Clutching their purchases, Arthur in the lead, they all hurried into the woods, 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 woods 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 they could see only a fraction of the immense gold walls surrounding the field.

“Seats only a hundred thousand,” Aila said, spotting the awestruck look on Harry’s face. “Not the biggest stadium in the Wizarding World, but definitely one of the most impressive looking ones.”

“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 gotten anywhere near here all year, they’ve suddenly remembered urgent appointments and had to dash away again…bless them,” Arthur added fondly, leading the way toward the nearest entrance, which was already surrounded by a swarm of shouting witches and wizards.

“Prime seats!” the Ministry witch at the entrance said 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. Arthur’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 goalposts. About twenty purple-and-gilt chairs stood in two rows here. Aila settled into the first row beside Bill.

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 Aila’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; watching it, Aila saw that it was flashing advertisements across the field.

Aila tore her eyes away from the screen before turning to Bill. “So…what’s happening at Hogwarts this year?”

Bill looked up from his velvet-covered, tasselled program and said, “I don’t–“

“But you do,” Aila interrupted. She gave him her best puppy eyes. “Please, Billy? I’ll send you lots of snacks from Hogsmade!”

Bill sighed. How could he ever say no to his baby cousin? He lowered his head and said, “Well, the Ministry is holding the Triwizard Tournament at Hogwarts this year but only those aged seventeen and above are allowed to enter.”

“I’ll be turning seventeen in October so I can probably enter,” she mused. Bill rolled his eyes and ruffled her hair before turning his attention back to the program booklet.

The box filled gradually around them over the next half hour. Arthur 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 Harry, whom Cornelius Fudge had greeted like an old friend. They had met before, and Fudge shook Harry’s hand in a fatherly fashion, asked how he was, and introduced him to the wizards on either side of him.

“Harry 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. “Harry Potter…oh come on now, you know who he is…the boy who survived You-Know-Who…you do know who he isn’t–”

The Bulgarian wizard suddenly spotted Harry’s scar and started gabbling loudly and excitedly, pointing at it.

“Knew we’d get there in the end,” Fudge said wearily to Harry. “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!”

Edging along the second row to three still-empty seats right behind Arthur were none other than Lucius Malfoy, his son, Draco Malfoy, and his wife, Narcissa Malfoy.

Aila knew Harry and Draco 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 Lucius , 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?”

It was a tense moment. Arthur and Lucius looked at each other and Aila 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. Lucius’ cold grey eyes swept over Arthur, 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.”

“H–How nice,” said Mr Weasley, with a very strained smile.

Lucius’ eyes had returned to Hermione, who went slightly pink, but stared determinedly back at him. Aila knew exactly what was making Lucius’ lip curl like that. The Malfoys prided themselves on being pure-bloods. In other words, they considered anyone of muggle descent, like Hermione, second-class. However, under the gaze of the Minister of Magic, Lucius didn't dare say anything. He nodded sneeringly to Arthur 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.

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

Suddenly, the Bulgarian Minister of Magic started pointing at Aila and chattering excitedly. “Yes, I know. I was the girl who went missing last year in Egypt,” she muttered in Bulgarian.

The Bulgarian minister’s eyes widened then said in delight, “You know Bulgarian? Aila Prewett, right?”

Aila smiled and nodded. “You are?”

“Call me Mr Oblansk. Well, it is heartening to see that a young girl like you can speak multiple languages.”

“Thank you,” Aila replied. “But do you really not speak English?”

Oblansk looked at her with a twinkle of amusement in his eyes. “It’s amusing to see others who only speak their own tongue try to talk to you through gestures, is it not?”

Aila laughed, understanding what he meant. “You speak Bulgarian, my dear?” Fudge asked and she nodded. “Good. Now you can help me translate.”

“I didn’t know you could speak Bulgarian,” a voice said on her left. She turned to face Cedric, not at all scared by his sudden appearance.

“Well, if you really must know, I can speak a few languages. Not as many as Couch though.”

Cedric chuckled, “Everyday I learn something new about you. Like when we first met, you said your mother was a Veela.”

