The Gryffindor versus Hufflepuff match the next day was a masterclass in emotional whiplash.
For the first forty minutes, the Gryffindors played like they were possessed by the spirits of professional legends. Their three Chasers moved in a seamless, aggressive triangle, weaving through the Hufflepuff defense with a clinical precision that had the crowd roaring. They were consistently outscoring the badger-clad team, racking up a lead so substantial that it seemed mathematically impossible for them to lose.
Even the Slytherins in the stands had stopped jeering, looking on with grudging, sour-faced silence as the Quaffle soared through the Hufflepuff hoops again and again. It wasn't just a lead; it was a massacre. Gryffindor had divine assistance on their side—or so it seemed.
But then, the Quidditch gods decided to play a cruel joke.
In a reversal that left the entire stadium in a stunned, suffocating silence, Cedric Diggory's fingers closed around the Golden Snitch. The whistle blew, the points were tallied, and Gryffindor—despite their overwhelming offensive dominance—had lost.
It was pure, unadulterated bad luck.
The Snitch had appeared right next to Diggory's ear while he was daydreaming near the Hufflepuff goalposts. Charlie Weasley, a veteran who could spot a shimmer of gold from a mile away, had seen it first. In a desperate, brilliant move, he'd performed a feint, diving in the opposite direction and screaming as if he'd spotted the prize over the Gryffindor stands. He'd hoped to lure Diggory away, to buy himself the seconds he needed to loop back and snatch the victory.
Diggory had bitten. He'd turned his broom to follow Charlie, but as he tilted his handle, his eyes caught the flutter of wings just inches from his shoulder. He didn't even have to chase it; he just reached out and grabbed it.
Hufflepuff won. Gryffindor was forced to swallow the bitterest pill of the season: a three-game losing streak that left them at the very bottom of the rankings.
When the team touched down, Charlie looked like a man who had aged a decade in the span of a single afternoon. He dismounted his broom slowly, his shoulders slumped, his eyes hollow. The rest of the players were just as silent, moving like ghosts toward the changing rooms. Lee Jordan, who had been commentating with his usual bias, was currently being cornered by Professor McGonagall for shouting something about Hufflepuff's "absolute dog-shit luck" into the magical megaphone.
Albert didn't really know how to fix a broken heart caused by a sports loss, but he did know how to fix a blood sugar drop. He reached into his Transfiguration lizard-skin pouch and pulled out a handful of high-quality hard candies, distributing them to his dejected friends as they trekked back toward the castle.
"Have a candy," Albert said, pressing a lemon-flavored one into Fred's hand. "Sugar helps with the shock."
"It's not shock, Albert. It's a curse," Fred sighed, unwrapping the sweet with trembling fingers. "I swear, if Charlie had even a fraction of your luck, we'd be hoisting the trophy right now instead of looking like losers."
Albert didn't place much weight on Quidditch outcomes—probably because his schedule didn't involve getting beaten up by Bludgers three times a week—but he could appreciate the frustration. He suddenly understood why Rowena Smith had been so obsessed with him and Isabelle; in a world of variables, "luck" was the ultimate cheat code.
"No one is guaranteed a win just because they're better," Albert said, trying to be supportive.
"Easy for you to say," George muttered. "How can a guy who literally breathes good fortune understand what it's like to work your tail off and still get kicked in the teeth by a random coincidence?"
Albert smiled, remembering a phrase from his previous life about the divide between the lucky and the unlucky. "There's no point in complaining. Look at it this way: compared to some people, we're all living the high life. Luck is just another form of talent. Diggory has some skill, too—if he hadn't been sharp enough to notice the Snitch while he was being fooled by Charlie's feint, Hufflepuff would still be chasing ghosts."
"You always make it sound so logical," Fred grumbled. "But it still feels like we were robbed by the universe."
"You won the trophy last year," Albert reminded them. "If you want another one, you'll just have to work twice as hard next season. For now, stop moping. You need to put that energy into the exams. And don't forget, we still have our little excursion to the Forbidden Forest planned once the papers are graded. Plus, there's the Magical Innovation project."
He was trying to lift their spirits, but mentioning exams had the opposite effect. Fred, George, and Lee all looked like they wanted to crawl into a hole and stay there until July.
"Speaking of next year," George said as they climbed the portrait stairs, "are you really going to sit out? We need a Seeker, Albert. A real one."
"If you truly can't find anyone, we'll talk," Albert said, though he was already shaking his head. "But I'm telling you, I'm putting my money on Harry Potter."
The three of them rolled their eyes in unison.
"Come on, follow me," Albert motioned, diverting them away from the common room toward the trophy room.
"What now?" Lee asked.
"Proof," Albert said. He led them through the dusty aisles of silver and gold until they reached the Quidditch section. He pointed to a set of tarnished medals from the late seventies. "Look at the names. James Potter. Seeker. Captain. He helped Gryffindor win multiple seasons. Heredity matters in the wizarding world, boys. I'm not just making this up to dodge practice."
They stared at the medals, their skepticism wavering just a little.
"James Potter was a legend," Fred admitted, tracing the name. "But that doesn't mean his kid is going to be a natural."
"And Slytherin won the cup again this year," George added bitterly. "Those snakes are going to spend the whole summer gloating."
"The year isn't over yet," Albert said cryptically. He knew that the House Cup and the Quidditch standings often went hand-in-hand with whatever chaos Harry Potter managed to stir up, though this year was a bit of a wash for Gryffindor.
The atmosphere in the common room was too depressing to handle, so Albert grabbed his satchel and headed for the library. Fred and the others stayed behind, likely plotting some kind of prank to take the sting out of their loss, but Albert had more cerebral goals.
He sat in his usual nook, pulling out a copy of Advanced Charm Theory. He glanced at his task panel. The quest to read one hundred books was sitting at thirty-seven. He found himself less motivated to grind it out lately; ever since the "Cruciatus" incident with Rowena's random skill reward, he was beginning to think the system had a twisted sense of humor.
"How's the research going?" Albert asked, sitting down across from Isabelle. He handed her a parchment he'd been working on—a detailed analysis of the advanced Lumos charm and its intersection with light-refraction magic.
Isabelle scanned the paper, her brow arching. "This is... ambitious. You're trying to turn a utility spell into a high-intensity focused beam?"
"I'm exploring the limits," Albert said. "I'm hoping to discuss it with Professor Flitwick. I think I've reached the point where the textbooks aren't giving me the answers I need."
Since acquiring Magic Mastery, Albert's perception of spellwork had shifted. He no longer saw spells as static incantations but as fluid channels of intent. He wanted to understand why some wizards could make a simple light spell blinding while others struggled to produce a glow.
He had realized, especially after the struggle with the Patronus charm, that self-study only took you so far. You needed a master to point out the blind spots in your soul.
Professor Flitwick had recently begun to treat Albert differently. The tiny professor had stopped giving him "homework" and had started giving him "challenges." Their conversations had moved away from the standard curriculum and into the weeds of theoretical charm-work.