Closed summer camp 23 pv all Durms Pre-game Jitters

Alaric appreciated the squeeze of support given by Val at his nervous confession. It showed him that he was there for him in unity. When Valentin addressed him with his powerful message, Alaric felt his eyes burning and a tingly feeling went through his body. These were the words of a true captain. A true leader. A true friend. Alaric looked the older boy, nearly a man, in the eyes. "Family," he repeated firmly, a slight nod in these words. That’s when that person arrived, someone that Valentin seemed happy to see and someone that appeared to be comfortable around the group. He spoke to them and Alaric didn’t really know what they were talking about so he zoned out until an older lad appeared. Mr Foresberg. Of course Valentin knew him. He knows everyone.

Valentin extending his arms and Alaric accepted. There was more talking, to which Alaric replied to and interacted with. Then he said, “More like Hogwarts gremlins. Amount of dirty blood that roams the halls of that school. Those creatures don't stand a chance!" which certainly caused a reaction. Mainly from that dude who had his arms splayed around Cap’s neck when he arrived. Alaric wanted to see who he should be weary of. Who was a muggle lover. Who was a halfbreed tolerated and accepter.

And it didn’t disappoint.

“That’s fucking rude of you. They’re people, and you would do well to remember it. Our team doesn’t tend to like those with such piss poor sportsmanship!” there was disgust and a sneer on his face. Alaric stared at this boy, coming out from Valentin’s arms.

“What they are, oh so mighty one, is an abomination!" Alaric said with a clenched jaw yet calm eyes. "By this observation one can assume you are a muggle lover? Perhaps you have a pet werewolf tucked up at home?" oh how if Alaric knew. If Alaric knew just what he was saying. If only Alaric knew what went on when he was in Germany. "I think you better check yourself sunshine and get back to me when you want to be an Echter Mann," real man and with that he added a slight push on the older lads chest. How the hell dare he address Alaric in such foul and dirty way. Using such profanity. "For the record, I am a brilliant sportsman. It’s you that needs to work on your communication to you teammates, Evolutionsbremse!" evolution break Alaric got louder as he spoke, a few bits of saliva escaping his mouth as he got passionate in his words.

Forsberg spoke and Alaric’s opinion on him changed ever so slightly, he found himself agreeing with the new person. Although he didn’t particularly hold the same empathy he did. "Well I certainly won’t feel bad when I crush them!" Alaric announced, "And when Valentin grabs that snitch so we can run it in their blood-traitorous faces!” he sent a look to Forsberg with a smirk. “Genau, wer bist du eigentlich?," Yeah, who are you anyway?

Well that certainly didn’t go how Alaric thought it would. Already he seems to have made an enemy of an older year. Although he is a weak muggle lover. Alaric didn’t feel safe having such weakness on the team! Would probably stop doing his job to check on a filthy half-breed as Alaric whacked a bludger to their direction. Pathetic.

Forsberg also asked the big question: What made Valentin captain?

Alaric assumed it was because of how skilled Valentin was. He was a really good quidditch, like reaaally good but he was also caring toward his teammates.

“Would make a better captain than der Kotzbrocken hier," lump of puke jibed Alaric, pointing to the boy he would know to be Vyacheslav.

Valentin observed Nichlas’s face twist into a smile on hearing that the captain recognized him from broom racing, just as he watched that smirk drop at the first mention of Mikael. Perhaps Nichlas was still feeling territorial over his old team despite leaving it. The Frost Captain simply watched the flickering promenade of tells across Nichlas’s face, however, as a new, more dangerous smile flashed his canines as if in warning. Just as quickly, the Swede’s face shifted back into a pleasant, if calculating, gaze. Valentin in turn brightened with a genuine smile, enjoying the process of learning how to read the boy. Even if Nichlas turned out to be verbally stolid in the end, he still seemed expressive enough that Valentin could work with him. The ferocity of the boy’s sharklike grin was all-too-cozy for Valentin, who would rather be around dangerous people than ones lacking in ambition. A number of subconscious cues were certainly drawing Valentin in – the sleek and perfectionist elements of his grooming, the attentiveness to everyone around him, and the fire burning in his eyes… Still, what was it that made Nichlas tick? At minimum, Valentin wanted to unwrap that mystery. Maybe he would be a good fit for the team.

