Winter nights in Scotland don't arrive with a whimper; they descend like a heavy velvet curtain. By five in the evening, the horizon had swallowed the last bruised streaks of purple, leaving the world in a state of ink-black freezing gloom.
However, the Quidditch pitch was an island of artificial light in the dark. To allow the grueling match to reach its natural conclusion, the Hogwarts professors had lined the stands with massive, magically fueled torches. They flickered violently in the wind, casting jagged, orange shadows across the muddy turf below.
Up in the stands, Albert pulled the collar of his thick wool cloak tighter, tucking his chin into the warmth. He felt a pang of sympathy for the spectators around him. Most had skipped lunch in the excitement of the morning, and now, hours later, they were shivering, famished, and irritable.
Yet, with a stubbornness that Albert found both baffling and slightly admirable, they refused to leave. This wasn't just a game anymore; it was an endurance trial. The crowd sat huddled together for warmth, their eyes tracking the players who looked more like bedraggled birds than athletes.
The players were in a much worse state. At high altitudes, the wind was a razor, slicing through their thin Quidditch robes. The newer players, who had been too nervous to eat breakfast, were hitting the wall. They were dehydrated, shivering, and likely seeing double as their blood sugar plummeted in the freezing air.
Lee Jordan's voice, usually a sharp and energetic staccato, had devolved into a hoarse, rhythmic rasp. He was only able to keep going thanks to a specialized Loudspeaker Charm provided by Professor McGonagall, who looked just as exhausted as the students. For a first-time commentator, Lee was certainly getting the "Trial by Fire" experience.
"Look! Look at that! They've both seen it!" Lee's voice cracked over the megaphones, jolting the freezing crowd into a sudden frenzy. "The Seekers are moving! Current score: Gryffindor 210, Ravenclaw 270. It's a sixty-point gap, folks. This is it. Whoever catches the Snitch takes the glory and ends this nightmare!"
High above the center circle, a flash of gold sparked in the torchlight. Charlie Weasley and the Ravenclaw Seeker flattened themselves against their brooms, diving with a reckless abandon that bordered on suicidal. After nearly seven hours in the air, neither of them cared about the fall; they just wanted to touch solid ground.
"They're accelerating! They're not pulling up! Merlin's beard, they're going to hit the mud!" Lee screamed, his voice reaching a pitch of genuine terror.
The two Seekers collided mid-air, a tangle of red and blue limbs, before slamming into the churned-up earth near the Gryffindor goalposts. The sound of the impact was sickening—a dull thud that echoed through the silent stadium.
"Wait... someone's moving," Lee croaked. "I think—yes! The Ravenclaw Seeker has it! He's holding it up! Ravenclaw wins!"
The blue-and-bronze side of the stands erupted. It wasn't just a cheer for victory; it was a roar of relief that the ordeal was finally over.
Albert didn't wait for the official announcement. He vaulted over the railing and joined the throng of Gryffindors sprinting onto the pitch. He found the players gathered in a somber circle around the crash site. Both Seekers were unconscious, looking like broken dolls in the mud. Professor McGonagall arrived moments later, her face pale, and directed the stretchers toward the Hospital Wing with a series of sharp, urgent wand movements.
"He'll be alright, Fred. Charlie's tougher than a Bludger," Albert said softly, stepping up to the twins.
Fred and George were a sight to behold. They were covered in frozen slush, their faces pale and drawn with a fatigue that went bone-deep. George was shivering so hard his teeth were clicking together.
"Here. Eat these," Albert commanded, pressing several squares of high-calorie chocolate and fortified candy into their frozen fingers. He didn't wait for a thank you. He drew his wand and cast a localized warming charm, followed by a moisture-wicking spell. A faint steam rose from their robes as the dampness vanished.
"Thanks, Albert... honestly," Fred muttered, leaning heavily on Albert's shoulder. "I think my legs have turned to lead."
"I didn't think it would end like that," George whispered, looking at the spot where his brother had fallen. "All that work... and we still lost."
"You lost to luck, not skill," Albert said firmly. "Now, let's get you inside before you catch your death."
