Chapter 46: House Conflict
December at Hogwarts cut like a blade. The air was so cold it stung the lungs, yet the stands beside the Quidditch pitch were hot enough to make a person sweat.
Half an hour before the match, Regulus sat in Slytherin's best viewing section, wrapped in a thick cloak, quietly calculating how to recover the time this would cost him.
Quidditch, the wizarding world's most beloved sport, was twelve people on broomsticks chasing a handful of balls. A match might last hours. It might last days. Regulus knew the rules, and in his mind it was inefficient entertainment. The time cost was obscene, the tactical depth limited, the risk real. Broken necks were not exactly rare in the sport's history.
He had not wanted to come.
Avery had been needling him since morning.
"You have to go," Avery insisted. "It's for house honour."
Alex nodded beside him. Hermes said nothing, but his silence was agreement. In Slytherin there were occasions you did not miss if you intended to belong.
Regulus sighed inwardly and stayed seated.
"It's about to start," Avery shouted suddenly.
Regulus lifted his gaze.
At the centre of the pitch, Madam Hooch blew her whistle. The Quaffle rose into the air.
Slytherin's captain was a fifth year named Eliot Rosier, a distant relation of Alex through the Rosier line, though from the main branch. He shared blood with Evan Rosier, who had spoken to Regulus at the Halloween feast.
Eliot Rosier was tall, broad shouldered, built like he could block a doorway with his chest alone.
During the prematch huddle, he said loudly enough for half his team to grin.
"Listen up. There's only one goal today. Win."
His eyes swept across them like a command.
"Victory matters more than style. I want Slytherin's score higher than theirs on the board. I do not care how you do it."
The words were blatant. A couple of Chasers smirked. The Beaters hefted their bats as if enjoying the weight.
Regulus's gaze drifted to the opposite stands.
Gryffindor was a sea of red.
James Potter stood at the front. He was the Seeker, draped in scarlet and gold, hair a mess, eyes bright with the kind of reckless confidence that often preceded either glory or disaster.
In the stands, Sirius Black was the loudest voice by far.
"Gryffindor, victory," Sirius bellowed. "James, tear those snakes apart."
His shout carried across half the pitch. Several younger Slytherins glared and shouted back. The older ones largely ignored him, as though he were a predictable annoyance rather than a threat.
Sirius was practically hanging over the railing, arms flailing as if enthusiasm alone could push James faster.
Peter Pettigrew crouched behind him, shouting too, but much more softly, like a man afraid of his own volume.
Remus Lupin stood a little farther back, smiling, not shouting.
On the central platform sat the professors.
Dumbledore sat at the centre, eyes calm behind his half moon spectacles as he watched the pitch like it was an ordinary lesson.
Professor McGonagall sat near him, leaning forward with her fingers interlaced on her knees. Years as Head of Gryffindor had not dulled her interest in inter house matches. If anything, it had sharpened it.
Slughorn sat on the other side, saying something to Professor Flitwick while gesturing with plump fingers, as though discussing a recipe rather than a sport.
Professor Sprout had brought a bag of sweets and was distributing them to nearby younger students, cheerful as ever.
Professor Binns was absent. The ghost likely saw no value in sport.
Regulus let his gaze sweep the pitch one last time, measuring it like a battlefield.
Slytherin's plan was obvious. Slow the pace. Fray nerves. Wait for Gryffindor to lose control.
It could win matches.
It also created enemies.
Madam Hooch blew her whistle again.
The match began.
The first twenty minutes were almost respectable.
The Quaffle flashed back and forth. Bludgers cracked through the air with loud thumps when the Beaters struck them. Slytherin scored first, ten points. Gryffindor equalised almost immediately.
Then the dirt began to show.
The first incident looked like a mistake. A Slytherin Chaser clipped a Gryffindor Chaser with an elbow while passing. The Gryffindor boy grunted, lost control, and dropped the Quaffle.
Madam Hooch's whistle shrieked. A warning.
"Cheap shot," someone roared from the red stands.
Avery sneered beside Regulus.
"The rules do not say you cannot make contact."
The second incident was subtler. Another Slytherin Chaser accelerated, and the hem of his robes flared at exactly the wrong moment, tangling around the tail of a Gryffindor broom. Half a second of drag. Long enough to steal the ball.
Madam Hooch blew her whistle again. Another warning.
Then came the third. The fourth.
James made a sharp turn in the air, chasing a flash of gold at the far end of the pitch. The Snitch flickered like a taunt.
A Slytherin Beater happened to send a Bludger into his flight path.
James yanked his broom upward. The Bludger shot past just beneath the soles of his shoes.
"Foul," someone shouted.
Even Professor McGonagall stood up.
Madam Hooch flew up, spoke sternly to the Beater, and awarded Gryffindor a penalty shot. She did not send him off.
The score drifted wider. Forty points. Fifty. Then more.