"It would feel quite rude to scheme against those that already suffer an intellectual disadvantage," the Swede passed back into the conversation. Valentin proceeded to brush some sand from his eyes, unimpressed and hoping that the apparent streak of arrogance wouldn’t come back to haunt Nichlas and those around him. Then again, why was Val feeling so invested in the boy’s attributes already anyway? Realizing he was staring again, Valentin turned back to look at Slava to try to force himself to be more polite, but the conversation was already moving in another direction anyway.

Through his arm, Valentin felt Slava’s reaction to Alaric’s words and that it was not just Nichlas that was making him uncomfortable. Squeezing Slava’s deltoid to reassure him, Valentin’s face hardened from its previous warm state into the neutral expression he usually wore during a game.

“That’s fucking rude of you,” said Slava, clearly following Alaric’s German well enough. “They’re people, and you would do well to remember it. Our team doesn’t tend to like those with such piss poor sportsmanship,” Recognizing that this behaviour was quite uncommon for Slava, Valentin gave him a one-armed squeeze before letting go to free up his hands in the event of a fight.

“Let me get back to you on that Nichlas, about how I became captain.” Valentin would be more than happy to recount even that part of Durmstrang’s vaunted quidditch history later, and Val could see from the Swede’s eyes that he understood there were more pressing matters at hand. The seeker would note, however, the interest and consideration Nichlas took to ask in the first place as the conversation went on full speed ahead.

“What they are, oh so mighty one, is an abomination!" said Alaric through a clenched jaw. "By this observation one can assume you are a muggle lover? Perhaps you have a pet werewolf tucked up at home? I think you better check yourself sunshine and get back to me when you want to be an Echter Mann," real man. The newest beater then lightly shoved Slava by the chest. "For the record, I am a brilliant sportsman. It’s you that needs to work on your communication to you teammates, Evolutionsbremse!" evolution break… I certainly won’t feel bad when I crush them! And when Valentin grabs that snitch so we can run it in their blood-traitorous faces!” continued Alaric, following up with another German slur at Slava.

Valentin stood by Slava’s side, unmoving and respecting Slava’s ability to take a little shove. Trying to get even more physical in retaliation could easily escalate the situation and lead to more injuries and holes in the roster before the big game. However, there was still the important matter of keeping together a cooperative team dynamic and clear-sighted outlook on the opposition, let alone dealing with flagrant racism…

“Even non-humans have their strengths and weaknesses, and never can we let our pride and confidence turn to shackles of arrogance and ignorance. Because muggles and part-humans have their respective things they are good at, denial can only cost us true strength and victory. Would one really be an Echter Mann once reality shows how little it cares for human ego, or might that slice of humble pie not taste so sweet after all? Isn’t true strength a byproduct of humility, rather than in spite of it? I have to eat my ego every time I fail, too, so let’s try to keep our eyes on the prize. The big game is tomorrow and we’re still down a player.”

Amethyst eyes flicking up at Nichlas, the curl at one side of Valentin’s lips indicated it hadn’t escaped his notice that the Swede mentioned leaving the broom racing team. Still, he was not yet impressed enough to advance. First came seeing how Alaric, Slava, and Nichlas would react to the situation.

