"Hey, Anduin, stop stalling! The Quidditch match is about to start, and it's the biggest rivalry of the season! I need to get a good spot to watch the action." Vivian grabbed Anduin's billowing winter robes, dragging him with surprising strength, her face alight with an infectious, impatient cheer. "Do you think, if I practice all year, I might actually have a chance of becoming a Quidditch player next year?"
Anduin was not, by nature, a fan of what he considered such a primitive and barbaric spectacle. He found the concept of thirty-foot drops and heavy, enchanted iron balls—Bludgers—flying indiscriminately tedious and unnecessarily risky. Yet, today, he was in an uncommonly amenable mood. The sheer success of his first commercial venture had washed over him like a warm tide.
With Hagrid's help, the two large batches of modified Euphoria Potion had been smoothly distributed through the arranged contacts in Hogsmeade. The initial payment—a gratifyingly heavy pouch containing 240 Galleons—had eased a significant burden on Anduin's shoulders, moving him closer to the financial independence he desperately craved.
This money represented more than just purchasing power; it was a tangible step toward securing his future against the rising storm he now knew was inevitable. This newfound freedom helped to balance the recent, heavy discovery that the 'Half-Blood Prince' was Severus Snape, and that Anduin now possessed the written instructions for a silent, lethal curse that could not be magically healed. The Galleons meant security; the curse meant lethal deterrence.
He had run into Vivian, who was practically vibrating with excitement, on his return from Hagrid's hut, and he allowed himself to be pulled along, deciding a brief distraction would be beneficial.
"Your question is irrelevant, Vivian," Anduin sighed, trying to smooth out the expensive fabric of his robes where she was aggressively tugging. "My own flying marks are merely average. My strengths lie in an instinctual sense of balance and stable flight, but I have no inclination to develop them."
Anduin had long ago discarded the notion of competitive flying. While on a broomstick, his mind would reflexively analyze the field, imagining airborne battle scenarios and the necessary angles of attack.
However, his movement speed was never fast enough to compensate for the fundamental flaw of aerial combat: the broom user was an impossibly conspicuous target, exposed from all angles. He concluded that fighting on a flying broomstick was simply too unreliable and tactically unsound. Therefore, he treated it as a compulsory skill, not a worthy discipline.
Vivian, conversely, possessed a remarkable, intuitive talent for flying. She took to the broom naturally. By her second lesson, she was performing simple, graceful aerial maneuvers that confounded even the older students. Upon discovering she had finally surpassed the perpetually bookish Anduin in any area, Vivian had latched onto the sport with a competitive fervor.
"Which two reckless teams are playing today?" Anduin finally managed to pull her to a stop, straightening his crumpled collar. "I've heard these matches can sometimes drag on for hours until some unlucky seeker finally spots the Snitch. Who could possibly find such a protracted, chaotic game interesting?"
Vivian released his arm, planting her hands on her hips in mock indignation. "Oh, for the love of Merlin, are you even a Slytherin student? How can you possibly be so unaware? Our House—Slytherin—is playing against Gryffindor! You sit in your room all day and care about nothing except dusty texts and brewing suspicious things!"
Anduin gave a small, knowing smile. "Ah. So that is the root of your uncommon mood. I'm sure you're not interested in the game itself; you just want to witness the glorious spectacle of inter-house violence and humiliation."
Vivian defiantly tossed her long hair. "I want to see the excitement, the competition, and frankly, I want to see our Chasers wipe the floor with those arrogant Gryffindor lions! I'm not some miserable drone who finds enjoyment only in complex rune theory."
"Then you don't yet know where the real fun in this world lies," Anduin countered, rolling his eyes as he walked past her, too lazy to engage in a deeper philosophical debate. "True fun is finding a silent, surgical solution to a problem, not risking a broken neck chasing a shiny golden insect."
As they approached the stadium, Vivian, ever the enthusiastic narrator, began recounting every interesting, gruesome, and frequently apocryphal Quidditch anecdote she had heard. Anduin already knew the history, having politely listened to Charles detail the entire sport on the train journey to Hogwarts.
Nevertheless, he allowed her to chatter, occasionally interjecting a perfectly timed tongue-tying charm to shorten her more egregious tangents, much to her annoyed amusement.
"They say that back in the early days, during the old, truly brutal matches, sometimes a rogue Beater would actually pull out a machete and try to take off the opposing Keeper's head mid-air," Vivian was saying, her eyes wide. She then broke off abruptly. "Hey, isn't that Charles? Why is he standing out here all by himself?"
Following her gaze, Anduin saw Charles Weasley, the Gryffindor prefect, standing alone near the main entrance to the pitch, looking preoccupied but friendly.
Vivian immediately ran up to him. "Charles! It's been ages! Are you here to watch the game too? Why are you just standing here? Don't you want to go inside?"
Seeing Anduin and Vivian, Charles offered a welcoming, slightly strained smile. "Vivian. Anduin. I'm actually waiting for a group of my younger housemates. We reserved a decent viewing area in the stands, and I need to guide them in. They're running late, as usual." He then focused on Anduin.
"I haven't seen you since that night near the train—you vanish like a ghost outside of class. I can sometimes catch Vivian, but you're impossible. I never actually had a chance to properly thank you for... well, for what happened last time."
