clxvii. the world cup
Barely a whisper of morning light warmed the eastern horizon when the residents of Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place stumbled through their Floo and arrived in the Ministry Atrium.
"Just this way," Sirius said as he hiked his rucksack higher on his shoulder and gestured at the milling crowd headed for the lift. The entirety of the procession all wore Muggles clothes—or, well, their best approximation of Muggle clothes, which amounted to a garish collection of the oddest things paired with weird shoes and funny hats. A harried bloke off to the side kept pulling the worst offenders out of line, trying to get them to some semblance of order.
Sirius had Harriet's hand so tightly gripped she thought her fingers might pop off at any moment. He was being ridiculous, seeing as they were all going to the same place. Harriet wouldn't have time to get lost, and Gaunt wouldn't have a chance to nab her.
"We'll be out of here in a tick," Sirius continued when no one said anything in return. "This is the nearest access point they've set up for those of us who live in London or are visiting. Otherwise, I would have taken you lot to the Dartford Portkey. That would have meant getting up earlier, though, and, well…."
Elara could barely keep her eyes open, staggering half-blind behind Hermione, who had the foresight to grab her hand lest she wandered off the wrong way. The three girls wore short trousers, trainers, and comfortable blouses, Elara's supplemented with a cardigan. People side-eyed Harriet's necklace, what with the crow skull dangling past her sternum—but really, it wasn't any more outlandish than that git by the lift in the tutu.
By some miracle, they made it onto the lift and into the Department of Transportation without incident. The Department reminded Harriet of the airport terminals she'd seen pictures of, a vast, long hall with Charmed windows and gates with plaques above them. Times flickered by in animated chalk.
Most of the milling witches and wizards made for the gate labeled "422nd Quidditch World Cup - Dartmoor," though one or two people kept walking toward the other gates. Those Portkeys headed for far more distant locales.
When Harriet's group came to the front of the line, a witch with spider-like spectacles handed Sirius a grubby magazine out of a massive box of rubbish. "All parties must grasp the Portkey securely," she instructed in a bored voice, another witch by her examining a large watch with too many hands. "Do not let go of the Portkey until both feet have returned to the ground. The Department is not liable for any incidental splinching or disincorporation."
Sirius and the trio of Slytherin witches took hold of a corner of the magazine.
"Fourteen seconds," the watch-witch announced.
"Thank you for traveling with us today. Please enjoy your trip," added the first.
A hook yanked behind Harriet's navel, and she held her breath and closed her eyes as the Ministry's tiled floor disappeared under her shoes. The wind howled, pulling its fingers through her plaited hair, her breath tight and hot in her chest—until the wind lessened, and Harriet braced her legs just before the pulling sensation stopped.
She heard Elara and Hermione crumple to the ground with matching groans, and Sirius dropped the magazine on Hermione's face.
"Six-fifteen from the Department of Transportation, London," announced an exhausted wizard in muddied galoshes. He flicked his wand, and the magazine flew over to a crate already bursting with junk. "Please make room for incoming parties."
Harriet offered her hand to Hermione while Sirius got Elara upright, the latter pale and sweaty from the magical travel but holding up well. As they stepped aside and approached a second wizard wearing a kilt matched with a poncho, Harriet glanced around at the flat moorland—and realized they were in Devon, where Trefhud was. She was fairly certain they weren't terribly far from the Flamels.
"Name?" the kilted Ministry wizard asked.
"Black," Sirius provided.
"Black…You're in the first field you find." He pointed where the trees rose thicker over the flat moors. "About a quarter-mile there. Your site manager is Mr. Roberts—and for Merlin's sake, remember he's Muggle. No visible magic. Nothing odd."
Sirius eyed the wizard's funny clothes but restrained himself from commenting, instead gesturing for the girls to follow him into the moor's thinning mist. Harriet could already see the field stretched out past a rustic stone cottage, hundreds of tents like the peaks of little mountains.
A dazed Muggle—Mr. Roberts—stood by the cottage door, and he blinked at Sirius and the girls as they approached him. He looked for all the world as if someone had smacked him over the head one too many times.
