Caelum walked briskly through the winding streets of London, his coat wrapped tightly against the sharp autumn breeze. It had been five days since he traced the Black family's associates in Knockturn Alley, and the threads were becoming more tangled. Leads overlapped. Names crossed lists they shouldn't. And the quiet, distant hum of something darker moving beneath the surface gnawed at him.
It was time to make a calculated return to Hogwarts.
When he stepped through the gates of the castle, the familiar hum of Hogwarts' ancient wards settled around him like a second skin. Despite the storms brewing beyond these walls, there was always something grounding about this place.
His first stop was Dumbledore's office. The Headmaster was already waiting, seated behind his cluttered desk, a faint twinkle in his eyes but an unmistakable weight in his posture.
"You've returned earlier than I expected," Dumbledore greeted, his voice as calm as always. "I trust your investigation was… enlightening?"
Caelum remained standing, hands folded behind his back. "More tangled than I anticipated. The family I've been observing is moving carefully, but not flawlessly. There are shipments. Supplies consistent with large-scale ritual work."
Dumbledore's gaze sharpened. "Any indication of what they're attempting?"
"Nothing concrete but what I have found isn't painting a good picture." Caelum's tone stayed measured. "I'll give you a report on everything by today."
The Headmaster nodded slowly, as though filing the information away alongside countless other secrets.
"I'll continue pressing the Ministry," Dumbledore said after a pause. "But I doubt they will move until the threat is undeniable. They have a habit of arriving late."
"They always do." Caelum's lips twitched faintly, a rare ghost of amusement.
Dumbledore gestured to the teapot on his desk. "You've missed quite a few things while you were gone. Young Harry Potter's continued… unique progress, for one."
Caelum arched a brow, feigning mild curiosity. "Still proving himself to be an interesting student?"
The Headmaster's smile was knowing but guarded. "More than interesting. But I imagine you'll see for yourself soon enough. It seems your paths are destined to cross."
There was something in Dumbledore's voice, a subtle weight beneath his usual playfulness. Caelum let it slide without probing further. There were times to question, and times to observe.
The meeting concluded quickly after that, with Caelum agreeing to resume his classes while continuing his external investigation when necessary.
By midday, he was back in his classroom, where a new wave of third-year students filed in. Among them, familiar faces—Harry Potter, Neville Longbottom, Ron Weasley, and Hermione Granger.
As the students settled, Caelum let his gaze sweep over them briefly before beginning the lesson.
"Today's topic will be defensive constructs," he said, his tone smooth but direct. "Shields that do not simply block but redirect force. Complex, but achievable if you have the patience."
The students straightened at the challenge.
His eyes lingered a second longer on Harry. The boy's posture was relaxed but alert. Sharp, too sharp for his age. And yet, he wore the mask of a typical student flawlessly.
Caelum wasn't fooled. He never had been.
Throughout the class, he observed the dynamics carefully. Hermione, unsurprisingly, was meticulous with her notes and questions. Neville, despite being the so-called Boy Who Lived in this timeline, still wrestled with his confidence, though he was noticeably more driven this year. Ron provided a casual energy to the group, sometimes slacking but not without talent.
And then there was Harry—always a step ahead, but never showing it. His spells, his footwork, even the subtle way he handled his wand—they weren't the movements of someone just learning.
Caelum watched as Harry helped Ron adjust a warding angle, offering a piece of advice far too precise for a second-year student, yet he played it off as something he'd read.
A charade.
A well-constructed one.
When the class ended, A third year lingered briefly, her curiosity uncontainable. "Professor Veylan, is it possible to modify a reflective ward to store a portion of the redirected magic for later use?"
It was an advanced question, one not typically explored until much later years.
Caelum offered her a slow nod. "In theory, yes. But storage comes with degradation risk. Unless you wish to gamble with volatile energy in your pocket, I wouldn't recommend it yet."
Her eyes sparkled with intrigue. "Thank you, Professor."
Harry, standing nearby, remained silent, offering only a nod of acknowledgment before following his friends out of the room.
Caelum's gaze lingered on the boy's retreating figure.
There was a calculation there. A readiness. He wasn't simply learning—he was preparing.
Good.
He would need that preparation soon enough.
As the day wound down, Caelum made his way toward the Astronomy Tower. It had become a place of quiet for him, away from the watchful eyes of the staff and the endless noise of the students.
There, under the cool, starlit sky, he reviewed his notes and pieced together what he had gathered.
The Black family's recent movements.
The obscure summoning materials.
And the growing possibility that what they were building toward wasn't just power—it was access.
He had seen it before in other worlds.
Doors.
The wrong ones.
As his thoughts settled, the wind rustled the edges of his coat.
It was still too early to sound alarms. No proof yet. No direct lines.
But the shadow was lengthening.
And this time, the storm wouldn't come from Voldemort. No, something else was steering these pieces, something that had yet to reveal its full shape.
Caelum folded his notes carefully, his mind already outlining his next steps.
There was more work to be done.
There always was.
