The calendar flipped to November, and with it, the weather snapped with brutal suddenness. When Albert woke up, the world outside his window was hushed and stark.
A heavy, wind-driven sleet had given way to a thick blanket of white snow covering the Forbidden Forest, while the Black Lake below was sheathed in a layer of crystalline, unforgiving ice. The consensus around the castle was that winter had arrived with a vengeance, skipping the gentle transition of autumn entirely.
Albert, ever the pragmatist, had been preparing for this eventuality for weeks. He was already cocooned in layers of thick wool and scarves. Crucially, he had visited Professor Flitwick not to learn an offensive charm, but to master the subtle application of the Drying Charm.
Now, he could cast the spell not merely to remove moisture, but to instantly warm his clothes, turning his chilly robes into a pocket of portable, blazing heat, almost as if he were standing directly before a roaring hearth.
Something far more volatile than the weather was brewing: the start of the Hogwarts Quidditch season.
Every morning, the imposing silhouette of Hagrid could be seen battling the wind and snow, his enormous broom sweeping a serviceable path toward the Quidditch pitch, ensuring the field remained accessible for the team.
Charlie Weasley, the Gryffindor Captain, entered a state of relentless, high-intensity focus. His enthusiasm was electric, driving the team through exhaustive training sessions where he meticulously drilled tactical coordination.
Fred and George, excused as they weren't official players, often returned complaining that Charlie's intensity on the pitch was unsettling—he became a taskmaster possessed, stripping away all traces of his usual amiable demeanor.
The news broke at dinner: the first match would be Gryffindor versus their bitter rivals, Slytherin, scheduled for the upcoming weekend.
The stakes were higher than mere bragging rights. Every student in Gryffindor desperately craved this victory. The pressure was so intense that even Professor McGonagall, known for her strict academic standards, exempted the entire House from pre-match homework—a clear, tacit endorsement of the importance of winning the House Cup.
Gryffindor was currently languishing in the humiliating last place, and a Quidditch victory, worth a hefty 150 points, was their only chance to reverse the trend. A win would propel them over Hufflepuff and put them within striking distance of Ravenclaw in second place.
The atmosphere of unified desperation was so potent that even Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff students openly voiced their support for Gryffindor, simply to ensure a defeat for the universally disliked Slytherin team.
The Saturday morning of the match dawned cold, bleak, and spitting a miserable mixture of sleet and light rain. Albert lingered beneath his duvet, utterly refusing to concede his warmth to the weather. It took the combined, boisterous excitement of Fred and George—who physically yanked the covers off him—to finally force him out of bed.
"It's madness! Absolute madness to stand outside in this," Albert grumbled, wrapping himself in thick, clean robes and instantly applying his enhanced Drying Charm. The sudden rush of dry warmth made him sigh with relief.
"You're not even shivering!" Fred exclaimed, noticing the instant transformation. He was jumping on the spot, trying to kick some life into his own cold limbs.
"The magic is simply an extension of preparedness, young man," Albert said with an earnest, tutor-like smile, patting Fred's shoulder before hitting him with a quick Drying Charm of his own. "Never go into a situation unprepared. Power is logistics."
Fred stared, momentarily stunned by the rush of warmth and Albert's bizarrely serious tone. "Give me some of that power, then!" Lee Jordan called out, rushing over, his teeth chattering, followed immediately by George.
Albert cast the warming spell on both of them. He then donned a thick, hand-knitted towel (a thoughtful gift from Daisy) as a scarf, tucked his trusty binoculars into his robe pocket, and filled a small, flat, silver-plated flask not with firewhisky, but with scalding hot water, which he used as a primitive hand-warmer in his pocket. He also brought a folding umbrella. He looked less like a spectator and more like a seasoned explorer ready for Arctic conditions.
The Great Hall buzzed with frenetic energy. The air was thick with the scent of grilled sausages and tense anticipation. The Gryffindor and Slytherin tables, seated side-by-side, were a hotbed of verbal conflict—a precursor to the violence to come.
