Some time later Charlie Weasley returned and lifted the spell he’d left on their ears, looking as if he’d sprinted the height of the stadium to get there. “Alright, got that bloody mess sorted,” he grumbled, and brought down the sparkling screen he’d left across the front of the box with another cursory wave of his wand. “It’s safe to look now, the Irish are bringing out their mascots next.”

Rhiannon realised suddenly that she’d dropped her Omniculars in her rush to see the Veela, and her cheeks flushed a deeper scarlet as Fred passed them along the row to her with a snort of amusement. As she looked again, the Veela had changed somehow. They were no longer dancing, no longer smiling and singing – instead, they formed an intimidating wall against one side of the pitch. And they no longer appeared human, either. Each was feathered across their back, arms and upper cheekbones, their hair brighter and coarser somehow, tangled across their shoulders as from their backs spread great pale wings, the feathers angled like a hawk’s. Each Veela’s face had changed too, their eyes a mixture of shades from yellow through brown to red, while sharp, elongated teeth were visible over their painted lips and smooth horns in a wide variety of shapes and sizes extended from their foreheads. To Rhiannon, fundamentally no longer human herself, they were still beautiful – inhumanly so, but a wilder sort of beauty that warned others not to touch rather than drawing them in.

Charlie resumed his seat, grinning broadly as Rhiannon looked over at him. “They refused to leave. Said they wanted to flip things around, intimidate rather than entrap – a show of Veela pride, so to speak.” he explained. “This is one of the biggest and most public displays of Veela trafficking in recent history, so they want to make a statement about it.” he told them, ignoring the Minister’s angry splutters of protest. “Now, the Irish mascots on the other hand, well... take a look.”

Cautious after the Veela, Rhiannon raised the Omniculars to her eyes again and peered through them, then gasped aloud in wonder at the sight. Across the other long side of the pitch, fifty or more great black horses pranced into place, tossing their heads and rearing proudly before the crowd. They could have been mistaken for ordinary horses save for two defining features – the fierce gold of their eyes, more like in colour to a hawk’s than a horse’s, and that none wore a bridle or in fact allowed any handlers near them. They gave off an air of pride and of a playful kind of wickedness, and Rhiannon recognised them by that in a heartbeat – púca. Irish spirits of mischief and disharmony that liked to take the form of golden-eyed black creatures, Hagrid and Remus had both covered them in their classes.

Charlie cackled gleefully and Rhiannon looked over at him, a brow raised curiously. “Ah – ha, well that certainly settles any accusations of magical interference!” he chortled, clearly greatly entertained. “I wonder how they got them all here – oh that’s brilliant, they probably just asked them ‘hey want to come radiate mischief for a few hours’ and all the wee wretches signed on! Púca are highly intelligent, see, easily as much as a person or more – you couldn’t get that many here without their cooperation, oh that’s bloody beautiful.”

Rhiannon couldn’t help herself – the idea was just too funny, especially as compared to the Veela. Technically, the dissonant aura of the púca constituted magical interference too but if both sides were doing it, it would probably slide, and Rhiannon giggled helplessly at the thought of a bunch of Irish magical government officials going out, looking for púca and asking them if they’d like to come and wreak a bit of havoc. Ha. Luna, Dudley, Nina and Ginny were all laughing too, while Hermione was still silent and shaking with unease at Rhiannon’s side and several of the Ministry workers looked quite put-out by the stunt. Rhiannon raised her Omniculars to her eyes again and peered out onto the pitch, where the Púca were now cantering around the edges, teasing the Veela – who flapped their wings and shrieked territorially, though neither seemed to be truly angered – disrupting the lower stands and in general wreaking mostly-harmless havoc on the pitch. Pitch officials in dark rust-orange robes tried to clear them off the field and back to their side of the stadium, which the púca seemingly took as an invitation for a game of chase.

