HP: Pure-Blood Glory

The Flint family wasn't doing particularly well, and the same could be said for the Nott family. While neither was exactly strapped for cash, neither did they have much excess to spare.

As a result, even though both Flint and Nott had considered upgrading their house Quidditch team's equipment, they simply couldn't afford to indulge in such luxuries.

Thinking along these lines, Luke's gaze shifted toward Draco Malfoy, who was trailing Flint like a loyal shadow.

The Malfoy family's rise as the leading aristocrats of their generation wasn't just due to the absence of families like the Gaunt and others of similar standing—it was also because they were rich and adept at making money.

Though their methods were often questionable, they were undeniably effective.

Of course, it wasn't that the cost of new equipment was entirely unaffordable for the other families. Rather, they simply didn't see the point in wasting such a considerable sum on what they deemed an unnecessary expense.

It's worth noting that even in the original story, Professor McGonagall only bought a new broom for Harry alone. While his unique status played a role, the steep price of the Nimbus 2000 was also a key factor.

These items were considered luxury goods.

As for the 'Firebolt' Harry later received from Sirius, there was no comparison. That broomstick was akin to a sports car in the Muggle world—something far beyond the reach of most people.

Only professional Quidditch teams could afford to equip such brooms en masse.

Even then, some professional teams might not have many, given the low production numbers of the Firebolt, not to mention the later model, the Firebolt Supreme.

Luke had looked up the price of the Nimbus 2000. While it was undeniably expensive, it wasn't entirely out of reach—for him, at least.

This training match today was bound to draw a lot of attention. There were countless observers, schemes, and strategies at play, and no one could fully grasp every angle. Everyone had their own stance and motives.

When Gemma heard Luke's earlier remarks, she realized there must have been a gap in her thinking the day before. Still, she wasn't annoyed. After all, no one could consider every possibility.

It was like asking a peasant in ancient times to imagine the life of an emperor—they'd likely picture golden plows and endless meat pies.

Gemma admitted to herself that she didn't fully understand the lives of nobles, nor their true circumstances.

Some things, she realized, she would have to learn slowly over time.

"It's starting"

Taylor suddenly said, breaking the silence.

Gemma glanced toward the training ground but saw no activity. She was puzzled, but before she could ask, Flint blew his whistle.

At the sound, some students reluctantly flew their broomsticks back to the stands, clearly disappointed. They could only watch as their friends on the ground geared up, eager to prove themselves.

Others, however, wore nervous expressions, knowing their opponents were strong and difficult to beat. This match could very well decide which older players would be replaced by new ones.

After all, Slytherin's Quidditch team was a strict meritocracy: the capable rose, and the incompetent fell.

This was one area where Slytherin cared little for bloodlines.

"Nott, you and I will each lead a team"

Flint said, grinning fiercely. His hulking frame and sharp expression made him look almost beastly.

Nott glanced at him with disdain, responding with a cold smirk. "Fine, 'Captain'."

He put deliberate emphasis on the word "captain," lacing it with mockery and skepticism rather than respect.

Flint wasn't angered. He simply returned a frosty smile of his own.

The coin toss granted Flint the first pick. He scanned the players, noting their expressions—some eager, some disdainful. Finally, his gaze locked with a pair of eyes brimming with pride and anticipation.

"Draco, you're with me," Flint said.

With that, Flint made his first selection, choosing the rookie, Malfoy.

Draco, of course, was overjoyed, though Flint's expression looked as though he'd just swallowed a fly. There wasn't much else he could do.

Malfoy's face briefly flashed a smug smile before he quickly composed himself. Maintaining an air of seriousness, he controlled his broom and flew over to Marcus's side.

"I knew you'd keep your promise, Captain"

Malfoy whispered as he joined Flint. Flint didn't bother to respond, his attention instead fixed on Nott's turn to choose.

Flint had selected the relatively useless Malfoy due to a prior agreement: if Draco could convince Luke to attend, Flint would help him out in return. Of course, Flint's father's letter urging him to establish friendly ties with the Malfoy heir also played a role.

