Slytherin stands, Quidditch match day
Draco Malfoy was glued to the game, eyes locked on the Ravenclaw Seeker's broom.
The longer he watched, the brighter his gray eyes got.
"Faster top speed, way sharper turning, and that short burst climb… Lucien's already tweaked the Eastwind brooms!"
He could barely keep the excitement out of his voice.
Right then, a huge figure shoved through the crowd and planted himself next to Draco. A rough, booming voice cut through the cheers.
"See that, Draco?"
Marcus Flint jerked his chin toward the streak the Eastwind had just left in the sky, smirking like a troll who'd found a club.
"That's the real deal. Go talk to your little buddy Lucien. Get us seven of those for the team."
Draco's pale face flushed red in about half a second.
"I just bought the team seven brand-new Nimbus 2001s!" he hissed. "Those are the best brooms on the market right now!"
"Were," Flint cut him off with a lazy wave of his hand, voice dropping into something ugly and threatening. "The only reason you're on the team is because your daddy's Galleons make us faster than Gryffindor and their museum-piece junk. But now there's the Eastwind."
He stepped closer, throwing a shadow over Draco like a storm cloud.
"Listen up, kid. I can find another Seeker better than you any day of the week. Don't think the team falls apart without you."
It was pure bullying, and Draco knew it.
Flint had been in detention for weeks earlier this year, and while he was gone, Draco had stepped up and run a few practices. Apparently Captain Flint didn't love having his authority questioned.
Now he was just using the new brooms as an excuse to put Draco back in his place.
Anger boiled in Draco's chest, but he swallowed the comeback that was sitting on his tongue. He still wasn't strong enough (or stupid enough) to pick a real fight with someone built like a troll.
The next day
After a sleepless night, Draco tracked Lucien down and, stumbling over his words, explained the whole humiliating scene.
Lucien listened quietly, rolling a Thunderbird feather between his fingers that crackled with faint blue arcs. When Draco finished, he stayed silent for a few seconds.
Classic Slytherin bullying. Just when you think the stereotypes can't get any stronger…
Still, the kid really does love Quidditch. He just wants to stay on the team.
Or maybe he just doesn't want to lose the one place he gets to chase Harry Potter around the sky.
Lucien changed the subject completely.
"What's the most important thing when you pick a Quidditch player for Slytherin?"
Draco blinked, thrown off, but answered on reflex.
"Flying skill, physical condition, reaction time…"
Lucien nodded. Back when they'd done that brutal flight training, he'd already seen that Draco actually had talent and genuine passion, not just rich-kid dabbling.
"You're the Seeker," Lucien said calmly, locking eyes with him. "So tell me, out of everyone in Slytherin who's actually qualified and wants the spot, where do you rank?"
Draco opened his mouth, then closed it. He'd never thought about it like that.
"I… uh…"
He hesitated, then started working it out aloud.
"Most seventh-years are too busy with N.E.W.T.s to play, and the ones who really wanted to be on the team are already on it. First-years aren't allowed (Harry being the freak exception nobody's repeating). So my real competition is second through fourth-years."
Hogwarts doesn't have that many students to start with, and Slytherin definitely isn't the biggest house.
Draco's brain kicked into gear, running through names. He was quick in the air, the perfect build for a Seeker. Most importantly, the Malfoy money meant he'd had top-tier coaching since he could walk.
Sure, there were other rich pure-blood kids in Slytherin, but not many of them loved Quidditch enough to actually train hard, and even fewer wanted the high-pressure Seeker position.
When he added it all up, Draco realized he was actually one of the best Seekers the house had.
Lucien watched the realization light up Draco's face and finally spoke, calm and certain.
"So instead of keep buying your spot with Galleons (which never feels secure anyway), why not put that energy into becoming the absolute best Seeker Slytherin has? Make yourself irreplaceable. Then it won't be you begging them to keep you; it'll be the team begging you to stay. Because if they want the Cup, they'll have no choice."
He leaned forward slightly, green eyes flashing.
"Catch the Snitch once and you win the whole game by a hundred and fifty points. I don't need to tell you how important the Seeker is."
The anger and panic Flint had dumped on him yesterday melted away. Something stronger, ambition with actual backbone, started growing in Draco's chest.
———
Inside the suitcase world
"Rooaaar—"
Norber lay on the ground, a low, rumbling growl vibrating in his throat.
His massive black scales gleamed like cold metal, each one etched with thousands of tiny, shimmering gold runes that pulsed faintly with his breathing.
Lucien stood beside the huge dragon (looking tiny in comparison), wand moving in precise, delicate patterns through the air, tapping specific spots along Norber's spine and wings.
Every light touch sent out invisible ripples of magic; the golden runes brightened in response.
"Easy, Norber. Just one last step."
He was using magical circuitry to re-weave and optimize the dragon's natural magic pathways. When it was finished, Norber would be stronger than any other Norwegian Ridgeback alive.
The only thing holding him up was one final ingredient: something called a "Venomcore Heart."
When Lucien first saw the name in the old texts, he had no idea what it was. There are thousands of obscure magical components, most of them forgotten or renamed over the centuries.
He ended up asking Professor Flamel, who told him straight: a Venomcore Heart is the heart of a Basilisk.
It's the condensed essence of the Basilisk's lethal venom and its unique death-and-petrification magic, an irreplaceable catalyst for certain forbidden alchemical transformations.