Albert gathered with his friends around Charlie, wishing the team good luck.
"Charlie, did you manage to secure decent substitutes?" Mark Evans asked, his brow furrowed.
Albert looked up, sensing the underlying tension. "Substitutes? Will the match really last that long?"
Jack, another Chaser, shot a hostile glance toward the Slytherin table. "It's not the length, Albert. It's the quality of the contest. There is a deep, nasty rivalry here. Conflicts on the pitch are not just inevitable, they are practically mandatory. We need reserves for when Madam Pomfrey has to start wheeling people off."
Albert felt a familiar twitch of cynicism. This sounds less like a sports match and more like a choreographed feud.
"I've got the substitutes lined up," Charlie confirmed, offering a grim smile. "Don't worry, everyone. Madam Pomfrey will be watching from the stands. If you get hurt, you'll be healed quickly." Albert couldn't help but inwardly wince. That was not a comfort; that was a guarantee of brutality.
At eleven o'clock, almost the entire school, along with a surprising number of outside wizards—who braved the foul weather for a ticketed viewing experience—converged on the Quidditch pitch. Albert observed the outsiders with interest: muffled in expensive cloaks, holding umbrellas and binoculars, sitting in sections reserved for alumni.
Quidditch, he realized, was one of the few large-scale entertainment spectacles in the Wizarding World, explaining the dedicated, borderline-fanatical attendance even in this miserable weather.
Fred and George, ignoring Albert's suggestion to take the top-tier seats for the best view, insisted on positioning themselves close to the Gryffindor locker room. "We should be close to the action," George claimed with a wolfish grin.
"I think you anticipate the need for swift intervention—perhaps fetching spare Bludgers, or perhaps fetching spare teeth," Albert translated, but he followed them nonetheless.
The atmosphere was electric. The Gryffindor team, in their crimson robes, were met with an explosion of applause. The Slytherin team, in their emerald green, were greeted with a wall of aggressive boos and scattered, high-pitched cheers.
The Ravenclaw commentator immediately leaned into the conflict. "Well, that settles it! It seems the green team is not very popular with the rest of Hogwarts, a tradition we can all appreciate!" he roared, immediately drawing an angry wave of jeers from the Slytherin section.
Madam Hooch, the referee, stood in the center, her yellow eyes sharp as a falcon's. "I expect clean play, fair contact, and absolute respect for the rules," she bellowed, her voice magically amplified. Everyone, including Albert, knew these words were meaningless, aimed only at placating the officials.
Albert raised his binoculars, focusing on the captains. "I believe the captains are attempting to crush each other's metacarpals," he noted, watching Charlie and the opposing captain, Montague, engage in a vicious, prolonged handshake.
"Charlie asked me how to exert maximum compressive force when shaking hands," Hagrid confirmed, settling down beside them, holding a massive umbrella and his own binoculars. The half-giant looked grim. "There's always tension, but this match… I haven't seen it this tense since the last Cup decider. It feels less like a game and more like a blood feud.
The whistle blew. Fifteen broomsticks shot into the sleet-ridden sky. The match began, and within minutes, Albert revised his cynical analysis. This was not a sports match; it was a mid-air riot.
The Quaffle was seized almost immediately by Gryffindor's Jack. Utilizing the cover of his teammates, he executed a clever reverse pass, scoring the first ten points for Gryffindor.
The immediate Slytherin response was cold, calculated fury. Their Beater, Locke, didn't attempt to redirect a Bludger, but instead, flew directly into the path of the nearest Gryffindor Chaser, causing both players' brooms to veer wildly several meters off course.
"Foul! Deliberate charge! That's a clear Blagging attempt!" the Ravenclaw commentator screeched with outraged joy. "Slytherin's plot failed, and now they concede possession! Gryffindor leads by ten points!"
Albert lowered his binoculars, feeling a surge of adrenaline. "Is this degree of intentional collision normal, Hagrid?" he shouted over the noise of the crowd.
