Hundreds upon hundreds of tents were pitched across the misty moor that the Department of Magical Games and Sports had booked for use. With the sheer quantity of wizards, most of them dressed like they had just been introduced to clothing, it was amazing the muggle owner of the camp-grounds (Mr Roberts) hadn't thrown off the Memory Charms he had been subjected to. Heri was glad their camp-site was a good distance away from Mr Roberts, as she wouldn't be able to hide her embarrassment if she witnessed another wizard in a lady's satin nightgown and a sombrero trying to make nice with the Muggle. The stadium built just for the World Cup was magnificent. The stairs were carpeted in rich purple and the seats were cushioned from seat to back-rest. As they clambered upward with the rest of the crowd, Heri couldn't help but wonder at the quality of lifestyle innate to wizards simply because of what they could do with magic. Their party kept climbing until they finally reached the top of the staircase and found themselves in a small box, set at the highest point of the stadium and situated exactly halfway between the golden goal posts. About twenty purple-and-gilt chairs stood in two rows here, and Heri looked down upon a scene the likes of which she could never have imagined. A hundred thousand witches and wizards were taking their places in the seats, which rose in levels around the long oval field. Everything was suffused with a dreamy golden light, which seemed to come from the stadium itself. The field looked smooth as velvet from their lofty position. At either end of the field stood three goal hoops, fifty feet high. Right opposite them was a gigantic blackboard — gold writing kept dashing across it as though an invisible giant's hand were scrawling upon the blackboard and then wiping it off again; watching it, Heri saw that it was flashing advertisements across the field: The Bluebottle: A Broom for All the Family — safe, reliable, and with Built-in Anti-Burglar Buzzer . . . Mrs Skower's All-Purpose Magical Mess Remover: No Pain, No Stain! . . . Gladrags Wizardwear — London, Paris, Hogsmeade . . . "Amazing!" Megan breathed, and though Sally-Anne tried to play it cool, she too was impressed. The two of them were fixated at the sight of the crowd rising around the Box. "I don't think I've ever had such a view before," Remus remarked, also marvelling at the opulent accommodations. Surprisingly, the Weasleys were there as well, minus Mrs Weasley. It seemed that Mr Weasley was higher up in the governmental hierarchy that Heri had initially thought because she could see him shaking hands with people who were obviously very important people. The introduction and merging of the two groups went off without a hitch, with Sirius, Remus, Megan, and Sally-Anne being introduced to the Weasley brood, and Bill and Charlie Weasley being introduced to Heri. Their enthusiastic greetings drew the attention of the Minister of Magic himself. Cornelius Fudge, for all his faults, was a consummate politician. Apparently, he was the reason they got Top Box tickets; they were there as his guests to smooth over the unjust imprisonment business as well as to have a national treasure (Heri) available to show off. Ignoring how he had declared that Sirius was to be Kissed on sight back when he was a fugitive, the portly man made short work of greeting Sirius and Heri like old friends and introducing them to the wizards on either side of him. Sirius was about as politic as a soapy sponge to the face, and so he escaped the situation with all the slickness of a greased boar. He left Heri as a scapegoat, of course. Lucky for him, Heri wouldn't have escaped with him even if she had the chance to do so since she would have considered doing so to be very rude. Either way, Heri was left behind to play diplomat while Sirius decided to relive his childhood. "Heri Potter, you know," Fudge said loudly to the Bulgarian Minister, who was wearing splendid robes of black velvet trimmed with gold and didn't seem to understand a word of English. "Heri Potter . . . oh, come on now, you know who she is . . . the girl who defeated You-Know-Who . . . you do know who she is —" A breeze hit the stands and the Bulgarian wizard suddenly spotted Heri's scar as her fringe was blown off her forehead. He started gabbling loudly and excitedly, pointing at it. "Knew we'd get there in the end," said Fudge wearily to Heri as she giggled and smoothed her hair back down. "I'm no great shakes at languages; I need Barty Crouch for this sort of thing. The man knows more languages than I know Ministry Departments . . . ah, and here's Lucius!" Edging along the second row to three still-empty seats right behind Mr Weasley were none other than Dobby's former owners: Lucius Malfoy (Heri had a brief encounter with him before wherein he had accidentally given Dobby the boot); his son, Draco; and a woman Heri supposed must be Draco's mother. It seemed that blond hair ran in the family, even extending to Mrs Malfoy with her blond-streaked brown hair. She was tall and slim and would've been very nice-looking if she hadn't been wearing an expression that suggested there was a nasty smell under her nose. "Ah, Minister," said Mr Malfoy, holding out his hand as he reached them. "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?" said Fudge, smiling and bowing to Mrs Malfoy. "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 dare say?" He smiled kindly at Mr Weasley. "Lucius has just given a very generous contribution to St. Mungo's Hospital, Arthur. He's here as my guest."
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