The Tenth Weasley - CH - 114

The day of the Quidditch World Cup final dawned bright and clear. Even before the sun had risen fully over the horizon, the Weasley manor was bustling with noise and excitement. Trunks were packed, scarves and banners waved in the air, and Fred and George were already singing half-made-up songs in honor of the Irish team.

Harry woke to the sound of Ron banging on his door.
“Come on, Harry! You don’t want to be the last one up today. It’s the final!”

Harry laughed as he threw on his clothes. The air seemed charged, as though the anticipation of the match hung around them like static.

By the time he made it down to the kitchen, the whole family was there. Bill had arrived the night before, his hair tied back in a neat ponytail, grinning at the sight of his younger brothers bouncing around like children. Beside him, Nymphadora Tonks Weasley lounged in her chair, her hair bright bubblegum pink, yawning but just as eager.

“You lot look like you’ve had five cups of coffee already,” Tonks teased. “The match isn’t until later, you know.”

Ron practically vibrated in his seat.
“Doesn’t matter. This is Ireland versus Bulgaria. It’s going to be legendary!”

Molly was fussing with everyone’s cloaks. She shook her head at the sheer volume in the room.
“I still think Quidditch is far too dangerous,” she muttered, tucking a scarf around Ginny’s neck. “But since no one listens to me, I’ll just have to make sure no one comes back missing an arm.”

“Mum, it’s not that bad,” Ginny said with a smile. “Besides, you’ll see. The atmosphere is amazing.”

Hermione arrived just after dawn, stepping off the Knight Bus looking slightly disheveled but radiant all the same. Harry hurried to greet her, and the two of them shared a quick hug before she was immediately swept into the chaos of the Manor’s kitchen.

Fred winked at her as he passed.
“You’ve picked the right day to visit, Hermione. Front row to history!”


By mid-morning, the whole group was ready. They gathered outside the Manor, luggage packed into magically enlarged bags. Arthur Weasley performed a quick head count, just to be certain no one had been left behind.

“All right,” he said cheerfully. “Everyone ready? The Portkey’s waiting!”

The excitement buzzed even louder as they hurried across the fields to a hill where a battered old kettle sat waiting for them—their Portkey.

“Everyone touch it now, quickly,” Arthur urged. “It’ll go off in thirty seconds!”

Hands reached out, piling over the handle of the dented kettle: Harry, Ron, Hermione, Fred, George, Ginny, Bill, Tonks, and even Molly, who clutched Arthur’s arm with a resigned sigh.

“Hold tight,” Arthur warned.

The familiar tug yanked Harry behind his navel, and in a rush of wind and color, the world blurred past. When his feet slammed into the ground again, he staggered, nearly colliding with Hermione. Around him, the others steadied themselves, laughing or groaning.

They were standing on a wide grassy plain thrumming with energy. All around them, groups of witches and wizards appeared as other Portkeys discharged their passengers. The air was filled with excited chatter, the snapping of banners, and the distant hum of a colossal crowd.

On the path ahead, they spotted Amos Diggory and his son Cedric making their way towards the stadium.

“Arthur!” Amos called warmly. “Good to see you! Headed to the final, I see?”

“Of course!” Arthur beamed, shaking his hand. “We wouldn’t miss it.”

Cedric, tall and broad-shouldered, gave Harry a friendly nod.
“Excited?”

“More than excited,” Harry admitted, his grin wide.

“You’ll never forget it,” Cedric promised. “The energy is incredible.”

The two families fell into step together, making their way towards the camping grounds. The closer they came, the louder the noise grew—chants, laughter, cheers in multiple languages. Wizards and witches from all across the world had gathered, their cloaks in bright team colors, faces painted, flags waving. The very air seemed to pulse with anticipation.

Molly clutched Arthur’s arm nervously as they passed a group of Bulgarian supporters chanting for Viktor Krum.
“Honestly, Arthur, I don’t know how you can think this is safe,” she whispered.

