The kettle was screaming again.
Not in the usual way kettles screamed — with steam and whistling and the threat of a small explosion. This one had an opinion.
"I told you," it hissed, smoke curling from the spout," you are going to blow up the house"
Elias ignored it. A talking kettle, much like a talking neighbor, was best left unindulged. He adjusted a glowing sigil scratched into the workbench, and the hovering shard of silver above it pulsed obediently.
That was the heart of Alchemy. Not just mixing things into cauldrons and praying they didn't explode — that was Potions, Snape's beloved territory, and Elias had always found it too imprecise for his tastes. Potions were temporary, fleeting, fragile. Alchemy was different. Alchemy was structure, permanence, invention. The fusion of material, magic, and meaning. A broomstick that flew, a sword that sang, a kettle that wouldn't shut up — these were all products of Alchemy.
And in Elias' case, they were also his favorite form of morning entertainment.
He leaned back in his chair, stretching long legs under the cluttered workbench. Sunlight slanted through the narrow window, glinting off rows of rune-etched tools. Books were stacked in leaning towers, scrolls lay unrolled in careless spirals, and bits of enchanted metal hovered in midair, humming softly. It was chaos. Beautiful, productive chaos.
"Honestly," the kettle muttered, "you should have gone into Potions like a sensible boy. At least then you'd only stink up the place, not collapse reality in on itself."
"Potions is just cooking with more explosions," Elias said lazily. "Alchemy builds civilizations."
The kettle sniffed — which was impressive, given it had no nose — and went quiet.
It had been nearly ten years since Elias left Hogwarts, lauded as Gryffindor's brightest graduate in decades. His professors remembered him as brilliant, exasperating, and occasionally terrifying. He had the reckless courage of a Gryffindor, yes — but tempered with something stranger. Patience. Long sight. A willingness to wait, to prepare, to plan.
Because Elias was not born into this world.
He remembered another life, one with glowing screens, humming machines, endless networks of information. When he transmigrated as a child, he hadn't rushed to recreate it. He had been careful. He learned the rules of magic, mastered the basics, played the role of prodigy student. But in the back of his mind, he had always been sketching a different blueprint: how to drag the wizarding world, kicking and screaming, into something closer to modern Earth.
Alchemy, he discovered, was the key.
At Hogwarts, Alchemy had barely been mentioned. Ancient, obscure, impractical — that was the general view. But Elias had found his way to a man who disagreed.
Nicholas Flamel.
The legendary alchemist, still alive and sharp despite his centuries, had taken an interest in Elias during his later school years. Mentor, taskmaster, occasional grandfather figure — Flamel had guided him through principles Hogwarts never taught. Runes, resonance, binding laws, the delicate dance between magic and matter. Under his tutelage, Elias had gone from prodigy to innovator.
And now here he was, in his cluttered cottage, sketching out prototypes for things that might one day look suspiciously like radios, computers, or even the internet. Hogwarts had taught him spells.
The shard of silver above the workbench suddenly sparked, sending a crackle of light across the runes. Elias leaned forward eagerly.
"Yes, yes, that's it. Align with the next node — come on—"
The shard flared… and dissolved into a puff of smoke that smelled like burnt treacle tart.
Elias coughed, waving a hand. "Well. At least you're sweet about it."
The kettle laughed nastily.
And then came the knock.
Sharp. Three times. Not hesitant, not desperate. Deliberate.
Elias froze. His wards whispered across his skin: intact, undisturbed. Whoever was outside had stepped through them as easily as one steps through a curtain. That narrowed the list of visitors to a vanishingly small number.
He stood, wand sliding into his palm, and opened the door.
And there he was.
Albus Dumbledore.
The man radiated calm amusement, as though knocking unannounced on people's doors was a perfectly normal hobby. His robes were deep blue and gold, patterned with faint constellations, and his half-moon glasses caught the morning light.
"Elias," Dumbledore said warmly. "How pleasant to see you again."
Elias raised a brow. "Headmaster. I was under the impression you preferred lemon drops to house calls."
Dumbledore chuckled and stepped inside without invitation. The wards let him pass like he owned the place. Typical.
The kettle squealed, "Headmaster Dumbledore! What an honor! Don't sit in that chair, though, it's—"
The chair obligingly repaired itself before Dumbledore lowered into it.
Elias sighed. "Ignore the kettle. It thinks it's clever."
"Objects with opinions often are," Dumbledore said mildly. His blue eyes twinkled. "You've made quite a life for yourself here. A proper alchemist's workshop. Nicholas would be proud."
