Optional prompt: "We're almost there."
A hundred thousand wizards and witches, to say nothing of the veela and leprechauns, filled the temporary stadium. Four hundred twenty-one Quidditch World Cups had already been completed; the four hundred twenty-second would soon be over. Just how soon, no one knew. Plenty of pundits, and many more vocal fans, believed it was only a question of time how long it would take Viktor Krum to reach the Snitch.
Below the seats, below the sky they awaited, huddled the seven men and women who made it their mission to ensure he wouldn't.
"All right," said Troy. "Gentlemen? Ladies? A word, if you will."
"You've got one," said Mullet, "make it good."
"Come again?"
"That was two," Mullet tsked, "poor form."
Connolly spun a quill in his hand, flipping his notebook past a blurry animation of the Bulgarian tactics, and began to scribble things down.
"All right," Troy repeated. "It's just a few hours to the final. We're almost there."
"We've been over our tactics approximately two thousand times," said Mullet, "we don't need a review."
"Twenty-four hundred," Lynch chimed in.
Mullet stared at him.
"What? Twelve is magical. So twice twelve is even more so."
"How about twenty-four hundred and one?" asked Moran. "Because that's seven times itself four times, and seven is—"
"Oh, you are worse than our captain, and that is saying something." Mullet rolled her eyes. "I never thought I'd be saying this, but Troy, let me know if you need me to Silencio these two so we can keep going."
"I actually wasn't going to talk about tactics," said Troy. "Because you're right. We've been over them too many times to count. No, I want to look back and think about how far we've come. I know it hasn't always been easy, we're not the largest country out there—"
"Well, er," Quigley began.
"Or country-and-a-quarter, however you'd like to slice it. But did we ever let that get to us? No! We didn't!"
"Technically," said Mullet, "we've been favorites for over a year, you can't go around pretending we're the underdogs or something."
"We had to adjust to some new equipment—"
"Oh, look at us, poor miserable Ireland, isn't it a pity we had to play on those Firebolts? We have the best brooms in the game!"
"And we had a semifinal draw against a team who are really up-and-coming—"
"From a continent who's never won the thing, and whom we promptly Vanished," Mullet noted metaphorically.
"And now, we take on perhaps the most explosive talent of our day."
An uneasy silence filled the room; even Mullet had to scramble to change the tone. "Well thanks for that bit of optimism, captain, we demolished Peru and we can beat Bulgaria as well."
"This is why the finals really ought to be another round-robin," Quigley interjected, "have our goal differential against Peru matter for something."
"But the excitement of it all!" said Moran. "The fans outside, cheering us on, you just know there'll be more of them from around here so they'll be on our side. You don't get that drama in a pool stage."
"Well sometimes it'll work out just by chance, haven't any of you heard of the maracan...never mind," Quigley trailed off.
Connolly glanced over at Ryan and mouthed Probably a magical Brazilian spider-monkey under his breath.
"I'll Silencio you if you go on about how great Muggle sport is, seriously," said Mullet, "we've got a final to win. Portkeys and broomsticks and leprechauns and all that magic can provide."
"Leprechauns! Yes!" said Troy, trying to retake control of the locker room. "We Irish are like our mascots—our glory may shine like gold, but won't buy us anything, for by tomorrow it'll all be over."
"Unless we have one of those week-long matches," said Mullet, and Lynch gulped.
"Or that," said Troy. "But the memory of triumph is magical and will remain with us forever! Now and in time to be!"
Rolling his eyes, Connolly made another scribble on his notepad.
"So let's get out there and win it all!"
The team stood up; Connolly slipped the parchment to Ryan, but Troy caught a glimpse of it first. "What's that then?"
"Nothing," Ryan muttered.
"If it's nothing, can I have a look?"
"Transcription of the pep talk," Connolly nodded cheerfully, "for future reference!"
"Future...reference?"
Sheepishly, Ryan handed the parchment over; it was indeed a detailed record of the conversation, in Connolly's brisk shorthand.
"But after this match, it'll all be over, we don't need any more inspiration."
"Look," said Ryan, "you don't like us drinking during the World Cup, we need to stay fit, I understand that. But honestly, most of your pep talks would be better if we were in a drunken stupor."
"I'll drink to that!" Mullet called over.
"So, to make up for that, we play a little drinking game in the offseason; we have rules about how many shots to take when Mullet starts interrupting you, Moran and Lynch argue numerology, Quigley goes on about Muggle sport, and you quote poetry out of context."
Troy stared down at the paper for a moment, hastily rereading it.
And then Ryan plucked it out of his hands. "Don't you try and rip that up," he said, shoving it in his locker, "we all have our hobbies."
"Right," said Mullet, "we can do this, let's get out there and win."