Dinner was prepared by Mr. Weasley, who believed he had more or less mastered the use of those Muggle appliances. However, after nearly an hour of fumbling—and practically engraving the Reparo charm into his muscle memory—Mr. Weasley finally opted to buy food from outside, funded by Sirius Black's generosity.
Ron was quite pleased with the purchased meal, happily declaring that the chicken drumstick burger in his hand was far tastier than the roast they'd had at lunch.
Not long after dinner, a loud gong echoed from the direction of the Quidditch stadium, and the campsite began to stir as people started heading toward the arena. Strings of colorful lanterns flickered to life among the trees.
"It's time!" Sirius and Mr. Weasley exchanged a glance, then stood up, leading the group toward the stadium.
The excited crowd stretched from one end of the campsite through the woods, and when Harry and the others emerged from the trees, their view was dominated by an enormous golden structure towering dozens of meters high.
"This stadium can hold a hundred thousand spectators," Mr. Weasley said to Charlie, noticing the astonishment on Harry and Hermione's faces. He added with a hint of pride, "Five hundred Ministry workers labored for a whole year on this. Every inch of this place is layered with Muggle-Repelling Charms. For the past year, whenever Muggles got close, they'd suddenly remember some urgent business and hurry off… Merlin bless them…"
Harry and Hermione were even more stunned after hearing Mr. Weasley's explanation. Hermione marveled at the wizards' incredible architectural prowess, while Harry was shocked by how few wizards there seemed to be—a worldwide Quidditch match, and this was the turnout?
"First-class seats," said the witch at the ticket booth, glancing at the group's tickets. Her eyes scanned the plainly dressed Weasleys, then settled on Sirius, whose understated but clearly high-quality black robes gave her a knowing nod.
The staircase leading into the stadium was lined with a long, deep purple carpet. People ascended slowly, gradually dispersing to the stands on either side. Harry and his group, however, were headed to the very top tier. When they reached their private box, they found it empty except for a house-elf wrapped in a tea towel, polishing teacups.
After settling into the plush, gilded purple seats, Mr. Weasley and Sirius began reminiscing about past Quidditch World Cups. Ron sank into the soft, comfortable chair with a look of pure bliss. Percy, on the other hand, kept glancing nervously at the box's entrance, as if expecting some important figure to walk in at any moment. Charlie and Bill were discussing work, George and Fred were joking with Ginny, and Hermione was flipping through her velvet-bound, tassel-fringed match program. Harry, meanwhile, leaned over the box's railing to peer below.
Beneath them, a sea of witches and wizards flowed between the seats, which encircled the oval stadium in tiered rows. The entire scene was bathed in a mysterious golden glow, as if the light emanated from the stadium itself.
From their vantage point, the pitch looked oddly smooth. At each end stood three towering hoops, each fifty feet high. To their right, almost level with Harry's line of sight, was a massive blackboard flashing with flamboyant golden words. It was as if an invisible giant hand was scrawling across it, wiping the words away, and replacing them with new ones.
On closer inspection, Harry realized the flickering text was all advertisements.
Cornflower: The Family-Friendly Broom—Safe, Reliable, with Built-In Anti-Theft Buzzer…
Mrs. Scower's All-Purpose Magical Stain Remover: Banishes Stains with Ease!
Gladrags Wizardwear—Available in London, Paris, and Hogsmeade!
…
"There'll be a performance by the team mascots before the match!" Hermione read aloud from her program, her voice carrying over the buzz.
"Oh, that's always worth watching," Sirius said from behind Harry. "You know, before the game starts, both teams bring out some rare creatures native to their countries. I remember one time—some South American country, I think—they brought a whole swarm of vampires. Live human blood's got a powerful pull for them, you see, and let me tell you, it was chaos…"
Over the next half hour, the box gradually filled with people—mostly prominent witches and wizards. Mr. Weasley and Percy kept standing to shake hands and bow with broad smiles, and even Harry was reluctantly dragged to his feet by Sirius to exchange greetings several times. Each time Harry stood, Hermione, seated beside him, was forced to follow suit, leading to repeated misunderstandings among the guests.
"No, no, you've got it wrong—Hermione's just my friend… No, not that kind of friend, not more-than-friends-but-not-quite-dating either, we're really just friends…" Harry explained over and over to curious old wizards prying into his relationship with the girl beside him. Judging by their knowing looks, however, his one-sided clarifications weren't convincing anyone—especially when the other party involved was too busy hiding her flushed ears to back him up.
When Cornelius Fudge, the Minister for Magic himself, arrived, Percy bowed so low that his glasses slipped off and shattered on the floor.
Percy looked mortified. After repairing the lenses with a flick of his wand, he sat stiffly in his seat, as if he'd just humiliated himself in front of the entire world rather than just Fudge.
Across the Weasley family, Fudge quickly spotted Harry, Sirius, and Hermione in the corner of the box. Upon seeing Harry, Fudge's body gave an almost instinctive shudder, but—credit where it's due to the Minister—he recovered in an instant. After warmly embracing Sirius, he greeted Harry like an old friend and showered Hermione with effusive praise. Nearby, Percy shot Harry a jealous glance at Fudge's attention.
Fudge clasped Harry's hand with a kindly air, asking after his well-being and introducing him to the wizard beside him.
