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❝ [ᴘᴏʀᴛᴋᴇʏs, ɢᴏʟᴅᴇɴ sɴɪᴛᴄʜᴇs, ᴀɴᴅ ғᴀᴄᴇ ᴘᴀɪɴᴛ ɢᴀʟᴏʀᴇ] ❞ೄྀ࿐ ˊˎ-
﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋

Village of Ottery St Catchpole
- Devon, England
( August, 1994. )

𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐘 𝐓𝐑𝐔𝐃𝐆𝐄𝐃 𝐃𝐎𝐖𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐃𝐀𝐑𝐊, dank lane toward the village, the silence broken only by their footsteps. The sky lightened very slowly as they made their way through the village, its inky blackness diluting to deepest blue. Mr. Weasley kept checking his packet watch every few minutes.

They didn't have breath to spare for talking as they began to climb Stoatshead Hill, stumbling occasionally in hidden rabbit holes, slipping on thick black tuffets of grass. Each breath Olympia took was sharp in her chest, and her legs were starting to seize up when, at last, her feet found level ground. She was the furthest from athletic, never had been gifted in it or even desired it.

"Whew," panted Mr. Weasley, taking off his glasses and wiping them on his shirt. "Well, we've made good time - we've got ten minutes."

Hermione came over the crest of the hill last, clutching a stitch in her side. "Now we just need the Portkey," said Mr. Weasley, replacing his glasses and squinting around at the ground. "It won't be big....Come on..."

They spread out, searching. They had only been at it for a couple of minutes, however, when a shout rent the still air.

"Over here, Arthur! Over here, son, we've got it." Two tall figures were silhouetted against the starry sky on the other side of the hilltop.

"Amos!" greeted Arthur, smiling as he strode over to the man who had shouted. The rest of them followed. He shook hands with a ruddy-faced wizard with a scrubby brown beard, who was holding a moldy-looking old boot in his other hand. "This is Amos Diggory, everyone," said Mr. Weasley.

"He works for the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. And I think you know his son, Cedric?"

Cedric Diggory was an extremely handsome boy of around seventeen. He was Captain and Seeker of the Hufflepuff House Quidditch team at Hogwarts. And one of, if not the most, popular boy at Hogwarts.

Olympia and Cassie simply could help themselves - as teenage girls often couldn't, and shared a sideways glance to one another at his sight.

"Hi," said Cedric, looking around at them all.

Everybody said hi back except Fred and George, who merely nodded. They had never quite forgiven Cedric for beating their team, Gryffindor, in the first Quidditch match of the previous year. Plus, they were a bit annoyed at the Harrington girl's glances at the brown haired boy.

"Long walk, Arthur?" Cedric's father asked.

"Not too bad," replied Mr. Weasley. "We live just on the other side of the village there. You?"

"Had to get up at two, didn't we, Ced? I tell you, I'll be glad when he's got his Apparition test. Still. . . not complaining. . . Quidditch World Cup, wouldn't miss it for a sackful of Galleons - and the tickets cost about that. Mind you, looks like I got off easy. . ." Amos Diggory peered good-naturedly around at the three Weasley boys, Olympia, Cassie, Atlas, Harry, Hermione, and Ginny. "All these yours, Arthur?" He asked, a glimmer of sheer impressment in his eyes.

"Oh no, only the redheads," said Mr. Weasley, pointing out his children with a soft chuckle. "These are the Harrington's lot." He introduced.

"I work with your parents! Splendid people they are." Amos mused cheerfully.

"Then this is Hermione, friend of Ron's - and Harry, another friend -"

"Merlin's beard," exclaimed Amos Diggory, his eyes widening. "Harry? Harry Potter?"

"Er - yeah," said Harry, still not used to his popularity in the Wizarding World. He'd been a part of it for four years and it still took him by surprise that little ole him could be so famous. Harry was used to people looking curiously at him when they met him, used to the way their eyes moved at once to the lightning scar on his forehead, but it always made him feel uncomfortable.

"Ced's talked about you, of course," said Amos Diggory. "Told us all about playing against you last year. . . I said to him, I said - Ced, that'll be something to tell your grandchildren, that will. . . You beat Harry Potter!"

