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┄┄ .•* 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝟓 *•. ┄┄

𝒈𝒂𝒎𝒆𝒔 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒏𝒆𝒘 𝒂𝒄𝒒𝒖𝒂𝒊𝒏𝒕𝒂𝒏𝒄𝒆𝒔

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A sense of excitement rose like a palpable cloud over the campsite as the afternoon wore on. By dusk, the still summer air itself seemed to be quivering with anticipation, and as darkness spread like a curtain over the thousands of waiting wizards, the last vestiges of pretense disappeared: the Ministry seemed to have bowed to the inevitable and stopped fighting the signs of blatant magic now breaking out everywhere.

Salesmen were Apparating every few feet, carrying trays and pushing carts full of extraordinary merchandise. There were luminous rosettes—green for Ireland, red for Bulgaria—which were squealing the names of the players, pointed green hats bedecked with dancing shamrocks, Bulgarian scarves adorned with lions that really roared, flags from both countries that played their national anthems as they were waved; there were tiny models of Firebolts that really flew, and collectible figures of famous players, which strolled across the palm of your hand, preening themselves.

"Been saving my pocket money all summer for this," Ron told Harry and Hermione, as they strolled through the salesmen, buying souvenirs. 

Though Ron purchased a dancing shamrock hat and a large green rosette, he also bought a small figure of Viktor Krum, the Bulgarian Seeker. The miniature Krum walked backward and forward over Ron's hand, scowling up at the green rosette above him.

"Wow, look at these!" said Harry, hurrying over to a cart piled high with what looked like brass binoculars, except that they were covered with all sorts of weird knobs and dials.

"Omnioculars," said the saleswizard eagerly. "You can replay action . . . slow everything down . . . and they flash up a play-by-play breakdown if you need it. Bargain—ten Galleons each."

"Wish I hadn't bought this now," said Ron, gesturing at his dancing shamrock hat and gazing longingly at the Omnioculars.

"Three pairs," said Harry firmly to the wizard.

"No—don't bother," said Ron, going red. 

He was always touchy about the fact that Harry, who had inherited a small for- tune from his parents, had much more money than he did.

"You won't be getting anything for Christmas," Harry told him, thrusting Omnioculars into his and Hermione's hands. "For about ten years, mind."

"Fair enough," said Ron, grinning.

"Wicked. Thanks, Harold," said Hermione. "Picture time!" She smiled and turned the camera taking a picture of the three.

Their money bags considerably lighter—Hermione had only bought paint face, though—, they went back to the tents. Bill, Charlie, and Ginny were all sporting green rosettes too, and Mr. Weasley was carrying an Irish flag. Fred and George had no souvenirs as they had given Bagman all their gold. But Hermione insisted on them getting their face painted—all of them, mind you. So after many lines on their faces (and a picture of them all taken), they were ready.

And then a deep, booming gong sounded somewhere beyond the woods, and at once, green and red lanterns blazed into life in the trees, lighting a path to the field.

"It's time!" said Mr. Weasley, looking as excited as any of them. "Come on, let's go!"

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. 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.

"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—Hermione catching a piggyback ride from Bill, who apparently didn't mind (Ginny was getting one from Charlie). Set at the highest point of the stadium and situated exactly halfway between the golden goal posts.

Hermione sat down next to Ginny (after taking a picture of both) and decided to ignore the elf she had spotted immediately as they got into the Top Box. She knew if she looked at the elf, she would subsequently look at the invisible person beside her, and that would raise suspicion. So, as much as she would like to talk to Winky, she couldn't. Instead, she talked to Ginny and the rest of the Weasleys.

The box filled gradually around them over the next half hour. Mr. Weasley kept shaking hands with people who were obviously very important wizards.

"Knew we'd get there in the end," Hermione heard Fudge say, as she tuned back in on that boring conversation. "I'm no great shakes at languages; I need Barty Crouch for this sort of thing. Ah, I see his house-elf's saving him a seat. . . . Good job too, these Bulgarian blighters have been trying to cadge all the best places . . . ah, and here's Lucius!"

Harry, Ron, and Hermione turned quickly. Edging along the second row to three still-empty seats right behind Mr. Weasley were none other than Dobby the house-elf's former owners: Lucius Malfoy; his son, Draco; and Narcissa Malfoy. Malfoy's 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. 

As they turned to look at them and as Fudge "introduced them", Hermione couldn't help but notice the slight wide-eyed glance Narcissa Malfoy gave her—as if she recognized. She didn't know how she noticed, though, because the next second the older woman's expression had gone back to a blank look.

"Good lord, Arthur," Hermione heard Lucius Malfoy say softly and she scowled. "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 Mr. Weasley, with a very strained smile.

