At exactly 3 PM, Cael arrived outside the Headmaster's office, standing before the gargoyle.
"Chocolate Pudding," he said.
The gargoyle slid aside.
Cael blinked. Then he smiled — genuinely — and made a quiet mental note to send Dumbledore something nice for actually taking the suggestion. Albion, pacing at his heels, glanced up at him and then at the now-vacant plinth with the expression of a dragon who had expected to wait considerably longer.
"Come on, then," Cael said.
He knocked.
"Come in, my boy."
It was a very good office.
He had thought so on the first night as well, though he had been somewhat occupied then with soul magic, Snape, and the strategic theft of an entire bowl of sherbet lemons.
Now, in the late afternoon, with slanted golden light spilling through the high windows and dust turning slowly in its beams, he had a moment to simply look.
Portraits of old headmasters lined the walls, most of them awake and watching him with undisguised interest. Fawkes perched near the window; he lifted his head as Cael entered and gave two warm, low notes of greeting. Cael answered in the phoenix's language without breaking his stride.
Dumbledore stood behind the desk. Half-moon glasses, eyes twinkling — the whole picture.
McGonagall stood to the left, perfectly straight, hands folded. She gave him a small, precise nod — good, you're punctual. It was, he suspected, her highest available compliment outside a classroom.
Flitwick stood beside her, and the moment Cael crossed the threshold, he bounced — there was no better word — lightly on his heels, his face rearranging itself into barely contained delight.
"Mr. Flamel-Pendragon! Excellent, excellent, do come in—"
"Professor," Cael said warmly.
"I was just telling the Headmaster — just this morning, you understand, before we had even properly convened — about the Lumos. The wordless, wandless Lumos. First try!" Flitwick gestured in quick bursts, as if he had been doing so continuously since approximately nine AM. "And then the wordless and wandless Nox, equally clean, and then he assisted Miss Patil and Mr. Longbottom — the wandless framework he described to them — I've been teaching Charms for thirty-one years, Headmaster, thirty-one years, and the architecture he used—"
"Filius," Dumbledore said mildly. "Perhaps we might allow our guest to sit."
Flitwick looked briefly abashed — then immediately not, because he was already thinking about the architecture again. "Yes! Yes, sit, please—"
Cael sat.
Albion surveyed the floor, selected a sun-warmed patch near the window, turned once, and settled. Fawkes regarded him. Albion regarded Fawkes. A brief, silent negotiation followed. Fawkes shifted slightly along his perch. Albion tucked his forelegs beneath himself with the air of a creature who had secured a satisfactory outcome.
Dumbledore watched with quiet delight. "He's grown since September first."
"He is too small for his age in his words," Cael said. "He thinks it should be faster."
"Dragons often do grow faster, but he is quite the special one." Dumbledore leaned back, folding his hands. "Now. I believe Professor McGonagall has spoken to you about the possibility of a more formal arrangement."
"Briefly."
McGonagall's expression did not change, but something in it settled.
"Then I will speak plainly," Dumbledore said. "
Both of your professors feel — and I agree — that having you sit through the standard first-year curriculum… would be of limited benefit to you, and of some frustration to them." A pause. "You have already demonstrated competencies most students do not encounter until their fifth year."
"The Animagus is beyond most adult wizards," McGonagall said flatly. "Fifth year at the absolute earliest. ritual-less Animagus transformation through a spoken directive in an ancient magical language is not fifth-year theory. It is not, strictly speaking, any year theory. It is—"
"Unprecedented," Flitwick supplied.
"I was going to say irregular."
"That too!"
Cael kept his expression composed. He was used to this — sitting while adults catalogued his achievements. His mother did the same. You learned to wait.
"What Professors McGonagall and Flitwick propose," Dumbledore continued, "is a structured internship under each of them. A dedicated curriculum — calibrated to where you are, rather than where the syllabus expects a first-year to be."
"Defence Against the Dark Arts as well," Cael said.
A beat.
"I was wondering how best to raise that." Dumbledore admitted.
"You've had different Defence professors every year for decades," Cael said pleasantly. "I'm not criticizing — mostly. But if this arrangement is meant to be useful rather than cosmetic, Defence should be included." He paused. "I'm willing to work directly under you, if you are."
Dumbledore regarded him over his glasses — the look he used when genuinely considering something.
"I would be willing."
McGonagall made a quiet sound that hovered near a sigh. Flitwick made a sound of pure delight. Dumbledore, Cael suspected, was privately very pleased.
"Then we are agreed on the broad structure," Dumbledore said. "There are two others I would like you to meet before we finalise anything."
He inclined his head toward the far side of the room.
There were two girls by the bookshelf.
Cael had noticed them on entering but left them at the edge of his attention.
The first was older, her pink hair clearly deliberate and clearly mutable, standing with the strained stillness of someone trying very hard to behave. She was succeeding — mostly. Her hands were steady. Her feet had shifted twice.
