The tension in the VIP box had reached a peak. Lucius Malfoy's haughty sneers, Sirius Black's sharp words, and Arthur Weasley's calm rebukes created a spectacle that could have rivaled the opening of the match itself. Eira and her companions, sitting slightly apart in their velvet-lined section, watched with quiet fascination, though Fleur was unable to resist a few glances laced with amusement.
"Well," Fleur whispered softly to Eira, leaning close so only she could hear, "you know… I love it when I see these incidents from here. It is most amusing."
Eira raised an eyebrow, smiling at her lover. "Amusing? You mean these grown adults arguing like children?"
Fleur let out a soft, sparkling laugh. "Exactly. The way they flap their mouths as if their wands cannot solve it—they are entertaining, yes?"
Eira chuckled, shaking her head. She reached out and brushed Fleur's hand with hers, squeezing it lightly. "I suppose we should be polite, though."
Fleur's grin widened. "Polite can wait."
The laughter between them was interrupted by a new arrival. The box door opened as Cornelius Fudge, the Minister for Magic, strode in with upright dignity. At his side was the Bulgarian Minister of Magic, a stern, well-dressed man whose dark eyes swept across the VIP box with careful calculation. They walked with measured pace, taking in the grandeur of the section before settling near Eira and her companions.
"Miss White," Minister Fudge began warmly, inclining his head slightly, "it is a pleasure to see you again. Your efforts in supporting the Quidditch World Cup have been invaluable. Without your investment and guidance, this event could not have been executed with such grandeur."
Eira inclined her head politely. "Thank you, Minister. I am pleased to be able to contribute to such a significant event for the wizarding world."
Fudge smiled graciously. "It is rare to see Noble families take initiative of this magnitude. Your role has not gone unnoticed. Truly, it is an honor."
Before Eira could respond, a sudden flurry of activity erupted at the side of the box. Percy Weasley, flustered and nervous, stepped forward with his robes nearly brushing the floor. His glasses slipped down his nose, and he adjusted them repeatedly, bowing and bowing again in a frantic attempt to make a good impression on Minister Fudge.
"Minister! Sir! It is I—Percy Weasley! I am—uh—here to assist! To help! I am your loyal servant!" Percy sputtered, nearly losing his balance as he attempted another bow. His spectacles flew from his face, spinning through the air before landing crookedly on his nose once more.
From behind, Barty Crouch Sr., observing with his typical impatience, muttered without turning his head: Weatherby". What are you doing, Weatherby?"
Percy froze, heat crawling up his neck. "I—I am trying to… to… serve, sir!"
The twins, Fred and George, snickering behind the Weasley siblings, couldn't resist. "Look at Percy, trying to polish the Minister's boots with his forehead!" George whispered to Fred, who doubled over with laughter.
Fleur, observing from her seat beside Eira, covered her mouth with her hand and giggled quietly. "Ah… so this is how these… English wizards behave." She shook her head, still smiling. "Truly delightful."
Eira leaned back, hiding a small laugh as Percy continued to bow and stammer, desperately trying to appear indispensable. The entire scene made the adult bickering of the Malfoys earlier seem almost quaint.
At last, Minister Fudge, calm and composed, merely offered a polite smile toward Percy and turned his attention to Emma and Isabella, who were seated nearby.
"Mrs. Voclain," he said formally, his eyes glinting with genuine respect. "I am pleased to see you again."
Isabella inclined her head gracefully. "Now that I have abandoned the Voclain family name, I go by Isabella Bloom," she said smoothly.
Fudge's expression softened immediately. "Ah, yes, of course—Mrs. Bloom. I am delighted to see you. The last time we spoke was during the negotiations. May I ask… how have you spent your time in the past few months?"
Emma chimed in gracefully, offering context. "Minister, Mrs. Bloom has since joined the White family and is assisting Lady White as one of her principal aides. The family, as you know, is extensive, and her skills have been invaluable."
Fudge nodded approvingly. "Of course, of course. It is no wonder. If assistance is required, my son—he is well-trained in administration—could be sent to help. Their ages are close enough, I imagine. He could be of great service to Mrs. White."