"Harry Potter, you know," Fudge said loudly to the Bulgarian Minister for Magic, who was dressed in an ornate gold-trimmed black velvet robe. "Harry Potter! Surely you've heard of him—the boy who escaped You-Know-Who… you must know who he is…"
The Bulgarian Minister suddenly noticed the scar on Harry's forehead. He pointed excitedly, jabbering a rapid stream of words in his own language.
"I knew we'd get through to him eventually," Fudge said with a smile to Harry. "I'm rubbish with languages myself. For things like this, you need Barty Crouch—supposedly speaks loads of them, though I'm not sure if that's true… Oh, look, his house-elf's saved him a seat… clever thinking… Ah, Lucius is here!"
At the mention of Lucius Malfoy, the Weasleys turned their heads. Approaching the three empty seats two rows behind Mr. Weasley were Lucius Malfoy—looking noticeably healthier—his son Draco, and the woman Harry had seen last at Malfoy Manor, Narcissa.
"Ah, Fudge, good to see you," Malfoy said, smiling as he extended a hand to the Minister. "I don't believe you've met my wife, Narcissa? Or our son, Draco?"
"Hello, hello," Fudge replied, bowing to Mrs. Malfoy with a smile. "Allow me to introduce you to Mr. Oblansk, the Bulgarian Minister for Magic… Oh, never mind, he can't understand a word I'm saying anyway. Let's see who else—ah, Narcissa, you know Arthur Weasley, don't you?"
Lucius Malfoy's gaze met Mr. Weasley's, and Mr. Weasley returned it without flinching.
Lucius's cold gray eyes swept over the row of Weasleys, and he raised an eyebrow in mock surprise.
"Good heavens, Arthur, good heavens," Lucius Malfoy said softly. "What did you sell to afford seats in the Top Box? Even your house wouldn't fetch this much, would it? Or perhaps you had help from my… less-than-reputable cousin?"
Smirking, Lucius turned to Sirius, who was glaring back coldly from his seat. "How've you been, Black? Those days in Azkaban not still haunting you, I hope?"
"Worry about yourself before poking your nose into others' business, Malfoy," Sirius shot back with a glance. "You seem awfully confident, though—found a new patron to hide behind, have you?"
Fudge, oblivious to the tension, looked between Sirius and Lucius. "Black, Lucius has just made a generous donation to St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries. Arthur, he's my honored guest."
"Oh… splendid," Mr. Weasley managed, forcing a tight smile.
Sirius gave a derisive snort and sank back into his seat.
Lucius's gaze shifted from Mr. Weasley and Sirius to Hermione. Recognizing her, his lips pursed tightly.
Hermione frowned at his stare, instinctively leaning closer to Harry, but then met his eyes defiantly.
Seeing this "Mudblood" dare to challenge him, Lucius narrowed his eyes. After a moment's hesitation—glancing at Harry Potter beside her—he chose to look away.
With a mocking smile at Mr. Weasley, Lucius continued to his seat. Draco, trailing behind his parents, looked preoccupied, completely unaware of Harry and Hermione nearby—a stark contrast to his usual schoolyard swagger.
Finally, Ludo Bagman burst into the box. At Fudge's signal, he cast a Sonorus charm on his throat.
"Ladies and gentlemen… welcome! Welcome to the final of the four hundred and twenty-second Quidditch World Cup!"
Bagman's booming voice echoed across the stadium as the crowd waved their flags wildly and sang a chaotic mix of both nations' anthems.
Across from the box, the final advertisement for Bertie Bott's Every Flavour Beans vanished from the blackboard, replaced with: Bulgaria: 0 – Ireland: 0.
"Now, without further ado, allow me to introduce… the Bulgarian National Team Mascots!"
A deafening cheer erupted from the sea of red-clad spectators on the right side of the stands.
"I wonder what they've brought…" Mr. Weasley leaned forward, peering at the pitch below, then yanked off his glasses and hastily wiped them on his robes.
As a hundred beautiful women glided onto the field, the entire stadium erupted into a frenzy. Music swelled, and the women began to dance. Harry, puzzled, wondered why a mascot performance meant to showcase rare creatures featured a hundred beautiful women instead. Were attractive women considered rare in their country?
Curious, Harry raised his Omnioculars and focused on the dancers. They were almost too beautiful, and certain traits caught his eye—their skin glowed with an ethereal sheen, their hair flowed without wind, and they exuded an almost intoxicating allure…
"Sirius, those women dancing down there… are they human? What's going on?!"
Harry lowered his Omnioculars to ask Sirius, but when he turned, he saw the entire box—no, the entire stadium—had gone mad.
Older wizards were somewhat composed, but the younger male witches and wizards, especially the teenagers, were practically throwing themselves toward the pitch. If the stands weren't tiered and the enchantment only affected men, the World Cup might have ended before it began with half the audience carted off to St. Mungo's.
Harry glanced at Sirius, who was utterly entranced by the dancers, then at George, Fred, and Ron, who were trying to climb over the railing, with Ginny desperately holding them back. Blinking in confusion, he turned to Hermione.
Hermione, too, glanced at the mesmerized Sirius, the frantic George, Fred, and Ron, and Ginny's struggle, then finally at Harry's baffled expression. She fought to suppress a grin threatening to break across her face.
"Harry, those are Veela," she said, clearing her throat like a walking encyclopedia ready to lecture. "Though the Ministry classifies them as human, they…" And with that, Hermione launched into a detailed explanation of Veela and their enchantments.
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