Hello there, welcome my friends to the first chapter of The Potter And Kent Chronicles - Love Conquers All.
I mentioned another Potter fic I would be uploading after CAT? This is not this story.
This is the event story I mentioned I would be doing during the month of February. It's going to be 14 chapters with a new chapter everyday.
Yes, this is basically a valentine story.
Also the focus is on OCxFem!Harry, though there is some HermioneXOC and FleurXOC sprinkled in.
And now it's story time.
A family of ginger haired people along with a bushy brunette girl with brown eyes and another girl with thick, black hair that fell to her shoulders, and behind a pair of glasses, she had startlingly green almond-shaped eyes.
Her name was Harriet Potter.
They trudged up the misty field between long rows of tents. Most looked almost ordinary; their owners had clearly tried to make them as Muggle-like as possible, but had slipped up by adding chimneys, or bellpulls, or weather vanes.
However, here and there was a tent so obviously magical that the black haired girl could hardly be surprised that Mr. Roberts was getting suspicious. Halfway up the field stood an extravagant confection of striped silk like a miniature palace, with several live peacocks tethered at the entrance. A little farther on they passed a tent that had three floors and several turrets; and a short way beyond that was a tent that had a front garden attached, complete with birdbath, sundial, and fountain.
"Always the same. We can't resist showing off when we get together." Mr. Weasley said, smiling, "Ah, here we are, look, this is us."
They had reached the very edge of the wood at the top of the field, and here was an empty space, with a small sign hammered into the ground that read 'Weezly'.
"Couldn't have a better spot! The field is just on the other side of the wood there, we're as close as we could be." Mr. Weasley said happily, he hoisted his backpack from his shoulders, "Right, no magic allowed, strictly speaking, not when we're out in these numbers on Muggle land. We'll be putting these tents up by hand! Shouldn't be too difficult... Muggles do it all the time... Here, Harriet, where do you reckon we should start?"
Harriet had never been camping in her life; the Dursleys had never taken her on any kind of holiday, preferring to leave her with Mrs. Figg, an old neighbor. However, she and Hermione worked out where most of the poles and pegs should go, and though Mr. Weasley was more of a hindrance than a help, because he got thoroughly overexcited when it came to using the mallet, they finally managed to erect a pair of shabby two-man tents.
All of them stood back to admire their handiwork. Nobody looking at these tents would guess they belonged to wizards.
"We'll be a bit cramped, but I think we'll all squeeze in." he called, "Come and have a look."
Harriet bent down, ducked under the tent flap, and felt her jaw drop. She had walked into what looked like an old-fashioned, three room flat, complete with bathroom and kitchen. Oddly enough, it was furnished in exactly the same sort of style as Mrs. Figg's house: There were crocheted covers on the mismatched chairs and a strong smell of cats.
"Well, it's not for long." Mr. Weasley said, mopping his bald patch with a handkerchief and peering in at the four bunk beds that stood in the bedroom, "I borrowed this from Perkins at the office. Doesn't camp much anymore, poor fellow, he's got lumbago."
He picked up the dusty kettle and peered inside it. "We'll need water..."
"There's a tap marked on this map the Muggle gave us." Ron said, who had followed Harriet inside the tent and seemed completely unimpressed by its extraordinary inner proportions, "It's on the other side of the field."
"Well, why don't you, Harriet, and Hermione go and get us some water then." Mr. Weasley said handed over the kettle and a couple of saucepans, "And the rest of us will get some wood for a fire?"
After a quick tour of the girls' tent, which was slightly smaller than the boys, though without the smell of cats, Harriet, Ron, and Hermione set off across the campsite with the kettle and saucepans.
Now, with the sun newly risen and the mist lifting, they could see the city of tents that stretched in every direction. They made their way slowly through the rows, staring eagerly around. It was only just dawning on Harriet how many witches and wizards there must be in the world; she had never really thought much about those in other countries.
Walking more slowly now, because of the weight of the water, they made their way back through the campsite. Here and there, they saw more familiar faces: other Hogwarts students with their families. Oliver Wood, the old captain of Harriet's House Quidditch team, who had just left Hogwarts, dragged her over to his parents' tent to introduce her, and told her excitedly that he had just been signed to the Puddlemere United reserve team.
