The stadium went dark. The crowd fell silent. Then a deep voice boomed across the arena.
"Ladies and gentlemen... welcome to the four hundred and twenty-second Quidditch World Cup Final!"
The crowd erupted, the roar shaking the stadium. Harry had never heard noise like it.
A procession of mascots entered carrying green and silver banners. The Irish supporters exploded with cheers as shamrocks floated above the crowd and green-and-gold fireworks burst overhead.
The Leprechauns raced onto the field, forming a gigantic shimmering shamrock above the pitch.
Then the Bulgarian mascots entered. The Veela caused a very different reaction — the moment they began dancing, half the male audience forgot a Quidditch match was supposed to happen at all. Spectators simply stared, completely entranced.
The Leprechauns responded by throwing gold into the stands. Chaos followed — people scrambling to grab it, officials scrambling to stop a riot from breaking out.
After several more minutes of celebration, the teams entered. Ireland flew onto the pitch first, green trails streaking behind their brooms. Then Bulgaria entered, Viktor Krum at the center, the crowd roaring as he flew over the stadium.
The referee stepped forward. The captains shook hands. The Bludgers were released. The Snitch vanished into the air. Madam Hooch blew her whistle.
The final began.
Ireland's Chasers moved with stunning coordination, the Quaffle passing between them so fast it was hard to follow.
They scored within minutes. Bulgaria tried to answer, but Ireland's teamwork kept breaking through their defense, the score climbing steadily.
Krum stayed calm through it all. While the rest of Bulgaria struggled, his eyes never stopped moving across the pitch. He wasn't watching the Quaffle. He was hunting the Snitch.
Ireland clearly had the better team. Bulgaria had the better Seeker.
High above the pitch, Krum suddenly folded his broom and dove. The stadium gasped — for a moment it looked like he was about to slam into the ground.
Then, at the last second, he pulled up. The crowd erupted. The Wronski Feint. The Irish Seeker had fallen for it completely.
Moments later Krum dove again. This time it wasn't a bluff. His hand shot forward.
Ireland won the match. Bulgaria lost. But Krum caught the Snitch. Final score: Ireland 170, Bulgaria 160.
The stadium sat stunned for a few seconds. Then the applause hit — everyone there knew they'd just watched one of the greatest matches in Quidditch history.
***
After the match, the campsite buzzed with leftover energy. Arguments over tactics broke out around campfires. Fans replayed the best moments for anyone who'd listen. Laughter drifted through the night as families settled in.
For most people, it was the perfect end to the night.
High above the tents, Victor floated silently in the dark, robes shifting in the wind as he looked down at the sprawl of campsites below.
"Peace like this never lasts long."
His gaze drifted toward the Muggle section. He already knew what was coming. The Death Eaters weren't here for a fight — most of them were cowards hiding behind masks and old blood-purity rhetoric.
Their goal was simple: terrorize the helpless, remind the wizarding world that Voldemort's shadow hadn't gone anywhere, and enjoy themselves now that they thought nobody could trace it back to them.
Victor pulled a hood over his head and covered the lower half of his face.
Earlier that evening he'd already dealt with one problem. Lucius. There was no way Victor was letting his father anywhere near this.
Astral projection made it easy — Lucius never noticed someone standing beside him before Victor knocked him out and tucked him away somewhere safe.
By morning he'd wake up with a headache and no memory of missing the night's events.
Victor considered it a public service.
Below, the first signs of movement had started. Near the Muggle section, masked figures emerged from the dark, wands drawn.
"These filthy Muggles have forgotten their place," one said, laughing. "Time someone reminded them."
A few others chuckled along.
A calm voice cut through the night. "No. It's time your generation finally disappeared along with those foolish ideals."
Every wand snapped up. The Death Eaters spun around. Nothing behind them. Nothing in front. Confusion spread fast.
Then someone looked up.
A dark figure hovered high above the ground. The Death Eaters froze.
Flight. True flight. No broom. No creature. No carpet.
Only one wizard in living memory was known for that.
"Who are you?" one of them stammered.
"How are you doing that?" another demanded, gripping his wand tighter.
Victor said nothing. He raised his wand. The air thickened. A few Death Eaters stepped back instinctively.
"Fiendfyre."
The spell struck the ground between them. For a heartbeat — nothing. Then a spark caught, twisting unnaturally, feeding on magic instead of fuel.
It grew fast, golden-orange flame churning like something alive, heat rolling across the field in waves as fire coiled into the sky and formed a burning vortex that lit up the entire area.
The Death Eaters stared in horror. Every one of them knew the spell. Every one of them knew what it meant.
And every one of them understood exactly how badly this night had just gone wrong.
*****
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