— — — — — —
A large number of acolytes had shown up, so the Ministry had deployed most of its Aurors—including some borrowed from other nations—to guard the perimeter.
Those poor workhorses couldn't even watch the match. No idea how many of them were cursing the acolytes and Grindelwald right now.
...
As Tom and others walked, they passed countless supporters of different teams. Faced with a crowd of three hundred thousand, Ireland's home advantage meant nothing. Their fans were also a bit too arrogant, and clashes broke out between Irish supporters and fans of other teams.
Tom casually suppressed two incidents that happened close to him. After that, he ignored the rest. These people were like football hooligans, using a rare opportunity to vent pent-up energy.
Ssshhh! BOOM!
Fireworks suddenly exploded in the sky. A green shamrock, symbol of Ireland, bloomed overhead. Not to be outdone, Bulgaria's golden lion right after.
That was when things truly kicked off.
The sky, already darkening, turned into a wizarding meme war. Fireworks of every shape and color filled the air, dazzling to the eye.
Fortunately, there were no Muggles anywhere nearby. Not in the surrounding camps, not even in the entire mountain range. Otherwise, the wizarding world would have been exposed on the spot.
This was what puzzled Tom the most. In the original timeline, why had the Ministry allowed a Muggle to be the campsite manager? Were they actively trying to get exposed?
Was Fudge really expecting tens of thousands of wizards to behave themselves, camp politely, and refrain from using magic?
The result was obvious. That Muggle manager had been toyed with like a plaything.
Tom had never believed that the strong preying on the weak was inherently wrong. That was survival of the fittest. Why else would the strong struggle their way to the top, if not to live freely and be true to themselves? Otherwise, what was all that effort for?
But bullying that brought no benefit, no gain at all, he had zero respect for. That kind of thing was just weak people trying to scrape together a sense of importance by tormenting someone even weaker. Pathetic.
"Whoa—!"
As they passed through the last stretch of forest, the stadium's massive shadow fell over them. Almost everyone gasped the moment they saw it in full.
The entire arena looked like a gigantic white eggshell lying on the ground, the top cracked open. Iridescent light rippled across the smooth surface in shifting colors. Cheers from inside rolled outward, scattering the fiery clouds at the horizon and setting hearts racing outside as well.
Excited, yes. But no one dared do anything reckless.
Nearly a hundred cold, Transformer-like constructs stood guard, red lights glowing in their hands. The moment anyone even tried to pull out a wand, every palm-mounted barrel would swivel toward them.
Someone had tested their luck earlier.
He was sleeping very peacefully now. He wouldn't be waking up until tomorrow morning at the earliest.
With that lesson learned, everyone queued up obediently and entered through twenty ticket gates in orderly lines.
Of course, private box tickets were a different story.
Although the stadium could hold three hundred thousand people, Tom had designed one hundred ninety-nine private boxes.
The first ninety-nine were at the very top, with an unobstructed view of the entire field. They were the best seats in the house, enhanced with Undetectable Extension Charms, spacious and luxuriously furnished.
The remaining hundred were just below them, each accommodating twenty to thirty people at most.
Nearly two hundred boxes sounded like a lot, but compared to a crowd of three hundred thousand, it was nothing. All summer long, whether you could secure a box had become the ultimate measure of influence and connections.
Not only could you enjoy the match in comfort with your family, you could also show off spectacularly in front of friends and colleagues.
For pure-blood families and political elites alike, this was an irresistible temptation.
That summer, Tom received several times more greetings from his Slytherin classmates than usual. Every letter danced around the same request. Could he help them get a few boxes? Or rather, allocate a few.
Tom wasn't stingy. He handed out several of the lower-numbered boxes to Zabini, Nott, and a few other underlings. Draco Malfoy, shameless as ever, managed to squeeze out a few as well.
As for the top hundred, he gave Box Nine to the Hogwarts professors, Box Six to Newt, and assigned a few more to various mothers-in-law to maintain his network and social ties.
As for Nicolas Flamel, Tom had planned to invite him, but the old man was currently obsessed with researching the Tear of Isis. Madame Flamel had no interest in Quidditch either, so they passed.
Tom himself picked the perfectly ordinary Box Five. He could have taken Box One if he wanted, but there was no need. He might as well leave that stage to Fudge and the other Ministers of Magic to play out their little vanity fair.
...
Once inside the box, the girls immediately crowded against the glass, peering down with undisguised curiosity. Below them, a sea of heads surged and shifted, a sight that made one's blood boil with excitement.
Tom's codex suddenly vibrated. He glanced at it and smiled.
"Grandpa Newt's here. They're right next door. Let's go say hello."
The moment Tom stepped inside Box Six, he laughed.
The Scamander family had clearly rushed over. Newt and his son, Leo Scamander, still had traces of blood and mud on their clothes, barely cleaned up at all.
"Tom, long time no see," Leo said warmly, completely unbothered by the state he was in.
Tom smiled and nodded. "It really has been a while. Last time we met was the summer after my first year. Two years flew by just like that."
Newt, meanwhile, was having a full social-anxiety relapse.
So many people…
He'd met Astoria, Fleur, and Hermione before. But Ginny, Penelope, and Luna were all new to him.
He barely managed to hold himself together through the girls' polite greetings, then shot Tom a strange look.
This number… isn't it a bit much?
While Tina was chatting with the girls, Newt quietly pulled Tom aside. With a heavy, earnest tone, he said, "Tom, you're still young. Some things aren't better just because there's more."
"Even if your heart is big enough to break into pieces and give one to each person, your body…" He sighed deeply. "Your body won't allow it."
Tom stared at him, speechless.
"Grandpa Newt, how can a man say he can't?"
Newt looked aggrieved.
Why can't you say you can't?
The scary part isn't being unable to do it. It's saying you can't, and she still won't let you go.
.
.
.