Harry couldn't think of any reply to this, so he remained silent. Fred and George were both scowling again. Petty about their previous loss to Hufflepuff. Fred couldn't help but roll his eyes at the memory. Cedric looked slightly embarrassed by his father's comment. "Harry fell off his broom, Dad," he muttered. "I told you us winning. . . it was an accident. . ."

"Yes, but you didn't fall off, did you?" roared Amos genially, slapping his son on his back. "Always modest, our Ced, always the gentleman. . . but the best man won, I'm sure Harry'd say the same, wouldn't you, eh? One falls off his broom, one stays on, you don't need to be a genius to tell which one's the better flier!"

Fred's face turned a cherry red, his bottom lip falling agape - words were within seconds of burbling from his tongue before George elbowed him in the gut to tell him to shut up.

"Must be nearly time," said Mr. Weasley quickly, pulling out his watch again. "Do you know whether we're waiting for any more, Amos?"

"No, the Lovegoods have been there for a week already and the Fawcetts couldn't get tickets," said Mr. Diggory. "There aren't any more of us in this area, are there?"

"Not that I know of," said Mr. Weasley. "Yes, it's a minute off. . . We'd better get ready. . ." He looked around at Harry and Hermione, who stared curiously at the boot. He occasionally forgets they both come from muggle homes. "You just need to touch the Portkey, that's all, a finger will do." He instructed the two.

With difficulty, owing to their bulky backpacks, the eleven of them crowded around the old boot held out by Amos Diggory. They all stood there, in a tight circle, as a chill breeze swept over the hilltop. Nobody spoke. "Three. . ." muttered Mr. Weasley, one eye still on his watch, two. . . one. . ."

It happened immediately: Olympia had only traveled by port key a handful of times. She felt as though a someone grabbed her behind her navel and suddenly jerked her forward. Her feet left the ground; she could feel Cassie and Atlas's grip tighten on her own. They were all speeding forward in a howl of wind and swirling color; her forefinger was stuck to the boot as though it was pulling her magnetically onward.

"Let go!" Mr. Weasley instructed.

"Oooo I hate this part!" Cassie cried out, letting go with a terrified scream. They all landed on the cold wet grass with a thud, all except, Mr. Weasley, Mr. Diggory, and Cedric who were still standing, gracefully down gracefully from the sky.

"I hate portkeys." Cassie grumbled, feeling sick as she pushed herself off the ground. Olympia remembered how the last time they traveled by port key, Cassie threw up until noon - poor Cas had ever right to hate them.

Olympia was within seconds of getting herself off the ground before a hand outstretched to her, Cedric smiling down to her. A nervous smile crept along her lips, her face pinking slightly, as she took his hand.

Fred and George pushed themselves off the ground, glancing back at Cedric and his little floating move with annoyed expressions. George's jaw clenched as Cedric helped Olympia up. "What she can't get up herself?" He whispered jealously to Fred, who shared the same expression his twin wore.

"Seven past five from Stoatshead Hill," said a voice. They had arrived on what appeared to be a deserted stretch of misty moor. They trudged up the misty field between long rows of tents. Most looked almost ordinary; but some had added chimneys, or bellpulls, or weather vanes. Halfway up the field stood an extravagant confection of striped silk like a miniature palace, with several live peacocks tethered at the entrance.

A little farther on they passed a tent that had three floors and several turrets; and a short way beyond that was a tent that had a front garden attached, complete with birdbath, sundial, and fountain - that one was the Diggory's tent. "Parting of the ways, I think, old chap. See you at the match." Said Amos, stopping at it, Cedric waved the group goodbye before disappearing inside.

"Always the same," said Mr. Weasley, smiling. "We can't resist showing off when we get together. Ah, here we are, look, this is us."

They had reached the very edge of the wood at the top of the field, and here was a small tent, with a small sign hammered into the ground that read WEEZLY. "Couldn't have a better spot!" said Mr. Weasley happily. "The field is just on the other side of the wood there, we're as close as we could be." He hoisted his backpack from his shoulders. "Right," he said excitedly, opening the flap of the tent and holding it open for each of them.

