Disclaimer: The usual disclaimers apply.

Company of Champions

The Laurel Snare

A song, made of nothing but imagination, immortalized in script and the voices of thousands, breaks across the bright blue skies.

It careens all over, whipping men, women, and children, irrespective of garb, humor, and status, into a frenzy of passion and anticipation. Throats strain with the lyrics of the songs, while patriotic joys beat within their hearts. Each song crests louder than the previous, accompanied by the thunderous beat of the percussion instruments. Smoke, colored in the hues of shamrock green and dark scarlet, drift about in the air from each of the camps' directions. Over the fairgrounds, the pigments clash, blend, and dissolve into nothingness under the summer sun.

Harry closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, committing the sensations of the past few minutes to memory. Everything was somehow too good to be true–and yet–here he was! At the Quidditch World Cup!

Around him, salespeople traipsed about, shouting their wares and holding trays full of merchandise, while others pushed carts laden with fantastic souvenirs and tokens, ranging from scarves to models of famous players. House elves flitted about, perusing the various stalls, while a party of goblins was being given a wide berth by the crowd. Occasionally a dissonant beat punctured the hubbub, clear to only those who paid attention. A stall selling Quidditch supplies caught his eye, and his smile widened at the sight of the encased showpiece gifted by his only family.

Sirius, he pondered. I wish you could be here. But I hope that the South, or wherever you may be, is treating you well.

At that very moment, a shaggy head stiffened and cocked sideways, causing a feminine voice in the throes of pleasure to cry out querulously. Next moment, the act continued as though there was no interruption.

Blissfully unaware, Harry strolled around the shopping hub, taking in the sights of the fantastic and dazzling magical wares and attractions. One caught his attention, and the sparkle grew in his eyes as he hurried over to the cart laden with strange instruments that, oddly enough, resembled binoculars.

What are these?" he asked, looking up excitedly. Someone tapped his shoulder, a familiar touch. Ron and Hermione.

"Omnioculars, sir!" responded the saleswizard, smiling broadly. "You can replay action, slow it down, and there's also a play-by-play function! Very useful and a must have, if I may say so!"

"How much?"

"Ten Galleons, but how about you take some for your friends, and I'll call at 6 Galleons apiece?" the saleswizard said, his gaze genially indicating Hermione and Ron.

"Deal," Harry said firmly, ignoring Ron's squawk of protest. "Don't bother, Ron–take this."

"No, I can't," Ron said, his features reddening. "Mate–"

"Fine, fine, nothing for you on Christmas," Harry shot back, taking the Omnioculars proffered by the saleswizard. "Thanks. Better?"

"Cheers, mate!" Ron said, grinning.

"Ooh, thanks, Harry! I'll get us some programs–look!" Hermione said happily.

She set off. Harry made to follow when someone spoke behind him.

"Excuse me!"

"Hmm?" He turned and saw a young girl, who couldn't have been more than 9 years old. "Err, hi..."

"You're Harry Potter, right?" she asked, and at Harry's nod, beamed. "Could you please sign this for me?"

And she held out a children's book. On the cover was a moving version of him battling a dragon. He blinked and read:

HARRY POTTER AND THE DRAGON

What the? How come there is a book about me, and I don't know about it? Wait...didn't Hermione mention something about this during our first year?

"Mr. Potter?" asked the girl.

"Hm? Oh, sure, I'd be happy to," Harry said, taking the proffered quill. "Will it be OK if I sign on the first page?"

Norma Bagley

He committed the name to memory, and neatly signed the first page.

"Are there more such books about–" he asked, handing the book back to the girl.

"Yes! There's an entire series about you, detailing all your adventures!"

He frowned. It sounded like this Bagley was profiting off his name, and that wasn't something he appreciated.

"Natalie! Didn't I tell you not to go running away by yourself?" called out a pretty girl hurrying towards them.

"But Sis, this is Harry Potter!" whined Natalie.

"Harry Potter–what do you mean–oh my gosh, Mr. Potter!"

"Hi," Harry repeated.

"He signed my copy for me, Sis. The one you gifted me yesterday."

"Why, thank you very much, Mr. Potter. I hope she wasn't much of a bother to you," said the girl.

"No, not at all," Harry replied, and the girl smiled sweetly at him.

"Such a gentleman! Come on, Natalie. Mum and Dad are waiting for us. Take care, Mr. Potter."

"Bye, Harry!"

He waved at the retreating duo and turned to see Ron next to him.

