In Anduin's calculated gaze, the Quidditch match had ceased to be a sport and had devolved into a spectacle of pure, pointless endurance.
Slytherin's Seeker was now flying with baffling incompetence, purposefully missing the Golden Snitch even as it flickered clearly past his shoulder, an obvious, cynical tactic designed to prolong the game until Gryffindor's remaining players collapsed from exhaustion.
Simultaneously, the Gryffindor side, too depleted and cautious to mount any real offense, had retreated to cluster defensively around their goal hoops, leaving the remaining Slytherin Chasers to launch token, despairing attacks that were easily repelled.
A perfect strategic deadlock, Anduin mused, a low sigh escaping his lips. And an utter waste of valuable time. He had gleaned all the tactical information he needed from the initial half-hour of savage play.
The sight of the match dragging on indefinitely, fueled by nothing but house rivalry and bruised pride, confirmed his earlier dismissal of the sport. He leaned toward Vivian, whispered a concise explanation of the stalemate, and without waiting for her reply, turned and left the stadium.
As he walked down the dirt path away from the crowded roar of the stands, he felt an immediate, familiar shift in the energy behind him. From the far stands, Travers had spotted his solitary departure.
The pureblood was nursing his humiliation and now saw a perfect opportunity for private revenge. Travers smirked, whispered something venomous to Randall Rozier beside him, and the two immediately detached themselves from the group, setting out on a path of confrontation.
Anduin instantly registered the movement. Incompetent, he judged internally. Travers's tracking style was not stealthy; it was a series of blatant, aggressive strides, heavy with the arrogance of expecting a fleeing victim.
There was no subtlety, no attempt at concealment. Seeing this bold, obvious pursuit, Anduin felt a cold certainty settle over him: Travers was actively seeking a duel. Since the fool was actively courting disaster, Anduin felt obligated to accommodate him.
After a moment of strategic calculation, Anduin changed his trajectory. Instead of heading toward the open, populated grounds of Hogwarts Castle, he veered sharply onto a less-used path, leading directly toward the isolated Owlery.
Travers and Rozier, seeing the apparent change in direction, paid little mind, assuming their target was simply trying to use the cover of the old stone structure to escape. Grinning wryly, they quickened their pace, believing they had already cornered their prey.
When they rounded the back of the massive stone Owlery tower—a place where the wind carried the smell of owl droppings and the walls were thick enough to dampen any unexpected sounds—they found Anduin leaning casually against the cold stone, his arms folded, looking at them with an expression of calm anticipation. He had been waiting.
Seeing Anduin stopped, Travers marched forward, his face still red from the previous verbal lashing, savoring the moment of superiority. "You filthy Muggle-tainted mess, why are you not running any longer? Did you finally realize—"
He talks too much, Anduin thought, cutting off the monologue mid-sentence.
Before Travers could finish the taunt, Anduin's wand was in his hand, a swift, practiced movement concealed by the folding of his robes. A flash of non-verbal, dark purple light snapped out, striking Travers squarely in the chest.
The spell was not a simple Stupefy—it was a slightly modified, targeted charm designed to induce deep, immediate muscular collapse without severe neurological shock. Travers gasped, his sneer freezing on his face, and he crumpled silently to the ground, unconscious before he hit the dirt.
Rozier, witnessing the instantaneous, professional strike, immediately panicked. His hands shot to his wand, his movements jerky and panicked.
Anduin pursed his lips in silent contempt. He comes to ambush, yet he keeps his wand holstered? Unprofessional. Arrogance precedes incompetence. He didn't rush. He simply pocketed his wand and began to advance calmly, maintaining eye contact with Rozier.
Rozier, struggling to unsheathe his wand, finally managed to grip it tightly with both hands, his knuckles white. He stumbled backward a step, his breath ragged. "You! You stay away! If you come one step closer, I, I swear I'll—"
Anduin continued his slow, methodical pace. He didn't draw his wand again. He relied entirely on psychological pressure. "What, Rozier? What precisely is your plan for this situation? Will you weep? Will you spontaneously combust if I close this gap? Or will you finally use that stick you're holding for something other than a prop?"
Rozier's tension spiked. He was convinced Anduin was not simply going to bully them, but kill them and silence them permanently in this secluded spot. Driven by sheer, irrational terror, he squeezed his eyes shut and let out a strangled cry: "Ah!" A raw, powerful bolt of red light erupted from his wand, fueled by his desperate panic.
