As the Hogwarts clock tower chimed eleven, the vast, green landscape of the school emptied its crowds, drawing every available student and staff member toward the Quidditch pitch. The air thrummed with a nervous, electric energy—this wasn't just another match; it was the decisive final between Gryffindor and Ravenclaw.
Albert Anderson and Lee Jordan joined the throng, Lee already vibrating with restless excitement. Although Albert possessed his own miniaturized brass binoculars, the pair elected to climb high into the topmost, most exposed stands. This altitude offered a panoramic view of the entire playing field, a strategic vantage point for a discerning observer, even if the wind was less forgiving.
The stands were a vibrant mosaic of crimson and blue. The general sentiment among the Gryffindors was not just hope, but a fierce, house-wide ambition to break the relentless, decade-long dominance held by Slytherin over both the House Cup and the Quidditch Cup.
Today represented a double opportunity: a win would secure the Quidditch Cup with a perfect season, and the accumulated victory points would propel Gryffindor past Slytherin, placing them at the pinnacle of the House standings.
"This is it, Albert," Lee whispered urgently, his voice hoarse already. "This is the year. We smash the Eagles, we get the Cup. No more green banners for a change!"
The reality on the field, however, was immediately more complex than the Gryffindor cheerleaders had predicted. Ravenclaw, known for their tactical precision and intelligent play, took a surprising but narrow lead early on. Their Chasers moved with a fluid, calculated geometry, exploiting small positional errors in the Gryffindor defense.
It was a temporary setback. Charlie Weasley, driven by an almost obsessive desire for the Quidditch Cup that had eluded his family for too long, had drilled his players relentlessly. The rigorous training paid off in the Gryffindor team's stamina and coordination. They roared back, the score leveling rapidly before Gryffindor pulled ahead, spurred by a relentless series of aggressive pushes by their Chasers.
Yet, Ravenclaw refused to buckle. The match quickly became a grueling war of attrition, marked by brief, intense bursts of brilliance from both sides. The score seesawed, neither team willing to concede a decisive advantage.
The ground below the stands vibrated with the continuous roar of the spectators, even Albert, despite his detached demeanor, found himself momentarily caught up in the sheer kinetic spectacle and the psychological tension of the sport.
"Current score: 100–110, Ravenclaw is holding a thin lead!" The announcer, a distinctly self-satisfied Ravenclaw student, practically preened over the microphone. "But the game is far from over! Both Seekers are engaged in a vicious shadow battle, refusing to allow the other the space to even contemplate hunting the Golden Snitch!"
The sheer intensity of the play rapidly depleted the players' energy reserves. With the score so close, the game felt like it could end at any moment, yet the Seekers were neutralizing each other effectively. As the players visibly flagged, Charlie signaled for a rare, mid-game time-out to adjust formations and bolster morale.
"Cough, cough," Lee Jordan croaked, clutching his throat. "Albert, man, do you have any water? My throat is shredded."
"Water, no. But I have chocolate, which is scientifically proven to lubricate the vocal cords with delicious fats," Albert said, his tone utterly devoid of sympathy. He calmly unwrapped a bar of high-quality, dark chocolate.
"Sugar will only make it worse, you menace," Lee mumbled, shaking his head.
"Then don't yell," Albert suggested, snapping a square of chocolate and placing it in his mouth. "If one refrains from screaming at the top of one's lungs, one's throat generally remains intact."
Lee stared at him, aghast. "But… it's a championship match! You're just sitting here like you're watching a lecture on basic Charms! You haven't moved an inch! How can you be supporting the team without showing some enthusiasm?"
"I am supporting the team by analyzing their tactics and offering insightful commentary," Albert replied, raising an eyebrow. "Enthusiasm does not win Quidditch Cups, Lee; discipline and precision do. My applause when Gryffindor scores is entirely adequate."
Lee was temporarily silenced, defeated not by logic, but by Albert's relentless lack of emotional investment.
