Charlie launched into his explanation of Quidditch tactics, and Albert was immediately adrift in a sea of confusing jargon.
The captain rattled off formations and movements—the "Eagle-Head Offensive" for Chasers, the complex positioning required for the "Pendereck Pivot," and the often-mentioned "Bokov Maneuver"—which sounded like the magical equivalent of an advanced, incredibly violent geometry lesson.
Albert only understood enough to know that Charlie was trying to coordinate seven players into a single, cohesive, aggressive aerial weapon.
The most fascinating, and frankly disturbing, tactic Charlie discussed was the Transylvanian Feint.
"I absolutely forbid Mark from deploying the Transylvanian Feint in any match this year," Charlie stated, his voice ringing with finality.
Albert sought clarification from Wood, the Keeper, who looked perpetually stressed by his teammates' tactics.
"The Transylvanian Feint is pure psychological warfare," Wood whispered, leaning closer. "It's not just pretending to hit an opponent. It's a series of high-risk maneuvers where Mark comes in hard—he's faking a bat swing at their nose, or maybe pretending to drive an elbow into their chest—but the feint only works if the opponent truly believes he's committed to the foul. The key is that the move must feel ninety-nine percent real."
Albert now understood Mark's reputation. The feint's true effectiveness lay in the uncertainty it generated: no one could be sure if Mark's next movement was a bluff intended to force a turnover, or a genuine, spiteful attempt to inflict mild bodily harm.
This pressure, Albert realized, forced the targeted opponent to prioritize flinching and evasiveness over ball control or defense—a psychological edge more debilitating than a Bludger.
"When Mark targets someone," Wood continued, rubbing his own elbow, "you can only hope that, this time, he's going to stop short. It's far more annoying and draining than dealing with a Bludger, because you have to deal with the Bludger and your own team's Beaters will intercept it. When Mark is coming at you, he is the only thing you have to worry about."
And if Mark did strike a player? Well, according to Mark's own twisted logic, it was merely an unsuccessful feint. A tactical error. He'd wear the penalty—a free throw—as a badge of honor, and the victim would just be labelled unlucky.
"So, the risk has to be authentic to make the bluff terrifying?" Albert murmured, processing the ruthless efficiency.
"Exactly! Charlie, see? Albert gets it!" Mark piped up, completely unfazed by Charlie's ban. He performed an exaggerated, slow-motion elbow swing, stopping just inches from Charlie's head.
"The feint has to be a legitimate threat to make the opponent panic. You have to fly with that edge of 'Is he really crazy enough to do it?' That's the part that makes them lose the Quaffle."
"That's enough quibbling, Mark," Charlie warned, his tone dangerously flat. "I know precisely what happened last year, and you know what I mean. No Transylvanian Feint this season. Do I make myself clear?"
"Perfectly clear, Captain," Mark replied, giving a salute so theatrical it dripped with insincerity. He was clearly banking on the fact that Charlie, once the heat of the game was on, would turn a blind eye to successful 'accidents.'
"What was it that happened last year that earned a season-long ban?" Angelina whispered, leaning into Albert. The other newcomers leaned in, sensing high drama.
"It was the Slytherin match," Danny explained, suppressing a dark chuckle. "Jack was taken out right before the game—a silly conflict off the pitch. Mark was flying with that level of righteous anger." Danny demonstrated with a vicious, sudden swipe of his hand. "
Mark came in with the Transylvanian Feint on their Seeker, but instead of pulling back, he 'miscalculated' and absolutely clipped the Seeker's ribs with the edge of his bat. He instantly claimed it was a 'tactical mistake' born of the feint, but Professor Hooch was livid and suspended him for the rest of the year."
The punchline, which the Gryffindors cherished, was that Slytherin, without their Seeker, quickly crumbled and lost the match anyway. The victory, however tainted, was Gryffindor's.
The Slytherins dubbed Mark 'The Insidious Weasel,' Danny added proudly. But we didn't care. They started it, and they lost.
