18th August 1994—8:30 pm
VIP Box, Quidditch Stadium
Bagman's magically amplified voice boomed across the stadium, and the place came alive.
Cheering. Screaming. Stamping feet. Thousands of flags waved overhead, each one contributing its own aggressively enthusiastic version of a national anthem. The massive enchanted billboard opposite our box flickered, wiped itself clean of its last advertisement, and shone with neat golden letters:
BULGARIA: 0,
IRELAND: 0
"And now," Bagman bellowed, clearly enjoying himself far too much, "without further ado, allow me to introduce… the Bulgarian National Team mascots!"
The right-hand side of the stadium—an ocean of red—roared its approval.
Sirius leaned forward eagerly.
"Wonder what they brought," he said.
A second later, his face lit up like Christmas morning.
"Now, that's what I'm talking about!"
Remus followed his line of sight, blinked once, then smiled faintly.
"Ah," he said. "Veela."
"What are Veel—?" Harry began.
And then forgot how language worked.
A hundred Veela glided onto the pitch.
Tall, elegant, impossibly beautiful. If supermodels were sculpted by moonlight and arrogance, this would be the final product. Their skin shimmered with a soft, silvery glow, and their white-gold hair streamed behind them despite the total lack of wind, like reality itself had decided to show off.
I'd met Fleur Delacour before—and knew about her Veela heritage—so I was at least mentally prepared not to gape like an idiot.
That preparation lasted exactly three seconds.
Because then they started to dance.
And sing.
The melody slid straight into my head, bypassing logic entirely. It wasn't loud. It didn't need to be. It invited. No—commanded. A gentle, irresistible pull urging admiration, devotion, the overwhelming desire to impress.
I recognised the magic immediately. The same charm I'd felt around Fleur. Only this time it was dialled up to eleven and then had the knob ripped off.
For a brief moment, I felt it tug at me.
Then it hit a wall.
Apparently, being part dragon comes with some side-benefits. Natural resistance to mind magic—useful, that. I closed my eyes, slowed my breathing, and pushed back gently.
The compulsion receded like a tide pulling away from shore.
When I opened my eyes again, the music was just… music.
Beautiful, sure. But no longer hijacking my brain.
What did hijack my attention was the sight in front of me.
Harry. Neville. Sirius.
All three were zombie-walking toward the railing, eyes glassy, expressions slack, utterly entranced.
Draco had stood up as well, leaning forward like a man about to make several terrible life choices—but Narcissa Malfoy yanked him back into his seat with terrifying efficiency.
Lucius, meanwhile, had his wand out. From the flow of magic, I guessed he'd thrown up a sound-dampening charm around himself and his family. He watched the Veela with open disgust, lips curled slightly—probably seeing them as subhuman or something. Jackass.
Most of the adult wizards had their fingers shoved firmly in their ears.
All except Remus.
He sat perfectly calm, eyes clear, mildly amused.
Interesting.
Lycanthropy, perhaps. A split psyche, animal instincts acting as a buffer. Honestly, studying his condition—and possibly turning it into a controlled wolf Animagus variant—sounded like a fascinating challenge. I filed that thought away for later.
Right now, I had three idiots ready to swan-dive off the VIP box.
I stood, walked up behind them, and yelled, "Wake up!"
They jerked violently, like someone had snapped a rubber band in their heads. Confusion gave way to awareness in seconds.
I smirked and returned to my seat.
On the pitch, the Veela's song cut off abruptly—either they stopped, or the organisers finally realised that several thousand enchanted, overconfident wizards leaning toward railings was a terrible idea.
The stadium erupted in angry shouts. The crowd—overwhelmingly male—was clearly not pleased.
The Veela lined up neatly along one side of the field, serene and unapologetic.
Harry, Neville, and Sirius trudged back to their seats.
Harry and Neville looked embarrassed.
Sirius looked offended that the fun had ended.
The girls smirked.
Well—most of them.