Next they were hailed by Ernie Macmillan, a Hufflepuff fourth year, and a little farther on they saw Cho Chang, a very pretty girl who played Seeker on the Ravenclaw team. She waved and smiled at Harriet, who slopped quite a lot of water down her front as she waved back.
Harriet pointed out a large group of teenagers whom she had never seen before. "Who do you reckon they are?" she said, "They don't go to Hogwarts, do they?"
"They go to some foreign school." Ron said, "I know there are others. Never met anyone who went to one, though. Bill had a pen friend at a school in Brazil... This was years and years ago... and he wanted to go on an exchange trip but Mum and Dad couldn't afford it. His pen friend got all offended when he said he wasn't going and sent him a cursed hat. It made his ears shrivel up."
Harriet laughed but didn't voice the amazement she felt at hearing about other wizarding schools. She supposed, now that she saw representatives of so many nationalities in the campsite, that she had been stupid never to realize that Hogwarts couldn't be the only one.
She was not paying attention as she accidentally bumped into someone, sending her to the ground as the water splashed over her. Her surroundings became blurry as her glasses had been knocked off, she searched around the ground blindly for them.
"Vous voilà." a male voice said, as someone handed over the glasses. Putting them on, her vision cleared up and the person who helped her came into view.
It was a young man with short black hair, that was unkempt at the front, his bangs covers his right light blue eye. He had a light build, he was shorter than average for his age. He was dressed in a navy blue and white T-shirt, black skinny work pants and navy blue shoes.
He was taller than Harriet by about a head, and Harriet couldn't help noticing that he was extremely handsome as she stared in his eyes.
"Est-ce que tu vas bien?" he asked as he smiled at Harriet.
She felt a slight lurch in the region of her stomach, "What?" she asked.
The young man seemed to realize what went wrong, because when he opened his mouth again he spoke, "Are you alright?"
"Yeah, I am fine." Harriet said, as he helped her up, "Sorry about that... I wasn't looking were I was going."
"Its no big deal, I wasn't looking were I was going either." the young man said, "I'm Clark, by the way."
"Nice to meet you, Clark." Harriet said, shaking hands with him, the young man looked a bit surprised, "I am Harriet."
She picked up her now empty saucepan, just now noticing that Ron and Hermione weren't around anymore. She lost them in the crowd.
"You sure everything is alright?" Clark asked, "You seem lost."
"I was here with my friends... I am not sure where our tent is from here." Harriet said, remembering what Mr. Weasley had told her, "The field is just on the other side of the wood, we're as close as we could be to the stadium."
"I think I know where your tent is." Clark said, putting his hands in his pockets, "If you want, I can show you the way."
"That would be nice." Harriet said with a smile.
The two walked among the tents, their fellow campers were starting to wake up. First to stir were the families with small children. A tiny boy no older than two was crouched outside a large pyramid-shaped tent, holding a wand and poking happily at a slug in the grass, which was swelling slowly to the size of a salami.
As they drew level with him, his mother came hurrying out of the tent. "How many times, Kevin? You don't touch Daddy's wand! Yecchh!"
She had trodden on the giant slug, which burst. Her scolding carried after them on the still air, mingling with the little boy's yells, "You bust slug! You bust slug!"
A short way farther on, they saw two little witches, barely older than Kevin, who were riding toy broomsticks that rose only high enough for the girls' toes to skim the dewy grass. A Ministry wizard had already spotted them; as he hurried past Harriet and Clark he muttered distractedly, "In broad daylight! Parents having a lie-in, I suppose..."
Here and there adult wizards and witches were emerging from their tents and starting to cook breakfast. Some, with furtive looks around them, conjured fires with their wands; others were striking matches with dubious looks on their faces, as though sure this couldn't work. Three African wizards sat in serious conversation, all of them wearing long white robes and roasting what looked like a rabbit on a bright purple fire, while a group of middle-aged American witches sat gossiping happily beneath a spangled banner stretched between their tents that read: The Salem Witches Institute.
Suddenly each and every tent had the same poster attached to it, a poster of a very surly face with heavy black eyebrows. The picture was, of course, moving, but all it did was blink and scowl.
