Chapter 280. A Boy's Troubles
Professor Wesson toyed with the finely crafted Omnioculars in his hands and looked up. "Did you make these yourself?"
"Exactly," said Cedric Diggory, a touch proud. "Ernie said the last one was really practical, so I made a new batch and added more functions—slow motion, match replay…"
Wesson nodded, thoughtful—he remembered using Cedric's Omnioculars at Hogwarts during a match, and the effect had indeed been excellent.
"Amazing," Cho Chang said after taking a look through the Omnioculars at the window view. "They're even better than the ones they sell outside."
"Thanks, but I'm not planning to sell them, not yet," Cedric said with a smile. "To prepare for tonight's match I even added night vision—though we probably won't need it. At the Quidditch World Cup the pitch looks the same day or night."
Ron and Hermione crowded over to try the new toy.
Watching, Harry felt a twinge of discomfort. He sneaked a glance at Cho and saw her looking at Cedric with open admiration.
At once, a sour pang welled up.
Wesson keenly caught the subtle shift in the boy's expression.
Things seemed to be getting interesting…
Cedric and Cho left the little cabin chatting and laughing.
Ron was still fiddling with the Omnioculars.
"The ones outside cost at least ten Galleons," he said, smacking his lips in wonder. "Cedric's a good bloke, isn't he? Right, Harry?"
"Mm," Harry replied absently, his eyes still on Cho's retreating figure beyond the window, a little dazed.
Ron, apparently oblivious, went on praising Cedric—his looks, his marks, his character…
"Ron!" Hermione nudged his arm. "Stop."
Ron blinked. "What?"
Hermione glared at him.
Ron had a sudden revelation. "Got sand in your eye? Want some eye drops?"
Hermione sighed.
This one was hopeless…
"Not that, no… I meant, shall we go out for another look round?"
"Brilliant," Ron sprang off the sofa and headed for the door. "I want to buy a Bulgaria jersey anyway! Come on, Harry. Harry?"
Only then did Harry come back to himself and trail after them.
Hermione fell to the rear and looked back at Wesson.
"It's one of life's troubles," Wesson said cheerfully to her. "Do enjoy it."
Hermione let out a helpless sigh, not sure whether it was for Harry or Ron.
Night fell; the match was about to begin.
Wesson followed the Weasleys as they merged into the surging crowd and made their way toward the stadium.
After passing through a belt of woods, they arrived at the final venue: a colossal golden stadium blazing with light in the dark.
Thousands upon thousands of witches and wizards were streaming in from all directions; the din was tremendous, the bustle extraordinary.
Wesson could see the place from a distance, but from where he stood it was only a towering wall of gleaming gold.
"It's massive," Ron said, craning his neck, his vocabulary failing him.
"Kids, this way!" Mr Weasley called, waving from ahead.
A young witch stood at the gate in an outlandish gold-and-green hat pinned all over with moving Ireland badges.
"Hello, Arthur," she greeted warmly. "Brought the family?"
"Ah, yes," Mr Weasley replied cheerfully, and handed over his ticket.
"First-class," the witch said. "Top Box for you, Arthur. All the way up; it'll be on your right."
The Weasleys filed in and strode through the entrance.
"You didn't actually need to buy a ticket," Mr Weasley said when it was Wesson's turn, giving him a conspiratorial wink at the door. "You could've just come along with us into the best box."
"I think I'll pass," Wesson said with a smile, handing his own ticket to the witch.
She took one look and said in surprise, "Oh! Top Box—you're the same, sir. Up the stairs to the very top."
They started to climb—honestly, Wesson thought they ought to have fitted a lift or something of the sort. Reaching the very top on foot was no small task.
"How much did that Top Box ticket set you back?" Mr Weasley asked in a low voice as they went. "I had to ask a friend at the Ministry to manage ours. Must've been dear."
"Classified," Wesson said lightly. "Money isn't important."
Ron listened in silence, itching to say that was nonsense—money was very important. With just one more month's pocket money he could buy a few more Ireland cards.
In fact, Wesson himself was surprised by the type of ticket he'd ended up with—Knockturn Alley truly was a wondrous place if one could even buy this.
Incidentally, the old fellow who sold it to Wesson had let something slip: it seemed this ticket had come from inside the Ministry.
So even in the wizarding world, touts were everywhere.
Before long they reached a luxurious box—there were even great gemstones set into the chairs. Looking down, the entire pitch lay spread out beneath them—Wesson doubted there existed a better vantage point.
The Weasleys took the front row; Wesson sat in the second with Hermione and Harry.
The box quickly filled up—mostly senior Ministry officials and their families; a few were notable businessmen who, Wesson guessed, had arrived here much as he had: through the leverage of Galleons.
Mr Weasley was occupied shaking hands and exchanging greetings with colleagues; Percy spun about like a busy top, bowing to everyone.
Wesson, meanwhile, got into a lively chat with a bald man who sold shampoo—and was startled to learn that it had been this man's father who had bought Fleamont Potter's company, Harry's grandfather's, to produce Sleekeazy's Hair Potion. He himself was currently running the firm.
"If you don't mind my asking, why did your hair all disappear?" Wesson asked, curious.
The bald man let out a long sigh. "I didn't want it to… but innovation has a price. I try to improve Sleekeazy's every day and test it on myself—until one morning… it was all on my pillow. And it's never grown back."
"A sad story indeed."
Just then, a familiar figure entered the box.
"Ah, Professor Wesson, you're here as well," said Cornelius Fudge, brightening at the sight of him. "What a coincidence."
He looked around, as though searching for someone, then sighed in faint disappointment. "I sent Albus a ticket too, but unfortunately he didn't come… A pity—an occasion like this, and he's not interested."
Wesson replied casually, "Perhaps the Headmaster has other business."
"Yes, he is very busy," Fudge said, slipping back into his affable smile. "But you're here—that's something. At least you can tell Albus the result of the match."
"I will, Minister."
Satisfied, Fudge moved along to Harry and struck up a genial conversation about home and family.
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