Ginny frowned slightly, while Luna watched the Veela with open curiosity, head tilted, like she was mentally cataloguing them for future reference.
Harry shot me an accusing look.
"Why weren't you affected?"
I shrugged.
"Guess I'm just built different."
Harry and Neville hmphed in unison.
Looking at Hermione, who had been watching me thoughtfully, I gave her a teasing wink.
She looked away, smiling.
"And now," roared Ludo Bagman's voice, "kindly put your wands in the air...for the Irish National Team Mascots!"
Next moment, what seemed to be a great green-and-gold comet came zooming into the stadium. It did one circuit of the stadium, then split into two smaller comets, each hurtling toward the goal posts. A rainbow arced suddenly across the field, connecting the two balls of light. The crowd oooohed and aaaaahed, as though at a fireworks display.
The rainbow faded and the two comets reunited midair, their light condensing and reshaping until a massive, shimmering shamrock rose into the sky, gleaming brilliantly as it drifted over the stands.
And then it started raining gold.
"Blimey!" Neville yelled as heavy gold coins began pelting the crowd, bouncing off heads, shoulders, and seats.
Rachel scooped one up, eyes wide.
"Is that real gold?!"
I laughed, raising my voice over the thunderous applause.
"That's Leprechaun gold, little sis. Fool's gold. It'll vanish in a few hours."
Daphne scanned the stands, where people were already scrambling under seats and elbowing neighbours aside.
"Wow," she said. "They're all going to feel really stupid tomorrow."
Tracey smiled sweetly.
"Or really confused."
I chuckled as the great shamrock dissolved into thousands of tiny figures—little bearded men in red vests, each holding a miniature golden or green lamp. The Leprechauns drifted down onto the pitch, settling cross-legged on the far side, perfectly content to watch the chaos they'd just caused.
"And now, ladies and gentlemen, kindly welcome—the Bulgarian National Quidditch Team!"
Scarlet-clad figures zoomed out of the lower entrance, moving so fast they were almost blurs.
"I give you—Dimitrov! Ivanova! Zograf! Levski! Vulchanov! Volkov! Aaaaaaand—Krum!"
The Bulgarian section went absolutely nuts as the billboard opposite us zoomed in on Krum's face. He had a large curved nose and thick black eyebrows, making him look like an overgrown bird of prey.
"And now," Bagman continued, barely audible over the noise, "please greet—the Irish National Quidditch Team!"
Seven green streaks shot onto the pitch, riding the latest Firebolt brooms, the Irish supporters roaring themselves hoarse.
"Presenting—Connolly! Ryan! Troy! Mullet! Moran! Quigley! Aaaaaaand—Lynch!"
Then a lone figure strode onto the field.
"And here, all the way from Egypt, our referee—acclaimed Chairwizard of the International Association of Quidditch—Hassan Mostafa!"
Mostafa's robes were pure gold, practically glowing under the stadium lights. Bald head. Impressive moustache. A silver whistle poking out from beneath it. He carried a large wooden crate under one arm and his broom under the other like this was just another Tuesday.
He mounted his broomstick and kicked the crate open — four balls burst into the air. The scarlet Quaffle launched upward. Two black Bludgers shot off in opposite directions, already looking for someone to maim. And the Golden Snitch—tiny, winged, and infuriating—vanished in a flash of gold before most people even registered its existence.
With a sharp blast on his whistle, Mostafa shot into the air after the balls.
"Theeeeeeeey're OFF!" screamed Bagman. "And it's Mullet! Troy! Moran! Dimitrov! Back to Mullet! Troy! Levski! Moran!"
It was Quidditch like I'd never seen before.
The speed was unreal. The Chasers passed the Quaffle so fast Bagman barely had time to say their names before it changed hands again. Bludgers streaked past in lethal arcs. The crowd roared with every miss, every feint, every near collision.
Before the match began, I'd deployed five Argus drones into the stadium.
All of them were active now—cloaked, quiet, and very busy.
One tracked the Quaffle exclusively.
