Chapter 459: Barty Crouch

From his polished clothes to his upright demeanor, Barty Crouch seemed worlds apart from the scruffy Ludo Bagman. Crouch's neatly trimmed beard, gleaming leather shoes, and immaculate suit gave him the appearance of a bank manager, or perhaps even someone higher up. Not even the most suspicious muggle—certainly not Uncle Vernon—would likely detect his magical identity.

Bagman, on the other hand, seemed oblivious to the contrast. He poured himself a second cup of tea with Mr. Weasley, reclining comfortably on the grass without the slightest inclination to hurry to the Bulgarians. Crouch's frown deepened, his impatience clearly growing.

"Mr. Crouch," Percy said eagerly, rushing over with an awkward, exaggerated bow that made him look oddly hunched. "Would you like a cup of tea?"

"Ah, thank you, Weatherby," Crouch replied, glancing at Percy before shifting his gaze back to Bagman.

Fred and George nearly spilled their tea from laughing so hard.

"Poor Percy—Crouch speaks 200 languages but can't get his name right," Fred whispered to Kyle.

"Percy kept bragging all holiday about how much Crouch valued him…" George added, grinning. "Seems like that might've been wishful thinking."

"Bet he doesn't even know who Percy is!" Fred chuckled.

Percy's ears turned pink, and he busied himself with the teapot, clearly embarrassed.

Crouch hadn't come only to remind Bagman about the Bulgarians. He also discussed the Ministry's strict ban on flying carpets with Mr. Weasley. Since the early 1900s, carpets had been classified as muggle artifacts, officially listed on the Registry of Proscribed Charmable Objects.

This meant no one could legally enchant a carpet to fly or transport people. The Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Office enforced this rule diligently.

Kyle strongly suspected the rule was a protectionist measure, keeping the Flying Carpet Company out of England. After all, flying carpets had their advantages over broomsticks—especially for large families on outings.

After a brief chat, Crouch, busy with his duties, set down his barely touched cup and left with Bagman.

Meanwhile, Kyle and the others pushed their cart toward the far end of the field. They wanted to sell off their remaining merchandise while they still had time before the game started.

Once they were far enough from the tent, Fred couldn't resist asking, "Kyle, why did you stop me just now? You heard Bagman—the odds are fantastic, and we could make a fortune."

"I just don't think he's very reliable," Kyle replied. "If you don't want to risk all your pocket money, it's better to stay away from him."

"No, listen—this time, we're sure we've got the outcome right," Fred insisted. "Trust us... Ireland's definitely going to win, but Krum will still catch the Snitch."

"It's not about guessing the outcome," Kyle shook his head. "Sometimes, even if you win, you may not get paid."

George frowned. "What do you mean… you think he might renege on the bet?"

"But…" Fred thought it over, then said, "Bagman's a public figure. He wouldn't do that, would he?"

"It's been nearly ten years since his glory days," Kyle pointed out. "And with those odds, how's he going to pay everyone? His Ministry salary? It might be fine if it were just the two of you betting, but there are nearly 100,000 wizards here."

Fred and George fell silent, realizing they'd gotten a bit carried away. They hadn't heard Bagman's name much in recent years before this World Cup, which now seemed telling.

"Phew… you're right," Fred exhaled. "All right, let's focus on these instead." He patted the suitcase filled with fireworks. "At least these'll bring in real Galleons."

"A wise choice," Cedric said with a smile.

He, too, had sensed Bagman's unreliability. Bagman's overly enthusiastic demeanor and the way he jiggled his pocket of coins seemed almost like he was trying to reassure people he had plenty, which only made Cedric suspicious. His father had also once mentioned that Bagman had been accused of passing information to Death Eaters, though he'd been cleared after making "contributions" to the Ministry.

With the matter settled, Fred and George pushed the cart toward the crowded parts of the field. By this time, most ticket-holders had arrived, and the venue was far busier than in the morning. The increased crowd meant plenty of customers, and as the sound of Galleons piled up in their cash register, any remaining doubts quickly disappeared.

To their surprise, they even ran into Professor McGonagall in the midst of their selling spree. She was a huge Quidditch fan and had rarely missed a match held during Hogwarts holidays, so naturally, she was here for the World Cup.

But Kyle had never seen Professor McGonagall quite like this before. Her usual bun was let down, her hair held in place with a four-leaf clover hair clip. Instead of her customary robes, she wore an Irish team uniform, and, to his shock, her face bore an Irish flag pattern—thick layers of makeup! Though she quickly wiped it off, Kyle had already seen it.

"You're looking really cool today… Professor McGonagall!" Kyle said, giving her a thumbs-up.

"I appreciate your enthusiasm, Kyle," Professor McGonagall replied with a smile. "And what are you selling?"

"Just a few things to add to the match's atmosphere," Kyle said, pushing the cart forward so she could look through their wares.

"These are well-made," Professor McGonagall said, picking up a four-leaf clover hair clip shaped like a broom. She liked it so much she exchanged it for the one she'd been wearing.

"Minerva, there you are… Oh, Kyle, Cho… you're here too!" Two other professors approached—Professor Flitwick and Professor Sinistra, who taught Astronomy.

"Filius, come and look!" Professor McGonagall called out excitedly. "Didn't you say you wanted a hat? I think I've found the perfect one!"

"Really?" Professor Flitwick quickened his pace and leaned over the cart to pick out something festive.