Harry Potter 04 - Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire

Weasley kept shaking hands with people who were obviously very important wizards. Percy jumped to his feet so often that he looked as though he was trying to sit on a hedgehog. When Cornelius Fudge, the Minister for Magic himself, arrived, Percy bowed so low that his glasses fell off and shattered. Highly embarrassed, he repaired them with his wand, and thereafter remained in his seat, throwing jealous looks at Harry, whom Cornelius Fudge had greeted like an old friend. They had met before, and Fudge shook Harry’s hand in fatherly fashion, asked how he was, and introduced him to the wizards on either side of him.
    ‘Harry Potter, you know,’ he loudly told the Bulgarian Minister, who was wearing splendid robes of black velvet trimmed with gold, and didn’t seem to understand a word of English. ‘ Harry Potter … oh, come on now, you know who he is … the boy who survived You-Know-Who … you do know who he is –’
    The Bulgarian wizard suddenly spotted Harry’s scar and started gabbling loudly and excitedly, pointing at it.
    ‘Knew we’d get there in the end,’ said Fudge wearily to Harry. ‘I’m no great shakes at languages, I need Barty Crouch for this sort of thing. Ah, I see his house-elf’s saving him a seat … good job too, these Bulgarian blighters have been trying to cadge all the best places … ah, and here’s Lucius!’
    Harry, Ron and Hermione turned quickly. Edging along the second row to three still-empty seats right behind Mr Weasley were none other than Dobby the house-elf’s old owners – Lucius Malfoy, his son, Draco, and a woman Harry supposed must be Draco’s mother.
    Harry and Draco Malfoy had been enemies ever since their very first journey to Hogwarts. A pale boy with a pointed face and white-blond hair, Draco greatly resembled his father. His mother was blonde, too; tall and slim, she would have been nice looking if she hadn’t been wearing a look that suggested there was a nasty smell under her nose.
    ‘Ah, Fudge,’ said Mr Malfoy, holding out his hand as he reached the Minister for Magic. ‘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 for 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 daresay?’
    It was a tense moment. Mr Weasley and Mr Malfoy looked at each other and Harry vividly recalled the last time that they had come face to face; it had been in Flourish and Blotts bookshop, and they had had a fight. Mr Malfoy’s cold grey eyes swept over Mr Weasley, and then up and down the row.
    ‘Good Lord, Arthur,’ he said softly. ‘What did you have to sell to get seats in the Top Box? Surely your house wouldn’t have fetched this much?’
    Fudge, who wasn’t listening, said, ‘Lucius has just given a very generous contribution to St Mungo’s Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries, Arthur. He’s here as my guest.’
    ‘How – how nice,’ said Mr Weasley, with a very strained smile.
    Mr Malfoy’s eyes had returned to Hermione, who went slightly pink, but stared determinedly back at him. Harry knew exactly what was making Mr Malfoy’s lip curl. The Malfoys prided themselves on being pure-bloods; in other words, they considered anyone of Muggle descent, like Hermione, second-class. However, under the gaze of the Minister for Magic, Mr Malfoy didn’t dare say anything. He nodded sneeringly to Mr Weasley, and continued down the line to his seats. Draco shot Harry, Ron and Hermione one contemptuous look, then settled himself between his mother and father.
    ‘Slimy gits,’ Ron muttered, as he, Harry and Hermione turned to face the pitch again. Next moment, Ludo Bagman had charged into the box.
    ‘Everyone ready?’ he said, his round face gleaming like a great, excited Edam. ‘Minister – ready to go?’
    ‘Ready when you are, Ludo,’ said Fudge comfortably.
    Ludo whipped out his wand, directed it at his own throat and said ‘Sonorus!’ and then spoke over the roar of sound that was now filling the packed stadium; his voice echoed over them, booming into every corner of the stands: ‘Ladies and gentlemen … welcome! Welcome to the final of the four hundred and twenty-second Quidditch World Cup!’
    The spectators screamed and clapped.