"What did they want?" Ron asked, his eyes fixed on the girls.

"Just my autograph."

"Ah. Right."

There was something in Ron's voice that Harry couldn't quite put his finger on.

"C'mon, let's go. Hermione's over there."

Over time, the rest of the Weasleys joined them. Fred and George had nothing, having spent all their gold on a long-shot wager with Bagman. Bill, Charlie, Percy, and Ginny were all wearing bright green rosettes, and Mr. Weasley was waving an Irish flag.

And then the moment came; when the fever pitch seemed to reach an insurmountable crescendo, there was a thunderous cannon boom that echoed over and over. Cheers and yells broke out, reverberating everywhere under the dusky skies, and the very ground seemed to shake with thousands of feet bounding towards the stadium.

"Finally!" Mr. Weasley exulted. "Let's go!"

Together, the party joined the rambunctious crowd until they were able to ease off into a lantern-lit trail within a canopy of woods. Conversation flowed loudly until they reached the outskirts, and found themselves at the end of a line outside one of the entrances. Ahead of them loomed the Quidditch World Cup Stadium, and it was huge. Golden light illuminated the endless walls, set round in an oval shape.

"Top Box! Go straight ahead and keep going higher and higher!" announced the Ministry official as she handed in the stubs.

It was a long but very satisfying climb to the top. Everywhere Harry looked, the entire stadium was packed with noisy fans and spectators, waving banners, flags, and signs. Flashlights streamed about, illuminating sections of the screaming and singing hordes–it was like the final of a football game that he'd once glimpsed on the Dursleys' TV, except the scale was much larger and grander.

They neared the Top Box, strategically set at a vantage point where they had a panoramic view of the stadium and the gigantic board suspended at the center of the pitch. To Harry's surprise, parts of the board displayed the stadium from different angles. It resembled a huge TV board, and on the upper part of the board, gold handwriting spouted off advertisements.

"Blimey!" Ron exclaimed, looking around. "How high are we?"

"Put it this way, Ron, if it rains, you'll be the first to know," Charlie chuckled, playfully slapping his brother's back.

The Top Box was already filled with a few people, who were richly garbed and strolling around, greeting each other. Harry immediately recognized Cornelius Fudge, the Minister of Magic, who was soliciting greetings and smiling genially. Next to him was a distinguished looking wizard dressed in robes of red velvet trimmed with gold. He did not seem to understand English, if Fudge's mimes were anything to go by with. On his other side stood a cheerful looking man with ruddy features favoring emerald green robes with sky blue linings and a broad grin as he shook hands.

"Harry! Good to see you, my boy!" Fudge said, bustling over to Harry. "Come, come, there are a couple of people eager to meet you!"

Upon seeing the Minister arrive, Percy sank into a bow and suffered the indignity of his glasses to slip and crack. In an attempt to save face, he slunk away and sat down at the far right corner along with his family, occasionally shooting death glares at Harry, who was being ushered to the waiting dignitaries.

"Harry, my boy, this is the Bulgarian Minister of Magic, Oblansk…Oblansk, oh something," Fudge trailed off, shaking his head and turned to the man who was staring at Harry with surprise. "This is Harry Potter...Harry Potter–oh come on now, surely you know who he is–"

"The boy who survived You-Know-Who," interjected the other man respectfully, and held out his hand to Harry. "Reagan Gillian, Irish Minister of Magic."

All of a sudden, there was an exclamation from the Bulgarian Minister, and he started jabbering, while enthusiastically indicating Harry's scar.

"About time," Fudge sighed wearily, then brightened up and strode past Harry.

Curious, Harry turned and saw a family of three enter the Top Box. All bore the same haughty expression and arrogance in their stiff postures. The males' platinum hair shimmered dully in the darkness of the sky.

"There you are, Lucius!" Fudge greeted the Malfoys.

Draco and Harry eyed each other contemptuously. Next to Draco, the tall, elegant woman who could only be his mother, placed her hand on his shoulder, and her lips twisted into an imperious smirk.

It was a subtle, yet obvious message. Harry gritted his teeth, when a familiar hand too rested on his shoulder. He glanced up to see Mr. Weasley behind him. Like Harry, he too was watching the Malfoys–but his attention was fixed on Lucius Malfoy, who had dispensed with his greeting and was now moving towards them.

"Good Lord, Arthur," Lucius said, his voice soft and sardonic. "What did you have to do to get seats here? Surely your hovel isn't worth this much?"

"We are here on the personal invitation of the Minister himself," Draco cut in before Mr. Weasley could speak.

