Revenant

by Eluetheromaniac

Summary:

𝘏𝘦𝘭𝘭𝘰, 𝘮𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘐 𝘢𝘴𝘬 𝘸𝘩𝘰 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘢𝘳𝘦?

𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘥𝘴 𝘥𝘪𝘥𝘯’𝘵 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘢𝘱𝘱𝘦𝘢𝘳 —𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘴𝘭𝘪𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘥 𝘰𝘯𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘱𝘢𝘨𝘦, 𝘤𝘶𝘳𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘪𝘯 𝘯𝘦𝘢𝘵, 𝘥𝘦𝘭𝘪𝘣𝘦𝘳𝘢𝘵𝘦 𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘰𝘬𝘦𝘴. 𝘓𝘶𝘤𝘪𝘦𝘯 𝘯𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘭𝘺 𝘧𝘭𝘶𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘰𝘰𝘬 𝘢𝘤𝘳𝘰𝘴𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘳𝘰𝘰𝘮, 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘤𝘦𝘥 𝘩𝘪𝘮𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘧 𝘵𝘰 𝘩𝘰𝘭𝘥 𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘺.

𝘐𝘯𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘢𝘥, 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘲𝘶𝘪𝘤𝘬, 𝘴𝘩𝘢𝘳𝘱 𝘭𝘦𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘴, 𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘤𝘳𝘢𝘸𝘭𝘦𝘥 𝘣𝘢𝘤𝘬:

𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘧𝘪𝘳𝘴𝘵.

𝘛𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘢 𝘱𝘢𝘶𝘴𝘦, 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘷𝘺 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘸𝘢𝘪𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨. 𝘛𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘳𝘦𝘱𝘭𝘺 𝘣𝘭𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩.

𝘝𝘦𝘳𝘺 𝘴𝘮𝘢𝘳𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘺𝘰𝘶. 𝘔𝘺 𝘯𝘢𝘮𝘦 𝘪𝘴 𝘛𝘰𝘮 𝘙𝘪𝘥𝘥𝘭𝘦. 𝘞𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘪𝘴 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳𝘴?

Notes:

Hellooooooooo
welcome to book two!
I'm so excited to be writing more in this series, Lucien's own plot is beginning to unfold, you have no idea what i have in store for him.
well without further ado, welcome to year two.
(did that rhyme? i think it did.)
Enjoy~

Chapter 1: Misery Loves Company

Summary:

After a shocking revelation Lucien's relationship with Remus Lupin turns rockier then ever, twelve-year-old Lucien Black discovers the truth about his lineage and is suddenly thrust into the legacy of the House of Black, becoming its youngest Lord. Navigating life at Hogwarts is no longer just about classes and friendships; it’s a delicate balance of politics, power, and survival. Amid whispered warnings, he forms an unlikely connection with a mysterious figure from an old journal—Tom Riddle—whose influence both fascinates and unnerves him. As Lucien’s days grow stranger, he begins to lose fragments of time, waking in dangerous or inexplicable situations he can’t recall entering. Complicating everything further, cryptic riddles from his deceased godmother infiltrate his dreams, hinting at secrets, dangers, and a destiny far larger than he ever imagined. In a world of legacy, magic, and betrayal, Lucien must uncover the truth before it unravels him entirely.

Lucien was back there.

 

He stumbled through the Devil’s Snare again, the vines clinging to his throat and wrists. His magic flared wild, uncontrolled—fire burst from his fingertips, scorching the tendrils to ash as he clawed his way free. He was running before the smoke even cleared.

 

Then he was flying—wind tearing at his robes as he stretched, grasped, and seized the silver key from the air. Its sharp edge sliced his palm open, warm blood trailing behind him.

 

And then—chess. The echo of clashing stone reverberated in his skull. He moved with urgency, the pieces toppling, splintering, shattering. Checkmate. His heart thundered.

 

Harry. He had to get to Harry.

 

He sprinted, doors slamming open in his wake, panic clawing at his chest. Harry was close, he could feel it—so close—

 

A foul, suffocating stench slammed into him, clinging to his tongue, his throat, his very lungs. Rot. Decay. His stomach lurched, bile rising.

 

The wall rushed up to meet him—no, threw him back. Pain exploded across his ribs as the air was ripped from his body. Stars burst behind his eyes.

 

And then he saw it.

 

The troll.

 

The very same troll he thought was gone—its flesh gray and sagging, maggots crawling from empty eye sockets, skin peeling where something had clawed from within. It staggered toward him, dead and yet impossibly alive, its great club dripping with black rot.

 

It swung.

 

Lucien didn’t even have time to scream before the world went black—

 

—and he was falling.

 

His eyes blinked rapidly. He was back in that dreamscape—his mother’s house.

 

The walls looked the same, his bedroom door half-ajar. He rose slowly, each step dragging, heavy, as though the air itself wanted him still. When he pushed the door open, faint noises drifted from the kitchen. A soft clatter of dishes.

 

And the smell.

 

Rot. Decay. Copper.

 

His stomach twisted. Was the troll still here?

 

He broke into a run, heart hammering, half expecting to see the hulking corpse waiting for him. But it wasn’t.

 

It was her.

 

She stood at the sink, back turned, washing dishes with slow, mechanical motions. Her hair was braided neatly, swaying against the thin fabric of her gown. She didn’t look at him.

 

“What did we say about running in the house?” she whispered, voice carrying across the room like a draft.

 

Lucien froze. The whisper was so soft he almost doubted he’d heard it.

 

“Mum?” His voice cracked, uncertain.

 

“Yes, dear?” she answered, in that same quiet, unbroken rhythm. Still she did not turn.

 

Lucien took a cautious step forward. His throat tightened, dread rising. “Are you… okay, Mum?”

 

That was when he saw it.

 

The hem of her gown was soaked through. Blood dark and wet pooled at her bare feet, trickling across the tiles. The tip of her braid, once pale, now clung heavy with crimson.

 

“Mum?” His voice was strangled, horror clawing through his chest.

 

“You’re just like your father, you know.”

 

Her voice rang clear this time, cutting through the pounding in his ears. Lucien stumbled back as she turned.

 

Her body—torn open. Skin flayed in ragged claw marks that carved across her chest and arms. Her eyes, blind and white, stared through him, fogged with death. Her flesh was mottled, gray, peeling, rotting away to the bone.

 

“I’m worried, dear,” she continued, lips cracking as she spoke, “that you’ll end up just like him… in the end.”

 

The words echoed. The kitchen swam. And then—

 

Someone was screaming.

 

“Cub—wake up, it’s just a dream!”

 

There were hands on his wrists, pinning him down. He thrashed wildly, kicking at sheets, lungs tearing with that scream—

 

Oh.

 

It was him. He was the one screaming.

 

Lucien’s eyes snapped open, vision blurring and clearing in jolts. The walls weren’t bloodstained. The air wasn’t choking with rot. It was his room, dim in the early dawn. Off to the side, Remus was crouched on the bed, face pale and worn, eyes wary but steady. He no longer looked shocked, no longer horrified; that had burned out after the first few nights.

 

Now he only looked tired.

 

The moment Lucien’s thrashing stilled, Remus let go of his wrists—gingerly, as though they were fragile glass—and immediately drew him into his arms. He shifted them both until Lucien was pressed against the headboard, his face buried against the worn fabric of Remus’s shirt.

 

That was when the sobs came. Ragged, unstoppable, pouring out of him until it hurt to breathe.

 

Remus didn’t try to hush him. He only held on tighter, rocking him in slow, steady motions. His hand rubbed circles between Lucien’s shoulder blades, and under his breath he hummed—soft, tuneless, more vibration than song.

 

The sound anchored him, tethering him to now, to warmth, to safety.

 

Gradually, the sobs broke apart into shivers. Then sniffles. Then silence.

 

But Remus kept rocking him anyway, as though he knew the silence didn’t mean the storm was gone.

 

“Do you want to talk about it?” Remus asked at last, his voice rough with exhaustion.

 

Lucien shook his head against his chest. “Nothin’ to talk about,” he whispered, the words muffled. “It was the same as last time.”

 

Remus was quiet for a long moment, his chin resting lightly on top of Lucien’s hair. Then he sighed, the kind of sigh that came from bone-deep weariness, and reached blindly for the nightstand. His hand found the worn little book waiting there. He slid a finger between the marked pages and opened it.

 

“All right,” he murmured. “Then we’ll listen instead.”

 

His voice dropped into that gentle cadence he always used when reading, low and steady, a rhythm more than words.

 

“You—you alone will have the stars as no one else has them. In one of the stars I shall be living. In one of them I shall be laughing. And so it will be as if all the stars were laughing, when you look at the sky at night. You—only you—will have stars that can laugh.”

 

Lucien’s eyes fluttered, heavy despite the lingering terror coiled in his chest. The words wrapped around him like a blanket, dragging him slowly under.

 

He let himself sink, clinging to Remus’s warmth, to the steady hum of his voice. Sleep claimed him again—still restless, still storm-tossed—but no longer alone.

 

“Hello, Petunia, so good to see you again. Say—are those new tulips? A little basic, sure, but they look—”

 

With a screech, Petunia Dursley slammed the door toward his face for what had to be the millionth time. Already used to this routine, Lucien threw out a hand, palm smacking against the wood. A bit too hard, maybe—enough to make the hinges rattle—but it got the point across.

 

Her eyes went wide, darting to his hand, then back up to his face, and for the briefest moment she looked almost afraid.

 

“Let’s not do this, yeah? Save us both some time,” Lucien said smoothly, lips curling into a grin. “Now—where’s my brother?”

 

“My freakish sister didn’t have any other children,” she snapped, voice dripping venom, but Lucien just rolled his eyes.

 

“Semantics,” he waved her off. “Where’s Harry?—HAZ, YOU IN THERE MATE?!” he bellowed suddenly, grin wicked and far too loud for the tidy little street.

 

Petunia nearly jumped out of her skin, whipping her head around to glance up and down the road, panicked. “Be quiet!” she hissed. “The neighbors—”

 

“Wouldn’t it be a shame if the neighbors knew you were hiding a kid in a cupboard?” Lucien muttered, just low enough for her alone to hear. Her face went rigid.

 

“Boy!” she snapped toward the hall, voice sharp as a whip. “They’re here.”

 

And just like that, there were quick footsteps, a flurry of movement, and then Harry barreled into him, hugging him tight enough to nearly knock him back.

 

“Careful, Haz—I’m starting to think you missed me,” Lucien teased, wrapping him in a tight squeeze.

 

“I did,” Harry admitted instantly, muffled against his shoulder before stepping back with a shy smile aimed toward Remus.

 

Remus’s face softened into one of those small, rare smiles, dipping his head politely.

 

Lucien ruffled Harry’s hair with a grin. “You saw me yesterday. And the day before that. And the day before that .”

 

Harry just shrugged, sheepish but beaming.

 

“You boys ready to go?” Remus asked, voice amused but patient, stepping closer.

 

“Yes, do please leave ,” Petunia said briskly, tone clipped, shutting the door almost before the last word had left her mouth.

 

Lucien, smirking, muttered under his breath just loud enough for Harry to hear: “Charming as always.”

 

Harry snorted, muffling his laugh in his sleeve as Remus herded them off the front step.

“You look exhausted.”

 

Harry and Lucien sat side by side on the swings of a half-rusted playground in Yorkshire, the chains creaking as they swayed lazily back and forth. The cottage wasn’t far, tucked in the trees, but here it felt like another world. They both watched Remus with mild amusement as he tried to wrangle Mouse, who had decided pigeons were far more interesting than being a well-behaved pet.

 

“Ain’t no rest for the wicked,” Lucien quipped, smirking faintly though his eyes were dull with fatigue.

 

“I have them too.”

 

Harry’s voice was low, almost a mumble. Lucien didn’t ask what he meant, didn’t push. He just stared out toward the treeline, where the shadows stretched long and heavy.

 

“I keep dreaming that the troll killed you,” Harry said suddenly, blurting it like he’d been holding it in too long. His knuckles whitened where he gripped the chains. “That it smashed you against the wall, and I couldn’t save the Stone, and then Voldemort—he comes back—”

 

“Haz.” Lucien’s voice cut in, soft but firm. He still didn’t look at him. “I’m alive. We’re alive. Voldemort didn’t get the Stone. He’s gone.”

 

“For how long?” Harry whispered.

 

That time, Lucien had no answer. His swing slowed to a stop, boots dragging in the dirt. He glanced sideways at Harry, the shadows of the trees swaying across his face, and for a moment the weight between them was too heavy for either of them to carry alone.

 

“Then I’ll be right there by your side,” Lucien said firmly. “Together.”

 

Before Harry could respond, Remus’s voice cut across the playground.

 

“You boys hungry?” he called, slightly breathless, Mouse wriggling smugly in his arms. The little kneazle looked like she just won a war. Remus, on the other hand, looked like he’d lost one.

 

Lucien and Harry traded an amused glance.

 

“Starving, old man,” Lucien quipped as he pushed himself off the swing.

 

“Nothing new there,” Harry teased, earning himself a playful elbow to the ribs from Lucien.

 

 Remus tried and failed to smother a laugh as Mouse twisted in his arms like a Queen returning from battle.

 

“Let’s drop off this terror first, yeah?” Remus muttered dryly.

 

At that, Mouse flicked her ears back and gave Remus an indignant glare that could only be described as personally insulted . The sight set Lucien and Harry off, laughter bubbling out of them until Remus’s lips finally twitched into a grin.

 

For a fleeting moment, the nightmares and the heaviness pressing down on all three of them seemed far away—washed out by warm sunlight, pigeon feathers on the wind, and the sound of their laughter echoing through the quiet Yorkshire air.

They were tucked into a booth in a cozy little Muggle diner. Harry had shyly admitted he wanted to try fish and chips, and Lucien, who hated fish with a passion, had agreed without protest. If Harry wanted it, he’d endure it.

 

Unfortunately, Remus noticed.

 

“Enjoying your food?” Remus asked mildly, though there was that knowing look in his eyes. He was watching the way Lucien kept his expression carefully neutral as he forced himself to chew.

 

“Hm?” Lucien looked up, startled, a piece of batter clinging stubbornly to his lip. “Yeah, s’fine.”

 

Harry glanced between the two of them, brow furrowed in confusion.

 

Remus just gave Lucien that look —the one that said you’re not fooling me, cub —and Lucien winced.