"It's not normal, Albert," Hagrid replied, clapping furiously for the Gryffindor goal. "But between these two Houses, it's become expected."
The tension was so thick it felt like the air was saturated with explosives. Gryffindor scored again, pushing the lead to twenty points—a blistering start that only fueled Slytherin's aggressive desperation.
When Gryffindor Chaser Mario was about to pass the Quaffle, Slytherin's Montague kicked Mario's broom, causing a violent, sickening wobble. Mario had to clutch the handle just to stay on, while the Quaffle was instantly snatched away by a Slytherin Chaser.
Gryffindor retaliated almost instantly. Mark Evans, while attempting a feint against Slytherin Seeker Marcus Flint, "mistakenly" swung his hand wide, delivering a sharp, resounding punch directly to Flint's nose. The Slytherin Seeker's head snapped back, and a vibrant crimson streak of blood immediately cut through the sleet-drenched air.
Madam Hooch, beside herself, blew the whistle and awarded penalties to both sides, recognizing the retaliation.
The game spiraled into a chaotic, primitive melee. Madam Hooch was blowing her whistle almost every minute, shouting infractions that ranged from deliberate elbowing to full-body blocks. The referee looked utterly defeated.
The crowd screamed in collective outrage when Slytherin Beater Locke managed to hit Gryffindor Chaser Eileen on the back of the head with his bat. When called for the blatant foul, Locke had the cynical audacity to argue that "he thought her head was a Bludger, sir!"
The Quaffle was returned to Gryffindor's Jack. The Chaser, seething with righteous indignation, spotted Locke still hovering nearby. Jack executed a lightning-fast maneuver, spinning his broom and aiming the Quaffle directly at the Beater. The Quaffle slammed into Locke's face with stunning velocity, bouncing off the stunned Beater's head and into the hands of a waiting teammate below.
"Oh, I apologize, my vision is quite poor in this sleet! I mistook you for my teammate for a quick pass!" Jack shouted with utterly transparent sarcasm, zooming away before Locke could react.
The Gryffindor crowd roared with laughter and approval. Despite the protests from the Slytherin side, Madam Hooch grimly refused to blow the whistle. It wasn't technically a foul, as the ball was "passed"—albeit into a Beater's face—and Jack had voluntarily relinquished possession to a member of the opposing team's area. Retaliation achieved.
Even Professor McGonagall, standing in the stands, was visible, waving her fist in barely contained fury. Her anger boiled over when Charlie Weasley, closing in on the darting Golden Snitch, was blindsided by Slytherin Chaser Montague, who deliberately cut him off. Charlie's broom tumbled dangerously, forcing him to lose speed and the chance to end the game.
Gryffindor gained another ten points from the penalty, but the victory was hollow.
Then came the final, brutal exchange. When Montague, momentarily back in possession, attempted to score, the Gryffindor Keeper, Wood, flew out and executed a "mistimed" block that ended not with a save, but with a forearm smash to Montague's face.
"Penalty! Gryffindor! Wood, what in Merlin's name was that?" Madam Hooch screamed, her voice cracking with pure exasperation.
"I am terribly sorry, Madam Hooch," Wood replied, his expression a masterpiece of false humility. "I was over-excited and slightly misjudged my speed. A complete accident."
Albert took a long, hot sip from his flask, feeling the warmth spread through his chest. He looked at the chaos of flying fouls, broken teeth, and intentional collisions.
"Hot-blooded Quidditch," he muttered to himself, shaking his head. "It's not a sport, it's a glorified, ritualized mob fight. A magnificent spectacle of uncontrolled aggression, and a highly valuable source of data on Dark Arts resilience."
He checked his internal timer, calculating the average time between fouls. The game was an absolute tactical disaster, yet it was undeniably gripping.
He couldn't look away. It was, after all, the highest-stakes amateur bloodsport he had ever witnessed.