Six months ago, Caelum Morrigan was not standing in a tower, or a hall full of portraits.
He was standing in a Manhattan garage that didn't technically exist.
Power thrummed through copper veins embedded in the walls. Arcane circuits blinked like streetlamps in fog. A half-assembled broom hovered over a rune lattice, waiting to break every broom-speed record known to man — again.
And in the middle of it all, Caelum sat on a dented workbench, sipping over-steeped coffee.
Then Albus Dumbledore walked in.
No wand drawn. No fanfare. Just... appeared. As if the room had been waiting for him.
Caelum didn't look surprised.
"British Ministry send you?" he asked casually. "You're about three lawsuits too late."
"I'm here on personal business," Dumbledore replied, smiling.
Caelum raised a brow. "You came across the ocean for business? Let me guess. Hogwarts wants to ban something I haven't invented yet."
"On the contrary," the headmaster said calmly, "Hogwarts would like to hire it."
They talked for an hour.
Dumbledore asked thoughtful questions. Caelum gave sharp, unsentimental answers. He had no interest in prestige. No patience for red tape. No desire to babysit kids who didn't want to learn.
"I'm not a teacher," he said flatly.
"I think you are," Dumbledore said. "You just haven't noticed."
"…I'm thirteen."
"You're also a certified master alchemist, holder of seven patents, and the first person to outscore three Ilvermorny professors in wandless logic."
Caelum didn't smile. "You flatter well."
"I observe well," Dumbledore said. "And I think it's time our world stopped ignoring talent just because it arrives early."
In the end, Caelum agreed under one condition:
"I bring my tools.
I set the rules.
And no one — no one — asks me what I do after hours."
Dumbledore's eyes twinkled.
"As long as what you do doesn't turn anyone into a turnip, I think we'll get along splendidly."
Caelum glanced at the little silver pendant tucked beneath his collar — inert, unassuming.
It didn't glow. It didn't blink.
But it was listening.
And no one knew.
Most Hogwarts students didn't know what to make of Professor Morrigan.
To start with, he was thirteen — barely older than a third-year. But he didn't act like a student. He wore sharp, sleeveless robes with silver stitching, used a chalk wand when he taught, and walked through the castle like he already knew its secrets.
He didn't speak like a textbook. He spoke like someone who sold ideas to dragons for profit.
And more than anything, he got results.
Gryffindor Common Room
"Did you see how he split the cauldron fire without touching it?" said Jack Vole. "He just snapped, and bam — blue flame on one side, red on the other."
"He says alchemy's just 'cheating with permission,'" grinned Lily Acker. "I love him."
Slytherin Dungeons
"He's cocky," muttered Lucien Avery.
"He's better than most of our old professors," said Silas Mulciber calmly. "And he's not dumb enough to trust anyone."
Lucien scoffed. "He trusts Dumbledore."
"No," Silas said, narrowing his eyes. "He respects him. That's different."
Ravenclaw Tower
Percy Weasley flipped through his notes. "This syllabus is chaos."
"Did you learn anything?" asked Yvette Moon, barely looking up.
"…Yes."
"Then hush."
Hufflepuff Basement
Moira Nettlewick was trying to make a feather conduct light. Her whole table was glowing.
"Professor Morrigan says real alchemy is practical," she said happily. "I love that. It's like magic you can touch."
Cedric Diggory nodded. "He said I'd make a good enchant-smith. I didn't even know that was a thing."
Part III – What They Didn't Know
The upper years talked.
Some whispered that Morrigan had built the new Floo relay outside Greenhouse Four in one night.
Others said his office didn't actually exist unless you were invited.
No one could agree on what wand he used — because half the time, he didn't seem to have one.
A few clever students noticed his reflexes were too fast.
A few noticed he never asked questions he didn't already know the answer to.
And one — just one — claimed they saw him speaking to… nothing.
But nothing replied.
Whatever the truth, one thing was clear:
Alchemy was no longer just theory.
It was alive again. Useful. Sharp. Dangerous, even.
And the boy who taught it?
He wasn't just some prodigy.
He was a problem.
Or maybe — just maybe — a solution waiting to be tested.