The castle was quieter now.
Not in the way it was after curfew or during exam season — but a kind of wary silence, as if the walls themselves had yet to exhale. It had been days since the fight beneath the school, and Hogwarts was still recovering.
So was Caelum.
He stood alone in one of the lesser-used observatories, its dome ceiling offering a clear view of the overcast sky. His hands were tucked behind his back, gaze fixed somewhere beyond the clouds. He wasn't watching the weather — not really. Just letting the quiet settle in his bones.
There was something about silence after chaos. Like the body finally realizing it had survived.
He hadn't been sure they would. If he'd been just a second slower in the Chamber… if Harry hadn't—
Caelum exhaled through his nose.
No point in dragging that up now. The boy had proven himself. More than once.
What worried him was what that meant for the future.
A knock came. Polite. Rhythmic. Student.
He turned, voice neutral. "Enter."
It was Flitwick, of all people — though behind him lingered two older students Caelum didn't immediately recognize. Seventh-years, by the look of them. The smaller one carried a sealed scroll; the other looked uncomfortable just standing in the same room.
Flitwick gave a curt nod. "Sorry to interrupt, Professor Caelum. Council request. Staff-level."
Caelum tilted his head. "Now?"
Flitwick shrugged apologetically. "They're reviewing the curriculum adjustments and want your section's updates. Something about your upper-year dueling elective."
Caelum sighed but stepped forward. "Give me five minutes. I'll meet you in the staff hall."
Flitwick nodded, motioning for the students to follow.
Once they were gone, Caelum glanced at the desk behind him. A stack of papers, untouched. Half of them letters from outside the castle. He hadn't read most of them. The rest were requests — interviews, inquiries, research collaborations. Noise.
He wasn't here for acclaim. And he certainly wasn't here to publish.
His eyes slid to the side, where a schedule was pinned to the wall.
Tomorrow's lesson involved third-year theory. He'd have Harry's year again the day after — the advanced group. Which, to no one's surprise, Harry had somehow qualified for mid-year. Not because he'd taken the exam, of course. But because after the last duel, Dumbledore had waved it through with a quiet word and a flick of his wand.
He would have to be careful in that class. Too much, and it would raise questions. Too little, and it would be insulting.
A fine line.
He turned and left the observatory, cloak swirling behind him, footsteps soft against the stone.
---
Caelum's lecture ended precisely on time. He rarely needed to raise his voice. A quiet presence, sharpened by precision and the occasional pause heavy enough to make students lean in.
Today's lesson for the third-years had been on shielding theory — practical applications of layered protections and how most failed due to improper aether channeling. They had struggled, as expected. He offered no leniency.
Outside the classroom, students scattered in clumps — some too tired to speak, others whispering hurriedly about their failures or asking each other for notes.
He watched them for a moment. Young, hopeful, unsure.
The air still held a residual tension. Even those not directly involved in the Chamber incident could sense that something had changed. It wasn't just fear — it was something deeper. Like the realization that the world was larger, darker, and far more unpredictable than bedtime stories had implied.
Caelum knew that look. He had worn it once too.
Footsteps approached from the corridor. More measured than most.
He didn't need to look to know who it was.
"Professor Caelum," Hermione Granger greeted, adjusting her bag. Her voice held a formal edge, but there was curiosity beneath it. That same sharpness he had noted since first seeing her in class.
Behind her, Harry walked in silence. Eyes steady, expression unreadable.
Ron was missing — likely still recovering from the last few weeks, as were many others.
"Miss Granger," Caelum said. "What can I help you with?"
"I've been reviewing the notes on compound spell matrices," she said, holding out a folded page. "There's a section about flux incompatibilities in older magical environments. But the sources referenced are pre-standardization. I couldn't find them in the library."
Caelum took the page. He recognized the section. A theory he had slipped into the curriculum — intentionally obscure.
"That's because they aren't in the general library," he said. "They were banned from circulation following the Codex Clarification of 1734."
Hermione blinked. "Why?"
"Because most wizards didn't understand them. And when people don't understand something, they fear it. When they fear it, they burn it."
She fell silent, absorbing that.
Harry, to his credit, remained quiet. But his gaze lingered — not on the page, but on Caelum. Measuring. Not with awe or suspicion. Something more clinical.
