Harry Potter 04 - Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire

going, Harry had no idea; there were flecks of blood flying through the air behind him, but he was drawing level with Lynch now, as the pair of them hurtled towards the ground again –
    ‘They’re going to crash!’ shrieked Hermione.
    ‘They’re not!’ roared Ron.
    ‘Lynch is!’ yelled Harry.
    And he was right – for the second time, Lynch hit the ground with tremendous force, and was immediately stampeded by a horde of angry Veela.
    ‘The Snitch, where’s the Snitch?’ bellowed Charlie, along the row.
    ‘He’s got it – Krum’s got it – it’s all over!’ shouted Harry.
    Krum, his red robes shining with blood from his nose, was rising gently into the air, his fist held high, a glint of gold in his hand.
    The scoreboard was flashing BULGARIA: ONE HUNDRED AND SIXTY, IRELAND: ONE HUNDRED AND SEVENTY across the crowd, who didn’t seem to have realised what had happened. Then, slowly, as though a great jumbo jet was revving up, the rumbling from the Ireland supporters grew louder and louder and erupted into screams of delight.
    ‘IRELAND WIN!’ shouted Bagman, who, like the Irish, seemed to have been taken aback by the sudden end of the match. ‘KRUM GETS THE SNITCH – BUT IRELAND WIN – good Lord, I don’t think any of us were expecting that!’
    ‘What did he catch the Snitch for?’ Ron bellowed, even as he jumped up and down, applauding with his hands over his head. ‘He ended it when Ireland were a hundred and sixty points ahead, the idiot!’
    ‘He knew they were never going to catch up,’ Harry shouted back over all the noise, also applauding loudly, ‘the Irish Chasers were too good … he wanted to end it on his terms, that’s all …’
    ‘He was very brave, wasn’t he?’ Hermione said, leaning forward to watch Krum land, and the swarm of mediwizards blasting a path through the battling leprechauns and Veela to get to him. ‘He looks a terrible mess …’
    Harry put his Omnioculars to his eyes again. It was hard to see what was happening below, because leprechauns were zooming delightedly all over the pitch, but he could just make out Krum, surrounded by mediwizards. He looked surlier than ever, and refused to let them mop him up. His team-mates were around him, shaking their heads and looking dejected; a short way away, the Irish players were dancing gleefully in a shower of gold descending from their mascots. Flags were waving all over the stadium, the Irish national anthem blared from all sides; the Veela were shrinking back into their usual, beautiful selves now, though looking dispirited and forlorn.
    ‘Vell, ve fought bravely,’ said a gloomy voice behind Harry. He looked around; it was the Bulgarian Minister for Magic.
    ‘You can speak English!’ said Fudge, sounding outraged. ‘And you’ve been letting me mime everything all day!’
    ‘Vell, it vos very funny,’ said the Bulgarian Minister, shrugging.
    ‘And as the Irish team perform a lap of honour, flanked by their mascots, the Quidditch World Cup itself is brought into the Top Box!’ roared Bagman.
    Harry’s eyes were suddenly dazzled by a blinding white light, as the Top Box was magically illuminated so that everyone in the stands could see the inside. Squinting towards the entrance, he saw two panting wizards carrying into the box a vast golden cup, which they handed to Cornelius Fudge, who was still looking very disgruntled that he’d been using sign language all day for nothing.
    ‘Let’s have a really loud hand for the gallant losers – Bulgaria!’ Bagman shouted.
    And up the stairs into the box came the seven defeated Bulgarian players. The crowd below were applauding appreciatively; Harry could see thousands and thousands of Omniocular lenses flashing and winking in their direction.
    One by one, the Bulgarians filed between the rows of seats in the box, and Bagman called out the name of each as they shook hands with their own Minister and then with Fudge. Krum, who was last in line, looked a real mess. Two black eyes were blooming spectacularly on his bloody face. He was still holding the Snitch. Harry noticed that he seemed much less co-ordinated on the ground. He was slightly duck-footed and distinctly round-shouldered. But when Krum’s name was announced, the whole stadium gave him a resounding, ear-splitting roar.
    And then came the Irish team. Aidan Lynch was being supported by Moran and Connolly; the second crash seemed to have dazed him and his eyes looked strangely unfocused. But