Chapter 46: House Clash
December at Hogwarts. The cold air cut like a frozen blade, but the Quidditch stands were hot enough to break a sweat.
Half an hour before the match, Regulus sat in the Slytherin premium seats, mentally calculating how to recoup the wasted time.
Quidditch — the wizarding world's most popular sport. Twelve people riding broomsticks chasing a handful of balls, a game that could last hours, even days.
Regulus knew the rules and considered it an inefficient form of entertainment: rotten time-to-fun ratio, limited strategic depth, and no small measure of risk.
Broken necks were not exactly novelties in Quidditch history.
He hadn't wanted to come, but Avery had been going on since breakfast: "You have to be there! It's house honor!"
Alex had nodded beside him. Hermes said nothing but tacitly agreed attendance was expected.
For the sake of unity.
Regulus sighed inwardly. In Slytherin, certain occasions really couldn't be missed. So here he sat, wrapped in a heavy cloak.
"It's starting!" Avery suddenly yelled. Regulus looked up. At center pitch, Madam Hooch blew her whistle. The Quaffle soared.
The Slytherin captain was a fifth-year by the name of Elliot Rosier — a distant relative of Alex's, but from the main branch.
He came from the same family as Evan Rosier, the seventh-year who had approached Regulus at the Halloween feast.
Built like a door, shoulders wide enough to block one.
During the pre-match huddle, he'd told his team flat out: "Listen up. One objective today: win the match.
Victory over form. I want the scoreboard showing Slytherin on top. How you get there is your business."
Blunt as a sledgehammer. A few Chasers grinned; a Beater weighed his bat in his hand appreciatively.
Regulus looked across to the Gryffindor stands — a near-solid wall of red.
James Potter stood front-row center. He was the Seeker, draped in scarlet-and-gold robes, hair a predictable wreck, eyes bright.
Sirius's voice was the loudest in the stands: "Gryffindor! Victory! James — rip those snakes apart!"
His shout carried clear across half the pitch. A few lower-year Slytherins glared and screamed back; the upper-years didn't spare him a glance.
Sirius was practically draped over the railing, arms windmilling as though he meant to take flight himself.
Peter Pettigrew huddled behind him, cheering along — but much more quietly.
Remus Lupin stood a little apart, wearing a smile but not shouting.
The professors sat on the central high platform. Dumbledore in the middle, calm eyes behind half-moon spectacles surveying the pitch.
McGonagall right beside him, leaning forward, fingers laced over her knees. Years of heading Gryffindor had made every inter-house match compulsory viewing.
She was a veteran Quidditch fan.
Slughorn on the other side, chatting with Flitwick, pudgy fingers gesturing in the air.
Sprout had brought a bag of sweets and was sharing them with the younger students nearby.
Professor Binns was absent. Ghosts, presumably, had no interest in Quidditch.
Regulus's gaze swept the entire pitch. In his mind: Slytherin's game plan was obvious — use fouls to drag the tempo, wait for Gryffindor's mistakes.
The tactic could win, but it would breed enmity.
The whistle blew again. The match began.
......
The first twenty minutes were normal enough. The Quaffle flew back and forth, Bludgers cracked under the Beaters' bats. Slytherin scored ten first; Gryffindor leveled immediately.
Then came the dirty play.
First time: a Slytherin Chaser's elbow "accidentally" caught a Gryffindor Chaser in the ribs during a pass. The Gryffindor grunted; the Quaffle slipped from his hands.
Madam Hooch whistled. Warning.
"Cheats!" someone roared from the opposite stands.
Avery smirked. "Nothing in the rules about no contact."
Second time, subtler: another Slytherin Chaser accelerated, and the hem of his robes suddenly whipped out and tangled around a Gryffindor player's broom-tail.
Just half a second — but enough for the steal.
Hooch whistled again. Warning.
Then a third time. A fourth.
James Potter banked hard in the air, chasing the Golden Snitch — the little thing was glinting at the far end of the pitch.
But a Slytherin Beater happened to aim a Bludger straight into his flight path. James wrenched his broom upward; the iron ball grazed the sole of his boot.
"Foul!" Even McGonagall was on her feet.
Hooch flew up to the Beater and rebuked him sharply, but didn't eject him — only awarded Gryffindor a penalty shot.
The score crept apart. Forty. Fifty.
