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"Ladies and gentlemen… welcome, everyone!"
"Mount a Firebolt and soar anywhere, anytime! Randolph Spudmore invites you to witness the magical world's newest and fastest broom claim the championship."
"Butterbeer, mead, firewhisky—whatever you're craving! The White Ink Pub, the Three Broomsticks, and the Leaky Cauldron are here to keep every witch and wizard fueled up for the big match!"
"Wave your wand and cheer the players on—Gregorovitch Wand Shop offers full custom service!"
Ludo Bagman's booming voice rolled across the packed stadium, reaching every single seat in the stands.
The only problem? The content was a little… off. The guy rattled off one slick ad after another like a machine gun, leaving half the crowd blinking in confusion. A few Muggle-born witches and wizards actually had their ears ringing.
Up in the mid-level seats, Seamus and Dean traded a look, heads tilted, eyes full of question marks.
"Welcome to the 422nd Quidditch World Cup Final!"
That line finally snapped everyone out of it.
Unlike Muggle soccer, Quidditch doesn't do halftime. The mascot performances happen right at the start, right before the announcer kicks off the match. So the two teams' mascots came out first.
Bulgaria had hired a hundred Veela. They strutted out from the side tunnel, hips swaying, looking like the most beautiful women any wizard had ever seen. Tall, curves in all the right places, skin glowing like moonlight, hair floating behind them even though there wasn't a breeze.
The second they started dancing, every man in the stands looked like he'd been hit with the Imperius Curse. Eyes glazed over, goofy smiles, pure bliss rolling through their bodies from the inside out. A bunch of wizards lost it completely, gripping the railings like they were about to vault straight onto the pitch.
Ireland's mascots went a completely different route. A comet of light shot into the stadium—bright emerald and gold—looped once around the field, then split in two and formed a shimmering rainbow arch.
It wasn't a spell or a Transfiguration. It was hundreds of tiny leprechauns in red vests, all floating in formation, each holding a little gold or green lantern.
A giant shamrock bloomed on the rainbow bridge. The leprechauns started tossing stuff from their lanterns—not Every Flavor Beans, but real gold coins shaped like shamrocks. They rained down with a cheerful clatter.
The coins weren't worth much, but that didn't stop a bunch of greedy idiots from scrambling to grab them.
"And now! Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome the players! First up—the Bulgarian National Quidditch Team! Let me introduce—"
"Dimitrov!"
"Ivanova!"
"…"
While the players were being announced, Sirius and Mr. Weasley in the top box moved fast. They hauled two very embarrassed kids back into their seats.
Harry had been completely enchanted by the Veela and was about to jump the railing like an idiot—whether to show off or get closer, who knows. Ron had gone full money-grubber mode, eyes shining at the gold coins, ready to strip off his jacket and use it as a sack.
Both boys slowly came back to their senses, faces burning, ears red, suddenly very quiet and wishing they could dig a hole and disappear.
"Grabbing those worthless leprechaun coins is pointless," George said beside them, voice dripping with sarcasm. "You'd be better off placing a couple of bets with Mr. Bagman."
"You actually gambled?" Ron's eyes went wide. "How much? Mum will break the hand you bet with if she finds out!"
"Relax—we learned risk management during our internship at the shop," Fred said with a grin. "We only put down two weeks' wages."
"Why do I have to hand over every Knut I earn, but you two get to keep yours…" Ron muttered under his breath. "Mum should take your paychecks too."
George and Fred sighed theatrically.
"We'd love to hand it over."
"But it's all in the bank. Gotta cash a check."
Listening to Ron grumble, Harry felt a little better about his own dumb moment. He lifted his head just enough to glance around—and noticed the house-elf in the back row staring at the empty seat beside him.
"Mr. Crouch still hasn't shown up?"
After a few minutes of chat once they sat down, Harry had learned this wasn't Dobby. The elf was named Winky—she was the Crouch family's housekeeper, or servant, really. She was terrified of heights but had been ordered to stand in the top box anyway.
Harry could've sworn she kept glancing anxiously at that empty seat, like an invisible person was supposed to be sitting there.
Just then the stadium erupted in thunderous cheers and applause.
The player introductions were finished. The referee—the short, skinny, bald chairman of the International Quidditch Federation—tossed the Quaffle. Bagman declared the match officially underway, and the giant Mirror screen overhead lit up with the score:
Bulgaria: 0
Ireland: 0
The World Cup final was on a whole different level from the Hogwarts House Cup. Bludgers and Quaffles blurred into streaks the instant they left the players' hands—too fast for the naked eye to follow.
The speed of the fliers was insane. Chasers whipped the Quaffle around so quickly that Bagman could barely keep up with the names.
"That's Mullet! Troy! Moran! Dimitrov! Back to Mullet! Troy! Levski! Moran!"
Less than three minutes in, the teams were tangled in a furious dogfight. Before most people even realized what had happened, the whole stadium was roaring.
"Troy scores!"
"Ten–zero, Ireland leads!"
Bagman's magically amplified voice was screaming at the top of its lungs, but it still got swallowed by the crowd. The entire stadium—built to hold a hundred thousand witches and wizards—actually shook.
The leprechauns on the sidelines went wild, lanterns bobbing as they formed another glowing shamrock. The Veela on the opposite side just glared, faces dark.
"Troy! Mullet! Moran!"
Bagman had been a pro player himself, so he knew the game inside out, but even he couldn't keep pace with the passes. He was reduced to shouting names.
Ten minutes later Ireland had scored two more unanswered goals. Bulgaria still had zero. The score was 30–0, and the green-clad fans were roaring like a tidal wave.
