Hi lovelies ~ Apologies for the radio silence as of late, this past college semester has been rough. But now that summer has begun, I've decided to once more be a bit diligent in my updates. I'll do my best to post at least once a week if I am able ^^
Due to my absence, I hope ya'll can enjoy this exceptionally long chapter ;)
-M
Fudge wasn't listening, "Lucius and Aldrich have just given a very generous contribution to St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries, Arthur. They and their families are here as my guests."
"How— how nice," said Mr. Weasley, with a very strained smile.
Both Mr. Parkinson and Mr. Malfoy's eyes drifted to where Hermione sat, who went slightly pink at the attention but stared determinedly back. Arabella knew precisely what was making their lip curl. From what Draco had told them, the older generation of the Malfoy family prided themselves on being purebloods; in other words, they considered anyone of Muggle descent, like Hermione, second-class. The Parkinson family all appeared to follow in this particular belief. However, under the gaze of the Minister of Magic, both groups of adults said nothing. Mr. Parkinson only sneered at Mr. Weasley and continued down the line to his seats. Pansy shot the Potter sisters and friends a contemptuous look, then settled between her mother and father. The Malfoy family followed suit, Draco wedging himself into the seat just behind Lyla.
"Why are you here with her?" whispered Lyla, leaning backward to be better heard.
Before she could get a response, however, Ludo Bagman charged into the box.
"Everyone ready?" he said, his round face gleaming. "Minister— ready to go?"
"Ready when you are, Ludo," said Fudge comfortably.
Bagman whipped out his wand, directed it at his own throat, and said, "Sonorus!" and then spoke over the roar of sound that was now filling the packed stadium; his voice echoed over them, booming into every corner of the stands.
"Ladies and gentlemen. . . welcome! Welcome to the final of the four hundred and twenty-second Quidditch World Cup!"
The spectators screamed and clapped. Thousands of flags waved, adding their discordant national anthems to the racket. The huge blackboard opposite them was wiped clear of its last message (Bertie Bott's Every Flavor Beans - A Risk With Every Mouthful!) and now showed:
BULGARIA: 0, IRELAND: 0
"And now, without further ado, allow me to introduce. . . the Bulgarian National Team Mascots!"
The right-hand side of the stands, a solid block of scarlet, roared its approval.
"I wonder what they've brought," said Mr. Weasley, leaning forward in his seat. "Aaah!" He suddenly whipped off his glasses and polished them hurriedly on his robes. "Veela!"
"What are veel -?"
But a hundred veela were now gliding onto the field, and Arabella's question was answered. Veela were women. . . the most beautiful women the girl had ever seen. . . except that they weren't— they couldn't be— human. This puzzled Arabella for a moment while she tried to guess what exactly they could be; what could make their skin shine moon-bright like that, or their white-gold hair fan out behind them without wind.. . but then the music started, and she stopped worrying about them not being human— in fact, she stopped worrying about anything at all.
The veela started dancing, and Arabella's mind had gone completely and blissfully blank. All that mattered in the world was that he kept watching the veela because if they stopped dancing, terrible things would happen.
And as the veela danced faster and faster, wild, half-formed thoughts started chasing through Arabella's dazed mind. She wanted to do something impressive… Jumping from the box into the stadium seemed a good idea. . . but would it be good enough?
"What are you doing?" asked Hermione's voice from a long way off.
The music stopped, and Arabella blinked. She was standing up, leaning casually against the barrier that secured the box. Ron had his leg resting on the wall of the box while Lyla was frozen in an attitude that looked as though she were about to dive from a springboard.
Angry yells were filling the stadium. The crowd didn't want the veela to go. Arabella, of course, would be supporting Bulgaria but couldn't help wondering vaguely why she had a large green shamrock pinned to his chest. Ron, meanwhile, was absentmindedly shredding the shamrocks on his hat. Mr. Weasley, smiling slightly, leaned over to Ron and tugged the hat 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 field.
Hermione made a loud tutting noise. She reached up and pulled both sisters back into their seats. "Honestly, you three!" she said in disbelief.
