"But we can't..." Metaxas was at a loss for words. Dimitar shrugged.

  "Prábaba vould insist. 'The Game Comes First.' " He looked fondly at the ball, old-fashioned to modern eyes, but still perfectly legal by the standards finalized in the Fourteenth Century. "If idt can pass your scrutiny, uf course."

  The Chairman stared at the boy, no, the young man. Then he shook it off.

  He called over two wizards that were in the top box, after DisSpelling his Sonorus. Then he had to get Ginny to call up both Team Managers, and beckoned Referee Xenakis to join them. Lev and Charlie had room made for them in the group around the Quaffle, and wands were flourished with little regard for Best Safety Practices. No voices were raised in dispute, though. The general tone seemed to be that of awe.

  Ginny DisSpelled herself and young Berbatov. "Are you sure your Great-Grandmother would approve?"

  He shrugged again. "She made me bring it, said that I would need it. I thought she meant for luck."

  "You didn't ask?"

  "Prábaba is not much for answerink qvestions. Instant obedience iss safest." He shook his head. "Yes, much safer. Her nickname in the family is 'Baba Yaga,' and no vun laughs."

  Ginny nodded. "Got it." Baba Yaga was another of the witches and wizards who straddled the line between Mythology and History in the magickal world. And, like most of the others, she was no two-dimensional character. While she might reward the worthy, and punish the wicked, she was terrifyingly likely to reverse course at any time. If Petrova Porsky were as old as it seems, well... She may not be the Baba Yaga herself, but there was every possibility of her being the Baba's Avatar. It had happened before with other great wizards, and usually was a harbinger of 'interesting times.'

  Dimitar looked perfectly at ease, arms crossed, leaning against thin air as if it were a lamppost. He had one foot crossed behind the other, with just the toe of his shoe down for support. The crowd seemed torn between admiration at his control, and indignation at his insouciance. As they seemed to be getting a bit 'stroppy,' Ginny decided to take charge. She recast the Sonorous on herself and young Berbatov. She gestured him to the side so the crowd could see their faces. Dimitar politely straightened up as his broom moved him.

  "Dimitar, you told us this Quaffle was from Petrova Porsky's final World Cup. She was in more than one?"

  Dimitar shook his head in agreement. "Da. Russia von three consecutive Cups, unt my Great-Grandmother vas on all three teams."

  "Whom did her team defeat?"

  "The first vas against the Ottomans, the secont against Scotland, unt the thirt vas... complicated."

  "Complicated how?"

  Dimitar's boyish grin was breathtaking. "Perhaps you can tell me." Addressing the spectators more directly, he went on.

  "This year is the Two-Huntreth Anniversary uf Great-Grandmother Petrova's final victory. Vhat vas happenink in the Muggle vorld in that year?"

  The answer was dawning on many faces throughout the crowd, but by no means a majority.

  Ginny sighed, and closed her eyes for a second.

  'France," she said. Dimitar's eyes were sparkling. "But which France?" she finished.

  "The ent uf the Napoleonic Vars," Dimitar confirmed. "The final defeats came at the very start uf the Vorld Cup Group Stage. France had qvalified, but the team were..." He hesitated. "My Prábaba alvays drops into French to speak uf unpleasant things. She says the beauty uf the language makes von less likely to vomit. She refers to the Team Members as, 'Bonapartistes damné,' who had, nonetheless, gotten France qualified to compete."

  Ginny nodded understanding, and elaborated for the audience. "That side would have been picked by Napoléon's trusted General, André Masséna. He was also the secret Head of the Ministère des Affaires Magiques, and a die-hard Quidditch fanatic." She looked at Dimitar, who shook his head and made a 'go on' gesture.

  "The Royalists who took power would have wanted nothing to do with the 'Bonapartistes damné.' The Ministère would have been completely purged, and magicians favorable to the monarchy put in. I dare say they reacted poorly."

  Dimitar took the tale back up. "They demanded to replace the team vith their own people. The Committee refused, as they vere not the vons who qvalified. They then demanded the French team be removed from competition. The Committee refused, as their Charter puts them abuff politics. It vas, as you say, a 'hot mess.' "

  Ginny grinned. "Just as well the French didn't win. The History of Quidditch has enough footnotes that end up being just question marks."

