Richard rose before dawn, as always. The dormitory was still cloaked in shadow, the only sound the soft breathing of his sleeping housemates. He moved through his routine with the precision of someone who had mastered every movement: stretches to wake the muscles, a series of silent wand drills to sharpen reflexes, and finally, a short walk through the still corridors of the dungeons. When he returned, the first traces of greenish torchlight flickered to life as the rest of Slytherin House stirred awake.
Breakfast in the Great Hall was brief for Richard. He ate sparingly, his gaze scanning the room without drawing attention, noting students were whispering about the upcoming Quidditch tryouts. The tension among the Slytherin team hopefuls was palpable.
The first lesson of the day was Potions with Gryffindor. Professor Slughorn greeted the class with his usual booming cheer, clearly excited to see what the second-years could do.
"Today," he announced, "you'll be brewing the Hair-Raising Potion, a fun brew that requires perfect timing!"
Cauldrons hissed and ingredients clinked as students scrambled to prepare. Richard's movements were precise and measured, his potion glowing the correct shade of green long before most others reached the halfway point. Slughorn's eyes crinkled with approval as he passed by Richard's station.
"Marvellous, my boy, marvellous! Five points to Slytherin! Richard, my boy, keep it up and you'll be receiving an owl from me."
The second class was Defence Against the Dark Arts, taught by Professor Sylvester Bristlecone. His presence was as sharp as his lessons, and today's focus was the Softening Charm.
"Wands at the ready! The incantation is Spongify. Force, intent, and timing, remember that."
Students faced objects, wands raised. Richard stood opposite a book, his stance relaxed but ready.
"Begin!" Bristlecone barked.
Colin fired first, the flash of his spell cutting the air and hitting his object. The rock opposite him stayed hard, his spell obviously a failure.
Richard fired his spell, and the flash of it flashed through the air. His book looked the same, but as Professor Bristlecone walked up and pressed his hand on it. It sank inwards.
"Well done, Magus," Bristlecone said with a rare hint of admiration. "Nicely done, spell. The softening charm is a handy one to have in your repertoire. 5 points to Slytherin!"
After lunch, their third class was Herbology, where Professor Logg introduced the second-years to Venomous Tentacula seedlings. The writhing, thorny plants hissed and snapped at anyone who came too close without caution.
"Gentle hands! They bite if they sense fear," Logg warned.
While other students fumbled and yelped as the plants lashed out, Richard's hands moved with practised calm. His seedling quieted under his touch, its tendrils curling rather than snapping. Even Professor Logg raised an eyebrow at the display.
"A natural," she said as she walked past. "They usually don't take to students so quickly. Nicely done, Magus."
By mid-afternoon, the Slytherin team and hopefuls gathered on the pitch. The emerald stood glimmering under the fading sun, a sharp breeze ruffling the flags. The Quidditch captain, Marcus Vance, a towering sixth-year with a commanding voice, stood at the centre of the field with a whistle in hand.
Slytherin hopefuls assembled on the pitch; the sun was already sinking low, casting long shadows across the emerald grass. The stadium was eerily quiet compared to the usual roar of match days; only the sound of brooms clattering together and the distant caw of crows filled the air. A cool breeze tugged at their robes, carrying the smell of grass and the faint metallic tang of the goalposts.
Candidates shifted nervously in their spots, some pacing, others clutching their brooms with white-knuckled grips. One second-year muttered under his breath, staring at the sky like he was about to meet his doom. Another tried to crack a joke, but his laugh came out too high-pitched, swallowed by the silence. Even the older students, the ones returning to secure their spots, stood straighter than usual, their eyes darting to the existing team members who hovered near the centre of the field like judges.
Richard stood apart from the nervous energy, broom held casually at his side, his face unreadable. The green of his tie caught the last bit of sunlight, giving him an almost deliberate sharpness against the fading light. While the others fidgeted, he simply scanned the field, his eyes following the layout of the hoops, the position of the poles, and the pattern of the wind.
Above, Ceous and Hera glided silently through the clouds.
"They're afraid," Nyx observed in a voice that slithered through his thoughts, smooth and cold.
