The Golden Quartet: Year 4

CHAPTER 3

Clutching what they had bought, 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; Astrid and her friends could not 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 with golden walls.

“Seats a hundred thousand,” Mr. Weasley said, spotting the awestruck look on Harry’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… bless them,” he added fondly.

“Prime seats!” said the Ministry witch who took their tickets at the entrance. “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.

Their party kept climbing… and climbing… and climbing until 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 they all sat in their seats.

Hundreds of thousands of wizards and witches were all seating themselves in the large stadium. 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 their eye level, was gigantic blackboard. Gold writing kept dashing across it.

Astrid was still grinning, looking over the stadium, waiting for the game to start.

“Dobby?” Astrid heard Harry say.

She looked back and there was a tiny female house-elf sharing their booth.

“Did sir just call me Dobby?” the elf squeaked between its fingers.

“Sorry,” Harry said, “I just thought you were someone I knew.”

“But I knows Dobby too, sir!” she squeaked. “My name is Winky, sir – and you, sir –“ her large brown eyes widened even more as they looked upon Harry’s scar. “You is surely Harry Potter!”

“Yeah, I am,” Harry said.

“But Dobby talks of you all the time, sir!” She said, looking awestruck.

“How is he?” Harry asked. “How’s freedom suiting him”

“Ah, sir,” Winky said, shaking her head, “ah sir, meaning no disrespect, sir, but I is not sure you did Dobby a favor, sir, when you is setting him free.”

“Why? What’s wrong with him?” Harry asked, taken aback.

“Freedom is going to Dobby’s head, sir,” Winky said sadly. “Ideas above his station, sir. Can’t get another position, sir.”

“Why not?”

Winky lowered her voice and whispered, “He is wanting paying for his work, sir.”

“Paying?” Harry said blankly. “Well – why shouldn’t he be paid?”

Winky looked horrified at the idea and hid behind her fingers.

Astrid chuckled, “House elves don’t get paid. They do what their master’s tell them too, and most don’t mind it. It is basically seen as an honor to serve. Most people don’t treat them terribly – but the Malfoys… well, they’re prats, aren’t they?”

“Who’s your master?” Harry asked.

“Mr. Crouch, sir. He is. He sent me up here to save his seat, even though I am… afraid of heights, sir.” She said, trembling.

“How awful!” Hermione said.

Just then more wizards entered their box, including the Minister of Magic, Cornelius Fudge. Percy jumped up and bowed so lowly his glasses fell off and broke making him very embarrassed, but he quickly fixed them with his wand and sat down. Percy threw Harry jealous looks when Fudge greeted Harry like an old friend. 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 had no reaction, obviously not understanding. “Harry Potter… oh come on now, you know who he is… the boy who survived You-Know-Who… you do know who he is-“

Astrid sighed and then pushed Harry’s bangs back and the Bulgarian spotted Harry’s scar and started gabbling loudly and excitedly, pointing at it.

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

Three new people entered the box: Lucius, Draco, and a woman who they gathered to be Draco’s mother.

Astrid immediately glared at them.

“Ah, Fudge,” Mr. Malfoy said, holding out his hand as he reached the Minister. “How are you? I don’t think you’ve met my wife, Narcissa? Or our son, Draco?”

“How do you do?” Fudge said smiling, bowling 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?”

Mr. Weasley and Mr. Malfoy looked each other down, causing a tense scene. Mr. Malfoy’s cold 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 looked over at Hermione, who went slightly pink.

In one firm step, Astrid moved in front of Hermione and returned Mr. Malfoy’s look of disdain with her own.

Fudge went over to his seat with the Bulgarians.

Mr. Malfoy stepped forward, “And how is your father?”

“Doing better than your master,” she said venomously.

He sneered and then went on to his seat, followed by Draco (who glared at Harry, Astrid, Ron, and Hermione) and his wife.

“Slimy gits,” Ron muttered as they sat back down and turned to face the field.

Next moment, Ludo Bagman charged into the box. “Everyone ready?” his round face was gleaming. “Minister – ready to go?”