It took a good fifteen minutes or so for the pitch to be cleared, but finally they were ready to start and Rhiannon bounced eagerly on the edge of her seat as a whistle-blast sounded throughout the stadium and fourteen players, half in red and white, half in green and gold, shot from beneath the stadium and out into the airspace above the pitch. They circled eachother not unlike Rhiannon and her teammates would a rival team at school, but even this early on Rhiannon could tell their brooms were better than the ones usually seen in school matches, their riders steadier. The commentator must have been calling out each player’s names as Rhiannon’s companions and others in the box roared their approval, but Rhiannon herself had muffled her ears some time prior and only dimly knew the surnames of the players in question – for Ireland there was Ryan, Connolly, Quigley, Mullet, Troy, Moran and Lynch; and for Bulgaria there was Zograf, Vulchanov, Volkov, Dimitrov, Ivanova, Levski and of course, Viktor Krum – the only one of all fourteen players she recognised by sight.

Rhiannon found the knob on her Omniculars that indicated each player’s name as they soared past, but she had to admit to some sympathy with Nina’s feelings for Viktor – the man was an excellent flier and, she couldn’t help noticing, strikingly handsome even with his scowl. He looked rather like a hawk, with his long black hair tied in a knot and shaven at the sides, his nose a stern hook. In fairness, some might consider that a fault, but he flew like a hawk too – commanding and intent in his every movement, and Rhiannon watched him in rapt attention as the teams lined up across the centre of the pitch.

Another whistle blast and the match erupted into action, players arrowing off in all directions to avoid the Bludgers as they rocketed skywards on release. Then the Chasers gravitated to eachother like magnets, all jostling for possession of the Quaffle – currently in Moran’s possession but not for long, as Levski and Ivanova pinned her between them and Dimitrov rammed her from underneath in pincer-type play Rhiannon had used herself, before the Quaffle was then again snatched by Mullet, who shot off towards the goalposts – straight into the solid wall formed by Volkov and Vulchanov, the Bulgarian Beaters. It was thrilling – Rhiannon had never so much as watched a national league game before this, her only experience with Quidditch was school matches and they couldn’t come close to the rate of possession changes and frantic back-and-forth play that was on display here.

Ireland were the first to score, as Troy stole the Quaffle back from Levski and sprinted back to the hoops before the Bulgarian Keeper, Zograf, quite knew what was happening. Rhiannon marvelled at the way the players could keep their heads in such a fast-paced game, hardly able to keep up herself, but she kept away from the slow-play knob on the Omniculars for fear of missing the action as it happened. Hermione was struggling, peering so intently into her Omniculars that she squashed her cracked glasses into her face.

“’Mione, gimme those,” Rhiannon told her with a sigh, wincing as she saw the frames flex. The last thing her friend needed was glass in her eyes, she was already going blind without help. Hermione didn’t seem to hear, and Rhiannon remembered she’d hexed her ears right when Bagman had begun shouting. Rhiannon reached out and squeezed her friend’s hand twice, feeling a little guilty as Hermione jumped and would have dropped her Omniculars had they not been held on a cord around her neck. Her glasses were, as Rhiannon had guessed, cracked and bent, and Rhiannon reached across to take them gently from her friend’s nose.

“I’ll fix it,” Rhiannon mouthed, and retrieved her wand from her cane to do just that. “Reparo,” she muttered, feeling the vibration of her own voice more than she heard anything under the oppressive weight of the sensory jinxes. She felt a little swell of pride as the bent brass frames flexed and straightened themselves, and the cracks in the thick glass sealed as if breaking in reverse. The spell had been a difficult one to learn, combining Transfiguration theories with regular charmwork, but Rhiannon had had plenty of time to study in the safety of her wardrobe-den earlier in the holidays and finally mastered it enough to be of use.

Then she remembered the Minister was about five metres away and winced, mortified by her casual disregard for the laws on underage magic. Certainly, those cases were only ever actually penalised when the underage mage in question was Muggle-born or otherwise living away from wizarding society, but... Rhiannon was not so sure she was popular at the Ministry, and if she did get picked up for underage magic... it would be all too easy for the files from the Department for the Care of Unaccompanied Magical Minors to be brought in, and everything to blow up in her face.