  There were quite a few Gallic-tinged jeers and insults. "Bouche-toi, Bête Noire!" Ginny snapped.

  Just then, the conclave around the Quaffle broke up. The two officials returned to their seats, the managers mounted brooms and headed for their respective benches, and Referee Xenakis rejoined Dimitar Berbatov in the air before the Top Box.

  Mentor Metaxas spoke many quiet words into Ginny's ear, hands darting about in emphasis, and she nodded.

  Clearing her throat, (what with presentations, and excessive need for shouting, her voice was more stressed than usual), Ginny spoke:

  "After due consideration and deliberation, this ad-hoc committee has made the following determinations:"

  "The Vice-Chairman for Rules and Standards has determined that this offered replacement is in like-new condition, and conforms to all weight and dimension requirements set forth in the Rules Handbook. The slightly different styling affects nothing but appearance."

  "The Senior Tech-Wizard has verified that said Quaffle carries neither additional spells, hexes, jinxes, charms, curses, nor any other magic than what is needed to serve its purpose in the Game."

  "Both Team Managers and the Referee have indicated their agreement with and acceptance of these findings, and consider the Quaffle in all ways suitable for play, with the added admonition that if any fat-assed fathead attempts to blame this perfectly perfect Quaffle for his poor performance, he will be flying Bludger Laps in training daily until the next World Cup, whereupon he will be cut from the team, so help me Ocean Woman!"

  A Mexican Chuckle Wave swept around the stadium. A certain nameless White Man suddenly became a Pink Man.

  Chairman Metaxas bowed to Ginny as she finished speaking. He turned to Dimitar, bowed, and handed him the Quaffle. Dimitar returned the bow, then his broom turned to face Referee Xenakis, where they repeated the motions.

  The Referee then turned to face the spectators, raising the Quaffle in one hand, and clasping Dimitar's hand with his other, raising it as well.

  "Ladies and Gentlemen!" boomed Ginny. "I give you Dimitar Berbatov the Second, a True Friend of the Game!"

  The Referee released his hand, and Dimitar brought it down, fist over his heart in salute. He bowed his head, modestly acknowledging the cheers. His broom lifted him on its point until it was vertical beneath him, with him still standing unwavering.

  As he turned slowly to acknowledge the circuit of fans. Ginny spoke again.

  Unauthorized use of content: if you find this story on Amazon, report the violation.

  "Don't bother trying to hire him away! You can't afford him!"

  At that, Dimitar's head came up, eyes alight with mischief, mouth in a dangerous smile that set hearts on fire, and left parents groaning around the circumference of seats.

  Spreading his arms wide, he simply toppled forward into a dive straight down. After just a moment, his broom followed. As he fell, his robes stopped fluttering, tightening into a membrane that ran from his ankles to his outstretched wrists. He curved from a dive into a steep glide that bent to match the angle of the seating below him. As he passed the front row, still twenty meters over the pitch, his broom caught up, passing behind the young man. He reached up and forward, catching the broom shaft with both hands. The broom braked hard, throwing him back up in the air. As he rotated like a gymnast doing a simple dismount, his legs went front and back. His broom had done a tight loop, and came up under his feet. Riding it like a surf board, he slalomed left and right, headed for where the New Zealanders were grounded.

  At the last moment his feet and broom came up in front of him, killing his momentum like a surfer on the face of a wave. He dropped lightly onto his feet while his broom shot up into the air.

  He was right in front of Keeper David Tua. The Beaters, Lomu and Bates, flanked him. Berbatov and Tua clasped hands and slapped each other on the shoulder. Dimitar was almost knocked for a loop, but Tua's grip kept him upright.

  Dimitar spoke to the big man. Whatever he said had the Keeper and Beaters throwing their heads back and laughing. Suzie Bates fell to her knees, beating the turf with her bat.

  Tua choked off the laughter, dug out his wand, and touched his throat.

  "You know what this cheeky little sod just told me?" he bellowed. "He says if I have to do it again, then I have to do it! That's the way his Nan would want it!"

