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On Peter Pettigrew, Li Ming could only shrug. He wasn't a heavyweight who could walk into the Ministry, slam a file on the table, and watch a rat get marched to Azkaban.
What was he supposed to do—announce he was a sorcerer from another universe, book a "business meeting," and demand Pettigrew's arrest? Best case, they'd lock him in a ward for lunatics. More likely, they'd smile, slip him Veritaserum, confirm he was "from elsewhere," and then slice him into samples under a banner that read: A new world, a new frontier—forward!
Lupin knew Li Ming couldn't fix it. He'd only hoped for a glimpse of the rat's fate. When none came, he let it go. Coins were better saved than spent chasing prophecies. He'd been broke for years, living under Sirius's roof, clothes fraying at the seams. Catching Pettigrew with ironclad evidence would be cheaper.
So Li Ming's grind began in earnest. Days: learning how to mod a car under Lupin's patient eye. Nights: the fundamentals of magic, also with Lupin. Saturdays, Lupin claimed as rest. Li Ming carried his questions to Dumbledore instead, grinding through answers until candles bled wax.
It was misery and joy in equal measure.
The misery: he was a self-admitted slacker when it came to study. Different world, different rules—principles that felt absurd elsewhere were gospel here. Progress in both mechanics and magic crawled slower than he wanted.
The joy: raw power. With that rare amplification draught burning in his veins, his reserves ballooned. By the time trunks clattered down Hogwarts's steps and students spilled toward the Express for summer, Li Ming's total magical capacity had climbed to what a standard adult wizard might manage.
Then the draught's charge burned out. Dumbledore's lessons ended too. Headmasters didn't have infinite hours.
Li Ming had tasted acceleration. He wanted more. But magical amplification made Felix Felicis look like pumpkin juice. As Sirius had put it: "If you drank one bottle in this lifetime, you must've drowned in Luck in your last. Want another? Try soaking for a few centuries."
So on the first day of break, before Snape could vanish from the castle, Li Ming had Kreacher sweep the Chamber clean, lay out tea, and trace a fresh Merlin Ring. He floated in spirit form above it when the stone door groaned open.
Snape entered—cape sweeping, face unreadable, invitation in hand. His gaze snagged on Li Ming's hovering spirit. He blinked once, accepted tea without comment, and circled the chalk array like a conductor reading sheet music. He could feel what the ring did to the air.
In this world, magical capacity grew on bloodline and potions, not meditation. A focusing array intrigued him—but what truly caught his attention was Li Ming's trance.
At last Li Ming pulled his spirit back and sat up. "Well?"
Snape lifted the invitation. "These are the 'two methods' you wrote of? Ways to grow stronger quickly?"
Li Ming gestured to the ring. "We'll get to the meditation regimen. First, feel the array."
"'Merlin Ring,'" Snape murmured. Merlin wasn't legend to him. The man had walked these halls, Slytherin-green on his shoulders. Anything bearing that name wasn't trinket work.
He stepped into the circle. A minute later he stepped out, expression composed, eyes brighter. "Why me? You study with that foolish wolf. And Dumbledore—his potions are not inferior to mine."
Li Ming spread his hands. "Dumbledore's busy. Lupin's good, but when it comes to potions—you're the master. If I'm going to learn, why not the best?"
He snapped his fingers. "Kreacher. The Half-Blood Prince's book."
The faintest hitch pulled at Snape's mouth. Half-Blood Prince was a name he preferred buried.
Li Ming tossed him the annotated text. "Yours, right? The notes are brilliant. Every time I read them, I know I should study under you."
Snape weighed ring against book, method against risk. "You want brewing instruction in exchange for the ring—or the meditation?"
He knew Li Ming wouldn't trade both accelerants for one discipline. If both were on the table, there was more beneath. "What does the other method buy you?"
Li Ming pinched his brow. "Do you have a formula for a magical amplification draught?"
Snape's lip twitched. "Be realistic. You might as well ask for a bottled miracle."