“Ready when you are, Ludo,” Fudge said comfortably.

Ludo whipped out his wand and placed the tip to his throat and said, “Sonorus!” his voice boomed over the sound of everyone’s excited cheering and chatter, echoing to every corner of the stadium.

“Ladies and gentlemen… welcome! Welcome to the final of the four hundred and twenty-second Quidditch World Cup!”

Everyone cheered and clapped and thousands of flags waved. The huge blackboard 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,” Mr. Weasley said, leaning forward in his seat. “Aah!” He suddenly whipped off his glasses and polished them hurriedly on his robes and put them back on. “Veela!”

Astrid looked at Athena, both sharing the same expression, obviously sharing the same thought: Oh, hell no.

“What are veela-?”

About a hundred veela were now gliding out onto the field, answering Harry’s question.

They were women, impossibly beautiful, with skin that glowed like the moon, and hair like a unicorn’s which magically flowed on its own.

The veela started to dance and Astrid sighed and rolled her eyes. She looked over at Harry who, like all the other males, seemed to be in some kind of trance. He slowly got up and went to the edge of the balcony and began to put his leg over the railing-

“Harry!” Astrid grabbed him by his collar and pulled him back down into his seat.

Astrid looked over at her sister, who was struggling to keep both Fred and George seated, when thankfully, the veela stopped.

Angry yells filled the stadium. The men in the crowd did not want the veela to go.

“Oh, honestly!” Hermione gave the boys disapproving looks.

Athena had her arms crossed over her chest and it looked like Fred was now the one trying to get back on Athena’s side.

“And now,” Ludo Bagman roared, “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 split into two smaller comets, each hurtling toward the goal posts. A rainbow arced suddenly across the field, connecting the two balls of light. The crowd ooohed and aaaahed, 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, grabbing the heavy gold coins that rained over them.

The shamrock was actually comprised of thousands of tiny little bearded men with red vests, each carrying a minute lamp of gold or green.

“Leprechauns!” Mr. Weasley said over the loud applause of the crowd.

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 dressed figure on a broomstick shot out onto the field from an entrance below and the Bulgarian supporters roared up an applause.

“Ivanova!” A second player zoomed out.

“Zograf! Levski! Vulchanov! Volkov! Aaaaaaaand – Krum!”

“That’s him, that’s him!” Ron yelled, following Krum with his Omnioculars.

Krum was lean, dark haired, with a curved nose and thick black eyebrows.

“And now, please greet – the Irish National Quidditch Team!” Bagman yelled. “Presenting – Connolly! Ryan! Troy! Mullet! Moran! Quigley! Aaaaand – Lynch!”

Seven green blurs swept onto the field and the Irish fan screamed and cheered.

“And here, all the way from Egypt, our referee, acclaimed Chairwizard of the international Association of Quidditch, Hassan Mostafa!”

A small and skinny wizard wearing robed of gold to match the stadium, walked out onto the field. He was dragging a large crate that carried the Quidditch balls in one hand, and carrying his broom in the other. He mounted his broom and kicked open the crate and the Quaffle, Bludgers, and Snitch shot out. Mostafa blew his whistle and then shot into the air.

“AND THEY’RE OFF!” Bagman hollered. “And it’s Mullet! Troy! Moran! Dimitrov! Back to Mullet! Tro! Levski! Moran!”

The speed of the Chasers was incredible. Even with Firebolts, Astrid was blown away that they managed to go as fast as they were going. Astrid’s eyes felt like they were going to roll out of her head from watching them throw the Quaffle to one another with such great speed.

Astrid recognized the Irish going into some formation and before she knew it, Bagman shouted, “TROY SCORES!”

The stadium roared with applause and cheers, “Ten zero to Ireland!”

“What?” Harry pulled back his Omnioculars. “But Levski had the Quaffle!”

“Harry, you’ve got to watch the game in normal speed or you’ll miss everything!” Astrid shouted, whilst clapping.