  Dimitar brought his other hand down to grasp David's big paw as well, then released it. He raised one hand just in time to catch the shaft of his broom as it raced overhead. It snatched him off his feet and threw him up in the air again. He made two majestic rotations this time, before landing on his broom to surf off at top speed. He did not slow as he entered the tunnel back to the Bulgarian Quarters.

  ***

  Harry and Ron, (and, of course, Dara and Kyinté), settled down to watch the game. A few attempts to breach the door had failed miserably. A Reaction Squad from Event Security had finally taken up station outside in the hall, but the door remained sealed.

  Referee Georgios Xenakis called the balls in and did a restart. This time Seeker Ponika didn't take his eyes off Krum as he mounted, but Viktor did not repeat his feat. Dennis Moon, though, unwisely tried to duplicate Krum's spectacular takeoff, losing his grip about ten meters up. He landed on a fortunately well-padded posterior, and spent several embarrassing moments convincing his somewhat unwilling broom to return for him. The crowd was delighted, obviously feeling that the game, overall, was good value for money.

  The game finally settled in to a real fight, with New Zealand's Chasers having a slight, but telling edge over their Bulgarian counterparts. Despite his many, many faults, Moon was an excellent Chaser. The game proceeded much as the pundits had called it.

  For a while.

  Ron had been using his Omnioculars to keep a close eye on Moon, not wanting to miss any further displays. It proved to be an prescient move.

  As Ron told Harry later, the worst that could be said about Bogomil Levski's expression was that it bore a certain air of haughtiness and disdain, not even rising to the level of a sneer. But that was the way he looked in every photo Ron had ever seen of him. Ron had finally met the man as well, over the course of the Cup, and considered it to be Levski's default expression.

  This time though, something about it pushed Dennis Moon over the edge. The two were closing through the air, Moon in possession of the Quaffle. Ron clearly saw Moon's face contort in rage, and he pegged the Quaffle at Levski's head as hard as he could.

  Levski fielded it neatly, lateraling to Stoyanka Grozda in the same motion. In that moment, it has to be admitted, he did look a little smug.

  In the next moment, he was tumbling through the air, separated from his broom, and, quite frankly, at a bit of a loss. He recovered the broom, though he was a lot closer to the ground than he would have liked. The Referee's magically enhanced whistle was sounding. Levski came to a stop in the air, staring around in puzzlement, wondering what he might have done.

  The Bulgarian Beaters closed in to either side of the befuddled Chaser, both to check on him and to keep him from getting clocked unawares by a stray Bludger.

  At Levski's hesitant questions, Vulchanov grinned, helpfully pointing up and at an angle.

  Levski followed the line indicated to see Referee Xenakis and Chaser Moon, as face-to-face as two people on brooms can get. Moon was obviously shouting into the referee's face, but he was completely inaudible at the distance.

  The other Beater, Dragonov, was eyeing Levski cautiously, perhaps expecting him to join the row. Levski caught the look, and shrugged. He was just fine where he was. He barely noticed when Vulchanov smacked a Bludger away from them with an authoritative SMACK!

  It might have been a good idea for the Beater to consider the direction in which he launched that Bludger. Vulchanov had certainly given it no thought. Indeed, he was admiring the power he had been able to put behind the blow.

  It was only when he glanced past the ball, instead of at it, that he began to have second thoughts.

  His actions were smooth and deliberate. He reached around Levski, grasped Dragonov's sleeve, and gently eased the three of them up and over, to a point that had nothing in common with the Bludger's missle-like trajectory.

  ***

  It may never be known who cast the Sonorus on Dennis Moon. He certainly didn't do it to himself. Georgios Xenakis was one of those people who would be mute if you tied their hands, so he was eliminated. Perhaps the prevailing theory was correct, and it was a lucky shot by an intensely curious fan. (Harry and Ron agreed, with just an exchange of glances, to never, ever, bring the subject up with Ginny).

  Nevertheless, the Spell and the Bludger struck almost simultaneously. Luckily for Moon, the strike was the barest of grazes.

  Well, 'luckily' may not be the right word. The old saw goes, 'Anything is better than a kick in the head.' The resulting events put a severe strain on that aphorism's ancient wisdom.

