The atmosphere leading up to the Gryffindor-Slytherin match wasn't just competitive; it was borderline combustible. In the three days preceding the game, the corridor leading to the Great Hall had become a localized war zone. Minor hexes were flying with such frequency that Madam Pomfrey had set up a "triage" station near the entrance of the Hospital Wing to deal with the influx of Jelly-Leg Jinxes and boils.
The reality, however, was grim for the Lions. Charlie Weasley's team was in the middle of a painful rebuilding phase. While the talent was there, the synergy wasn't. They were a collection of brilliant individuals, whereas the Slytherins were a well-oiled machine of malice and precision.
Charlie knew it. He paced the locker room, the wood of his broom handle creaking under the pressure of his grip. He remembered last year—the grit, the broken ribs, and the sheer stubbornness that had allowed them to snatch the cup. But that team was gone.
"Look, I'm not going to lie to you," Charlie said, his voice echoing against the stone walls. "They're going to play dirty. They're going to try and break you before they even try to score. Don't worry about the scoreboard for the first ten minutes. Just... stay on your brooms. If you can't fly, you can't win."
"We've got the trophy from last year," Oliver Wood added, trying to bolster the mood, though his hands were shaking slightly as he buckled his knee guards. "They're the ones with something to prove, not us."
"That's a loser's mentality," McLaggen snapped from the corner. He was checking his reflection in a polished Shield Charm. "We should be going out there to crush them, not just 'survive.' Charlie, you're acting like we've already booked our beds in the infirmary."
Charlie didn't argue. He just signaled for the team to head out. As the main players stepped into the light of the pitch to a deafening roar of mixed cheers and boos, Albert stood near the tunnel entrance with the reserves.
"What was it really like last year?" Katie Bell asked softly, watching the Slytherin team circle the pitch like sharks in green robes. "Everyone talks about the 'Blood Bath of '89,' but surely it wasn't that bad?"
McLaggen leaned in, his bravado masking a genuine curiosity.
"It was a street fight on sticks," Albert answered, his eyes fixed on the Slytherin Captain. "Last year's team was older. They didn't just take the hits; they gave them back with interest. This year? Our lot is still learning the difference between a Bludger and a foul. Alicia, you should probably head to the stands. It's going to get ugly fast."
"You're remarkably pessimistic today, Albert," Alicia noted, wrapping her scarf tighter.
"I'm a realist," Albert corrected. "Slytherin is playing for blood today. We're playing for pride. Usually, blood wins."
The whistle blew, and the match exploded into life.
It took less than thirty seconds for the first foul. A Slytherin Chaser "accidentally" elbowed Angelina Johnson in the ribs while intercepting the Quaffle, sending her into a dangerous spiral. The Slytherins scored immediately after, the green flags waving frantically in the stands.
"Look at that! Absolute gutter tactics!" Lee Jordan's voice boomed over the magical megaphone. "Slytherin scores through blatant assault, and the referee seems to have developed a temporary case of blindness! George! Hit him! Give him the... oh, for heaven's sake, a whistle for that?"
The crowd was becoming a riot.
"You were right," Kenneth Towler muttered, sliding onto the bench next to Albert. He looked like he wanted to jump off the stands. "I'm going to be ruined. Absolutely wiped out."
Kenneth had been running the books all week, and the lopsided betting meant a Slytherin victory would cost him every Galleon he'd scavenged over the last two terms.
"The odds were skewed," Albert said, watching the Slytherin Beaters coordinate a pincer movement. "Why did you offer such a high payout on the first foul? You knew who we were playing."
"I was greedy," Kenneth groaned. "And you... you scoundrel. You bet five Galleons on Slytherin committing the first foul within the first minute. I gave you ten-to-one odds because I thought Madam Hooch would actually do her job today."
"I know my schoolmates, Kenneth," Albert said. "The Slytherin Chasers have been practicing that 'elbow-slip' all week. It's their signature opener."
