Thanks again to my beta-readers for their invaluable assistance. Many thanks to everyone who has reviewed any of the previous chapters; I really value your comments. I've been saying for awhile that the sh** would hit the fan soon. Right about now, you should be putting on your anti-sh** gear and battening down the hatches. I hope you're willing to ride out the storm with me. - Anne U
^*^*^*^*
Chapter 6
August 22, 2002
THEY ARE NOT LISTENING!!!! THEY ARE NOT LISTENING!! THEY ARE IGNORING ME!!!!!!!!
It was bad enough that the boils didn't make them keep their hands off each other. Even worse that they're still together. But today, today was the worst. Potter plans to ask Granger to marry him!!!!!! I thought I was going to vomit when I heard the news. He went to Moonstone Jewellers in Diagon Alley and bought her an obscene ring. It's got a huge sapphire in the middle. I know it cost him more than 1,500 Galleons. I'd heard he was rich - independently wealthy - but I had no idea he had money to throw around like that. More like throwing it away, if he spent that kind of money on a Mudblood bitch like her. That just sickens me. They're supposed to be breaking up, not getting married!!!!!!!!
I don't know what I've done wrong up to now, but my plan is not working the way it should. I'll need to figure something else out to make them stay away from each other. I've got to get him out of her clutches. I just bet he'll drop down on one knee to propose to her; he's just maudlin and sappy enough to do that. And she'll accept and he'll pick her up and carry her off someplace and toss her on a bed and shag her senseless again while she lies back and gloats over her ring. Maybe she'll take the back of her hand and scratch that sapphire over one of his nipples and lick the other one until he's standing at attention like Gibraltar. I bet they tie each other up with their Gryffindor ties when they fuck. They'll do that and work the ring into the shag somehow. A human body has all kinds of places to put a ring… They'll take that obscenely huge and beautiful ring and turn it into a sex toy. Maybe they'll transfigure it into a real sex toy and take turns using it on each other. They are just disgusting enough to do that. I can't stand that he's bought a ring like that for her. She doesn't deserve anything like that. All she deserves is pain, and so does he if he doesn't recognize that.
But perhaps...perhaps all is not lost here. Interestingly enough, I've learned that Potter will be away from his beloved Mudblood this weekend. He's going to Bulgaria to watch the Quidditch World Cup with that ginger-headed fool, Ron Weasley. Now I have another chance to drive a wedge between Potter and Granger. I must make sure that Potter regrets going to Bulgaria and leaving Granger alone in London. I must also make sure that Granger regrets letting him out of her sight and staying home alone. They will not be pleased when the weekend is over. They will wish they'd never ignored my other letters. Maybe they'll wish they'd never met each other. I can think of a lot of ways to make them suffer. They'll find out they can't fuck with me and get away with it. I don't really give a rat's arse about Quidditch, but let the games begin.
^*^*^*^
"Hermione, I need to tell something you."
"What, Harry?"
Harry cast his eyes down, afraid of meeting Hermione's. "Lupin left a note for me today about our case. I shoved it into my cloak pocked on my way out of work, but now I can't find it. So I…I guess I lost it somewhere between my desk and here."
He waited for her to bristle at him. No bristling was immediately forthcoming.
"Really?" A small frown creased Hermione's brow. "I see." She sounded calm, perhaps too calm. When her voice got this low and soft, it usually meant the calm before the storm.
"You don't sound too concerned about it," he offered, hoping he was right.
She looked up at him from where she stood, marshaling the cleaned-up dinner dishes back into the kitchen cupboard. "Should I be?" Harry was such a worrier, always assuming the worst in any situation. Of course she couldn't really blame him; until he defeated Voldemort his life had been a series of crises for which he always felt responsible.
Harry put a finger on her chin and lifted her face toward his. "I'm leaving for Bulgaria in less than twenty-four hours and I'll be gone until Sunday evening. You'll be all alone here for two whole days. I'm just afraid something might happen while I'm gone." Hermione's refusal to be pissed off at him was almost as scary as the scenarios that ran through his mind.
She cocked her head and gave him an appraising look. "Well, unless you tell me what was in the note, I'm not sure I have anything to be concerned about."
Now Harry frowned. "Bugger, I can't remember all of it. I think Lupin said that the Bulbadox powder came from Agate and Propps in Knockturn Alley."
"Really? Don't they deal mostly with Dark wizards and shady characters?"
"Yes. That means their business is coin-and-carry. So the Aurors couldn't trace the sale to anyone in particular."
Hermione pursed her lips in thought. "Go on."
Harry gave a thin smile. "Well, Remus said that means the letters and the Bulbadox powder weren't pranks. The stalker is definitely threatening us."
"I've always thought the stalker was serious," Hermione answered with an edge of impatience in her voice. "Why else would she go to the lengths she's gone to? Anyway, you'll be gone only two days. Honestly, Harry, I'm a big girl and a fully competent witch. I can take care of myself this weekend."
