Tragedy at the Quidditch Cup

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Clutching their purchases, Mr. Weasley in the lead, they all hurried into the woods, following the lantern-lit trail. They could hear the sounds of thousands of people moving around them, shouts and laughter, snatches of singing. The atmosphere of feverish excitement was highly infectious; Estella can stop grinning. They walked through the wood for twenty minutes, talking and joking loudly, until at last, they emerged on the other side and found themselves in the shadow of a gigantic stadium.

"Seats a hundred thousand," said Mr. Weasley, spotting the awestruck look on their faces. "Ministry task force of five hundred have been working on it all year. Muggle Repelling charms on every inch of it. Every time Muggles have got anywhere near here, they've all suddenly remembered urgent appointments and had to dash away again...Bless them," he added fondly, leading the way toward the nearest entrance, which was already surrounded by a swarm of shouting witches and wizards.

"Prime seats!" said the Ministry witch at the entrance when she checked their tickets. "Top box! Straight upstairs, Arthur, and as high as you can go."

The stairs into the stadium were carpeted in rich purple. They clambered upward with the rest of the crowd, which slowly filtered away through the doors into the stands and two their left and right. Mr. Weasley's party kept climbing, and at last, they reached the top of the staircase and found themselves in a small box set at the highest point of the stadium and situated exactly halfway between the golden goalposts. About twenty-purple-and-gilt chairs stood in two rows here.

A hundred thousand witches and wizards were taking their places in their seats, which rose in levels around the long oval field. Everything was suffused with a mysterious golden light, which seemed to have come from the stadium itself. The field looked smooth as velvet from their lofty position. At either end of the field stood three goal hoops, exactly fifty feet high; right opposite them, almost at Estella's eye level, was a gigantic blackboard. Gold writing kept dashing across it as though an invisible giant's hand were scrawling upon the blackboard and then wiping it off again.

The box filled gradually around them over the next half hour. Mr. Weasley kept shaking hands with people who were obviously very important wizards. Estella recognized a handful of them from her father's work. Percy jumped to his feet as they walked over to greet Estella and Mr. Weasley, growing embarrassed as they passed over him. When Cornelius Fudge arrived, Percy bowed so low that his glasses fell off and shattered. Highly embarrassed, he repaired them with his wand and thereafter remained in his seat, throwing jealous looks at Estella and Harry's way, whom Cornelius Fudge greeted like old friends.

Estella didn't know why Percy was glaring at her; the only reason Fudge noticed her was because of Harry.

"Harry Potter, you know," he told the Bulgarian minister loudly, who was wearing splendid robes of black velvet trimmed with gold and didn't seem to understand a word of English. "The boy who lived!"

"I'm no great shakes at languages; I need Barty Crouch for this sort of thing," Fudge said.

Hermione, Ron, Estella, and Harry turned quickly. Edging along the second row to four still-empty seats right in front of Mr. Weasley.

"Ah, Fudge," Estella heard the familiar voice of Lucius Malfoy say. "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?" said Fudge, smiling and bowing to Mr. Malfoy. "And allow me to introduce you to Mr. Oblansk; 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 now Arthur Weasley, I daresay?"

It was a tense moment. Mr. Weasley and Mr. Malfoy looked at each other, and Estella vividly recalled the last time they had come face-to-face. They had a fight in Flourish and Blotts bookshop. Mr. Malfoy's cold gray eyes swept over Mr. Weasley and then up and down the row.

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