The weeks following the Dementor incident passed in a blur of hushed whispers and curious glances. Vincent, however, remained steadfast in his routine. He attended classes, excelled in his studies, and spent countless hours in the Room of Requirement, honing his magic and physical skills with a discipline that bordered on obsession.
The whispers didn't bother him. In fact, he used them to his advantage. Fear, he'd learned long ago, could be a more effective weapon than any spell or blade. And fear, coupled with a healthy dose of respect, was precisely the cocktail he intended to serve his fellow Slytherins.
He'd observed the dynamics of the House carefully during his time at Hogwarts. Beneath the veneer of aristocratic arrogance and pureblood pride, there was a simmering undercurrent of ambition, a hunger for power that mirrored his own. The older students, accustomed to ruling the roost, had grown complacent, their ambition dulled by privilege and tradition.
Vincent, however, was a disruption, an anomaly in their midst. He'd proven his mettle, not through lineage or empty boasts, but through sheer force of will and undeniable skill. And slowly, subtly, the power dynamics began to shift.
Those who had once viewed him with suspicion, their prejudice fueled by his Muggle-born status, now sought his advice, his approval. He became a confidante, a strategist, a leader in the making. His ambition, once a guarded secret, became a beacon, drawing others to his flame.
"You've become a right terror, Van Doren," Blaise said one evening, watching with amusement as a group of fifth-years practically tripped over themselves to get out of Vincent's way in the common room.
"Efficient," Vincent corrected, his gaze not leaving the chessboard where he was systematically dismantling Theodore Nott's defenses.
"Ruthless, more like," Theodore muttered, his usual composure cracking slightly as he moved his rook into an ill-advised position.
Vincent smirked, capturing the rook with his bishop. "Efficiency demands a certain…decisiveness."
Daphne, who'd been observing the game with a mixture of amusement and something akin to admiration, nodded in agreement. "He's right, you know. Those idiots were ripe for the taking. They just needed a little…encouragement."
"Encouragement?" Blaise snorted. "You make it sound like gardening, Greengrass. This is a viper pit, and Van Doren's just crowned himself King Cobra."
Vincent chuckled softly, the sound devoid of humor. "There are worse things to be in this world, Zabini, than a king."
Cassius Warrington was not accustomed to feeling…inadequate. As a seventh-year Slytherin and a descendant of a long line of pureblood wizards, he'd always moved through the hallowed halls of Hogwarts with an air of entitlement that bordered on arrogance.
Until Vincent Van Doren arrived.
At first, Warrington had dismissed the younger boy as an anomaly—a fluke that would surely fade with time. But as Van Doren's reputation grew—the effortless defeat of Malfoy, the whispered rumors of advanced magic, the unwavering respect he commanded from their peers—Warrington began to feel a gnawing sense of unease.
It was more than just envy. It was a matter of principle. Slytherin House was built on tradition, on bloodlines, on a certain…purity. And Van Doren, for all his power, was a stain on that legacy, a constant reminder that their world was changing, shifting in ways they couldn't control.
"This has gone on long enough," Warrington said, his voice tight with suppressed fury as he addressed his fellow seventh-years, gathered in a shadowy corner of the common room.
"He's just a third year," Montague, his second-in-command, scoffed. "A flash in the pan. He'll learn his place soon enough."
"He's already taken his place," Warrington spat, his eyes flashing dangerously. "He's leading the House, Montague. Leading it astray. We need to remind him who's really in charge."
"What are you suggesting?" asked a scrawny boy with nervous eyes, his voice barely a whisper.
Warrington's lips curled into a cruel smile. "We teach him a lesson. A lesson in respect. A lesson in Slytherin values."
The plan, hatched in the dead of night with the help of a particularly dimwitted fifth-year prefect, was as simple as it was predictable. Vincent was summoned to a supposed meeting with Professor Snape, a blatant fabrication.