Harry shook his head; perhaps she didn't want to recognize how serious their situation had become. "Hermione, listen. Remus's note said he knew I was going to Bulgaria for the World Cup and that he would talk to me when I got back. Now whoever found the note knows that I'll be away, which means that he--okay, she--knows that you'll be alone here."
Eyes narrowed, Hermione crossed her arms in front of her chest. "Why are you so sure the stalker found the note?"
Harry threw up his hands. "How can we be sure she didn't?"
"We can't, Harry. We can't be certain of anything."
He was leaning against the fridge, shoulders a bit slumped, eyes cast down at the tile floor. He looked …defeated. She knew in her bones that Harry would always put her safety above his own. That was one reason she never confessed her feelings to him in sixth or seventh year; he would have countered that loving him would put her in even more danger than she was already in as his best friend. But she couldn't let him sacrifice attending the Quidditch World Cup finals. She would be damned if some crazy bitch kept Harry from doing what he'd looked forward to for almost a month.
"Please, Harry. Everything will be all right. I'll be okay. Don't you dare say you're going to stay home this weekend. I insist you go to Bulgaria with Ron." Crossing the meter that separated them, she slid her arms up to his shoulders and kissed the crook of his neck.
As she'd hoped he would, Harry relaxed in her embrace, wrapping his own arms around her waist and nipping her earlobe. "Okay, okay, I'll go. I'll still be worried about you, but I'll go. Only because you're making me. I'm sure I'll be so worried I won't pay a moment's attention to the games. What sport will I be seeing, anyway?" he finished with an impish grin.
"Some ridiculous sport called Quidditch," she deadpanned, rolling her eyes then winking at him. "Silliest sport I've ever heard of. Did you know a bunch of people get onto brooms, fly around, and chase some balls through the air?"
"Sounds ruddy insane to me! Who the deuce would want to do that?" Now he was walking her backward out of the kitchen, his hands still firmly planted around her waist, his lips nibbling on her neck as he guided her toward their bedroom.
"Well, I can see how the female players might enjoy it," Hermione giggled as his tongue laved her ear. "But the male players must be trying to overcompensate. Honestly, what could be more phallic than riding a broom?"
As they bumped into their bedroom door, Harry dragged his lips down to her breast. Hermione couldn't be certain but she thought he said something like, "…what you're going to be riding soon…"
^*^*^*^*^
"Ron! Over here!"
Harry stood outside the call box near the entrance to the Ministry of Magic and waited for Ron to catch up with him. Slung over Harry's shoulder was a small satchel containing three changes of clothing, a spare set of robes, a Macintosh and a pair of wellington boots, all of which he'd shrunk that morning so they would fit in his bag. He hated having to pack so much clothing but the forecast for Bulgaria hinted at possible rough weather, ranging from scattered showers to thunderstorms. He shivered, remembering more than one storm he'd played in at Hogwarts, and hoped the forecast was wrong.
Ron trudged over, carrying his own satchel plus a small, lumpy green bag.
"Is that your dad's wizard tent?"
"Yup. When we get there, let me know what kind of furnishings you want. Dad wrote the charm down for me so I wouldn't have to try to memorize it. I've got it right here in my pocket," Ron said, patting the back of his trousers.
"Just don't lose it or we might end up sleeping under the stars - or worse yet, in the rain," Harry glowered. As excited as he was about attending the Cup, he was already missing Hermione terribly and he hoped that decent accommodations (as decent as one could get in a tent) might take the edge off his longing for her.
Ron pulled a small shiny object out of his rucksack and handed it to Harry. "Here's the Portkey."
Harry snorted. "A teaspoon? Hermione would love this."
Ron gave him the evil eye. "Well, she would have in fifth year. That was before I became the suave, mature wizard you see now."
Harry snorted even louder. "Riiiight. So, are we ready to go?"
"In about twenty seconds," Ron said, checking his watch. "Grab hold of the other end." He counted down from ten, then the familiar tug behind the navel grabbed Harry and hurled him, along with Ron, almost thirteen hundred miles to the countryside south of Sofia, Bulgaria. The Bulgarian Ministry of Magic had chosen the Vitosha Plateau in Vitosha National Park as the site for the 2002 Quidditch World Cup and its related encampment of thousands of Wizarding families. Nodding to Ron to follow him, Harry approached the gateway into the park and paid a camping fee of fifty Galleons to the gatekeeper, who gave him a parchment map showing where to pitch their tent. Inside the park thousands of tents of varying sizes and colors dotted the park all the way to the horizon.
"Which way to our campsite?" Ron asked as he fumbled with his satchels.
