Harry Potter with Technology System

Ch338- Win!

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Ginny, who had been rolling her eyes at her brothers since the Veela stepped onto the field, gave Fred a firm smack on the back of his head. “Pull yourself together, you idiot.”

Fred winced dramatically, rubbing his head. “Ow! That hurt more than rejection, Ginny.”

“Keep talking, and you’ll find out what else hurts,” she shot back, crossing her arms.

Ron, seated a few rows ahead with the rest of the Weasleys, nearly toppled over the railing in his attempt to get a better look at the Veela. Ginny yanked him back into his seat with a glare. "Stop drooling."

Ron blinked as though waking from a dream, quickly clamping his mouth shut. “I wasn’t drooling,” he muttered defensively, though the tips of his ears turned bright red.

Astoria leaned over to Tracey, her lips twitching in amusement as she whispered, “They really lose their minds over Veela.”

Tracey stifled a laugh, her gaze flicking back to Harry. “Well, it’s official. He’s not human.”

“I heard that,” Harry said without looking at her, his tone dry. He finally turned his head to glance at the group, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “What’s the matter? You lot look like you’ve never seen a mascot before.”

Cedric, seated at the back, let out a low chuckle. “Not all of us have your… fortitude, Harry. Some of us are still susceptible to the charms of magically enhanced beauty.”n/ô/vel/b//jn dot c//om

“Speak for yourself,” Blaise said, her tone cool. “Some of us are simply better at keeping our heads than others.”

His gaze shifted pointedly to Theo, who was slouched in his seat, trying to hide the fact that he was still staring at the Veela. He straightened abruptly under his scrutiny, clearing his throat. “I’m perfectly fine, thank you.”

The announcer’s voice boomed through the stadium, silencing the chatter in an instant.

“Ladies and gentlemen, wizards and witches, welcome to the 422nd Quidditch World Cup Final!”

The crowd erupted into deafening cheers, flags waving wildly as the stadium came alive with energy. The announcer’s voice continued, introducing the Irish and Bulgarian teams with dramatic flair as the players soared onto the field. The Irish Chasers, dressed in vibrant green robes, streaked across the pitch in perfect formation, their broomsticks gleaming under the enchanted lights. The Bulgarian team followed moments later, Viktor Krum at the head of their formation. His movements were confident, drawing cheers and applause from his supporters.

Astoria jumped to her feet, waving her Ireland flag enthusiastically. “Go Ireland!” she shouted, her voice nearly drowned out by the roar of the crowd.

“Sit down, Tori,” Daphne said, tugging her back into her seat. “You’re going to give someone behind you a reason to hex you.”

Astoria stuck her tongue out at her sister but complied, though she continued to wave her flag with unrelenting enthusiasm.

The announcer’s voice reached a crescendo, signaling the start of the match. The referee, a stern-looking wizard with a whistle clamped between his teeth, released the Bludgers and Snitch, followed by the Quaffle.

“And they’re off!”

The game began at a blistering pace, the Quaffle exchanging hands so quickly it was nearly impossible to keep track. The Irish Chasers lived up to their reputation, weaving through the Bulgarian defense with a combination of speed and finesse that had the crowd roaring with approval. However, the Bulgarians weren’t about to be outdone. Their Beaters, armed with bats that seemed to strike with almost frightening precision, kept the Irish on their toes, deflecting Bludgers with a force that sent shockwaves through the pitch.

Harry watched intently, his eyes flicking between the Chasers and Krum, who hovered above the action like a hawk. His gaze locked onto the Snitch even as chaos unfolded below him.

“Merlin, Krum’s incredible,” Blaise muttered, leaning forward. “It’s like he already knows where the Snitch is going to appear.”

“Doesn’t matter if he catches it,” Ginny pointed out, her tone confident. “Ireland’s Chasers are too good. They’ll rack up enough points to make the Snitch irrelevant.”

As the game progressed, the tension in the stadium became almost palpable. Ireland surged ahead, their Chasers scoring goal after goal. The crowd erupted into cheers with each point, the Irish supporters drowning out the Bulgarian fans.

