A Summoner in the Wizarding World

Vendors with carts full of merchandise scattered across the venue, attempting to sell our their inventory. Noticing binoculars sold by one, I pulled out Harry's thick wallet and paid for all four of us, despite Ron and Hermione's insistence that they will pay for themselves.

"Cool!" Ron exclaimed, twiddling the replay knob on the side. "I can make that old bloke down there pick his nose again... and again... and again..."

Meanwhile, Hermione eagerly skimmed through the program brochure, deliberately ignoring Ron's rather immature actions.

"A display from the team mascots will precede the match,'" she read aloud, glancing at the Weasleys who should have more experience than herself.

"Oh, that's always worth watching," remarked Mr. Weasley, nodding lightly. "National teams bring creatures from their land, you know, to put on a bit of a show."

The box gradually filled over the next half hour. Mr. Weasley happily shook hands with important wizards, while Percy's frequent jumps at such connections made him look as if his chair was on fire. When Cornelius Fudge, the Minister of Magic, arrived, Percy bowed so low his glasses fell off his nose bridge and shattered. Highly embarrassed, he repaired them on the spot and threw jealous looks at me, whom the old politician greeted like a familiar, easily exploitable friend.

"Harry Potter, you know," Fudge told the Bulgarian minister, who was walking next to him, feigning being unable to understand English, rather loudly. "The boy who defeated You-Know-Who... oh come on now, you know who he is..."

The Bulgarian wizard spotted my scar and started gabbling excitedly.

"Knew we'd get there in the end," Fudge said wearily to me. "I'm no great shakes at languages; I need Barty Crouch for this sort of thing. Ah, I see his house-elf's saving him a seat..." - I noticed Winky slightly jumped nervously at this - "Good job too, these Bulgarian blighters have been trying to cadge all the best places... ah, and here's Lucius!"

Of course, no sooner has such words been said, Lucius Malfoy, his son Draco, and wife Narcissa - edged along the second row to three still-empty seats right behind Mr. Weasley.

"Ah, Fudge," Mr. Malfoy said, holding out his hand. "How are you? I don't think you've met my wife, Narcissa? Or our son, Draco?"

"How do you do, how do you do?" Fudge said animatedly, smiling and bowing to Mrs. Malfoy, probably having recently received 'gifts' from the ancient Pure-Blood house. "And allow me to introduce you to Mr. Oblansk... Obalonsk... Mr... well, he's the Bulgarian Minister of Magic, and he can't understand a word I'm saying anyway, so never mind... And let's see who else... you know Arthur Weasley, I daresay?"

It was a tense moment. Arthur Weasley and Lucius Malfoy stared each other down. Malfoy's cold gray eyes swept over the Weasleys, and then up and down the row, stating sarcastically:

"Good lord, Arthur," he muttered. "What did you have to sell to get seats in the Top Box? Surely your house wouldn't have fetched this much?"

Fudge, not listening or deliberately ignoring the insult, explained, "Lucius has just given a very generous contribution to St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries, Arthur. He's here as my guest."

"How - how nice," Mr. Weasley said, with a very strained smile.

Mr. Malfoy's eyes lingered on Hermione, who ignored him coldly, turning her back against him. That lip-curl of the inbred really infuriated me, but, like Hermione, we kept our cool. Noting our apathy, Mr. Malfoy morely nodded sneeringly and continued down the line to his seats. Draco shot us one contemptuous look, then followed behind his parents.

"Slimy gits," Ron muttered as he, Ginny, and I turned to face the field again. Ludo Bagman at this moment charged into the commentator's box.

"Everyone ready?" he said, his round face gleaming in excitement. "Minister—ready to go?"

"Ready when you are, Ludo," said Fudge comfortably, standing behind him, slightly our of sight.

Ludo whipped out his wand, directed it at his own throat, and roared "Sonorus!". Despite the stream of noises that was now filling the stadium, his voice boomed into every corner of the stands.

"Ladies and gentlemen... welcome! Welcome to the final of the four hundred and twenty-second Quidditch World Cup!"

The spectators screamed and clapped. Thousands of flags waved, some singing their discordant national anthems as a competition. The huge blackboards behind every row of seats showed BULGARIA: 0, IRELAND: 0.

"And now, without further ado, allow me to introduce... the Bulgarian National Team Mascots!"

The right-hand side of the stands, a solid block of scarlet, roared its approval.

"I wonder what they've brought," questioned Mr. Weasley, leaning forward in his seat. "Aaah!" He suddenly whipped off his glasses and hurriedly polished them. "Veela!"