Arthur only smiled, eyes bright with excitement.
“It’s the Quidditch World Cup, Molly. You can’t hide from joy just because it’s loud.”



The camping ground stretched like a small village, rows upon rows of magically expanded tents, with flags waving in every direction. Irish green and Bulgarian crimson dominated the landscape, fluttering proudly in the wind. Shamrocks that gleamed like emerald fireflies hovered above Irish tents, while Bulgarian banners shimmered with enchanted lions roaring silently.

But what caught Harry’s attention first was the muggle standing by the entry booth, a balding man with a red face and an increasingly confused expression as wizards approached him. Every so often, he received a handful of strange coins—gold Galleons, silver Sickles, and even bronze Knuts. He would glance at them, mutter something under his breath, and shove them into a tin box.

“Poor fellow,” Arthur whispered to Harry, eyes shining with curiosity rather than pity. “That’s Mr. Roberts, the campsite manager. He hasn’t the faintest idea why his campsite is overrun with strange people in cloaks. The Ministry’s put a few memory charms on him already this morning.”

Molly sniffed, pulling her shawl tighter.
“It’s a wonder the poor man hasn’t gone mad already. Really, can’t people at least try to dress normally?”

Harry followed her gaze and spotted a wizard wearing a long, star-speckled robe that trailed half a foot behind him, muttering loudly in Bulgarian. Another wore a kilt with a clashing, glittering green bowler hat. Harry chuckled softly—Hermione caught it and nudged him.

“Don’t laugh. You’ll only encourage them,” she teased.


Once Arthur had settled the “payment” with Mr. Roberts, they headed toward their allotted plot. Hermoine was used to Magical tents, but when Arthur tapped the flap with his wand, Hermoine’s jaw fell open.

Inside, it wasn’t just a tent—it was a miniature manor house. Rich carpets lined the floor, enchanted lamps floated in the air, and along the walls hung framed portraits of the Weasley family, each member waving happily as if they’d been waiting for their arrival.

Fred and George whistled loudly.
“Well, It's just as beautiful as I remember!” Fred declared.
“I’ll say,” George added, flopping dramatically onto a velvet sofa. “Merlin, We should go more camping trips.”

The bedrooms were arranged neatly along a corridor, each with polished wooden doors bearing golden nameplates that shimmered when touched. Harry spotted his own—“Harry”—etched in flowing script.

Hermione peeked into the room she’d share with Ginny, and her delighted laugh rang out.
“Harry, they even put little bookshelves by the beds! This is incredible.”

Ginny rolled her eyes good-naturedly.
“Trust you to check the books first.”

Molly, though impressed, still folded her arms.
“I suppose it will do for one night,” she said, though her lips twitched in reluctant approval. “At least the plumbing works.”


Once their belongings were stored, Harry suggested they explore the camping ground. Ron immediately agreed, his eyes darting hungrily toward a stand where glowing shamrock hats were being sold.

“Come on, Harry! Before they run out.”

The group spilled back out into the bustling maze of tents. The campsite was alive with music, chatter, and bursts of magic. Families cooked breakfast on floating pans, banners unfurled themselves in shimmering light, and enchanted mascots zipped about.

As they wandered, Harry spotted Durmstrang students. He recognized a group of third-years, wearing their red-trimmed coats even in the summer warmth.

“Harry Weasley!” one of them exclaimed in a heavy accent. It was Oleg, a boy Harry had helped with dueling practice. “You are here too?”

Before Harry could answer, Oleg pulled him forward, introducing him to his parents.
“This is Harry—we trained together! First in the Dragon class now. Very famous.”

His parents shook Harry’s hand firmly, speaking in rapid Bulgarian that Harry only half-understood. Hermione, standing beside him, looked both impressed and amused at the attention he was receiving.

“You’re popular everywhere, aren’t you?” she teased quietly once they moved on.

Harry flushed.
“Not everywhere. Just…Durmstrang.”


