ushernet Chapter 327 - 327
Chapter 327 - 327
The football World Cup was certainly worth reminiscing about, but for Mr. Granger, the upcoming Quidditch World Cup was what truly excited him the most.After all, not even the President of the United States was guaranteed an invitation to the wizards' Quidditch World Cup.
Unless, of course, they had a child who could do magic.
As VIP guests in the box, the group exuded an air of perfect nonchalance—relaxation was the name of the game. They dawdled until after lunch before finally setting off at a leisurely pace.
The carriage, enchanted with an Undetectable Extension Charm, naturally drew a gasp of astonishment from Mr. Granger, even though he'd already been mildly shocked by the subtle Extension Charm on the car earlier.
"If this could be applied to car sales, it'd sell out in a heartbeat," Mr. Granger remarked earnestly.
He wasn't wrong—if a compact car could be modified with an Undetectable Extension Charm, and it didn't even need to be expanded too much, just big enough to turn it into an RV, it would fly off the shelves, leaving buyers counting Galleons until their hands cramped.
"But alas, Askin," said Mr. Weasley with a touch of regret, "the Ministry doesn't allow us to tamper with cars. If they did, it might make for a decent little side income."
"How could you call it just 'decent'?" Mr. Granger reached out to stroke the genuine leather seat. "I'd wager it'd sell out completely. Even orders from the British royal family would come pouring in—the Muggle world would go mad for it!"
It was clear Mr. Granger was genuinely itching to get into that business; even Ron could tell.
"I think so too," the Weasley twins murmured in voices so low they were barely audible. "If our little gadgets could break into the Muggle world, it'd whip up a storm—we'd be the most famous people on the planet!"
Of course, the Weasley twins' focus wasn't really on the money; it was on becoming the most famous people on the planet.
After all, who could resist being the eternal king in children's hearts?
They'd never dare let Mrs. Weasley overhear that, though—otherwise, it'd be a thorough scolding, confiscation of their orders, and every last one of their prank-making tools to boot.
"Children," said Mr. Weasley, twisting around in his seat after settling in. "What do you lot fancy for dinner tonight? The World Cup grounds have loads of food stalls—you can pick whatever you like. Just tell me what you want, and I'll give you the money..."
"Dad rocks!" Ron was the first to thrust his right hand up at a forty-five-degree angle.
He'd picked up the phrase from telly, back when he'd watched it at Hermione's house.
As the saying goes, it's hard to learn the good stuff, but the bad slips in easy—and Ron was a bit like that.
"That's not a very good gesture, Ron," Mr. Granger said, turning back. "At least don't use it in the Muggle world, or it'll stir up unnecessary trouble."
"Why?" Ron's eyes shone with clear, unadulterated stupidity.
"Don't ask why!" Hermione hissed under her breath. "There's no why—just do it!"
Harry, slouched in the back row, let out a muffled chuckle. He turned and beckoned to Cassandra beside him.
She looked puzzled, tilting her head in confusion.
"Come here," Harry whispered.
Cassandra leaned in, and Harry murmured right by her ear: "I've got a strong suspicion that when those two finally kiss someday, Hermione will be bossing Ron around on how to do this or that, Ron will ask why, and Hermione will snap at him, 'Don't ask why!'"
At Harry's wicked speculation, Cassandra couldn't hold it in—she buried her face and let out a stifled giggle.
Then she reached out and gave his thigh a light poke.
"You're awful," she said, shooting him a playful glare.
Harry huffed a laugh, his hand sliding quite naturally onto her thigh.
Cassandra was wearing a long skirt today, topped with a little cardigan—an outfit that, by any orthodox fashion logic, was an absolute oddity.
But...
In the world of high stats, you don't question it. When someone's that gorgeous, they can do whatever they want—even a sackcloth would get mistaken for high-end couture.
Not that Cassandra, of all people, would ever throw on a literal sack.
The carriage ride lasted a good two hours, the altitude dropping gradually until, with a sudden lurch, it touched down on solid ground.
"We're here, everyone," Sirius called to the group, who looked positively reluctant to disembark.
Harry stood, following the others out of the carriage.
The place they'd arrived at resembled a vast, desolate moor shrouded in mist. Ahead of them stood two wizards, looking utterly knackered and grim-faced: one clutching a large gold watch, the other a thick roll of parchment and a feather quill.
Both were dressed as Muggles, but it showed—the man with the watch wore a rough tweed suit jacket up top, paired with thigh-high rubber waders below; his colleague sported a Scottish Highland kilt with a South American poncho.
At least they hadn't gone completely off the rails.
Harry hung back, not catching what Mr. Weasley was chatting about with them.
He was too busy scanning the surroundings—it all looked so utterly barren.
"So, the World Cup's happening here?" Fred asked George without turning, shading his eyes like a makeshift visor. "Sometimes I really wonder if the Ministry knows what it's doing—hey, Percy, what are you lot even serving the international guests? You absolute prat!"
"At this rate, British wizarding world's going to be the laughingstock of the globe!" George chimed in, ever eager to fan the flames.
Percy's face darkened; he clearly saw himself as a senior Ministry official, brimming with a sense of ownership.
"Don't talk rubbish!" he snapped, his face turning ashen. "This is just to fool the Muggles—you lot could use your brains for once. Does the Ministry really look daft enough to turn this barren wasteland into a Quidditch pitch?"
"Fair point," Ron agreed, in full stir-the-pot mode. "I'm with Percy on this—I can't see Fudge being that senile, or Crouch either... Though it's inevitable, I suppose. Mr. Crouch is getting on, after all—might have a touch of dementia?"
Hearing Ron take a swing at his idol, Percy flew into a proper rage.