Hastily Rhiannon stowed her wand back in her cane and stowed the whole lot under her chair again, then quickly wiped the last traces of dust from the lenses and turned back to Hermione, biting her lip anxiously. She wasn’t sure she should dare. She firmly tamped down her nerves and reached out cautiously to place Hermione’s glasses back on her nose, gently smoothing a fleck of dust or glass from her friend’s nose as she did so. Hermione’s lips parted and at this close range Rhiannon could see the deep rusty undertones of her skin turn crimson, her full lower lip was pulled behind slightly crooked teeth, and Rhiannon wondered for a giddy moment if Hermione might kiss her. Then, still blushing furiously and murmuring something neither of them could hear, Hermione covered her face with her hands and turned away, leaving Rhiannon red-faced and with her heart fluttering to return her attention to the match.

It took some time for Rhiannon to catch back up with the match, and by now Ireland had pulled well ahead in points, with Dimitrov in possession of the Quaffle and haring up the pitch, desperate to try and make up the score. But no – there was Moran again, swooping in from above to snatch it from his hands and – yes, another ten points for Ireland, putting them at... Rhiannon swung her Omniculars to focus on the scoreboard and couldn’t help cheering aloud at the score – seventy to ten! If Ireland kept this sort of lead, even catching the Snitch wouldn’t win Bulgaria the match.

The Veela and Púca taunted eachother around the edges of the pitch, amusing the crowd, but Rhiannon’s attention was on Viktor Krum as the match wore on. Several times she herself saw the Snitch fluttering on the outskirts of the game, but the few times the other players saw it, Krum managed to fend Lynch off until the Snitch had vanished. He was tall for a Seeker and solidly built, but just as other solid Seekers Rhiannon had played against – like Cedric Diggory, a daydreaming little part of her mind reminded her unhelpfully – it gave him a weight and momentum advantage against the lighter Irish Seeker. There were only three women in the match – Ivanova, Moran and Mullet – and none of them remotely the smallest playing. Anyone who might have argued they had a disadvantage would’ve been laughed off the pitch. Speaking of...

“Zograf – excessive use of elbows there! Ooh, that’s right Mullet, you tell him... no, back off there, let the ref handle it!” Ludo Bagman shouted – Rhiannon had lifted the jinxes on her ears enough that she could hear his commentary occasionally, if not consistently. She didn’t like having to dull her senses all the time, going almost deaf made her feel disoriented and disconnected. She snickered, watching as the Irish Chaser Mullet flipped the Bulgarian Keeper a rude gesture and sailed away. The game was paused for a moment while the referee – a small, thin man with skin a similar deep shade to Hermione’s, a clean-shaven head and black robes edged in gold – conferred with the two players involved in the foul, which was referred to as ‘cobbing’ in the Quidditch ruleset.

“Penalty awarded to Ireland following the Bulgarian Keeper’s foul on Mullet! Ooh, look at them go, Mullet’s going straight for the hoops – ooh and at the last moment a pass! And it’s on to Moran, who – YES, she scores! That’s one-twenty to forty favouring Ireland!” Ludo Bagman cheered, as the Irish section of the stands erupted in applause, and Rhiannon’s vision was obscured by a wall of human bodies as many in the box leapt to their feet and cheered the team on.

Rhiannon stayed seated – standing or not, she was too short to see either way unless she stood on her chair – and that folded up unless there was weight on the outer edge, not exactly the safest standing position. She sighed and waited for everyone to get the exuberance out of their system, and when she could see again, her heart leapt into her throat – there was Krum plummeting in a steep dive for the ground with Lynch hot on his tail. What she couldn’t see was the Snitch, not even through the Omniculars, but with broad-shouldered Krum in his way the Irish Seeker didn’t have a chance of seeing the move for what it was – a feint.

Rhiannon chewed her lip anxiously, perched on the edge of her seat in anticipation as the two Seekers drew dangerously near the ground. At the last moment Krum hauled his broomstick out of the plunging dive and shot off upwards, but Lynch, lacking the weight to do as Krum had, ploughed straight into the ground and tumbled nose-over-tail off his broom to lie face-down in the grass. The crowd murmured anxiously and a whistle-blast sounded for a pause in the game, while a team of wizards in pale-green-and-white striped robes hurried onto the pitch to examine the Irish Seeker.

