling from it. Hermione looked up and nearly got hit in the eye.
"Excellent!" yelled Ron as the shamrock soared over their heads, and heavy gold coins rained from it, bouncing off their heads and seats. Squinting up at the shamrock, Hermione realised that it was composed of thousands of tiny little bearded men with red waistcoats, each carrying a minute lamp of gold or green.
"Leprechauns!" said Mr Weasley, over the tumultuous applause of the crowd, many of whom were still fighting and rummaging around under their chairs to retrieve the gold.
"There you go," Ron yelled 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 dissolved. The leprechauns drifted down onto the pitch opposite from the Veela and settled themselves cross-legged to watch the match.
"And now, ladies and gentlemen, kindly welcome – the Bulgarian National Quidditch Team! I give you – Dimitrov!"
A scarlet-clad figure on a broomstick, moving so fast it was blurred, shot out onto the pitch from an entrance far below to wild applause from the Bulgarian supporters.
"Ivanova!"
A second scarlet-robed player zoomed out.
"Zograf! Levski! Vulchanov! Volkov! Aaaaaaand – Krum!"
"That's him, that's him!" yelled Ron, jumping up and down, following Krum with his Omnioculars. Hermione focused her own on the Quidditch player, hoping to see what the appeal was.
Viktor Krum was thin, dark and sallow-skinned, with a large curved nose and thick black eyebrows. He looked like an overgrown bird of prey: elegant yet robust. It was hard to believe he was only eighteen.
"And now, please greet – the Irish National Quidditch Team!" yelled Bagman. "Presenting – Connolly! Ryan! Troy! Mullet! Moran! Quigley! Aaaaaand – Lynch!"
Seven green blurs swept onto the pitch. Hermione tried to follow them with her Omnioculars, but they were moving too fast. With a turn of the side dial, she could slow them down enough to make out five very Irish-looking redheads.
"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 huge bushy moustache, wearing robes of pure gold to match the stadium, strode out onto the pitch. A silver whistle was protruding from under the moustache, and he was carrying a large wooden crate under one arm, his broomstick under the other. Hermione spun the speed dial on her Omnioculars back to normal, watching closely as Mostafa mounted his broomstick and kicked the crate open – four balls burst into the air: the scarlet Quaffle, the two black Bludgers and (Hermione assumed, though she couldn't see) the minuscule, winged, Golden Snitch. With a sharp blast on his whistle, Mostafa shot into the air after the balls.
"Theeeeeeeey're OFF!" screamed Bagman. "And it's Mullet! Troy! Moran! Dimitrov! Back to Mullet! Troy! Levski! Moran!"
It was indeed unlike any Quidditch Hermione could have even imagined. The speed of the players was incredible - the Chasers were throwing the Quaffle to each other so fast that Bagman only had time to say their names. Hermione also was amazed to see that the Omnioculars would also show the name of the different moves and plays. She was learning more about Quidditch in these first 30 seconds of the game than in the last three years with Ron and Harry.
"TROY SCORES!" roared Bagman, and the stadium shuddered with a roar of applause and cheers. "Ten–zero to Ireland!"
"What?" Harry yelled, looking wildly around through his Omnioculars. "But Levski's got the Quaffle!"
It took only a second for Hermione to realise what Harry must have done. "Harry, if you're not going to watch at normal speed, you're going to miss things!" shouted Hermione, who was dancing up and down, waving her arms in the air while Troy did a lap of honour of the pitch. She just couldn't help herself - the game was electric. The leprechauns watching from the sidelines had all risen into the air again and formed the great, glittering shamrock. Across the pitch, the Veela were watching them sulkily.
The pace at which the game was progressing was almost dizzying. Hermione was swept up in the fervour and could feel her voice already becoming hoarse. Ireland had scored twice more within ten minutes, bringing their lead to thirty-zero and causing a thunderous tide of roars and applause from the green-clad supporters.
The match became still faster, but more brutal. Volkov and Vulchanov, the Bulgarian Beaters, were whacking the Bludgers as fiercely as possible at the Irish Chasers, and were starting to prevent them using some of their best moves; twice they were forced to scatter, and then, finally, Ivanova managed to break through their ranks, dodge the Keeper, Ryan, and score Bulgaria's first goal.
"Fingers in your ears!" bellowed Mr Weasley as the Veela started to dance in celebration. Hermione watched as all of the Weasley children and Harry did as Mr Weasley instructed.
"Dimitrov! Levski! Dimitrov! Ivanova – oh, I say!" roared Bagman.
One hundred thousand wizards and witches gasped as the two Seekers, Krum and Lynch, plummeted through the centre of the Chasers so fast that it looked as though they had just jumped from aeroplanes without parachutes. With a growing pit in her stomach, Hermione watched them get closer and closer and closer.
"They're going to crash!' screamed Hermione next to Harry.
She was half-right – at the very last second, 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 mediwizards hurry onto the pitch to examine Aidan Lynch!"
