The Veela's dance came to a swift end, the music in the stadium halting abruptly after a frenzied crescendo. Yet the audience—particularly the men—seemed reluctant to let the Veela go. Furious roars filled the stands, and some spectators even began tearing off the Irish-themed decorations they wore. Harry caught sight of Ron, dazed and entranced, fumbling to rip the shamrock from his hat—though before he could succeed, Mr. Weasley snatched it from his hands.
Judging by Mr. Weasley's expression and the shape of his mouth, he appeared to be scolding Ron. But given Ron's glassy-eyed stare, fixed on the Veela now lined up neatly on one side of the pitch, Harry seriously doubted whether the part of Ron's brain responsible for processing sound was still functioning.
"Thank you to the Bulgarian team's mascots for their performance. Now, please raise your wands to the sky…" Ludo Bagman's magically amplified voice boomed, just managing to overpower the crowd's clamor. "Let us welcome the mascots of the Irish national team!"
As Bagman's voice faded, a massive orb of green and gold streaked into the stadium with a whoosh. It circled the field once before splitting in two, each half darting toward opposite ends of the pitch. Between them stretched a vast rainbow spanning the entire stadium. Then, in a dazzling transformation, a colossal, shimmering shamrock materialized in the air above. Spinning slowly as it rose into the night sky, the shamrock sprayed countless golden "droplets" that rained down upon the stands. Some fell into the box where Harry and his friends sat, and only then did Harry realize these "droplets" were gleaming gold coins.
Picking one up, Harry felt its weight, its warmth, its solidity—all unmistakable signs of a genuine coin. Yet, strangely, his senses told him these coins were somehow unreal, as if they didn't truly exist.
"Leprechauns," Sirius remarked, gazing at the enormous shamrock floating above. "I got swindled with leprechaun gold once, back in the day. Makes me nostalgic just thinking about it…"
"But Sirius," Hermione said, curiously inspecting a shiny coin she'd picked up, "won't scattering gold like this cause economic inflation or something?"
"No worries, Hermione," Sirius replied with a grin. "Leprechaun gold vanishes after a while." Hearing this, Harry abandoned any fleeting thoughts of collecting the coins for pocket money.
But not everyone knew the fleeting nature of leprechaun gold, and the sight of Ireland's mascots showering coins sent the stands into a frenzy. People scrambled madly to snatch the coins from the ground. Only a few, restrained by pride or status, refrained from joining the chaos—though Ron and his twin brothers were clearly not among them.
Watching Ron, Fred, and George rummaging between seats with their backsides in the air, Harry couldn't help but laugh. The thought of their faces when the coins inevitably vanished made him laugh even harder.
After a wave of revelry, the giant shamrock faded, and the leprechauns settled onto the pitch, sitting cross-legged opposite the Veela.
"Now, ladies and gentlemen, let's give a warm welcome to the Bulgarian National Quidditch Team! First up—Dimitrov!"
A figure in red robes rocketed into the stadium from an entrance below, astride a broom that moved so fast Harry reckoned only his own Firebolt could match it.
"Ivanova!" Ludo Bagman's voice continued.
A second figure in vibrant red robes shot into view, their broom blazing at equally breakneck speed.
"Zograf!"
"Levski!"
"Vulchanov!"
"Volkov!"
"And finally—Krum!"
"Ohhh!" Ron let out an incomprehensible shout, his eyes glued to the young man soaring in from the entrance. Seeing Ron's fervor, Harry pressed his Omnioculars to his face for a closer look. He saw a lean, dark figure with sallow skin, a prominent hooked nose, and thick black brows—a young man who looked like an oversized eagle, waving to the crowd from his broom.
Next, the Irish National Quidditch Team made their entrance under Bagman's introduction.
"Connolly, Ryan, Troy, Mullet, Moran, Quigley, and Lynch!" Seven green blurs streaked into the stadium. At Hermione's nudge, Harry adjusted a dial on his Omnioculars to slow the action, spotting "Firebolt" etched on their brooms and their names embroidered in silver thread on their backs.
