The air around the Quidditch pitch felt brittle, like thin glass waiting to be shattered. By eleven o'clock, the entire school—a flowing river of scarlet and emerald—had migrated toward the stadium, their breath misting in the freezing air. Lee Jordan was already up in the commentator's box, looking unnaturally professional under Professor McGonagall's watchful, steely gaze.
"We need seats, and we need them now, before the entire row is claimed by people who think shouting is a substitute for personality," Shanna muttered, dragging Albert toward the Gryffindor section.
As they climbed the wooden bleachers, a massive banner unfurled from the top row, catching the wind with a violent snap. POTTER WILL WIN. It was painted in shimmering, shifting colors.
Albert paused, his eyes narrowing. He pulled his wand, traced a sharp arc in the air, and whispered a quick, silent charm. Instantly, the painted lion on the banner didn't just shimmer; it let out a deep, resonant roar that vibrated through the bleachers.
"Showoff," Shanna giggled, watching as a group of third-years nearby jumped out of their skins.
"It's about ambiance, Shanna," Albert said with a wink.
A few rows down, Ron Weasley looked like he'd been struck by a Bludger. He stared at the roaring lion, then at Hermione, who was looking just as baffled. "Did you do that?" Ron whispered, his voice cracking.
Hermione shook her head, her eyes wide. "I don't know who did, but... it's certainly effective."
Madam Hooch's whistle cut through the tension, a sharp, metallic sound that signaled the start of the madness. The game began in a blur of motion. Angelina Johnson was the first to score, weaving through the Slytherin defense with the grace of a falcon. The Gryffindor stands erupted, but the celebration was short-lived. Slytherin didn't play for points; they played to dismantle.
Within minutes, the game turned ugly. The Slytherins moved with a practiced, brutal coordination, utilizing every dirty trick in the book to box the Gryffindors into corners. The lead slipped away as the Gryffindor chasers, hampered by the sheer physicality of the Slytherin team, couldn't keep pace.
Albert wasn't surprised. He knew better than anyone that in a world without consequences, the side that played by the rules was always the first to lose. While the stands dissolved into a cacophony of outraged screams and pointed fingers, he casually checked his Communication Bookmark. The text was clear. He stood up, ignored the frenzied crowd, and slipped toward a quiet, wind-sheltered corner of the stadium.
Isabelle was there, binoculars held to her eyes, looking completely detached from the madness below. Albert sat beside her, the cold stone bench feeling like a luxury compared to the cramped bleachers.
"Think they'll actually pull it off?" he asked, his voice barely audible over the roar of the crowd.
Isabelle lowered her binoculars, her gaze steady. "They're betting on your word, Albert. They've heard the rumors. They believe you're the one holding the thread of fate."
"Confidence is the best magical catalyst," Albert said, reaching over to take her hand. Her palm was cool, a contrast to the heat rising in the stadium. "If they believe they'll win, they start playing like it. I'm just providing a little… psychological lubrication."
Isabelle rolled her eyes, though her grip on his hand tightened just a fraction. "You always have a fancy name for manipulation."
"It's not manipulation if the outcome is desirable," Albert countered. He raised his own binoculars, scanning the chaotic sky. Harry was a tiny, flickering dot high above the pitch, staying out of the fray as Wood had instructed. It was a smart move—keeping the Savior out of the line of fire until he could secure the win.
"I heard you placed a bet," she said, her voice dropping into a teasing register. "Ten Galleons? That seems a bit steep for a student, don't you think?"
"It's not a gamble if the odds are rigged in your favor," Albert said with a shrug.
"Gambling is a slippery slope, Albert. You know that as well as I do." She turned to look him in the eyes, her expression turning serious. "Some things—some games—aren't worth the risk, even if you think you're in control."
"I value my skin far more than a pile of gold," Albert reassured her, his voice softening. He knew what she was really talking about—the game behind the game, the politics of the stone, the risks he took that had nothing to do with Quidditch. "I'm not a gambler, Isabelle. I'm an investor."
Before she could respond, the sky above the pitch shifted. A golden streak of light zipped across the clouds, followed by a frantic, high-speed dive. Harry had seen it.
The stadium fell deathly silent. It was as if someone had pulled a plug on the entire world. Both Seekers—Harry and the Slytherin player, Higgs—were locked in a terminal descent. Harry's Nimbus was clearly superior, cutting through the air like a razor. He was gaining.
"He's going to catch it," Isabelle whispered, her breath hitching.
But just as Harry extended his hand, a massive, dark shape barreled into him. Marcus Flint, the Slytherin captain, had deliberately swerved, slamming into Harry with a force that sent his broom spiraling toward the earth.
Madam Hooch's whistle screamed. The game halted, but the damage was done. The Snitch had vanished into the shadows, and the opportunity was gone.
The reaction from the stands was visceral. It wasn't just anger at the foul; it was the fury of a thousand frustrated gamblers who realized their paydays had just been sabotaged by a blatant act of thuggery. Objects, ranging from half-eaten sandwiches to heavy, enchanted coins, rained down onto the pitch.
"They look like they're about to riot," Isabelle observed, looking down at the field where Flint was being cornered by an irate Madam Hooch.
"They're angry because their money just walked out the door," Albert said, his tone icy. "There's no rage quite like a student who thinks they've been robbed of a profit."
"Aren't you upset?" Isabelle searched his face, looking for even a flicker of disappointment. "You bet money on this, too."
Albert watched Harry, who was struggling to regain control of his broom, his face set in a look of quiet, growing determination. He wasn't out of the game yet.
"Harry has the Nimbus, he has the skill, and most importantly, he has the 'Protagonist's Luck,'" Albert said, a smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. "He won't lose. The game is just getting interesting."
Isabelle laughed, the sound bright and clear against the backdrop of the angry stadium. "Your logic is entirely circular and deeply twisted."