A shrill whistle echoed across the stadium, and the teams shot into the air. Ireland's green uniforms shimmered as they took off, while Bulgaria's crimson streaks zipped forward with astonishing speed. The quaffle darted between players as bludgers swooped dangerously, and the golden snitch twinkled in the distance, elusive and impossible to predict.
Fleur's gaze immediately locked onto Viktor Krum. "There," she whispered to Eira, "the Bulgarian Seeker. Watch him. That is why Bulgaria will be dangerous."
Eira arched an eyebrow, smirking. "And the fans are… entirely distracted by him. The swooning is excessive."
Fleur laughed. "Yes, I see. But let's focus on the game, not the theatrics."
Bagman, overhearing, leaned in with a wide grin. "Ah, Miss White, always sharp-eyed! But admit it… those reactions are entertaining, aren't they?"
The commentator's voice boomed across the stadium:
"And we are underway! Ireland has possession first, moving cautiously with precise passing. Bulgaria is quick to intercept. Krum zips forward, avoiding a bludger with a daring loop! Spectators erupt! Incredible!"
Fleur clutched Eira's hand, eyes sparkling as she leaned closer. "See? That's skill. But look at him—flying alone like that. Team coordination is what truly wins matches, not showboating."
Eira chuckled, raising a brow. "Mm-hm. You're suddenly full of Quidditch wisdom now that Viktor's on the field. And you were pretending you didn't care for Quidditch at all before this started."
Fleur sniffed, tossing her hair with mock dignity. "I never said I hated it. I just want to… enjoy the match of Viktor."
Eira turned her head slowly, narrowing her eyes with exaggerated suspicion. "Enjoy Viktor, hmm? Don't tell me…" Her lips quirked in a teasing smile. "You don't have a crush on him, do you?"
Fleur rolled her eyes so hard Eira nearly laughed out loud. "Please. You know very well I don't. Do not be ridiculous."
Eira smirked, unable to resist. "Ah, I see. So it's just his broomstick you admire?"
Fleur gasped in mock offense, giving her arm a playful shove. "Mon dieu, Eira! You sound like those swooning girls in the stands!"
That set them both off into giggles, laughter spilling between them. Then, with a sly smile, Fleur leaned just a little closer and murmured, almost as if it were a secret, "Besides… I already know who I prefer to watch."
Eira blinked, still laughing, not realizing the weight of the words. "Oh? Who's that, then?"
Fleur only smirked, her gaze lingering on Eira for a second too long. Then she leaned close, her lips brushing Eira's ear as she whispered, low and wicked, "You… in a bed, all naked."
Eira's entire face went scarlet in an instant. Her breath caught, and she gave a startled little gasp before stammering, "F–Fleur!" She pressed a hand to her chest as if to steady her racing heart, but it only made Fleur's grin widen.
The older girl tilted her head, eyes glinting with mischief. "What? You asked who I prefer to watch. I only answered honestly."
Eira, still blushing furiously, turned away and tried to focus on the pitch, but her ears were burning, her pulse quick, and she could barely form words. "Y-you can't just say things like that here…"
Fleur leaned back in her seat, looking thoroughly pleased with herself. "Why not? It's the truth. And besides—" her voice dropped again, softer, teasingly intimate— "you look adorable when you blush in front of all these people."
Eira made a small, flustered sound, her face buried in her hands while Fleur chuckled under her breath
The crowd's voice carried above the cheering for players obviously 🙄.
"Viktor, you are mine!"
"Make me yours!"
"I want a child from you!"
The crowd around them suddenly shifted, whispers breaking out as one young man stood up and shouted, voice trembling with emotion. "Viktor! I'm gay—and I want you too!"
Dozens of heads turned, some with startled expressions, others with smirks or gasps.
From a few rows down, a woman immediately shot up from her seat, her face flushed with indignation. "Shut up!" she snapped, glaring at him. "He's mine! Don't spout nonsense!"
