The air over the Quidditch pitch didn't just smell like rain and damp earth anymore; it smelled like hostility. What had started as a match was rapidly devolving into a localized riot on broomsticks.
"Foul! That's a blatant Blagging if I've ever seen one!" Lee Jordan's voice crackled through the megaphone, dripping with bias.
High above, Charlie Weasley was leaning so far forward on his broom he was practically horizontal, his fingers inches away from the fluttering Golden Snitch. Suddenly, Marcus Flint, the Slytherin Captain, veered sharply off course. He didn't even pretend to be looking for the Snitch; he just lowered his shoulder and plowed into Charlie's side.
The collision was audible from the stands. Charlie's broom spiraled, and he only stayed mounted by sheer core strength and a desperate grip on the tail-twigs.
"Sorry about that, Weasley! Didn't see you there in all the red!" Flint shouted back, his face twisted into a smirk that held zero remorse.
He didn't get to enjoy the moment for long. Before Flint could even realign his broom, a heavy wooden thwack echoed through the air. Fred and George had converged on him like a pair of vengeful hornets. They hadn't hit him—that would be an immediate ejection—but they had sandwiched him between their bats, forcing him into a steep, terrifying dive just to avoid a cracked skull.
The crowd was on its feet, a sea of red and green screaming at each other. For the long-term fans, this wasn't exactly surprising. Gryffindor versus Slytherin matches usually ended with more people in the infirmary than on the podium. But this year, something was different. The Gryffindors weren't just taking the hits and complaining to the referee; they were retaliating with a cold, calculated ferocity that made even the Slytherins hesitate.
Madam Hooch was nearly purple with rage. Her silver whistle was shrieking every thirty seconds, but it was like trying to stop a landslide with a toothpick. She eventually blew a long, shrill blast and summoned both teams to the center of the pitch.
"I have never, in all my years of officiating, seen such a disgusting display of unsportsmanlike conduct!" she barked, her yellow eyes darting from Charlie to Flint. "If I see one more intentional collision, I'm folding this match and awarding it to the spectators just for having to watch you!"
Charlie wiped a smear of blood from his lip and looked her dead in the eye. "My apologies, Madam. It seems my team is struggling with their 'Transylvanian Tackles.' We haven't quite mastered the timing yet, so things keep getting... messy."
It was a bold-faced lie. The Transylvanian Tackle was a move designed to knock an opponent out of the air, and it was notoriously difficult to prove as 'accidental.'
Normally, Charlie was a stickler for the rules. He was the one who lectured the twins about "playing with honor." But that was before last year's victory. Now that they had the trophy, the pressure was off. Charlie had realized that 'honor' was a luxury you couldn't afford when the other side was trying to send your Chasers to the morgue. If Flint wanted a brawl, Charlie was more than happy to show him that Gryffindors knew how to throw a punch.
The match resumed, and any remaining pretense of sport evaporated. It was a war of attrition.
Lee Jordan was having the time of his life behind the microphone. "And another 'accidental' elbow from Slytherin! Truly, their spatial awareness is tragic today. Oh, look! George Weasley is helping that Slytherin Beater find the ground! That's what I call a supportive teammate!"
"JORDAN!" Professor McGonagall's warning bark was lost in the roar of the crowd.
However, the physical toll was starting to favor the green robes. Slytherin's sheer bulk and willingness to cross the line first began to wear down the Gryffindor formation. Around the two-hour mark, the first major casualty occurred. Angelina Johnson, who had been the backbone of the Gryffindor offense, was squeezed between two Slytherin Chasers in a "Parkin's Pincer." She didn't have room to maneuver. Her broom clipped a goalpost, and she went down hard, her body skipping across the turf before coming to a stop.
The game paused as the medics rushed out. The score was a devastating 140:40.
"How is she?" Fred asked, landing near Charlie as they watched the stretcher move toward the Hospital Wing.
"Concussion. Madam Pomfrey says she's out for the count," Charlie said, his voice like grinding stones.
"Wood's losing it," George whispered, nodding toward their Keeper. Oliver Wood was pale, his eyes darting toward the scoreboard. "He's worried about the point spread. If we don't catch that Snitch soon, we could win the game and still lose the season rankings."