"And now!" roared Ludo Bagman's voice, "kindly put your wands in the air. . . for the Irish National Team Mascots!"
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 toward the goalposts. A rainbow arched suddenly across the field, connecting the two balls of light. The crowd ooohed and aaaaahed as though at a fireworks display. Now the rainbow faded, and the balls of light reunited and merged; they had formed a great shimmering shamrock, which rose into the sky and began to soar over the stands. Something like golden rain seemed to be falling from it—
"Excellent!" yelled Ron as the shamrock soared over them, and heavy gold coins rained from it, bouncing off their heads and seats. Squinting up at the shamrock, Arabella realized that it was composed of thousands of tiny little bearded men with red vests, each carrying a minute lamp of gold or green.
"Leprechauns!" said George over the tumultuous applause of the crowd, many of whom were still fighting and rummaging under their chairs to retrieve the gold.
"There you go," Ron yelled happily, stuffing a fistful of gold coins into Arabella's hand, "for the Omnioculars! Now you've got to buy me a Christmas present, ha!"
The great shamrock dissolved, and the leprechauns drifted down onto the field opposite 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 field 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 frantically, following Krum with his Omnioculars. Arabella quickly focused on him with her own.
Viktor Krum was thin, dark, and sallow-skinned, with a large curved nose and thick black eyebrows. He looked like an overgrown bird of prey, and it was hard to believe he was only eighteen.
"And now, please greet— the Irish National Quidditch Team!" yelled Bagman. "Presenting— Connolly! Ryan! Troy! Mullet! Moran! Quigley! Aaaaaand— Lynch!"
Seven green blurs swept onto the field; Arabella spun a small dial on the side of her Omnioculars and slowed the players down enough to read the word "Firebolt" on each of their brooms and see their names embroidered in silver upon their backs.
"And here, all the way from Egypt, our referee, acclaimed Chairwizard of the International Association of Quidditch, Hassan Mostafa!"
A petite and skinny wizard, completely bald but with a mustache to rival Vernon Durlsyes, wearing robes of pure gold to match the stadium, strode out onto the field. A silver whistle was protruding from under the mustache, and he was carrying a large wooden crate under one arm, his broomstick under the other. Harry spun the speed dial on his 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 (Arabella saw it for the briefest moment before it sped out of sight) 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 Quidditch, as Lyla had never seen it played before. She was pressing her Omnioculars so hard to her face that they were cutting into the bridge of her nose. The players' speed was incredible— the Chasers were throwing the Quaffle to one another so fast that Bagman only had time to say their names. She spun the slow dial on the right of his Omnioculars again, pressed the play-by-play button on the top, and she was immediately watching in slow motion while glittering purple lettering flashed across the lenses, and the noise of the crowd pounded against his eardrums.
HAWKSHEAD ATTACKING FORMATION, Lyla read as she watched the three Irish Chasers zoom closely together, Troy in the center, slightly ahead of Mullet and Moran, bearing down upon the Bulgarians. PORSKOFF PLOY flashed up next as Troy made a thorough dart upward with the Quaffle, drawing away the Bulgarian Chaser Ivanova and dropping the Quaffle to Moran. One of the Bulgarian Beaters, Volkov, swung hard at a passing Bludger with his small club, knocking it into Moran's path; Moran ducked to avoid the Bludger and dropped the Quaffle; and Levski, soaring beneath, caught it—
"TROY SCORES!" roared Bagman and the stadium shuddered with a roar of applause and cheers. "Ten zero to Ireland!"
"What?" Lyla yelled, looking wildly around through her Omnioculars. "But Levski still got the Quaffle!"
"Lyla, if you're not going to watch at normal speed, you're going to miss things!" shouted Draco.
Hermione danced up and down, waving her arms in the air while Troy did a lap of honor around the field. Lyla glanced over the top of her Omnioculars and saw that the leprechauns watching from the sidelines had all risen into the air again and formed the great, glittering shamrock. Across the field, the veela were watching them sulkily.