Two followed the Bludgers, calculating trajectories and impact probabilities.
One shadowed the Seekers—mostly Krum.
And the last kept a wide watch on the crowd and the mascots. Especially the Veela.
Every feed streamed live to my Wiphone and a secure backup system, each angle archived, timestamped, and indexed.
"TROY SCORES!" Bagman roared, and the stadium physically shuddered under the force of the applause.
"Ten–zero to Ireland!"
The Irish Chasers were incredible. They worked as a seamless team, their movements so well coordinated that they appeared to be reading one another's minds as they positioned themselves. Within ten minutes, they scored twice more. Thirty–zero.
The green side of the stadium erupted into a wall of sound.
The match only got faster after that—and nastier.
Volkov and Vulchanov, the Bulgarian Beaters, started smashing the Bludgers with brutal precision, targeting the Irish Chasers relentlessly. Twice, the Irish formation broke apart under pressure. Then Ivanova finally punched through their ranks, dodged the Keeper, Ryan, and put Bulgaria's first goal on the board.
"Fingers in your ears!" Dad bellowed as the Veela leapt up and began to dance in celebration.
Everyone complied instantly. No one wanted to miss the match—or lose their mind.
The Veela stopped after a few seconds, and Bulgaria took possession again.
"Dimitrov! Levski! Dimitrov! Ivanova—oh, I say!" Bagman shouted.
The crowd gasped as both Seekers—Krum and Lynch—suddenly plunged straight down through the middle of the Chasers. They were falling so fast it looked like they'd jumped out of aeroplanes without parachutes.
I tracked them instinctively with my enhanced eyesight, searching desperately for a glint of gold.
Nothing.
"They're going to crash!" Hermione cried beside me.
She was half right.
At the very last second, Viktor Krum pulled out of the dive and spiralled away.
Lynch didn't.
He slammed into the ground with a sickening thud that echoed through the stadium.
A massive groan rolled up from the Irish seats.
"Fool!" Sirius groaned. "Krum was feinting!"
"It's time-out!" Bagman yelled as mediwizards sprinted onto the pitch. "Aidan Lynch is being examined!"
"He'll be okay," I said calmly to Rachel and Ginny, who were staring at the field, horrified. "He only got ploughed."
Which was exactly what Krum wanted.
I'd seen it clearly—Krum's face twisted in fierce concentration as he pulled out of the dive at the last instant. He hadn't seen the Snitch at all, he was just making Lynch copy him.
I had to admit—it was brilliant flying.
Krum circled high above while Lynch was being revived by mediwizards with cups of potion, dark eyes scanning the pitch relentlessly. He was using the time to look for the Snitch without interference.
Lynch finally got back to his feet to thunderous cheers, mounted his Firebolt, and shot back into the air.
That seemed to reignite Ireland.
When Mostafa blew his whistle again, the Irish Chasers moved with a level of skill that outclassed everything we had seen so far. Fifteen blistering minutes later, Ireland had piled on ten more goals.
130-10.
And the match started getting ugly.
Mullet rocketed toward the goalposts again, Quaffle tucked tightly under her arm. Zograf, the Bulgarian Keeper, flew out to meet her—and elbowed her square in the face.
The Irish crowd erupted.
Mostafa's whistle shrieked.
"And Mostafa takes the Bulgarian Keeper to task for cobbing—excessive use of elbows!" Bagman announced. "And yes—it's a penalty to Ireland!"
The Leprechauns shot into the air like a swarm of glittering hornets, then snapped together to form glowing letters:
HA, HA, HA!
On the opposite side of the field, the Veela sprang to their feet, hair flying, and started dancing again.
Every male within arm's reach jammed fingers into ears.
Hermione suddenly tugged on my sleeve, giggling.
"Look at the referee!"
I followed her gaze—and nearly laughed out loud.
Mostafa had landed directly in front of the Veela. He was flexing his muscles, smoothing his moustache, and grinning like he'd forgotten where he was.
"Now, we can't have that!" Bagman said, clearly enjoying himself. "Somebody slap the referee!"
