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The mental aftershock of Dumbledore's probe lingered not as fear, but as a cold, hard data point. Kaelen had been scanned, assessed by the most powerful piece on the board. He had rebuffed the attempt, but the act itself was a declaration. He was no longer an unknown variable; he was a person of interest. This did not frighten him. It simply raised the stakes.
The next few weeks settled into a routine that Kaelen mastered and exploited. He was a phantom in the castle, his presence marked only by the flawless potions, the perfectly transfigured creatures, and the growing unease he inspired in his peers and professors. He treated knowledge as a weapon, absorbing every text he could find, his nights spent not sleeping, but reinforcing the walls of his mind and deconstructing complex theories of magic.
His influence in Slytherin grew not through charisma, but through a chilling, undeniable competence. When older students were stuck on a particularly difficult potions essay, they would find an anonymous, perfectly written scroll of notes on their desk. When a group of second-years were being harassed by a Gryffindor prefect, the prefect would suddenly find himself the subject of a series of small, deeply embarrassing, and untraceable hexes. Kaelen never claimed responsibility. He never had to. The house began to understand: loyalty and respect to the quiet orphan had practical, beneficial applications. Weakness and opposition had consequences.
The first flying lesson arrived on a crisp Thursday morning. The Slytherins trudged out onto the lawns with the Gryffindors, a situation that had Malfoy sneering from the outset. They lined up in two rows beside a fleet of rickety-looking school brooms.
Madam Hooch, a woman with eyes like a hawk, began the lesson. "Stick your right hand over your broom," she barked, "and say, 'Up!'"
A chorus of "Up!"s filled the air. Harry Potter's broom shot into his hand at once. Hermione's rolled over on the grass. Neville's didn't move at all.
Kaelen simply held his hand out. He didn't shout the command. He didn't even whisper it. He focused his will, a silent, imperious demand that this inanimate object obey. The broom didn't just jump; it levitated, smooth and silent, and settled into his waiting palm with the gentle precision of a trained falcon. He felt a few pairs of eyes on him—Daphne's, Nott's, and a very confused Hermione's—but ignored them.
The lesson quickly descended into chaos. Neville, in a fit of panic, shot into the air like a cork from a bottle. His terrified ascent and subsequent fall were, to Kaelen, a fascinating case study in incompetence. He watched, not with concern for Neville, but with a cold analysis of the trajectory of the fall and Madam Hooch's panicked, inadequate response.
After Neville had been carted off to the hospital wing, his wrist bent at an unnatural angle, the aftermath began. Madam Hooch issued a stern warning against flying while she was gone, and then departed.
"Did you see his face, the great lump?" Malfoy crowed, snatching something small and glass from the grass. It was Neville's Remembrall.
Potter, his face a mask of righteous fury, stepped forward. "Give it here, Malfoy."
Malfoy smirked, the picture of smug superiority. "No. I think I'll leave it somewhere for Longbottom to find—how about on the roof?" He mounted his broom and shot into the air, hovering twenty feet above them.
Potter, predictably, grabbed his own broom. Hermione tried to stop him, her voice a shrill plea to follow the rules. It was a pathetic, emotional display.
Kaelen hadn't moved. He simply watched the scene unfold, his mind calculating. This was an opportunity. Not to be a hero, but to further dismantle Malfoy's paper-thin authority.
As Potter was about to kick off, Kaelen's voice, calm and cutting, sliced through the air. "Don't bother, Potter. He's not worth the effort."
Everyone froze, turning to look at him.
Malfoy sneered from above. "Scared, are you? Don't have the guts to fly?"
Kaelen looked up, his expression one of mild boredom. He didn't raise his voice. "Why would I? The object is of trivial value. If you leave it on the roof, a professor will retrieve it. If you drop it and it breaks, the school will replace it. Your grand act of rebellion is, at best, a minor inconvenience that will result in a detention for you and a new toy for Longbottom. It's a tactical failure on every level."
He then offered a small, humorless smile. "Besides, I'm sure Longbottom can afford a new one. I hear a broken wrist can fetch a decent price on the black market, if you sell it to the right Potioneer. Good for thickening agents. It's a shame he only has two."