As Vincent approached the designated classroom, Warrington and his cronies, wands drawn and hidden behind a strategically placed tapestry, could barely contain their anticipation.
"Remember," Warrington hissed, his voice a venomous whisper. "No permanent damage. Just a little reminder that some wizards are born better than others."
The doorknob rattled, and for a moment, the world seemed to hold its breath.
The door swung open, revealing Vincent Van Doren framed in the dim light of the corridor. He paused on the threshold, his gaze sweeping over the empty classroom, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes.
He suspects something, Warrington thought, a surge of adrenaline quickening his pulse.
"Professor Snape?" Vincent called out, his voice echoing in the stillness of the room.
"Now!" Warrington roared, leaping from behind the tapestry, wand outstretched. His cronies followed suit, their faces a mix of bravado and poorly concealed fear.
Four spells, a haphazard barrage of jinxes and hexes, shot towards Vincent, their combined force enough to knock a full-grown troll off its feet.
But Vincent didn't flinch.
In the split second before the spells struck, a shield of shimmering energy, a Protego cast with almost casual precision, materialized in front of him, deflecting the attacks with a resounding clang.
Warrington felt a cold knot of fear twist in his gut. He was ready for us.
Vincent's eyes, usually cool and calculating, now burned with a cold fire. He raised his own wand, its tip glowing with a dangerous intensity.
"Honestly," he said, his voice laced with a chilling calm, "I expected something more…creative."
He moved then, a blur of motion that defied Warrington's expectations. A flick of his wrist sent a Stupefy spell hurtling towards Montague, who crumpled to the floor with a groan. Another flick, and a jet of red light, a Confringo aimed with pinpoint accuracy, erupted from his wand, blasting a hole in the tapestry behind which two of Warrington's cronies were cowering. They yelped, scrambling back in terror.
Within seconds, the classroom was a scene of chaos. Warrington, his initial bravado evaporating like morning mist, found himself facing Vincent alone.
"You…you're just a Mudblood!" he spat, his voice trembling despite his attempt at a menacing growl. "You don't belong here! You'll never be one of us!"
Vincent's expression didn't change. He simply tilted his head slightly, his gaze as sharp and cold as a winter wind.
"You're wrong, Warrington," he said, his voice low and dangerous. "I already am one of you. And you're about to learn exactly what that means."
Before Warrington could react, Vincent was upon him, his movements fluid and precise, years of training honing his body into a weapon as lethal as any spell. He disarmed Warrington with a swift twist of his wrist, the older boy's wand clattering to the floor.
Warrington lunged, fists clenched, but Vincent sidestepped the clumsy attack with ease, his expression a mix of disappointment and disgust. He landed a swift kick to Warrington's gut, the air whooshing out of the older boy's lungs in a pained gasp.
"You're pathetic, Warrington," Vincent said, stepping closer, his voice laced with icy disdain. "I was onto your little scheme from the start. Professor Snape asking for a private meeting? Please. Even Crabbe and Goyle could have come up with something more believable."
Warrington, doubled over in pain, glared up at Vincent, hatred burning in his eyes.
"This isn't over, Van Doren," he wheezed. "You may have won this time, but you'll pay. You'll see."
Vincent chuckled, the sound devoid of mirth. "Threats? Really, Warrington? That's all you have left?"
He crouched down, his face inches from Warrington's. "Let's be clear," he said, his voice a low, menacing whisper. "I need to make an example out of you. But I can't have Dumbledore breathing down my neck. So, I'll have to be…creative."
He straightened, his gaze cold and calculating. "I won't touch your face," he said, his voice almost conversational. "No visible bruises. But trust me, Warrington, you'll be feeling this for a very long time."
And with that vincent removed his robe and was left only with his white shirt and rolled up his sleeves
He proceeded to beat up Cassius Warrington and his remaining cronies, each blow precise and brutal, targeting pressure points and soft tissue, leaving them writhing on the floor in agony, but with nary a mark on their faces to betray the extent of their humiliation.