“And it’s time-out for now, while trained medics examine Irish Seeker Aidan Lynch, after opposing Seeker Viktor Krum pulls off a picture-perfect Wronski Feint! Don’t try it at home, folks – the Wronski Feint is a dangerous diversive manoeuvre that many of the most skilled players still can’t pull off! It takes a certain weight to alter your broom’s momentum like that, as well as the excellent timing all players have at this level – well done Krum, using what you’ve got over your opponent! Ooh and look there, folks, that’s Lynch – back on his feet!” Bagman announced, bouncing in place in his excitement as Rhiannon swung her Omniculars over in his direction.

Far below, seen through the magnifying device, Aidan Lynch staggered to his feet leaning on his broomstick for support, clearly winded. But he grinned broadly and waved to the crowd, even flipped Krum a playfully rude hand gesture as he mounted his broom again, and a whistle blast signalled the game to resume as he soared into the air. The Veela roared, whether in support of him or defiance was unsure – they didn’t seem to be particularly supportive of their home team given how they’d come to be here themselves – and the púca snorted and screamed their own approval – Rhiannon had never quite appreciated how loud horses, or magical tricksters shaped like horses, could be.

Gradually the game wore on from mid-morning, through mid-day and afternoon into the early evening, with any attempts at the Snitch blocked. That was new to Rhiannon – at school, games had a time limit, they had to fit two or even three into the one day and if a game surpassed two hours it went to a tiebreaker. Here, that was clearly not the case. “Oh, longest game went on for... three months, I think,” George informed Rhiannon cheerfully when she asked. She groaned and flopped back in her chair, for once beginning to grow bored with the whole idea of Quidditch. Then, through her Omniculars, Rhiannon caught a glint of gold and her heart leapt as instead of blocking Lynch, Krum arrowed off in pursuit of it. The score was 510-350 in Ireland’s favour, and it looked like Krum wanted to cut their losses before the gap grew any larger. Lynch lurched after him but Rhiannon was fairly sure from the wobbly way he flew he’d suffered a head injury in that crash, he was much too slow to catch Viktor as he streaked towards the ground. Immediately Rhiannon shook off the cobwebs of her boredom and leaned forward in her seat, already getting the sense that this was it.

Viktor Krum pulled out of the steep dive and shot along the pitch, so close to the ground his toes could have touched it, until he skidded to a halt and raised something glittering aloft in his fist, and Rhiannon cheered along with Nina and her friends as she saw that what he held was indeed the Golden Snitch, its crumpled wings fluttering limply against his fingers.

“And Viktor Krum cuts Bulgaria’s losses, ending the game at 510-400 to Ireland!” Bagman bellowed, but Rhiannon was barely paying him any attention. Once again, Aidan Lynch had failed to pull out of the dive and this time he lay unmoving, spread-eagled in the grass. She caught a brief glance of him before the green-and-white robed medics crowded around him and hid him from view.

“Good lord, Bulgaria catches the Snitch, but Ireland win! I don’t think any of us were expecting that!” Bagman carried on, and Rhiannon remembered the twins’ bet on that very outcome with absolute glee, though that was soon diffused into concern as she caught sight of the medics loading Lynch onto a stretcher. “Ooh, tough run there Lynch – should’ve given the game over to your spare!”

And indeed, Fred and George were hopping up and down cheering down the row from Rhiannon, and she herself pulled Hermione into a sideways hug, clinging to the taller girl as an anchor amid the jostling crowd. Even Hermione couldn’t stand against their fervour entirely, as Sirius, Remus and the older Weasleys caught them both by the hands and, laughing, towed them along in the flow of the celebrating crowd, down into the stands and then out, cheering all the way back down the road to the camping grounds. Rhiannon hardly minded being barely able to hear – it wasn’t like the rest of them could hear eachother either, in all the celebratory din – and she let herself get caught up, dancing around and cheering and in general just having fun, a normal teenager at a normal celebration with people who were like family to her. Eventually they settled down enough to share a campfire dinner, and then the adults chased them off to bed – or at least to their own tent, as the celebrations outside turned rowdier and the long day began to wear them down. Rather than settle into separate stretchers, they all curled up together in their sleeping bags to watch the Lord of the Rings again on Hermione’s very heavy, clunky laptop. And just like the first time she’d read the book, Rhiannon fell asleep before Aragorn and the hobbits even reached Rivendell.