Albert shed his heavy, rain-soaked winter cloak, immediately followed by the damp, muddy Quidditch robes. He didn't waste a second, pulling out his wand and casting a powerful, multi-layered Drying Charm that enveloped him in a cocoon of warm, dry air. The sensation was glorious—the sudden cessation of the deep-set chill was a luxurious comfort after the brutal match.
"That felt like diving into a lukewarm bath," he sighed contentedly, folding his dry clothes.
Charlie, still dripping rainwater onto the stone floor, pointed toward a large, wire basket overflowing with sodden gear. "Toss the protective gear in there. And listen up. We're making a pilgrimage to the Hospital Wing. We need that cold prevention potion from Pomfrey."
He paused, his grin turning predatory. "And perhaps we should check on the emotional well-being of our rivals. Just a quick morale boost for ourselves, you understand."
"Ah, so a perfectly legitimate medical visit combined with a spot of calculated psychological warfare," Irene translated, a dark amusement sparkling in her eyes. "A truly Gryffindor move, Charlie."
"Don't forget Jack needs a proper check-up," Danny reminded them, coughing slightly into his fist. "He took quite the tumble into the stands, thanks to that rather enthusiastic, if reckless, Slytherin pursuit."
"Easy for you to say, Mr. Chaser-with-a-Beater's-bat," Jack retorted, rubbing his bruised hip loudly. "You were the one who drew all the heat! I was collateral damage!"
Albert, already dressed in his crisp, dry uniform, noticed the rest of the team staring at him. Wood, the veteran Keeper, his cheek still slightly swollen despite Pomfrey's earlier charm, squinted. "Wait a second... your robes... they're completely dry. How did you manage that so quickly?"
"It's a simple, extended Drying Charm," Albert replied, genuinely surprised by their confusion. "You simply direct the magical energy to expel all moisture and raise the temperature." He gestured with his wand. "Surely you know the charm?"
The team exchanged baffled, embarrassed glances. None of them knew it.
"It's in that beginner's reference book, Practical Household Magic," Albert explained, feeling suddenly like a remedial instructor. "Professor Flitwick recommended it. It contains charms for common, non-combat issues—very useful for saving yourself needless discomfort in a rainy climate." He rubbed his nose. "In fact, I think the cold is finally getting to me. I need that potion."
"You read household magic books?" Irene raised a perfectly sculpted eyebrow, her expression a mix of incredulity and respect.
"Magic exists to simplify life," Albert countered, shivering dramatically. "That is the highest application of the craft. Now, let's go before I require a trip to the real Hospital Wing."
Mario punctuated the point with a loud, wet "A-CHOO!" followed by a miserable groan. "Please, a hot bath, a warm bed, or at least a potion. Let's move!"
Before leaving, Albert quickly cast the Drying Charm on the few teammates who looked particularly miserable. Irene, receiving a blast of warm air, offered a genuine, thankful smile. "Thank you for the rescue, on and off the field."
The journey to the second-floor Hospital Wing corridor was slow. The heavy, muddy parade of Gryffindors joined an even larger congregation of spectators—soaked and shivering students who were all queuing for Madam Pomfrey's preventative cold draughts.
The sight of the triumphant Gryffindor team, led by their famous freshman Seeker, caused the crowd to part like the Red Sea, cheering and shouting congratulations.
Charlie, maintaining a professional but jovial captain's demeanor, nodded and waved to the crowd as he steered his squad directly into the ward.
The Hospital Wing was already tense. Several beds were occupied by the most serious casualties. Charlie wasted no time, leading Jack to a bed and then striding over to make pointed eye contact with Slytherin Chaser Montague, who lay miserably with his newly reset ribs. Charlie offered Montague a saccharine, victorious grin, mouthing clearly, "We won. And you deserved that."
"Madam Pomfrey, we also require your expertise," Irene announced brightly to the Head Nurse, who was rapidly dispensing potion measures. "A small prophylaxis for the entire substitute squad, please. We were quite drenched during our brief but necessary time on the pitch."
Madam Pomfrey, overworked and utterly fed up, barely looked up. "Potions are on the trolley. Small cup each. Help yourselves. And try not to cause any further internal bleeding while you're here." She then moved to examine Jack, muttering darkly about the sheer anarchy of the game and how the entire team deserved their bumps and bruises.
The atmosphere in the ward was suffocating. As the Gryffindors took their cold potions—a foul, smoky-tasting liquid—the Slytherin team members arrived, supporting their own badly battered players. The tension in the ward immediately spiked.
Albert watched as the Slytherin reserve Keeper, Vicky, whose jaw he'd "accidentally" contacted, was helped onto a bed. The two Chasers who had tried to intercept Albert and had subsequently crashed into their own fan section were leaning heavily on their teammates, looking battered and utterly humiliated.
"Alright, that's enough sight-seeing for one day," Madam Pomfrey barked, spotting the brewing rivalry. She ushered the Gryffindors out.
As they reached the door, Mark turned, his voice amplified to carry over the general hubbub of the ward. He didn't address the Slytherins, but spoke loudly and conversationally to Danny.
