Compared to the Irish Seeker Lynch, who had just fallen embarrassingly onto the pitch and was now being surrounded and supported by a group of Veela, Bulgaria's Seeker Viktor Krum was light and graceful as an eagle, having instantly ascended into the air.
The scarlet robes he wore were still spotted with barely-dried nosebleed, which appeared particularly striking under the moonlight. He raised his fist high, and between his tightly clenched fingers, a dazzling golden light flickered in and out of view.
At this moment, that light was like the first ray of dawn breaking through the clouds at daybreak, signaling that he had successfully caught the Golden Snitch.
The scoreboard began to change rapidly. The score between Bulgaria and Ireland became 160 to 170.
Aside from a few keen-eyed experts like Sherlock, Harry, and Charlie, most of the audience was still immersed in the afterglow of the intense match. They hadn't yet recovered from the dazzling battle and hadn't realized what decisive event had just occurred in that brief instant.
But like a massive jet preparing for takeoff, beginning to slowly accelerate—at first emitting only a low rumble, then growing louder and louder, the supporters of the green-clad team initially just whispered to each other.
As the murmuring gradually gathered momentum, it finally burst forth like a surging tide into deafening, joy-filled roars.
The commentator Bagman, who had already been partial to the Irish team, couldn't help but shout excitedly. However, as a commentator, his professional integrity immediately kicked in.
Even though his heart was filled with excitement, he didn't overly reveal his position in his words, merely stating objectively:
"Bulgaria's Krum has caught the Golden Snitch, thus ending this match, yet it's Ireland who has won! My goodness, I think no one present could have anticipated such a shocking outcome before the match!
"Why did he catch the Golden Snitch at that moment?" Ron's face was flushed red with excitement as he raised both hands high, jumping up and down, cheering while shouting in confusion.
Ginny also looked puzzled. She turned to Harry beside her and asked softly, "Isn't it rather unwise for him to end the match when Ireland was leading by one hundred sixty points?"
"Because he knew they could never catch up," Charlie sighed, turning to Sherlock and Harry with an inquiring look. "I'm right, aren't I?"
Harry was also cheering loudly. He nodded while saying, "Ireland's Chasers were absolutely brilliant!"
Sherlock nodded slightly and added, "If this continued to drag on, the score gap between the two sides would only widen. Once Lynch got the Golden Snitch first, Bulgaria's situation would only become even more humiliating."
Hermione leaned forward slightly; her gaze fixed intently on Krum as he slowly descended to the ground. At that moment, a large group of mediwizards blew their whistles, trying to drive away the leprechauns and Veela who were still fighting, working hard to clear a path for Krum.
"He looks really disheveled, but... he's truly very brave," Hermione murmured.
Seeing Krum's resilient performance on the pitch just now, the prejudice Hermione had held against him because of his appearance had quietly dissipated quite a bit. Then she noticed that Krum's expression appeared even more somber than in the previous photographs.
His face was full of stubbornness, even refusing to let the mediwizards clean his wounds or wipe the blood from his face and robes. His Bulgarian teammates gathered around him, all shaking their heads dejectedly, the entire team was shrouded in an atmosphere of disappointment.
Yet not far from them, the Irish players were completely immersed in the joy of victory. They danced with delight, as if the entire world was cheering for their triumph. The Irish mascots also leaped joyfully, showering them with gold galleons like rainfall.
The coins glittered with enchanting light in the air, complementing the players' bright smiles. Flags waved everywhere throughout the stadium, and the stirring melody of the Irish national anthem rang out from all directions, its inspiring rhythm seeming ready to overturn the entire venue.
The Bulgarian mascots, the Veela, had returned to their original beautiful appearance, though each looked downcast and worried.
"We fought bravely," the Bulgarian Minister of Magic, Oblansk, said with a grave expression. He looked deeply at Sherlock and spoke slowly, "Mr. Holmes, to borrow the phrase you just used—though we lost, we have honor."
"You absolutely deserve such recognition," Sherlock replied earnestly, his gaze firm. "Perhaps in this match, you were just slightly lacking in luck."
"Sometimes, luck is indeed part of one's strength," Oblansk shrugged slightly, a bitter smile appeared on his face. "I think you understand that in the arena, this is often how things are."
"Now, the Irish team members are making a lap of honor around the field accompanied by their mascots, and the Quidditch World Cup trophy is being delivered to the Top Box!" Bagman continued broadcasting the proceedings to the entire audience in his booming voice.
The next moment, an extremely dazzling bright light suddenly appeared in the box without warning. The light was so intense it caught people off guard, and several young wizards had their eyes stung painfully by this sudden brilliance. They instinctively closed their eyes and took quite a while to gradually adjust.
