The following morning, whispers filled the corridors like restless ghosts.
Everywhere Cael turned, students were talking about the night before. The news had spread like fire: Sirius Black had broken into the castle. Some claimed he had nearly reached the Gryffindor dormitory. Others insisted he'd been seen wandering the third floor, knife in hand. There was no official story—only fear.
Even among the bravest students, unease had settled in. The Fat Lady's torn portrait was all the confirmation anyone needed. Someone had attacked her. Someone dangerous.
And most shaken of all was Harry.
He sat quietly through breakfast, his hands unmoving over his toast, eyes clouded with disbelief. It was clear the attack had rattled him. To think the man who had betrayed his parents—who he believed had murdered his mother —had been so close. So near. It left him visibly distant, distracted.
Classes continued regardless. Hogwarts always moved on.
That afternoon, Cael found himself descending into the dungeons for Potions—one of the few subjects he endured rather than enjoyed. The class was shared with Slytherin, and as always, tension simmered beneath the surface like an unstable brew.
When the lesson ended, students gathered their supplies and hurried out. The air was thick with the smell of burned wormwood and stewed root extract. Cassandra Vole lingered behind, pausing beside Cael as he packed his things.
"You coming?" she asked quietly.
Before Cael could respond, a cold voice sliced through the haze.
"Miss Vole, you may leave. I need a word with Mr. Vale."
Cassandra turned, startled. Snape stood at his desk, his black robes unmoving, his expression unreadable. His eyes, however, were sharp—sharper than usual.
Cael nodded faintly to Cassandra. She hesitated, gave Snape a wary glance, then left the room without a word.
Cael slung his bag over his shoulder and approached the front. "You wished to speak with me, Professor?"
Snape's reply came slowly, his tone quieter than usual, but colder. "Yes, Mr. Vale. I have many questions for you."
Cael raised an eyebrow. "By all means. Ask away. I'll answer whatever I can."
Snape studied him with a look that could freeze fire. "Where were you last night—during the break-in?"
Cael didn't answer immediately. His eyes narrowed slightly. "Why? Are you implying that I had something to do with it?"
Snape didn't blink. "I don't know. Perhaps. After all, Sirius Black is your uncle, is he not? A boy longing for a father figure… who knows what such loneliness can justify?"
Cael's face didn't change, but his voice grew colder. "Firstly, I was with Hermione Granger last night. She can confirm that. Secondly… if I wanted to sneak my so-called uncle into Gryffindor Tower, I wouldn't need a torn portrait to do it. Believe me—there are far more efficient ways to smuggle a fugitive into a castle I know better than my own home."
Snape's lips curled into a sneer. In one sudden motion, he stepped forward, grabbed Cael by the collar, and pulled him closer.
"Don't be a smartass, boy," he hissed, barely above a whisper. "From the day you arrived, I've watched you. Arrogant. Reckless. Disrespectful. You meddle where you don't belong. You act as if Dumbledore's protection gives you immunity. But I warned you, even in your first year, not to play with fire."
Cael remained calm, eyes locked with Snape's. "What is this really about, Professor?" he asked coldly. "Is it my bloodline? The Black name? Is that why I'm standing here while Slytherins walk free?"
Snape's gaze narrowed. Without warning, Cael felt a presence push against his mind.
Legilimency.
He met the intrusion instantly. Cael's mental shields flared to life, solid as stone. With practiced force, he slammed the door shut in Snape's face and took a sharp step back.
"You just attempted to invade a student's mind," Cael said quietly. "That's illegal. Dishonorable. Especially on someone my age."
Snape's sneer didn't falter. "I used it on a potential accomplice to a criminal who infiltrated a school filled with children. I stand by my decision."
Cael's voice dropped even lower. "You're not interested in justice. You're interested in revenge. You hate the name Black. You hate the name Potter. And now you have their children in front of you—so you torment us. Harry. Me. You enjoy it, don't you?"
Snape's black eyes stared into his.
"What do you get from it?" Cael pressed. "Satisfaction? Punishment for something long past? Is this about your war? Or is it just your nature?"
Snape's expression finally cracked—not in anger, but in something darker. His hand twitched.
Then, without a word, he launched another mental assault.
Cael blocked it again, firmer this time. You'll find nothing, Professor.
Snape's face twisted. "At your age, you should not have mastered Occlumency," he said coldly. "There's something not right about you."
Cael didn't flinch. "Perhaps. But there's definitely something not right about you, Professor. Where I come from, in the Muggle world, we call men like you—men who enjoy the suffering of children—psychopaths."
That was the final blow.
Snape's face darkened like a storm cloud. "Out," he said through clenched teeth. "Out of my sight."
Cael turned without another word. He shouldered his bag and walked toward the door. Just as he reached it, Snape's voice cut through the silence one last time.
"I'll be watching your every move."
⸻
The corridor outside was dim, but Cael didn't care. As soon as the door closed behind him, he let the shield of Occlumency drop—and a wave of fury surged through him. His fists clenched. His jaw tightened. His breath came fast and shallow.
They all look at me like I'm dangerous, he thought. Even Harry. Every time I pass him, he watches me like I'm going to turn on him. Like I'm helping the man who murdered his mother .
He walked faster, seething.
"System," he muttered aloud, voice low and sharp. "I'm tired of this. Tired of the looks. The suspicion. The hypocrisy."
"As you wish," the System replied. Her voice was quiet. No sarcasm this time. Only one sentence:
It's on you to decide.
Cael's eyes burned as he stared down the long corridor. His reflection flickered in the cold windowpane—older than he should be. Harder than he wanted to be.
Forget the timeline, he thought. Forget the canon. I'm done waiting. I'm going after him.