💐 goblet of fire.
the quidditch world cup. ☼

🌻     When Marigold had finally finished visiting the strangers she had made the detour to help without slopping the water down her front (they were very grateful and offered to make her a cup of tea), she tried to return back to her tent without making any detours.

But the lopsided merch stalls and apparating stands were too tempting to pass up. Various vendors from all across the world were selling what ranged from the colourful flags of Ireland and Bulgaria, (many with their own special additions such as making them sing the names of the players or the national anthem), to candy and food stalls which filled the air with a sort of syrupy sweet delight that you could only find at fairgrounds. A witch with a stuffed falcon perched on her shoulder was offering up samples of jelly newts, and a wizard wearing a bikini at a poor attempt to blend in with the muggle clothing was selling toy miniatures of the players.

"Mini Troy and Mini Krum! Put them in front of each other and they'll start to fight!"

"Edible snitches, over here! Come grab them before they fly away! Two sickles for five!"

"Zoom in glasses - never miss a play!"

"Edible face paint - fun for showing your colours, and a trick for your friends!"

"Do you want to buy some illegal fireworks?!"

Marigold felt like a kid in a candy store. Just by the look of her, you could tell she was incredibly privileged. She carried herself with a sort of grace and elegance which screamed old money, as if the diamonds resting along her collarbone didn't speak for themself.

Though she was quite taken with Krum and impressed by his talent, Marigold made sure to purchase as much Irish merchandise as she could get her hands on. He was undoubtedly an amazing seeker, but Marigold wanted to support the country still in the UK and which they lived so close to.

She filled her bag with sweets she couldn't have found in Honeydukes and all sorts of gifts and complete tat that she was sure would either end up proudly displayed in her room or wind up in the cardboard box in her cupboard. She was pushed and shoved around the crowd who were clambering to get a closer look at the Firebolt which was hung up, a list below it for pre orders only.

She dismissed it, being thoroughly happy with her Nimbus 2000 and instead stepped into the short line of the vendor selling Omnioculars.

They looked like a steampunk, mechanical version of binoculars with the various buttons and dials trickling along the velveted sides. Upon seeing them at first, her tongue stung with envy until she realized she was carrying enough money to buy out their entire stock.

She had her galleons out ready, and just as she was second in line, there was a sharp jab on her foot where someone had stepped on it. She looked down, and when her gaze had come back up again, Marigold was scandalised to see the back of the guy who'd pushed in front of her in the water queue.

"You again!" she said, shocked. The boy didn't even have the decency to turn around and glare at her, instead opting for a side-eye sneer. "Hey! What's your problem, you tosser? Don't you know how lines work?"

He rolled his eyes and paid for a pair of Omnioculars. "Don't you know how minding your own business works?"

Her ears went pink in frustration. "Evidently not, then. You're smug for someone who can't work queue's-"

"And you're snarky for someone who pretends to know and yet can't figure out when it's her turn to pay." he sneered back at her. Marigold's mouth fell open, but she closed it quickly with embarrassment when she realized it was her turn at the front of the line and saw the elderly witch behind her raising her eyebrow.

She muttered a thank you to the vendor, cheeks a gentle red in embarrassment as she left the queue.

"Don't you know how lines work?" he imitated her.

She turned to him furiously. "Stop following me!"

"I'm not following you." he glared back. "What, can't someone want some hydration and a souvenir on the same day?"

"No, I meant stop following me now." she snapped. "I'm trying to go back to my tent, so go away!"

He seemed at a loss for words for a second before turning on his heel and storming through the crowds as though he hadn't noticed that his tent was far from beside hers.

The walk back was considerably more pleasurable than her shopping. She came across a couple of people from her house, and even more from her year. Ernie Macmillan waved at her so ferociously that he'd dropped a match and Hannah Abbott, who he was sitting with, only had time to smile at her before she had to put out her friend's fire. Seamus Finnegan and Dean Thomas were also camping together in the Irish tents, and stopped for a quick chat with her. They were Gryffindor boys, and though they weren't in the same house, she shared a fair amount of classes with them and often saw them at quidditch matches or parties. Seamus's mother complimented her bag bursting with Irish merchandise, and she left their camp feeling a lot happier and with a large Irish flag painted on one cheek and a brilliant green shamrock painted on the other.

Cedric's friends from the sixth and seventh years also waved at her. The Hufflepuff house were all very close no matter the year group, and Marigold usually sat with Cedric and his friends at lunchtime. She didn't have many close friends but him.

A stunningly pretty Ravenclaw girl who went by the nickname 'Cho' called out a greeting to her as she passed, and Marigold beamed back. She'd heard a lot about the girl who was two years above her age from Cedric, who had taken a bright shine to her a few months back and who had been too shy to tell her.