A mediwizard sprinted across the field, fingers stuffed in his ears, and kicked Mostafa hard in the shins.
Mostafa snapped out of it instantly, looking mortified. He began shouting furiously at the Veela, who stopped dancing and stared back at him, clearly offended.
"And unless I'm very much mistaken," Bagman continued, "Mostafa is attempting to send off the Bulgarian team mascots! Well, that's a first… oh dear… this could get nasty…"
It did.
Volkov and Vulchanov landed beside Mostafa and began shouting at him, gesturing angrily toward the Leprechauns, who now gleefully rearranged themselves into:
HEE, HEE, HEE
Mostafa was unimpressed. He jabbed a finger skyward, ordering them back into the air. When they refused, he blew two sharp blasts on his whistle.
"Two penalties for Ireland!" Bagman shouted.
The Bulgarian supporters howled in fury.
"And Volkov and Vulchanov had better get back on those brooms—yes—there they go—and Troy takes the Quaffle—"
Play reached a level of ferocity that eclipsed everything we'd seen so far.
The Beaters on both sides abandoned restraint entirely. Volkov and Vulchanov, in particular, swung their clubs like they no longer cared whether they struck Bludger or human. Dimitrov rocketed straight at Moran as she took possession of the Quaffle, clipping her hard enough that she nearly spun off her broom.
"Foul!" roared the Irish supporters as one, rising in a massive green wave.
"Foul!" Bagman echoed, his magically magnified voice slicing through the noise. "Dimitrov skins Moran—deliberate collision—and that's another penalty—yes, there's the whistle!"
The Leprechauns shot skyward again and this time formed a giant hand, helpfully arranging it into a gesture so rude it needed no translation, directed squarely at the Veela across the field.
The Veela snapped.
They didn't dance this time. They charged.
They hurtled across the pitch toward the Leprechauns, hurling what looked like fistfuls of fire. As they did, their beautiful faces twisted and elongated into sharp, cruel beaks. Long, scaly wings burst from their shoulders, transforming them into something straight out of a nightmare—harpy-like, vicious, and furious.
"And that, boys," Mr Longbottom yelled over the uproar, "is why you should never go for looks alone!"
Ministry wizards flooded onto the field, firing spells in every direction in a desperate attempt to separate Veela and Leprechauns. They weren't having much luck.
Still, the battle on the ground barely compared to the one raging in the air.
The Quaffle flew between players faster than my eyes wanted to track.
"Levski—Dimitrov—Moran—Troy—Mullet—Ivanova—Moran again—Moran—MORAN SCORES!"
The Irish cheers were almost drowned out by Veela shrieks, wand blasts from the Ministry, and the furious howling of Bulgarian supporters.
Play resumed instantly.
Now Levski had the Quaffle. Now Dimitrov—
Quigley smashed a Bludger with everything he had, sending it screaming toward Krum.
Krum didn't duck in time.
It hit him square in the face.
A horrified groan rolled through the stadium. Blood sprayed instantly; Krum's nose was clearly broken. Yet Hassan Mostafa didn't blow his whistle—he was too busy dealing with the fact that one of the Veela had just set his broom tail on fire.
And then—out of nowhere—Lynch dived.
I snapped my focus ahead of him, scanning low near the ground.
There.
The Snitch.
Half the stadium seemed to realize it at the same time. The Irish supporters surged to their feet again, screaming Lynch on—
—but Krum was right behind him.
How he could even see where he was going, I had no idea. Blood trailed behind him in the air as he pushed harder, drawing level with Lynch as they hurtled downward again.
"They're going to crash!" Ginny shrieked.
"They're not!" Neville roared.
"Lynch is!" Harry yelled.
He was right.
For the second time, Lynch smashed into the ground with tremendous force—and was immediately overrun by a stampede of furious Veela.
"He's got it—Krum's got the Snitch—it's all over!" Harry shouted.