Furious with herself, Lyla spun her speed dial back to normal as play resumed. She knew enough about Quidditch to see that the Irish Chasers were superb. They worked as a seamless team, their movements so well coordinated that they appeared to be reading one another's minds as they positioned themselves, and the rosette on her chest kept squeaking their names: "Troy— Mullet— Moran!" And within ten minutes, Ireland scored twice more, bringing their lead to thirty-zero and causing a thunderous roar and applause from the green-clad supporters.
The match became faster and more brutal. Volkov and Vulchanov, the Bulgarian Beaters, were whacking the Bludgers as fiercely as possible at the Irish Chasers and were starting to prevent them from using some of their best moves; twice they were forced to scatter, and then, finally, Ivanova managed to break through their ranks; dodge the Keeper, Ryan; and score Bulgaria's first goal.
"Fingers in your ears!" bellowed Mr. Weasley as the veela started to dance in celebration. Lyla screwed up her eyes, too; she wanted to keep her mind on the game. After a few seconds, he chanced a glance at the field. The veela had stopped dancing, and Bulgaria was again in possession of the Quaffle.
"Dimitrov! Levski! Dimitrov! Ivanova— oh I say!" roared Bagman.
One hundred thousand wizards gasped as the two Seekers, Krum, and Lynch, plummeted through the center of the Chasers so fast that it looked as though they had just jumped from airplanes without parachutes. Lyla followed their descent through her Omnioculars, squinting to see where the Snitch was—
"They're going to crash!" screamed Hermione.
She was half right— at the very last second, Viktor Krum pulled out of the dive and spiraled off. Lynch, however, hit the ground with a dull thud that could be heard 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 media wizards hurry onto the field to examine Aidan Lynch!"
"He'll be okay; he only got plowed!" 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... ."
Lyla hastily pressed the replay and play-by-play buttons on his Omnioculars, twiddled the speed dial, and put them back up to her eyes. She watched as Krum and Lynch dived again in slow motion. WRONSKI DEFENSIVE FEINT— DANGEROUS SEEKER DIVERSION read the bright purple lettering across her lenses. She saw Krum's face contorted with concentration as he pulled out of the dive just in time while Lynch was flattened.
"I get it," gasped Arabella in surprise, "Krum didn't see the Snitch at all. He was just making Lynch copy him!"
"Remind you of anyone?" asked George with a mischievous smirk.
Arabella had done something similar in her first-year match against Hufflepuff, which resulted in Cedric gaining a horribly broken nose.
Lyla was absolutely stunned. Krum hardly looked as though he was using a broomstick; he moved so quickly through the air that he looked unsupported and weightless. She turned her Omnioculars back to normal and focused them on Krum. He was now circling high above Lynch, who was being revived by media wizards with cups of potion. Focusing more closely on Krum's face, she saw his dark eyes darting all over the ground a hundred feet below. He was using the time while Lynch was revived to look for the Snitch without interference.
Lynch finally got to his feet, to loud cheers from the green-clad supporters, mounted his Firebolt, and kicked back off into the air. His revival gave Irish supporters a new heart. When Mostafa blew his whistle again, the Chasers moved into action with a skill unrivaled by anything Lyla had seen so far. After fifteen more fast and furious minutes, Ireland had pulled ahead by ten more goals. They were now leading by one hundred and thirty points to ten, and the game was starting to get even dirtier.
As Mullet shot toward 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, Lyla didn't catch it, but a scream of rage from the Irish crowd, and Mostafa's long, shrill whistle blast, told him 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 Leela on the other side of the field leaped to their feet, tossed their hair angrily, and started to dance again. As one, many people stuffed their fingers into their ears, but Arabella, who hadn't bothered, was soon tugging on her sister's arm.
"Look at the referee!" she said, giggling.
Lyla looked down at the field. Hassan Mostafa had landed right before the dancing veela and acted very oddly. He was flexing his muscles and smoothing his mustache excitedly.
"Now, we can't have that!" said Ludo Bagman, though he sounded highly amused. "Somebody slap the referee!"
A media wizard came tearing across the field, his fingers stuffed into his own ears, and kicked Mostafa hard in the shins. Mostafa seemed to come to himself; Lyla, watching through the Omnioculars again, saw that he looked exceptionally embarrassed and had started shouting at the veela, who had stopped dancing and were looking mutinous.
