The national team was in disarray, their tempers flaring as they shouted at Roman, whose performance had plummeted. The players looked to him, desperate for a spark of leadership, urging him to recover and rally them for a counterattack.
Ludo Bagman, ever the keen observer, reviewed the match mentally. He noted one undeniable fact—Moriarty had been targeting Roman Reigns from the very beginning.
And it had worked.
Roman's form had deteriorated so badly that he could no longer keep up with Moriarty. The national team's seeker, once their ace, had become a liability.
Their team's Magician, too, was caught up by the relentless Bludgers. Moriarty capitalized on the chaos, slipping through the formation like a dagger into the heart of the Chasers' eagle-head offense. His seamless integration made him the tip of the spear in every attack.
Leon and Tonks boxed in Red Nose using the Parkin's Pincer maneuver.
Meanwhile, Jericho tore through the air like a wild banshee with the Quaffle gripped in his hands.
Each time the Exploding Head made a move to intercept, Moriarty would dart out from a blind angle, cutting him off with surgical precision.
"Senior Exploding Head, this one's ours!" Jericho shouted gleefully as he barreled past the last defensive line.
The explosive-haired Beater growled in frustration. His eyes darted from Roman's pale, demoralized face to Moriarty, who now stood between them like a wall. He bellowed at the keeper, "We can't afford another goal..save it!"
In the stands, a new wave of cheering erupted. "Jericho! Jericho! Fast boy! Fast boy!"
Jericho twisted on his broom, manipulating his upper body like a phantom. With flawless agility, he used his ghostlike floating to flit unpredictably up, down, side to side, back and forth.
"You won't score on me!" the goalkeeper yelled, veins bulging as he whirled through the goal hoops in tight figure-eights.
"Flawless double '8' flying! A rare, world-class save technique—we're finally seeing it from England's goalkeeper!"
Ludo's voice brimmed with admiration. "Let me remind you—in the last World Cup, we were routed by the Americans. Over a dozen goals slammed past us because we lacked this very skill.
Now look at our boys. We didn't invest those tax-wizarded Galleons for nothing. Our national players have evolved!"
Ludo paused dramatically. "Now the challenge shifts—will Jericho rise to meet it?"
"Challenge? Ha! Not in my book," Jericho shot back, loud enough for everyone to hear. "My brother Maxi told me—doesn't matter if your keepers learn every trick in the book. You still couldn't beat the Yanks last time!"
He pointed directly at Roman. "Your real issue? Your captain. Roman's collapsing, and when he falls, your whole squad follows. No fire. No heart."
"Don't listen to that garbage!" the Exploding Head roared. But the words had landed. The keeper's eyes betrayed hesitation.
Jericho spotted the crack. With a zigzag motion like a Warlongong 'Zhi', he blurred forward and fired the Quaffle in—straight between the keeper's legs.
"The ball's in again!" Ludo's voice cut above the referee's whistle. The crowd roared as if thunder had rolled through the arena.
"20-0! The Dream Team leads!
Tonks and Jericho have each netted one, and let's not forget Moriarty—his midfield orchestration has been instrumental. Without him, the Dream Team wouldn't have made it past the half-line."
As the teams reset for kickoff, the Dream Team huddled and celebrated mid-air, while the national team surrounded Roman.
The Exploding Head didn't waste time—he grabbed Roman by the collar and gave him a violent shake.
"Snap out of it, Roman! What the hell are you doing?!" he spat, then turned to wave at the other players.
"Look at them! Everyone else is sweating blood for this game!"
His voice thundered. "Don't tell me your pride, your responsibility, your confidence—all crushed by a twelve-year-old? You're better than this!"
The whistle blew for restart. Pietris tossed the third Quaffle.
Red Nose and the Magician shot forward like arrows, scrambling for possession. The Exploding Head arced wide, shielding them from pursuit.
Roman stared in a daze as his teammates scattered into formation—determined, driven. They were still fighting.
And Tonks had capitalized again, darting in to intercept with the Dream Team.
Then… something flickered in Roman's eyes. Images returned to him like echoes from another life.