"This match is shaping up to be legendary," Albert conceded, peering through his binoculars at the pitch, where the two teams were regrouping. "If Fred and George had known they were missing this caliber of game, their revenge on Filch would already be underway, regardless of the consequences."
"They are going to be absolutely livid," Lee agreed, shaking his head in sympathy for his grounded friends. "This is the highest level of Quidditch we've seen all year. The Beaters are brutal, the Chasers are reading each other's minds, and those Seekers are flying like they're tied together."
Albert's gaze shifted from the pitch to the Slytherin section of the stands. They were a frenzy of dark robes, their faces pale with anxiety, clearly hoping for a Ravenclaw victory simply to deny Gryffindor the glory. The cup was not an achievement to them; it was a birthright.
"Tell me, Lee, do you think those Slytherin spectators down there, the ones constantly mouthing silent curses and making unsettling hand gestures, are actively attempting to jinx our team in the hope that we lose?" Albert asked, a flicker of amusement in his eyes.
Lee snatched the binoculars. "Slytherin? Jinxes? Where? Let me see! Ha! Look at them! They look like they're trying to conjure a stomach flu!" Lee burst out laughing. "Well, too bad for them! Gryffindor wins the Quidditch Cup this year, I guarantee it!"
"You sound very confident," Angelina, sitting a row above them, interjected curiously. "What makes you so certain?"
"Because Albert said so," Lee replied immediately, puffing out his chest. "He's always predicting things, and he's usually right! If he says Gryffindor will win, it's practically a certainty!"
Albert gave a dramatic sigh and rolled his eyes toward the heavens. "My esteemed roommate here is attempting to saddle me with a spurious reputation for prophecy. If merely speaking something were enough to bring it to fruition, why on earth would anyone bother to exert effort?"
He paused, then tilted his head, adopting a mock-serious, theatrical tone that instantly drew a crowd of listeners.
"I may as well take the opportunity to speak my entire wish list into existence, then, if my words are so magically potent," Albert declared, counting off on his fingers: "I hereby declare that upon my graduation from Hogwarts, I will have achieved twelve O.W.L.s and seven N.E.W.T.s, achieving 'Outstanding' in all nineteen examinations."
A gasp ran through the small cluster of listeners. No student in history had even attempted that many N.E.W.T.s.
"Furthermore," Albert continued, warming to his theme, "I will have successfully published three internationally successful books, secured two or three highly desirable romantic partnerships, won three major championship trophies while at school, and amassed such a vast, untraceable fortune that I will never need to work another day in my life, living the remainder of my life in perfect, unblemished happiness!"
The moment was silent, then dissolved into nervous laughter.
"What in the blazes was that? Are you trying to make a joke or a magical contract?" someone asked, uncertain whether to be amused or impressed by the sheer, unadulterated ambition.
"It was a wish, made with the utmost sincerity!" Albert insisted, completely straight-faced. "If Lee Jordan insists my predictions are infallible, I must simply make the most profitable predictions for my own future. If I'm lucky, I profit. If not, I've lost nothing but a moment of breath."
"Do you really intend to try for nineteen excellent marks, Albert?" Shanna asked, her earlier skepticism replaced by profound awe. "That sounds less like a wish and more like an unsustainable burden."
"Three championship trophies? That's utterly ridiculous!" Lee Jordan complained, though he was grinning.
"But imagine if he joins the Quidditch team next year," Angelina mused, eyes wide. "He could actually help us win another Cup. That part doesn't sound so impossible."
Albert was about to make a further self-deprecating comment to deflate the prophetic theory when a shadow fell across him.
"Mr. Anderson."
He looked up and saw the red-haired, intensely analytical face of Katrina Carrow, who was regarding him with a familiar disdain.
"You are, as always, aggressively ambitious and entirely too greedy—not only wishing for wealth without effort, but also three girlfriends. Tacky."