"And unless I'm much mistaken, Mostafa is actually attempting to send off the Bulgarian team mascots!" said Bagman's voice. "Now there's something we haven't seen before. . . . Oh, this could turn nasty. . .
And it did: The Bulgarian Beaters, Volkov and Vulchanov, landed on either side of Mostafa and began arguing furiously with him, motioning toward 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 with anger. "And Volkov and Vulchanov had better get back on those brooms. . . yes. . . there they go. . . and Troy takes the Quaffle."
Play had now reached a level of ferocity beyond anything Arabella had yet seen. The Beaters on both sides acted 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, they formed a giant hand, which was making a vulgar sign at the veela across the field. At this, the veela lost control. Instead of dancing, they launched themselves across the field and began throwing what seemed to be handfuls of fire at the leprechauns. Watching through her Omnioculars, Arabella saw that they didn't look remotely beautiful now. On the contrary, their faces were elongating into sharp, cruel-beaked bird heads, and long, scaly wings were bursting from their shoulders -
"And that!" yelled Mr. Weasley over the tumult of the crowd below, "is why you should never go for looks alone!"
Ministry wizards were flooding onto the field to separate the veela and the leprechauns, but with little success; meanwhile, the pitched battle below differed from the one above. Arabella turned this way and that, staring through her Omnioculars, as the Quaffie changed 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 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 toward Krum, who did not duck quickly enough. It hit him full in the face.
There was a deafening groan from the crowd; Krum's nose looked broken, and there was blood everywhere. However, Hassan Mostafa didn't blow his whistle as he had become distracted, and Arabella couldn't blame him; one of the veela had thrown a handful of fire and set his broom tail alight.
She wanted someone to realize that Krum was injured; even though she was supporting Ireland, Krum was the most exciting player on the field. Many of the Weasleys appeared to feel the same.
"Time-out!" shouted Fred loudly
"Ah, come on, he can't play like that, look at him—!" shrieked Ginny.
"He can't see past all the blood!" hollard Bill.
"Look at Lynch!" Lyla abruptly yelled.
"He's seen the Snitch!" Arabella shouted. "He's seen it! Look at him go!"
Half the crowd seemed to have realized what was happening; the Irish supporters rose in another great wave of green, screaming their Seeker on. . . but Krum was on his tail. Arabella had no idea how he could see where he was going; there were flecks of blood flying through the air behind him, but he was drawing level with Lynch now as the pair of them hurtled toward the ground again.
"They're going to crash!" shrieked Lyla.
"They're not!" roared Ron.
"Lynch is!" yelled Arabella.
And she 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. "He's got it—- Krum's got it—! It's all over!" shouted George excitedly.
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.
BULGARIA: 160, IRELAND: 170
"IRELAND WINS!" Bagman shouted, who like the Irish, seemed 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 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!" Arabella 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. . ."
"He was fearless, wasn't he?" Hermione said, leaning forward to watch Krum land as a swarm of media wizards blasted a path through the battling leprechauns and veela to get to him. "He looks a terrible mess. . ."
Arabella put the Omnioculars to her eyes once more. It was hard to see what was happening below because leprechauns were zooming delightedly all over the field, but she could just make out Krum surrounded by media wizards. He looked surlier than ever and refused to let them mop him up. His team members 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 desolate.
"Vell, ve fought bravely," said a gloomy voice behind Arabella. She looked around; it was the Bulgarian Minister of Magic.
"You can speak English!" said Fudge, sounding outraged. "And you've been letting me mime everything all day!"
"Veil, it vos very funny," said 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!" roared Bagman.
Arabella's eyes were suddenly dazzled by a blinding white light as the Top Box was magically illuminated so that everyone in the stands could see the inside. Squinting toward the entrance, she saw two panting wizards carrying a vast golden cup into the box, which they handed to Cornelius Fudge, who was still looking very disgruntled that he'd been using sign language all day for nothing.
"Let's have a loud hand for the gallant losers— Bulgaria!" Bagman shouted.
And up the stairs into the box came the seven defeated Bulgarian players. The crowd below was applauding appreciatively; Arabella could see thousands and thousands of Omniocular lenses flashing and winking in their direction.
