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The journey home on the Hogwarts Express was, for Kaelen, a mobile office. While other students were consumed by the sugar-fueled chaos of the trolley or the boisterous retelling of the year's events, he sat in a quiet compartment with his two assets. The tattered piece of parchment bearing the parasite rune lay on the seat between them, a silent testament to their new, shared objective.
"The Ministry has no classification for this type of soul magic," Nott was saying, his voice a low, academic murmur. He had spent the last hour cross-referencing Kaelen's find with several obscure texts he'd brought from his family library. His earlier ambition had been replaced by a focused, fearful diligence. "It's pre-Ministerial. The runic structure isn't designed to attack a soul, but to… unmoor it. To sever the tethers that bind it to a physical form without actually killing the host. It's a leech's curse."
"A weapon designed to create a vessel," Kaelen stated, his eyes fixed on the rune. "Voldemort didn't just possess Quirrell. He was preparing the man's soul for eviction."
Daphne, who had been silently observing, leaned forward. "That kind of magic would leave a unique residual energy. A signature."
"Precisely," Kaelen agreed. "And I intend to learn to read it." He carefully folded the parchment and placed it in a hidden pocket within his robes. The conversation was over. His summer's work was set.
He departed from his two lieutenants at King's Cross with a simple, dismissive nod. They were pure-bloods, returning to their ancestral manors and vast libraries. He, on the other hand, was a ghost, being returned to the anonymous purgatory of the Muggle world.
His new home was a place called Blackwood House, a grim, soot-stained Victorian monstrosity in one of London's forgotten boroughs. It was not an orphanage; it was a youth hostel, a transient holding pen for children the system had misplaced. It was a step down from St. Jude's in every conceivable way. There was less supervision, more desperation, and a palpable, simmering violence that clung to the air like the ever-present damp. It was a concrete jungle, and Kaelen, for the first time in a year, felt a flicker of something that resembled interest.
For the first two weeks, he was a phantom. He claimed a bed in the corner of a crowded dormitory, his few possessions locked in his school trunk at the foot of it. He spoke to no one. He simply watched. He analyzed the ecosystem, learning its rhythms, its predators, and its prey.
The power in Blackwood House was held by a gang of older teenagers who called themselves the "Ravens." They were led by a brutish, low-brow thug named Rhys. Their operation was simple: they controlled the flow of contraband—cigarettes, cheap alcohol, stolen goods—and enforced their rule through intimidation and casual violence. It was a primitive, inefficient system, and Kaelen found it deeply, profoundly boring.
But the Ravens were merely the top of the local food chain. Kaelen, venturing out into the borough, began to see the threads of a larger web. He saw how the local shopkeepers would leave a small envelope on their counters every Friday afternoon. He saw how Rhys and his Ravens, who terrorized the hostel, would show a nervous deference to a quiet, unassuming man in a worn coat who visited the hostel once a week.
He began to follow the man. The man's name was Marius. He had no official job, yet he commanded the fear and respect of every criminal element in a six-block radius. Kaelen observed him for a week, and his analysis led to a single, fascinating conclusion: Marius was a Squib. The faint, withered aura of magic clung to him like a shroud, and the few "tricks" he used to enforce his rule—making a lit cigarette appear in his hand, causing a rival's car engine to flood inexplicably—were not the work of a wizard, but of a man using a handful of charmed trinkets with pathetic, desperate pride.
This was the true power in the borough. A failed wizard ruling a kingdom of thugs. It was a pathetic, broken empire. And Kaelen wanted it.
The decision was not born of necessity, but of a cold, burgeoning desire. The frustration of being outmaneuvered by Dumbledore's sentimental magic had left a bitter taste in his mouth. He felt an unfamiliar, itching need to assert his dominance, to take something, to break it, and to rebuild it in his own image.
His first move was small. He needed to test the system. One evening, Rhys and his two hulking lieutenants cornered him in the narrow corridor leading to the washrooms. It was the moment Kaelen had been waiting for.
