December at Hogwarts was bitterly cold. Yet the stands along the Quidditch pitch were hot enough to make people sweat.
Half an hour before the match, Regulus sat in the prime Slytherin viewing section, already calculating how he might make up for the time he was about to waste.
Quidditch was the wizarding world's most popular sport. Twelve people on broomsticks chasing a handful of balls. Matches could drag on for hours, sometimes even days.
Regulus knew the rules. He also considered it an inefficient form of entertainment. The time cost was high, the tactical depth limited, and the risks far from trivial.
Broken necks were hardly rare in Quidditch history.
He had not planned on coming at all. Cuthbert had started pestering him early that morning.
"You have to go. This is about house honor."
Alex nodded along beside him. Hermes said nothing, but his silence carried the same agreement.
For the sake of fitting in.
Regulus sighed inwardly. In Slytherin, some occasions could not be skipped. So here he was, wrapped in a thick cloak.
"It's starting!" Cuthbert suddenly shouted.
Regulus looked up. At the center of the pitch, Madam Hooch blew her whistle, and the Quaffle shot into the air.
Slytherin's captain was a fifth-year named Elliot Rosier. He was a distant relative of Alex's family, but from the main branch.
He came from the same house as Evan Rosier, the one who had approached Regulus at the Halloween feast.
The man was built like a wall. Broad shoulders, tall frame, the sort who looked like he could block a doorway just by standing in it.
During the pre-match huddle, he addressed the team loudly, right in front of everyone.
"Listen up. Today, there's only one goal. We win."
"Victory matters more than style. I want to see Slytherin's score higher than theirs on the board. I don't care how you do it."
The words were brutally straightforward. A few Chasers grinned. One of the Beaters weighed his bat in his hand, testing the balance.
Regulus turned his gaze to the opposite stands. Gryffindor's side was a sea of red.
James Potter stood at the very front. As Seeker, he wore scarlet-and-gold robes. His hair was a mess, as always, but his eyes were bright with anticipation.
From the stands, Sirius's voice rang out the loudest.
"Gryffindor! Victory! James, tear those snakes apart!"
His shout carried across half the pitch. Several younger Slytherins glared back and yelled in response, throats strained. The older students did not even bother to look his way.
Sirius was practically hanging over the railing, arms flailing like he was about to take off.
Peter Pettigrew huddled behind him, shouting too, though much more softly.
Remus Lupin stood a little farther back. He wore a smile, but did not raise his voice.
The professors sat on the central viewing platform. Dumbledore occupied the middle seat, eyes calm behind his half-moon spectacles as he watched the pitch.
Professor McGonagall sat close beside him. Having taught Gryffindor for many years, she never missed a house match.
A seasoned Quidditch fan.
On the other side, Slughorn was chatting animatedly with Professor Flitwick, his plump fingers gesturing through the air.
Professor Sprout had brought a bag of sweets and was handing them out to the younger students nearby.
Professor Binns was absent. Ghosts, apparently, had little interest in Quidditch.
Regulus swept his gaze across the field, already reading Slytherin's strategy. It was obvious enough. Use fouls to slow the pace, wait for Gryffindor to make mistakes.
It could win games.
It also bred grudges.
The whistle blew again.
The match began.
---
The first twenty minutes were relatively normal.
The Quaffle zipped back and forth through the air. Bludgers boomed as Beaters sent them flying. Slytherin scored first, ten points, and Gryffindor equalized almost immediately.
Then the small tricks started.
The first was simple. As a Slytherin Chaser passed the Quaffle, his elbow "accidentally" slammed into a Gryffindor Chaser's ribs. The boy let out a grunt, and the ball slipped free.
Madam Hooch blew her whistle.
A warning.
"Dirty!" someone shouted from the opposite stands.
Cuthbert snorted. "The rules don't say you can't make contact."
The second was subtler. Another Slytherin Chaser accelerated, and the hem of his robes suddenly flicked outward, catching the tail of a Gryffindor player's broom.
Half a second. That was all it took to steal the ball.
Madam Hooch blew her whistle again. Another warning.
Then came the third. And the fourth.
James Potter made a sharp turn in midair, chasing the Golden Snitch as it flashed near the far end of the pitch.
At that exact moment, a Slytherin Beater sent a Bludger straight into his projected path.
James yanked his broom upward. The Bludger skimmed past the sole of his shoe.
"Foul!" Professor McGonagall was on her feet.
Madam Hooch flew straight up to the Beater, speaking sharply. She did not eject him, only awarded Gryffindor a penalty shot.
