Yap Yap PV Aly S. Closed

Look, no one likes to lose. If people enjoyed losing, what would be the point of winning? As such, Aly Salinger, Ravenclaw's not-so-star sixth-year Seeker, slunk into the Great Hall the Monday after her House's tough loss to Slytherin not quite in the best of moods. After all, no matter how much her mates assured her otherwise, the lack of an Eagle victory had been her fault. She could still see the Snitch glinting gold in her dreams, saw it every time she closed her eyes - just inches away from her fingertips, but that prat of a Slytherin Seeker wrapping his hand around it first. If only she'd just been a smidgen faster. If only, if only, if only.

Slytherin was just too good. That's what irked her most - as far as Aly could recall, the snakes hadn't lost a match since January of 2023, but since Aly hadn't been at Hogwarts at that time, the last time she'd seen a Slytherin loss in person was... way back in her third year. It was just frustrating, the constant knowledge that no matter how hard you fought, you'd lose. At least the Slytherin Seeker was a seventh-year, and he'd be gone next year. Aly was quite sure she could beat their twig of a second-year second-string Seeker when it came to it. In the meantime, though, she was still quite angry - at herself, at the snakes, at the people who tried to tell her that there was nothing she could've done. And most of all, at the sore-winner Slytherins who Aly just knew would jeer at her in the corridors all day today. Can't catch a Snitch if it's in front of your nose, eh, Salinger? Though Aly was no Seer, she knew all too well the kind of jab that would be thrust at her over the next week or so until the winners' high wore off and the snakes went back to their usual haughtiness instead of the advanced version. Because of this, she made sure to take a path to her place at the Ravenclaw table that avoided walking the corridor between blue and green. Better to chance it with Hufflepuff neighbours instead.

Unfortunately, no amount of avoidance could keep some people's mouths from running far too loudly. Just as Aly took a seat and began to roughly shove some sausages onto her plate - she normally skipped breakfast in favour of sleeping in (willingly or unwillingly) or doing her makeup or the lot, but she fully planned on extra practice time down at the pitch between her classes today and knew she'd need the energy - an agitating, grating voice began to waft noisily over from the table clad in emerald, talking shit that stank so badly Aly suddenly felt that she was in need of fresh air.

"It's an embarrassing building year for Ravenclaw, for sure... Their seeker isn't all bad but took her a while to get her game face on. Doubt they win any games this year."

Almost instantly, Aly's face looked more like it belonged at the Gryffindor table as she flared scarlet with hot rage that bubbled up from her stomach and out of her mouth. Green eyes quickly sought out the culprit, who wasn't hard to find nor to glare at, lounging atop the table like he were a king rather than an ugly rat of a second-year with half a chewed-up pastry visible in his mouth. Instinct took over, and the elder eagle grabbed for one of the sausages on her plate, chucking it at him across the Ravenclaw table and the aisle in between them (happy to let Uly decide if it hits him or not, or we can roll for it). He'd talked shit, and she owed him nothing, not even dignity. Aly followed up the meaty projectile with angry words, barked just as loudly as he'd been talking across the space: "Oi! Second-string! Didn't your mum ever teach you any manners? If you're so desperate for attention, maybe you should earn it, 'stead of just running your mouth!"

The sausage smacked the younger of Slytherin's beater pair dead in the small of his back, leaving a greasy splotch on his clothes, which filled Aly with a sense of righteous pride. Maybe her aim was off as a Seeker, but she clearly hadn't lost her touch gained from playing a pair of games as a Chaser. Better yet, the little cretin didn't even seem to notice the grease, just the projectile against his back, and so didn't move to wipe it off - and neither did any of his little lackeys, all equally as ugly (and equally as washed-out in that gaudy Slytherin green). He'd likely go the entire day with stained clothes, and that in and of itself felt like a suitable revenge - dirty clothes for a dirty mouth.

However, he did turn around and start spewing his vile commentary directly at her, making her almost - almost, just for a moment - regret having thrown the sausage in the first place. The little toad bit her lip to keep from hexing him right then and there as he said it to her face, the first in what would surely be a long line of insults thrown her way today: the reason why Ravenclaw lost. No matter how much her mates said it wasn't true, it was all anyone else would ever see - her failure to catch the Snitch had cost them the match. But, then again, that was immense pressure to put on a single person's fragile shoulders, and why was the Seeker so goddamn important in Quidditch? Had the person who first let that endangered Snidget onto the pitch ever thought about how much stress their singular decision would cause for hundreds and thousands of players throughout the years?

Approaching her was the worst decision the young pup had ever made. The closer he got, sauntering over like the space between Ravenclaw and Slytherin was Witch Weekly and he was this week's cover model, the hotter Aly's blood grew until it began to boil with him directly in front of her. His squinty little eyes stared into hers, which narrowed during his taunts. She wasn't one to insult, but damn, the occasion called for it.

"Maybe Ravenclaw lost because of me, but at least I did something for my team," she snapped back, standing up and leaning forward across the table, weight pressing into her hands - she was glad for the sharp pain in her wrists, because that was the only thing keeping her grounded, stopping her from reaching across the table and throttling his scrawny little neck until he turned Ravenclaw blue. "Remind me what you did Saturday? Flew around your precious Seeker holding a bat you didn't even use? Real useful, mate. Real useful."

Aly reared back at the duelling comment, the ache in her hands dissipating as angry thoughts broom-raced through her head. What even is this little wanker's name? Drake, yeah? He may not like us, but he'll soon learn to respect us. The pain was gone, she could see clearly now - or maybe it was that the clouds in her judgment were so thick she didn't even notice that she couldn't see past her rage and the sweet, sweet idea of Ulysses Drake learning his lesson. One hand went for her wand as a very uncharacteristically wicked smile touched her lips.

"You know, it is worth a thought," she jeered back at him. "Let's see how good I'd be on a duelling team, eh? Mimblewimble!"

Bluish-purple light arced from the tip of her wand, crackling perhaps stronger than usual - fueled by rage, no doubt - and the curse slammed hard into the second-year tosser's face, tying his tongue in a knot as tight as his britches. Unable to speak, he would be left defenceless as his little friends turned on him, pointing and snickering to each other; Aly heard one of them whisper to another, "Pick a fight with a sixth-year and that's what you'll get." This time, the pride coursing through her was real, though tinged with perhaps a tiny bit of guilt. He was just a kid and didn't know any better - but hey, maybe this would teach him to keep his bloody mouth shut.

Aly leaned forward again, her smile turning into that of the cat that has eaten the canary, or in this case the eagle that has eaten the snake.

"Sorry, what was that? Eagle got your tongue?"