Mr. Malfoy's eyes had returned to Hermione, who smiled sarcastically at him and waved, getting a weird look from the man. Draco shot Harry, Ron, and Hermione one contemptuous look then settled himself between his mother and father.

"Slimy gits," Ron muttered as he, Harry, and Hermione turned to face the field again. The 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.

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!"

"And now, without further ado, allow me to introduce . . . the Bulgarian National Team Mascots!"

"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!"

Hermione and Ginny burst out laughing as they watched the men around them start to drool and walk forward as if they were about to jump off the Top Box. Then they realized they were actually about to do that, so each of the girls had to grab them by the back of their robes, effectively getting all of them out of their daze.

The music stopped. Angry yells were filling the stadium. The crowd didn't want the veela to go. Hermione really couldn't care less. 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 openmouthed at the veela, who had now lined up along one side of the field.

"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 arced suddenly across the field, connecting the two balls of light. The crowd oooohed and aaaaahed, as though at a fireworks display.

"And now, ladies and gentlemen, kindly welcome—the Bulgarian National Quidditch Team! I give you—Dimitrov! Ivanova! Zograf! Levski! Vulchanov! Volkov! Aaaaaaand—Krum!"

"That's him, that's him!" yelled Ron, following Krum with his Omnioculars.

"And now, please greet—the Irish National Quidditch Team!" yelled Bagman. "Presenting— Connolly! Ryan! Troy! Mullet! Moran! Quigley! Aaaaaand—Lynch!"

"And here, all the way from Egypt, our referee, acclaimed Chairwizard of the International Association of Quidditch, Hassan Mostafa!"

"Theeeeeeeey're OFF!" screamed Bagman. "And it's Mullet! Troy! Moran! Dimitrov! Back to Mullet! Troy! Levski! Moran!"

It was Quidditch as Hermione had never seen it played before. 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. Hermione couldn't be grinning more—or shouting depending on the specific part of the game. It was so much fun that soon it was approaching the end of the game. Lynch was about to crash. And so he did, he crashed into the floor while Krum was able to pull up and grab the golden snitch.

"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!"

"You were," said Hermione, grinning at the twins whose faces would probably be stuck on a giddy smile forever. They winked at her and she smiled.

"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!" Harry 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. . . ."

"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. 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. He was slightly duck-footed and distinctly round-shouldered—Hermione was not attracted to him at all; now the Irish players. . . . But when Krum's name was announced, the whole stadium gave him a resounding, earsplitting roar.

And then came the Irish team. Aidan Lynch was being supported by Moran and Connolly; 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.

After everyone was relatively calmer, Hermione approached the Irish team with a big smile.

"Hey, guys! Can I and my friend get a picture with the winning team?" she asked giving them the best puppy eyes she could muster. The Irish team looked amused at the beautiful curly-haired girl. 

They exchanged glances and nodded. 

Hermione grinned at them and turned around. 

"Oi! Gigi!" she called over the crowd beckoning Ginny over. The latter was as red as her hair as she approached the team. After getting some random bystander to take their picture, the Irish team put their arms around their shoulders—as if in a huddle—and Click! Picture taken.

Ginny immediately scampered off with a grin, Hermione stayed back. 

"Oh, I'm Hermione, by the way. Hermione Granger," she said with a smile. "I just thought as I know who you are, you should know who I am."

"You have a beautiful name darling," Lynch smiled—still slightly dazed from the fall—at her and Hermione smirked.

"Then, write it in a letter and owl me, darling," She grinned, and they looked baffled that Lynch had almost no effect on her—but then again he was all broken so. . . . "I'm almost sixteen, but I'm guessing you're at the most nineteen, right?"

Hermione was indeed almost sixteen. Technically and due to the time-turner mishap, she had gained another year. Besides, even without that, she would be almost fifteen.

"Uh—I'm nineteen, yeah," he answered.

"Thank God, I thought I was hitting on a twenty-year-old," she sighed dramatically and the team laughed, "Anyway, it was nice meeting you guys, big fan of yours."

"Likewise." 

"You too." 

"I'll owl you!" 

Those were the answers Hermione got as she smirked at the team and went back to her group.

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 Connolly's, clutching hard around his waist and still grinning in a bemused sort of way—sending a wink in Hermione's direction which caused her to smile back; the Weasleys and Harry couldn't be more confused), Bagman pointed his wand at his throat and muttered, "Quietus."

"They'll be talking about this one for years," he said hoarsely, "a really unexpected twist, that. . . . shame it couldn't have lasted longer. . . . Ah yes. . . . yes, I owe you . . . how much?"

For 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.

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