Remarkably, this illumination allowed all the spectators in the stands to clearly see what was happening inside the box. Harry squinted and looked toward the entrance.
He saw two wizard-like figures, panting as they carried an enormous golden cup into the box. They carefully handed the cup to Cornelius Fudge. Seeing that Ireland had ultimately achieved victory, Fudge's expression, which had been somewhat rigid from the tension of the match, now relaxed considerably.
Mr. Bagman, who had just finished commentating, now took on the role of host: "Let us give warm applause to welcome the honorable but defeated Bulgarian team to the stage!"
The seven Bulgarian players ascended the stairs one by one and entered the box. The entire audience, even the supporters of the Irish team, all began to applaud. Cheers surged like a tide—this was sincere appreciation for the Bulgarian players' fighting spirit on the pitch.
Countless omnioculars glinted in the sunlight, their lenses focusing on the box where Sherlock and the others sat. The glaring reflections forced Sherlock to turn his head away. In the instant he turned, his gaze swept past behind him and suddenly froze.
At this time, the Bulgarian players entered one by one between the two rows of seats in the box. They shook hands in turn with their country's minister, Oblansk, as well as Fudge, the British Minister of Magic as host. Bagman stood to one side, loudly calling out their names as each player came forward.
Viktor Krum was at the back of the queue, looking extremely disheveled. Having resolutely refused to let the mediwizards clean his wounds earlier, the bloodstains on his face were now particularly noticeable, with two dark black eyes making him appear even more exhausted.
Even now, he still tightly clutched the Golden Snitch in his hand, as if it were his only anchor in this failed match.
Harry suddenly noticed a detail. Once Krum landed on the ground, his movements became somewhat uncoordinated. His two legs showed an obvious outward stance, and his shoulders curved forward severely. His walking posture was completely different from his agile appearance on the pitch.
"Sherlock, he..." Harry couldn't help his curiosity and turned to look at Sherlock, trying to find an answer from him.
The latter nodded at him and said softly, "Just as you're thinking, my dear friend."
Harry understood immediately and asked no more questions. However, when Bagman loudly announced Viktor Krum's name, the entire stadium was instantly drowned in cheers—those fervent, deafening cheers resonated through the sky.
The people in the box also applauded enthusiastically. Ron's hands had turned as red as his hair from clapping so hard. Regardless of the match result, Krum's exquisite skills and tenacious fighting spirit on the pitch made him a truly outstanding athlete worthy of everyone's respect.
Next to take the stage were the Irish team members. Seeker Aidan Lynch was supported on either side by Chasers Moran and Connolly. He had fallen to the ground twice and seemed to have been injured badly. His eyes were scattered and vacant, and his head seemed rather muddled.
It was hard to say who looked more disheveled compared to Krum. However, when Troy and Quigley raised the trophy high with both hands, Lynch's dazed face finally slowly broke into a bright smile.
The audience once again erupted in thunderous applause and cheers. This time, not just Ron—Harry also clapped desperately until his palms went numb.
After the award ceremony ended, the players from both the Irish and Bulgarian teams left the box one after another. The green-clad team rode their brooms, making a celebratory lap around the field in high spirits.
Aidan Lynch sat behind Connolly, arms wrapped tightly around Connolly's waist, still wearing that silly, dazed smile on his face. It was unclear whether he had knocked his head badly or was simply unable to extricate himself from the joy of victory.
"He really does seem to have taken quite a fall..." Harry said with concern. "I hope there won't be any lasting effects?"
"Even if you have problems, he won't," Sherlock said with a slight smile curling at the corner of his mouth.
At this moment, Ludo Bagman took out his wand, pointed it lightly at his throat, and murmured softly, "Quietus." Under the magical effect of the spell, his voice, which had become hoarse from prolonged passionate commentary, finally returned to normal.
"This match will surely be discussed for a long time, becoming a significant chapter in Quidditch history." Everyone could now hear that his voice was completely hoarse, carrying a hint of exhaustion. "What an unexpected turn of events, though it's a pity the match didn't continue longer... Ah, yes, yes, I should give you... how much money?"
Hearing this, Fred and George immediately flipped over the backs of their chairs like two agile monkeys and quickly stood before Ludo Bagman. Their faces beamed with happy smiles as they simultaneously extended their open palms, looking eager to receive their winnings.
"I should be thankful you withdrew most of your bet," Mr. Bagman fumbled around in his pockets for quite a while before finally finding enough Galleons to pay the twins. "The odds I gave you were really too high... If we'd gone with your original full bet, all the money I have wouldn't be enough to pay you."