He didn't need to. Marigold had already started to treat her as a cousin from the way she'd seen her and Cedric interact - unbridled puppy love.

Finally, after a short run-in with a girl she didn't get along with very well, she was back home - well, back to her tent. Well - her tent looked enough like her real home, so she was probably right the first time.

Her mother had gone inside from sunbathing on the front lawn, and when Marigold unzipped the door and went through, she found her mum waiting for her at the steps impatiently.

"Marigold!" she heaved a sigh. "There you are, I've been calling for you. When - what are you wearing?!"

"I was just coming back to get changed!" she said hastily, trying to hide the rather large bag of shopping behind her as she said so. "Honest!"

Lenora started to massage her temple. "Honestly, child... go along quickly and  put on your dress that I told you to bring. You still have it, don't you?"

Marigold neglected to snap what was lying at the bottom of her tongue: that being that the dress made her look like an absolute frump and she wouldn't be caught dead in it again.

Instead, she managed an "Uuuhh..."

"Trivette!" her mum screamed. In a quick flash of light and a snap!, their house elf appeared by her mum's side.

"Yes, missus?" she squeaked.

"Remind me to ground my daughter after the match." she spoke as though Marigold wasn't here, gaping at the nerve of her mother. "And for the love of Merlin, find her a suitable outfit for the match. Something green." she added at the end as though it was an afterthought.

"Will she be requiring the emeralds, missus?"

"Oh, no," Marigold groaned. "mum, have you seen the amount of people here? The arena seats a hundred thousand - I'll be robbed!"

"Yes, Trivette," she said loudly, trying to drown out her daughter. "The emeralds are an excellent idea. Now go, it starts at eight, we cannot be late."

"We could not, would not want to wait." Marigold muttered.

"What was that?" she said sharply.

"Nothing." Marigold said quickly, knowing better than to bring up that she'd recited a pivotal piece of Muggle literature. Her mother was already angry enough as it was.

Trivette had returned quickly and, as though acknowledging Marigolds' prayers, had regrettably informed her mother that every clothing she owned which was green was either dirty, torn or too informal. She brought for her a cute yellow sundress instead, with amber earrings.

Her mother tutted disapprovingly at the blatant show of her Hufflepuff house colours, but not much could be done about it. It was too late for Trivette to buy or even sew an entirely new outfit, not that her mum wouldn't sentence her to the torture of it. Her mother's sharp nails had clutched her again, pulling her into a chair as she prodded her wand at her hair a couple of times to make it lie flat, giving her a sort of fancy blowout as a gust of air came out of her wand.

And soon enough, she and her mum were walking along the grounds to the get to the stands. Her mum had said that her father was going to meet them there, having had to stay late at work again that night. Marigold still wasn't sure what his job was. She thought that the name began with a B, maybe, but she wouldn't bet on it.

The stairs into the stadium were carpeted in rich purple. They clambered upward with the bustle of the crowd which slowly filtered away through doors into the stands to their left and right. Marigold couldn't shake the excitement coursing through her veins now, a smile etched on her lips which would've felt impossible to wipe away. She tried not to drop any of the merchandise she was carrying as they climbed up, up, up and higher, higher, higher.

She 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, and her mother placed a hand on her shoulder before she could take a seat in one.

Already sat right at the front of the booth was the Weasley party that Marigold and Cedric had arrived with. They were a row of flaming ginger hair, interrupted only by two shorter heads; one with a mane of brown, bushy hair and the other jet black and untidy, almost defying gravity to be sticking up.

There seemed to be more gingers than she'd seen this morning by the addition of three much taller heads. She only recognised one of them as Percy Weasley, last year's head boy who had recently broken up with his girlfriend Penelope Clearwater. Something about him being too invested in his work.

The other two, however, were a mystery; but not an unwelcome one from their boyish grins and impressive arms. Wait - was that a fang in one of their ears?

She turned and Harry Potter caught her eye again, though he was still facing the stadium. She wondered for a second what he'd look like with a fang for an earring. Probably weird.

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 her lofty position. At either end of the field stood three goal hoops, fifty feet high; right opposite them, almost at her 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; watching it,
Marigold saw that it was flashing advertisements across the field. She recognized most of the products as the stuff she'd already purchased.

"Ah!" a booming voice took her concentration and awe away from surveying their place. "Mrs Lenora Baulderidge, how are you this fine evening?" Cornelius Fudge beamed at her mum, taking her hand firmly in grasp with his own and giving it a polite shake.

