The Tenth Weasley - CH - 115

The Quidditch stadium towered above the valley like a colossal crown, surpassing any Muggle building Harry had ever encountered. A multitude of ladders and staircases spiraled up its golden pillars, twisting in ways that could make even the fiercest individuals uneasy at the thought of climbing. Lanterns lined the railings, illuminating the path as the throngs of spectators pushed forward.

The Weasleys and Potters began their ascent. Ron grumbled about how the stairs seemed to sway under their weight, while Fred and George amused themselves by planning to hex each other off “just for fun.” Ginny held tightly to Hermione’s arm, trying to avoid looking at the dizzying drop beneath them.

Halfway up, a familiar voice cut through the chaos.

“Well, well, if it isn’t the Weasleys. How charming, all of you climbing like ordinary people.”

Harry turned to find Draco Malfoy standing proudly on a nearby landing, his pale hair gleaming under the lights. His parents, Lucius and Narcissa, flanked him, attired in exquisite robes that shimmered with subtle enchantments.

“We’ll be sitting in the Minister's Box tonight,” Draco said smugly, loud enough for everyone around to hear. “Father has many connections. We have the best seats in the house.”

Lucius Malfoy nodded with a cool smile, tapping his silver-tipped cane against the wooden boards. “It is advantageous,” he said smoothly, “to have friends in high positions.”

Arthur Weasley’s face flushed, but he remained silent. James, however, mumbled something about “friends who’d sell their souls for a seat,” prompting Harry to suppress a laugh. Draco’s smirk faltered, but he quickly turned away, following his parents.

The Weasleys continued their climb, and after what felt like hours, they finally arrived—not at the Minister's Box, but at a special area reserved for the Bulgarian team's families and friends.

Harry’s breath caught when he spotted Viktor Krum himself walking amongst them, his long nose curved, shoulders broad, already greeted with cheers from his fellow countrymen. Banners in crimson and black, adorned with the Bulgarian lion, hung across the box.

The Weasleys found their seats among the Bulgarian supporters, and to Harry's delight, he noticed Sonja and Louis. Both looked overjoyed to be there, eagerly waving at him.

“Harry!” Sonja exclaimed, rushing over and nearly tripping with excitement. She settled into the seat beside him, her eyes sparkling. “We’ve hidden the books—just like you asked. Stronger wards, no one will find them.”

Harry nodded subtly, relieved. “Good. Keep them safe. We’ll use them later.”

Louis leaned in from the row behind. “This view is incredible, isn’t it? We can see everything—look how close we are to the pitch!”

From their vantage point, the field appeared like a vast emerald carpet, with glinting goal hoops in the distance. Enchanted banners fluttered above, showcasing the faces of both teams’ Seekers—Viktor Krum looking fierce and determined, while Ireland’s Aidan Lynch grinned confidently.

Before the match began, British Minister of Magic, Cornelius Fudge, waddled into the Minister’s Box and raised his arms for silence. His magically amplified voice reverberated through the stadium.

“Ladies and gentlemen, wizards and witches from all nations, welcome to the four-hundred and twenty-second Quidditch World Cup!”

The crowd erupted in cheers, flags waved, and enchanted fireworks lit up the sky. Harry joined in the excitement, cheering just as hard as Ron, their voices hoarse from enthusiasm.

The stadium pulsated with excitement—thousands of voices blending into one massive cheer, banners whipping in the wind, the towers swaying slightly under the crowd's weight. Floating orbs of light spiraled up into the air, casting emerald and crimson hues over faces and flags. Harry, settled between Ron and Sonja in the Bulgarian friends’ section, felt the world tilt toward the pitch in the stillness that preceded the first trumpet.

“Look—mascots!” Ron exclaimed, elbowing Harry and almost dropping his shamrock pennant.

A swarm of leprechauns burst from the Irish end: a dazzling whirlwind of green sparks that transformed into acrobats mid-air. They flipped, linked arms to form an enormous emerald harp, then erupted into a shower of fool’s gold that rained down on the lower stands. Fred, standing on his seat, tried to catch coins in his hat, while Hermione sighed. “You know it disappears in an hour.”

“An hour’s enough,” George replied, stuffing his pockets regardless.

From the Bulgarian side, the Veela glided forward in a silvery wave—strikingly beautiful, with hair like moonlit water and skin aglow. Their dance was mesmerizing and dangerous, causing even the crowd’s noise to diminish. A group of Irish Chasers slowed in their warm-up loop, seemingly captivated by the Veela's allure. Below, the Egyptian referee—Hassan Mostafa, his broom hovering steadily—blew his whistle, gesturing sharply at the sideline marshals. A penalty flag was raised, prompting sharp smiles from the Veela. Several Irish fans attempted to climb closer, only to be pulled back by strict witches wearing Ministry armbands.