"He'll be OK. He only got ploughed!" Charlie said reassuringly to Ginny, who was hanging over the side of the box, looking horror-struck. "Which is what Krum was after, of course."
Hermione grabbed her Omnioculars and hit the 'replay' button. She watched Krum and Lunch dive again in slow motion. 'Wronski Feint - dangerous Seeker diversion' read the bright purple lettering across the lenses. Hermione watched as Viktor, full of concentration, dove after absolutely nothing, causing Lynch to follow him. He hadn't seen the Snitch at all, Hermione realised. As Lynch was incapacitated, Krum was using the time out to look for the Snitch without interference.
Lynch got to his feet at last, to loud cheers from the green-clad supporters, mounted his Firebolt and kicked back off into the air. His revival seemed to give Ireland new heart. When Mostafa blew his whistle again, the Chasers moved into action with a skill unrivalled by anything Hermione had seen.
After fifteen more fast and furious minutes, Ireland had pulled ahead by ten more goals. They were now leading by one hundred thirty points to ten, and the game was getting dirtier.
As Mullet shot towards the goalposts yet again, clutching the Quaffle tightly under her arm, the Bulgarian Keeper, Zograf, flew out to meet her. Whatever happened was over so quickly Hermione didn't catch it, but a scream of rage from the Irish crowd, and Mostafa's long, shrill whistle blast, told her it had been a foul.
"And Mostafa takes the Bulgarian Keeper to task for cobbing – excessive use of elbows!" Bagman informed the roaring spectators. "And – yes, it's a penalty to Ireland!"
The leprechauns, who had risen angrily into the air like a swarm of glittering hornets when Mullet had been fouled, now darted together to form the words 'HA HA HA!'. The Veela on the other side of the pitch leapt to their feet, tossed their hair angrily and started to dance again. Harry, Ginny, and the Weasley boys all stuffed their hands into their ears. At least they were learning. Hermione was still not affected and watched as those who hadn't learned to block the Veela reacted. To her surprise, the referee started flexing his muscles comically.
Hermione couldn't help but laugh and grabbed Harry's attention. "Look at the referee!" she said, giggling.
Hermione looked down at the pitch. Hassan Mostafa had landed right in front of the dancing Veela and was acting very oddly indeed. He was flexing his muscles and smoothing his moustache excitedly.
"Now, we can't have that!" said Ludo Bagman, though he sounded highly amused. "Somebody slap the referee!"
A mediwizard came tearing across the pitch, his fingers stuffed in his ears, and kicked Mostafa hard on the shins. Mostafa seemed to come to himself, shouting at the Veela, who had stopped dancing and looked mutinous.
"And unless I'm much mistaken, Mostafa is actually attempting to send off the Bulgarian Team Mascots!" said Bagman's voice. "Now there's something we haven't seen before... oh, this could turn nasty."
It did: the Bulgarian Beaters, Volkov and Vulchanov, had landed on either side of Mostafa and began arguing furiously with him, gesticulating towards the leprechauns, who had now gleefully formed the words 'HEE HEE HEE'. Mostafa was not impressed by the Bulgarians' arguments; he was jabbing his finger into the air, clearly telling them to get flying again, and when they refused, he gave two short blasts on his whistle.
"Two penalties for Ireland!" shouted Bagman, and the Bulgarian crowd howled angrily. "And Volkov and Vulchanov had better get back on those brooms... yes... there they go... and Troy takes the Quaffle."
Play now reached a level of ferocity beyond anything they had yet seen. The Beaters on both sides were 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, all standing up in a great wave of green.
"Foul!" echoed Ludo Bagman's magically magnified voice. "Dimitrov skins Moran – deliberately flying to collide there – and it's got to be another penalty – yes, there's the whistle!"
The leprechauns had risen into the air again and, this time formed a giant hand. Hermione squinted her eyes to try to make out what the hand was doing. As soon as she figured it out, her eyes opened wide. The Leprechauns were making a vulgar sign towards the Veela. At this, the Veela lost control. They launched themselves across the pitch and began throwing what seemed to be handfuls of fire at the leprechauns. Hermione put the Omnioculars up to her eyes and realised the Veela didn't look even remotely beautiful now. On the contrary, their faces were elongated into sharp, cruel-beaked bird heads, and long, scaly wings burst from their shoulders.
"And that, boys, is why you should never go for looks alone!" Mr Weasley said.
Ministry wizards were flooding onto the field to separate the Veela and the leprechauns, but with little success; meanwhile, the Quidditch game was just as exciting, if not more so.
"Levski – Dimitrov – Moran – Troy – Mullet – Ivanova – Moran again – Moran – MORAN SCORES!"
But the cheers of the Irish supporters were 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 recommenced immediately; now Levski had the Quaffle, now Dimitrov –
The Irish Beater Quigley 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.