The sheer coldness of the joke stunned everyone into silence. Even Malfoy looked taken aback.
"Give the ball to Potter, Malfoy," Kaelen continued, his voice still level. "Not because he's a hero, but because your current position is logically indefensible and, frankly, embarrassing to the rest of us. You look like a child who's stolen a biscuit from the jar. It's beneath the dignity of a Slytherin."
He wasn't challenging Malfoy's courage. He was attacking his intelligence and his pride, stripping the act of all its drama and reducing it to a pathetic, childish tantrum. Malfoy's face flushed with a rage far deeper than Potter's simple anger could have ever provoked. He had been made to look foolish.
"You'll get it back, Potter!" he shrieked, and threw the Remembrall not towards the roof, but hard, down at the ground, aiming to smash it.
But he hadn't been aiming at Potter. He'd been looking at Kaelen.
The glass sphere plummeted. Potter yelped and kicked off, flying to intercept it in a desperate, heroic dive. He caught it, inches from the ground, a feat of natural talent that earned gasps from the watching students.
Kaelen hadn't flinched. He had watched the ball fall, his mind calculating its arc and velocity. He knew Potter would catch it. The boy's entire identity was wrapped up in being the hero. It was his weakness.
As Potter landed, triumphant, a new voice cut through the air like a whip. "HARRY POTTER!"
Professor McGonagall was storming towards them, her face pale with fury. But as she got closer, her eyes weren't just on Potter. They were on Kaelen, who was still standing calmly by his broom, the only student who hadn't been swept up in the drama. She had seen the whole exchange. She had seen him verbally dissect Malfoy without raising his voice or breaking a single rule.
"You," she said, her voice tight, pointing a long finger not at Potter, but at Kaelen. "And you, Potter. My office. Now."
The walk to the castle was silent and fraught with tension. Potter looked terrified, convinced he was about to be expelled. Kaelen was merely processing. McGonagall's reaction was disproportionate. This was about more than a misbehaving student.
They were led not to McGonagall's office, but to an empty classroom. She bid them wait and swept out, leaving the two boys alone.
"We're in for it," Potter muttered, pacing nervously. "I'm going to be expelled."
"Unlikely," Kaelen said, leaning against a desk. "Expulsion is reserved for major infractions that endanger the school. You were goaded into a minor act of insubordination. The most logical outcome is detention and the loss of house points."
Potter stopped pacing and stared at him. "You don't sound very worried."
"Worry is an inefficient use of mental energy," Kaelen replied. "It does not alter the outcome."
Before Potter could respond, the door opened. McGonagall returned, but she was not alone. Behind her, his sallow face set in its usual sneer, was Professor Snape.
And he was looking directly at Kaelen.
"Stay here, Potter," McGonagall commanded. She then turned to Snape. "Severus. A word. About your first-year."
She led Snape just outside the classroom door, leaving it slightly ajar. Potter was too wrapped up in his own fear to notice, but Kaelen's hearing was sharp. He remained perfectly still, listening.
"What is it, Minerva?" Snape's voice was a low drawl. "Has he been turning the Gryffindors into newts? I might have to award him points for that."
"This is not a laughing matter, Severus," McGonagall's voice was hushed but urgent. "It's his control. His influence. He just dismantled Draco Malfoy with nothing but a few sentences. He didn't break a single rule, but he commanded the entire situation. The other students are already beginning to orbit him."
There was a pause.
"And?" Snape asked. "He is a Slytherin. Cunning and leadership are traits we value."
"It's more than that," McGonagall insisted. "It's… cold. Dumbledore felt it during the Sorting. He warned me to watch the boy. He said there is a wall in his mind unlike anything he has ever encountered. And just now, on the lawn… it was like watching a wolf pretending to be a shepherd's dog."
A longer silence followed. When Snape finally spoke, his voice had lost its mocking tone. It was flat, and laced with a chilling seriousness Kaelen had not heard before.
"I know," Snape said softly. "I have felt it too. The boy is not just a gifted student. He is a fortress. And I have a very, very bad feeling about what he is hiding inside it."
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