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The first morning in the dungeons was a lesson in Slytherin dynamics. Kaelen woke before the watery green light had fully penetrated the dormitory's porthole, his mind already sharp and alert. He lay still for a moment, listening to the soft sounds of the lake and the breathing of the other boys. Malfoy was already stirring, his movements ostentatious and loud, as if trying to physically impose his presence on the room.
As they dressed, Malfoy began his campaign to reclaim his authority, boasting loudly to Crabbe and Goyle about the lavishness of his manor and the influence of his father at the Ministry. He made a point of ignoring Kaelen, treating him as if he were a piece of furniture. Theodore Nott was equally silent, observing Malfoy's preening with a look of faint, intellectual disdain.
"My father says Dumbledore is the worst thing to ever happen to this school," Malfoy announced, pulling on his pristine robes. "Too much love for Mudbloods and riff-raff. It's a good thing our Head of House knows how things should be run."
Kaelen, tying his tie with practiced precision, spoke without looking up. "Basing your entire worldview on the opinions of one man is not a sign of strength. It is a sign of intellectual dependency. What happens when your father is wrong? Or when he's gone?"
The question hung in the cold air, sharp and uncomfortable. Malfoy's face went pale, then red. He had no answer. Crabbe and Goyle just looked confused. But across the room, Kaelen saw Theodore Nott's eyes flick towards him for a fraction of a second, a glint of genuine interest in their depths. The first crack in Malfoy's inherited leadership had been made.
Breakfast in the Great Hall was a strategic observation post. Kaelen ate methodically, his gaze sweeping the room. He watched the Gryffindor table, where Harry Potter was surrounded by admirers, looking awkward and overwhelmed. He noted Hermione Granger, already buried in a book, occasionally muttering corrections to a red-haired boy next to her who was attempting to turn his goblet into a teacup. He saw Daphne Greengrass at his own table, sitting with a quiet, elegant posture, her eyes missing nothing. For a moment, their gazes met across the length of the table. There was no warmth, only a silent, mutual assessment, a recognition of two predators circling the same hunting ground.
Their first class was Potions, in the cold depths of the dungeons. The room was lined with jars of pickled animals and strange ingredients, the air thick with the smell of bitter herbs and brewing concoctions. Professor Snape swept in like a phantom, his black robes billowing behind him.
His opening speech was a masterpiece of intimidation. He spoke of the "subtle science and exact art" of potion-making, and his gaze lingered with open contempt on the Gryffindors, especially Harry Potter. He began to pepper Potter with questions he couldn't possibly answer, humiliating him in front of the class.
"Potter! What would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?"
Potter stammered, clueless. Hermione's hand shot into the air, practically vibrating with the need to answer. Snape ignored her.
"Let's try again. Where, Potter, would you look if I told you to find me a bezoar?"
More silence from Potter. More frantic hand-waving from Hermione. Snape's sneer deepened. "Clearly, fame isn't everything." He finally turned his gaze away from Potter, letting it sweep across the class. "Can anyone tell me the difference, between monkshood and wolfsbane?"
Hermione was practically levitating out of her seat. But Kaelen, who had been sitting in perfect stillness, answered. His voice was not eager or loud, but a calm, level tone that cut through the tension in the room.
"There is no difference," he stated. "They are the same plant, which also goes by the name of aconite. As for the bezoar, it is a stone taken from the stomach of a goat and will save you from most poisons. And asphodel and wormwood, when mixed, create a sleeping potion so powerful it is known as the Draught of Living Death."
The entire class turned to stare at him. Hermione lowered her hand slowly, her mouth slightly agape, a look of shocked respect on her face.
Snape's black eyes narrowed on Kaelen. He had expected to make his point using Potter's ignorance. He had not expected to be answered with such flawless, encyclopedic knowledge from another first-year. There was a long, tense silence.
"Correct," Snape said finally, his voice a soft hiss. He took five points from Gryffindor for Potter's ignorance, then awarded five points to Slytherin for Kaelen's answer. It was not said with praise, but with a deep, grudging suspicion. For the rest of the class, Kaelen felt Snape's eyes on him, a constant, probing pressure. He ignored it, focusing on his work. He crushed his snake fangs with the flat of his silver dagger, not a mortar and pestle, a more efficient technique he'd read about. His Boil Cure potion was the exact shade of turquoise the textbook described, brewed to perfection.
After Potions, as they were packing up, Hermione Granger approached his desk. "That was brilliant, how you knew all that. And the way you crushed those fangs… that's not in the textbook. Where did you learn it?"
"I read," Kaelen said, placing his supplies neatly into his bag. "Not just the assigned texts."