Before Aila could reply, Ludo Bagman came charging 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,” 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 echoing 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 advertisement message 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 Arthur, leaning forward in his seat. “Aaah!” He suddenly whipped off his glasses and polished them hurriedly on his robes. “Veela!”

Harry frowned. “What are Veel–?”

But a hundred Veela were now gliding out onto the field, and Harry’s question was answered for him. Veela were women except that they weren’t human. Then the music started and the Veela started to dance.

Aila watched in amusement as Harry stood up, one of his legs resting on the wall of the box. Next to him, Ron looked as though he was about to dive from a springboard.

“Harry, what are you doing?” Hermione asked.

The music stopped. Harry blinked.

Angry yells were filling the stadium. The crowd didn’t want the Veela to go. Ron, meanwhile, was absentmindedly shredding the shamrocks on his hat. Arthur, 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?” Ron said distractedly as he stared open-mouthed 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. “Honestly!” she said. “Aren’t you angry, too?” she asked Cedric, her gaze anywhere but him.

“No,” he said quietly, “because I have an even greater beauty to look at.”

Aila blushed lightly and sneaked a glance at him. His eyes were trained on her.

“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 goalposts. A rainbow arched 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!” Ron yelled as the shamrock soared over them, and heavy gold coins rained from it, bouncing off their heads and seats. Looking up at the shamrock, Aila realised that it was actually comprised of thousands of tiny little bearded men with red vests, each carrying a minute lamp of gold or green.

“Leprechauns!” Arthur said over the tumultuous applause of the crowd, many of whom were still fighting and rummaging around under their chairs to retrieve the gold.

“Leprechaun gold,” Cedric whispered in her ear as he examined a gold coin.

Aila's eye flicked from the coin in his hand then to his face and said, “It will disappear after a while, right?”

Cedric hummed in response as 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!” Ron yelled, 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!”

Seven green blurs swept onto the field.

“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 moustache, wearing robes of pure gold to match the stadium, strode out onto the field. A silver whistle was protruding from under the moustache, and he was carrying a large wooden crate under one arm, his broomstick under the other. Aila watched 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, Aila 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 Mullet! Troy! Moran! Dimitrov! Back to Mullet! Troy! Levski! Moran!”

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.

“TROY SCORES!” roared Bagman, and the stadium shuddered with a roar of applause and cheers. “Ten zero to Ireland!”

“What?” Harry yelled, looking wildly around through his Omnioculars. “But Levski’s got the Quaffle!”

“Harry, if you’re not going to watch at normal speed, you’re going to miss things!” Hermione shouted, dancing up and down and waving her arms in the air while Troy did a lap of honour around the field. Aila saw the leprechauns that were watching from the sidelines rise into the air again and formed the great, glittering shamrock. Across the field, the Veela were watching them sulkily.

The Irish 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, Ireland had scored twice more, bringing their lead to thirty–zero and causing a thunderous tide of roars and applause from the green-clad supporters.

The match became faster, but more brutal. Volkov and Vulchanov, the Bulgarian Beaters, were whacking the Bludgers as fiercely as possible at the Irish 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, Ryan, and score Bulgaria’s first goal.

“Fingers in your ears!” bellowed Arthur as the Veela started to dance in celebration. Harry screwed up his eyes too. Aila guessed he wanted to keep his mind on the game after his earlier embarrassment. Once the Veela had stopped dancing, Bulgaria was again in possession of the Quaffle.

“Dimitrov! Levski! Dimitrov! Ivanova–oh I say!” roared Bagman.

One hundred thousand wizards gasped as the two Seekers, Krum and Lynch, plummeted through the center of the Chasers, so fast that it looked as though they had just jumped from airplanes without parachutes.

“They’re going to crash!” Hermione screamed next to Harry.

She was half right. At the very last second, Viktor Krum pulled out of the dive and spiralled off. Lynch, however, hit the ground with a dull thud that could be heard throughout the stadium. A huge groan rose from the Irish seats.

“Fool!” Arthur moaned. “Krum was feinting!”