When he was finished, Vincent surveyed the scene, a grim satisfaction settling in his gut. there was a certain…clarity…that came with exerting his power, with reminding those who dared to underestimate him of the consequences.
"Don't mistake this for mercy, Warrington," he said, his voice as cold as ice. "This is a lesson. Learn from it."
He turned and strode out of the classroom, leaving the whimpers and groans of his defeated "enemies" echoing behind him.
A few hours later news of the "classroom incident" spread through Slytherin House like wildfire. Whispers, laced with awe and a healthy dose of fear, followed Vincent wherever he went. Even the most ardent pureblood supremacists, those who clung to the notion of blood purity with a fervor that bordered on fanaticism, regarded him with a newfound respect.
The five seventh-years, nursing their bruised egos and aching bodies, remained suspiciously silent. Humiliation, Vincent knew, was a powerful silencer, particularly among those who prided themselves on their image of invincibility.
He'd made his point. Slytherin House, for all its serpentine cunning and penchant for power plays, was now his.
"You've outdone yourself this time, Van Doren," Blaise said, shaking his head in disbelief as they lounged in the common room one evening. "Turned Warrington into a whimpering mess without lifting a finger to his precious face. Genius."
"I'm not sure 'genius' is the right word," Daphne said, her brow furrowed in thought as she studied Vincent with an intensity that made him shift uncomfortably in his seat. "It was…calculated. Brutal. But effective."
"Precisely," Vincent said, his tone neutral. He didn't need their approval, not truly, but he couldn't deny a certain satisfaction at the way they looked at him—a mix of admiration, caution, and something that flickered dangerously close to fear.
"So, what now?" Theodore asked, his voice quiet but laced with a hint of unease. "You've "conquered" the House. What's next on the agenda? World domination?"
Vincent chuckled, the sound devoid of amusement. "Don't be ridiculous, Nott. There's plenty to be done here at Hogwarts. Besides, world domination is such a…cliché." Meanwhile in Vincent's mind he was laughing.
He paused, his gaze drifting to the crackling flames in the fireplace, his mind already plotting the next move in his intricate game.
"Slytherin House needs to change," he continued, his voice taking on a steely edge.
He met their gazes, his eyes holding a challenge. "We need to be better than this. Smarter. More adaptable. We need to prepare ourselves for the future."
His words hung in the air, a stark contrast to the usual Slytherin rhetoric of blood purity and disdain for all things Muggle. Blaise, for once, seemed speechless.
Daphne, however, met Vincent's gaze with unwavering intensity, her lips curving into a slow, knowing smile.
"I believe you're right, Vincent," she said, her voice soft but firm. "And I, for one, am ready to help."
The days that followed were a whirlwind of activity. Vincent, with a newfound sense of purpose, set about reshaping Slytherin House in his image. He encouraged academic excellence, rewarding those who excelled in their studies and punishing those who slacked off. He fostered a sense of unity, downplaying the usual emphasis on blood status and encouraging collaboration between purebloods and half-bloods.
He even extended a tentative hand of friendship to the younger students, including Daphne's sister, Astoria, a wide-eyed first year who regarded him with a mix of awe and hero worship.
"Vincent's amazing, isn't he?" Astoria gushed one afternoon, her face flushed with excitement as she sat with Daphne in the common room.
Daphne, her lips curving into a fond smile, nodded. "He is…remarkable. But don't let him hear you say that. He hates being called 'amazing.'"
"Why?" Astoria asked, her eyes wide with innocent curiosity.
Daphne chuckled. "Because he's Vincent. He'd rather be feared than adored."
Astoria considered this for a moment, then her face brightened. "Maybe he can be both!"
Daphne laughed, shaking her head. Astoria's boundless optimism was endearing, a stark contrast to her own more reserved nature.