"Right, but which ones?" she persisted, her curiosity overriding her social caution. "I've read almost every book on the first-year list and some of the second-year ones, and I've never seen—"
"Then you haven't been reading the right books," he cut her off, his voice cold. He turned and walked away, leaving her standing there, a mixture of frustration and intense intrigue on her face. He had given her nothing, yet he had also given her a new challenge: a rival.
The day continued in a similar vein. In Charms, he performed the Wingardium Leviosa charm on his first attempt, his feather rising into the air with a silent, steady grace that made Flitwick squeak with delight. In Transfiguration, while most of the class struggled to turn a matchstick into a needle, Kaelen produced a perfectly formed, sharp silver needle by the end of the lesson. McGonagall watched him with a hawk-like intensity, her face a mixture of professional pride and profound unease. He was not just a good student; he was unnaturally proficient.
That evening, the Slytherin common room was abuzz with the day's events. Kaelen sat in a dark corner, away from the crackling emerald fire, reading an advanced potions journal he'd 'acquired' from the library. He was already a figure of speculation. The first-years were wary of him, the older students were intrigued.
Eventually, a seventh-year prefect, a tall wizard with an aristocratic air, approached his chair. "You're Kaelen," he stated, not a question. "You made quite an impression in Potions today. Snape doesn't award points for nothing."
Kaelen looked up from his journal, his face impassive. "Competence should be rewarded."
The prefect smirked. "Indeed. Competence is everything in this house. My name is Lucian Bole. Remember it." He paused, assessing Kaelen. "I hear you put Malfoy in his place on the train. Good. The boy relies too much on his father's name. It's tiresome."
"A name is a tool," Kaelen replied, his voice a low monotone. "But like any tool, it is useless in the hands of an incompetent user."
Lucian's smirk widened. "Well said. Very Slytherin." He nodded once, a gesture of acknowledgment, and walked away. The first seed of influence had been planted. He was no longer just the strange orphan; he was the competent one, the one who wasn't impressed by names.
A short while later, a new shadow fell over his book. He looked up to see Daphne Greengrass standing before him. She hadn't approached loudly; she simply appeared, as if she had always been there.
"You enjoy making enemies," she said. It wasn't an accusation, but a simple statement of fact. Her blue eyes were cool and discerning.
"Enemies are a consequence of action," Kaelen replied, closing his journal. "To have no enemies is to have done nothing of note."
"An interesting philosophy," she mused, her voice soft and silvery. "You are not like the others. You have no family name, no history that anyone knows. Yet you act as if you belong here more than any of us."
"Belonging is irrelevant," he said. "Competence is what matters."
"Is that what you believe?" she asked, a faint, curious smile playing on her lips. "Or is that just what you want us to think?" She didn't wait for an answer. She gave a small, almost imperceptible nod and glided away, leaving him with the distinct feeling that she saw far more than anyone else. She was not a pawn or a follower. She was a player.
That night, lying in the silence of the dormitory, Kaelen began his mental exercises. He descended into the cold, orderly fortress of his mind, strengthening his walls, organizing the day's observations into his mental archive. He locked away the flicker of annoyance he'd felt at Hermione's prying, the faint satisfaction at Snape's grudging respect. Emotion was a vulnerability. It had to be controlled.
As he was solidifying a new wall of ice around the memory of Elara's smile, he felt it.
It was a gentle, almost imperceptible touch against the outer defenses of his mind. It was nothing like Snape's passive, suspicious probing. This was infinitely more powerful, ancient and vast, like the pressure of a deep ocean. It was a benevolent, grandfatherly presence, but its touch was backed by a will of unimaginable strength. It was a quiet knock on a door the visitor fully intended to open, one way or another.
Dumbledore.
Kaelen's entire being focused. He poured every ounce of his will, every bit of the cold, hard discipline he had forged in the year since Elara's death, into his defenses. The walls of his mental fortress turned from ice to diamond. The gentle pressure increased slightly, a silent question.
He slammed the gates shut. He projected a single, powerful wave of pure, cold negation, a mental scream of get out.
The pressure vanished instantly, as if it had never been there. The silence of his mind returned, but it was a different kind of silence now. It was the silence of a fortress that knows it is under siege.
He lay in the darkness, his heart beating a slow, steady rhythm. The most powerful wizard in the world was watching him. He was a piece on the board that the Headmaster had taken a personal interest in.
A slow, cold smile, invisible in the darkness of his canopied bed, touched Kaelen's lips. The game had truly begun.
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Want to read 10+ chapters ahead? Support me on Patreon! And here by donating powerstone
for every 50 power stone I will drop a bonus chapter.
https://www.patreon.com/c/kapa69
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