They Shook Hands: Year Four (Original Version)

They Shook Hands : Year Four

An alternate (but realistic!) universe Harry Potter fic
by Dethryl

Chapter Six - In The Minister's Box

On the day of the match, the camp began to slip the bounds that the Ministry had tried to enforce. Magic was blatantly used no matter where one turned. Excitement was heard in every voice, and by the time night fell, the air itself seemed to be quivering with anticipation. A deep, booming gong sounded somewhere beyond the woods, and at once, green and red lanterns blazed to life in the trees, lighting a path to the field.

Sirius and Harry met up with the Malfoys as everyone hurried into the woods. Everyone was excited. Thousands of people all around them were shouting and laughing, and Harry even heard a few snatches of singing. It was highly infectious; Harry couldn't 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. Though Harry could see only a fraction of the immense gold walls surrounding the field, he could tell that ten cathedrals would fit comfortably inside it.

"Wow," Harry breathed.

"It is very impressive, isn't it? There's a one hundred thousand being capacity," Mr. Malfoy said with a slow nod. "A Ministry task force of five hundred have been working on it all year. Every inch has the strongest Muggle Repelling Charms we know. Every time Muggles have gotten anywhere near here all year, they've suddenly remembered urgent appointments and had to dash away again."

Harry was supposed to meet Susan outside, but how could he ever find her in this mass of people? The nearest entrance was already surrounded by a swarm of shouting witches and wizards. Fortunately, she had already arrived.

It was by merest chance that Harry saw her jumping up and scanning the crowd for him. He jumped up and waved back. "Susan! Over here!"

She saw him and pushed through the crowd to join them in the queue. "Harry! Hey!"

"Long wait?"

"Only a few minutes. I went through once, but when I told the witch I was just waiting for people, she sent me back out again. So I just kept getting in the queue. This'll be my fourth time through."

"That's sheer madness," Draco declared.

Susan shrugged. "It wasn't all bad. I got to talk to quite a few people and heard some very interesting information. Did you know Krum is still a student?"

"No!" Harry exclaimed with surprise.

"He is indeed."

"Then Elan must know him," Draco said speculatively. "Wait, didn't he mention a very good Seeker in one of his letters last year?"

"No, he told us at Christmas."

"Yes, we knew that," Draco told Susan.

"Uh huh. Sure, Malfoy."

"No, really!"

"Look sharp now, here's the witch again."

"Back again, dearie?" the Ministry witch at the entrance asked of Susan.

"No, these are my friends. I'll be going in now, please."

The witch checked their tickets. "Prime seats! Top Box! Straight upstairs, 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. They 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, and Harry filed into the front seats with the Malfoys in front of him, Draco to his right, Susan to his left, and Sirius bringing up the rear. He looked down upon a scene the likes of which he could never have imagined.

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 Harry'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, Harry saw that it was flashing advertisements across the field.

• The Bluebottle: A Broom for All the Family - safe, reliable, and with Built-in Anti-Burglar Buzzer
• Mrs. Shower's All Purpose Magical Mess Remover: No Pain, No Stain!
• Gladrags Wizardwear - London, Paris, Hogsmeade
• Bertie Bott's Every Flavour Beans - A Risk With Every Mouthful!

Susan had picked up one of the velvet-covered, tasselled programs. "'A display from the team mascots will precede the match,'" she read aloud.

"Oh that's always worth watching," said Mr. Malfoy. "National teams bring native creatures and put on a bit of a show."

Harry had snuck a few glances back at Sirius during the arduous climb to the Top Box, but now he really had a chance to assess his godfather. He'd been vetted in private gatherings, but this was the first time Sirius had really been out in public since his innocence had been proven. Harry knew well what it was like to be stared at and pointed at. Sirius was about as notorious as Harry was, except in a bad way. Harry was worried about how he would deal with it.

Sirius, for his part, seemed very vigilant. His eyes scanned the room, never seeming to rest on any object for too long. He carried himself very tightly, like a coiled spring ready to release at the slightest cause. Harry had no doubt that Sirius carried his wand up his sleeve again.

What they had been led to believe was the Minister's private box was not so private. The box filled gradually around them over the next half hour. Mr. Malfoy kept shaking hands with people who were obviously very important wizards. When Cornelius Fudge, the Minister of Magic himself, arrived, he led his party right over to where Harry and his group were sitting.

"Lucius! Good to see you! Thank you again so much for that very generous contribution to Saint Mungo's. The Director has asked me to personally convey her gratitude." St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries was Britain's premier institute of magical medicine. Mr. Malfoy had donated a large sum of money to help in the establishment of a new program of treatment for spinal injuries, which were tricky even for magic to heal properly.

"Fudge," said Mr. Malfoy, holding out his hand. "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 Mister Oblansk - Obalonsk - Mister - well, he's the Bulgarian Minister of Magic, and he can't understand a word I'm saying anyway, so never mind."

