As the Potters and their very interesting entourage got comfortable in the VIP Box—which came with golden trim, plush velvet seats, and a view so clear it probably counted as cheating—everything felt almost perfect.
Until the sound of a high-pitched "ahem" cut through the conversation like an ax to a party balloon.
Harry didn't need to turn. He felt the malignant pink energy radiating behind him like toxic air freshener. But of course, he turned. Because if Fate was offering him a toad in a teacup, he was going to sip.
There she was: Dolores Jane Umbridge. Looking like someone had vomited lace onto a Victorian sofa, then cursed it into sentience. Everything about her screamed "middle-management villain with a tragic addiction to doilies."
She had the smile of a doll that definitely came to life at night and whispered threats into children's ears.
"Good afternoon," she trilled, sounding like she gargled with syrup and superiority. "Dolores Umbridge, Senior Undersecretary to the Minister for Magic."
Sirius—looking like a rockstar-gone-vampire-hunter in black leather and brooding stubble—blinked at her. "Did we summon her by saying the word 'bureaucracy' three times in a mirror?"
Rose—legs crossed, sunglasses on, lollipop in her mouth, dressed like sass had a teenage form—piped up, "If she says she's here for our 'safety and order,' I'm jumping off this box."
Dolores gave her a look. The kind of look you give to something sticky on your shoe.
Harry stood. And stretched. Which, considering the man was built like a Greek god who'd been bench-pressing thunderclouds, drew all four of his girlfriends' attention. Jean bit her lip. Ororo's eyes lingered just a second too long. Natasha raised a brow, amused. And Tonks straight up muttered, "Damn," under her breath.
Umbridge blinked, clearly flustered by the sheer massive adult human male in front of her. She'd been expecting a 14-year-old. Not him.
"The Minister of Magic," she began, recovering with fake sweetness so thick it might as well have been pancake syrup, "wishes to cordially invite the Potter family to join him in the official Top Box."
Harry arched a brow. "That's adorable. He sent his pet teacup to come fetch us."
Dolores's eyes twitched. "I—pardon me?"
"You. You're the teacup," Harry said helpfully. "Short, pink, unreasonably fragile."
Tonks snorted. "More like a cursed tea cozy, really."
James, all calm charm and razor wit, leaned forward. "You can tell Minister Fudge we're quite cozy where we are. No need to parade the prodigal family."
"Oh, but the Minister insists," Umbridge said, clearly floundering. "He's most eager to meet the family who's—how shall I say—reappeared after such a long absence abroad."
Lily, with the graceful power of a lioness who absolutely ran this den, smiled sweetly. "We weren't hiding, Madam Umbridge. We were living. There's a difference."
"Also," Rose said cheerfully, "America has better pizza. Don't judge us."
Jean looked up from where she'd been quietly reading Umbridge's mind—probably just for fun—and said dryly, "Oh, she's judging. She's already picturing us in color-coded Ministry files."
"Mine's probably red," Natasha said, smirking. "High risk. Lethal heels."
"Mine's purple," Ororo murmured. "Weather hazard."
"Mine just says 'feral' in large capital letters," Tonks added proudly.
Dolores turned to Harry again, clearly trying to wrangle back control. "And you, young man, are...?"
Harry tilted his head. "You're standing in my family's box, insulting my guests, and you don't know who I am?"
"Well, I was told the boy would be—"
"Fourteen, glasses, untamed hair, emotional damage from cupboard trauma?" Harry cut in smoothly. "Sorry. We evolved. Bit of Super-Soldier Serum, splash of Weapon X DNA, some light Vibranium bone grafting... and now we're this." He gestured to himself like Vanna White. "Surprise."
Umbridge looked like she'd swallowed a Cornish pixie.
Andromeda stepped forward, eyes sharp as diamonds. "The Potters are not public spectacle, Dolores. Not for Fudge. Not for your Ministry. They came home, not to grovel."
Ted nodded. "Besides, you're interrupting the mascots."
They all turned toward the field, where a troop of leprechauns had just begun flinging gold and glitter like it was Mardi Gras and they'd been given a sugar budget.
Umbridge sniffed. "I shall inform the Minister of your... refusal."
"Oh, do," Jean said. "And remind him: next time he wants to talk, he can show some spine and do it himself."
