There are a total of seven hundred ways to foul in Quidditch, ranging from the bizarre to the outright absurd. These include but are not limited to: transfiguring the Chaser into a chicken-weasel, attempting to decapitate the Keeper with a broadsword, or releasing a hundred bloodthirsty bats from under one's robes to swarm the opposition. All of these eccentric violations famously occurred during the most chaotic match in Quidditch history, the infamous Quidditch Rule-Breaking Tournament.
That match was the magical world's first world-class Quidditch event, and it laid the groundwork for the modern Quidditch rulebook. And yet, even that game, which showcased every known foul, never saw a scene quite like this:
A team of wizards completely disregarding their own safety to ram their opponents out of the sky.
This wasn't your usual strategic foul, where a player carefully calculates the angle and speed to knock an opponent off course to gain ball control. No, Hogwarts' players weren't even bothering with defense. All they had to do was pick a target… and accelerate with reckless abandon.
Even evenly matched opponents had no way of defending against this kamikaze playstyle, let alone when Hogwarts' team clearly outclassed them in skill.
Of course, such conduct quickly drew penalties from the referee. But by now, neither Hogwarts nor Ilvermorny players cared about the Quaffle anymore. The newly substituted Ilvermorny players and remaining starters had completely given up on scoring, instead scrambling to dodge for their lives.
Because Hogwarts' players… were just crashing into them. On purpose.
While the entire stadium stood dumbstruck at the aerial demolition unfolding before them, Allen quietly slipped away toward the players' lounge.
There, the reserve players were already suited up and ready for substitution, clearly fired up and eager to crash into their opponents, too.
"Allen, you're here?"
The moment he arrived, the players noticed him. Patting their uniforms, they joked, half-playful, half-serious:
"Check this out, we're going to knock one of those cowards right out of the sky! As for you, Allen, this is no place for a kid. Just leave it to us and wait for the victory, alright?"
"Oh? Victory?" Allen raised an eyebrow. "Where exactly do you see a win coming from?"
"Didn't you say it yourself? Knock out the ones who can actually play, then we, uh…"
The lead player's voice trailed off. He'd just remembered something important: they didn't even have enough players left to form a full team anymore.
"Send a signal to Alex, tell him to request a match timeout," Allen ordered the backup Seeker.
"But aren't we winning?" the player asked, pointing to the ongoing match, where their Seeker was closing in fast on Ilvermorny's.
"Winning? With what team? How many do we even have left? They've got all four houses on standby! If we knock out one house's team, another will just take its place. You think you can ram your way through all of them?"
"…Oh. Got it. I'll tell him right away!" The player turned to go but was abruptly stopped by Allen, who pointed to his uniform.
"Take off your jersey, I need it."
Before the confused player could react, Allen had already stripped the oversized uniform from him. With a few sparks of light, the jersey was magically altered, shrinking down into a smaller version with frayed, rough edges.
Unfortunately, Allen didn't have time to admire his work, or the player's pained expression over his ruined gear.
"What are you standing around for? Move!"
Still clutching his heartache, the player sprinted to the pitch edge and began signaling, using a simple hand code developed for high-speed broom flight when speaking wasn't possible.
Fortunately, someone noticed the signals quickly, right after their Seeker successfully rammed one of the Ilvermorny players out of the sky. At least no one else had to get injured before the pause.
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The timeout was granted shortly after.
A cluster of Hufflepuffs gathered around Allen for a new strategy meeting. The adrenaline had faded, and they were now beginning to realize how reckless their actions had been.
If they kept going with their all-out collision strategy, they wouldn't be remembered as brave competitors. Instead, they'd be branded sore losers who lashed out with fouls after falling behind.
And judging by Ilvermorny's response, that would be putting it mildly.
When both sides returned to the field, the Ilvermorny stands erupted in fresh excitement. They weren't fools, beneath the Ilvermorny team's benches now stood a dense crowd of substitutes, their multi-colored jerseys making it clear: these were students from all four houses.
But it doesn't matter. Today, they were all Ilvermorny. It was a clever technicality, one that no one could really challenge.
With a stacked bench behind them, the Ilvermorny players found their confidence again. Just moments ago, Hogwarts' aggression had left them too stunned to even wave their banners. Now, they were roaring.
Then Allen took to the field.
Ilvermorny's cheering section instantly burst into laughter.
The new Seeker, a full head shorter than any other player, emerged wearing the most ridiculous uniform anyone had ever seen, clearly an emergency patchwork job. Despite the magical tailoring keeping it functional, it still looked like a crumpled, ink-stained piece of old newspaper.
But all the jeers and insults had no effect on the Hogwarts team. As the whistle blew, fourteen brooms shot into the air.
As Allen had expected, Ilvermorny quickly recognized their newfound advantage. Rather than retreat, they now charged forward, initiating coordinated attacks on Hogwarts players.
Unfortunately for them, Hogwarts had been anticipating this. With practiced agility, their team weaved through the incoming assault.
The match now resembled more of a high-speed broomstick demolition derby than an actual Quidditch game.
Ilvermorny had flipped to offense, but dodging forever wasn't a sustainable tactic. Soon enough, several players had cornered Allen.
His smaller frame made him an obvious target: easier to knock down, and less likely to injure them on impact. Seemed like a safe bet.
What they didn't know was, they weren't hunting a helpless little Flobberworm peeking out from underground.
They were poking the tail of a bored dragon.
Two Ilvermorny players quickly boxed Allen in. Since it was too hard to hit him one-on-one, they coordinated and flew in from opposite sides, preparing to crush him between their brooms.
But the moment they were about to hit, Allen stopped. Dead.
Not a typical deceleration. Not even a gradual slowdown. He simply froze midair, like an invisible force had nailed him to the sky.
The two players' eyes widened in horror.
Their brooms, moving full speed, slammed into each other right where Allen had been. With a terrible crack, both snapped in half, sending the riders tumbling down through the sky.
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