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The weeks that followed Kaelen's discovery bled into a routine of quiet, obsessive preparation. The disembodied, serpentine voice became a sporadic but recurring phenomenon, a predatory whisper that would slither into his mind at odd hours—in the echoing quiet of the library, in the damp chill of the dungeons, even amidst the cacophony of the Great Hall. Each time he heard it, he would stop, his mind a silent recording device, cataloging the tone, the inflection, the raw, primal emotion behind the simple, murderous words. He was not just hearing a monster; he was studying a language, deconstructing its grammar of pure, unadulterated hunger.
His lieutenants, now operating with the focused efficiency of true converts, became extensions of his will. Nott, his former arrogance burned away and replaced by a fanatical diligence, became a creature of the archives. He spent his days and nights buried in the deepest, dustiest corners of the library, cross-referencing ancient architectural plans of the castle with obscure bestiaries, his research on soul-magic now intertwined with a desperate search for Salazar Slytherin's hidden plumbing. Daphne, with the effortless grace of a born politician, moved through the school's social ecosystems like a phantom. She gathered whispers from the tearful confessions of younger students and extracted priceless nuggets of pure-blood lore from the arrogant boasts of her housemates, compiling a detailed psychological and political map of the school.
Kaelen, meanwhile, continued his own project. His interactions with Hermione Granger became a series of precise, calculated intellectual assaults. He would find her studying in the library and engage her in a debate, not to win, but to force her to defend her rule-bound logic against his ruthless pragmatism. He would dismantle her arguments with a smiling, condescending pity, planting seeds of doubt in the very foundations of her worldview. It was a slow, patient siege, and he was beginning to see the first cracks forming in her ideological walls.
The first major opportunity to test his new, earth-shattering hypothesis—that he was the true heir of Slytherin—presented itself on a cold November evening. Gilderoy Lockhart, in a desperate attempt to salvage his crumbling reputation after the pixie debacle, announced the formation of a Duelling Club.
"A perfect laboratory," Kaelen murmured to Daphne as they walked towards the Great Hall that night, the rest of the student body buzzing with an excited, nervous energy. "A controlled environment, an audience, and a high probability of manufactured chaos. The variables are ideal."
"You intend to reveal your ability?" Daphne asked, her voice a low, cautious whisper.
"I intend to confirm it," Kaelen corrected her, his smile serene and chilling. "There is a difference. A revelation is a confession. A confirmation is a statement of power."
The Great Hall had been transformed. The house tables were gone, replaced by a long, golden stage that ran down the center of the room, illuminated by thousands of floating candles. The atmosphere was electric. Kaelen, with Daphne and Nott at his side, found a vantage point near the back, a place of shadow that offered a perfect, unobstructed view of the stage. He had no interest in participating in the spectacle. He was here to observe, and, if the opportunity presented itself, to direct.
The evening began, as expected, with a display of preening incompetence from Lockhart, who pranced onto the stage in robes of a truly offensive shade of plum. His introductory speech was a masterwork of self-aggrandizement and useless advice. The true event began when he introduced his assistant for the demonstration: Professor Snape.
Snape strode onto the stage, his black robes billowing, his expression one of profound, murderous loathing. The contrast between the two men was a perfect physical metaphor: the fraudulent peacock versus the stoic, venomous serpent.
"Let's have a volunteer pair!" Lockhart boomed after he had been effortlessly and humiliatingly disarmed by Snape in their demonstration duel. Harry Potter, predictably, was pushed forward to face Draco Malfoy. Their duel was a clumsy, pathetic affair, ending with Malfoy, in a fit of panicked rage, conjuring a long, black snake that landed on the stage with a heavy thud.
The crowd screamed and surged backward. The snake, angry and disoriented, rose high into the air, its black eyes glittering, its fangs dripping with venom. It turned, its gaze fixing on a terrified-looking Hufflepuff student in the front row—Justin Finch-Fletchley.