"Name?" Mr. Roberts asked.
"Black," Sirius replied. "One tent, one plot."
"Aye…here's a site map. You're down this row here."
Sirius nodded, took the map, and shoved thirty pounds into the bloke's hand. Mr. Roberts looked at the money as if he'd forgotten he was supposed to be collecting it.
"Poor bastard," Sirius muttered as they walked away, leaving the Muggle looking befuddled by a potted geranium and his open door. "They must've hit him with half a dozen Obliviates by now…."
"Isn't that illegal?" Hermione demanded. "He's simply trying to do his job, and this is a Muggle camping site!"
"The Ministry bends its own rules all the time."
As Hermione started in on how abusive that was, Harriet peered around at the other tents they passed and realized someone really should send Mr. Roberts on vacation. Only a numpty wouldn't recognize something odd was afoot here.
"Oi, look at that," she said to Elara, pointing at a tent with three floors and a bloody turret. "That's not something from a Muggle-approved line."
"Most wizards wouldn't know Muggle-approved if it bit in the backside," Elara replied, raising a brow at a massive enclosure complete with a lion lounging on conjured grass and a reflection pool. "I think those tent poles are made of solid gold. Good Lord."
Their own plot wasn't nearly so grand. It had a simple sign out front with the word "BLACK" lazily written across it, and Sirius didn't pretend to fuss with their tent the Muggle way. Instead, he dropped the rucksack on the dusty ground and gave it a few firm but discreet pokes with his wand until it started to unfold. It came together, finished, in under a minute.
Nothing about their tent looked magical, though maybe it rose a bit taller and more rigid than a Muggle version might have stood. Elara and Hermione bestowed dubious grimaces upon their accommodations, but Harriet was well-versed in magic camping and didn't hesitate to throw open the flap and stroll right it.
"Oh," Hermione gasped when she stepped inside and caught a glimpse of the interior. It had a much more modern aesthetic than the old tent Harriet had used before, a comfortable arrangement of couches arrayed before a stone hearth, the floors all a rich, cherry wood. Three solid doors led off to the two bedrooms and the loo. A full kitchenette waited in the back, joined by a lovely table topped in a flowered cloth cover.
Harriet cracked open one of the bedroom doors and peered inside, finding three four-poster beds with the sheets and covers tucked in, either put together by Remus or one of the house-elves. In the main room, Elara made a beeline for one of the couches and flopped onto it in a sprawl.
"Well," Sirius said, hand on his hip as he looked at his daughter. Elara had already dropped into a doze. "I guess we're having a nap first…."
Forty minutes later, after Elara woke more alert and less snippy, and the other girls had a chance to settle in, Sirius tossed a ward over their site, and their group ventured out to explore.
More and more people had begun to wander out of tents, greeting their neighbors or heading off to the well for water. Sirius was all for the spirit of Muggle camping, but Harriet knew his patience had its limits, and getting in the queue to retrieve water when he could conjure it in a tick crossed the line.
Sirius wasn't the only one. The Ministry played hell rushing from one row to another, putting out purple campfires or grounding brooms, tearing down animated banners or shooing magical familiars back into tents. Harriet spotted Gaunt's Aurors among the officials, but even they didn't have time to spare for harassing her.
They started past a site nearer the woods—when Harriet paused and squinted at the balding, older redhead struggling with a box of matches.
"Mr. Weasley?" she called, and when he looked up, she beamed. "Hi, Mr. Weasley! It's me, Harriet!"
"Harriet!" he exclaimed once he recognized the girl. "How nice to see you. And Elara, too!"
Sirius and Hermione introduced themselves to Mr. Weasley, who only hesitated for a moment when he realized he was shaking hands with a former Azkaban convict. Oddly enough, they knew of each other through Mrs. Weasley, though the pair of wizards remained vague in the details. Sirius asked after the Weasley matriarch, and Arthur relished a chance to chat about his wife.
He invited them for breakfast, and once Hermione took the book of matches from him to get the campfire started, the younger Weasleys filtered out of the tents.