In the end, though, it was just a practice match. It wasn't like they were playing a proper game against that Gryffindor annoyance, Oliver Wood. Winning or losing didn't matter all that much to Flint.

If anything, losing might be preferable—give the brat a lesson, so he'd stop acting like some prodigy.

After all, every player who made it onto the team was talented. By comparison, Malfoy's performance on the pitch during training had been decidedly underwhelming, especially when measured against Flint's own abilities at the same age.

Meanwhile, Nott's expression remained neutral. He understood all too well that this Malfoy heir had likely expected his school years to be filled with flattery and easy victories—if not for the sudden rise of Luke Gaunt.

Had it been his turn to pick first, Nott would have also chosen Malfoy, as he valued the gratitude of the Malfoy family even more than Flint did.

After all, Nott was nearing graduation.

"Morton Leach," Nott said calmly, naming his first pick.

Morton, with his perpetually fierce expression, seemed momentarily surprised before breaking into a grin that could only be described as ferocious.

Flint, however, felt a twinge of unease.

He'd always harbored resentment toward this guy who happened to share a name with Gryffindor's new Quidditch captain, Oliver Wood.

Initially, Flint had assumed that as scions of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, they'd at least maintain a baseline of civility, if not camaraderie. But he'd underestimated the friction their clashing personalities would bring.

Unlike Flint's aggressive playstyle, Nott's was more reminiscent of traditional Slytherin tactics—cold, calculated, and ruthless. It was said that Nott's grandfather's generation played in a similar manner.

And that was precisely what Flint resented most about Nott.

Relying on outdated techniques passed down through his family, coupled with his formidable individual skill, Nott excelled on the pitch.

But the game had evolved. New techniques and diverse strategies emerged constantly. Clinging to old ways wouldn't guarantee long-term success.

That, Flint thought, was why he was captain, not Nott.

As for Morton Leach, Flint's unease grew. Morton wasn't like either of them.

Though undeniably talented, Morton had never joined the main team. From his first year to his current seventh, he'd remained a reserve—or more accurately, an advanced sparring partner.

However, few sought him out as a training partner. He was always practicing alone, silently, as if detached from the world.

In reality, though, it wasn't that Morton Leach chose to play alone—no one was willing to play alongside him.

Once all 14 players were picked, forming two teams of seven, the remaining hopefuls flew back to the stands, looking dejected.

It's always painful to be passionate about something but fail to gain recognition from others.

Flint glanced over the team he had assembled and gave a satisfied nod. While Malfoy would likely drag the team down, the overall lineup pleased him.

Don't think for a second that selecting players is an easy task. Players who are close often share a certain synergy, and when forming teams, the captain must consider how to split them, how to create balance, and how to ease potential conflicts.

All of these were problems Flint had addressed, delivering a result he was proud of.

Then, his gaze shifted to Nott's team. Nott had made logical choices, but Flint felt the lineup lacked the cohesion and balance of his own.

Flint allowed himself a smug sense of superiority.

But when he truly looked at the group surrounding Nott, Flint froze. Then, glancing back at his own team, his face darkened immediately.

Nott's expression remained steady, but his teammates' faces were another story—most wore scowls and stared at Morton Leach with looks ranging from wary to outright hostile.

Morton, in turn, glared at Nott, his expression one of barely contained fury.

The tension was palpable, and even the spectators in the stands felt it. A hush fell over them as they sensed the charged atmosphere.

Gemma's face was notably grim. From the moment the teams were being formed, her expression had grown darker with each pick.

"What is Oliver Nott trying to do?" she muttered. "Setting up a match between a 'noble team' and a 'commoner team' is one thing, but putting Morton Leach in the mix? Why not just place him on the other side?"

Her confusion was evident.

Morton Leach—a pure-blood wizard with a normal upbringing but an almost fanatical belief in pure-blood supremacy—wasn't someone Gemma could easily overlook. She had no doubt that if he'd been born a decade earlier, he would have been a staunch supporter of Voldemort.

