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Inside the mirror realm, Tom had learned his limits. The moment Li Ming raised the feather again, the boy retreated deep into the diary and refused to show even an eyebrow—a martyr's posture: kill me if you must, but you won't make me beg.
Li Ming exhaled, frustrated. Killing Tom would be easy catharsis, but useless. Without proof, how would he ever convince Dumbledore the diary was a Horcrux? The headmaster could just as easily accuse him of brandishing a battered notebook.
So, they glared across the pocket realm—man and book locked in a standoff—until Dumbledore returned to the Chamber.
Li Ming slipped back into reality wearing the sulky face of a merchant cheated at market. He handed over the diary with visible reluctance. "Feels like I'm getting fleeced. Any chance of a consolation prize? A Galleon or two?"
Dumbledore accepted the diary and, in the same breath, offered a small glass gourd the size of a baby's fist. "I'd say you're the one making out ahead. If Horace weren't currently obsessed with basilisk-based elixirs, you'd never have pried this loose."
Li Ming tilted the gourd toward the firelight. Inside, pale-blue liquid shimmered like a galaxy, stars orbiting a brighter core. It was almost too beautiful to drink.
"Professor," Li Ming said, half-joking, "do I drink it straight, pour it in a bath, or dip bread in it like olive oil?"
For a moment Dumbledore nearly fumbled the diary. He gave Li Ming a long, searching look. "Nonsense as misdirection… and to steady your nerves?"
Li Ming's grin froze. Dumbledore lifted the diary slightly. "From the look of things, you and Tom have already spoken. Humor me, Mr. Austin—what did you two trade? What common ground does an off-world wizard find with the Dark Lord?"
The smile hardened on Li Ming's face. He knew that kindly voice and grandfatherly calm were no promise of safety. Resist, and Dumbledore would find a way to lock him down. Confess, and maybe—just maybe—he'd live.
He drew a slow breath, layering a few contingencies, then pulled out his grimoire. He opened to a page marked in his hand. Fiendfyre burned across the parchment.
"You've probably sensed it—my magic leans dark, fiery. But until now, most of what I've learned ran clean. I didn't have a source."
Dumbledore's brow furrowed. "What did you give Tom for Fiendfyre?"
"Remember what I called Voldemort?"
"A rabid dog with a hair-trigger temper," Dumbledore said dryly. "And you swore you wouldn't bargain with him."
"Exactly. I didn't bargain. I threatened him—with the feather. He taught, I wrote. Then you insisted on taking the diary back, and there went my chance to squeeze out a few more."
Dumbledore studied him for a long, silent stretch before tucking the diary away. "Very well. Then let's begin your education. Once you drink the amplifier, your reserves will expand—for a time. How far depends on your aptitude."
Li Ming popped the stopper and downed the starry liquid in one gulp. He smacked his lips. "Too quick. Missed the flavor. Got another bottle?"
Ignoring him, Dumbledore drew a slim volume from his robes—A Primer of Magic, written in a neat, familiar hand. "My time is limited. For now, Saturdays after supper. You haven't studied our system, but magic is magic—there's overlap. We'll move quickly. Bring questions."
Li Ming sobered and accepted the book with both hands. "Thank you. I intend to be the fastest student you've ever taught."
Dumbledore smiled faintly. "Also the only one who arrived already grown."
They worked deep into the night—first principles, the roots of spellcraft, how modern magic had evolved. At last, Dumbledore yawned. "That's all. My age has its limits."
Li Ming bowed. "Thank you."
"One more thing," Dumbledore said, pausing at the exit. "Remus Lupin writes that he has gathered the materials for the car modifications. When do you wish to begin?"
Li Ming glanced at the ceiling. Leaving Hogwarts's magic fields now felt like stepping away from a forge mid-blaze. With the amplifier coursing through him, this was the best place to grow. "Tomorrow. I'll bring Lupin here, to the Chamber."
Dumbledore caught the subtext but didn't argue. "Very well. And when you do, send Sirius a message. Tell him to be careful."
Pieces clicked together in Li Ming's head. With the basilisk slain, Hagrid would be cleared. Ministry envoys dispatched to Azkaban would find Sirius gone. Wanted posters would follow; the streets would turn dangerous. Li Ming nodded, promised to deliver the warning, and yawned deliberately until Dumbledore departed.
Once the Headmaster was gone, Li Ming had Kreacher seal the Chamber. Then he bared his teeth in a grin and began carving a Merlin Circle.
His spirit slid free into meditation. The potion's effect crystallized. Magic was food. How much you could take in depended on the size of your stomach; how much you could use depended on how fast you digested it. The amplifier was digestive aid—breaking down everything he consumed, turning it into fuel faster, letting him gorge like a champion eater.
He feasted all night—meditated all night—until he felt the edge where more would no longer build but instead erode his base. Then he slipped back into his body and concealed the Merlin Circle. Carving it was routine now. Too easy. All the more reason to keep it hidden from Dumbledore. If the Headmaster wanted it, he could pay—in resources. Li Ming was broke enough that even meal money mattered.
He had Kreacher lay out food, sat down, and nearly burst with the raw thrum of power in his veins. He chewed slowly, but the grin kept breaking loose, twitching at the corners of his mouth no matter how he tried to smother it.
Kreacher watched with house-elf solemnity and concluded his master had gone mad with sheepish joy.
Truth was, Li Ming had never felt happier since crossing worlds. Yes, he'd arrived with cheats—portals, pockets, mirror-space—but cheats didn't make him strong, just mobile. He was a small fish in a shark tank. One misstep and the Marvel side of his life would crush him.
So he'd played careful. Always careful. But tonight—for the first time—he felt power rising fast enough to see. One long night equal to a month's grind.