Abilities: Keen Eye / Charmer / Evasive Maneuvers / Fearless / Comprehend Parseltongue
Stats: STA 8 - EVA 20 - STR 3 - WIS 15 [17] - ARC 1 - ACC 15
Dialogue in Russian unless stated otherwise

==

Writing as approved Durmstrang iNPC Vyacheslav Aleksandrovich Preobrazhensky All Slava’s speech in this thread is assumed to be in Russian unless otherwise stated

"It would feel quite rude to scheme against those that already suffer an intellectual disadvantage," Nichlas responded to the invitation to “scheme” with them. Slava shrugged. “Suit yourself, then.” He wasn’t bothered either way, it was just an attempt to be friendly. What did bother him was the slightly condescending tone, although Slava let that discomfort pass. "Similarly rude, I feel, is it, to enter a conversation with strangers without introducing oneself first. Now how may I call you?" “You’re the only stranger to me, and you didn’t seem particularly interested. Your lack of greeting towards me could also be considered rather rude,” he shot right back, eyebrows raised slightly. He didn’t like the way Nichlas talked. He clearly thought he was better than everyone else, and the demanding, sharp tone was just uncomfortable.

“But it’s Vyacheslav Aleksandrovich. You can call me Slava.” His slightly modified standard introduction rolled off of his tongue instinctually, although, surprisingly, he found himself wanting to not offer the shortened form immediately like he normally did. There was something that made him want to stay as distanced as possible from Nichlas, but there was also the fact that he preferred the name Slava and it would feel weird to not offer that to only one person. Still, he felt like every word he said to Nichlas was the wrong one, and he was grateful when there was a distraction, even though it came in the horribly ugly form of racism.

As Slava tensed, he felt Valentin gently squeeze his arm, and while the touch soothed him slightly, he couldn’t let this kind of thing go unchecked. “The only abomination that will be there is you. Such hate is unnatural. You’re a disgusting little shit. Maybe a little kid like you doesn’t know better, though. How old are you, again? Ten? You behave worse than a three year old throwing a tantrum.” Slava paused and then laughed—a bitter, cold, mocking laugh—as Alaric made a comment about “real” men. “What, a real man like you? You’re barely out of nappies. Although with the amount of shit you’re full of, maybe you still need them. No, real men don’t need to put others down just to make themselves feel better.”

The little shit even had the nerve to shove him. It was soft, weak, but he had still crossed over into physical aggression. So Slava stepped away from Valentin and shoved back. Hard. He didn’t care if it sent the kid stumbling or knocked him over, it would be well-deserved, but he wouldn’t go further than that. Unless Alaric touched him again. “Keep your filthy little hands off of me,” he said with disgust, looking at Alaric like he was a particularly slimy slug that had crawled onto him. And then the kid had the audacity to claim that he was a good sportsman—more precisely, the word he had used was that he was a “brilliant” one. So he was a racist and a liar. Did he have a single good quality? “Being a good sportsman doesn’t happen by you claiming it, you have to actually show it, and you’ve done the complete opposite of that. Maybe you’re just too stupid to understand the concept, though,” Slava scoffed.

Valentin began speaking—something about his presence and the way he spoke commanded respect and attention, regardless of the volume of his voice. It was the magic of a gentle but highly capable leader. Slava listened, feeling proud to be Valentin’s friend. He was reminded time and again why he was so strongly loyal to Valentin—he was someone who deserved to be trusted. He was someone you could put your support behind. And while Slava believed that there was no use in reasoning with racists—they wouldn’t change their views just because someone explained it was harmful—he did appreciate that Valentin had such a natural way with words and made the effort to speak up for those not present to defend themselves. When his friend had said his piece, Slava gave him a nod of approval and a grateful look. Even if Durmstrang was full of horrible racists, what mattered was the good that could be found despite that, the people whose hearts were in the right place. Slava didn’t think he would be able to put into words the deep sense of respect and gratitude he felt for the few gems like Valentin even if he tried.

"Wow, you have a long name," Alaric commented with a snigger. "Vyacheslav," he added with a correct Russian accent. "Slimy Slava," he said to himself with a huff of laughter.