Albert realized the team wasn't just talented; they were deeply competitive and morally flexible. They saw the rules as obstacles to exploit, not guidelines to follow.
After a grueling thirty minutes of chalkboard strategy, the regulars returned to the pitch to practice Charlie's plays, while the newcomers, including Albert, resumed their flight drills.
Albert, having absorbed the brutal logic of Quidditch, was now flying differently. He wasn't just avoiding Bludgers; he was practicing complex, aggressive evasive maneuvers, forcing the aging school broom to the very edge of its structural integrity.
The air was tense with the seriousness of the practice, punctuated by the heavy thwack of the Beaters' bats.
Inevitably, the school's poor equipment claimed another victim. Fred, who had swapped his own slightly wonky broom for the one Albert had deemed compromised, was forced to make an emergency, shaky landing near the edge of the pitch, the broom handle visibly vibrating in his hands.
"Alright, alright, I see the problem!" Fred yelled, throwing the useless stick onto the grass. "It's like flying a piece of wet spaghetti!"
The training finally wrapped up around half past ten. Charlie was relentless about the time commitment—with only three training sessions per week, every minute had to be maximized to stand a chance at the Cup.
This intensity, Charlie knew, was why he had to ease the newcomers in; without a deep, innate love for the sport, the grueling, weather-agnostic training schedule would crush any recruit's enthusiasm.
Back in the stale, damp air of the locker room, as they stripped off their protective gear, Charlie meticulously reviewed the session's shortcomings, noting them on his clipboard.
"Albert is a phenomenal flyer," Wood declared, looking over at Charlie. "He's got that natural lightness and a terrifying level of control. If you're really going to be stepping down next year, Captain, he's your Seeker."
"Give up the Seeker position? Impossible!" Jack scoffed dramatically, but the suggestion, coming from Wood, held weight.
The discussion quickly became an impromptu, highly pragmatic recruitment session for the next season.
"Angelina is a great choice for the Chaser line," Mario offered, nodding toward her. "If she trains with us consistently, she'll easily pass auditions next year."
"And the twins are natural Beaters," Erin added. "They've got the necessary aggression and great spatial awareness. If we can't find better, they can step into our places when Mark and I graduate."
Charlie coughed, interrupting the team's seamless roster planning, his expression clouded with a mixture of pride and profound resignation. "For reasons that are baffling to me, Albert isn't focused on Quidditch. He's joined Professor McGonagall's... well, her Transfiguration Club."
"The Transfiguration Club?" Wood asked, genuinely perplexed. "What on earth is that?"
"You didn't see him performing transformations today, Wood, because you're usually oblivious to everything but the goalposts," Erin deadpanned. "Think of it as an exclusive assembly of the castle's most terrifyingly competent Transfiguration prodigies."
"But he just started school!" Mark exclaimed, momentarily forgetting his cynicism.
The team instantly understood Charlie's game. He wasn't trying to recruit a reserve; he was trying to strategically groom a future Seeker who would otherwise be lost to academic pursuits. He was banking on the power of an early introduction.
Their conclusion was unanimous: Charlie was leaving a ready-made, top-tier backup Seeker for the team. If Charlie graduated and the official tryouts failed to yield a suitable replacement, they believed Professor McGonagall—the fervent Quidditch fan—would surely be persuaded to release her prized student to the pitch. It was a perfectly Machiavellian plan.
Albert, overhearing their hushed, conspiratorial discussion, only smiled internally, a deep, knowing wave of dramatic irony washing over him. He wanted to reach out and stop Charlie's desperate plan right there.
Don't worry, Charlie, he thought, pulling his robe over his protective padding. You won't have to stress about the Seeker position for long. When you graduate, a certain spectacle-wearing boy named Harry Potter will arrive. And believe me, he'll take the position so decisively and quickly that no one will remember my name or your desperate little club.
The thought of the future legendary Seeker stepping onto the pitch was enough to make Albert forget the disappointment of his broken broom and the moral flexibility of his new teammates. He knew his quiet, planned trajectory would be far more interesting than chasing a tiny golden ball.