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-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------The acquisition of The Occluded Mind marked a fundamental shift in Kaelen's nightly routine. Sleep became a secondary concern, a biological necessity to be indulged only when his mind was too exhausted to continue its labours. His true work began in the crushing silence of the dormitory, long after Malfoy's petulant snores and Nott's quiet, even breathing had filled the room.
The book was not a simple instructional manual; it was a philosophical treatise on the nature of consciousness as a weapon. The early exercises in building mental walls were child's play compared to the true art of Occlumency. Kaelen began the arduous process of constructing a labyrinth. He didn't just build walls; he designed an entire false mind, a decoy for any would-be intruder. He painstakingly crafted a series of fabricated memories: a non-existent childhood in a quaint cottage, the gentle face of a mother who never was, the smell of baking bread in a kitchen that existed only in the architecture of his will.
It was excruciating work. More than once, he pushed himself to the point of a splitting migraine, the phantom sights and sounds of his creation bleeding into his waking thoughts. But he was relentless. This false mind would be the public face of his fortress, a welcoming, disarming front garden designed to conceal the cold, dark keep that lay within.
His waking hours were a study in quiet consolidation. His alliance with Theodore Nott solidified, not over shared jokes or idle gossip, but over dusty scrolls in forgotten corners of the library. They were two sharks swimming in the same waters, recognizing in each other a shared, efficient lethality.
"My father believes Minister Fudge is a fool, but a useful one," Nott remarked one afternoon, not looking up from a particularly dense text on inheritance law. "He's more concerned with appearances than with actual governance, which allows those with true ambition to operate without scrutiny. Malfoy's father, on the other hand, is too loud. He mistakes influence for power."
Kaelen absorbed the information. It was a clear, concise map of the political landscape, offered without preamble. He, in turn, pointed to a passage in Nott's book. "The Gamp Codicil on non-human inheritance is intentionally mistranslated in this edition," he said. "The original Elvish implies that magical creatures can bequeath conceptual property, like allegiance or knowledge, not just physical wealth. It's a loophole the Ministry has been trying to bury for centuries."
Nott's eyes lit up with a cold, predatory gleam. "A very useful loophole indeed." Their alliance was a quiet, deadly exchange of ammunition.
The day of the first Quidditch match of the season—Slytherin versus Gryffindor—arrived with a biting November wind. The entire school was buzzing with an energy Kaelen found utterly tedious. He had no interest in the brutish spectacle of chasing balls on sticks, but attendance was expected, and more importantly, it was an unparalleled opportunity for observation.
He sat in the Slytherin stands, slightly apart from the jeering, green-clad crowd, with Nott at his side. He wasn't watching the game; he was watching the players. He noted the raw, instinctual talent of Harry Potter, who flew not with technical precision but with a wild, desperate grace. He was a natural, but his focus was singular, his awareness of the broader game almost non-existent. A powerful piece, but an easily distracted one.
The game was a brutal, fast-paced affair. Slytherin's Chasers were more disciplined, their strategy more cohesive, but Potter's sheer, unpredictable skill on the broom was keeping Gryffindor in the running. Then, it happened.
Potter's broom, a state-of-the-art Nimbus Two Thousand, gave a sudden, violent lurch. It began to buck and twist, trying to throw its rider. The crowd gasped. The Gryffindors stared in horror.
Kaelen did not look at Potter. His eyes immediately left the spectacle in the air and began a calm, methodical scan of the crowd. This was not an accident. It was an attack. The question was, who was the attacker?
He dismissed the students first. A jinx of this power required intense concentration and a clear line of sight, unlikely for any but the most advanced student. His gaze settled on the professors' stand. His eyes swept past a panicked-looking Dumbledore, past McGonagall who was shouting into her enchanted megaphone, and then he found it.
It was almost too easy. Professor Quirrell, the trembling, stuttering fool, was staring intently at Potter, his lips moving in a silent, rhythmic chant. There was no stutter now. His face was a mask of murderous concentration. The diversion, Kaelen thought. The troll was a diversion, and so is this man's entire personality.
