Bode and Flint teaming up.
Alice straight-up sneers at Dilixati Bode, but she's gotta admit: half of Slytherin swears the dude's got brains for days, cooking up schemes for the pure-blood extremists like it's breakfast.
Alert level: cranked.
She hits Theodore: "If they're gunning for you, what's their play?"
Theodore shrugs. He and Flint have been chill for weeks—brain's drawing blanks on sudden beef.
Alice steps back, third-person mode: "No way they jump you raw and bash you up. Too loud, too messy—they'd eat detention or worse from the profs."
"So two moves left."
Theodore: "Hit me."
"One: bait you into a massive screw-up—expulsion or heavy penalty."
"Two: piss you off till you swing first. Then they 'defend' or just watch you get slammed."
Theodore nods—yeah, Flint's boxed in.
But he's got counters.
"Both? Child's play to dodge."
Alice arches a brow: Spill.
"First—I'm wide awake. Know every rule in the book. Dangerous shit? Not my vibe. How they gonna trick me into epic fail?"
"Plus, profs and Dumbledore ain't dummies. They'll sniff the BS."
"Second—they can't rattle me. Zero game. You know that."
Theodore's rocking pure swagger, betting he's untouchable.
Remember 101 Book Net
Alice ain't vibing. Confidence can snowball into arrogance and yeet you off a cliff.
"That mindset's trash. Never sleep on 'em—that's how you nosedive into the abyss!"
Theodore fires back: "Alice, it's not ego. It's self-audit. Yeah, Flint and Bode are upper-years, pack more punch—but our beef ain't like yours with them."
"They won't go nuclear on me. Their fanclub would flip—pure-blood here, not mixed or Muggle-born."
"Pure-blood code keeps the heat measured. Unwritten, but ironclad."
Alice nods—she blanked on the blood angle. To her, lineage is noise; she auto-ignores it.
Theodore rolls: "But your confidence-vs-cocky warning? Logged. I'll self-check, scan for blind spots."
Alice approves—that adaptable brain is why she's doubling down on teaming with him. Dude's sharp.
"We need a Plan B," she murmurs.
"Like?"
"Counterpunch, duh. Why we always eating their shit? Makes us look like punks!" Her eyes flash murder—Flint dodging her but targeting her boy? Big mistake.
Gotta nail an opening and brand a lesson on his ass he'll never forget!
Theodore's face tightens: "Pure defense? We're golden. Both smart, both armored."
"But flipping the script, teaching them? Steep hill."
"Upper-years—experience, raw power, miles ahead."
Alice side-eyes him hard.
Theodore winces, keeps rolling: "Uh, even if you're on their level in some spells, I'm dead weight in a duel. Battle magic? My talent tree skipped that branch."
Bitter chuckle—his gifts dumped all points into Potions. Combat spells? Hard pass.
Flitwick's review: lopsided genius—stick to Snape's cauldrons.
Theodore legit asked if Hogwarts allowed full Potions track.
Flitwick lost it, slapped him with an essay.
Memory still cringey.
Alice cracks—yep, she remembers. Theodore's grimace deepens.
"See? I'm zero help in a scrap."
Alice shakes head: "You're twisting it. I ain't saying slugfest. Why not rig their game—trap 'em into the big mistake?"
Theodore straightens. Set Flint up?
Hiss— viable AF!
Needs a airtight con—quick blind, force their steps, no escape.
Flint's built like a troll, looks meathead, but nah—dude's cunning.
With Bode scheming? Crafting a double-net? Tall order.
"Ideas?" he probes.
Alice shrugs—no blueprint yet. Snagging the moment's key; rush it and flop.
"No rush. We brainstorm. Real talk—I flagged Flint's hit so you stay frosty. Don't slack; I ain't watching you eat dirt. That tanks our hustle!"
Theodore nods—priorities straight. Guard up, he's not sweating major Ls.