There was nary a sound in the Hogwarts library, not even the rustling of a page or the occasional cough or sniffle from a poorly student succumbing to the stress of academic obligations. The library was empty, all was a hush. Behind her desk Madam Pince browsed silently through a book catalogue, tasked with purchasing several new tomes that would broaden the young minds of the students.
In the far corner, where the section for Undersea Potion Ingredient Harvesting ended and where the Agrippan method of Arithmancy began, where tall, gangly shelves cloistered a small cluster of wooden desks, lay the Raven's Nest, the den where the most studious of Ravenclaws were frequently found with beaks buried in books. In the midst of the Nest a lone student sat, a tall, gangly, freckled fifth year student with a shock of red hair and too-short trousers that ended above his ankles and too-short sleeves that ended before his wrists. The student was rifling through Principia Arithmomantia, looking for a particular proof. It was far too quiet, beyond the usual library hush, as to be slightly unnerving, though this student seemed blissfully unaware.
The silence was abruptly shattered by the entrance of Hogwarts's top performing student, academically speaking, followed by a procession of levitating potion books. This student made her way to the nest and the books clattered noisily onto the table.
"What are you doing here?" Alice Giggs asked.
Fabian Prewett looked up from his books. "What do you mean?"
"Your brother's match? His first as captain of Gryffindor?"
There was a sudden crash as Fabian stood up with alacrity, the chair he until recently occupied falling to the ground.
"Gryffindor versus Slytherin!" he exclaimed, swiftly gathering his things. "Oh I'm late!" he blabbered. "Has it kicked off?"
Alice nodded with disdain. The emptiness of the library could be ascribed to this violent, barbaric sport, as students indulged in the spirit of pre-civilisation ancestors, cheering lustily for the complete annihilation of the enemy.
Fabian suddenly enfolded her in a tight hug as he expressed his utmost gratitude for her reminder. He would not forgive himself if he missed his twin brother's first match as captain.
As he dashed pitchward, from a distance he could already see tiny figures, some clad in red and some in green, rising above the stands to kick off the school year's Quidditch opener.
Gideon Prewett was his identical twin brother but most, if asked, would scarce believe it. Sorted into separate houses in their first year, their paths diverged ever farther since. Gideon Prewett was immediately likeable and popular, with a spotless reputation as one shining with a genuine goodness and approachability.
Fabian Prewett, by some twist of fate, was the lesser and younger of the two, always seeking cover behind his books from the cruelty of the world. Gentle by nature but lost in the fantasy of his inner world, he struggled with the intricate nuances of social convention.
Making his way up the stand, his gangly, stick-like legs flopping up over the steps two by two, he reached the highest stand where he squeezed his way into a gap between two students.
"Frank Longbottom is soooooo dreamy, don't you think?" A third year female student sighed.
"Oh but I think Alistair Thomas is the one for me," her friend gushed. "He has the grace of a true aristocrat."
"I want Gideon Prewett, but it's such a tragedy that he's taken," yet another swooned, a very young boy who looked no older than a third-year.
Fabian had half a mind to clear his throat, which he decided to, because he did not like hearing of his brother discussed this way, and the gaggle of gushing students glared at him with mild distaste.
Up in the sky, high above them like the deities of the student body, the well-formed and physically perfect Quidditch players of Hogwarts darted about the sky revelling in the suppleness of their youthful physique.
Gryffindor were leading by a small margin, thanks to the combined power of Prewett, Longbottom and Elkins. Gideon Prewett was the classic midfield playmaker, dictating the tempo of the game with the silkiest passes. Frank Longbottom was the sweeper, snaffling the Quaffle from the opponent before they could threaten, and Elveira Elkins was the forward, driving into goal with an unstoppable fierceness.
However, for all the spirit of play from the House of Gryffindor, the House of Slytherin had an effortless counterpart oozing with talent. Holding the fort was team captain Alistair Lindsay Thomas, who, since taking the reins from the incomparable (if somewhat brutal) Beater Bellatrix Lestrange, built a team known for aerial grace. The jewel in this crown was Evan Rosier, a seeker who embodied poetry in motion, who ensnared the hearts of many of the Hogwarts population as he ensnared the Golden Snitch. Rosier, whose waves of dark hair fell about his handsome face in a perfect frame, with eyes of piercing blue the shade of the Aegean Sea, whence the maternal branch sprung. Some might have considered his slight frame a possible flaw but for a seeker he had the perfect build. To deepen his appeal he had a complicated family history, and bore on him the pain of parents early separated in a high-profile divorce that filled the gossip pages for months. Yet thanks to this heritage in him lay the classic beauty of Greece and the honour of noble English blood. To this, it is added in whispers, the inheritance of a vast shipping wealth and the unshakeable seat of an ancient dwelling.
It was ultimately the sublime skill of Evan Rosier that decided the match. In an elegant sleight of hand it was as if he conjured the snitch out of his sleeve, and the season opener was over.
Overcome with guilt that his brother should lose his first match, Fabian made his way to the sweaty, stinky locker rooms after the match to offer a few consolatory words. He gave his shirtless brother an affectionate hug, inviting a few murmurs about their suspicious closeness, and patted Longbottom and Elkins on the shoulder, who both responded with polite smiles at his sympathy.
He turned to leave as the Slytherin team began filing in. The Slytherins congratulated Gryffindor on a match well-played, and the Gryffindors responded in all sincerity, for these were times in which inter-house relations were cordial. Sportsmanship and graciousness were held in high regard, and the true student hierarchy was determined by one's popularity-of which all Quidditch players had in spades.
As Fabian left the locker room, he was vaguely aware that he was being tailed. He hurried along into the castle grounds to lose his pursuer, meandering around sparsely populated, little-known areas until he lost his patience and did an about turn. Evan Rosier had been tailing him, still clad in his Quidditch outfit, for goodness knows what.
"Are you following me?" Fabian demanded.
"What? No," Evan feigned surprise. "I was just searching for an empty bathroom."
"You know as well as I do that there are no bathroom stalls on the fifth floor of this wing," Fabian replied, for they were both prefects of their respective houses and better acquainted with the grounds due to patrolling duties.
"Well, maybe an empty loo?" Evan shrugged, putting on a clueless, pouty expression that Fabian found incredibly infuriating.
"Ugh!" Fabian said in disgust, although he couldn't exactly tell what he was disgusted at. Was it the aggravatingly bad acting of Evan Rosier? Was it...himself? Particularly, the tumultuous mix of feelings that hit him every time he looked at that handsome, aristocratic face?
Evan smiled at him, a cheeky half-smirk and Fabian could resist no longer. He leaned forward and grabbed Evan and they began snogging like two hormonal teenagers in the grips of rabid puberty.