"Preferably with snacks," Sirius called. "I'm partial to Firewhisky and finger food!"
"Tell him to send someone taller next time," Tonks added. "Less... froggish."
"Or someone who doesn't smell like rejected perfume samples and repression," Natasha muttered.
Umbridge turned, spine stiff, storming off in a huff of pink lace and indignation.
The moment she was gone, the whole box exhaled like someone had lifted a heavy hex.
"Alright," Harry said, flopping back into his seat between Ororo and Jean, who immediately leaned in close—Ororo's hand on his thigh, Jean's fingers sliding into his hair.
"That was hot," Jean whispered.
"Definitely hot," Ororo agreed, brushing her lips near his ear. "Very... commanding."
Harry grinned. "Please. That was just the warm-up act. Wait 'til I start juggling bureaucrats."
Tonks plopped into his lap with a grin. "You're lucky you're cute when you sass fascists."
"I'm lucky," Harry said, kissing her cheek, "that none of you mind my hobby of verbally slapping Ministry toads."
"We encourage it," Natasha murmured, tilting his jaw to press a kiss to the corner of his mouth. "It's foreplay, really."
Rose threw her popcorn in the air. "Oh my God, get a tent!"
Sirius laughed, clapping her on the back. "You'll be saying that a lot, kid."
Rose rolled her eyes. "Cool. Can we just focus on the flying men in tight pants now?"
As the mascots exploded into final glittery chaos and the stadium erupted in anticipation, Harry leaned back, arms spread behind the backs of two gorgeous women, smile cocky and heart full.
He was back in Britain. And already causing chaos.
Exactly how he liked it.
—
The leprechauns were throwing a Mardi Gras-level party, flinging gold coins and glitter like their sugar budget had exploded overnight. They danced like they'd just discovered a secret stash of whiskey instead of gold, pirouetting and prancing with enough energy to power a small city. The stadium sparkled under the emerald-and-gold glitter storm, and the crowd's cheers bounced so hard through the plush velvet of the Top Box, it practically felt like the whole place might take off and fly.
Harry leaned back, arms slung casually around Ororo and Jean, who were trading kisses that were low-key "don't make the rest of us jealous" dangerous. Natasha was perched on the edge of her seat, delivering whispered savage commentary on the choreography, while Tonks entertained herself by making shadow puppets that suspiciously resembled pink toads—because apparently, toads were Harry's natural enemy.
Rose, the sass incarnate, was crunching popcorn like a judge passing sentence. "Okay, real talk—Bulgarian mascots? They're probably not gonna be cute."
Sirius, who looked like he'd just walked off the set of a vampire hunter reboot (black leather, brooding stubble, and all), groaned dramatically. "Bulgarians? Get ready for something that looks like a dragon on steroids or a knight holding a grudge so old it's practically fossilized."
James, all charm and devil-may-care grin, leaned in with a smirk. "I'm betting on a giant furry bear that recites Shakespeare while wrestling a Hungarian Horntail. Because why not?"
Lily laughed softly, the kind of laugh that made you realize she absolutely owned the room even without trying. "Knowing Bulgaria, it's gonna be less glitter, more fire, and about fifty shades of fierce."
Ororo's voice dropped to a smooth purr as she leaned in, tracing lazy circles on Harry's thigh like she had all the time in the world. "Fire and fierceness suit you. Maybe you should join them—set the field on fire instead of just sitting here looking pretty."
Jean smirked, eyes glinting with mischief. "Careful, Ororo. If Harry starts breathing fire, I'm demanding a new wardrobe budget. Flameproof everything."
Harry caught Jean's playful glare and gave her a slow, cocky smile that said I got this. "Multitasking, ladies. Juggling fire and bureaucrats? My specialty."
Natasha rolled her eyes but with a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. "Only you could turn roasting Ministry officials into an Olympic sport."
Tonks grinned, her voice a sultry whisper in Harry's ear. "I'm just here for the fireworks, and speaking of..." She leaned in, lips ghosting over his jaw, sending sparks straight to his core.
"Save some for the game," Harry murmured back, voice low and thick with promise.
Rose clapped her hands like a mini tornado of excitement, breaking the warm bubble around them. "Ugh, you guys are disgusting. But also kind of adorable."
