Synchronization: 14.57%
The echo of footsteps rang lightly through the stone corridors as Caelum made his way toward the library, robes swaying with each measured stride. His mind, however, was far from calm. The presence of that artifact—whatever Lilian Potter was unknowingly carrying—had awakened something in him.
Opportunity.
The kind that could reshape his limits.
He pushed open the heavy wooden doors of the library, nodding politely at Madam Pince, who barely looked up from her desk. Professors had free access here, and thankfully, she didn't question how often he came. Nor did she seem to mind when he requested obscure tomes or spent hours cross-referencing magical theory texts long out of circulation.
With synchronization now at 14.57%, he'd begun unlocking fragments of Veylan's knowledge—small sparks of advanced theory, an instinctive understanding of how energy moved, how to construct and collapse a spell-form mid-air. Nothing overwhelming. Just enough to remind him how far he still had to go.
But those fragments weren't enough. The powerful spells still refused to budge, sealed behind an invisible threshold of compatibility. He needed more. And until the next tier of spells unlocked, he would do what he could: build his own path toward strength.
He walked deeper into the library, heading toward the section on magical constructs and ancient spellcraft.
If a child can carry that kind of artifact without setting off the castle's alarms, Caelum mused, then it's likely enchanted to conceal its nature—or perhaps it was simply keyed to her signature. Either way, it means such things can still exist within the castle undisturbed.
That opened possibilities.
He pulled three thick tomes off the shelf—Rudimentary Arithmancy of Storage Arrays, On the Balance of Magical Reservoirs, and Bindings of the Mind and Mana. Heavy, obscure, and dry as salted parchment. But they were what he needed.
Settling into a quiet corner desk, he flipped through the yellowing pages. Aether Sense wouldn't help much here—these were ideas and calculations, not enchantments to analyze. Still, the core concept was simple: create a structure capable of holding mana, charge it slowly, and then tap into it in bursts to cast above his current threshold.
It would be crude at first. Maybe even unstable. But if successful, it could act like an external lung, helping him "breathe" more magic than his core allowed.
He paused briefly, scratching a few notes into his conjured leather notebook.
A simple circlet or ring wouldn't suffice. The artifact Lilian carried had more depth to it—it radiated a sense of design far more intricate. Whatever it was, it had layers. Core array, stabilizer, leak suppressor, possibly even a self-repairing thread. He wouldn't get there in a week. But he could start.
This world isn't canon. Voldemort might come back stronger, stranger. I can't count on events going the same way. And I definitely can't count on children winning the war again.
His eyes sharpened at the thought. He needed to be ready for anything.
A flicker of energy passed through him as a small notification shimmered at the edge of his senses:
> +0.01% Synchronization.
Progress recognized: Applied methodology from template's magical theory.
He didn't smile—but there was a quiet satisfaction in it. A tiny nudge forward, earned through action. The easy gains were long gone. From here on, every increase would demand more.
Footsteps echoed behind him. A student's voice, hesitant. "Professor?"
Caelum turned, looking up to see a Ravenclaw first-year standing there, holding a book tightly to her chest.
"Sorry to disturb," she said, eyes flicking nervously to the chair across from him. "I heard you help sometimes… with theory."
He raised a brow. "Do you have a question?"
"Yes, sir. I can't make sense of magical transference equations. In Charms."
Caelum considered her for a moment. Then he gestured to the seat. "Sit."
Even if minor, interacting with students kept up appearances—and perhaps, deepened the credibility of his role. The system wanted him to play the character, after all. He didn't mind.
As she opened her textbook, he returned to his own notes, mind balancing between theoretical constructs and real-world urgency.
Time was running. And Caelum had no intention of lagging behind.
------
Synchronization: 19.95%
Seventeen days. That's how long it took him to push synchronization from 14.58% to the cusp of 20%. Seventeen days of lectures, controlled spellcasting, patient tutoring, and strict adherence to the persona of Archmage Veylan. He had buried himself in the role until his voice began to carry its weight without effort, until the runes etched into the ritual circle felt like muscle memory.
