rs, Harry saw that they didn't look remotely
beautiful now. On the contrary, their faces were elongating into sharp, cruelbeaked
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. Harry turned this way and that, staring
through his Omnioculars, as the Quaffie 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
73
supporting Ireland, Krum was the most exciting player on the field. 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 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 -
"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: 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!"
"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
74
end it on his terms, that's all. . .
"He was very brave, wasn't he?" Hermione said, leaning forward to watch Krum
land as a swarm of mediwizards blasted 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
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 honor, 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, earsplitting 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
75
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 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, 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.
76
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 toward 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 go
to bed. Hermione and Ginny went into the next tent, and Harry and the rest of the
Weasleys changed into pajamas 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."
Harry, who was on a top bunk above Ron, lay staring up at the canvas ceiling of
the tent, watching the glow of an occasional leprechaun lantern flying overhead,
and picturing again some of Krum's more spectacular moves. He was itching to get
back on his own Firebolt and try out the Wronski Feint. . . . Somehow Oliver
Wood had never managed to convey with all his wriggling diagrams what that
move was supposed to look like.. . . Harry saw himself in robes that had his name
on the back, and imagined the sensation of hearing a hundred-thousand-strong
crowd roar, as Ludo Bagman's voice echoed throughout the stadium, "I give you. .
. Potter!"
Harry never knew whether or not he had actually dropped off to sleep - his
fantasies of flying like Krum might well have slipped into actual dreams - all he
knew was that, quite suddenly, Mr. Weasley was shouting.
"Get up! Ron - Harry - come on now, get up, this is urgent!"
Harry sat up quickly and the top of his head hit canvas.
77
"S' matte