It's always something when it's Slytherin and Gryffindor because the school can never let go of that senseless rivalry, but it's something Cloud's always chalked up to ideals clashing. Not that he should care; he's a Hufflepuff. But the other students can never seem to calm down a week before or a week after the game, and it honestly has nothing to do with anything except the people on the teams. The captains. Rumor has it Angeal is grooming Zack to take over when he graduates, and Sephiroth... well, there's always a lot of talk about him. Even his fan club – comprised of every house in the school – keeps scrolls of info on him, and really, Cloud could care less about that too. He could care less about everything, ducking out of his last class early to race to the pitch for some last minute practice of his own before they blocked off the field for the big game.
Surprisingly, it's empty. Or mostly. There's a lone figure standing just beneath the nearest goals, strands of his overly long hair flying away in the wind. Despite the approaching storm just on the horizon, something about him seems to glimmer, and Cloud slows his steps, fingers tightening around the handle of his broom. He'd met Sephiorth several years ago—a meager third year to his fifth. Something had sparked between them that day, a weird sense of destiny that Cloud didn't like to think about, and now, rounding out his own fifth year, it hadn't really gone away. Most of the time, he tried to avoid him if he could, but since Zack was one of his best friends and hung in Sephiroth's very small circle of friends, it was nearly impossible to ignore him all the time. Case in point: now. It made him uncomfortable to continue walking along that path towards him, conscious of where his wand is tucked away beneath his robes, and when he blinks, he's staring up at him with an odd kind of desperation he'd thought he'd swallowed a year ago.
Why couldn't anyone else have been out there with them? Why is he just standing there staring like a dazed first year?
A drop of rain hits the back of his neck, and– oh. That. )
Where's the rest of your team?
( It just pops out of his mouth without hesitation, a stupid question that's followed by the immediate presence of a sharp blush burning his ears. He hopes Sephiroth misinterprets it as the slightest bit of exertion or maybe a fluctuation in temperature instead, casting a look down the length of the field and already itching to climb the broomstick in his hand and get away from all this. But his stubbornness glues his feet to the ground, and if anything, he'll just wish him good luck on the upcoming game and make a run for it before something else happens. )
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It's always something when it's Slytherin and Gryffindor because the school can never let go of that senseless rivalry, but it's something Cloud's always chalked up to ideals clashing. Not that he should care; he's a Hufflepuff. But the other students can never seem to calm down a week before or a week after the game, and it honestly has nothing to do with anything except the people on the teams. The captains. Rumor has it Angeal is grooming Zack to take over when he graduates, and Sephiroth... well, there's always a lot of talk about him. Even his fan club – comprised of every house in the school – keeps scrolls of info on him, and really, Cloud could care less about that too. He could care less about everything, ducking out of his last class early to race to the pitch for some last minute practice of his own before they blocked off the field for the big game.
Surprisingly, it's empty. Or mostly. There's a lone figure standing just beneath the nearest goals, strands of his overly long hair flying away in the wind. Despite the approaching storm just on the horizon, something about him seems to glimmer, and Cloud slows his steps, fingers tightening around the handle of his broom. He'd met Sephiorth several years ago—a meager third year to his fifth. Something had sparked between them that day, a weird sense of destiny that Cloud didn't like to think about, and now, rounding out his own fifth year, it hadn't really gone away. Most of the time, he tried to avoid him if he could, but since Zack was one of his best friends and hung in Sephiroth's very small circle of friends, it was nearly impossible to ignore him all the time. Case in point: now. It made him uncomfortable to continue walking along that path towards him, conscious of where his wand is tucked away beneath his robes, and when he blinks, he's staring up at him with an odd kind of desperation he'd thought he'd swallowed a year ago.
Why couldn't anyone else have been out there with them? Why is he just standing there staring like a dazed first year?
A drop of rain hits the back of his neck, and– oh. That. )
Where's the rest of your team?
( It just pops out of his mouth without hesitation, a stupid question that's followed by the immediate presence of a sharp blush burning his ears. He hopes Sephiroth misinterprets it as the slightest bit of exertion or maybe a fluctuation in temperature instead, casting a look down the length of the field and already itching to climb the broomstick in his hand and get away from all this. But his stubbornness glues his feet to the ground, and if anything, he'll just wish him good luck on the upcoming game and make a run for it before something else happens. )