( 𝔳𝔬𝔩𝔲𝔪𝔢 𝔦𝔦, 𝖈𝖍𝖆𝖕𝖙𝖊𝖗 𝖋𝖔𝖚𝖗𝖙𝖊𝖊𝖓 ) — the quidditch world cup
''Good morning,'' Evangeline greeted the tired and grumpy looking-wizard, who was holding a thick roll of parchment and a quilt.
''Morning, surname?''
''Rosier.''
''I'll find your campsite . . . Rosier . . . Rosier . . . about a quarter of a mile's walk over there, first field you come too.''
''Thank you,'' she replied, beckoning Pinky and Nyx, her new black cat, to follow her.
They set off across the deserted moor, unable to make out much through the mist. If you had told Evangeline a year ago she would be attending the Quidditch World Cup, she would have laughed in your face and made fun of the sport. But that was then, and this was now. Freshly disowned and her only friends being a house elf and a feline, the brunette thought adding a social event to her calendar wouldn't hurt, even if she would be alone.
After about twenty minutes, a small stone cottage next to a gate swam into view. Beyond it were the ghostly shapes of hundreds and hundreds of tents, rising up the gentle slope of a colossal field towards a dark wood on the horizon. A man was standing in the doorway of the building, observing the tents. When he heard their approach, he turned his head to look at them.
''Good morning,'' the Rosier girl addressed once again.
''Morning,'' he replied.
''Would you happen to be Mr Roberts?''
''Aye, I would, and who're you?''
''Rosier — a tent, booked a couple days ago?''
''Aye,'' he replied, consulting a list tacked to the door. ''You've got a space up by the wood there. Just the one night?''
''That's it.''
''You'll be paying now, then?''
''Right— certainly—'' Evangeline muttered, pulling a roll of Muggle money from her handbag and starting to peel the notes apart. ''This one's a— a— a ten? Yes, I see the little number on it now . . . so this is a twenty?''
''You foreign?'' Mr Roberts asked as the brunette finally handed him the correct notes.
''Foreign?''
''You're not the first one who's had trouble with money,'' he teased. ''I had two try and pay me with great gold coins the size of hubcaps ten minutes ago.''
''Did you really?''
Mr Roberts rummaged around in a tin for some change. ''Never been this crowded,'' he pondered, looking out over the field. ''Hundreds of pre-bookings, too. People usually just turn up . . . ''
''Is that so?'' Evangeline hummed, holding her hand out for the coins.
''Aye,'' he said thoughtfully. ''People from all over. Loads of foreigners, and not just foreigners . . . weirdos, you know? There's a bloke walking around in a kilt and a poncho.''
''Should he not be?''
''It's like some sort of . . . I dunno . . . like some sort of rally. They all seem to know each other, like a big party.''
At that moment, a wizard appeared out of thin air next to Mr Roberts' front door.
''Obliviate!'' He spoke sharply, pointing his wand at the Muggle. Instantly, his eyes slid out of focus, his brows unknitted, and a look of dreamy unconcern fell over his face.
''A map of the campsite for you,'' Mr Roberts said placidly.
''Thank you.''
The wizard who obliviated Mr Roberts accompanied Evangeline, Pinky, and Nyx towards the gate to the campsite. He looked exhausted; his chin was blue with stubble and there were deep purple shadows under his eyes. ''Been having a lot of trouble with him,'' he murmured. ''Needs a Memory Charm ten times a day to keep him happy. Blimey, I'll be glad when this is over.''
He Disapparated.
Evangeline picked the house elf up onto her hip, allowing Nyx to jump into her handbag as she trudged up the misty field between long rows of tents. Halfway up the field stood an extravagant confection of striped silk like a miniature palace, with several live peacocks tethered at the entrance. A little further on she passed a tent that had three floors and several turrets; and a short way beyond there was one which had a front garden.
''Here we are, girls.''
They had reached the very edge of the woods at the top of the field, with a small sign hammered into the ground that read ❛Rosier❜.
''There's no magic allowed, strictly speaking, but elves are different. Pinky, could you put up the tent, please?''
In a couple of seconds, a shabby tent erected in front of Evangeline where the empty space had been. She bent down, ducking under the tent flap. Inside, it looked like an old-fashioned three-roomed house, complete with a lavatory and kitchen.
After a hearty roast dinner, Evangeline set off, leaving Pinky to practice her letters — she had been teaching her how to write. She walked through the woods for twenty minutes until, at last, she emerged on the other side, and found herself in the shadow of a gigantic stadium. The brunette made her way to the nearest entrance, which was already surrounded by a swarm of shouting witches and wizards.
''Prime seats!'' The Ministry witch at the entrance exclaimed when she checked Evangeline's ticket. ''Top Box! Straight upstairs, Arthur, and as high as you can go.''
The stairs into the stadium were carpeted in a rich purple. She clambered up with the rest of the crowd until the top of the staircase, finding herself in a small box, set at the highest point in the stadium and situated halfway between the golden goalposts, which held about twenty purple-and-gilt chairs in two rows.