Olympia ducked inward. She was met with the warmness of the tent, a particular Weasley trait. The family could really make anything into a warm, loving area. Fred and George immediately plopped onto the kitchen chairs, placing their shoes upon the table.

"Girls, choose a bunk and unpack. Ron, get out of the kitchen. We're all hungry." Mr. Weasley spoke.

"Yeah, get out of the kitchen, Ron!" Fred and George mocked, their sentence in perfect sync.

Arthur snapped his fingers toward Fred and George, "Feet off the table!"

Fred and George removed their feet before saying, "Feet off the table!" before putting their feet back on the table.

"You two." Olympia rolled her eyes with a soft chuckle, plopping down on the couch across from them.

The Quidditch World Cup
Weasley Campground
- Devon, England
( August 29th, 1994.

A few hours had passed, Fred, George, and Atlas had napped, Olympia and Cassie played a game of cards, and Hermione, Ron, Harry, and Ginny had explored the other tents meeting up with friends.

"You've been ages," said George when they finally got back to the Weasleys' tents. The group exited the tent, sitting outside around the lit fire.

"Met a few people," said Ron, setting the water down. There was plenty to watch while they waited, however. Their tent seemed to be pitched right alongside a kind of thoroughfare to the field, and Ministry members kept hurrying up and down it, greeting Mr. Weasley cordially as they passed.

Mr. Weasley kept up a running commentary, mainly for Harry's and Hermione's benefit; his own children and the Harrington's knew too much about the Ministry to be greatly interested. "That was Cuthbert Mockridge, Head of the Goblin Liaison Office....Here comes Gilbert Wimple; he's with the Committee on Experimental Charms; he's had those horns for a while now...Hello, Arnie...Arnold Peasegood, he's an Obliviator - member of the Accidental Magic Reversal Squad, you know...and that's Bode and Croaker...they're Unspeakables...."

"They're what?" Harry questioned.

"From the Department of Mysteries, top secret, no idea what they get up to...."

"Ask Atlas, Olympia, or Cassie - their mum is one, head of office actually, and they haven't the slightest idea of what she's up to half the time." Fred pointed out.

Olympia nodded, "he's right, Mum keeps her work top secret. Only father knows of it."

At last, the fire was ready, and they had just started cooking eggs and sausages when Bill, Charlie, and Percy came strolling out of the woods toward them.

"Just Apparated, Dad," said Percy loudly and proudly, "Ah, excellent, lunch!"

They were halfway through their plates of eggs and sausages when Mr. Weasley jumped to his feet, waving and grinning at a man who was striding toward them. "Aha!" he said. "The man of the moment! Ludo!"

Ludo Bagman was easily the most noticeable person here so far. He was wearing long Quidditch robes in thick horizontal stripes of bright yellow and black. An enormous picture of a wasp was splashed across his chest. He had the look of a powerfully built man gone slightly to seed; the robes were stretched tightly across a large belly he surely had not had in the days when he had played Quidditch for England. His nose was squashed (probably broken by a stray Bludger,) but his round blue eyes, short blond hair, and rosy complexion made him look like a very overgrown schoolboy.

"Ahoy there!" Bagman called happily. He was walking as though he had springs attached to the balls of his feet and was plainly in a state of wild excitement.

"Arthur, old man," he puffed as he reached the campfire, "what a day, eh? What a day! Could we have asked for more perfect weather? A cloudless night coming...and hardly a hiccough in the arrangements....Not much for me to do!"

Behind him, a group of haggard-looking Ministry wizards rushed past, pointing at the distant evidence of some sort of a magical fire that was sending violet sparks twenty feet into the air.

Percy hurried forward with his hand outstretched. Apparently his disapproval of the way Ludo Bagman ran his department did not prevent him from wanting to make a good impression.

"Ah - yes," said Mr. Weasley, grinning, "this is my son Percy. He's just started at the Ministry - and this is Fred - no, George, sorry - that's Fred - Bill, Charlie, Ron - my daughter, Ginny and Ron's friends, Hermione Granger and Harry Potter. And then the blondes are the Harrington's children."

Bagman did the smallest of double takes when he heard Harry's name, and his eyes performed the familiar flick upward to the scar on Harry's forehead.

