Silan paced down the steps with unhurried strides, making his way toward the Slytherin long table.
Countless complex gazes latched onto him, shifting in tandem with his movements.
Professor McGonagall held the Sorting Hat in her hands, turning it over several times as she let out a succession of low, helpless sighs.
She truly had never expected that Silan would ever be placed in Slytherin.
Further down the hall, Hermione held her head high, peering through the gaps in the crowd to keep track of Silan’s figure.
Her gaze was deeply conflicted; she had fully expected that the two of them would be sharing a house.
Dumbledore pulled his gaze back and stood up, spreading his arms wide to the hall.
“Welcome!
Welcome to a new year at Hogwarts.
There is nothing quite so delightful as seeing all your faces.” Concluding his brief welcome, Dumbledore triggered the feast, and the previously vacant tables instantly groaned under the sudden weight of steaming food.
Roast beef, roast pork chops, sausages, steaks…
everything was piled high like miniature mountains.
Then came the boiled potatoes, roast potatoes, and thick-cut chips.
*Three separate dishes out of a single spud…* Silan noted wryly.
It had to be said that the legendary reputation of British cuisine was thoroughly well-deserved.
Silan used his dinner fork to slide a few slices of steak and a couple of sausages onto his plate.
Then, holding his knife, he methodically carved the meat into delicate pieces, lifting them to his mouth to chew slowly and deliberately.
Unlike several ravenous first-years who were eschewing utensils entirely to dig in with their bare hands, Silan’s movements were graceful, measured, and perfectly slow–embodying the textbook image of a pureblood aristocrat.
Initially, he had utterly despised this sort of posturing.
When one was practically starving to death, putting on airs just to eat slowly felt like a meaningless performance for a non-existent audience.
Later on, however, he realized that only through such deliberate refinement could one command authority, stand distinct from the masses, and cultivate an unshakeable presence.
Consequently, back when he was at the orphanage–even though he wore the same tattered clothes and chewed on the same tasteless bread as the other children–the rest of the boys still instinctively felt that “Silan was different.” It was precisely this sense of “difference” that garnered absolute compliance.
Sometimes, one had to fake a persona flawlessly until it became absolute reality.
Throughout his years in the orphanage, Silan had relentlessly trained himself.
Flawless etiquette and impeccable manners were merely sharp tools in his arsenal.
“Your surname is Prewett?” an unpleasant voice sneered from nearby.
“I was under the impression the Prewett line had entirely died out.
You aren’t some cheap imposter, are you?” Chris Nott had lost considerable face earlier by refusing to take Silan’s wager by the lake.
A few first-years had already spread word of the encounter, earning him the sudden, glittering title of “The Slytherin Coward.” Feeling utterly humiliated, Chris saw Silan’s placement in Slytherin as a return to his own home turf.
He had leaped at the first opportunity to close the distance and reclaim his squandered dignity.
Silan didn’t even grant him a glance.
He merely used his knife to slice a piece of sausage, chewing it in a thoroughly relaxed manner.
“You really love stuffing your face, don’t you?” Sensing he was being deliberately ignored, Chris fly into a humiliated rage.
Stepping over the bench, he snatched up a nearby dinner knife and drove it aggressively into the sausage resting on Silan’s plate.
“Mr.
Nott, if you are hungry, you are entirely welcome to sit down and enjoy a meal.
There is plenty to go around,” Silan remarked smoothly, swallowing his food before speaking.
“Eat, eat, eat–what are you, a bloody pig?!” Chris snarled.
Over at the Gryffindor table, although Hermione was occupied with her own food, her eyes had remained fixed entirely on Silan.
The sudden commotion over at the snakes’ table quickly pulled her full attention.
Silan flashed her a reassuring smile across the hall, indicating he had everything handled.
Noticing Silan’s gaze shift toward the Gryffindor table, the ignored Chris sneered maliciously, “What?
Staring at your little Mudblood girlfriend?
That pathetic little bit–” Before the slur could fully leave his mouth, an agonizing explosion of pain ripped through his foot.
Before Chris could even process the urge to shriek, Silan’s hand shot out like a striking viper, locking around Chris’s wrist and slamming it brutally onto the tabletop.
In the same fluid motion, Silan grabbed his own dinner knife and drove it down with terrifying force, burying the blade into the wood right between Chris’s splayed fingers.
“You should count your absolute blessings that you didn’t finish that word.” The warm smile vanished entirely from Silan’s face, replaced by a gaze of absolute detachment and icy calculation.
“Otherwise, I suspect this start-of-term feast would have remained a thoroughly agonizing memory for the rest of your life.” Silan slowly leaned his weight onto the handle of the knife, forcing the blade to tilt slightly.