 

“Here, I’ll trade you.” Remus slid his own plate forward, neatly taking Lucien’s fish and passing over the remainder of his chips. “I’m terribly hungry anyway. Was even thinking of getting a burger after this. Want to split it with me?”

 

Lucien felt his stomach twist, not with hunger but with embarrassment. “M’all good, Remus. Not that hungry.” There was the faintest edge in his voice, sharper than he intended.

 

Harry, quick as ever, narrowed his eyes. He could read Lucien like a book.

 

Before the tension could settle, Harry cut in smoothly. “Lucien was telling me my dad had a truce with Peeves,” he said, tone almost casual. He shot Lucien a glance that was part I see you and part were talking about this later . “How’d he manage that? Peeves was a right terror last year. Could be useful to know.”

 

Lucien’s shoulders sagged in relief, grateful for the lifeline. He bent over his chips, picking at them with deliberate interest.

 

Remus, mercifully, took the bait. His expression softened, some distant fondness crossing his face as he leaned back. “Ah, yes… your father and Peeves.” A chuckle escaped him, tired but genuine. “That’s a story, all right…”

 

And as Remus began to recount the tale, Harry leaned forward eagerly, hanging on every word, while Lucien sat back in the booth. He let himself listen, grateful for the cover, and more grateful still that Harry knew when to throw him one.

 

Unfortunately, like every day, it had to come to an end.

 

They returned Harry to his relatives’ house, all of them reluctant, dragging their feet as though leaving were a punishment. The full moon was tonight, and they were already cutting it dangerously close.

 

“You’ll be at Ron’s before you know it, Haz,” Lucien said softly, wrapping Harry in a hug. He held him a moment longer than necessary, committing the weight of him to memory.

 

“I know,” Harry murmured, stepping back reluctantly, giving a small, polite nod to Remus. Both boys were awkward in each other’s presence, despite Lucien’s best efforts to make it easier.

 

Remus, burdened with his own self-blame, seemed unsure how to handle a boy who he felt he had abandoned. And Harry… Well, Harry didn’t know what to do with an adult who cared. What a mess the three of them were.

 

“We’ll see you soon,” Lucien said firmly, trying to imbue his voice with confidence as Harry slipped inside.

 

Remus let out a low sigh. “We need to go, cub.”

 

Lucien nodded, though his eyes lingered on the closed door. He wanted to drag Harry away from this house, to shield him from everything unpleasant about it, but he couldn’t—especially not tonight.

 

He exhaled slowly, letting himself let go, and turned back to Remus. With a silent agreement, he grabbed Remus’s arm, and together they Apparated away, leaving the dark silhouette of the house behind, hearts heavy.

 

“C’mon, we’re almost there,” Remus gritted through clenched teeth. By now, he was practically carrying Lucien through the woods, hauling him toward the cave where they’d be forced to transform tonight.

 

“We cut it too close,” Lucien gasped, drenched in sweat, and Remus only dragged him faster, his own muscles straining with the effort.

 

They made it—just in the nick of time.

 

“Cub, you have to help me!” Remus panted, struggling to shove a boulder into place to block the entrance. Lucien had collapsed the moment Remus had released him.

 

Blinking through the haze of pain, Lucien reached out a hand, gathering every ounce of magic he had within himself. With a grunt, gritted teeth, and a surge of effort, he forced the boulder into place, collapsing back onto the dirt, chest heaving.

 

Remus sank down beside him, his own breaths ragged.

 

Then it began.

 

Lucien felt the first bones snap and reshape, bracing himself with a whimper. His eyes watered as excruciating pain shot through him. Around him, he could hear the rapid, agonized sounds of Remus’ transformation—his cries and gasps echoing in the cave far faster than Lucien’s own.

 

“Don’t fight it,” Remus gasped, his amber eyes now glowing in the dim light. “Don’t—it just makes it worse.”

 

Lucien tried. He really did. But the pain was overwhelming. Teeth elongating, bones breaking and stretching, skin tearing as it reshaped… He whimpered, calling for help.

 

“Moony,” he gasped, voice cracking, reaching for something, anything to anchor him. But there was nothing Remus could do to take away this agony.

 

“It’s okay,” Remus cried out, his voice breaking as he tried to soothe both himself and Lucien. “It’s okay, it’s okay—”

 

And with one final, ear-piercing shriek, Lucien was consumed, lost entirely to the beast within.

 

Lucien woke in the dark, the cave’s lingering scent of damp stone surrounding him and the sharp smell of magic. He could sense hollow breaths around him, the sharp tang of healing spells, and—closer—Remus, right beside him, quiet and watchful. Lucien’s body ached in every joint; even the smallest movement sent waves of pain through him.

 

“You awake, cub?” Remus’ voice was low, careful, threaded with exhaustion.

 

Lucien could only manage a faint, pained grunt in response.

 

“I’m going to have to apparate us out of here,” Remus warned quietly. Before Lucien could protest, strong arms lifted him, carrying him carefully against Remus’ chest. Every movement felt like dragging lead through his veins.

 

With a crack and a rush of disorienting motion, they were gone.

 

The cottage appeared around him in a blur, the familiar warmth and faint smell of herbs and firewood grounding him. Lucien could barely turn his head before vomiting. Remus said nothing, his presence solid and steady, his focus entirely on Lucien.

 

He reached the bedroom, laying Lucien gently on the bed as though the fragile boy could shatter if handled too roughly. Lucien’s eyelids drooped before his head even hit the pillow, and he slipped immediately into a merciful arms of sleep, the aches of his transformation still pulsing faintly beneath the surface.

Lucien stood at the edge of a cliff, high above the dark, churning ocean. The waves crashed angrily against jagged rocks, almost as black as his name. Before him, following the cliff’s curve, a towering formation rose, ending in a sharp, pointed opening that seemed to beckon him—to step off into the sea and let it take him, if only it would lead him there.

 

“I wouldn’t.” A whimsical voice spoke beside him, light yet tinged with warning. “Nothing good has ever come of going there.”

 

Lucien blinked, startled, and turned to see her.

 

“Pandora,” he whispered, equal parts awe and weariness.

 

“Hello, little star.” She smiled warmly, perched fearlessly at the cliff’s edge, her legs swinging back and forth.

 

“What—” Lucien started, baffled.

 

“I know I’m dead,” she said softly, as though reading his thoughts. “You needn’t worry.” She patted the spot beside her. “Sit. It’s been far too long since we last spoke.”

 

“A month,” Lucien corrected, sliding down beside her and gazing at the ocean below.

 

“Mm… yes,” she murmured, eyes distant. “And no.”

 

“What do you mean?” Lucien asked, already sensing this was no riddle he could solve.

 

“Yes, I spoke to you not too long ago,” she clarified with that whimsical lilt. “But I also haven’t spoken to you since you were a baby.”

 

“You were one of the few?” he asked, his voice small.

 

“Of course.” Her eyes twinkled, catching the reflection of the waves below. “I was the first. Severus was the second, then Barty, and then Evan.”

 

Lucien fell silent, absorbing her words, the ocean roaring beneath them like a chorus of ancient secrets.

 

“I wish he would have told the dog,” she mused, her tone half-frustrated, half-amused. “But you Blacks… stubborn lot, aren’t you?”

 

Lucien blinked, confused. “Why would he tell a dog?”

 

“Mmm,” she murmured, gazing back out at the dark waters. “Why would he indeed?”

 

They didn’t speak for a long moment, the waves crashing relentlessly below them, filling the silence with their rhythm. Then Pandora finally broke it.

 

“Go on,” she said softly, her voice almost blending with the wind. “Ask your questions.”

 

Lucien let his mind wander through the endless list of things he wanted to know, the questions piling up faster than he could speak. After a few moments, he chose one.

 

“Where… are we?” he asked carefully.

 

“It’s known as the Crystal Cave,” she replied, her eyes distant as though she were seeing it from a place far beyond the cliff. “The closest I can get to him… for now.”

 

“Get to who?” Lucien pressed.

 

“Can’t you feel him?” she asked curiously, turning her gaze on him. “He’s trapped.”

 

Lucien frowned. He couldn’t feel anyone, not in the way she seemed to suggest—but he didn’t comment. Something told him it wasn’t his place to doubt.

 

“Then why don’t we go help him?” he asked instead, his tone edged with frustration and concern.

 

“Mmm.” Pandora’s gaze drifted even farther, as if she were looking through the world itself. “He’ll be set free… in time.”

 

Lucien swallowed, the wind whipping around them, leaving him with more questions than answers. The waves below roared like a warning, but he felt an odd sense of patience settle over him, as though he were meant to wait—and watch.

 

“Why are you here?” Lucien asked, his voice trembling. “And what was that dream—the one—”

 

“A gift,” Pandora cut in, her frown deepening. “Or it was meant to be. I don’t think you liked it very much.”

 

Lucien stared at her, speechless.

 

“My Luna,” she continued softly, her gaze distant, “she loved things like that. I would tell her stories of my friends, create little worlds where she could know them. I thought… I thought you might enjoy it as well. But it seems it haunted you instead.”

 

Lucien blinked back tears, staring at the waves below, his throat tight as memories of the dream clawed at him—the laughter, the love, the impossible warmth.

 

“I did,” he whispered, his voice cracking, “I did love it. But it haunts me… because I’ll never have that.”

 

She smiled at him sadly, the wind tugging at her hair. “You will, little star. You just have to fight for it first.”

 

“Why?” he begged, his throat raw, “haven’t I fought enough?”

 

“It’s written in the stars… can’t you see?” she said cryptically, and Lucien’s chest tightened, a scream stuck in his throat.

 

A sharp caw pierced the air. A raven appeared, bold and silent, circling above them before swooping in to land just a few yards away. Its eyes were ancient, demanding, and unnervingly intelligent.

 

“What… what does it want?” Lucien whispered, breath catching.

 

“It’s calling Lord Black home,” she said, her whimsical tone carrying an odd weight.

 

And then, like ink spilling into water, everything around him blurred—the waves, the cliff, Pandora herself—dissolving into shadow and whispering stars.

“Lucien, wake up!” Remus called from another room, panic threading his voice. Lucien bolted upright, heart hammering, and raced through the hall into the kitchen.

 

“What is it?” he demanded, eyes scanning for any immediate danger, but all he saw were several owls fluttering about and Remus staring down at the Daily Prophet with a grave expression.

 

“We have a problem,” Remus murmured, his gaze flickering nervously before he handed the paper over.

 

Lucien’s eyes froze on the headline:

 

THE LOST BLACK HEIR

 

A cold dread ran through him.

 

“How did they find out?” he demanded, incredulous.

 

“Just keep reading,” Remus said quietly. Lucien’s hands trembled as he did.

 

Early this morning, I received the most unexpected visit from the noble house of Malfoy. They appeared deeply disturbed, and I welcomed them in immediately to hear what troubled them. What they revealed will leave readers on the edge of their seats.

 

Last year at Hogwarts marked their son and heir’s first year at school, and when he returned home for the holidays, he brought back a shocking revelation: a Ravenclaw student, whose resemblance to their own son was so striking that many mistook them for brothers. His name? Mr. Lucien Sirius Noir.

 

Initially, they dismissed it as coincidence. But curiosity—and concern—led them to investigate whether Lady Malfoy’s cousin, the notorious criminal Sirius Black (see page four: The Betrayal of the Potters), had any illegitimate heirs. To their astonishment, it wasn’t Sirius who fathered this child—but his brother: Known Death Eater Regulus Black.

 

“If I had known, I would have taken him in immediately,” Lady Malfoy said, dabbing at tears, guilt etched across her face. I reassured her—none of this was her fault; no one could have known.

 

Lord Malfoy, equally concerned, wrapped a comforting arm around his wife. Oh, readers, the love between them is nothing short of enchanting.

 

“We wish to make amends now,” Lord Malfoy stated resolutely. “We have already begun the process of seeking custody of him, and hope to have it finalized before the new school year begins.”

 

And there you have it, dear readers. Let us hope House Malfoy succeeds in their endeavors, and that the Lost Heir Black will soon be returned to where he belongs.

 

(See page three, subsection four: Heir Black’s first year at Hogwarts and how he rose to the top.)

(See page two, subsection three: Heir Black’s remarkable display of wandless magic with Penelope Clearwater.)

 

Lucien read it. Then he read it again. And again. His eyes darted over the words, each repetition driving the fire higher in his chest. By the fourth read, the paper was trembling violently in his hands—and suddenly, flames licked the edges, consuming it before he even had a chance to think.

 

“Cub?” Remus’s voice was wary, careful.

 

Lucien felt like running—no, escaping, anywhere, anywhere but here.

 

“I—” His words caught in his throat. His chest heaved, and he realized he wasn’t even breathing.

 

“Breathe,” Remus said calmly, a lifeline tossed across the chaos.

 

Lucien snapped.

 

“Don’t tell me to breathe!” he hissed, fire in his eyes, and even Remus flinched. Lucien didn’t care. He barreled on.

 

“My father… was a Death Eater?” His voice cracked with anger and disbelief. “And nobody thought to tell me this?!”

 

“How was I supposed to tell you?” Remus’s voice wavered, breaking under the weight of guilt.

 

Lucien’s glare cut through him. “Verbally, preferably,” he spat, each word jagged, sharp. Remus looked at him like he’d never seen him before.

 

“I… I didn’t know how,” Remus admitted, crestfallen.

 

“Well, maybe you should have tried harder,” Lucien said coldly, the hurt coiling over his anger, twisting it into something biting and merciless. “Maybe, instead of telling me how my father loved playing Quidditch in his free time, you could have told me how much he preferred torturing people.”

 

Remus flinched.

 

Lucien didn’t care.

 

“And now everyone knows,” Lucien laughed, but it was raw, hysterical, like glass breaking in the quiet. “Everyone knows now! And I’ve just got to live with this—this shadow over me—the rest of my life?”

 

“I’m so sorry,” Remus said, his voice barely audible, threadbare.

 

“I don’t want your apologies!” Lucien snarled, his fists clenching on the table. “I wanted you to be honest with me!”

 

“I can tell you everything now,” Remus offered, hesitant, tentative.

 

Lucien laughed again. It was cold, sharp as blades of ice, cutting through the room.

 

“Oh, now you want to tell me?” he mocked, voice bitter. “Too late for that. The Malfoys plan on snatching me up as soon as they can. What happened to… this being home?”