"Don't boast, Draco. These people are..." Lucius glanced from his son to Harry and Mr. Weasley. "...not worth it. Do enjoy yourself, won't you? While you can..."

Smirking, Lucius strode away with his wife on his arm. Draco shot Harry a disdainful sneer and followed his parents.

"Ignore them, Harry," Mr. Weasley said, patting Harry's shoulder.

Harry said nothing. Irritation coursed through him, borne out of the taunts from the Malfoys. So many times he had got one over the Malfoys, and yet, somehow a single meeting of little importance got under his skin.

His fingers curled into fists. He burrowed them in his pockets, and looked around, trying to reign in his rising anger.

Why? They are no better than bullies, so why do they affect me so much?

Sometimes he despised himself so much. For feeling so inadequate and inferior even in a new world where he was one of them. Behind the surface, the marks left behind by the abuses of the Dursleys lingered, waiting for the dam to break.

What could I have done? he mulled, as he examined an advertisement for Bertie Bott's Every Flavour Beans–A Risk with Every Mouthful!

Bit by bit his frustration simmered away. He was loath to admit it, but there was nothing that he could have done–short of replying with a biting remark. Which was not his forte.

"Harry? Come on, let's go and sit down," Mr. Weasley said.

He did not care to reply and headed over next to Hermione. Taking a deep breath to calm himself down, he consciously pushed the negative emotions aside and contemplated the stadium. Slowly, the infectious atmosphere started to work its charm, and soon he was enthusiastically fiddling with the Omnioculars.

"Ladies and gentlemen! Welcome! Welcome to the 422nd Quidditch World Cup!"

Cheers broke out at Ludo Bagman's opening words. Surveying the crowd with his Omnioculars, Harry saw the sparkling outlines of thousands of Omnioculars winking at their direction.

"And, now, let's meet the teams and give them a rousing welcome!" More cheers. "Join me in welcoming the Irish Team! Troy! Mullet! Moran! Connolly! Ryan! Annnnnnnd Lynch!"

With every green blur that flashed out into the stadium, an introductory clip of the player played on the board and the walls of the stadium. Green fireworks exploded, while the leprechauns joined together, creating the first letter of the player in the dark skies.

Focusing through his Omnioculars, Harry saw that each of the players had Firebolts. He smiled, remembering his own Firebolt, and recalling its impeccable speed and control. Well, it would be a frenetic and fast-paced match. Plus, it would also be the first time he would be spectating a player on a Firebolt.

"And now, ladies and gentlemen! Let's give a big hand and welcome the Bulgarian National Team! Here we have—Ivanova! Dimitrov! Levski! Volkov! Vulchanov! Zograf! Annnnnnnnnnnnnnnd KRUM!"

There was no doubt about it; the stadium positively exploded into an insensible cacophony of screams and yells at the entrance of the Bulgarian Seeker. Harry followed Krum, as he did a lap around the stadium, marveling at how he held himself and the broom–like it was an extension of his body. It was amazing to think that he was only 18.

All of a sudden, a strange sensation tugged on his mind even as the crowd broke out into a huge roar, and people around him stood up excitedly. Over the din, the first strains of foreign music rose into the night sky.

"That's the Veela!" Mr. Weasley exclaimed.

To Harry, it felt like bliss, an urge to stand and worship whoever those Veela were. He wanted to impress them, to show off to them, to adore them...

Or else...

Why?

The tiny voice was so soft, yet it was more potent than any potion. He shook his head and the suggestive haziness melted away.

"Honestly!" Hermione huffed next to him, rising and crossing over to Ron, who was gaping and pressing his Omnioculars into his face as he stared down at the Veela on the pitch. "Men!"

Looking around the Top Box, Harry noted that nearly everyone was standing and pressed at the edge of the railing, save for the grumpy females and...one other man.

Their gazes met, and the man smiled wryly, raising his hand in greeting. "Hello, Mr. Potter."

"Hi," Harry responded a little awkwardly.

"Oh, where are my manners? I'm Sebastian Delacour from the French Ministry of Magic. It is a pleasure to meet you," he said, leaning forward and extending his hand.

"Likewise," Harry responded, reaching out and shaking hands–the dark-haired man had an affable charisma around him.

"I confess myself to be a bit surprised, and impressed, Mr. Potter," Sebastian went on. Seeing Harry's guarded expression, he smiled. "It's more to do with now...the fact that you can resist the allure is impressive in itself."

