Sunday morning dawned bright and clear, casting a crisp, early-autumn glow across the castle grounds.
Albert sat in the vast, echoing Great Hall, enjoying the warmth and the silence before the school fully woke up. He meticulously cut his slice of black pudding into neat pieces, humming a low, tuneless melody as he ate.
Just then, the familiar beat of wings approached. Sheila swept down gracefully, landing precisely between the salt and sugar bowls on the Gryffindor table, and deposited a thick, satisfying bundle of parchment right in front of him.
"Thank you for the quick work, Sheila," Albert murmured, sliding a handful of his premium owl nuts onto the table for her. He reached out and stroked her soft, caramel-colored feathers gently before picking up the envelope.
Inside, he found a collage of communications: a lengthy letter from Luke, a shorter note from Herb and Daisy combined, and a scrawled, tear-stained apology-slash-thank-you from Nia. Tucked into the folds was a magical photograph of Nia, her face alight with pure joy, blowing one of the giant, bluebell-colored bubbles from the Super Bubble Gum.
"What are you looking at that makes you smile like that?"
Angelina had arrived, sliding onto the bench opposite him. Alicia followed, sitting next to her, both in casual, worn robes clearly intended for hard activity.
"A letter from home," Albert replied, folding the parchment and tucking it securely into his robes as Sheila finished her snack and flew off, heading back to the Owl Shed for a well-deserved nap.
"By the way, Albert, are you joining us for training this morning?" Angelina asked, her eyes sparkling with anticipation. "Charlie told me to make sure you know the session is scheduled. He stressed that even if you don't make a starting spot right away, the team desperately needs a competent reserve Seeker or Chaser."
"Oh, well, it seems I have no plausible reason to decline," Albert conceded with a nod. "I'll finish this and go fetch Fred and George—"
"Don't bother," a long, theatrical yawn interrupted him. Fred materialized, followed by George and Lee Jordan, all looking remarkably disheveled but wired. "We're already awake. Good morning, Albert."
Charlie Weasley followed close behind, looking wide-awake and intensely focused—a dragon-handler in the making, even then. He greeted everyone with a keen smile.
"Good morning, Charlie."
"You have no idea," George groaned, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. "Charlie here is possessed by the devil. Who starts Quidditch practice before the sun has properly warmed the castle?"
Charlie took a seat next to Albert, radiating energy. "Are you joining us, Albert? We could use a fresh set of eyes, and, well, a talented flier."
"I'm ready," Albert confirmed.
"Charlie, seriously, it's only seven o'clock," a sturdy, square-jawed young man across the table complained, eyeing his plate of toast with resentment. "Are you absolutely positive we couldn't have started this at a more civilized hour?"
"The early bird catches the Snitch, Wood," Charlie retorted with a practiced grin.
"Isn't it better to catch a fried sausage?" Lee Jordan countered, expertly spearing a slice of fried meat and taking a large bite. He chewed thoughtfully, then muttered, "What's so appealing about catching little flying bugs?"
Albert abruptly slammed his hand over his mouth, suppressing a startled laugh, but a spray of black pudding hit his knuckles.
Lee Jordan looked at him, bewildered, blinking confusedly. "What's wrong? Did I say something rude?"
"No, nothing at all," Albert managed, trying to compose himself. Lee Jordan's use of 'flying bugs' for the Golden Snitch was pure, unintentional comedy.
"Ahem," Charlie cleared his throat, sensing the need for a formal introduction. He clapped the complaining boy on the shoulder. "This is Wood, Oliver Wood, our stalwart Keeper." He gestured toward the newcomers. "Wood, these are Fred and George, my smaller brothers. And this is Albert. You didn't see him fly last time, but you won't believe it's his first time on a broom. He's light... incredibly agile... a genuine natural."
Albert felt the heat rise in his cheeks under the collective gaze. While he was used to quiet self-satisfaction, he hated public flattery. He glanced over at Angelina, who mouthed, I didn't expect you to be so awesome!
"Ahem." Albert quickly interrupted Charlie's eulogy. "Before we go out there, what are the arrangements for brooms? I don't own one yet."
"Already sorted," Charlie reassured him. "I spoke to Professor Hooch; she's borrowing a few of the school's training brooms for you. Don't expect them to be the fastest or the most reliable, but they'll keep you airborne."