Sirius laughed, slapping Rose on the back with the kind of affection that made you think he could bench press a small car. "Welcome to the family circus, kid. Buckle up."
As the leprechauns wrapped up their glitter bomb finale with a cheeky bow, the stadium dimmed just a hair, and the energy shifted. The Bulgarian mascots were about to make their grand entrance.
Harry's grin stretched wide, the kind of grin that meant trouble was coming and he was ready for it. "Alright, let's see if these Bulgarians bring the heat—or at least give the leprechauns a run for their money."
Jean snuggled closer, fingers threading through his hair like she was staking a claim. "Whatever happens out there, I'm betting the best show is right here."
Ororo's hand tightened on his thigh, voice low and velvety. "Agreed. This just got a whole lot more interesting."
The crowd roared as massive, imposing beasts stomped onto the field. These weren't your friendly neighborhood mascots; think lions with dragons' attitudes, nostrils flaring flames like they'd just snorted a bag of firecrackers.
But Harry? His eyes never left his crew. The chaos on the field was just background noise to the electric charge humming between Natasha's knowing smirk, Tonks' teasing grin, Jean's playful gaze, and Ororo's simmering touch.
This was home. This was family. And hell yes, it was exactly where he wanted to be.
Because when you've got a squad like this, who needs fireworks on the field? The real show was right here—in the stolen kisses, the savage burns, and the promise that no one was walking away from this night without a little heat left behind.
—
The lights dimmed like someone had sat on the universal remote, and glitter rained down in slow motion, settling on the pitch like magical fallout from a unicorn rave. Then—bam.
Fire. Literal fire. Erupting at the far end of the field like someone had decided this Quidditch match needed more apocalypse.
The temperature spiked so fast even the weather charms gave up and went home. And from the flames came a tide of silver and platinum—like the heavens had dropped their most dangerous runway models on Earth.
Veela.
Dozens. Maybe more. Striding onto the pitch like every step was choreographed by a very sultry, very magical fashion god. Their hair shimmered with moonlight. Their eyes—seriously, their eyes—looked like they could unzip your soul and rearrange your priorities.
Jean let out a low whistle. "Okay, they're kind of unreal."
"Jean," Lily snapped, her voice already laced with the kind of maternal authority that could make demons apologize. "Put up a telepathic barrier. Now."
Jean blinked, watching as one Veela did a pirouette that definitely should've come with a defibrillator. "Why? They're just dancing—"
"Jean."
Right. Mind shield. Jean closed her eyes and threw up a psionic dome faster than a caffeine-charged caffeinated squirrel.
"Done. But what was—"
"Sexy magic," Lily said flatly. "Weaponized. Targeted. Lethal to dignity."
Sirius let out a groan so deep it sounded like it came from his spine. Not a pain groan. A spiritual awakening groan. "Merlin's saggy pants, they're dancing. Like... like Valkyries doing burlesque."
Rose side-eyed him so hard the air warped. "Uncle Sirius, please. You're embarrassing the jacket."
James blinked, dazed. "I think one just propositioned me telepathically."
"That was probably your brain surrendering," Ted noted cheerfully, sipping his Butterbeer like a university lecturer grading thirst traps. "Veela emit a magical aura—it hits the brain's primal cortex and fries it into emotional fondue."
Andromeda smirked. "Translation: most men turn into enchanted puddles. Like that one—" She pointed her wand at Sirius and cast a minor cooling charm. "You're steaming."
Ororo tilted her head, regal and unimpressed. "So... they're seduction elementalists."
"Pretty much," Andromeda agreed. "They spin, twirl, and men propose marriage or offer kidneys."
"Sounds exhausting," Tonks muttered, already wand-spelling bunny ears onto one Veela's shadow. "Like, we get it. You sparkle."
Natasha watched with the arched brow of a trained assassin and the smirk of a very confident girlfriend. "Points for effort. But they're clearly compensating."
Jean nodded, still watching the routine. "You'd think they'd vary the choreography."
Ororo rested a hand on Harry's thigh. "Or the hair color."
"Or the depth of personality," Natasha added sweetly.
Harry? Harry Potter, The Revenant, Scourge of HYDRA, Current Holder of Four Very Hot Girlfriends, sat like he'd just tuned into a mildly amusing magic show.
Jean leaned toward him, fingers still loosely curled in his. "You're very calm, Mr. Potter."
