Teach Me Sempai Closed

Aamon didn’t even have a chance to react before the Quaffle hit him square in the chest, sending him sprawling backward into the damp grass with an unceremonious thud. The slytherin first year groaned, blinking up at the cloudy sky as the air rushed from his lungs. The Quaffle rolled lazily off his stomach, coming to rest beside him.

It took a few, perhaps more than a few, moments to recover. “Think... fast,” he wheezed, barely managing to prop himself up on his elbows as his face turned a shade of crimson that could rival a Gryffindor tie.

He scrambled to grab the Quaffle, fumbling with it before finally clutching it against his chest like it was some kind of shield. “Uh, yeah! Totally saw that coming!” he chirped, voice high and nervous as he shot Ulysses an awkward grin.

The question hit next, even though it was said first, and somehow it felt worse than the Quaffle. Why? Aamon’s face burned hotter as he looked anywhere but at Ulysses, his fingers twitching nervously against the Quaffle’s seams as if it was the world's worst fidget spinner.

“Well, I mean... it’s just...” He trailed off, searching for the right words but finding only a mess of tangled thoughts. “I—I don’t think people really... look at me and think, uh, strong. Or cool. Or, you know..." he sighed his immediate word of choice being 'manly' but he went with a broader term "competent." He was following in the footsteps of his older brothers and they were not leaving him a clear path, if anything he felt as if they laced the road with pitfalls and bandits.

He shifted on the ground, crossing his legs awkwardly as he stared down at the Quaffle, avoiding Ulysses’ gaze. “I just... I want to be better. Like, at Quidditch. And... people stuff. I’m not really great at... that, either.” Also, there was this sort of cute girl that mentioned quidditch.

His words tumbled out faster now, like he was trying to outrun his own embarrassment.“And Beaters... they’re so cool, right? They’re tough and strong, and they get to smash Bludgers around. I just thought... maybe if I could do that," smash, his arms unconsciously made a movement while holding onto the bludger awkwardly "people wouldn’t see me as, well... me.” He probably would have done better in a softer house like Hufflepuff, but the hat saw something in Aamon that even he could not see. He probably would have done better if he was born to a lower family, maybe a normal wizarding family that had family meals and normal elder brothers that actually semi-tolerated their younger sibling. In his home it was more a silent war between potential heirs that he wanted nothing to do with.

He did not need to think about any of that. His mission was simple, get stronger, maybe more confident and seen as competent. Impress the girls, not just the one that mentioned quidditch, there were a lot of pretty girls in Hogwarts. He wanted to impress all of them.

Finally, he dared a glance at Ulysses, his nerves on full display. Aamon was about the same height, perhaps slightly taller (5 foot 2 inches) even but his body seemed to contradict his vulnerability and anxiety. “I know I’m kind of useless in a confrontation,” he admitted, a small, self-deprecating laugh escaping him. “But I could—I could train, right? I could get stronger? More confident?” That was the word, the heart of it in truth. The boy lacked the confidence of his siblings or his peers. He really did not have any hidden agendas. Not yet in any case. He had plenty of secrets, but few were his own.

He hesitated, the words sticking in his throat before he blurted them out. “Do you think you could, uh, help me? Maybe? Train me? Or at least, you know... give me some tips?”

Aamon gave another nervous laugh, clutching the Quaffle tighter as if it could somehow save him from further humiliation. He braced himself for whatever Ulysses would say next, already regretting the entire conversation but clinging to the faint hope that the older boy might actually take him seriously.

Please note, with 3 stamina, he would be KO'd in 1 hit if that bludger was at full force. I am happy to rewrite but assumed you wanted more than 1 post out of me.

Aamon blinked up at Ulysses from where he sprawled on the frosty ground, clutching the Quaffle like a lifeline. His chest ached where the ball had struck, and his pride felt even more bruised, but the faintest flicker of relief crossed his features. The older boy wasn’t laughing at him. Not outright, at least. That was a step in the right direction he reminded himself. it was not about going down, it was about getting back up. And get back up he did, without complaint, without self-justification.

“Cool,” he managed weakly, his breath still catching from the impact. He let Ulysses’ words settle in his mind, nodding along even as his hand twitched toward the offered bat. It was a gesture that seemed so casual for Ulysses, but to Aamon, it carried weight. This was what he needed—a starting point, something tangible he could hold onto.

Grasping the offered hand, Aamon hauled himself to his feet, wobbling slightly as he tried to find his footing on the slippery grass. “Thanks,” he muttered, brushing the frost from his robes. His fingers lingered on the bat once it was in his grasp, running over the scuffed wood and worn grip. The weight felt foreign, but it was grounding in a way he didn’t expect. He swung it with an uncertainty a few times, one hand at the far bottom and the other about mid-way on the bat.

“I—I don’t think I’m like you,” he admitted, his voice low and hesitant. “Not yet, anyway. You’re... I mean, you’ve got this thing about you, you know? Like, you’re solid. Like you don’t bend when things hit you. Even when people talk about you...” His words trailed off, the unspoken thought clear: people respected Ulysses, even if they feared him. "M-maybe it is not such a bad thing to just be mad when mad u'know," he admitted sheepishly, scratching the back of his head and finding a rouge twig back there that he plucked out.