"Everyone," Mr. Weasley continued, "this is Ludo Bagman, you know who he is, it's thanks to him we've got such good tickets -" Bagman beamed and waved his hand as if to say it had been nothing.

"Fancy a flutter on the match, Arthur?" he asked eagerly, jingling what seemed to be a large amount of gold in the pockets of his yellow-and black robes. "I've already got Roddy Pontner betting me Bulgaria will score first - I offered him nice odds, considering Ireland's front three are the strongest I've seen in years - and little Agatha Timms has put up half shares in her eel farm on a weeklong match."

"Oh...go on then," said Mr. Weasley, digging into his pocket. "Let's see...a Galleon on Ireland to win?"

"A Galleon?" Ludo Bagman looked slightly disappointed, but recovered himself. "Very well, very well...any other takers?"

Fred and George excitedly scrambled forward, pushing their hands into their pockets. Ludo clasped his hands together excitedly at the sight.

"They're a bit young to be gambling," said Mr.
Weasley. "Molly wouldn't like -"

"We'll bet thirty-seven Galleons, fifteen Sickles, three Knuts," said Fred as he and George quickly pooled all their money, "that Ireland wins - but Viktor Krum gets the Snitch. Oh and we'll throw in a fake wand."

Olympia's jaw dropped, thirty seven galleons, fifteen sickles? That was an awfully lot for the twins to just throw away on gambling. "Oh don't be so dim!" She hollered out toward them. They ignored her comment.

"You don't want to go showing Mr. Bagman rubbish like that," Percy hissed, but Bagman didn't seem to think the wand was rubbish at all; on the contrary, his boyish face shone with excitement as he took it from Fred, and when the wand gave a loud squawk and turned into a rubber chicken, Bagman roared with laughter.

"Excellent! I haven't seen one that convincing in years! I'd pay five Galleons for that!"

Fred and George glanced to one another with big lopsided smiles. The possibility of their dream joke shop could very well become a reality.

Percy froze in an attitude of stunned disapproval.

"Boys," said Mr. Weasley under his breath, "I don't want you betting....That's all your savings....Your mother would -"

"Don't be a spoilsport, Arthur!" boomed Ludo Bagman, rattling his pockets excitedly. Arthur let of a sharp sigh, wishing the twin's would simply listen to him. Molly would surely kill them, there was already talk of putting more restrictions on them. But Mr. Weasley feared if she cracked down on them that it'd only push them away. They were sixteen, he hated the thought of possibly loosing Fred and George the second they turned eighteen.

"They're old enough to know what they want! You reckon Ireland will win but Krum'll get the Snitch? Not a chance, boys, not a chance....I'll give you excellent odds on that one....We'll add five Galleons for the funny wand, then, shall we...."

Mr. Weasley looked on helplessly as Ludo Bagman whipped out a notebook and quill and began jotting down the twins' names.

"Cheers," said George, taking the slip of parchment Bagman handed him and tucking it away into the back of his jean pocket.

Bagman turned most cheerfully back to Mr. Weasley. Who was pale in the face. "Couldn't do me a brew, I suppose? I'm keeping an eye out for Barty Crouch. My Bulgarian opposite number's making difficulties, and I can't understand a word he's saying. Barty'll be able to sort it out. He speaks about a hundred and fifty languages."

"Mr. Crouch?" said Percy, suddenly abandoning his look of poker-stiff disapproval and positively writhing with excitement. "He speaks over two hundred! Mermish and Gobbledegook and Troll...."

"Anyone can speak Troll," said Fred dismissively. "All you have to do is point and grunt."

Percy threw Fred an extremely nasty look and stoked the fire vigorously to bring the kettle back to the boil.

"Any news of Bertha Jorkins yet, Ludo?" Mr. Weasley asked as Bagman settled himself down on the grass beside them all.

"Not a dicky bird," said Bagman comfortably. "But she'll turn up. Poor old Bertha...memory like a leaky cauldron and no sense of direction. Lost, you take my word for it. She'll wander back into the office sometime in October, thinking it's still July."

"You don't think it might be time to send someone to look for her?" Mr. Weasley suggested tentatively as Percy handed Bagman his tea.