Slimy Slava was getting riled up and Alaric was here for it. Although, he wasn’t prepared for how mad he would be exactly. "‘Such hate is unnatural’ are you sure? I think the fact that you sound like you want to marry a dirty mudblood is proof enough that you weren't mentally well developed as a baby!" Alaric spat, he felt his ears burn at the age comment. "I’m eleven! How old are you? 50?!" Alaric sneered, crossing his arms. He let out a cold laugh and Alaric felt as though the laugh coated him in ice; his body went cold as Vyacheslav drawled out his next words. "I’ve been out of diapers for ages!" okay he was a little older than 3 before he was out of them. Alaric stared at Slava with opened eyes and dropped jaw. "I am Alaric Leopold Havertz. I do NOT need diapers any longer!" Alaric defended himself, his body looking defensive as he curled his hands into fists and had them tightly by his side. "You don’t even know what being an echter mann entails!" Alaric was getting confused as he was switching between languages. Thinking in one and speaking in another as plus the occasional German word. He really did need to concentrate more in his Russian classes. Eh, who cares about English. Maybe he should drop English and learn Finnish.

The German boy shoved Slava, it didn’t accomplish much, mind you, seeing as Alaric (who isn’t even 5ft yet) is merely 11 years old going against a sixteen or seventeen year old. Slava stepped away from Cap and gifted Alaric a shove if his own. It sent the other boy stumbling back and (ungraciously) falling to the floor in a heap. His legs went up as he fell meaning back slightly and his arm went to the side to try and keep him on his bottom. Ouch, that stung and he didn’t expect it. Alaric tried to keep tears from filling his eyes as he rubbed his arm. "You didn’t have to push me that hard!"

"Keep your filthy little hands off of me," Slava had sneered, disgust lining his words and eyes. Alaric scrambled to his feet and brushed his clothes down before walking close to Slava, perhaps too far in his personal space and told him to: "Leck mich am Arsch!" before he backed off and defended his sportsmanship. "At least I’m not the one pushing an eleven year old!" Alaric told him with a faux pout. "You’re picking on the little guy!" Alaric forgot that others were there for a second. In his angered frenzy.

Valentin said that non-humans have their strengths and Alaric couldn’t help the scoff, great so the mighty captain didn’t share his ideals. Alaric noted that from today onwards he would have to be more reserved about his views if he stood a chance on the team; Valentin is captain and obviously a muggle lover. Alaric didn’t really fully understand what the other boy was saying, after all he may know Russian but he wasn’t fluent in it. Alaric kept quiet throughout Val’s speech, trying to find things he can pick out without having the petty argument of ‘You’re wrong because!’. "Part-humans are worse than muggles, dear Captain of mine. These abominations have been fused with beastly abilities that don’t even make them human. You and I are human and we have pure blood running in our strong veins," Alaric said strongly, placing a hand over his beating heart. His heart that is pumping healthy blood and not dirty blood or diseased blood. "True strength is your, urm, mental? Mentality! True strength is knowing you can beat anyone in your path, putting your head in the game and not letting anyone tell you otherwise!" the young boy explained confidently. "And when you beat your opponent that’s when you can feel satisfaction for crushing them like the insects they are!" Alaric got excited again for the game tomorrow, at the chance he is going to get to watch the smiles of the Dachs diminish.

"Slav. I will be willing to, uh… put aside our differences if you apologise to me for disrespecting a lad of such pristine blood. Speaking of, I don’t think that i’ve heard of your name before?" Alaric pried, he has heard of most purebloods at Durmstrang yet… there is nothing from Slava. It makes total sense now why he is a dirty blood loving scum.

He himself has dirty blood.

Big mighty Vyacheslav and yet he is no man but a dirty halfie or mudblood. Or, and Alaric shuddered, was he one of those that has a big mixture of bloods. Magical parents but muggle or half blooded grandparents. Honestly, it was too confusing to think about. It disgusted Alaric. Made him feel sick to his stomach. He was meant to share wins with this loser? Alaric couldn’t wait to tell Klaus that he had an animal on his team. Oh, if Alaric knew what was in store for him in the future. He looked at Slava, his hand out for a handshake no matter how much he wanted to retract it. "What do you say?" he asked with a smirk.

