When Professor Sprout announced that Lucien's mandrake juice was good to go, Filch practically melted against the wall in relief.
He looked at Lucien like he'd hung the moon. Filch couldn't brew a potion to save his life, but he knew—with Lucien's help, Mrs. Norris had a shot.
Waiting for the school's mandrakes to mature would've taken months. He wasn't sure his cat had that long…
Lucien caught the grateful stare and gave Filch a quick nod. Hey, I had the stuff lying around. Might as well save a cat.
Plus, having a cure ready? That could speed things up nicely—for Lockhart and Tom.
He flicked a glance at Lockhart in the staff cluster. The guy's eyes were darting everywhere, like he hadn't expected someone to just solve the problem on the spot. Guess the "crisis atmosphere" he wanted wasn't panning out.
From what Lucien had overheard in the office, Tom had promised Lockhart no killings—just petrification. Lockhart wasn't the murdering type; he just wanted headlines and a heroic exit from Hogwarts. And the diary fragment needed life force to rebuild a body, so keeping Lockhart on board meant no scary oversteps.
Still… better safe than sorry. A little insurance never hurt.
Filch looked ready to hug him if the hall weren't packed. He'd already decided that if Lucien ever broke a rule, he'd "miss" it. Problem was, Lucien had been a model student all year. Boring.
With the mandrakes sorted, it was potion time.
Dumbledore asked how long until the restorative draught was ready. Snape didn't even look up.
"Quality's high. Two days, tops."
He grabbed the jar of juice, paused by Lucien, and muttered, "Office. Now."
---
Potions Office
Lucien chopped roots while chatting casually with Snape.
"Professor, quick question—why not just buy mature mandrakes? The school's not the only place that grows them, right?"
He was genuinely curious. In the books, the petrified victims lay in the hospital wing until June. Waiting for Hogwarts' crop felt like a plot hole.
Snape shot him a weird look. "You think mandrakes are easy to grow?"
Lucien shrugged. Thanks to his "Green Thumb" perk, the little screamers didn't yell at him, yields were higher, and growth cycles were shorter. With his custom fertilizers? Mandrakes were basically potatoes.
Snape glanced at the massive jar and sighed. "Hogwarts is the biggest supplier in Britain. The Ministry, Diagon Alley shops—they all buy from us."
"And it's not harvest season. The fact that you grew these…"
He waved a hand before Lucien could scramble for an excuse. "Whatever. You've got your methods. Don't waste too much time on plants—your potion talent's solid. Practice."
His eyes narrowed as Lucien diced. "That technique… very old-school."
Lucien's cuts were smooth, almost ritualistic—nothing like modern methods.
"Learned it over the summer. From a teacher."
Truth. Nicolas Flamel had taught him alchemical brewing tricks. The guy was six centuries old; of course he had tricks.
Snape frowned. He knew every old-school potioneer in Europe, and none used those moves. Who was this mystery mentor?
The room went quiet except for the rhythmic chop-chop.
Halfway through prep, Snape dropped a bomb.
"Lucien. Who do you think is behind this?"
Lucien's knife paused. Bat-man's got a plot this year? I thought he was just background snark.
He kept chopping, casual. "You've got a suspect already?"
Snape smirked, setting down his tools. "Every year, Hogwarts gains people. First-years, obviously. And then…"
"New professors?"
Snape's jaw tightened. "Exactly. This year, just one. The Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher."
He spat the title like it burned. Lucien could taste the resentment.
Wait—Snape's onto Lockhart already?
Double-agent instincts are terrifying.
---
Still in the Potions Office
Lucien blinked. "So… you think Lockhart's the mastermind?"
Snape snorted, stirring the cauldron. "Dumbledore pays me for Potions, not security."
"Let the headmaster worry about it."
The bitterness was thick. Translation: I'm clocking in, clocking out.
Last year, Snape had tailed Quirrell like a hawk—partly for Dumbledore, partly to keep Harry alive. But after the Philosopher's Stone fiasco, he'd clocked Dumbledore's game: let the danger simmer, let Harry "grow."
No matter how many warnings Snape gave, Dumbledore would keep things "controlled" and use the crisis as a learning experience.
Lucien remembered the Chamber finale: Fawkes swooping in with the Sorting Hat (and Gryffindor's sword), blinding the basilisk. Dumbledore had everything choreographed.
Sorry, old man. I need that snake this year.
Speaking of the sword—only a "true Gryffindor" could pull it from the Hat in a moment of need.
Maybe he could borrow the Hat early. Test if it'd cough up the blade when a basilisk was staring him down.
He glanced at Snape. If the guy was sitting this one out, why bring it up?
"Professor, what's this 'Chamber' on the wall mean, anyway?"
Snape's stirring slowed. "You know the founders. Gryffindor, Slytherin, the rift…"
Lucien finished for him. "Slytherin wanted pure-bloods only. Didn't trust Muggle-borns—thought they'd rat us out to witch-hunters."
Back then, wizards were hunted. A Muggle-born kid getting outed could doom the whole school.
Snape nodded, eyes sharp. "History books. The Chamber's legend: Slytherin built a hidden room. Only his true heir can open it, release a monster, and 'purge' those unworthy of magic."
Lucien raised an eyebrow. "So you think the heir's sending the monster after Muggle-borns like me?"
Snape frowned. "Could be real. Could be someone using the legend to scare people."
He added, almost offhand, "Once the potion's done, panic dies down. Until the truth's out… watch your back."
Oh. He's warning me.
The basilisk can come get me anytime.
"Thanks, Professor. Appreciate it."
Snape dumped ingredients into the cauldron. "Not concern. Just don't want people thinking I teach idiots."
"Oh, and stay away from Potter. He… attracts trouble."
Lucien bit back a laugh. Understatement of the century.
"Alright, brew your own draught. Class potions don't show your real skill."
---
Forbidden Forest
Lucien was hunting Thestrals.
He needed a gadget to counter the basilisk's death-gaze—something to downgrade "instant death" to "petrification." Mirrors, reflections, camera lenses… Thestral tail feathers might work.
"Luster, Thestrals close?"
"Yes, master. I've seen them here before."
A voice echoed in his mind—his invisible dragon companion.
"Master, there's a human with them."
Hagrid, maybe.
Lucien signaled Luster to scout from above, then crept forward.
He could see Thestrals now (death does that). Otherwise, gathering materials would've been a nightmare.
Soon, he spotted them: inky, skeletal horses with bat wings and blank white eyes. Like shadows given form.
But his eyes locked on the girl beside them.
Dirty-blonde hair, radish earrings, barefoot on frozen ground.
She was stroking a Thestral's neck. It nuzzled her palm like a puppy.
Luna Lovegood?
"What are you doing out here?"
"They're beautiful, aren't they?" Luna turned, silvery eyes dreamy. "You can see them too?"
Lucien reached out. The Thestral leaned into his hand.
"Yeah. We met at the Weasleys', remember? Why're you in the forest?"
Luna understood: he'd seen death, just like her.
"I'm looking for my shoes."
She wiggled her bare toes.
"I think the Wrackspurts took them."
She gazed at the ground solemnly.
"They're very shy. Live in damp corners. They collect shiny things with their snot. My yellow shoes were probably the prettiest they'd ever seen."