The roar of the stadium did not fade after Ireland.
If anything, it sharpened.
The semi-final had reminded the world that Quidditch was not a one-man sport—even if one man could tip the scales.
Now only one question remained:
Who would stand opposite Britain in the Championship?
Brazil.
Or Bulgaria.
The day after his own match Julius didnt stay away to rest and prepare for the championship match.
Instead, he slipped into the players' box high above the pitch—private, warded, and all their own.
The box was reserved for Britain, however only Cassius himself showed up to witness todays match the rest of the team was taking the day to recover and prepare for whomever they would face as a result of this match in the finals.
Astoria leaned forward eagerly on the couch she had plunked herself down upon. "Did you really put a hundred Galleons on Bulgaria?"
"I did," Cassius replied calmly.
Cho blinked. "That's reckless."
"No," he said, eyes shifting to the pitch below as the teams began to emerge. "It's predictive."
Luna tilted her head, studying him in that disconcertingly perceptive way of hers. "You want the Bulgarian Seeker."
Cassius allowed himself the faintest smile.
"Yes."
Bulgaria was capable of reaching the finals origionally and seeing as how Cassius had wound up on the otherside of the bracket replacing Ireland the odds of Bulgaria being his opponent in this new timeline was very good seeing as how nothing had changed so far as he knew that would stop Krum's indomitable run when pitted against the Brazillians.
The stadium darkened briefly as enchanted spotlights flared to life.
First came Brazil.
They burst onto the field in a blaze of gold and green, broom trails streaking like comets.
Their chasers looped around one another in elaborate spirals before even touching the Quaffle, drawing cheers from neutral spectators who appreciated spectacle as much as victory.
Brazil did not just play Quidditch.
They performed it.
Cassius leaned back, folding his arms.
"Ireland with flair," he murmured.
Daphne nodded. "And twice the showmanship."
Then Bulgaria emerged.
No fireworks.
No elaborate formations.
Just seven players in deep crimson, flying in tight, disciplined lines.
At their center—
Viktor Krum.
Even from this distance, the difference was obvious.
He flew lower than most Seekers preferred, posture slightly hunched, movements economical.
There was no wasted motion in him.
No dramatic sweeps.
No needless ascents.
He cut angles.
He shortened lines.
He hunted.
Ginny whistled softly. "He looks… intense."
"He is," Cassius replied. "But intensity alone does not win matches, even though this particular one will be his."
The whistle blew.
The match began.
Immediately, Brazil seized control of the Quaffle.
Their passing was almost musical—rapid, fluid exchanges that forced Bulgaria's chasers to scramble.
Within two minutes, Brazil scored first.
The crowd roared approval.
Cassius watched not the Quaffle—but the Seekers.
Brazil's Seeker was quick.
Technically sharp.
He flew high arcs, constantly adjusting altitude, scanning with impressive awareness.
But he reacted.
Krum anticipated.
The difference was subtle, yet unmistakable.
Where the Brazilian darted after glints of gold, Krum positioned himself where the Snitch would have to move next.
He carved the pitch into invisible territories, denying space without appearing aggressive.
Brazil scored again.
Then again.
30–0.
Ginny grinned. "Maybe your hundred Galleons—"
"Wait," Cassius interrupted softly.
Below, a Bludger screamed toward Krum's shoulder.
He dropped half a meter.
Not more.
The iron ball passed harmlessly overhead.
No flourish.
No wasted dive.
He resumed scanning as though nothing had happened.
Hermione leaned forward. "He barely reacted."
"Because he saw it ten seconds earlier," Cassius replied.
Brazil continued to dominate possession.
Their chasers were magnificent—tight formations, deceptive handoffs, even mid-air feints that left Bulgarian defenders reaching at empty space.
60–10.
The Bulgarian Keeper struggled visibly.
Astoria frowned. "They're being overwhelmed."
"Yes," Cassius agreed. "Brazil is the better team."
Luna smiled faintly. "But not the better Seeker."
Cassius did not respond.
The Snitch flickered near midfield.
Both Seekers saw it.
The Brazilian moved first—explosive acceleration, diving between two chasers.
Krum did not chase directly.
He angled.
Cutting off.
The Snitch veered.
So did Krum.
The Brazilian overcorrected, forced to pull up sharply to avoid colliding with a Bludger redirected by his own beater.
Krum emerged from beneath them both, having lost almost no momentum.
The Snitch vanished again.
The stadium buzzed.
"That," Cassius said quietly, "is the difference."
Ginny crossed her arms. "You sound impressed."
"I am. If only a little"
Brazil scored once more.
80–20.
The commentators were growing animated.
Brazil's fluidity was undeniable.
Their teamwork rivaled Ireland's.
Perhaps even exceeded it in raw creativity.
If this match went long enough, they could bury Bulgaria on points alone.
But Krum did not look concerned.
He flew as though the scoreboard were irrelevant.
As though only one thing mattered.
Cassius recognized the mindset.
It was the same one he had worn against Ireland.
Control the moment of ending.
Daphne glanced sideways at him. "You're enjoying this."
He allowed himself a small nod.
For once, he was not responsible.
No calculations about timing.
No self-imposed restraints.
No deliberate throttling of speed.
He could simply watch.
And measure.
The Snitch appeared again—higher this time, glinting against enchanted sunlight.
The Brazilian spotted it first.
He dove hard.
The crowd erupted.
Krum moved half a heartbeat later.
Not slower.
Just… later.
Cassius's eyes narrowed.
The Brazilian had the inside line.
If he maintained speed, if he held trajectory—
Krum accelerated.
The difference in broom quality became apparent.
It was not the Aeriusbolt, but Bulgaria's custom broom was formidable nonetheless.
Krum's frame folded tighter against it, minimizing drag.
He did not attempt to overtake.
He angled upward.
Forcing the Brazilian to adjust or collide.
The Brazilian hesitated.
One second.
Enough.
Krum shot beneath him, twisting midair with startling violence.
His arm extended—
The Snitch darted sideways.
So did he.
His fingers closed.
The whistle shrieked.
Pandemonium.
Final score:
Brazil 80 – Bulgaria 170.
The Brazilian team had dominated.
And lost.
Silence rippled briefly through the stands before applause followed—respectful, thunderous.
Brazil's chasers looked stunned.
Krum hovered above the pitch, expression unchanged, Snitch clenched in hand.
Ginny let out a breath. "That's brutal."
Hermione nodded slowly. "They were better in every other position."
"Yes," Cassius said.
Astoria beamed. "So we win our bet."
Daphne smirked. "We always do."
Cassius's gaze remained fixed on Krum as the Bulgarian Seeker descended to accept congratulations.
There was no arrogance in him.
No theatrical celebration.
Only quiet inevitability.
"He ended it on his terms," Cassius murmured.
Luna hummed thoughtfully. "Just like you."
Cassius finally leaned back in his seat.
The Championship was set.
Britain v Bulgaria.
Snape v Krum.
The world would call it destiny.
Cassius knew better.
He had nudged events toward this alignment deliberately—small changes here, subtle pressures there. Enough to keep history recognizable. Predictable.
Controllable.
He rose from his seat as the stadium continued to roar below.
"Enjoy the winnings," he told the girls lightly. "You'll need them."
Ginny grinned. "For what?"
Cassius's eyes returned once more to the crimson figure on the pitch.
"For the final," he said softly.
And for the first time in the tournament—
He felt anticipation.