Down in the stadium, a hundred thousand witches and wizards were taking their places in the seats which rose in levels around the long oval pitch. Everything was suffused with a mysterious golden light that seemed to come from the stadium itself. At either end of the velvety pitch stood three goal hoops, fifty feet high; right opposite them was a gigantic blackboard.
Evangeline observed over her shoulder to see who else was sharing the box with her; there was only the Weasley family, along with Hermione and Harry, before the box began filling gradually. When Cornelius Fudge, the Minister for Magic himself arrived, she noticed Percy bow so low that his glasses fell of his head and shattered.
''Here's Lucius!''
The Rosier girl felt the knots in her stomach tighten, twisting and turning as she turned around nervously. Sure enough, Lucius, Draco, and Narcissa were edging along the second row toward three still-empty seats. There was no doubt that they had heard the news, and Evangeline just prayed that she would depart from the Quidditch World Cup in one piece.
''Ah, Fudge,'' Lucius greeted, 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 smiled, bowing to the matriarch. ''And allow me to introduce you to Mr Oblansk — Obalonsk — Mr — well, he's the Bulgarian Minister for Magic, and he can't understand a word I'm saying anyway, so never mind. You know Arthur Weasley, of course, and let's see who else — you know Evangeline Rosier, I daresay?''
It was a tense moment. The Malfoys set their eyes onto Evangeline like a vulture would on it's next meal. Their cold grey eyes swept over her figure, and then on to the empty seats on either side of her.
''Good Lord, Evangeline,'' he said softly. ''What did you have to do to get seats in the Top Box, now that you've been disowned? Surely the clothes off of your back wouldn't have fetched this much?''
Fudge, who wasn't listening, began to speak. ''Lucius has just given a very generous contribution to St Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries, Evangeline. He's here as my guest.''
''How charming,'' she uttered, straining a smile.
''You must tell your parents to be expecting an Owl from me soon, my dear. We haven't had dinner in—''
The brunette switched off at the second mention of her parents — even one was too much. She glanced at the Weasley family and others, who had been tactfully pretending to not listen, and dared to stare Narcissa down before they continued down the line to their seats. The eye contact made a shiver shoot down her spine; the woman most definitely no longer considered herself to be a cousin once-removed.
Next moment, Ludo Bagman charged into the box.
''Everyone ready?'' He asked, his round face gleaming like a great, excited block of cheese. ''Minister — ready to go?''
''Ready when you are, Ludo,'' Fudge told him comfortably.
Bagman whipped out his wand, directed it at his own throat, barked ❛Sonorus!❜ and then spoke over the roar that was filling the packed stadium; his voice echoed over everyone, booming 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, adding their discordant national anthems to the racket. The huge blackboard opposite them was wiped clear of it's last advertisement and now read ❛BULGARIA: ZERO, IRELAND: ZERO❜.
''And now, without further ado, allow me to introduce . . . the Bulgarian Team Mascots!''
The right-hand side of the stands, which was a solid block of scarlet, roared in approval.
A hundred Veela started gliding out onto the pitch, the most beautiful women Evangeline had ever seen. Their skin shone moon-bright, complimented by their white-gold hair fanning out behind them. They began to dance, mesmerising every man in attendance into bliss.
Angry yells began to fill the stadium as the music stopped and so did their pirouettes.
''And now,'' Bagman roared, ''kindly put your wands in the air . . . for the Irish National Team Mascots!''
What seemed to be a great green and gold comet had come zooming into view. It did one circuit around the stadium, then split into two smaller comets, each hurtling towards the goalposts. A rainbow arced suddenly across the pitch, connecting the two spheres of light. The crowed murmured appreciatively before 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 soared over the stands. Heavy cold coins rained from it, bouncing off everyone's heads and seats.
The great shamrock dissolved, the leprechauns which made it up drifted down onto the pitch on the opposite side from the Veela, and settled themselves cross-legged to watch the match.
''And now, ladies and gentlemen, kingly welcome — the Bulgarian National Quidditch Team! I give you — Dimitrov! Ivanova! Zograf! Levski! Vulchanov! Volkov! Aaaaand — Krum!''
Multiple scarlet-glad figures came out on broomsticks, moving so fast they were blurred, to wild applause from the Bulgarian supporters.
''And now, please greet — the Irish National Quidditch Team!'' Bagman yelled. ''Presenting — Connolly! Ryan! Troy! Mullet! Moran! Quigley! Aaaaand — Lynch!''
Seven green blurs swept onto the pitch, their names embroidered in silver upon their backs.
''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 with a moustache, wearing robes of pure gold, strode out onto the pitch. A silver whistle was protruding from under the moustache, and he was carrying a large wooden crate under one arm, his broomstick in the other. He mounted it and kicked the box open — four balls burst into the air; the scarlet Quaffle, two black Bludgers, and the minuscule, winged, Golden Snitch. With a sharp blast on his whistle, Mostafa shot into the air after the balls.
