The day of the final dawn unnaturally clear, and the day itself seemed to pass by in an instant with the afternoon soaring by an evening well underway.
Cassius stood at the mouth of the British tunnel, gloved fingers resting lightly along the polished shaft of the Aeriusbolt Supreme.
Around him, his teammates rolled their shoulders, tested grips, murmured last-second prayers for their safety and victory even if being carried by a literal kid to do so.
Across the pitch, crimson gathered in disciplined silence.
Seventy thousand voices pressed against the wards of the stadium like a living breathing thing.
Then the Minister of Magic's voice boomed across the arena, magically amplified to impossible volume.
"Good Evening! As Minister For Magic" declared Cornelius Fudge, his lime-green bowler hat gleaming beneath enchanted sunlight. "It gives me great pleasure, to welcome each and every one of you! To the final of the four hundred and twenty-second quidditch world cup! Let the match begin"
The roar was seismic.
Unlike in the origional timeline it was the Bulgarians who took to the air first, zooming up from the outside of the stadium and dropping in from above.
The stadium lights dimmed to a smoldering crimson hue as a deep, rhythmic drumbeat echoedl.
One by one, the Bulgarian team emerged in tight formation.
No smiles.
No theatrics.
Until the last figure zoomed forward on his personal Firebolt.
Viktor Krum.
The roar shifted—the challenger for the top seeker position second only to Cassius though many argued he was better.
Krum did not wave.
He first zoomed by at full speed before pulling off an aerobatic maneuver as he stunted on his broom.
Then with the stadium beginning to broadcast what seemingly looked like a recording of a now larger than life Krum raising his fist in triumph, only to be mirrored by the real Krum doing the same atop his broom at center field.
Then it was Britains turn to enter.
The opening bars of "Rule, Britannia!" thundered across the stadium as the British team exploded from the tunnel in a burst of red-blue-white sparks.
Illusion charms flared behind them—an enormous Union Jack unfurling across half the sky, rippling in perfect synchrony with the wind.
The crowd lost all semblance of restraint.
British chasers looped in crossing arcs that formed a roaring golden lion midair, its mane flickering in conjured flame.
The massive spectral beast opened its jaws in a silent roar before dissolving into sparks that rained harmlessly down upon the pitch.
Cassius himself emerged last.
No fireworks.
No spirals.
He rose in a clean vertical line, stopping level with Krum across the field.
The illusionary lion's embers reflected briefly in his dark eyes.
For a heartbeat, the world narrowed.
Just two Seekers suspended above history.
Krum inclined his head.
Cassius returned the gesture.
The whistle shrieked.
As the snitch was set loose, along with the bludgers.
Until at last the Quaffle was lobbed high into the air, and the Final began.
Chaos detonated instantly.
Bulgaria's beaters were merciless from the outset, driving Bludgers hard into Britain's formation.
Britain responded in kind, iron spheres screaming across open air like cannonfire.
The Quaffle changed hands twice within the first thirty seconds.
Cassius rose higher, scanning.
There.
A flicker near the southern stands.
He accelerated—
So did Krum.
They converged midair, matching pace within meters of one another.
The Snitch darted between them like living lightning before vanishing again.
No words were exchanged.
None were needed.
Below, Bulgaria scored first.
A clean shot through the right hoop.
The Bulgarian section erupted in crimson delirium.
Britain answered almost immediately—sharp passing sequence ending with a hard throw through center ring.
10–10.
Cassius adjusted altitude.
Krum mirrored.
Not copying—countering.
Cassius tested him.
A feint dive toward the western goalposts.
Krum did not bite.
Instead, he drifted diagonally, cutting off a potential escape vector.
Interesting.
The Snitch appeared again—briefly—near midfield.
Both moved.
This time Cassius pushed harder.
The Aeriusbolt responded with eager ferocity, acceleration snapping the air around him.
Krum's broom held pace longer than Cassius expected, the Bulgarian's posture compressing further as he optimized drag.
They were nearly wingtip to wingtip.
A Bludger screamed between them.
Cassius rolled inverted without breaking trajectory.
Krum ducked beneath it in a tight corkscrew.
Neither lost speed.
The Snitch shot upward.
Cassius surged.
Krum angled.
At the last second, the golden blur ricocheted sharply sideways, vanishing behind a cluster of chasers.
They broke apart.
The stadium thundered approval.
Below, Bulgaria's team pressed aggressively.
Their chasers were not as fluid as Brazil's—but they were disciplined, exploiting narrow openings with ruthless efficiency.
20–10.
30–10.
Britain retaliated with a long diagonal pass that sliced through Bulgarian defense.
30–20.
The score ticked upward in tight increments.
Unlike Ireland's overwhelming synergy or Brazil's artistry, this match felt surgical.
Calculated.
Every movement deliberate.
Cassius climbed higher again, scanning the upper tiers.
Streching his senses to feel out the aura of the snitch itself from amonst the seventy thousand different magical auras radiating around him.
The Snitch burst free near the northern stands.
He dove.
Krum dove.
This time, neither held back.
The world blurred.
Wind tore at Cassius's robes as the Aeriusbolt unleashed its full potential.
The distance between them shrank to nothing.
He could see the concentration etched into Krum's expression—no anger, no arrogance.
Only focus.
The Snitch dipped low.
Cassius extended—
Krum's shoulder clipped his.
Not enough to foul.
Enough to disrupt.
Cassius adjusted mid-dive, twisting sideways to avoid colliding fully. The Snitch slipped through the chaos and vanished once more.
They pulled up sharply, separating.
Neither securing the prize they were after and having to reset the hunt for the target of their desires
The scoreboard read 40–30 in Bulgaria's favor.
The crowd was beyond reason now—British and Bulgarian chants crashing into one another like opposing storms.
Cassius hovered, breathing steady.
Across from him, Krum hovered too.
No smirk.
No nod.
Just acknowledgment.
This would not be a seven-minute match.
This would not end at the first clean opportunity.
This was a duel layered atop a war.
Below, Britain equalized again—40–40.
The Snitch flickered at the very edge of Cassius's awareness.
He did not move immediately.
Neither did Krum.
For a heartbeat, both Seekers waited.
Measured.
Testing the other's patience.
Then—
They launched.
The final had only just begun.