The spell missed Anduin by a ridiculous margin, slamming uselessly into the stone wall of the Owlery.
Fascinating, Anduin thought, stroking his chin. The sheer volume of fear and tension clearly increases the raw magical output, but completely destroys the caster's accuracy. He needed to break the panic before the sheer power became a problem.
"Stop yelling," Anduin commanded, his voice suddenly hard and low. "Your screaming is only irritating the owls. Even if you rupture your own throat, no one will come to rescue you here."
Rozier didn't stop. He started to scream louder, firing wildly and inaccurately at the approaching figure.
Exasperated, Anduin drew his wand again. A quick, effortless Expelliarmus snapped through the air, disarming Rozier instantly. The boy cried out as his wand flew ten feet away.
Anduin closed the distance, grabbed the boy's shoulder, and with a swift, brutal shove, knocked him hard to the ground. He then planted his right foot firmly on Rozier's chest, crushing the air from his lungs. Leaning in, he pointed his wand—not his own, but Rozier's retrieved wand—at the boy's throat.
Anduin's voice was a cold, quiet whisper. "Do you wish to bleed to death, Rozier?"
Rozier, choking under the weight and the fear, could only plead desperately. "Please! Don't kill me! It was Travers! It was all his idea, I swear, I was just dragged here! It has nothing to do with me!"
Anduin sighed, a sound of profound disappointment. "Stop that pitiful whining. I asked you to be quiet. I will not repeat myself." The cold command in Anduin's voice finally achieved what the fear had failed to do: it shocked Rozier into silence. He stopped rambling, instead dissolving into ragged, coughing gasps from the pressure on his chest.
Anduin slowly lifted his foot, allowing Rozier to breathe. He knelt beside the terrified boy and asked, his voice softening to an unsettling calm. "Are you fundamentally afraid, Randall?"
Rozier sucked in a desperate breath. "Y-yes. I'm terrified."
"And will you ever, ever dare to seek me out for trouble again?"
Rozier scrambled to answer, spitting out the promise instantly. "No! Never! I'll stay away from you forever! I promise I'll even warn Travers to leave you alone!"
Anduin gave a short, humourless laugh. "No, Rozier. That's unnecessary. If Travers wishes to pursue my attention, you should encourage him. Do not do me the disservice of protecting me from future opportunities."
Rozier, utterly confused and terrified by this reversal, could only stammer, "No, I—I promise I'll keep him away. I won't cross you again."
Seeing the boy was utterly broken and pliable, Anduin helped Rozier to his feet. Rozier's legs were shaking, threatening to collapse, but Anduin held him firmly upright. He even went so far as to brush the dust from the front of Rozier's expensive Slytherin robes.
Anduin leaned close, his tone shifting to one of chilling, calculating sincerity. "I am serious, Randall. You will not interfere with Travers's desire to attack me. However, you are going to give me advance notice of his intentions. Every time."
Rozier immediately understood the implication: he was being recruited as an informant—a rat in the wall of his own House. But he also understood the danger. "But if I'm discovered... I'm ruined. I'm finished. They will exile me, or worse."
Anduin smiled, a genuine, unsettling smile that did not reach his cold eyes. "Precisely. But you have a far more immediate concern: me." He gripped Rozier's arm tightly, forcing the boy to acknowledge the immediate threat.
"If you comply with my conditions, I will protect you from external, lesser threats. You see, Randall, you are currently entering a contract with me. Have you ever heard of a 'Protection Fee'?"
Rozier was baffled by the unfamiliar, crude Muggle term, his terror briefly replaced by nervous confusion. "P-Protection Fee? What does that even mean?"
"It's an insurance premium, Randall," Anduin explained, his smile widening into a predatory expression.
"You will provide me with 10 Galleons at the beginning of every month. In return, I will be responsible for ensuring your security—not just from my own actions, but from any consequence that arises from your cooperation. I will guarantee that Travers, or anyone else who tries to cause you trouble, immediately finds a much larger problem on their hands. Consider it an investment in your continued health and social stability."
The boy felt a wave of cold dread wash over him. This wasn't just extortion; it was a demand for payment to become an asset and to secure his safety from the very person extorting him.
"But... what if I don't possess that amount of money? What if I simply can't pay that fee?" Rozier asked nervously, his focus entirely on the sum of gold rather than the treasonous task he had just been assigned. He knew the amount was trivial for a wealthy pureblood, but the principle of the demand felt like a suffocating chain.