At Hogwarts in December, the cold air was like a frozen knife, yet the stands beside the Quidditch pitch were hot enough to make one sweat.
Half an hour before the match started, Regulus sat in Slytherin's best viewing area, mentally calculating how to make up for the wasted time.
Quidditch, the most popular sport in the wizarding world, involved twelve people chasing a few balls on broomsticks; a match could last several hours, even several days.
Regulus knew the rules and considered it inefficient entertainment, with a high time cost, limited tactical depth, and significant risk.
A broken neck was not uncommon in Quidditch history.
He hadn't wanted to come, but Avery had been nagging since morning: "You have to go! It's for house honor!"
Alex nodded beside him; Hermes, though silent, also tacitly agreed one should be present.
To fit in.
Regulus sighed inwardly. In Slytherin, there were indeed certain occasions one could not miss, so he sat there, wrapped in a thick cloak.
"It's about to start!" Avery suddenly shouted.
Regulus looked up. In the center of the pitch, Madam Hooch blew her whistle, and the Quaffle rose into the air.
The Slytherin captain was a fifth-year student named Eliot Rosier, a distant relative of Alex's family but from the main branch.
He came from the same family as Evan Rosier, who had spoken to him at the Halloween feast.
This guy was tall, with shoulders broad enough to block a doorway.
During the pre-match huddle, he said in front of the whole team: "Listen up, there's only one goal today: win the match!
Victory is more important than style. I want to see Slytherin's score higher than theirs on the board. I don't care how you do it."
His words were blatant. A few Chasers grinned, and the Beaters hefted their bats in their hands.
Regulus looked across at the opposite stands; the Gryffindor side was almost a sea of red.
James Potter stood in the front row. He was the Seeker, draped in gold and red team robes, his hair messy but his eyes bright.
In the stands, Sirius Black shouted the loudest: "Gryffindor! Victory! James, tear those snakes apart!"
His shouts could be heard across half the pitch. A few Slytherin lower years glared at him, straining their necks to shout back, while the upper years paid him no mind.
Sirius was practically hanging over the railing of the stands, his arms waving as if about to fly off.
Peter Pettigrew shrank behind him, also shouting, but much more quietly.
Remus Lupin stood a bit farther away, smiling but not shouting.
The professors sat on the central high platform. Dumbledore sat in the very center, his eyes behind half-moon spectacles calmly watching the pitch.
Professor McGonagall sat close beside him, leaning forward with her fingers interlaced on her knees. Having taught at Gryffindor for many years, she watched every inter-house match.
She was an old Quidditch fan.
Slughorn sat on the other side, saying something to Professor Flitwick, his plump fingers gesturing in the air.
Professor Sprout had brought a bag of sweets and was distributing them to the surrounding lower years.
Professor Binns was absent; the ghost probably had no interest in Quidditch.
Regulus's gaze swept across the entire pitch. He thought to himself that Slytherin's tactics were obvious: use fouls to slow the pace and wait for Gryffindor to make mistakes.
This strategy could win, but it would create enemies.
The whistle blew again, and the match began…
The first twenty minutes were relatively normal. The Quaffle flew back and forth, Bludgers were struck with loud thwacks by the Beaters. Slytherin scored ten points first, and Gryffindor immediately equalized.
Then the dirty tricks began.
The first time, a Slytherin Chaser accidentally elbowed a Gryffindor Chaser in the ribs while passing, making the latter grunt and lose the Quaffle.
Madam Hooch blew her whistle. A warning.
"Cheap shot!" someone shouted from the opposite stands.
Avery sneered: "The rules don't say you can't make contact."
The second time was more subtle. Another Slytherin Chaser, while accelerating, suddenly let the hem of his robe fly out, tangling around the tail of a Gryffindor player's broomstick.
For just half a second, long enough for him to snatch the ball.
Madam Hooch blew her whistle again. A warning.
Then came the third, the fourth.
James Potter made a sharp turn in the air, trying to chase the Golden Snitch, which was glittering at the other end of the pitch.
But a Slytherin Beater happened to hit a Bludger toward his flight path. James yanked his broom up sharply, and the Bludger shot past just beneath the soles of his shoes.
"Foul!" Even Professor McGonagall stood up.
Madam Hooch flew up to the Beater, speaking sternly, but didn't send him off. She just gave Gryffindor a penalty shot.
The score slowly widened. Forty points, fifty points.