"By the way, did you hear about the consequences of that bat-throw? The bloke who launched it is apparently in deep trouble with McGonagall. And the unfortunate chaps who crashed into the audience? They took out three Slytherin supporters in the resulting mess. I hear there's going to be an inquiry. What a spectacular own-goal."
The resulting sound of the Gryffindor group's suppressed laughter, coupled with the communal growl that rose from the Slytherin beds, was glorious.
Danny, playing along perfectly, raised an eyebrow at Vicky, the newly toothed Keeper. "And what happened to your mouth, old boy? Did you suddenly contract a strange, aggressive case of tooth decay? That looks rather painful."
Charlie quickly shoved the whole group out, barely suppressing his own laughter. "Out! Before we start a ward riot!"
Once in the corridor, the restraint vanished.
"Oh, I hope Pomfrey leaves him toothless for a week," Fred chortled, wiping tears of mirth from his eyes. "Who was the brilliant strategist who managed that hit, anyway? It was poetic justice."
"It was our man, Albert," Jack declared, throwing a friendly punch at Albert's shoulder. "He connected with the Keeper's face just as they passed. I tried to warn him, but..." Jack trailed off, shaking his head with a mock sigh.
"I must insist, gentlemen," Albert said with an air of aggrieved innocence. "He flew directly into my elbow. I was focused entirely on the Snitch. He, apparently, has a strange fascination with inflicting self-harm by way of a bony protrusion. It was a lamentable accident, and my elbow is quite sore."
"Perhaps he suffers from a complex that requires frequent dental work," George added, his face a picture of exaggerated pity. "I hope Madam Pomfrey finds a cure for his sudden need to lose his molars."
"Enough of the teeth! Let's go and celebrate this deserved victory!" Charlie announced, steering them toward the stairs.
Just as they were descending, Lee Jordan materialized from around a corner, his eyes wide. He clapped Albert on the back. "You didn't see the best part! Snape's face! When you held up that Snitch, he looked like someone had dipped his head in rancid pumpkin juice! I swear, a single wrinkle couldn't hold all the rage!"
Lee suddenly stopped, noticing Albert raising a cautionary finger. He glanced around nervously. "Right, right, discretion. No grease-haired dungeon bats around."
The ensuing laughter was only interrupted by the appearance of Argus Filch. The administrator stood glowering at the bottom of the stairs, mop and bucket in hand, waiting for the crowd to clear so he could mop up the trail of muddy footprints they were leaving. His malicious glare was the only sour note in their joyous procession.
The atmosphere in the Gryffindor Common Room was a thunderous, joyous explosion. Cakes, pumpkin pasties, every manner of candy, and an enormous cauldron of pumpkin juice were spread across the tables. When Albert entered, the room erupted.
Students surged toward him, chanting his name. The fame was immediate and inescapable. Hands reached out, pulling him forward, eager to hear a first-hand account of the mid-air elbow strike and the frantic dive for the Snitch.
After patiently recounting the tale—always insisting on the "accidental elbow contact"—Albert finally managed to escape the mob. He secured a small wedge of honey cake and a mug of juice and retreated to an armchair nestled in a quieter corner.
A few moments later, Field appeared, leaning against the back of her chair, watching him with an amused expression.
"Not bad, Albert," she murmured, a playful smirk curving her lips. "I certainly didn't expect you to be so... lethally effective on a broomstick. If you were a bit older, I'd consider chasing you for a permanent partnership in mischief."
Albert felt a blush warm his ears. He glanced up at her, catching her eye. "Oh? Are all older girls this assertive?" he whispered back, lowering his voice conspiratorially. "Because frankly, I try to keep clear of anyone who insists on calling me 'young man.'"
Field simply rolled her eyes good-naturedly at his attempted deflection. "You're infuriating. Let's change the subject. How is the practice going with your Summoning Charms?"
"It's progressing quite well," Albert said, nodding with genuine satisfaction, licking cake frosting off his finger. "I've mastered the technique for small, non-magical, nearby items. I'm moving on to slightly more abstract and necessary items now."
Field leaned in, intrigued. "Oh? What vital magical artifact are you attempting to call forth?"
Albert took a deliberate sip of pumpkin juice, fixing her with a serious gaze. "I am currently attempting to reliably summon an umbrella."
Field blinked. "A... rain umbrella? Why on earth would you waste your time summoning an ordinary muggle item?"
"Because, Field," Albert said, patiently explaining the deeper philosophy of convenience, "this entire country is perpetually damp. I despise having to remember to bring an umbrella every time I leave the castle. If I can instantly summon one to my hand the moment I step outside and the rain starts, I save myself the daily aggravation, the risk of a cold, and the distraction of worrying about it. Magic, in this context, is simply a tool for optimal dry-time management."
Field stared at him for a long moment, then broke into a loud, unexpected laugh. "Only you, Albert. Only you would apply advanced magical theory to avoid the minor inconvenience of getting wet. I suppose that is, technically, very effective magic."
The victory celebration continued late into the night. It was loud, messy, and thoroughly earned. The 150 points for the win, combined with the earlier 40 points, had vaulted Gryffindor into a secure second place, just behind Ravenclaw.
The House Cup race was officially back on, and Albert, the freshman Seeker who won the day with a well-aimed elbow and a perfectly timed dive, had become an instant, if slightly reluctant, legend.