Twelve days into the new term, the castle had mostly settled into routine.
The students were louder now, less cautious. The tension left by the previous year's string of attacks had dulled with time, replaced by the usual chatter about Quidditch tryouts, upcoming tests, and gossip about the new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor.
Caelum adjusted his robes as he walked through the main corridor, nodding once to a passing group of fifth-years. His presence no longer stirred murmurs like it did the previous year. To them, Professor Caelum was already a fixture—a sharp, occasionally aloof instructor known for difficult exams and unorthodox teaching methods.
It worked in his favor.
He made his way past the Great Hall and turned down a quieter hallway. At this hour, students were still in their first period. He had no class for another hour, which meant time to observe.
Not the students.
The new hire.
Remus Lupin.
He'd watched the man quietly for days, and so far, Lupin had been… competent. Calm. Unassuming. A breath of fresh air compared to the volatile predecessors Hogwarts had cycled through.
But Caelum didn't trust "unassuming." Especially not when paired with a magical signature that pulsed differently under Aether Sense. Like something that had grown used to hiding itself.
Lycanthropy, he suspected. The rhythm of the man's magic shifted with the moon's pull.
A curious appointment by Dumbledore. Curious, but deliberate.
Rounding the final corridor, Caelum slowed as he approached an open classroom door. Inside, Lupin was halfway through a lesson—practical work, if the bundled-up trunk at the front of the class was any indication.
Third-years.
Caelum remained outside, unseen, observing through the magical fold of a light illusion.
Lupin stood at ease, his wand tucked behind one ear, sleeves rolled up. He was speaking gently, giving the students space to breathe.
"They're reacting well to him," Caelum murmured to himself. "Too well."
Not that he minded. He had no desire to be liked by children. But Lupin's approachable nature made him dangerous in a different way.
A manipulator could hide behind gentleness.
He turned and walked away before the class ended. He didn't need to see the conclusion. He had seen enough.
---
Back in his office, Caelum sat before a stack of parchment. Test scores. Some were promising. A few were abysmal. Most fell in the middle.
He made quick notes, corrections, and adjustments. With each stroke of his quill, his synchronization edged higher—37.04% now.
He no longer needed to consciously mimic Veylan's patterns. The magic bent more easily under his will, especially when using techniques that blurred the line between theory and invention.
Still… this year felt different.
He had felt it during the summer. During the ritual in the hidden chamber.
And now, it was like the world was adjusting in response—faster currents, deeper tension.
The storm hadn't passed. It had simply changed its shape.
A knock pulled him from thought.
He recognized the magical signature before the door opened.
"Headmaster," he said without looking up.
Dumbledore entered, expression unreadable. "Caelum. May I?"
"You already have."
The older man took a seat across from him. His presence was quiet, yet undeniable—like gravity.
"I'm sure you've heard about Professor Lupin by now," Dumbledore said after a pause.
"I've observed him," Caelum replied. "He's… adequate."
A smile twitched at the corner of the Headmaster's mouth. "A high compliment, coming from you."
"I'm more concerned about what you're preparing for."
Dumbledore's eyes twinkled, but the light didn't reach the rest of his face.
"As am I," he said softly. "The board was reluctant to approve his appointment. But sometimes, the right defense… isn't the most obvious."
Caelum folded his hands.
"And what do you want from me, Headmaster?"
Dumbledore stood. "What you're already doing."
Then, he added before leaving, "But be ready, Professor. The castle remembers pain—and not all shadows are gone."
The door closed.
Caelum exhaled slowly, then looked at the parchment again.
Twelve days. Just twelve days into the term, and the board was already playing games.
He muttered to himself, "So be it."
---
Caelum found Remus Lupin seated alone in the staff courtyard, hunched slightly over a cup of steaming tea. The morning mist hadn't yet cleared, and the gray sky above matched the lines under Lupin's eyes. He wasn't napping, nor was he thinking. He simply… sat. As if stillness was the only thing left he could claim as his own.
Caelum didn't announce himself. His boots made enough noise across the cobblestones.
Lupin looked up and nodded. "Professor Caelum."
"Professor Lupin." He gestured to the bench opposite. "May I?"
