The Headmaster's office.
Lucien and Dumbledore sat around a round table.
In the center of the table sat a shallow-bottomed cauldron, divided right down the middle.
One half bubbled with creamy white bone broth, the other with a vibrant, fiery red spicy soup.
"Lucien, why the cauldron?"
"Because it just feels right, you know?"
"I don't quite get you young folks. Oh—it's ready!"
Dumbledore fished out a slice of beef, gave it a quick dip in his bowl, and popped it into his mouth before it could cool.
"Mmm, hot pot. I had this a few times ages ago when I was out East—it's unforgettable, that's for sure."
"Speaking of which, after you taught the house-elves how to make Chinese food, the students have been hooked on it."
Lucien slid some thin slices of meat into the pot as he replied, "Probably because Eastern cuisine has so many flavors and varieties—keeps things interesting."
Dumbledore adjusted his glasses with the back of his hand. "And it changes with the seasons, different ingredients and cooking methods every time. It's a whole world unto itself, really. Hot pot's perfect for nights like this, though. Sigh, the weather's turning colder. Those Quidditch matches I've been watching in person lately? Not exactly kind to an old man like me."
"Better to do it like the first game—cozy by the fireplace, watching remotely with a bit of magic. Way more comfortable."
Lucien kept eating steadily, not batting an eye at Dumbledore's words. Old Dumbledore had his remote surveillance tricks, alright—not just ghosts and portraits as spies.
Tsk, tsk. This wizard who'd lived over a century—what wild and clever spells had he cooked up?
"Headmaster, your magic never ceases to amaze me. Harry's performance back there must've had you on the edge of your seat, right?"
Dumbledore nodded, scooping out a shrimp ball. "Yeah, I didn't see that mishap coming at all. But thank goodness—Harry had a good friend like you to step in."
Lucien plucked a piece of fish from the pot, staying totally cool even though Dumbledore had straight-up called him out for intervening. If the headmaster could monitor things from afar with magic, it wasn't a shock he'd spot who was gunning for Harry... and who was lending a hand.
"Just a quick flick of the wand—plus, I got to test out some new spells I'd picked up."
"Besides, Headmaster, you could've stepped in yourself right then and shielded Harry, couldn't you?"
Dumbledore let out a little chuckle at Lucien's question. "Everyone thinks I'm all-powerful, like I can pull off the impossible whenever I want. But this time..."
"You're spot on."
Dumbledore even winked at Lucien before snatching up a slice of lamb in a flash.
He just owned it like that. Made sense—Dumbledore's whole plan was to toughen Harry up, but only after making sure the kid's life wasn't on the line. After all, they needed the Boy Who Lived to take down You-Know-Who someday.
"Headmaster, I've got a question about the Animagus process. That step where you wait for a thunderstorm with lightning cracking—do you really just have to rely on time and luck for it?"
Dumbledore set down his bowl, his eyes twinkling with a hint of bewilderment. "Lucien, you're not thinking of whipping up a storm with magic, are you?"
"Yeah, I've tossed that idea around."
Seeing how dead serious Lucien looked, Dumbledore couldn't help but laugh, half amused, half exasperated. "It's a fun notion, but pulling it off... well."
"You're no slouch—you can go toe-to-toe with a full-grown wizard on raw power, which, honestly, was another 'surprise' from you. Ahem. But the kind of storm an Animagus ritual needs? That's way beyond what any witch or wizard can muster."
"And honestly, it's best not to meddle with magic at all for that part."
Lucien nodded lightly, then hit him with an odd follow-up: "Okay, but what if we made a big enough thunderstorm without using magic?"
That one stumped Dumbledore. He hadn't seen it coming—why on earth would Lucien phrase it like that?
Back in ancient times, Muggles used to worship powerful witches and wizards like gods, convinced they could reshape the heavens and earth. But dig a little deeper, and it was all just magic at work—not the forces of nature itself.
And here Lucien was, talking about conjuring a natural event without a drop of magic?
Before Dumbledore could even respond, Lucien breezed right past it. "Headmaster, try these beef balls—they're super chewy."
Since Lucien wasn't dwelling on it, Dumbledore eased back into chit-chat. "Christmas is coming up soon, Lucien. What kind of gift are you hoping for this year?"
Lucien didn't miss a beat. "Books."
Dumbledore wasn't surprised in the slightest. "Heh, you really are a Ravenclaw through and through—knowledge junkie."
"People love sending me books every year, like clockwork. Though sometimes, I think a nice, warm pair of wool socks hits the spot."
Wool socks?
Wool socks in Britain—they're a symbol of family, of that cozy, heartfelt bond. The kind of gift you give to someone close.
It clicked for Lucien then. Dumbledore, hailed as the greatest wizard of the age.
Strip away the fame, the accolades plastered on Chocolate Frog cards.
Underneath it all, he was just an old man. An old man without family around him.
His only living relative wanted nothing to do with him.
His lover was locked away in Nurmengard.
A line popped into Lucien's head: It's lonely at the top.
Folks who achieve greatness—or chase it, willing or not—end up letting go of so much along the way.
...
Mid-December.
Strolling through the Forbidden Forest.
Lucien glanced up at the heavy, brooding clouds overhead.
"Not exactly cooperating with us today, is Mother Nature?"
"Luster ."
Two or three seconds later.
A streak of golden light shot straight up from the ground, piercing the sky.
Lucien rode on the back of his little qilin, a thin, translucent membrane shimmering around him.
A quick charm he'd cast on himself—to fend off the biting wind and chill.
Luster flew like a bolt, and in just a few breaths, they'd left the thick cloud layer far below.
Lucien tilted his head to take in the bright, full moon glowing round and perfect.
Bathed in its cool, silvery light, he pulled a crystal potion vial from his robes, already filled with his saliva.
He removed the mandrake leaf from his mouth and dropped it into the vial.
Right away, he watched as a crescent-white tint spread along the leaf's veins.
Step one: nailed it!
Next, Lucien plucked a strand of his dark gold hair and added it to the vial's mouth.
He had the little qilin use a puff of auspicious cloud to cradle the vial steady for him.
Then Lucien fetched a small jar of dew—gathered from a spot untouched by sun or human for a full seven days.
With careful precision, he scooped out exactly one spoonful using a silver teaspoon.
He poured the dew into the vial, letting it mix thoroughly.
Finally, he produced a pupa.
It was a deep, inky black all over, but its surface bore a pattern that looked just like a white skull.
The pupa of a death's-head hawkmoth.
Once it hit the vial, the clear solution turned pitch black in a flash.
Through the dark liquid, Lucien could still make out the faint white glow of the leaf's veins.
All good.
He swiftly tucked the vial into a small box lined with soft cotton padding.
With that stowed away, Lucien gave the little qilin's back a pat. "Whew, good job, Luster . Let's head back."
"You got it, Master."
Out of the blue, Lucien added, "Luster , starting tomorrow, I'm gonna teach you some meteorology basics."
The little qilin gave a little shudder at that—not from the cold air, clearly.
A childish, whiny voice echoed straight into Lucien's mind: "Do I have to?"
Lucien stroked the qilin's mane and chuckled softly. "Not the whole thing—just this one chunk."
"Finish it up, and I'll give you a whole month off."
That perked Luster right up. "Master, you mean like that winter break you talked about?"
"Exactly."