Hearing him say this, the Weasley twins couldn't help but silently exclaim how fortunate they'd been. If they hadn't heeded Sherlock's advice, from the looks of things, Bagman might well have refused to pay.
Fortunately, they had only bet one fake wand, which Bagman valued at five Galleons. Even at three-to-one odds, Bagman only needed to give them fifteen Galleons.
At this time, spectators outside the stadium had already begun to gradually prepare to leave and return to the campsite. But the people in the Top Box were in no hurry to depart. For them, such an occasion was a rare social opportunity.
Everyone sat together in small groups, chatting pleasantly. The Weasley twins excitedly counted their fifteen Galleons, while Harry and Charlie discussed the details of the match. Bill, Ron, and Ginny all listened attentively nearby.
Percy tried to converse with Cornelius Fudge, but it didn't seem to be going very smoothly. Just then, Sherlock noticed a corner of the box.
Not far away, Malfoy seemed to have been stimulated by this intense match and was eagerly bargaining with his father. The conversation between father and son came through clearly and was rather interesting:
"I want to buy a Firebolt."
"I'll buy you a Nimbus Two Thousand and Two."
"I want to buy a Firebolt."
"Nimbus Two Thousand and Two Super, the upgraded version—the performance is also excellent."
"I want to buy a Firebolt!"
"Last time you nearly lost your life."
"You think I'd crash if I rode a Firebolt?"
"If you'd ridden a Firebolt, you'd be dead already!"
Father and son stared at each other, neither willing to yield first, and the atmosphere became somewhat tense. At this moment, Narcissa gracefully walked over, and seeing them looking so confrontational, couldn't help but ask softly, "What are you two doing?"
"Mother, I want to buy a Firebolt!" Draco Malfoy gathered his courage and made his request to his mother once more.
Narcissa, who had been smiling, instantly darkened upon hearing this, her tone severe as she said, "You look like a Firebolt yourself!"
Sherlock withdrew his gaze. Mr. Weasley was excitedly telling Sirius about how he'd obtained the tickets: "I'd done Ludo a small favor earlier—his brother Otto got into a bit of trouble. He'd given a lawnmower a lot of special functions, which caused quite a commotion in the Muggle world. I smoothed the whole thing over, so this time he gave me several precious World Cup tickets."
Sirius smiled slightly. "That means you're quite capable!"
"Are you joking? I'm extremely capable!"
The British Minister of Magic, the Bulgarian Minister of Magic, and the Irish Minister of Magic had also gathered together, discussing something. From Fudge's annoyed expression, it was clear that the Bulgarian Minister had told the Irish Minister about that earlier matter.
Similar scenes were happening all over the box—everyone could find their conversation partner. Sherlock's gaze swept over these people one by one, each scene unconsciously analyzed and organized in his mind.
Finally, his gaze settled on the house-elf belonging to Barty Crouch, who allegedly spoke over one hundred fifty languages. Barty Crouch himself, for whom Winky had been saving a seat, had never appeared even after the match ended.
As for the house-elf Winky, until now she still had her hands covering her eyes. Sherlock had naturally noticed that throughout the entire match, she had maintained this posture.
"Fear of heights, heh heh..." Sherlock smiled and shook his head.
Fortunately, he was here today, otherwise his little brother Harry would have suffered a loss without even realizing it. As time passed minute by minute, people in the box also began to gradually stand up, preparing to leave.
"Don't tell your mother about your betting," Mr. Weasley said, glancing at the people slowly moving toward the entrance as he implored Fred and George.
"Don't worry, Dad," Fred said happily. "We have many grand plans for this money—we certainly don't want it confiscated."
Mr. Weasley hesitated, probably wanting to ask what their grand plans were. But after a moment's consideration, he decided it was better not to ask, lest he give himself a headache.
"Well, we should be leaving too," Mr. Weasley said helplessly.
"Hooray!" The young wizards heard this and shouted in unison with excitement, all standing up, preparing to leave with the adults.
However, at this moment, Sherlock suddenly spoke up: "I'm sorry, Mr. Weasley, but I don't think now is the time to leave."
"Why not?" Mr. Weasley asked with a puzzled expression. The others also turned their heads, looking at Sherlock with curious gazes, wondering what he was up to.
"Because I believe we need to first recover what Harry has lost," Sherlock said unhurriedly, his gaze profound.
"Lost something?" Harry's eyes widened in surprise, looking completely bewildered. "I... I haven't lost anything!"
"Is that so?" Sherlock chuckled lightly, that smile containing both excitement and anticipation. His gaze slowly swept over Harry's coat pocket as he asked deliberately, word by word, "Dear Harry, then please tell me—where is your wand?"
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