Harry scanned the map then looked across the broad expanse of tents and pointed to his left. "Over that way, about a quarter mile I think," he said, squinting at a tall pole bearing a Union Jack at the top. "That's the British camp." He pulled his rucksack higher on his shoulder and began hiking toward the campsite with Ron following a few yards behind. After picking their way past a large number of tents and an even larger number of excited little witches and wizards, Harry and Ron found their campsite (No. 549, British Section) and started pitching their tent. Ron had almost as much trouble handling the stakes and tie-downs as he'd had eight years earlier, but eventually the two of them got the tent set up. They decided on their furnishings -- two double beds, a pair of reclining chairs, a two-burner stovetop, an icebox, a tiny loo, and a table with four chairs in case they had visitors. Ron fished his father's instructions out of his pocket and muttered Fournisso. He and Harry then crawled inside to see if the charm had worked.
"Wow!" Harry gave Ron the okay sign and dropped his belongings on one of the beds.
"Hmmm. Not bad," Ron agreed, claiming the other bed. "I'll have to thank Dad for the spell. Bugger, I'm thirsty after that hike. I'm going to find us some water." He pulled a small vial out of his pocket, then tapped his wand to it; the vial expanded to a two-liter container.
"Okay, I'm going to stay here and get settled," Harry said, laying back on the pillows on his bed. He stayed there for a few minutes, just resting, glad to be in a place where he could relax and have fun, where no one needed him and no one would be looking for him except his friends. The recent war had disrupted the Wizarding world so much that the 1998 Quidditch World Cup was canceled for fear of terrorist activity by the Death Eaters. The 2002 World Cup was the first since the one held the summer before Harry's fourth year at Hogwarts, and he'd be damned if anyone or anything ruined it for him. At least that was what he kept telling himself as he struggled to keep his anxieties about the stalker -- and Hermione's safety -- from creeping into his conscious mind.
Harry continued to lie in the cool darkness, listening to the sounds of the campers bustling around him. He considered trying to change his appearance in order to avoid the celebrity that dogged him at every turn but decided not to bother. After all, here he wasn't a Quidditch player or anyone important; he was just Harry, a bloke who enjoyed watching Quidditch as much as he loved playing it. He sat up and was just about to take his shoes off so he could have more of a lie-down when the tent flap opened and Ron crawled in.
"Harry! Come out and see who I ran into!"
"I was just about to take a nap," Harry balked.
Ron scowled at him. "Oh come on…it'll only take a few minutes. Besides, I promised them you'd come out."
Harry shot a questioning look at his best friend. When he realized Ron wouldn't take no for an answer, he rose from the bed and crawled out of the tent. As Harry stood up he was surprised to see his old flame, Cho Chang, and her friend Marietta Edgecombe.
"Hello, Harry," Cho smiled at him. "I had a feeling I'd see you here." She was wearing a sleeveless yellow jumper and a short black skirt and, he had to admit, looked very good. Not that he fancied her or anyone else these days; he was committed to Hermione and planned to propose to her in a few weeks. But Cho was still a very pretty woman, and her coquettish smile made Harry wonder if perhaps she was flirting with him, at least a little.
"Hi, Cho. Small world, isn't it?" He blushed, feeling like he was thirteen again. Cho always seemed to have that effect on him even though he hadn't fancied her in years. Perhaps it was because she was his first crush, but he just never seemed to be able to say the right thing to her. "How'd you know I would be here?"
Cho gave a Mona Lisa smile. "You've been much too busy chasing bad guys, Harry. I've been working in the Department of Magical Games and Sports the past few months. I helped Hermione get these tickets for your birthday."
"Oh. Well then, thanks very much. I was so happy to get the tickets I didn't bother to ask Hermione how she finagled them."
Cho laughed quietly. "Hermione has always been very…resourceful. It's always seemed to me that whatever she wants, she gets." Something about the way Cho looked at Harry over her high-fashion sunglasses made the hair on his arms stand up. She still had an indefinable something that called to him on a primal level. His ears went pink and he looked down at his feet.
"She's always been very determined," Ron chimed in, much to Harry's relief.
"You remember Marietta Edgecombe too, I'm sure," Cho added, nodding toward her friend, who stood behind Cho and glanced around morosely.
Harry smiled but his eyes were cold and hard. "Of course I do." Ron merely nodded.
"So who are you girls rooting for?" Ron asked. The British and Irish teams had gone down in flames in earlier rounds, so the semi-finals consisted of Bulgaria versus Belgium and Spain versus Peru.
"Bulgaria, of course! Krum is still the best seeker in the world," Cho grinned, again looking Harry straight in the eye in a disquieting way. "Does darling Hermione know that Krum is playing here this weekend? Why didn't you bring her with you instead of Weasley?" she smirked.