The second was younger — a dark-haired girl with an intent, analytical gaze and round glasses.
"Nymphadora Tonks," Dumbledore said, "seventh year, Hufflepuff. And Miss Alexandria Anastasia Dunphy, fourth year, Ravenclaw."
Tonks opened her mouth.
"Don't," McGonagall said, without looking.
Tonks shut it. Then, clearly deciding the damage was already done: "Just Tonks," she said with feeling — the tone of someone who had said this many times and never successfully enforced it. A beat later, she seemed to remember where she was. Her ears flushed pink. "Sorry. It's just Tonks. If that's— sorry."
"Tonks," Cael said amused. "Noted."
She blinked. Then settled into visible relief.
Alexandria watched the exchange with quiet calculation. She inclined her head.
"Your Highness," she said carefully. "It's an honor."
"Just Cael," he replied. "We'll be working together — that's informal enough."
Something shifted in her serious expression. "Cael," she said, testing it.
"Better."
"Please call me Alex as well." she added.
Albion cracked one golden eye, assessed them, and closed it again.
Flitwick seized his moment. "Miss Dunphy is quite extraordinary in wandless Charms," he said, almost reverently. "She is the only fourth-year — indeed, one of the very few students in the entire school — seriously pursuing advanced wandless casting. Her framework is entirely self-developed and operates on a different logic altogether. I thought the two of you might be mutually instructive."
"I'd like that," Cael said, looking at Alex. "Your most fluent spell, wandlessly?"
"Accio," she said after two seconds. "And a modified Wingardium — adapted for multiple small objects. It's not clean yet. The distribution of intent becomes uneven at range."
"The intent model or the visualization?"
She sharpened. "Both. They interfere. I can hold the image, but once I distribute the wanting, one target drifts." A pause. "You've encountered this?"
"No. I'm part Fay — we control magic instinctively. But I can help with theory." He considered. "Don't distribute intent. Stack it. Cascade model instead of radial. One anchor — the rest hang from it."
She stared — then opened her notebook.
Flitwick made a small, strangled sound of joy. No one commented.
Tonks raised a tentative hand. "I'm mostly here for the Metamorphmagus side of things," she said. "Five years of theory, and I can do facial shifts, but not—" She gestured broadly. "Anything useful."
"What's blocking you?" Cael asked.
She blinked. "Sorry?"
"When it fails — what does it feel like?"
She frowned. Her hair flickered — darker pink, then back. "Like I know exactly what I want, and I'm reaching for it, but there's a wall. I can describe the shape, but when I try to become it, something breaks in between."
Cael nodded. "The gap between image and instruction. You have the what, but not the how, you lack your own language."
"The language?" she said.
"Exactly. It's somatic. You're trying to run it cognitively — like consciously controlling your heartbeat. Possible, but inefficient." He paused. "We can fix that. It'll take time — everyone's somatic language is different — but it's not the wall you think it is."
Tonks stared at him, mouth slightly open.
"Filius," McGonagall said quietly.
"I know," he whispered back, deeply moved.
"We'll arrange a formal schedule by the end of the week," McGonagall said, rising. "You'll receive written confirmation." She looked at Tonks and Alex. "Both of you as well."
Alex closed her notebook with precise finality. She stood, bowed lightly. "Thank you, Headmaster. Professors." She glanced at Cael. "I'll consider the cascade model."
"I'll write it out for you."
A flicker of genuine warmth. "Thank you… Cael."
Tonks stood — nearly knocked over a table — caught it. "Right. Sorry. I'll just—" She pointed at the door. "We're going to the library. To think about Metamorphmagus theory. And intent." She looked back. "Somatic."
"Somatic."
"I'm going to think about that a lot," she said, like a vow.
She left. Alex followed, quiet and composed.
The door closed.
Dumbledore and Cael regarded each other.
"Anything further?" Cael asked.
"A great many things," Dumbledore said mildly. "But not tonight."
Cael nodded, rose, retrieved Albion — who came with mild protest — and moved to the door.
"Mr. Flamel-Pendragon."
He paused.
"The soul elixir," Dumbledore said carefully. "Precautions have been taken. It is not here without—"
"I know. Grandpa wrote to me," Cael said. "It's your work, Professor." A beat. "If you believe it must serve as bait, he has no objections."
Silence.
"Oh?" Dumbledore said softly. "Thank Nicolas for me."
Cael met his gaze.
"I will. Good evening, Professor."
"Good evening, Mr. Flamel-Pendragon."
The door closed.
The portraits stirred.
Fawkes vanished in a burst of fire, probably to meet his new friend.
Dumbledore reached for a sherbet lemon.
The bowl was empty.
He looked at it. Set it down.
"Ah," he murmured. "Empty again."