The morning air hung cool and bright over the Quidditch pitch, mist still clinging to the grass. Gryffindor red streaked against the pale sky as Oliver Wood barked directions, his whistle shrill and impatient.
"Come on, Katie! That Quaffle's not going to chase itself!"
Fred and George whooped past, laughing as the team circled lower, forming up for another drill—until the sound of laughter from the tunnel cut across the field. Low. Smug. Amused.
A cluster of green-robed figures emerged from the fog, broom handles gleaming like polished obsidian. At their front, Marcus Flint, broad-shouldered and smirking, with Draco Malfoy, Cassian Black, and Roman Nott at his side. Twelve identical Nimbus 2001s caught the sunlight in perfect unison.
Wood landed hard, eyes narrowing. "We've got the pitch booked, Flint."
Flint crossed his arms, his grin widening. "Not anymore. Professor Snape gave us permission to train. We've got new brooms, new players to test out."
"New brooms?" Fred repeated, incredulous.
Draco stepped forward before Flint could answer, his smirk razor-sharp. "Father bought them for the whole team. He wants to make sure Slytherin has an edge."
Cassian stood silent beside him, posture easy and composed. Roman's mouth twitched, just shy of a smirk. They didn't need to say a word—everything about them radiated confidence.
Ron's jaw clenched. "You can't buy your way into skill, Malfoy."
Draco's eyebrows arched. "No, but it certainly helps."
Hermione's voice sliced through the growing tension.
"At least the Gryffindor team didn't have to buy their places. They got in on talent."
The field went still. Draco turned to her, that smile twisting cruelly.
"No one asked you, Mudblood."
It hit like a crack of thunder.
Ron's face went crimson. "You take that back!" he bellowed, lunging forward.
Everything shattered into motion.
Brooms hit the ground. Shouts rang out. Flint grabbed Wood by the robes; Fred swung at a Slytherin Beater; George pulled him back. Harry darted between them, shoving Draco aside as bludgers rolled free from their crate.
Cassian's hand shot out, catching a wild hex mid-air, his jaw tightening. Roman stepped forward to steady another player who had almost toppled, irritation cutting across his usually calm expression. Neither defended Draco—but they didn't stop the chaos either. Pride, once sparked, burned hot.
Then—
"WHAT IS THE MEANING OF THIS?"
Professor McGonagall's voice carried like a spell, sharp and furious. She strode across the field, tartan robes billowing, eyes blazing. Behind her, Snape followed, his expression thunderous.
Students froze mid-motion, guilty and breathless.
McGonagall's gaze swept the Gryffindors. Snape's swept the Slytherins. Between them, it was like the air itself had gone still.
"Explain yourselves," McGonagall demanded.
Wood opened his mouth—"They started—"
"Don't even think about it," Snape cut in smoothly. "I saw enough to know the fault lies evenly shared."
Draco, hair mussed but smirk intact, leaned on his broom. "We were only testing our new equipment, Professors."
Snape's lips twitched into something that might've been amusement. McGonagall looked ready to hex him.
"Detentions. All of you," she said tightly. "And you, Mr. Malfoy—consider yourself very lucky I don't revoke your flying privileges."
Flint muttered something under his breath about unfairness.
Cassian's eyes slid toward Draco, a flicker of restrained disgust passing through his composed expression. Roman's gaze met his briefly—a silent agreement.
The rain had started by the time they left the pitch — not heavy, but enough to turn the grass slick and glistening underfoot. The Slytherin team trudged toward the castle, the earlier triumph dulled by the sting of detention and McGonagall's wrath.
Draco stalked ahead, muttering furiously. "The nerve of her — calling us cheats. As if anyone would refuse a gift like that. Typical Gryffindor hypocrisy."
Flint grunted in vague agreement, but most of the team stayed silent, still nursing bruises and egos.
Cassian and Roman walked a few paces behind, side-by-side. Cassian's hands were shoved in his pockets, jaw tight; Roman, as always, carried himself lightly, like nothing ever stuck to him for long.
Draco slowed just enough to glance back at them. "You two didn't say a word," he said, voice sharp. "I thought the Blacks and Notts had more spine than that."
Cassian's gaze flicked up — cool, detached. "Didn't seem worth shouting over."
Draco sneered. "Of course it was worth it. Did you hear her? Calling us bought-and-paid-for players. And that Mudblood—"
Roman's tone stayed mild, almost lazy, but his eyes hardened. "—You might want to be careful throwing that around in mixed company."
Draco frowned, confused for a beat, then caught the look Roman gave him. "Oh. You mean your little Ravenclaws," he said airily. "Please. Everyone knows they're different. Proper girls. Money. Old vaults. At least they've got the right sort of blood in them, making them the right sort."