Harry's jaw tightened as he looked Cho up and down. They had been getting along famously, but now he remembered how much her incessant whinging had annoyed him -- not to mention she'd just insulted both of his best friends. "Darling Hermione isn't here because she's not a huge Quidditch fan and she wanted me to bring my other best friend with me. And yes, she does know that Viktor Krum is here. She and Viktor are friends and they still owl each other, not that it's any business of yours."
Cho scowled, her dark eyes flashing. "No need to get your knickers in a twist about it. Let's go, Marietta," she huffed loudly, turning to her friend. "Maybe I'll see you later, Harry." The two young women turned and walked toward their own tent, which was several rows over.
"Well, that was brilliant," Ron snorted derisively after he and Harry crawled back into the tent. "You and Cho sure know how to push each other's buttons."
"Yeah, we do," Harry sighed. "I never actually found that very enjoyable. Probably why my so-called relationship with her never got off the ground."
"Yeah, well, maybe…Listen, Harry, forget about Cho. We've got seats in the Top Box! For both games! And I happen to have with me" - Ron opened up his rucksack - "a brand new bottle of firewhisky. Between our amazing seats and this booze, we are going to have a wicked time this weekend." He set the bottle on the camp table and conjured a pair of drinking glasses, then poured firewhisky two fingers deep in each glass. "To best mates and the Quidditch World Cup," he said, raising his glass in a toast.
Harry found himself sucked into Ron's enthusiasm. "To best mates and the Quidditch World Cup," he agreed, clinking his glass against Ron's and draining it in a few seconds. As the firewhisky slid down Harry's throat, he felt its warmth begin to relax him. With everything that had happened lately and Hermione being almost thirteen hundred miles away, he would take whatever relaxation he could get.
^*^*^*^
Harry had hoped to sleep in a bit on Saturday, the morning of the semi-finals. Those hopes were dashed, however, around six a.m. by a gaggle of little witches and wizards who decided to imitate a herd of Erumpents right next to his and Ron's tent. Harry tried rolling over and covering his head with his pillow but to no avail. He conjured some earplugs, but those didn't help either. He attempted a reverse silencing charm, but discovered that Silencio worked only to keep sound from getting out of a room; it did nothing to prevent sound from getting in. Finally around half-past six he gave up trying to sleep, put on some fresh clothes, and went out to survey the grounds.
As far as the eye could see, the Vitosha Plateau was awash in a sea of tents. Temporary lodgings of all sizes, shapes and descriptions were lined up for a mile in every direction, forming avenues in which children played, teenagers flirted, and adults chatted and placed friendly and not-so-friendly wagers on their favourite teams. Harry strolled around for close to an hour, checking out the various encampments and looking for familiar faces. Not that he really expected to see many people he knew; those folks would almost certainly all be staying in the British/Irish encampment, which apparently contained over two thousand tents. At last, stomach growling, he found his way back to his own tent, where he was greeted by the smell of bacon and eggs frying. Crawling inside, he found the table set for two and Ron wrestling their breakfast onto a couple of plates.
"Mmmm, smells great," Harry said enthusiastically. "Where'd you get the bacon and eggs?"
"Food cart came round about seven o'clock. Thank goodness, since I didn't actually remember to pack any food," Ron replied with a sheepish grin. "You got up early. What have you been up to?"
"Nothing much. Wandering around, checking out the encampments, hoping to run into people we know."
"Like...?"
"Well...Seamus and Dean, or maybe Oliver Wood or Angelina Johnson or …well, not really…"
"I know what you're thinking. Katie Bell…"
Harry looked away from Ron; he'd always felt guilty about surviving when so many others had not. Katie was Gryffindor's Quidditch captain during Harry's sixth year. She died a year later in the war. "We lost so many good people," he muttered through clenched teeth. "Bloody fucking Voldemort...Fucking Death Eaters..." Harry's throat felt tight and his eyes started to burn. "Those bags of shit better not try anything here. Not now. They'd just - better not."
Ron leaned across the table and grabbed Harry's arm. "Don't worry, mate. The British Ministry of Magic has been coordinating security for these games and they've brought in extra muscle - magical law enforcement officers from practically every country. About the only place we'd be safer this weekend is in our own homes."
Harry put one hand over Ron's and blew out a hard breath. "You're probably right. Let's finish up here so we can go out and enjoy the day. This is the kind of day Quidditch players live for."
^*^*^*^*^
Harry and Ron soon set out for the World Cup Stadium on the other end of the park. After a half-hour walk, they sighted the stadium looming ahead of them. Erected at the far end of the moor, this stadium appeared to be at least as large as the one built in England for the 1994 Quidditch World Cup. The semi-final game between Bulgaria and Belgium was scheduled to start at ten o'clock. With two hours left until game time, the queues of fans stretched half a mile from the stadium. Harry checked his trouser pocket to make sure he had the tickets, which Hermione had shrunk for convenience.
