"Hey, Alan, stop dawdling! The match is about to start. I've never seen one in person before. Do you think I could ever be a Quidditch player?" Vivian tugged on Alan's sleeve, rushing toward the pitch as if she were afraid all the good spots would be taken before they even cleared the castle gates.
Alan wasn't particularly interested in such a barbaric game, but he was in a rare good mood today. With Hagrid's help, his first batch of potions had sold smoothly, netting him 240 Galleons. The influx of gold had finally eased his financial strain.
He had happened to run into Vivian on his way back from the hut. Since his spirits were high, he had allowed himself to be roped into joining the crowd.
Alan's performance in Flying Class wasn't outstanding; he was perfectly average. His main advantage was a decent sense of balance, which made his flight stable and predictable, but he hadn't put much effort into mastering the broom. Whenever he was in the air, his mind reflexively started envisioning aerial combat scenarios. The slow movement speed and the fact that a rider was such a prominent target made him feel that fighting on a broom was unreliable. In his mind, it was far too easy to become a sitting duck, so he hadn't prioritized it in his training.
Vivian, however, was a natural. She had picked up flying with impressive speed. By the second lesson, she was already performing simple maneuvers. Once she realized she had finally found a subject where she could surpass Alan, she became obsessed with it. Interest, it seemed, was often born of competition.
"Which two teams are playing today? I heard Quidditch matches can last for hours. How can anyone find that interesting?" Alan complained, pulling his arm back to straighten his rumpled robes.
"Oh my goodness, are you even in Slytherin? You don't even know it's our house against Gryffindor today? You really don't care about anything besides staying cooped up in your room with those books!" Vivian looked at him with an expression of pure disbelief.
Alan finally made the connection. "No wonder you're so excited. I think you're here for the drama more than the actual sport."
"I want the drama, and I want the match!" Vivian retorted. "I'm not like you. You're a person with no sense of fun. If it isn't in a textbook, you aren't interested."
"Then you don't know where the real fun in this world lies," Alan said, rolling his eyes and deciding it wasn't worth the argument.
As they approached the pitch, Vivian continued to chatter about the rules. Alan actually knew the basics; Charles had given a very enthusiastic introduction on the train. But Vivian was the type of person whose mouth simply couldn't stay still. Sometimes, Alan felt a very strong urge to test a Tongue-Tying Curse on her.
"They say that in the old days, people would pull out large cleavers and try to chop off the Keeper's head. Hey, isn't that Charles? Why is he standing there alone?" Vivian's stream of trivia broke as she spotted a familiar face near the entrance.
Following her gaze, Alan saw Charles standing by himself at the gates of the stadium. Vivian was the first to rush over.
"Charles! Long time no see. Are you here for the match too? Why aren't you going in?"
Charles offered a small smile at the sight of them. "Vivian. I'm waiting for some classmates. We saved seats up top, and I need to lead the latecomers up."
Charles then turned his attention to Alan. "I haven't seen you in weeks. Aside from classes, you're always disappearing. I talk to Vivian occasionally, but I can never find you. I never got the chance to thank you for that warning."
"There's no need to bring that up," Alan said quietly, offering a subtle hint. "The relations between our houses are tense enough as it is."
Charles was smart enough to take the hint, but the brief exchange set Vivian's gossipy soul on fire. She looked between the two of them with squinted, suspicious eyes.
But before she could pry, a discordant voice cut through their conversation.
"Vivian, Alan, what are you doing with that Gryffindor idiot? Hanging out with imbeciles will only turn you into one." Sampel Travers approached them, a sneer plastered across his face.
"Travers, you filthy coward, get lost," Charles spat, his disgust plain.
"It's my business who I talk to, Travers. You don't control me," Vivian added, giving the boy an icy look.
Alan remained quiet, watching Travers with an indifferent gaze that bordered on boredom.
Sampel's expression twisted further. "Ha! A Gryffindor moron and a filthy Mudblood are friends. It makes sense; they're two of a kind. Alan, you are a disgrace to Slytherin. And Vivian, I'd advise you not to associate with people like this. Unless you want to tarnish the Bulstrode name?"
He was really pushing his luck. Alan saw the boy's aggression and decided a verbal barb was in order.
"We certainly can't compare to the 'great' Travers family," Alan said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Aside from being the Dark Lord's lapdogs, your only talent seems to be barking at people. I'd advise you not to bark quite so loudly, Sampel. You know what they say: dogs that bite don't bark, and dogs that only bark usually end up getting kicked by their masters. Given how much you're talking, your mouth must be smeared with a laxative. You must have just come from the toilet after a full meal, right?"
"How dare you!" Travers's blood rushed to his head. He was used to trading direct insults, but he wasn't prepared for Alan's cold, passive-aggressive delivery. He fumbled for his wand, his face turning a deep shade of purple.
This was exactly what Alan wanted. If Travers made the first move, Alan would make sure the boy understood exactly why flowers are red.
"What is going on here? Why are you blocking the entrance?"
The stern voice of Professor McGonagall cut through the tension. She looked at the group with a sharp, warning glare.
Faced with a professor, the group immediately settled. Travers, trembling with repressed rage, didn't dare lash out. He gave Alan a look of pure, unadulterated hatred—one that suggested a blood feud had just been born—before turning on his heel and storming away.
McGonagall watched him go before turning back to the three students. "Alright, don't loiter at the gates. Move along, and don't cause me any more trouble today."
With that, she turned and entered the pitch.