Slytherin

The entire Great Hall plunged into an eerie dead silence, as if even breathing had stopped.

All eyes—shocked, fearful, incredulous—were nailed to the black-haired boy sitting on the four-legged stool, the one the Sorting Hat had just called out as "Azkaban."

At the professors' table, Professor McGonagall was the first to react. Her face was deathly pale, but her voice still struggled to maintain composure, carrying an unquestionable authority: "This is impossible! The Hat, you've clearly... made some kind of mistake! Sort again!"

She stepped forward, practically grinding the words through her teeth, her sharp eyes glaring at the battered old hat.

The Sorting Hat squirmed uneasily on Skofot's head, as if aware of its own earlier lapse.

A faint voice, audible only to Fotkai, muttered in his mind: "Mistake? No... this scent... cold, bloody, bearing the mark of death... though cleverly hidden and restrained, the essence doesn't lie... this is no ordinary young wizard's soul... too off-putting..."

He could clearly "see" (Killing Intent Visualization) the faint, nearly invisible aura around himself, as well as the weak ripples of fear emanating from others in the hall because of him (also a form of visualized "killing intent" or negative emotion?).

He had to control the situation.

While the hat was still tangled in its muttering, he lowered his voice, speaking quickly and clearly in a tone only the hat could hear: "Gryffindor."

He needed to go to the protagonist's house; it was the most convenient route for collecting Emotion Points and advancing the plot.

"What?!" The Sorting Hat let out a sharp, screeching cry in his mind, even making the hat itself tremble, "You go to Gryffindor?! With that aura on you—more sinister than a Dark Wizard, colder than a Dementor?! If you entered Gryffindor, those bright and righteous little lions would probably have nightmares every night! Do you take me for blind?!"

The hat was clearly furious at his suggestion, or rather, provoked by the contradiction in his soul and temperament, and that thick "off-putting" quality.

It seemed eager to rid itself of this hot potato, unwilling to probe deeper into a soul it found "dangerous" and "deranged."

After a brief silence, the Sorting Hat suddenly raised its voice, with a tone almost petulant and decisive, announcing to the entire hall: "Slytherin!"

This time, its voice was crystal clear, drowning out all the whispers.

As the sound fell, the hall went quiet for another moment, then erupted into even louder murmurs than before.

Slytherin?

The boy the hat had called "Azkaban" ended up in Slytherin?

That seemed... subtly reasonable.

From the Slytherin table came scattered, hesitant applause.

Malfoy's gray-blue eyes flickered with complex emotions—surprise, scrutiny, a hint of "I knew it," and the lingering displeasure from their earlier clash.

Crabbe and Goyle clapped clumsily along.

Skofot stood expressionless, removed the still-trembling Sorting Hat from his head, and handed it back to Professor McGonagall, whose face was still shifting colors but had clearly relaxed.

Ignoring the stares from all directions—mixed with fear, curiosity, and rejection—he walked toward the Slytherin table.

He could feel, from the professors' table, Dumbledore's deep gaze, Snape's probing stare, and the unsettled looks of the other professors.

[Emotion Points +50]

[Emotion Points: 410/100]

He took a seat a little away from the main spot, and the surrounding Slytherin first-years instinctively edged a small distance from him.

He lowered his eyes, looking at the gleaming golden plate before him, which reflected his own blurred silhouette.

Slytherin... that's fine.

Here, perhaps some traits of the "Cleaner" could be better hidden, or rather, "rationalized."

Only, the start seemed a bit too "spectacular."

He picked up a goblet and took a sip of water—no alcohol, he noted.

Hogwarts life had officially begun.

In a way no one had expected.

Professor Dumbledore stood up, beaming at the students, spreading his arms as if to embrace the entire hall.

"Welcome!" he said. "Welcome to a new year at Hogwarts! Before we begin our banquet, I would like to say a few words. And here they are: Nitwit! Blubber! Oddment! Tweak!"

"Thank you!"

He sat back down.

Everyone clapped and cheered.

Skofot clapped a few times as well, but his gaze quietly swept between the professors' table and the Slytherin table.

The "Killing Intent Visualization" ability from the [Cleaner] card let him see things ordinary people couldn't.

He needed a stable, high-quality source of "Emotion Points," a suitable target to "farm."

Malfoy? No.

This kid, once provoked, would definitely go crying to his father Lucius.

With no power base right now, falling into Lucius's hands would be the end.

Although Lucius Malfoy himself might be a decent "Emotion Point source," distant water can't quench a near thirst, and the risk of contacting an adult wizard too frequently was far too high.

Professor McGonagall? Even worse.

That rigorous Deputy Headmistress would directly report to Dumbledore, and the most likely outcome would be him being expelled or placed under tight surveillance for "abnormal behavior" or "potential danger."

Theodore Nott?

Taciturn, his thoughts hard to fathom, his emotional fluctuations were probably minimal.

His gaze finally settled on the professor's table, on the man dressed in black, with greasy hair and a sullen expression.

--Severus Snape.

That's it! Snape!

This unfathomable Potions Master, a double agent, was a master of endurance, accustomed to bottling up all his emotions and secrets.

Even if he sensed something, for some reason (loyalty to Dumbledore? Or protecting his own secrets?), he would most likely not speak out rashly, but instead choose to observe in secret.

This was simply... the most ideal test subject and potential treasure trove of Emotion Points.

Decision made.

In an instant, the long table was covered with a dazzling array of delicacies.

Skofot picked up his knife and fork. His movements weren't elegant, but they were steady, and he began cutting into a small steak on his plate.

He kept his head down, as if completely focused on the food, but the control over "killing intent" granted by the [Scavenger] card had already begun to coalesce.

He carefully controlled the intensity—not too strong to provoke a violent reaction, but not too weak to go unnoticed.

A wisp of extremely condensed, icy "killing intent," carrying an intangible pressure, like a poisoned needle, silently crossed the noisy crowd and shot precisely toward Snape at the professors' table.

Then, he immediately lifted his head, a hint of curiosity befitting his age (at least his apparent age) at the new environment on his face, his gaze "coincidentally" sweeping over the professors' table.