Hermione gasped. There was a deafening groan from the crowd; Krum's nose looked broken, and blood was everywhere, but Hassan Mostafa didn't blow his whistle. He had become distracted; one of the Veela had thrown a handful of fire and set his broom tail alight. Hermione focused on Krum's face, bleeding yet determined. She couldn't help but admire his perseverance.
"Time out! Ah, come on, he can't play like that, look at him –" Ron shouted.
"Look at Lynch!" Harry yelled and pointed.
The Irish Seeker had suddenly started diving, but it seemed much different than when Krum had performed the same move.
"He's seen the Snitch!" Harry shouted. "He's seen it! Look at him go!"
Half the crowd seemed to have realised what was happening. The Irish supporters rose in a great wave of green, screaming their Seeker on. Hermione looked back over at where Krum had been, but he was nowhere to be found. Her eyes searched the sky, and Hermione was surprised to see Krum on Lynch's tail. Hermione had no idea how he could see where he was going; flecks of blood flying through the air behind him, but he was drawing level with Lynch now as the pair of them hurtled towards the ground again.
"They're going to crash!" shrieked Hermione.
"They're not!" roared Ron.
"Lynch is!" yelled Harry.
And he was right. For the 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?" bellowed Charlie along the row. Hermione searched frantically with a hundred thousand other fans, all at the same time.
"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 held high, a glint of gold in his hand.
The scoreboard was flashing BULGARIA: ONE HUNDRED AND SIXTY, IRELAND: ONE HUNDRED AND SEVENTY across the crowd, who didn't seem to have realised what had happened. Then, slowly, as though a great jumbo jet was revving up, the rumbling from the Ireland supporters grew louder and louder and erupted into screams of delight.
"IRELAND WINS!" shouted Bagman, who, like the Irish, seemed to have been taken aback by the sudden end of the match. "KRUM GETS THE SNITCH – BUT IRELAND WIN – good Lord, I don't think any of us were expecting that!"
"What did he catch the Snitch for?" Ron bellowed, even as he jumped 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," Harry shouted 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."
Hermione considered that and realised Harry was absolutely right. Krum ended things on his terms, and for that, Hermione admired his courage.
"He was very brave, wasn't he?" Hermione said, leaning forward to watch Krum land and the swarm of mediwizards blasting a path through the battling leprechauns and Veela to get to him. "He looks a terrible mess."
It was hard to see what was happening below because leprechauns were zooming delightedly all over the pitch, but she could just make out Krum, surrounded by mediwizards. He looked surlier than ever and refused to let them mop him up. His teammates were around him, shaking their heads and looking dejected; a short way away, the Irish players were dancing gleefully in a shower of gold descending from their mascots. Flags were waving all over the stadium. The Irish national anthem blared from all sides; the Veela were now shrinking back into their usual, beautiful selves, though looking bleak and forlorn.
"Vell, ve fought bravely," said a gloomy voice behind Harry. He looked around; it was the Bulgarian Minister for Magic.
"You can speak English!" said Fudge, sounding outraged. "And you've been letting me mime everything all day!"
"Vell, it vos very funny," said the Bulgarian Minister, shrugging.
"And as the Irish team perform a lap of honour, flanked by their mascots, the Quidditch World Cup itself is brought into the Top Box!" roared Bagman.
All of a sudden, the Top Box was magically illuminated so that everyone in the stands could see the inside. Squinting towards the entrance, Hermione saw two panting wizards carrying a vast golden cup into the box, which they handed Cornelius Fudge, who was still looking very disgruntled that he'd been using sign language all day for nothing.
"Let's have a really loud hand for the gallant losers –Bulgaria!" Bagman shouted.
And up the stairs into the box came the seven defeated Bulgarian players. The crowd below applauded appreciatively; Hermione could finally see Viktor up close as Bagman introduced the players. Krum looked a real mess. Two black eyes were blooming spectacularly on his bloody face. He was still holding the Snitch. But when Krum's name was announced, the whole stadium gave him a resounding, ear-splitting roar. Hermione joined in, cheering and clapping. Viktor's eyes scanned the crowd and landed directly on Hermione. She stopped clapping and stared back, not believing such a superstar was paying any attention to her, especially with a hundred thousand other people around them.
The moment abruptly stopped when Ron threw his hands up, nearly knocking Hermione over, as the Irish team arrived in the box. Two other players supported Aiden Lynch, apparently still dazed from the second crash. He grinned happily as they lifted the Cup in the air with thunderous applause. The team took a lap of honour on their brooms (Lynch was riding on the back of one of his teammates).
Bagman raised his wand, pointed it at his throat, and muttered, "Quietus." He turned back to the Weasleys. "They'll be talking about this one for years," he said hoarsely. "A real unexpected twist, that. Shame it couldn't have lasted longer." Hermione noticed Bagman's confidence shake at something or someone behind her.
She turned to see Fred and George standing there with broad grins on their faces and their hands outstretched. "Ah yes, yes. I owe you… how much?"