"Perhaps you're right, little sister," she said, her gaze drifting to where Vincent was engaged in a heated debate on magical theory with Theodore Nott. "Perhaps you're right."
Not all of Slytherin embraced Vincent's vision, of course. There were whispers of dissent, mutterings about "Mudblood interference" and "betraying tradition." But those whispers were muted, drowned out by the growing tide of admiration for Vincent's undeniable leadership.
Even the pureblood elitists, those who clung to their archaic beliefs with a stubbornness that bordered on delusion, couldn't deny his effectiveness. Slytherin House, under his guidance, was thriving. They were winning the House Cup, excelling in their studies, and projecting an air of confidence and unity that had been lacking in recent years.
Vincent's influence extended beyond the confines of Slytherin House. He became a sought-after tutor, helping students from other houses master difficult spells and concepts. He even found himself in occasional conversations with Hermione Granger, their shared Muggle background providing a common ground that transcended their House rivalry.
One afternoon, as they sat together in the library, poring over a particularly dense tome on Arithmancy, Hermione looked up at Vincent, her brow furrowed in thought.
"You've changed Slytherin House, you know," she said, her voice soft. "It's…different now. Less…hostile."
Vincent shrugged, trying to downplay his role in the transformation. "People adapt. Circumstances change. It's just…evolution."
Hermione studied him for a moment, her gaze sharp and intelligent. "I think it's more than that, Vincent," she said. "I think you're changing things. Intentionally."
He met her gaze, his expression unreadable. "Perhaps," he said, his voice neutral.
She seemed to sense his hesitation, her lips curving into a knowing smile.
"Just be careful, Vincent," she said, her voice low. "Power can be seductive. Don't let it consume you."
One of the most anticipated lessons of third year was Professor Lupin's class. The Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom buzzed with nervous excitement as students speculated about what their teacher had prepared for them.
Lupin, with his calm demeanor and encouraging smile, was a welcome change from Lockhart's flamboyant incompetence. He explained the nature of boggarts — shape-shifting creatures that fed on fear, taking on the form of whatever terrified their victim the most.
The lesson began with a demonstration, Lupin expertly dispatching a boggart that transformed into a full moon with a well-placed "Riddikulus!" charm, turning it into a harmless, deflated balloon.
One by one, students faced their fears, the classroom erupting in laughter as Neville's grandmother morphed into a flamboyant fashion disaster, and Ron's giant spider shrunk to the size of a beetle.
When it was Vincent's turn, a hush fell over the room. Everyone, even those who pretended not to be, was curious to see what lay beneath the surface of his preternatural calm, what secrets lurked in the depths of his mind.
Vincent stepped forward, his expression unreadable as he approached the wardrobe where the boggart was lurking. He drew his wand, his movements fluid and practiced.
The wardrobe creaked open, and for a moment, nothing happened. The air hung heavy with anticipation, the silence stretching into an uncomfortable eternity.
Then, with a soft pop, the boggart emerged.
Or rather, it didn't.
There was no shape, no form, just a swirling emptiness where the creature should have been. It seemed to hesitate, as if confused, its formlessness flickering like a dying flame.
Vincent stood perfectly still, his wand raised, his gaze fixed on the empty space before him. A collective gasp rippled through the classroom.
"What…what is it?" Lavender Brown whispered, her voice laced with fear.
"I don't know," Ron muttered, his eyes wide. "It's like…nothing."
"It can't decide what to become," Harry said, his voice low. "It's never encountered anyone like him before."
Lupin, his brow furrowed in thought, watched the scene unfold with an intensity that belied his usual calm demeanor.
"Mr. Van Doren," he said finally, his voice gentle but firm. "What do you see?"
Vincent didn't reply. He simply stood there, his gaze unwavering, his expression a mask of impenetrable calm.
The boggart, as if sensing its failure, let out a thin, whimpering sound and retreated back into the wardrobe, vanishing without a trace.
