After Herbology, Vale took his seat in the dungeon classroom once more, arranging his potions ingredients with methodical precision. The air was damp and cool, carrying the faint scent of herbs and preservatives that lined the shelves. The Slytherin-only potions session meant fewer distractions—no Gryffindors to antagonise, no Hufflepuffs to defend.
Just Snape's unrelenting gaze.
Vale could feel it the moment the Potions Master swept into the room, black robes billowing behind him like the wings of some great bat. The man's eyes locked onto Vale with an intensity that would have unnerved most first-years.
…But Vale wasn't most first-years.
"Today," Snape began, his voice barely above a whisper yet commanding absolute silence, "we will, individually, be brewing a simple Calming Draught. The instructions are on the board."
With a flick of his wand, spidery writing appeared on the blackboard. "Begin."
Vale worked with quiet efficiency, crushing valerian roots with the flat of his blade, measuring moonstone powder to the exact gram. All the while, he felt Snape circling the room, pausing longer behind Vale's chair than anyone else's.
"Your technique is... adequate, Windrow," Snape commented, his breath disturbing the steam rising from Vale's cauldron. "Though I wonder where you learned to handle a silver knife with such... familiarity."
In his past life, Vale went to a Culinary School in Paris for a while. His skill with the knife was indeed as Snape described. Adequate.
Knowing this, he didn't look up. "Practice makes perfect, Professor."
"Indeed." Snape's voice carried a note of suspicion. "Curious that Professor McGonagall mentioned your exceptional control during Transfiguration. Professor Sprout, too, noted something... unusual about your herbology work."
Vale carefully added three drops of lavender oil to his potion, watching it turn from murky gray to a clear, pale blue. "I pay attention in class, sir."
"Do you?" Snape leaned closer, his voice dropping further. "Or perhaps there's more to your... attention than meets the eye. Pressure without contact. Magic without a wand. Most unusual for a first-year, wouldn't you agree?"
Vale finally looked up, meeting Snape's dark eyes with his own calm gaze.
"I simply apply myself, Professor," Vale said, his voice measured. "Is that not what Hogwarts encourages?"
Snape's lips thinned. "Indeed. Though one wonders where a first-year might have... practiced... before arriving."
Especially since the boy had been on house arrest and on Dumbledore's watchlist for a while.
From three tables away, Draco Malfoy's eyes narrowed. Vale could feel the blonde boy's gaze boring into him, still smarting from their earlier confrontation and the humiliation in Herbology. As Snape moved away to criticize Crabbe's lumpy concoction, Malfoy seized his opportunity.
A small, dark object sailed through the air, landing with a soft plop in Vale's cauldron.
Vale didn't flinch. He'd seen the movement from the corner of his eye—anticipated it, even. The potion bubbled violently, turning an alarming shade of purple.
Several Slytherins leaned away from their desks. Parkinson's eyes widened in gleeful anticipation of disaster.
Vale felt the Obscurus stir within him — a dark, protective surge. He quelled it with sheer force of will, instead reaching for his silver knife. With a deft movement, he scooped the foreign object from his cauldron before it could fully dissolve.
A rat spleen. Classic sabotage for a Calming Draught—it would have caused the potion to emit noxious fumes at best, explode at worst.
"Problem, Windrow?" Snape's voice cut through the tension.
"No problem at all, Professor," Vale replied, setting the dripping spleen on his cutting board. "Just removing an... unexpected ingredient."
His eyes met Draco's across the room. The pale boy's smug expression faltered as Vale smiled—not the uncertain smile of a first-year, but something older, colder.
'Oh, how fun,'
* * *
Vale left the Potions classroom with a small vial of perfectly brewed Calming Draught tucked inside his robes. Despite Malfoy's sabotage attempt, he'd not only salvaged his potion but earned a reluctant nod from Snape.
The whole process was just like baking pastries with chemicals. Simply following the recipe was no problem — even when faced with sabotage.
The satisfaction of Malfoy's stunned expression lingered as Vale made his way across the castle grounds. He was headed toward the training field where their first flying lesson would take place.
* * *
The autumn air carried a crisp edge, rustling the grass beneath his feet. Vale spotted the neat rows of broomsticks laid out on the ground and the gathering clusters of students in green and red. Slytherin and Gryffindor—a volatile combination by design.
"There he is," Nott muttered as Vale approached. "Heard Malfoy tried to blow up your cauldron."
Vale's lips curved slightly. "He'll need to try harder than that."
Across the field, Draco stood with Crabbe and Goyle, occasionally glancing in Vale's direction with poorly concealed malice. Near them, Vale spotted Neville fidgeting nervously with his robes, while Harry Potter and his friends huddled together, casting wary looks at the Slytherins.
What a beautiful sight.
Madam Hooch arrived, her hawk-like eyes surveying the first-years with brisk efficiency. "Well, what are you waiting for? Everyone stand by a broomstick. Come on, hurry up."
As they lined up, Vale positioned himself strategically, several spots down from Malfoy but with a clear line of sight. The flying instructor began barking instructions about commanding their brooms.
"UP!"
Voices shouted across the field.
Vale's broom shot into his hand immediately and maybe a bit too forcefully, the worn wood vibrating with an eagerness that matched his own overflowing emotions he could barely rein in.
He noted that Malfoy's did the same, while Neville's merely rolled over and Potter's jumped up with surprising force.
Perfect. The stage was set.
While Madam Hooch corrected grips and stances, Vale reached out with the subtlest tendril of his Obscurus, invisible to the naked eye.
He'd been practicing this fine control for weeks—the ability to extend his influence without manifesting the telltale black mist.
All he needed was the right moment.
Therefore.
Vale observed the flying lesson with calculated patience.
Madam Hooch paced between the rows, adjusting Nott's grip and chastising a Gryffindor girl for holding her broom like a feather duster. When she turned to help Longbottom, who trembled with anxiety, Vale saw his opportunity.
With subtle concentration, Vale extended a wisp of his Obscurus toward Malfoy's broom. The tendril slipped beneath the polished handle, not to sabotage it completely, but to loosen the binding charms just enough.
It was an application of the destructive nature of his Obscurus.
"Now, when I blow my whistle, kick off from the ground, hard," Madam Hooch instructed. "Keep your brooms steady, rise a few feet, and then come straight back down by leaning forward slightly."
Vale felt the anticipation build as the whistle blew. Students rose shakily into the air. Some with confidence, others with terror.
Malfoy, ever the show-off, kicked off with excessive force, his face smug as he rose higher than instructed.
That's when Vale's subtle manipulation took effect.
The binding charms on Malfoy's broom handle flickered. Nothing dramatic. Nothing that would cause serious injury… but just enough to make the broom buck unexpectedly.
Malfoy's expression transformed from arrogance to shock as he slid sideways, hanging momentarily by his hands before dropping unceremoniously to the ground.
He landed with a thud and a yelp, his robes tangled around his legs.
"Mr. Malfoy!" Madam Hooch strode over. "I said a few feet only!"
"It wasn't me!" Malfoy sputtered, his face flushed with humiliation as several Gryffindors snickered. "The broom— it just—"
"Clearly you weren't holding it properly," Hooch said dismissively. "Up you get."
Vale allowed himself a small, satisfied smile as he descended gently to the ground.
When Malfoy's furious gaze met his, Vale offered only an innocent shrug, but his eyes conveyed the message clearly: Attempt to sabotage me again, and next time will be worse.
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