The competition became fiercer and more brutal.
French Beaters Ansa and Wright sent a relentless barrage of Bludgers toward Moriarty.
But each time, Moriarty dodged with ease.
"Show-off!" Ansa muttered bitterly as Moriarty tilted sideways mid-air, letting the Bludger whizz harmlessly past.
Every time Moriarty swerved gracefully out of danger, cheers and squeals echoed from the stands, especially from the female fans. Their cat-like screams grated on Ansa's nerves.
"Brother, chill," Wright said quickly, attempting to calm his partner. "We can't touch him," he admitted with a scowl. "But we can deal with the rest of the British squad."
The two immediately shifted tactics. Instead of chasing Moriarty, they redirected the Bludgers toward Red Nose and Exploding Head, the British Chasers, disrupting their best formations.
The commentator's voice rang out, breathless with excitement. "It looks like the French Beaters have figured it out! Targeting Moriarty is a lost cause. They're now focusing their attacks on the British support players! And—look at that—this move forces the Chasers to split formation!"
From above, the Red Nose and Exploding Head were clearly seen peeling away from each other, diverted by the Bludgers' aggression.
"They've been pushed off the attack route—wait! What's this?!"
Even as he spoke, the two British Chasers accelerated, coordinating seamlessly to cut through the barrage and charge directly toward the French goalposts.
Sensing the momentum shift, Moriarty triggered the Boskov Maneuver once more. The French Chasers locked eyes and nodded, silently agreeing.
"I'd rather let Moriarty face Nestor one-on-one," muttered one French Chaser grimly, "than allow those three Chasers through again!"
Utilizing Parkin's Pincer—a classic tactic—the three French players boxed in Red Nose and Exploding Head, forcing them to halt their advance.
That left Moriarty unguarded.
He shot forward like a meteor, closing in on the French goal with terrifying velocity.
Nestor, the French Keeper, was sweating bullets. His eyes were wide with strain as he attempted to track Moriarty, performing a double '8' aerial pattern to maintain position.
"Whoa!" the commentator exclaimed. "Nestor's doing a full double loop to try and track Moriarty—brilliant defensive flying! That's exhausting work, folks!"
Nestor's desperate maneuvering earned murmurs of admiration, but the mood shifted when Moriarty suddenly flipped around mid-air and began flying backwards.
Gasps erupted across the stadium.
"He's flying backwards!" the commentator shrieked. "Moriarty is flying backwards! What in Merlin's beard is he trying to do?!"
Spectators stood from their seats, craning their necks to see.
"You mocking me?!" Nestor roared.
Moriarty said nothing.
Calm and calculating, he steered his Nimbus 1990S in a Wollongong Shimmy pattern—a zigzag maneuver notorious for confusing Keepers.
Despite having no obfuscation spells active, Nestor couldn't track the Quaffle. It vanished somewhere under Moriarty's arm.
Tears welled at the corner of Nestor's eye. His lids stung from refusing to blink.
He couldn't see the Quaffle.
Still, he held his position, resolute, the last bulwark of France's defense.
But Moriarty had seen enough.
He twisted slightly, observing the fatigue in Nestor's eyes. The French Keeper was essentially blind.
With a smooth flick, Moriarty released the Quaffle, letting it drift like a falling leaf straight into the goal hoop.
Nestor reacted too late. He lunged just after the ball had already passed through.
"Fifty to zero!" the commentator roared. "Moriarty scores again! Poor Nestor couldn't even see the Quaffle! Now the French team's facing real trouble!"
British fans erupted in jubilant applause, hugging and shouting as they celebrated.
The Quaffle was returned to play, but Moriarty, whose speed remained unmatched, snatched it back before the French team could react.
Exploding Head and Red Nose flanked him from either side, forming a tight vanguard.
This time, Peru took initiative.
Feigning discovery of the Golden Snitch, he dipped into a steep nosedive, dragging Roman down with him.
Both Seekers hurtled toward the earth like cannonballs.
The commentator gasped. "A dive! Peru's spotted the Snitch—or is it a bluff?! Roman's following—this is insane!"
The crowd held its breath.
Peru continued his rapid descent on a Nimbus 1700, but Roman's Nimbus 1990S quickly gained on him.
"You think I'd fall for Lansky's fake Snitch trick?" Roman said coolly as he pulled even with Peru, their hair whipping wildly in the wind. "Let's race. First to pull up wins."
Peru's eyes narrowed. "Fine by me. Hope you survive!"
With that, both plunged even faster, pushing their brooms to the limit.
The commentator shouted in disbelief, "They're diving straight for the pitch! They'll crash!"
At the last possible second, Roman jerked his broom upward, soaring into the air in a sweeping arc.
Peru tried to mimic him—but couldn't.
His broom didn't respond quickly enough. He slammed into the ground with a thud that echoed across the stadium.
Gasps and groans filled the French section. Peru had lost the gamble.
"Time out!" the commentator called. "Medical wizards are on the pitch! Thanks to the World Cup's collaboration with the Canadian Ministry of Magic, professional mediwizards are always on standby!"
The French fans booed—displeased at what they perceived as advertising in disguise.
British fans roared in celebration. Roman flew overhead, fist raised, basking in the crowd's adoration.
Peru stood up moments later. Though bruised and battered, he walked off under his own power, his expression grim.
The match resumed.
Over the next fifteen minutes, Moriarty went on an unstoppable scoring spree, netting goal after goal. The scoreboard read 170–0.
The math was simple: even if France caught the Snitch, it wouldn't be enough.
French players looked demoralized. Supporters removed their binoculars, no longer able to watch the one-sided onslaught.
The commentator was practically singing. "Moriarty again! Cutting through the French defense like butter! Nestor can't see, Peru's grounded, and Ansa and Wright's Bludgers are ineffective! There it goes—it's his 13th goal! 180–0!"
British fans thundered with applause. The energy surged again as Roman darted across the sky.
A glimmer of gold caught everyone's attention.
"It's the Snitch!"
Roman soared forward with laser focus, and in a blur—he caught it.
"HE CAUGHT IT!" the commentator screamed. "ROMAN'S GOT THE SNITCH! It's all over! Three hundred and thirty to zero! MERLIN'S PANTS, ENGLAND HAS DESTROYED FRANCE!"
The scoreboard flared:
ENGLAND – 330 | FRANCE – 0
Union Jacks waved throughout the stadium, British fans shouting Moriarty's name in unison.
The dignitaries in the VIP box rose to their feet.
Apollo, head of the French Magical Sports Division, forced a polite chuckle. "They played bravely, right? Haha..."
"Indeed," Ludo Bagman drawled as he approached, beaming. "The French team was especially brave!"
Apollo flinched at the sarcasm. "At least we didn't rely on trickery or special equipment. Our team got here on talent!"
This sentiment echoed among many French fans. When the players landed, most walked off silently.
The British players descended amid roaring cheers. Moriarty led the way, waving modestly.
The British team was officially through to the quarter-finals. They wouldn't return to this pitch for another month.
By the end of March, the quarter-final bracket was confirmed.
Matchups:
England vs. Bulgaria
Poland vs. Peru
USA vs. Japan
Canada vs. Transylvania
Let the quarter-finals begin.