The Weasley twins brought Harry to the Burrow, where the Weasley family was already fully prepared and waiting outside.
Ginny spotted Harry and waved excitedly at him. Ron stood nearby, still half-asleep, but he greeted Harry as well.
Harry waved back.
Seeing him wave, Ginny assumed it was meant for her and smiled so brightly that her eyes nearly disappeared.
"Alright, kids," Arthur said, clapping his hands, "stick close and move quickly. It's time to go."
After spotting Harry, Arthur turned and headed toward the nearby woods.
Inside the forest, Arthur met up with his colleague, Amos Diggory, who would be traveling with the Weasley family.
After passing through the small stretch of forest, they arrived at a cluster of low hills. At the top of the tallest hill sat a battered old boot.
That boot was a Portkey, leading directly to the Quidditch World Cup venue.
"Everyone, grab hold of the boot," Arthur said. "We're about to depart."
"What's this?" Harry asked, confused.
Even as he spoke, he followed Arthur's instructions and grabbed onto the boot.
Ron yawned beside him and explained lazily, "A Portkey. It transports us to a designated place… ah!"
Before he could finish, the boot began spinning violently before shooting upward.
The centrifugal force snapped Ron fully awake, while Harry experienced the thrilling—and nauseating—sensation of spiraling through the air.
After a dizzying whirl, they landed hard on a coastal cliff.
This wasn't a sandy beach, but a sheer coastline with steep cliffs plunging straight down into the sea.
Looking rather disheveled, Harry and the others scrambled to their feet. After climbing over a small ridge, they finally reached their destination.
Tents stretched across the hillside in dense rows.
Witches and wizards from all over the world had gathered here for the grand event held once every four years.
In the distance stood the stadium where the Quidditch World Cup would take place.
Ever since the International Statute of Secrecy came into effect, organizing the Quidditch World Cup had become a logistical nightmare.
Not only did the organizers have to avoid Muggle attention, they also had to accommodate an enormous number of wizards from around the globe.
As a result, hosting the World Cup was widely acknowledged by every Ministry of Magic as one of the most exhausting and thankless tasks imaginable.
This year, the responsibility fell to the British Ministry of Magic.
Over five hundred Ministry employees had worked tirelessly for an entire year, hollowing out a massive coastal hill to construct a stadium capable of holding one hundred thousand spectators.
The scene before Harry was overwhelming.
Different national flags hung in front of rows of tents, and wizards from every country wore smiles filled with excitement.
Some had just arrived and were waving their wands to set up tents.
Others had placed tables and chairs outside, leisurely enjoying early tea.
There were even wizards performing flashy little spells purely for entertainment, drawing the awed gazes of young witches and wizards.
If Arthur had been here, he would definitely have scoffed at the Ministry's lack of business sense. With crowds like this, setting up a market area to sell British food and souvenirs would have made a fortune.
"Keep up, kids," Arthur called.
He led them to a perfectly ordinary-looking tent.
As a Ministry employee, Arthur had arrived early to set everything up.
"Welcome to our cozy little home," Arthur said, lifting the tent flap.
The Weasley family filed inside.
Harry entered last, and the interior space immediately caught him off guard. It was his first time seeing a tent enhanced with an Undetectable Extension Charm.
"I love magic," Harry muttered in amazement.
After settling their belongings, Harry and the Weasleys rested inside the tent. The match wouldn't begin until evening.
…
Night soon fell, and spectators from around the world poured into the stadium.
Although advertised as a one-hundred-thousand-seat arena, it was essentially a massive pit carved into the mountainside, with layers of metal stands stacked upward. Only the VIP section had proper cover from wind and rain.
If it rained, the ordinary spectators would be soaked.
That said, the crowd hardly cared. Neither rain nor snow could dampen their enthusiasm.
Though hastily constructed, the stadium was impressively complete—and its sheer scale alone was a spectacle.
Following Arthur up the stands, Harry looked around in awe.
"Too bad Arthur couldn't make it," Harry said. "He's missing something incredible."
