The campsite was a sprawling, chaotic city of magic. Tents of every shape and size dotted the moor, from small, unassuming domes that were magically expanded on the inside to grand, multi-storied pavilions of silk and velvet, complete with peacocks strutting on the lawns. The air was a thick tapestry of sounds and smells—Irish folk music clashing with Bulgarian chants, the aroma of frying sausages mingling with the scent of magical fireworks.
After setting up their own magically enlarged tents, a task accomplished with a few efficient waves of Mr. Weasley's and Sirius's wands, they had some time before the match. It was then that a familiar, elegant figure made her way through the crowds towards them.
"Ariana! Hermione!" Daphne Greengrass called out, her voice a calm, refined note in the surrounding cacophony. She was dressed impeccably in dark green travelling robes, and beside her, clutching her hand, was a wide-eyed Astoria.
"Daphne! You found us!" Hermione said, delighted.
"Our tent is just over the rise, in the 'old money' section, as Father calls it," Daphne explained with a wry smile. She then nodded towards a group of girls laughing loudly nearby. "Tracey has gone to join the Parkinsons. I believe she finds our discussions on magical theory a bit… dry." There was no malice in her tone, only a simple statement of fact. She was not upset by Tracey's absence; she understood it. Her friendship with Tracey was one of childhood habit, but her alliance with Ariana and Hermione was one of intellectual and personal evolution. This was where she now belonged.
As Daphne and Astoria joined their group, another, shyer figure attached herself to the periphery. Ginny Weasley, who had been hovering near her brothers, drifted over to stand closer to Ariana, her expression one of pure, unadulterated hero-worship. Since the events of her first year, Ginny viewed Ariana not just as a powerful witch, but as her personal, if unknowing, savior from the events.
And so, a new configuration formed: a quintet of powerful young witches. Ariana, the calm, logical center; Hermione, the brilliant, confident scholar; Daphne, the poised, strategic pure-blood; Astoria, the hopeful, adoring younger sister; and Ginny, the loyal, brave admirer.
Their journey to the stadium was an adventure in itself. They passed wizards hawking luminous rosettes, merchants selling dancing shamrock hats, and vendors with miniature, fire-breathing models of the Welsh Green dragon. Finally, they reached the colossal, golden stadium, a structure so vast it seemed to defy physics.
"Blimey," Ron breathed, staring up at it. "How many people are in there?"
"A hundred thousand, I think," Mr. Weasley said, consulting their tickets. "Right then, we're in the Top Box! Up we go!"
The seats were magnificent, plush purple armchairs in a small, private box at the very top of the stadium, offering a perfect, panoramic view of the emerald-green pitch below. They were soon joined by a gaggle of Ministry officials, and then, to their collective dismay, the Malfoys.
Lucius Malfoy walked in with his signature aristocratic swagger, Narcissa on his arm, and Draco trailing behind. Lucius exchanged a cold, stiff greeting with Sirius, the animosity between the two men a palpable, freezing presence. Draco's eyes scanned the box, his usual sneer firmly in place. It faltered for a moment when he saw the formidable group of girls sitting together. He shot a particularly nasty look at Hermione, but a single, icy glare from Daphne was enough to make him look away and complain to his mother about the quality of the seats.
The pre-match spectacle began. First came the Irish mascots: a swirling, glittering rainbow that arced across the stadium, showering the crowd in lucky gold coins, which later vanished, much to Ron's dismay. Then, a hundred leprechauns flew into the air, forming a giant, dancing shamrock.
Then came the Bulgarian mascots. The mood in the stadium shifted. A hundred beautiful women with silvery-blonde hair and moon-bright skin glided onto the pitch. They were Veela. As their enchanting music began to play, most of the men in the stadium, including Ron and a slightly dazed Harry, were overcome with a sudden, desperate urge to perform incredible, death-defying feats to impress them. Ron was trying to stand on his head on the balcony railing before Mr. Weasley and Sirius managed to pull him back.
Ariana observed the effect with clinical detachment. It was a powerful, pheromonal form of emotional compulsion magic. Interesting. She noted that she herself felt nothing but a mild aesthetic appreciation for their coordinated dancing. Beside her, Hermione was looking cross, while Daphne and Ginny seemed more amused than anything.
The match itself was a brutal, breathtaking display of aerial acrobatics and raw power. The Irish Chasers were a seamless, flying machine, scoring goal after goal. But the Bulgarian Seeker, a scowling, moody-looking young man named Viktor Krum, was a genius in the air. He flew with a grace and power that was mesmerizing.
He performed a perfect Wronski Feint, a death-defying dive that tricked the Irish Seeker into nearly crashing, drawing a collective gasp from the entire stadium. Even Ariana, who found the rules of the game arbitrary, could appreciate the sheer physical and magical mastery of the move.
The game was a blur of green and red robes, of Bludgers cracking against bats, and the roar of a hundred thousand fans. It was chaos, but it was a beautiful, exhilarating chaos.
Then, it happened. Krum, seeing that Ireland's lead was insurmountable, made a strategic decision. He went into another steep dive. The Irish Seeker, Lynch, followed him. But this time, it wasn't a feint. Krum pulled up at the last second, his hand outstretched, and in it, gleaming and fluttering, was the Golden Snitch.
He had caught the Snitch. But Ireland, with their massive lead in goals, won the match. The stadium erupted in a cacophony of Irish celebration and disappointed Bulgarian groans.
Fireworks exploded, painting the sky in green and silver. The Irish team did a victory lap, their fans screaming with joy.
In the Top Box, the atmosphere was electric. Ron was arguing with Ginny about Krum's strategy. Harry was replaying the Wronski Feint in his head. And the girls were discussing the magical properties of the Veela's allure.
Ariana watched it all, a small, serene smile on her face. It had been a fascinating spectacle, a perfect demonstration of power, strategy, and human emotion on a grand scale. The game on the pitch was over. But as the sky began to darken and the celebrations turned into wild, raucous parties in the campsite below, she had a feeling that the night's main event was yet to come. And for that, she was, as always, prepared.