Hex: #465c67 | English | Russian | Swedish

Nichlas watched on with a calculating gaze, judging silently each and everyone involved in this very interaction. It was like figured on a chess board, each a possibly destructive force with plans and a specific set of moves. One more lethal than the other. Nichlas furthermore watched as the drama would unfold, watching the little kid bicker as he made arguments likely drilled into him at an a young age, a mind poisoned against those it thought beneath him, made based on claims from wizards long in the past. Meanwhile Slava bristled at the commentary, making him more upset with each uttered phrase and like electricity in the air being a warning for a lightning about to strike, the raising tension between the two was like a promise for things to escalate. Perhaps not now, things rarely escalated out in the open, but they would run heads again and who was to ensure their safety then. A small child facing Slava. Based on the push the younger one tried to deliver it was a situation doomed to fail and blow up in Alaric’s face. Alaric would not learn his lessons, tension would rise once more until something happened again. Some people weren’t meant to play friendly with each other. What was the only surprising thing about it, that Slava, based on what Nichlas knew of his reputation, was known to be the opposite of cruel.

That was rather Nichlas’ job. It was the mix in of bilingual madness that Nichlas, while understanding well enough, couldn’t comprehend. Was the other boy so focused on himself that he wasn’t even aware he wasn’t able to keep up with one language properly and had to result into switching between? For no one’s convenience but his own? If Nichlas had any credit to give the other or were in his stead, he might have assumed this was due to the other consciously messing around or hiding meaning behind his words, making people work for the understanding of what he was saying. But frankly, Nichlas couldn’t give quite as much credit to this yapping dog. What made them so very different more than anything that Nichlas wasn’t one to run his mouth and then not deliver on them. He only ever spoke a thread when he was all but capable on following up on it. It was the flapping around of Alaric’s that drew his attention in, just like a shark is drawn to movement in the water rather than the fish itself. Coupling that with the disappointment of Valentin not falling for the bait and test, he felt there was more to gain out of the situation. Perhaps he should be teaching Alaric on effectiveness and being respectable. So he drew his focus in as Slava gave the younger kid a shove, as an idea began to form in his head and a predatory instinct resurfaced as he held out a hand to the younger student, offering his own wand for the boy to take.

“Why, if you are such a respectable pure blood, are you not settling your arguments like a wizard would? He’s shoved you, gave you quite the knock back and you will be just taking it?” he hummed as he offered his wand of ashen wood, that’s been pigmented with ebony to gave it a sleek black design. There was a risk in using the wand of another, in most cases it was a true test of skill to master a wand that wasn’t your own and in Nichlas case, well he wouldn’t give away too much just yet. You run your mouth and have nothing to show for it, don’t you think?. Nichlas was here to teach a lesson and it wasn’t one about payback as it seemed. It was a test of Alaric, a little kid who couldn’t follow up his words with actions. Truly it gave people like him a bad rep. So the younger boy had to learn to use his brains before his brawns, or to think before taking action. A silly child throwing a tantrum really wasn’t a good look for their school. “Or are you going to offer a truce like a coward because you admit you are outmatched, if so you needn’t just sweet talk and admit your defeat. Like how did you say, an ‘Echter Mann’?” he added the word in German to amplify the fact of how Alaric was undermining his authority and respect with every word he spoke. To Slava he spoke, ”Let him have his revenge, if he so pleases. You have after all been raising to the bait of a little child,” Nichlas stressed and there was a smugness to accompany his words as he watched the situation unfold with a calculating gaze. He’s given the situation a nice set up, now it was Alaric who had to take the bait. Perhaps it was good for him to learn so easy that a wand’s trust isn’t so easily won nor that bragging about the purity of one’s blood is an achievement one gets to claim for themselves. It was but a circumstance of life. Or perhaps it was a whole different lesson for the young kid to learn, one about running your mouth with a vile language with nothing to back you up on it, no respect, no reputation and not even the security of outnumbering your opponent. The coward's way of doing things. Nichlas would offer respect for the latter, if he wasn’t aware that going up against Slava by himself wasn’t a conscious choice but a byproduct of lacking control over his brain and mouth and that was dangerous more than anything. So perhaps that was the lesson to be learned if Alaric had brains enough to learn it.