Troy did a victory lap around the field and Astrid pointed and let out a laugh as the Veela across the field sulked.

The Irish were superb. They worked as a seamless team; their moves were so well coordinated it was as if they were reading each other’s minds, and Bagman kept shouting their names: “Troy – Mullet – Moran!” and within ten minutes, Ireland has scored twice more.

The match became 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!” Mr. Weasley shouted as the veela started to dance in celebration.
Once they stopped dancing, Astrid and the rest of the girls, let the males know they could go back to enjoying the game.

Bulgaria was again in possession of the Quaffle.

“Dimitrov! Levski! Dimitrov! Ivanova – oh I say!” Bagman roared as everyone turned their attention to the two Seekers, Krum and Lynch, who were both plummeting down.

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

She was half right – at the very last second, Krum pulled out and spiraled off. Lynch, however, hit the ground with a loud thud and a huge groan rose from the Irish supporters.

“Fool!” Mr. Weasley moaned. “Krum was feinting!”

Lynch slowly got to his feet and seemed to be okay and cheers erupted. He mounted his Firebolt and kicked back off into the air. His revival seemed to give Ireland new heart. When Mostafa blew his whistle again, the Chasers moved into action with skill unrivaled by anything Astrid 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 goal posts, clutching the Quaffle tightly under his arm, the Bulgarian Keeper, Zograf, flew out to meet her. Whatever happened was over so quickly Astrid didn’t even 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!”

Mullet took his shot, scoring again for the Irish and the crowd roared.

The leprechauns had risen into the air, forming a giant hand, which was making a very rude gesture and this angered the veela. Their faces turned from beautiful to horrendous, shaping into sharp, cruel-beaked bird heads, and long, scaly wings were bursting from their shoulders.

“And that, boys,” Mr. Weasley yelled, “is why you should never go for looks alone!”

“Oh, then maybe you and I should break up then,” Fred said, looking down at Athena.

She narrowed her eyes, “I don’t know if I should take that as a compliment or not.” Fred just smiled, not answering.

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

But the cheers of the Irish supporters could barely be heard over the shrieks of the veela.

“Look at Lynch!” Harry yelled.

The Irish Seeker had suddenly gone into a dive. “He’s seen the Snitch! Look at him go!” Harry shouted, excited.

Astrid was relaxed, not impressed, already knowing it would be Krum who would catch the Snitch, and when she saw Krum sweep in, she watched as Harry’s green eyes widened even more, gleaming with excitement and delight at what he was seeing.

They were spiraling down, faster and faster, and once again, Lynch crashed into the ground and Krum pulled up at the last second.

“Where’s the Snitch?” Charlie bellowed, searching the field for any sign of the small, golden ball.

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

The scoreboard flashed BULGARIA :160, IRELAND: 170 and suddenly Bagman shouted, “IRELAND WINS! KRUM GETS THE SNITCH – BUT IRELAND WINS! Good lord, I don’t think any of us were expecting that!”

Astrid smirked as she looked over to see the twins screaming and cheering and hugging each other, happy they just won the bet and then they quickly pulled Athena into the hug.

“What’d he catch the Snitch for?” Ron bellowed.

“He knew they were never going to catch up!” Harry answered. “The Irish Chasers were too good… He wanted to end it on his terms, that’s all.”

“He was quite brave, wasn’t he?” Hermione said, leaning out to watch Krum land down.

Astrid scoffed, “We’ve done braver things at a much younger age – pardon me if I’m not impressed.”

“Vell, ve fought bravely,” said a gloomy voice behind them, coming from the Bulgarian Minister.

“You can speak English!” Fudge said, sounding outraged. “And you’ve been letting me mime everything all day!”

“Vell, it vos very funny!” he said with a shrug.

The Irish took their victory lap, and then Bulgaria took their lap of shame.

After another lap of honor for the Irish 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 been longer… ah yes… yes I owe you… how much?”

Fred and George had quickly blocked Bagman from the exit, broad grins on their faces, with their hands outstretched.