Slytherin's dirty tricks continued, growing more covert and vicious, until the score difference reached one hundred and fifty points, and the Golden Snitch appeared again.
James Potter shot off almost instantly. He rode the latest-model Nimbus 1001, which was indeed fast, like a red lightning bolt.
Slytherin's Seeker desperately gave chase but was clearly half a step slower.
At that moment, the Quaffle came into the hands of a Slytherin Chaser. He faced the Gryffindor goalposts, but the Keeper had already anticipated and blocked the angle.
Normally, this shot wouldn't score. But a Slytherin Beater pulled a dirty trick; he hit a Bludger toward the handle of the Gryffindor Keeper's broom.
The Keeper instinctively dodged, shifting his body weight for just a fraction of a second.
In that instant, the Slytherin Chaser made his move. The Quaffle traced a tricky arc, slipping through the Keeper's armpit and into the rightmost hoop.
The whistle blew. Goal valid.
Almost simultaneously, James Potter caught the Golden Snitch, its golden wings fluttering between his fingers.
But it was useless. Slytherin's last goal had scored ten points. Combined with their previous lead, their total was ten points higher.
The match ended. The pitch fell silent for a second, then erupted.
The Gryffindor players didn't even land; they directly surrounded Madam Hooch on their brooms. James Potter charged at the front, still clutching the Golden Snitch.
"That was a foul! He hit my broom!" the Gryffindor Keeper roared.
Madam Hooch was explaining, but no one listened.
James shoved the Snitch to a teammate, turned his broom, and dove toward the ground. He jumped off his broom before it even touched down.
"Rosier!" He charged toward the Slytherin captain.
Eliot Rosier had just dismounted. Seeing James approach, he grinned: "What, can't handle losing?"
"You used dirty tricks!"
"The referee said it was valid," Rosier shrugged. "Take it up with Madam Hooch if you have a problem."
These words were like pouring oil on a fire.
Sirius Black rushed down from the stands. Remus, Peter, and several other Gryffindor boys poured down all at once. Their posture wasn't for arguing; it looked more like they were ready to fight.
"Trouble's brewing," Avery stood up.
Alex's face turned pale. Hermes didn't speak, but his hand had already reached inside his robe pocket.
Regulus rose, his gaze sweeping the scene. At the professors' seats, Dumbledore remained seated. Professor McGonagall was already heading down, and Slughorn was also standing up.
But it would take time for the professors to arrive, and the two groups in front might come to blows within thirty seconds.
"Let's go," Regulus said simply.
He headed down. Avery and the others followed closely. Students from the Slytherin stands were also pouring down like a green tide.
By the time they reached the main corridor outside the changing rooms, both sides were already blocking it.
On the left, a sea of green; on the right, a sea of red, separated by a narrow path less than ten feet wide.
The upper years stood at the very front. On the Slytherin side, the seventh-year prefect Lucretius Boke stood at the very center.
Narcissa was positioned slightly behind him at his side, elegant and composed, her fingers already gripping her wand.
Behind them were several core sixth years, all from significant pure-blood families.
On the Gryffindor side, the leader was also a seventh year named Frank Longbottom. Regulus knew that name—the father of the future Gryffindor Sword Saint.
Beside him stood a tall red-haired boy, likely from the Prewett or Weasley family.
James and Sirius squeezed in behind Frank, still shouting something. The situation was almost completely out of control.
This was no longer just a team conflict; it was a confrontation between two houses.
Wands were drawn one after another. Someone had already uttered the beginning of an incantation.
Regulus quickened his pace. He needed to pass through the Slytherin crowd.
The outermost ring was the lower years. Seeing him approach, they instinctively made way. Moving inward were the third and fourth years. Almost everyone knew him. Some sidestepped to clear a path; others frowned and stared.
Avery, Hermes, and Alex followed behind him. When they reached the area of the fourth years, Avery hesitated for a moment, then stopped and stood his ground there.
Hermes and Alex also stopped one after another, standing together.
Further ahead was the domain of the upper years. Regulus could go there, but they could not.
Regulus didn't stop. He continued forward. A fifth year reached out to block him, but under Regulus's calm gaze, the hand withdrew.
In the core circle of sixth years, several students stared at him with unfriendly eyes.
Lucretius Boke heard the commotion behind him and glanced back. Seeing it was Regulus, his eyebrows raised slightly, but he said nothing.
Narcissa also turned. Seeing it was him, she shifted slightly, making room for Regulus.
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