"Very well, Minister, and yourself?" she painted a beautiful smile on her face. "My husband will be joining us soon-"

"Ah, yes," he waved her away. "I understand, not at all, not at all! He's currently helping me with an, ah... tight spot right now back at the ministry. And this must be your daughter?" he changed the subject quickly, as though it was quite embarrassing.

"Yes, this is my daughter, Marigold." she smiled, hands on her daughter's shoulders.

She smiled sweetly, taking his hand with a strong grip of her own. "Nice to meet you, Minister."

Besides them, Harry jerked his head around to face her so fast Ron thought he was going to break his neck. He snorted at his friend who turned back to survey the stadium, hiding his blush beneath his pair of omnioculars.

Cornelius Fudge nodded at her approvingly, and Percy Weasley glowered with jealousy even she could sense from across the booth. God, he was such a suck-up, even after leaving Hogwarts.

"Now, m'dear Lenora, 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... ah! Do you know Arthur Weasley?"

"I daresay we haven't met," her mum said, moving forward to shake Mr Weasleys' hand. "how do you do, Arthur? I take it you know of my husband, Makoto Baulderidge."

"That I do." he said cheerfully, shaking her hand vigorously back. As they engaged in a polite sort of conversation, Marigold took the chance to sneak away from an upcoming conversation with the Minister and perched herself on Arthur's previous seat, beaming at the trio of famous Gryffindors.

"Hi," she smiled at them all. Marigold noted that they were all wearing the same clothes from earlier, which probably made her look like some sort of spoiled princess. "Are you guys excited?"

Usually she would've been a lot more nervous talking to anybody like this, but it was Quidditch! She couldn't help but feel her nerves disappear into the air, replacing a buzzing feeling of excitement in her stomach.

"Hello, Marigold," Hermione grinned.

"I should bloody think so," Ron grinned, having must've forgotten that she was the cause of their late lunch. "It's the Quidditch cup!"

"You're supporting Ireland, then?" Harry asked her, noting the shamrock on her cheek.

"Oh, definitely." she nodded earnestly. "honestly, you're a bit foolish if you don't, aren't you? Oh, er - no offence." she added hastily, noticing Harry and Ron were sporting red.

"None taken." Harry grinned. From beside him, Hermione thought he was going to fall out of his chair from how far he was leaning towards her over both her and Ron.

"Is that a singing shamrock?" Ron asked interestedly before the voice of the Minister introducing someone else to their box.

"... ah, and here's Lucius!" The four of them turned sharply in their seats to see them edging along the second row to three empty seats right behind them. They were none other than the famous Malfoys: Lucius Malfoy; his son, Draco; and a woman Marigold supposed must be Draco's mother.

Draco Malfoy was a pale boy with a pointed face, white-blond hair and a terrible attitude. He greatly resembled his father. His mother was blonde too; tall and slim, having probably 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?" said Fudge, smiling and bowing to Mrs. Malfoy. Fudge then went along with introducing Lucius to the others in the box.

"Mrs. Baulderidge," he greeted her mother politely, shaking her hand in a sort of formal greeting.

"Lovely to see you again in such good health, Lucius," her mum said coolly, a steely look coming to his eyes as he pursed his lips into a thin line.

" - and I'm sure you know Arthur Weasley, too?" Fudge added, none the wiser of the tension which had suddenly started curling around their legs like a fog.

Marigolds' eyes flickered between the two men in interest at their apparent loathing for eachother.

"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. As is Makoto Baulderidge, yet he hasn't been able to make it yet..."

"How - how nice," said Mr. Weasley, with a very strained smile.

Mr. Malfoy's eyes had turned to Hermione, who went slightly pink, but stared determinedly back at him. His lip curled, and it took a second for Marigold to remember that Hermione was muggleborn. The Malfoys were a family who 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 Harry, Ron, and Hermione one contemptuous look, then settled himself between his mother and father. You'd have to be a fool to be in their year at school and not know that they were rivals - even enemies, maybe.

"Slimy gits," Ron muttered as he, Harry, 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 Edam. "Minister - ready to go?"

"Ready when you are, Ludo," said Fudge comfortably. Marigold thought of her father stuck at his work for a second, a fleeting emotion of pity overcoming her that he was going to miss the start of the match before it was completely wiped away by seeing the advertisements fall from the sides of the stands.

"Marigold!" her mother hissed at her. She looked up and noticed that she was still sat in Mr Weasleys' seat, and jumped up quick.

"Sorry, Mr Weasley!" she said quickly, winding past the chairs to sit beside her mother on the aisle seat. Mrs Malfoy and Mrs Baulderidge were sitting together, and if Marigold wasn't too preoccupied with the excitement, she might've heard them gossiping together.

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!"

☼