"I'm willing to bet the boss wouldn't enjoy this kind of noisy environment," George said, patting Harry on the shoulder. "Besides, he's traveling in the Eastern lands. What he's seeing might be even more spectacular."
"Stop gawking and move," he added.
Arthur had chosen seats at the very top of the stadium, where the view covered the entire arena.
Ron and Arthur walked ahead, peering through the gaps in the metal stands and catching glimpses of the ground far below.
"Merlin's beard!" Ron exclaimed. "Dad, how high up are we?"
"If it rains," came a smooth voice from below, "you'll be the first to know."
The speaker wasn't Arthur, but Lucius Malfoy, passing by with his son.
"And my father and I," Draco added smugly from behind Lucius, "will be sitting comfortably in the Minister's box, safe from wind and rain. Thanks to Cornelius Fudge."
"Don't show off, Draco," Lucius said coolly. "There's no point explaining these things to people like them."
Draco nodded. He hadn't intended to brag—but whenever Harry was around, the urge was irresistible.
Harry ignored them and turned away.
But Lucius hooked Harry's foot with the tip of his cane and said meaningfully,
"Enjoy yourselves while you can—while you still have breath."
With that, Lucius released him and walked off.
Harry didn't dwell on the cryptic remark. He quickly immersed himself in the excitement of the match.
This was the 422nd Quidditch World Cup Final, with Ireland facing Bulgaria.
The Irish team wore green robes embroidered with silver thread, riding Firebolts, with leprechauns as their mascots.
Yet few paid them much attention.
The crowd's focus was firmly on the Bulgarian team.
Not only did they have the star Seeker Viktor Krum, but their mascots were the legendary Veela.
The moment the Veela appeared, every man in the stadium was mesmerized.
Their skin glowed like moonlight, hair flowing as if stirred by an unseen wind, and their supernatural allure drove men into a frenzy.
Harry and the others were no exception. If not for Ginny tugging at him, he might have climbed over the railing.
Thankfully, the Veela's performance was brief. They circled the field once and departed.
Otherwise, with no one stopping him, Ron might truly have jumped.
When Ron finally came to his senses, he realized one leg was already over the railing—he had nearly leapt from the very top of the stadium.
…
The match itself was breathtaking.
In the end, Viktor Krum caught the Golden Snitch, bringing the game to a close.
Yet the winners were the Irish team.
Yes—Quidditch was just that bizarre.
No matter the score, the match ended when the Snitch was caught.
Catching it awarded 150 points and ended the game.
But before Krum seized the Snitch, Ireland had already built an insurmountable lead through repeated goals worth ten points each.
Still, that didn't stop the crowd from cheering wildly for Krum.
By the time the match ended, it was deep into the night. Yet no one felt like sleeping.
Harry and the Weasleys were still celebrating, cheering for both teams.
Arthur, the only adult present, remained composed, smiling quietly as he watched the children revel.
Suddenly, the cheers outside shifted—turning into screams of panic.
Arthur rushed out to investigate and saw people fleeing in all directions.
Sensing trouble, he hurried back inside.
"Enough!" Arthur said urgently. "Something's wrong. We need to leave—now!"
Everyone abandoned their belongings and ran out of the tent.
The moment Harry stepped outside, he heard a terrified shout—
"Run! It's the Death Eaters!"
Looking up, he saw figures in pointed hoods and cloaks, wearing grotesque masks. Torches burned in one hand, while the other waved wands, setting fires and spreading chaos.
If Arthur had been there, he would have found the scene laughable.
Their outfits and behavior were eerily similar to a certain extremist group back home.
Really, the Ministry's incompetence—or rather, Fudge's incompetence—was astonishing.
Over five hundred Ministry officials were present, yet not a single proper security force had been arranged.
Dozens of Death Eaters were allowed to rampage freely.
The wizards, grown complacent by years of peace, didn't even try to organize a counterattack.
Instead, they scattered in blind panic, fleeing in all directions.
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