"That's what they are under?" Harry asked, connecting the dots. "So that thing the Veela do...that's their allure?"

"Non. It's not what they do. More like control," Sebastian corrected and nodded at the crowd. "A pity really."

"How are you not affected by them?" Harry asked.

The other man smiled, his expression wistful. "I'm married to one. She's a wonderful person and the love of my life. I was also able to resist the allure like you when I first met her. It's no easy feat."

A great roar suddenly broke out, accompanied with rapturous applause. Both looked up to see the crowd stirring and people returning to their seats.

"It was a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Potter. I hope to see you again soon. Good luck!" Sebastian said.

"Same to you, Mr. Delacour," Harry replied, smiling. "Enjoy the match!"

Angry yells and boos rained down from the spectators but did little to stop the match from continuing. The Weasleys settled in their seats, looking a bit abashed, but pleased all the same. Ron started tearing a green colored flag into small bits, and Mr. Weasley tugged it away.

"And now, let us introduce the referee! Hassan Mostafa from Egypt!"

The man in question came on to the pitch, lugging a huge crate. Upon reaching the center of the pitch, he stared around the stadium, flicked out his whistle, and mounted his broom. His gaze swiveled over to the Top Box, awaiting the signal.

Bagman glanced at Fudge, and the latter nodded. With a deep breath, Bagman screamed the next words to the delight of the crowd.

"LET THE MATCH BEGIN!"

"WOAH!"

Below, the two Seekers danced together in a death-defying dive in pursuit of the Snitch. Leaning over the safety railing, Harry pressed his Omnioculars and followed the descent with bated breath. And then he saw it–Krum pulled up his broom bare inches from the pitch and spiraled away. Behind him, Lynch collided with the ground with a sickening thud, followed by groans and whistles from the crowd.

"Fool! Krum was feinting him!" Charlie declared.

"Harry, lend me your Omnioculars! I need to see the replay!" Ron exclaimed and yanked the Omnioculars from his grasp.

"He'll be okay," Bill said kindly to Ginny, who was covering her face with her hands. "He just got ploughed. You can see the medics already on way–look!"

Someone jostled into Harry, and he caught himself. Frowning, he drew back from the railing–it was difficult to discern who had shoved him–and sat down in his seat. Conversation soon picked up in the Top Box, as the gathering dispersed and the dignitaries began to discuss topics of varying import.

"Thanks, mate–here you go!" Ron dumped the Omnioculars on Harry's lap. "Going for a quick nip–be right back soon!"

"Ok–hurry up."

"Yeah," Ron replied, glancing back at the board showing the medics attending to Lynch. "Gotta go!"

He hurried away.

The feeling grew more intense with every second. He had to enter the cubicle! Why was that fellow taking so long?

Raising his fist, Ron banged the doors again.

"Oi! Wait up, you berk!" came the angry response.

"Hurry! I gotta go!" Ron retorted, banging the door again. "Open up!"

His words were promptly swallowed up by the loud din behind him. The men's washroom was full of rowdy men discussing the match, cracking open bottles of liquor, and singing without care.

"Come out!" Ron shouted again, the desperation growing within him. "Otherwise I'll break down this door!"

"Okay! Okay!" The lock slid out of place with a sharp crack, and the furious occupant barreled out, pushing Ron roughly with his shoulder. "Bloody wanker..."

Ron never heard the man's words, for he vaulted himself inside the cubicle, slammed the door, and slid the lock in place. The stench almost made him gag, and he clapped a hand to his nose, looking around feverishly. He dropped to his knees and made for the wall behind the commode.

The glazed tile was cool to touch, and he felt about until his fingertips located a carving. Another wave, this time euphoric, rushed through him and he scrabbled at the plastering, loosening the tile.

If he had been in control of his senses, he would have questioned why he was kneeling and scratching about in a filthy bathroom.

The tile fell out and he hastily wrapped his fingers around it. Light swirled around him, accompanied by a jerk under his navel, and banishing all sensation of the compulsion. He screamed, swinging haphazardly in the inexorable flight to lands unknown.

Moments later his lanky frame slammed on to a concrete floor, knocking out all breath. He groaned, hurt throbbing over his ribs and knees.

A black boot entered his sight. Ron froze, the past few moments rushing up with him. Bottom lip quivering, his gaze lifted...

"Boo!"

He yelled, scrambling up and flinging himself back. Loud laughter filled his ears. The long tattoo ran down from the man's brow, over his right eye, past his nose-ring, and finished at his jaw.