"Barty Crouch keeps saying that," said Bagman, his round eyes widening innocently, "but we really can't spare anyone at the moment. Oh - talk of the devil! Barty!"

A wizard had just Apparated at their fireside, and he could not have made more of a contrast with Ludo Bagman, sprawled on the grass in his old Wasp robes. Barty Crouch was a stiff, upright, elderly man, dressed in an impeccably crisp suit and tie. The parting in his short gray hair was almost unnaturally straight, and his narrow toothbrush mustache looked as though he trimmed it using a slide rule. His shoes were very highly polished. It was obvious why Percy looked up to him.

"Pull up a bit of grass, Barry," said Ludo brightly, patting the ground beside him.

"No thank you, Ludo," said Crouch, and there was a bite of impatience in his voice. "I've been looking for you everywhere. The Bulgarians are insisting we add another twelve seats to the Top Box."

"Oh is that what they're after?" said Bagman. "I thought the chap was asking to borrow a pair of tweezers. Bit of a strong accent."

"Mr. Crouch!" said Percy breathlessly, sunk into a kind of halfbow that made him look like a hunchback. "Would you like a cup of tea?"

"Oh," said Mr. Crouch, looking over at Percy in mild surprise. "Yes. Thank you, uh Weatherby."

Fred and George choked into their own cups. Percy, very pink around the ears, busied himself with the kettle.

Olympia and Cassie snickered into their cups. Atlas couldn't help but feel a bit sorry for Percy, he was still his best friend after all. Or was he really?

"Never let him forget this." Olympia whispered to Fred and George.

"Never ever." They replied.

"Ludo, we need to meet the Bulgarians, you know," said Mr. Crouch sharply, cutting Bagman's remarks short. "Thank you for the tea, Weatherby." He pushed his undrunk tea back at Percy and waited for Ludo to rise; Bagman struggled to his feet, swigging down the last of his tea, the gold in his pockets chinking merrily.

"See you all later!" Ludo said. "You'll be up in the Top Box with me - I'm commentating!" He waved, Barty Crouch nodded curtly, and both of them Disapparated.

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 pretence 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.

Bill, Charlie, Cassie, 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 their faces with covered with brightly colored green paint. Atlas, Harry, Ron, and Olympia all wore Hungarian colors of red and black. Olympia didn't know much about Quidditch, not enough to have an opinion on the sport that's for sure - yet she sported the colors only to annoy Fred and George.

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, kids, welcome to the Quidditch World Cup!"

The Quidditch World Cup
- Devon, England
( August, 1994. )

                             𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐐𝐔𝐈𝐃𝐃𝐈𝐓𝐂𝐇 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐋𝐃 𝐂𝐔𝐏 𝐖𝐀𝐒 𝐀 𝐆𝐑𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐍𝐓. Olympia had never attended something so momentum. Though Quidditch didn't matter much to her, still despite that, she bustled with excitement.

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.

Olympia reached out and grabbed her elder bother Atlas's arm for comfort - crowds made her feel awfully uncomfortable.

They walked through the wooded area 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.

"It's huge!" Roared out Atlas.

"Seats a hundred thousand," replied Mr. Weasley.

"A hundred thousand?" Olympia exclaimed, she'd never been around so many people in the entirety of her sixteen years.

"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," Mr. Weasley added fondly, he always had a love for muggles. Be lead the way toward 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 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, 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 here, Olympia and Cassie stared toward into stadium in awestruck.

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 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, advertisements flashes across it: The Bluebottle: A Broom for All the Family - safe, reliable, and with Built-in Anti-Burgler Buzzer...Mrs. Shower's All Purpose Magical Mess Remover: No Pain, No Stain!...Gladrags Wizardwear - London, Paris, Hogsmeade...

"Oh imagine it! Imagine actually playing on a field like that!" Fred hollered out, having to just about scream to be heard over the crowd.

"Well maybe if you weren't so lousy at Quidditch." Charlie teased, knowing that Fred and George were both exceptional quidditch players. They weren't pro good, but they were good.

"Lousy!?" Fred turned, beginning to bicker back and forth with Charlie, who snickered as he relentlessly teased his younger brother.