And then, Harry Potter, the hero, stepped forward. He began to speak, but the words that came out were not words at all. They were a series of sharp, percussive hisses, a sound that seemed to claw at the very air in the hall.
Kaelen felt it instantly. It was the language. The same serpentine tongue he heard in the walls, but this was different. Potter's hissing was crude, instinctual, an emotional outburst. He was not speaking the language; he was bleeding it.
The effect on the hall was instantaneous and absolute. The students stared at Potter, their faces a mask of dawning horror. They were not seeing a hero trying to calm a beast. They were seeing a dark wizard speaking a forbidden tongue, a secret sign of the heir of Slytherin.
Kaelen watched the scene, a slow, cold smile spreading across his face. Potter had, in his usual, blundering way, just handed him the most perfect opportunity imaginable. He had revealed a secret, but he had failed to control the narrative. An amateur's mistake.
It was time for a professional to take the stage.
While the entire school was recoiling from Potter in fear, Kaelen moved. He did not rush. He walked, his steps measured and deliberate, parting the terrified crowd like a ship's prow through water. He walked right up to the edge of the stage, his gaze fixed on the angry, coiled serpent. The hissing voice that had haunted the castle's walls was a clear, sharp thought in his mind: …Hurt… Threat… Attack…
He stopped, a mere ten feet from the snake. He did not look at Potter. He did not look at Snape. He looked at the creature. And he spoke.
The sound that issued from his mouth was nothing like Potter's frantic hissing. It was a low, melodic, and impossibly complex series of sibilant sounds, a language spoken with the calm, effortless authority of a native speaker. It was not a plea. It was a command.
§ Cease. §
The snake, which had been poised to strike Justin, froze instantly. Its head, which had been swaying aggressively, lowered slowly, its body uncoiling slightly. It turned its glittering black eyes on Kaelen, and a new thought, clear as a bell, entered Kaelen's mind. It was not a thought of hunger or rage. It was a thought of pure, primal recognition.
§ Speaker? You smell of the deep stone… of the sleeping father… not like the other… the loud one… §
It was a small twist, a piece of data so unexpected it sent a genuine thrill, a flicker of goosebumps, through Kaelen's cold, controlled mind. Not like the other. The snake could differentiate between them. This was not just a shared ability; it was a matter of lineage, of scent, of some deeper, more fundamental connection. His hypothesis was not just correct; it was more complex and more wonderful than he had imagined.
§ The loud one is a child,§ Kaelen hissed back, his smile serene. § He speaks with the tongue of a frightened hatchling. I speak with the voice of the nest. You will not harm anyone in this hall. You will return to the one who summoned you. Now. §
He gave a small, almost imperceptible nod towards Snape.
The snake seemed to consider his command for a moment. Then, with a final, low hiss that sounded almost like a sigh of submission, it turned, slithered across the stage, and coiled obediently at Snape's feet, its head bowed. Snape, his face a mask of utter, unreadable shock, vanished the snake with a flick of his wand.
Silence.
A silence more profound, more terrified, than any scream. The entire school—students and faculty alike—stared at the two boys. At Harry Potter, who looked horrified and confused, a pariah exposed. And at Kaelen, who stood calmly at the edge of the stage, his hands clasped behind his back, a polite, serene, and utterly terrifying smile on his face.
He had not just revealed a power. He had demonstrated mastery. In a single, decisive move, he had confirmed his birthright, established his superiority, and seized control of the narrative of fear that would now consume the school.
He turned, his gaze sweeping over the sea of stunned faces, and walked back to his place beside a shell-shocked Daphne and a trembling, awe-struck Nott.
The whispers began almost immediately, a wildfire of terror and speculation. There was not one heir of Slytherin. There were two. A blundering, accidental Gryffindor hero, and a cold, smiling, and impossibly powerful Slytherin king.
Kaelen settled back into the shadows, the distant, rumbling call of the monster in the walls echoing in his mind. It was no longer a threat. It was a greeting. A welcome home.
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