The sharp edge bit directly into the knuckle of Chris’s finger, carving a shallow notch through the skin.
Chris opened his mouth to scream in agony, but the sound was instantly choked back by Silan’s quiet, icy warning.
“Silence.” “Or I shall carve your fingers off right now and feed them to the hounds.” The frigid delivery sent a violent shudder straight down Chris’s spine.
Despite the searing pain pulsing through his hand, he didn’t dare utter a single syllable.
“Miss Granger is a genuinely kind and wonderful person,” Silan murmured, his face softening into a gentle, warm smile the absolute second he mentioned Hermione.
When he turned back to Chris, however, his voice slid seamlessly back into a flat, deadly monotone: “Do I make myself clear?” “Y-Yes…
perfectly clear…” Chris stammered, cold sweat pooling across his forehead.
The dinner knife remained wedged tightly against his finger joint, and dark crimson blood was already weeping from the cut, tracing down the silver blade to stain the tabletop.
He had merely intended to throw around a few cheap insults to salvage his reputation; he had never imagined in his wildest dreams that Silan would resort to immediate, unhinged physical violence.
His eyes instinctively darted toward the staff table at the front of the hall.
He knew that if he screamed for help right now, the professors would likely throw Silan into immediate detention.
Catching the trajectory of his gaze, Silan offered a faint, dangerous smirk.
“Contemplating crying out to the professors, are we?” Chris’s heart skipped a violent beat, a wave of profound terror washing over him.
*He merely glanced toward the staff table–how on earth did this bloke read his exact thoughts?
He’s a first-year; there’s no bloody way he knows Legilimency!* “You are welcome to test that theory,” Silan whispered smoothly.
“Let us see if their rescue arrives before your fingers are permanently severed from your hand.
Would you care to wager on it?” “If you win, I get detention and you reclaim your dignity.
If you lose, it merely costs you a few fingers.
Well?
Shall we find out?” Silan’s smile was thoroughly mocking.
Trembling violently, Chris pulled his gaze back, lowering his head in absolute defeat.
Crying for help might save him, but it would only happen *after* his hand was permanently ruined.
Furthermore, looking at Silan’s utterly unfazed, mocking expression, there was likely some hidden trap waiting to spring the moment he opened his mouth.
*I’m not stupid.
I’ll find another opportunity to ruin you later!* Chris had no way of knowing that Silan was running an absolute bluff.
If Chris actually yelled for the staff right now, Silan would have withdrawn his hand instantly.
After all, Chris had merely sustained a minor cut.
Silan could easily pass the entire incident off as an unfortunate clumsiness, or claim he had acted out of righteous fury due to Chris’s unprovoked, vile insults.
At worst, it would have cost him a mild detention.
Furthermore, Silan had correctly calculated that this boy was an absolute coward at his core.
Chris hadn’t dared to wager against him when Neville was involved, and now that he was physically pinned to the table, his courage had disintegrated entirely.
Sure enough, Chris completely buckled, stammering out a desperate apology.
A nearby Slytherin upperclassman, noticing the bizarre tension between the two first-years, leaned over to investigate.
Silan smoothly yanked the dinner knife free from the wood and used it to slice another piece of sausage.
“Have a taste, Mr.
Nott.
The flavor is quite exceptional.” “Th-Thank you.” Hearing Nott actually stammer out a word of thanks, the observing student blinked, wondering if his own hearing had failed him.
*Since when did the notoriously arrogant and abrasive Chris Nott become so thoroughly compliant?
Could this Prewett fellow possess some sort of hypnotic charm?* Staring at the serene smile resting on Silan’s face, Chris broke into a heavy cold sweat.
His knees went entirely weak, and he collapsed heavily onto the bench.
Having cleanly sliced the sausage, Silan popped it straight into his own mouth.
“Since you clearly have no appetite, Mr.
Nott, I suggest you stop disrupting my dinner.
Simply looking at you ruins my digestion.” Chris didn’t process the words immediately, sitting blankly on the bench in a daze.
“I believe I told you to clear off?” Seeing that the boy remained frozen instead of leaving, Silan delivered a sharp, hidden kick to his shin beneath the table.
Nott scrambled up instantly, limping away with a gait that was visibly uneven, though his eyes still burned with a venomous, lingering malice.
Silan couldn’t care less about what the boy was plotting.
Backed by the raw talent modifications of his system, his proficiency with the Repair Charm was already flawless, while his mastery over the Cutting Curse and the Fire-Making Spell had reached absolute pinnacle levels.
He respected absolute power, and power required a foundation of violence.
Consequently, he had practiced every offensive spell contained within *The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 1* thousands of times over.
— [Total Bonus Chapters Achieved: 0] []