Roman and Peru discovered the Golden Snitch at the same time—the tiny golden ball fluttered along with the sea breeze, darting from the west towards the eastern side of the arena.
Both Seekers jerked their broom handles simultaneously, turning sharply as they raced toward the Snitch streaking through the eastern sky.
A wave of cheers erupted from the British fans, for Roman had clearly gained an early advantage—his initial acceleration outpaced Peru's by a noticeable margin!
As they surged forward neck and neck, Peru found himself contending with the gleaming tail of Roman's broom—the state-of-the-art Nimbus 1990S.
"Look at that!" the commentator exclaimed in a mix of awe and reverence. "That is the Nimbus 1990S! Nimbus' latest masterpiece! As a professional commentator, I'll stake my reputation on this—the Nimbus 1990S accelerates three times faster than the Nimbus 1700! And when compared to the Sweep Seven, it's at least 3.5 times faster! Of course, the Sweep series is more famous for its nimble turning rather than raw speed."
Suddenly, the commentator gasped.
"Oh! Roman—Roman's gaining on the Snitch!"
A visible jolt passed through the audience.
"My Merlin, he's fast! Could this be it? Could Roman set a new record for the fastest Snitch catch in history?!"
Tens of thousands of eyes turned toward the east, panoramic telescopes pressed to faces, yet none could track Roman clearly—only flashes of his afterimage sped through the air.
Then—"Whoosh!"
A sharp gust startled the arena as the crowd's attention swiveled to the right—just above the French team's goalposts, Moriarty had erupted into action, charging forward like a comet.
"What's going on!?"
In the commentary box, the announcer had risen to his feet, his voice trembling.
"While Roman's chasing the Snitch, Moriarty has the Quaffle! He's going for a goal—French Keeper Nestor, be alert!"
The crowd buzzed with a mix of confusion and anticipation.
"And—Ansa and Wright from the French team—they're sending a double Bludger at Moriarty!"
But Moriarty twisted deftly in mid-air, avoiding the first Bludger with a sweeping tail spin. The second Bludger, caught in the same current of air, collided with the first mid-flight—both balls spun off course and dropped.
In a brilliant follow-through, Moriarty extended his arm, signaling ahead.
Red Nose and Explosive Head, responding to the signal as they had during countless practice drills, converged on Moriarty's position.
"Eagle-Head Offensive Formation!"
The British Chasers aligned: Moriarty in the center, Red Nose flanking to the front-left, Explosive Head on the right. As they advanced toward the French goal, Keeper Nestor rallied his teammates to defend.
The French Chasers raced back, closing ranks swiftly.
Though this was Moriarty's first official professional game, he grasped immediately what set professional teams apart—sharp reflexes and flawless coordination.
Despite the French team's swift regrouping, the British Chasers, powered by their superior brooms, had already positioned themselves advantageously in front of the French goal.
But the French trio swooped in behind Moriarty like a net ready to trap him.
"Switch formation again—Eagle-Head attack!" Moriarty commanded. "And activate the Sloth Grip Roll!"
He kicked his broom into overdrive, clamped the handle tightly between his legs, and began to spin. Thanks to the incredible stabilization of the Nimbus 1990S, Moriarty maintained perfect balance.
He and his teammates spiraled forward like coordinated tornadoes, the "whoosh" of their spinning brooms audible even to the crowd.
"Merlin's beard—no broomstick is faster than a Nimbus 1990S!" the commentator cried out, drawing a pointed glare from Canadian Minister of Magic, Helmut, who was seated in the VIP box.
The commentator shrank slightly under the scrutiny—the VIP box was packed with heavyweights: Helmut of Canada, Paul from MACUSA, James of the American Department of Magical Games, Gilderoy Lockhart—celebrated author and celebrity—and Apollo, Director of Magical Sports for France. A roll call of magical elite.