---
Two weeks passed in steady rhythm. Classes resumed after the holidays, and Hogwarts slipped back into its usual pattern of busy corridors, drifting laughter, and the occasional explosion from a wayward potion. Caelum, however, was anything but settled. His nights were long, spent chasing scraps of information and deciphering half-truths whispered through the underground networks.
It was late one evening in Knocturm bar when his patience paid off.
Seated in the far corner of the Three Broomsticks, Caelum sipped his drink quietly as his ears caught fragments of conversation from a nearby table. Two cloaked figures murmured beneath the soft din of the pub, their voices low but not careful enough.
"…the Travers family's event is the perfect cover. The artifact is expected to change hands that night…"
Caelum kept his gaze steady on his glass, his pulse steady. A Travers gathering. That was something.
When the pair left, Caelum followed at a distance until they parted ways. It didn't take him long to confirm the lead—a private masquerade, an exclusive event where only the most influential pure-blood families were invited.
The problem: he wasn't invited.
Returning to Hogwarts, he sat at his desk, going over the names he'd gathered. The Travers family was known for their opulence and carelessness. If he could just get in, he'd find out who was pulling strings in the shadows.
He tapped his quill against the parchment and leaned back. Regulus Travers—he would be attending. Young, careless, with a known habit of overindulging. Perfect.
The night of the event came swiftly.
Caelum found Regulus stumbling through Knockturn Alley, his gait loose from too many drinks. His friends had abandoned him hours ago, leaving him to meander through the side streets like a stray.
Caelum approached silently and, with a practiced flick of his wand, cast a sleeping charm. Regulus slumped, and Caelum caught him effortlessly.
"No hard feelings," Caelum muttered under his breath as he tucked the man safely into a corner, making him comfortable enough to pass as someone who simply drank himself into a stupor.
From Regulus's pocket, he retrieved the invitation—a card laced with light enchantments—and from his satchel, Caelum pulled a thin silver mask he had prepared in advance.
"Let's see how well you mingle," he whispered, weaving a glamour over himself to mirror Regulus's appearance.
The masquerade was held at an ancient estate, its grounds guarded by layers of wards that parted smoothly when he presented the invitation. Classical music drifted through the air, mingling with the sound of idle chatter and laughter as Caelum stepped into the glittering ballroom.
His eyes scanned the crowd as he moved through them. It was a world of sharp glances, polite deception, and words with hidden blades. Pure-blood social games. Caelum had no interest in them, but tonight, he needed to play along.
"Regulus!" a man called out, clapping Caelum on the back. He turned, recognizing the face from his notes—a cousin, perhaps.
"Didn't expect to see you here," the man chuckled. "Thought you'd be too busy chasing trouble."
Caelum managed a smirk, falling into the role effortlessly. "What can I say? Trouble finds me either way."
They shared a laugh before the man was pulled away by another guest, leaving Caelum to drift toward quieter corners.
It didn't take long for him to pick up the whispers.
"...artifact's movement is confirmed…"
"...a perfect exchange, with so many families gathered…"
"...we can't afford another delay. They're growing restless…"
A flicker of movement on the balcony caught his attention, and Caelum's gaze sharpened.
Standing there, the Potter family.
He hadn't expected to see them here, but in hindsight, it made sense. They held enough influence to be part of these gatherings, though there was something about their posture—something subtly out of place. James Potter's polite smile was strained, his body angled slightly as if protecting Lily, who seemed far more at ease, her eyes calmly surveying the crowd. Their daughter wasn't with them—understandable.
Caelum didn't approach. He kept his distance and simply observed.
A young man's voice broke his focus.
"You're unusually quiet tonight, Regulus."
Turning, Caelum found himself face to face with another attendee. Judging by the tone, they were supposed to know each other.
"Long day," Caelum replied smoothly.
"Ha, aren't they all?" the man grinned, sipping his drink. "Still, it's not every day the old guard gathers like this. Something big's moving."
"Care to elaborate?" Caelum asked casually.
The man's grin widened but he shook his head. "Nah. Just that the right people are finally taking things seriously. There's power to be claimed soon. You know how it is—one step at a time."
Caelum tilted his head. "And you trust these steps?"
"Not particularly. But trust's never been required in this game, has it?"
Their brief exchange was interrupted as the man's attention was pulled elsewhere. Caelum moved on, taking the chance to slip deeper into the party.
His ears caught more snippets—mentions of upcoming shipments, strange rituals, and veiled references to something that would soon be beyond the Ministry's control.
In one quiet alcove, he lingered by a conversation he wasn't meant to hear.
"We have confirmation. The arrangements for the next phase have been secured. The Black family is handling it."
"And the protection?"
"Sealed. No one will interfere."
Caelum committed every word to memory. It was clear now—the families weren't simply guarding old relics or clinging to fading power. They were coordinating for something. Something that would ripple far beyond the walls of this masquerade.
He made his exit just as quietly as he had arrived, ensuring no trace of his presence remained.