George pulled out his Omnioculars and raised them to his eyes, peering down into the crowd on the other side of the stadium. He used his hands to adjust the knobs in the position he desired.

Olympia pulled out the velvetcovered, tasseled program, her eyes scanning the different teams and players.

"You wouldn't need that if you watched a game or two every now and then." George pointed out. "And I can't believe I have to be seen with you wearing that." He grimaced, pointing to her red and black Bulgarian hat that she wore only to tick him off. 

Olympia rolled her eyes, slamming the program shut. "You love being seen with me." the flirtatious comment rolled effortlessly from her lips.

"Touché." He hummed, his attention being diverted as Fred grabbed his arm.

"Back me up here George! Tell him! Tell Charlie how good we are at quidditch!"

The three boys bickered back and forth about their skills - Olympia overhead Charlie noting how much better he was at the sport, causing the twin's to get even more frustrated.

Olympia rolled her eyes at the boy's ridiculous nature. She pulled the pamphlet from her lap, opening it back up and reading. "A display from the team mascots will precede the match," Olympia read aloud, earning the twin's attention once more.

"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.

"I heard something about veelas!" Bill announced.

Each of the boys, just about leapt out of their seats from excitement at the news. "Bloody hell you're kidding!" Atlas hollered.

Fred, George, Atlas, Achilles, and Charlie all scooted closer to Bill, anticipating to hear more.

"What are veelas?" Cassie asked the boys curiously. Olympia already knew what the creatures were, she knew just a little bit about everything. Always taking as many classes and reading as many books as she could. Olympia loved knowledge, it was in her opinion her best quality. 

"Only the most breathtaking creatures!" Achilles mused.

Olympia rolled her eyes at their reactions, turning toward Cassie to further explain. "Veela are semi-human magical beings; beautiful women with white-gold hair and pale white skin. They have the power bewitch men and control them by dancing and singing. Oh and they are only ever female, so they often breed with wizards to pro create."

"Oh to be that lucky." Atlas gushed.

"They also turn into giant birds and shoot fire from their mouth." Olympia deadpanned toward her brother.

"Wicked." Fred and George remarked.

The box filled gradually around them 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 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 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 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!"

Then walked over Lucius Malfoy; his son, Draco; and a woman Olympia had never seen before but guessed must've been Draco's mother. She was tall and slim, she would have been beautiful if she hadn't been wearing a look of disdain that suggested there may have been a nasty smell about.

"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, and shaking Draco's hand. "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?"

The moment grew tense.

Mr. Weasley and Mr. Malfoy looked at each other and Olympia briefly 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's cold gray eyes swept over Arthur's, 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? Perhaps you sold one of your children? You have plenty to spare."

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. He placed a hand atop Charlie's shoulders to withhold him from leaping forward. Charlie was always the most irritable of all his children, even more so than Fred and Ron.

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. Next moment, Ludo Bagman charged into the box.

"Everyone ready?" he said, his round face gleaming. "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 them was wiped clear of its last message (Bertie Bott's Every Flavor Beans - A Risk With Every Mouthful!) 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 Mr. Weasley, leaning forward in his seat. "Aaah!" He suddenly whipped off his glasses and polished them hurriedly on his robes. "Veela!"

"What are veel -?" Harry Potter began to question.

But a hundred veela were now gliding out onto the field, and Harry's question was answered for him. This puzzled Harry for a moment while he 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 the music started, and Harry stopped worrying about them no being human - in fact, he stopped worrying about anything at all. As did all them.

The veela had started to dance, and the boy's minds had gone completely and blissfully blank. All that mattered in the world was that they kept watching the veela, because if they stopped dancing, terrible things would happen. Each of them entirely and completely captivated, as the veela's power entailed.

The music stopped. Angry yells were filling the stadium. The crowd didn't want the veela to go. Fred, George, Charlie, Ron, Harry, Bill, Achilles, and Atlas was with them - all captivated.

"You're all sad." Olympia insulted, "Oy George you have a little drool, right there on your chin." She taunted.

He instantly reached to his chin, believing her (he woudlnt have been surprised with himself if he had drooled.) But he wiped away nothing, sending her an irritated scowl, "oh shut it."