 

“It is your home,” Remus said desperately, leaning forward. “It is your home. I promise you—we’ll fix this.”

 

Lucien let out a hollow laugh, shoulders sagging as the fight drained from him. He sank onto the chair, burying his face in his hands. “There is no fixing this,” he whispered, voice ragged.

 

He lifted his head then, eyes wild, manic. “Wait until they find out I’m a werewolf.”

 

Remus paused, the weight of the words hanging in the air. “If you no longer wish to stay with me, I understand—”

 

“Don’t you dare.” Lucien cut him off, vicious, sharp. “No return label, remember? You’re already hiding things from me—don’t make yourself a liar now.”

 

“Alright,” Remus said, placating, measured. “If you’d let me finish—I was going to say, if you do not wish to live with the Malfoys, I recommend we inform them—”

 

Lucien’s blood ran cold.

 

“No. We cannot .” He denied it instantly, voice shaking. “I go to bloody school with Malfoy—he’ll tell everyone.”

 

Remus nodded slowly, quietly. “Alright. We won’t tell them.”

 

Lucien exhaled shakily, a fraction of his tension easing, though his eyes still burned with a storm Remus had no hope of quelling.

 

“What are the other letters?” Lucien eventually asked, his voice heavy with exhaustion.

 

Remus looked around as if the question had suddenly jolted his memory. He went to the owls and began pulling the letters down one by one, reading the names aloud. “A couple from your friends… one from the Malfoys, probably a notice… and then…” His brow furrowed, eyes narrowing as he held up a thick envelope.

 

“And?” Lucien prompted, a trace of impatience in his tone.

 

“There’s a letter from Gringotts,” Remus said wearily, handing it over. “They almost never send letters unless something… unusual has happened. And this one is for you.”

 

Lucien hesitated, staring at the envelope as if it might bite. With a long sigh, he tore it open, the paper crackling in his hands.

 

Greetings Alleged Heir Black,

May your coffers flow and your enemies tremble at your feet.

My name is Ragnok, and I am the head goblin for the Black estate. It was quite a shock to receive the news this morning.

How they came to this conclusion, I do not know, but here at Gringotts we pride ourselves on being thorough.

If you are amenable, we would like to perform an inheritance test to prove you are who you say you are. Depending on the answers we receive, we will have much to discuss.

When you arrive, ask for me, and I shall collect you.

Ragnok, Second of His Name

Gringotts Bank

 

Lucien stared at the letter, his eyes tracing the sharp, deliberate script, his mind numb. Finally, he handed it back to Remus, who took it eagerly, scanning every line like a man searching for clues.

 

“This…” Remus said, his eyes sharp as he scanned the letters, “this actually could be a good thing.”

 

“Oh, do pray tell,” Lucien replied blandly, his tone flat but edged with curiosity. “Honestly, preferably.”

 

Remus winced at the jab but pushed on. “For noble houses, goblins don’t just handle gold. They’ve been known to mediate legal matters, more than anyone else. They manage estates, inheritance disputes… even delicate family affairs.”

 

Lucien wasn’t a Ravenclaw for nothing; he caught on immediately. A flicker of hope stirred in his chest.

 

“So they could help us with the Malfoys,” he said, testing the words aloud, letting the possibility sink in.

 

“Yes. They could,” Remus agreed, though the hope in his eyes was tempered by a quiet sadness—one that Lucien knew he had caused.

 

Lucien stood abruptly, his tone clipped, masking the flutter of anticipation in his stomach. “Right. What are we waiting for, then? Let’s go.”

 

Remus fell into step silently behind him as they moved toward the Floo. Lucien’s mind raced ahead: the goblins, the test, the Malfoys—everything hinged on this moment.

Lucien hadn’t been to Gringotts before, and as he approached the building, he felt a tight knot of nerves coiling in his stomach. He pushed it down as best he could.

The bank was an imposing, snow-white marble structure, its multistoried façade gleaming in the sunlight. Outside the large double doors stood two armed goblins, their eyes sharp and unyielding, but they didn’t acknowledge him as he and Remus approached. Taking a deep breath, he pushed the doors open and stepped inside.

 

On the silver doors before them, an inscription caught his eye:

 

Enter, stranger, but take heed

Of what awaits the sin of greed

For those who take, but do not earn,

Must pay most dearly in their turn.

So if you seek beneath our floors

A treasure that was never yours,

Thief, you have been warned, beware

Of finding more than treasure there.

 

Lucien regarded it warily, a chill running down his spine, before he forced himself onward. The doors swung open into a vast marble hall. Long counters stretched along its length, and behind them, goblins moved with brisk, precise efficiency. Dozens of vault passageways lined the walls, each guarded by seated goblins whose sharp eyes flicked briefly toward the newcomers.

 

He hated to admit it, but he was overwhelmed. The grandeur, the sheer scale, the air of authority—it was suffocating. Remus seemed to notice the tension coiled in his shoulders, but he remained silent, perhaps wary of saying the wrong thing and setting Lucien off again.

 

Lucien felt the sting of frustration rise—irrational, he knew, but impossible to quell. So instead, he said nothing, planting his feet firmly and striding toward the front desk, forcing his nerves to steel themselves as he prepared for whatever awaited him.

 

“Hello,” Lucien said hesitantly, his voice barely above a whisper. He forced himself to straighten, squaring his shoulders and clenching his fists to hide the tremor in his hands.

 

The goblin regarded him with thinly veiled disgust and disinterest, and for a moment Lucien drew a blank, unsure how to proceed.

 

“May your coffers overflow,” Remus said smoothly on his behalf, his tone carrying calm authority.

 

The goblin’s eyes flicked to Remus, a glint of appreciation crossing his sharp features.

 

“And may your enemies cry in fear at your name, Mr. Lupin,” the goblin replied, a wickedly delighted grin spreading across his face. “How may Odbert assist you today?”

 

“We were summoned by Ragnok,” Remus informed him, his voice steady.

 

At the mention of the name, Odbert’s gaze sharpened, locking onto Lucien as if he were searching for some hidden mark. The intensity of the stare made Lucien swallow hard, a shiver running down his spine.

 

“I see,” Odbert said slowly, his tone measured and deliberate. He straightened fully, towering slightly over the desk, and added, “Wait here.” With that, he turned and vanished down a corridor, leaving Lucien standing frozen, the hum of the marble hall and the faint scent of gold and parchment pressing in around him.

 

Lucien’s chest tightened. This is it, he thought, Don’t falter now.

 

“I didn’t need your help,” Lucien whispered petulantly to Remus, who just looked down at him, eyes heavy with quiet sadness.

 

“I know,” Remus murmured back.

 

At that moment, Odbert returned, accompanied by another goblin.

 

“Greetings,” the new goblin said, his gaze assessing Lucien with sharp precision. Lucien lifted his chin, holding it high, and the goblin gave a slight nod of approval. “This way, if you please.”

 

Lucien and Remus followed him into a meeting room, simple but imposing, with a long polished table. The goblin seated himself at the head, gesturing for them to sit.

 

“Um… hello,” Lucien began, unsure, sliding into a chair. He glanced at Remus, who gave him a small encouraging nod before taking his own seat. “May you… um… hoard gold more than a dragon, and may your enemies get hit by a bus?”

 

Remus froze, torn between horror and amusement, but Ragnok’s sharp, choked laughter cut through the tension, startling Lucien.

 

“I like you, hatchling,” the goblin said, a vicious grin spreading across his face. “May your coffers fill, and may your enemies stumble upon their own blade.”

 

Lucien blinked. “Actually… that would be really helpful if they did.”

 

Ragnok laughed again, the sound sharp and echoing in the room. “I do hope you are who you say you are. This might be the most entertainment I’ve had since Sirius Black.”

 

Lucien felt himself wilt. “Yeah… I love being related to the person who plotted my brother’s parents’ demise.”

 

“You have a brother?” Ragnok asked, narrowing his eyes.

 

“Not biological,” Remus cut in. “They’re very close, consider it a spiritual bond.”

 

“Ah,” Ragnok said, leaning back slightly. “A brother in arms, with the Potter boy? A strong alliance indeed.”

 

Lucien didn’t know what to say, and fortunately didn’t have to. Ragnok’s expression shifted, businesslike, as he pulled out a parchment and a sharp knife, the glint of silver making Lucien’s stomach tighten.

 

“Now, to perform the inheritance test, all you require is three drops of blood… onto the paper,” Ragnok instructed, his voice precise and unyielding.

 

Lucien froze, a sharp, almost metallic scent prickling his senses. He stole a glance at Remus, whose furrowed brow and subtle narrowing of the eyes confirmed that he had noticed it too.

 

“I’m going to need another knife,” Lucien muttered, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. His fingers itched, tense with a mixture of nerves and instinct.

 

“Why?” Ragnok’s voice was calm, almost lazy, but there was an underlying sharpness to it—as if he already knew the answer. His eyes glimmered, catching the candlelight like polished obsidian, and Lucien felt the weight of that gaze settle deep in his chest.

 

“I’m repelled by silver,” Lucien said, swallowing hard as he forced himself to meet the goblin’s eyes. His voice was clipped, steady in tone but heavy with unspoken weight.

 

“This only works if we are honest with each other, Mr. Noir,” Ragnok replied smoothly, tilting his head in faint amusement.

 

Lucien’s jaw tightened. There was no way around it—only through.

 

“I am a werewolf,” he declared flatly. “I cannot use that knife, because it is silver.”

 

The goblin regarded him in silence for a beat, expression unreadable, before snapping his fingers. The blade on the table shimmered, morphing into a darker, iron-forged one, dull in sheen but wickedly sharp.

 

“You are quite the interesting specimen, Mr. Noir,” Ragnok said quietly, his grin curling with intrigue. “Three drops of blood, if you please.”

 

Lucien hesitated, staring down at the knife. His pulse quickened in his throat. Where was he supposed to cut? Did it have to be deep? He only needed three drops, right?

 

“I can do it for you, if you’d like,” Remus offered gently.

 

The suggestion made something hot and fierce snap in Lucien’s chest. Fire replaced hesitation, and before he could second-guess himself, he snatched the knife. With a quick, almost vicious motion, he dragged the blade across his palm. The sting was immediate and sharp, but he bit back a sound, jaw locking tight.

 

The knife clattered to the table as he held his bleeding hand over the parchment. One… two… three dark drops of blood splattered onto the page, sinking in as though the paper itself drank greedily.

 

“Let me heal it for you,” Remus urged, concern lacing his voice.

 

But Lucien pulled his hand back stubbornly. A twitch of his nose, a flex of will—and the wound closed, leaving nothing but a faint line.

 

“No need,” he replied coldly, his eyes locked on the parchment as letters began to unfurl across it in twisting, ink-dark strokes.

 

“Let’s see it then,” Ragnok said, long fingers curling possessively around the parchment. His sharp eyes devoured the words as they appeared, and something greedy lit within them.

 

“Oh my,” he murmured, voice almost reverent. “You are very intriguing, aren’t you… Lord Black.”

 

“Lord Black?” Remus cut in sharply, his voice a low warning, but Lucien hardly heard him. The title rang hollow in his ears, like a bell he wasn’t ready to answer.

 

“The only other direct Black is Sirius Black, is he not?” Ragnok continued, his grin widening. “And he is imprisoned. Regardless, Regulus Black was named Lord Black before his demise, and named you—his son—his Heir.”

 

Lucien’s stomach dropped. His head was a whirlwind of thoughts, each one sharper and heavier than the last. The words Lord Black pressed down on him until he thought he might choke.

 

“Now that Lord Regulus Black is deceased,” Ragnok declared, his voice formal, almost ceremonial, “that leaves you, Lucien Sirius Black , as reigning Lord Black.”

 

“I—” Lucien’s throat felt tight. “What if I don’t want to be?” he whispered.

 

Ragnok’s eyes narrowed in amusement. “And why would you not?”

 

“I’m only twelve,” Lucien shot back flatly, forcing himself not to shrink under the goblin’s stare. “And besides that… I don’t think the Black legacy is one I want to uphold.” The last words came out like venom, sharp and heavy with the bitterness he’d carried since he read the letter.

 

Ragnok tapped the parchment with a claw, his grin vicious. “Mmm, yes. You make some valid points, hatchling. However, you are mistaken about one thing.” He leaned forward, voice low and dangerous. “You are the Black legacy. It is whatever you make it. And no one else can define it for you.”

 

Lucien froze, unsure what to do with the weight of that truth.

 

Ragnok leaned back, letting the silence linger like smoke. “However,” he continued smoothly, “if you are so insistent on denying the title, it would pass to the next in line… which would be Heir Draco Malfoy.”

 

“Absolutely not.” The words ripped out of Lucien instantly, fierce and instinctual.

“It is either you, or it is him,” Ragnok said, his voice cutting through the air like a blade. His eyes glittered with something sharp, almost cruel. “Choose.”

 

“You can’t ask me to make a decision like this!” Lucien burst out, chest tightening.

 

“Can you give him some time?” Remus interjected, his tone calm but firm, a shield between Lucien and the pressure of the moment.

 

“I can,” Ragnok replied smoothly, disregarding Remus “and I am.” His gaze never left Lucien, cold and unyielding. “Decide now.”

 

Lucien’s nails dug into his palms, and his throat burned with anger he couldn’t swallow. “Fine,” he snapped, clipped and furious. “I’ll do it.”

 

“Delightful,” Ragnok purred, leaning back with satisfaction. “I’m assuming you have the Heir ring, since it is not secured within Gringotts.”

 

Lucien blinked in confusion before memory struck him. The small, cold weight that sat in his trunk at home. “Yes… but I can’t touch it. It’s silver.”

 

“I am aware,” Ragnok said with a vicious little grin. “You Blacks are a paranoid bunch. I anticipated as much.”

 

He flicked his hand, and a delicate box shimmered into existence in his palm. Setting it down before Lucien, he lifted the lid with a reverence that felt more like mockery.

 

“The lordship ring was, indeed, silver,” Ragnok explained, his tone dripping with smugness. “But I did my research the moment your name appeared this morning. I had this crafted for you.”

 

Inside lay a ring, forged of dark iron rather than silver. The band was heavy, etched with ancient runes that seemed to whisper if one looked too long. At its crest sat a circle of polished black onyx, and upon it was engraved the likeness of a raven mid-flight.

