It was just past midnight.
Greystone House had long since fallen silent. The containment wards thrummed faintly in the walls, and the old runes etched above every door pulsed with a dull, sleepy glow. Most children were asleep by now, curled in blankets, dreamless under the gentle effects of night-charms.
But not Caelum.
He sat cross-legged on the cold stone floor of his room, a thin chalk circle drawn around him. In front of him lay a single stub of candlewax, a strip of parchment, and a scorched copper button taken from the laundry bin three days ago.
He exhaled slowly.
Focus. Will. Intention. Release.
The movements were becoming natural now. Not quite wandless magic—not yet—but something older, deeper, like shaping breath into flame with his blood.
He held out a hand.
His fingers trembled slightly, and then—snap.
A spark.
A thin tongue of flame flickered to life just above his palm, small and unstable, like a heartbeat struggling to find rhythm.
He smiled.
Not out of joy. Out of recognition.
Two months ago, he had been nothing but a frightened boy waking in a forest soaked in fear and blood.
Now, he was shaping fire.
Life at Greystone House had settled into something close to routine.
By day, Caelum holed himself up in the library — reading everything he could get his hands on. Magical history, spell theory, ancient blood rituals, control techniques. The staff had stopped asking why. He answered politely when questioned, smiled faintly when greeted, but rarely spoke beyond what was needed.
Every week, he drank the elixir. Every week, it gave him something new — fragmented memories not his own, echoes of magic others had once cast. It didn't always make sense, but he was learning to feel his way through it.
The Ministry still checked in. Aurors or clerks came to "observe," to "evaluate." The word "monitor" was never said aloud, but it lingered under every sentence.
He played along.
He knew what this world feared — what it wanted him to be. And what it would do if he gave it a reason.
So he began to plan.
He thought back to the last time Kingsley Shacklebolt had visited, two weeks ago.
They had sat by the warded garden at dusk, the sky painted gray. Caelum had worn his hood low to protect his eyes from the fading sun.
"You're adjusting," Kingsley had said.
Caelum nodded. "As well as a boy with yellow eyes in a prison-for-children can."
Kingsley didn't smile. But his gaze was thoughtful. "Has the sunlight been getting worse?"
"Still stings. Not fatal. Just… irritating. I stay indoors."
Kingsley hesitated, then asked quietly, "Do you want to go to Hogwarts someday?"
Caelum looked at him sharply. "They'd never allow it. Not like this."
"They might," Kingsley said. "But it would take time. Trust. Control."
"I know."
Another pause.
"If you want to live freely in this world, Caelum," Kingsley said, "you need to be more than stable. You need to be undeniably safe. That means no outbursts. No incidents. Full command of your nature."
Caelum had looked away. "And if I never can?"
Kingsley's voice had been steady.
"Then they will decide for you."
Now, in his room, fire curled again in his palm.
He let it rise higher.
It didn't burn him. Not even slightly. It shimmered like golden-red silk in the air above his hand, dancing to the rhythm of his breath.
He was tired of surviving. Tired of being watched. Tired of pretending.
He was going to Hogwarts.
He was going to learn everything this world had to offer.
And when he was ready, he would never be afraid again.
The flame twisted upward, reacting to something inside him.
Then, as if obeying a silent command, it folded inward—and vanished.
Caelum sat back, breathing deeply.
One step closer.