"Fear makes them sloppy," Eira added with a harsh laugh. "You'll cut through them like nothing."
The whistle hanging from Marcus Vance's neck gleamed in the dimming sun. The captain's voice cut through the tension like a blade.
"Listen up! Today, we see who's worthy to wear green and silver in the air. If you can't handle the drills, don't bother with the game. And if you fall, well, try not to break anything we need."
Nervous chuckles rippled through the group, quickly silenced by Marcus's hard stare. Richard's posture didn't change, but there was the faintest glint in his eyes.
The captain raised the whistle to his lips.
"Mount up."
Brooms rose in unison, some shakily, some steady. Richard swung his leg over his broom in a single fluid motion, his expression still calm while the others braced themselves as if for battle.
The whistle shrieked, and the tryouts began.
The first test was speed: a series of laps around the pitch, tight turns near the goalposts, and dives that required quick reflexes. One by one, the less skilled fliers revealed themselves. One boy spiralled out of control on the second lap, nearly colliding with the stands before regaining balance. Two others lagged behind the pack, gasping for breath. Their stamina giving out already.
Richard flew through the air, weaving in and out of the goals, lapping others; his control and speed were on display. The Slytherin team's eyes were trained on Richard as he flew.
Ceous and Hera circled high above, twin shadows blending with the clouds.
The second test was a tailored control one. Poles were set up across the field, forcing the players to weave tightly without losing speed. Timothy Moore, a second-year student with sharp reflexes, darted through them flawlessly. Caspar Flynn, wiry and fast, nearly clipped a pole but recovered with impressive agility. Others fumbled, sending their bodies into poles and spinning across the grass.
"Good! Again!" Marcus shouted, forcing them to repeat the drills until their arms ached and sweat streaked their faces. By the end of the exercises, several hopefuls were dismissed. The fourth year, Caspar Flynn, Elliot and Malcolm all left the field with broom handles drooping.
With only the strongest candidates remaining, Marcus signalled for the final test: a mock game.
The sky had darkened slightly, the last streaks of orange fading into a deep blue as the remaining candidates circled above the pitch. The air was alive with tension, the wind biting at their robes. Marcus Vance hovered in the centre, whistle glinting in the twilight.
"All right!" he barked. "Two teams, Green and Silver. Don't think of this as practice. Think of it as war. If you can't keep up, you're off. First to fifty points or the Snitch ends it."
The players scrambled into position. The existing Slytherin players split evenly, joining the hopefuls to balance the teams. Richard was placed as a Beater for Team Green, paired with a veteran player named Horace Trent. Opposite them, Caspar Flynn hovered confidently, his broom twitching like it was eager to dive. Selina Moore was positioned as a Chaser for Team Silver, her focused expression cutting through the fading light.
Marcus released the Bludgers first. They shot into the air with a vicious hiss, darting like predators as the players gripped their bats tightly. Richard's eyes tracked them instantly, every movement precise. The Quaffle followed, tossed high into the air as the whistle shrieked.
The game exploded into motion.
Chasers dove and weaved, passing the Quaffle in sharp, practised arcs. The regular players moved with ruthless precision, while the hopefuls fought desperately to match their speed. Richard moved through the chaos with cold efficiency, intercepting the first Bludger mid-flight and smashing it toward an approaching Chaser. The ball slammed into the boy's broom, forcing him into a wide spiral that allowed Arjun, flying high above, to steal the Quaffle for Green.
"Nice hit!" Colin shouted as he passed beneath, dodging a second Bludger.
Selina retaliated moments later, cutting through two defenders with a feint and launching the Quaffle cleanly through the left hoop. "Ten points, Silver!" Marcus's voice carried across the field.
Richard's expression remained unreadable, his eyes scanning constantly, calculating. When a Bludger hurtled toward him, he struck it with a sharp swing, not at the nearest opponent but to intercept another that was streaking toward Colin's back. Both balls collided midair with a satisfying crack.
The crowd, mostly Slytherins who had come to watch, gasped at the display of control.
