The match up ahead was still underway.
It had to be said—hooligans exist everywhere.
The football world has football hooligans as its local specialty, and Quidditch, being the magical counterpart to football, naturally has its fair share of Quidditch hooligans as well.
When the Irish team scored ten consecutive goals, building up a commanding lead of 130 to 10, the match began to turn downright unsavory.
First, the Bulgarian Keeper, Zograf, subtly jabbed a hard elbow toward the Irish Chaser, Mullet, as she charged toward his goalposts with the Quaffle.
Though his action was quite hidden, the match venue was blanketed in numerous detection spells.
No matter how discreet a foul was, it could not escape magical detection, not to mention the hundred thousand spectators with their eyes glued to every move the players made.
After Mullet was rammed by the opposing Keeper, the scene quickly devolved into total chaos.
First, the mascots of both teams initiated a dance-off, attempting to disrupt the opposing players' focus through their performance.
Unfortunately, when it came to dancing, the Irish mascots—the Leprechauns—proved no match for the Veela next door.
Even the referee, Mostafa, was nearly enthralled by the Veela.
Once he snapped out of it, Mostafa—nearly suffering a social death—bellowed fiercely at the Veela to cover up his embarrassment.
The Veela were subsequently dismissed from the field.
Right after that came a heated row between the Bulgarian team and the referee, resulting in two penalty shots awarded to Ireland.
Following the penalties, the Quidditch World Cup Final began hurtling toward the territory of Ace Combat; the players on both sides could essentially be described as getting into a brawl while playing ball on the side.
The fighting gradually spread from the pitch to the sidelines. Once the players began dogfighting in midair, the mascots on both sides started clawing at each other as well.
Before long, the chaos spilled over into the spectator stands, where supporters of both teams engaged in full-blown fistfights.
Originally, the crowd in the stadium had been split into two distinct, sharply defined sections according to their supported teams: one side wearing the "forgiving green" representing Bulgaria, and the other clad in the vibrant red of Ireland.
Now, the boundary between the forgiving green and the bright red was no longer so clear. It had turned into the front line of the brawl, with reinforcements from both sides pouring continuously from the rear toward the hot zone.
Sitting in the spectator box, Kyle sneered disdainfully as he watched the utter mess inside the stadium.
They ought to count their blessings that the Russian national team hadn't made it to the Quidditch World Cup Final; otherwise, there would be no suspense to this brawl whatsoever.
Back during a Quidditch World Cup held before that world-shaking union was dissolved, a particular incident had taken place.
That tournament was hosted in France. Because the Russians' enthusiasm for Quidditch was far less intense than Britain's, the number of British spectators at the venue vastly outnumbered the Russians, roughly at a ten-to-one ratio.
In the semifinals, the English Quidditch team faced off against the Russian national team.
The English team back then was already synonymous with hopeless pushovers; although they had stumbled into the semifinals by pure luck, they were easily crushed into dust by the Russians.
During the match, the British fans frantically provoked the Russian fans, eventually pushing them past their limit.
True to their reputation as a combat-ready nation, though there were only a thousand Russians, they dared to chase down and mercilessly hammer ten thousand British fans into submission.
That incident caused British fans to become one of the biggest laughingstocks in the Quidditch community.
Amidst the surrounding pandemonium, Krum, the Bulgarian Seeker, went into a dive once more.
Kyle was certain that this time it wasn't a Wronski Feint, because he caught sight of a golden blur streaking rapidly through the air not far ahead of Krum.
Lynch spotted Krum's movement as well and immediately went into a dive alongside him.
However, the outcome was nearly identical to the last time: he crashed into the ground, while Krum did not.
The only difference was a glint of gold peeking through Krum's fingers—he had caught the Golden Snitch.
The scoreboard froze at 160 to 170. By a slim margin of ten points, Ireland claimed victory in the match.
Staring at the result on the scoreboard, Ludo Bagman was so dumbfounded that he temporarily forgot to announce the outcome.
It's over... it's all over.
The color drained rapidly from his face.
According to the contract he had signed with Kyle before the match, this outcome meant he now owed an astronomical debt of six hundred thousand Galleons.
How on earth was he supposed to pay that back?
At the thought of the horrifying consequences of defaulting on the debt, Ludo Bagman's eyes rolled back, and he passed out cold.
Fudge glanced at the collapsed Ludo on the floor and paid him no mind, stepping up to announce the match result in his stead.
"Congratulations to the Irish team for securing victory in this match!"
After the award ceremony concluded, the spectators filed back along the lantern-lit pathways, their coarse, boisterous singing echoing into the night sky.
Leprechauns zipped continuously overhead, waving their lanterns and cackling merrily.
Even after returning to the campsite, though it was already late into the night, everyone was still heatedly discussing the match, completely devoid of sleepiness.
Raucous noise filled every corner of the camp, showing no signs of quieting down anytime soon.
Seeing this, Kyle made a sweeping gesture. "Let's host a banquet!"
His proposal was met with a unison cheer from the crowd. Alfred immediately turned and left to instruct the house-elves to prepare everything needed for the feast.
Two large barbecue grills were quickly brought out and set up in a V-shape in front of Kyle.
He didn't have the house-elves prepare charcoal—what wizard uses that stuff?
With a casual flick of Kyle's finger, eerie, crimson flames burst forth inside the grills.
Watching from the side, Dumbledore's cheek twitched uncontrollably.
You're using Fiendfyre for a barbecue?! Is that how Fiendfyre is supposed to be used?!
Fine, whatever makes you happy.
Dumbledore had completely given up on trying to discipline his son.
This character build had been following Grindelwald all along to learn stat allocations and skill points; it was simply impossible for him to turn out right in this lifetime.
If time could turn back, Dumbledore would likely choose to raise a fresh alt account, keeping the child by his side right from infancy...
Rather than sending him to a foreign land, leaving him in an orphanage under the pretense of avoiding war, and asking old Freckles to keep an eye on him every now and then.
What was even more infuriating was that, in the end, old Freckles had managed to lose the kid entirely.
At the edge of the woods, a massive bonfire was lit. The magical flames leaped twenty to thirty meters high, yet those seated around the fire felt none of the stifling heat that should have rolled toward them.
Casks of fine liquor were brought up by the house-elves. Without waiting for Kyle to finish grilling the skewers, Arthur Weasley, Amos Diggory, and Sirius Black—three avid drinkers—had already begun a drinking contest.
Mrs. Weasley and Mrs. Diggory watched their husbands down glass after glass; they wanted to step in and stop them, but held back.
At such a joyful banquet, they decided to let them drink to their hearts' content.
However, the underage young wizards were not allowed such indulgence.
Under the death glares from their respective mothers, the other three Father-Troublers quietly retracted their dark hands reaching for the hard liquor, dutifully heading over to the wooden barrels nearby to fill their mugs with Butterbeer instead.
Standing before the grills, Kyle mimicked his old man's cooking style from that afternoon, conducting with his wand like a musical maestro.
Large bundles of pre-skewered meat floated automatically over the roaring flames under Kyle's magic, slowly roasting in the fire.
Thick chunks of pork threaded on bamboo skewers reflected a tender, pinkish gleam beneath the firelight, the fat and lean layers clearly defined.
Under the searing heat of the flames, the tender pork began turning a golden yellow. Soon, the fat layer in the middle oozed out a thin sheen of oil, aggregating into large droplets that dripped down into the fire below.
The lean meat shifted gradually from pink to a rich golden brown.
A savory, intoxicating aroma of roasted meat drifted out, permeating the night air.
A perfectly fine bonfire feast had been transformed single-handedly by Kyle into a street-side food stall gathering from his past life.
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