Closest To Heaven That I'll Ever Be

25. Should I Stay or Should I Go

The box was beginning to fill around us as the minutes ticked closer to the start of the match.

I was still struggling to get used to it.

I'd watched Quidditch plenty of times before. At Hogwarts, obviously, and I'd managed to attend a handful of professional matches over the years when work, life and finances had aligned enough to allow it. But professional Quidditch from the ordinary stands and professional Quidditch from whatever ridiculous level of luxury Blaise and Draco considered normal were apparently two completely different sports.

From where I sat, I had an uninterrupted view of the entire pitch. The armchairs were so soft I could practically disappear into mine, the front of the box was protected by some sort of transparent magical barrier that blocked the worst of the wind without interfering with the noise from the stadium, and there was enough food laid out behind us to feed a small Hogwarts house.

Fresh fruit. Sandwiches. Little pastries. Cheese. Crackers. Cakes. Bowls of sweets. Warm savoury bites that appeared to replenish themselves whenever someone took one.

There were jugs of pumpkin juice, apple juice and water sitting in silver buckets enchanted to keep them cold, while several bottles of champagne rested in ice.

Apparently rich people were terrified of becoming hungry during a two-hour Quidditch match.

The back wall carried enormous gold lettering.

MALFINI INDUSTRIES

I had stared at it for far too long when I'd first noticed it.

Malfoy and Zabini.

Malfini.

It was almost annoyingly clever.

And also a rather large reminder that the two idiots I had somehow ended up in business with weren't merely men who had a bit of spare money to throw around.

They had an actual company. With gold lettering. And private Quidditch boxes. And waiters. And apparently enough champagne to intoxicate half of Wales.

I looked around again. "I feel like I'm somewhere I'm not supposed to be."

Blaise, who had made himself completely at home in the armchair beside mine, glanced over. "Why?"

I gestured around us. "This."

He looked around as though he'd forgotten where we were. "What about it?"

"There are waiters."

"Yes."

"Inside a Quidditch stadium."

"Yes."

"Someone offered me a warm towel five minutes ago."

Blaise's mouth twitched.

"Did you take it?"

"No! I didn't know what I was supposed to do with it."

"Your hands, generally."

"My hands weren't dirty."

"Then declining was probably the right decision."

I stared at him. "You people live completely different lives."

"You people?"

"Rich people."

"You're rich."

"No, I'm not."

Blaise turned towards me. "You inherited Albus Dumbledore's estate."

"That doesn't count."

His eyebrows rose. "How does inheriting a considerable amount of money not count as being rich?"