The trek back to the castle was a slow procession of the weary. In the Great Hall, the house-elves had performed a miracle, providing endless tureen of steaming corn chowder and trays of hot bread. It wasn't until the twins had finished their second bowls that the color began to return to their cheeks.
"You know, Lee," Fred said, looking at the commentator who was currently nursing a cup of honeyed tea. "I remember you mentioned Albert predicted this would be a long game."
"I did no such thing," Albert retorted, giving Lee a warning look. "I merely advised you to eat a proper breakfast. That's just common sense, not prophecy."
"In my book, it's the same thing," Lee wheezed. "You knew we'd be out there forever."
"We still lost," George sighed, his head hanging. "After all that training..."
"Charlie did everything humanly possible," Albert reminded them. "The Ravenclaw Seeker didn't outfly him. They hit the ground together, and the Snitch just happened to bounce into the other guy's hand. That's Quidditch."
After the meal, the group made a pilgrimage to the Hospital Wing. Madam Pomfrey was in a rare, towering rage, shooing away anyone who wasn't a teammate. Charlie was tucked into a bed, his arm in a cast and his head heavily bandaged. He wasn't alone, though; the Ravenclaw Seeker was in the bed opposite him, looking equally miserable. Both were being forced to drink a foul-smelling potion that made smoke curl out of their ears.
As Albert left the infirmary, he found himself trailing behind the others. A tall, shadow-drenched figure was waiting in the corridor.
"Albert? A moment of your time," Professor Smith said, his voice echoing in the empty hall. He gestured toward his office. "I believe we have some unfinished business regarding our little translation project."
Inside the Defense Against the Dark Arts office, the air smelled of dried herbs and old parchment. Smith sat behind his desk and slid a single sheet of vellum toward Albert.
Albert picked it up. His heart skipped a beat. It was a perfect transcription of the Runic text he had seen earlier that day in the hidden chamber.
"This is the foundational history of the school," Albert said, playing the part of the diligent student. "It's quite a rare account."
"I know," Smith nodded, his eyes fixed on Albert's face. "I've studied it for years. Tell me, through your eyes... do you see anything 'special' in these lines? Anything that stands out to a mind like yours?"
Albert hesitated. He knew Smith was testing him, trying to see if he had uncovered the second layer of the room. "Special? To be honest, Professor, it reads like a standard chronicle. It's fascinating history, certainly, but it aligns with the records in the library. Why? Did you find something strange?"
Smith let out a long, weary sigh. The disappointment on his face was genuine. "I suppose I was hoping for a miracle. My conclusions were the same as yours."
"If I had to point out one oddity," Albert added, trying to shift the focus, "it's the tone. The founders seemed... desperate. Were ancient wizards truly in such a dire state? The way they talk about defense makes it sound like they were fighting for survival every day."
"They were," Smith said, leaning back. "You live in a golden age of codified magic, Albert. We have wands that are finely tuned instruments and textbooks that summarize centuries of trial and error. A thousand years ago? Knowledge was a guarded secret. A single scroll on how to brew a Draught of Peace might be worth more than a nobleman's estate. Most wizards, especially those from non-magical backgrounds, were essentially 'wild'. They had the power, but no map to use it."
Albert nodded slowly. He thought of Tom Riddle, who had to teach himself the basics through pain and experimentation.
"The founders were anomalies," Smith continued. "They were the few who were willing to share what they knew. But even then, they didn't give away everything. There was magic in that era—raw, elemental magic—that we've simply lost the recipe for. Traces of it still exist in the stones of this castle, but almost no one knows how to speak that language anymore. Perhaps Dumbledore... but he is a rare exception."
Smith frowned, looking at the parchment as if it were an enemy he couldn't defeat. "There is a gap in our history, Albert. A missing link between the power of the founders and the convenience of modern magic. I've spent my life looking for it."
Albert looked at the Professor, realizing that Smith wasn't just a teacher or a scholar. He was a seeker, much like himself, but one who had been banging his head against a locked door for decades.
"Maybe the secret isn't in the words," Albert suggested softly. "Maybe it's in the way they're written."
Smith looked up, a sharp, inquisitive look in his eyes, but Albert simply smiled and stood up to leave. He had a lot to think about, and his skill points were finally ready to be spent.