One by one, the Bulgarians filed between the rows of seats in the box, and Bagman called out the name of each as they shook hands with their own minister and then with Fudge. Krum, who was last in line, looked a real mess. Two black eyes were blooming spectacularly on his bloody face. He was still holding the Snitch. Arabella noticed that he seemed much less coordinated on the ground. He was slightly duck-footed and distinctly round-shouldered. But when Krum's name was announced, the stadium gave him a resounding, earsplitting roar.
And then came the Irish team. Moran and Connolly were supporting Aidan Lynch; the second crash seemed to have dazed him, and his eyes looked strangely unfocused. But he grinned happily as Troy and Quigley lifted the Cup into the air, and the crowd below thundered its approval. Arabella's hands were numb with clapping.
At last, when the Irish team had left the box to perform another lap of honor on their brooms (Aidan Lynch on the back of Confolly's, clutching hard around his waist and still grinning in a bemused sort of way), Bagman pointed his wand at his throat and muttered, "Quietus.
"They'll be talking about this one for years," said Lyla with a grin.
"Spectacular," said Bagman hoarsely, "a really unexpected twist, that. . . . shame it couldn't have lasted longer. . . . Ah yes... . yes, I owe you. . . how much?"
Fred and George had just scrambled over the backs of their seats and were standing in front of Ludo Bagman with broad grins on their faces, their hands outstretched.
"Don't tell your mother you've been gambling," Mr. Weasley implored Fred and George as they all made their way slowly down the purple-carpeted stairs.
"Don't worry, Dad," said Fred gleefully, "we've got big plans for this money. We don't want it confiscated."
Mr. Weasley looked for a moment as though he was going to ask what these big plans were but seemed to decide, upon reflection, that he didn't want to know. They were soon caught up in the crowds now flooding out of the stadium and back to their campsites. Raucous singing was borne toward them on the night air as they retraced their steps along the lantern-lit path, and leprechauns kept shooting over their heads, cackling and waving their lanterns. When they finally reached the tents, nobody felt like sleeping at all, and given the level of noise around them, Mr. Weasley agreed that they could all have one last cup of cocoa together before turning in. They were soon arguing enjoyably about the match; Mr. Weasley got drawn into a disagreement about cobbing with Charlie, and it was only when Ginny fell asleep right at the tiny table and spilled hot chocolate all over the floor that Mr. Weasley called a halt to the verbal replays and insisted that everyone go to bed.
Hermione, Ginny, Lyla, and Arabella entered the girl's tent, promptly changing into their pajamas in a comfortable silence. After saying sleepy goodnights, the four girls all clambered into their bunks. They could still hear much singing and the odd echoing bang from the other side of the campsite.
Lyla, who was on a top bunk above Arabella, lay staring up at the canvas ceiling of the tent, watching the glow of an occasional leprechaun lantern flying overhead and picturing some of Krum's more spectacular moves again. She was itching to get back on her own broomstick. . . . she saw herself in robes that had his name on the back and imagined the sensation of hearing a hundred-thousand-strong crowd roar as Ludo Bagman's voice echoed throughout the stadium, "I give you. . . Potter!"
She never knew whether or not she had actually dropped off to sleep— her fantasies of flying like the Chasers on the Irish team might well have slipped into actual dreams— all she knew was that, quite suddenly, Mr. Weasley was shouting.
"Get up! Hermione— Ginny— Everyone! Come on now, get up; this is urgent!"
"S' matter?" Arabella grumbled
Dimly, Lyla could tell that something was wrong. The noises in the campsite had changed, and the singing had stopped. She could hear screams and the sound of people running. Without speaking, she slipped down from the bunk and reached for her clothes, but Mr. Weasley shook his head.
"No time, Lyla— just grab a jacket and get outside— quickly!"
The girls did as they were told and hurried out of the tent.
By the light of the few fires still burning, she could see people running away into the woods, fleeing something moving across the field toward them, emitting odd flashes of light and noises like gunfire. Loud jeering, roars of laughter, and drunken yells were drifting toward them; then came a burst of intense green light, which illuminated the scene.