Albert barely reacted to the taunt. "Miss Carrow. I was beginning to think you'd elected to stay home. And isn't it somewhat inappropriate for a Ravenclaw to be defecting to the top stand of the opposing House?"
"Someone wished to see you," Katrina stated, ignoring his jab and getting straight to the point. "A friend of Professor Brood's, and a long-time colleague of my father. He's heard a great deal about your work and specifically requested an introduction."
"Who?"
"Mr. Rowena Smith," Katrina said, turning slightly toward the exit. "He's waiting near the East Exit of the stadium. It would be wise to meet him, Albert. He's a genuine authority, even if he doesn't share your… peculiar sense of humor."
Albert frowned slightly. Rowena Smith. The name immediately clicked: a highly respected Rune Master known for pioneering theoretical work in applied Arithmancy. An encounter with an expert of that caliber felt more important than any Quidditch match.
"Ah," Albert replied, rising. "Lead the way, then."
At the East Exit, two figures were waiting: Izebel Carrow, looking impeccably composed, and a man in a set of elegant, yet slightly travel-worn robes—Rowena Smith.
"Hello, Mr. Anderson." Smith stepped forward, extending a hand. He was perhaps in his late thirties, with piercing, intelligent eyes and the air of someone perpetually solving a complex equation. "I am Rowena Smith. Mog and Brood have both sung your praises at great length. As a fellow student of the esoteric, I have long anticipated meeting the youngest wizard in history to demonstrate mastery of the McDougal Runes."
Albert took his hand briefly, his expression measured. "A pleasure, Mr. Smith. Though I must gently correct your assumption. I am barely through my first year; I am in no position to call myself a Rune Master. I merely possess a rudimentary knowledge of the Ancient Runes curriculum."
Smith's smile was sharp, almost challenging. "Humility is a virtue, Mr. Anderson, but when practiced to such an excessive degree, it often begins to resemble intellectual evasion. You do yourself a disservice."
The directness of the accusation hit Katrina and Izebel with the force of a revelation. They exchanged a subtle, knowing glance. Yes, that was the word: Hypocrite.
Albert did not get angry; instead, he returned the challenge with a disarming grin. "Evasion? Or simple common sense? Have you ever, in the history of magical scholarship, heard of anyone seriously referring to a twelve-year-old child as a 'Rune Master,' Mr. Smith? The designation is inherently absurd."
Smith actually chuckled, a rich, deep sound. "You are quite correct. And certainly, more interesting than I had anticipated. We should chat. Perhaps a brief walk is in order."
They began to stroll along the perimeter of the Quidditch pitch. Smith's conversation immediately shifted away from pleasantries and into the dense realms of runic theory, applied chronomancy, and the probabilistic decay of magical enchantments—the very intellectual bottleneck that had stalled the third part of Advanced Rune Studies.
Albert was genuinely surprised by Smith's breadth of knowledge, which far surpassed that of the Hogwarts faculty, save perhaps Dumbledore. Smith, conversely, found himself utterly astonished by Albert's unique insights. Albert didn't just know the theories; he could instantaneously identify the flaws, introduce novel solutions, and discuss complex counter-theorems as if they were simple arithmetic.
"I must admit, your Sorting Hat choice puzzles me," Smith confessed. "I had been led to believe all of this—the synthesis, the lateral thinking—was the hallmark of Ravenclaw."
"Gryffindor is not merely defined by recklessness, Mr. Smith," Albert said easily. "Dumbledore himself was a Gryffindor. Perhaps the hat recognized that a strong will and courage are required to challenge established magical limits, not just high test scores."
The conversation continued to intensify, with Izebel and Katrina trailing silently, their heads spinning. The two wizards were speaking a language of pure, high-level abstract magic that left them both far behind.
"Why does Uncle Rowena want to talk to him?" Katrina whispered bitterly to Izebel. "I thought he came to collect Father's research, not to waste time on Anderson."
