The crowd roars, and I tune Bagman out as he goes on about how this was a marvel of magical achievement, a sign of prosperity in peace, so on and so forth.
Eventually the crowd roars again, and I look up just in time to see seven players in green and white robes take to the field.
"It's the Irish!" Ron calls.
"It's Troy-"
"-and Mullet-"
"-and Moran!" Fred and George cheer, pointing at each of the Chasers in turn.
On the pitch, leprechauns were dancing and something gold shimmered in the air – coins, I quickly realize.
Ron catches a handful of them, shoving them at Harry and I. "Now I don't have to worry about your Christmas presents!"
I roll my eyes but pocket the gold as the Irish names are announced.
Suddenly, the gigantic holographic leprechaun explodes in a burst of red, and a line of players in red pushes through the Irish line.
"Here comes the Bulgarians!" Ron calls.
"And your Bulgarian National Team!" Bagman announces. "You have Zograf! Dimitrov! Ivanona! Leviski! Dimitrov! Volkov! Aaaaaand – Krum!"
The stadium erupts in cheers, and I slip my Omnioculars down and zoom in on the Bulgarian Seeker – he looked completely at home in the air, so much so that it was almost unnerving.
The cheers in the stadium change and Hermione tugs on my sleeve. "Look."
I direct my attention downwards, to where the Bulgarian mascots were on the pitch. They were girls with porcelain skin that shone in the spotlight, and white-gold hair that flowed like rivers. They were admittedly beautiful, but I could easily see that they weren't human.
But the boys didn't seem to care – behind us, Harry and Ron had gone still, and I turn to see their eyes glassy and their jaws slack.
"Veela!" Hermione shouts, reaching out to grab Ron as he tries to dive out of the box. "They're a bit like Sirens in Greek Mythology – men will go insane trying to impress them…Harry!"
I whip around just in time to see Harry lift a leg over the side of the box, and I lunge forward to grab him around the waist and haul him back to his seat.
I look at Mr. Weasley, who was stopping Ron from shredding his Ireland hat. "Why aren't you affected?"
"Veelas don't affect men who have already found their true love," he answers.
"That's adorable," I sigh. "Harry, sit down." I have to practically sit on my god-brother to keep him in his seat.
Finally, the Veela leave the field, and I let out a sigh of relief as Harry sags underneath me even as the crowd roars in displeasure.
The referee – a short, scrawny man with golden robes – is quickly introduced, and he releases the balls; the dimpled Quaffle, two buzzing Bludgers, and – although I couldn't see it – the Snitch was out there somewhere.
"Aaaand, they're OFF!"Bagman calls. "And it's Troy, to Mullet, to Moran, to Dimitriov! Leviski! Mullet! Troy!"
The Chasers were moving fast, so fast that Bagman could only say their names, but I managed to keep my eyes on the Quaffle as it's thrown back and forth. I flip a switch on my Omnioculars and the names of the plays shimmers across my vision.
Hawkshead attacking formationflashes across the screen as the Irish Chasers pack in tight, bearing down on the Bulgarians. Troy brings the Quaffle up into a Porskoff Ploy, drawing away Ivanonva and dropping it to Moran, who ducks a Bludger and passes it to Leviski. Leviski is smacked with a Bludger from Connolly and forced to drop the ball, where it's intercepted by Troy, who expertly uses a Chelmondiston Charge to send the Quaffle through the goalpost.
"TROY SCORES!" Bagman screams. "And it's Ireland, ten-zero!"
I let out a whoop of joy and bounce up and down.
"What?" Harry asks. "But Leviski has the Quaffle!"
"You'll never catch anything if you watch is slow motion!" I holler back, waving as Troy took a victory lap around the pitch.
I continue to watch in amazement as the Irish Chasers work flawlessly with each other, almost seeming to read each other's minds as they score two more times within ten minutes, bringing the score to thirty-zero.
The match becomes even faster and more brutal. The Bulgarian Beaters were hitting the Bludgers as hard as they could towards the Irish Chasers, who were twice forced to scatter; finally, Ivanova breaks through their lines and Ryan, the Irish Keeper, can't block him. Bulgaria scores, the score is brought to thirty-ten, and the red-draped crowd goes berserk.
"Fingers in your ears, boys!" Mr. Weasley calls, and I grab Harry just in case as the Veela begin to dance again.
Thankfully, their dance only lasts a few seconds, and the game resumes.
Five minutes later, the crowd's attention is drawn to the center of the field – Krum and Lynch were diving fast; had they really seen the Snitch this quickly?
Apparently not, because Krum pulls up at the last moment, but Lynch isn't so lucky – he plows into the ground, throwing up dirt as his Firebolt gouges into the pitch.
"Time out!" Bagman calls. "Time out while mediwizards check on Lynch!"
I focus on the scene of the crash, zooming in and rewinding the scene, playing it forward slowly.
Wronski Feint – Dangerous evasion maneuver flashes across the lenses, and I groan – Harry had surely seen the same thing I had, and I would bet money he'd try it. If not executed properly, I knew that move could break his neck. Harry already had trouble following him everywhere he went – did he really need to make it worse?
Lynch eventually gets airborne again, and the Chasers roar ahead – within the next fifteen minutes, ten more goals are scored, leaving the score at one hundred thirty-ten, Ireland.
The game was getting dirtier as time went on, reminding me of a Slytherin game I played last year, only worse.
Mullet flew toward the Bulgarian goalpost, and I cheer even as Zograf, the opposing Keeper, flies out to meet her. There's a clash of green and red, and everything happens too fast for me to see, but Mostafa's whistle soon signals a penalty.