Ginny, cheeks painted with the Irish flag, all but tackled Harriet and Elara, brimming with excitement. "Morgana save me from all these stupid boys," she complained, an arm looped around Harriet's neck. "All my brothers are here, plus Neville, his dad, and Dean. I'm the only girl here, since Mum didn't come!"
Harriet wondered how they'd gotten a tent big enough for the sheer number of Weasleys who joined the campfire after the flames started to build. Ginny pointed out her brothers Bill and Charlie, who Harriet had never seen before, and then pulled her, Hermione, and Elara over to the girls' tent so Harriet could avoid seeing Longbottom. He'd been sent off with his friends to get water and was due back any minute.
"I still can't stand him," Harriet said to Ginny, who shrugged as she fell into a seat around a rickety table. The tent was small and not as nice as Sirius', lacking a kitchenette or a separate bedroom, but it was also clean and comfortable. Someone had put a vase of bright yellow flowers out. Elara and Hermione found seats, Elara covering a yawn.
"He was better last year," Hermione pointed out. "He barely spared a word for any of us."
"Define better."
Ginny blushed at the mentioned at the mention of Neville. "He's—I don't know. I listened when you told me I should pay more attention to who he is as a person, rather than just him being the Boy-Who-Lived, and I guess he's not as…amazing as I thought." She scuffed the heel of her weathered shoe on the floor. "But he's better than you think."
"Considering I think he's pond scum, I hope he's better than that. Someone please define better."
Hermione smacked Harriet into the arm.
"Ow!"
The conversation turned to Ginny asking Hermione about living at Grimmauld Place and what happened with the Malfoys. Though Hermione remained effusive in her happiness at moving in with Harriet and Elara, she didn't say much about what actually occurred in Wiltshire. Ingham's name didn't come up once.
Thirty minutes later, Fred and George popped their heads inside to tell them breakfast was almost ready, and they asked if Harriet had a moment to chat. Frowning, Harriet glanced at Ginny—who only shrugged—and then sighed, deciding to follow the pair outside.
"Might as well see what they're up to…."
She pulled back the flap to exit the tent—and stilled when she spotted two men by the fire chatting with Arthur Weasley. One was a portly wizard dressed in dated, professional Quidditch robes who held himself with an easygoing, boisterous air. The other was a man Harriet recognized.
Harriet only knew Barty Crouch Senior from his image in Dumbledore's Pensieve, a no-nonsense fellow with a severe hair part, an impeccable Muggle suit, and an expression like stone. Seeing him filled her with an awful sense of foreboding, an itchy fear in her skin she got every time she walked into the Ministry or went down Empiric Alley. Looking at Crouch, she remembered a bruised and defeated Snape, bowing his head as Crouch leered with hate and violence burning in his gaze.
What did Professor Dumbledore say? she tried to recall. He used to work in the DMLE before they transferred him. I wonder to which department?
Standing by Arthur, Sirius glared at Crouch like he hoped he'd catch fire.
"Coming, Potter?"
"Coming!"
She met Fred and George in the shadow of the boys' tent, both turning to her with matching grins. Harriet raised a brow.
"Potter, we hear you've got a pocketful of gold—."
"Metaphorically speaking—."
"That you're willing to spend," Fred said, leaning his arm on his brother's shoulder.
"And?" Harriet asked.
"And, from one mischief-maker to another—."
"That map you gave us on the Moon Mirrors proved a treat in a tight spot, by the way—."
"That it did, George—."
"Got us out of Filch's path half a dozen times last term—."
"Anyway, we wanted to ask if you'd be interested in investing in a little venture of ours."
George nodded. "It's something we've been working on for a while. We just got into production this summer, and the experiments have been driving Mum up the wall."
"We tricked Percy into eating a Ton-Tongue Toffee and, well, suffice it to say, our buttocks haven't felt the same ever since."
"We probably deserved it. Percy had quite a fright—."
"Where are you two going with this?" Harriet asked. As amusing as their anecdotes could be, she was sure Sirius would have kittens when he realized she'd wandered out of sight.
"Like we said, Potter, we have a venture we think you'd like to invest in."