A ripple of laughter and tension spread through the surrounding fans, half-shocked, half-entertained by the unexpected outburst.
Eira blinked, half in disbelief, half in amusement, as the argument between the fans grew louder. She leaned closer to Fleur. "Is this… normal at a Quidditch World Cup?"
Fleur pressed her lips together, trying very hard not to laugh. "Mon dieu, apparently Krum inspires… very passionate confessions." Her shoulders shook as she added, "Next someone will declare they want to marry him on the pitch."
The man who had shouted stood his ground, shouting again, "I mean it! Viktor deserves someone real, someone honest like me, He deserves a Man!"
"Real?" the woman scoffed, tossing her hair. "You're delusional! Everyone knows Viktor would never look twice at you!"
The crowd roared with laughter and jeers. Some even began egging them on, clapping and whistling as if it were part of the entertainment.
Eira covered her mouth, her cheeks pink with second-hand embarrassment. "This is absurd," she whispered. "They're fighting over someone who can't even hear them properly!"
Fleur smirked, her eyes glinting mischievously as she leaned closer to Eira's ear. "Well, at least I am not screaming in public over my crush…"
Eira's blush deepened. "Fleur!" she hissed, giving her a light push on the arm.
Fleur giggled, delighted, and squeezed Eira's hand. "Don't worry, ma chère. You are safe. My shouting would be much quieter… and only for you."
Eira's heart skipped, her lips parting as she tried to find a response. But before she could speak, the crowd erupted again as Krum performed a sharp dive, distracting them both and breaking the tension.
Emma shook her head, lips curving as she glanced at the pitch. "Popularity does not equal victory."
Isabella leaned in close, her breath warm against Emma's ear. "Then perhaps we make our own wager. If Ireland wins, you decide how we spend the night. If Bulgaria wins, I hold the reins."
Emma's smile turned wicked, her eyes glinting. "Mm, and the setting? Somewhere memorable, of course." She lowered her voice further, the words a sultry whisper only Isabella could hear. "If fortune favors me… you'll roleplay as the Minister of Magic and Fuck me all through the night."
Isabella arched a brow, both startled and amused, her fingers brushing against Emma's hand under the armrest—an intimate touch hidden from the crowd. "You never lack imagination, Emma," she murmured, a playful shiver in her voice.
Their gazes locked, a private heat in the middle of the roaring stadium, both women laughing softly at the thrill of their scandalous little bet.
********************
Minutes later, the quaffle zipped toward a Bulgarian player again. He dodged a defender, flipped spectacularly midair, and threw a perfect pass to a chaser who scored for Bulgaria.
The commentator chimed:
"And Bulgaria scores again! Krum's agility is unmatched, but Ireland is holding formation beautifully—oh! What a brilliant pass! Ireland's chaser scores! The score tightens!"
As the match entered its final stretch, Krum zoomed through the pitch, eyes locked on the golden snitch. Ireland's seeker followed close behind, weaving through bludgers and chasers alike. The stadium seemed to hold its breath.
Commentator: "Krum dives! He loops around defenders—an incredible maneuver! Ireland is close behind… and… Krum catches the snitch! Bulgaria gains 150 points! But… Ireland is still leading overall. A thrilling finish!"
The crowd erupted into cheers, fireworks erupted in the stadium, and the magical banners shimmered as Ireland claimed the World Cup. Krum, despite capturing the snitch, was celebrated as a hero for his individual brilliance, while Ireland's team victory stood undisputed.
In the VIP box, Emma leaned toward Isabella, her eyes sparkling with triumph. "Looks like I win. You know what that means."
Isabella laughed, leaning closer. "Indeed. You may claim your reward… but I hope it is memorable."
The stadium continued to roar, magical fireworks illuminating the sky. Ireland's team celebrated, Krum waved modestly despite his own triumph, and the VIP box settled into a quiet, private celebration filled with laughter, playful banter, and lingering looks between Emma and Isabella.