A crowd of wizards, tightly packed and moving together with wands pointing straight upward, was marching slowly across the field. Lyla squinted at them. . . . They didn't seem to have faces. . . . Then she realized that their heads were hooded and their faces masked. High above them, floating along in midair, four struggling figures were being contorted into grotesque shapes. It was as though the masked wizards on the ground were puppeteers, and the people above them were marionettes operated by invisible strings that rose from the wands into the air. Two of the figures were very small.
Ron, Fred, and George came rushing towards the girls, all frowning and rubbing sleep from their eyes. More wizards were joining the marching group, laughing and pointing up at the floating bodies. Tents crumpled and fell as the marching crowd swelled. Once or twice Harry saw one of the marchers blast a tent out of his way with his wand—several caught fire. The screaming grew louder. The floating people were suddenly illuminated as they passed over a burning tent, and Lyla recognized one of them: Mr. Roberts, the campsite manager. The other three looked as though they might be his wife and children. One of the marchers below flipped Mrs. Roberts upside down with his wand; her nightdress fell down to reveal voluminous drawers, and she struggled to cover herself up as the crowd below her screeched and hooted with glee.
"That's sick," Ron muttered, watching the smallest Muggle child, who had begun to spin like a top sixty feet above the ground, his head flopping limply from side to side. "That is really sick. . . ."
At that exact moment, Bill, Charlie, and Percy emerged from the boys' tent, fully dressed, with their sleeves rolled up and their wands out.
"We're going to help the Ministry!" Mr. Weasley shouted over all the noise, rolling up his own sleeves. "You lot— into the woods now and stick together. I'll come and fetch you when we've sorted this out!"
Bill, Charlie, and Percy were already sprinting away toward the oncoming marchers; Mr. Weasley tore after them. Ministry wizards were dashing from every direction toward the source of trouble. The crowd beneath the Roberts family was coming ever closer.
"C'mon," said George, reaching for Ginny's hand and starting to pull her toward the woods.
Lyla, Arabella, Ron, and Hermione followed Fred, bringing up the rear. They all looked back as they reached the trees. The crowd beneath the Roberts family was more extensive than ever; they could see the Ministry wizards trying to get through it to the hooded wizards in the center, but they were having great difficulty. It looked as though they were scared to perform any spell that might make the Roberts family fall.
The colored lanterns that had lit the path to the stadium had been extinguished. Dark figures were blundering through the trees; children were crying; anxious shouts and panicked voices reverberated around them in the cold night air. Lyla felt herself being pushed hither and thither by people whose faces he could not see. Then she heard Ron yell with pain.
"W-what happened?" implored Hermione, stopping so abruptly that Lyla walked into her. "Ron, where are you? Oh, this is stupid— lumos!"
She illuminated her wand and directed its narrow beam across the path. Ron was lying sprawled on the ground.
"Tripped over a tree root," he growled, returning to his feet.
"Well, with feet that size, hard not to," said a drawling voice from behind them.
Arabella turned sharply. Pansy Parkinson was standing alone nearby, leaning against a tree, looking utterly relaxed. Her arms folded; she seemed to have been watching the scene at the campsite through a gap in the trees.
Ron told Pansy to do something Lyla knew he would never have dared say in front of Mrs. Weasley.
"Language, Weasley," said Pansy with a smirk, her dark eyes glittering. "Hadn't you better be hurrying along now? You wouldn't like her spotted, would you?"
She nodded at Hermione, and at the same moment, a blast like a bomb sounded from the campsite, and a flash of green light momentarily lit the trees around them.
"What's that supposed to mean?" said Hermione defiantly.
"Granger, they're after Muggles, "said Pansy breezily. "Do you want to be showing off your knickers in midair? Because if you do, hang around. . . they're moving this way, and it would give us all a laugh."
"Hermione's a witch," Arabella snarled.
"Have it your way, Potter," said Pansy maliciously. "If you think they can't spot a Mudblood, stay where you are."
"You watch your mouth!" shouted Lyla. Everybody present knew that "Mudblood" was a very offensive term for a witch or wizard of Muggle parentage.
