The sun had barely risen when Caelum stepped into his office, closing the door behind him with a soft click. The faint smell of aged parchment and ink settled around him—comforting, in its own way. He reached for his notebook and opened to a page filled with dense symbols and annotations.
12.88% Synchronization.
Still not enough. Close to the threshold that would unlock intermediate spell access, but not quite there.
Yesterday's class interaction had nudged the percentage forward, and today's plan would build on that momentum. He had two objectives: finalize the first layer of the counter-ritual and continue the persona of a capable, collected professor. That meant being visible. Approachable. Teaching convincingly.
He wasn't used to being watched so closely, but the role demanded it.
The morning class—fifth-years—filtered in with varying levels of energy. He waited until the room had settled before he stepped forward, hands clasped behind his back.
"Today," he began, "we explore magical feedback in layered spellcasting. Or, more accurately—how to avoid blowing yourself up when casting above your weight."
That got a few smiles. A Ravenclaw in the front row sat up straighter, already flipping through a well-used textbook.
Caelum summoned a clear orb onto his desk. "This focus stone contains an intentionally unstable spell matrix. I'll demonstrate a safe feedback reaction. Then, you'll pair up and try to stabilize your own." He paused, gauging the room. "And no, you may not blow it up. Not even a little."
Laughter, scattered but real. The tone was set.
He moved through the rows as the students worked. He corrected wand angles, clarified rune alignments, and offered brief, focused feedback. Each moment spent engaged in the lesson kept him rooted in the persona of Archmage Veylan—a teacher, yes, but one with authority and insight.
The synchronization ticked upward again. 13.02%.
After the bell rang and the class cleared out, he returned to his office and unrolled a thin sheet of silver parchment. It bore the ritual he'd refined late last night—a preliminary countermeasure for soul-linked bindings. A test version. It wouldn't destroy the diary, not yet, but it would reveal if it was truly a Horcrux.
And he had a test object now.
In the early hours, he'd enchanted a charmed ring with a facsimile of a soul tether. Imperfect, of course—but close enough to gauge resonance.
He began slowly—each sigil carved into the air with precise wand movements. He chanted under his breath, the magic responding with soft pulses of resistance. A faint glow surrounded the ring as the final glyph locked into place.
Then—sharp resistance.
The tether unraveled in a flicker of red light. The ring clattered onto the desk, inert.
It worked.
His chest loosened slightly. The theory was sound. If the diary behaved similarly, he'd know for certain. He'd still need to adjust for Voldemort's defensive layering—dark magic was never simple—but this was the first step toward neutralizing it.
Knock knock.
He turned. The door creaked open, and a familiar head poked through—Hermione Granger, sharp-eyed and visibly curious.
"Professor? Sorry to bother you. I had a question about yesterday's lecture. The symbol you used to redirect the feedback—was that a derivative of Lufkin's spiral model?"
Caelum gestured her in. "It was. Modified, of course."
She stepped inside, opening a slim notebook. "You didn't cite a reference, and I couldn't find it in any of the standard texts. Is it unpublished?"
"In a manner of speaking." He offered a slight smile. "Not all magical theory makes it to print."
Her brow furrowed thoughtfully. "It felt… old. Or maybe elegant is the better word."
Caelum nodded once. "Good observation."
He watched her process the answer, clearly unsatisfied but respectful enough not to push further. She left shortly after, thanking him again.
After she was gone, Caelum leaned back in his chair.
The smarter students were starting to notice. He'd need to stay cautious, but that, too, could be useful. The more they asked, the more opportunities he had to role-play the archmage's scholarly persona—and the more synchronization he could gain.
He glanced at the sheet again. One more test. One more layer to refine. And soon, a confrontation with the diary itself.
Not long now.
-------
Caelum stood near the large arched window of the staff room, watching the students spill out into the courtyard below. A few first-years scurried along the stone path, books clutched to their chests, clearly late for something. A group of Slytherins leaned against the railing, speaking in low voices—likely gossip or some petty house drama.
He turned back to the coffee table. A copy of The Daily Prophet lay unopened, the headline boldly proclaiming: "Chamber of Secrets: Myth or Menace?"
His fingers brushed the edge of the paper, but he didn't open it. He didn't need to. He knew what lay beneath the surface. And worse—he knew that despite everything, he still had no concrete plan to locate the diary.
13.92%.
The synchronization was slow now. Slower than he liked. Every class, every interaction gave him fractions—tenths of a percent at best. He needed to accelerate things. Once he hit 15%, he expected a small skill unlock, perhaps another branch of spells. But that was still a few well-played days away.
Back in his classroom, he found a handful of third-years waiting—today was a practical exercise.
He stepped inside and motioned them toward the practice dummies lining the wall.
"You've spent enough time reading about wand control and incantation stability," Caelum said calmly. "Now we're going to see if you can actually apply it. I want two things from each of you: a clean casting and a clean stop."
There were nervous glances, but wands came out.
The first to volunteer—a tall Gryffindor boy—moved forward with too much energy, nearly tripping over his own feet. His spell sparked against the target dummy's protective wards, wild and half-formed.
Caelum stepped beside him. "Again. Slower. Think before you swing your wand like a sword."
The boy nodded and tried again. This time, the spell was stable. Weak—but functional.
Caelum gave a short nod and moved on to the next student. A Hufflepuff girl, surprisingly confident, managed a near-flawless Expelliarmus. He raised an eyebrow.
