There! The tiny flash of gold he had glimpsed below in the field was so small and so brief that most would not have seen it; but to his practiced, Seeker's eye, it was enough.
He had found his Snitch.
In an instant, he forgot all else: the Quaffle as it was passed with lightning speed from player to player; his injured opponent; the distracted referee with his burning broom. His whole world was concentrated in a single golden point, on fluttering wings.
Aidan Lynch went into a dive- no Wronski Feint this, but an all-out plunge for victory in the single biggest sporting event known to wizard-kind. Intent on the capture, he vaguely sensed rather than saw the beBludgered Krum pulling up behind him- closing fast- drawing level- but he was nearly there, he would reach it before—oh, NOT AGAIN!
As the earth came rushing up to meet him, for the second time that day he hit the ground with tremendous force, and was immediately stampeded by a horde of angry veela.
It was not the impact; he had taken falls before, and this one, although very hard, had left him slightly winded but relatively unfazed.
It was not the veela- though certainly one alone could be quite overwhelming enough, never mind a whole flock of them together; and if they were not, at the moment, mesmerizing in their beauty, the intensity of their fury was more than enough to unsettle one's wits somewhat.
No, it was what he saw as he picked himself up off the ground that caused Aidan Lynch, Seeker for the Irish team at the Quidditch World Cup, to gasp in shock.
As he got to his feet, checking himself over to see if he was still in one piece, the silence of the stunned crowd slowly grew, crescendoed to a mighty roar; and it was just beginning to dawn on him that the game was over, and that- despite his failure to beat his opponent Viktor Krum to the Snitch- his team, Ireland, had won, when—he froze.
He was a Seeker, one of the best. And Seekers have a knack for seeing things other people don't. Amidst the pandemonium of battling leprechauns and veela, frantic mediwizards, overwrought teammates and opponents, and uproarious fans; amid showers of falling gold coins, waving of flags and flashing of Omnioculars- he saw a figure, half-hidden in the shadows. A figure he should not be seeing. That should not be there.
He had only been a boy at the time of that trial, some 13 years ago now, but he well remembered the face of the terrified-looking prisoner, not so very much older than himself, who had been sent to Azkaban for life.
"IRELAND WINS!" He heard a voice- Ludo Bagman's- announcing. "KRUM GETS THE SNITCH, BUT IRELAND WINS!" But the Snitch, even the World Cup, had been driven from his mind. He had to tell someone, immediately. The Minister! Where was the Minister of Magic? He must know—!
…The figure turned its head, and looked at him; raised a wand; and said- a single word: "Obliviate!"
Aidan blinked, as the world swam back into focus, and found he was no longer entirely sure of where he was or what he was supposed to be doing there, although he had known a moment ago... or had he?
Just as he was deciding it must not matter very much, he was precipitously hoisted onto the back of a broom, and whisked away into the air.
~ "And as the Irish team performs a lap of honor, flanked by their mascots, the Quidditch World Cup itself is brought into the Top Box!" roared Bagman.
Around the stadium they flew, leprechauns keeping pace alongside. From the Top Box came a burst of dazzling, blinding white light as the Box was magically illuminated so that everyone in the stands could see inside.
~ "Let's have a really loud hand for the gallant losers—Bulgaria!" Bagman shouted.
What a very loud noise all these people were making. Seven tiny figures in scarlet robes were making their way toward the lighted white Box. One of them in particular looked to be in very rough shape. What on earth could they have done, he wondered, to have everyone shouting at them like that? And now the Voice again was announcing- something about a victor-crumb? But that made no sense!
~ And then came the Irish team. Aidan Lynch was being supported by Moran and Connolly; the second crash seemed to have dazed him and his eyes looked strangely unfocused. But he grinned happily as Troy and Quigley lifted the Cup into the air and the crowd below thundered its approval.
Two someones, one on either side of him, were half walking, half carrying him toward the platform. He could see his teammates- what were their names again? Quoy and Trigley? Roy and Wiggly?- holding up a large shiny Object. He couldn't quite remember what that was called, either, but for some reason it made him feel happy. It was so pretty and shiny! Then someone was pulling him back up on the broom, and off they flew again. Wheeee! This was fun! He should really do this more often, he decided.
~ At last, when the Irish team had left the box to perform another lap of honor on their brooms (Aidan Lynch on the back of Connolly's, clutching hard around his teammate's waist and still grinning in a bemused sort of way), Bagman pointed his wand at his throat and muttered, "Quietus".
Unseen, hidden completely once more beneath the shelter of an invisibility cloak, the shadowy figure which the Seeker had forgotten fingered the wand (11 inches, holly) that he had taken from the pocket of the boy seated in front of him in the stands. Then, Barty Crouch Jr. returned with his family's still pale and trembling house-elf to their tent... and waited.
Very early the following morning- after the celebrations, and the ensuing panic caused by some rowdy Death Eaters and the reappearance of a terrifying old Mark, unseen for 13 years- everyone prepared to return home, as quickly as possible; the Irish team's Seeker among them. On his way out, he greeted the Muggle at the gate.
"Merry Christmas," Mr. Roberts waved at him. "And a Happy St. Paddy's Day to you, too!" Aidan Lynch called back.