Morton's obsession with power, authority, and bloodline made him a natural-born Death Eater. His treatment of half-blood and Muggle-born students was nothing short of cruel.

And now, Oliver Nott...

"To create Chaos," Luke said calmly, breaking the silence.

Gemma and Taylor turned to look at him. Luke stared at Nott for a long moment, then shifted his gaze to Morton Leach, whose hostile demeanor hadn't waned.

"If Morton Leach was on the other side and Marcus could control him, Nott's plan would fall apart," Luke explained. "A good plan doesn't rely on the cooperation of your opponent."

"By placing Morton on his own team, surrounded by carefully chosen players, Nott has stirred his emotions and ensured that even if conflict doesn't arise between the two teams, it will erupt within his own. The initiative stays firmly in Nott's hands."

Luke yawned, shrugging nonchalantly. "The drawback is the cost. Nott's standing within the Quidditch team is going to take a hit after this. If he weren't so close to graduation, pulling something like this would just be inviting trouble for himself."

This strategy wasn't particularly sophisticated—Gemma had just been momentarily thrown off, which was why she didn't catch on right away.

Once Luke pointed it out, she quickly understood and cast a deep glance toward Oliver Nott, who was already preparing for the match in the distance.

It seemed she had underestimated him.

Meanwhile, the game on the field had begun.

As the opposing team charged toward them with the Quaffle, Malfoy instinctively moved forward, ready to engage, but Flint stopped him with an outstretched hand.

"Your job is to find the Golden Snitch"

Flint said before surging toward Nott, who was holding the Quaffle, with incredible speed and the ferocity of a beast fighting for its life.

Watching Flint's imposing figure, Malfoy gulped nervously, then started scanning the field in all directions, eager to locate the elusive Snitch.

As Flint charged, Nott remained calm, confidently passing the Quaffle to a teammate and flying upward.

The moment the ball left Nott's hands, Flint adjusted his course, charging toward the new target. Simultaneously, Flint's teammates moved in to block the opposing player from another direction.

Just as the Quaffle carrier tried to ascend to avoid the block, a Bludger came hurtling from above, cutting off his escape route.

Although the Beater managed to strike the Bludger away, the player's positioning was already compromised. He was forced to change direction quickly.

But Flint was waiting for him. For a brief moment, his usually rough face seemed to gleam with a strategist's brilliance.

As the player hesitated, unsure where to go, Nott appeared behind him.

Relieved, he lifted his hand to pass the ball—but before he could throw, the Quaffle was slapped out of his grip.

Turning around in shock, he saw Flint's third Chaser, who had somehow appeared unnoticed.

As the Quaffle fell, Flint's second Chaser dove toward it, rushing to claim the ball.

Nott gave his teammate a disappointed look before shouting, "Beaters, focus! Don't let the Bludgers through!"

The Beaters, realizing their earlier lapse, shouted their acknowledgment and refocused their attention, doubling down on their defensive efforts.

While the game was intense on the pitch, the spectators in the stands didn't feel the same excitement.

Why? Because despite all the action, two players seemed completely detached from the match.

One was Malfoy, lazily riding his broom and casually searching for the Golden Snitch. It wasn't that Seekers couldn't participate in defense or offense—it was just that Malfoy handling the Quaffle would only result in turnovers. For him, staying still was better than making a move.

The other was Morton Leach, the sixth Chaser in the game, who had been conspicuously absent from the earlier action.

"Wasn't he right there? Why didn't they pass the ball to him?"

Even Taylor, who wasn't particularly fond of Quidditch, couldn't help frowning. While she wasn't well-versed in Quidditch tactics, it was clear that leaving a key teammate out of the action wasn't part of any standard strategy.

Luke didn't respond, instead rubbing his chin thoughtfully.

Gemma shook her head helplessly.

"A conflict is brewing," she said.

*****

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