  The Bludger just passed through Moon's hair, true. But its speed and magic overwhelmed the magical adhesion that kept Moon's very expensive hairpiece in place. The toupee gladly changed allegiance, and the Bludger, with its long flowing mane, silently disappeared into the night sky.

  Moon felt it as a snatching sensation that left his scalp tingling and just a little chilled. He only knew the direction the attack had come from, not the angle. He whirled on his broom, scanning up and down for his assailant. The only flyers in sight were Levski and the Bulgarian Beaters. Quite a bit off the line, they were all looking at him with mild interest. With, it should be added in Levski's case, a soup ?on of befuddlement.

  Wait. There. Less than twenty-five meters away. Someone was staring at him through Omnioculars. A red-headed Someone in dark dress robes. The Omnioculars came down. The man's face was working to suppress an emotion.

  And... he... laughed.

  ***

  In Ron's defense, it should be pointed out that everyone was laughing. He actually held out longer than most. Harry was looking up at the ceiling as he chortled, where a rhythmic pounding spoke to someone on hand and knees. beating the floor in helpless laughter.

  It was also true that Moon was, to put it mildly, a sight. His hair was still long, lush, and healthy. The problem was that it only existed from just in front of his ears, running in a line back over those same ears, then dipping to cover the lower part of the back of his skull. Below this line, beautiful, obviously well-cared for natural hair. Above that line...?

  A pallid, somewhat lumpy skull, currently showing the sparkling after-effects of Magickus Interruptus. It made one slightly queasy to stare at it for too long.

  Moon pointed at Ron Weasley and bellowed, "YOU!"

  The problem with the basic Sonorous Spell is that it has no built-in upper limit. A talented caster can embed safety features in it, but... (shrug).

  The stadium shook like St. Nick's belly. People were thrown down, thrown out of their seats, throwing up from dizziness brought on by overpressure on sensitive eardrums. Lots of throwing.

  Ron's slightly long hair whipped about his face. The next aural assault came.

  "YOU JINXED ME, YOU BLOODY WANKER! I SAW THAT HAND OF YOURS!"

  Moon stared at Ron, swaying on his broom. Maybe the Bludger had made some slight contact.

  "This is... all your fault." He was no longer bellowing, but Sonorus was still Sonorous. Moon fumbled inside the front of his robes, still staring. Referee Xenakis laid a hand on his shoulder. Moon's hand whipped out with his wand, Repello shoving the man off his broom. The broom quivered in horror for just a moment, then darted off after its rider.

  "THIS IS ALL YOUR BLOODY FAULT!" Moon kicked his broom into motion, top acceleration, laying forward along the shaft, firing spells as he came.

  Straight. At. Ron.

  Harry tackled Ron out of the way. Not because of the spells. Dara and Kyinté had not been taken off guard, and Shields were in place. But even the best shields have trouble with large physical objects moving at high speed.

  Sure, enough, Moon blasted through the shields, which slowed him only slightly. He took a heavy impact, nonetheless, and tumbled bonelessly toward the door.

  Harry desperately cast Spongify, barely getting it in ahead of Moon's body. The broom flew off at an angle, impaling two seat backs before being brought to a halt.

  Moon hit the door hard, back first, forcing the now elastic material into the hallway. Far, far into the hallway. The material of the door was stretching, stretching. slowing to a twanging strain against the edges of the doorway. The security staff still outside the door had, luckily, not been in the way. Down the hall, though, an OOF! came from where no OOF! should have been. The guards came to their own sort of twanging attention.

  Dara and Kyinté, on either side of the door, leaned over and looked down the dark, stretchy shaft, which was finally slowing to a stop. They straightened back up abruptly, just in time.

  With an emphatic SPROING!, the door snapped back much faster than it had stretched out, launching Dennis Moon across the bowl of the stadium, gradually curving down toward an eventual landing in the opposite stands.

  Ron threw himself at the railing, Moon having already dropped out of their line of sight. Harry grabbed at the back of his robes just in time.

  Ron roared, "WINGARDIUM LEVIOSA!" It was a long, long cast, but this spell Ronald Bilius Weasley had down.