Caspar Flynn became a problem quickly. His dives were reckless but effective, disrupting passes and forcing Green's Chasers to readjust constantly. Richard noted his patterns, always cutting left after a fake right, and waited. The next time Caspar feinted, Richard sent a Bludger at the exact spot he would turn into. It clipped his broom, not enough to injure, but enough to send him spinning and lose possession.
Selina, undeterred, scored again. The score climbed: 10-20, 20-20, then 30-20 in favour of Silver. The match was fierce; Bludgers screamed, Chasers shouted plays, and Keepers threw themselves at incoming shots. Sweat stung Richard's eyes, but his swings remained sharp, his positioning flawless. Every strike was intentional, every move calculated to create openings for his team.
The tension rose as the Snitch finally appeared, just a flicker of gold near the far hoop. Both Seekers dove simultaneously, the wind howling around them. Players scattered, giving them space as the two streaked low across the field, neck and neck. Richard swung at a Bludger and sent it screaming just past their path, forcing the opposing Seeker to swerve for safety.
The Green Seeker reached out, fingers brushing the fluttering wings, and then, he caught it. The whistle blew, shrill and final.
"Game! Green wins!" Marcus's voice rang out.
Cheers erupted from the stands, though many of the dismissed players sulked back toward the lockers. Above, Ceous and Hera circled like twin shadows, their presence a silent acknowledgement of victory.
As they landed, Marcus walked over, his expression unreadable until he gave a sharp nod.
"Moore. Flynn. Magus. You're in."
Selina grinned, Caspar smirked, and Richard simply offered a faint nod, his face calm but eyes glinting.
The adrenaline of the mock match lingered in the air as the players drifted down to the grass, brooms in hand. The evening breeze cooled the sweat on their faces, carrying the scent of the freshly cut pitch. Those who had been cut walked off in silence, shoulders low, while the chosen few were met with handshakes, claps on the back, and approving nods from the veteran players.
Richard stood apart from the cheers, calmly lowering his broom to his side. Colin jogged up to him, face flushed with excitement even though he hadn't made the team.
"You were incredible up there," Colin said breathlessly. "Those Bludger shots, you were cutting the field apart!"
Richard gave a slight, measured smile. "That's just the job of the beater."
Arjun strode over, clapping Richard on the shoulder with his usual confidence. "Beater suits you. You had their heads spinning out there." His tone was casual, but there was genuine respect in his eyes.
Malcolm, still chewing a piece of Chocolate Frog he had saved for after the match, smirked. "You're terrifying with a bat. I mean that as a compliment."
Elliot approached quietly.
"Congratulations," he said softly. "You deserved it."
Richard's gaze swept over them all, his friends, his allies, and his voice was calm, almost cold in its certainty.
"This is only the beginning. Winning the games will matter as much as winning the House Cup this year. We'll need to make sure Slytherin doesn't just win, but dominates."
Above them, Ceous and Hera circled one last time, their violet eyes glinting faintly in the dimming sky.
The team gathered briefly at the edge of the pitch. Marcus Vance, towering and authoritative, addressed them with a rare smile.
"Good work today. Those of you who made it, practice begins tomorrow at dawn. Don't think you've earned a place forever. You'll have to prove yourselves every time you step on the field."
Selina nodded firmly, her expression determined. Caspar Flynn leaned on his broom, grinning in a way that hinted at rivalry. Richard, however, remained still, the faintest curve of his lips suggesting satisfaction rather than joy.
As the sun dipped below the horizon, the players dispersed. Richard walked back to the castle with his friends, the torches along the path flickering to life one by one. The chatter around him was lively, Arjun talking about strategies, Malcolm teasing Colin for his excitement, Elliot quietly taking it all in.
By the time they reached the Slytherin common room, the warmth of the fire greeted them. Students were already whispering about the tryouts, eyes flicking to Richard as they entered.
Richard said nothing. He simply set his broom in the corner, removed his robes, and took a seat by the fire. The shadows danced across his calm features as he leaned back, listening to the low murmur of the common room.
The sun dipped below the horizon as he sat down. The new year had only just begun.
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