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Victory had a way of compressing time.
What followed Egypt blurred—not because it lacked significance, but because the rhythm of dominance settled in so completely that the individual beats became less distinct.
Match days came and went, each announced with thunderous ceremony, each ending the same way: Britain advancing, Cassius Snape remaining untouchable.
Of course they were not the only team to advance, teams were whittled down after the first round becoming 8 from 16.
By the time Britain faced Peru, Cassius was no longer the thirteen-year-old prodigy whispered about in disbelief.
He was simply the Seeker to beat—the axis around which every opposing strategy now turned.
Peru learned that lesson quickly.
Their team was fast, technically refined, favoring sweeping formations and long Quaffle plays that punished sloppy defense.
Against most opponents, it would have been devastating.
Against Britain, it bought them time—nothing more.
Cassius remembered that match less for its difficulty and more for its clarity.
The Peruvian Seeker was clever.
Not faster, not stronger, but clever enough to understand that chasing Cassius directly was pointless.
Instead, he played misdirection—false dives, wide arcs meant to lure Cassius away from likely Snitch vectors.
It almost worked.
Almost.
If not for Cassius's abilitiy to sense magical aura's the Snitch was never out of his reach, and if anything his 'acting' chasing after the snitch only kept his opposing seekers attention on the wrong side of the pitch trying to likewise feint him.
When the snitch was finally revealed to all as a Peruvian chaser sighted it and called out to his seeker, the chase was on for real.
But even still as the pair ducked and weaved, the field opened up for Britain to score time and again, while the majority of the Peruvian team played offense simply trying to bar Cassius's path to victory.
But their efforts remained in vain, the match was over, and pulling out a pocket watch from his pocket Cassius grinned to see the result.
Seven minutes flat.
Final score: Britain 210 – Peru 40.
Muggle commentators would refer to the match as Clinical, and Cassius's performance within inevitable.
The prodigal seeker was just to efficient, once the snitch was 'seen' it was captured mere moments later.
The girls, predictably, called it profitable.
By the time Britain advanced to the semi-finals, the tone of the tournament had shifted.
This was no longer about spectacle alone.
This was about survival.
Ireland stood in their way.
And Ireland was different.
If Egypt had been all-rounders and disciplined, and Peru agile and clever, then Ireland was simply… overwhelming.
Their team synergy bordered on frightening.
They didn't just fly together—they thought together.
Seamless handoffs.
Perfect spacing.
Bludgers driven with ruthless intent, chasers rotating roles fluidly enough to confuse even veteran defenses.
Against any other Seeker, Ireland would have won on points long before the Snitch became a factor.
And for ten minutes, they did exactly that.
Cassius remembered hovering high above the pitch, watching the score tick upward in Ireland's favor, not with panic—but with a strange, analytical calm.
Ireland: 60.Britain: 0.
Then 80–10.
Then 110–30.
The crowd was electric.
Irish supporters roared with every goal, green banners whipping through the air, confidence swelling with each successful play.
Even the British stands grew tense—not fearful, but uncertain.
Was this finally it?
Was Britain's reliance on a single Seeker about to be exposed?
Cassius felt it all—and chose patience.
This match was very much playing out similar to the one that origionally created the scene for the Finals, between Ireland and Bulgaria from the books, one which hailed Krum as the better seeker, but who had to catch the snitch simply to end the point slaughter his teammates were suffering.
The Irish Seeker was good. Very good. Not Cassius's equal, but closer than anyone else had managed so far. He played aggressively, trying to force an early end while Ireland held the lead.
Cassius denied him every time.
He shadowed, blocked, intercepted—not with raw speed, but with positioning so precise it bordered on predictive. Each failed attempt tightened the Irish Seeker's movements, frustration bleeding into his flight path.
Below them, Ireland continued to score.
150–60.
The commentators were nearly shouting themselves hoarse.
"This is extraordinary!"
"Ireland is dominating—but Snape hasn't moved to end it!"
"Is he waiting? Calculating? Or has Ireland finally cracked Britain's greatest weapon?"
Cassius knew the answer.
Ten minutes.
He'd promised himself that much—not for bets this time, not for money or spectacle, but because this match deserved to breathe. Ireland deserved to show the world how good they were, as his consolation prize for stealing their rightful place in the finals.
When the score was only seperated by a mere ten points from disaster, that was when the climax occured.
The snitch was spotted and both seekers quickly began the chase to claim victory for their side.
This time there was no restraint.
No games.
The Aeriusbolt Supreme roared as Cassius cut through open air, his broom responding like an extension of thought itself.
The distance between them collapsed in seconds.
The Irish Seeker glanced back once.
Recognition flickered across his face.
So this is the difference.
Cassius passed him.
The Snitch tried to flee.
It failed.
The whistle screamed.
The stadium exploded.
Final Score: Britain 210 – Ireland 200.
The pitch fell into stunned silence before erupting again—this time not just with cheers, but with respect.
Ireland had lost.
But they had not been humiliated.
The match was close, closer than everyone thought it would be, and although Ireland lost, no one felt bad.
They had tried their best, and just about beat out the best seeker in the world, proving to everyone that a team was not just a seeker alone.
Correcting a misconception most had regarding the sport.
The seeker might indeed be like the quarterback, highly valued on the field, but just because they play an important role did not mean they were the only important role.
When they all finally landed, Cassius quickly strode over to the Irish side, extending his hand as a sign of respect.
The opposing Seeker took his hand and shook it before each of his team members did the same.
The irish captain being the last to do so.
Cassius inclined his head meeting eyes with the man. "You would've beaten anyone else."
The captain snorted, then laughed. "Aye. Probably."
They shook hands.
From that moment on, the narrative was sealed.
Britain was through to the Championship Match.
Waiting.
Watching.
Speculating.
The final opponent would be decided next: Brazil or Bulgaria.
Two teams with wildly different philosophies.
Brazil—flamboyant, unpredictable, magical artistry bordering on chaos.
Bulgaria—A team built similar to britain, seeker focused but weak on field play.
Cassius predicted the outcome of the match, such that even for fun he had the girls lay a 100 Galleon bet on Bulgaria for him, citing his desire to go up against the only other seeker who had claim to be the best seeker in the world for a proper showdown.
They of course just giggled having never seen this side in Cassius never knowing that he didnt believe Krum to be his true equal but wanting to align history as much as he could even admist his changes to the timeline with the narrative he knew, to ensure events would lead to the same general direction.
One he could predict, one he could manipulate, one he could control the outcome of.