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
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 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 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
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
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
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.
“S' matter?” he said.
Dimly, he could tell that something was wrong. The noises in the campsite
had changed. The singing had stopped. He could hear screams, and the sound of
people running. He slipped down from the bunk and reached for his clothes, but
Mr. Weasley, who had pulled on his jeans over his own pajamas, said, “No time,
Harry—just grab a jacket and get outside—quickly!”
Harry did as he was told and hurried out of the tent, Ron at his heels.
By the light of the few fires that were still burning, he could see people
running away into the woods, fleeing something that was moving across the field
toward them, something that was emitting odd flashes of light and noises like
gunfire. Loud jeering, roars of laughter, and drunken yells were drifting toward
them; then came a burst of strong green light, which illuminated the scene.
A crowd of wizards, tightly packed and moving together with wands pointing
straight upward, was marching slowly across the field. Harry squinted at them...
They didn't seem to have faces... Then he realized that their heads were hooded
and their faces masked. High above them, floating along in midair, four struggling
figures were being contorted into grotesque shapes. It was as though the masked
wizards on the ground were puppeteers, and the people above them were marionettes
operated by invisible strings that rose from the wands into the air. Two of
the figures were very small.
More wizards were joining the marching group, laughing and pointing up at
the floating bodies. Tents crumpled and fell as the marching crowd swelled.
Once or twice Harry saw one of the marchers blast a tent out of his way with
his wand. Several caught fire. The screaming grew louder.
The floating people were suddenly illuminated as they passed over a burning
tent and Harry recognized one of them: Mr. Roberts, the campsite manager. The
other three looked as though they might be his wife and children. One of the
marchers below flipped Mrs. Roberts upside down with his wand; her nightdress
fell down to reveal voluminous drawers and she struggled to cover herself up
as the crowd below her screeched and hooted with glee.
“That's sick,” Ron muttered, watching the smallest Muggle child, who had
begun to spin like a top, sixty feet above the ground, his head flopping limply
from side to side. “That is really sick...”
Hermione and Ginny came hurrying toward them, pulling coats over their nightdresses,
with Mr. Weasley right behind them. At the same moment, Bill, Charlie, and Percy
emerged from the boys' tent, fully dressed, with their sleeves rolled up and
their wands out.
“We're going to help the Ministry!” Mr. Weasley shouted over all the noise,
rolling up his own sleeves. “You lot—get into the woods, and stick together.
I'll come and fetch you when we've sorted this out!”
Bill, Charlie, and Percy were already sprinting away toward the oncoming
marchers; Mr. Weasley tore after them. Ministry wizards were dashing from every
direction toward the source of the trouble. The crowd beneath the Roberts family
was coming ever closer.
“C'mon,” said Fred, grabbing Ginny's hand and starting to pull her toward
the wood. Harry, Ron, Hermione, and George followed. They all looked back as
they reached the trees. The crowd beneath the Roberts family was larger than
ever; they could see the Ministry wizards trying to get through it to the hooded
wizards in the center, but they were having great difficulty. It looked as though
they were scared to perform any spell that might make the Roberts family fall.
The colored lanterns that had lit the path to the stadium had been extinguished.
Dark figures were blundering through the trees; children were crying; anxious
shouts and panicked voices were reverberating around them in the cold night
air. Harry felt himself being pushed hither and thither by people whose faces
he could not see. Then he heard Ron yell with pain.
“What happened?” said Hermione anxiously, stopping so abruptly that Harry
walked into her. “Ron, where are you? Oh this is stupid—lumos!”
She illuminated her wand and directed its narrow beam across the path. Ron
was lying sprawled on the ground.
“Tripped over a tree root,” he said angrily, getting to his feet again.
“Well, with feet that size, hard not to,” said a drawling voice from behind
Harry, Ron, and Hermione turned sharply. Draco Malfoy was standing alone
nearby, leaning against a tree, looking utterly relaxed. His arms folded, he
seemed to have been watching the scene at the campsite through a gap in the