Hospital Wing.
A small crowd hovered around the bed: Dumbledore, Snape, Flitwick, and Lucien.
Madam Pomfrey would normally never allow this many visitors—patients needed rest, thank you very much.
But Penelope Clearwater had just woken from petrification. First victim. Her story might hold clues. The sooner they had answers, the sooner they could end the crisis.
Everyone had their excuse:
- Dumbledore: headmaster, needed firsthand intel.
- Snape: brewed the antidote, wanted feedback.
- Flitwick: Ravenclaw Head of House, worried for his prefect.
- Lucien: …uh, supplied the mandrake juice? Kinda flimsy.
Penelope looked pale and fragile, voice barely above a whisper. "Lucien… thank you. If not for your mandrakes…"
Lucien waved it off. "No big deal, prefect. We're all Hogwarts."
"Any discomfort?" he asked.
She shook her head. "Just… hungry?"
Lucien relaxed. Appetite = good sign.
Dumbledore smiled gently. "Thanks to Lucien's materials and Professor Snape's improved formula—"
"It wasn't my tweak," Snape cut in flatly. "Lucien did it."
He stared at Lucien, puzzled. During brewing, Snape had told the boy to make a batch solo—just to gauge his current skill.
Lucien not only nailed it but suggested tweaks that worked. They shaved a day off recovery. Penelope should've been out cold another 48 hours.
Snape knew Lucien's potion talent from last year: top-tier, but not genius. Diligent, humble—could go far with practice.
But this? It felt like the kid had leveled up overnight.
Impossible.
Snape couldn't wrap his head around it. Had he misjudged the boy? Why hide talent at Hogwarts? No professor here would sabotage a student… right?
Dumbledore pivoted smoothly. "Well then, Lucien's contribution is huge. I believe the Special Services to the School award—"
Lucien's face twitched. Didn't Tom Riddle win that fifty years ago? Bad juju…
"Headmaster, maybe later? Let's focus on the crisis first."
He turned to Penelope. "What do you rember before blacking out?"
She rubbed her temple, wincing. "I was… looking in a mirror. Saw a flash—yellow light? In the reflection."
The adults exchanged glances, minds racing through spell catalogs. Yellow light…
---
Defense Against the Dark Arts Office.
Lockhart dipped his peacock quill into a bottle of thick, dark-red "ink" that slled faintly of copper and dragon.
He wrote:
"Friend, how's the dragon-blood and unicorn-blood mix working?"
The words vanished like thirsty earth soaking rain.
Seconds later, new ones appeared:
"Thanks to you, I can linger in this world a while longer."
Lockhart exhaled. Good. Still useful.
Tom's mory wouldn't fade yet. And the cost? Pocket change. Bestselling author = galleons galore. Fa paid.
He kept writing:
"One witch petrified, just like you said. Controlled the beast—no real deaths. Antidote exists. Plan's on track…"
Inside the diary:
On a pristine page, crimson words bled into view. Wisps of pale light lifted from the ink, inhaled by a teenage boy whose face sharpened with every breath.
"Lucky it's a rich adult wizard. Kids don't have the life force—or the wallet—for dragon blood."
"One month. Maybe less. Then I'll have a body again."
Tom flexed ghostly fingers. Human life force was limited; he had to sip from the user, not gulp. Too fast and they'd drop dead—suspicious.
But Lockhart's deep pockets and strong magic? Feast.
He wrote back:
"We should speed things up. Too few victims antidote = not enough panic. Not enough awe when you swoop in to save the day."
Lockhart asked for specifics.
Tom continued:
"More victims. Petrification only—harmless. Target high-value students."
A cold smirk. "Harry Potter, for instance. The Boy Who Lived—priceless headline."
Lockhart hesitated. After a long pause:
"Harry's just… a kid with attitude. Not the legend everyone thinks."
Tom's eyes iced over. Soft-hearted fool.
But he soothed:
"The world sees the Boy Who Lived. Not Harry. You know that."
"Picture it: the Basilisk about to devour the savior. You burst in, banish it with dazzling magic. The wizarding world will worship you—Gilderoy Lockhart, protector of hope!"
"Just petrify him first. No risk."
Tom set the quill down, patient.
Harry was perfect bait.
But Tom had no intention of petrifying him.
He'd have the Basilisk kill him.
Why et the boy at all? Future Voldemort—himself—had been undone by an infant. Protective charm? Blood magic? Didn't matter.
Let the snake finish the job.
Harry dead at Hogwarts? Dumbledore's fault. Resignation wouldn't be enough—public outrage would crucify the old man.
"Hypocrite. They'll love tearing you down."
Tom never understood why his future self needed to kill the baby personally. Ego?
Lockhart finally replied:
"Petrification's safe. I can control the snake. But advanced magic… what if no one recognizes how brilliant it is? Flashy spells might sell better?"
Tom rolled his eyes. Idiot.
He scribbled useless but pretty charms—spark fountains, ribbon lights. Lockhart would never need them.
Outside the diary:
Lockhart practiced, wand flicking. Fireworks burst, silk ribbons of light twirled. He glowed like a stage star.
"Perfect. Maybe tease a few early—build hype. Like a novel's foreshadowing…"
"Need a crowd… what gathers students fast?"
---
Quidditch Pitch.
Storm clouds churned, thunder grumbling. No rain yet—thank rlin. Lucien's waterproof wristbands kept everyone dry, but rain still blurred vision.
Gryffindor Locker Room.
Wood fired up the team:
"Slytherin's brooms are faster—but we're better!"
"Money can't buy grit!"
Harry gripped his broom tight.
Not a Nimbus 2000.
A sleek, futuristic model: walnut and mithril handle etched with lightning runes, electric arcs pulsing along the core like breath.
Lucien's prototype. East Wind.
Faster, more explosive, smoother than the Nimbus 2001. Harry had fallen in love on the first test flight.
His old Nimbus? Loaned to a Chaser to level the field.
Handle engraved: East Wind.
Harry had a feeling this broom would crush the competition—Nimbus, Cot, Cleansweep, all of them.
He whispered, "At least the Seekers are even now."
Malfoy had an East Wind too.
Lucien had lent both—still prototypes, needed real-match data. Safety guaranteed—no mid-air explosions.
Harry wouldn't dream of asking Lucien to withhold from Malfoy. They were rivals, not enemies. Forcing a friend to pick sides? Not Gryffindor.
He stepped onto the pitch with the team.
Brooms equal. Skill decides.
User Comments
0 comments from readers