Red Nose's fiery love for Quidditch.
The Magician's way of bringing joy to children.
The goalkeeper, collapsing from his broom after mastering the double-eight.
The beaters pounding bludgers till their muscles screamed.
And above all—the roar of the Exploding Head.
Roman's vision blurred. He slapped himself hard across the face.
What the hell am I doing?!
"GUYS!" he bellowed. The Exploding Head turned, surprised.
Roman pointed at the Dream Team. "Let them have the Quaffle. Switch to Counterattack Formation No. 2!"
The team paused, stunned.
Then, one by one, they grinned and shouted, "Ohhhh~!"
Tonks, speeding forward, suddenly found herself engulfed—Exploding Head's squad swarmed from every direction like a tribe of berserkers.
And just then, the wind changed.
In true November fashion, the skies over England roared. Tonks' silver hair whipped about.
"Moriarty—what now?!" she yelled.
The gale tore her voice apart, but Moriarty responded with no hesitation: "HEAD-ON!"
"Counterattack! Counterattack!!"
Jericho and Leon howled as they dove into enemy territory.
Then, slicing through the air like a blade of light
A golden shimmer ascended toward the sky, humming loud enough to echo even over the wind.
"The Golden Snitch!" Ludo pointed excitedly. "Third sighting! Roman and Moriarty must have seen it—why aren't they moving?"
The stands erupted in murmurs. Binoculars focused. All eyes locked on the two Seekers.
Roman hovered still, surveying the pitch with iron resolve. And then… he met Moriarty's gaze.
A challenge, silent but clear.
Moriarty smiled. "Bring it on."
FWOOOSH!
Both Seekers bolted skyward.
Ludo erupted. "Roman's back in the game! He's racing Moriarty—side by side again! And below—Dream Team attacks! National Team defends! This is it—the moment that will decide everything!"
The Snitch soared higher, glinting gold against the greying clouds. Wind howled. A single white cloud veiled the sun, giving Roman the cover he needed.
His confidence surged. His speed jumped.
Moriarty too welcomed the chaos. The wind wasn't a foe—it was his partner.
He loosened his form, letting the wind caress every inch of exposed skin. His magic reacted, wind-element energy awakening like a long-dormant force.
With the Alchemy Matrix enhancing his senses, he quieted his mind.
Dangerous, most would say, to blank your thoughts while airborne—but not for Moriarty.
The wind wrapped around him like a lover.
Roman noticed something first. Moriarty… wasn't flying anymore. He was gliding, suspended.
Gasps swept the stadium.
"He's not dead, is he?" someone muttered.
Then—silence.
The sky dimmed. The Snitch dipped. Roman surged forward. Moriarty—floated.
They were neck and neck.
The stadium below raged with ferocity, but no one cared about the score. The only thing that mattered now was who caught the Snitch.
It hovered slowly.
Roman reached out—ten meters left.
Then
Moriarty's eyes flared. Wind-element magic surged, coating his broom and body.
He stood.
"MY MERLIN—WHAT IS HE DOING?!" Ludo screamed. The very air quivered.
"Oh, sweet Merlin, let him stop!" Madam Malfoy clutched her chest, trembling.
Everyone held their breath. Could he really balance?
Roman glanced back, heart sinking.
There was Moriarty—feet on the broomstick, upright and unfazed, the wind wailing around him like a symphony.
VROOM!
Like a skater down a ramp, Moriarty surged forward, trailing streaks of force.
He passed Roman.
The Snitch didn't dodge—it couldn't. Moriarty's wind-element cocoon masked him.
He reached forward—
Clutch.
"Toot—!"
Referee Pietris blew the whistle.
The spell broke. The crowd exploded.
Screams, chants, weeping—every sound imaginable shook the stands.
Ludo could barely keep up. "MORIARTY ENDS THE GAME! FINAL SCORE: 180-50!! DREAM TEAM VS. NATIONAL TEAM—DURATION: 3 HOURS, 48 MINUTES! THE FINAL GOAL COUNT"
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