 

On the inside of the band, however, was the mark of the Black family: Toujours Pur.

 

“‘Always Pure,’” Ragnok intoned, his sharp teeth gleaming. “Not that it seems to matter much anymore, now does it? Put it on, Lord Black.”

 

Lucien’s throat went dry. He stared at the ring, his stomach twisting. The raven gleamed back at him like it knew something he didn’t.

 

Finally, with hands that only shook a little, Lucien slipped it onto his pointer finger.

 

The metal adjusted at once, shrinking and locking into place with a faint snap he felt rather than heard.

 

Magic rushed through him—icy and biting, as if daring him to falter. It coiled around his spine, pressing down with authority, testing him. Lucien’s jaw clenched, and he forced himself to hold steady, refusing to bow.

 

And then—just as quickly—it shifted. The weight lifted, and the magic accepted him. A cool pulse throbbed once against his skin, and then settled, deep and permanent.

 

Lucien let out the breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. The ring gleamed faintly on his finger, heavy with expectation.

 

“Well then.” Ragnok’s gaze lingered on the ring, his sharp eyes gleaming with fascination before flicking up to meet Lucien’s. “It seems we have much to discuss… Lord Black.”

 

Lucien only nodded. He didn’t trust his throat to form words without cracking.

 

“There is the matter of your estate,” Ragnok continued smoothly, as though discussing the weather. “I have been keeping up with it personally. Gringotts never sensed the collapse of the House of Black, and we assumed another heir would come forward eventually. If not…” he gave a thin smile, “we intended to have it preserved for the next of kin.”

 

With a snap of his fingers, a stack of parchment appeared on the desk, bound with a black ribbon. “These are yours to review at your leisure, Lord Black. Your holdings, assets, and properties—all of it.”

 

Lucien took the bundle warily, feeling as though it might bite him.

 

“Now,” Ragnok went on, folding his hands together, “there remains the rather… delicate matter of the Malfoys.”

 

“You’ll help us with this?” Lucien asked, startled. His voice came out sharper than intended.

 

“Of course,” Ragnok replied, tone almost dismissive. “That is what I am here for. How did you intend to proceed?”

 

Lucien hesitated, the weight of the ring burning on his hand. “I want to stay with Remus,” he said firmly. “We thought about telling the Malfoys I’m a werewolf, because surely they wouldn’t want me after that—but I can’t risk Draco finding out.”

 

“A good instinct,” Ragnok said, surprisingly approving. “And an easy fix. Have you ever heard of a non-disclosure agreement?”

 

“I have,” Remus cut in, his voice level. His eyes narrowed slightly. “What are you suggesting?”

 

“I suggest,” Ragnok said, his grin showing the edge of his teeth, “that we arrange a private meeting. The Malfoys will demand such a courtesy—despite their theatrics, they are sticklers for appearances. The terms will be simple: whatever is revealed in that meeting cannot be shared with anyone, bound by contract and goblin enforcement.”

 

Lucien’s heart thudded in his chest. That… that could work. He glanced at Remus, who gave a small nod of agreement.

 

“When can we set this up?” Remus asked.

 

“No time like the present,” Ragnok replied briskly. He scrawled something onto a piece of parchment in an elegant goblin hand, then flicked his fingers. The page burned instantly into ash that vanished into the air.

 

Lucien blinked at the sight, wide-eyed despite himself. Goblin magic was so sharp, so alien—it left wizardry feeling clumsy in comparison.

 

“And now,” Ragnok said, almost cheerfully, his long fingers steepled together, “we wait.”

 

They didn’t have to wait long—barely twenty minutes of silence, thick and oppressive—before another crackle of fire burst to life on Ragnok’s desk. Two pieces of parchment appeared, still smoking faintly at the edges. Ragnok snatched them up with sharp precision, his eyes scanning the contents.

 

“They agreed and signed,” he announced, voice clipped. “They’ll be here shortly.”

 

Lucien’s chest tightened like a vice. Panic clawed its way up his throat before he could stop it. He turned to Remus, eyes wide, his voice breaking. “Moony—”

 

“I know.” Remus’s reply was firm, steady, threaded with quiet care. He placed a grounding hand on Lucien’s shoulder. “It’s going to be okay.”

 

Lucien tried to believe him. He really did.

 

The silence that followed stretched, heavy with anticipation, until the great double doors opened with a low groan.

 

And then—they were there.

 

The Malfoys swept into the chamber, guided by a stone-faced goblin who quickly bowed himself out, shutting the door behind him with a thud . The sound echoed through Lucien’s bones, final and cold, like a cell door closing.

 

The first eyes he met were Draco’s. His cousin looked utterly stunned—his usual mask of composure gone, wide-eyed as if Christmas had come early. The vindication on his face said I was right , and Lucien felt his stomach turn.

 

Then came Lord Malfoy. Tall, pale, and imposing, Lucius moved with the slow, deliberate grace of a predator. His sharp grey eyes swept over Lucien, assessing, weighing, judging. Lucien’s skin crawled under the scrutiny. He was so very tired of being a spectacle.

 

And finally, Lady Malfoy. Narcissa. She stopped dead when her gaze landed on him. For one long, unblinking moment she didn’t seem to breathe. Her expression softened, eyes glassy, her voice breaking the silence like a fragile thread.

 

“You’re his,” she murmured, almost reverent, as though she were seeing a ghost.

 

Lucien’s throat worked, but no words came. He said nothing.

 

“Please,” Ragnok’s cool, commanding voice cut through the tension. He gestured with a wave of his clawed hand toward the empty seats opposite Lucien and Remus. “Take your places.”

 

With impeccable grace, the Malfoys obeyed, every movement measured and deliberate as they sat.

 

“If I may inquire,” Lucius drawled, his tone smooth as silk and twice as cutting, “why is Mr. Lupin here?”

 

“He’s my kid,” Remus said simply, without flinching.

 

Lucius’s lips curled into the faintest sneer. “It would appear he isn’t. Clearly, considering the reason we’re here in the first place.”

 

“Do not talk to him like that.” Lucien’s voice cut through the room—cool, measured, but edged like a blade. The bite in it made even Ragnok glance at him with new interest.

 

Lucius held his gaze for a long moment, his pale eyes narrowing as if to measure the weight of the boy in front of him. Then, with practiced smoothness, his expression reset into something neutral. “My apologies, Heir Black. I did not mean to slight you.”

 

“ Lord Black,” Ragnok corrected, his voice flat but firm. The words dropped into the air like stones in still water.

 

Narcissa’s head snapped toward him, eyes widening. “What did you say?” Her voice was faint, as though she already knew the answer and scarcely dared believe it.

 

“He is Lord Black,” Ragnok confirmed with the air of one stating an unshakable fact. “And you will treat him with the respect he is due.”

 

For the first time, Lucius’s mask slipped just enough to show the tension tightening at the corners of his mouth. But when he spoke, his voice was silk again. “My apologies, Lord Black.”

 

Lucien tilted his head slightly, regarding him with something far older than his twelve years. “I’m not the one you should be apologizing to.”

 

A beat of silence stretched, heavy and deliberate, until Lucius inclined his head—ever so slightly—to Remus.

 

“My apologies, Mr. Lupin,” he said, the words tasting like poison forced down his throat.

 

“I accept,” Remus replied smoothly, a faint glimmer of amusement in his eyes, though his posture stayed rigid.

 

“Right. On to business,” Ragnok interjected briskly, already sounding weary of the human dramatics. “Lord Black has made his wishes clear—he will remain with Mr. Lupin.”

“He is a Black,” Lucius cut in smoothly, though his tone carried an edge of impatience. “My wife is a Black. He should remain with us, as we are his living relatives.”

 

“Of course,” Ragnok replied, an almost predatory gleam flashing in his eyes. “As his representative, I am obliged to inquire about whether your household is suited to meet his… particular needs.”

 

Lucius’s chin lifted, affront written in every line of his face. “He will want for nothing,” he said stiffly, as though the suggestion itself were insulting.

 

“Oh, I have no doubt,” Ragnok said dryly, the corners of his mouth twitching. “Financially, the Malfoys could accommodate a thousand little Lords. That is not in question.” He leaned forward slightly, his voice dropping to something that sliced like a knife. “However, young Lord Black requires specific accommodations on nights of the full moon. Tell me, Lord Malfoy—do you have reasonable dwellings prepared for that?”

 

Lucius froze. His face remained polished, but his silence was louder than any protest. His calculating eyes flickered briefly to Narcissa, then back to Ragnok, as though the very question were beneath him.

 

Across the table, Lucien sat utterly still, though he felt his nails digging crescents into his palms beneath the wood. He could almost taste Lucius’s discomfort in the air, and part of him wanted to bare his teeth at it.

 

Remus’s expression didn’t change, but the faintest glint of satisfaction sparked in his eyes.

 

“And what exactly do you mean by that?” Lucius inquired coldly, his voice like frost over steel.

 

“Oh my,” Ragnok replied, sounding almost delighted. “My apologies. I had assumed you’d done your research. Lord Black resides with Mr. Lupin because they are both werewolves.”

 

Chaos followed instantly.

 

“You—did you do this to him?” Lucius hissed, venom dripping as his gaze cut to Remus.

 

“Of course not,” Remus returned coolly, his wit biting. “Your old acquaintance arranged that himself.”

 

Draco’s voice cracked like glass. “Oh Merlin, you’re a bloody werewolf!” All sense of composure shattered, his screech echoing off the stone walls.

 

“Draco. Enough!” Narcissa snapped, sharp as a whip. Her son flushed and shrank back into his chair, chastised.

 

“Cissa, we cannot—” Lucius began, fury brimming, but Narcissa’s head snapped toward him.

 

“I said enough .” Her voice was ice, controlled and commanding, and it cut him off like a blade. Lucius’s jaw worked silently before he sat straighter, his face smoothing into the blank mask of restraint, though his knuckles whitened on the armrest.

 

Narcissa turned back to Lucien. She regarded him without flinching, searching his features—searching for what, he couldn’t guess. He let her look, still and unguarded. Whatever she found there seemed to settle something within her, because her face softened, just slightly.

 

“I do not care for his affliction,” she said at last, her tone calm but carrying an iron weight. “He is but a boy. And he is family.”

 

Lucien’s throat felt tight, but his voice came steady, unwavering. “I want to stay with Remus.”

 

“I see.” Narcissa’s voice was softer now, tinged with something that almost sounded like regret. “I hope you find a home with us regardless, Lucien.”

 

Lucien’s breath caught. His eyes widened, heart thudding in his chest, because the word home felt far too close to something he couldn’t let her have.

 

“There may be a middle ground,” Ragnok cut in smoothly, saving him from having to respond. All eyes turned toward the goblin, his sharp grin a little too pleased at being the center of attention again.

 

“A middle ground?” Lucius repeated, his tone clipped.

 

“Yes,” Ragnok said, steepling his fingers. “Lord Black wishes to remain with Mr. Lupin. However, we could arrange a visitation: set periods during the holidays for him to reside with you. In return, you withdraw any claim or contest. Otherwise…” His eyes glittered dangerously. “We can escalate this to the Wizengamot. And I assure you, Lord Malfoy, things would become very— very —messy.”

 

A tense silence followed. Lucius’s jaw flexed, but his face remained otherwise unreadable. At last, he inclined his head. “I find the terms agreeable.”

 

Lucien bristled. He didn’t want any part of this, didn’t want to step foot in Malfoy Manor at all—but one glance at Ragnok’s expectant gaze told him there wasn’t another option. This was as good as he was going to get.

 

“…Yeah. Fine. Whatever,” Lucien muttered, voice low and bitter. Lucius’s eyes flicked toward him with faint distaste, as though his words had been an insult to polished marble.

 

“Wonderful,” Ragnok said dryly, clapping his hands together once. “Then let’s settle the details, shall we?”

 

By the end, it was determined: two weeks of Lucien’s choosing at Malfoy Manor during the summer, and three days during the winter holidays. No more, no less. The agreement was sealed, signatures scrawled across parchment that burned faintly gold.

 

When it was over, Lucien walked out with Remus at his side. He left with him—that was all that mattered. Still, the weight of the Black ring felt heavier than ever, and the thought of stepping through the gilded halls of Malfoy Manor in only a few short weeks sat in his stomach like a stone.

 

The next morning, Lucien woke to another letter.

 

Breakfast was a quiet affair. The weight of yesterday still hung in the air between him and Remus, unspoken but sharp, when a snowy white owl swept gracefully through the open window.

 

Lucien’s spoon clattered against his bowl as he shot to his feet, eager. “Hullo, Hedwig,” he greeted warmly, stroking her feathers. The familiar comfort of Harry’s owl eased the knot in his chest just a little. “It’s from Harry,” he explained to Remus, who gave a small nod of encouragement.

 

He untied the letter with trembling fingers, tore it open, and devoured the words.

Dear Luce,

 

I hope the moon wasn’t too bad—I’ve been worrying about you. I hope you’re healing well.

 

I’m at the Weasleys now! Ron, Fred, and George had to come kidnap me because after you left, the Dursleys locked me in my room and put actual bars on the window. Can you believe that? The twins and Ron stole Mr. Weasley’s flying car— it flew, Luce! —and they came to rescue me. Uncle Vernon fell right out of my bedroom window trying to grab me. Funniest thing I’ve ever seen.

 

But anyway… the twins and Ron also told me what’s been going on in the Daily Prophet. Are you okay? You’re not actually becoming a Malfoy, are you? That would be horrible!

 

Please come visit me soon. I’m really worried.

 

—Harry

 

Lucien sank back into his seat, the letter limp in his hand. “Well,” he muttered, trying to sound casual though his chest was tight, “guess everyone knows now. Harry’s at the Weasleys. Dursleys tried to keep him locked up, but the rescue went… spectacularly wrong for them.”

 

“Good,” Remus murmured, though his expression was still lined with concern. “I’m glad he’s safe. I’m sorry you’re the one under the Prophet’s magnifying glass right now.”

 

Lucien gave a little shrug, his appetite gone. “Nothing to be done about it.” His voice was quiet, thin.

 

The silence that followed was unusual, almost suffocating. The letter still sat open on the table, a reminder that his life wasn’t just his anymore—it was gossip, it was spectacle. And as much as he tried to ignore it, Lucien couldn’t shake the unease crawling under his skin.