"How soon do you think we'll get in?" Ron asked impatiently.
"Dunno. It must take quite a while for this many people to get in and take their seats safely. I'm more worried about how easy it is to get out if anything…weird…does happen in there," Harry answered. "I reckon there's probably three underaged witches and wizards for every two adults. It would be an awful mess to try to get everyone out in an emergency." Harry hated to sound pessimistic, but his life of running up against people who were out to get him, coupled with his career as an Auror, made him worry more about possible pitfalls than the average twenty-two-year-old wizard would.
Ron raised his eyebrows. "Blimey, Harry, I think you'll enjoy yourself more if you stop expecting to see boggarts everywhere."
"Not boggarts, Ron. Death Eaters. They don't care that Voldemort is dead; they still want the same things he did," Harry lamented as he flashed their tickets at the ticket taker.
"I suppose you're right," Ron admitted as they filed into the stadium amid the jostling crowd, "but I just want to watch the Cup matches with my best mate and not worry whether there are any bogeymen here. Humour me, Harry. Let's forget about the bad guys this weekend. You know Hermione would want you to; she gave you those tickets so you'd come here and have fun."
Once inside the stadium, Harry and Ron were directed to a special lift that went directly to the Top Box, which was empty except for a dark-haired older man with a slouched posture and a hooked nose. When Harry stopped staring at the man, he realized why he looked so familiar: he was almost certainly the father of Viktor Krum.
"Pardon me, but are these seats already taken?" Harry asked a bit loudly, hoping to be heard above the crowd.
The older man looked up at Harry past his long nose. "No, zey are not taken yet. Vould you care to seet viss me?" Harry nodded, then he and Ron seated themselves on two high-backed mahogany chairs upholstered with gold brocade. Harry's fringe fluttered back off his face and the older man took in a breath.
"You are Harry Potter, yes?" Mr. Krum extended his right hand.
"Yes, sir," Harry said as he shook the older man's hand.
"I am Artur Krum. My son has told me about you. I zink you know him. Viktor Krum? He hass talked about you and your osser friends since he played in ze lahst Vorld Cup."
"Yes, sir, I knew Viktor back then. This is my friend Ron Weasley." Mr. Krum leaned over to shake Ron's hand. "I assume Viktor has mentioned our other friend, Hermione Granger."
Mr. Krum's eyes narrowed. "Ah yes, Herm-own-ninny. Viktor fell in loff with her back zen" -- Harry's eyes widened and he struggled not to react --"but zey ver bohs so very young zen. He asked her to come to Bulgaria zat summer but she said no."
Ron looked cagily from Harry to Mr. Krum and back again. "So, did she give Viktor any reason why?"
Mr. Krum eyed Ron warily before he replied. "Yes, she told him she vass not in loff viss him. She tot she vass in loff viss someone else," he said, looking directly at Harry.
"Yes…well…umm," Harry stammered, blushing. "That's very interesting."
"And how is Herm-own-ninny now? Do you zee much of her zees days?"
"He sees all of her these days," Ron muttered under his breath. Harry elbowed him in the ribs.
"Actually I see her every day," Harry declared. "We share a flat in London and I'm planning to ask her to marry me."
Krum eyed Harry over his half-moon spectacles. "Zo, vaht Viktor told me vass right. Zer vass somezink special between you and Herm-own-ninny."
"No, not back then! Really...we...were just friends back then," Harry objected, then added almost to himself, "at least I thought we were." He really wanted to change the subject. "So...how soon do you think Viktor will catch the Snitch today, Mr. Krum?"
Artur Krum smiled. "Vissin ze first haff-hour of ze game. Belgium is not nearly as good as Bulgaria, I think." The stadium was close to full now, and Harry checked his watch to see when the game would start. Only ten minutes to go.
Suddenly a roar went up as the players from the Bulgarian and Belgian teams arose from the pitch and began to fly around the stadium, warming up and saluting the fans. The announcer pointed his wand at his throat, said "Sonorus!" and then began announcing the teams in a voice that could be heard throughout the stadium."
"Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, welcome to the first semi-final match of the 2002 Quidditch World Cup. Now we present, in sky-blue robes, the Belgian National Team. The Chasers - Jan Gaus, Henrik Vermeer and Eduard Theroux." Three burly young men flew around in circles to the cheers of their countrymen. "The Beaters - Maria Bourgainville and Herve Chretien." A blonde woman and a red-haired man flew out. "The Keeper, Louis Cletholde" - a tall, powerfully built young man flew in a double-eight loop around the Belgian goals. "And the Seeker, Lucy Visser." A slender brunette, Visser warmed up by doing the starfish-and-stick maneuver to avoid her teammates' Bludgers. Harry and Ron applauded politely; Artur Krum merely nodded.