"Viktor Krum, the Bulgarian Seeker." Harriet said, remembering the photo Ron had showed her, "He looks really grumpy."
"I guess he does." Clark noted with a smile, hands still in his pockets, "He's an amazing flier though."
"That is what my friend Ron says too." she said, "He prefers him over the French Seeker... Something Kent, the Man of Steel. He calls him an overrated pretty boy."
"Yeah, I prefer Krum over him too." he said, sounding a bit amused, "Your tent should just be up ahead." just as someone came walking towards them.
It was a tall young man with shaggy chin-length black hair with bangs, light blue eyes and quite tall for his age. He was dressed in a crimson and white T-shirt, black skinny jeans and dark sneakers.
"Te voilà cousin!" the boy said to Clark, "Regardé partout... Oh salut." he added once noticing Harriet.
"Cousin, s'il vous plait parlez Anglais." Clark said turning to the young man, hands in his pockets, "Harriet, this is my cousin..."
"Alexander, but you can call me Alex. That's what everybody and their mom does anyway. Except my own." Alex said with a wink, switching to English, "Anyway cousin, we have been looking for you."
"Meeting before the big show? Figures." Clark said with a sigh, "It was nice meeting you, Harriet. Wait, let me do this one thing."
He took out his wand, taking the saucepan from her and from the tip of it, a stream of water filled it.
"Thanks." she said and they said goodbye to each other before disappearing with a loud bang.
"You've been ages." George said when they finally got back to the Weasleys' tents, "Where have you been?"
"Met a few people, got separated from Ron and Hermione, met a nice bloke who helped me back." Harriet said.
That night, clutching their purchases, Mr. Weasley in the lead, they all hurried into the wood, following the lantern-lit trail. They could hear the sounds of thousands of people moving around them, shouts and laughter, snatches of singing. The atmosphere of feverish excitement was highly infectious; Harriet couldn't stop grinning.
They walked through the wood for twenty minutes, talking and joking loudly, until at last they emerged on the other side and found themselves in the shadow of a gigantic stadium. Though Harriet could see only a fraction of the immense gold walls surrounding the field, she could tell that ten cathedrals would fit comfortably inside it.
"Seats a hundred thousand." Mr. Weasley said, spotting the awestruck look on Harriet's face, "Ministry task force of five hundred have been working on it all year. Muggle Repelling Charms on every inch of it. Every time Muggles have got anywhere near here all year, they've suddenly remembered urgent appointments and had to dash away again... bless them." he 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 their tickets, "Top Box! Straight upstairs, Arthur, and as high as you can go."
The stairs into the stadium were carpeted in rich purple. They clambered upward 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 exactly halfway between the golden goal posts.
About twenty purple-and-gilt chairs stood in two rows here, and Harriet, filing into the front seats with the Weasleys, looked down upon a scene the likes of which she 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 suffused 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 Harriet's 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.
Ron pulled out his Omnioculars and started testing them, staring down into the crowd on the other side of the stadium.
"Wild!" he said, twiddling the replay knob on the side, "I can make that old bloke down there pick his nose again... and again... and again..."
Hermione, meanwhile, was skimming eagerly through her velvetcovered, tasseled program.
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 were trying to sit on a hedgehog. 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 Harriet, whom Cornelius Fudge had greeted like an old friend.
They had met before, and Fudge shook Harriet's hand in a fatherly fashion, asked how she was, and introduced her to the wizard and witch on either side of him.
"Harriet Potter, you know." he told the Bulgarian Minister loudly, who was wearing splendid robes of black velvet trimmed with gold and didn't seem to understand a word of English.
The French Minister was wearing an expensive looking business suit, with dress pants and high heels. Hanging over her shoulder was a white long coat. She wouldn't look out of place as a commander of an army. She had long black hair and light blue eyes. She seemed to understand English.
"Nice to meet you, Ms. Potter." the French Minister said, shaking hands with her.
"...ah, and here's Lucius!" Fudge said suddenly.
Harriet, Ron, and Hermione 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 Harriet supposed must be Draco's mother.
Harriet and Draco Malfoy had been enemies ever since their very first journey to Hogwarts. A pale boy with a pointed face and white-blond hair, Draco greatly resembled his father. His mother was blonde too; tall and slim, she would have been nice-looking if she hadn't been wearing a look that suggested there was a nasty smell under her nose.