"So," Hermione continued carefully, "is it still relevant?"
"Only if you're the kind of witch who believes knowledge is dangerous," Caelum said, handing the page back.
She took it, almost reverently.
"And you, Potter?" Caelum added suddenly. "You've been quiet."
Harry blinked once. "No questions, sir."
Not evasive — deliberate. There was a difference.
Caelum didn't push it. "Then I expect both of you to be ready for next week's casting exam. Practical applications only. No theory. Bring your wands and working nerves."
Hermione looked nervous. Harry didn't blink.
They left soon after, walking side by side down the hall. For a moment, Caelum watched their backs — noting the subtle difference in posture. Hermione still moved like a student, burdened by books and ideas. Harry… moved like someone who had already learned the cost of making a mistake.
He turned back toward his office. There was work to do.
But first, he needed to update his private notes. Especially the section titled "Unaccounted Variables – Potter."
There were too many pieces out of alignment lately.
And Caelum hated puzzles with missing parts.
----
The soft ticking of the brass pendulum echoed through the office. Shadows danced against the walls, lengthened by firelight. Albus Dumbledore sat behind his desk, quill untouched, parchment forgotten. His spectacles rested slightly lower on his nose as he stared past the fire, thinking — not of the present, but the subtle shifts in the school that could not be ignored.
There had been no direct complaints, no chaos in the halls. But Hogwarts had changed.
Albus knew how to listen when the school was silent. There was unease beneath the quiet, and it wasn't fear anymore — not exactly. It was awareness. The kind that came only after innocence was compromised.
The portraits around him stirred occasionally, some pretending to sleep, others pretending not to listen.
He knew they were paying attention.
There was a knock — three measured taps. The kind that announced someone capable but not arrogant. That narrowed the list.
"Enter," Albus called.
Caelum stepped inside. His robes were tidy, his expression unreadable as ever. He moved like someone who knew exactly how much space he occupied — and how to make it feel like less.
Albus gestured gently to the seat opposite him. "Would you join me, Caelum?"
The younger man sat without a word, his posture calm, but not relaxed. As always.
"Classes proceeding well?" Albus asked lightly.
"They are," Caelum said. "Attendance is back to normal. Most of the students are settling again."
"Most," Albus echoed. "But not all."
"No," Caelum admitted. "Some are...watching. Listening. Processing."
"As they should."
The fire crackled once.
Caelum spoke again, slower this time. "You want to ask me something."
Albus gave a faint smile. "Yes. Two things, if you don't mind."
"I don't."
The old man leaned forward slightly. "First — your assessment of Harry Potter. I value your eye."
Caelum's answer came after a breath. "Intelligent. Quiet. Holds back deliberately. Too deliberate, actually. He doesn't answer questions he knows. Doesn't react when challenged. Always observing."
Albus nodded as if that confirmed something he'd already suspected.
"I've watched him," Caelum added. "He's not reckless. But he's no longer unsure of himself either. There's a kind of... restraint. Someone trained him, recently or not, I couldn't say. But he's careful in ways most eleven-year-olds never are."
"Does he concern you?"
"Not yet," Caelum said. "But he interests me."
Albus folded his hands together.
The second question came gently. "And what of yourself? Are you sleeping well?"
Caelum raised a brow. "Was that supposed to be subtle?"
"No," Dumbledore admitted. "Just considerate."
There was a pause. Caelum leaned back just slightly.
"I've handled more pressure before, Headmaster," he said. "This is... manageable."
"I believe you. But I also believe even the strong deserve stillness now and then."
Caelum didn't respond to that.
Outside, wind brushed against the high windows. Somewhere, faintly, an owl hooted once.
"I'll keep an eye on Harry," Caelum said eventually. "And the others too. Some are shaken, and a few... seem changed."
Albus gave him a look that might've passed for amused. "You mean the usual chaos of growth and childhood?"
"I mean patterns breaking," Caelum replied. "Growth doesn't usually happen this fast."
The headmaster looked away from the fire then, meeting his professor's eyes directly. "It does, when the world refuses to slow down."
A beat passed between them. And then Caelum rose.
"Is that all, Headmaster?"
"For now," Dumbledore said.
He watched the man leave. No wasted movement. No backward glances.
When the door clicked shut, Albus remained seated for a long time.