"Of course," Lupin said, shifting to make space. "Though I doubt the tea is worth sharing. It's school-issued."
Caelum sat. He didn't comment on the joke. He didn't need to.
For a few moments, silence lingered between them — not uncomfortable, but not quite companionable either. It was the sort of silence that existed between two men who didn't trust easily and didn't pretend to.
Caelum studied the man more closely now.
The robes were neat, but fraying at the cuffs. The wand tucked into his sleeve was smooth, well-used, and re-polished too many times. His magical signature wasn't volatile, nor dark, but oddly reserved — as if the man was constantly bracing for judgment.
"You've adapted quickly," Caelum said finally. "The students respond well to you."
Lupin gave a faint smile. "Children tend to prefer instructors who don't frighten them."
Caelum didn't rise to the bait. "You're not what I expected."
Lupin turned to him, brows slightly raised. "Should I be offended or relieved?"
"Neither." Caelum leaned back, gaze sharp. "But I watch people carefully. Especially those Dumbledore brings in during uncertain times."
A flicker of understanding crossed Lupin's face, but he didn't flinch. "Then I assume you've already figured out the worst of it."
Caelum said nothing. But the silence was an answer.
Lupin gave a quiet chuckle. "Good. Saves time."
They sat again in silence, this time longer.
Caelum considered pushing. Asking what exactly Lupin thought he owed Dumbledore, what past debt kept him tethered to this place. But that wasn't necessary. He had already seen it in the man's eyes.
Regret. Not guilt. Not malice. Just weariness.
He'd seen it before — in soldiers who survived wars their friends didn't. In healers who saved hundreds, but couldn't forget the one they lost. In himself.
When Lupin finally spoke again, it wasn't in defense of anything.
"I don't expect to last long here," he said, voice low. "Not because I intend to leave. But Hogwarts has a… pattern."
"Defense Against the Dark Arts," Caelum murmured. "Cursed."
Lupin nodded slowly. "I took the job knowing that. You might think that's foolish."
"I think it's convenient," Caelum said. "For the Headmaster. For the Board. For the students. Not so much for you."
Lupin didn't argue. Instead, he reached into his coat and pulled out a folded piece of parchment — an assignment essay from one of his third-years, judging by the ink blotches.
Caelum caught a glimpse of the name. Neville Longbottom.
The handwriting was clumsy, the grammar rough. But the content? Thoughtful.
Lupin tucked it away again with a kind of fragile care.
That, more than anything, said what kind of man he was.
Caelum stood. "I'll be watching you."
Lupin nodded. "I expect you will."
As Caelum turned to leave, he paused. Just briefly.
This man wasn't like the others who had held the post before. Not corrupted. Not driven by ambition or ideology. Just… tired. Tired, and still trying to do right by children who had no idea what kind of war had left him this worn down.
He didn't say any of that aloud.
Instead, he walked away without another word.
---
The classroom smelled faintly of chalk and old parchment, a scent Lupin had grown accustomed to despite himself. He stood by the blackboard, wand in hand, preparing the day's lesson on defensive wards against dark creatures.
A dozen students sat before him, some eager, others fidgeting, and a few whose attention clearly wandered elsewhere.
Lupin glanced over at Neville Longbottom, who sat upright, eyes bright despite his usual nervousness. The boy was struggling to find confidence, but Lupin knew that with time, patience, and the right guidance, Neville could surprise even himself.
"Today," Lupin began, his voice calm but steady, "we'll discuss the properties of a basic protective ward — the Shield Charm."
He wrote a few words on the board: Protego.
"As you'll recall," Lupin continued, "this spell creates a magical barrier that can deflect minor jinxes and hexes. However, it is not foolproof. Understanding its limits is just as important as knowing how to cast it."
A hand raised. It was Ginny Weasley. "Professor, what happens if the shield is hit by something stronger, like a curse or a physical blow?"
Lupin nodded approvingly. "Good question, Miss Weasley. In those cases, the shield can falter or even break, depending on the caster's skill and the power behind the attack. That's why this charm is best used as part of a layered defense."
He paused, scanning the room.
"Now, who can demonstrate the basic casting technique?"