He grinned, cocky and relaxed, eyes gleaming with mischief. "I've already got the Final Four. The rest is just... background dancers."
That earned a predatory purr from Natasha. "Nice save."
Tonks kissed his cheek and whispered, "Still pouncing you later."
"And I'm calling dibs on the showers," Jean added.
Ororo? She didn't say anything. She just smirked, leaned in close, and let static crackle softly from her fingertips along his jaw.
Harry tilted his head back, all too smug. "Ladies, please. I'm just a man. Not a buffet."
Sirius groaned again. "I need cold water. Or divine intervention. Or both."
Rose had pulled out a notebook—where had she gotten a notebook?—and scribbled something down furiously. "Field Report: Harry Potter remains completely unbothered by seductive magical attack. Hypothesis: May be immune. Or hopelessly in love. Possibly both."
James wiped his forehead. "One just did a flaming cartwheel. That should be illegal."
"Only if you're planning to sue for mental distress," Ted said mildly.
Lily muttered something under her breath that sounded like, "I swear, if one of them tries to flirt with my son—"
"Let me handle it," Natasha said, cracking her knuckles.
"We can all handle it," Ororo corrected, her voice like a purr of thunder.
The Veela launched into a climax of glitter, fire, and swirling illusions. The crowd gasped. Half the stadium swooned.
Harry leaned forward, elbows on knees, watching like someone grading a school play.
"Okay. That was flashy. I'll give them that. But me? I prefer two redheads with tempers, a weather witch, and a shapeshifter."
Tonks winked. "Guess I'll have to break something tonight."
Jean smirked. "I'll help."
Ororo's eyes sparked. "I'll bring the storm."
Natasha curled against him with a smile that promised creative danger. "And I'll make it worth the therapy."
Sirius buried his face in his hands. "This is not how Quidditch used to be."
Harry leaned back, arms stretched across the back of the seats like a smug, magical deity. "Welcome to the new normal, Pads. Chaos, fire, flirtation—and me, always holding the winning hand."
And as the final burst of flame exploded above the Veela, and the roar of the crowd reached a fever pitch, Harry Potter smiled like a man who'd already won.
Because he had.
—
Cue the dramatic orchestral swell—strings trembling, brass blaring, timpani thundering like a stampede of centaurs with caffeine addictions. And just when it reached a moment so epic it made Wagner roll over in his grave—
"LADIES AND GENTLEWIZARDS, WITCHES AND WARLOCKS, GOBLINS AND GHOULS, CREATURES OF MYSTERY AND PEOPLE WHO'VE PAID FAR TOO MUCH FOR BUTTERBEER—THE MOMENT YOU'VE ALL BEEN WAITING FOR! THE FINAL OF THE FOUR-HUNDRED-AND-TWENTY-SECOND QUIDDITCH WORLD CUP IS ABOUT TO BEGIN!"
James Potter blinked like someone had just slapped him in the face with a flobberworm. "Wait a second…"
Lily leaned forward, narrowing her eyes at the commentary box. "Is that—?"
"AND PLEASE, I BEG YOU, GIVE A ROARING, DEAFENING, EAR-DRUM-MURDERING WELCOME TO THE TEAM THAT'S BEEN LIGHTING UP THE SKIES AND THE SCOREBOARDS ALL SEASON—THE IRISH NATIONAL TEAM!"
James groaned. "Merlin save us. It's Bagman."
Rose Potter—age fourteen, trouble magnet, and future chaos deity—clutched the railing in front of her like she was about to rocket launch herself into orbit. "Ludo Bagman?! Like the Ludo Bagman?!"
Sirius Black sighed deeply, rubbing his temples like a man reliving every bad choice he'd ever made, including that one time he challenged a centaur to a dance-off. "Yup. Ex-Beater. Ex-respect for volume control. And currently, Ex-Dignity."
"FLYING OUT FIRST ON THE BRAND NEW FIREBOLTS—YES, THOSE FIREBOLTS, NOT TO BE CONFUSED WITH THE BROOMSTICKS YOU PEASANTS OWN—IT'S THE BEATERS WHO HIT HARDER THAN A GRYFFINDOR'S STUDY HABITS, CONNOLLY AND QUIGLEY!"