He couldn't stop smiling.
"Translation quill, Kreacher. And don't forget who you serve."
The house-elf froze like a statue. Then, with a bow that barely dipped, he rasped, "Kreacher understands. Kreacher serves Master. Always."
Good enough. Li Ming opened a portal and stepped through.
On the other side, Sirius and Lupin sat across from each other at the dining table, moving in sync—sip, chew, repeat. For half a heartbeat the symmetry made Li Ming's brain wander: wolf and dog, same table… if they weren't just friends, what would you even call the kids?
The moment Sirius spotted him, the rhythm shattered. He shot to his feet, the last chunk of bread stuffed in his mouth. "You thieving little—how dare you—"
Li Ming eyed the spray radius and edged back. His gaze flicked to Lupin. "What's with him? Rabies flare-up?"
Lupin's eyelid twitched. He stepped between them, raising a hand toward the floor. Li Ming followed the gesture, then snapped his fingers. "Oh. The Galleons in the basement."
He spread his arms. "Your exact words were, and I quote, 'take whatever you can carry.' Turns out I can carry everything. Don't blame me for efficiency."
Sirius flushed scarlet. "Duel. Now. I challenge you to a duel!"
Li Ming didn't blink. He let a fireball blossom in his palm, the size of a basketball, heat rippling the air. With his free hand he crooked a finger at Sirius. "Name the terms. Since you don't even have a wand, let's keep it fair: wandless."
Sirius: "…"
Lupin: "…"
Both men stared at the fireball. Everyone suddenly remembered: without a wand, Sirius was just an angry guy with great hair. Li Ming wasn't.
Lupin sighed, pressing Sirius back into his chair before things went up in smoke. "Mr. Austin, I've collected the parts for your project. You'll need to provide the workspace."
He'd considered Grimmauld Place, but one look at these two and he knew better. The house would never survive.
"That works," Li Ming said. "Where I'm staying is quiet, plenty of room." He glanced at Sirius. "By the way—when do I get to copy the Black library?"
Sirius snorted. "You sneak into my vault anyway. Why bother asking? Have Kreacher copy the lot."
Fair enough. They'd agreed after Peter's exposure, but Li Ming had jumped the gun. He passed his grimoire to Kreacher. "Copy everything. Mark whatever's too dangerous for now—we'll circle back when I'm stronger."
Kreacher vanished below. Lupin set a trunk on the table, leather inscribed with an Extension Charm. The weight made Li Ming think of a certain zoologist's suitcase—except this one rattled with metal and could probably swallow a corvette.
Someday, when I master car mods, maybe my trunk parks a dropship.
He patted the trunk. "How many cars can I build with this?"
"How many?" Lupin's voice went dry. "One. By your specs, the parts weren't cheap. And since you vacuumed Sirius's vault, he's not exactly flush."
He ticked off components: expansion charm, concealment rig, flight gear. Then he paused, eyes flicking to Sirius. "The critical piece—the powerplant—I don't know Muggle engine theory well enough to make it run on magic. Sirius does."
Sirius leaned back, chin high, eyes daring him. Beg me.
Li Ming's smile sharpened. "Message from Dumbledore: the Ministry's going to notice soon you're not in Azkaban. Do yourself a favor—stay inside."
His tone dipped into something silk-edged and dangerous. "And when they do notice? How long before they decide you escaped to kill Harry Potter? To 'protect' their Chosen One, how far do you think they'll go?"
Not begging. Not today.
He left Sirius blinking and walked Lupin through a portal to the Chamber.
On the way, Lupin latched onto a word. "You said 'go too far.' What did you mean? Did you… see something?"
Li Ming popped the trunk, hefting parts, weighing them like tools and weapons both. "You'll see. Just know this—Sirius will be begging to teach me engines." His tone slid back to business. "So. What's the plan once Pettigrew is confirmed?"
Lupin studied him. Hogwarts would be the safest forge for this boy's strength. And if Li Ming had seen Sirius in danger, he wouldn't keep quiet—not under Dumbledore's eye. "We wait for summer. The basilisk incident already rattled the school. Another scandal, and parents will pull their kids. When term ends—or when the dust truly settles—we move."
He hesitated. "You called me 'Professor' before I had the job. You knew I'd be teaching Defense Against the Dark Arts."
Li Ming didn't deny it.
"When I'm inside the castle, I can protect Harry. And I know Peter. He has to live long enough to confess. Only that clears Sirius." His voice caught on the word Ministry.
Li Ming scratched his jaw. The world trying to snap back into its script again?
Lupin reached into the trunk and dragged out a rusted, doorless Beetle chassis. Li Ming gaped. "Where did you even find this carcass? Don't say roadside treasure."
"Lucky to find a car at all," Lupin said, helpless. He kept unloading. "How do you think the Ministry will treat Peter?"
Not about Peter. About the Ministry. Li Ming's smile thinned. "What do you know?"
Lupin's hands stilled. "The Ministry sees Peter as a hero."
Slow thumbs-up from Li Ming. Sarcasm thick.
Pettigrew had betrayed the Potters, framed Sirius, blown up a street, faked his death—and the Ministry had pinned a First Class Order of Merlin on him. With that medal and no "conclusive evidence," Veritaserum was off the table. And even if they could dose him, why would he tell the truth when it would damn him? Easier to keep shrieking that Sirius was the killer, and the bureaucrats would nod along.
Sometimes Lupin agreed with Sirius. Forget the Ministry. Kill the rat.
Li Ming set a gearbox down beside the Beetle's husk. He looked at the heap of parts, the rust, the challenge ahead. "Then we do it the hard way," he said. "We build. We wait. And when the rat pokes his nose out—we take him alive. Our way."
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