— — — — — —
Compared to house teams, or even professional leagues, today's game was on a completely different level. Every player was riding a Firebolt, their speed so absurd it left afterimages in the air.
Without commentary or magical assistance, it was almost impossible to grasp the whole picture. All anyone could really see were players streaking back and forth through the sky.
To match the skill of these elite players and their top-tier equipment, the World Cup used specially modified Bludgers and a Golden Snitch, all about twenty percent faster than the standard versions.
The Irish fans only grew louder, because the match was basically a one-sided slaughter.
In barely over ten minutes, Bulgaria had been smashed for ten goals straight. The score rocketed to 100–0.
Krum was losing his mind. Even though he toyed with Ireland's Seeker, Lynch, like a cat with a mouse and even smashed his nose, it didn't matter. His teammates just kept feeding points to the enemy.
If you've ever played League of Legends or Mobile Legends, you know that feeling.
---
Half an hour later, the match was over.
Krum deliberately caught the Golden Snitch, losing the game 170–160.
Which meant that aside from him, the rest of the Bulgarian team had scored a grand total of ten points.
"The gap is way too big," Cassandra said, shaking her head in disappointment. She'd expected a fierce, close match. Instead, it had been a massacre.
"Just take it as entertainment," Tom said as he stood up, looking down at the crowd going wild on the pitch. "There'll be plenty more spectacles like this in the future. But tell me… what do you think this stadium could be used for later?"
He'd already reached an agreement with the Ministry. After the World Cup, he would buy full ownership of the stadium for eight hundred thousand Galleons.
Fleur offered an idea. "Concerts?"
Hermione immediately shot it down. "Even the most popular singer in the entire wizarding world couldn't fill more than twenty percent of these seats."
"Then rent it out to other Quidditch teams for matches."
"Still not enough," Hermione shook her head. "A stadium for three hundred thousand people is just too big."
In the end, no one came up with a truly good solution. The most realistic option was hosting various large-scale competitions.
Tom himself wasn't sure yet. Either way, he wouldn't lose money. If the Ministry weren't desperately short on cash, they would never have sold him the stadium in the first place.
When the Irish celebration finally died down, Tom prepared to leave through the private exit with his group. But just outside the box, they ran into Fudge, who was also heading out, along with a crowd of other Ministers of Magic.
"Mr. Riddle!" Fudge greeted him enthusiastically. Enthusiastically to the point of flattery, his jowls folding together as he smiled.
He had finally discovered the joy of letting things slide.
Inside the Ministry, he was more like a mascot now. Everything was still reported to him as before, but once Riddle made a decision, Fudge no longer had the authority to say no.
Yet from the outside, Cornelius Fudge's influence looked greater than ever. In the past, the Ministry could never have supported moves on this scale.
All of it came from working with Tom Riddle.
Fudge still craved power deeply, but he'd changed his approach. If Crouch and Bones could grovel, why couldn't he?
Riddle was far easier to deal with than Dumbledore. Not because he was weaker, but because Tom's ambition was written plainly on his face. Everything he did was out in the open.
Dumbledore, on the other hand, was a smiling old schemer. Pleasant on the surface, but who knew what kind of plots he was cooking up underneath? There were so many things you couldn't say outright with him, and that made Fudge miserable.
Working with Tom was straightforward. He told you exactly what he wanted and exactly what he could give you. If you could accept it, great. If not, you were out.
Hard to swallow at first. Incredibly satisfying once you got used to it.
Not having to constantly look over your shoulder felt amazing.
Before Fudge could get more flattery in, he was squeezed aside by other Ministers of Magic. Even members of the acolytes crowded over.
After being stopped and talked at for ages, Tom finally managed to extricate himself.
He'd planned to invite the Scamander family to dinner, but once the match ended, Newt was already worrying about the Kelpie and the Erumpent back home. After leaving a message in his codex, he went straight back.
...
Lanterns lit the road ahead. The way was filled with celebrating Irish fans. Leprechauns zipped through the air, singing absolutely awful songs.