Two burly blurs exploded from the tunnel like cannonballs, twirling their clubs and grinning like they'd just invented mischief. Fireworks painted the sky shamrock green. Somewhere, a banshee probably cried from envy.
Rose practically vibrated with glee. "They've got Firebolts? Can I get one? Please? Pretty please? I want to fly beside Harry and pretend I'm not mortal."
James raised an eyebrow. "Those cost more than our wedding, Rosie."
"And you're still not legally allowed to cross a one-way street without supervision," Lily added, patting her daughter's head. "Let alone fly next to your brother who casually breaks the sound barrier for fun."
Rose pouted with Olympic-level drama. "This house is a tyranny."
"AND NOW, GUARDING THE GOALS LIKE A DRAGON WITH A CAFFEINE ADDICTION—IT'S KEEPER RYAN!"
A stocky wizard burst into view, zooming so fast the crowd collectively gasped. He looped twice, saluted, and somehow managed to make his broom look smug.
"Next up, CHASERS TROY, MULLET, AND MORAN! THESE THREE HAVE BEEN SCORING SO MUCH—WELL, I WAS TOLD TO KEEP THIS FAMILY-FRIENDLY, SO USE YOUR IMAGINATIONS, YOU RASCALS!"
The trio of Chasers tore through the sky, leaving trails of green glitter and rainbows because subtlety is for Muggles. They executed a corkscrew formation that made a few seasoned Aurors flinch.
"Show-offs," Tonks muttered, popping a piece of gum with perfect teenage disdain.
Jean Grey tilted her head. "That was technically impressive."
Ororo crossed her arms with a smirk. "Still not Harry."
Harry, who was sitting calmly in the VIP box with the quiet confidence of someone who could fly circles around everyone on the pitch while composing a symphony with his eyebrow, simply tilted his head as Lynch shot out of the tunnel.
"He's fast," he said, as if complimenting a toddler who just discovered walking.
"Still slower than you," Natasha replied, smoothing an invisible wrinkle on his collar and giving him a look that could melt tungsten.
Tonks snorted. "Please. You would have left the Snitch crying in a corner."
Jean leaned over, whispering something into Harry's ear that made him raise an eyebrow and smirk like a cat with a mouse and a plan.
Ororo just watched him with amused serenity, like a goddess mildly impressed by mortal antics.
"AND HERE HE COMES—THE SEEKER WHO SPOTTED THE SNITCH AT FIVE HUNDRED FEET IN FOG SO THICK EVEN DEMENTORS GOT LOST—AIDAN LYNCH!"
Bagman sounded like he was one sentence away from spontaneous combustion. The crowd roared.
"LOOK AT THAT DIVE—THIS LAD'S GOT EYES LIKE A HAWK AND REFLEXES LIKE A PIXIE ON ESPRESSO! HE'S GOT THE GRACE OF A VEELA AND THE FOCUS OF A HERBOLOGIST WITH A NEW FERN!"
Harry watched the dramatic swoop with a crooked grin. "Remind me again, am I still banned from entering international tournaments?"
"Only because you nearly broke physics last time," Jean said sweetly.
"Also because you caught the Snitch in eight seconds," Ororo added. "While sipping Butterbeer."
"Unfair advantage," Tonks muttered. "Some of us actually had to train."
"Some of us still do," Natasha said, elbowing her playfully.
Rose, undeterred by logic or budget, tugged at her mother's sleeve. "So if I had a Firebolt, and inherited just some of Dad's flying talent, I could maybe almost possibly fly in the same timezone as Harry?"
"Rosie," James said, voice calm and diplomatic. "You couldn't outfly a love-struck thestral on a sugar crash on a normal day."
"Define normal," Lily muttered, eyes still on the skywriting leprechauns who were now spelling "GO IRELAND" in twinkly sparkles and drawing shamrocks shaped like Quidditch brooms.
Sirius, looking particularly large, leather-jacketed, and done with life, tilted his head and squinted. "You've gotta admit… This beats the Cannons vs. Wasps match."
"That's because no one's exploded yet," Andromeda replied dryly, sipping something definitely not legal for children.
"Yet," Jean echoed.
Bagman's voice returned, this time so loud half the owls in the forest filed a noise complaint.