Fred retrieved a folded bit of parchment from his trouser pocket, and Harriet couldn't disguise her interest. After all, the last time Fred and George Weasley decided to give her a funny bit of parchment, she'd ended up with a one-of-a-kind magical innovation hanging from her neck.
Harriet took the parchment and eyed the words Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes written across the top.
"An investment, you say…?"
xXx
Dusk descended in increments, the sky shimmering in veils of gold and red and finally violet as the stars came out. It was then that the Ministry gave up their war against the Statue aggressors, and the vendors emerged in force.
Harriet had visited many strange places in magical Britain, but she'd never encountered so many curious foods, sweets, or costumes before. The vendors popped up every few feet to sell their wares, and more and more witches and wizards emerged from the woods, having Apparated in from around the country. The crowd fairly hummed with anticipation as the night came nearer.
It didn't take long for Harriet's purse to feel lighter. She bought kebabs and Charmed shawarma, mochi filled with ice cream flavored with a magical plant that could only be found in Japan. It turned her hair purple for an hour.
She ended up shelling out enough for six pairs of Omnioculars, three for her and friends to use, and three for Hermione to take apart and use in experiments. "Think of it!" Hermione enthused, gesturing at a pair. "Think of the improvements we could do to the Atlas with Charms like these. I don't know how they did it. The memory and relay in them are fantastic! I just have to figure out how they work…."
Elara wrapped a green scarf around Harriet's neck, and four-leaf clovers speckled her hair. None of the girls had a keen interest in the teams playing, but they chose to support Ireland for the Slytherin green while Sirius picked Bulgaria for the Gryffindor red.
"Someone has to have Gryffindor pride in this family," he grumbled. Elara rolled her eyes behind his back.
When full dark came over the moors, a sudden, booming gong rippled out from the woods, and in its wake came a wave of green and red lanterns blooming to life in the trees. They illuminated a path deeper into the foliage.
The crowd merged in one direction, great whoops and cries of excitement filling the air with gaudy sparks fired from wands or bouts of song. Sirius again had his hand tight on Harriet's despite her protests, and she hated it, feeling like a misbehaving child who couldn't be trusted on her own.
He didn't let go until they'd come into the shadow of a massive stadium glittering gold like a unicorn's hooves under a thick coat of wards and protections. Of course, Harriet almost tripped over Hermione as she stared in awe at the huge, towering walls, so her hand got retaken as they climbed up the carpeted stairs. Sirius flashed their tickets to a Ministry witch, and she grunted the number for a row high above their heads.
"This is brilliant," Harriet said when they reached their spot, hollering over the roar of so many voices rising to meet them. Their row was situated three down from the box at the very top, but the seats were still excellent, providing a perfect view of the vast stadium sprawled out below. The Hogwarts stadium seemed minuscule in comparison.
"Glad you like it," Sirius said as they took their seats at the front. He leaned back in his chair and propped his feet onto the railing, gifting the trio of young witches with a roguish grin. "We can thank Ludo Bagman and his gambling predilection for our good fortune."
Elara snorted, and Hermione looked disapproving, but Harriet laughed.
Once the stadium had filled, an unfamiliar voice boomed from the top box above. "Ladies and gentlemen, welcome! Welcome to the four hundred and twenty-second Quidditch World Cup, brought to you by the International Confederation of Wizards Quidditch Committee—sponsored this year by the British Ministry of Magic and the Department of Magical Games and Sports!"
The crowd cheered, flags waving, chanting the names of their favorite players.
"Without further ado, please welcome the Bulgarian National Team Mascots!"
"Mascots?" Harriet asked, leaning forward in her seat. A few clovers fell from her hair and disappeared in a haze of green glitter. "Like the ones at Muggle sports?"
"Not quite," Sirius explained. "Non-magical folk use animal costumes, don't they? Wizards bring native creatures."
"Native creatures…?"
A stream of women entered the field—beautiful women with hair like captured starlight falling in waves at their backs, their skin gleaming. Their bodies moved with sinuous grace, and their red dresses undulated without any wind.
"Huh," Harriet said, sitting back. She'd expected something a bit less…human. "What're they?"