Cassian stopped walking. The rain hissed softly against the stone walls.
"The right sort," he repeated, voice low. "That supposed to mean something?"
Draco turned, a look of genuine conviction on his face. "It means they have a natural poise, they share our values. They understand tradition, they honor their lineage—they're not trying to be something they're not. They're from old families, they understand what it means to uphold a certain standard. It's simply in their blood."
For a long moment, no one spoke. Then Cassian's mouth curved — but it wasn't amusement. "Careful, Malfoy," he said quietly. "The world changes faster than bloodlines do."
Roman gave a short, humorless laugh. "And faster than you fly, apparently."
Draco's eyes narrowed, but before he could retort, Flint barked from up ahead, "Move it, all of you! Snape's waiting!"
They started forward again. Draco muttered something under his breath about loyalty and tradition, but neither Cassian nor Roman responded.
By the time they reached the entrance hall, the tension had ebbed into a heavy, unspoken thing — the kind that settled into the seams of friendship and House pride alike. Cassian glanced out a nearby window, where the rain streaked against the glass like fine cracks.
"The right sort," he murmured again, half to himself. Then, with a faint, sardonic smile: "Funny. Doesn't sound like it means much anymore."
By the time dinner rolled around, the castle had swallowed the day's drama whole. Word of the morning's Quidditch fight had spread faster than enchanted wildfire, and by dessert, every table in the Great Hall was buzzing with exaggerated retellings.
Shya and Talora were already seated when the Slytherins filed in — freshly changed, hair dry, looking infuriatingly composed for people who'd been hexing Gryffindors a few hours earlier.
Lisa leaned closer over her plate of treacle tart. "So it's true, then? There was an actual fight?"
Mandy gasped, finally finding her voice. "And Cassian got involved? He doesn't fight!"
"Apparently he does now," Shya said dryly, as she returned to slicing her pudding. "Must've been a slow morning."
Talora glanced toward the Slytherin table, where Cassian and Roman sat — relaxed, quietly talking between themselves. Cassian looked entirely unbothered; Roman, faintly amused. The kind of boys who could walk out of chaos and make it look choreographed.
Lisa sighed. "They look like they just stepped out of Witch Weekly."
"Probably will be," Shya muttered. "Headline: Slytherin Heirs Defend Honour, Cause Detention."
That earned her a chorus of giggles. Even Talora cracked a grin before hiding it behind her goblet.
The rest of the meal unfolded in waves of chatter — gossip, laughter, and the kind of curiosity that would keep corridors buzzing for days. But under it, the group's rhythm was steady: Shya tossing quips like darts, Talora steering conversation back to reason, Lisa and Mandy debating everything from Lockhart's hair products to the ethics of magical gossip columns.
When the plates finally cleared and the candles dimmed low, Shya pushed to her feet and tilted her head toward the doors. "Let's go to the Haven. I want to hear it from them."
Talora's answering smile was immediate. "Of course you do."
They slipped out of the Hall together — seven shadows weaving through the hum of lingering voices, climbing familiar staircases toward the room only they knew existed.
The third-floor corridor was empty when they reached it, their laughter echoing off the stone walls. The torches flickered low, their flames softening into amber halos as the seven slipped behind the faded tapestry and into their sanctuary.
Lisa flopped down onto a velvet cushion. "All right," she said, brushing cookie crumbs off her skirt. "Spill it. What happened on the pitch?"
Roman was stretched out across the rug, arms behind his head. He smirked. "Malfoy opened his mouth. The rest followed naturally."
"That's not much of a story," Mandy protested.
Cassian glanced up from where he sat cross-legged by the table. "It wasn't much of a fight. A lot of shouting. A few poorly aimed hexes. Then McGonagall appeared and ended it before anyone got creative."
Shya rolled her eyes. "So—detention-worthy, but not legendary. Tragic."
Roman grinned. "You'd have been disappointed anyway. Too much mud. Not enough glory."
"Typical Slytherins," Talora teased. "Everything's better in theory."
Roman gestured at the table, where the last of their parcels sat piled high. "And now that our final piece has finally arrived…"
Talora leaned forward. "Please tell me that's the rug."
Cassian flicked his wand. The parcel burst open, and a thick emerald carpet unfurled across the floor, shot through with silver threads that shimmered like constellations.
Lisa gasped. "Okay, that's gorgeous."
"It's enchanted gorgeous," Roman corrected. "The constellations shift to match the sky above Hogwarts."
The room glowed faintly as the rug came to life, the soft hum of old magic filling the air. The atmosphere changed — warmer, richer, more alive.
Shya sank into the cushions, chin propped on her hand. "I vote we make the rug rule four."
Talora raised an eyebrow. "Rule four?"
