‘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 eyes that his glasses were cutting into the bridge of his nose. The speed of the players was incredible – the Chasers were throwing the Quaffle to each other so fast that Bagman only had time to say their names. Harry spun the ‘slow’ dial on the right of his Omnioculars again, pressed the ‘play by play’ button on the top and he was immediately watching in slow motion, while glittering purple lettering flashed across the lenses, and the noise of the crowd pounded against his eardrums.
‘Hawkshead Attacking Formation’ he read, as he watched the three Irish Chasers zoom closely together, Troy in the centre, slightly ahead of Mullet and Moran, bearing down upon the Bulgarians. ‘Porskoff Ploy’ flashed up next, as Troy made as though to dart upwards 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, if you’re not going to watch at normal speed, you’re going to miss things!’ shouted Hermione, who was dancing up and down, waving her arms in the air while Troy did a lap of honour of the pitch. Harry looked quickly over the top of his Omnioculars, and saw that the leprechauns watching from the side-lines had all risen into the air again, and formed the great, glittering shamrock. Across the pitch, the Veela were watching them sulkily.
Furious with himself, Harry spun his speed dial back to normal as play resumed.
Harry knew enough about Quidditch to see that the Irish Chasers were superb. They worked as a seamless team, appearing to read each other’s minds by the way 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 still faster, 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 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!’ bellowed Mr Weasley, 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 pitch. The Veela had stopped dancing, and Bulgaria were again in possession of the Quaffle.
‘Dimitrov! Levski! Dimitrov! Ivanova – oh, I say!’ roared Bagman.
One hundred thousand wizards and witches 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 aeroplanes without parachutes. Harry followed their descent through his Omnioculars, squinting to see where the Snitch was –
‘They’re going to crash!’ screamed Hermione next to Harry.
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 Mr Weasley. ‘Krum was feinting!’
‘It’s time out!’ yelled Bagman’s voice. ‘As trained mediwizards hurry onto the pitch to examine Aidan Lynch!’
‘He’ll be OK, he only got ploughed!’ Charlie said reassuringly to Ginny, who was hanging over the side of the box, looking horror-struck. ‘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 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, and he understood – Krum hadn’t seen the Snitch at all, he was just making Lynch copy him. 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 it looked as though he was unsupported and weightless. Harry turned his Omnioculars back to normal, and focused them on Krum. He was circling high above Lynch, who was now 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 towards the goalposts 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 pitch leapt to their feet, tossed their hair angrily and started to dance again.
As one, the Weasley boys and Harry stuffed their fingers in their ears, but Hermione, 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.
Harry looked down at the pitch. 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 pitch, his fingers stuffed in his own ears, and kicked Mostafa hard on the shins. Mostafa seemed to come to himself; Harry, watching through the Omnioculars again, saw that he looked exceptionally embarrassed, and was 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, had landed either side of Mostafa, and began arguing furiously with him, gesticulating towards 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 Volko
v 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 across the pitch towards the Veela. At this, the Veela lost control. They launched themselves across the pitch, and began throwing what seemed to be handfuls of fire at the leprechauns. 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 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 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 towards Krum, who did not duck quickly enough. It hit him hard 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 broomtail alight.
Harry wanted someone to realise that Krum was injured; even though he was supporting Ireland, Krum was the most exciting player on the pitch. Ron obviously felt the same.
‘Time out! Ah, 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 realised what was happening, the Irish supporters rose in a 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 towards the ground again –
‘They’re going to crash!’ shrieked Hermione.
‘They’re not!’ roared Ron.
‘Lynch is!’ yelled Harry.
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.
‘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: ONE HUNDRED AND SIXTY, IRELAND: ONE HUNDRED AND SEVENTY across the crowd, who didn’t seem to have realised what had happened. Then, slowly, as though a great jumbo jet was revving up, the rumbling from the Ireland supporters grew louder and louder and erupted into screams of delight.
‘IRELAND WIN!’ shouted Bagman, who, like the Irish, seemed to have been taken aback by the sudden end of the match. ‘KRUM GETS THE SNITCH – BUT IRELAND WIN – good Lord, I don’t think any of us were expecting that!’
‘What did he catch the Snitch for?’ Ron bellowed, 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 …’
‘He was very brave, wasn’t he?’ Hermione said, leaning forward to watch Krum land, and the swarm of mediwizards blasting a path through the battling leprechauns and Veela to get to him. ‘He looks a terrible mess …’
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 pitch, 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-mates 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 for Magic.
‘You can speak English!’ said Fudge, sounding outraged. ‘And you’ve been letting me mime everything all day!’
‘Vell, it vos very funny,’ said the Bulgarian Minister, shrugging.
‘And as the Irish team perform 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 towards the entrance, he saw two panting wizards carrying into the box a vast golden cup, 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 were 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 co-ordinated 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 their 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 yea
rs,’ he said hoarsely, ‘a really unexpected twist, that … shame it couldn’t have lasted longer … ah yes … yes, I owe you … how much?’
For Fred and George had just scrambled over the backs of their seats, and were standing in front of Ludo Bagman with broad grins on their faces, their hands outstretched.
— CHAPTER NINE —
The Dark Mark
‘Don’t tell your mother you’ve been gambling,’ Mr Weasley implored Fred and George, as they all made their way slowly down the purple-carpeted stairs.
‘Don’t worry, Dad,’ said Fred gleefully, ‘we’ve got big plans for this money, we don’t want it confiscated.’
Mr Weasley looked for a moment as though he was going to ask what these big plans were, but seemed to decide, upon reflection, that he didn’t want to know.
They were soon caught up in the crowds now flooding out of the stadium and back to their campsites. Raucous singing was borne towards them on the night air as they retraced their steps along the lantern-lit path, and leprechauns kept shooting over their heads, cackling and waving their lanterns. When they finally reached the tents, nobody felt like sleeping at all and, given the level of noise around them, Mr Weasley agreed that they could all have one last cup of cocoa together before turning in. They were soon arguing enjoyably about the match; Mr Weasley got drawn into a disagreement about cobbing with Charlie, and it was only when Ginny fell asleep right at the tiny table and spilled hot chocolate all over the floor that Mr Weasley called a halt to the verbal replays, and insisted that everyone went to bed. Hermione and Ginny went into the next tent, and Harry and the rest of the Weasleys changed into pyjamas and clambered into their bunks. From the other side of the campsite they could still hear much singing, and the odd echoing bang.
‘Oh, I am glad I’m not on duty,’ muttered Mr Weasley sleepily, ‘I wouldn’t fancy having to go and tell the Irish they’ve got to stop celebrating.’
The Goblet of Fire Page 10
