Harry Potter with Technology System

Ch335- World Cup

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Harry, with Petunia clutching his arm, stepped through the bustling entryway leading to the campsite. Witches and wizards swarmed around them, voices rising in animated conversations about the evening's highly anticipated Quidditch World Cup final between Bulgaria and Ireland. The air was thick with the aromas of roasted food, distant fireworks, and the earthy scent of freshly trampled grass. Stands selling everything from enchanted souvenirs to Butterbeer lined the pathways. 

Harry smiled at Petunia as they moved through the bustling campsite. “This is nice, right, Aunty?” he asked. 

Petunia returned the smile, her lips curving into a bright smile. “I feel more and more welcomed in this world, Harry. After Yule, now the World Cup. It’s all… fascinating,” she said, her eyes scanning the vibrant chaos of witches and wizards around them.

Harry gave a slight nod, satisfied. His efforts to integrate her into the magical world were paying off. Two months had passed since Harry had bound Bellatrix to himself—not to the facade of Albus Riddle, but Harry Potter. The shift had been seamless for the most part, though Bellatrix’s worshipful attitude sometimes grated on his nerves. Still, the loyalty she demonstrated was useful. He pushed thoughts of her to the back of his mind and scanned the crowd.n/ô/vel/b//in dot c//om

Ahead, a group of wizards stood huddled around a floating sign advertising “Chudley Cannon Charm Scarves.” Children darted between legs, their laughter mingling with the hum of animated conversations. The scents of roasted chestnuts and fresh pumpkin pasties wafted through the air. A firework burst high above, casting a cascade of emerald stars over the campsite.

Harry walked toward his tent, a structure that appeared unremarkable from the outside, with its weathered canvas and basic framework. It was simple compared to the extravagant displays surrounding it, but Harry preferred function over flair. Around him, purebloods and wealthy families flaunted their wealth with opulent tents—some mimicking manor houses complete with miniature turrets, others enchanted to resemble palaces. Wizards loved to show off, and the Quidditch World Cup provided the perfect stage for such theatrics.

As he approached, he noticed the group gathered outside his tent. His closest friends, their families, and a few notable allies were already mingling. Amelia Bones, newly appointed Minister for Magic, stood a little apart from the others, engaged in conversation with foreign emissaries. She spotted Harry and Petunia and gave a brief nod of acknowledgment, a polite yet distant gesture. They had celebrated Harry’s birthday together just days ago, so the lack of a formal greeting didn’t bother him.

Harry smiled as he reached the group. “I see everyone’s already enjoying the festivities.”

Neville was the first to respond, his grin wide. “You’re late, Harry. I thought you would miss the pre-game show.”

“Well we are here now,” Harry replied with a smile. 

Fred sauntered over, tossing a Quaffle into the air and catching it with a flourish. “So, Harry, what do you think? Should we enchant our tent to look like a dragon’s lair? Or maybe a replica of Gringotts’ vaults? Nothing says ‘World Cup’ like a little goblin gold flair.”

George chimed in, grinning. “It would be perfect. Imagine the looks on these purebloods’ faces. Priceless.”

Harry chuckled. “I think you would give the Ministry a collective heart attack. But go ahead—if you’re aiming to get banned from international events, that is.”

The twins exchanged mock-serious nods. “Worth it,” they said in unison.

Hermione stepped forward, her brow furrowed in mild disapproval. "How many more times are they going to Obliviate that poor old man? You would think after all the effort we put into educating them, Purebloods would have learned how to blend in by now," she said, glancing toward the Ministry officials stationed near the campsite’s entrance.

The finals were being held on a Muggle-owned property, rented out by the Ministry for the occasion. The Ministry had attempted to conceal the magical nature of the event, but the eccentricities of the Purebloods were proving to be a consistent problem. From their overly lavish tents to their anachronistic clothing, they stood out like a phoenix in a chicken coop. The result? Several rounds of Memory Charms on the bewildered Muggle landlord and his poor wife, who had so far endured the peculiarities of wizards with remarkable patience—or maybe just confusion.

A month ago, when the location was finalized, Amelia Bones, the newly instated Minister for Magic, had approached Harry with a unique problem. She wanted help managing the potential for chaos when Purebloods inevitably interacted with Muggles. Harry, never one to miss an opportunity, had created a special committee for the task. Dubbed the Committee for Understanding Non-Magical Traditions, it was composed mostly of Muggle-borns and Half-bloods. Harry had handpicked Hermione to serve as his second-in-command, knowing her talent for organization and deep passion for bridging the magical and non-magical worlds.

Hermione and the committee had worked tirelessly to create a booklet titled Department for Understanding Muggle Behaviors, or D.U.M.B, an acronym Harry had insisted on because, as he put it, “It’s funny when Purebloods are being told.” The booklet outlined everything from appropriate attire to basic do’s and don’ts when dealing with Muggles. The committee had even included a section titled, “How to Not Look Like You’ve Stepped Out of the 17th Century.” Predictably, few Purebloods bothered to read it.

“I’ll bet he’s up to five Obliviations today,” Fred said as he walked toward Hermione. “Six, if you count the time he caught that bloke levitating a beer keg to his tent.”

George snickered. “He’s going to think he’s in a bad dream by the end of the night.”

“It’s not funny,” Hermione snapped, shooting them a glare. “That man has a life, you know. A family. A history. We’re playing with his memories like it’s nothing!”

Fred feigned a look of remorse, clutching his chest. “Forgive us, Granger, we’re but humble jokers.”

Harry sighed as an elderly wizard shuffled past in a floral sundress that barely reached his knobby knees. The image was enough to make Harry seriously consider Obliviating himself. The man caught Harry’s raised brow and paused, hands on his hips. “What? I bought this in a Muggle shop!” he huffed indignantly before continuing down the path, his bony legs flashing in and out of the bright fabric.

“Merlin’s beard,” Harry muttered under his breath, pinching the bridge of his nose. He glanced sideways at Hermione, who was torn between horrified fascination and the desperate urge to launch into an educational tirade. Before she could speak, he raised a hand to stop her. “Don’t. Just… don’t.”

Hermione pressed her lips together, her hands twitching at her sides. “It’s not funny,” she said after a moment, glaring at Fred and George, who were doubled over with laughter.

“Not funny?” Fred gasped, wiping a tear from his eye. “That man’s got more guts than half the Auror department!”

“More leg, too,” George added with a grin, earning an elbow to the ribs from Hermione.

Harry shook his head, his hand resting lightly on the small of Petunia’s back. The crowd had only grown denser as the evening wore on, the noise swelling to a steady hum of excited chatter, bursts of laughter, and the occasional crack of fireworks overhead. Everywhere he looked, tents were decked out in team colors, enchanted banners waving slogans like “Ireland for the Win!” or “Krum is King!” in glittering letters.

Petunia clung to Harry’s arm, her eyes darting around the campsite as though she couldn’t decide whether to be awed or overwhelmed. “They’re so… enthusiastic, aren’t they?” she said, her voice carefully neutral.

“Fanatics,” Harry corrected dryly. “Quidditch does that to people.” He gestured toward a nearby tent where a group of Bulgarian supporters was loudly chanting Krum’s name, their faces painted in the team’s colors. One particularly zealous wizard had transfigured his hair into miniature broomsticks, which zoomed around his head like demented dragonflies.

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