"No shoes," Shya said solemnly. "Sacrilege otherwise."
Laughter rippled through the room.
Padma clapped her hands once. "So, to recap — no outsiders without all our say, snacks are communal but the bringer picks first, no one knows this place exists, and… no shoes."
"Perfectly reasonable," Lisa declared.
"Tragic but true," Mandy said, producing a packet of fizzing sherbets from her pocket. "Speaking of communal snacks—"
Roman and Cassian both reached for them at the same time. Roman got there first.
Cassian gave him a sidelong look, dry as parchment. "Mature."
Roman shrugged. "Quick reflexes. Athleticism."
"Cheating," Cassian muttered.
"Same thing."
The girls burst out laughing again. For a while, the only sounds were laughter, the crackle of lantern light, and the faint fizz of the sherbets.
Eventually, as the laughter ebbed into comfortable quiet, Talora glanced at the boys. "So what happens next? You'll still be at practice?"
"Every morning until the match," Cassian said. "Flint's determined to humiliate Gryffindor."
Roman smirked. "And after today, we might just do it."
Shya leaned back against the armchair, smiling faintly. "Good. Someone needs to. Preferably in front of Granger."
Talora chuckled. "You really don't like her, do you?"
Shya's tone was almost casual. "She's everything I hate in a person—self-righteous, humorless, and obsessed with authority."
Lisa added brightly, "So, basically the anti-you."
"Exactly," Shya said. "We'd cancel each other out if the world were fair."
Roman grinned. "Then it's not."
Cassian looked up, the corner of his mouth twitching. "Lucky for us."
For a moment, the seven of them sat in that glow of shared warmth — the flicker of candlelight catching the threads of silver and green, the laughter still hanging faintly in the air.
It wasn't grand or heroic. It was better.
It was home.
The laughter in the Haven faded, replaced by that soft hum of post-chaos quiet. Mandy twirled a lock of hair around her finger, hesitant.
"So… what exactly did Malfoy say?"
Cassian's expression didn't change, but Roman's smirk dimmed. He sat up, leaning his elbows on his knees.
"'Mudblood,'" he said finally, the word hanging in the air like a slur of smoke.
Padma frowned. "That's—what does it mean?"
Talora looked between them. "It sounds bad."
Roman exhaled, as if trying to decide how honest to be. "It's an old insult. Pure-blood families use it for Muggle-born witches and wizards. Says their blood's… impure. Like being born to non-magical parents makes them lesser."
Lisa's jaw dropped. "That's ridiculous. Half the most powerful witches in history weren't even from magical families."
"Ridiculous or not," Cassian said quietly, "people still believe it. My house is full of them."
There was a pause — long, brittle.
Padma frowned. "And after? You said you talked to him?"
Roman's smirk faded. "Yeah. We caught up to him after McGonagall dragged the gryffindors off. Told him he was out of line."
"What'd he say?" Mandy asked, leaning forward.
Cassian's tone was flat, his precision colder than usual. "That we misunderstood. That he didn't mean you. That you're the 'right sort.'"
The room went still.
Shya blinked once. "The right sort," she repeated slowly, voice sharp. "Meaning?"
Roman shrugged, but there was an edge to it. "Meaning old vaults, old names, and the kind of families that don't make the papers. He doesn't care where you were born — just how much gold you're sitting on."
Lisa groaned. "Ugh. So typical. You could throw him in a room with every House and he'd still find a hierarchy."
Mandy picked at the fringe of a cushion. "He's not wrong about people caring though… is he?"
The others turned to her. She flushed but kept going. "Not about the blood nonsense — that's rubbish. But the money thing? People notice. The way professors act, the way other students whisper — it's like vaults mean value."
Talora sighed, brushing a hand through her hair. "It's stupid. None of that says who someone is."
"True," Shya said quietly, "but it says how people see you." Her tone wasn't defensive — just factual, tired. "They like to dress it up as tradition, but it's just another way of dividing people."
Cassian's gaze softened slightly toward her. "And most don't even realize they're doing it."
Roman gave a humorless laugh. "Or they do — and call it pride."
Lisa exhaled hard, shaking off the mood. "Fine. Then let's make a rule: if anyone calls us the 'right sort' again, we'll prove them wrong by hexing them politely."
Shya smirked. "Politely?"
"Very politely," Lisa said solemnly. "With flair."
That finally broke the tension. Talora snorted; Mandy dissolved into giggles. Cassian shook his head, smiling despite himself.
For a moment, the air was lighter again. Their laughter filled the cracks left by the world outside — loud, messy, and defiantly young.
As they packed up for curfew, Shya glanced at Cassian and Roman. "You told him off?"
Roman smirked. "More than once."
"Good." Shya's voice was soft, but her smile was sharp. "Next time, let me help."