"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?" Fudge said, smiling and bowing to Mrs. Malfoy, "And allow me to introduce you to Mr. Oblansk... Obalonsk... Well, he's the Bulgarian Minister of Magic, and he can't understand a word I'm saying anyway, so never mind. This is Ms. Elizabeth Kent, the French Minister of Magic. 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 Harriet 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 gray 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?"
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." Mr. Weasley said, with a very strained smile.
Mr. Malfoy's eyes had returned to Hermione, who went slightly pink, but stared determinedly back at him. Harriet knew exactly what was making Mr. Malfoy's lip curl like that. The Malfoys prided themselves on being purebloods. In other words, they considered anyone of Muggle descent, like Hermione, second-class. However, under the gaze of the Minister of Magic, Mr. Malfoy didn't dare say anything. He nodded sneeringly to Mr. Weasley and continued down the line to his seats. Draco shot Harriet, Ron, and Hermione one contemptuous look, then settled himself between his mother and father.
"Slimy gits." Ron muttered as he, Harriet, and Hermione turned to face the field again. Next moment, Ludo Bagman charged into the box.
"Everyone ready?" he said, his round face gleaming like a great, excited, "Minister, ready to go?"
"Ready when you are, Ludo." Fudge said 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. Thousands of flags waved, adding their discordant national anthems to the racket. The huge blackboard opposite them was wiped clear of its last message and now showed Bulgaria: 0, French: 0
"And now, without further ado, allow me to introduce... 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!" Ron yelled, following Krum with his Omnioculars. Harriet 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.
"And now, please greet... the French National Quidditch Team!" yelled Bagman, "Presenting... Mullins! Arnoult! Faucheux! Alex! Claire! Kara! Aaaaaand Clark Kent!"
Seven blue blurs swept onto the field; Harriet 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. Her heart skipping a beat when she realized it was the same Clark she had met earlier.
"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 bushy mustache, 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. Harriet 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 (Harriet 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 Alex! Claire! Kara! Dimitrov! Back to Kara! Claire! Levski! Alex!"
It was Quidditch as Harriet had never seen it played before. She was pressing her Omnioculars so hard to her glasses that they were cutting into the bridge of her nose. The speed of the players was incredible. The Chasers were throwing the Quaffle to one another so fast that Bagman only had time to say their names. Harriet 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 her eardrums.
Hawlshead Attacking Formation, she read as she watched the three French Chasers zoom closely together, Claire in the center, slightly ahead of Alex and Kara, bearing down upon the Bulgarians.
Porskoff Ploy flashed up next, as Claire made as though to dart upward with the Quaffle, drawing away the Bulgarian Chaser Ivanova and dropping the Quaffle to Alex.
One of the Bulgarian Beaters, Volkov, swung hard at a passing Bludger with his small club, knocking it into Alex's path; who ducked to avoid the Bludger and dropped the Quaffle; and Levski, soaring beneath, caught it...
"Claire scores!" Bagman roared, and the stadium shuddered with a roar of applause and cheers, "Ten zero to French!"
"What?" Harriet yelled, looking wildly around through her Omnioculars, "But Levski's got the Quaffle!"
"Harriet, if you're not going to watch at normal speed, you're going to miss things!" Hermione shouted, who was dancing up and down, waving her arms in the air while Claire did a lap of honor around the field.
Furious with herself, Harriet spun her speed dial back to normal as play resumed.
Harriet knew enough about Quidditch to see that the French 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 within ten minutes, French had scored four times more, bringing their lead to Fifty-zero and causing a thunderous tide of roars and applause from the blue-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 French 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, Mullins; and score Bulgaria's first goal.
"Dimitrov! Levski! Dimitrov! Ivanova... Oh I say!" Bagman roared.
One hundred thousand wizards gasped as the two Seekers, Clark and Krum, plummeted through the center of the Chasers, so fast that it looked as though they had just jumped from airplanes without parachutes. Harriet followed their descent through her Omnioculars, squinting to see where the Snitch was.
"They're going to crash!" Hermione screamed next to Harriet.
