"HP: Too Late, System!"Chapter 312: The Quidditch World Cup Approaches
Douglas's voice was tinged with confusion as he asked, "So, what we need to do now is protect Mr. Lovegood—or perhaps focus on keeping a close eye on him. Whether it's the mastermind pulling the strings or Tom himself, they're both highly likely to make contact with Mr. Lovegood, aren't they?"
But Professor Dumbledore didn't answer right away. After a pause, he spoke quietly, "In just a few months, the much-anticipated Quidditch World Cup will be held here in Britain…"
Douglas fell silent, wondering if Dumbledore had already set some sort of trap. Then, as he heard mention of the Quidditch World Cup, his heart skipped a beat—how could he have overlooked something so important?
He couldn't really blame himself for remembering trivial details while forgetting the big picture. The truth was, his last experience with the Quidditch World Cup had been anything but pleasant; perhaps that's why, subconsciously, he'd chosen to set the matter aside.
The Quidditch World Cup had been held every four years since 1473.
The 1982 tournament had marked a turning point in Douglas's life. He'd just received his acceptance letter from Hogwarts and, before anyone could come fetch him, he'd taken the letter and slipped off to Diagon Alley on his own. With a little help from old Tom at The Leaky Cauldron, he'd managed to get inside.
Back then, the whole of Diagon Alley seemed to be set alight with World Cup fever. Every street corner buzzed with heated debates about the tournament. Shopfronts were draped in colorful posters supporting various teams—a living tapestry of pride and rivalry.
Outside one little shop, a boy about Douglas's age had been left in charge of errands while his parents attended the Cup in person. The boy's passion for Quidditch bordered on obsession. The moment he caught Douglas's eye, he'd latched on, launching into a two-hour monologue about team tactics, star players, and legendary moments from past World Cups.
If Douglas hadn't been so eager to dig up more information about the wizarding world, he would've run for it long before the boy finished.
When the 1986 World Cup came around, Douglas was still too young. Though he'd managed to save up a little, he didn't dare venture alone into a crowd of wizards—especially since that year's tournament was held abroad.
Still, after term began, Charlie made up for the missed experience in his own way. Every time they got together, he'd go on and on about the Quidditch World Cup until Douglas's ears practically grew calluses.
By 1990, Douglas was deep into his grand tour of the world, determined to leave his footprints everywhere. By chance, he heard from an enthusiastic traveler that the 421st World Cup would be held in America. He immediately pulled some strings with his editor, Mr. Slane, and got his hands on three tickets. Then he invited Bill and Charlie to join him in the States for the grand event—doubling it as a special graduation celebration for Charlie.
Fate, as it turned out, had a surprise in store. On the way to the stadium, a sudden thunderstorm erupted. A thunderbird soared overhead, drawing a bolt of lightning that struck an ancient elder tree nearby, transforming it in an instant into a precious, lightning-struck elder wand.
It felt like a sign that his coming days would be filled with the extraordinary.
But as the Fates giveth, so they taketh away. On the second day of the tournament, the trio were swept up in the excitement, especially Charlie, whose enthusiasm burned like wildfire. Urged on by Charlie's energy, Douglas couldn't resist the temptation to place a bet—first on England, the traditional powerhouse. But England failed to advance, and Douglas tasted his first bitter defeat.
Yet, on the roaring pitch of the Quidditch World Cup, winning and losing were fleeting things. The diehard British fans quickly shifted their hopes to Scotland. Not one to admit defeat, Douglas took Charlie's advice and bet on the Scots, hoping for a handsome return.
But the tournament took an unexpected turn. In a rain-soaked, two-day final, Canada—driven by unyielding spirit and a hefty dose of luck—pulled off a stunning victory over the favored Scots, 270 to 240.
Scottish Seeker Hector Lamont had come within millimeters of catching the Golden Snitch. If Bill hadn't held them back, both Charlie and Douglas might have tried to stuff Lamont into a sack themselves…
And now, just like that, another World Cup was upon them. Douglas resolved that this time, he'd keep his hands to himself—no more betting, no matter what.
Dumbledore watched him, silent for a moment, then asked, "What's on your mind, Douglas?"
Without thinking, Douglas blurted out, "Lamont from the Scottish team…" But he caught himself—this wasn't the point of their discussion. He quickly changed tack, offering an awkward smile. "That's not important, Professor."
Clearing his throat, he tried to sound more serious. "What I mean is, with the tournament being held in Britain this year, and with Voldemort's return, isn't it possible he'll use this global event as cover for some sinister plot?"
He blurted again, "Lamont from the Scottish team… That's not important, Professor. This is a home game—do you have any inside information… cough, I mean, since the Cup is in Britain this time, do you think Voldemort might try something at the tournament?"
In the original timeline, Douglas remembered, the much-anticipated Quidditch World Cup had been rocked by a sudden Death Eater riot, shattering the harmony and passion of the event.
The chaos had left the wizarding world shaken. Even more shocking, rumor had it that among the troublemakers was the son of a high-ranking Ministry official—someone who'd never truly faced justice. That person, somehow, later made contact with Voldemort, infiltrated Hogwarts disguised as Alastor Moody, and played a key role in Voldemort's resurrection—providing the "enemy's blood."
Realizing how crucial this clue was, Douglas made a mental note to check the Death Eater lists from that year and trace which official's son had slipped through the cracks.
Dumbledore narrowed his eyes, fixing Douglas with a suspicious look, a note of warning in his tone:
"Douglas, if memory serves, after the last World Cup, Mr. Lamont was viciously attacked by several groups of mysterious masked wizards. They pursued him relentlessly, leaving him badly injured and landed in St. Mungo's. The Aurors tried repeatedly to catch the culprits, but never succeeded. You weren't involved in that, were you?"
Douglas stared, stunned and indignant. He widened his eyes and protested, "Oh, my esteemed old Professor, how could I possibly be that sort of person…"
His voice echoed in the office, tinged with wounded pride and a trace of exasperation at being misunderstood.
A faint, knowing smile played at Dumbledore's lips as he watched Douglas in silence, his gaze as penetrating as ever.
Douglas grumbled under his breath, "I told you, you've been spending too much time with Professor Snape…"
At that, the ancient portrait on the wall—Phineas Black, the ever-complaining, sharp-tongued ancestor of the Black family—seemed stirred by the tension. He let out a low, unmistakable grumble:
"Oh, it's perfectly obvious you are that sort of person, young man. I distinctly recall seeing you rummaging through the Black family's ancestral home just two days ago, without a care in the world."
Though faint, his voice rang clearly through the room, breaking the uneasy silence.
Even Fawkes—the magical phoenix, lost in dreams on his perch—was roused by the commotion. The magnificent bird lifted his brilliant head, fixing Douglas with one wise, mildly reproachful eye. Then, with a soft rustle, he tucked his head beneath his wing and drifted back to sleep, leaving the office in a hush broken only by the faint crackle of the fire.
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