A stunned silence filled the classroom.
"Well," Lupin said, clearing his throat awkwardly, "that was…unexpected. Perhaps the boggart is simply…indisposed today. Mr. Thomas, would you care to give it a try?"
Dean Thomas, his face pale, stepped forward cautiously, eager to escape the unsettling silence that followed Vincent's encounter. The boggart, apparently recovered from its brief existential crisis, readily transformed into a severed hand, sending Dean scrambling back with a yell.
The lesson continued, but the memory of Vincent's encounter with the boggart lingered, a whisper of mystery that seemed to follow him like a shadow. What had the creature seen, or rather, not seen, that had caused it to retreat in confusion?
No one dared to ask, but the speculation, fueled by fear and fascination, only served to further solidify Vincent's enigmatic reputation.
The remainder of the year passed in a flurry of exams, Quidditch matches, and the usual Hogwarts drama. Vincent watched from afar as the events of Sirius Black's escape and eventual capture played out, his interest piqued more by the political implications than the personal dramas of the Golden Trio.
He continued his meetings with Hermione in the library, their conversations ranging from academic debates to philosophical musings on the nature of magic and the future of the wizarding world. He also found himself spending more time with Daphne, drawn to her sharp intellect and shared ambition.
Blaise teased him mercilessly about his burgeoning friendship with Daphne.
"You two are practically inseparable these days," he'd say, waggling his eyebrows suggestively. "Next thing you know, you'll be holding hands and skipping through the Forbidden Forest, singing love ballads to unicorns."
"Don't be ridiculous, Zabini," Vincent would retort.
During the day of their visit to Hogsmeade, Daphne, with a boldness that surprised even herself, asked Vincent to walk with her along the snow-covered path that led back to the castle.
"I was wondering," she said, her voice a little hesitant, her breath misting in the cold air, "what are your plans after Hogwarts?"
Vincent considered her question for a moment, his gaze fixed on the snow-dusted trees lining the path. He couldn't tell her the truth, not yet. Not until he'd solidified his position, gathered his allies, and set his plan in motion, he couldn't tell her how that he would basically steal potter's spotlight and he would kill Voldemort
"I'll probably take over the family business," he said finally, his voice carefully neutral. "Expand it. Maybe even branch out into the wizarding world."
It wasn't a complete lie. He would likely inherit his grandparents' vast fortune and business empire. But his ambitions extended far beyond spreadsheets and board meetings. He intended to reshape the wizarding world, to prepare it for the inevitable day when the Statute of Secrecy crumbled, and magic was no longer a hidden secret.
"That sounds…ambitious," Daphne said, her lips curving into a smile. "I imagine you'll be quite successful."
"I will try," Vincent replied, a hint of pride creeping into his voice.
They walked in comfortable silence for a while, the only sounds were their footsteps crunching in the snow and the distant chatter of other students returning to the castle.
As they neared the Hogwarts gates, Daphne turned to Vincent, her cheeks flushed from the cold, her eyes shining with a warmth that made his heart skip a beat.
"Thank you for walking with me, Vincent," she said softly. "It's been…a lovely afternoon."
"The pleasure was all mine, Daphne," he replied, his usual formality cracking a little. He surprised himself by reaching out and gently tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear.
Daphne's eyes widened slightly, then she leaned forward, her lips brushing against his cheek in a feather-light kiss.
"See you at the feast," she whispered, her voice barely audible above the wind.
She turned and hurried towards the castle, leaving Vincent standing there, the lingering warmth of her touch a stark contrast to the chill of the winter air.
The end-of-year feast was a predictable affair. Dumbledore, his beard twinkling with an almost manic glee, recounted the year's triumphs and tribulations, praising the students for their resilience and reminding them of the importance of unity in the face of adversity.
Slytherin, predictably, won the House Cup, their victory secured by a combination of academic excellence, strategic rule-bending, and a healthy dose of intimidation courtesy of their resident prodigy.