"And now," the announcer continued, "in scarlet robes, the team that almost won the 1994 World Cup - the Bulgarian National Team!" The heavily partisan crowd erupted in deafening cheers as their favorite players took to the air. The announcer went on: "The Chasers - Alexandr Levski, Igor Dimitrov and Iulia Ivanova. The Beaters - Vasily Volkov and Petr Vulchanov. The Keeper, Grigor Zograf. And the Seeker, Viktor Krum!"
As Harry and Ron applauded more loudly, Artur Krum jumped up from his seat, his broad smile contrasting sharply with the guarded expression he'd worn a few minutes earlier. Suddenly Viktor Krum swept up to the Top Box, hovered near the railing, reached in and hugged his father. Releasing him, Viktor nodded to Harry and Ron.
"Potter! Veasley! It is good to see you again," Viktor said earnestly as his broom floated a few feet outside the box. "Herm-own-ninny told me you verr coming."
Harry managed a half-smile. Intellectually he knew he really had no reason to be jealous of Viktor Krum. But a very adolescent part of him resented that Krum was the first boy -- almost a man, really -- who took a shine to Hermione. "Yeah, I know. She gave me the tickets for my birthday last month."
"Herm-own-ninny is a good friend to you," Krum replied.
A surge of possessiveness overtook Harry. "She's more than my best friend. She's been my lover for almost two years," he said defiantly.
Viktor scowled, still hovering outside the box. "I know zat too. Herm-own-ninny has told me this long ago." A half-smirk curled his lips. "You do not haff to fear me, Harry Potter. It is you she loves." Nodding to the box's occupants, Viktor flew down to the pitch for the start of the game.
"Well, that was extremely weird," Ron said as he and Harry took their seats again. Harry said nothing but agreed. In addition to Harry, Ron and the elder Krum, the Top Box was now full of dignitaries from the Bulgarian and Belgian Ministries of Magic. Below them, one hundred thousand witches and wizards of all ages roared as the referee prepared to release the Quaffle and the Golden Snitch. Harry sat on the edge of his seat, happy to be a spectator. He listened intently as the announcer called the game's action play by play.
"And now the referee's whistle blows, the Quaffle and Snitch are tossed and the game begins. It's Gaus catching the Quaffle for Belgium. Reverse pass to Vermeer, who passes to Theroux who - NO!! Volkov beats it away, it's caught by Levski. Now it's Levski, Ivanova and Dimitrov in a Hawkshead attacking formation, going at the Belgian goal. The Bulgarian team is very aggressive today; you don't usually see the Hawkshead so early in the game. Levski passes to Dimitrov, who reverse passes to Ivanova, she's in the scoring area now...Krum is circling above her looking for the Snitch, and now Ivanova SCORES! It's ten-zero to Bulgaria."
Artur Krum jumped from his seat again, clapping his hands heartily and pounding on the railing in front of him. He turned and beamed at Harry and Ron, who were elbowing each other happily. As much as Harry enjoyed watching this championship game, though, his heart was really above the pitch, waiting with Krum, wondering where the Snitch might be. As he sat in his seat, barely containing the energy that urged him to jump on the nearest broom and fly out to join his old rival, Harry had to admit that he envied Viktor Krum, whose worst problem at the moment was finding the Snitch.
The game was very much a back-and-forth affair, with each team scoring quickly and often in the first hour while - to Harry's keen disappointment - the Snitch was nowhere to be seen. With the score 70-50 in favor of Belgium, Harry felt himself starting to doze off in his seat when a whizzing sound caught his ear. Not ten feet in front of him, the Snitch bobbed and weaved, then zoomed down toward the pitch. Without thinking Harry jumped up and waved Krum in the direction the Snitch had gone. As Krum went into a steep dive, Harry recognized that he was executing the Wronski Feint in an effort to distract Visser, the Belgian Seeker, who promptly followed Krum and stayed close on his broom's tail. As the two Seekers dove toward the pitch at a dizzying speed, Krum suddenly pulled up and away, barely missing the ground. Visser, too close on Krum's tail, was unable to pull out of the dive and crashed into the pitch with a thud that made Harry's stomach turn. While mediwizards removed Visser from the pitch, the remaining players on both teams attempted to score; Krum circled the pitch like a hawk zoning in on its prey. Harry had to admit that Krum was still the best Seeker he'd ever seen.
About fifteen minutes later, with the score 100-90 for Belgium, the Snitch zipped back into Harry's consciousness, hovering behind Krum's back then zooming around the Bulgarian's head like a bee circling a flower. Before Krum could reach out and grab it, the Snitch rocketed away. The Bulgarian fans went wild as Krum stood up on his broom then leaned forward until his body was parallel to and just a few inches above the broomstick. As Krum and his broom hurtled toward the Snitch, a lump rose in Harry's throat as he remembered executing exactly the same move in his first year at Hogwarts. As usual, when Krum reached the Snitch and grabbed it, giving Bulgaria a 240-100 victory, he looked as cool as a cucumber. Meanwhile Harry sat in his seat dripping with sweat and exhausted from merely watching.