"Dimitrov! Levski! Dimitrov! Ivanova—"
"Oh my God!"
Bulgaria's Beaters finally slammed a desperate hit that broke up Ireland's attack. Their Chasers barely recovered, slipped past the Keeper, and Bulgaria put their first goal on the board.
"Ten–thirty!"
That single score didn't spark a comeback. If anything, Ireland came at them even harder. With their Firebolt speed and pinpoint teamwork, the green team poured on the goals. The gap kept widening.
When Ireland ran the score to 130–10, the match turned brutal.
Bulgaria started looking for any opening to smash the Irish players—literally smash them. Quidditch has no yellow or red cards, so the referee only called two fouls after the fact.
Ireland took full advantage and pushed the lead to 170–10.
Out of the hundred thousand fans in the stands, everyone could see Bulgaria was outmatched. Their only prayer was their Seeker. The Bulgarian supporters who still had hope stopped watching the main action and squinted along with Krum, hunting for the Golden Snitch.
…
"Beautiful fake!"
"He's got the Snitch! Krum's got it! Game over!"
"170–160? Ireland wins!"
Bagman's shout sounded almost hesitant, like the rest of the crowd—he was just as stunned by how fast it ended. "Er… Krum caught the Snitch, but Ireland still wins…"
"Merlin's beard, nobody saw that coming!"
A low murmur rolled through the stadium, building into a rumble of thunder. Some fans blamed Krum for ending it when the score was so lopsided. Others said Bulgaria's Chasers had let the team down.
The mascots were already at each other's throats. The leprechauns strutted around smugly while a couple of Veela finally snapped, turning into screeching bird-headed monsters and launching into a full-on brawl.
Both teams landed. The Irish players were jumping around, hugging and whooping. The Bulgarians looked like they'd just lost their entire families.
"And now the Irish team will take a victory lap with their mascots!" Bagman's voice boomed like a church bell.
As "The Irish National Anthem" started blasting from every corner of the pitch, Mirror Club staff slipped out of their mid-level boxes. They moved against the flow of angry, shoving fans, heading straight for Melvin and Wright's private box. Each one hunched over, carefully cradling a small glass vial against their chest.
The vials held the memories of the entire match—from the opening ceremony right up to the final whistle. Wispy silver clouds swirled inside each one.
Old Wil dodged a cursing Bulgarian fan, sidestepped a witch crying over Krum, and ducked under a barrage of flying popcorn, candy, and drinks. He finally reached the box door, out of breath.
Before he could knock, a familiar voice said, "I'll take that."
The young professor was already standing in the doorway. He took the glass vial, unscrewed the stopper right there, and carefully transferred the silver mist into the waiting crystal ball.
The ball was perfectly polished and transparent. Dozens of similar memory strands already floated inside it, glowing with a soft silvery light under the stadium lights.
"Am I the last one?" Old Wil asked, rubbing his bad leg. "Did I make it in time?"
Melvin looked completely relaxed. He pocketed the empty vial and pulled out a gold pocket watch, giving it a little shake. "Plenty of time."
Old Wil eyed the watch chain, still a little doubtful. "This is really going to work?"
"Why wouldn't it? We're airing it in perfect sync with the match. Who can say it isn't live?"
"That's true…" Old Wil mumbled, then turned and shuffled back the way he'd come.
"Should've made Wright do the legwork," Melvin muttered under his breath. He stepped back behind the black velvet curtain into the cramped little space.
This wasn't his first time traveling with a Time-Turner, and this time he didn't even need it to guide him. He knew exactly where he was going—two hours earlier, right before the match started.
The Time-Turner had been hand-picked by the Department of Mysteries. It looked brand new, and the sand inside the hourglass sparkled with tiny silver flecks.
Melvin gave the hourglass two full turns, closed his fingers around the pocket watch, and listened to the faint tick-tick-tick in his ears.
The whole world began to spin backward.
…
Two hours earlier.
Melvin said a quick goodbye to Wright and stepped behind the rear curtain.
The crystal ball sat safely on the little square table. Cool light flowed through Melvin's dark eyes. In that other layer of vision he could see the magic on the thirty or forty Portkeys slowly waking up.
"Start with London," Melvin said. He picked up the crystal ball with his right hand, then—looking slightly disgusted—pressed his left index finger to one of the battered old boots. At that exact moment Bagman was launching into his opening ad spiel.
Listening to the rapid-fire patter, Melvin allowed himself a small smile.
Bang.
He vanished from the noisy stadium.
If Apparition was like being squeezed through a rubber tube, a Portkey felt like a fishhook yanking you by the navel—hard and unstoppable.
Cold wind howled past. Trees, hills, and fields blurred beneath him in a smear of color. He couldn't see a thing.
His feet touched solid ground again.
He was standing in the Ministry of Magic.
Melvin glanced around the office. The Department of Magical Transportation staff had been waiting. Madam Edgecombe was pacing in front of the desk.
"Professor Levent."
She hurried over. Melvin didn't waste time on small talk. He drew one strand of silver mist from the crystal ball and transferred it into the container they had prepared.
A junior clerk rushed it straight to the Floo Network center to start the broadcast. Madam Edgecombe offered politely, "Professor, would you like to stay and watch with us?"
Melvin was already gripping the corner of the old boot. He shrugged. "Still got dozens of countries waiting for their special delivery."
That was the Mirror Club's plan: edit the footage during the match, hand the finished memory to Melvin the moment the final whistle blew, then send him two hours back in time. He would drop the recorded version behind the curtain right before the match even started.
The professor who had already seen the entire game became a magical courier, hopping back and forth between the stadium box and dozens of foreign Ministries using the pre-set Portkeys.