"And Mostafa takes Zograf to task for cobbing – excessive use of elbows!" Bagman informs the crowd. "Penalty to Ireland!"
The Bulgarian crowd roars as the Irish leprechauns take to the skies, spelling out "HA! HA! HA!" in big letters.
The Veela flip their hair angrily and begin to dance again. I step in front of Harry, but something on the field catches my attention – it's Mostafa, and he's flexing his muscles and fluffing his mustache, completely focused on the Veela.
"That's not good!" Bagman calls as I double over, shaking with laughter. "Someone slap the referee!"
A mediwizard charges across the field and kicks him in the shins, and I laugh even harder as Mostafa gets extremely blustered and tries to evict the Veela from the field.
The Bulgarian Beaters, Volkov and Vulchanov, land and begin to argue with the referee. I zoom in to watch the conflict; Mostafa stabs a finger in the air, clearly telling the players to take flight. They don't, and Mostafa gives two sharp bursts on his whistle.
"Two penalties for Ireland!" Bagman says. "Volkov and Vulchanov are in the air again – there they go – Troy and Moran are taking the penalties…"
Ireland scores twice more, bringing the score to one fifty-ten. Bulgaria, of course, is irate – their Beaters didn't seem to care if their clubs hit human or Bludger. The Chasers were mad, as well; Dimitriov flies straight at Moran, who had the Quaffle, nearly knocking her off her broom.
Mostafa's whistle shrieks again, and Ireland gets yet another penalty for blatching, or flying with intent to collide. The leprechauns rise into the air and form a rude gesture towards the Veela.
I snort in humor, but the Veela are pissed off – they rise to the skies and begin transforming into large, copper-colored, harpy-like creatures.
Who have fireballs. Bloody fireballs.
I watch in amazement as the Veela and leprechauns clash on the pitch; Ministry officials get involved, and it all goes into chaos. The match is still going on, but it can barely be heard over the screeches of the Veela and the bangs of the Ministry's spells.
The crowd roars, and I look up to watch the Quaffle as it changes hands again and again.
"It's Leviski – Dimitriov – Mullet – Troy – Moran – Ivanova – Moran again – MORAN SCORES!"
The Irish crowd roars with glee, but the battle of the mascots was still happening on the pitch, and our cries were almost drowned out.
The game got on quickly; the Quaffle kept passing between hands, but people were starting to get impatient.
Suddenly, an Irish Beater swings his bat, sending a Bludger at Krum's face, and he doesn't duck fast enough. The Beater connects with a sharp crack and a spray of red.
The Bulgarian crowd gives a loud boo, but Mostafa doesn't blow the whistle.
I scowl – I might be supporting Ireland, but Krum was admittedly a good player, and medical attention was still required.
"Ah, come on!" Ron groans. "He can't play like that – look at him-"
"Look at Lynch!" Harry shouts, his keen eyes having caught something the rest of ours didn't.
I quickly find the Irish Seeker and zoom in, watching with bated breath as Lynch chases something unseen across the field, Krum just on his tail – although I didn't know how he could see, there was blood flying everywhere.
The two Seekers dive sharply, streaking towards the ground in a blur of green and red.
"Lynch isn't stopping!" Harry shouts.
"Krum is!" I return. It was true; Krum was pulling out of the dive, blood still freely flowing from his nose.
Lynch, however, was not; he plows into the dirt head-first, flying off his broom and lying still a few feet away.
The only ones paying him any attention were the mediwizards; everyone else was going insane over the fact that Krum had caught the Snitch.
"It's all over!" Bagman says. "It is all over! Krum has caught the Snitch!"
I zoom in and, sure enough, there's a tiny glint of gold in the Seeker's hand. The scoreboard flashes the final score: BULGARIA: 160, IRELAND: 170.
"IRELAND WINS!" Bagman yells. "BULGARIA HAS THE SNITCH – BUT IRELAND GETS THE MATCH!"
"Why'd he do that?" Ron howls. "He could've won the match if he'd just given them a little more time!"
"He knew he wouldn't catch up to the Irish Chasers," I respond, watching as the Irish team hoisted the massive Quidditch World Cup. "He wanted to end it on his own terms."
"He looks a mess," Hermione remarks, looking over at the bloody Bulgarian.
"Vell, ve fought bravely," I hear the Bulgarian Minister remark, laughing as Fudge gets outraged that he had been uselessly miming things all day.
I follow our group down the stairs and out of the stadium, joining the merry crowd, mostly heading back to their campsites, just like we were. We run into a hoarse Bagman along the way, where Fred and George each collect their winnings while I'm forced to hand over my fifty Galleon loss.
Once we reach the tent, we all gather in the boys' tent, where Mr. Weasley agrees to one more cup of hot chocolate before getting drawn into a debate on cobbing with Charlie. I get drawn into a debate with the twins over my reportedly poor betting choices, while I defend that it was only ten points away from a tie game; I was close enough.
Conversation is halted when Ginny falls asleep at the table, almost spilling hot chocolate all over. Mr. Weasley sends us all to bed and bids us goodnight, and I help the half-asleep thirteen-year-old in the girls' tent.
Climbing into the bunk above Hermione, I think about what life might be like as a professional player – the crowds cheering my name, the money, the fame…
I must've fallen asleep at some point, my fantasies turning into dreams, because the next thing I'm aware of is the sounds of screaming and Hermione shaking me awake.
"Orissa, wake up! You have to hurry – the camp is on fire!"