Slytherin's tricks grew more covert and more vicious, hidden in the chaos of bodies and broomsticks, until their lead sat at one hundred and fifty points.
Then the Snitch appeared again.
James shot after it instantly. He rode the latest model Nimbus 1001, and it truly was fast, like a red bolt tearing through winter air.
Slytherin's Seeker chased too, desperate, but always half a step behind.
At the same moment, the Quaffle reached a Slytherin Chaser. He lined up on the Gryffindor hoops.
The Gryffindor Keeper had already anticipated him and blocked the angle.
In any normal match, this shot would not score.
A Slytherin Beater changed that.
He struck a Bludger toward the handle of the Gryffindor Keeper's broom.
The Keeper dodged on instinct. His weight shifted. It was only a fraction of a second.
It was enough.
The Slytherin Chaser moved. The Quaffle traced a nasty, clever arc, slipped through the Keeper's guard, and sailed into the rightmost hoop.
Madam Hooch's whistle blew.
Goal valid.
Almost at the same time, James Potter caught the Golden Snitch. Its wings fluttered frantically between his fingers, glittering like a prize ripped from the sun.
It should have ended the match in triumph.
It did not.
Slytherin's last goal added ten points. With their earlier lead, it put them ahead by ten even after the Snitch.
The match ended.
For a heartbeat the pitch went silent, as if even the wind had paused to listen. Then the stands erupted.
The Gryffindor players did not bother landing properly. They swooped straight toward Madam Hooch, circling her on their brooms, shouting over one another.
James led them, still gripping the Snitch.
"That was a foul," the Gryffindor Keeper roared. "He hit my broom."
Madam Hooch tried to explain. No one listened.
James shoved the Snitch at a teammate, turned his broom, and dived. He jumped off before it even touched down, boots hitting the ground hard enough to jar the knees.
"Rosier."
He charged at Eliot Rosier.
Eliot had just dismounted. He grinned as James approached.
"What," Eliot drawled. "Cannot handle losing."
"You used dirty tricks."
"The referee said it was valid," Eliot shrugged. "Take it up with Madam Hooch if you have a problem."
It was like pouring oil onto fire.
Sirius Black vaulted down from the stands. Remus and Peter followed, along with several other Gryffindor boys. They were not moving like students ready to argue. They were moving like boys ready to fight.
"Trouble's brewing," Avery said, already standing.
Alex's face turned pale.
Hermes said nothing, but his hand had slipped inside his robe, fingers already closing around his wand.
Regulus rose. His gaze swept the scene in a single cold assessment.
On the professors' platform, Dumbledore remained seated. Professor McGonagall was already on her feet and moving. Slughorn stood as well.
They would take time to arrive.
The two sides in front of the changing rooms might start casting within thirty seconds.
"Let's go," Regulus said.
He headed down. Avery, Hermes, and Alex followed close behind. Students from the Slytherin stands poured after them like a green tide.
By the time Regulus reached the main corridor outside the changing rooms, both houses had already flooded it.
On the left, green. On the right, red.
Between them was a strip of open space less than ten feet wide, and it felt like the narrow throat of a duel.
Older students stood at the front on both sides.
For Slytherin, the seventh year prefect Lucretius Boke held the centre. His posture was composed, his presence firm, as though the corridor itself belonged to him.
Narcissa stood slightly behind and to his side, elegant and controlled. Her fingers already gripped her wand.
Behind them were several core sixth years, all with names that carried weight, all watching the Gryffindors with the patient hostility of heirs.
On Gryffindor's side, the leader was another seventh year, Frank Longbottom.
Regulus knew the name. The father of the future Gryffindor sword saint.
Beside him stood a tall, red haired boy, likely Prewett or Weasley by the look of him.
James and Sirius pushed in behind Frank, still shouting, faces hot with outrage and adrenaline.
This was no longer a team dispute.
This was a house confrontation.
Wands appeared one after another. Someone began the first syllable of an incantation.
Regulus quickened his pace. He needed to reach the core of the Slytherin formation.
The outer ring was younger students. They saw him and instinctively parted.
The third and fourth years came next. Nearly everyone recognised him. Some stepped aside quickly. Some frowned and watched him pass, uncertain whether they should resent a first year moving with that kind of authority.
Avery, Hermes, and Alex followed him until they reached the fourth year line. Avery hesitated, then stopped and planted his feet.
Hermes stopped as well. Alex followed, standing with them.
The space beyond belonged to the older students.
Regulus did not slow.
A fifth year reached out as if to block him. Under Regulus's calm stare, the hand withdrew.
Inside the sixth year circle, several faces turned toward him, eyes unfriendly, measuring.
Lucretius Boke sensed the movement behind him and glanced back. When he saw Regulus, his eyebrows lifted slightly. He said nothing.
Narcissa turned too. Her gaze met Regulus's for a moment, then she shifted with smooth deliberation, making room for him to step forward.