“Eyes forward,” Hermione quietly reminded Harry without looking at him. “That’s glamour at work.”

“Noted,” Harry replied, refocusing on the goal hoops. Nevertheless, the Veela's dance lingered at the edge of his vision.

The announcer’s voice filled the air, filled with excitement: “Welcome to the four hundred and twenty-second Quidditch World Cup Final! Ire-land versus Bul-ga-ria!” The names glowed around the pitch in colorful light.

The Irish team surged from their tunnel in a blur of green—Moran, Troy, Mullet—looping the hoops in perfect formation. Their Keeper, Barry Ryan, executed a neat half-barrel roll on his broom and was met with thunderous applause. Two robust Beaters—Connolly and Quigley—whacked practice Bludgers into wild arcs.

Bulgaria responded with a blast of red: Dimitrov, Ivanova, Levski; Zograf in goal; Beaters Volkov and Vulchanov—and last, lower than everyone else, Viktor Krum.

Ron grabbed Harry’s arm. “He’s there! Right there!”

Krum barely acknowledged the crowd. He looked up once with an unreadable expression, then drifted to his starting position, perfectly still. Sonja analyzed him closely. “Look how he sits on the broom. His center of gravity is tight to the shaft. Minimal drag. He’s poised to dive without showing his intent.”

The whistle pierced the air.

The Quaffle was released. Ivanova was the first to seize it—Moran swiftly took it from her, and Troy made the handoff, with Mullet executing a powerful block—

“TEN–ZERO IRELAND!” the announcer shouted, and the stadium erupted.

Gold shamrocks burst in the sky. The Veela grinned, baring their teeth.

Bulgaria retaliated; Dimitrov’s long pass sliced through the pitch. Levski caught it, feinted past Connolly’s bat, and took the shot—SAVED—Barry Ryan intercepted it and launched the Quaffle forward with precision. The Irish Chasers moved like a well-oiled machine, relentless and skilled.

“TWENTY–ZERO! … THIRTY–ZERO!”

“Too easy,” Sonja remarked over the noise. “Bulgaria’s Beaters are reacting instead of controlling the game.”

As if on cue, Volkov swung at a Bludger with such force that it screamed inches past Moran’s ear, sending her spinning. Bulgaria seized the opportunity—Dimitrov to Ivanova to Levski—GOAL! The Bulgarian fans erupted as one, waving scarlet flags through the air.

Harry felt his heart stabilize. Now it felt like real Quidditch: hit and answer, danger in every play. A flicker of gold near midfield caught his attention—the Snitch—and half the stadium held its breath.

Aidan Lynch, the Irish Seeker, shot toward it recklessly, a grin plastered on his face.

But Viktor remained motionless.

“Come on,” Harry urged. “Come on—”

The Snitch dipped; Lynch dove; the ground rushed up—

Krum folded downward in a swift motion, a flash of red plummeting from the sky. The crowd roared. Lynch mirrored the dive, pursuing Krum; Krum pulled up at the last moment, broom grazing the grass—

Lynch crashed into the ground like a cannonball.

The entire Irish section howled. Mediwizards scrambled to assist. Krum ascended smoothly, his nose just above the pitch, then climbed as if stepping off an invisible stair.

“Wronski Feint,” Charlie remarked, almost in admiration. “Drew him into the ground.”

Louis, already on his seat, snapped photo after photo, the shutter charm clicking away. “Stunning,” he breathed. “Terrifying, but stunning.”

Play continued. Ireland, stung, went on the offensive. Forty–ten. Fifty–ten. Sixty–ten. The Chasers weaved through avenues Krum’s Beaters couldn’t close. Bulgaria’s passing formed a rapid triangle—sixty–twenty—and the Veela, displeased, began to dance once more, a dangerously enticing heat that seeped into their bones.

“Focus!” Hermione snapped, pulling Harry’s attention back to the pitch as he stood swaying on his seat. Even the referee appeared mesmerized, drifting toward the sidelines as if drawn into the dance; then, embarrassed, he shook himself and waved a card toward the Bulgarian mascot section. The Veela’s expressions turned icy. One raised both hands, conjuring a flare of bluish fire that shimmered against an invisible ward, eliciting cheers and boos in equal measure.

The leprechauns responded with a luminous prank—an enormous glowing shamrock that winked and morphed into a giant figure that cheekily moon ed the Veela. Half the stadium shrieked with laughter; the other half erupted with outrage.

“Kids,” Molly murmured weakly, clutching her snack bag as if it were a lifeline.

The score fluctuated, but Ireland maintained their lead: eighty–thirty, ninety–forty, one hundred–fifty–sixty. Every goal from Ireland scattered new glitter; every response from Bulgaria sharpened the atmosphere. The Snitch darted past twice more—once near the Irish hoops, where Lynch dove too high and lost it in the lights; once skimming the ground, where Krum and Lynch intertwined like blades, neither fully committing.

