The silence in the breakfast hall was absolute, broken only by the faint clatter of a dropped spoon. Every child, and a stunned Mrs. Gable, stared at the scene: the severe woman in outlandish robes and the small, quiet boy who had just addressed her with the audacity of an equal.
Professor McGonagall's eyebrows arched so high they nearly disappeared into her hairline. She had come to St. Jude's expecting to find a bewildered, perhaps frightened, Muggle-born child, overwhelmed by the sudden intrusion of magic into their life. She was prepared for tears, for disbelief, for a barrage of frightened questions. She was not prepared for this. Not for the level, challenging gaze, the calm, outstretched hand, or the unnerving sense of authority radiating from a boy who couldn't have weighed more than five stone.
"And you are?" she asked, her voice retaining its crispness, though the question was more for the matron than the boy.
Before Mrs. Gable could find her tongue, Kaelen answered, his voice devoid of any childish inflection. "I am the one to whom that letter is addressed. Therefore, it belongs to me."
McGonagall's gaze flickered from Kaelen to the sputtering matron. She recognized the situation instantly: an ignorant Muggle authority figure trying to suppress the first sign of the magical world. With a sigh that spoke of long practice, she stepped fully into the room.
"I am Professor McGonagall, Deputy Headmistress of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry," she said, her voice carrying an innate power that made Mrs. Gable flinch. "And that letter is indeed official school correspondence for Mr. Kaelen. If you would please return it." She took the torn envelope from the matron's nerveless fingers and handed it to the boy. "Perhaps we could speak somewhere more private?"
Kaelen took the letter without a word of thanks, his eyes scanning the contents. He showed no flicker of emotion—no awe at the mention of witchcraft, no excitement at the list of required equipment. He simply absorbed the information with a quiet intensity, as if reading a particularly interesting ingredient list on a cereal box.
In the sterile confines of Mrs. Gable's office, the tension was palpable. The matron hovered nervously by the door while McGonagall sat opposite Kaelen, observing him over the steeple of her fingers.
"I understand this must be quite a shock," she began, launching into the speech she had given dozens of times before. She spoke of a hidden world, of magic, of a special school for gifted children.
Kaelen listened patiently until she had finished. Then, he looked up from his letter. "So the things I can do," he said, his voice a calm, analytical monotone, "they are magic. This ability to change my appearance, to make people see things that aren't there, to make things happen just by wanting them to. That is what you call witchcraft."
McGonagall froze. It wasn't a question. It was a statement of fact. She had expected to have to coax admissions of strange happenings out of him, to reassure him that he wasn't a freak. Instead, he was categorizing his own abilities with chilling detachment.
"Yes," she said slowly. "Accidental magic is common in young witches and wizards. At Hogwarts, you will learn to control it."
"I already control it," Kaelen stated simply. To demonstrate, he held her gaze, and his grey eyes bled into a startling, vivid emerald green—the exact shade of her robes. He held the color for a steady five seconds before letting them fade back to grey. "But I lack knowledge and technique. This school will provide that." Again, not a question.
The chill McGonagall had felt earlier returned in force. This boy was not like the others. There was a profound and unsettling self-awareness about him. She remembered another brilliant, self-possessed orphan she'd heard stories about from Dumbledore. A boy named Tom Riddle. She pushed the thought from her mind. It was unfair to compare them.
"Yes, it will," she said, her tone firmer. "Hogwarts is the finest magical institution in the world." She explained the next steps: acquiring his school supplies from a place called Diagon Alley. Since he was a ward of the state, there was a Hogwarts fund to help students in his position.
Kaelen's expression tightened almost imperceptibly at the mention of a fund. He did not want charity. He wanted resources. But he was logical enough to know he had no choice. For now. "Very well," he said. "When do we leave?"
Diagon Alley was a sensory explosion. The riot of color and sound, the smell of strange potions and sweet cauldrons, the sight of witches and wizards in flowing robes—it was a world away from the oppressive grey of St. Jude's. But Kaelen was not awestruck. He was a sponge, his sharp eyes taking in every detail, every interaction, every transaction. He saw the way a richly-robed wizard sneered at another in patched-up clothing. He saw the deference given to the goblins at the entrance to the imposing marble bank. He saw power dynamics, social structures, and a thousand new variables to analyze.
At Gringotts, he stood before the teller, ignoring the creature's sneer, and observed the transaction as McGonagall procured a pouch of gold, silver, and bronze coins from the Hogwarts trust. He memorized the exchange rates, the feel of the currency, the weight of a Galleon in his palm. This was the first step, he thought. Financial dependence was a weakness to be rectified as soon as possible.
The visit to Ollivanders was the strangest of all. The ancient, dusty shop felt charged with a power Kaelen could taste in the air. The wizened old man with the moon-like eyes seemed to look right through him.
"A new student," Garrick Ollivander whispered, his voice like rustling parchment. "And a difficult one, I think." He glided around Kaelen, his silver eyes unnerving. "You have power, boy. A cold, quiet power. Let's see what is drawn to it."
The process was long and frustrating. Wands of oak, maple, and willow were rejected, sometimes violently. A wand of ash shattered a nearby lamp. A fir wand simply refused to produce a single spark. Ollivander only grew more intrigued.
"A Metamorphmagus," he mused. "That changes things. It requires a wand that is adaptable, yet firm of purpose." He disappeared into the towering shelves and returned with a long, dark box. "Perhaps. Yew, thirteen inches, with a dragon heartstring core. A potent combination. Subtlety is not its strength."
The moment Kaelen's fingers closed around the smooth, dark wood, he felt it. It was not the warm, welcoming rush other children might feel. It was a cold, pure connection, like a key sliding into a perfectly matched lock. The tip of the wand glowed with a shadow-black light, and the very air in the shop grew heavy and still.
Ollivander's pale eyes widened. He stared at the boy and the wand, and a flicker of what looked like genuine fear crossed his face. "I see," he whispered, taking a step back. "I see. I expect we will see great things from you, Mr. Kaelen. Terrible, yes… but great."
Kaelen paid for the wand, his expression unreadable. He did not care if his greatness was terrible. Greatness was power. That was all that mattered.
With his remaining funds, he purchased his schoolbooks, his robes, a telescope, and a standard pewter cauldron. At Flourish and Blotts, while McGonagall was distracted, he also purchased a used copy of a book not on his list: Mind Arts and the Defended Self, an intermediate text on Occlumency and Legilimency. The title alone was a promise of the kind of power he truly sought.
Back at the orphanage, McGonagall handed him a train ticket. "Platform Nine and Three-Quarters, King's Cross Station, September first," she instructed. "It will all be on the ticket." She paused, looking down at the quiet, self-contained boy. Every instinct she had as a teacher screamed that something was wrong. He was polite, he was brilliant, but he was hollow. There was a chilling emptiness where a child's heart should be.
"Hogwarts will be a good home for you, Kaelen," she said, her voice softer than it had been all day.
Kaelen met her gaze, his own eyes as grey and impenetrable as a winter sea. "It will be an excellent training ground," he corrected her.
With a final, worried glance, the Professor turned and left. Kaelen closed the door to his small room and laid out his new possessions on his thin mattress. The books, the robes, the ingredients—they were tools. The ticket was a key.
He picked up the yew wand. He could feel its latent power humming against his skin, a dark, eager song. This was the weapon. He thought of Elara's grave and the promise he had made. He had been weak, and she had paid the price. Now, he had the tools to ensure
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