Slytherin's fouls never stopped — each one sneakier and more treacherous than the last — until the gap reached a hundred and fifty and the Snitch appeared once more.
James Potter exploded forward almost on the instant. He rode the latest Nimbus 1001; his speed was genuinely impressive — a streak of red lightning.
The Slytherin Seeker gave chase, clearly half a beat behind.
Just then, the Quaffle reached a Slytherin Chaser's hands. Before him stood Gryffindor's goal — but the Keeper had read the play, sealing off every angle.
Under normal circumstances, the shot would never get through. But a Slytherin Beater pulled a little move, driving a Bludger at the Gryffindor Keeper's broomstick handle.
The Keeper flinched — weight shifting for a fraction of a second.
In that instant, the Slytherin Chaser fired. The Quaffle carved a wicked arc and slipped through under the Keeper's arm, into the rightmost hoop.
Whistle. Goal stands.
Almost simultaneously, James Potter closed his fist around the Golden Snitch, its golden wings thrashing between his fingers.
But it didn't matter. That final Slytherin goal had added ten, and combined with their existing lead, the total margin was ten points in Slytherin's favor.
Match over. The pitch went silent for one heartbeat, then erupted.
The Gryffindor players didn't bother landing — they surrounded Madam Hooch on their brooms. James at the front, Snitch still clenched in his fist.
"That was a foul! He hit my broomstick!" the Gryffindor Keeper bellowed.
Hooch was explaining, but nobody was listening.
James stuffed the Snitch at a teammate, wheeled his broom, and dove. He leapt off before fully touching down.
"Rosier!" He charged at the Slytherin captain.
Elliot Rosier had just dismounted. Seeing James come flying at him, he grinned. "What — can't take a loss?"
"You played dirty!"
"Ref says the goal stands." Rosier shrugged. "Take it up with Madam Hooch."
That was gasoline on a bonfire.
Sirius hurtled off the stands. Lupin, Peter, and several other Gryffindor boys surged after him — the body language less "let's discuss" and more "let's brawl."
"Trouble coming." Avery stood up.
Alex went white. Hermes said nothing, but his hand was already reaching into his robes.
Regulus rose. His gaze swept the field. Over at the staff platform, Dumbledore was still seated. McGonagall was already descending. Slughorn was getting to his feet.
But the professors needed time, and the two mobs in front of him might be at each other's throats within thirty seconds.
"Let's go." Regulus said simply.
He started down. Avery and the others followed close behind. Slytherin's stands emptied as students poured downward — a green tide.
By the time they reached the main corridor outside the changing rooms, both sides had already blocked the passage.
Green on the left. Red on the right. A strip of open ground between them, less than ten feet wide.
The upper-years stood at the front. On the Slytherin side, seventh-year Prefect Lucretius Borgin occupied the center.
Narcissa stood slightly behind and to his side — posture elegant, expression impassive, fingers already curled around her wand.
Behind them: several sixth-year core students, every surname carrying weight in the pure-blood sphere.
On the Gryffindor side, the lead was also a seventh-year — Frank Longbottom. Regulus knew the name: the father of Gryffindor's future Sword-Bearer.
Beside Longbottom stood a tall, red-haired boy — a Prewett or a Weasley, most likely.
James and Sirius jostled behind Frank, still shouting. The scene was teetering on the edge of total chaos.
This was no longer a team dispute. It was a house-versus-house confrontation.
Wands emerged, one after another. Someone had already begun the first syllable of a spell.
Regulus quickened his pace. He needed through the Slytherin crowd.
The outermost ring was lower-years. Seeing him approach, they parted instinctively. Farther in were third- and fourth-years — nearly all recognized him. Some stepped aside; others frowned, watching.
Avery, Hermes, and Alex followed in his wake. At the edge of the fourth-year cluster, Avery hesitated, then planted himself there.
Hermes and Alex stopped beside him. From here on was upper-year territory. Regulus could go; they could not.
Regulus didn't stop. He kept walking. At the fifth-year line, someone reached out to block him, but one sweep of his calm gaze and the hand withdrew.
The sixth-year core circle. Several students stared at him, eyes unfriendly.
Lucretius Borgin heard the stir behind him, glanced back, and saw Regulus. One eyebrow rose, but he said nothing.
Narcissa also turned. Seeing him, she shifted slightly, making room for Regulus at the front.