Watching the wild crowd, Tom frowned slightly. He deployed all of his "Transformers" along the commercial streets to prevent anyone from doing something extreme. Only after that did he take the girls back to the villa.
Tonight was barbecue night. The house-elves had already prepared all the ingredients and tools. Before long, the rich, mouthwatering smell of grilled meat drifted out from the backyard.
— — —
Durmstrang—
"Tell me, Albus. Do you really have that little faith in me?"
Inside the headmaster's office, Grindelwald stared darkly at the elderly man sitting calmly across from him.
He had made it very clear that he wasn't going to watch the World Cup. And yet Dumbledore still didn't trust him enough, coming all the way here just to keep an eye on him.
"No one can afford your sudden flashes of inspiration," Dumbledore said mildly, dropping another five cubes of sugar and two spoonfuls of honey into his teacup. "Even if I trust you, the Ministers of Magic certainly don't."
Grindelwald let out a mocking laugh. "So once again, you've decided to be their attack dog and block me here?"
"No. I came of my own accord," Dumbledore shook his head seriously. "To avoid trouble later, it's better to suffer a little now. I just want some peace of mind."
"Peace of mind…" Grindelwald sneered. "Sounds like even you know you've done plenty of guilty things in your lifetime. Now you're pretending to be a good man. Or maybe not pretending. You've always been like this. Feeling guilty while plotting against people in the dark."
Every word hit straight to the heart. Yet Dumbledore remained perfectly composed.
At his age, he'd learned to let many things go. Compared to the curses he'd endured from Slytherins over the years, Grindelwald's barbs were honestly nothing special.
Hmm. He still cares about me.
"I wonder if Ariana would feel sick, seeing how fake you are now."
Dumbledore's smile vanished. He silently took back that last thought. A sharp, icy light flared in his blue eyes. "Gellert Grindelwald, I've tolerated you many times already. If you mention Ariana again, I promise you will pay for it."
Grindelwald instantly leaned into it, all mock innocence. "Really? I don't believe you. I'm just trying to think from Ariana's perspective. Back then, she was such a timid, obedient little girl. Like a frightened rabbit, always on edge…"
The more he spoke, the more emotion crept into his voice. Compared to the Ariana of now, the difference was enormous.
Dumbledore's expression darkened further. His beard lifted slightly, trembling in the air as a crushing pressure filled the room. The furniture began to shake under the weight of it.
"If you want to fight, then fight," Grindelwald snorted. "You really think I'm afraid of you?"
With that, he shot out through the window, taking the lead.
Ariana's resurrection had come at the perfect moment, bringing a complete transformation to his soul. He felt more alive than ever, free of any guilt toward the little girl. And thanks to his recent training, he had fully regained his strength—perhaps even surpassed his former peak.
But that so-called improvement hadn't been very noticeable in the study space. After being abused by Andros, then by Tom, and even shamelessly going to Jeanne for advice, he'd still ended up in stalemates where neither side could truly overpower the other. It was hard to feel any progress at all.
Now that Dumbledore had delivered himself right to his doorstep, Grindelwald had no intention of letting the opportunity slip. Especially since he'd just acquired a brand-new wand. This was the perfect chance to test its power.
Dumbledore blinked. He couldn't fly, so he could only summon Fawkes to carry him along.
At the same time, a thought crossed his mind.
Maybe he really should research a flying spell. Grindelwald could fly. Voldemort could fly. Tom could fly.
And he was still relying on Fawkes every time.
Stepping out of a swirling vortex of flames, Dumbledore was momentarily distracted.
Suddenly, a blinding red flash came hurtling straight at him.
---
At the same time, in one of the World Cup camps.
Even past midnight, the noise showed no signs of dying down.
Inside a crude tent, a sleeping Black wizard suddenly snapped his eyes open. A sharp light flashed in them.
Stepping out of his tent, he flicked his wand at a drunken man slumped by the roadside, weaving the Imperius Curse into him. Instantly, the man straightened and followed silently in his wake.
Moments later, flames shot into the sky, mixed with screams and cries.
A conflict had begun.
.
.
.