The new school year had started as expected—classes, assignments, Quidditch practice, and the ever-present murmur of students catching up on summer gossip. But beneath that normality, there was an undercurrent of tension.
James felt it every time he walked through the corridors. The Slytherins weren't as bold as they had been in the past, but their lingering stares spoke volumes. Their glances weren't openly hostile—more calculating, more cautious. A quiet sort of resentment, like they were waiting for an opportunity to make a move but were unsure when or how.
The whispers followed him, faint but ever-present.
"That's him…"
"Thinks he's something special, doesn't he?"
"Should've been in Slytherin himself, acting like that…"
James didn't react. He had expected it. After last year's events, there was no way the Slytherins were going to let things slide. And they wouldn't forget.
Still, he wasn't about to give them the satisfaction of a response.
--
Professor McGonagall stood at the front of the class, her sharp gaze sweeping over the students as she explained their latest assignment.
"Today, we will be attempting to transfigure a goblet into a rat," she declared, flicking her wand at the demonstration table. The silver goblet on the surface shimmered before rapidly morphing into a large brown rat, its whiskers twitching as it scurried in place.
McGonagall nodded in satisfaction before turning back to the class.
"This is an advanced transformation requiring precision and proper intent. You will take turns attempting it. Step forward when I call your name."
One by one, students moved to the front and tried their hand at the spell. The results were… mixed, to say the least.
Seamus Finnigan's goblet turned into something resembling a rodent but still retained a metallic sheen and a distinctly cup-like shape. Lavender Brown's attempt resulted in a rat that looked suspiciously like it was made of porcelain. Even Hermione—who rarely failed at any spell—struggled, only managing to give her goblet a thin coat of brown fur before it stubbornly remained in its original form.
Then it was Malfoy's turn.
With a flick of his wand and a muttered incantation, the goblet trembled and wobbled slightly, but nothing happened. Draco's face twisted in frustration as he tried again—still nothing.
McGonagall pursed her lips but didn't comment. "Next."
James stepped forward, casually rolling his shoulders before raising his wand. He focused, his intent clear in his mind.
"Mutatis Rodentia."
The goblet shimmered for only a second before smoothly morphing into a fully formed rat, complete with fur, twitching whiskers, and beady black eyes. The little creature gave a startled squeak before scurrying in a small circle.
The class went silent for a beat.
Then—
"Excellent work, Mr. Dawson. Ten points to Gryffindor."
James heard a few murmurs ripple through the classroom, but his attention was drawn to Malfoy unknowingly , whose expression had darkened considerably. His jaw was clenched, his hands gripping the edge of his desk as though he were holding back a comment.
James didn't smirk. He didn't gloat.
But he saw the way Malfoy's eyes burned with envy.
The lesson continued, though Malfoy barely paid attention. Even when McGonagall corrected his form and told him to try again, his attempts remained unsuccessful.
James was gathering his books when he sensed someone approaching. He glanced to his side just as Malfoy sauntered up beside him, his usual smirk replaced by something far colder.
"You might be talented, Dawson," Malfoy muttered, keeping his voice low so only James could hear, "but talent alone won't get you anywhere in the real world."
James raised an eyebrow but said nothing, letting Malfoy continue.
"You don't have the right name. You don't have the right blood. No matter what you do, you'll never truly belong." Malfoy's smirk returned, though it was edged with something sharp. "If I were you, I'd watch my back."
And with that, he turned on his heel and strode out of the classroom before James—or anyone else—could get a word in.
James exhaled slowly, watching Malfoy disappear down the corridor.
Neville, who had been standing nearby, frowned. "What was that about?"
James closed his book with a snap. "Just Malfoy being Malfoy."
Seamus snorted. "Yeah, well, he's acting even more like a prat than usual."
James didn't respond immediately.
He wasn't particularly bothered by Malfoy's words—he'd heard worse—but the warning? That wasn't just empty bravado. Malfoy wasn't issuing personal threats; he was speaking for the group. The Slytherins were watching, waiting.
Last year, James had upset the balance of things. And Slytherin never forgot a slight.