As they explored, George nudged Harry.
“Bet you ten Galleons Bulgaria wins. Krum’s their Seeker—no one’s faster.”

“Ten Galleons?” Ron scoffed. “Don’t make me laugh. Ireland’s Chasers will run circles around them. They’ll win, even if Krum catches the Snitch.”

Hermione shook her head.
“Honestly, betting already? We haven’t even sat down yet.”

Arthur, however, leaned in conspiratorially.
“Put me down for five Galleons on Ireland,” he whispered. “Don’t tell your mother.”

Molly narrowed her eyes, clearly overhearing, but chose not to scold. Instead, she muttered,
“If someone gets hurt, don’t come crying to me. Quidditch is dangerous enough without the whole world watching.”

Harry grinned at Hermione, their hands brushing as the path narrowed. For a brief moment, the chaos of the campsite faded away, leaving only the two of them walking side by side.



The Potters arrived at the Quidditch World Cup in a whirl of dizzying magic. The portkey released them with a lurch, and they landed in a grassy clearing where hundreds of other witches and wizards were already setting up tents. A broad valley stretched before them, sloping gently down toward the massive stadium in the distance, its golden towers glinting in the early sun.

The Potters secured a camping spot not far from the Weasleys, and with practiced ease Sirius and Remus helped pitch their magically expanded tent. From the outside it looked like a simple canvas structure, modest and ordinary. But once the flap opened, the interior was revealed: soft carpets underfoot, enchanted lamps lighting the whole tent.

Not long after settling in, Charlie Potter wandered outside and began exploring the maze of tents. The campground was alive with color—green banners of Ireland fluttered proudly from many tent poles, while the occasional crimson-and-black flags of Bulgaria announced the loyalty of others. Some tents had magically altered façades: turrets, balconies, even entire miniature castles painted in team colors. The air was filled with excited chatter in dozens of languages, the smell of frying sausages, and the occasional bang from a poorly controlled magical experiment.

Charlie soon spotted a familiar pair: Bill Weasley and Nymphadora Tonks strolling hand-in-hand between the tents, laughing at the spectacle of a wizard attempting to charm his tent into sprouting shamrock-shaped chimneys. Following them, Charlie at last found the Weasley camp, and he wasted no time in bringing the rest of his family along.

The reunion was joyous. Molly Weasley clapped her hands in delight when she saw the Potters approaching, and Arthur enveloped James in a hearty embrace. “Well, if it isn’t the best seats in the house coming to join us,” Fred teased, winking.

Before long, Charlie Weasley himself appeared, having just arrived straight from Romania. His dragon-handling work had kept him busy until the very last moment, but he insisted that nothing—absolutely nothing—could keep him from a Quidditch World Cup. His face was flushed with the long journey, but the grin he wore was unmistakable.

As the sun dipped lower, more familiar faces arrived at the campgrounds. Friends from Hogwarts, acquaintances from the Ministry, and even a few Durmstrang students who recognized Harry stopped to exchange greetings, eager to introduce him to their families.

By evening, Molly decided it was best to prepare a proper meal. “Once we’re in the stands now, there’s no telling when we’ll get another bite,” she declared, rolling up her sleeves. Hermione, Ginny, and Harry eagerly helped her, setting pans over the big enchanted stove and fetching baskets of bread and cheese. The smells of stew, roasted vegetables, and fresh-baked rolls soon mingled with the smoky air of the campground.

When everyone was finished, Molly packed away extra snacks—meat pies, treacle tart, and packets of roasted nuts—to carry into the stadium. “You’ll thank me when the match drags on,” she said firmly, and nobody dared argue.

At last, with bellies full and anticipation running high, the Potters joined the Weasleys. Sirius, James and Remus walked side by side with Arthur and Bill, Fred and George jostled each other while balancing snack baskets, and the younger ones hurried along excitedly. Together, the great group made their way toward the towering stadium, whose enchanted lights were already beginning to glow against the night sky.

The Quidditch World Cup awaited.