“Are you sure you’ll be fine by yourself?” Remus asked warily.

 

They were in Diagon Alley, the street bustling with witches and wizards. A few stopped to stare at him; a handful even bowed, murmuring respectful greetings. Lucien hated it.

 

It was more than just being the Lost Black Heir now. The front page of the Daily Prophet had proclaimed him Lord Black that morning. How the prophet had found out, he didn’t know—but the Goblins had promised swift retribution for anyone who dared snoop. A little excessive, in Lucien’s opinion, but goblin affairs were, as always, their own concern.

 

“Yeah. Theo’s meeting me at the library,” Lucien muttered, keeping his gaze fixed firmly ahead.

 

“Right.” Remus sighed, his expression tightening as if he wanted to say more. “I’ll run a few errands, then come get you around four.”

 

Lucien just nodded, shoulders stiff, and slipped away down the crowded street, leaving Remus behind.

 

Theo was already waiting for him at the library, leaning casually against a table with a smirk that immediately made Lucien’s chest tighten.

 

“Greetings, Lord Black,” Theo teased, bowing mockingly. “Shall I kiss your feet as well?”

 

“I hate you,” Lucien huffed, letting out a short laugh.

 

“Sure you do,” Theo replied dryly, though the corner of his mouth twitched into a smile.

Lucien rolled his eyes, scanning the library nervously. Even here, surrounded by shelves and books, the stares and whispers of the day seemed to linger at the edges of his mind.

 

“There’s this charm I found just for you,” Theo murmured, passing Lucien a book. “Thought now would be great practice.”

 

Lucien flipped to the page Theo indicated with a long, precise finger, and his eyes widened in interest. It was a silencing bubble—a charm that kept all noises from coming in or out.

 

He could use this for so many things.

 

The two boys spent the next several minutes practicing, attempting to cast the bubble over themselves and testing if the other could hear them. Finally, it worked.

 

“Only took you fifteen minutes,” Theo drawled, amused. Now, inside the bubble, Lucien and Theo could hear only each other; the library outside was silent, as if it no longer existed.

 

“A new record,” Lucien quipped.

 

“Not even remarkably close,” Theo muttered in disbelief.

 

Lucien snorted.

 

“Well, you seem to know everything that’s been going on with me. What have you been up to?” he asked.

 

“Oh, I feel like I don’t even know half of it,” Theo admitted. “Short answer: not much of anything.”

 

“Reading stole you away for the summer?” Lucien joked.

 

“If only,” Theo murmured. Then, before Lucien could respond, he added, “Now tell me the real story. What’s been going on?”

 

Lucien took a deep breath and ticked off his fingers, dryly reciting everything in one rapid, exhausted breath. “Spent a week and a half visiting Harry, full moon, slept for two days straight after, woke to the Prophet , found out my dad’s a Death Eater, got into a fight with Remus about it and now we’re barely speaking, became Lord Black, got the Malfoys to drop the custody battle—in turn they now get visitations and know I’m a werewolf—and now I’m in the library spilling my guts in a silencing bubble.”

 

Theo blinked, letting it all sink in. “…Wow,” he finally said. “That’s… a lot.”

Lucien just shrugged, leaning back against the table, letting the silence of the bubble wrap around him like a shield.

 

“Let’s break that down, yeah?” Theo said, nodding to himself and blinking rapidly. “Yeah?”

 

“Don’t hurt yourself,” Lucien quipped.

 

“I’ll hurt you ,” Theo replied flatly.

 

Lucien smiled innocently. “You’re welcome to try.”

 

Theo sighed. “How’s Potter doing? Did he go for the shoelaces and trip into another disaster?”

 

“No,” Lucien said sweetly, “but Vernon Dursley did—fell right out of Harry’s bedroom window after the twins kidnapped him.”

 

Theo blinked. “I can’t even tell if you’re joking or not.”

 

“You could always write to Harry,” Lucien responded dryly.

 

Theo furrowed his brows. “I have been writing to Potter. He hasn’t written back once.”

 

Lucien frowned. “He hasn’t gotten any letters from any of you. He was pretty upset about it.”

 

“Lucien,” Theo said firmly, “I’ve written to Potter at least twice a week, and I haven’t heard anything back.”

 

Lucien frowned again. “Well, that’s odd. Maybe something’s messing with the letters. Regardless, just send them to Ron now—Harry’s there.”

 

“Right, I’ll do that.” Theo quirked a brief smile. “Moving on.”

 

Lucien groaned and banged his head lightly on the table.

 

“I’m assuming the full moon went at the very least… not horribly, considering your breathing,” Theo said, taking a deep breath and avoiding Lucien’s eyes. “Welcome to the club.”

 

Lucien stared at him blankly, trying to figure out which club he meant.

 

“Did you snap, kill your father, and join the Orphans Club without writing to me about it?” Lucien asked flatly.

 

Theo snorted. “No.” He finally looked at Lucien. “I mean… the Child of a Death Eater Club.”

 

Lucien blinked, deadpan. “Oh, that club. Fantastic.”

 

Theo snorted. “You’re taking it very well.”

 

“Oh, I got the warnings about being your friend because of who your dad was,” Lucien quirked his lips. “I told ’em to go fuck themselves, didn’t I?”

 

Theo looked at him, startled, before quietly laughing. “Only you, Noir.”

 

“I suppose it’s Black now,” Lucien muttered, quieter this time.

 

“Black then,” Theo agreed softly. “How did that even happen?”

 

“Draco was going off about how ‘Noir’ means black in French, and how we could be related, last year in detention,” Lucien sighed, tipping his head back. “Guess he went home and told Mummy and Daddy. Guess that’s why they looked into it.”

 

Theo stayed silent, just quietly listening.

 

“Anyway,” Lucien continued, his voice clipped, “goblins read the same papers we do. Called me in for an inheritance test. Told me your dad’s dead. Told me I’m a little lord now.” He gave a bitter, humorless smile.

 

“And the Malfoys?” Theo asked carefully.

 

“Twice a week in the summer, three days in the winter,” Lucien sighed. “Made them sign an NDA. Told them I’m a werewolf, hoping they’d lose interest. Didn’t work that way.”

 

Theo nodded slowly. “Remus?”

 

There it was.

 

“He never told me,” Lucien murmured, voice low. “He could have—and he didn’t. How am I supposed to forgive that?”

 

There was a brief silence after that.

 

“I don’t know,” Theo said quietly. “I suppose you just have to decide what matters more to you.”

 

“And what’s that?” Lucien asked, his voice equally low.

 

“Remus… or what he did,” Theo replied.

 

And that was the question, wasn’t it?

Was Remus more important than his own anger, more important than the betrayal he felt?

 

“Right,” Lucien said faintly, almost to himself.

 

“Why is it that every time we talk, it’s always so… doomed?” Theo muttered, faintly amused.

 

“Because we’re doomed,” Lucien quipped back. “Misery loves company, and all of that.”

 

“I should’ve moved tables when you stole Malfoy’s chair,” Theo sighed dramatically.

 

“Please,” Lucien said, smirking, “it was the best thing that’s ever happened to you. I’m a delight.”

 

“You’re a nightmare, and I don’t know why I’m friends with you,” Theo said flatly, though his eyes shone with amusement.

 

“I apparently have a no-returns policy. You’re stuck with me,” Lucien quipped.

 

“Even if I tried to return you, they’d just send you back,” Theo replied dryly, rolling his eyes, though the corner of his mouth twitched into a grin.

 

Lucien chuckled softly, letting the tension ease a little between them. For once, it felt like there was something steady—something that didn’t demand decisions about anger or loyalty, just laughter and shared space.

 

Theo had left before Lucien, leaving him alone in the library, lost among books about the stars. The quiet hum of pages and distant footsteps was comforting, almost grounding.

 

Suddenly, the chair Theo had been in scraped back sharply, and another boy slid into it.

 

Blaise Zabini.

 

Lucien forced his face into neutrality, though his pulse ticked faster. “Hello?” he said, more a question than a greeting.

 

“Hello there, stellina ,” Blaise said smoothly, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “How is your summer, Lord Black?”

 

Lucien froze for a moment, caught off-guard by the formality—and the tone. “Fine… and yours?” he asked, wary.

 

“My summer has been… well, thank you,” Blaise said, amusement glittering in his dark eyes, as if he were enjoying Lucien’s discomfort. “I was only lucky that I spotted you here.”

 

“Lucky? Why would that be lucky?” Lucien asked flatly, confusion mingling with irritation.

 

“Well,” Blaise began, leaning slightly forward, “I’ve been meaning to inquire about something for some time. Usually, when one receives an offering for an alliance, they give an answer.”

 

“I’m… sorry?” Lucien blinked, caught entirely off guard. “Wait—the gift from last year? That was… an offering for an alliance?”

 

“Yes,” Blaise said slowly, savoring each word. “I assumed you knew.”

 

“I did not,” Lucien said, a bit clipped. “However… why would you want an alliance with me?”

 

Blaise’s lips curved into a brief, amused flicker. “I do not. My mother does—she’s the Contessa.”

 

“I… have no idea what that means,” Lucien said flatly, arching an eyebrow.

 

“Hmm,” Blaise replied, still smiling, though now more assessing than teasing. “She’s the leader of the Wixen faction on the International Board.”

 

“Right,” Lucien said blankly, mentally filing it away for later research. If he was going to be stuck in wizarding politics, he might as well be competent at it.

 

A silence stretched between them, charged but careful. Lucien tried to gauge Blaise’s intent, but the other boy’s expression was unreadable. A warning bell chimed faintly somewhere in the library, and Lucien felt the weight of the world pressing just a little closer.

 

“Right,” Blaise echoed, amusement flickering in his eyes. “As for why? Why would she not? You are clearly very gifted.”

 

“And it has nothing to do with the fact that I’m Lord Black?” Lucien asked, suspicion creeping into his voice.

 

Blaise’s eyes flashed briefly before smoothing out into polite composure. “Careful—that could be considered a slight on my mother,” he said evenly. “And might I remind you, we sent the invitation before you were even named Lord Black.”

 

Lucien’s shoulders sagged slightly, guilt prickling at him. “Right… my apologies. It’s been a lot.”

 

“All is forgiven,” Blaise said with an easy smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Now… may I ask if you have an answer?”

 

“You barely know me,” Lucien replied warily, arms tightening slightly. “And frankly, I know nothing about you. Allies are supposed to trust each other, right?”

 

Blaise paused, studying him with those sharp, assessing eyes, before a small, knowing smile curved his lips. “You make good points, Lord Black. That’s an easy fix—we will simply have to get to know each other. Won’t we?”

 

Lucien blinked, caught off guard by the suggestion, his mind racing with questions and unease.

 

Before he could respond, Blaise was already standing, smooth as ever. “Another time, though,” he said, voice silky and confident. “My mother is expecting me. A pleasure, Lord Black.”

 

And just like that, he was gone, leaving Lucien staring after him, a swirl of irritation, and curiosity.

 

After Remus and Lucien returned to the healer he had visited last summer, she was delighted to see him, her eyes lighting up. “My, and you’ve grown some!” she exclaimed, clapping her hands together. “Tsk… could use a haircut, though.”

 

Lucien froze, horror written across his face, and she chuckled softly at his expression. After the routine potions and check-ups, they left the clinic.

 

The walk back to the cottage was quiet. grass softly underfoot, and the air smelled faintly of Nature and wood smoke. Lucien kept his gaze fixed on the ground, mind elsewhere, replaying Theo's words—and the encounter with Blaise—over and over.

 

When they stepped inside and Remus called out, “Goodnight, cub,” Lucien said nothing. Retreating to his room with the weight of the day pressing down on him. He closed the door behind him and slid under the blankets, curling tightly against himself.

 

Sleep came eventually, though uneasy, tangled with thoughts of inheritance, alliances, and the ever-present shadow of being Lord Black.

Chapter 2: Window Shopping

Notes:

hello there!
I love waking up to seeing people comment, its really motivating, so please, do tell me what you think of the chapter!
also i wanted to inform you that I've created a TikTok and Instagram for this fic!
TikTok: lupinea03
Instagram: lupineao3
Please do check them out!
I'm also working on a Spotify playlist for this series, and ill share it next chapter!
enjoy~

July was slipping away, day by day, and still Lucien and Remus moved around each other like ghosts in the same house.

Meals passed in silence, the clink of cutlery the only sound between them. The crossword puzzles in the morning prophet were now things of the past. Remus hadn’t touched it in weeks.

Lucien shut himself away in his bedroom, burying himself in dry politics texts and homework he pretended to care about. Most nights, he stayed up until his candle guttered out, working in the quiet so he wouldn’t have to face the emptiness of the cottage. He didn’t know what Remus did with his days anymore. For all he knew, Remus disappeared when he closed his door. They had become strangers who only passed each other in doorways.

At first, Remus tried. He offered olive branches in small, clumsy gestures. A novel slipped onto Lucien’s desk with the corners worn from rereading—I thought you’d like this one. Lucien lied, saying he’d already read it, then shoved it aside and fled before Remus could say more. Once, Remus made him tea, setting the steaming mug down with quiet hope. Lucien had looked at it, expression blank, and said flatly, “I drink coffee now.” Another time, Remus had asked if he wanted to go for a walk, maybe visit the village, maybe stop at the bookshop. Lucien said he had plans with friends. Sometimes that was true, more often he wandered the library stacks alone, just to prove to himself he didn’t need Remus.

Eventually, the questions stopped coming. The tea stopped. The books stopped. The silence that followed was louder than any shouting match they could have had. And somewhere deep down, Lucien realized the withdrawal had answered an unspoken question he hadn’t known he was asking.

Was Remus going to keep fighting for him?

Apparently not.

Today was Harry’s birthday, and for the first time since summer had begun, Lucien felt a spark of genuine excitement. It hummed in his chest, sharp and restless, until he was practically vibrating as he and Remus stepped into the Floo together and spun away toward the Burrow.

The moment Lucien stumbled out of the fireplace, he froze. He had never seen a house so alive with magic.

The kitchen welcomed him with warmth and color. A great wooden table dominated the room, long enough for at least eight but crowded with mismatched chairs, as though every stray seat in the house had been dragged in to make space. The surface was already buried beneath platters of food, the centerpiece a lopsided cake iced in bright red and gold. The air smelled of cinnamon and sugar, laughter leaking faintly in from outside.

