Chapter 81: The Top Box

Clutching our purchases, with Dad in the lead, we all hurried into the wood, following the lantern-lit trail. We could hear the sounds of thousands of people moving around us, shouts and laughter, snatches of singing. The atmosphere of excitement was highly infectious; I couldn't stop grinning with anticipation.

We walked through the wood for twenty minutes, talking and joking loudly, until at last we emerged on the other side and found ourselves in the shadow of a gigantic stadium. Hogwarts could fit comfortably in it.

"Seats a hundred thousand," said Dad, spotting the awestruck look on our faces. "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 added fondly, leading the way toward the nearest entrance, which was already surrounded by a swarm of shouting witches and wizards.

"Prime seats!" said the Ministry witch at the entrance when she checked our tickets. "Top Box! Straight upstairs, Arthur, and as high as you can go."

The stairs into the stadium were carpeted in purple. We walked upward with the rest of the crowd, which slowly filtered away through doors into the stands to the left and right. We kept climbing, and at last we reached the top of the staircase and found ourselves in a small box, set at the highest point of the stadium and situated exactly halfway between the golden goal posts. About twenty purple-and-gilt chairs stood in two rows here, and as we filed into the front seats, looked down upon a scene the likes of which we could never have imagined.

A hundred thousand witches and wizards were taking their places in the seats, which rose in levels around the long oval field. Everything was blanketed with a mysterious golden light, which seemed to come from the stadium itself. The field looked smooth as velvet from their lofty position. At either end of the field stood three goal hoops, fifty feet high; right opposite them, almost at our eye level, was a gigantic blackboard. Gold writing kept dashing across it as though an invisible giant's hand were scrawling upon the blackboard and then wiping it off again with different advertisements.

"Dobby?" said Harry incredulously, looking behind us.

Hermione and I looked in the direction that Harry was looking and seen what looked to be a tiny creature. It looked up and stretched its fingers, revealing enormous brown eyes and a nose the exact size and shape of a large tomato. It wasn't Dobby, but it was, however, a house-elf.

"Did sir just call me Dobby?" squeaked the elf curiously from between its fingers. Its voice was higher even than Dobby's had been, a teeny, quivering squeak of a voice that sounded quite female. Hermione and I had heard a lot about Dobby from Harry, but we had never actually met him. Even Dad looked around in interest.

"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 -" Her dark brown eyes widened to the size of side plates as they rested upon Harry's scar. "You is surely Harry Potter!"

"Yeah, I am," said Harry.

"But Dobby talks of you all the time, sir!" she said, lowering her hands very 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 favor, 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."

"Paying?" said Harry blankly. "Well - why shouldn't he be paid?"

Winky looked quite horrified at the idea and closed her fingers slightly so that 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, not seeming to understand what the issue was.

"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 toward 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.

"Master - master wants me to save him a seat, Harry Potter. He is very busy," said Winky, tilting her head toward 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?" I muttered. "Weird things, aren't they?"

"Dobby was weirder," said Harry fervently.

"More like sad." said Hermione.

I pulled out my Omnioculars and started testing them, staring down into the crowd on the other side of the stadium.

"Wicked!" I said, twiddling the replay knob on the side. "I can make that old bloke down there pick his nose again...and again...and again..."

Harry laughed at my amusement. I tended to be easily amused from time to time.

Hermione, meanwhile, was skimming eagerly through her program, trying to soak up every fact she could of course.

"'A display from the team mascots will precede the match,"' she read aloud.

"Oh that's always worth watching," said Dad. "National teams bring creatures from their native land, you know, to put on a bit of a show."

The box filled gradually around us over the next half hour. Dad kept shaking hands with people who were obviously very important wizards. Percy jumped to his feet so often that he looked as though he were one of those kangaroo things in a muggle zoo. When Cornelius Fudge, the Minister of 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, throwing jealous looks at Harry, whom Fudge had greeted like they were pals, having met before. Fudge shook Harry's hand, asked how he was, and introduced him to the wizards on either side of him.

Harry looked awkward as Fudge tried to get some of the more foreign wizards to realize who he was. As usual, once it triggered, they glanced at his forehead.

"I think I know what to get Harry for Christmas." I whispered to Hermione.

"And what's that?"

"A hat with those knee-on things on it that points to Harry's scar." I said, snickering.

"Its called neon, Ron, not knee-on."

"Way to mess up a joke, Mione." I said, as Harry came back to sit down beside me.