However, this year's top student award went to Hermione Granger, her dedication to her studies resulting in a frankly ridiculous number of O.W.L.s, all with top marks. Vincent had opted for a more streamlined approach, focusing on Arithmancy and Ancient Runes, subjects that aligned with his long-term goals.
As the students boarded the Hogwarts Express, a bittersweet mix of exhaustion and anticipation hung in the air. The journey back to London was a welcome respite, a chance to unwind and reflect on the year's events.
Vincent found himself in a compartment with Daphne, Blaise, and Theodore, the familiar rhythm of the train a soothing counterpoint to the whirlwind of thoughts swirling in his mind.
"So, Van Doren," Blaise said, leaning back in his seat, a mischievous glint in his eye, "any grand plans for the summer? Aside from plotting global domination, of course."
"Sleep," Vincent replied without hesitation. "And maybe some rune work."
The train pulled into King's Cross Station, signaling the end of another school year. Vincent bid farewell to his friends, promising to owl them over the summer. As he turned to leave, Daphne caught his arm, her touch sending a jolt of electricity through him.
"Wait," she said, her cheeks flushed, her eyes shining with an intensity that made his heart skip a beat. "I… I'd like you to meet my parents."
Vincent was taken aback. He hadn't expected this. He'd met Daphne's parents briefly at the Yule Ball, but they'd exchanged only polite pleasantries.
"Your parents?" he echoed, trying to mask his surprise.
"They're here to collect me," Daphne explained. "They're…eager to meet the boy who's saved me from the dementor."
She blushed, a rare display of vulnerability that made her even more appealing. Vincent, despite his usual aversion to social niceties, found himself nodding in agreement.
"Alright," he said. "Lead the way."
Daphne's parents, Cyrus and Danielle Greengrass, were waiting for them near the station entrance. Cyrus, a tall, imposing man with a hawkish nose and a steely gaze that reminded Vincent of a seasoned general, greeted him with a firm handshake. Danielle, her blond hair pulled back in an elegant chignon, her eyes a softer echo of Daphne's, offered him a warm smile.
Astoria stood next to Daphne after saying goodbye to her first year friends.
"Vincent, it's a pleasure to finally meet you properly," Cyrus said, his voice deep and resonant. "Daphne has told us so much about you."
"All good things, I hope," Vincent replied smoothly, his years of navigating the treacherous waters of high society serving him well.
"Indeed," Danielle said, her eyes twinkling. "Daphne rarely speaks so highly of anyone. You must be quite extraordinary."
They chatted for a few minutes, the conversation a carefully orchestrated dance of polite inquiries and vague reassurances. Vincent learned that Cyrus was a prominent member of the Wizengamot, the wizarding court, and that Danielle was a renowned potions mistress. They were purebloods, of course, but their lineage held a certain…quiet dignity, a worldliness that set them apart from the likes of the Malfoys.
As Vincent prepared to leave, Cyrus placed a hand on his shoulder, his grip surprisingly strong.
"Daphne seems quite fond of you, Vincent," he said, his voice low and serious. "Please watch over her."
"I will, sir," Vincent replied, meeting his gaze with unwavering confidence. He wasn't sure where his relationship with Daphne was heading, but he knew that he wouldn't tolerate anyone, not even her father, dictating his actions.
He bade farewell to the Greengrass family, a strange mix of anticipation and unease swirling within him. He'd just crossed a threshold, stepped into a world of ancient traditions and complex alliances.
As he climbed into the waiting black Mercedes, the familiar scent of leather and polished wood a welcome contrast to the chaos of the station, he knew that his life was about to get a whole lot more complicated.
The summer stretched before him, a tapestry of possibilities and hidden dangers. He had plans to make, alliances to forge, and a world to reshape. And as the car pulled away from the station, Vincent leaned back in his seat, a slow, calculating smile curving his lips.
Next year would change everything.