"Someone is a scaredy-cat!" sneered the man. "Let's play a little, shall we?"

With a swish, the jagged edge of a machete appeared. The polished metal reflected Ron's frozen visage, and the sharp point glinted menacingly. Ron gulped. His heart drummed against his chest, and his legs felt rubbery, gave way; he had no clue where he was, he didn't want to die–

"Move."

The man swiveled towards the source of the voice, flicked his tongue, revealing a yellow piercing on the reddish muscle, and rose from his haunches.

"Ta! We'll play soon!"

A moment later, a shadow fell over Ron. He looked up, dimly cognizant of the bright lights around.

It was a woman. Brunette. Regal. He swallowed, remembered his wand, and clumsily pulled out the instrument. Next moment, it shot out of his grasp, and Ron's exclamation of dismay filled the room.

Desperation spurred him on–he lunged forward but collided painfully with an invisible wall.

"LET ME OUT! HELP!" he yelled, banging the wall as though it might break unexpectedly. "LET ME OUT!"

The woman regarded Ron's fruitless calls for help calmly. His throat, parched with fear, ceased moving and he sank against the invisible barrier, fighting back the hot tears of despair pricking his eyes.

"Ron Weasley," The woman declared, leaning close to him. Her lips twisted into an expression of excitement. He shuddered, turning his face away as though to ward off her. "Pity–we were hoping for Potter, but you'll do nicely."

Ron shook his head, biting his lip hard. The fear turned into a roaring agony, tearing at his chest. His father was whispering about the previous Wizarding War, and he squeezed his eyes shut, praying that this was all just a bad dream.

"Do it," ordered the woman. "Hurry up!"

A rough hand swiped over his head, and pain seared through his scalp. Squinting through watery eyes, he saw the tattooed man dunk a familiar potion down his throat. In a few minutes, a carbon copy of himself grinned at him.

"How do I look?" asked his doppelgänger, and leered at him. "I'll be borrowing those clothes now."

"No!" Ron exclaimed, instinctively hugging himself. "No, don't...PLEASE!"

Tears dripped down his cheeks. Each sensation of his clothes unfurling themselves from his being was like a physical walloping. He rocked himself, moaning and praying with all his might for this to be a nightmare.

"Be back in a verrrryyyy looooong timeeee!" laughed his doppelgänger. "Try not to piss yourself, eh?"

"Go," ordered the woman. "Remember, come back before the agreed time."

His doppelgänger nodded and clasped the Portkey. Disappeared. The woman turned back to Ron, her eyes running over his semi-naked form dispassionately.

"Let's begin, shall we?" she murmured and poked him with her wand. "Eyes up here. Tell me about Potter. You know, Harry Potter, your friend–stop shaking your stupid head–LOOK AT ME!"

"Where is Ron?"

Harry lowered his Omnioculars. Glanced at Hermione's worried expression. "He said he was going to the washroom."

"Oh. Ok. He's taking a while though, isn't he?" Hermione gestured at the Irish Chasers. "The match has already resumed. And you know how he is!"

"Yeah," agreed Harry. He looked around musingly. "You think I should go and look for him?"

"Give it a few minutes. Maybe he's already on his way back."

"Sure–wait. Look, Hermione. There he is!" Harry said, spotting Ron's familiar frame and waving.

His friend gestured in acknowledgment and soon slid next to them.

"Bummer–match is already underway," Ron observed mournfully and pressed his Omnioculars to his eyes. "Anything interesting happen? What's the score?"

"90-10" Harry supplied. "You didn't miss much. Play is becoming more dirty, though."

"You were also gone for some time," Hermione noted, and then at Ron's wide grin, exclaimed loudly. "Oh, that's disgusting, Ron!"

"What? I didn't say anything!"

"I–oh–never mind! Stay away from me!"

"Whoa! Hey–be careful! I almost fell!"

Harry ignored their antics and focused on the match. Time seemed to blur for him; his Omnioculars moved incessantly, following the Quaffle, observing the 'tactical fouls' made by the Bulgarians, marveling at the antics of the mascots and the referee, and the resulting argument...

"Damn," a voice moaned, and he looked away from Troy's windup to see Ron with his Omnioculars lowered. "My stomach is acting up again..."

"Again?" asked Harry. Ron was more of a Quidditch fanatic than him, and for him to say that, meant that it was quite serious.

His friend nodded dolefully. "Yeah. Be right back again...hopefully the match won't be over by then."