Suddenly, we heard a name being called that instantly made me want to swing. We turned quickly. Edging along the second row to three still-empty seats right behind Dad were none other than Lucius Unicorn Hair Malfoy, his good for nothing bitch of a son, and a woman that appeared to unfortunately be Malfoy's mum. Malfoy greatly resembled his father. His mother was blonde too, as well as tall and slim. She would have actually been lovely to look at, if she hadn't been wearing a look that suggested there was a nasty smell under her nose. Couldn't blame her though. If I had to be married to that and given birth to a tosser, I'd look like that all the time too.

"Ah, Fudge," said Mr. Malfoy, holding out his hand as he reached 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?" 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 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?"

The air instantly felt tense. Dad and Mr. Malfoy looked at each other as if they wanted to square up like last time in Flourish and Blotts. Mr. Malfoy's cold gray eyes swept over Dad, 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?"

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 Dad, forcing a smile.

Mr. Malfoy's eyes had returned to Hermione, who went slightly pink, but stared determinedly back at him. I instinctively put an arm over the back of Hermione's chair. He wasn't going to try anything on my bloody watch, I didn't give a fuck if he was grown or not.

He looked as if he was about to open his mouth, however, under the gaze of the Minister of Magic, Mr. Malfoy didn't dare say anything. He nodded sneeringly to Dad and continued down the line to his seats. Malfoy shot us a nasty look, then settled himself between his mother and father.

"Slimy gits." I muttered as we turned to face the field again. "Alright there, Hermione?"

"I'm fine." said Hermione, eyes fixed onto the field. I knew she wasn't fine, but I didn't think it would be a good time to address it.

Next moment, Ludo Bagman charged into the box. "Everyone ready?" he said, excitedly. "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 crowd 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, which was a solid block of scarlet, roared its approval.

"I wonder what they've brought," said Dad, 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 out onto the field. Veela were women...the most beautiful women I had ever seen. Their blonde hair shined in the sun like a golden waterfall, their skin looked soft to the touch, their hips were swaying to the music so wonderfully, it had to be some form of magic.

I had to be down there with them. I just had to. Maybe if I jumped down there, I could get one, and then me and her would dance off to some quiet corner and-

"Harry, what are you doing?" said Hermione's voice from a long way off.

The music stopped. I looked over at Harry, who was standing up, one of his legs was resting on the wall of the box as if he was about to climb out. I myself looked like I was about to leap.

Angry yells were filling the stadium. The crowd didn't want the veela to go, and neither did Harry and I. Then I realized my hat. Why the bloody hell did I have this hat knowing damn well I was supporting Bulgaria?! I took it off and started shredding the shamrocks on my hat. Dad leaned over to me and tugged the hat out of my hands.

"You'll be wanting that," he said, "once Ireland have had their say."

"Huh?" I said, staring openmouthed 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 Harry back into his seat and snapped her fingers in my face.

"Honestly!" she said.

"And now," roared Ludo Bagman's voice, "kindly put your wands in the air...for the Irish National Team Mascots!"

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 goal posts. A rainbow arced suddenly across the field, connecting the two balls of light. The crowd oooohed 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 up into the sky and began to soar over the stands. Something like golden rain seemed to be falling from it -

"Excellent!" I yelled as the shamrock soared over us, and heavy gold coins rained from it, bouncing off our heads and seats. Squinting up at the shamrock were thousands of tiny little bearded men with red vests, each carrying a minute lamp of gold or green.

I gathered up coin after coin. I loved Ireland! Any team that gave away free money were forever chums in my book.

"There you go," I 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!"

Harry laughed, stuffing the gold along with what he also had collected in his coin purse.

The great shamrock dissolved, the leprechauns drifted down onto the field on the opposite side 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 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!" I yelled following Krum with his Omnioculars. Harry quickly focused his 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. It was hard to believe he was only eighteen. He looked as if he already knew that he had won the entire match. I didn't blame him. If j was the greatest player to ever touch a snitch, I would look the same way too.

"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. They looked cheerful enough, but you could tell hey meant business and was ready to win.

"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 that reminded me of Harry's uncle's, 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.

Mostafa mounted his broomstick and kicked the crate open - four balls burst into the air: the scarlet Quaffle, the two black Bludgers, and the tiny, coveted, winged Golden Snitch. With a sharp blast on his whistle, Mostafa shot into the air after the balls.

"Theeeeeeeey're OFF!" screamed Bagman.