The commentator wisely returned to his role. "The British Chasers forced back the French defenders and are now facing Nestor in a tight three-on-one formation!"
Could Nestor block this shot?
Moriarty shot Red Nose a glance. Red Nose instantly moved in front, blocking Nestor's line of sight.
"Swish!"
Moriarty feinted high—Nestor bit the bait and shot upwards.
But the Quaffle dropped softly—Red Nose ducked, and Explosive Head caught it mid-fall, redirecting the ball into the unguarded left hoop!
"GOAL! Britain scores the first goal! 10:0—Team England leads!"
The crowd erupted.
"Moriarty! Moriarty!" chanted his fans, joined by cheering spectators waving miniature Union Jack flags. Among them was Fleur Delacour, leaping up and down with infectious enthusiasm.
"The Quaffle's back in play! And once again—Moriarty's got it!"
The commentator was now fully focused on the young Slytherin prodigy.
The audience slowed down their panoramic telescopes to catch every moment of Moriarty's movements. Veteran Quidditch followers noticed immediately—Moriarty wasn't just talented. He was gifted.
Every maneuver, every feint, every pass—executed with elegant precision. His coordination with the British team was sublime, as if they shared one mind.
But this time, the French were ready.
Peru barked fresh orders: "Mark Moriarty!"
Moriarty climbed higher, but the French Chasers were close on his tail. From either side, Bludgers screamed toward him—Ansa and Wright wielding their bats with cold, ruthless precision.
"Have you ever seen such focus on a single Chaser? He's just thirteen!" The commentator's voice was outraged, prompting a roar of agreement, especially from Moriarty's female fans. In the stands, Fleur Delacour clutched her heart, whispering prayers.
But everyone knew—it wasn't personal. It was professional Quidditch. And in professional Quidditch, there are no soft spots.
Roman, still trailing the Snitch, glanced Moriarty's way and smiled.
"You've faced death and come out stronger. Slytherin will rise with you. Go, Captain."
"Captain!!!" roared the British team.
"MORIARTY!" Fleur rose to her feet. "SLYTHERIN! GO!"
Voices joined hers. Moriarty's name echoed around the stadium.
He grinned, swooping into a loop—the Ferris Wheel maneuver—threading perfectly through the path of the twin Bludgers.
Before the French Beaters could react, Moriarty inverted and fell, nose-down, into a dangerous dive.
Gasps swept through the crowd.
The French Chasers formed a pincer, one even waiting below like a net.
But then—Moriarty stood up on his broom.
As if surfing the sky, the wind rushed into his face. He pressed down with his left foot, shifting the broom's angle. In one glorious move, Moriarty shot upward, vaulting cleanly over the heads of the stunned French Chasers.
For a heartbeat, Moriarty locked eyes with one of them—fear, awe, disbelief.
He nodded coolly, then rocketed forward, straight toward the goalposts.
The crowd fell silent—so stunned they couldn't speak.
Only Moriarty's voice could be heard, barking instructions to his teammates.
Reminded by Lockhart, the commentator returned to the match. "Ahem—yes, well—Moriarty shows extraordinary flight skills. He's now one-on-one with Nestor! No British Chasers nearby—it's just Moriarty and the Keeper!"
The tension was electric. No one in the audience dared breathe.
Moriarty zipped forward, and six phantom afterimages surrounded him.
Nestor's pupils twitched—he couldn't tell which one was real.
"No…"
And that was enough.
Moriarty hurled the Quaffle straight into the middle hoop. Nestor hesitated—and the ball slipped past.
"It's in!!! Moriarty scores again!" cried the commentator.
The audience erupted in unison, chanting his name.
Even players from both teams paused, stunned by the sound. No one had ever heard such roaring adoration.
Moriarty didn't flinch. Without missing a beat, he reorganized the attack, implementing the complex "Boskov Tactics."
In ten short minutes, Team England slammed in two more goals.
The scoreboard changed: 30:0.
And still the crowd roared.