Elias blinked, caught off guard. "…You've spoken to Flamel?"
"From time to time. He has a way of keeping in touch, despite his… seclusion." Dumbledore steepled his fingers. "He spoke very highly of you."
"That explains nothing," Elias said flatly. "You didn't come all this way just to compliment my décor."
"Quite right," Dumbledore agreed. "I came to offer you a position. At Hogwarts."
The words hung in the air.
Elias stared. "You're serious."
"As a Niffler keeping a galleon," Dumbledore said cheerfully. "We have recently added Alchemy as part of the curriculum. A long-neglected subject, I must admit. And I could think of no one better to introduce it to our students than you."
Elias barked a laugh. "You want me to teach? Alchemy?"
"I want you to inspire," Dumbledore corrected. "The wizarding world is changing, Elias. We need minds that see further than the next potion, the next duel. We need builders."
Elias' eyes narrowed, though amusement still tugged at his lips. Builders. If only the Headmaster knew what exactly Elias intended to build.
"Teach Alchemy at Hogwarts, eh?" Elias said slowly. "That sounds like a noble mission. But before I agree, I have one very important question."
Dumbledore leaned forward, eyes twinkling. "Yes?"
"What's the pay?"
For just a moment, Dumbledore's expression faltered. Only slightly. Then the old man's smile returned, as smooth as butterbeer foam.
"Ah, yes. The eternal concern. Knowledge, of course, is its own reward."
"So in other words," Elias said dryly, "the pay is abysmal."
Dumbledore spread his hands in a gesture of vague apology. "You'll find that Hogwarts has never sought to attract its professors with mountains of gold."
"Good," Elias shot back. "Because if I wanted poverty, I'd have become a painter instead."
The kettle snorted. "He has you there."
Elias ignored it, leaning closer. "All right, Headmaster, let's be practical. If I'm going to abandon my lovely solitude, babysit hormone-fueled teenagers, and risk Peeves gluing me to the ceiling on a weekly basis, I'm going to need a few conditions."
Dumbledore steepled his fingers. "I suspected as much. Do go on."
"First," Elias said, ticking a finger in the air, "I want full autonomy. No one telling me what I can or cannot teach. No restrictions on which runes I use, no raised eyebrows when I hand students their first rune-carved kettles."
"Kettles," Dumbledore repeated, amused.
"They make excellent starting projects," Elias said solemnly. "Second: I want a budget. Materials, metals, enchanted inks — the whole lot. I'm not transfiguring tin cans for practice pieces."
Dumbledore hummed. "Within reason, I believe that can be arranged."
"Third," Elias pressed, enjoying himself now, "I want the largest classroom. With windows. Good light is essential when you're trying to stop molten silver from eating through the floor."
Dumbledore chuckled. "We do have a chamber unused since the last Muggle Studies expansion. It may suit your… unconventional needs."
"And finally," Elias said, voice dropping into mock seriousness, "I demand the right to confiscate chocolate from students on the grounds of 'unsafe alchemical reagents.' Purely for safety purposes, of course."
The Headmaster's beard twitched as he fought a laugh. "Ah, yes. And I suppose those confiscated chocolates would then be stored… where, exactly?"
"In my office," Elias said promptly. "Under the strictest security."
Now Dumbledore did laugh, warm and genuine. "Elias, you remind me why I came to you first."
"Because no one else was foolish enough to say yes?"
"Because," Dumbledore corrected, "you have the rare combination of wit, brilliance, and irreverence. Qualities our students badly need in their mentors."
Elias smirked. "So I'm your chaos hire."
"If you like."
For a moment, the air between them softened — not just Headmaster and alumnus, but two conspirators who had known each other too long to pretend otherwise. Elias remembered the old man's twinkling gaze during his school days, the quiet nods of approval when Elias broke rules but got results. They had always understood each other, in a way.
And that, perhaps more than salary or chocolate, was why Elias found himself saying, "All right, Headmaster. You have a deal. I'll teach your children Alchemy."
"Excellent." Dumbledore rose, his robes shimmering like starlight. "I shall see to your appointment letter immediately. Term begins in two weeks. That should give you ample time to move your kettle."
"I'm not moving the kettle," Elias muttered.
The kettle squealed, "Oh yes you are! Hogwarts! Imagine the prestige!"
Elias groaned, but Dumbledore only smiled knowingly, as though everything had gone exactly according to plan.