He reached toward the cabinet beside him, pulled out a thin black-bound journal, and flipped to a fresh page. His handwriting flowed easily across the paper:
> "Professor Caelum remains as controlled as ever. But the edges have sharpened. Whatever drives him... has not lessened.
Harry Potter is holding something back. It is not fear. Not confusion. Something deeper. We must not force the truth from him — it will surface when the moment is right.
For now, the school breathes again. Not quite calm, but recovering."
He paused, then added one more line.
> "Still... something is coming. The silence is only temporary."
He closed the book.
The fire burned steadily on.
---
Ministry of Magic, Department of Magical Education
The atmosphere in the Ministry had been thick with tension ever since news spread of the Chamber incident. Reports came fast, but most were distorted, filtered through secondhand gossip and the usual school panic. Yet what troubled the higher-ups wasn't the event itself — it was the silence that followed. No scandal, no leak, not even a whisper of Dumbledore's usual theatrics.
"Why has there been no press conference?" asked Amelia Bones, her fingers tapping against the polished mahogany table. She glanced around the room at her fellow officials, irritation bubbling just beneath the surface. "We're talking about a near-fatal event at the nation's most prestigious school."
Beside her, Director Travers from the Department of Magical Law Enforcement exhaled slowly. "We're being stonewalled. Hogwarts' Headmaster is offering the bare minimum. The official report came through two days ago. He states that the threat has been neutralized… by a collaboration between faculty and students."
"Faculty?" sneered a younger undersecretary. "Surely Flitwick didn't go monster hunting in the dungeons."
"No," Travers replied, voice low. "It was Professor Caelum."
The room fell into a brief, uneasy silence.
"Ah… Caelum." Amelia's tone changed, her sharp edge dulling to cautious curiosity. "The foreign prodigy. The Arcanist. I'd heard he was teaching Defensive Theory, yes?"
"More than that," Travers said, leaning forward. "He's got an international academic history that makes even the old war mages look rusty. Vienna, Calcutta, Alexandria… half the global guilds list him as a contributor."
There was a hum of approval. Bones adjusted her glasses, flipping through the thin file in front of her. The dossier had been there since Caelum's appointment, stamped and sealed with the highest levels of clearance. Everything about it looked legitimate — career, accolades, even records from the Department of Mysteries about an early correspondence with their own Arithmantic division.
But still…
"I find it strange," she said. "That a man like that would choose Hogwarts of all places. Not Durmstrang. Not Mahoutokoro. Hogwarts."
"Dumbledore," someone muttered.
And that was the unspoken answer.
If Albus Dumbledore vouched for you, the Ministry would shut its mouth — at least publicly. Not that they didn't have their doubts. It wasn't Caelum's competence that unsettled them… it was his precision. His distance. The man never slipped. He didn't drink at official events. He rarely spoke in interviews. And during the handful of Wizengamot council meetings he'd attended, he'd walked through them like a ghost—seen, heard, but never touched.
"You think he's dangerous?" asked Madam Marchbanks from the back.
"No," Bones said. "I think he's... necessary. But I don't like not knowing why."
She glanced again at the report. A basilisk. A battle in the depths of Hogwarts. No casualties. Minimal damage. The beast slain. And Caelum, together with a student, had ensured its destruction.
Bones didn't care much for heroics — she cared for protocols. And something about all this felt... unpredictable.
---
Meanwhile, in the Department of Mysteries…
In a chamber far from the sound of footsteps or conversation, an Unspeakable stood before a swirling orb of silver mist. Deep within, a record pulsed — not a prophecy, but an echo. A magical signature, raw and etched into the magical web of the school.
They'd only just begun decoding it.
"It wasn't just a basilisk," said the robed figure, adjusting their monocle. "Something else was called. Something older."
Another Unspeakable stepped forward. "There's interference in the residual magic—like someone suppressed it. Cleaned it."
The first tilted their head. "Dumbledore?"
"No. Not his signature. Someone else. Someone... precise."
The orb flickered. For a brief second, a flicker of silver-blue light — structured, controlled. Then it was gone.
The Unspeakables said nothing more. They wouldn't. Not yet.
But one thing was clear.
Caelum hadn't just helped win a fight.
He had left behind a trail of magic so tightly woven, it challenged the deepest mysteries in the Ministry's archives.
---
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