But as he logged this information, his gaze shifted slightly and he saw a second figure. Professor Snape. He too was staring at Potter, his own lips moving, his expression one of equal, if darker, intensity. A counter-curse. The logical conclusion was inescapable: Snape wasn't trying to kill Potter; he was trying to save him.
"Interesting," Kaelen murmured aloud.
"What is?" Nott asked, his eyes still glued to the struggling Potter.
"The sheer incompetence on display," Kaelen replied, a hint of dry amusement in his tone. "It's almost an art form."
Just then, he saw a third variable enter the equation. Hermione Granger, her face pale with terror, was scrambling through the stands, knocking a student's popcorn over in her haste. She was heading for the professors' box. Kaelen watched her go, his mind piecing together her likely, emotional, and hopelessly unsubtle plan.
A moment later, a small lick of bluebell flame erupted at the hem of Snape's robes.
The counter-curse was broken. Snape, startled and batting at the fire, knocked into Quirrell, who also broke his concentration. High above, Potter's broom steadied, and he was able to scramble back on, regaining control. The crowd roared with relief.
Kaelen almost sighed. Setting a professor on fire in full view of a thousand people. It was the tactical equivalent of using a dragon to kill a fly. Effective, perhaps, but laughably crude. He had just witnessed a secret magical duel between two professors and a clumsy, pyromaniacal intervention by a first-year student, all to decide the outcome of a children's sporting event. The wizarding world, he concluded, was populated by powerful, theatrical, and deeply illogical children.
Potter, in a final, dramatic flourish, seemed to choke and then spat a tiny, glittering object into his hand. It was the Golden Snitch. Gryffindor had won.
The Gryffindor stands exploded in a wave of red and gold euphoria. The Slytherins seethed, a sea of green and silver fury. Kaelen felt nothing but a quiet, intellectual satisfaction. He had gathered invaluable data.
He and Nott were among the first to leave, moving against the tide of celebrating Gryffindors. Instead of taking the main path back to the castle, Kaelen steered them down a quieter, winding route that led through the deserted greenhouses.
"Snape is protecting Potter," Kaelen stated, his voice flat.
Nott stopped, turning to him. "What? That's impossible. He despises him."
"He despises the boy," Kaelen stated, his voice flat. "His animosity in Potions is palpable. Yet he was chanting the counter-curse. Quirrell was the jinxer."
Nott's eyes widened as he processed the implications. "Quirrell? But why would Snape…?"
"That is the operative question," Kaelen said. They walked on in silence, the air suddenly charged with a new, more complex mystery. As they rounded a corner of the largest greenhouse, Kaelen held up a hand, stopping Nott in his tracks. Voices.
He peered through the grimy glass. Inside, surrounded by wilting Mandrakes, stood two figures. The first was Professor Quirrell, who was no longer stuttering. The second, his back to them, was Snape.
"…d-don't know what you mean," Quirrell was saying, his fake stammer back in full force, but his voice was thin with genuine fear.
"You don't want me as your enemy, Quirinus," Snape's voice was a low, menacing snarl, the sound of a predator cornering its prey. "I know what you are trying to do. And I will not allow it."
"I-I am loyal!" Quirrell squeaked.
"Loyalty is a matter of perception," Snape hissed, taking a step closer. "We'll have another little chat soon, when you've had time to decide where your true allegiances lie."
Snape then swept out of the greenhouse, his robes billowing, leaving a trembling Quirrell behind.
Kaelen and Nott ducked back behind the wall, their hearts pounding for entirely different reasons. Nott looked confused, but Kaelen's mind was a maelstrom of perfectly connecting data points.
The troll. Snape's injury. The Restricted Section. The jinx. The counter-curse. And now this.
Harry Potter, and the rest of the school, would see this as Snape threatening a weaker professor, confirming their belief that Snape was the villain. They were fools.
Kaelen saw the truth with chilling clarity. This wasn't a simple story of good versus evil. It was a war fought in the shadows, a hidden conflict for a prize of unimaginable value. And Quirrell and Snape were not hero and villain.
They were rival agents, fighting for control of the same objective. And whatever was hidden in the third-floor corridor was not just a treasure. It was a weapon. And Kaelen had just realized the game was far more deadly, and far more interesting, than he had ever imagined.