"We should absolutely not speak of that again," Anduin said, lowering his voice and glancing around the crowded entryway. The reference to the ambush and Snape felt too fresh, too dangerous. "The relationship between our two academies is already strained to the breaking point right now. Publicly acknowledging any cooperation would likely do more harm than good for both of us."
Charles, wise enough to sense the sudden tension, simply nodded. "Understood. My thanks stand, regardless."
The delicate subject change reignited Vivian's perpetual gossipy nature. She started glancing back and forth between the two boys, her clever eyes practically glinting with curiosity.
Unfortunately, before the moment could pass, another, far more discordant voice interrupted their exchange.
"Vivian. Anduin," sneered a voice full of corrosive disdain. "What in the name of Salazar are you two doing consorting with those Gryffindor idiots? Hanging around with them will only make you as foolish and soft as they are."
Sample Travers, a tall, thin Slytherin with a permanent, unpleasant sneer, approached them. His disdainful gaze swept over Charles before settling on Anduin, who had just been seen speaking quietly with the enemy prefect.
Charles, his face instantly contorted with anger, shouted back, "Go away, Travers, you filthy, sniveling bastard! We don't want your presence here!"
"It is my right, and indeed my absolute freedom, to speak with whomever I choose, you imbecile," Vivian retorted sharply, meeting Travers's hostile gaze without flinching. "It is most certainly none of your repulsive business."
Anduin, however, simply stood aside. He had stopped moving, his expression calm and utterly detached as he observed Travers. He was too lazy to engage in such vulgar, predictable shouting matches. He preferred a rapier to a broadsword.
Travers's face hardened further at the combined disrespect. "Ha! A Gryffindor fool and a disgusting, Mudblood-sympathizing half-breed are friends. They're all the same type of filth! Anduin, I knew you were a disgrace to the House—you have the blood of some low-born peasant in you, don't you? And Vivian, I advise you not to associate with such degenerate company. Do you wish to tarnish the honor of the Bulstrode family with this lack of judgment?" he finished with a venomous hiss.
The insult—the direct attack on Anduin's lineage and the attempt to bully Vivian through her family name—was utterly shameless, completely disregarding the public setting. Anduin finally spoke, his voice low, measured, and dripping with controlled, surgical sarcasm.
"My, my, Travers," Anduin drawled, folding his arms. "It's a rare honor to be judged by the pristine, pure-blooded Travers family. Tell me, other than serving as the Dark Lord's most reliable poodles—always barking, always fetching, always eager for a pat on the head—what profound contribution has your noble lineage made recently? Oh, I see. Only the ability to direct unearned accusations at others."
He leaned forward slightly, his eyes holding Travers's gaze, which was already beginning to flush with fury.
"I would advise you, Travers, not to strain your vocal cords so aggressively. There is an old adage, isn't there? A dog that bites doesn't bark. A dog that only barks might one day find itself violently kicked by its owner. And you, my dear fellow, you are so eloquent, so full of verbose filth, that I suspect your mouth has just been freshly smeared with a strong laxative. You must have just finished your morning routine in the toilet and then promptly eaten your lunch before coming here, given the sheer volume of excrement issuing from your face."
Travers, accustomed only to simple, base insults, was paralyzed for a second by the sheer complexity and targeted cruelty of the rhetoric. His blood boiled, his face turning a startling, mottled red. He drew his wand, his hand shaking violently, unable to process the wave of humiliation he had just suffered in front of his peers and rivals.
"You—how DARE you speak to me like that!" Travers shrieked, his mind short-circuiting at the comparison to canine subservience and human waste. He lifted his wand aggressively, preparing to cast.
That was precisely the moment Anduin had calculated for, a subtle smile touching his lips. He was ready to meet the provocation with a non-lethal, highly effective counter-jinx, simply waiting for Travers to commit the first, unforgivable spell.
"What in Merlin's name is going on here? Stop that immediately! Why are you three blocking the main entrance to the stadium? Get inside, all of you!"
Unfortunately for Anduin's plan, Professor Minerva McGonagall arrived in a rush. She was dressed in her deep emerald robes, carrying a stack of official scorecards, and her expression was one of severe, absolute displeasure. The sight of a wand drawn in anger—especially by a Slytherin during an already tense rivalry match—immediately drew her full attention.
Travers, terrified of facing a public disciplinary hearing and massive point loss, immediately lowered his wand, his face now a sickly pale crimson. He didn't dare attempt a hostile spell in front of the Deputy Headmistress. He simply glared at Anduin—a look so venomous that the air seemed to crackle—before turning on his heel and retreating into the surging crowd, his humiliation complete.
Professor McGonagall watched him go, then turned her hawk-like gaze on the three remaining students, her voice now dangerously calm. "I suggest you three refrain from any further antagonistic behavior. You should not be gathering at the door anymore. Get out of my sight and find your seats, or you will cause me significantly more trouble."
Without waiting for a response, she adjusted the scorecards in her hand and strode purposefully onto the Quidditch pitch, leaving Anduin, Vivian, and Charles standing amidst the rapidly moving crowd, the tension of the near-duel hanging thick in the chilly air.