"AND STAY IN YOUR SEATS, DON'T HEX THE NEIGHBORS, AND FOR THE LOVE OF MERLIN, DON'T CAST ACCIO ON THE PLAYERS—BECAUSE UP NEXT… THE BULGARIAN NATIONAL TEAM, FEATURING THE ONE, THE ONLY, THE HUMAN BLUDGER MAGNET HIMSELF—VIKTORRRRR KRUUUUUUM—!"
Sirius groaned like a man stabbed by a tuning fork. "Here we go again."
Harry just leaned forward, eyes on the pitch, his voice as calm and dangerous as a storm cloud in a tuxedo.
"Let the games begin."
—
The stadium pulsed like a living heart—thousands of magical fans packed shoulder-to-shoulder, shouting, whistling, and waving enchanted flags that rippled with team logos, sparkles, and the occasional dancing hippogriff. Above them, the enchanted sky swirled with fireworks, broom trails, and a glowing projection of Ludo Bagman, who looked like he'd just chugged a gallon of Felix Felicis and caffeine.
"AND NOW—BRACE YOURSELVES, HIDE YOUR SNACKS, AND FOR THE LOVE OF MERLIN, DO NOT THROW YOUR WANDS IN THE AIR—BECAUSE IT'S TIME FOR THE TEAM THAT'S BEEN BLASTING THROUGH THE COMPETITION LIKE A DRAGON AT AN ALL-YOU-CAN-EAT BUFFET—THE BULGARIAN NATIONAL TEAM!"
Bagman's voice exploded across the stadium, as dramatic as a wizard soap opera and just as loud. Somewhere in the stands, a tiny gnome fainted.
Rose Potter bounced in her seat, clutching her Firebolt keychain like it was the last piece of Honeydukes fudge. "I live for this bit. This is broomstick Broadway meets combat choreography."
"Or a catwalk for chaos," Tonks muttered, nudging Harry with her boot. "Place your bets, love. First Beater to send a Bludger into the crowd?"
"Volkov," Harry said without hesitation. "He once knocked out his own coach during a scrimmage. Dude swings like the bat insulted his mother."
Tonks cackled. "Remind me to never get on your bad side."
Jean leaned across Ororo and playfully poked Harry's knee. "Don't lie. You like being on people's bad sides."
"Only if they look good from that angle."
Natasha smirked from Harry's other side. "And now you've used that line on all of us."
"Not Ororo," Harry pointed out, raising his hands in mock innocence.
Ororo arched an eyebrow, lips curving into a regal smirk. "Give it time. I'm sure your charm is on a strict rotation."
"Guys," Rose stage-whispered, eyes still glued to the sky, "less flirting, more ogling. They're coming!"
Bagman's voice soared again, practically vibrating with glee.
"FLYING OUT FIRST—THE BLUDGER-BASHING, BONE-BREAKING, ABSOLUTELY-BONKERS BULGARIAN BEATERS—IVAN VOLKOV AND PYOTR VULCHANOV!"
Two broom-mounted behemoths burst from the tunnel like thunderclouds on steroids. Their crimson robes shimmered with protective enchantments, and their bats looked like they belonged in a troll fight club.
James whistled low. "Those two look like they were forged in the fires of Beater hell."
"They were," Andromeda said smoothly, not looking up from her enchanted flask. "Read an interview about them once. Volkov eats nails for breakfast. Vulchanov eats Volkov's leftovers."
Ted blinked. "How did I marry into this chaos again?"
"You proposed," Andromeda said sweetly.
"BLOCKING THE HOOPS LIKE HE GUARDS THE VAULTS OF GRINGOTTS—IT'S LEV ZOGRAAAAAAAF!"
A tall, broody Keeper shot into the air, spiraling around the goalposts like he was marking his territory.
Jean narrowed her eyes. "He's trying to intimidate the Chasers."
"Classic Bulgarian playbook," Harry said, tapping a finger to his temple. "Act scary, hit first, send flowers never."
"COMING IN HOTTER THAN A HUNGARIAN HORNTAIL'S HICCUP—THE BULGARIAN CHASERS: VASILY DIMITROV, CLARA IVANOVA, AND ALEXEI LEVSKI!"
Three blurs shot out of the tunnel like enchanted fireworks. Their moves were just this side of illegal—spins, dives, loop-de-loops that screamed, "Yes, we're flashy, and yes, we dare you to say something."