Valentin watched as Slava laid into Alaric, prompting the younger beater’s retorts to grow ever more petulant. The smallest curl of amusement played at the corner of Val’s lip despite the concern that simmered at the bottom of his gut. Even when Alaric fell from Slava’s returned shove, the captain stood as silent as a monolith.

"Leck mich am Arsch!" decried the team’s newest recruit, and Val had to cover his face to obscure a stifled laugh out of politeness. Of course #29 was accusing Slava of “picking on the little guy” after he’d started the altercation in the first place. It was a perfect farce, and the seeker’s eyes sparkled despite the atmosphere choked with racism as thick as smoke. It seemed no one present knew of the non-human blood in their own captain’s ancestry, despite Val probably having more of it than anyone there. It seemed that the efforts of the Schnell line to suppress the spread of such information had been effective, with the rumors of his mother being a part-veela chalked up to rogue fan conspiracies and the legends of serpent-speaker predecessors whispered by only a handful of families scattered across remote corners of Crimea, Tatarstan, and surrounding areas. As Alaric’s attacks washed over him, Valentin carefully considered everything the boy had to say, contemplating if any of it had substance.

"Part-humans are worse than muggles, dear Captain of mine. These abominations have been fused with beastly abilities that don’t even make them human. You and I are human and we have pure blood running in our strong veins. True strength is your, urm, mental? Mentality! True strength is knowing you can beat anyone in your path, putting your head in the game and not letting anyone tell you otherwise ! And when you beat your opponent that’s when you can feel satisfaction for crushing them like the insects they are."

Putting his long, pale hands back into his pockets as they began to take on a slight chill, Valentin cocked his head to the side and peered into Alaric’s eyes. The seeker’s unusual purple eyes regarded him only calmly as their analytical shine faded into a soft, even affectionate, gaze.

“You’re right that part-humans can have unique abilities, and I agree with you that true strength comes from one’s mentality. I think that’s quite wise. Yet, you just negated your own point. If a part-human has the finest mentality, with strong confidence and unwavering dedication to accomplishing their task, then neither their blood nor their special talents really matter. By your reasoning, any part-human can beat you if they just have a better mentality than you. Come now, Alaric, you can do better than that. Show me.”

In quite a different way, Nichlas went on to bait the young beater with what seemed to Valentin to be an obvious trap. “Why, if you are such a respectable pure blood, are you not settling your arguments like a wizard would? He’s shoved you, gave you quite the knock back and you will be just taking it? Or are you going to offer a truce like a coward because you admit you are outmatched, if so you needn’t just sweet talk and admit your defeat. Like how did you say, an ‘Echter Mann’?” There should have been no clear reason why Alaric wouldn’t have his own word, Valentin figured, and probably Alaric would naturally prefer his own over a stranger’s when it came to fighting. After all, most people formed strong bonds with their own wands, even if Valentin never had. With Nichlas’s setup, Valentin had to wonder over the upperclassman’s motives – was this intended to get back at Alaric for his racist remarks, was it because Nichlas had come to feel safe making a target out of #29 for sheer amusement, or was Nichlas simply wanting to see Alaric have to eat his own ego in a manipulative sort of mentorship? As much as Valentin was curious if Alaric was perceptive enough to avoid walking into Nichlas’s setup, he was far more intrigued by what drove everyone into their particular strategies and mindsets. How did Slava get to be so ardently anti-racist? Did Alaric’s logic go any deeper than dirt smeared across his mind’s surface by someone in his environment? What did Nichlas hope to get out of trapping Alaric?

