A Summoner in the Wizarding World

Chapter 17: Quidditch Finals

Vendors with carts full of merchandise scattered across the venue, attempting to sell out their inventory. Noticing the spectator binoculars, I pulled out my big Galleon bag and bought for all four of us, ignoring Ron and Hermione's insistence that they will pay for themselves.

"Cool!" Ron exclaimed, twiddling the replay knob on the side. "I can make that old bloke down there pick his nose again... and again... and again..."

Meanwhile, Hermione eagerly skimmed through the program brochure, deliberately ignoring Ron's rather immature actions.

"A display from the team mascots will precede the match,'" she read aloud, glancing at the Weasleys who should have more experience than herself.

"Oh, that's always worth watching," remarked Mr. Weasley, nodding lightly. "National teams bring creatures from their land, you know, to put on a bit of a show."

The box gradually filled over the next half hour. Mr. Weasley happily shook hands with important wizards, while Percy's frequent jumps at such connections made him look as if his chair was on fire. When Cornelius Fudge, the Minister of Magic, arrived, Percy bowed so low his glasses fell off his nose bridge and shattered. Highly embarrassed, he repaired them on the spot and threw jealous looks at me, whom the old politician greeted like a familiar, easily exploitable friend.

"Harry Potter, you know," Fudge told the Bulgarian minister, who was walking next to him, feigning being unable to understand English, rather loudly. "The boy who defeated You-Know-Who... oh come on now, you know who he is..."

The Bulgarian wizard spotted my scar and started gabbling excitedly.

"Knew we'd get there in the end," Fudge said wearily to me. "I'm no great shakes at languages; I need Barty Crouch for this sort of thing. Ah, I see his house-elf's saving him a seat..." - I noticed Winky slightly jumped nervously at this - "Good job too, these Bulgarian blighters have been trying to cadge all the best places... ah, and here's Lucius!"

Of course, no sooner has such words been said, Lucius Malfoy, his son Draco, and wife Narcissa - edged along the second row to three still-empty seats right behind Mr. Weasley.

"Ah, Fudge," Mr. Malfoy said, 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 said animatedly, smiling and bowing to Mrs. Malfoy, probably having recently received 'gifts' from the ancient Pure-Blood house. "And allow me to introduce you to Mr. Oblansk... Obalonsk... Mr... well, 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 know Arthur Weasley, I daresay?"

It was a tense moment. Arthur Weasley and Lucius Malfoy stared each other down. Malfoy's cold gray eyes swept over the Weasleys, and then up and down the row, stating sarcastically:

"Good lord, Arthur," he muttered. "What did you have to sell to get seats in the Top Box? Surely your house wouldn't have fetched this much?"

Fudge, not listening or deliberately ignoring the insult, explained, "Lucius has just given a very generous contribution to St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries, Arthur. He's here as my guest."

"How - how nice," Mr. Weasley said, with a very strained smile.

Mr. Malfoy's eyes lingered on Hermione, who ignored him coldly, turning her back against him. That lip-curl of the inbred really infuriated me, but, like Hermione, we kept our cool. Noting our apathy, Mr. Malfoy morely nodded sneeringly and continued down the line to his seats. Draco shot us one contemptuous look, then followed behind his parents.