Li Ming blinked, already calculating. If I learn to brew and I have the recipe, then eventually…
Snape read the thought like it was inked above his head. "Yes, I have the recipe. No, you won't brew it. Not soon. The process kills amateurs, and half the ingredients are extinct. Where will you find them?"
Li Ming's smile edged sharp. Extinct here doesn't mean extinct everywhere. And rare usually means worth my time.
"Ring or regimen for your instruction—and the recipe."
Snape considered. Teaching Potions properly took time he didn't have. He had students, essays, commitments. He handed the Prince's book back and turned toward the door. "I don't have hours to make you competent."
Li Ming caught the subtext. He thought for a moment. "Then just the summer. Teach me through the break. Whether I keep up is on me."
Snape's weight shifted. Between ring and regimen, he favored the latter; his own arrays were crude but serviceable. "Given you once used a coercive charm on me, teach me the meditation first. After I verify it, I'll consider your summer lessons."
The distrust stung—and secretly pleased Li Ming. Distrust meant there was ground to bargain.
"Fine. You get the meditation now. Once you've vetted it, come back with the amplification recipe—and teach me. Tonight, we brew."
Snape didn't need long to test. He copied the regimen cleanly into his notes, closed the grimoire, and met Li Ming's eyes. "Have a cauldron and ingredients ready by evening."
Potions: secured.
That night, Snape swept into the Chamber carrying a cauldron and a crate of reagents. His eyes flicked over Kreacher fussing with teacups, then narrowed on Lupin, who was off to the side drilling Li Ming through wandwork.
Li Ming, grinning, holstered his wand and bowed. "Good evening, Professor Snape."
A curt nod—acknowledgment received. If he was here as a private instructor, Snape could suffer the formality.
His gaze slid to Lupin, brimming with the usual disdain. From school days on, there'd never been love lost. The fact he hadn't opened with a hex was restraint.
Snape's brow tightened. His voice carried that brittle, superior edge only he could manage. "It seems I've come at a bad time. Perhaps we should reschedule."
He'd known Lupin tutored here at night, but hadn't expected him to still be in the Chamber at this hour. Snape assumed once schedules were set, the man would have the decency to clear out.
Lupin returned the courtesy with equal warmth—none. He turned back to his dummies. "Hope you've got the stamina for this summer," he told Li Ming, and left it there.
Li Ming only shrugged. Stamina? If he had magic to spend, a quick Rejuvenate handled fatigue just fine. Two classes at once? He'd take ten.
He gestured Snape toward the curtained workspace and unclasped the Time-Turner at his neck.
Snape's eyes flicked to the hourglass. So that's why Lupin hadn't budged. With a Time-Turner, Li Ming could quite literally learn from both men at once.
No small talk followed. Inside the tent, Snape set him straight to work—and let the venom flow.
"Idiot. The text says distilled water. Why are you pouring boiled?"
"Do you have the brain of a troll? Three and a half clockwise stirs. Half, as in not past one-eighty. Does your clock have creative geometry?"
An hour later, Li Ming stared at a cauldron of bubbling, eye-watering…something.
Snape stood just out of splash range, a hand over his nose and mouth. For a first attempt, the lack of explosion was practically a triumph. But praise wasn't in his vocabulary.
He glanced at the trunk of ingredients, then produced a roll of vellum and handed it over. "That's enough for tonight. You've taken notes. Practice. You've more materials than sense."
At the flap he paused, almost reining in the barb. Almost. "A pity to waste so much stock in those hands."
Li Ming ignored him, catching the vellum—and then blinked. That vellum. His grin spread wide. "Kreacher, see Professor Snape out."
By the time the tent stilled, Li Ming was bent over his grimoire, copying the Magical Amplification Draught recipe line by line. Names shifted across worlds, ingredients came in cousins instead of twins, so he annotated each entry with habitat, signatures, and likely substitutes. If he had to plane-hop for components, he wasn't missing his chance.