Rose practically melted. "Okay, I want to marry Levski. Or Ivanova. Or Dimitrov. Honestly, whoever calls dibs first."
Lily tilted her head, amused. "You know you're thirteen, right?"
"Do you know what you looked like at fourteen? Because Dad does." Rose beamed. "And I've read the letters."
James promptly choked on his Butterbeer. "Lily!"
Lily looked smug. "I told you to burn those."
"AND—WAIT FOR IT—SAVE YOUR BREATH FOR SCREAMING—HERE COMES THE STAR SEEKER HIMSELF, THE BLITZKRIEG ON A BROOM—VIKTOOOOOORRRR KRUUUUUUUUUUM!"
The crowd did not cheer.
They exploded. Literally. Someone in the Slytherin alumni box actually lit a cauldron.
And then he appeared.
Viktor Krum tore through the tunnel like he was late for war. His broom was matte black and menacing, his robes billowed like battle flags, and his expression said he'd hex your gran and blame the weather.
"He's older," Lily noted.
"He's moodier," Sirius said, cracking his knuckles. "Reminds me of my ex. The one who hexed my shampoo."
"Did she also invent the Terminal Dive?" Harry asked, eyes never leaving the sky. "Or just the emotional one?"
Natasha bit back a snort. "You are such a menace."
"Me? I'm adorable."
Tonks hummed. "Adorably lethal."
"I like to think of myself as emotionally efficient."
Jean rolled her eyes. "That's what sociopaths say."
"Or men who've dated Fleur Delacour," Ororo added calmly.
Rose leaned across Sirius to grab a fistful of popcorn from Lily. "Seriously, this is better than telly. Can we just keep the Bulgarian team doing laps while you all flirt and roast each other into oblivion?"
Above it all, Krum soared to dizzying heights before pulling into a vertical dive so fast the air screamed around him. He halted just inches above the pitch, wandless and fearless, like gravity answered to him.
The stadium went nuclear.
Bagman's voice swelled again, nearly incoherent with excitement.
"THE TEAMS HAVE ARRIVED, THE BROOMS ARE READY, AND THE STAKES COULDN'T BE HIGHER! THIS—IS THE FINAL OF THE FOUR-HUNDRED-AND-TWENTY-SECOND QUIDDITCH WORLD CUP!"
Harry leaned back in his seat, hands behind his head, wearing the kind of smirk that should've come with a warning label.
"Let's see who wants it more."
The others didn't answer. Because high above them, Viktor Krum hovered like a prophecy waiting to be fulfilled.
And somewhere beneath it all…
The game hadn't started.
But the war? Oh yeah. It was already on.
—
Absolutely! Here's a rewritten version of your scene in Rick Riordan's style, complete with fast-paced narration, cheeky asides, whip-smart banter, Harry's trademark savage wit, a lot more sexual chemistry with his girlfriends, and fun character moments from the entire ensemble—while stopping right before Bagman announces the Bulgarian team:
A hush swept over the stadium like someone had hit the mute button on reality.
Seventy thousand people held their breath.
And then—creak.
A door swung open.
Out strode a wizard who looked like he'd walked straight out of a gritty noir film and into the middle of a magic sports explosion. Bald head polished like a crystal ball. Drooping mustache with more gravitas than half the Wizengamot. Black referee robes trimmed in shimmering gold, swishing dramatically with each purposeful step. One hand gripped a broomstick older than the British Museum. The other? A trunk so big and heavy it could probably hold a troll. Or two. On a diet.
"Who is that?" Rose whispered, leaning forward in her seat with the kind of wide-eyed wonder normally reserved for unicorns or front-row Taylor Swift tickets.
Harry didn't even blink. "That, young Padawan, is Hassan Mostafa. The man, the myth, the reason even Dementors carry rulebooks."
Ludo Bagman's voice erupted from the enchanted megaphone like he'd just downed four Butterbeers and half a lightning bolt.
"AND THERE HE IS, FOLKS! STRAIGHT OUTTA CAIRO AND FEARED BY MAGICAL ATHLETES IN FORTY-SEVEN COUNTRIES—THE SCOURGE OF ILLEGAL BROOM ENCHANTMENTS—THE LIVING LEGEND OF LAWFUL NEUTRAL—HASSAAAAAAAAAN MOSTAFA!"