“I just—” He cut himself off, gripping the bat a little tighter. His gaze flickered up, the faintest spark of something sharper glinting in his eyes. Resentment? No, not yet. But determination, born of something dark and simmering just below the surface. “I’m tired of being the one who gets knocked down. I’m tired of being the kid people feel sorry for. I like being nice. I think I am nice, but nbice really does not get me anywhere does it? If I can’t be clever or... or fast, I want to be strong. Strong enough that I can’t be pushed around anymore.”

He swung the bat again experimentally, the motion again awkward but earnest, his hands a bit closer together on the grip. “I know it won’t happen overnight, but I can work at it. I just—” His grip tightened again, his knuckles pale against the wood. “I need to work at something.” An intrusive thought entered his head as he wondered how much would it hurt if I used this on someone? He immediately shook the thought away. No, definitely not.

Aamon glanced at Ulysses, a faint, nervous grin tugging at his lips. “And if I’m going to hit a bludger, I’d rather not miss and knock myself out. So, uh... yeah. Cool.”

Behind the shaky smile and the rambling words, a plan was beginning to form. Aamon didn’t just want to be better—he needed to be. For himself. For the future he was beginning to glimpse in the shadows of his own mind. If strength was the currency of survival, he’d find a way to earn it. One swing at a time.

OC I think we were waiting on an entry, but since there has been none I am dropping a bad idea hook.

Aamon felt the weight of Ulysses’ words settle over him like the first snowfall of winter—cold, but strangely comforting. He stood there, his fingers tight around the bat, the chill biting through his gloves, but for the first time in what felt like forever, he didn’t feel entirely alone. Ulysses wasn’t laughing at him, wasn’t scoffing at his weaknesses or using them as leverage. That alone was enough to make Aamon’s chest tighten, an unfamiliar warmth fighting the icy air around them.

Slytherin was not unlike his home. Students with more ego than brain, more pride than empathy and more ambition than concern. There was really no sense of trust and not that a few moments of casual conversation would change that truth, but the strangeness of civility was not lost on him.

“I appreciate it,” he managed to announce, his gaze fixed on the ground. It was easier to say it without looking at the older boy. He swung the bat with uncertainty while Ulysses released the bludger. The iron ball of doom, only wizards play baseball with cannonballs. He could feel his anxiety swell but he tried to square his stance and 'man up.' The bat made him feel mildly more manly he quietly admitted. There was something about hitting things with incredible violence that just felt... strangely right as odd as it was to admit.

"You know," he looked towards his periphery. No dolls, no mayhem. Just other quidditch players practicing on the pitch. A handful of students in the stands, some loitering, others spectating, a few coupling. "There is something wrong with this place," he admitted matter-of-factly. "The people too," he added even if they were equitable in his world, he understood the wrongness of it all.

He wanted to get stronger too.

"...but I’ve been kicked down too and it only makes me want to go harder so no one messes with me too. We’ll do it together, then. No one’s going to fuck with us, ever again. ”

Aamon felt Ulysses’ words resonate deep in his chest, like the first note of a melody he hadn’t realized he’d been waiting to hear. There was something in the way Ulysses said it, not as a challenge, not as a pitying platitude, but as a promise—a vow that they’d carve their paths together. It stirred something new in Aamon: a sense of hope.

For a moment, the icy wind biting at his cheeks, the roar of the bludger as it tore through the air, and the dull ache in his arms all faded into the background. He tightened his grip on the bat and looked at Ulysses, the older boy’s confidence a beacon in the otherwise relentless storm of doubt that clouded Aamon’s mind.

“We’ll do it together,” Aamon echoed, his voice soft but growing stronger with every word. He lifted the bat again, the weight of it suddenly feeling a little more manageable. “No one’s going to mess with us anymore.”

Writer note: I felt that there needs to be some minor action here, so writing on the bludger briefly for you to give it a good wack.

The bludger came screaming toward Uly, a streak of black against the winter sky. Aamon planted his feet, focusing not on his fear, but on the thrill of the moment. The bludger was out of reach for the pre-teen, it was headed straight for Ulysses. Assuming he swung, that the bat connected with a resounding crack that sent the iron ball flying. The sense of victory, no matter how small was something the Slytherin needed after a series of senseless defeats.

He turned to Ulysses, his breath visible in the cold air, a glimmer of determination now shining in his eyes. “You know,” he said, his voice steadier than before, “you’re right. About getting stronger. About fighting back. But…” He hesitated, searching for the words.

“This place,” he gestured vaguely around them with the bat, “it’s soaked in blood. It is wrong. Twisted. And the people... most of them only care about what the darkness and chaos can bring them.”

He straightened, the cold no longer bothering him as much, his earlier nervousness replaced by something sharper, something more resilient. “I think I know a way of getting stronger,” he claimed, his eyes following the bludger. A short cut.

The bludger returned, barreling toward them with renewed ferocity. Aamon adjusted his grip and stepped forward, determination etched into every line of his face. He glanced at Ulysses, the faintest of smiles tugging at his lips.

