The marble stairs of Hogwarts always glowed with a cold white light in the early morning.
Slytherin students were accustomed to walking in groups along the West Corridor, their robes sweeping across the stone steps with an innate arrogance and aloofness.
Baelon leaned against a stone pillar, nonchalantly twirling a Pen someone had given him.
He was exceptionally handsome, with clear and sharp features and a cool, pale complexion.
When he smiled, the corners of his eyes curved slightly; he didn’t try to be approachable, yet he possessed an aura that made it impossible to look away.
The passing Slytherin seniors glanced at him frequently, with curiosity, appreciation, and even some undisguised affection.
He was never one to suffer in silence.
He remembered every word of Lucius Malfoy’s threat and Draco’s arrogance that day.
The matter of the House-elf was not urgent; he had already planned it out, and it wouldn’t be too late to act next year.
But right now, Draco Malfoy was right before his eyes, leading Goyle and Crabbe with a bossy attitude, causing a faint, cold smile to flicker in the depths of his eyes.
If there is a grudge, it doesn’t have to wait, but sometimes there is no need to be impulsive either.
A hunter’s greatest asset is patience.
Baelon set off, leisurely walking toward the group of Slytherin students.
He didn’t initiate a conversation, but as he passed a senior girl, he gave a slight nod, his voice clear and pleasant: “Sorry, excuse me.”
With just that one movement and one sentence, the tips of that senior girl’s ears turned slightly red.
She quickly stepped aside to let him pass, her gaze trailing after his back.
Not far away, Draco was frowning while giving orders to Goyle and Crabbe: “Can’t you two walk faster?
You’re as slow as Trolls.
If you delay my trip to the Library, you’ll regret it.”
Goyle scratched his head with a simple and honest look, not daring to argue.
Crabbe kept his head down, submissive, acting entirely like a lackey.
Baelon paused, stopping right where several Slytherin seniors were gathered.
He spoke as if in passing, his tone relaxed and natural, without the slightest hint of deliberation: “Speaking of which, I’ve always found it quite strange.”
A senior girl with brownish-gray hair immediately responded, her tone showing extra care for him: “What’s strange?” Demanded the girl.
Baelon looked calmly at the trio, his voice neither too loud nor too soft, just enough for those around him to hear clearly:
“Look at Goyle and Crabbe; their builds are so steady, they have plenty of strength, and they can keep up with the spells in class.
They clearly seem very reliable.”
He paused, his tone flat as if he were simply making an observation:
“Always following behind someone like this is perhaps a bit too much of an injustice to them.”
The senior girl understood immediately, raised an eyebrow slightly, and followed his lead:
“Indeed.
The young master of the Malfoy family has always had quite a temper.”
“If it were me, with that kind of build, I wouldn’t let myself be ordered around like that all the time,” another senior boy added in a low voice.
Baelon didn’t say anything more, only curled his lips slightly and turned to leave.
A light touch was enough.
Over the next week or two, everything proceeded as usual, without any abruptness.
At the breakfast table, he would “happen” to sit near several Slytherin seniors, watching Goyle help everyone move trunks or Crabbe steadily catch a falling Cauldron, sighing softly as if unintentionally:
“Steady strength and quick reactions—companions like these are actually quite rare.”
When he encountered Draco scolding the two for inaccurate spells in the corridor, he wouldn’t step forward but would instead chat quietly with a familiar senior girl:
“Actually, their spells just now were only missing a finishing gesture; they weren’t bad.”
During Flying Class, when Goyle and Crabbe landed their Broomsticks more steadily than many of their classmates, Baelon watched from a distance and gave a faint smile to the senior boy beside him:
“See, they actually have a lot of talent.”
He never said a bad word about Draco, nor did he ever directly instigate Goyle or Crabbe.
Every word was merely an objective compliment, a bit of regret, or a faint sense of “it’s not worth it for them.”
To the Slytherins, however, it was like steeping tea in warm water, slowly drawing out the dissatisfaction and calculations already present in their hearts.
Those seniors who had a good impression of Baelon would unconsciously take his words to heart and then, at the right time, casually relay, echo, and agree with them.
No one felt this was a scheme; they only saw it as a normal evaluation.
Goyle and Crabbe also began to notice the changes little by little over those two weeks.
Before, if they did even a small thing wrong, everyone around them would just join Draco in laughing at their stupidity.
But now, an upperclassman would occasionally say calmly:
“It’s just a small problem; just correct it.”
“You guys actually did quite well.”
These words weren’t many, but they were like seeds quietly falling into their hearts.
For the first time, they vaguely realized that they didn’t seem to be limited to being just the lackeys by Draco’s side.
They could also be recognized, respected, and treated as equals.
This afternoon, after Charms Class ended.
Draco was in a terrible mood because he hadn’t performed a spell well, and as soon as he stepped out, he took his anger out on the two of them.
“It’s all because of you two, standing there in the way and distracting me!” His face was sour, his tone biting.
“Good for nothing but causing trouble—besides following me, what else can you even do?”
In the past, Goyle and Crabbe would only lower their heads and admit fault without a word.
But this time.
Goyle slowly raised his head, his eyes no longer filled with the usual simple-minded cowardice, but with a few hints of stiff defiance.
Crabbe didn’t shrink behind Draco anymore either; he just stood there, silently looking at the ground.
Draco was stunned, and his anger flared even more: “You dare to stay silent?!”
Nearby, several Slytherin seniors passed by.
Among them, the senior girl familiar with Baelon glanced over and spoke in a calm tone that carried undeniable weight:
“Draco, mistakes in spellcasting are common; blaming others is not quite the Slytherin way.”
Another senior boy also added a sentence, his voice not high but clear enough:
“Goyle and Crabbe’s spells just now were steadier than yours.”
Draco’s face instantly turned bright red, filled with both shock and rage: “You—”
Before he could finish, Goyle suddenly spoke, his voice hoarse, but for the first time, he didn’t back down:
“We are not your servants.”
Crabbe also nodded slightly, his voice low but firm:
“We can use magic too.”
Passing students all looked over; some had the smile of someone watching a show, while others nodded subtly.
Not a single person stepped forward to defend Draco.
Behind a stone pillar not far away, Baelon stood quietly, taking everything in.
There was no expression on his face, only a very faint curve in his eyes that was too quick for anyone to catch.
A week or two of patience and a few casual compliments, relayed through the mouths of Slytherin seniors, had slowly bolstered Goyle and Crabbe’s confidence and punctured Draco’s self-important control.
No Dark Arts, no threats, no direct confrontation.
He had simply flicked the most vulnerable part of the human heart.
Draco’s most prized influence and his two most convenient lackeys were, in this silent manner, beginning to loosen, crack, and head toward a fallout.
Baelon turned and walked slowly away from the corridor.
The sunlight fell on his shoulders, warm and clean.
No one could tell that this seemingly handsome and harmless first-year student had just quietly dismantled Draco Malfoy’s right-hand men.
He would never forget the oppression and malice the Malfoy father and son had shown him.
The matter of the House-elf would wait until next year.
As for this small debt in front of him, he had already taken the first step and quietly collected the interest.
This is only the beginning.