And finally, the diary was ready for destruction.
The ritual circle was hidden, woven into an unused underground storeroom beneath the east wing. Caelum had personally cleared it of any magical interference, carving the sequence into the floor with precision. Every line of the containment glyphs, every warding rune, every fail-safe—tested and double-checked.
It would work. The diary would be destroyed tonight.
He stood now in his chambers, robes fastened, wand sheathed at his side. He had already disabled the minor ward outside Gryffindor Tower earlier that day. Tonight, he'd take the diary, bring it down to the circle, and end this plotline before it truly began. No more whispers. No more cursed magic preying on students.
Caelum took a breath and tightened the strap on the satchel slung across his shoulder.
The ritual would require a steady stream of aether, and while he didn't have access to truly destructive spells yet—his template still unlocking in careful increments—he had enough raw energy and constructed runes to replicate the necessary magical pressure. Not elegant, but functional.
And once the diary was gone, it would be a major deviation from canon. One that would—hopefully—rob Voldemort of one of his earliest anchors in this world. It would be a step toward completing the system's mission: change the plot, speedrun the show.
He turned, making his way toward the door.
His hand was on the handle when something tugged at the edge of his senses—a ripple, like a string plucked in the wrong key.
It wasn't the castle wards. It wasn't hostile magic. But it was strong, sharp, and far too close to ignore.
He paused, eyes narrowing. Aether Sense pulsed to life instinctively. The usual background buzz of Hogwarts—a sea of fluctuating mana signatures—faded away, letting him isolate the source. It was familiar.
That's... the artifact again?
Faint, but unmistakable. The same tightly-bound magical presence he had sensed seventeen days ago in the Defense class—centered on a young girl.
Harry's sister. The one carrying that artifact.
He thought little of it at the time, chalking it up as a family heirloom or a protective charm. But now it spiked, sudden and deliberate. It wasn't activating—but it was reacting. Resonating with something.
And whatever it was, it was in motion.
Caelum pulled his hand back from the door, face tight with focus. The ritual could wait—barely—but this? This could change things. If the artifact was a link, a beacon, or worse—a containment item—he needed to know.
He turned from the door.
The diary would have to survive one more night.
---
The moment Caelum honed in on the spike of magic, his feet were already moving. The resonance wasn't just ambient—it was pulsing, faint but rhythmic, like a heartbeat accelerating under stress.
And it was heading downward.
Through stone corridors and shifting staircases, he followed it with grim urgency. His Aether Sense filtered the noise of the castle's ambient magic as he moved, tightening his focus. There was no time for hesitation. If a student had wandered too close to the Chamber… if the artifact was acting as a key…
No. Too many variables. Just move.
The path led him to a familiar, all-too-notorious location: the second-floor girls' bathroom. The place that, in the original plot, housed the entrance to the Chamber of Secrets.
No. It's too early… isn't it? he thought, pulse quickening. The diary shouldn't have gotten that far.
He reached for the door, wand in hand—not that he could take on a Basilisk with his current spell set. But someone had to check. If a student was in danger—
Then the thought struck him.
Dumbledore.
If anyone could help, it was him. Caelum turned, sprinting back the way he came, heart pounding harder than it had in weeks. But as he rounded the corridor and reached for the nearest enchanted gargoyle that led to the Headmaster's office—
Nothing.
No movement. No shimmer of runic response.
Right. Dumbledore was summoned by the Ministry today.
Fucking bad timing, as always, chose the worst possible moment. What the hell did the ministry even need from him that they fucking summon him at the worst times. Those fucking bastards always trying to push someone's buttons when they don't want to fight but run like the rats they are if any problem occures.
Clenching his jaw, Caelum took a sharp breath and pivoted back toward the bathroom. He had no time. No backup. Just his limited arsenal and the growing unease crawling down his spine.
He slided down the pipe.
And what he saw inside made him freeze.
This wasn't what I expected.
-----------------------
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