Double post - I know we have been waiting on an entry. For the sake of our own roleplays, I am going to simply write out a conclusion. Offer you a murder opportunity if you are interested and then carry on.

Aamon’s fingers tightened around the bat, the icy wood of the old beater's bat biting into his palms. He could feel the weight of his own words lingering in the cold air between him and Ulysses, as if the very wind had paused to listen. His heart pounded—not from fear this time, but from something different, something more alive. A spark of ambition burned quietly in his chest, spreading warmth through his limbs and steadying his shaking hands.

He was tired of being a passenger in his own life. A passive observer that was pushed to the floor by stronger forces that Aamon could not hope to stand up against. A bitterness resided in him from the incident with Avis and Finnegan, how betrayed he felt by Avis and how powerless and terrified he felt beneath Finnegan power. He did not even understand the Gryffindor's animosity. The underlying logic of 'I am going to save you by force' because it did not even fit the strange narrative and something else he had said: 'what was it with his fucking family?' A question he did not have an answer to and even if he did, their grudges were not his to hold but apparently his to endure.

Aamon tracked the bludger’s erratic flight path, its wild energy reflecting his own swirling thoughts. The chaos of this place—Hogwarts, the dungeons, Slytherin itself, even his home—it was overwhelming, suffocating at times. The Slytherin hated it. But at the same time, there was a truth he couldn’t ignore: there was power in the chaos, and if he could harness it, maybe he wouldn’t feel so small anymore. Maybe he wouldn’t always feel like the boy who stumbled, apologized, and shrank away.

He did not like being ignored. Ignored like he was at the fall ball by Xiomarra. She just stopped being present. He had no idea why, if he had done something or if she just found another boy or the buffet table more interesting. It was a knock to his already fragile ego.

He did not like being pushed around. Pushed around like Percival and Finnigan had. 'Might making right' some would say. As if they could force answers from him if they just made sure they hurt him or made him scared enough.

He did not like feeling vulnerable. Like he could not fight back. That his only option was to endure and wait for the storm pass.

“I don’t want to just survive here, Uly,” Aamon said suddenly, his voice quiet but firm. “I’m tired of being the one who runs, the one who’s always scrambling to keep up.” This was not just his brothers who were years ahead of him, but also his peers. His life of advantage gave him as many opportunities as it did vulnerabilities. He glanced at his new friend, the determination in his expression raw and almost defiant. “I don’t want to stay weak.” He did not want to be this embarrassing nuisance. This pathetic wizard in expensive robes.

The bludger came hurtling back toward them, its momentum relentless, unyielding—just like the forces that seemed to loom over every corner of his life. Aamon adjusted his stance, stepping forward to meet it head-on. The thrill of the challenge sent a surge of adrenaline through his veins, and for a fleeting moment, the fear was gone, replaced by something sharper, clearer. He concentrated on the bludger's screaming descent. He swung the bat with everything he had, his arms straining as the impact echoed like thunder across the pitch. The bludger flew back into the sky, a streak of black against the clouds. The shock of the strike reverberated through the bat and up his arms. He could feel the buzz in his arms and the depths of his chest. He lacked strength, but he just needed to have the bat in the right place, at the right time, braced by his weight, his shifting stanced, to send the bludger rocketing away.

Aamon lowered the bat, his breaths coming in quick, visible puffs. He turned back to Ulysses, his chest rising and falling with exertion, he had barely moved but his heart was racing a personal marathon. More importantly, there was a light in his eyes now—a flicker of something new. Confidence, maybe. Or ambition. “I’m not saying I want to be like… them,” he said, his voice softer, thoughtful. “The ones who take what they want no matter who they hurt. That’s not me. It never will be.” Or so he thought as he made that claim but the world has a way of sullying even the purest of hearts.

He hesitated, running a hand through his dark hair, damp with sweat despite the cold. “But I need to be more. I need to stop waiting for someone else to fix everything, for someone else to step in when things go wrong. I’m tired of feeling powerless.” He looked out at the horizon, his jaw set, the weight of his resolve grounding him. “I want to be strong enough to change things. To matter.”

Aamon shifted his grip on the bat, rolling his shoulders as the bludger started its return. “And if I have to face a hundred more bludgers, if I have to push myself past every limit, I’ll do it. Whatever it takes.” He sounded confident but he felt no such self-assurance, but he was determined in the moment. He was not going to stop at bludgers or with bats and team spirit. He tightened his grip thoughtfully.

The wind picked up around them, ruffling his robes and carrying his words away. But the resolve in Aamon’s voice remained, rooted deep within him. For the first time, the world didn’t feel quite as daunting. And for the first time, he dared to believe he could carve out a place for himself in it.

He would leave the bat in Ulysses capable hands, thanking him with an honest smile. He had given himself in this moment much to think over. Those dolls... "I just want to say, thank you," Aamon announced. Not for anything extraordinary, sometimes the greatest magic was in those ordinary moments. Those times where someone just needed to be kind rather than calm, indifferent or callous. For being willing to help, offer a word of advice or even... Well, he was a nice guy.

OC: Permission to lightly godmod a physical action like a back pat, handshake, etc. as being successful if you wish.