"Never mind, Lyla," said Hermione quickly, seizing her friend's arm to restrain her as she took a step toward Pansy.
A bang from the other side of the trees was louder than anything they had heard. Several people nearby screamed, and Pansy only chuckled softly.
"Scare easily, don't they?" she said lazily. "I suppose your daddy told you all to hide? What's he up to— trying to rescue the Muggles?"
"Where're your parents?" said Arabella. "Out there wearing masks, are they?"
Pansy turned her face, still smiling.
"Well. . . if they were, I wouldn't be likely to tell you, would I, Potter?"
"Oh, come on," said Hermione, with a disgusted look at Pansy, "let's go and find the others."
"Keep that big bushy head down, Granger," sneered Pansy.
"Come on," Hermione repeated, pulling Lyla and Ron up the path again.
"I'll bet you anything his dad is one of that masked lot!" said Ron hotly.
"Well, with any luck, the Ministry will catch him!" said Hermione fervently. "Oh, I can't believe this. Where have the others got to?"
Fred, George, and Ginny were nowhere to be seen, though the path was packed with plenty of other people looking nervously over their shoulders toward the commotion back at the campsite. A huddle of teenagers in pajamas was arguing vociferously a little way along the path. When they saw the small group of teenagers, a girl with thick curly hair turned and said quickly, "Oü est Madame Maxime? Nous l'avons perdue -"
"Er— what?" said Arabella in confusion.
"Oh. . ." The girl who had spoken turned her back on him, and as they walked on, they distinctly heard her say, "Ogwarts."
"Beauxbatons," muttered Hermione.
"Bless you," said Ron.
"They must go to Beauxbatons," said Hermione with a roll of her eyes. "You know... Beauxbatons Academy of Magic. . . I read about it in An Appraisal of Magical Education in Europe."
"Oh. . . yeah. . . right," said Lyla.
"Fred and George can't have gone that far," said Ron, pulling out his wand, lighting it like Hermione's, and squinting up the path. Lyla dug in her jacket pockets for her wand— but it wasn't there, and the only thing she could find was his Omnioculars.
"Ah, no, I don't believe it. . . I've lost my wand!"
"You're kidding!"
Ron, Arabella, and Hermione raised their wands high enough to spread the narrow beams of light farther on the ground; Harry looked all around him, but his wand was nowhere to be seen.
"Maybe it's back in the tent," said Arabella.
"Maybe it fell out of your pocket when we were running?" Ron suggested.
"Yeah," sighed Lyla, "maybe…."
She usually kept her wand on her at all times in the wizarding world, and finding herself without it amid a scene like this made the girl feel very vulnerable. A rustling noise nearby made all three of them jump. Winky, the house-elf, was fighting her way out of a clump of bushes nearby. She was moving in a most peculiar fashion, apparently with great difficulty; it was as though someone invisible was trying to hold her back.
"There are bad wizards about!" she squeaked distractedly as she leaned forward and labored to keep running. "People hi-high in the air! Winky is getting out of the way!"
And she disappeared into the trees on the other side of the path, panting and squeaking as she fought the restraining force.
"What's up with her?" said Ron, looking curiously after Winky. "Why can't she run properly?"
"Bet she didn't ask permission to hide," said Lyla. She was thinking of Dobby: Every time he had tried to do something the Parkinsons wouldn't like, the house-elf had been forced to start beating himself up.
"You know, house elves get a very raw deal!" said Hermione indignantly. "It's slavery; that's what it is! That Mr. Crouch made her go up to the top of the stadium, and she was terrified, and he's got her bewitched, so she can't even run when they start trampling tents! Why doesn't anyone do something about it?"
"Well, the elves are happy, aren't they?" Ron said. "You heard old Winky back at the match... 'House-elves is not supposed to have fun'. . . that's what she likes, being bossed around. . . ."
"It's people like you, Ron," Hermione began hotly, "who prop up rotten and unjust systems just because they're too lazy to -"
Another loud bang echoed from the edge of the wood.
"Let's just keep moving, shall we?" said Arabella.
P.S. If you could, if one has the time, please leave
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