“It’s time-out!” yelled Bagman’s voice, “as trained mediwizards hurry onto the field to examine Aidan Lynch!”

“He’ll be okay, he only got ploughed!” Charlie said reassuringly to Ginny, who was hanging over the side of the box, looking horror-struck. “Which is what Krum was after, of course “

“Wronski Feint,” Aila murmured. She herself had used that move multiple times.

Cedric lightly glared at her and said jokingly, “I still haven’t forgiven you for using that on me last year.”

Aila smiled softly, her eyes on Krum. He was now circling high above Lynch, who was being revived by mediwizards with cups of potion. He was using the time while Lynch was revived to look for the Snitch without interference.

Lynch got to his feet at last, to loud cheers from the green-clad supporters, mounted his Firebolt, and kicked back off into the air. His revival seemed to give Ireland a new heart. When Mostafa blew his whistle again, the Chasers moved into action with a skill unrivalled by anything Aila had seen so far.

After fifteen more fast and furious minutes, Ireland had pulled ahead by ten more goals. They were now leading by one hundred and thirty points to ten, and the game was starting to get dirtier.

As Mullet shot toward the goalposts yet again, clutching the Quaffle tightly under her arm, the Bulgarian Keeper, Zograf, flew out to meet her. Whatever happened was over so quickly Aila didn’t catch it, but a scream of rage from the Irish crowd, and Mostafa’s long, shrill whistle blast, told her 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 Ireland!”

The leprechauns, who had risen angrily into the air like a swarm of glittering hornets when Mullet had been fouled, now darted together to form the words ‘HA, HA, HA!’ The Veela on the other side of the field leapt to their feet, tossed their hair angrily, and started to dance again.

As one, the Weasley boys, Cedric and Harry stuffed their fingers into their ears. Soon, Aila was tugging at Bill’s and Cedric’s arms, pointing down at the field.

“Look at the referee!” she said, giggling.

The two looked down at the field. Hassan Mostafa had landed right in front of the dancing Veela, and was acting very oddly indeed. He was flexing his muscles and smoothing his moustache excitedly.

“Now, we can’t have that!” Ludo Bagman said, though he sounded highly amused. “Somebody slap the referee!”

A mediwizard came tearing across the field, his fingers stuffed into his own ears, and kicked Mostafa hard in the shins. Mostafa seemed to come to himself; Aila saw that he looked exceptionally embarrassed through her Omnioculars and had started shouting at the Veela, who had stopped dancing and were looking mutinous.

“And unless I’m much mistaken, Mostafa is actually attempting to send off the Bulgarian team mascots!” said Bagman’s voice. “Now there’s something we haven’t seen before…Oh, this could turn nasty “

It did. The Bulgarian Beaters, Volkov and Vulchanov, landed on either side of Mostafa and began arguing furiously with him, gesticulating toward the leprechauns, who had now gleefully formed the words ‘HEE, HEE, HEE’. Mostafa was not impressed by the Bulgarians’ arguments, however. He was jabbing his finger into the air, clearly telling them to get flying again, and when they refused, he gave two short blasts on his whistle.

“Two penalties for Ireland!” Bagman shouted, and the Bulgarian crowd howled with anger. “And Volkov and Vulchanov had better get back on those brooms…yes... there they go…and Troy takes the Quaffle.”

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 Moran, who had the Quaffle, nearly knocking her off her broom.

“Foul!” roared the Irish supporters as one, all standing up in a great wave of green.

“Foul!” echoed Ludo Bagman’s magically magnified voice. “Dimitrov skins Moran — deliberately flying to collide there and it’s got to be another penalty…yes, there’s the whistle!”

The leprechauns had risen into the air again, and this time, they formed a giant hand, pointing the middle finger at the Veela across the field. At this, the Veela lost control. Instead of dancing, they launched themselves across the field and began throwing what seemed to be handfuls of fire at the leprechauns.

“And that, boys,” Arthur yelled over the tumult of the crowd below, “is why you should never go for looks alone!”

Ministry wizards were flooding onto the field to separate the Veela and the leprechauns, but with little success. Meanwhile, the pitched battle below was nothing to the one taking place above. Aila’s eyes followed the Quaffle as it changed hands with the speed of a bullet.