Lucien glanced at the sluggish golden runes on Norber's hide.
Perfect. He'd just "borrow" the Basilisk's heart when the time came.
…
Defense Against the Dark Arts office
Gilderoy Lockhart's temples were throbbing. He set down his ridiculous peacock-quill pen, rubbed his forehead hard, and stared at the open, battered diary on his desk.
"Petrify a… pure-blood?"
He muttered to himself, confusion and nerves twisting in his stomach.
This was not the plan.
Originally, Tom had said to target Muggle-born students. That fit the whole "Heir of Slytherin" image and felt a lot safer.
But now Tom was pushing for something way bolder and way more dangerous.
Lockhart took a deep breath and wrote carefully:
Tom, I don't understand. All those messages you had me leave on the walls were about "cleansing the school of those unworthy to study magic," getting rid of Muggle-borns. Why switch to pure-bloods now?
Inside the diary
Thanks to the steady supply of powerful life-essence items Lockhart kept feeding it (dragon blood and the like), the teenage Tom Riddle inside looked almost solid now: handsome, black-haired, black-eyed, with a cold, sharp calm that didn't match his age.
He could feel a real body coming together soon.
Reading Lockhart's worried question, Tom's lips curved into a tiny, disdainful smirk.
Foolish, vain little man.
He wrote back in his elegant handwriting, every word dripping with persuasion:
My friend Gilderoy, you have to think bigger. Attacking Muggle-borns creates fear, yes, but the old pure-blood families will either ignore it or quietly cheer.
But the moment a pure-blood child is attacked? Imagine the uproar.
Every student, every parent, no matter their blood status, will lose their minds. True panic will sweep through Hogwarts, reach the Board of Governors, even the Ministry itself.
He paused, then dangled the bait Lockhart could never resist:
The more chaos, the deeper the terror, the brighter you'll shine when you finally step in as the hero who slays the monster from the Chamber.
That's when the fame will be legendary, isn't it?
Of course, Tom had other reasons.
The pure-blood parents might be fine with "cleaning out" Muggle-borns, but the second their own kids were in danger? They'd band together, put insane pressure on Dumbledore, maybe even get the Ministry involved.
And Dumbledore, for all his power, had this annoying habit of tying his own hands with "rules."
If everything went perfectly, the old man might even get temporarily removed from the school.
The only person Tom truly feared was Dumbledore. The other professors were skilled, sure, but how many students could they really save from a surprise Basilisk attack?
Leaning back in the imaginary headmaster's chair, Tom whispered to himself:
"First remove Harry Potter, the little obstacle. Then orchestrate a massacre worthy of the history books…"
"When dozens of students lie dead because Albus Dumbledore failed to protect them, he won't just lose the headmaster position; they might throw him in Azkaban."
The thought sent heat racing through him. He forced himself calm and kept writing, voice gentle and guiding:
And you, Gilderoy, have nothing to worry about. At the right moment you can even "help" the investigation, point everyone toward the Chamber legend yourself. That clears your name and makes you look brilliant…
Outside the diary
Lockhart stared at the words appearing on the page, heart pounding.
It… kind of made sense. For ultimate fame, a little extra risk was probably worth it.
And the image Tom painted (him swooping in as the savior) was intoxicating.
"Petrify a pure-blood…"
…
Snow was falling thick and heavy around Hagrid's hut, blanketing everything in white.
Hagrid's balaclava was crusted with snow; every word he spoke sent little avalanches off his beard.
"Thanks for puttin' those wards up, Lucien. Otherwise I'd have lost even more roosters."
He looked miserably at the chicken coop.
Lucien flicked his wand one last time; the final thread of magic vanished into the air. Layer upon layer of nasty surprise spells now surrounded the coop, more than enough for whatever "foxes" or "vampires" Hagrid thought were out there.
Lucien knew perfectly well who the real rooster-killer was, sitting pretty in the Defense office right now.
Basilisk. Hatched by a toad under a hen's egg. Mortal enemy of roosters, because one crow from a rooster can kill it outright.
Lockhart was clearing obstacles for his pet monster. Hagrid's roosters were priority one.
"No problem, happy to help," Lucien said lightly, pocketing his wand. "Hey, Hagrid, could I borrow one of your roosters?"
Hagrid beamed instantly.
"Course ya can! Plannin' on makin' that chicken-and-mushroom stew? I've still got some dried mushrooms from the Forbidden Forest this summer—"
"Not for cooking," Lucien interrupted gently, stopping Hagrid before he could disappear into the hut. He gave a quick explanation.
Hagrid handed over a proud, bright-red rooster in a sturdy cage without a second thought.
As Lucien turned to head back to the castle, Hagrid suddenly called after him, voice low and worried.
"Lucien… things aren't safe right now. The Chamber… it was opened once before, fifty years ago."
He rubbed his huge hands together, looking like he wasn't sure he should keep going.
"People really died that time. But now it's just petrifications… I dunno if it's the same thing or not."
Lucien saw real fear in Hagrid's eyes; the guy had been falsely accused last time and still carried the scars.
Lucien lifted the cage a little and gave him a reassuring smile.
"It'll be all right, Hagrid. We'll figure out the truth."
He stepped into the swirling snow. Behind him, the rooster let out one clear, ringing crow that echoed across the grounds.