After breakfast, the newly assembled squad—a mix of tired veterans and keen freshmen—left the castle, trekking across the damp, dew-kissed grass down the slope toward the Quidditch Pitch.
Charlie, marching ahead with the confidence of a new captain, introduced the returning players to the newcomers, painting a vivid, slightly worrying portrait of the Gryffindor team.
"Our team, not counting the newcomers, is six men and one woman. We're a tight-knit group, but we're also slightly unhinged." He pointed to the only girl among the regulars. "This is Erin, one of our Beaters. We call her the Violent Hitter."
Erin was a surprisingly lovely girl with a determined jaw, entirely contradicting Charlie's description. She smiled warmly. "I'm Erin, and with Mark—my boyfriend and co-Beater—we look after the Bludgers. And don't listen to Charlie; I am not violent."
"Oh, come on, Erin!" Charlie scoffed, shaking his head. "I distinctly recall who, last term, used her bat to knock a Ravenclaw off his broom entirely, resulting in you being banned from the game and us forfeiting the match!"
"It was an accident!" Erin protested, crossing her arms defensively. "I just put a little too much spin on the bat and accidentally clipped his leg as he zoomed past—not my fault he didn't secure his straps better."
"You nearly broke his femur!" Charlie insisted weakly. "That's why Professor Hooch suspended you!"
"There's a massive difference between a broken bone and a nearly broken bone, Charlie," Erin argued, rolling her eyes. "Besides, he initiated contact! He tried to shoulder-charge me off my broom first!"
Charlie threw his hands up in resignation. "Fine. Moving on. The guy next to Erin, the one who looks perpetually guilty, is her boyfriend and partner-in-crime, the sinister Mark."
Mark coughed lightly, offering Albert a firm handshake. "Hello, I'm Mark. Ignore everything Charlie says—he's just bitter about losing the match. And that dull lad beside him, the one staring at the goalposts? That's Wood, our Keeper."
Wood instantly flared up. "I am not dull!"
"The second match against Ravenclaw, Wood?" Mark challenged, a mischievous glint in his eye. "You just hovered there, watching the opposing Chaser sail past you for the goal. You missed three of them in a row. You looked like a stick of firewood, just standing there! That's dull."
"Ahem," Wood coughed, his cheeks flushing. "At that time, I was preoccupied! I was watching you elbow the Ravenclaw Seeker square in the cheek! I was distracted by the sheer brutality!"
"Was that an accident?" Albert asked Mark, genuinely perplexed by the level of aggressive play being confessed.
Mark shrugged carelessly. "It was just an accident. Even Professor Hooch agreed it was an accident." He leaned in conspiratorially toward Albert. "Look, that Kula kid was being so arrogant, flying around like he'd already won. Anyway, he only ended up with a black eye. You should've seen the Slytherin Beater last season—he smacked a Hufflepuff Seeker right in the nose with a Beater's bat and drew blood! He only got a mild warning."
Albert paused in his walk, contemplating this new information. The rules seemed less like a game and more like a barely regulated, aerial brawl. Is this still Quidditch, or is it just flying combat?
"Charlie," Albert asked, his tone cautious, "has anyone ever... died playing Quidditch at Hogwarts?"
"Hardly ever, no!" Charlie insisted, quickly becoming agitated by the question. He realized the team's description of their own antics was painting a poor picture. "At most, they get seriously injured, but Madam Pomfrey is always ready with excellent medical treatment. It's safe! Mostly!"
He quickly pivoted, pointing to three athletic boys walking slightly ahead. "Alright, and these are our three Chasers: Mario, Danny, and Jack."
"The Acrobatic Trio," Erin chimed in with a loud, mocking whisper.
"Don't call us the Acrobatic Trio!" the three complained simultaneously, turning to glare at the Beaters. "And stop talking about us behind our backs!"
Charlie dragged a tired hand across his face. "If you lot hadn't caused so much trouble last semester—with the fighting, the elbowing, and the mid-air grappling—our chances of actually winning the Cup would have increased by at least twenty percent. I just took over as captain. I'm begging you, please start behaving like a sports team."
Albert looked at the group—the aggressive Beaters, the perpetually grumpy Keeper, and the trio of easily distracted Chasers—and realized becoming a reserve player might be the least of his worries.
His focus would need to be less on catching the Snitch and more on avoiding decapitation by rogue Bludgers and accidental mid-air violence. This was going to be an education in chaos management