Morning arrived not with subtlety, but with pressure.
Sound pressed in first—thousands of voices rising and falling like surf against the wards, the distant boom of enchanted announcements echoing across the campgrounds.
Magic followed, a low thrumming in the air that set Cassius's nerves humming whether he wished it or not.
The Quidditch World Cup had begun.
Cassius stood just inside the British locker tunnel, fingers tightening briefly around the handle of his broom.
Aeriusbolt Supreme.
Even now, despite having flown it dozens of times in practice and matches at Hogwarts, and despite personally overseeing half its design iterations, the broom felt… impatient.
The enchantments embedded along its shaft resonated faintly with his magic, eager to be unleashed into open sky.
He exhaled slowly.
Thirteen.
That thought cut sharper than any headline.
Thirteen years old, about to take the field in the most watched sporting event in the wizarding world, against a nation whose magical tradition predated Britain's by over a millennia.
And that was before factoring in the other pressure.
Five minutes.
Cassius grimaced faintly.
From the stands above, he could already feel them—six distinct magical signatures, familiar as his own heartbeat.
Ginny's fiery impatience.
Hermione's tight, coiled focus.
Daphne's cool composure.
Cho's calm encouragement.
Astoria's bright, fluttering excitement.
And Luna.
Six young women.
One match.
And a collective investment portfolio riding on his restraint.
To secure funding for their future, a mere drop in the bucket compared to his own wealth but a meteoric sum for them.
"This is absurd," he muttered under his breath.
Beside him, Britain's captain—a twenty-eight year old man who had led britain to certain doom before Cassius's acceptance into the team—snorted.
"Nerves?" the man asked.
Cassius shook his head. "Something like that."
The captain clapped him on the shoulder. "Just fly like you always do, boy. Ignore the noise. And Just do what you've got to do."
Cassius didn't bother explaining that he wasnt nervous about the match, instead he was nervous about ending the match to soon.
During gameplay it was entirely possible for him to misread how long the match had been going on for, resulting in his capture of the golden snitch to soon.
But he wasnt allowed to ruminate for to long as the long horn blast sounded giving the teams the signal to sally forth into the Arena.
The tunnel brightened ahead as the teams were called.
"Ladies and gentlemen, witches and wizards from across the globe!" the announcer boomed, magically amplified to impossible volume. "Welcome to the opening match of the Quidditch World Cup!"
The roar was instantaneous.
Cassius stepped forward as Britain took the pitch, emerald grass blinding under enchanted sunlight, the stadium towering above like a living thing.
Tens of thousands of spectators surged to their feet, flags unfurling, charms flashing.
He mounted his broom in one smooth motion.
The moment his boots left the ground, the world sharpened.
Wind tore at his robes as he rose, circling with the rest of the team while Egypt emerged opposite them—white-and-gold uniforms gleaming, their magic humming with ancient resonance.
Cassius's eyes found the Egyptian Seeker almost immediately.
Older. Lean. Scarred.
Good.
Respectable opposition.
Their gazes met across the pitch, and the man inclined his head once, solemn.
Cassius returned it.
Then the whistle blew.
Chaos erupted.
The Quaffle rocketed into play, chasers colliding midair as bludgers screamed past like iron meteors.
Cassius surged upward instinctively—
—and stopped himself.
Five minutes, he reminded himself grimly.
He forced his ascent into a slower arc, eyes scanning methodically instead of diving headlong.
The Snitch flared gold somewhere near the far stands, then vanished again, teasing.
He saw it of course, his sense having been trained to the extreme, and even when clouded by the tens of thousands of magical auras surrounding them, the snitch stood out as a synthetic magica source admist the living forces.
Suppressing the instinct to just end it all, claim the victory and ride off into the sunset as the conquering hero was hard to beat.
Below him, Britain scored first—cheers thundered as the scoreboard flickered to life.
Egypt responded swiftly, their chasers moving with a precision that spoke of long training together.
Cassius circled, weaving lazily, just enough to look engaged.
From the stands, he felt it.
Confusion.
Was the young seeker nervous... or sick?
Whispers rippled outward like ink in water.
"Is he toying with the national team?"
"Britains Seeker was scared of the true world stage."
"Perhaps he just wants to make sure we get our moneys worth?"
A bludger screamed past his shoulder.
He tilted aside casually, letting it miss by inches.
Focus.
The Egyptian Seeker made a move—sharp, sudden, diving low toward the eastern goalposts.
Cassius's heart spiked.
No.
He shot forward just enough to shadow the move, cutting off the angle without fully committing.
The other Seeker glanced back, eyes narrowing in surprise as Cassius matched him pace for pace.
They flew like that for several seconds—parallel trajectories, a silent duel of restraint and curiosity.
Then the Snitch darted away again.
Cassius broke off first, easing upward.
Below, the crowd roared at a particularly vicious bludger hit.
Time ticked by agonizingly slowly.
Cassius could feel the strain building—not physical, but mental.
Every second he delayed felt like holding back a storm.
He wanted release, he wanted to hear the crowd adulation, as he pulled of a miracle capture, secure advancement for the British national team.
From the stands, a flash of red and gold—displaying signage handmade by the girls with whom were watching the match from the players box.
Even catching Luna waving her hands frantically as if to grab his attention.
He nearly laughed, almost forgetting the fact that he was in the middle of a quidditch match, such was the power and allure of Luna a girl misunderstood by nearly everyone.
The Snitch reappeared near midfield, glinting in open air like a dare.
Cassius's breath caught.
Enough.
It mustve been enough time by now, enough with this waiting, it's time to end things.
The Egyptian Seeker saw it at the same instant and lunged.
Cassius dropped.
Not gently.
Not cautiously.
He fell like a comet.
The Aeriusbolt screamed as its enchantments unlocked, wind shearing past as Cassius accelerated beyond what most brooms could tolerate.
The stadium blurred.
Sound vanished.
There was only the Snitch in his vision as the seeker who had up to this moment been almost asleep was finally awake and moving as he had show he was capable of doing, flashing around unimpeded proving himself a true phenom of the pitch.
The Egyptian Seeker chased—but he was already behind far behind.
His Firebolt utterly unable to compete against Cassius's broom.
Cassius adjusted mid-dive with microscopic precision, fingers stretching—
—and closed around warm, fluttering gold.
The whistle shrieked.
Pandemonium.
Cassius pulled up hard, spinning through the air as the stadium exploded in sound.
Britain's section erupted into deafening cheers, magic flashing, banners unfurling.
He hovered there for a heartbeat, chest heaving.
Five minutes and twelve seconds.
He glanced toward the stands.
Ginny was jumping up and down, screaming.
Hermione looked like she'd just won a war.
Daphne smiled, satisfied.
Cho clapped, eyes shining.
Astoria was already counting imaginary galleons.
Luna simply smiled at him, serene as ever.
Cassius shook his head, laughing breathlessly.
"Never again," he muttered.
But as he descended, victorious, with the weight of the world's attention pressing down upon him—
He knew it was a lie.
They were likely to make him perform in similar demeaning ways that would impune his character just to increase their growing stacks of galleons.