Krum rose slowly into the air, his red robes stained with blood, his fist held high. A flash of gold glinted in his hand.
The scoreboard lit up:
BULGARIA: 160
IRELAND: 170
For a moment, the Irish supporters didn't understand.
Then, like a massive engine winding up, the sound built—low at first, then swelling—until it erupted into absolute pandemonium.
"IRELAND WINS!" Bagman shouted, sounding as stunned as anyone. "KRUM GETS THE SNITCH—but IRELAND WINS! Good lord, I don't think any of us were expecting that!"
"What did he catch the Snitch for?" Neville bellowed, even as he jumped up and down, clapping wildly over his head. "Ireland were a hundred and sixty points ahead!"
"He knew they'd never catch up!" Harry yelled back, applauding just as hard. "The Irish Chasers were too good. He wanted to end it on his terms—that's all."
The pitch below was chaos. Leprechauns zoomed joyfully across the field, making it hard to see much of anything, but I caught glimpses of Krum surrounded by mediwizards, scowling and refusing to let them clean him up. His teammates stood nearby, shaking their heads, visibly dejected.
A short distance away, the Irish players danced in triumph beneath a glittering shower of gold from their mascots.
Irish flags waved everywhere. The national anthem thundered through the stadium from all sides. The Veela were shrinking back into their beautiful human forms now, though looking dispirited and forlorn.
"Well," Mr Oblansk said gloomily, "we fought bravely."
"Perhaps invest in better brooms next time," I suggested mildly. "Those Firebolts clearly made a difference."
"Perhaps," he replied.
Fudge made his way over to me, looking flushed and pleased, and asked, "How was it, Benjamin? Were your cameras able to record everything well?"
I took out my Wiphone, tapped the screen a few times, and turned it toward him.
"See for yourself."
The display lit up instantly. One feed showed the Chasers streaking across the pitch in crystal-clear Ultra-HD. I swiped to another—Volkov and Vulchanov hammering Bludgers with brutal force. Another swipe showed Lynch and Krum tearing down the sky in pursuit of the Snitch. The final feed pulled back to show the roaring crowds and the team mascots in all their chaotic glory.
"We have it all, Minister," I said confidently. "I'll need a couple of days to edit everything properly, and the final compilation will be ready within a week."
Fudge beamed.
"Excellent work, Benjamin. Well done."
"And as the Irish team performs a lap of honour, flanked by their mascots, the Quidditch World Cup itself is brought into the Top Box!" Bagman roared.
Fudge hurried back toward the front of the box.
Daphne turned to me, curiosity written all over her face.
"What were you talking about?"
I smiled.
"You'll find out in a few minutes."
Suddenly, a brilliant white light flooded the Top Box as it was magically illuminated. The giant billboard opposite us switched to a live view of the VIP box and everyone inside it.
Two panting wizards climbed the stairs, carrying a massive golden cup, and handed it to Cornelius Fudge.
"Let's have a really loud hand for the gallant losers—Bulgaria!" Bagman shouted.
The seven Bulgarian players came up into the box to warm applause from the crowd below, all of it captured on the enormous screen. Thousands of flashes lit up the stadium as people raised their Wiphones, powerful Farsight lenses snapping pictures of the players.
One by one, the Bulgarians passed between the rows of seats as Bagman announced each name, shaking hands first with their own minister and then with Fudge.
Krum came last.
He looked awful. Two spectacular black eyes were blooming on his bloodied face, and he still clutched the Golden Snitch in his hand. On the ground, he seemed awkward—slightly duck-footed, shoulders rounded—but when Bagman announced his name, the stadium erupted in a deafening, heartfelt roar.
Then came the Irish team.
Aidan Lynch was being supported by Moran and Connolly; the second crash had clearly left him dazed, his eyes unfocused, but he was grinning broadly as Troy and Quigley hoisted the Cup high into the air. The crowd thundered with jubilation.
Fudge positioned himself between the two teams and raised his wand to his throat.
"Sonorus."
