Caelum stepped through the main gates of Hogwarts as the first train whistle echoed across the distant hills. He wore his usual robes — charcoal gray, lightly warded, and marked with faint arcane threads that shifted when you weren't looking. To most students, he was just a professor again.
But this time, they remembered his name.
"Professor Veylan!"
A Ravenclaw first-year waved at him — someone he didn't recognize, but the look in the boy's eyes said he'd heard plenty over the summer. Rumors, probably. Half true. Half fantasy. All curated by the System's false memory web.
Caelum offered a small nod in return, then kept walking. His boots clicked on the stone path as students poured in behind him.
The start-of-term buzz felt oddly hollow.
Not because the castle was empty — but because he had changed.
With 35% synchronization, even mundane things looked slightly off now. Aether lines running through the walls. Ghost trails left behind by enchanted objects. He could see the afterimages of spells long dissipated. A skill called Residual Weave Tracing. Before it would take a lot concentration to activate it
Now, it activated passively.
He could also read emotions more precisely — not through mind-reading, but through subtle posture, breathing patterns, mana flow fluctuations. The body was a book. Magic was its ink. All he had to do was learn the grammar.
He passed through the Entrance Hall and up the main stairs, bypassing the growing throng of students and heading straight for the Great Hall. There was still time before the Sorting.
Inside, the hall was quiet — for now. Staff members were settling into their seats. McGonagall had her usual clipboard. Flitwick chatted softly with Pomona. Snape was nowhere to be seen, though Caelum sensed him near the dungeons. Always watching.
Then Dumbledore looked up and gave him a subtle, almost imperceptible nod.
Message received: no new threats… yet.
Caelum took his seat at the far end of the table, letting his eyes scan the four House tables out of habit. It was strange. So many faces were familiar now — but the true players, the ones who mattered to the shape of this world, were still obscured.
And then he saw him.
Harry.
The boy looked… composed. At ease. A quiet strength in his posture, completely unlike the fidgeting he'd shown in public last year. He wasn't pretending to be nervous anymore. He'd found the balance. A practiced mask.
A few seats down from him sat Neville Longbottom — still clearly the face of the public narrative. Laughing at something Ron said. Beside them was Hermione, adjusting her tie as she scanned a text she'd probably been reading on the train.
Caelum's eyes narrowed slightly.
Synchronization at this level meant noticing what didn't fit.
Hermione's magic had grown. Not in raw power, but in control — her aether channels were more stable, her focus tighter. And Harry…
Harry was hiding his chaotic aura. Purposefully. It was too still, too quiet. Only someone at Caelum's level would notice that it was muted rather than weak.
And that was concerning because a Human shouldn't have that, only monster's that want destruction should have that just like those demons
Still, Caelum said nothing.
The hall began to fill. Sorting hats and songs. Small dramas unfolding at each table. Another year was beginning.
I suppose this year wouldn't be quiet either. Is too much to ask for a quiet year in this place.
-------
Caelum's breath slowed as the final spell settled around the isolated chamber beneath the old ruins — a space Dumbledore had quietly helped secure. The room wasn't large, but it was layered with protective wards and time-dilation enchantments, making it perfect for his training. Dust hung in the still air, lit by the faint shimmer of runes carved into the walls. No distractions. No students. Just progress.
He had spent every waking moment pushing the boundaries of his synchronization with the Veylan template. Not blindly copying — he was smarter than that. The archmage's habits, spellcasting style, and approach to magic were gradually becoming intuitive. And with each step forward, the System responded.
> [Synchronization: 38.7%]
Significant milestone approaching. Refinement threshold imminent. New passive bonus available upon reaching 45%.
Estimated required exertion: 9 high-intensity sessions or equivalent combat experience.
"Not bad," he muttered under his breath, brushing sweat from his brow. "But not enough."
There was still a gap — not in skill or knowledge, but in instinct. The difference between knowing and doing. Between planning and surviving.
He stepped into the center of the rune circle and activated the sparring simulation once more. Phantasmal constructs blinked into existence — conjured enemies shaped by memories of past encounters: masked duelists, dark creatures, and even a distorted projection of the basilisk's killing intent.
No fear, only focus.
Caelum raised his hand. Five separate sigils materialized in the air behind him, orbiting like slow-moving moons.
"Break formation. Rotational casting: Tier-3 through Tier-5. Prioritize displacement and mana disruption."
The System responded without the need for a prompt. His hands moved automatically, conjuring illusions to mask movement, launching arcane missiles mid-step, then collapsing space behind him to avoid a counter-attack.
The projection lunged. Caelum ducked, spun low, and countered with a rippling wave of kinetic force. The sparring dummy shattered — and then immediately reformed.
Over and over again.
He didn't count how many times he was knocked down, only how quickly he got up. Each failure gave him one more vector to reinforce. One more habit to internalize. And gradually, the line between his thoughts and the archmage's instincts began to blur.
The simulation ended when his mana dropped below safety thresholds.
He fell to one knee, heart pounding, skin slick with sweat. A faint shimmer danced along his arms — the lingering effect of mana overdraw. Dangerous if left unchecked, but not unfamiliar.