Hermione lifted her gaze from the programme. "Oh dear," she muttered, voice barely audible above the noise. "They're veela. I can't believe they allowed them to be brought here in such masses."
"Veela?"
"A bit like sirens, but with dancing. Watch—."
Music began to play, and, as Hermione had said, the veela danced. Their agility impressed Harriet, but she didn't understand what deeper meaning lurked behind their movements—until she glanced at Sirius and the other wizards in their row. They all had the same dazed, moon-struck expressions, one bloke on the end trying to scale the railing, his wife holding him back with a furious curse. A mother had clapped her hands over her son's ears.
At least her guardian stayed in his seat, even if Sirius appeared as if he might start drooling at any moment.
Harriet looked at Elara to comment. A vivid flush had overcome her godsister's face, her gray eyes wide as Galleons and glassy, her mouth set in a grimace. She held her hands as tight fists in her lap, and if Harriet had reached out to touch her, she would have felt Elara's shaking.
The veela kept dancing, and Elara looked as if she might be sick—or stand up.
Is she all right? Harriet opened her mouth to question her, when—.
She blinked behind her spectacles, lips parting.
Oh.
Ohhh!
With a discreet twitch of her wrist, Harriet's wand slid from her brace to her hand, and she flicked it at Elara's head. "Silencio," she whispered.
No one noticed the brief glimmer of spell-light. Elara's mouth moved in a soundless gasp as she regained composure, and she flashed a look of gratitude in Harriet's direction. Harriet grinned.
They settled in to watch the game.
xXx
"I have to admit," Hermione said later that night as they sat by their campfire. The game had come to a climactic ending with Ireland the victors, though Bulgaria had caught the Snitch. "Watching professional Quidditch is more compelling than school games."
Above, fireworks burst in massive halos of green and gold, and drunken choruses of Amhrán na bhFiann echoed in the distance. Harriet had somehow managed to get doused in emerald paint, and she kept picking it off her hands and nails.
"Some professional games can still be boring as flobberworm farming," Sirius said from his patch of grass, drinking down his mug of Wizarding poitín shared by their overzealous Irish neighbors. They'd tried to give the girls some, but Sirius had put his foot down. "You can get stuck watching a couple of blind Seekers who let the game go on for bloody days. They have to cycle the players for second-string rotations, and the crowds kip right there in their seats."
"Ridiculous," Elara said, sipping her Butterbeer. "Wouldn't everyone be sick of the game at that point?"
"It's suspenseful," Sirius argued. "If a game's too short, it's a letdown, innit? But today's game was perfect—and those Irish Chasers! The Bulgarian Seeker Krum flies like a demon, but the Irish have excellent teamwork…."
It wasn't long before Sirius drank a tad too much poitín and herded them off to bed, stumbling back inside the tent. Harriet, Elara, and Hermione stayed awake another hour after changing into their night things, too excited by the events of the day to sleep. Even so, their chatter dwindled as midnight crawled past, and their heads landed on their pillows one by one.
Harriet drifted to the quiet, uncoordinated strains of, "Le gunnaí scréach, trí lámhach na bpiléar," and her breathing evened with every pop and crack of celebratory fireworks. The shadows wavered against the tent wall and seemed to dance like those strange veela creatures.
"Seo dhíbh canáigh," the wizards sang. "Amhrán na bhFiann!"
She dreamed of the cupboard again, the musty blankets pulled up to her nose, the chink of light beaming below the shut door. Someone passed before it, the black shape of their feet blocking the glow, and a chill fell upon Harriet when nails scratched against the paneled wood.
"Let me in," the voice crooned, and then louder, "Let me in!"
The cupboard shook and the walls moaned, Harriet frozen upon her cot, listening to the shadows that scrambled against the floor.
When it stopped, she lifted her head and whispered, "Hello?"
The latch rattled, and the hinges creaked as the door began to open—.
Harriet gasped.
A/N: I didn't want to rewrite the whole game. It's kinda tedious when you already know who wins. I honestly considered skipping the whole World Cup, considering a lot of the original themes and ideas introduced in canon I've already touched upon—but here we are.