Everywhere he looked, the house itself seemed to hum with enchantment. Dishes scrubbed themselves at the sink, clinking cheerfully against one another. A half-finished blanket sat in an armchair, knitting its own rows with steady clicks of the needles. Hand-painted banners and paper streamers decorated the walls in warm, homely colors.

Lucien swallowed, nerves tightening in his chest. He could hear voices outside—shouts and laughter, the unmistakable thrum of brooms in flight. For a moment, he lingered in the kitchen, stalling. He wandered toward a side table stacked with wrapped parcels and gently set his gift among them, fussing with the ribbon to keep his hands busy.

He drew in a steadying breath. He could feel Remus’ gaze on him—warm, steady, patient—but he ignored it, shoulders stiff as he tried to collect himself.

The back door swung open with a creak, and Arthur Weasley’s head popped inside. His face broke into a broad, genial grin.

“Oh, hello there!” Arthur greeted, his voice bright and welcoming. “Lucien, Remus—so glad you could make it! We’re all out back. The children are flying, if you’d like to join them, Lucien.”

“Sounds brilliant,” Lucien replied quickly, forcing what he hoped was a polite smile. The invitation was a lifeline, a perfect excuse to slip away from the heavy silence that always seemed to cling to him and Remus. He seized it eagerly, following Arthur out into the sunlight.

Lucien drifted toward the back garden where the adults had gathered, their voices rising and falling in warm conversation as they watched the children swoop and dive overhead. His stomach lurched when Harry suddenly tipped his broom into a reckless dive, chasing a glimmer of gold. For a heartbeat Lucien thought he was about to crash, but at the last second Harry pulled up, fist clenched triumphantly around the Snitch.

Before he could exhale, a familiar voice shrieked his name.

 

“Lou!”

The next thing he knew, he was being barreled into by a whirlwind of bushy brown curls and enthusiasm. Lucien stumbled but quickly wrapped his arms around her, laughing.

“Mione!” he exclaimed in the exact same tone, his grin wide and unguarded. “You’ve no idea how glad I am to see you, witch.”

Hermione pulled back just enough to beam at him, her face glowing with delight, then immediately latched onto his hand, tugging him toward the crowd.

 

“Oh, I missed you too, Lou! We have so much to talk about—and letters just don’t cover it.”

Lucien winced faintly, squeezing her hand in apology. “Right… maybe later, yeah? It’s Harry’s day.”

“Oh, of course—you’re right,” Hermione said quickly, guilt flickering in her expression. “I’ve just felt so out of the loop since I was in France.”

“S’all good, Mione,” Lucien reassured her with a crooked smile. “We’ll catch up later, promise.”

“Luce!”

This time it was Harry, practically tumbling off his broom in his hurry to reach him. The others quickly followed, a tangle of voices and flushed faces from flying.

“Hello, birthday boy,” Lucien teased as Harry collided with him, grinning. “How’s it feel to be twelve?”

“Exactly the same as eleven—though I think I’m taller,” Harry quipped without missing a beat.

“Keep dreaming, Hazza.” Lucien smirked, earning a playful punch on the shoulder.

Harry’s grin faltered just slightly as his gaze swept the garden. “Where’s Remus?” he asked, sounding puzzled.

Lucien felt the question like a flick of a knife under the ribs, but he forced his smile to stay.

 

“Dunno. Inside, probably.” He shrugged, brushing the question off as easily as he could manage before nodding toward the cluster of brooms leaning against the fence. “Say, you lot got one more broom lying around?”

“Oooh, does the most noble Lord Black wish to grace us lowly peasants with his presence?” George called, his grin wide and wicked.

Lucien bit the inside of his cheek, forcing down the immediate flinch.

“Whatever did we do to deserve such an honor?” Fred added, drawling the words with an exaggerated bow, eyes gleaming with mischief as he shot Lucien a pointed look.

Lucien’s throat tightened, but he swallowed any biting reply before it could escape.

“Careful,” Ron cut in, smirking at the twins. “Lucky here’ll transfigure your kneecaps backwards if you keep at it.” Then he turned to Lucien with a more genuine grin. “Good to see you, mate. We’ve got one more broom in the shed—come on.”

“Wicked,” Lucien said, returning the smile, relieved for the out. He followed Ron, and moments later they all mounted up.

They didn’t have enough people for two proper teams, so after a quick debate they settled on a stripped-down game: two seekers and two chasers on each side.

The teams were chosen fast and a little unevenly: Lucien as seeker, with George and Neville as his chasers. Opposite them, Harry as seeker, with Fred and Ron.

The moment they were in the air, Lucien felt his stomach swoop—not with fear, but with exhilaration. The wind whipped through his hair, the ground shrinking beneath him. He’d flown before, sure, but never like this, never with stakes.

“Don’t worry, I’ll go easy on you, mate!” Harry called from across the pitch, hovering a few feet higher with the ease of someone born to a broom.

Lucien tilted his head, lips curling into a dry smirk. “Don’t.”

And with that, a glint of gold flashed at the edge of his vision. Without hesitation, he leaned forward, diving hard, the broom jerking beneath him as it picked up speed. His heart pounded, adrenaline roaring in his ears—half terrified, half thrilled—as he chased the Snitch like it was the only thing in the world that mattered.

Harry quickly followed, his Nimbus cutting the air with ease, but Lucien leaned low, refusing to let the gap widen. His broom might not have been as sleek or fast, but stubborn determination carried him further than he expected, the wind stinging his eyes as he pressed forward. For one brilliant second, he thought he might actually outpace the Chosen One himself.

“Alright, children! Time for lunch and then presents!” Molly Weasley’s warm voice bellowed from the ground, shattering their focus.

The golden flash darted away unseen as both boys pulled up, groaning in unison at the interruption.

They touched down moments later, all of them dismounting in a tangle of laughter, sweaty hair, and pounding hearts. Lucien’s chest heaved, exhilaration thrumming through his veins.

“Bloody hell, Lucky—you were neck and neck with Harry!” Ron blurted, grinning wide.

Lucien smirked faintly, brushing a bit of hair from his face, but before he could speak Fred cut in, eyes glinting with mischief. “Didn’t know you were good with a broom, Mystery Boy.”

Lucien rolled his eyes at the nickname, hiding the flicker of pride burning in his chest.

“His dad was a great Seeker,” Harry said suddenly, quick to defend him. “He’s in the trophy room with my dad.”

The words hung heavy in the air. The twins blinked, Neville fidgeted, and even Ron’s smile faltered. The sudden silence pressed in, and Lucien felt as though the summer sun had dimmed.

He forced his face into something unreadable, flattening his voice until it was empty. “Right.” He turned to Harry before the weight of the moment crushed him. “Anyways, I’m hungry, Haz. Let’s go.”

Harry’s cheeks flushed, his lips parting like he wanted to take the words back, but all he managed was a guilty, apologetic glance. Lucien ignored it, already moving toward the Burrow, the scent of food a welcome excuse to walk away.

 

“You have to try out for the team,” Ron insisted through a mouthful of cake, pointing his fork at Lucien for emphasis.

Lunch had been a whirlwind of noise, warmth, and chatter—laughter overlapping laughter, everyone talking over one another in that effortless way families did. Lucien tried to keep up, nodding at jokes he only half-understood, smiling when expected, but the rhythm of it felt foreign, like listening to a song in a language he barely knew.

Harry sat between him and Remus, their shoulders bumping as they traded story after story. Harry’s eyes glowed, every word spilling out in that bright, eager tone of his. And Remus—Merlin, Remus looked happier than he had in weeks. The lines in his face softened, his smile easy and genuine, like he belonged here. Like he had been waiting for this ease all summer.

Lucien’s hand tightened around his fork until the metal bit into his palm. He forced down the sharp ache in his chest, swallowing it with his mouthful of food. It wasn’t fair—not to Harry, not to Remus. But still. He was jealous.

Remus could tell Harry the truth. Every piece of James Potter’s story could be spoken aloud without shame. James Potter had been Head Boy, captain of the Quidditch team. He had joined the Order, fought on the right side, stood against Voldemort, and in the end, he had died protecting the people he loved most.

James Potter was good. Worthy. A name to be remembered in the light.

Lucien’s father was different. Regulus Black—the Death Eater who bent the knee to a monster who wanted Harry’s mum dead, who wanted his muggleborn best friend dead, who wanted Remus dead, who wanted him dead for what he was. A man who tortured, who killed, who left scars Lucien didn’t even know the full story of. And when Regulus died—however it had happened—he hadn’t died protecting anyone. He had left Lucien behind. Intentionally.

There were no bedtime stories about Regulus Black. No laughter, no pride, no light in anyone’s eyes when they said his name. Just shadows. Just silence. Just the weight of being the son of someone who had chosen the Dark.

James Potter’s name lived in the light.

Regulus Black’s name lived in the dark.

And Lucien sat there, trapped in between, feeling the truth gnaw at his ribs until it hurt to breathe.

“Oi! Lucky.”

Fingers snapped in front of his face, jolting Lucien back to reality. He blinked and turned a glare on Ron, who only looked amused. Across the table, the twins were cackling like hyenas, clearly enjoying his distraction.

“You there, mate?” Ron pressed.

“I can’t join the team, Ronald,” Lucien said, his tone clipped and edged with bitterness as he stabbed a fork into his cake like it had personally offended him.

“Why the bloody hell not?!” Ron exclaimed, throwing his hands up.

“Ronald Weasley! Language!” Molly’s voice cut across the table like a whip.

“Sorry, Mum,” Ron muttered sheepishly before turning back to Lucien with stubborn determination. “But really—why not, mate? You’re brilliant!”

Lucien just stared at him blankly, his silence long enough that Ron’s brow furrowed in confusion. And then, all at once, Ron’s expression shifted as the realization hit him.

“Bloody hell!” Ron gasped.

“Language!”

“Sorry, Mum!” he blurted again, grinning sheepishly but looking at Lucien with outrage now. “They can’t do that! Is it in the rules or something?”

Lucien frowned, the fight draining out of him as he tried to recall. “…Well, no, but—”

“Then that’s it!” Ron said with all the certainty in the world, slamming his fist lightly against the table as if sealing the matter. “If it’s not in the rules, they can’t touch you. Right, ’Mione?”

Hermione, who had been half-listening while engaged with Percy, turned her head at once. Her brows knit together as she considered. “Well… yes, technically. If it isn’t in the official rulebook, it can’t be enforced. And even if they suddenly did change it, the current year’s students would be grandfathered in. So you’d be safe.”

Lucien blinked, surprised—and then, before he could stop himself, a crooked smile tugged at his lips. “Mione, I adore you.”

“As you should,” Hermione replied primly, looking very pleased with herself before Percy dragged her back into their conversation about O.W.L. preparation.

Ron leaned closer, his grin wide and smug. “See? Now you’ve got no excuse.”

Lucien rolled his eyes, but something warm—dangerously close to hope—unfurled in his chest at their faith in him.

Lucien and Remus still weren’t speaking as July bled into August. The silence between them had settled into something sharp and brittle, a weight in the cottage air heavier than even the August heat.

The days until Lucien was due at the Malfoys’ were slipping away too quickly, each one marked like a tally scratch in his chest. He didn’t know how to fix what was broken between him and Moony—every attempt at kindness soured on his tongue, coming out barbed, bitter, crueler than he meant. And each time, Remus’s quiet disappointment cut deeper than any shouting ever could.

The nightmares hadn’t let up either. If anything, they were worse. Faces he didn’t know, blood he couldn’t wash off, riddles he couldn’t solve whispered in the dark. He’d learned to put up silencing charms around his bed; the last thing he wanted was Remus trying to comfort him, not when he didn’t feel he deserved it. Not when it hurt more to be seen.

He had just woken from another one, heart clawing against his ribs, skin damp and chilled with sweat. His hand was already clutching at the silver hourglass pendant hanging at his throat, gripping it so tightly the edges pressed into his palm.

Lucien sat frozen in the half-light of dawn, eyes wide and unfocused, staring at nothing. The silence pressed in around him, heavy and merciless. He tried to breathe. Tried to anchor himself.

But the truth was, the nightmares didn’t end when he woke. They clung to him, poisoning his thoughts, dragging him down. Even in daylight, he couldn’t always tell where the dream stopped and reality began.

The nightmares never ended. Not even when he was awake.

 

It was time for his visitation with the Malfoys.

Lucien lingered at the edge of the hearth, staring into the cold grate as though the green flames might bite if he dared to step in. His hands fidgeted restlessly at his sides, the weight of his Lord ring feeling far too heavy.

Behind him, Remus stood in silence. Not pacing, not fussing, not offering advice like he used to—just standing there. Watching. Waiting. The quiet was suffocating, louder than any words they could’ve said.

Lucien didn’t know what he was waiting for. Maybe some last-minute reprieve, some excuse to call it off. Maybe a reason to believe Remus cared enough to stop him.

Instead, all he got was a whisper. Soft, raw, and far too final.

 

“Goodbye, cub.”

The word speared through him, sharp as broken glass. His throat closed up, and for a second he thought he might actually break.
.
So Lucien forced himself to move.

He pinched the Floo powder between his fingers, took in one last breath that burned on the way down, and stepped into the grate. The flames roared up, swallowing him whole as he called out, voice cracking only slightly:

“Malfoy Manor!”

And then he was gone, whisked away before his chest could cave in.

The flames spat him out into a grand, dimly lit hall, the air thick with the scent of polished wood, cold stone, and faint, sharp perfume. Lucien’s heart thumped violently in his chest, echoing against the cavernous space. He stepped forward cautiously, every footfall sounding far too loud on the marble floors.

The Malfoys had clearly been waiting, statuesque and perfectly composed. Draco’s pale face was a mask of curiosity and barely concealed amusement, his grey eyes tracking Lucien like a hawk as he lounged in an armchair, one leg draped casually over the other. Lucien stiffened, feeling as though he were under some invisible magnifying glass.

Lord Malfoy stood tall, shoulders squared, his expression unreadable, but his sharp eyes were assessing every inch of him. Beside him, Narcissa’s gaze flicked over Lucien with the precision of a fine-tuned instrument, pausing just long enough to make him swallow hard.

“You’re late,” Lord Malfoy said smoothly, voice measured, almost casual, but the underlying sharpness cut through the air.