"What are veela—?" No sooner has Hermione asked this, a hundred veela glided onto the field, immediately answering her question. They were women, the most beautiful I'd ever seen, the uncanny, inhuman sense of beauty. Their skin shone, and white-gold hair flowed without wind. The music started, and I quickly sank into the shadows, shutting out my mind. The others weren't so lucky - while watching the veela, half-jumping from the box into the stadium.

"Ron, what are you doing?" Hermione's voice pulled the red-head back. The music stopped; Ron frozen beside me and both girls giving him the stink eye.

Angry yells filled the stadium; the crowd didn't want the veela to leave but it was soon the Irish mascots' turn.

"You'll be wanting that once Ireland has their say.", smiled Mr Weasley.

"Huh?" Ron replied, staring blankly at the retreating veela.

"And now," Ludo Bagman roared, "put your wands in the air for the Irish National Team Mascots!"

A green-and-gold comet zoomed in, splitting into two and connecting with a rainbow. The crowd cheered. The merged comets formed a shimmering shamrock, releasing golden rain.

"Excellent!" yelled Ron as tiny bearded men rained gold coins. Mr Weasley, Bill and Charlie looked at the younger ones warmly, not telling them about the coins' limited lifespans. The leprechauns then settled to watch the match.

"Now, ladies and gentlemen, welcome—the Bulgarian National Quidditch Team! I give you—Dimitrov!"

Scarlet figures shot onto the field to the frantic applause.

"Ivanova!" A second scarlet-robed player zoomed out. "Zograf! Levski! Vulchanov! Volkov! Aaaaaaand - Krum!"

At the last name, visible excitement can be felt from the stands, all anticipating the young Seeker that's responsible for Bulgaria's clutch victories.

"And now, please greet—the Irish National Quidditch Team! Presenting—Connolly! Ryan! Troy! Mullet! Moran! Quigley! Aaaaaand—Lynch!"

Though none of the names garnered as much excitement, the cheer for Ireland rang out just as deafening, their fans temporarily drowning out the stadium in the teams' emerald colors.

"From Egypt, our referee, Chairwizard Hassan Mostafa!"

The man mounted his broom, releasing the balls, marking the start of the match.

"Theeeeeeeey're OFF!" screamed Bagman. Quidditch played faster than ever, and I leisurely watched the two teams, sure of the outcome.

After that, except for the incident where the two countries' mascots had a magical fight and the veela temporarily charming the referee, Ireland completely and utterly devastated Bulgaria, leading 100, then 110 and soon over 150 - nil.

As Bulgaria no longer had any hope of victory, the two Seeker's chase to find the Snitch commenced to great attention. Krum performed his Wronsky Feint and snatched the ball after one fake and another real dive, breaking both his own nose and the opposing Seeker's.

Cheer erupted from both sides, congratulating both the valiant loss of Bulgaria and overwhelming victory for Ireland.

"Vell, ve fought bravely," a gloomy voice sounded behind me. I turned; it was the Bulgarian Minister of Magic.

"You can speak English!" Fudge exclaimed, outraged. "And you've been letting me mime everything all day!"

"Veil, it vos very funny," the Bulgarian minister shrugged.

And as the Irish team performs a lap of honor, flanked by their mascots, the Quidditch World Cup is brought into the Top Box into the hands of one Cornelius Fuge, who still looked disgruntled after using sign language all day.

"Let's have a really loud hand for the gallant losers - Bulgaria!" Bagman shouted.

Up the stairs came the seven defeated Bulgarian players. The crowd below applauded; Omniocular lenses flashed and winked, especially towards the direction of a certain scowling player.

The Bulgarians filed between the seats, and Bagman called out each name as they shook hands. Krum, last in line, looked a mess with two black eyes and a bloody face. He was still holding the Snitch. When his name was announced, the stadium roared.

Then came the Irish team. Aidan Lynch was supported by Moran and Connolly. The crowd thundered its approval as Troy and Quigley lifted the Cup. When the Irish team left the box for another lap, 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?"

Fred and George had just scrambled over seats, standing in front of Ludo Bagman with broad grins on their faces, hands outstretched. It seems Bagman greatly regretted the "great odds" he gave the twins, yet he managed to return the owed Galleons.

And so, as the match ended, the wand I left in my pocket was gone and, turning around, so was Winky and the invisible Barty Crouch. It won't be long before this merry venue would greet the lurking terror that laid hidden for over a decade.