A hush fell over the Great Hall, and every student nearby turned their attention toward the confrontation. Professor McGonagall stood near the doorway, lips pressed thin as if she meant to step forward and stop it, but something seemed to make her pause, and in the end she remained silent, watching everything unfold with sharp, unreadable eyes.
Gregory Goyle and Vincent Crabbe lumbered into place behind Malfoy. At the same time, Daphne Greengrass came resolutely to Roger Williams's side, lifting her chin as she met Malfoy's stare without flinching.
The numbers stood at three against two, and on the surface, Malfoy appeared to have the advantage. The air around the Slytherin table tightened at once, because every young snake understood that this had already stopped being a simple quarrel.
At that moment, Marcus Flint shouted from the Slytherin table at exactly the wrong time. "What do you think you're doing?"
He did not want an internal conflict within his House displayed publicly in front of everyone else. If Slytherin embarrassed itself over a Gryffindor, the other Houses would laugh about it for weeks.
"You're fighting among yourselves over some stupid, insignificant—" Marcus roared, his two large front teeth making him look even more ridiculous in his anger. "Over someone who has nothing to do with us?"
Roger turned and looked at Marcus. His gaze was cold, quiet, and meaningful enough that a chill ran down Marcus's back before he could stop it.
Marcus immediately felt humiliated by his own reaction. He was a fifth-year, a prefect, and a Quidditch player, so how could he possibly be intimidated by the stare of a first-year?
"Anyone not choosing a side should return to their seat," Roger said.
His tone carried the weight of a warning, and for one strange moment, it sounded less like a first-year speaking and more like the Slytherin prefect correcting someone beneath him. Only then did Marcus realise the nature of the dispute before him.
On the surface, it looked childish and absurd. Beneath that, however, it was a contest between pure-blood families, and charging into the middle of it without understanding the lines being drawn was a mistake.
"You…" Marcus's face darkened, but he swallowed the rest of his words and sat back down.
The Flint family had chosen neutrality, perhaps because they felt the conflict was too childish to be worth involvement. The other young Slytherins gave Marcus ambiguous, mocking looks, their lips curling faintly as if silently saying that he did not have to take a side, but at least he should not make himself look more foolish than a Gryffindor.
Feeling those stares, Marcus knew his authority had taken a serious blow. He slammed a fist against the table, using impotent anger to cover the panic rising inside him.
"Williams, look at the person you're helping," Malfoy said, turning his contempt back onto Neville.
He shoved Neville hard enough to make the boy stumble. The Rememberall glowed red in Malfoy's hand, bright and helplessly fragile between his pale fingers.
"I stole your things, and you still don't dare say a word," Malfoy sneered. "Come on, Neville. Shout that Longbottom is a coward, and I'll give your rubbish back."
"Neville, stand up," one of the young Gryffindors whispered urgently. Others joined in, encouraging the boy as he curled inward with his shoulders hunched, looking as though he wanted to disappear under the table.
"It seems the Longbottom family's courage has completely vanished in you," Roger said coldly.
His gaze swept over Neville like a blade, then he turned as if he truly meant to leave. He would not fight Neville's battle for him, because if Neville could not even stand up to Malfoy over his own stolen property, then no one else's help would matter.
Seeing Roger turn away, Malfoy's mockery grew even more arrogant. "You've even forgotten how to spell courage, haven't you?"
"Malfoy, give me back my Rememberall!"
Neville suddenly stood up. His eyes were wide, his face was red, and his voice cracked slightly in a way that might have been funny under different circumstances, but the force of the roar silenced the Great Hall.
"What did you say?" Malfoy froze.
He had never expected Neville to defy him. That awkward, cracking shout landed like a slap across his face, and for a moment he seemed more shocked than angry.
"Give me back my Rememberall!" Neville shouted again.
"Hmph. Just you wait," Malfoy said, his face gloomy.
He tossed the Rememberall back to Neville and stalked out of the Great Hall with Crabbe and Goyle following behind him. The moment he left, loud applause burst from the Gryffindor table.
The young lions cheered as though Neville had defeated a dragon rather than simply demanded his own property back. Brave Neville had defeated the annoying Malfoy, and for a few shining seconds, the boy stood there clutching his Rememberall with stunned disbelief.
"The Weasleys' courage is always foolishly excessive when it should be restrained, and conveniently absent when it is actually needed."
Roger's voice cut through the applause like a hammer striking stone. The clapping stopped abruptly, and the Gryffindor table turned toward him with angry, confused faces.
Roger looked directly at Percy and gave him a thin smile. "As a prefect, you are not even as useful as Marcus Flint. At least he understands protecting his own House, while you use all kinds of excuses to cover up your selfishness."