"OK," Harry said. "Best hurry up then."

Next to him, Hermione eyed the twins skeptically. They turned to her, with identical grins on their faces.

"Why, brother of mine," said one of them

"It appears that the lovely Miss Granger,"

"Suspects us of giving,"

"Ickle Ronniekins something,"

"But we would never dare to break his heart,"

"Or dream of seeing his love–"

"OK, OK!" Hermione exclaimed. "I get it; you didn't do anything!"

A great cheer from the Irish supporters got them peering through their Omniculars once again. The match slowly grew more brutal and intense, with both the sides well and truly heated.

"Crucio!"

Pain, far more intense than he had ever felt, struck him. He didn't know for how long he screamed, or when he curled up into a fetal position, or when the fire raking every fiber of his body stopped. Only the roughness of the floor, the jerkiness in his limbs and the ache in his vocal cords told him that he was still alive.

"Look at me," intoned the voice, and Ron met her dark-eyed gaze. "What happened in the Chamber of Secrets?"

A small dark-haired boy was looking at him in the slimy pipe.

The woman's lips curved into a smile.

"So he went down...to save your sister..."

As his mind reacted to the spoken statement, the familiar sensation of something very cold latching onto his mind repeated itself. His hands flew to his head again...

And a thousand needles of agony tore through his nerves.

Memories of their second year and Harry played out in front of his mind's eye–snippets of their adventures, their talks, his thoughts, his reactions–

Over and over it went on until the pain dissipated and the flood ceased. All that remained was a dull throbbing in his mind. His red eyes itched, while his cheeks felt damp.

From far-away, his torturers' disembodied voices floated about.

"You're back–"

Who is back?

"Not as good as getting it from Potter–"

Huh?

"–his immunity–"

Harry–I need to warn him

"–only a matter of time–"

Can't move...so tired...

"–hurry up and take him back. Don't forget to Obliviate him!"

"No," Ron whispered, ignoring the flare of pain over his tongue. "No..."

"Hello, ginger!" called out the tattooed man, squatting in front of Ron. A smoking potion bubbled in his meaty hand. "Open your mouth!"

Ron tried to move, but it was futile. The man gripped his throat in a chokehold, and forced the contents down his throat.

It burned. Oh, Great Merlin, he was going to die!

"Sweet dreams!"

With those words, his captive's wand jerked forward. Ron raised his hand feebly, and a blinding flash of green light consumed his vision.

The last thing he saw was the fellow, features wild with madness, bearing down on him.

"MORAN SCORES!"

As one, the Irish spectators rose and cheered, a stark contrast to the fierce three-way battle on the pitch between the Veela, leprechauns, and the Ministry.

Fudge leaned over the railing, groaning audibly. Harry ignored him and focused on the match; saw Quigley direct a Bludger and it struck–

"No!" Ron yelled over the din. "Foul, foul! Blow the whistle, ref! Timeout!"

Harry threw a glance back; his friend was back with his Omnioculars pressed to his eyes, evidently focusing on Krum.

He followed suit, watching the injured Bulgarian seeker, and then gasped. Lynch was hurtling down, in a death-defying dive–

What happened next was pure magic–magic of a different type. That spoke of genius. Though bloodied and distracted, Krum was still able to outmaneuver Lynch and claim the Snitch. This was despite being at a disadvantage–the Irish Seeker had noticed the golden winged ball first. Yet Krum snatched the prize from the jaws of defeat.

Unfortunately, he had merely won the battle. For the Irish still won the war–the final score reading 170-160.

Soon the two teams were in the Top Box, being awarded medals. And when Fudge presented the Quidditch World Cup to the Irish team and Troy and Quigley hoisted it in the air, the ensuing din was deafening.

"This is going to go down as one of the most memorable World Cups ever!" Charlie shouted exuberantly.

"Well fought! Give it up for the Irish team, the winners of the World Cup! And the runner up—the Bulgarian team! Truly a historic final! This is the beautiful game of Quidditch!" Bagman roared.

The applause went on and on until the Bulgarian team walked away, and slowly the Irish team followed. A great horn blast rang out, echoing over and over, signaling the crowd to begin vacating the stadium.

It was a long and slow way down, as the party lingered back, not wanting to get too close to the crowd. Looking at the hordes of men and women chattering and traipsing down invoked feelings of claustrophobia. Finally, they were almost near the entrance, when Fudge's voice suddenly rang out from behind.

"Harry, my boy! A word, if you please!"

