Pale yellows and blue mingle and mix as the colours lovingly stretch over the morning sky. The occasionally silhouette of a bird soaring high accompanied by the quick green-silver blurs tells you there’s quidditch practice going on overhead. I mean, it was Friday morning, and you were at the quidditch pitch, what else could you expect?

Felix Hemlock, a pure-blooded cunning, sarcastic, clever and witty, stubborn and childish, argumentative Slytherin boy with curly blonde hair, piercing and often taunting dark brown eyes.

The star quidditch player, training pretty hard for an arrogant twit. Just perhaps there was more to the pure-blood Felix Hemlock than what appeared on the outside.

Either way, he was the one scoring points as a chaser on the Slytherin team, his cape cascading behind him as he rides tight to the wind, his knees clenched around the broomstick, nothing new but still doing the job. Felix holds the quaffle ball tight to himself as he soars towards the quidditch posts.. in the flick of the eye the balls in the air from a sporty throw from the quidditch chaser Felix Hemlock. As you view from the quidditch stands, you find your eyes particularly focused on him.

After a solid two hours, you find your nimble feet planted in the solid grass of the quidditch pitch, and your eyes directed to the shadows casted by tall stands.

Sitting against the post, his jersey sandy with few intricate letters pasted onto the slytherin green fabric. 17, Hemlock, his quidditch number and his surname.

With a cold sweat painted against his face, his precise fingers twaddle around with a small pen, twirling it from finger to finger.

You wonder if you could approach him, scratch that, you had to. You didn’t come to quidditch practices for fun, no, as annoying as it was, this particular evening you were here to ask Felix regarding his quidditch playing, hoping that he didn’t play dirty of course. You had to write an essay on quidditch, and you sure as hell weren’t going to ask some loser were you?