The two months between Diagon Alley and September first were the most focused of Kaelen's life. He read his schoolbooks from cover to cover, not just memorizing the spells but dissecting the theory behind them. He practiced wand movements in the dark of his room until they were second nature, the yew wand an extension of his will. His primary focus, however, was Mind Arts and the Defended Self. It was dense and complex, far beyond a first-year level, but Kaelen attacked it with a ferocious single-mindedness.
He started with the foundational exercises: clearing the mind, building mental walls, organizing thoughts. It was an extension of the discipline he'd already begun, but the book gave it structure and purpose. He imagined his mind as a fortress, each memory a stone, each emotion a prisoner to be locked away in the deepest dungeon. He worked tirelessly, pushing through the mental exhaustion, driven by the knowledge that a defended mind was the ultimate weapon.
On the morning of September first, he woke before dawn. He dressed in his new Muggle clothes, packed his trunk with cold efficiency, and slipped out of St. Jude's without a single goodbye. He navigated the London Underground with ease, his ticket clutched in his hand, and arrived at King's Cross Station with an hour to spare.
He found the barrier between Platforms Nine and Ten and stood back, observing. He watched Muggle after Muggle pass by, his gaze analytical. Then he saw them: a large family with a cascade of red hair, pushing trolleys laden with trunks and cages. He watched as, one by one, they ran directly at the solid brick wall and vanished. A simple, elegant solution. No fuss, no hesitation. He waited for them to pass, then calmly pushed his own trolley forward, broke into a steady jog, and plunged into the barrier.
The other side was a storm of noise and steam. The brilliant scarlet of the Hogwarts Express dominated the platform, which was packed with hundreds of witches and wizards. Kaelen ignored the tearful goodbyes and joyous reunions. He was an island of cold calm in a sea of emotion. He quickly found an empty compartment near the back of the train, hauled his trunk aboard, and settled into a corner seat. He pulled out Mind Arts and the Defended Self and began to read, shutting out the world.
He was deep into a chapter on identifying passive Legilimency probes when the compartment door slid open. A round-faced, nervous-looking boy poked his head in. "Sorry," he mumbled, "but have you seen a toad? I've lost him."
Kaelen didn't look up from his book. "I have not."
The boy, Neville Longbottom, seemed about to say more, but something in Kaelen's tone made him think better of it. He mumbled another apology and backed away. A moment later, the door slid open again. This time, it was a girl with bushy brown hair and large front teeth. She already had her school robes on.
"Has anyone seen a toad? Neville's lost one," she said, her voice bossy and brisk. Her eyes then fell on the book in Kaelen's hands. Her expression shifted from annoyance to intense curiosity. "Is that Mind Arts and the Defended Self? That's a sixth-year text, at least! Are you actually understanding it?"
Kaelen slowly raised his head, his grey eyes meeting hers. He saw an insatiable hunger for knowledge in her gaze, but also a social awkwardness born of intellectual superiority. An asset, perhaps, but an irritating one.
"I am," he said, his voice flat. He used a sliver of his Metamorphmagus ability to subtly sharpen his features, making him look older, more intimidating. "Do you have a reason for interrupting my reading, or are you merely conducting a survey of the passengers' literary choices?"
The girl, Hermione Granger, flushed. She was taken aback by his coldness but also intrigued by the challenge. "I just thought it was interesting," she said, a little defensively. "I'm Hermione Granger, by the way. And you are?"
"Busy," Kaelen replied, and lowered his eyes back to his book, a clear dismissal.
Hermione hovered for a moment, a mix of indignation and fascination on her face, before huffing and sliding the door shut with more force than necessary. Kaelen didn't register her departure. He was already back inside his mental fortress.
An hour later, the door opened a third time. A pale, slender boy with slicked-back platinum blond hair stood there, flanked by two boys who were built like miniature trolls. The blond boy's gaze swept over Kaelen with an air of dismissive appraisal, noting the plain, Muggle-made clothes with a faint sneer.
"They're saying that Harry Potter is on this train," the boy said, his voice a lazy drawl dripping with entitlement. "I'm looking for him. Seen him?"
"No," Kaelen said, not bothering to look up.
The boy sneered. "Didn't think so. You don't exactly look like you'd be in his circle." He was about to leave when his eyes caught sight of the girl who had followed him to the door, a silent observer. She had long, dark hair and cool, blue eyes that seemed to miss nothing. Kaelen had noticed her the moment the door opened; she moved with a quiet grace that the oafish boys lacked.
"Well, no point wasting time with this one, Daphne," the blond boy said. "Let's go."
The girl, Daphne Greengrass, didn't move. Her gaze was fixed on Kaelen. It wasn't a look of awe or fear, but one of cool, detached assessment, eerily similar to his own.
Kaelen finally closed his book, marking his page. He met the blond boy's arrogant stare, his eyes sweeping over him in a single, comprehensive glance—the expensive but tasteless haircut, the perfectly pressed robes that showed no sign of personal wear, the way he leaned on his bodyguards like crutches.