Caelum sat cross-legged and let the silence stretch.
From here on, growth would cost more than time and effort. It would demand risk. Experience. The kind only real combat or direct challenge could offer. He knew that path — it was the same one Harry walked. But their methods differed. Harry's power came from pain, from fire. Caelum's would come from precision.
He reached for his notes. Dozens of pages, scratched by hand, recording alternate mana pathways, interweaving spell architecture, and compatibility theory between magical templates. Most of it was above even a standard Mastery curriculum. He hadn't just been training his body and magic — he'd been building a strategy. A philosophy of power.
And it was almost ready.
---
Later that evening, Caelum emerged from the chamber just as the sun was beginning to dip toward the horizon. Hogwarts loomed nearby, silent for some time which wouldn't last
He wasn't surprised to find Dumbledore waiting at the edge of the warded forest path, perched on a stone like a gargoyle wrapped in robes.
"You've been at it again," the Headmaster said without turning. "The runes under your illusion shifted twelve degrees."
Caelum offered a tired smile. "Just enough to hold. An accident, not intent."
Dumbledore finally turned, his gaze more thoughtful than usual. "At some point, your strength will stop being measured in numbers. It will become a weight. One you carry."
Caelum exhaled. "I'm already feeling it."
They didn't speak for a while.
The birds sang. The wind stirred leaves. Somewhere in the distance, a thestral moved through the underbrush. Eventually, Dumbledore stood.
"I'll see you at the meeting. Try not to frighten the new students. And the professor . Again."
"No promises."
---
Somewhere Else.
A letter passed hands at the edge of the Ministry's War Department. An unusual note from the Department of Mysteries — heavily redacted and warded. It mentioned Hogwarts. A disturbance during the spring term. Unconfirmed rumors of deep magic resurfacing.
It would reach the wrong desk first. Get buried under other nonsense. Then later, it would be noticed again.
But not yet.
---
The air inside Classroom B-3 was thick with tension — the good kind. Dozens of second- and third-year students sat upright, quills at the ready, parchment unrolled, and eyes flicking between the enchanted blackboard and the man who stood before them.
Professor Caelum.
No wand was visible, but the runes across the board shifted with each word he spoke — sharp, fluid, and without error. Despite being new to Hogwarts, the man had already gained a reputation: brilliant, composed, and utterly uncompromising when it came to standards. Not cruel, just clear.
"Today is not a quiz," he said, voice calm but carrying. "It's not a graded assessment. This is a diagnostic. I want to see what you remember, what you forgot, and what you assumed without understanding."
He clasped his hands behind his back.
"You have one hour. There are no trick questions — only layered ones."
The parchment before each student shimmered slightly, adapting to their year level and prior performance. It wasn't quite magic they recognized — more Systemic, built through layered enchantments and adaptive feedback loops Caelum had designed over the summer.
Hermione glanced at her sheet, brows furrowing in concentration. Ron groaned under his breath. Neville gulped but didn't panic this time. Progress.
Caelum walked the rows slowly, silent, but ever-present. His gaze didn't linger, yet he missed nothing.
The questions began simply:
> List the counter-hex for a basic Entrapment Curse. Why is silver less effective against a Cursewraith than enchanted oak?
Then they progressed:
> Given a caster with limited mana and five seconds of prep time, which defensive layering method would maximize survival probability against a Blightfire hex?
> Hypothetical: An unknown magical entity bypasses standard wards. List three plausible principles this breach could operate on.
These weren't questions pulled from textbooks. They were field-based. Situational. And yet, each had a solid grounding in theory.
Several students exchanged bewildered looks. Not because they were stumped — though some clearly were — but because these weren't the sort of things they were used to being asked.
Harry sat silently near the back, eyes half-lidded. He was answering steadily, conservatively — as if holding back. Caelum noticed. He didn't react.
After twenty minutes, Hermione's hand shot up. Caelum paused by her desk, giving a slight nod.
"Yes, Miss Granger?"
"The third question — about mana disruption protocols. Isn't the answer technically dependent on the environment? I mean, if you're assuming a low-aether context—"
"You're right to question the assumptions," he said, not unkindly. "But read carefully. The environment is implied by the wording. 'Collapsed ward zone' tells you enough. Context is the spine of good magic."
Hermione nodded slowly, then bit her lip and kept writing.
At the thirty-minute mark, one of the parchments curled upward with a soft chime. Finished. Others followed, though some students were clearly rushing.
Caelum moved to the front of the class as the final sheets rolled in, floating gently into a side tray imbued with a storage charm.
He scanned the room.
"No grades will be posted for this. Your results will be returned with annotations by tomorrow. What matters is not how high you score, but how honest your understanding is. The worst mistake a wizard can make," he said, tapping the board, "is to pretend he knows what he doesn't because when it matters the only person you can rely on would be you."
There was a long silence, punctuated only by the fading shimmer of the blackboard clearing itself.
Then Caelum added, more softly, "You'll thank me when it matters."
And without waiting for applause or acknowledgment, he walked out — already planning the next iteration.
---
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