"What's your brilliant theory then?" Kane whispered, glancing sideways at Maxwell.
"We all know the four houses: Gryffindor for courage, Hufflepuff for kindness, Ravenclaw for wisdom, and Slytherin for ambition," Maxwell murmured, his spectral eyes surveying the room. "This little drama is a stage. It's a filtration system to see where you fit."
"The girl, Hermione—she stood up to protect a friend. Brave and kind. Likely Gryffindor or Hufflepuff."
"Others? If soone solves this cleverly, they're Ravenclaw. If soone steps in to dominate the room and bring order to this ss, Slytherin will welco them with open arms. Their capability matches their ambition."
Kane raised an eyebrow. Maxwell's explanation made a startling amount of sense. If it weren't a test, there was no reason for Hogwarts to leave a mob of eleven-year-olds unsupervised in the Entrance Hall for this long.
He patted Harry and Ron on the shoulders. "You two still want to be in Gryffindor, right?"
"Of course," they nodded in unison.
"Then it's ti to show so courage," Kane said smoothly.
"Show courage? You an... this is the Sorting Ceremony?" Ron's eyes went wide as he processed Kane's implication.
Kane went quiet for a mont. If he was right, great. If he was wrong... well, he'd just be the kid who started a brawl on his first night.
"I didn't say that," he replied cryptically.
He stepped out of the crowd, walking straight toward Boleyn Arella. Harry and Ron, not wanting to miss out on the "bravery points," followed closely behind.
By now, Arella had backed Hermione into a corner. No matter how talented she was, a month of reading couldn't overco a decade of growing up in a magical household.
Just as a particularly nasty jinx—one designed to cause boils and weeping sores—was about to hit her, a shadow claw erupted from the floor. It snatched the spell mid-air and crushed it into nothingness.
In the back of the crowd, Draco Malfoy's face turned several shades paler. He knew those shadows. Boleyn is finished, he thought. Absolutely finished.
Arella, oblivious to the source of his spell's failure, just chalked it up to bad luck. He scowled at the trio approaching him: the "pauper" Weasley, the "famous orphan" Potter, and...
"And a total stranger," Arella sneered at Kane. "Is this another Mudblood?"
In the crowd, Malfoy covered his face with his hand. He whispered to Crabbe and Goyle, "If Arella ever asks for again, tell him I'm busy. Don't let him near ."
Kane tilted his head, looking at Arella with a hollow gaze. He debated a witty coback, but decided "zero-fra startup" was more efficient. Without even raising his wand, shadows began to crawl up Arella's face like ink in water.
Arella, still not grasping the danger, waved his wand pompously. "I hope from today on, you Mudbloods learn to show basic humility when facing a Pure-blood."
He began a formal incantation: "Aleraguo Lancin!"
A red bolt of a prank-jinx flew toward Kane. Kane, Harry, and Ron didn't even flinch. Other students who knew the spell—which usually just caused a headache—didn't think much of it.
Only Hermione and Neville panicked. Neville actually threw himself toward Kane, ready to intercept the spell like a soldier diving on a grenade.
The jinx hit Kane's outstretched hand. His "health bar" flickered, dropping by a negligible sliver. Other than that, nothing happened.
"Your turn is over. Now it's mine," Kane said.
He clenched his hand into a loose fist. Instantly, the shadows covering Arella's face constricted. They beca solid, squeezing his features into a grotesque, distorted mask.
The boy was lifted off the ground by his own head, his purple-tinged face looking like soone being hoisted by an invisible noose.
The silence that followed was heavy. This wasn't a schoolyard jinx. To the older-minded students, a precise word ca to mind.
Dark Arts.
A few students, sensing the danger of a boy who could manipulate shadows without a wand, instinctively pushed others behind them. This was beyond the pale. If soone called the Aurors right now and sent Kane to Azkaban without a trial, half the room would probably sign the petition.
Hermione and Neville, despite being the ones saved, were horrified. They rushed to Kane's side.
"Kane! I'm grateful, really, but he's turning blue! Let go! You'll be sent to Azkaban!" Hermione shrieked, tugging at his arm.
Neville was frantically grabbing at Arella's legs, trying to pull him down, though he was mostly just adding extra weight to the "noose."
Kane, the architect of this chaos, knew exactly what he was doing. He wasn't a monster. Arella wasn't actually suffocating; the shadows were simply forcing his magic and blood to his face to resist the external pressure. It looked terrifying, and it felt miserable, but it wasn't lethal.
However, the "audience" didn't know that. As Arella's eyes began to roll back, the admiration in the hall turned into pure, unadulterated fear.
Even Harry and Ron stepped forward. "Kane, stop. He's going to die. The professors are right outside."
As if on cue, the massive oak doors swung open. Professor McGonagall's voice tore through the air in a sharp, piercing shriek:
"WHAT IS THE ANING OF THIS?!"
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