Year Four: The TriWizard Tournament

Part 3

A sense of excitement rose like a palpable a cloud over the campsite as the morning and afternoon wore on. By dusk, the still summer air itself seemed to be quivering with anticipation, and as darkness, the last vestiges of pretense disappeared: the Ministry seemed to have bowed to the inevitable and stopped fighting the signs of blatant magic now breaking out everywhere.

Salesman were Apparating every few feet, carrying trays and pushing carts full of extraordinary merchandise. There were luminous rosettes --- green for Ireland, red for Bulgaria --- which were squealing the names of the players, pointed green hats bedecked with dancing shamrocks, Bulgarian scarves adjourned with lions that really roared, flags from both countries that played their national anthems as they were waved; there were tiny models of Firebolts that flew, and collectible figures of famous players, which strolled across the palm of your hand, preening themselves.

"Been saving my pocket money all summer for this," Ron told Harry as they, Anne, and Hermione strolled through the salesman, buying sovenirs.

"You won't be getting anything for Christmas," Harry told him, thrusting four pairs of just bought Omnioculars into his, Anne's, and Hermione's hands. "For about ten years, mind."

"Fair enough," Ron agreed.

And then a deep, booming gong sounded somewhere beyond the woods, and at once, green and red lanterns blazed to life in the trees, lighting a path to the field.

"It's time!" called Mr. Weasley, looking as excited as any of them. "Come on, let's go!"

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; Anne couldn't stop grinning. They walked through the woods 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.

"Prime seats!" said the Ministry witch at the entrance when she checked their tickets. "Top Box! Straight upstairs 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 doors into the stands to 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 goal posts. About twenty purple-and-gilt chairs stood in two rows, and Anne, filing into the front seats with the party, looked down upon a scene the likes of which she could never have imagined.

A hundred thousand witches and wizards were taking their places in the seats, which rose in levels around the long oval field. Everything was suffused with a mysterious golden light, which seemed to come from the stadium itself. The field looked smooth as velvet from their lofty position.

Just then a voice spoke over the roar of sound that was now filling the packed stadium.

"Ladies and gentleman....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.

"And now, without further ado, allow me to introduce the Bulgarian National Quidditch Teams!"

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

Several scarlet-clad figures on broomsticks shot out onto the field from an entrance far below, to wild applause from the Bulgarian supporters. One player in particular was greeted by enthusiastic cries and chants.

"Krum! Krum! Krum! Krum! Krum! Krum!"

"There's no one like Krum. He's like a bird of prey the way he rides the wind," said Ron in awe. "He's more than an athlete, he's an artist."

Anne watched through her Omniculars as one of the Bulgarian players, obviously Krum, performed a spectacular stunt to the delight of the crowd. Anne couldn't help but be impressed.

"And now, please greet --- the Irish National Quidditch Team!"

Seven green blurs flew onto the field. As people waved their green flags, the Irish National anthem blared out from every corner of the pitch.

A bald man with a bushy mustache wearing robes of pure gold, made his way onto the pitch. He unleashed the Bludgers, followed by the golden snitch. He then blew his whistle sharply before throwing the Quaffle high over his head.

It was Quidditch as Anne had never seen it played before. The speed of the players was incredible --- the Chasers were throwing the Quaffle to one another so fast that the commentator only had enough time to say their names. An excitable buzz was escalating  through the crowd, and Anne watched tense in her seat.