"Bloody hell, what a great game!" Ron crowed as the throng went wild around them. Beaming, Artur Krum stood up and waved expansively in Viktor's direction, saying "My son! My son!" and clapping Harry and Ron on the back.
"And now, ladies and gentleman, we will have a two-hour break before the next semi-final game," the announcer's voice boomed. "So please, feel free to mingle with fans from other countries. Or you might wish to eat lunch or visit the concession stands. Remember, our next game begins in two hours."
A nudge from Ron was Harry's cue that they should find a concession stand and get some lunch. In a bustling concourse below the stands, they found a British vendor selling sausage rolls, chips and butterbeer in a pub-style setting. The morning's hike to the stadium, plus the excitement of the game, left Harry famished, and he was happy for a chance to tuck in and chat with his best mate.
"So Ron, do you wish you still had your Viktor Krum action figure from the last World Cup?" Harry teased as he drained his second glass of butterbeer in less than an hour.
"Very funny, Harry. Actually, yeah, I do wish I hadn't managed to trash it in a fit of -"
"Jealousy," Harry reminded him. "You were jealous of Viktor then."
Ron looked confused. "Jealous of Viktor? No, I was upset because -"
"Because he was interested in Hermione then. And she seemed very interested in him."
It was easier for Harry to admit this than Ron because at the time Ron's crush on Hermione was fairly obvious (to everyone except Ron).
Ron sighed. "You got me, mate." He eyed Harry carefully. "So why didn't you fancy her too back then?"
Harry sat back and thought before answering. "I was too busy mooning after Cho, I guess, and trying not to notice that Hermione had grown into a pretty girl. Besides, I could tell you fancied her. I would have been a bad friend if I'd let myself think about her that way while I thought you did. I don't want to imagine what that could have done to our friendship."
Ron didn't have an answer to that. "How long till the second game starts?" he asked, changing the subject.
"Half an hour maybe?"
"Let's go find buy some Bulgarian rosettes. And I'll buy a Viktor Krum action doll for each of us."
"That's the best plan you've had all day," Harry said as they wandered over to the souvenir concourse. The first semi-final game had been brilliant. If he was lucky, the second game would be just as good. When he got back to London, he would have to find a really special way to thank Hermione for buying the tickets for him.
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The afternoon match was a blowout. Peru defeated Spain, 610-50, in a long, harrowing game that lasted until sundown and left the crowd exhausted. By Harry's count Gonzales, the Peruvian Seeker, dove for the Snitch at least fifteen times before finally catching it. When the match ended, Harry and Ron made their way slowly through the retreating throng and headed for their tent, where they collapsed on their beds.
After dozing for an hour or two Harry woke up, needing to relieve himself. Grabbing his wand, he muttered "Lumos!" and made his way past Ron, who was lying spread-eagled on his bed, snoring loudly. Once inside the loo, Harry undid his zip and took a leak. Holding his cock loosely in his hand, he thought about where he wished he could put it right that moment.
Hermione…. Those breasts, that luscious bottom just waiting for me to--
That one stray thought was all it took to make his cock spring to attention. Harry kicked off his shoes and stepped into the tiny shower stall to get some privacy in case Ron came in unexpectedly. Leaning back against the wall, he thought about Hermione's thumb-and-forefinger trick and pumped into his fist for a few minutes until his release spilled over his hand. He muttered a quick scouring charm, then put on his shoes and went back into the bedroom.
Ron was sleeping on his side now, curled into a fetal position and snoring less loudly; he sounded less like a Muggle lawn mower and more like a very happy Crookshanks. Harry sat down at the table, poured himself a shot of firewhisky and drank it quickly. The firewhisky burned his throat, as it always did, but Harry didn't mind. He enjoyed the sensation, enjoyed feeling his nerves on edge from it. A warm glow spread from his throat into his chest, working its way down through his abdomen until it pooled in his groin. Not again, he thought.
Suddenly Ron began to stir a bit, talking in his sleep.
"Eh so…'at's a good… Siobhan….oh, Siobhan…mmmm," he moaned.
That was enough for Harry. Trying to get away from his own thoughts of sex and Ron's dreams about it, he crawled out of the tent to get some fresh air.