Lucien swallowed, trying to keep his voice steady. “I—I didn’t mean to be.”

Draco snorted quietly, though his lips twitched as if fighting amusement, while Narcissa’s lips curved faintly. “Welcome, Lucien,” she said, her tone calm but deliberate. “We’ve been expecting you.”

Lucien’s stomach twisted. Every instinct screamed at him to turn back, step into the Floo, and vanish from this house entirely. But he didn’t. He couldn’t.

“Shall we take you to the drawing room?” Narcissa asked, glancing at Lord Malfoy, then at her son, as if consulting them silently.

Lucien nodded, throat dry. His fingers dug into the hem of his sleeve, trying to anchor himself in something tangible, anything to keep the suffocating tension at bay.

They moved through a long corridor, and Lucien lingered at the back, trying to appear nonchalant while every nerve in his body screamed. Along the walls, portraits whispered and gawked as he passed, their painted eyes following him like living witnesses to every step.

Finally, they reached the drawing room. Rich tapestries lined the walls, and a chandelier glittered overhead, casting fractured light across the polished floors. Lucien took a deep breath, trying to steady himself before seating himself as far to the side as politeness would allow.

“Now,” Lucius said smoothly, his voice cutting through the room with calm authority, “let’s go over expectations for the next two weeks.”

Lucien nodded silently, keeping his gaze low, aware of Draco watching him from across the room, and Narcissa’s eyes scanning him with an unsettling mixture of curiosity and calculation.

“The Malfoys have publicly declared you family,” Lucius said, a faint underbite of regret tugging at his words. “So now that comes with expectations. And now that the wizarding world knows you as Lord Black, that also carries expectations. I will personally be teaching you, because a blot on your name is a blot on mine, and I will not have it.”

“Mmm,” Lucien hummed bitterly. “Sounds like you acted a bit hasty, didn’t you? Having some regrets, Lord Malfoy?”

“Come now,” Narcissa interjected smoothly, her tone calm but firm, “let’s not fight, please.”

Lucien gave a small, acquiescent nod, though he kept his expression neutral. Lucius’s eyes flashed with a kind of controlled fury, like he could incinerate Lucien with a glance, but eventually he sank back into his seat, folding his hands.

“Be that as it may,” Lucius continued, voice crisp and precise, “these are the facts of our current predicament. We must act accordingly. I will teach you how to behave as one of your station. You will also have tutors twice daily, except on Saturdays, some of which will be shared with Draco.”

Lucien stared at him blankly, his expression unreadable but his mind racing, calculating.

“Meal times require your presence,” Lucius added, monotone and sharp. “Breakfast is at eight, lunch at one, and dinner at eight. Be punctual and properly dressed.”

“I have tea at six, following your lessons,” Narcissa said, her tone soft, deliberate. “I would be delighted if you joined me, little star.”

“Don’t call me that,” Lucien snapped, immediately catching the sting of his own sharpness.

“I’m sorry,” Narcissa replied slowly, carefully, her voice measured and soft, “I did not mean to upset you.”

Lucien exhaled roughly, guilt and frustration burning in his chest. “Just… don’t call me that,” he said, his voice rougher than he intended. He swallowed, wishing he could erase the abruptness of his words, but the tension between them was palpable, a fragile truce waiting to shatter with the slightest misstep.

“Carrying on,” Lucius said, his voice flat and bored. “I do not care what you do in your free time. You are free to pursue whatever leisure you please. Be wary, however, about snooping or touching things—fortunately, the Malfoys have always favored silver over gold.”

Lucien took the threat for exactly what it was.

“Right,” he said flatly. “So I could stay in my room the whole time, other than when I’m required to show my face?”

“I’d much prefer it if you did,” Lucius replied, a faint sneer tugging at his lips. “Dobby!”

With a sharp crack, a small, odd creature appeared, ears flopping comically as it scrambled into the room. Lucien blinked, startled.

“Lord Black, this is your personal house-elf for your stay,” Lucius continued smoothly. “If you require anything, ask for Dobby, and he will assist you.”

Lucien raised an eyebrow.

“Dobby, escort Lord Black to his chambers,” he said blandly.

“R-right, sir!” Dobby stuttered, glancing nervously at Lucius before turning to Lucien. “I-if you’d follow me, Lord Black.”

Lucien fell into step behind the nervous elf, who twitched at every shadow along the long, echoing halls.

“You don’t have to call me Lord Black,” Lucien said quietly, his tone flat but not unkind. “I’d much rather you didn’t, honestly.”

“W-what would you like me to call you, then, sir?” Dobby asked, voice trembling slightly.

“You could call me Lucien,” he offered, relaxing his posture a fraction. “Or… my friends have a bunch of nicknames. You could pick one of those if you like, or make one yourself.”

“D-Dobby has never had a friend before,” the house-elf admitted, voice conflicted and small.

“Seems like we’re stuck together here for two weeks,” Lucien said lightly, a corner of his mouth twitching. “We could be friends. You can tell me all about house-elves; I’ve never met one before.”

“Dobby thinks he’d like that, sir,” Dobby said, and Lucien winced at the overly formal “sir.” They’d work on that later—getting Dobby to call him by his name. “Dobby thinks he would like having a friend.”

Dobby led him down the last corridor and deposited him in his chambers. Lucien’s eyes widened at the sheer extravagance. Dark blue walls were accented with bronze trim, and every surface gleamed as if expecting scrutiny. He felt a weighty sense of caution pressing down on him; he didn’t want to touch anything for fear of tainting it.

Everything in the room screamed elegance, but none of it felt like his. He was used to quiet spaces and books piled carelessly, not gilded furniture that whispered of perfection and expectation.

Lucien sighed and collapsed face-first onto the neatly made, far-too-large bed, the mattress swallowing him. The weight of the day pressed down on his shoulders, and a glance at his watch reminded him he had three hours before dinner.

A nap wouldn’t hurt. With a reluctant push, he allowed his eyes to close, letting exhaustion carry him away—though even in rest, the manor seemed to hum with eyes and whispers, reminding him that he was far from home.

The next few days were like fragile glass.

Lucien attended his tutoring sessions, meticulously preparing for the upcoming year—not that he truly needed it, of course. Still, he threw himself into each lesson with quiet diligence.

Lucien also had his lessons with Lord Malfoy. They could barely tolerate each other, Lucius’s sharp instructions and occasionally returning a carefully measured barb when their gazes met. Their exchanges remained cold, clipped with subtle challenges, but beneath it all, Lucius was undeniably dedicated to shaping him into the Lord Black he was meant to be. Lucien, for his part, was nothing if not a dedicated student.

In his rare free moments, he escaped to the manor’s library. The space was grand, almost suffocatingly so, yet Lucien hated to admit that he loved it. Rows upon rows of books on bloodlines, politics, and arcane history called to him, and he devoured them greedily. If he was to survive he would need to know the rules of the game.

Meal times, however, were fraught. Silence stretched between them like a taut wire. Draco sat at the table, frowning potently at his plate,bHe looked like he wanted to complain but somehow couldn’t. Narsissa, ever poised, tried to thread light conversation through the tension, but Lucien’s responses were always short, clipped, polite to a fault, and the silence would inevitably return, thicker than before.

He never joined her for tea.

Tonight he couldn’t sleep, and against his better judgment, he found himself wandering the manor.

He avoided touching anything—Lord Malfoy’s warning echoing in his mind—but he allowed himself to admire the architecture, the ornate tapestries, the glimmer of polished silver and bronze. Every room seemed steeped in history, each corner whispering the weight of generations.

Eventually, he stumbled into a ballroom. Moonlight streamed through the tall windows, painting the floor in pale silver. A grand piano sat near the center, its polished surface reflecting the light like water. He stepped forward, brushing his fingers lightly over the keys, marveling at the instrument.

A soft voice spoke behind him, causing him to startle.

“Do you play?” Narcissa asked, her tone gentle, almost teasing.

“I—I’m sorry, I couldn’t sleep,” Lucien immediately stammered, offering a hasty explanation. She merely smiled, a small, amused curve of her lips.

“Curse of the Blacks, I’m afraid,” she said softly. “When the stars are awake, so are we.”

Lucien muttered a quiet, “Right,” uncertain how to respond.

“Do you play?” she asked again, stepping closer.

“A little,” he admitted. “One of my foster homes had a small piano. They taught me a bit.”

“Would you play for me?” she asked, her voice low and expectant.

After a moment of thought, Lucien nodded. “Alright.” He lowered himself onto the bench and paused, lifting a hand with a subtle flick of magic.

Narcissa raised an eyebrow.

“Silencing charm,” he murmured, glancing down at the keys. “Didn’t want to wake anyone else.”

“I see,” she said, her tone neutral but observant.

He began to play. The notes were soft at first, hesitant, but gradually they grew confident, filling the moonlit room with a quiet, private melody. For the first time since arriving at the manor, Lucien felt a sliver of ease, a fleeting sense that he could be himself—if only for a moment. Narcissa watched silently, her expression inscrutable, yet Lucien thought he saw a hint of approval in her eyes.

Eventually, his fingers faltered on one of the keys, the note harsh against the otherwise smooth melody. He winced and came to a stop.

“I never could get past that part,” he admitted quietly.

“It was lovely,” she said softly, moving closer to sit beside him. With a few gentle strokes, she finished the passage he had stumbled on, the melody flowing seamlessly.

“You’re very good,” he murmured, a hint of awe in his voice.

“Thank you,” she replied, smiling down at him. “The Blacks were taught many things growing up—music, dance, French, and etiquette.”

“Why French?” Lucien asked curiously, his fingers brushing the keys absently.

“We’re French, darling,” she said lightly. “It’s why your father hid you with the name Noir. Perhaps a mistake on his part, but I think he just wanted you to know you were his, even if you never realized it.”

Lucien hesitated for a moment, then cut in, trying to shift the focus. “Can you say something in French?”

“Bien sûr,” she replied with an amused smile. “Même si je ne comprends pas l'intérêt d'écouter une langue que l'on ne comprend pas.”

“Woah.” Lucien listened, genuinely impressed. He offered a small smile. “My first language was German. It’s much rougher than French.”

“How did that come to be?” she asked, tilting her head with curiosity.

“My first foster home kept me until I was five, They primarily spoke german,” he admitted, his voice quiet, almost hesitant. “They had me from when I was a baby, up until a year after I… got bit.”

“What is a foster home?” she asked lightly, curiosity in her tone.

“Um… well,” Lucien began, hesitating slightly. “My dad left me at a police station—like a Muggle Auror office. When a child is surrendered, or taken in because of mistreatment, they place them with other Muggle families. Sometimes they’re adopted permanently; other times they move from house to house.”

“That sounds awful,” she murmured softly, “but… smart on your father’s part. If he didn’t want you to be found, no wizard would think to look in the Muggle world.”

“Mm,” Lucien agreed quietly. “No, just werewolves, apparently.”

Narcissa flinched at the word but quickly composed herself.

Lucien pressed a few keys, letting a light, aimless tune drift into the ballroom.

“Your father—” she began, voice careful, but he cut her off.

“I’d rather not talk about him,” he said sharply at first, then softened. “Please.”

“As you wish,” she said quietly, nodding. After a pause, she shifted the conversation. “Well, I do not know German, and you do not know French. Perhaps we could trade lessons—teach each other.”

“I stopped speaking it when I was five,” Lucien said, eyes fixed on the keys. “I don’t know enough to teach you.”

“Alright,” Narcissa agreed easily. “Then we could hire a tutor to learn German together, and I can teach you French.”

Lucien quirks a lip, skeptical. “In a week and a half?”

“Well, Draco can assist you at school,” she said hopefully. “And I was hoping… you would allow me to write to you. I would be pleased if you wrote back as well.”

Lucien hesitated. He didn’t want Draco anywhere near him in the manor, let alone at school, but Narcissa’s hopeful expression softened something inside him.

“Alright,” he said quietly. Narcissa’s face lit up with a bright, pleased smile.

“Wonderful,” she chimed, her voice warm. “It’s gotten very late. We should get what rest we can.”

“Yes,” Lucien agreed quickly, rising from the bench. He seized the excuse to leave, eager for the quiet of his room. “Goodnight, Lady Malfoy.”

“Please,” she corrected him gently, “call me Cissy. We are family, after all.”

“Goodnight, Cissy,” he said, correcting himself before slipping away.

“Oh, and do join me for tea tomorrow, will you, ma chérie?” she called after him.

Lucien gave a vague nod of agreement without turning back and hurried to his room, where exhaustion finally claimed him, letting him fall into a deep, dreamless sleep.

 

Draco and Lucien had been sent outside to “bond” by Narcissa.

Lucien would have much preferred to throw himself off a far tower somewhere.

But he struggled to say no to Cissy when she looked at him with that hopeful, unguarded expression. He was almost certain she knew exactly how easily she could manipulate him—she’d done it countless times since his arrival, roping him into little trips, tea in the gardens, walks around the manor, and long, quiet conversations about his friends and his first year at Hogwarts.

She seemed genuinely interested, though often her gaze would drift, her eyes glossing over as if she were seeing someone else entirely. Considering how frequently she tried to steer the conversation toward his father, it wasn’t difficult to guess who she imagined when she looked at him.

Lucien hovered lazily on a spare broom the Malfoys had provided, the wind tugging at his dark hair. Draco, as usual, was insistent on a proper game—he wanted a full seeker’s duel—but Lucien had no interest. Instead, he weaved through the air in slow, effortless arcs, performing flips and turns, testing the limits of the broom rather than chasing the snitch.

Draco darted around him, exasperated, scanning the skies. “Lucien! Focus!” he shouted, hands gripping his broom tighter.

Lucien barely glanced at him, a faint smirk on his lips. “Im good,” he said, twisting mid-air to perform another loop, completely ignoring the game.

“We're supposed to be bonding!” Draco calls, flying to a stop beside Lucien.

“I’d rather not,” Lucien drawls, keeping his broom hovering effortlessly in place.

“Why do you hate me so much?” Draco whines, frustration threading his voice. “What did I do to you?”

“You didn’t do anything to me,” Lucien says flatly, rolling his eyes before darting forward.

“Wait—so this is about Potter?” Draco shouts, flying to keep pace. “It’s not my fault he didn’t want to be my friend!”

“You were a prat!” Lucien calls back, spotting the flicker of gold out of the corner of his eye. Draco doesn’t even notice, too focused on chasing him.

