Vale sat alone in the Slytherin common room, the early morning light casting emerald shadows through the lake-filtered windows.
Last night's confrontation with Malfoy had created a fascinating divide among his housemates. Some looked at him with newfound respect, others with wariness.
The political landscape had shifted overnight, and Vale found himself at the center of an ideological battle he hadn't fully anticipated.
Raw power versus established order. Meritocracy versus aristocracy.
Vale twirled his wand between his fingers, studying its grain. The elderwood felt warm against his skin, almost responsive to his touch. Yet something wasn't quite right in their relationship.
"Too much current, not enough conduit," Vale muttered to himself.
His spellcasting had been effective so far—suspiciously so—but he'd noticed subtle inconsistencies.
Sometimes the magic flowed too eagerly, causing the tip of his wand to spark unnecessarily. Other times, he felt resistance, as if the wand itself was struggling to channel the torrent of his power.
Vale had been relying on brute magical force rather than finesse. That approach wouldn't work for long. The first-year spells were simple enough that overwhelming them with power still produced the desired results. But as the curriculum advanced, precision would matter more than strength.
He closed his eyes, feeling the Obscurus shifting within him like dark water. It wasn't just an entity anymore—it was becoming an extension of his consciousness, responding to his intentions rather than just his emotions.
"I need control," Vale whispered, opening his palm and letting his wand roll across it. "Not just power."
The race between him and Malfoy had evolved beyond a simple rivalry. Malfoy represented centuries of established magical hierarchy, the comforting stability of tradition. Vale embodied something else entirely—raw potential unbound by lineage, threatening to upend the established order.
If Vale wanted to win, he needed more than just impressive displays. He needed mastery.
Vale waited until the common room emptied before retrieving The Unwritten Arts from his trunk. He had wrapped it carefully in a spare robe, concealing its distinctive cover from prying eyes.
The book seemed to pulse with anticipation as he placed it on the polished table before him.
"Let's see what secrets you're hiding," he murmured, running his fingers over the worn leather binding.
The book fell open naturally to a chapter titled "The Deconstruction of Intent."
Vale's eyes widened as he absorbed the dense text, which suggested that all spells could be broken down into three components: will, focus, and channel.
"Traditional spellcasting assumes these elements must remain in fixed proportion," he read, "but this represents a fundamental misunderstanding of magical nature."
Vale's mind raced. If spells weren't fixed formulas but malleable constructs, then perhaps his struggle with his wand wasn't a limitation but an opportunity.
He turned to a page containing intricate diagrams of wand movements, showing how slight variations could dramatically alter a spell's effect.
Beneath one illustration was a handwritten note: "The spell is not in the words but in the space between thought and action."
Vale glanced around the empty common room before drawing his wand. He attempted a simple Lumos charm, but instead of focusing on the incantation, he concentrated on the feeling of light itself—the warmth, the illumination, the dispelling of darkness.
The wand tip flickered uncertainly, then steadied into a glow that seemed somehow different from the standard charm—warmer, more natural, as if the light were emanating from within the wood rather than being conjured through it.
"Fascinating," Vale whispered, extinguishing the light with a thought.
He returned to the book, flipping to a section on magical resonance. "A wizard's power is not a well to be drained but a current to be directed," it stated.
"The truly skilled practitioner does not force magic but aligns with its natural flow."
Based on this, Vale realized that he'd been approaching magic like a battering ram when he should have been treating it as a river to be guided. His Obscurus wasn't just raw power—it was a different kind of magical consciousness altogether, one that required its own methods of control and expression.
He settled deeper into his chair, immersing himself in study. This wasn't just academic curiosity anymore — it was survival.
* * *
Over the next three days, Vale immersed himself in Hogwarts' routine, attending classes with precision while making subtle adjustments to his approach to magic.
In Transfiguration, Professor McGonagall demonstrated turning matchsticks into needles once again as it wasn't something everyone had been able to succeed in.
While other students struggled with the precise wand movements, Vale focused on the conceptual shift—the essence of sharpness and metal replacing wood and sulfur.
"Mr. Windrow," McGonagall said, examining his perfectly formed silver needle, "your technique is... unorthodox, but effective. Five points to Slytherin."
Vale caught Granger staring at him from across the room, her eyes narrowed in analysis rather than judgment.
During Herbology, Vale worked alongside Hannah Abbott, their partnership continuing despite Malfoy's earlier threats.
"You're good with the Bouncing Bulbs," Hannah noted as Vale deftly repotted the jumping plants. "They usually don't settle for anyone."
"They respond to intention," Vale replied. "They can sense fear."
Hannah smiled. "Like most things at Hogwarts, I suppose."
In Charms, Professor Flitwick had them practicing the Levitation Charm. Vale deliberately moderated his power, focusing on precision rather than strength. His feather rose steadily, hovering exactly where he intended.
"Well done, Mr. Windrow," squeaked Flitwick. "Most controlled first attempt I've seen today!"
As Vale left the classroom, Neville approached him hesitantly.
"That dittany you gave me... Professor Snape asked where I got it."
Vale's eyes narrowed. "What did you tell him?"
"Nothing," Neville whispered. "I just said I found it in my bag. I don't think he believed me, but—"
"Smart,"
Vale nodded.
"Some kindnesses are better kept quiet."
On the third day, Vale encountered the Weasley twins in a corridor. They were huddled over what appeared to be a piece of parchment, arguing in hushed tones.
"—doesn't make sense, Fred. He just appears and disappears—"
"—like he knows when we're looking—"
They fell silent as Vale passed, their identical faces showing uncharacteristic seriousness.
"Problem, gentlemen?" Vale asked mildly.
"No problem at all, little snake," Fred (or was it George?) replied with a forced grin.
"Just pondering the mysteries of Hogwarts," added the other twin.
Vale smiled thinly. "Aren't we all."