“Show us what you’re made of, Alaric, in whatever way makes sense to you,” Valentin added, wanting to see the depths of #29's true colours rather than having to watch the fallout of Nichlas's deception.

Abilities: Keen Eye / Charmer / Evasive Maneuvers / Fearless / Comprehend Parseltongue
Stats: STA 8 - EVA 20 - STR 3 - WIS 15 [17] - ARC 1 - ACC 15
Dialogue in Russian unless stated otherwise

==

Writing as approved Durmstrang iNPC Vyacheslav Aleksandrovich Preobrazhensky All Slava’s speech in this thread is assumed to be in Russian unless otherwise stated

Alaric responded to him in German, an irritating choice that forced Slava to have to listen more carefully to pick out words that he could recognize. “Stop hiding in a different language.” Was the boy even aware that he wasn’t speaking the common language that most Durmstrang students shared? Was he so unstable that he couldn’t even stick to a language and keep his thoughts straight? Slava could guess at enough of what was being said, though. “I’m not saying I want to marry them, I just think they should be treated with dignity. Like people. Why is that so hard for you?”

He was eleven. Of course he was eleven. No wonder he sounded like such a baby—he practically was one. No doubt he was just parroting the prejudiced beliefs he had heard from his family and from students at Durmstrang, but still, it was no excuse. Being so blinded by hate that he couldn’t recognize other people as worthy of basic respect wasn’t something Slava could just accept because he was a child. What about the other children—the Muggle-borns and part-humans? What about them? Such hate could kill them, or at the very least make their lives miserable. Did those children not deserve love too? Did they not deserve opportunities, a chance to simply exist and learn just because other, more stupid children insisted on hating them?

"I am Alaric Leopold Havertz. I do NOT need diapers any longer!" Slava stared at Alaric, who was wide-eyed with his mouth hanging open and fists clenched. There was a delay of a few seconds, and then Slava burst into laughter. What a petulant, pathetic child. “If you say so.” He snickered. Was it wrong to enjoy the humiliation of someone? There was no doubt that Alaric deserved it—humiliation was the mildest of consequences that were appropriate for him to face for such hateful words—but perhaps it shouldn’t amuse the Russian quite so much.

However, there was no amusement present by the time he shoved Alaric back, sending the boy falling to the ground. "You didn’t have to push me that hard!" the kid protested. "You’re picking on the little guy!" “Oh, grow up. You shouldn’t have pushed me if you couldn’t handle it. Don’t start fights you can’t finish,” Slava retorted, unbothered. Alaric began rambling about “true strength”—what did the little twerp know of true strength? He was neither mentally nor physically strong, by the looks of it. All he had was this regurgitated, racist crap that he chose to parrot. Some strength that was.

Slava snorted. “Your blood is worth nothing if you’re so weak you have to resort to calling people names instead of practicing for the game or coming up with actual strategies to beat them.” "And when you beat your opponent that’s when you can feel satisfaction for crushing them like the insects they are!" “They’re still opponents, it’s not like I’d go easy on them. And I know I will beat those that stand in my way. Are you sure you can say the same?” Valentin then proceeded to point out the contradictions in Alaric’s statement with easy eloquence, although Slava doubted the kid would actually listen to any of it. He didn’t seem to care for reason at all.

Alaric even had the audacity to ask for an apology from Slava. Why should Slava “put aside their differences”? Morals aside, there was also the fact that this little pest was no threat to him if their conflict was to escalate. He posed no danger to him. Slava was bigger and significantly stronger, and while he did not excel in magic, he was still nearly a seventh year. He had certainly learned a thing or two, possessing the advantage of many years of experience that Alaric lacked. What could a little eleven year old do to him? Nothing. The answer was nothing. There was no physical risk for Slava—at least nothing that mattered—if he didn’t apologize.