"Just listen," Izebel murmured, her gaze fixed on the back of Smith's robes. "This man is one of the few minds in the world who can genuinely challenge Albert. Watch and learn, Katrina. This is what true mastery looks like."
The conversation between Albert and Smith lasted well into the evening. The Quidditch match had resumed and, true to the tenacity of both teams, the brutal, high-intensity brawl continued relentlessly.
Finally, at the astonishing hour of 8:00 PM, as the last rays of sunlight bled from the horizon and the crowd's voices were reduced to exhausted, desperate screams, the end came.
Charlie Weasley, gaunt and utterly spent, executed a flawless, blinding dive, his hand closing around the fluttering wings of the Golden Snitch.
The stadium erupted. Gryffindor had won.
Smith, who had glanced at the action only occasionally, smiled thinly at Albert. "Well, Mr. Anderson. Congratulations to Gryffindor. An excellent match."
"Thank you, Mr. Smith."
It was then that Albert realized the chilling accuracy of his earlier, off-hand prediction.
"Who knows, maybe when your quarantine is over the competition isn't even over yet!"
The twins' detention was scheduled to end at 7:00 PM. They had served their time, likely raced back to the stadium, and would have arrived just in time to catch the final, glorious victory—but not the match itself. The two statements Albert had made—the one about the game running late, and the one about Gryffindor winning—had both come true.
The Zafere Gryffindorundur (The Victory is Gryffindor's) chant began to echo across the pitch as Charlie lifted the Cup, and the reality of Albert's casual prophecy settled like a heavy cloak on the minds of those who heard it.
"I must be going now," Smith said, turning to leave. He paused, looking back at Albert, his eyes thoughtful. "But know this: your insights into the decay rates of self-modifying charms were utterly fascinating. You have my card. I am waiting for your letter, Mr. Anderson."
Albert watched Smith walk away, then turned to look at the celebrating team. Professor McGonagall was beaming, the Ravenclaws were subdued but accepting, and the Slytherins looked deeply, murderously sullen.
He started toward the pitch to find his roommates, the weight of the new "Prophet" label already beginning to settle on him.
Outside the stadium perimeter, Smith was crossing the darkening lawn when a tall, silver-bearded figure materialized silently beside him: Albus Dumbledore.
"So, Rowena," Dumbledore asked, his blue eyes twinkling in the dusk. "What is your assessment?"
"The Quidditch match was fantastic, Headmaster," Smith confirmed, his voice professional. "A brilliant display of resilience and strategy by Charlie Weasley. But I assume you are asking about the prodigy."
Dumbledore merely smiled.
"He is both a genius and, as Brood suggested, deeply unsettling," Smith elaborated, adjusting his robes. "He grasps complex concepts instantaneously, and his unique insights into chronomancy are unparalleled. He is performing fourth-year theoretical work with a first-year's knowledge base."
Smith paused, a shadow crossing his face. "But he is not a Ravenclaw. He is a Gryffindor—and a remarkably ambitious one, if his little 'wish list' is any indication. He has the intellect to reshape entire fields of magic, Headmaster, but I sensed in him a dangerous, almost mercenary drive. The boy is already operating with the mentality of a powerful, autonomous adult."
"Indeed," Dumbledore said, the smile softening slightly. "The courage to use his mind, rather than merely possess it. I take it you will correspond with him, then?"
"Absolutely," Smith confirmed. "I have offered him a challenge—a complex theoretical hurdle that even Mog could not clear. I suspect he will solve it by the end of the year. He is a resource too valuable to leave undirected. Now, if you'll excuse me, Headmaster, I must travel. I have a pressing appointment."
"A delightful evening, Rowena," Dumbledore said cheerfully, watching the Rune Master dissolve into the growing darkness. The Headmaster stood alone for a moment, looking toward the wildly celebrating stadium, a profound, calculating expression on his face.
The game was over, but the true game—the deployment of the world's youngest, most formidable mind—had only just begun.