Several students shifted uncomfortably. Lupin's eyes settled on Harry Potter, who was already moving to his feet, wand at the ready.
"Potter," Lupin said quietly, "show us what you've learned."
Harry nodded, concentration clear on his face. He flicked his wand, spoke the word, and a faint shimmering barrier formed in front of him.
Lupin smiled subtly. The charm was textbook perfect. No hesitation, no wasted movement.
"Well done," he said. "Remember, the strength of your shield depends not just on the spell itself, but on your focus and intent."
A ripple of murmurs passed through the room. Lupin caught Hermione Granger watching intently, her notebook open and quill poised. She didn't ask questions now, but he knew she was absorbing every detail.
After class, as the students gathered their things, Lupin lingered by the door.
Neville approached hesitantly.
"Professor, do you think I could practice the Shield Charm with you sometime? I want to get better."
Lupin looked at him for a moment, then nodded. "Absolutely. Practice is key. I'll arrange some time after school."
Neville's face brightened, and for a moment, the nervousness gave way to hope.
Ginny lingered nearby, watching the exchange. Lupin sensed her wariness but said nothing.
As the students filtered out, Lupin remained behind, staring at the board where he'd written Protego.
Teaching wasn't just about spells or magic. It was about giving these kids something to hold onto — a sense that they could stand firm when the shadows came.
He exhaled slowly and prepared for the next lesson.
"Next," Lupin said calmly, "we'll be working with boggarts."
A few students exchanged uneasy glances. Boggarts had a reputation for being tricky — creatures that took the shape of your deepest fears.
Lupin opened the wardrobe door, and a faint ripple of magical energy pulsed out. He turned to the class, meeting their eyes.
"Your task is simple: when your fear appears, you'll use the Riddikulus charm to turn it into something less frightening."
He pointed at Neville first. "You'll go first."
Neville swallowed, then stepped forward. The classroom quieted as the wardrobe door creaked open.
From within, a shape shifted, then solidified — a snarling, monstrous werewolf. The room tensed. Lupin's gaze flickered briefly, but he said nothing.
Neville hesitated, fear clear on his face, then with a shaky voice muttered, "Riddikulus."
The snarling beast morphed awkwardly into a large, fluffy puppy, wagging its tail. Laughter rippled through the room.
Neville grinned, relief flooding his features as he stepped back.
One by one, the students faced the wardrobe, each confronting their own fears. Some froze, others quickly adapted, but all learned in their own way.
When it was Harry's turn, Lupin watched closely. The door swung open, and a tall figure emerged — a shadowy form resembling Voldemort.
A hush fell over the room.
Harry didn't flinch. He raised his wand steadily.
"Riddikulus."
The dark figure's terrifying visage twisted, shrinking into a ridiculous caricature — a wizard with a large, floppy hat and oversized shoes.
The room exhaled. Lupin nodded in approval.
After the last student finished, Lupin closed the wardrobe.
"Good work," he said. "Remember, fear is natural. Facing it, understanding it, is what makes you stronger."
The bell rang, and the students began to pack their things.
Hermione lingered, catching Lupin's eye. He gave her a small, knowing smile.
Outside the classroom, Lupin paused for a moment, hands in his pockets. Teaching wasn't easy, but moments like these made it worthwhile.
The hallway buzzed with the usual post-class chatter as students spilled out of the classroom. Lupin lingered by the door, watching them go with a quiet sense of satisfaction.
Neville approached hesitantly, rubbing the back of his neck. "Professor, thank you. I—I didn't think I'd be able to face that... but the puppy thing helped."
Lupin gave a soft smile. "Fear can seem overwhelming until you learn to see it differently. You did well today."
From the corner, a few other students nodded in agreement, their expressions a mix of relief and newfound confidence.
Harry paused nearby, his eyes meeting Lupin's for a brief moment. There was something unspoken there—respect, maybe, or understanding. Lupin knew the boy carried burdens far heavier than most.
As the crowd thinned, Lupin's gaze drifted toward the empty hallway. The echoes of laughter and footsteps faded, replaced by a quiet that felt heavier somehow.
He pulled his cloak tighter and moved on, a man carrying memories and regrets that only few could glimpse.
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