Harry Potter : Cael Vale’s journey to Hogwarts

The early morning sun bathed the Hogwarts Quidditch pitch in golden light, casting long shadows across the dewy grass. Laughter and the whoosh of broomsticks filled the air as the Gryffindor Quidditch team wrapped up their tryouts for the new season. Cael Vale sat on the worn wooden bench at the sidelines with Hermione and Ron, who was fidgeting with his battered wand, a deep crease of worry lining his brow.

Cael glanced at him sideways. "Why don't you get a new wand, Ron? You know Fred and George could lend you some gold, or—just ask McGonagall."

Ron grimaced. "If I write to Mum about this, she'll march up here and murder me in front of the entire school. No thanks."

Hermione huffed, crossing her arms. "So you're going to use a broken wand for the whole year? Brilliant idea. You nearly set yourself on fire during Transfiguration. McGonagall nearly hexed you into next week."

"It still works," Ron muttered. "Sort of. Just not… in the direction I want."

"Helpful," Cael said dryly.

Before Hermione could scold him again, a murmur swept across the stands. Seven figures in green Quidditch robes strode onto the pitch, their Nimbus 2001 brooms glinting like polished obsidian in the sun. Slytherins.

Oliver Wood, still holding his clipboard, spun around, his Scottish accent sharp with disbelief. "Oi, Flint! What d'you think you're doing? Gryffindor has the pitch booked!"

Marcus Flint, his square jaw set in an ugly grin, strode forward. "We're here to break in our new brooms, Wood. Gotta train our new Seeker."

"New Seeker?" Harry asked, eyebrows raised.

The crowd parted slightly as Draco Malfoy strutted forward, his blonde hair gleaming, his Nimbus 2001 slung over one shoulder. "Hello, Potter," he sneered. "Didn't expect me, did you?"

Harry stood, shoulders squared. "You bought your way onto the team."

Draco laughed, flipping his broom in his hands. "Bought? Don't be bitter. It's not my fault your team's flying on relics while we ride the best brooms Galleons can buy."

Fred stood, fists clenched. "At least we don't need Daddy's money to play the game."

Malfoy's eyes glinted with malice. "Your family can't even afford Floo Powder, Weasley. You've got more holes in your robes than spells in that stick you call a wand."

"Careful," Ron growled, gripping his wand despite its splintered state.

Harry stepped closer. "Say that again, Malfoy."

Malfoy ignored him. His eyes wandered to the stands where Ginny sat watching with quiet concern. "And look," he said, voice dripping venom, "your ugly little red-haired fan, looking like she actually belongs here. How quaint."

Ron's face turned crimson. "Leave my sister out of this!"

"What are you going to do?" Malfoy smirked. "Curse me with that wand? Might turn yourself into a weasel ."

Before Ron could leap forward, Cael stood, stepping between the teams with calm authority. Hermione rose with him, eyes like stormclouds.

"Back off, Malfoy," Cael said evenly.

Draco raised an eyebrow. "Oh, and now we have the Gryffindor stray speaking up. Mudbloods and mutts, thick as thieves."

Hermione's wand was out in an instant. Her knuckles whitened as she aimed it directly at Malfoy's chest—but Cael caught her wrist gently.

"Don't," he murmured. "That's what he wants."

Fred and George looked ready to hex Draco out of his broomstick, but Cael turned to them with a firm shake of his head. "Not here. Not now."

Wood stormed up, brandishing a rolled parchment. "We've got permission from McGonagall. You lot can wait."

Flint grinned, handing over a second note. "Snape gave us this. Read it and weep."

Wood scanned it, face tightening with every line. "'I, Professor Severus Snape, Head of Slytherin House, grant permission for the Slytherin Quidditch team to practice with their newly acquired Nimbus 2001 brooms, generously donated by Lucius Malfoy…'"

"Generously," Cael muttered under his breath.

Draco turned back to Harry. "Let's face it, Potter. You're only famous because of your scar. This year, you'll lose. And when you do, I'll be the one catching the Snitch."

"You can try," Harry said, eyes locked on his.

Malfoy sneered. "And maybe next time bring some real players. Not a pack of mudbloods and blood-traitors."

That was the last straw.

Hermione flinched at the word. Ron lunged forward, face contorted with fury—but again, Cael caught his arm and held him back.

"Let them talk," Cael said, turning to Wood. "If we fight them now, we'll be the ones punished. They're baiting us."

Wood exhaled through his nose, clearly torn between pride and practicality. "He's right. Let's leave. We'll schedule a new practice."

Draco chuckled as the Gryffindors gathered their gear. "Run along, then. Enjoy your last season."

"You'll be eating dirt before Christmas," Fred muttered under his breath.

As they exited the pitch, Ginny glanced back at Draco, her face pale but composed. Hermione walked in silence beside Cael, her jaw tight.

"I hate that word," she whispered.

"I know," Cael replied. "But he only uses it because he's afraid of what you really are—smarter than he'll ever be."

Hermione gave him a small, grateful glance. They left the pitch behind, but not the tension.