Marcus's expression turned complicated. He had no idea whether Roger had praised or insulted him, but as long as the words wounded Gryffindor, he found he did not mind too much.
"A conflict between pure-blood families?" Roger murmured, amused.
His gaze swept over the Weasleys. If he remembered correctly, Harry, Ron, and Seamus shared a dormitory with Neville, yet when the boy had been humiliated in front of the whole school, they had all hesitated under Percy's warning.
"If that is the reason some people run away from doing what is right, perhaps you should follow Voldemort's example and start a great purge against us."
The Great Hall went dead silent. Every young witch and wizard who heard the name trembled, their eyes widening with horror.
How dare he say it? How could he speak that name out loud?
"What?" Roger asked, his voice cold with contempt. "Afraid?"
No one answered. Even some of the older students looked pale, and the fear in their faces only sharpened the disdain in Roger's eyes.
"Compared with Grindelwald, a Dark wizard who spent his time clawing at scraps inside the British Isles—does Voldemort even deserve to be called a Dark Lord?"
"Roger, You-Know-Who is dead," someone whispered shakily.
"Ha. So you still don't dare call him by name?" Roger chuckled. The sound was quiet, but the sarcasm inside it was unmistakable. "Gryffindor courage seems rather ordinary to me."
Breakfast ended in an eerie silence. The young witches and wizards fled the Great Hall in scattered groups, and the already tense relationship between Slytherin and Gryffindor sank into something colder and more dangerous.
In the Transfiguration professor's office, Professor McGonagall looked at Dumbledore with clear confusion. "Albus, why did you not stop them? Malfoy's bullying of Neville should not have been left for students to resolve."
"That boy, Roger," Dumbledore said softly. "He not only spoke Voldemort's name, but even mentioned Grindelwald."
Hearing that familiar and yet distant name again left Dumbledore momentarily dazed. Old shadows moved behind his eyes, and for a moment he seemed to be looking not at McGonagall, but through years of memory.
"Forgive me, Minerva," he said at last. "I was simply too curious about Roger. He surprised me from the first moment I saw him in Azkaban."
Professor McGonagall's expression tightened. She clearly did not believe curiosity was a sufficient reason to let children test one another so sharply in front of the whole school.
"Do you know how Professor Snape described his student to me?" Dumbledore asked. "Exceptionally gifted. Unmatched."
He turned toward McGonagall, his blue eyes thoughtful behind his half-moon spectacles. "What do you make of him, Minerva?"
"Humble, steady, and exceptionally talented," Professor McGonagall said after a brief silence.
It was rare for her to agree so completely with Severus Snape, but in this matter, she had no reason to deny the truth. Among all the students she had taught, those with talent at that level had almost always become famous figures in the wizarding world.
"But compared with them, Roger is…" She paused, searching carefully for the right word. "How should I put it? Languid, perhaps. It is difficult to describe that quality accurately."
"He is not as proactive as Miss Granger," McGonagall continued. "He only seems enthusiastic about things that truly interest him, and that is the consensus among the professors."
She looked troubled as she thought of Roger's classroom habits. "He never answers unless a professor asks him directly, even when he clearly knows the answer."
"To be honest, first-year lessons are almost useless to him," McGonagall added. "Most of them are simply a waste of his time. In that respect, even Miss Granger is far behind him."
"Yes. Roger has been very careful about following school rules," Dumbledore said, looking out the window. "So careful, in fact, that I almost wish he would break them occasionally like other Slytherin students."
McGonagall found herself understanding what he meant, despite her reputation for strictly enforcing school discipline. A child who never made ordinary mistakes was not always more reassuring than one who did.
"Albus, I understand your curiosity," she said. "But…"
Professor McGonagall frowned, worry deepening in her eyes. "Perhaps it is not my place to say this, but Slytherin has always respected strength. We can already foresee that Roger will surpass Draco Malfoy and become their centre."
"You know his wand core is unicorn hair," she continued. "Ollivander always says the wand chooses the wizard. If that is truly so—"
"I understand your concern," Dumbledore interrupted gently.
He sighed, and the past stirred again, familiar and distant at the same time. The choice of such a pure core, in the hands of such an ambitious child, was enough to make even hope feel complicated.
"Minerva, this morning's conflict seemed to be about Malfoy stealing Neville's Rememberall," Dumbledore said. "But what was the real story?"
Dumbledore felt conflicted. On one hand, he had always opposed families that upheld pure-blood supremacy; on the other, he understood that this was not a problem that could be solved quickly.
Pure-blood doctrine had been born alongside the wizarding world, and it could not be eradicated in a single generation.
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