The ceiling was white.
Too white.
Sterile, softly glowing—and familiar in a way that made Caelum's stomach twist.
St. Mungo's.
His eyes opened slowly, vision sharpening by degrees. The scent of potions and sanitizing charms clung to the air, threaded with the faint hum of monitoring wards.
His body ached.
Not pain exactly—more the echo of it, as if his nerves remembered the damage even if the worst of it had already been healed. His limbs felt heavy, his mouth dry.
But he was alive.
The door creaked open.
Healer Mirren stepped inside, halting the moment she saw his eyes open. For a fraction of a second, something unguarded crossed her face—relief, sharp and sudden—before her composure settled back into place.
"You're awake."
Her voice was gentle. Measured.
"I'll fetch Kingsley."
She didn't wait for a reply—just turned and swept out.
Caelum shifted slightly, staring back at the ceiling. It didn't feel like victory. It felt like survival.
A few minutes later, the door opened again.
This time, it was Kingsley Shacklebolt who stepped inside—tall, solemn, and for once not in Ministry robes. He looked… older, somehow. Wearier. But his gaze softened as it landed on Caelum.
"You gave us quite the scare, Caelum."
He pulled a chair closer and sat beside the bed.
"I know you'll have questions, so let me give you the summary first."
He didn't ask for permission. He just told the truth.
"Moody arrived in time. You did enough damage to slow the enforcers—and Rosier—until we got there. His team secured the site. Every surviving agent was captured, including Rosier himself. He's currently under full containment pending trial."
Caelum blinked slowly, processing that.
Kingsley continued.
"The Ministry ordered a full investigation. Greystone House has been closed. Officially, it's being restructured. Unofficially… it's over. The entire staff is under review."
He paused, as if weighing how much to say.
"The other children—the ones who survived—have been moved to other care facilities. Safer ones. You and your group... the Ministry deemed you material witnesses. You were all treated here at St. Mungo's. Once cleared, the others were transferred to a secure location for rest and questioning."
""Your friends—the ones who were with you during the…" He paused, searching for a softer word, his expression tightening just slightly. "…incident. They're safe. And for now… they're free."
Kingsley paused. His voice grew quieter. "One of the boys…"
Caelum's voice was already there. "Julian."
Kingsley nodded solemnly. "Yes. By the time we arrived, he was already gone. I'm sorry, Caelum."
He exhaled slowly. "His body is now under Ministry care. His family—one younger sister—has been notified.
Caelum exhaled slowly, chest rising and falling against the blanket. His body still trembled slightly, but his mind was clear.
"How long was I unconscious?" he asked, voice hoarse.
Kingsley nodded. "You've been out three days."
Silence stretched between them for a moment.
"You did well, Caelum. More than anyone had the right to expect."
The boy turned his head, eyes flicking to the window.
The sky outside was pale with morning.
"It's not over," Caelum murmured.
Kingsley's brow furrowed slightly.
"No," he agreed. "But we've taken back control of the board."
He stood slowly, resting a hand on the edge of the bed.
"Rest now. You've earned it. But be ready. The Wizengamot will want a word soon. And some within the Ministry are already whispering about what to do with a six-year-old boy who can cast without a wand… and wield fire like it answers to him."
Caelum didn't reply.
He didn't need to.
The fire in his blood hadn't cooled.
And the war—for control, for identity, for freedom—was far from finished.