Right Now Could Last Forever

Clutching our purchases, Mr Weasley 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, shots and laughter, snatches of singing. The atmosphere of feverish excitement was highly infectious; I couldn’t stop grinning. 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. Though I could see only a fraction of the immense gold walls surrounding the pitch, I could tell that ten cathedrals would fit comfortably inside it.

“Seats a hundred thousand,” said Mr Weasley, spotting the awestruck face of Harry. “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 towards 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 out tickets. “Top Box! Straight upstairs, Arthur, and as high as you can go.”

The stairs into the stadium were carpeted in rich purple. We clambered upwards with the rest of the crowd, which slowly filtered away through doors into the stands to our left and right. Our party 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 goalposts. About twenty purple-and-gilt chairs stood in two rows here, and I, fling into the seats in between Fred and George, looked down upon a scene like of which I could never have imagined.

Hundred thousand witches and wizards were taking their places in the seats which rose in levels around the long oval pitch. Everything was suffused with a mysterious golden light that seemed to come from the stadium itself. The pitch looked smooth as velvet from our lofty position. At either end of the pitch stood three goal hoops, fifty feet high; right opposite us, almost as eye level, was a gigantic blackboard. Gold writing kept dashing across it as though an invisible giant’s hand was scrawling upon it and then wiped it off again; watching it, I saw that it was flashing advertisements across the pitch.

‘The Boluebottle: A broom for All the Family – safe, reliable and with In-built Anti-Burglar Buzzer... Mrs Skower’s All-Purpose Magical Mess-Remover: No Pain, No Stain!... Gladrags Wizardwear – London, Paris, Hogsmeade...’

I tore my eyes away from the sign and looked over my shoulder to see who else we were sharing the box with. So far it was empty, except for a tiny creature sitting in the second from last seat at the end of the row behind us. The creature whose legs were so short they stuck out in front of it on the chair, was wearing a tea-towel draped like a toga, and it had its face hidden in its hands. It had long bat-like ears that drooped slightly.

“Dobby?” said Harry incredulously.

The tiny creature looked up and parted its fingers, revealing enormous brown eyes and a nose the exact size and shape of a large tomato.

“Did sir just call me Dobby?” squeaked the elf curiously, from between its fingers. Its voice was high, teeny, quivering squeak of a voice, and I suspected – though it was very hard to tell – that this was a female. Hermione and Ron also turned around to look at the house-elf. Though we had heard a lot about Dobby none of us had actually met him; apart from Harry of course. Even Mr Weasley 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, 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, “a, sir, meaning no disrespect, sir, but I is not sure you did Dobby a favour, sir, when you is setting him free.”

I turned away, observing the field. I was going to see him again; I hadn’t seen him in years. I’d met him a couple of years ago, when I was little. My dad had taken me with him... I shook my head, throwing the memory to the back of my mind. I picked up my Omnioculars, testing them.

“Wild!” Ron said, twiddling the replay knob on the side of his Omnioculars. “I can make that old bloke down there pick his nose again... and again... and again...”

Hermione, however, was skimming eagerly through her velvet-covered, tasselled programme.

“’A display from the team mascots will precede the match’,” she read aloud.

“Oh, that’s always worth watching,” said Mr Weasley. “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. 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 was trying to sit on a hedgehog. When Cornelius Fudge, the Minister for 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, and me, whom he had tried a bit like royalty. My family was one of the closest things to royalty in the wizarding world; though few ever really respected it. Harry had met Fudge before, and shook his 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 loudly told the Bulgarian Minister, 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 is –“

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,” said Fudge wearily to Harry. “I’m not even going to bother trying to tell him who you are, Corey; I hope you don’t mind but it’d take us all night. I’m not 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, Hermione and I all turned quickly. Edging along the seconds row to three still-empty seats right behind Mr Weasley were none other than Dobby the house-elf’s old owners – Lucius Malfoy, his son, Draco, and a woman I supposed must be Draco’s mother.
Malfoy had been the closest thing to an enemy to me since our first journey to Hogwarts. A pale boy with a pointed face and white-blonde 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 Minster for 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 for Magic, and he can’t understand a word I’m saying anyways, so never mind. 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 I vividly recalled the last time that they had come face to face; it had been in Flourish and Blotts bookshop, and they had had a fight. Mr Malfoy’s cold grey 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,’ said Mr Weasley, with a very strained smile.