But the kid had presented the option of peace. Of letting this conflict fizzle out and letting everyone go back to normal. However, Slava could not choose that, no matter how tempting it was. Considering apologizing was absolutely out of the question, and making peace another way was simply not an option either, because to do so meant letting the racist win. He could not back down from conflict just because it risked making people uncomfortable when the whole reason they were arguing in the first place was because Alaric’s words were harmful and bigoted. It wasn’t just some petty “argument” that Slava was dragging out, these weren’t some insignificant “differences”, this was a denial of others’ rights, of their intrinsic value as people—regardless of humanity—who had thoughts and feelings and who brought so much beauty and diversity to the world, and yet Alaric was insistent that they were beneath him and deserved to suffer.

“Firstly, it’s Slava, not Slav. Vyacheslav may be too long for you, but I think you can handle the complexity of five letters,” he corrected scornfully. “And alright? You’re a second year. Just because you haven’t heard of my name doesn’t mean there are Muggles in my family.” There are other reasons to defend people aside from being one of them. He sighed, mildly theatrically, sounding like he was tired of having to deal with such complete stupidity. Which he was. “If you want to demand respect, make sure you deserve it first. You don’t.” He said the last part saccharinely, the false sweetness almost sounding pitying.

Alaric’s hand had been extended for a handshake as he had said "What do you say?" “Oh, I don’t know.” Slava hummed, pretending to consider it. “Do you deserve it? You’ve demonstrated that you’re nothing more than a hateful little pig. Do you deserve the dignity of a handshake?” It was then that another voice spoke up, drawing Slava’s attention. He wasn’t quite sure what to make of Nichlas. While Alaric ran his mouth, making his beliefs, mental state, and capabilities clearly known, Nichlas seemed to prefer to keep quiet, observing. Slava had felt the other’s eyes on him throughout the conversation, tracking his every move, judging the decisions he made with every word. It was almost like Nichlas was watching a game unfold in front of him, and the Swede was determined to learn the strategy. But now that that had finished, he had chosen to manipulate the pieces and take control of the board.

Nichlas was questioning Alaric’s decisions, pointing out that not only had he chosen to back down and offer a truce—“like a coward”, Nichlas had said—but he was also a pureblood who had shoved Slava instead of using magic. The eighth year was clearly provoking Alaric further, pushing the kid to act. But to what end? Slava eyed Nichlas warily. What game was he playing? And then he spoke to Slava, telling him to let Alaric have his revenge. The Russian just stared. Now why the hell would I do that? And the justification for that was that Slava had been “rising to the bait of a little child”? “It’s not bait, it’s racism,” he said firmly with a glare. “And why should I? I don’t care if he’s a child, he’s causing pain. He’s old enough and stupid enough to hurt people, so he can handle a little shove in return. What does he have to get revenge for? He spewed racist insults and then pushed me.”

Slava didn’t intend to stop Alaric from trying to “have his revenge”, if that was what he chose. Again, the kid posed very little danger to him. He did, however, mentally ready himself to dodge if necessary, a near imperceptible movement occurring as he shifted his weight slightly, evenly distributing it over both feet to better be ready to move in any direction. Meanwhile, Valentin told Alaric to show them what he was made of in whatever way made sense to him. What a curious prompt. The three older boys had all, in their own ways, now demanded action from Alaric. For Slava, it was through his bluntness and relentless challenging of Alaric, refusing the weak attempts at peace. For Nichlas, it was by prodding at Alaric, reminding him of the inadequacy he had been displaying so far and encouraging magical violence as the solution. And for Valentin, it was through particularly neutral wording that encouraged a bit of extra thought, because what choice Alaric made when prompted to think of his own values would be entirely on him, potentially shaking off some of the provocation of the other two. Well, this would surely be interesting…