"Shut your mouth!" he bellowed. "I won't have you speaking about Mr. Crouch like that—you have no idea how much he's poured his heart and soul into this Quidditch World Cup, all the effort he's put in to make it a success!"
"Mm-hmm!" Ron and the twins nodded along in mock agreement. "Yeah, Mr. Crouch is the best, the greatest—should we say it just like that?"
Percy turned varying shades of green and white with fury, jabbing a finger at his three hapless brothers, too incensed to get a word out.
"Enough," Mr. Weasley interjected smoothly, stepping forward. "No more pointless squabbling—you're all big kids now, not little ones. And especially you two, Fred and George—you—well, you might have a point, but we need to get moving now."
"Get moving?" The twins whipped around in unison, scanning left and right. "Moving where? What's moving? Where are we going?"
"To the World Cup grounds, of course," Mr. Weasley said with a jolly chuckle. "You didn't seriously think the final was happening in this patch of scrubland, did you? That'd be absurd—even if Fudge wanted to, no wizard in Britain would stand for it. Far too damaging to our reputation."
At his father's words, Percy lifted his chin triumphantly, shooting a smug glance at his three dim-witted brothers.
They trudged along behind Mr. Weasley, crossing the empty moor.
Without their navigation charms, they might've ended up knee-deep in a bog.
"Why couldn't we just Apparate straight to the site?" Ron panted, voicing the soul-searching question.
"Because Apparating would be too conspicuous with Muggles about," Mr. Weasley explained to the kids.
After about twenty minutes, a door appeared ahead, followed by a small stone hut. Harry could just make out thousands of bizarre tents behind it, sprawling up the gentle slope of a vast field that stretched toward a dark treeline on the horizon.
At the entrance, a Muggle stood gawking at the woodland tents, clearly fascinated by the bustling scene.
The Muggle stuck out like a sore thumb—no wizard would wear such authentic Muggle garb unless they had Muggle kin at home.
But plainly, if he were a wizard, he wouldn't be staring quite so fixedly.
Mr. Weasley ignored him and pressed on to a cluster of posh tents, where he greeted a wizard at the edge of the campsite who looked like staff, exchanging pleasantries.
Harry and the others waited until the chat wrapped up, then followed Mr. Weasley to a particularly lavish tent.
It was all set up—perks of box-seat VIPs meant no need to bring or pitch your own; everything was provided.
"This is our tent, kids," Mr. Weasley said cheerfully. "We'll be here for two days—of course, the match itself is the day after tomorrow, so that's at least two nights. Anything to say?"
"Yes," Fred raised his hand. "Can we pick our own rooms?"
"Go ahead," Mr. Weasley waved them off indifferently. "Find your own—just remember to head out for dinner later. I mean eat out; no one's cooking for you here!"
"Got it, Dad!" the kids chorused, crowding around Mr. Weasley to each claim a handful of Galleons.
"What should we have for dinner?" Harry asked, turning to Cassandra.
"Anything's fine," she nodded.
"Well, then..."
Before he could finish, Harry was interrupted by Sirius and Mr. Weasley.
"Harry," they said, drawing up beside him. "You need to come with us. This Quidditch World Cup is a global affair—you know that—so officials from Ministries all over the world are here."
"Yeah, I know," Harry said, a bit baffled as to why they were telling him this.
What, like I could do anything to them? Come off it—I'm Harry Potter, not You-Know-Who...
"Right," Sirius clapped him on the shoulder. "Some Ministry folk just stopped by and asked me to bring you over. The Austrian Minister for Magic wants to meet you."
The Austrian Minister for Magic? Wants to meet me?
Harry was utterly at a loss—Austria's Minister was something of a mystery. Everyone knew there'd been a change, but no one knew who the new one was.
What could this person want with me? Do I even know them?
With that in mind, Harry blurted out the question.
"The Austrian Minister? Do I know them?"
But Cassandra, beside him, went on high alert.
The Austrian Minister for Magic?
Could it be... that wicked woman Grindelwald?
A fresh graduate becoming a Minister sounded like utter fantasy—but if it was her, Cassandra wouldn't be surprised in the slightest.
What if it really was?
"You alright?" Harry noticed her unease and asked with concern.
"It's nothing," Cassandra shook her head, telling him, "Maybe... yeah, you might actually know this person."
"Really?" Sirius's eyes lit up. "Harry, I had no idea you had connections like that—explains why they want to see you so badly..."
"No, I think the Austrian Minister is that Grindelwald woman!" Cassandra declared with conviction, her expression screaming: the truth is only one.
At her guess, everyone froze for a beat, then burst into laughter.
"No way," Harry gasped, clutching her shoulder for support. "Veratia just graduated—how could she be Austria's Minister? Impossible, absolutely impossible!"
Mr. Weasley didn't guffaw, just smiled mildly. "Wrong guess, Miss Malfoy—the Austrian Minister is a respectable old lady, or so old Barty tells me. Right, then—let's tidy up and head out."
They left the tent together, making for the center of the grounds.
The heart of it all was a tent of extravagant splendor. Harry followed Mr. Weasley inside—two wizards stood guard at the door.
Once identities were verified, Harry and the others trailed the escorting wizard to a door labeled "Austrian Ministry of Magic."
A knock sounded, and a voice from within said, "Come in."
Harry pushed open the door and looked up. Behind the desk sat a familiar face indeed.
Wasn't this Lady Vinda Rosier?
And behind her stood a figure Harry knew all too well.
It was Veratia, a pair of gold-rimmed glasses perched on her nose, a file clutched in her arms. Noticing Harry's gaze, she sneaked a little wave at him.
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