As he returned to Hogwarts, his mind churned through the new information. The pieces were aligning—but the full picture remained elusive.
Whatever the Black family and their allies were planning, Caelum knew one thing for certain.
He was now part of it.
And whether they knew it or not, he would be following their every step.
---
Harry didn't want to be here.
Standing among the sea of masks, dressed in fine robes that itched against his skin, he felt more like an intruder than an invited guest. The masquerade was the kind of event the Potter family was expected to attend, but for Harry, it was little more than suffocating tradition wrapped in velvet and gold.
His parents moved through the crowd with the practiced ease of those born into this world, exchanging polite smiles and thinly veiled words. Harry, on the other hand, stayed near the edges, offering only the briefest nods when spoken to, his mind elsewhere.
He had grown to despise these gatherings. They reminded him of a life he didn't want—a life where bloodlines dictated respect and the weight of a name crushed individual freedom.
But as much as he wanted to leave, he couldn't.
His father had asked him to attend, and even though they'd mended things, some scars still lingered. Refusing now would only unravel the fragile threads they had worked so hard to weave back together.
So he stayed.
He leaned against a marble column, watching the dancers swirl across the grand floor, his gaze distant, detached.
That's when he saw her.
She wasn't like the others. While most guests wore layers of extravagance and hid behind ornate masks, she needed no embellishment. She stood out effortlessly, her beauty sharp, intoxicating—a quiet pull that tightened around him like a noose. Her dark hair framed a delicate face, her crimson dress clinging to her figure with subtle elegance.
Harry found himself flustered, an uncomfortable heat creeping up his neck. His breath caught for a fraction of a second, as if the very air around him had thickened.
What the hell was that?
He blinked and turned away sharply, pressing his palm against his chest.
The mark—the one carved into his soul by the Demon King—flared to life.
Just for a second.
A pulse of awareness, cold and instinctual, surged through him. It wasn't like the searing pain he'd felt when first branded—it was more like an animalistic recognition, a predator's eye catching scent of its kin.
His heart thudded as the pieces slid into place.
No. It couldn't be.
His gaze snapped back to her, but she had already slipped into another conversation, her laughter soft and unassuming to everyone else.
But to him?
It rang hollow. A careful imitation.
Harry gritted his teeth. The mark hadn't reacted like that in years. This was no coincidence. That woman wasn't normal. No human presence had ever made the mark stir.
A demon. She had to be one.
No—he narrowed his eyes—something else. A succubus?
The thought made his stomach twist.
His first reaction was violent. He wanted to act, to erase her before she could pose any threat. His fingers flexed, itching for the wand tucked under his robe. He could follow her, lure her somewhere quiet, and eliminate the danger quickly.
But the rational part of him shoved the idea aside.
He wasn't in the same world anymore.
This wasn't the battlefield.
There were too many variables here. Too many eyes. Too many innocents.
And she… she didn't even seem aware of what she was.
That was what rattled him most.
She moved without a hint of malicious intent, speaking with the measured grace of someone used to navigating political minefields. Her words were careful, her gestures refined, but there was no undercurrent of danger, no flicker of predatory hunger in her expression.
If anything, she looked… tired.
Like someone desperately trying to keep their life from falling apart.
Harry forced himself to breathe, to calm the flood of adrenaline rushing through him.
He couldn't act—not here, not now.
Instead, he chose to watch.
His curiosity, unwilling to leave loose threads dangling, guided his steps closer to her orbit. He caught fragments of her conversation, enough to piece together her name—Selene Roswell.
A name he'd never heard before. But that wasn't surprising.
Her family, it seemed, was in trouble. Whispers from nearby painted a clear picture—her house was struggling under the weight of a debt left by the previous head. She was here tonight seeking alliances, trying to secure backing for a business venture that might pull her family from the edge.
It was odd.
Demons didn't involve themselves in human debts.
Unless…
Unless she didn't know what she was.
Harry's jaw tightened.
A demon wouldn't beg for support like this. A demon wouldn't negotiate deals to save their house. And no true demon would ever carry themselves with that level of human fragility.
So what was she?
He glanced briefly at his palm, where the mark had settled into silence again, leaving no trace of its earlier pulse.
Was she fully demon? Unlikely.
Half? Quarter? Some distant trace?
Whatever the case, she wasn't aware of it.
Harry leaned back against the column once more, watching her from the corner of his eye.
For a moment, an uncomfortable thought crept into his mind.
What if she wasn't the enemy?
What if she was just like him? Dragged into a world she didn't choose, forced to carry a mark she never asked for.
He shoved the thought away. It was dangerous to entertain that kind of sympathy. He'd seen too much, fought too many monsters to let his guard down over a pretty face and a sob story.
But still… he didn't move.
He didn't approach.
He just observed, his mind caught between instinct and hesitation.
Harry didn't know why, but something told him that this woman—Selene—would cross his path again.
And when she did, he needed to be ready.
Because whether she knew it or not, the moment his mark responded, their fates had become tangled.
And that was something Harry could not ignore.
---
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