"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 goal posts. A rainbow arced 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!" yelled Ron as the shamrock soared over them, and heavy gold coins rained from it, bouncing off their heads and seats. Squinting up at the shamrock, Olympia and Cassie realized that it was actually full of thousands of tiny little bearded men with red vests, 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.

Fred and George dove head first forward into the ground, scooping up as many coins as they could. Atlas, Achilles, and Cassie joined them on the ground.

"Bluthering idiots!" Olympia called out, sharing a laugh with Hermione who was judging them the same as Olympia. Her and Hermione were one in same you see, mature beyond their years.

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! Aaaaanddddddds - Krum!"

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

Viktor Krum was thin, dark, and sallow-skinned, with a large curved nose and thick black eyebrows. He looked like an overgrown bird of prey. It was hard to believe he was only eighteen.

"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; Fred and George threw themselves atop their seats, their voices bellowing with cheers.

"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 mustache so large it could be seen without Omnioculars, wearing robes of pure gold to match the stadium, strode out onto the field. A silver whistle was protruding from under the mustache, and he was carrying a large wooden crate under one arm, his broomstick under the other. Mostafa mounted his broomstick and kicked the crate open - four balls burst into the air: the scarlet Quaffle, the two black Bludgers, and 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.

"HAWKSHEAD ATTACKING FORMATION," he read as he watched the three Irish Chasers zoom closely together, Troy in the center, slightly ahead of Mullet and Moran, bearing down upon the Bulgarians. "PORSKOFF PLOY" flashed up next, as Troy made as though to dart upward with the Quaffle, drawing away the Bulgarian Chaser Ivanova and dropping the Quaffle to Moran. One of the Bulgarian Beaters, Volkov, swung hard at a passing Bludger with his small club, knocking it into Moran's path; Moran ducked to avoid the Bludger and dropped the Quaffle; and Levski, soaring beneath, caught it - "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 knew enough about Quidditch to see that 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. "Troy - Mullet - Moran!" 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 began to become brutal, causing Olympia to anxiously tighten her grip on her velvet pamphlet.

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!" warned Mr. Weasley to the boys as the veela started to dance and sing in celebration. "Unless you wanna be routing for the Bulgarians!"

Fred and George placed their hands over their ears, looking down to avoid watching the Veela and fall under their spells. They wanted the Irish to win, and didn't want their opinion swayed.

The veela had stopped dancing, and 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!" screamed Hermione next to Harry.

Olympia anxiously grabbed Cassie's arm, ducking into her twin sister's side, unable to watch.

Fred and George ducked down from their seats above Cass and Olympia, "Oy Ols, it'll be alright." George offered, a soft smile on his lips.

At the very last second, Viktor Krum pulled out of the dive and spiraled 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.

"I take it back, don't look." George breathed out, causing Olympia to quickly stand up and look to the field to make sure the player was alright. "Or look." he sighed, watching as the anxiously peered to the injured player.

"Fool!" moaned Mr. Weasley. "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, Hermione, Olympia, and Cass, who all hung over the side of the box, looking horror-struck. "Which is what Krum was after, of course...."

Krum was now circling high above Lynch, who was being revived by mediwizards with cups of potion. Krum's dark eyes darting all over the ground a hundred feet below. 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 new heart. When Mostafa blew his whistle again, the Chasers moved into action with a skill unrivaled by anything Harry 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.

"I don't like this." Olympia announced to the group, "they're going to kill each other."

"It's just a game." Fred assured, "they're have precautions."

As Mullet shot toward the goal posts yet again, clutching the Quaffle tightly under her arm, the Bulgarian Keeper, Zograf, flew out to meet her.

"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!"

"That's rubbish!" Screamed out Achilles, standing up, fuming with anger.

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' and Harry stuffed their fingers into their ears. Olympia watched the scene unfold, suddenly the referee began acting a fool.

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 mustache excitedly.

"Now, we can't have that!" said Ludo Bagman, 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; he looked exceptionally embarrassed 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..."

"Oh boy. You're about to see their true forms." Mr. Weasley commented.

Olympia excitedly pushed herself out of her seat, she had always wanted to see a Veela in their true form.

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!" shouted Bagman, 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..."