Mr Malfoy’s eyes had returned to Hermione, who went slightly pink, but stared determinedly back at him. I knew exactly what was making Mr Malfoy’s lip curl. 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 for Magic, Mr Malfoy didn’t dare say anything. Instead, he turned his gaze to me.

“Corey Samuels,” he said, a smile forming on his lips. “How lovely to see you again.”

“Mr Malfoy,” I nearly hissed, with a slight nod of my head.

“I’m sure you’ll be glad to know that your father is in good health,” he continued.

I gave another nod, showing not much interest at all. I hadn’t heard from my father for a couple of years, apart from last year, when he had sent me a Firebolt after hearing I had made the Gryffindor Quidditch Team. Mr Malfoy nodded sneeringly to Mr Weasley, and continued down the line to his seats. Draco shot Harry, Ron, Hermione and I one contemptuous look, then settled himself between his mother and father.

“Slimy gits,” I heard Ron mutter beside George, as we turned back to face the pitch again.
Next moment, Ludo Bagman had 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!”

The spectators screamed and clapped. Thousands of flags waved, adding their discordant national anthems to the racket. The huge blackboard opposite us was wiped clear of its last message (Bertie Botts’ Every Flavour Beans – a Risk with Every Mouthful!”) and now showed BULGARIA: ZERO, IRELAND: ZERO.

“And now, without further ado, allow me to introduce... the Bulgarian 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 Mr Weasley, leaning forwards 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 pitch, and Harry’s question was answered for him. Veela were women, some of the most beautiful women I had ever seen, except that they couldn’t be human. This puzzled me for a moment, while I tried to guess what exactly they could be; what could make their skin shine moon-bright like that, or their white-gold hair fan out behind them without wind. But then, suddenly, music started playing and the Veela started dancing.

All through the stands, men were staring, open mouthed at the women on the field. They all looked awestruck and some of them were starting to stand up. The Veela started dancing faster and faster, and I saw more and more men stand. I looked next to me, to see Fred and George, open mouthed like the others; their eyes glazed over.

“OI!” I said, hitting them both on the head, as the music stopped.

They both looked confused, and blinked at me.

“What?” they both said sheepishly.

I looked over at Harry, who’s legs were on the wall of the box, and Ron who was frozen in an attitude that looked as though he was about to dive from a springboard.

Angry yells were filling the stadium. The crowd didn’t want the Veela to go. Harry had a look on his face saying that he totally agreed with them, and that he would been supporting Bulgaria. Ron, meanwhile, was absent-mindedly shredding the shamrocks on his hat. Mr Weasley, smiling slightly, leant 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 open-mouthed at the Veela, who had now lined up along one side of the pitch.

Hermione made a loud tutting noise. She reached up and pulled Harry back into his seat.
“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 had come zooming into the stadium. It did one circuit of the stadium, the split into two smaller comets, each hurtling towards the goalposts. A rainbow arced suddenly across the pitch, connecting the two balls of light. The crowd “oooohed” and “aaaaahed”, as though at a firework 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 our heads, and heavy gold coins rained from it, bouncing off our heads and seats. Squinting up at the shamrock, I realised that it was actually composed of thousands of tiny little bearded men with red waistcoats, each carrying a minute lamp of gold or green.

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

“There you go,” I heard Ron yell 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!”

The great shamrock dissolved, the leprechauns drifted down onto the pitch 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 pitch 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!” yelled Ron, following Krum with his Omnioculars, and with a skip of a heartbeat, I quickly focused my own.

Victor Krum was thin, dark and sallow-skinned, with a large curved nose and thick black eyebrows. He looked like an over-grown bird of prey. It was hard to believe he was only eighteen. I watched his familiar face; age had not changed his familiar features.

“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 pitch; I spun a small dial on the side of my 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.

“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 that could rival my Uncle Suits’, wearing robes of pure gold to match the stadium, strode out onto the pitch. 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. I spun the speed dial on my 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, I saw it for a brief 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.