The snow had stopped, but the rain grew heavier.
A biting chill permeated the air, yet it failed to dampen the audience's passion for Quidditch. The stands echoed with cheers for their teams.
In an inconspicuous corner, Albert and his roommates huddled together, watching the match with a soaking-wet Hagrid beside them. Around them, students ignored the cold rain, roaring with delight as Gryffindor scored.
Albert lowered his monocular, drew his wand, and cast a Fire-Resistant Charm on the lens to keep the rain from blurring his vision.
On the pitch, the fierce confrontation continued. Slytherin never accepted defeat easily; they quickly seized an opportunity to counterattack.
Chaser Montague, shielded by teammates, carried the quaffle into the scoring area. Nearby, Beater Locke struck a bludger toward Gryffindor's Keeper, Wood.
Focused on Montague, Wood failed to notice the bludger until it whistled past his ear. He dodged at the last second, narrowly avoiding disaster.
But before he could recover, Montague crashed through Danny's block and hurled the quaffle straight into Wood's face.
A wave of "Foul!" erupted from the stands, drowning out the rain.
Albert winced, feeling his own face ache. Being hit by a quaffle like that must have been brutal.
"Quidditch players really are in a high-risk profession," he muttered.
"What? Didn't catch that!" Hagrid bellowed, binoculars pressed to his eyes.
"Nothing," Albert replied quickly.
Fred suddenly shouted, "Oh no, Wood's going to fall!"
The crowd rose in horror as Wood spiraled downward. Some screamed, others covered their eyes.
Dazed from the blow, Wood clutched his broom, slid down the scoring hoop's railing, and landed hard on the grass. His injuries, thankfully, weren't severe.
Madam Hooch blew her whistle, pausing the match, and landed beside him.
Madam Pomfrey stormed onto the pitch, her face grim. With a spell, she healed Wood's cheek, then handed him a potion. The Gryffindor Keeper recovered enough to continue.
Still, Pomfrey's fury was evident. She declared that anyone else injured should report directly to the Hospital Wing and remain there for days.
"Slytherin's Seeker Montague attacked Gryffindor's Keeper! This despicable act is unprecedented!" the commentator shouted. "Slytherin's goal is invalid—current score: eighty to forty, Gryffindor leading by forty points!"
The crowd roared. Both Seekers now searched desperately for the golden snitch, though the heavy rain made visibility poor.
Wood's recovery reignited Gryffindor's supporters, their chants of "Go, Gryffindor!" echoing across the stands.
"Madam Hooch blows the whistle again—the match continues! How will Gryffindor respond?" the commentator cried, his excitement more suited to a duel than a sporting event.
From the Gryffindor stands came a deafening chant: "Take out Slytherin! Take out Montague!"
Albert felt as though he were watching a battle, not a game.
Moments later, Gryffindor retaliated. Mark and Irene, a couple with uncanny coordination, exchanged a glance. Mark rammed Beater Locke, while Irene smashed a bludger straight at Montague, who was cornered by three Gryffindor Chasers.
Montague never saw it coming. The bludger struck him hard, sending him tumbling.
"Oh my goodness, it hit! Irene's bludger nailed Montague! That must hurt—I mean, I hope he's alright!" the commentator stammered, quickly correcting himself. "No foul called—perfectly legal counterattack!"
Though Slytherin managed to score ten points, losing their Chaser was a heavy blow.
Montague was carried off the field. Snape conjured a stretcher, his expression thunderous, while students bore Montague to the Hospital Wing. Madam Pomfrey set his ribs in seconds, but he was finished for the day.
By rule, no substitutions were allowed. Slytherin was down a Chaser.
The Gryffindor crowd regretted it wasn't Marcus Flint, their Seeker, who had been removed.
The match grew dirtier. Slytherin, disadvantaged, resorted to open attacks.
Albert, peering through his monocular, was stunned to see the four Beaters fighting each other with bats like swordsmen.
Beside him, Fred and George muttered gleefully, "Hit him—aim for the head!"
Slytherin players ganged up on Charlie, trying to eliminate Gryffindor's Seeker.
Soon, the pitch resembled a battlefield. Beaters swung wildly, Irene knocked Locke's bat away, and Jack kicked him midair. Locke nearly fell from his broom.
Several Gryffindors sustained minor injuries.
Madam Hooch, enraged, expelled all four Beaters from the match. "You disgrace Hogwarts!" she shouted.
The fifteen-player game suddenly shrank by five, leaving the pitch eerily empty.
Still, Gryffindor adapted. Danny grabbed a discarded bat, playing both Chaser and Beater. Their new target: Marcus Flint.
Charlie, Jack, and Mario boxed Flint in, attacking him with fists and elbows. Jack "accidentally" elbowed him in the kidney, while Danny swung the bat from behind.
Meanwhile, Jack was ambushed by two Slytherin Chasers. Crashed and kicked, he clung desperately to his broom, slamming into the stands.
"Danny, you set me up!" Jack groaned, clutching his waist.
Flint, cornered, endured a brutal beating.
Madam Hooch's whistle shrieked. She summoned both teams and unleashed her fury.
"Have you forgotten what I said? Play fairly—or get off the field! You have one hour to field reserve players."
Albert frowned. The commentator, baffled, soon announced: "Breaking news! All players have been disqualified for egregious fouls. Both teams have one hour to select replacements."
Fred's eyes gleamed. "Come on—to the locker room! It's our turn!"
Albert glanced at Flint, limping with Snape's support, before following his friends.
Inside the locker room, Professor McGonagall's voice thundered. "What in Merlin's name are you doing?"
Charlie stepped forward, calm despite her fury. "Professor, Slytherin started it. They refused to play fairly. I had no choice but to protect our team. Don't worry—I've arranged everything. Victory will be ours."
McGonagall blinked, startled, as Charlie gestured to the reserves.
"Kyle, you'll be Keeper. Fred and George, Beaters. Albert, you're Seeker. Danny, find Angelina."
Though far from the official team's skill, Gryffindor's reserves had trained together and believed they could match Slytherin's makeshift squad.
"Go, Albert—you're our secret weapon. Catch the Snitch, and we win," Charlie said, patting his shoulder.
Albert's mouth twitched. He knew it was just encouragement, but McGonagall frowned, clearly skeptical of the arrangement.
"They're reserves, Professor," Charlie explained quickly. "They were meant to join the team next year. They've trained well."
McGonagall sighed. "Fine. Since you've decided. I don't expect brilliance—but at least don't cause me trouble."