Vale stepped into the common room, taking in the scene with practiced calm.
The Slytherin common room had arranged itself into an impromptu arena—students lounging on green leather sofas and high-backed chairs, pretending to study while their eyes tracked every movement.
The greenish light from the lake windows cast everyone in the same sickly pallor, turning faces into masks.
Malfoy stood by the fireplace, flanked by Crabbe and Goyle. Their hulking forms cast long shadows across the stone floor.
"Windrow," Malfoy drawled, his voice carrying across the suddenly quiet room. "We need to discuss your place in Slytherin."
Vale raised an eyebrow, strolling casually toward an empty chair. "My place? I wasn't aware I needed your permission to exist, Malfoy."
A few snickers rippled through the room. Malfoy's pale face flushed.
"You've been making quite the impression," Malfoy continued, stepping forward. "For someone with no name, no connections, and apparently no understanding of how things work here."
Vale settled into the chair, crossing one leg over the other. "Enlighten me, then."
"Slytherin has a hierarchy. Those with proper wizarding heritage—" Malfoy's eyes narrowed, "—lead. Those without, follow."
Vale felt the Obscurus stirring beneath his skin, eager for release. He let a fraction of its power seep into his voice.
"And you believe you're at the top of this hierarchy?"
The words came out with an unnatural resonance that made several students shift. The flames in the fireplace flickered, shadows deepening around Vale.
"I know I am," Malfoy sneered, though his confidence wavered slightly. "My family has been—"
"Yes, yes, the illustrious Malfoys," Vale interrupted, allowing himself to stand. As he did, the candles throughout the common room dimmed momentarily. "Old money, older blood. I've heard it all before."
Vale took a step toward Malfoy, and the air between them seemed to compress. Several books on nearby shelves trembled, pages rustling without a breeze.
"But you see, Draco," Vale said softly, letting the magic build visibly around him—just enough to be impressive, just controlled enough to seem deliberate—"there are different kinds of power."
Vale took another step toward Malfoy, feeling the magic churning beneath his skin.
The Obscurus was eager, too eager, and he had to channel it carefully. This wasn't about losing control—it was about demonstrating it.
"For instance," Vale said, his voice dropping to a whisper that somehow carried across the silent room, "raw magical potential."
He raised his hand slightly, palm up. The air above it shimmered, condensing into a swirling sphere of darkness shot through with iridescent streaks. Not the full Obscurus—just a taste of it, shaped and contained.
Several first-years gasped. A sixth-year prefect leaned forward, eyes narrowing with academic interest.
The orb pulsed, and every candle in the common room flared bright before dimming again. Books on nearby shelves trembled, and a glass of water on a side table vibrated until it shattered.
"What most wizards spend years learning to control," Vale continued, watching Malfoy's eyes widen as the sphere grew, "some of us simply... have in abundance."
The magic crackled around him, making his robes flutter without wind. Several students backed away, but Nott remained seated, observing with calculating eyes.
Crabbe and Goyle shifted in growing discomfort, looking to Malfoy for direction. Malfoy himself stood frozen, his hand hovering near his wand but not quite daring to draw it.
"This is the kind of accidental magic children display," Vale said, letting the sphere expand until it was the size of a Quaffle, "before they learn to restrain themselves."
With a casual flick of his wrist, Vale sent the sphere upward where it dissolved into wisps of shadow that spiraled through the air before vanishing. As they disappeared, the broken glass on the side table reassembled itself perfectly.
"The difference is," Vale said, meeting Malfoy's gaze steadily, "I'm not having an accident."
A grin began forming on Vale's face. His venomous tone growing caustic.
"…And I don't need a wand to turn your entire body into mush."
Vale watched the ripple effect of his demonstration spread through the common room.
The younger Slytherins looked at him with a mixture of fear and awe, while the older students displayed shrewd interest — mentally filing him away as someone to either ally with or avoid.
Malfoy stood frozen, his face cycling through emotions faster than he could mask them. First shock, then fear, then—most interestingly—a flash of wounded pride that hardened into something uglier.
Vale ran the probabilities in his mind, betting his very soul on Malfoy's next move. There were four clear paths:
Fight back immediately—twenty percent chance. Malfoy was proud but not stupid. He'd seen enough to know he was outmatched magically, at least in raw power.
Retreat with dignity—fifteen percent chance. This would require more emotional maturity than Malfoy had demonstrated so far.
Report to Snape—thirty percent chance. A strategic move that would appear weak in the moment but potentially devastating later.
The most likely outcome—thirty-five percent—would be rage channeled into calculated revenge. Malfoy would save face now but plot something more substantial when Vale wasn't expecting it.
Vale watched as Malfoy's jaw clenched, the muscles in his neck tightening. His hand had stopped its movement toward his wand, but his fingers still twitched with the desire to draw it.
Crabbe and Goyle looked uncertain, their usual instinct to intimidate physically rendered useless by Vale's display.
"You think you're clever, don't you, Windrow?" Malfoy finally said, his voice struggling to maintain its usual drawl. "Parlor tricks won't change who you are — or rather, who you aren't."
Vale noticed how Malfoy's eyes darted briefly to the older Slytherins, gauging their reactions. His next words would be chosen carefully, not just for Vale but for his audience.
Vale watched Malfoy's careful pause, recognizing the political manoeuvre for what it was.
Malfoy wasn't just speaking to him anymore—he was performing for the older Slytherins who had gone suspiciously quiet.
"Power without lineage is just borrowed magic," Malfoy announced, his voice carrying to the far corners of the common room.
"My father says the Ministry has been tracking anomalies lately—sudden surges of unexplained magic from nobodies with questionable backgrounds."
Several sixth and seventh years exchanged glances. Vale noticed how their attention sharpened.
"The Sacred Twenty-Eight families have maintained magical purity for centuries," Malfoy continued, straightening his posture. "We understand magic because it runs in our blood. But lately, there have been... incidents. Unstable magic. Dangerous outbursts."
A prefect with a family ring nodded slightly.
"My father sits on the Board of Governors," Malfoy said, his confidence returning as he played to his real audience. "He's particularly concerned about unknown elements infiltrating Hogwarts. Elements that might pose a danger to legitimate wizarding heirs."
Vale felt the temperature in the room shift. This wasn't just about a personal rivalry anymore. Malfoy was framing him as a threat to established order—to the very families that these older Slytherins belonged to.
"So enjoy your little display, Windrow," Malfoy said with a smirk. "The professors might be impressed with your tricks, but those of us with real stakes in the wizarding world know better than to trust magic that comes from nowhere."
Several of the older students were now looking at Vale with suspicion rather than curiosity.
Malfoy had successfully recast Vale's power demonstration as something dangerous and untrustworthy — a direct challenge to the aristocratic foundations of wizarding society.
It was pretty impressive for an 11-year-old. Malfoy had a knack with words, and Vale simply couldn't deny that.
'Fun,'
However, Vale didn't mind this small setback. This was the back-and-forth of political strife, after all. Now, he had to bide his time.
Those who agreed with his views would eventually come to his side.
This was just the beginning.