"Good evening," he said, his amplified voice carrying effortlessly across the stadium as the giant billboard showed his smiling face. "I am Cornelius Fudge, Minister for Magic of Wizarding Britain. Before we disperse tonight, I have an important announcement to make. Well—two of them, actually."
He turned to the players, smiling warmly.
"First of all, I would like to thank both the Irish and Bulgarian teams for their wonderful performance this evening. What a match, eh? We'll be talking about it for years to come, no doubt."
The crowd roared in agreement.
"But you know what's better than simply talking about it?" Fudge continued. "Being able to rewatch it. Watch every exciting maneuver, every chase, every goal."
A ripple of curiosity ran through the stadium.
Fudge beckoned to me.
I stepped forward and joined him. He slipped an arm around my shoulders and addressed the crowd.
"Allow me to introduce Benjamin Carter—the young wizard who created the Wiphone. A device, that in less than two months since its inception, is fast becoming a household object not just in Wizarding Britain, but across the world."
The crowd cheered loudly. I smiled and raised a hand in acknowledgment.
"Thanks to Mr Carter's ingenuity," Fudge continued, "the remarkable match we've just witnessed was recorded in its entirety, from multiple angles, using special cameras."
The crowd gasped. Even the players in the box looked stunned.
Removing his arm from my shoulders, Fudge went on, "In one week's time, once the best parts of the match have been compiled, a complete video of the World Cup Final will be shared with every one of your Wiphones over the secure communication network—free of charge!"
The stadium erupted. The cheering was louder than anything that had come before.
When the noise finally began to subside, Fudge raised his hand again.
"And that's not all. Thirteen days from now, on the first of September, students of Hogwarts, Beauxbatons, and Durmstrang—along with the rest of the world—would have been informed of a very exciting event taking place this year. I am going to share that information with you now."
He drew a breath.
"This year, the Triwizard Tournament will be taking place at Hogwarts!"
The response was mixed—some gasps, some cheers, but a lot of puzzled murmuring.
Clearly reading the crowd, Fudge continued calmly.
"Now, some of you may not know what this tournament involves, so allow me to explain briefly. The Triwizard Tournament was established some seven hundred years ago as a friendly competition between the three largest European schools of magic: Hogwarts, Beauxbatons, and Durmstrang.
A champion was selected to represent each school, and the three champions competed in three magical tasks. The schools took it in turns to host the tournament once every five years, and it was generally agreed to be a most excellent way of establishing ties between young witches and wizards of different nationalities — until, that is, the death toll mounted so high that the tournament was discontinued."
"Death toll?" Hermione whispered beside me, alarmed.
Most of the crowd, however, seemed far more interested in hearing about the tournament than in worrying about deaths that had happened hundreds of years ago.
"There have been several attempts to reinstate the tournament over the centuries," Fudge went on, "none of them very successful. However, our Departments of International Magical Cooperation and Magical Games and Sports believe the time is ripe for another attempt. We have worked hard to ensure that this time, no champion will find himself or herself in mortal danger.
The heads of Beauxbatons and Durmstrang will arrive at Hogwarts with their short-listed contenders in October and stay on for the rest of the school year. The selection of the three champions will take place at Halloween. An impartial judge will decide which students are most worthy to compete for the Triwizard Cup, the glory of their school, and a thousand Galleons personal prize money!"
The crowd cheered.
"The three tasks will be spread across the school year," Fudge continued. "Normally, only the students and staff of the host school and visiting delegations would be able to witness them. However, as we approach the end of this century, something extraordinary has happened."
Fudge took out his gold-coloured Wiphone and held it aloft.
"This remarkable device—already changing our world—has been invented. Allowing witches and wizards of different nations, cultures, and languages to connect and share information instantly."
He looked toward me briefly.
"After much discussion with Mr Carter—the creator of this technology, I am pleased to announce that the Triwizard Tournament will be shown live across the world on your Wiphones!"
The roar that followed was deafening.
The crowd's cheers swelled until the entire stadium seemed to shake.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
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