''Theeeeeeee'yre OFF!'' Bagman screamed. ''And it's Mullet! Troy! Moran! Dimitrov! Back to Mullet! Troy! Levski! Moran!''
One of the Bulgarian beaters, Volkov, swung hard at a passing Bludger with his club, knocking it into Moran's path; he ducked to avoid the Bludger and dropped the Quaffle; and Levski, soaring beneath, caught it —
''TROY SCORES!'' Bagman roared, and the stadium shuddered with a roar of applause and cheers. ''Ten-zero to Ireland!''
The match became still faster, but more brutal. Volkov and Vulchanov were whacking Bludgers as fiercely as possible as the Irish Chasers were starting to prevent them using some of their best moves. Finally, Ivanova managed to break through their ranks, dodge Ryan, and score Bulgaria's first goal.
The rest was a blur. Evangeline swam in and out of focus, switching between watching the match and peeking at the elder Weasley sons. Last she had seen them was in her younger years at Hogwarts, and they had certainly changed a lot.
She was soon caught up in the crowd flooding out of the stadium and back to the campsite. It was only when Pinky fell right asleep at the tiny table and spilled hot chocolate all over the floor that Evangeline insisted they go to bed.
The Rosier girl never knew whether he had actually dropped off to sleep or not. All she knew was that, quite suddenly, Pinky was squealing.
She could hear screams, and the sound of people running.
She slipped out from under her covers and reached for her skirt, hurriedly putting it on. It didn't look awful paired with her silk camisole pyjama top, but fashion was the least of her worries at that point.
''Apparate to Hogwarts, now, Pinky!'' She urged, thrusting Nyx into the house elf's arms. ''Quickly!''
''But Miss—''
''Do as you are told!''
By the light of the few fires that were still burning, Evangeline could see people fleeing into the woods, running from something that was moving across the field sinisterly, something that was emitting odd flashes of light, and noises like gunfire. Loud jeering, roars of laughter, and drunken yells were drifting towards her; 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 upwards, was marching slowly. Their heads were hooded and their faces masked. High above them, floating along in mid-air, four struggling creatures were being contorted into grotesque shapes. It was as if the masked wizards were puppeteers, and the people above them were marionettes operated by invisible strings. Two of the figures were tiny.
More wizards were joining the marching group, laughing and pointing up at the levitated bodies. Tents crumpled and fell as the crowd swelled. Several of them caught on fire as the screaming grew louder.
The suspended people were suddenly illuminated as they passed over a bright flame, and Evangeline recognised one of them to be Mr Roberts, the campsite manager from before. 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. She struggled to cover herself up as the crowd below her screeched and hooted with glee.
The Rosier girl sprinted towards them, blasting protective spells here and there. She was scared to perform any spell that might make the family fall, so she retreated into the woods. After all, she was not in Gryffindor for a reason.
Dark figures were blundering through the trees; children were crying; anxious shouts and panicked voice were reverberating around her in the cold night her. The brunette felt herself being pushed hither and tither by people whose faces she couldn't see.
Suddenly, there came a bang from the other side of the trees that was louder than anything she had ever hears. Several people nearby screamed.
And then, without warning, her laboured gasps were rent by a voice, and it uttered, not a panicked shout, but what sounded like a spell.
''MORSMORDRE!''
Something vast, green, and glittering erupted from the patch of darkness Evangeline's eyes had been struggling to penetrate — it flew up over the treetops and into the sky.
It was a mammoth skull, composed of what looked like emerald stars, with a serpent protruding from it's mouth like a tongue. As she watched, it rose higher and higher, blazing in a haze of greenish smoke against the black sky like a new constellation.
''STUPEFY!''
There was a blinding series of flashes and Evangeline felt the hair on her arms ripple as though a powerful wind had swept the clearing. The last thing she heard was a yell of protest, before her mind drowned into the darkness.
The next thing she knew, her eyes were fluttering open to the inside of a shabby tent.
''Dad, what's going on?'' A voice hollered — it was vaguely familiar, even in her disorientated state. ''Fred, George, and Ginny got back okay, but the others—''
''I've got them here,'' Arthur Weasley informed the voice, entering the tent with Harry, Ron, and Hermione. Bill Weasley was sitting at the small kitchen table, holding a bedsheet to his arm, which was bleeding profusely. Charlie, who has previously kneeling over a bruised Evangeline, had a large rip in his shirt. Percy was sporting a bloody nose. Fred, Ginny, and George looked unhurt, but shaken. ''Who's our guest . . . Evangeline Rosier?''
''She got stunned,'' Bill commented offhandedly as the pure-blood girl began to sit up, wary of all the eyes on her, before being ushered back down by Charlie. ''Did you get them, dad? The person who conjured the Mark?''
''No. We found Barty Crouch's elf holding Harry's wand, but we're none the wiser about who actually conjured it.''
''What?''
''Harry's wand?''
''Mr Crouch's elf?''
With some assistance from Harry, Ron, and Hermione, Mr Weasley explained the whole story. It was only after Evangeline had been reassured and healed that they finally let her leave, although she didn't before thanking the family profusely.