The air outside was thick with the threat of rain. The weather had been sultry for Saturday's matches, and humidity hung in the night air. Harry's Macintosh and wellingtons were still in the tent, so he cast an Impervius charm on his clothes and shoes in case it started raining. Now that he was outside, he didn't know what he wanted to do. He didn't really know anyone at the games except Cho Chang and the Krums. His chat with Cho the previous day had left him with a sour taste in his mouth and he didn't want to run into her, because it would just end up the same way it always did. He wished Cho would go away and not always find some way to nibble at the margins of his life. Even when he'd not seen her for months, she managed to get a rise out of him. When he was fifteen, and even a few years later, he didn't necessarily mind that rise, but now it just complicated things. He had a wonderful life now, doing a job he was damned good at and living with a wonderful woman who meant more to him than life itself. He was going to ask Hermione to marry him soon and he didn't want to be distracted by Cho Chang getting a rise out of him emotionally or physically.
Standing alone in the dark avenue running through the British encampment, Harry lit his wand and looked around. A stand of tall trees rose from the edge of the moor just west of the campsite.
Maybe a change of scenery will help me clear my head, he thought.
Striding past a line of tents, he made his way out to a verge of scrubby grass near the edge of the woods. About ten meters back in the verge, he saw a large conifer tree with bifurcated roots that formed a shallow sheltered area. He strolled over and slid down the trunk until his backside met the cool earth, then leaned back and closed his eyes. By now the campsite was mostly quiet, though Harry could still hear scattered conversations.
"That Krum was amazing! Did you see his Wronski Feint in the game against Belgium?"
"He's bloody insane, that one. Completely fearless on a broom. No wonder he wins Most Valuable Player year after year…."
"Okay, Scarborough, pay up. One hundred Galleons."
"But Krum caught the Snitch!"
"He didn't catch it until more than an hour into the game…."
"Bugger, I thought that second game would never end."
"Good thing Gonzales caught the Snitch or we'd probably be sleeping in the stadium…."
The voices began fading, and suddenly Harry found himself standing in the master bedroom of his flat in London, watching Hermione sleep. Moonlight filtered through the curtains, casting lacy patterns on her face. Hermione looked so peaceful sleeping there by herself…no, not by herself. A male arm snaked around her waist, pulling her closer. Hermione's eyes fluttered open and she turned her head toward the man sharing her bed - who was Viktor Krum. Suddenly Harry heard a loud rapping noise on the window near the bed. Viktor pushed himself up on his elbow, then got out of bed and walked over to the window. He was stark naked with an erection the size of a Beater's bat. Harry felt his throat go dry. Don't open the window, Viktor...don't open the window. Owls at the window are always bad news. And what are you doing in my fucking bed? Oh wait… you and Hermione must have been sha-...
THWAP! A flurry of beating wings woke Harry from his dream. A brown owl dug its talons into his shoulder while it waited for him to notice the scroll tied to its leg. Harry dug two Knuts out of his pocket, stuck them in the owl's pouch and pulled the scroll off its leg. As the owl flew off, Harry realized that the sun was rising. He'd fallen asleep next to the tree and spent the night sleeping outside. As his eyes adjusted to the dawn's light, he unrolled the parchment and read it.
Potter,
Did you enjoy the Bulbadox powder? Did it make you and your Mudblood bitch scratch yourselves raw for days? I saw you leaving your flat when the ambulance came from St. Mungo's. You were covered with boils on your back and your chest. Why was that? Were you naked before you opened that letter? Were you shagging that Mudblood till she screamed your name before you opened the letter? Did you get any powder on your dick? You can't fuck when you've got boils on your dick. I bet that kept you out of the slut's box for a couple days.. When are you going to stop dipping your dick in that dirty water? Both of you disgust me. You and that bitch are still fucking each other. I already said you'd had your last chance. Now I'm going to make you wish you'd never crossed me.
Come to the players' entrance of the Quidditch stadium at nine o'clock this morning. Do not be late and do not ignore this letter. You can't protect yourself and you can't protect her.
By the time he finished reading the letter, Harry was pale and shaking. Somehow he managed to push himself up from the ground and start running toward his and Ron's tent. As he ran, he tried to focus on the contents of the note. The scrawling penmanship looked very familiar, and the last line sent a shiver through him. You can't protect yourself and you can't protect her. Bloody hell…the stalker was right. Sending an owl was useless; it wouldn't reach Hermione for days. She was thirteen hundred miles away, and even if he could get a Portkey and go back to London that morning to warn her, he probably couldn't get back before nine o'clock. He was damned if he did and damned if he didn't. As he reached the tent, he bent down to crawl in - and almost conked heads with Ron, who was coming out.
"Where've you been, mate? I woke up and you weren't here." Ron's voice was full of concern.
"I got up to get some air last night. I walked around a bit and ended up over there." Harry pointed toward the copse to the west. "Then I sat down at the base of a tree and fell asleep and had a weird dream. I woke up a few minutes ago when an owl landed on my shoulder with this note."
Ron looked puzzled. "You got an owl here? What does the note say?"
Harry's jaw clenched almost as hard as his fists. "The stalker is here at the World Cup and I have to meet him or her in less than two hours."
"Bloody hell."
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