The golden hour of late afternoon spilled across the Hogwarts grounds, casting long, spindly shadows from the Whomping Willow. You, Harry, Ron, and Hermione were making your way toward the Sunken Garden, Ron complaining loudly about Snape’s latest impossible essay on the properties of Moonstone, when the sharp sound of jeering voices cut through the air.
"D’you hear that?" Harry muttered, his hand instinctively moving toward the wand tucked in his robes.
As you rounded the stone archway, you found a crowd gathered near an ancient, gnarled beech tree. It was a classic standoff: a sea of canary yellow and black clashing with emerald green. High above the fray, perched lazily on a thick branch like some pale, predatory bird, sat Draco Malfoy. He looked down at the Hufflepuffs with a look of pure, unadulterated disdain, his silver prefect badge catching the light.
"We’re simply made of finer stuff, Diggory. Better to get that through your thick, badger-like skull now," Draco drawled, his voice carrying that signature Malfoy silkiness. "House pride is one thing, but delusion is quite another."
Cedric Diggory, usually the picture of Hufflepuff patience, clicked his tongue, his jaw tight. "Keep dreaming, Malfoy. Winning a few matches with bought brooms doesn't make you superior. It just makes you loud."
The Slytherins below the tree erupted into mocking laughter. It was a formidable lineup: Theodore Nott stood leaning against the trunk with a bored expression, while Blaise Zabini watched the scene with a faint, arrogant smirk. Nearby, Lorenzo Berkshire shared a private joke with a brooding Regulus Black.
Most unsettling, however, were the brothers flanking the base of the tree. Mattheo Riddle toyed with his wand, a dangerous glint in his dark eyes, while Tom Marvolo Riddle simply stood still, a chilling, silent pillar of authority that seemed to command the very air around him.
"Blimey," Ron whispered, his face paling. "The whole snake pit’s out today. This isn't just a row; it's a riot waiting to happen."