"Forget the scoreboard," George said, swinging his bat idly. "I want revenge for Angelina. I want Flint to leave this pitch on a stretcher too."
"We'll get our chance," Charlie said, his eyes scanning the golden glint near the Slytherin hoops. "But we need the win first. Keep the pressure on their Seeker. Don't let him breathe."
The match dragged on into its third hour. It was no longer about skill; it was about who could stay conscious. Charlie was one of the few students who wasn't looking for a professional Quidditch career—he'd already turned down the national team scouts to go study dragons in Romania. He didn't care about his "professional reputation." He only cared about protecting his team.
When the whistle finally blew for the end of the match, the scoreboard was a massacre: 310 to 70 in favor of Slytherin. Gryffindor had been crushed.
But as the players trudged off the pitch, the Slytherins weren't celebrating. Most of them were limping. One of their Beaters was holding his jaw, and Flint looked like he'd been run over by a centaur. The "Tooth for Tooth" strategy had worked; they had lost the points, but they had won the respect that came with being dangerous.
Ten minutes later, Charlie was standing in Professor McGonagall's office. She was pacing back and forth, her hat slightly askew, looking more frazzled than Albert had ever seen her.
"Hundreds of fouls, Weasley! Hundreds!" she shouted, slamming a report onto her desk. "Madam Hooch says she ran out of ink just trying to log the infractions! I expect this from the Slytherins, but from a Gryffindor Captain? I am giving you detention until the end of the term!"
Charlie didn't flinch. He remembered the argument Albert had coached him on during one of their "theoretical" sessions.
"Professor, with all due respect, what did you expect us to do?" Charlie asked calmly. "Slytherin came onto that pitch with the intent to injure. Madam Hooch saw the first dozen fouls and did nothing but blow a whistle. If the authorities won't protect the students, the students have to protect themselves."
McGonagall stopped pacing. She looked at Charlie, her lips thinned into a hard line.
"If they aren't willing to play Quidditch, we can't play Quidditch with them," Charlie continued. "We can only survive them. If you want to punish me for making sure my players didn't end up in permanent care, then I'll take the detention. But I won't apologize for it."
The office was silent for a long moment. McGonagall's shoulders slumped slightly. She knew he was right. She had seen Flint's elbow. She had seen the Bludger to Fred's spine.
"The detention is canceled," she whispered, waving a hand toward the door. "Get out of here, Weasley. And tell Mr. Anderson that his 'philosophical influence' is starting to become a headache for the faculty."
Charlie grinned and stepped out into the hall, where the rest of the team was waiting.
"Detention?" Fred asked hopefully.
"Canceled," Charlie said, giving a thumbs up. "Albert's logic held up. She couldn't argue with the fact that Slytherin started the fire."
The group made their way to the Hospital Wing. The atmosphere inside was bizarre. Half the room was draped in scarlet, the other half in green. The two sides were glaring at each other across the aisle, the air thick with unspoken threats.
Albert was already there, sitting by Angelina's bed. He was peeling an orange with a small, enchanted silver knife.
"You look like you've been through a meat grinder," Albert noted as the twins walked in.
"You should see the other guys," George said, though he winced as he sat down.
"Madam Pomfrey is going to have a stroke," Fred chuckled, nodding toward the matron who was currently lecturing a Slytherin Chaser about the "primitive stupidity" of using a broom as a club.
"Are you okay, Angelina?" Albert asked, handing her a slice of orange.
"My head feels like a Quaffle hit it," she groaned, her eyes half-closed. "But the twins told me what happened after I went out. Did Fred really punch Flint?"
"It was a 'collision of limbs,'" Fred corrected with a wink.
"It was a gang fight," Madam Pomfrey barked, stomping over with a tray of Skele-Gro. "I don't know what they're teaching you in that Defense class, but this is the third time this week I've had to treat 'combat-related Quidditch injuries.' Out! All of you! Except the ones with broken bones!"
As they were ushered out, Albert looked back at the rows of beds. The score was 310 to 70, a loss on paper. but as he saw the twins whispering about their next "Defense Toy" and Charlie walking with his head held high, he knew the real victory wasn't on the scoreboard.
In the wizarding world, sometimes you had to lose the game to prove you were worth the fight. 🏰🧹🏥