The crowd broke into nervous applause. The kind you give a lion that just walked into your living room wearing a judge's robe.
"Looks like he hasn't blinked since the first Goblin Rebellion," James muttered, smirking over the rim of his Omnioculars.
"That's 'cause he hasn't," Harry said. "Back in '82, the Snitch tried to fake him out mid-match. He stared it down until it apologized and flew back into the trunk."
Natasha leaned closer with a dark little smile. "He might be my new hero."
"Oh, please." Harry tilted his head toward her with a wicked grin. "You already have a thing for terrifying authority figures in robes."
Tonks choked on her soda. Jean's cheeks flushed red, but she didn't look away. Ororo just gave Harry a slow, knowing smile that promised thunderstorms later.
Rose made a gagging noise. "I'm right here."
"You'll thank us later," Tonks said. "We're teaching you how not to be boring."
Mostafa floated into the air with the elegance of a ballet dancer who also moonlighted as a firing squad. Not a word. Not a wasted movement.
Then—CLANG.
He kicked open the trunk.
Bludger One shot out like a flaming meteor of vengeance. Bludger Two came right after it, angrier, faster, and aiming squarely at Mostafa's skull.
He didn't flinch.
"Sweet Circe," Sirius muttered, arms crossed. "I haven't seen a man that chill since Dumbledore moonwalked into the Wizengamot hearings."
Harry smirked. "That's 'cause Dumbledore was wearing glow-in-the-dark socks and quoting Shakespeare. This guy is the drama."
Then—ZIP.
The Snitch rocketed upward in a golden blur so fast you'd think time hiccuped. It vanished into the sky, but Harry's eyes locked on it like a hawk with a caffeine addiction. So did James. Jean. Ororo. Tonks. Natasha. Even Rose's popcorn froze midair.
"East quadrant," Jean murmured, eyes glowing faintly.
"Behind the Irish goalpost," Ororo added, her tone low and stormy.
"Hovering like a snarky little tease," Tonks said, smirking.
Rose grinned. "It's stalling for dramatic effect. What a diva."
Harry leaned back in his seat, arms casually draped around Ororo and Jean, while Tonks sprawled in his lap like she owned the place—which, in fairness, she kinda did. Natasha perched beside him like a coiled panther with red hair and danger issues.
He smirked. "I like a Snitch that knows how to work a crowd."
Bagman didn't miss a beat.
"THE SNITCH IS LOOSE, THE BLUDGERS ARE BLOODY, AND HASSAN MOSTAFA HAS THROWN THE—WAIT FOR IT—THE QUAFFFFFLE—"
Mostafa hurled it skyward so hard it disappeared into the clouds with a dramatic whoosh that made several kids gasp and one French wizard faint.
Then—
BOOM.
Chaos.
In the blink of an eye, the Chasers exploded into motion like a synchronized explosion of talent, speed, and insurance liabilities. Bludgers sang murder ballads through the air. Krum blasted off the turf like a human firework, already scanning the clouds with a glare that could turn carbon to diamond. Volkov took a swing at a Bludger that made Sirius wince.
"Someone just lost a jaw," James said cheerfully.
"Row D is now in pieces," Lily added, shaking her head. "Hope they had dental insurance."
Ted barked a laugh. "Merlin, I missed this."
Harry leaned forward, lightning in his eyes. "Now this is Quidditch."
Rose had one hand over her heart and the other still clutching a single, lonely popcorn kernel like it was her Horcrux. "I'm ready to die," she whispered.
Tonks pressed a kiss to Harry's cheek. "Just don't blink."
"Or breathe too hard," Natasha added, brushing her fingers against his thigh like she was checking for tension. (There was. Plenty of it. Everywhere.)
"Or take your eyes off the sky," Jean finished, her voice soft but humming with power.
"Unless it's to look at me," Ororo said, arching one elegant brow. "Briefly."
Harry grinned, cocky and lethal. "I can multitask."
Bagman's voice thundered through the stadium again, the sheer enthusiasm shaking the stands.
"AND JUST LIKE THAT—THE CHAOS BEGINS! BULGARIA AND IRELAND, I HOPE YOU'RE READY TO—"
And that's where the scene cut off.
Because somewhere out there, the Bulgarian and Irish National Teams were about to enter the storm.
And the storm had teeth.
---
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