But Bulgaria wasn’t giving up. Krum dived suddenly, his broomstick cutting through the air like a blade. The stadium held its collective breath as he pulled up just inches from the ground, a near-perfect Wronski Feint that sent one of the Irish Chasers spiraling off course. The Bulgarian supporters roared with approval, their cheers echoing through the stadium.

“That was dirty,” Hermione said, frowning as she adjusted her Omnioculars. “Brilliant, but dirty.”

“It’s Quidditch,” Fred replied, grinning. “Dirty’s half the fun.”

The match continued, each team pushing the limits of their skill and endurance. The Irish Chasers maintained their lead, but Krum’s relentless pursuit of the Snitch kept the Bulgarians in the game. The tension was electric, every movement on the pitch drawing gasps and cheers from the crowd.

Finally, after what felt like hours, Krum made his move. He dove again, this time with a speed and determination that left no doubt in anyone’s mind—he had spotted the Snitch. The Irish Seeker, clearly caught off guard, scrambled to follow, but Krum was too fast.

The stadium erupted into chaos as Krum’s hand closed around the golden Snitch, its wings beating furiously against his grip. The Bulgarian supporters screamed in triumph, their cheers echoing through the stands.

But the scoreboard told a different story. Ireland’s lead was too great. Despite Krum’s capture of the Snitch, the final score declared Ireland the victors.

Astoria leapt to her feet, cheering loudly as she waved her flag. “I told you! Ireland wins!”

Blaise groaned, slumping back in his seat. “Unbelievable. Krum catches the Snitch, and they still lose.”

“That’s what happens when you rely on one player,” Daphne said, her tone matter-of-fact. “Quidditch is a team sport.”

Tracey rolled her eyes. “Tell that to Harry. He won every game he played by catching the Snitch.”

Daphne turned to Harry, her expression almost bored. “He doesn’t count. He’s not human.”

Harry placed a hand over his chest with exaggerated offense. “Right in my heart, Daphne. That wound might never heal.”

Astoria snickered, leaning toward him. “Oh, please. You don’t even have a heart.”

“Oh, harsh,” Harry replied, raising an eyebrow. “Is that what they’re teaching in your Care of Magical Creatures classes these days? Dissection of Slytherin Seekers?”

“Only the freakishly talented ones,” she quipped, sticking her tongue out at him.

Selena, seated next to him observed the exchange with a faint smirk. “Must you always encourage them, Harry?”

“It’s a full-time job,” Harry said with a shrug. “Besides, someone has to keep their egos in check.”

Daphne smirked back at him. “And you’re the humble, selfless figure keeping us grounded, are you?”

“Obviously,” Harry replied, as though it were the most natural conclusion in the world.

The group burst into laughter, their earlier Quidditch arguments forgotten as they settled into their seats to watch the Irish players take a victory lap around the stadium. The golden Quaffle gleamed in the light of enchanted fireworks, and the Bulgarian fans grudgingly joined in with polite applause for the Irish team.

Astoria practically bounced in her seat, waving her Ireland scarf again. “I told you they would win!”

“Alright, Astoria,” Blaise muttered, rubbing his ear. “We heard you the first three times.”

“I’m just saying!” she replied brightly, clearly unbothered by Blaise’s tone. “I was right.”

“You know,” Tracey said thoughtfully, turning to Astoria, “if you put half as much energy into your studies as you do into Quidditch, you might actually stand a chance at beating Daphne in your exams.”

“Traitor,” Astoria said, glaring at her friend.

“Practical advice,” Tracey shot back, grinning. “Take it or leave it.”

Before Astoria could respond, a loud crack of fireworks drew their attention back to the field. The Irish team descended to the pitch, their wands raised in celebration, and the Veela—now decidedly less alluring to the dazed male fans—performed a graceful farewell display. The Bulgarian players left the field with the stoic dignity expected of a team that had fought valiantly, even in defeat.

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