"Let me deduce," Kaelen said, his voice soft but cutting. "Your clothes are new, but chosen by someone else, likely your mother, to project an image of wealth you haven't earned. Your posture is arrogant, but it's a brittle arrogance, a shield to hide a deep-seated insecurity. You rely on these two"-he flicked his eyes to the larger boys-"not for friendship, but as a physical extension of a will you're too cowardly to enforce yourself. You speak with an authority you clearly believe is your birthright, but which you have done nothing to merit."
Kaelen leaned forward slightly, his grey eyes pinning the boy in place. "You're not a person. You're a collection of inherited items and borrowed opinions. A puppet who mouths the words of his father and calls it a personality. So no, I haven't seen Harry Potter. But I see you. And I am thoroughly unimpressed."
The blond boy's pale face flooded with an ugly, mottled red. It was a far deeper wound than a simple insult; it was a vivisection of his entire identity. "You... you filthy..." he stammered, his hand instinctively going to the pocket where his wand was.
"Filthy what?" Kaelen interrupted smoothly, his voice like chips of ice. "Mudblood? Is that the word your father uses? See? A borrowed opinion. You can't even conjure an original insult. You are a hollow container. An echo in an empty room. Now, if you don't mind, I would like to finish my chapter. Close the door on your way out."
He reopened his book. The boy was left sputtering, his two goons clenching their fists dumbly. For the first time in his life, Draco Malfoy was utterly speechless. He had been dismissed, not with a shout or a hex, but with a quiet, surgical precision that had stripped him of all his bluster. Before he could formulate a response, the girl, Daphne, placed a light hand on his arm.
"He's not worth it, Draco," she said, her voice as cool as her eyes. She gave Kaelen one last, lingering look—a flicker of profound, calculating interest—and then pulled a fuming, humiliated Malfoy from the compartment.
Kaelen was left in peace for the rest of the journey.
The first sight of Hogwarts castle was, he admitted to himself, impressive. Bathed in moonlight, its turrets and towers rose against the starry sky, a monument to magical power and endurance. While the other first-years gasped in wonder, Kaelen studied its strategic position, its defensible architecture. It was a fortress. A good place to learn.
He shared a boat across the black lake with Neville Longbottom and two other nervous students. He ignored their chatter, his gaze fixed on the approaching castle.
Inside, they were led into a chamber off the Great Hall to await the Sorting. Professor McGonagall gave them a stern introductory speech. Kaelen used the time to study his peers. He saw fear, excitement, arrogance, and ambition. He saw the famous Harry Potter, a scrawny, black-haired boy with broken glasses, looking just as nervous as everyone else. Kaelen dismissed him immediately. A boy who wore his unease so openly was no threat.
Then, his name was called. "Kaelen!" McGonagall's voice rang out. As he was the only student without a surname, it hung in the air with a stark finality.
A hush fell over the hall as he walked forward. His steps were measured and confident, his face a mask of calm indifference. He sat on the stool, and McGonag-all lowered the frayed, ancient Sorting Hat onto his head. It slipped down over his eyes, plunging him into darkness.
Well now, a voice whispered inside his head. Another young mind to sort. Let's see what we have in—
The Hat's voice cut off abruptly. It felt… nothing. It had touched thousands of minds over the centuries—minds that were chaotic, brilliant, fearful, brave—but never had it encountered a mind like this. It was like pressing against a wall of polished, frozen marble. A perfect, seamless fortress of absolute order.
What is this? the Hat asked, a thread of confusion in its ancient voice. It tried to probe deeper, to find a memory, an emotion, a flicker of anything to latch onto. Instead, it felt something push back. A cold, analytical presence was not just resisting, but examining it, dissecting its magical signature with a chilling curiosity.
You… you are analyzing me, the Hat stammered, the thought a shock. That's not possible.
It pushed harder, driven by a thousand years of purpose, and finally breached the first wall. What it found on the other side made it recoil in horror. It did not find memories; it found a meticulously organized archive. It did not find emotions; it found empty, soundproofed cells where grief and rage were held as prisoners. And in the center of it all, it saw the core of the boy: not a flickering candle flame of a soul, but a shard of black ice, a nucleus of pure, cold, limitless ambition.
It saw a promise made over a small grave. It saw a philosophy forged in pain: that kindness was death, and power, absolute and unquestionable, was the only form of life. It saw the boy's potential spooling out not into greatness, but into a terrifying, logical perfection. A world remade by a will that would not hesitate, would not feel, would not falter. A world where a billion souls could be sacrificed for a single, calculated objective.
The Hat felt a terror it had not known since it was first bewitched. This was not the chaotic evil of a Dark Lord seeking power for power's sake. This was the cold, orderly darkness of a philosopher king who had concluded that the world was flawed and needed to be purged by an unflinching hand. It was a darkness far more profound and dangerous than Voldemort's.
Get me off! the Hat screamed, not to the hall, but inside the boy's mind. You don't belong in any house! You belong in a cage!
Kaelen's mental presence remained unmoved, his will a vise. You have a purpose. Fulfill it.
The silence in the Great Hall was now absolute. The Hat had been on the boy's head for nearly three minutes. Students were whispering. Dumbledore's eyes were no longer twinkling; they were narrowed with intense, focused concern.
Suddenly, the Hat, with a tremor that ran through its worn fabric, shouted to the hall. Its voice was not the usual confident boom, but a strained, horrified shriek.
"SLYTHERIN!"
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