The score kept stretching.
Forty points.
Fifty.
Slytherin's tricks continued, growing more concealed, more malicious. By the time the score gap reached one hundred and fifty points, the Golden Snitch appeared again.
James Potter took off almost instantly. He rode the latest Nimbus 1001, and its speed showed. He streaked forward like a bolt of red lightning.
Slytherin's Seeker chased hard, but he was clearly a step behind.
At the same time, the Quaffle landed in a Slytherin Chaser's hands. Gryffindor's goal hoops were right ahead, but the Keeper had already read the play and sealed the angles.
Under normal circumstances, the shot would never go in.
That was when the Slytherin Beater made another small move. He redirected the Bludger toward the Gryffindor Keeper's broom handle.
The Keeper dodged instinctively. His balance shifted for a fraction of a second.
In that instant, the Slytherin Chaser threw.
The Quaffle traced a vicious curve, slipping under the Keeper's arm and straight through the rightmost hoop.
The whistle blew. Goal confirmed.
Almost simultaneously, James Potter closed his fingers around the Golden Snitch, its golden wings fluttering between his knuckles.
It did not matter.
Slytherin's last ten points, added to their existing lead, put them ahead by ten overall.
The match was over.
For one second, the pitch fell silent.
Then it exploded.
The Gryffindor players did not even land. Still mounted on their brooms, they swarmed Madam Hooch. James Potter was at the front, the Golden Snitch clenched in his fist.
"That was a foul! He hit my broom!" the Gryffindor Keeper shouted.
Madam Hooch tried to explain. No one listened.
James shoved the Snitch into a teammate's hands, spun his broom, and dove toward the ground. He jumped off before he even touched down.
"Rosier!"
He charged straight at the Slytherin captain.
Elliot Rosier had just dismounted. Seeing James coming, he bared his teeth in a grin.
"What, can't take a loss?"
"You used dirty tricks!"
"The ref called it valid." Rosier shrugged. "If you've got a problem, take it up with Madam Hooch."
It was like pouring oil onto a fire.
Sirius vaulted down from the stands. Remus, Peter, and several other Gryffindor boys followed in a rush. It looked less like an argument and more like the start of a brawl.
"This is going to blow up," Cuthbert said, standing.
Alex's face had gone pale. Hermes still said nothing, but his hand slid into the inner pocket of his robes.
Regulus rose to his feet, eyes sweeping the field.
On the professor's platform, Dumbledore remained seated. Professor McGonagall was already moving, Slughorn rising to follow.
But it would take time for the professors to reach them.
The two groups in front of him might start fighting within thirty seconds.
"Move," Regulus said simply.
He headed down. Cuthbert and the others followed. More Slytherin students surged after them, a tide of green pouring from the stands.
By the time they reached the main corridor outside the changing rooms, both sides had filled it.
Green to the left. Red to the right. Between them, a narrow passage less than ten feet wide.
The older students stood at the front.
On Slytherin's side, the seventh-year Prefect Lucretius Burke stood squarely at the center.
Narcissa was slightly behind him, poised and composed. Her fingers were already curled around her wand.
Behind them were several sixth-year core members, all surnames with real weight among pure-blood circles.
Gryffindor's front line was also led by a seventh-year. Frank Longbottom. Regulus knew the name.
Beside him stood a tall red-haired boy, likely from the Prewett or Weasley family.
James and Sirius were wedged behind Frank, still shouting, the situation nearly out of control.
This was no longer a team dispute.
It was a confrontation between two houses.
Wands came out one after another. Someone had already begun the first syllable of a spell.
Regulus quickened his pace. He needed to cut through the Slytherin ranks.
At the very edge were younger students. Seeing him approach, they moved aside instinctively. Deeper in were third- and fourth-years. Almost all of them recognized him. Some shifted to let him pass. Others frowned and stared.
Cuthbert, Hermes, and Alex followed him. When they reached the fourth-year section, Cuthbert hesitated, then stopped and took his place there.
Hermes and Alex stopped as well, standing together.
Ahead lay the domain of the upper years. Regulus could go farther. They could not.
Regulus did not slow.
A fifth-year reached out as if to block him. One calm glance from Regulus, and the hand withdrew.
In the sixth-year core, several students stared at him with unfriendly eyes.
Lucretius Burke heard the movement behind him and turned. Seeing Regulus, his brow lifted slightly. He said nothing.
Narcissa also looked back. When she saw him, she shifted just enough to open a space at her side.