"Look, let's settle this now," Kenneth whispered, reaching into his pocket. "I'll give you your five Galleons back, plus three for the 'inconvenience.' Just cancel the bet. If I have to pay out fifty Galleons to you, I'll be selling my robes for food by Tuesday."
Albert looked at the pained expression on the bookie's face. He knew Kenneth was a small-time operator. If he pushed too hard, the guy would just vanish into the Forbidden Forest.
"Five Galleons profit," Albert countered. "My principal back, plus five. Take it or leave it."
"Done," Kenneth hissed, counting out ten gold coins and shoving them into Albert's hand.
McLaggen, standing nearby, looked disgusted. "I thought you were above gambling, Anderson. Isn't this against the 'Model Student' code?"
"I'm not gambling, Cormac," Albert said, pocketing the gold. "I'm performing a market correction. There's a difference."
"I wish I'd put a few Sickles down," Alicia muttered, watching the scoreboard climb.
"Don't," Albert advised. "Kenneth only pays out to people he's afraid of. He'd have laughed in your face if you tried to collect."
On the pitch, the situation turned from sport to assault. A Slytherin Beater swung his bat with a sickening crack, sending a Bludger directly into Fred's lower back. Fred wasn't just knocked off course; he was sent tumbling through the air, barely managing to hang onto his broom with one hand as he plummeted twenty feet before regaining control.
Professor McGonagall was on her feet, screaming at the referee, her face a shade of red that matched the Gryffindor banners. Lee Jordan wasn't holding back either.
"THAT'S ATTEMPTED MURDER! DOES THE REFEREE NEED SPECTACLES? OR PERHAPS A BRAIN TRANSPLANT? Fred Weasley is lucky to have a spine after that, and the Slytherins are laughing! 80 to 30! They're winning because they're playing a different game entirely!"
The score was widening. Gryffindor was faster, but every time they got near the hoops, they were physically blocked, shoved, or blindsided. Charlie was circling high above, his eyes darting frantically in search of the Snitch. He was the only hope. If he didn't end this soon, his team would be carried off on stretchers.
"How did we win last year?" Katie Bell asked, her voice trembling as she watched Angelina get forced into a near-collision with the goalposts.
"We played their game," Alicia explained grimly. "Last year, the seventh-years didn't wait for the referee. They hit back. They used the 'Transylvanian Tackle' like it was a standard greeting. By the end of the match, half the Slytherins couldn't sit down for a week."
"Look at the twins," Albert noted, a small, dangerous smile playing on his lips.
Fred had finally stabilized. He didn't go back to his position. Instead, he flew straight at the Beater who had hit him. As they passed, Fred didn't use his bat; he used his shoulder, slamming into the Slytherin with enough force to nearly unseat him. George was right behind him, using a Bludger to force the Slytherin Seeker into a dive that nearly ended in the dirt.
The crowd erupted. The "Lion's Roar" was finally back.
Charlie saw the opening and signaled for a timeout. The Gryffindor team hovered in a tight circle near the ground, their chests heaving, their faces smeared with dirt and sweat.
"They think we're soft!" Charlie roared, his voice carrying even to the stands. "They think because we have new players, we're just going to let them walk over us! Are we going to let them defile our pitch?"
"NO!" the twins screamed in unison.
"Then show them! An eye for an eye!" Charlie slammed his fist into his palm. "If they want a brawl, let's give them a masterpiece! Tooth for tooth! Just like Albert said—if they won't play fair, make them play scared!"
"TOOTH FOR TOOTH!" Fred and George echoed, their eyes gleaming with a manic energy.
Albert, standing just outside the restricted area, felt a dozen pairs of eyes turn toward him.
"Did you really tell them to go out there and start a riot?" Alicia asked, her expression a mix of shock and admiration.
Albert blinked, looking completely innocent. "Do I look like the kind of person who advocates for school-sanctioned violence?"