"Well, you just watch here slowly and try not to break anything else. We'll be up flying for a bit longer." Fred winked at Albert, glanced meaningfully at the shuddering broomstick Albert had abandoned, and, with the rest of the group, hurried out of the locker room.
Albert didn't mind being left behind. He grabbed his old broom and the large, worn textbook, The Origins of Quidditch, and settled down at an empty table in the auditorium, seeking a quiet place to read. He opened the book, eager to understand the historical context of the aerial anarchy he had just witnessed.
Albert began his deep dive. The book confirmed that the sport took its name from its humble birthplace: the aptly named Quidditch Marsh.
He learned that the sport's core components developed almost accidentally, chronicled in the 11th-century diary of Gertie Kidder, a witch who lived nearby.
One day, a group of riders were playing an early form of airborne catch over the swamp. The ball, a simple Quaffle, fell into Gertie's vegetable patch, and she confiscated it.
The players, unwilling to be deterred, fashioned a new ball and began scoring points by throwing it into the woods at one end of the marsh.
On the third day, the pioneers introduced two large stones and sent them zooming around the sky, deliberately trying to knock each other off their brooms.
Albert nodded slowly. This was the genesis: the Quaffle (the scoring ball), the Hoops (or the woods, initially), and the hostile Bludgers (the two stones). The sport was violent from its very conception.
The book moved on to the introduction of the fourth, and most valuable, ball.
The pivotal moment occurred in 1269, when the wealthy and eccentric Barberus Bragge, then Chief of the Wizarding Council, attended a Quidditch match. He grandly announced that he would award 150 Galleons—a truly astronomical sum for the time—to anyone who could catch the Golden Snidget, a tiny, rare, and glittering bird, which he released during the game.
Hunting the Snidget was a highly fashionable pursuit among wizards, and Bragge's extravagant reward instantly linked the little bird to the sport.
The Snidget eventually became a hunted victim in every match, with a designated player, the Hunter, receiving 150 points for its successful, often fatal, capture—a direct tribute to Bragge's original 150-Galleon prize.
"One hundred and fifty Galleons in 1269? This Speaker was obscenely rich!" Albert muttered to himself. "It makes perfect sense why catching the Golden Snitch is worth exactly 150 points."
Predictably, the Snidget population plummeted. By the mid-14th century, the Council, under the leadership of Elfrida Clagg, intervened, declaring the bird a protected species.
The sport was saved by a clever Godric's Hollow metalsmith, Bowman Wright, who invented the magical, winged replica—the Golden Snitch—thus allowing Quidditch to continue its reign without endangering a rare species.
Albert realized that before the invention of the Cushioning Charm in the 19th century, flying on those early, rough brooms must have been agonizing. He briefly and maliciously wondered how many players quit due to motion sickness long before they met a Bludger.
The No-Albert focused on the current rules, which answered some of his pressing tactical questions.
He confirmed the primary rule: Only the Seeker can touch the Snitch. This meant there was no strategy for a Chaser to grab the Snitch and hand it off to their Seeker; it was a pure, individual chase.
He also found the core rule that governed match duration: The game does not end until the Golden Snitch is caught. The only exception was the rare, face-saving situation where both Captains mutually agreed to call it a day—an implicit admission of defeat by the losing team.
Then came the startling revelation about roster limitations:
In the event of a player being injured, no substitution is permitted. Teammates may provide medical aid on the pitch, but if the injured player leaves the field, the team must continue with fewer players.
Albert paused, leaning back in his chair. "Aha," he thought, a bitter smile twisting his lips. "So, this is the real reason Charlie is so desperate to have us."
If a team member were incapacitated—a common occurrence given the Gryffindor team's aggressive approach—there was no immediate replacement. The "substitutes" Charlie was so keen to find, like himself, Lee Jordan, and Angelina, weren't meant to rotate in for rest; they were the next year's roster, being trained up early to replace the graduating members.
Charlie isn't looking for a reserve; he's conducting an early recruitment drive to ensure the team isn't decimated next season.
Albert flipped the pages, finding the only situation where a substitution was permitted: after a game had been running for several days. The rule allowed for a break to let players sleep, after which substitutes could take the field while the original players rested.
This rule is utterly mad. A Quidditch game lasting multiple days? I'd rather watch paint dry for a week straight.
The final pages Albert reviewed detailed the forbidden actions—the Quidditch Fouls. He noted down several, confirming his suspicions about the current Gryffindor squad:
Lighting an opponent's broom tail on fire.
Hitting an opponent's broom with a club. (Albert was entirely convinced both Erin and Mark had done this, regardless of their "accidental" claims.)
Deliberate, physical mid-air bumping or using the elbows to butt an opponent. (A standard maneuver for practically every Chaser and Beater.)
Grabbing the tail of an opponent's broom to slow them down. (A classic, if subtle, move.)
The punishment for most of these offenses was a mere free throw, with suspension reserved for the most serious violence.
Albert's earlier malicious thought resurfaced: Mark's deliberate, low-key violence suddenly looked less like poor sportsmanship and more like a calculated strategic move. If I could use an elbow to take out the opposing Seeker, thereby guaranteeing they can't catch the Snitch, wouldn't that give us a massive, sustained advantage?
He considered the possibility of an endlessly prolonged match.
Could that be the true cause of the infamous three-month-long game? Both teams manage to knock out the opposition's Seeker and perhaps a Chaser or two. Neither team has the ability to end the game by catching the Snitch, and neither captain is willing to concede defeat. They'd be stuck, flying endlessly until one side collapsed from exhaustion.
Just as this depressing thought took root, he felt a shadow fall over him. He looked up to see Charlie standing there, wiping sweat from his brow.
"Why the sudden grounding, Albert?" Charlie asked, concerned.
"There seems to be a major structural fault with the loaner broom," Albert replied, gesturing toward the shaking stick. "It was protesting violently."
"Ah, the age-old problem," Charlie sighed, nodding knowingly. "They've been in use since the dawn of time. They all have their quirks." He turned and shouted toward the few remaining specks in the sky. "George! Fred! Everyone else! Get down here for tactical analysis!"
The Weasley twins and the other reserves landed and converged on their captain. "Is the training finished?" Fred asked.
"Not yet," Charlie confirmed. "I'm going over the tactical drills for the Chasers and Beaters. You reserves should listen in, it's vital knowledge."
"But we already know them," one twin complained.
"I've been listening to you drone about tactics all summer," the other chimed in, completing the sentiment.
"Silence!" Charlie commanded, looking utterly exhausted before the training had even begun.
Angelina, however, looked delighted that Charlie included them in the serious discussion, eager to absorb the strategy.
Charlie led them all back into the locker room, standing before a small, grimy blackboard. He picked up a chalk stub and began sketching out the complex (and likely dirty) Quidditch tactics he had devised over the long summer, intending to bring the Gryffindor team to a decisive victory.