Diagon Alley greeted me with even more excitement than this morning, though many people should have been gone by now, having finished their business. But, no, they were bustling, running around, buying and selling things, and postal owls with parcels and letters were flying overhead in flocks, causing me logical concerns about the cleanliness of my clothes.
The first thing I did was visit "Everything for Quidditch." It was a typical sports store, except that the equipment was only for one game. Mannequins with different models of protective equipment, a variety of brooms on the shelves and walls, sets of balls, posters of different teams with autographs, and a lot of fan paraphernalia. By the way, most of this paraphernalia belonged to the Bulgarian and Irish teams - black with burgundy, and soft green colors were dominant in the store.
When I approached the smiling salesman in his thirties, I immediately asked:
"Hello. Where can I buy tickets to the finals?"
"Good afternoon, young wizard!" the salesman responded cheerfully but hiding tiredness well. "Of course from us! With a place to park, or just to the stands, in any sector!"
Conspiratorially leaning forward, the salesman continued much more quietly:
"Even close to the ministerial box left," and winked.
"Then if you please, two with one parking and closer to the ministers. If it starts to rain, I do not want to know about it first."
"Wise decision, wise, young wizard! That'll be one hundred and fifteen galleons."
Nodding, I pulled out my purse and began pulling out stacks of ten galleons each. Seeing this, the seller, without hesitation, pulled out a rather massive ledger from under the counter and opened it in the middle. "So, your name?"
"Maximilian Knight."
"Okay... Done!" after making a note, the salesman selected tickets from a semblance of a filing cabinet for a couple of seconds. He took out two, placed them in front of me, inscribed my name in both with the same pen, signed his name, and asked me to touch the tickets with my wand.
"Here, your tickets. The parking space, like the stands, is indicated on the ticket itself. You can occupy the parking lot any time from the start of training camp, which is five days before the match. Have a great time."
"Thank you."
Just as I put the tickets in my bag, the salesman spoke again:
"Would you like some paraphernalia? Gloves, flags, hats, scarves? Maybe even omnioculars?"
"I'm afraid not. But can you tell me where to place bets on the outcome of the match?"
"Of course! You can't in our place, unfortunately," the salesman said. "However, you can go to the goblins. I'll tell you a secret - even the Ministry can't provide more reliable bets. You can't keep track of all the crooks."
"Oh, even so? Well, thank you!"
I turned around and headed for the exit while the salesman shouted at the kids who were trying to touch Firebolt, a broomstick that had been unmatched in acceleration and speed for over a year. But unfortunately, or fortunately, I'm not interested in brooms or quidditch. What the hell made me think of BMWs? I can still see the old but modern M8. There's no information about it in the media or anywhere else, but I do know that there are one or more prototypes of this unreleased car. Unfortunately, it will never go into production at all, but that's the little things. A slightly weakened engine from a McLaren F1, 500-plus horses, and that's now in '94! How can I get these thoughts out of my head? I don't even have to buy it, and no one would sell it - a little work with copying spells and permanent transfiguration!
"Calm down, funny boy. A car like that, with all the modern safety features, is a trip to the other world. You need to be a professional here, though..."
All right, Rowena, don't spoil the moment of reverie.
I got to the massive white bank building, navigating through the crowds of wizards rushing somewhere, and immediately, without a second hesitation, I nodded politely to the goblin gatekeeper and stepped inside. There were a little more visitors than usual, but not a crowd either. True, I had to stand in a small line of two for a free employee at the counter.
"Hello, sir," I nodded to the goblin. Hmm, and now that I've grown up, the goblins don't have to step forward to see me. True, they still look down on me, but that will remain so - I bet even Hagrid is somewhat shorter than the goblin behind the counter.
"Hello, young wizard," answered the goblin in the tuxedo in an unpleasant squeaky voice and grinned. "What can I do for you?"
"I would like information on the betting odds for the upcoming Quidditch World Cup Finals match."
"Sure. Here's a booklet," the goblin quickly held out a typically folded pamphlet with colored magical photographs. I accepted the booklet, but my questions remained.
"Oh, thank you very much, and I will certainly look into it. However, I am interested in the odds on a single bet."
The goblin raised one eyebrow questioningly. "Snape style" seems to be a contagious disease.
"Krum will get the Snitch, but Ireland will win."
"A very interesting bet," the goblin opened the ledger and deliberately slowly guided the sheets with his hooked clawed finger, causing muffled annoyance to the hurrying wizards behind me. "Seventeen and a half to one."
"Maximum winnings?"
The goblin hinted not very subtly, tapping the stack of pamphlets with his finger.
"Good. I'll be back."
Stepping away from the main crowd of people and nestling in the corner of the hall, I opened the pamphlet and immersed myself in the reading. Inside there were various conditions, bets, advertisements for the event itself, and reasons why a wizard simply must bet at Gringotts and nowhere else. The maximum winnings are half a million galleons, which is a pretty solid sum. So what's the wager there supposed to be? Twenty-eight thousand five hundred and seventy-two galleons rounded up. Great!