Then a Bludger struck Krum squarely in the face.

The sound—a sickening thud—cut through the stadium. Blood immediately stained his upper lip; his nose bent at an odd angle. Yet he didn’t slow. A mediwizard attempted to flag him down with a glowing bandage; Krum swatted the charm away, eyes fixated on an empty point as if his will alone could distill gold from thin air.

“Merlin,” Bill said from a nearby row, his voice now serious. “That’s a Seeker.”

“More like an idiot,” Molly muttered, yet even she couldn’t tear her gaze away.

Lynch regained his composure from the earlier crash, looking paler and a bit wilder. The Chasers fought fiercely: one sixty–one ten. Krum shadowed an unseen route above the game, reading the nuances and trajectories, searching not for the glint of gold but for the pattern the Snitch traced. Harry recognized it suddenly; it was akin to what Professor Navarro had described in dueling—the way true masters didn’t chase spells but angles.

“There!” Harry shouted involuntarily, pointing in vain as if Krum could hear him.

The Snitch appeared out of nowhere, a glimmer near the Bulgarian Keeper. Both Seekers charged—hard. The stadium tilted along with them. The whole Quaffle game became a blur in Harry’s vision; there was only the ascent, the maneuver, the drop—

Lynch lunged too soon, fingers reaching for the light.

Krum didn’t lunge. He rolled into the Snitch’s trajectory, one hand open, wrist relaxed, capturing the gold like catching a snowflake. It flailed, then stilled, its wings trapped against his palm.

For a moment, silence fell—the collective breath of a hundred thousand spectators—and then the stadium erupted.

“HE HAS IT! KRUM HAS THE SNITCH!”

Bulgarian red exploded around Harry; Sonja jumped to her feet, whooping, while Louis almost toppled over the railing trying to get the photograph. But amid the joy, a different cry rose from the Irish section—not of defeat.

The score glowed above the pitch:
IRELAND 270 — BULGARIA 260.

Krum lingered in the air, breathing heavily, blood streaming from his nose, Snitch gripped tightly in his hand. He had concluded the match—albeit down ten points—but a conclusion nonetheless. Across the pitch, the Irish team collapsed into a jubilant heap of green and gold.

Ron gazed in shock before bursting into helpless laughter. “He caught it—he caught it even though they were behind! I told you—he’s the best!”

“Strategic surrender,” Hermione chimed in, dazed but impressed. “He must have figured that ending the deficit would be worse. Ten points appears…respectable.”

“Seems like a Seeker who understands the shape of a loss,” Sirius remarked quietly. “Yet still provides the crowd with a legend.”

Fireworks lit up the sky—giant shamrocks transforming into a thousand sparkling leaves, followed by Bulgarian lions defiantly roaring as they faded. The Veela stood still, unreadable. The leprechauns tumbled into a radiant “WELL PLAYED” scrawled across the night.

Down on the pitch, Krum descended. An Irish Chaser—Moran, cheeks wet with joyful tears—was the first to reach him, clapping his shoulder; Krum flinched but then broke into a wry grin that seemed to ache. The Bulgarian captain enveloped him in a bear hug. A mediwizard finally approached and snapped Krum’s nose back into place with a sharp charm. Krum didn’t flinch.

“Come on,” Sonja declared, her voice bright with a competitor’s joy. “We’re in his section—we applaud him off, or we don’t deserve these seats.”

They stood alongside a wave of Bulgarians and even a smattering of Irish fans, cheering. Cheering for Krum’s stubbornness, for Ireland’s skill, for the Veela’s intensity, for the leprechauns’ playful tricks; celebrating the way sport could embody two truths at once—that one side triumphed, and yet the other still took your breath away.

As the teams took their final bows, Bagman’s voice thundered through the arena with a wrap-up, showering praise and statistics and breathless accolades that no one would remember precisely, only how it felt—the thud in the chest, the way their voices hoarsened while they didn’t care.

“Worth every Galleon,” Ron exclaimed, collapsing back into his seat, grinning at nothing in particular.

“Worth every bruise,” Hermione added, nudging Harry lightly on the shoulder. “But please, don’t ever fly like that.”

“I’ll leave the reckless dives to Krum,” Harry promised, yet his gaze remained fixed on the pitch. On the way Krum tilted his head toward the Bulgarian box—toward them—as if he knew exactly where his friends were sitting. Harry raised a hand.

Krum didn’t wave. He didn’t need to. He merely set his jaw and walked away with the Snitch in his grasp and a loss on the scoreboard that felt almost like a victory.

The music soared. The night burst into color.

And the World Cup had drawn to a close.