The next morning, the ceiling of the Great Hall was covered in thick, lead-gray clouds.
A swarm of owls swept in, blocking out the enchanted sky as parcels and letters rained down like a storm.
At the Slytherin table, Draco caught an envelope dropped by a large eagle owl. The Malfoy family seal was pressed neatly into deep green wax.
Draco broke it open at once.
He had expected reassurance from his father about what happened on the train. Perhaps even a promise of retaliation.
Instead, the elegant script on the parchment carried an unusual severity.
[Draco,
The matter regarding Ashford is under reassessment within the family. Until we have thoroughly investigated his background, put aside your arrogance.
Observe. Do not act rashly.
Also confirm the rumor: is the nature of his magic truly as… abnormal as the report claims?
Lucius]
Draco slowly lowered the letter.
Across the noisy hall, at the far end of the Ravenclaw table, Lucian sat quietly.
He sipped unsweetened black coffee while flipping through a tome thick enough to be mistaken for a brick.
Feathers drifted through the air.
Students laughed and argued around him.
He seemed completely detached from the morning chaos of Hogwarts.
....
Hundreds of miles away, in Wiltshire.
Malfoy Manor stood in cold luxury beneath a pale sky.
In the drawing room, heavy velvet curtains blocked out the sunlight. Firelight flickered across Lucius' pale face.
He sat opposite Nott and several influential pure-blood patriarchs. The scent of aged brandy lingered in the air.
"A diagnosed Obscurial," Lucius said quietly, his fingers brushing the silver head of his serpent cane.
"One who should have withered under magical backlash. Instead, he demonstrates control rivaling that of an adult wizard.
And in certain theoretical discussions, he has left Ministry scholars feeling... intellectually humiliated. That is not normal."
"Perhaps old Ashford left behind some elaborate deception," Nott suggested, swirling his drink.
"There is no historical record of an Obscurial being cured. Not after undergoing that ritual." Lucius narrowed his eyes at the parchment detailing the Ashford family in the New World. "That is precisely what troubles me."
He felt a chill he could not explain.
"Ashford," he murmured. "If a new serpent has risen from this rotting swamp, we must determine whether its venom is lethal... or whether it can be bottled."
"Continue investigating," Lucius ordered. He tossed the parchment into the fireplace. The flames devoured the text instantly. "If it proves to be a threat—"
The heavy oak doors burst open before he could finish.
A tall figure in black robes strode inside, hood lowered. Behind him floated a bound body suspended by invisible ropes.
Augustus Travers.
Lucius stiffened.
The floating figure hung limply, half-conscious. His eyes were vacant, limbs twitching from recent torture.
The Cruciatus Curse left no visible wound, yet the pain etched itself into every movement.
A ring engraved with a burning white ash tree gleamed under the firelight.
Cassius Ashford.
Lucius shot to his feet, cane striking the floor.
"Augustus, have you lost your mind? What are you doing?"
Travers pushed back his hood and smiled coldly. "Still playing guessing games, Lucius? The source is right here. If you want answers, pry them out of his head."
He released the levitation charm.
Cassius collapsed onto the carpet, gasping like a dying fish, his body convulsing from lingering agony.
"Have you forgotten the people of the Mayflower?" Lucius hissed, his voice unsteady.
"Do you want to provoke those puritan fanatics in the New World? The ones who would devour sacrament and slaughter children in the name of immortality?"
Travers sneered. "How long has it been since they crossed the Atlantic? They're ghosts."
"But the boy lives!" Lucius snapped, his face turning pale. "The Ashford bloodline continues. Those madmen will return. They will come back for that miracle."
...
Hogwarts. The dungeon classroom.
Potions.
The air was thick with the smell of sulfur and decaying plants.
When the black-robed man swept into the room like a great bat, the temperature seemed to drop.
"Potter! What is the difference between monkshood and wolfsbane?"
Harry stared blankly. Hermione's hand shot up beside him.
Snape ignored them both.
His gaze slid toward the back corner, where Lucian was writing rapidly in his notebook.
"Ashford," Snape said softly, dangerously. "Do you find my question too elementary to deserve your valuable attention?"
Lucian paused and looked up calmly.
"I was recording your question, Professor."
Snape glided behind him, robes billowing. He glanced down at the notebook.
[Biological classification identical. Both genus Aconitum.
However, in potion properties, monkshood emphasizes neural paralysis, while wolfsbane emphasizes cellular degradation.
Textbook page thirty-two definition insufficient. Requires correction.]
Snape stared at the line for a long moment.
"Sit down," he said coldly. "Gryffindor loses one point for your insolence."
The class assignment was to brew a cure for boils. Soon the dungeon filled with chopping sounds.
Lucian looked at the silver knife in front of him.
Physical cutting would irreversibly damage the glandular structure of the horned slug, causing active ingredient loss.
He lifted a slug with his wand.
"Separate," he murmured internally.
His magic shifted into high-frequency micro-vibrations.
In the next instant, pure, uncontaminated slime was cleanly extracted from the gland and dripped into the cauldron.
For heating, Lucian checked his pocket watch.
His left hand hovered beside the cauldron as he used magic to stabilize the temperature precisely at eighty-five degrees Celsius.
The book required four stirs.
Lucian stirred two and a half times.
Then he stopped.
In his mental model, the solute had reached saturation. The remaining one and a half rotations would only introduce excess oxygen, leading to oxidation and degradation.
"Idiot!"
Neville's cauldron exploded with a loud bang. Green smoke filled the dungeon as students scrambled backward.
Amid the chaos, Lucian examined his own potion.
Under the dim candlelight, the liquid glowed a flawless sky-blue, clear and luminous like liquid morning air.
After dealing with Neville's accident, Snape approached and took Lucian's vial.
He stared at the potion.
The color was perfect. Pure. Almost unsettling.
For a fleeting moment, he was reminded of Lily's eyes.
"This method does not follow the procedures in Magical Drafts and Potions," Snape said slowly. "You reduced the stirring by one and a half turns."
"Additional stirring would oxidize the solution, Professor," Lucian replied evenly. "High-frequency separation increases active compound purity by approximately thirty percent."
"Ravenclaw gains five points," Snape announced, turning sharply, robes swirling behind him.
"Because at least one student here brought a brain to class. However, two points will be deducted for your refusal to follow instructions."
Lucian sat down again.
In his notebook, under the heading Potions, he placed a checkmark and added a brief evaluation:
[Crude chemical apparatus. Primitive procedures. Instructor possesses high discernment and perceptive acuity.]
Significant room for optimization within the discipline.
__________
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