"And finally, our referee for today, flown in all the way from Egypt—the esteemed Chairman of the International Quidditch Association, Hassan Mostafa!"
A small, wiry wizard in pure gold robes matching the stadium's colors strode onto the pitch.
With a sharp whistle, the referee took to the air, and the match began.
Harry had never seen a Quidditch game like this. Hogwarts matches felt like child's play in comparison. He watched, rapt, through his Omnioculars as the players moved with astonishing speed. The Quaffle zipped between them relentlessly, so fast that Bagman could barely keep up, shouting only their names.
Harry tweaked the slow-motion knob on his Omnioculars and pressed the play-by-play button. Instantly, the action slowed, purple text flashing across the lenses, making the game accessible even to someone like him, who wasn't a Quidditch expert. "Hawkshead Attacking Formation," he read, watching three Irish Chasers fly in tight formation—one in the center, two flanking—bearing down on the Bulgarians. Then "Porskoff Ploy" appeared, as the Chaser with the Quaffle feinted upward, luring a Bulgarian Chaser out of position before hurling the ball to a teammate. A Bulgarian Beater swung their bat, sending a Bludger rocketing toward the Irish Chaser, who deftly flipped upside-down on their broom to dodge it. Still inverted, they launched the Quaffle, and a red-robed figure below swooped in to intercept—
"Troy scores!" Bagman's voice thundered, the crowd erupting in a deafening roar that shook the stadium.
"Ten to zero, Ireland leads!"
"What?" Harry shouted, frantically scanning through his Omnioculars. "But the Quaffle was with the Bulgarians!"
"Harry, if you don't switch back to normal speed, you'll miss the good stuff!" Hermione called over the noise.
Harry lowered his Omnioculars just in time to see the Irish Chaser who'd scored circling the pitch in triumph. Ron, George, and others—clad in shamrock hats and clutching Krum figurines—leaped up and down in excitement.
On the sidelines, the leprechauns reformed their giant, glittering shamrock, its leaves swaying smugly in the air. Across the field, the Veela glowered at their jubilant counterparts.
Harry decided to ditch the Omnioculars entirely, casting Owl's Insight on himself. Instantly, the scene sharpened from 720p to 4K, and the dizzying blur of motion became crystal clear.
Harry wasn't a Quidditch aficionado, but even he could tell from the widening score that Ireland's Chasers and Beaters were world-class. Their coordination was seamless, almost as if they shared a single mind. Within ten minutes, Ireland scored twice more, pushing the score to 30-0 and sending the green-clad fans into a tidal wave of cheers.
Finally, at the twenty-minute mark, Bulgaria's Chasers, backed by their Beaters, clawed back ten points.
With Bulgaria's goal, the match grew fiercer—and nastier. Even the Seekers began clashing aggressively.
Viktor Krum pulled a deft feint, tricking Ireland's Seeker, Lynch, into slamming into the ground, forcing a brief pause. Medics confirmed Lynch was in no mortal danger, and after downing a potion, he rose to cheers, remounting his broom.
While Lynch recovered, Krum was clearly scouring the pitch for the Golden Snitch.
After another tense, thrilling fifteen minutes, Ireland racked up ten more goals, bringing the score to 130-10. The gaping margin pushed the Bulgarians—especially their team—into desperation.
As Mullet charged toward the goalposts with the Quaffle tucked under her arm, Bulgaria's Keeper, Zograf, flew out to meet her. Then, with a brutal elbow to her side, he struck. Furious shouts rose from the Irish fans, and a long, shrill whistle cut through the din. Bagman's voice rang out: "Mostafa reprimands Bulgaria's Keeper for fouling—excessive elbowing! Yes, Ireland gets a penalty!"
Chaos erupted on the pitch, mirrored by the mascots off it.
Furious at Mullet's collision, the leprechauns shot into the air, forming the taunting words "HA! HA! HA!"
In response, the Veela leaped to their feet, tossing their hair in fury and breaking into dance once more.