Harry spun around to see Fudge beckoning jovially at him from a side entrance that apparently led off to private quarters.

"Come on, come on," Fudge called as Harry hesitated. "Oh, don't worry, Arthur, he'll be escorted back to you."

"We'll wait," Arthur responded.

"Oh no…this might be quite a while."

"Go on," Hermione whispered, nudging Harry.

"Right. Be back in a bit," Harry said, handing off his things to Ron.

"Hurry up, mate, we gotta talk about Krum and his Wronski Feint!"

Smiling, Harry moved over to Fudge. The man draped his arm around Harry's shoulders.

"Ready, Harry?" Fudge asked, and at Harry's nod, beamed. "Well then, come in, come in!"

Taking a deep breath, Harry stepped inside.

He immediately realized that he was in a hall, an opulent one, that looked to have been magically expanded. The décor was tasteful, and distinguished men walked about, sipping crystal goblets and making polite conversation. At his entrance, the conversation frittered away as heads turned towards him. Each of the faces were solemn and intent, as though appraising his worth.

Like a curiosity.

A few faces sprang out to him, but the rest were all unknown. Reagan Gillian was there, as was Sebastian Delacour, and Mr. Crouch.

"Well then, everyone! Meet Harry Potter! Or rather The Boy Who Lived!" Fudge announced, clapping Harry's shoulder.

If he expected the usual frenetic buzz of excitement, Fudge soon grew disappointed. The people offered minimal reactions, with the majority merely indulging in whispers with their companions.

"Well…I say…" Fudge started to bluster, his gaze sweeping around the room, and then at Harry, who simply offered him a blank stare. "This is Harry Potter! The vanquisher of You-Know-Who!"

One of the men stepped forward. He wore black robes embroidered with gold borders, and his grey hair was slicked back, throwing his stern features into prominence. In two long strides, he was in front of Harry and Fudge. Harry nearly flinched; the authority radiated by the man was overwhelming. Yet he stood, meeting his opponent's fierce gaze and after a few moments, the fire in the black eyes softened approvingly.

"Hello, Mr. Potter," began the man. "Pleased to make your acquaintance." He shifted the smoking crystal goblet to his left hand, and Harry caught a glimpse of a glittering amber ring. "I am Abercrombie Finkle."

"Finkle here is the owner of the prestigious Finkle resorts all over the world!" Fudge beamed, as Harry and Finkle shook hands. "France, Greece, America, you name it–there is always a Finkle resort wherever you go!"

"You are too kind, Minister," Finkle said, tipping his goblet towards Fudge.

"Nonsense!" Fudge exclaimed. "You must visit one of the resorts, Harry, if you ever get the chance. The one in Cornwall is particularly stupendous if I do say so myself!"

"Err…" Harry began, a little unsure of what to make of the conversation's direction.

"We would be honored to have you as a guest, Mr. Potter," Finkle intoned.

"Sure…"

"Well, then, come along, Harry! Let's have you meet the others–I'm sure they're all dying to meet you as well!" Fudge said, guiding Harry past Finkle, and towards one of the nearby groups.

"Do enjoy yourself, Mr. Potter," Finkle murmured.

Something about his tone made Harry turn, but then Fudge was introducing him to a new, corpulent wizard sporting a bushy handlebar mustache, and he had to turn back.

During a brief moment of respite, with Fudge occupied with his audience, Harry looked around. He took a moment to marvel at the magnificent tower made of sparkling goblets atop an elegant table in the center of the hall. Liquids, of varying color, cascaded down over the wide rims, swirled inside the transparent moat, and rose back into the topmost goblet in high arches. And if one plucked a goblet from the tower, another instantly appeared in its place.

Soft organ music joined by the gentle croon of the singer, whom he vaguely recognized as Celestina Warbeck, crested over the gathering. To his displeasure, he spotted the familiar frame of Lucius Malfoy–holding court near the band. Their eyes met, and Lucius raised his eyebrows, his lips curving into a faint smirk.

"Let's go, Harry!" Fudge said, clapping Harry's shoulder.

He steered Harry purposefully around, making introductions. It was too obvious that whatever he was doing was for his gains.

Irritation spiked through Harry–he was not a show pony! –but he controlled himself. All of this was new to him, and besides, he had a vague sense that knowing some of those influential people wouldn't hurt him.

Easy to think, hard to practice. Though contact was now much easier.

Besides his knowledge of the magical world was limited and sheltered. Hermione's earlier words about international schools floated to mind. And learning about Azkaban–his step faltered a little–revealed a world outside of Hogwarts, Hogsmeade, Diagon Alley, and Knockturn Alley.

