During the first week of term, Vincent had no interaction with Theodore Nott whatsoever.
Or perhaps he did, as they shared Charms and Herbology classes.
Vincent would occasionally observe Theodore’s behavior without the slightest pretense of hiding it.
Theodore could feel his gaze and understood what he was thinking.
Had it been another prominent Slytherin pure-blood, a scene would likely have broken out by now.
Fortunately, Theodore kept a low profile and preferred not to get involved in troublesome matters.
Apart from giving a warning glance when Vincent went too far, Theodore rarely responded to his observations.
*This Ravenclaw might be a lunatic,* Theodore thought.
Ravenclaw wizards were famous for being obsessed with learning.
They either became bookworms who knew only how to read, brilliant talents renowned far and wide, or madmen obsessed with some niche domain unknown to others.
It wasn’t that other houses lacked such people, but the nature of Ravenclaw made them draw attention more easily.
It seemed that whenever British wizards thought of someone going mad from overstudying, their mind instantly went to Ravenclaw.
Taking the stance of not fussing over a madman, Theodore lived quite comfortably—at least far quieter than Draco Malfoy.
The heir-presumptive of the Nott family couldn’t understand: when Malfoy was raising his son, had he never taught him how to maintain a semblance of decorum?
Term had barely begun, and he had already fallen out with Gryffindor’s Savior.
How were they to work together for the next seven years?
How would he handle himself when entering the Ministry of Magic in the future?
While Theodore internally disapproved of Draco Malfoy’s excessively high-profile behavior, in a quiet corner of his heart, he silently envied young Malfoy.
No matter what foolish things Draco Malfoy pulled off, his father would always step in to bail him out.
But his own father…
Theodore didn’t even want to mention him.
Back then, if his mother hadn’t turned the tide, the Nott family might have suffered a devastating blow for colluding with the Dark Lord.
Yet even though his mother had exhausted herself to preserve the Nott family and passed away when he was five, his father—Nott Senior—still cared only about Dark Magic and how to gain greater power from it.
Thoughts welled up one after another in Theodore’s mind, yet his face retained its cold, detached expression.
In Slytherin, he was like a lone wolf; he had classmates he could talk to, but no friends worth bonding with.
Unlike Draco, who needed cronies accompanying him wherever he went, Theodore was aloof and understated—hardly resembling the heir of an ancient pure-blood family.
He wasn’t showy in the slightest.
Yet Vincent never doubted it.
On the contrary, he felt that true pure-blood pedigree should be as solid and composed as Theodore was.
Vincent’s days after term started were uneventful, spent shuttling between classrooms, the library, and the dormitories.
While life at Hogwarts was certainly full of magic and charm, nothing particularly thrilling had happened yet for Vincent.
Even Harry came looking for him far less often to resolve his Potions homework.
He wondered if Professor Snape had finally decided to spare the poor Savior.
However, this tranquility was shattered by the gossip of other young wizards.
During a break between classes, a group of students gathered, talking excitedly: “Have you heard? Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy got into a fight during their first Flying Class!”
Overhearing this by chance, Vincent immediately felt a bad premonition rise in his chest.
Whenever Harry and Malfoy were involved together, he didn’t expect any good news.
Harry Potter, the famous Boy Who Lived, was known to everyone in the wizarding world.
Draco Malfoy, hailing from a pure-blood Slytherin family, was likewise a rather eye-catching presence.
They could be said to occupy half of Hogwarts between them, while Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff took up twenty-five percent each.
If kings never met kings, it might have been a nice arrangement.
But neither looked like the type to back down; if someone stepped over the line, an explosive mess was bound to follow, beyond what anyone could handle.
Vincent decided to find Harry and ask about the situation.
He had to ensure that the experimental subject he had spent so many years cultivating remained intact.
Yes, an experimental subject—he would never admit that such a foolish guy was his friend.
He shouldn’t have friends in the first place.
He found Harry at the Quidditch pitch, practicing his flying skills.
Harry darted nimbly through the air on his broomstick.
Seeing Vincent wave to him from below, he glided down slowly.
“Vincent! I didn’t expect to see you here. Did you come specially to watch me practice on a broomstick? I’m honored—I remembered you didn’t like this kind of sport.”
Suddenly seeing his familiar friend, Harry was like an opened faucet, words pouring out all at once.
“Harry, I heard you had a conflict with Malfoy during your first Flying Class. Is that true?”
Vincent asked directly, his eyes scanning up and down.
Harry, still sitting on his broomstick, wasn’t injured; he wasn’t missing arms or legs, and he wasn’t dead.
Harry nodded, a trace of helplessness on his face.
“Yeah. Malfoy took Neville’s Remembrall and was showing off. I couldn’t just stand by, so I went after him.”
Vincent frowned.
“Why would Malfoy do such a thing?”
As someone who valued logic above all else, Vincent sometimes could not fathom the senseless actions of foolish people.
What could be gained from an unthankful task besides a brief surge of adrenaline and dopamine-fueled pleasure?
It brought no benefits or future supply, serving only to bring endless trouble upon oneself.
Harry clenched his fist.
“To show off. He thought having a good broomstick meant he could bully anyone he pleased. But in the end, I got the Remembrall back.”
The young wizard standing on the grass nodded.
Indeed a very foolish thought, fitting almost perfectly with his current stereotype of pure-blood families.
The only person who broke that stereotype for him was Theodore Nott.
Thinking of the name again, Vincent’s brow furrowed.
Lately, he seemed to be paying far too much attention to that experimental subject.
That shouldn’t be happening.
Even if Theodore was the subject he had chosen that best met his criteria, he shouldn’t receive this much focus.
How could Harry have guessed that his self-proclaimed best friend, who had come specifically to inquire about him, was currently thinking about someone else?
Seeing Vincent frown, Harry assumed he was worried about whether he had gotten hurt.
“Don’t worry, Vincent, I didn’t get hurt at all. In fact, it turned out to be a blessing in disguise!”
Harry smiled slightly.
“After Professor McGonagall saw how I flew, she called me aside—”
He deliberately paused there.
Vincent sighed, playing along with his intent to ask:
“Why did Professor McGonagall call you over? Was she going to punish you?”
Harry’s eyes sparkled with excitement.
“She told me she’s recommending me as Gryffindor’s Seeker! I couldn’t believe my ears!”
Vincent complied, speaking in a dry tone with the words Harry likely wanted to hear: “Wow, Seeker. That’s a vital position in a Quidditch match. Congratulations, Harry.”
Words so flat they were virtually monotone were still enough to make Harry delighted.
He naturally knew what kind of temperament his friend had; that Vincent was willing to offer even a couple of flattering words was plenty satisfying for Harry.
He scratched his head.
“Thanks! I was really surprised too, but I really love Quidditch. It feels amazing to be a Seeker. Before this, I never knew there was a sport I could love so much. I used to think I wasn’t good at sports at all.”
“Nonsense. Whenever Dudley Dursley tried to hit you, you ran remarkably fast. If you hadn’t become a wizard, you might well have turned into a sprinter.”
Vincent’s joke was hardly top-tier, but Harry still wore a brilliant smile.
He hovered on his broomstick for a moment, then suddenly remembered something and lowered his broom, floating down.
“Vincent, there’s something I need to tell you. Do you remember that corridor Headmaster Dumbledore mentioned at the start of term?”
“The forbidden area off-limits to students. I remember. Don’t tell me you’ve already snuck in less than half a term into the year.”