Snape had barely gone when Lupin stepped inside, closing his own lesson behind him. He drew out a letter. "Remember the girl the basilisk dragged down here—Ginny Weasley?"
Harry's future wife? Hard to forget. Li Ming nodded.
"The family wants to thank you. They're inviting you—along with McGonagall and Snape—to visit." Lupin's smile tilted wry. "But Merlin must've taken pity. They won a prize trip to Egypt. So the visit waits until just before term."
"McGonagall's declined—new first-years need hand-holding, and someone has to explain Hogwarts letters before they're mistaken for pranks. As for Snape…" Lupin's expression was bone-dry. "He'd rather huff fumes than sit at the Burrow's table. The Weasleys are warm. You'll like them."
He hesitated, then sighed. "Pettigrew's traveling with them. To keep him from slipping out of Britain, we're delaying. Likely next year—once the basilisk panic fades."
The world snapping back onto its rails, Li Ming thought. Neat little correction.
He agreed to go. Fresh cooking beat Kreacher's "borrowed" Hogwarts fare, and Arthur Weasley might answer questions about flying-car modding—preferably the parts Sirius refused to share. If Li Ming cornered Pettigrew, he wouldn't mind prying loose the spell that had blown half a street.
Business concluded, Li Ming reached for his quill again—only to notice Lupin lingering. "Spit it out," he said. "We're not strangers. If I can help, I will."
You will, Lupin thought. And then you'll name a price. He rolled his eyes. "The Ministry's issued the warrant. They've unleashed Dementors on Sirius. Authorization for the Kiss."
When he didn't continue, Li Ming frowned. "Hunting is one thing. You're worried they'll actually catch him? Keep him at Grimmauld and wait until next year. Once you deliver Pettigrew, the heat vanishes."
Then the thought clicked, and he smiled. "You don't think Dementors can find Grimmauld, do you? Relax. Mine are well-behaved. Even if they wander close, I'll have them walk right past. Deal?"
Well-behaved. Lupin kept the snort inside. For Li Ming, maybe. For everyone else—monsters.
He remembered Li Ming's earlier certainty that Sirius would end up teaching him engine enchantments. Now it made sense. The Ministry's narrative had Sirius breaking out to finish Voldemort's work—kill Harry Potter. Wherever Harry went, Dementors would follow.
In summer, the boy lived with Muggles. Orders would keep Dementors away from Muggle-only spaces. But once term began? If the Ministry wanted Sirius badly enough, they'd press Dementors against the school.
And Hogwarts—overflowing with young joy—would be a banquet. Expecting restraint? Easier to believe they were saints.
"I'm not worried about Sirius," Lupin said softly. "I'm worried they'll get too close to Harry. I want you to keep them away from him."
In the book they scar him first, then we chase them off, Li Ming mused. In my run, they're pre-leashed?
He tapped his chin, then sent a silent summons to the Dementor lord waiting beyond the wards. "What does Sirius say?"
"You already know," Lupin replied, almost smiling. "It was his request too. He'll teach you the engine work."
Li Ming rose, shrank his grimoire into a pocketable sliver, and opened a portal. "You see I'm burning through ingredients. I'll need Galleons for supplies, so…"
"Done," Lupin said instantly.
Li Ming had planned to bill Harry—the rich kid tied to the problem—but the quick answer threw him. "You're loaded?"
Lupin stepped through the portal with him, palms up. "I'm not. Sirius is."
"Still?" Li Ming blinked. "I emptied his vault. Did he risk a Gringotts run with a wanted poster on his face?"
Catching the look, Lupin laughed. "When do you think Grimmauld Place was built? How long do you think the Blacks have been around? Old families don't keep every egg in one basket."
They reached the edge of the grounds. Li Ming narrowed his eyes, rubbing his jaw as the night wind pressed cool against the grass. Sounds like the Blacks still have fleece to shear.
He smiled to himself, then lifted a hand toward the treeline where the cold gathered. "All right," he murmured to the dark. "House rules. And you're going to follow them."
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