The Bulgarian Minister was wearing splendid robes of black velvet trimmed with gold. He nodded confusedly to the Malfoys, who murmured polite greetings in return.

"And let's see who else? Ah, of course!"

Harry winced, for he knew the next words out of the Minister's mouth.

"Sirius Black! One of Britain's finest wizards, scion of the noble Black family."

Language barriers aside, the Bulgarian Minister clearly knew who Sirius was. A great look of fear filled his eyes, and he nervously extended a limp hand, which Sirius shook while trying to smile. Unfortunately it came off as more of a look implying that he was intending to pounce on the Minister and devour him. The poor man nearly collapsed on the spot.

Sirius glared daggers at Fudge, who seemed to falter a bit, but Harry's godfather tried again to smile at the Bulgarian Minister. It came off a bit more genuine this time, and the man relaxed a tad. His handshake became firmer, and he managed to let go.

"And of course, we can't forget-"

Here it came.

"Harry Potter! A pleasure, Harry, a pleasure." They had not met before, but Harry had seen Fudge enough times to not be impressed with him. He shook Harry's hand in a fashion that Harry privately found obsequious.

Fudge turned to the Bulgarian Minister. "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. Who's your lady friend, Harry?"

"Susan Bones," she answered for herself, sticking out her hand.

"Bones, Bones, not Amelia's niece?"

"The same."

"Wonderful job your aunt does. Wonderful job. Couldn't ask for someone better."

"Thank you, sir. You might remember that when it comes time for holiday bonuses."

Harry couldn't believe that Susan was being cheeky to the Minister of Magic. In public, no less. But Fudge laughed uproariously.

"Yes, definitely Amelia's niece. Perhaps in next year's budget. Now where's Bagman got to? He's Head of Magical Games and Sports, you know. Used to play for England many years ago. Beater. He's doing the commentary for the match tonight." Fudge checked his watch. "He's late. It's about to start, isn't it?"

As if on cue, a man charged into the box. 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, Harry thought), but his round blue eyes, short blond hair, and rosy complexion made him look like a very overgrown schoolboy.

"Everyone ready?" he said, his round face gleaming with a sheen of sweat. Despite his girth, it appeared he'd run up that horrendous amount of stairs. "Minister, are we 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 advertisements 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.Â

"This ought to be interesting," Mr. Malfoy observed, leaning forward in his seat. He sat back hurriedly. "Veela!"

"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, the most beautiful women Harry had ever seen, except that they weren't - they couldn't be - human. 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 not being human; in fact, he stopped worrying about anything at all.

The veela started to dance, and Harry's mind went completely and blissfully blank. All that mattered in the world was that he kept watching the veela, because if they stopped dancing, Terrible Things would happen.

And as the veela danced faster and faster, wild, half-formed thoughts started chasing through Harry's dazed mind. He wanted to do something very impressive, right now. Jumping from the box into the stadium seemed a good idea, but would it be good enough?

Sirius apparently didn't think so, because he grabbed onto Harry, pulled him down, and wrapped him in a very tight hug. Harry couldn't see the veela any more, and now Dire Things would happen. He struggled against Sirius for a moment, but then the music stopped. Harry blinked. What was going on?

He relaxed, and Sirius let him up. Next to him, Draco was frozen in an attitude that looked as though he were about to dive from a springboard. Angry yells were filling the stadium. The crowd didn't want the veela to go. Harry was with them; he would, of course, be supporting Bulgaria, and he wondered vaguely why he had a large green shamrock pinned to his chest. Draco, meanwhile, was absent-mindedly shredding his shamrocks. Mr. Malfoy, smiling slightly, leaned over and tugged the hat out of Draco's hands.

"You'll want that," he said, "once Ireland have had their say."

"Huh?" said Draco, staring open-mouthed at the veela, who had now lined up along one side of the field.

"And now," roared Ludo Bagman's voice, "kindly put your wands in the air for the Irish National Team Mascots!"

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 ooh'd and aah'd, as though at a fireworks display. Then 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 -

"Gold! It's gold!"

The shamrock soared over them, and heavy gold coins rained from it, bouncing off their heads and seats. Squinting up at the shamrock, Harry realized that it was actually comprised of thousands of tiny little bearded men with red vests, each carrying a minute lamp of gold or green. Even a fool knew these were-

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

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!"

Draco, Harry, and Susan all followed Krum with their Omnioculars. 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; Harry spun a small dial on the side of his 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. He dialled the speed back up before he could miss anything.

"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 furious growth of 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. Mostafa mounted his broomstick and kicked the crate open. Four balls burst into the air: the scarlet Quaffle, the two black Bludgers, and (Harry 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!"

It was Quidditch as Harry had never seen it played before. He was pressing his Omnioculars so hard to his glasses that they were cutting into the bridge of his nose. 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!"