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, which was making a very rude sign, a middle finger at that, straight 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.

They didn't look even remotely beautiful anymore.

Olympia clasped her hands together, turning around to face the twins and shooting forward toward George. "George, give me those!" She snatched the Omnioculars from his hands, pulling them to her face - the neck strap yanked him toward her, he was pulled forward, into her back, and the side of his face collided into her cheek.

Olympia was too focused on adjusting the knobs to see the Veela to care about George's face uncomfortably squashed into her cheek.

She peered at them, their faces were elongating into sharp, cruel-beaked bird heads, and long, scaly wings were bursting from their shoulders.

"And that, boys," yelled Mr. Weasley 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.

"Ols." George called out in a wince, hunched over and slouched over her back, his cheek stuck firmly to hers. "I'm catching a cramp in my back." He complained.

His voice was what dragged Olympia's attention from the Veela, she suddenly realized how close he was. How his back was firmly against her own, his cheek pressed to hers. "Oh, yeah," she breathed out, feeling embarrassed. She pulled the Omnioculars from her face, handing them back to him.

"If you wanted me on you, you could've just said so." George remarked flirtatiously.

"Shut up." Olympia shot back, handing the Omnioculars to him and shooing him away.  

"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; "now Levski had the Quaffle, now Dimitrov -"

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.

Olympia clasped her hands over her mouth to conceal her gasp, immediately looking down from the sight n

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 Harry couldn't blame him; one of the veela had thrown a handful of fire and set his broom tail alight.

"Time-out! Ah, come on, he can't play like that, look at him -" Atlas bellowed, hoping the referee would come to.

"Look at Lynch!" Harry yelled.

For the Irish Seeker had suddenly gone into a dive, this wasn't a faint, it wasn't a game ploy. This was the real thing... the golden snitch.

"He's seen the Snitch!" Harry shouted excitedly, "He's seen it! Look at him go!"

Half the crowd seemed to have realized what was happening; the Irish supporters rose in another great wave of green, screaming their Seeker on...but Krum was on his tail. He could barely hold his broom straight, his vision blurred form the blood pooling from his broken nose. 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!" shrieked Hermione, Olympia immediately covered her eyes once more.

"They're not!" roared Achilles.

"No Lynch will!" yelled Atlas.

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.

Olympia shrieked in terror, "Merlin's beard this game is violent!" She cried out.

"The Snitch, where's the Snitch?" bellowed Charlie, along the row.

"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 realized 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!"

Fred and George were shocked that they could've actually called that. How much money was that they just won? A hell of a lot. "Holy shit!" Fred screamed out, not a care in the world that his father may hear.

"What did he catch the Snitch for?" Ron ranted, 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....

"That was brave of him, Krum." Olympia said, watching Krum land, a swarm of mediwizards blasted a path through the battling leprechauns and veela to get to him. "He's covered in blood."

It was hard to see what was happening below, because leprechauns were zooming delightedly all over the field.

The Bulgarians were 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; the veela were shrinking back into their usual, beautiful selves now, though looking dispirited and forlorn.

"Vell, ve fought bravely," said a gloomy voice from behind, itwas the Bulgarian Minister of Magic.

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

"Veil, it vos very funny," said the Bulgarian minister, shrugging.

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

There was a blinding light, as the Top Box was magically illuminated so that everyone in the stands could see the inside. Two panting wizards carried 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. 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.

When Krum's name was announced, the whole stadium gave him a resounding, earsplitting roar. He was most definitely the crowd favorite.

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.

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 Confolly'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," he turned to the twins, "I owe you....how much?"

Fred and George scrambled over the backs of their seats and stood in front of Ludo Bagman with broad grins on their faces, their hands outstretched.

Ludo begrudgingly handed them what he owed. "Pleasure doing business with ya!" Fred commented, Ludo simply tipped his head to them and moped away, empty pockets and all.

Olympia glanced back at Fred and George, whom were busy counting their money, "Well I must say, that was impressive."

"Us? Oh we're flattered." Fred beamed, placing a hand on his heart.

"It a was just a lil Irish luck." George added.

Olympia rolled her eyes, "I was talking about the game."

"Sure ya were Ols, sure ya were." George laughed.