Caelan walked down the steps slowly, heading toward the Slytherin table.
Many complex gazes followed him as his figure moved.
Professor McGonagall held the Sorting Hat in her hands, turning it over several times and sighing repeatedly.
She had never expected Caelan to be sorted into Slytherin.
Hermione held her head high, watching Caelan through the gaps in the crowd, her expression full of mixed feelings.
She had thought they would end up in the same house.
Dumbledore withdrew his gaze, stood up, and opened his arms wide.
“Welcome!
Welcome to a new year at Hogwarts!
Nothing makes me happier than seeing all of you.” With that, Dumbledore cast a spell, and the empty dining tables instantly piled high with steaming food.
Roast beef, pork chops, sausages, steaks…
piled up like small mountains.
There were boiled potatoes, roast potatoes, and chips.
Three dishes out of a single potato…
It had to be said that British cuisine truly lived up to its reputation.
Caelan picked up some steak and sausages onto his plate with a fork, then used his dinner knife to slice the meat slowly, bringing it to his mouth and chewing deliberately.
Unlike the famished young wizards who dug in with their hands, his movements were elegant and unhurried—every bit the image of a pure-blood aristocrat.
He hadn’t liked this posture at first.
When you were starving, putting on airs and eating slowly—who were you trying to impress?
But later, he realized that only by doing this could he command respect, stand out, and cultivate an air of authority.
So even back in the orphanage, when he wore ragged clothes and ate tasteless bread like the other children, those children still felt that “Caelan was different.” It was precisely this “difference” that earned their trust and deference.
Sometimes, you had to fake it until you truly made it.
At the orphanage, Caelan had trained himself constantly.
Politeness and etiquette were merely tools in his arsenal.
“Your surname is Prewett?” an unpleasant voice sounded.
“I heard the Prewett family died out completely.
You’re not an impostor, are you?” Chris Nott hadn’t made the bet with Caelan earlier, and some young wizards had spread the story around, earning him the title of “Slytherin Coward.” This made him feel utterly disgraced.
Now, seeing Caelan sorted into Slytherin, he believed he was on his home turf.
Impatient to win back his pride, he hurried over.
Caelan didn’t even glance at him.
He simply cut a slice of sausage with his knife and chewed slowly.
“You really like eating, huh?” Feeling ignored, Chris Nott flushed with anger.
Striding over the bench, he grabbed a dinner knife nearby and slammed it into the sausage on Caelan’s plate.
“Mr.
Nott, if you’d like to eat, you’re welcome to sit down and enjoy yourself.
There’s plenty left,” Caelan said slowly after swallowing his food.
“Eat, eat, eat!
What are you, a pig?!” Over at the Gryffindor table, although Hermione was eating, her eyes remained fixed on Caelan.
The commotion quickly drew her attention.
Caelan offered her a reassuring smile to signal he was fine.
Chris, realizing Caelan was looking at Hermione while continuing to ignore him, sneered sarcastically, “What, looking at your Mudblood girlfriend?
That little bit—” Before he could finish, a sudden, blinding pain shot up from his foot.
Before he could even scream, Caelan shot his hand out, grabbing Chris’s wrist and pinning it to the table.
Grabbing his own dinner knife, Caelan slammed it down hard right between Chris’s fingers.
“You should consider yourself lucky you didn’t finish that word.” The smile vanished completely from Caelan’s face, replaced by a cold, indifferent detachment.
“Otherwise, the Welcoming Feast would have become a painful memory for you.” Caelan slowly pressed down on the handle of the knife, the blade cutting a sharp notch into Chris’s finger.
Chris let out a cry of agony, but before he could wail, Caelan’s warning cut him off.
“Quiet!” “Or I’ll slice off your fingers and feed them to the dogs!” The icy words made Chris tremble violently.
Despite the intense pain, he didn’t dare utter another sound.
“Miss Granger is a truly kind person.
I won’t allow anyone to insult her in front of me,” Caelan said, a gentle smile appearing on his face only when he mentioned Hermione.
When he spoke again, his voice seamlessly shifted from gentle back to freezing cold: “Do you understand?” “U-understood…” Chris stammered, cold sweat pouring down his forehead.
The knife pressed firmly against his knuckle, and blood welled up from the cut, running down the blade and onto the table.
He had only intended to throw a few insults around to save face; he hadn’t expected Caelan to attack so ruthlessly.
He couldn’t help glancing toward the staff table.
He thought that if he called for help, the professors might immediately put Caelan in detention.
Noticing his glance, Caelan gave a half-smile.
“Thinking of calling the professors for help?” Chris’s heart skipped a beat, filled with sheer horror.
He had only flicked a glance toward the staff table—how could Caelan know what he was thinking?
He was just a first-year—he couldn’t possibly know Legilimency, could he?
“Feel free to try calling them.
Let’s see if they arrive faster, or if your fingers get severed faster.” “Want to take a gamble?” “If you win, I get detention, and you get your pride back.
If you lose, it’s just a few lost fingers.” “How about it?
Care to try?” Caelan’s smile was sinisterly playful.
Trembling, Chris pulled back his gaze and slowly lowered his head.
Calling for help might work, but that would only happen after his fingers were chopped off.
And looking at that mocking smile, there was probably some trap waiting for him.
*I’m not stupid.* *I’ll find another chance to deal with you later!* Chris had no idea that Caelan actually had no backup plan.
If he called for a professor now, Caelan would simply let go.
Chris only had a minor cut on his hand.
Caelan could easily claim it was an accident, or that he had acted out of righteous anger due to the boy’s foul language.
At worst, he would get detention.
Besides, Caelan had correctly calculated that this guy was a coward.
When he clashed with Neville earlier, he hadn’t dared to bet, and now that Caelan had him by the throat—or rather, the fingers—he dared even less.
Sure enough, Chris immediately backed down, hastily stammering apologies.
A nearby student noticed something off between the two and leaned over to look.
Caelan pulled out the knife and sliced another piece of sausage.
“Mr.
Nott, try some.
It’s delicious.” “Th-thank you.” The student nearby thought he had misheard when Nott actually said thank you.
How had the arrogant, obnoxious Mr.
Nott suddenly become so easy to talk to, like a completely different person?
Could this Silas Prewett be that charming?
Seeing the smile on Caelan’s face, Chris broke into a cold sweat.
His legs went limp, and he slumped onto the bench.
Having sliced the sausage, Caelan popped it into his own mouth instead.
“Since Mr.
Nott isn’t in the mood to eat, don’t interrupt my meal.
Looking at you makes me sick.” Chris didn’t process it for a moment, sitting blankly on the bench.
“Aren’t you going to scram?” Seeing that the guy wasn’t leaving and had actually sat down, Caelan gave him another sharp kick.
Only then did Nott limp away, his eyes gleaming with lingering malice.
Caelan couldn’t care less what he thought.
With the aid of Spell Inspiration, his Repairing Charm was master level, while his Cutting Charm and Fire-Making Charm were virtually at perfection.
He liked absolute power, and power required violence.
Therefore, he had practiced every offensive spell in *The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 1* countless times.