Referee Moss of Germany blew his gleaming silver whistle, signaling the start of the match. The Quaffle soared into the air, glinting in the sunlight. In a blur of motion, Moriarty shot forward on his Nimbus 1990S, arm outstretched, snatching the Quaffle cleanly from the air and tucking it under his arm with fluid ease.
"Don't hold back," Moriarty called to Explosive Head and Red Nose, giving a subtle hand signal as he accelerated forward. "Push through!"
"Aye, Captain!" they shouted in unison, flying in formation, flanking him on both sides.
The Bulgarian team, having clearly studied their opponents with meticulous care, immediately engaged their strategy. Chasers Ivanova, Levski, and Dimitrov took to the skies with tightly marked, one-on-one formations, shadowing the British trio like shadows on a sundial.
They hovered, persistent and unshakable, forming a suffocating wall around Moriarty's group—like bees to honey.
Without hesitation, Moriarty passed the Quaffle to Explosive Head, who caught it and zoomed ahead.
"Outstanding! Quick, clean passing!" the excited commentator narrated, his gaze darting across the pitch as he tried to keep up. "Incredible speed from the British side—look at them go!"
From the stands erupted a chorus of gasps and cheers as the British Chasers rotated the Quaffle among themselves at near-blinding speeds, creating a whirling pattern that left defenders dizzy.
"Explosive Head to Red Nose! Now Moriarty! Back to Explosive Head!"
Dimitrov attempted a quick turn to intercept, but Moriarty spun around him effortlessly and reclaimed the Quaffle.
"And another brilliant pass! Red Nose in possession! He's diving—low trajectory!"
Ivanova dove in for the intercept, but miscalculated the arc. She whiffed in midair, spinning off balance.
"Moriarty breaks through! What a combination!" the commentator roared. "A flawless synchronization!"
"The Bulgarians, learning from France's defeat, have opted for tight man-marking, but the Brits respond with rapid-fire passing—brilliant counter!"
Now, with the Quaffle secure, Moriarty surged forward only to be confronted by the twin Beaters of Bulgaria: Volkov and Vokanov. Their clubs glinted as they swung at twin Bludgers aimed straight at him.
The crowd held its collective breath.
Moriarty didn't slow down. Instead, he shot upwards, ascending with terrifying acceleration. Wind buffeted his hair, silver streaks dancing behind him, eyes glimmering with unshakable resolve.
300 feet.
400 feet.
500 feet.
The Nimbus 1990S groaned under pressure but held steady—reinforced by a custom Sturdy Charm layered by Slytherin alchemists.
The Bludgers, by contrast, began to lose their force at that altitude, succumbing to gravity as they arced downward in free fall. Volkov and Vokanov, wise to the laws of nature, didn't dare strike them at this height. A misjudged hit could shatter an arm.
Wizards might not study physics at Hogwarts, but even they knew one thing: Moriarty had vanished into the clouds, far beyond visual range.
Panoramic telescopes throughout the Hypro Stadium twisted and turned, magnification zoomed to maximum, trying to trace his path. All eyes were on the clouds now, the match itself momentarily forgotten.
Even the Bulgarian players looked skyward—because Moriarty had taken the Quaffle with him.
Suddenly, a pure white light pierced the clouds, illuminating a portion of the stands like a divine spotlight. It happened to shine directly on Fleur Delacour.
Bathed in the radiant glow, her veela beauty magnified, she appeared ethereal—like a goddess gazing at the heavens.
"Moriarty…" she whispered, eyes locked skyward, utterly enraptured.
The romanticism was palpable. The intensity of the World Cup. The purity of the white light. The teenage obsession taking root.
And Fleur was not alone—dozens of young witches, and even a few wizards, sat stunned under the same glow, hearts thudding wildly.
The white beam expanded, and murmurs rippled through the crowd. Heads craned upward, wind howling sporadically.
"There's someone in the light!" shouted a sharp-eyed reporter.
"No," he corrected himself, "HE is the light!"
A shriek echoed from the stands. "It's him—Moriarty Slytherin!"
A wave of emotion swept the stadium.
"Moriarty! Moriarty!" the audience roared, rising to their feet.
Descending rapidly, the light followed him, and at around 400 feet, telescopes picked up his figure again.
He was spinning—broom and body unified—whipping the air into a growing storm.
"A tornado!" someone screamed.
"A shining tornado!" clarified Roman, grinning proudly from the bench. The rest of the British team looked on with pride.
"The captain's new technique—finally unveiled on the World Cup stage!"
"Let's go, Captain! Break through!"
Goalkeeper Zograf's voice echoed across the pitch. "Intercept him! He's coming in too fast!"
Volkov and Vokanov flew directly into Moriarty's path, hoping to body-check him mid-air.
But they never reached him.
The winds generated by the spinning gale struck them first, buffeting them aside like rag dolls. One veered left, the other right, involuntarily opening a path.
Zograf cursed. The winds now swirled directly in front of the goalposts, blinding him. He could feel Moriarty approaching but couldn't locate him within the vortex.
Then, out of the storm, Moriarty's smirk appeared.
With one elegant sweep, he launched the Quaffle toward the left hoop.
"Whooosh!"
The sound tore through the air like a thunderclap. The Quaffle curved into a brilliant arc and exploded through the goal.
"BRITAIN 10 – BULGARIA 0!"
The commentator's voice cracked with awe. "Moriarty becomes the god of wind! First blood drawn by the British team!"
"If Bulgaria doesn't adapt immediately, this game is already written in stone!"
Referee Moss prepared for the restart, giving Bulgaria a moment to regroup. The seven players huddled, faces grim.
But their conversation turned hollow. What strategy could contain the wind?
How do you fight something you can't touch?
The game resumed.
The Bulgarian Chasers pushed forward, but the eerie whistle of wind returned—like a promise of doom.
Moriarty was back.
Again and again, he summoned the Shining Tornado, slicing through defenders like a living storm.
One goal.
Two.
Three.
The score kept rising, the stadium shaking with each new eruption of wind and cheers.
Within twenty minutes, the scoreboard read:
130 – 0
Krum hovered midair, dazed.
"Why is he always unbeatable?" he muttered, jaw clenched.
His fists trembled—not with anger, but helplessness.
The last time they'd crossed paths—at the All-European Wizarding Duel Championship—Moriarty took gold. Krum had settled for bronze.
And now, here too—on the Quidditch pitch, Krum's home turf—Moriarty had stolen the spotlight again.
The commentator spoke in hushed reverence: "It's a massacre. In the World Cup semi-finals, no less. Moriarty has become the wind itself… and the wind shows no mercy."
Even the Bulgarian fans were silent. Some wept openly. The magic had drained from their side. Krum's sharp, falcon-like eyes had dulled. No fire remained.
Victory for Britain was inevitable.
But Moriarty, ever pragmatic, began signaling to his Chasers—Explosive Head and Red Nose—to support Roman in searching for the Golden Snitch.
He wasn't interested in running up the score.
Whether they won 280–0 or 480–0, the result was the same.
The commentator admired the decision, calling it a sign of sportsmanship.
But to the Bulgarians, it was also humiliation. Britain had left their backfield unguarded—an insult to their capability.
Krum now faced five opponents at once. The formation trapped him, Explosive Head and Red Nose cutting off every angle.
Still, it didn't last long.
Three minutes later, a shimmer of gold flickered near the referee's booth.
Roman, sharp-eyed and determined, dived like a hawk and seized the Snitch in a clean grab.
Final score: Britain 280 – Bulgaria 0
And the world would never forget the storm that brought that number to life.