“Harry, what are you doing?” said Hermione's voice from a long way off.
The music stopped. Harry blinked. He was standing up, and one of his legs
was resting on the wall of the box. Next to him, Ron was frozen in an attitude
that looked as though he were about to dive from a springboard.
Angry yells were filling the stadium. The crowd didn't want the veela to
go. Harry was with them; he would, of course, be supporting Bulgaria, and he
wondered vaguely why he had a large green shamrock pinned to his chest. Ron,
meanwhile, was absentmindedly shredding the shamrocks on his hat. Mr. Weasley,
smiling slightly, leaned over to Ron and tugged the hat out of his hands.
“You'll be wanting that,” he said, “once Ireland have had their say.”
“Huh?” said Ron, staring openmouthed at the veela, who had now lined up along
one side of the field.
Hermione made a loud tutting noise. She reached up and pulled Harry back
into his seat. “Honestly!” she said.
“And now,” roared Ludo Bagman's voice, “kindly put your wands in the air...
for the Irish National Team Mascots!”
Next moment, what seemed to be a great green-and-gold comet came zooming
into the stadium. It did one circuit of the stadium, then split into two smaller
comets, each hurtling toward the goal posts. A rainbow arced suddenly across
the field, connecting the two balls of light. The crowd oooohed and aaaaahed,
as though at a fireworks display. Now the rainbow faded and the balls of light
reunited and merged; they had formed a great shimmering shamrock, which rose
up into the sky and began to soar over the stands. Something like golden rain
seemed to be falling from it—”Excellent!” yelled Ron as the shamrock soared
over them, and heavy gold coins rained from it, bouncing off their heads and
seats. Squinting up at the shamrock, Harry realized that it was actually comprised
of thousands of tiny little bearded men with red vests, each carrying a minute
lamp of gold or green.
“Leprechauns!” said Mr. Weasley over the tumultuous applause of the crowd,
many of whom were still fighting and rummaging around under their chairs to
retrieve the gold.
“There you go,” Ron yelled happily, stuffing a fistful of gold coins into
Harry's hand, “for the Omnioculars! Now you've got to buy me a Christmas present,
The great shamrock dissolved, the leprechauns drifted down onto the field
on the opposite side from the veela, and settled themselves cross-legged to
watch the match.
“And now, ladies and gentlemen, kindly welcome—the Bulgarian National Quidditch
Team! I give you—Dimitrov!”
A scarlet-clad figure on a broomstick, moving so fast it was blurred, shot
out onto the field from an entrance far below, to wild applause from the Bulgarian
A second scarlet-robed player zoomed out.
“Zograf! Levski! Vulchanov! Volkov! Aaaaaaand—Krum!”
“That's him, that's him!” yelled Ron, following Krum with his Omnioculars.
Harry quickly focused his own.
Viktor Krum was thin, dark, and sallow-skinned, with a large curved nose
and thick black eyebrows. He looked like an overgrown bird of prey. It was hard
to believe he was only eighteen.
“And now, please greet—the Irish National Quidditch Team!” yelled Bagman.
“Presenting—Connolly! Ryan! Troy! Mullet! Moran! Quigley! Aaaaaand—Lynch!”
Seven green blurs swept onto the field; Harry spun a small dial on the side
of his Omnioculars and slowed the players down enough to read the word “Firebolt”
on each of their brooms and see their names, embroidered in silver, upon their
“And here, all the way from Egypt, our referee, acclaimed Chairwizard of
the International Association of Quidditch, Hassan Mostafa!”
A small and skinny wizard, completely bald but with a mustache to rival Uncle
Vernon's, wearing robes of pure gold to match the stadium, strode out onto the
field. A silver whistle was protruding from under the mustache, and he was carrying
a large wooden crate under one arm, his broomstick under the other. Harry spun
the speed dial on his Omnioculars back to normal, watching closely as Mostafa
mounted his broomstick and kicked the crate open—four balls burst into the air:
the scarlet Quaffle, the two black Bludgers, and (Harry saw it for the briefest
moment, before it sped out of sight) the minuscule, winged Golden Snitch. With
a sharp blast on his whistle, Mostafa shot into the air after the balls.
“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 glasses that they were cutting into the bridge
of his nose. The speed of the players was incredible—the Chasers were throwing
the Quaffle to one another 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 center, slightly ahead of Mullet and Moran,
bearing down upon the Bulgarians. PORSKOFF PLOY flashed up next, as Troy made
as though to dart upward 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 honor around the field. Harry looked quickly over
the top of his Omnioculars and saw that the leprechauns watching from the sidelines
had all risen into the air again and formed the great, glittering shamrock.
Across the field, 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, their movements so well coordinated that they
appeared to be reading one another's minds as they positioned themselves, and
the rosette on Harry's chest kept squeaking their names: “Troy—Mullet—Mo ran!”
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
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 from 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
“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 field. The veela had
stopped dancing, and Bulgaria was again in possession of the Quaffle.
“Dimitrov! Levski! Dimitrov! Ivanova—oh I say!” roared Bagman.
One hundred thousand wizards gasped as the two Seekers, Krum and Lynch, plummeted
through the center of the Chasers, so fast that it looked as though they had
just jumped from airplanes 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 spiraled 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 field to examine Aidan Lynch!”
“He'll be okay, 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 DEFENSIVE
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 he looked unsupported and weightless.
Harry turned his Omnioculars back to normal and focused them on Krum. He was
now circling high above Lynch, who was 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 unrivaled 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 toward the goal posts 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
“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
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 field leapt to their feet, tossed
their hair angrily, and started to dance again.
As one, the Weasley boys and Harry stuffed their fingers into 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 field. 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 mustache 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 field, his fingers stuffed into his
own ears, and kicked Mostafa hard in the shins. Mostafa seemed to come to himself;
Harry, watching through the Omnioculars again, saw that he looked exceptionally
embarrassed and had started 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, landed on either side
of Mostafa and began arguing furiously with him, gesticulating toward 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 Volkov 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
“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
The leprechauns had risen into the air again, and this time, they formed
a giant hand, which was making a very rude sign indeed at the veela across the
field. At this, the veela lost control. Instead of dancing, they launched themselves
across the field 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!”