She was half right, at the very last second, Viktor Krum pulled out of the dive and spiraled off. Clark barely managed to pull, gracing the ground, before to loud cheers from the blue-clad supporters, shot back off into the air.
Harriet understood, Krum hadn't seen the Snitch at all, he was just making Clark copy him but if by skill or luck, he managed to save himself at the very last second.
She had never seen anyone fly like Clark; he hardly looked as though he was using a broomstick at all; he moved so easily through the air that he looked unsupported and weightless.
The Chasers moved into action with a skill unrivaled by anything Harriet had seen so far.
After fifteen more fast and furious minutes, French had pulled ahead by ten more goals. They were now leading by one hundred and fifty points to ten, and the game was starting to get dirtier.
As Claire shot toward the goal posts yet again, clutching the Quaffle tightly under her arm, the Bulgarian Keeper, Zograf, flew out to meet her. Whatever happened was over so quickly Harriet didn't catch it, the Quaffle was thrown through the middle hoop but a scream of rage from the French 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 French!"
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 Kara, who had the Quaffle, nearly knocking her off her broom.
The Quaffle changed hands with the speed of a bullet, "Levski! Dimitrov! Alex! Claire! Kara! Ivanova! Kara again... Kara scores!... Look at Clark!"
For the French Seeker had suddenly gone into a dive, and Harriet was quite sure that this was no Wronski Feint; this was the real thing...
"He's seen the Snitch!" Harriet shouted, "He's seen it! Look at him go!"
Half the crowd seemed to have realized what was happening; the French supporters rose in another great wave of blue, screaming their Seeker on but Krum was on his tail. They were drawing level with Clark now as the pair of them hurtled toward the ground again.
"They're going to crash!" Hermione shrieked.
And she was right, Clark hit the ground with tremendous force.
"The Snitch, where's the Snitch?" bellowed Charlie, along the row.
"He's got it!" Harriet shouted, "Clark's got it! It's all over!"
Clark was rising gently from the ground, his fist held high, a glint of gold in his hand.
The scoreboard was flashing Bulgaria: 10, French: 320 across the crowd, who didn't seem to have realized what had happened. Then, slowly, as though a great jumbo jet were revving up, the rumbling from the French supporters grew louder and louder and erupted into screams of delight.
"French Wins!" Bagman shouted, who like the French, seemed to be taken aback by the sudden end of the match, "That wasn't a Quidditch match, that was a curb-stomp."
"Why did he caught it!" Ron roared furiously, "Flying pretty boy!"
"He was very brave, wasn't he?" Hermione said, leaning forward to watch Clark get swarmed by mediwizards.
Harriet put her Omnioculars to her eyes again. It was hard to see what was happening below, she could just make out Clark, surrounded by mediwizards.
A few feet away, Krum looked surlier than ever and refused to let the mediwizards mop him up. His team members were around him, shaking their heads and looking dejected. The French players were dancing gleefully.
Flags were waving all over the stadium, the French national anthem blared from all sides.
"Vell, ve fought bravely." said a gloomy voice behind Harriet. He looked around; it was the Bulgarian Minister of Magic.
"You can speak English!" Fudge said, sounding outraged, "And you've been letting me mime everything all day!"
"Veil, it vos very funny." the Bulgarian Minister said, shrugging as he shook hands with the French Minister, "Good game."
"And as the French team performs a lap of honor, the Quidditch World Cup itself is brought into the Top Box!" Bagman roared.
Harriet'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 Elizabeth Kent.
"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 was applauding appreciatively; Harriet 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, then with Fudge and then with the French Minister. Krum, who was last in line, looked a real mess. Two black eyes were blooming spectacularly on his face.
Harriet 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 whole stadium gave him a resounding, earsplitting roar.
And then came the French team. Clark was still holding the snitch in his hand. When Harriet's eyes green eyes met his light blue's, he gave her grin before lifting the Cup into the air and the crowd below thundered its approval.
And that is the first chapter, hope you enjoyed.
My apologies if the French in this chapter was garbage, I only speak a few words of French. Also just a small note, events of the previous books have remained largely the same.
Many thanks to everyone who reads, this chapter. If you enjoy my work, don't forget to leave a review and I hope to see you beauties tomorrow.
Mischief Managed.