"Who taught you that grip?"
"Grandmum," she said, smiling. "She's an ex-Duelling Club champion."
"Good lineage," he muttered. "Keep practicing."
As the lesson continued, Caelum found a rhythm. Not just in teaching—but in role-playing. He began weaving in small bits of the Archmage's philosophy: discipline over raw power, understanding before application. His corrections became more measured, his tone steadier. With every word, he sank deeper into the persona.
By the end of the class, he could feel the system react. 14.21%.
He dismissed the students with a simple, "Well done. Practice doesn't end here," and returned to his desk. His notes on the diary lay under a fresh roll of parchment.
He'd begun cross-referencing known Horcrux properties from his memories of the books and movies, layering in Veylan's magical framework. The theory wasn't complex—destroying a soul-bound object required targeted magical disruption—but actually performing it was the issue. Fiendfyre was too destructive. Basilisk venom was too rare.
But the Archmage's framework had something different. An obscure category of spells dealing with magical integrity—attacks aimed not at physical objects, but at their magical architecture. A kind of metaphysical disassembly.
If he could find a library book that referenced something close, he could reverse-engineer it using the system's partial memory access.
He was just rolling up the scroll when the door knocked.
A familiar voice followed. "Professor Caelum?"
He opened the door to find a quiet Ravenclaw boy—fourth year, if he remembered correctly—fidgeting slightly.
"Yes?"
"I—um, sorry to bother you. Professor Flitwick said you knew a lot about spell matrices. I was trying to adapt a shield charm, but it keeps collapsing on the third runic layer. I… I was wondering if you could look at it?"
Caelum paused, then nodded. "Come in."
The boy opened his notebook, and together they went over the diagram. It was a clumsy attempt, but earnest. Caelum offered a few minor adjustments—changes to the flow lines and timing of the incantation—and walked him through the reasoning.
By the time the student left, Caelum leaned back in his chair, mentally noting the uptick.
14.52%.
It wasn't much, but it was building. The system responded to moments that matched Veylan's personality—mentoring, precision, and deliberate study.
The diary still needed to be located. The library, perhaps. Or the student records. Somewhere in this school, Tom Riddle's remnant was already moving.
He stood, packed his notes, and headed for the library.
Time to hunt.
----
The class of second-years filed in with the usual energy of children barely on the cusp of adolescence. Caelum leaned back slightly in his chair, watching the line of students enter, eyes flicking over robes and faces with passive attention—until his gaze settled on one girl near the back.
Small frame. Green eyes. Long, reddish-brown hair. The resemblance to James and Lily Potter was unmistakable. Harry's sister, Caelum thought. He remembered her name from his quiet reading and research—Lilian Potter.
She was smiling at something her friend said, but Caelum wasn't looking at her expression. He was already activating Aether Sense, more out of habit than need.
And then he froze.
A sudden flood of magical power appeared in his perception, dense and matured—not wild like a child's mana but stable and fully developed. It was the signature of an adult. No—stronger than most adults. It wasn't coming from her core, though. His eyes narrowed, focus sharpening on a glimmer tucked just under her uniform robes near her neckline.
A pendant?
No, not quite. It wasn't enchanted in the typical Hogwarts fashion, nor did it carry the trace of any common defensive charm. It was old—refined. That wasn't the part that disturbed him. What disturbed him was that she was carrying it, and she had no idea how heavy the power in that artifact truly was.
He adjusted his posture slightly, keeping his voice calm. "Everyone, take your seats. Wands out, parchment ready."
The students obeyed, filling the room with the soft shuffles of chairs and rustling of parchment. But Caelum's thoughts weren't on the lesson anymore.
That artifact… it's not hers. At least, not something she created or even understands. It could be a gift. A family heirloom. A defense her parents made for her. Or—it could be something else. Something placed.
No. Don't jump to conclusions.
Still, the presence of such power in a second-year's possession made his fingers itch.
And yet, Caelum mused, it gave me an idea.
He glanced down at his own wand. He had access to magic, yes, and the synchronization had reached a point where basic spells from the Archmage's template were beginning to surface—but the gap was still wide. The spells he could use were powerful in theory, but limited in practice by his current mana pool. It was like having a rocket engine strapped to a go-kart. It wasn't sustainable.
But if he could store magic…
He tapped the desk gently with his fingers, mind racing. An external mana reservoir. A stabilizer. An artifact that could house spell matrices and provide casting amplification. Something I could charge ahead of time. That pendant the girl is carrying might be doing exactly that.
If Hogwarts permitted students to carry such items—even unknowingly—then there might be no real restriction against professors creating and using their own.
The class continued around him. He asked a few questions about spell forms, corrected a boy's grip on his wand, and kept up appearances. But inwardly, he had already begun designing.
He'd need access to the restricted section for some of the theory. He could request materials under his professor credentials, or fabricate a research project on ancient magical storage systems. The real challenge would be anchoring a construct without triggering Hogwarts' artifact detection wards.
Still… He glanced once more at Lilian Potter, who was busy copying notes and occasionally whispering to her seatmate. She seemed perfectly normal. Ordinary, even.
But that pendant…
Caelum let the class run its course, all the while refining the idea in his mind. He wouldn't act yet. Not until he was sure. But he'd seen what was possible—and he'd be damned if he let the synchronization limit him while others, even unknowingly, walked around with literal mana batteries at their necks.
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