The sleet had relented, but the rain now hammered down, a biting, cold deluge that soaked everyone to the bone. Yet, the brutal chill failed utterly to dampen the audience's savage passion for the Quidditch match. The stands pulsed with deafening cheers and roars of outrage.
In their exposed corner, Albert and his roommates, bundled tight, watched the carnage unfold, with a thoroughly drenched Hagrid sitting steadfastly beside them.
Albert lowered his binoculars, feeling the rain smear his vision. He smoothly executed his Drying Charm on the lenses, then added a quick Impervius Charm to keep them clear. Essential field gear, he thought.
On the pitch, the chaos intensified. Slytherin, smarting from their penalties, seized the next opportunity. Chaser Montague, under the cover of his teammates, drove the Quaffle toward the scoring hoops. Beater Locke, spotting a Bludger approaching him, swung his bat in a sly redirect, sending the Bludger hurtling straight at Gryffindor Keeper, Wood.
Wood, focused intently on Montague, reacted purely by instinct. He twisted violently at the last second, narrowly avoiding the Bludger's iron impact. Before he could recover, Montague, capitalizing on the distraction, hurled the Quaffle directly at Wood's face.
A collective groan of pain, laced with fury, erupted from the Gryffindor stands.
"That's a sickening display of deliberate malice!" Albert muttered, rubbing his own cheek. "The risk profile of this sport is wildly out of line with the reward."
"What was that, Albert? Can't hear a thing!" Hagrid shouted, still focused on the sky.
"Nothing, just observing the high risk of facial trauma!"
Fred's shriek cut through the noise: "Oh no! Wood's going down!"
Terror gripped the stands. Wood, dizzied by the Quaffle to the face, was losing control. He spiraled downward, sliding off the scoring hoop's railing before crashing onto the muddy lawn. He was immediately surrounded by concerned players and a grim-faced Madam Hooch, who blew her whistle to halt the carnage.
A thoroughly annoyed Madam Pomfrey strode onto the field, looking less like a healer and more like an exasperated executioner. She quickly mended the laceration on Wood's cheek with a spell and forced a potion down his throat. She then glared at both teams, issuing a dire warning: any further injuries would result in a mandatory, prolonged stay in the Hospital Wing, no matter how minor.
The Ravenclaw commentator, energized by the drama, screamed the play-by-play: "Slytherin's Montague has struck the Gryffindor Keeper! A despicable, uncalled-for act! But Madam Hooch has just penalized Slytherin! The goal is invalidated! The score stands at 80-40, Gryffindor leads by forty points!"
The sight of Wood recovering and remaining in the game seemed to inject a manic energy into the Gryffindor crowd.
"Kill the Slytherin team! Kill Montague! Kill the Slytherin team! Kill Montague!" The stands erupted in an unprecedented, frightening chant that made the air itself vibrate. Albert felt a shiver; this was no longer a match, it was a battle cry for vengeance.
The Gryffindor team was not known for its restraint. Their new target was obvious: Montague, the Chaser who had downed their Keeper.
Chaser Mark and Beater Irene—a pair with a clear, vicious chemistry—collaborated instantly. Mark executed a perfect feint, darting at Slytherin Beater Locke and forcing him into an awkward position, allowing Irene to swing her bat and drive a Bludger, not at an opponent in range, but at Montague, who was being cornered by the three Gryffindor Chasers.
Montague, focused on evading the three Chasers around him, never saw the Bludger coming from the rear.
"It's a hit! A clean, brutal hit!" the commentator howled, his voice thick with glee. "Irene has leveled Montague! That looked absolutely painful! I certainly hope he breaks a few ribs—ahem—I mean, I sincerely hope the player is well enough to continue!"
The commentator coughed dramatically before concluding, "The referee has made no call! This calculated act of counter-retaliation is perfectly legal!"
Slytherin managed to score ten points while the Gryffindor players were regrouping, but their Chaser, Montague, lay slumped on the ground, clearly out of the game.
The crowd erupted in cheers as Professor Snape, his face a thundercloud of resentment, strode onto the pitch. He conjured a stretcher and had two Slytherin students carry Montague out, heading not for the pitch-side triage, but straight to the castle. The word passed quickly: Madam Pomfrey, offended by the violence, had simply refused to return to the pitch.
According to the official rules of the Department of Magical Games and Sports, no substitutes are allowed mid-game. Slytherin was now down a Chaser. The disadvantage, however, only fueled their spite.
The game then descended into pure, weaponized chaos. The four remaining Beaters from both sides began flying at each other like demented knights, using their bats like broadswords. Fred and George, standing next to Albert, were practically vibrating with vicarious fury.
"Hit him! Right in the elbow! Get him, Irene!" George screamed.
Irene, an absolute force of aggression, managed to knock the bat out of Slytherin Beater Locke's hand, then connected her own bat with his elbow. Before the dazed Locke could regain control, Chaser Jack delivered a well-aimed kick that nearly sent the Beater off his broom.