Emma's lips curved into a polite smile, though inwardly she thought, 'Your fucking son is nearly fifteen or sixteen years older than my lady—hardly a suitable match, Minister.'
"For the present, yes," she replied smoothly. "Isabella and I are sufficient. Should additional help be required, we would, of course, consider all appropriate offers of assistance—including your son's—but only as necessary."
Fudge blinked, a little thrown, but quickly recovered. "Very good, very good. It is essential that the White family continues to function efficiently. And Miss Bloom—your contributions have been noted as exemplary."
Emma inclined her head, masking her amusement. 'Careful, Minister, the more you insist, the more obvious it becomes how little you understand our affairs.` She let the compliment pass without comment, letting the conversation move to safer ground.
Minister Fudge fixed Emma and Isabella with a practiced, officious air. "Now, I must go and announce the final of this Quidditch World Cup," he said, his tone both formal and self-important, as if the fate of the game rested entirely on him.
****************
Suddenly, the booming voice of the stadium announcer echoed across the crowd, mingling with the cheers of the assembled thousands. Minister Fudge rose gracefully from his seat. The crowd quieted, sensing the weight of the moment.
"Ladies and gentlemen of the wizarding world," he began, voice amplified by magical projection. "It is my honor, as Minister for Magic, to welcome you to the 422nd Quidditch World Cup! This event represents not just athleticism and sportsmanship, but unity across nations and magical communities. I thank all of you—players, organizers, and supporters—for making this gathering possible. Let the game commence!"
The applause and cheering were deafening. Above the pitch, the first players soared into the night sky, brooms trailing streaks of fire and light. The stadium seemed to pulse with magic, anticipation, and the thrill of imminent competition.
Before the game began, the Bulgarians' Veelas swept onto the pitch, their silken hair glinting in the sunlight, their laughter ringing like bells over the stadium. As they soared gracefully above the crowd, every male spectator in sight felt an almost irresistible pull. Eyes widened, jaws slackened, and several men—including Mr. Weasley in the VIP box—lost all composure, their hands twitching as if to reach for the impossible. Harry, Ron, and other young men weren't immune; even the strongest wills faltered in the face of the Veelas' mesmerizing beauty.
The Veelas tossed enchanted flowers into the crowd, petals shimmering with magic. They laughed lightly at the men who fawned or stumbled over themselves, their disdain as sharp as their allure. The more the men drooled, the more the Veelas' amusement—and contempt—grew.
Eira watched the spectacle unfold, a soft smile curving her lips. She nudged Fleur gently, whispering, "Even you… you feel it, don't you? They're all drooling over a Veela."
Fleur's eyes swept over the struggling men with clear disgust, her nose wrinkling. "Ugh… mere boys and grown men alike, acting like fools over something so shallow," she murmured, her tone laced with scorn.
Eira smiled, leaning slightly toward Fleur, and whispered with a teasing glint in her eyes, "'Shallow'… aren't you a Veela too?"
And in response Fleur leaned closer to her, her expression softening, almost tender. "Yes, I am a Veela," she whispered, her voice only for Eira, "but I am yours. No one else. That is how it should be."
Eira's smile widened, a quiet warmth in her eyes as she shook her head at the absurdity of the crowd below. Male spectators fumbled for hats, staggered over seats, and some nearly collided with enchanted fireworks as the Veelas danced above them. Even in the VIP box, refinement offered no protection against the overwhelming charm. Fleur's possessive, playful words hung in the air, a gentle counterpoint to the chaos below—a reminder that beauty and power could be theirs, but only on their terms.
******************
Percy, still flustered from his earlier bowing mishap, had attempted again to get the attention of Minister Fudge, whispering and leaning awkwardly into the minister's line of sight. His glasses slipped repeatedly. From the VIP box, Fred and George's muffled laughter rose again. "Weatherby! Watch your spectacles!" George hissed, causing Percy to blush furiously and mutter insults to them.