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, and the rosette on Harry's chest kept squeaking their names: "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 became faster still, 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!" Sirius exclaimed as the veela started to dance in celebration. Harry screwed up his eyes too; he wanted to keep his mind on the game. After a few seconds, he chanced a glance at the field. 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 centre of the Chasers, so fast that it looked as though they had just jumped from airplanes without parachutes. Harry followed their descent through his Omnioculars, squinting to see where the Snitch was.

"They're going to crash!" Susan screamed right in Harry's ear.

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!" moaned Draco. "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!" Harry knew. It had happened to him before. "Which is what Krum was after, of course."

Harry hastily pressed the replay and play-by-play buttons on his Omnioculars, twiddled the speed dial, and put them back up to his eyes. He watched as Krum and Lynch dived again in slow motion. WRONSKI DEFENSIVE FEINT - DANGEROUS SEEKER DIVERSION read the shining purple lettering across his lenses. He saw Krum's face contorted with concentration as he pulled out of the dive just in time, while Lynch was flattened. Harry had never seen anyone fly like that; Krum hardly looked as though he was using a broomstick at all; he moved so easily through the air that he looked unsupported and weightless.

Harry turned his Omnioculars back to normal and focused them on Krum. He was now circling high above Lynch, who was being revived by mediwizards with cups of potion. Harry, focusing still more closely upon Krum's face, saw his 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 unrivalled 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. 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. Whatever happened was over so quickly Harry didn't catch it, but a scream of rage from the Irish crowd, and Mostafa's long, shrill whistle blast, told him 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, Draco and Harry stuffed their fingers into their ears, but Susan, who hadn't bothered, was soon tugging on Harry's arm. He turned to look at her, and she pulled his fingers impatiently out of his ears.

"Look at the referee!" she said, giggling.Â

Harry 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!" 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; Harry, watching through the Omnioculars again, saw that 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."

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."

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, which was making a very rude sign indeed 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. Â Watching through his Omnioculars, Harry saw that they didn't look remotely beautiful now. On the contrary, their faces were elongating into sharp, cruel-beaked bird heads, and long, scaly wings were bursting from their shoulders.

"And that, boys," yelled Sirius 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. Harry turned this way and that, staring through his Omnioculars, as the Quaffle 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; 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.

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.

Harry wanted someone to realize that Krum was injured; even though he was supporting Ireland, Krum was the most exciting player on the field. Draco obviously felt the same.

"Time-out! Come on, he can't play like that! Look at him!"

"Look at Lynch!" Harry yelled.

For the Irish Seeker had suddenly gone into a dive, and Harry was quite sure that this 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 realized what was happening; the Irish supporters 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, Harry 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.

For the second time, Lynch hit the ground with tremendous force and was immediately stampeded by a horde of angry veela. 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!"

Susan leaned over to say in Harry's ear, "What did he do that for? Bulgaria didn't have enough points to win."

"Strategy," Harry replied. Ireland's Chasers were never going to let up. The score would have just gotten more and more ridiculous. Krum ended it before it could turn into a rout."

Flashbulbs were going off all around them. Harry put his Omnioculars to his eyes again. It was hard to see what was happening below because leprechauns were zooming delightedly all over the field, but he 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; the veela were shrinking back into their usual, beautiful selves now, though looking dispirited and forlorn.

"Vell, ve fought bravely," said a gloomy voice behind Harry. He looked around; it was 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 honour, flanked by their mascots, the Quidditch World Cup itself is brought into the Top Box!" roared Bagman.

Harry'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, he 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; Harry 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. Harry 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, ear-splitting 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. Harry's hands were numb with clapping.

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

Harry whole-heartedly agreed. He looked around, feeling slightly stunned. The excitement was over, the match complete. The teams had come and gone. The crowd of people was starting to stream out of the arena like so many ants. Bagman hurried out of the booth once his duties were complete. Fudge led the Bulgarian Minister and the rest of his party out as well. Mr. Malfoy made as if to leave, but Sirius lounged back in his chair.

"It's going to be a mob down there," he said. "I'll wait until it dissipates a bit, thanks."

"You are correct, Sirius," Mr. Malfoy said agreeably, resuming his seat. "Quite a match, yes?"

Harry smiled to himself as Mr. and Mrs. Malfoy talked at Sirius about the phenomenal flying they'd just been witness to. Harry was thankful for their persistence. If they kept at it, surely Sirius' hard attitude would crack. Then things would be better.

"Harry, thanks for inviting me up here," Susan said. "It wouldn't have been nearly so much fun down in the other seats."

"My pleasure," Harry replied. "Quite a match, yeah?"

"What an ending."

"I'm sorry it had to end. Ireland was on fire out there."

"Thanks to the veela."

Harry shook his head. He didn't want to remember the veela. He didn't like the loss of control. If it hadn't been for Sirius, who knows what he might have done?

to be continued...