“Levski–Dimitrov–Moran–Troy–Mullet–Ivanova–Moran again–Moran–MORAN SCORES!”

But the cheers of the Irish supporters were barely heard over the shrieks of the Veela, the blasts now issuing from the Ministry members’ wands, and the furious roars of the Bulgarians. The game recommenced immediately.

The Irish Beater Quigley swung heavily at a passing Bludger, and hit it as hard as possible toward Krum, who did not duck quickly enough. It hit him full in the face.

There was a deafening groan from the crowd. Krum’s nose looked broken, there was blood everywhere, but Hassan Mostafa didn’t blow his whistle. He had become distracted, and Aila couldn’t blame him; one of the Veela had thrown a handful of fire and set his broom tail alight.

Aila wanted someone to realise that Krum was injured; even though she was supporting Ireland, Krum was the most exciting player on the field. Ron obviously felt the same. “Time-out! Ah, come on, he can’t play like that, look at him–”

“Look at Lynch!” Harry yelled.

The Irish Seeker had suddenly gone into a dive, and Aila was quite sure that that was no Wronski Feint. This was the real thing…

“He’s seen the Snitch!” Harry shouted. “He’s seen it! Look at him go!” Half the crowd seemed to have realised what was happening; the Irish supporters, along with Aila, rose in another great wave of green, screaming their Seeker on…but Krum was on his tail. How he could see where he was going, Aila had no idea; there were flecks of blood flying through the air behind him, but he was drawing level with Lynch now as the pair of them hurtled toward the ground again–

“They’re going to crash!” Hermione shrieked.

“They’re not!” Ron roared.

“Lynch is!” Harry yelled.

And he was right — for the second time, Lynch hit the ground with tremendous force and was immediately stampeded by a horde of angry Veela. “The Snitch, where’s the Snitch?” Charlie bellowed from beside Bill.

“He’s got it! Krum’s got it! It’s all over!” shouted Harry.

Krum, his red robes shining with blood from his nose, was rising gently into the air, his fist held high, a glint of gold in his hand.

The scoreboard was flashing BULGARIA: 160, IRELAND: 170 across the crowd, who didn’t seem to have realised what had happened. Then, slowly, as though a great jumbo jet were revving up, the rumbling from the Ireland supporters grew louder and louder and erupted into screams of delight.

“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!”

“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!” Aila 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.“

“He was very brave, wasn’t he?” Hermione said, leaning forward to watch Krum land as a swarm of mediwizards blasted a path through the battling leprechauns and Veela to get to him. “He looks a terrible mess…“

It was hard to see what was happening below, because leprechauns were zooming delightedly all over the field, but she could just make out Krum, surrounded by mediwizards. He looked surlier than ever and refused to let them mop him up. His team members were around him, shaking their heads and looking dejected. A short way away, the Irish players were dancing gleefully in a shower of gold descending from their mascots. Flags were waving all over the stadium, the Irish national anthem blared from all sides, and the Veela were shrinking back into their usual, beautiful selves now, though looking dispirited and forlorn.

“Vell, ve fought bravely,” a gloomy voice said from behind Harry. Everyone looked around. It was the Bulgarian Minister of Magic.

“You can speak English!” Fudge cried in outrage. “And you’ve been letting me mime everything all day!”

“Vell, it vos very funny,” the Bulgarian minister said, shrugging while Aila covered her mouth to muffle her laughter. Cedric looked at her in amusement as she leaned on him.

“And as the Irish team performs a lap of honour, flanked by their mascots, the Quidditch World Cup itself is brought into the Top Box!” Bagman roared.

Aila’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 Cornelius Fudge, who was still looking very disgruntled that he’d been using sign language all day for nothing.

“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 and Aila 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 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. Aila 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 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. Aila’s hands were numb with clapping.

At last, the Irish team had left the box to perform another lap of honor on their brooms with Aidan Lynch on the back of Connolly’s, clutching hard around his waist and still grinning in a bemused sort of way. 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.