To avoid distraction, the Weasley boys plugged their ears in unison. Harry, mostly able to resist the Veela's allure, still felt their magical aura intensifying. He clapped his hands over his ears just in time.
His caution proved wise. Moments later, the Egyptian referee descended toward the dancing Veela, flexing his scrawny limbs and stroking his beard in a frenzy, as if showing off to them.
"Oh, this won't do!" Bagman declared, though his tone betrayed amusement. "Someone get up there and snap the referee out of it!"
A mediwizard, fingers stuffed in their ears, rushed onto the pitch and delivered a few sharp kicks to Mostafa's shins. The referee snapped out of it, his face sour. Through his Omnioculars, Harry saw him shouting at the Veela, who halted their dance but looked defiant.
"Perhaps I misjudged—Mostafa's trying to send Bulgaria's mascots packing!" Bagman announced. "Oh, we've never seen anything like this… the match might turn ugly…"
Sure enough, the Bulgaria-Ireland clash began to resemble a Gryffindor-Slytherin showdown, with Bulgaria playing the Slytherin role and Ireland as Gryffindor.
After another flagrant foul, the Irish fans roared in outrage—but the leprechauns were angrier still.
They soared into the air again, this time forming not a shamrock or mocking words, but a giant hand that aimed a rude gesture at the Veela.
The Veela lost all restraint. Abandoning their dance, they launched across the pitch, hurling handfuls of fiery projectiles at the leprechauns.
Through his Omnioculars, Harry saw the Veela transform—gone was their beauty. Their faces elongated into sharp, beaked bird heads, and scaly wings sprouted from their shoulders.
Harry knew that look all too well. He'd seen creatures like this before, attacking them on a beach near the woods.
Ministry wizards flooded the pitch, struggling to separate the Veela and leprechauns, but with little success. The brawl below rivaled the match above in intensity, drawing the attention of Harry and many others.
"Levski—Dimitrov—Moran—Troy—Mullet—" Bagman tried to keep narrating, but with the Veela's shrieks, the Ministry's wand blasts, the Bulgarians' furious yells, and the faint cheers of Irish supporters, it was nearly impossible to focus on the game.
Suddenly, Ireland's Seeker dove sharply downward. Harry was certain this was no feint—he'd glimpsed a fleeting flash of gold ahead.
Half the crowd caught on, and Irish fans leaped to their feet, their screams forming a green wave of support. But Krum, bloodied from some unseen injury, clung doggedly to Lynch's tail.
Blood sprayed in Krum's wake as he slowly closed the gap.
"They're going to crash!" Hermione screamed.
"No way!" Ron shouted.
"Lynch will!" Harry yelled.
Harry was right—Lynch slammed into the ground a second time, and the Veela, still battling the leprechauns and Ministry officials, swarmed him like vultures.
"Where's the Snitch? Where's the Golden Snitch?" Charlie shouted from beside Ron.
Under the crowd's gaze, Krum rose gracefully in his blood-spattered red robes, fist raised high, a glint of gold slipping through his fingers.
The match ended: 160-170. Krum had caught the Snitch, but Ireland claimed victory.
The Veela, visibly dejected, slunk off the pitch, heads bowed and faces smudged with dirt. The triumphant leprechauns, meanwhile, resumed showering the stands with coins.
Celebrations for Ireland's win spilled from the stadium, crowds cheering in droves as the campsite drowned in festive chaos.
George and Fred ran off to chase down Bagman for their winnings, but Harry wasn't optimistic about their odds—Ludo, a Ministry bigwig, had plenty of ways to outmaneuver two students.
Later, as Harry lay in bed, drifting toward sleep, a piercing scream jolted him awake.
Puzzled, he opened his eyes.
The screams grew closer, joined by panicked footsteps, sobs, and the crackle of something catching fire.
Sensing trouble, Harry leaped from bed, wand in hand, and dashed to the living room in his pajamas. There, he found Sirius and Mr. Weasley, also in pajamas, wands at the ready, braced for whatever was coming.
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