Obviously there was a whole wide world waiting out there. Yet how could he explore it if he was unsure of his place in Magical Britain?

He sighed inwardly. Living with the Dursleys was the biggest reason for his awkwardness. The fact that he was famous due to his parents' deaths also rankled. Was it so hard to be acknowledged for what he had done?

The Special Services to Hogwarts. Did it count for anything? It was doubtful if any of these powerful and influential men and women knew of it. But, they were still talking to him.

That had to mean something. What it was, he wasn't sure. If he dared to put it to words, how much did he really have?

Was it enough to help Sirius?

He desperately wanted to run. To run, to leave behind this gathering and ruminate on the thoughts whirling in his mind. The euphoria of the World Cup now felt like a distant memory.

"There you are!" Fudge called out heartily and swung Harry abruptly around.

Steadying himself, Harry spotted two men approaching them. Both held the customary crystal goblet filled with smoking dark liquid, which he now suspected to be alcohol of some sort.

"Hello Minister–it is a pleasure to be here!" said one of them, extending his hand to Fudge, and shaking hands cordially.

"The honor is all mine!" Fudge postured, unable to keep the delight off his face. "I dare say you know who this is?"

The man's calm gaze met Harry's, and Harry immediately recognized the subtle sizing up. He didn't react and instead shook the proffered hand firmly.

"Well met, Harry Potter. I am Alistair Greengrass."

Greengrass–that was vaguely familiar. Harry frowned as something flickered in his mind, but nothing jumped out to him.

"Perhaps you have met my daughter, Daphne. She is in the same year as you are," Greengrass offered.

Then it clicked. A faint imagery of a blonde girl conjured itself in his mind. And she was in–

He felt a jolt of discomfort at that. Thinking about Houses right now felt childish–especially after the recent niceties. Declaring Greengrass as a Slytherin in the real world made even less sense.

It was as though another veil was being ripped off.

"No, sir. I do recall her, but–well, we don't interact that much," Harry said.

"Understandable," Greengrass smiled, and a liveliness lit up his aristocratic features. "It's always a good idea to expand out, though. Which you may have opportunity to do so!"

"Nah, nah, can't have any of that spreading out, Greengrass!" Fudge interjected jovially.

He ignored Harry's curious look and gestured to the taller man next to Greengrass. "Harry, this is Nathaniel Davis–he is the owner of Davis and Co. law firm."

"Hi there," Davis smiled, shaking Harry's hand.

"Law firm?" Harry repeated wonderingly. "You're a lawyer?"

"Fair warning–law is awfully boring in case you're thinking of a career in it!" Davis chuckled.

"Curious, isn't it?" Greengrass grinned, sipping his goblet.

Davis shook his head. "In any case, our law firm handles most of the Wizarding World's cases. There are some other law firms, but we've been around for a long time. There's very little we can't advise with."

"I see," Harry said thoughtfully.

Sirius' haggard face flashed before him. Was it worth mentioning about his godfather to him? But then what if something happened to Sirius?

"Here," Davis reached into his robes and held out a business card. "Just in case–if you ever think you may need a lawyer, do contact us."

"Sure," Harry replied, accepting the card.

To his surprise, the card bore the personal contact details of Davis. Even for his age, he knew that it was a big thing, and he glanced up sharply.

The dark haired man nodded easily.

"No problem, Potter," he said, and then evidently realizing something else, spoke quickly. "Do say hi to Tracey too sometime!"

"Sure," was all Harry could say, before Fudge yanked him away again, nearly knocking him off balance. Turning around to look at the two men, he nodded solemnly.

As Fudge dragged him towards yet another cluster, a vague feeling overtook him. It was as though something significant had occurred–an understanding–something that gave him hope. The strange haziness persisted throughout the whirlwind of repeated social exchanges, with blurred faces, varying grips, and contrasting reactions.

Yet the underlying irritation simmered beneath. Keeping up the façade of polite interest was hard–who cared about the Russian envoy, Sergei Ivanoshovik, and his hobbies? Or Gavin Thorn, owner of the Wrib? But he didn't dare to break social decorum, and pushed down the indignation to the dark pit where he housed such emotions.

Like he always did.

Even if every moment spent in the hall–no matter the manner of smiles, the subtle flick of eyes, the pretentious exclamations–reinforced the inescapable truth.

That he was not Harry Potter.

Just the Boy Who Lived.