Madam Hooch, now utterly livid, screeched into her whistle and summoned all four Beaters. In a decision unprecedented in Hogwarts Quidditch history, she ordered all four—two from each team—to leave the field immediately, declaring their continued presence a "disgrace to the good name of Hogwarts."
With five players gone, the stadium felt eerily empty.
But the Gryffindor players, denied their Beaters, simply adapted. As the expelled Gryffindor Beaters flew off, Chaser Danny deftly snatched a fallen bat from the air. He was now a Chaser and a Beater. The next target was obvious: Slytherin Seeker Marcus Flint, still reeling from the earlier punch to the nose.
Charlie, Jack, and Mario boxed Flint in, squeezing his flying space until he was trapped near the edge of the pitch. They then unleashed a barrage of deliberate, close-quarters physical attacks—elbows, fists, and kicks—all disguised as "feints" and "tactical errors." They didn't care about the free throws they were conceding; the objective was elimination.
"Charlie, I thought Mark's feint was forbidden?" Jack shouted, swinging his elbow and "accidentally" catching Flint in the ribs, only to have his own nose flattened by a retaliatory punch.
Meanwhile, Danny, holding the Quaffle in one hand and the bat in the other, sped up from behind, ready to strike Flint out of the sky. Before he could reach the Seeker, a new wave of chaos broke out.
Jack, who had the Quaffle, was suddenly charged by a remaining Slytherin Chaser while the other kicked his broom. Jack was knocked off, but managed to cling to his broom with one hand, swinging wildly before finally crashing into the audience stands.
"Danny, you betrayed me!" Jack roared, clutching his injured side. He was thankfully away from the Slytherin section, but still faced a serious fall.
The brutal beating of Marcus Flint, however, had reached its crescendo. A final, piercing whistle cut through the storm. Madam Hooch, now trembling with rage, called the remaining players to her.
"Have you forgotten everything I said at the outset?" she spat, showering the players with rain and spittle. "Since you are incapable of participating fairly and honestly, you will all leave the field now! I am giving both teams exactly one hour to designate entirely new substitute teams to finish this match!"
The entire stadium was in shocked silence.
"What in the blazes just happened?" Albert muttered, staring at the pitch as the remaining players—shaken and soaked—returned to their locker rooms.
The Ravenclaw commentator, recovering his voice, was equally stunned. "We have just received confirmation! Due to the collective, egregious fouling by both sides, Madam Hooch has ejected every single player! This is the first time in Hogwarts history an entire team has been sent off! Both teams must appoint a new squad within the hour to continue the match!"
"It's our turn!" Fred shouted, his face radiating triumphant excitement despite the cold. He grabbed George and Albert. "Come on! To the locker room!"
Albert felt a familiar, pragmatic dread mix with genuine excitement. He glanced at the retreating figure of Marcus Flint, who was being practically dragged into the Slytherin locker room, followed by the sight of Professor Snape, whose expression was utterly poisonous.
They burst into the Gryffindor locker room, where a furious Professor McGonagall was already tearing into Charlie.
"What in the name of the Headmaster was that display, Weasley?!"
Charlie, though looking bruised and battered, remained defiant. "I apologize, Professor, but the Slytherin team initiated the conflict with the clear intent to injure. I was simply taking necessary measures to ensure the safety of our remaining players, and the victory." He quickly seized the advantage. "But don't worry, Professor. The substitutes are already here."
Fred, ignoring McGonagall's dark glare, winked at Charlie. "That was a magnificent strategic exit. I saw Flint practically carried out."
Professor McGonagall's head snapped toward Fred, who instantly clammed up.
Charlie quickly began the desperate reorganization. "Kyle, you're the emergency Keeper, stepping in for Wood. You've got the most experience." Kyle, a freckled Chaser substitute, nodded nervously.
"You two," Charlie pointed at the twins, "You'll be the Beaters. And Albert, you are our new Seeker! Where's Angelina? Danny, go find her! We need three Chasers and a Keeper."
Charlie quickly cobbled together a team, filling the last Chaser slot with another reserved substitute. Though the replacement team lacked the skill of the veterans, they were at least a full squad, which Slytherin, missing a Chaser, could not claim.
Charlie clapped Albert on the back, his eyes alight with urgent intensity. "Albert, you are our only hope now! Our secret weapon! It all rests on you. You must catch the Snitch!"
Albert's mouth twitched. He knew Charlie was simply using hyperbole for motivation, but the weight of expectation was heavy. He looked over at Professor McGonagall, who was frowning, clearly assessing the quality of this ragtag reserve team.
"They are trained reserve players, Professor," Charlie rushed to explain, anticipating her objection. "They were slated for the tryouts next year. They're ready."
Professor McGonagall sighed, her shoulders slumping in defeat. "Very well, Weasley. Since you've made this disastrous bed, you must lie in it. I don't expect a marvelous performance. Just try not to cause any international incidents."