A Cheap Trick

"Now, let us welcome the Irish National Quidditch Team!"

Bagman's booming voice pulled Harry out of his wandering thoughts.

"Connolly! Ryan! Troy! Mullet! Moran! Quigley! And—and—and—Lin Qi!"

Seven blurry dark-green figures flew toward the pitch, and the Bulgarian team on the enormous screen switched to the newly arrived Irish National Team.

The scarlet banners drifting down from the sky were replaced by dark green ones, and the supporters' enthusiasm was no less fervent than before.

Both sides were strong, evenly matched in every sense.

"And finally, today's referee, who has traveled all the way from Egypt—the widely respected President of the International Quidditch Federation—Hassan Mustafa!"

As soon as Bagman finished speaking, the short, wiry Mustafa strode onto the pitch.

He wore a pure gold robe that matched the stadium's colors, looking just as spirited as the players.

Without wasting words, Mustafa mounted his broomstick and kicked open the box in the center of the pitch.

He blew his whistle and soared into the air alongside the scarlet Quaffle, two black Bludgers, and the tiny Golden Snitch.

"Alright, the match has officially begun!"

Ivanova launched an attack at once, but the opposing Chaser, Troy, was one step faster.

0:10. The Irish National Team scored first.

Before long, the score had reached 0:30.

Troy was tall and burly, yet unexpectedly even more agile than Ivanova.

In the VIP box, Oubransdeng in the front row was starting to get restless.

No one could smile after conceding thirty points right at the start.

Beside him, Fudge glanced at the Irish Minister of Magic seated on his other side.

He looked calm enough, but he was probably celebrating inside already.

"Ivanova breaks through the blockade—beautiful! She scores!"

The enormous screen showed a pretty face gasping for breath.

The slow-motion replay showed that Ivanova had already given it everything she had. The Irish National Team's targeted blockade had been highly effective—and deadly.

The Bulgarian team swiftly adjusted its tactics, but the opposing side's coordination was practically flawless, and Troy scored two more goals in quick succession.

"Krum is diving toward the ground—is it the Golden Snitch?"

A scarlet figure plunged downward, followed closely by a dark-green one.

Krum glanced back over his shoulder, accelerated once more, and stretched out his right hand.

Just as he was about to hit the ground, he abruptly pulled up and skimmed over the grass.

Lin Qi behind him had no time to react and crashed heavily into the turf, sending up a great spray of dirt.

Referee Mustafa hurried over, blowing his whistle and calling the field medics in.

"I'm fine." Lin Qi got to his feet and brushed the dirt off himself. "I can keep playing."

The medics insisted on giving him basic treatment. Thanks to that, Krum, who had successfully pulled off the Longski Feint, was able to search for the Snitch without interference for the next few minutes.

If the Irish National Team wanted to play targeted tactics, then they could not blame Bulgaria for fighting dirty.

Oubransdeng in the VIP box immediately beamed with delight, while the Irish Minister of Magic remained as calm as ever.

In the back row, Vincent was explaining the Longski Feint to Hermione.

She knew the rules of Quidditch, but her understanding of tactics was limited to the Chasers' role.

"The Longski Feint is, simply put, a tactic where one Seeker deliberately makes the opposing Seeker think the Golden Snitch is below, causing them to imitate the dive and fail to react in time, crashing into the ground."

"Oh, so it's a cheap little trick to steal an advantage."

When Vincent saw the reply, he hurriedly pinched his thigh hard. Hermione's analogy was just too spot-on.

"T^T I pinched my leg swollen. Hurry up and comfort me!"

"=?= Sorry... I'll rub it for you after the match?"

"· I'll think about it."

"＾w＾ Good girl."

Sirius Black dared swear to old Merlin that he had not been deliberately peeking.

Though they were tucked away in a corner of the back row, Vincent was being far too blatant.

Fine, chat if you wanted to chat—but why did he have to make the Magical Communicator's projected screen so huge? Was he afraid the person beside him would not see it?

Hey, big shots in the front row, someone here is making single people suffer!

Feeling his resentful gaze, Vincent looked up at him blankly. "What's wrong?"

Sirius Black pointed at the screen that was practically shoved into his face. "Could you be a little more restrained?"

Vincent apologetically shrank the screen. "Ah, I got too absorbed in chatting. Sorry."

Harry watched the match intently throughout. Lin Qi had already returned to the field, and although Viktor Krum had successfully bought a few minutes, he had gained nothing from it.

Under the Irish National Team's steady, methodical offense, the score soon climbed to 10:120.

Gradually, the Bulgarian team began to grow anxious.

Their Keeper, Zograf, glared viciously at the oncoming Irish Chaser, Mullet.

The instant Mullet threw the ball, Zograf accelerated and slammed into him.

Mullet quickly steadied himself, and the Quaffle passed cleanly through the hoops.

Such an obvious charging foul from Zograf immediately drew a penalty from referee Mustafa.

"Biased officiating! Absolutely biased officiating!" Bulgaria's supporters were deeply dissatisfied with the call.

"There was no charging foul at all!"

Mustafa's expression turned especially grim.

This was Britain, yet there were very few British fans in the stadium. Where had all these Quidditch hooligans come from?

After the high-definition slow-motion replay on the Magical Projection, the Bulgarian supporters finally fell completely silent.

They had quieted down, but now it was the Irish supporters' turn to be unhappy.

They dared to loudly accuse even the International Quidditch Federation's president of biased officiating. If this tournament had not had replays, those thugs would surely have been even more shameless.

"Are you Bulgarian chicks such sore losers?"

"If you can't take a loss, don't come! Do you think the final is a joke?"

Seeing that a riot was about to break out, Scrimgeour rose from the top-level box and led the Special Squad to swiftly escort several troublemakers out of the stadium.

Mustafa blew his whistle and once again declared the penalty valid.

He turned toward Bulgaria's hoops and raised his right hand, signaling Mullet to get ready.

Once both sides were prepared, he unconsciously glanced at the Veela beneath the hoops.

Everyone waited for his signal, yet he did not lower his raised hand for a long while.

Those unaware of the situation followed his gaze and discovered that the Veela were actually batting their eyes at him.

The Irish supporters, already full of pent-up anger, completely lost it:

"Shameless!"

"They're the ones who should be thrown out of the stadium!"

"You sore-loser chicks! How many dirty tricks do you have left?"

The entire stadium descended into chaos once more, and Scrimgeour, who had only just withdrawn his team, hurried back with them again.

The now-clearheaded Mustafa's face darkened to the extreme.

He blew his whistle sharply and announced sternly, "The Irish National Team is awarded another penalty!"

With that, he brought his right hand down heavily. Mullet, who had long been poised to strike, made a feint before hurling the Quaffle with all his strength.

Zograf fell for it, and the Quaffle sailed cleanly through the hoops.

For the second penalty, he thought Mullet was feinting again, but to his surprise, Mullet actually threw the ball.

Both shots went in, bringing the score to 10:150.