The match itself was undoubtedly a fierce one. The tension was not confined to the air above; down on the ground, a serious scuffle had broken out between the leprechauns and the Veela.
In the end, amid all the chaos and commotion, Krum took a hit from the Bludger, blood streaming down his face, and yet still managed to keep pace with his rival, Aidan Lynch, and snatch the Golden Snitch from under his nose.
Just the same predictable ending as ever, Draco thought lazily.
The Irish supporters erupted in cheers all the same; their team had won, despite Krum's catch: Ireland still held a ten-point lead over Bulgaria.
The result... "Ireland has won"... left the commentator, Bagman, thoroughly bewildered and quite at a loss for words. He looked almost ready to faint as he stammered out the final score.
Even watching the very same scene a second time, Draco still thought a great deal of Krum. Few could match catching the Snitch while wounded and horribly out of position, the way he had.
He replayed every one of Krum's movements in the air in his mind. He had flown as freely as if returning home, as though he had never touched a broomstick at all, light as some flag snapping in the wind.
"He turns Quidditch into a flowing art," he overheard some nearby Ministry officials exclaim.
It seemed very few wizards could resist such a display... not even Hermione, that little witch so afraid of flying herself.
"She is really rather brave, is he not?"
Draco said, noticing her leaning forward intently to watch Krum on the pitch, and glancing with some sympathy at the red-headed girl beside her.
Draco's mood soured at once. Whatever pleasure the Quidditch World Cup had brought him drained away entirely, and the gloom that had followed him through the whole holiday settled back over him, heavier than before.
His expression hardened slowly, as he remembered her calling him only "an ordinary friend from the neighbouring House," and his face grew colder still.
After the match, Draco did not linger. He had no patience left for small talk. His heart, just then, felt like a griddle for frying steak, a small flame of jealousy set alight somewhere inside him, searing and hissing quietly in his mind.
"Draco, are you all right? You seem rather listless," Narcissa asked, on the way back to their tent.
"I am a little tired," he said, standing before their tent, watching with an unreadable expression as the crowds gradually drifted from the stadium back towards the campsite.
"We are off to a banquet, to discuss some joint ventures with the Bulgarian Minister for Magic," Lucius said. "Since you are tired, get some rest, and do not go wandering off."
Draco nodded. He agreed readily enough aloud, though he had not the slightest wish to sleep.
Once he had watched his parents leave the tent, he stood alone at its entrance, staring silently out into the night.
The campsite grew steadily livelier.
Rough singing filled the night air; leprechauns floated overhead, waving lanterns and cawing; wizards supporting the Irish team sang and danced, raising their glasses in celebration, still revelling in victory.
Amid the deafening noise, Draco found himself wrapped in a strange loneliness.
He felt thoroughly dejected tonight; he had spent the whole day tormented by her cool description of him as "just an ordinary friend from the neighbouring House," and now felt himself on the very verge of some sort of collapse.
Perhaps he had picked up a little too much of a certain girl's own wilfulness.
He found he did not want to return to that grand yet desolate tent, nor did he wish to lie down and drift straight into a dream, doubtless full of fear and unease.
Perhaps he ought to go for a walk. Walk anywhere at all. Simply keep walking, without stopping.
However, his legs seemed to carry him quite of their own accord, straight in one particular direction.
By the time he came to his senses, he found he had already walked all the way to the edge of the woods, at the far end of the field.
In a far corner, two tents leant precariously against one another. The trees stood silent, the night peaceful. Hermione, in a pink short-sleeved top and Muggle jeans, was fiddling with a large water jug by the fire in front of her tent.
The moment he saw her, the hollowness inside Draco filled at once; and yet, that quiet jealousy still smouldered on regardless.
"Does this tent not even have a stove?" He frowned at the sight of the campfire.
"Draco?" Hermione turned at the sound of his voice. Seeing him, she smiled, a little surprised. "Mr Weasley said we ought to respect the Muggle safety rules, so we have been lighting fires outside instead."
As she spoke, she lifted the lid of the water jug and peered inside... it was entirely empty... and, sighing regretfully, decided to head to the far side of the campsite to fetch some more.
"They cannot even manage you some water?" Draco glanced at the jug and could not resist a scornful look.
"Why would you say such a thing? The Weasleys have been ever so kind to me..." Hermione said.
His mocking tone struck her as strangely unfamiliar, and that unfamiliarity turned her initial surprise into faint alarm.
She stopped looking at him, afraid of being dazzled once again by his shimmering platinum hair, and set off with the jug. "We have only just run out of water! Ginny spilled the last cup of hot chocolate..."
"Speaking of which, why does that red-headed girl insist on pestering you so much?" Draco followed her, his tone rather sharp.
"Do not call her that. She has a perfectly good name, Ginny. Did you not go with Harry to rescue her, back in second year?" Hermione said, awkwardly. "She... is a kind person."
Aside from her endless teasing of Draco, Ginny really was rather nice to her.
Draco tried to move closer and take the jug from her, meaning to help carry it, but she stepped back defensively.
"Oh, I can manage perfectly well on my own," she said, her voice a little nervous.
This stung Draco somewhat. He studied her expression... extraordinarily stubborn, and with a hint of something distant about it too.
So he gave up, and did not press the matter further. He followed after her, rather dejectedly, like some hungry little dog begging for scraps, both pitiful and put out at once.
"You two seem quite like sisters already. And it has only been a few days! Quite remarkable."
He thought her too quiet for his liking, so he picked the earlier topic back up, his tone rather superior, hoping to draw something, anything, out of her, even an argument would do.
"Draco, what on earth is the matter with you? Why are you being so cutting tonight? Who has upset you?" Hermione stopped and turned to look at him, only now properly noticing something was wrong.
He seemed rather on edge tonight, almost jumpy; nothing like the calm, composed figure he had been in the box, she thought, puzzled.
"No one has upset me." Draco kicked a pebble ahead of him, his eyes following it as it skittered off into the darkness. He did not dare look at her, and muttered mostly to himself.
"When I stayed at the Burrow, I shared a room with her, so naturally we grew close," Hermione said, glancing at him again, offering him a rare flash of good humour.
Beneath the moonlight, his sharply defined profile carried a strange sort of melancholy, which left her somewhat at a loss, unable to stay properly cross with him for his odd behaviour.
Draco was not the least bit cheered by her explanation; if anything, he scoffed inwardly... she seemed to have had a marvellous time altogether at the Burrow.