"Oi, book boy," Rhys sneered, his breath smelling of stale smoke. "Heard you got a fancy trunk full of goodies. Word is, it's time you paid a little tax to the Ravens."
Kaelen didn't look up from the small book he was carrying (a Muggle text on theoretical physics). He simply stopped, his presence a sudden island of calm in the tense corridor.
"Taxation," Kaelen said, his voice a quiet, academic monotone, "is a system by which a governing body levies a compulsory contribution from its subjects to fund public expenditure. You are not a governing body. You are a loose confederation of adolescent thugs. And the only thing you fund is your own pathetic addictions. Therefore, you are not levying a tax. You are attempting to commit robbery."
Rhys's face, not built for complex thought, contorted in confusion, then anger. "You got a smart mouth, ain't ya?" He cracked his knuckles. "Let's see how smart you are after I rearrange your face."
He lunged. And Kaelen looked up.
For the first time since Elara's death, he let the mask of cold, analytical neutrality fall away. He did not replace it with fear or anger. He replaced it with a smile.
It was not a friendly smile. It was a wide, slow, and utterly unnerving grin that did not touch his cold, grey eyes. It was the smile of a wolf that had just realized the sheep it was about to slaughter was offering helpful advice on the best way to do it.
He took a half-step to the side, and Rhys's clumsy punch sailed past his head, the thug's momentum carrying him stumbling into the wall. Kaelen didn't use a spell. He didn't even raise his hand. He just looked at Rhys, still smiling, and spoke, his voice a soft, conversational whisper.
"Your father's name was Michael, wasn't it, Rhys? A baker. He always smelled of yeast and disappointment. He used to tell you that you had your mother's hands, but not her heart. A shame, really. He always did love her more."
Rhys froze, his hand still braced against the wall. He turned slowly, the blood draining from his face. "How… how do you know that?"
Kaelen's smile widened. He used a sliver of his Metamorphmagus ability, not to change his face, but to subtly alter the cadence of his voice, layering it with a faint, ghostly echo of a man Rhys hadn't heard in ten years. "He also told me to tell you that he's very, very disappointed in what you've become."
It wasn't magic. It was information. Kaelen had spent a week researching the Ravens. A quick, non-magical search of public records, obituaries, and old news articles had given him every weapon he needed.
Rhys stared, his tough-guy facade crumbling into pure, primal terror. This wasn't a fight. This was something else. Something wrong.
Kaelen then turned his smile on the other two thugs. "And you, Mark. Still having those dreams about the dog? The one you let run into the street when you were seven? It's alright. He doesn't blame you. Much."
Mark let out a small, strangled whimper.
Kaelen felt a surge of something new and exhilarating. It was not the cold satisfaction of a solved puzzle. It was a hot, sharp, and deeply personal joy. He was enjoying their fear. He was feeding on it. He savored the moment, the scent of their terror a heady perfume in the grimy corridor. This was true power. Not the abstract victory of winning house points, but the visceral, immediate thrill of breaking another human being from the inside out.
He took a step towards the terrified Rhys, his smile never wavering. "Now," he said, his voice returning to its normal, chilling calm. "About that tax."
He had no intention of dismantling the Ravens. He was going to take them. But they were just the first piece.
Two days later, Kaelen sat on a park bench, calmly reading as Marius, the Squib, did his weekly collection rounds. He had mapped the man's route, his habits, his weaknesses. He knew Marius would be taking this secluded path back to his flat.
Kaelen closed his book as he heard the approaching footsteps. He stood up, deliberately placing himself in the center of the narrow path. He looked up as Marius approached, a flicker of annoyance on the Squib's face at the unexpected obstacle.
Kaelen gave him the same slow, wide, and utterly terrifying smile he had given Rhys.
"Mr. Marius," he said, his voice pleasant. "My name is Kaelen. I believe you and I have a business arrangement to discuss. You see, your operation has a number of… inefficiencies. And I'm here to offer my services as the new management."
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