“I was not!” Draco protests.

With a flick of his hand, Lucien snatches the snitch from the air, landing carefully on the grass. Draco skids to a stop beside him, eyes wide in surprise.

“You were,” Lucien says, holding the snitch triumphantly. “And you still are.”

Draco mumbles under his breath, and Lucien, lacking patience, marches toward the broom shed to put his broom away.

“I wanted to be his friend!” Draco insists, following him, desperation creeping into his tone. “I did! And I’m sorry for how I reacted, but I’ve never had anyone not want to be my friend before.”

“Well, what did you expect when you insulted his friend?” Lucien counters, setting the broom neatly inside and turning toward the manor.

“I said I was sorry!” Draco presses, voice tense.

“Malfoy,” Lucien sighs, his patience thinning, “I’m not the one you should be apologizing to.”

“Why do you call me that?” Draco snaps, frustration flaring. “We’re family—call me Draco.”

“I don’t even want to be here,” Lucien hisses, his hands clenched into fists. “And every experience with you leading up to this hasn’t exactly given me cozy family vibes. Now has it?”

“There’s only a week left,” Draco says softly, almost pleading. “Can you at least give me a chance to try?”

“Whatever, Malfoy,” Lucien mutters, turning sharply and storming off toward the library, leaving Draco standing there, fists clenched but silently watching him go.

 

Draco did try—Lucien would give him that—and, on occasion, he wasn’t unbearable to be around.

He started small, sitting with Lucien in the library and attempting to engage him in conversation about the books he was reading. At first, Lucien responded with clipped answers, but slowly, almost imperceptibly, he began to tolerate the boy’s presence.

Then Draco expanded his efforts. He began joining Lucien at the mostly silent table during meals, asking questions, commenting on the food, and trying to find common ground. The attempts were awkward at first, sometimes grating, but gradually they began to create moments of uneasy camaraderie.

He even introduced Lucien to the Malfoys’ prized Pegasi. Lucien had hoped they might be drawn to him, but the creatures were suspicious, skittish, and kept their distance—a small disappointment he hid behind a faint shrug.

Narcissa, however, was elated by every small victory. At tea, she would beam at the pair and ask about their little adventures, delighting in Draco’s growing patience and Lucien’s begrudging responses. Draco, for his part, had started attending tea more regularly, buoyed by Narcissa’s quiet encouragement.

Now, the three of them were in Diagon Alley, gathering school supplies for the upcoming year. The shops were crowded, bustling with students and their families, and Lucien found himself scanning every detail—the vendors’ calls, the vibrant displays of spellbooks, quills, and enchanted stationery—while Draco tried to keep pace beside him.

Lucien hated to admit it, but he was missing Remus more than ever now. He would be home for a single night before returning to Hogwarts, and the thought made his chest tighten.

Lucius had to run an errand in Knockturn Alley, and, as usual, he dragged Draco and Lucien along. The narrow, shadowed streets reeked of strange magics, flickering lanterns casting eerie shapes across the walls.

“Did you read the new book list?” Draco asked, leaning close to Lucien, voice barely above a whisper.

“I have,” Lucien confirmed, eyes scanning the dim shops ahead. “And I’m horrified. Whatever teacher we have this year—Lockhart? Really?”

Draco frowned. “What do you have against Lockhart?”

“Oh, nothing,” Lucien said dryly, “except that all of his works are either flat-out incorrect or fantastical nonsense.”

“Do be quiet, boys,” Lucius drawled from a few paces ahead. “And do keep up.”

They picked up their pace, Lucien’s boots echoing on the uneven cobbles. Lucius led them into a small, cluttered shop, the air thick with the sharp tang of unstable magic. Lucien wrinkled his nose, but then froze.

There it was—a familiar scent mingled in the musty, magical haze: grass, broomstick polish, and a faint hint of vanilla.

Harry.

Bloody hell. What was he doing here, and—more importantly—where?

Lucien followed the scent instinctively, ears twitching, wolf senses alert. His gaze locked on a cabinet where the aroma was strongest, and his blood ran cold.

“Don’t—” he barely caught the word, a whisper carried by the air. Yes. Harry was in there. Without thinking, Lucien forced himself to move on, pretending as though he hadn’t just discovered Harry Potter in Knockturn Alley.

Sliding nonchalantly beside Draco, Lucien forced his posture into casual, leaning against a shelf as if he belonged there.

“Ready for your first test of family loyalty, Draco?” Lucien murmured, leaning close so only the boy could hear.

“What will you have me do?” Draco whispered back, a spark of eagerness in his grey eyes. Lucien couldn’t help but quirk a lip at the sight.

“When your father leaves, distract him. I need to do something privately,” Lucien instructed, keeping his voice low. Draco frowned.

“Are you running away?” he asked, concern creasing his brow. Lucien rolled his eyes.

“No. I’ll meet back up with you later and say I got lost,” he explained, keeping his tone smooth. “I just need him not to notice I’m not following you until it’s too late, alright?”

Draco considered for a moment before nodding, determination flashing in his face. “Yeah… alright. I’ll do it.”

“Thank you, cousin,” Lucien said with a small, genuine smile. Draco returned it eagerly.

“Of course,” he replied, before rushing over to his father. Lucien slunk behind a tall shelf, pressing his back to the cold wood and letting the shadows swallow him.

“I thought you were going to buy me a present,” Draco said, tilting his head up at his father.

“I said I would buy you a racing broom,” Lucius replied, drumming his fingers lightly on the counter.

“What’s the good of that if I’m not on the house team?” Draco sulked, his tone sharp and petulant. “Harry Potter got a Nimbus Two Thousand last year. Special permission from Dumbledore so he could play for Gryffindor. He’s not even that good—it’s just because he’s famous… famous for having a stupid scar on his forehead…”

Malfoy bent down to examine a shelf filled with skulls, muttering as he traced the shadows. “…everyone thinks he’s so smart, wonderful Potter with his scar and his broomstick—”

“You’ve told me this at least a dozen times already,” Lucius interjected, eyes narrowing with a quiet reprimand. “And I would remind you that it is not—prudent—to appear less than fond of Harry Potter, not when most of our kind regard him as the hero who made the Dark Lord disappear. Ah, Mr. Borgin.”

A stooping, greasy-haired man appeared behind the counter, smoothing back strands of hair from his forehead.

“Mr. Malfoy, what a pleasure to see you again,” he said, voice as slick as the hair he combed. “Delighted—and young Master Malfoy, too, charmed. How may I be of assistance? I must show you, just in today, very reasonably priced—”

“I’m not buying today, Mr. Borgin. I’m selling,” Lucius said, his tone cutting through the oily pleasantries.

“Selling?” Borgin’s smile faltered slightly, suspicion creeping into his eyes.

“You have heard, of course, that the Ministry is conducting more raids,” Lucius continued, pulling a roll of parchment from his inner pocket and unrolling it. “I have a few… ah… items at home that might embarrass me if the Ministry were to call.”

Mr. Borgin adjusted his pince-nez and leaned in to study the list carefully. “The Ministry wouldn’t presume to trouble you, sir, surely?”

Lucien’s eyes flicked from Draco to the exchange, silently calculating.

Mr. Malfoy’s lip curled, a subtle sneer tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I have not been visited yet. The name Malfoy still commands a certain respect, yet the Ministry grows ever more meddlesome. There are rumours about a new Muggle Protection Act—no doubt that flea-bitten, Muggle-loving fool Arthur Weasley is behind it—”

Lucien’s jaw tightened. He absolutely despised the man, every syllable stoking a quiet fury in his chest.

“—and as you see, certain of these… poisons might make it appear—”

“I understand, sir, of course,” said Mr. Borgin, nodding quickly and trying to keep pace with the conversation. “Let me see…”

“Can I have that?” Draco interrupted suddenly, pointing at the withered, leathery hand resting on its cushion. Lucien’s eyebrows lifted slightly. He had to admit, Draco was doing his part admirably.

“Ah, the Hand of Glory!” Mr. Borgin exclaimed, abandoning Mr. Malfoy’s list and hurrying over to Draco. “Insert a candle and it gives light only to the holder! Best friend of thieves and plunderers! Your son has fine taste, sir.”

“I hope my son will amount to more than a thief or a plunderer, Borgin,” Malfoy said coldly, eyes narrowing.

“No offence, sir! No offence meant!” Borgin said quickly, waving his hands nervously.

“Though if his school marks don’t pick up,” Malfoy continued, sharper now, “that may indeed be all he is fit for.”

“It’s not my fault!” Draco blurted, his face flushing. “The teachers all have favourites! That Hermione Granger—”

“I would have thought you’d be ashamed that a girl of no wizarding family beat you in every exam,” Malfoy snapped, his voice like steel. Lucien’s fingers itched, every nerve in his body screaming that he might end up doing something regrettable to the man.

“It’s the same all over,” Mr. Borgin interjected, voice oily as ever. “Wizard blood is counting for less everywhere—”

“Not with me,” Malfoy hissed, nostrils flaring, his posture rigid with authority.

“No, sir. Nor with me, sir,” Borgin said, bowing deeply, eager to appease.

Malfoy’s glare swept across the room. “In that case, perhaps we can return to my list,” he said shortly. “I am in something of a hurry, Borgin. I have important business elsewhere today.”

Lucien watched them make the exchange, Draco harping the entire time. Lucien was both amused and, reluctantly, impressed. By the end, Lord Malfoy looked thoroughly fed up.

“Done,” Mr. Malfoy said sharply at the counter. “Come, Draco!”

With one last glance at Lucien—a nod of thanks and approval—Draco left, continuing to nag his father about brooms and Harry Potter.

The moment the door clicked shut, Mr. Borgin dropped his oily composure, muttering under his breath. “Good day yourself, Mister Malfoy… and if the stories are true, you haven’t sold me half of what’s hidden in your manor…” With a sharp hiss of his voice, he disappeared into a back room, leaving Lucien’s lips twitching in amusement.

“You can come out, Haz,” Lucien drawled casually.

There was a creak of a door and then soft footsteps approaching.

“Bloody hell, Luce,” Harry whispered, eyes wide.

“Fancy seeing you here,” Lucien replied smoothly. “Window shopping?”

“I hate the Floo,” Harry muttered, voice clipped, and Lucien laughed, a low, amused sound.

“Do tell,” Lucien said, strolling toward the exit. “Let’s get out of here—tell me on the way.”

Harry recounted the ordeal quickly, and Lucien huffed in amusement at the boy’s flustered expressions.

“Your glasses are broken, did you know?” Lucien quipped, twitching a finger. The lenses fixed and cleared instantly.

“Woah,” Harry blinked. “Thanks, mate.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Lucien said, rolling his eyes and brushing him off.

They stepped into a dingy alleyway that seemed entirely devoted to Dark Arts shops. The one they had just left—Borgin and Burkes—was the largest, but opposite it loomed a sinister window display of shrunken heads. Two doors down, a large cage rattled, housing enormous black spiders.

Two shabby-looking wizards lurked in the shadows of a doorway, muttering to each other, eyes flicking toward the boys.

Lucien’s fingers tightened briefly on Harry’s shoulder, startling him, though Lucien ignored the jump. “This way,” he whispered, guiding him down a narrow side path.

“Where are we?” Harry asked warily.

“Knockturn Alley,” Lucien said softly. “It’s where darker… more dangerous types are welcome.”

Harry glanced around nervously, the flickering torchlight casting elongated shadows that danced across the brick walls. Lucien’s jaw tightened; he was aware of every whisper, every movement in the shadows.

“Not lost, are you, my dear?” a shrill voice rasped, making Harry jump. An aged witch emerged from the shadows, clutching a tray that looked suspiciously like whole, shriveled human fingernails. She leered at them, revealing mossy, yellowed teeth. Harry instinctively took a step back.

“No,” Lucien said coolly, staring her down. He watched her eyes flicker to the scars along his temple and cheek, and for a moment, they flickered with recognition.

“Oooh, the puppy bites,” the hag cackled. Harry tugged desperately on Lucien’s arm.

“We’re fine, thanks,” he said quickly. “We’re just—”

“HARRY! LUCIEN! What d’yeh think yer doin’ down there?”

Startled, both boys jumped. The witch shrieked in terror as a cascade of fingernails tumbled over her feet. Hagrid, massive and imposing, strode toward them, beetle-black eyes gleaming over his bristling beard.

“Hagrid!” Harry croaked in relief. “I was lost… Floo powder…”

Hagrid seized Harry by the scruff of his neck and lifted him safely away from the witch, knocking the tray from her hands with a single, effortless sweep. Lucien followed silently, an amused smirk on his face as Harry sputtered indignantly. The witch’s shrieks echoed through the twisting alleyways until they emerged into the bright sunlight.

Lucien spotted the familiar, snow-white marble of Gringotts in the distance. Hagrid had steered them back into Diagon Alley without hesitation.

“Yer a mess!” Hagrid barked, brushing soot and grime off Harry with such force that he nearly toppled into a barrel of dragon dung outside an apothecary.

“I tell him that all the time,” Lucien interjected dryly, earning a distracted grunt from Hagrid.

“Skulkin’ around Knockturn Alley—I dunno, dodgy place—don’ want no one ter see yeh down there—” Hagrid continued, his voice low but rumbling.

“I realized that,” Harry said, ducking as Hagrid’s massive hand came down again. “I told you, I was lost. Lucien found me though… What were you doing down there, anyway?”

“I was lookin’ fer a Flesh-Eatin’ Slug Repellent,” Hagrid growled, his brows knitting. “They’re ruinin’ the school cabbages. Yer not on yer own?”

“I’m staying with the Weasleys, but we got separated,” Harry explained. “I’ve got to go find them…”

“And I’ve got to find the Malfoys,” Lucien added blandly.

Hagrid winced in sympathy. “Bad luck tha’,” he muttered, and Lucien couldn’t help but quirk a lip at the oddly sympathetic tone.

They set off together down the bustling street, Harry and Lucien nearly jogging to keep pace with Hagrid’s massive strides.

“How come yeh never wrote back ter me?” Hagrid asked, glancing down at Harry with a frown.

“A house-elf named Dobby has been stealing my letters,” Harry admitted, and Lucien’s head snapped toward him, eyes widening.

“Did you say Dobby?” Lucien asked sharply.

“Yeah?” Harry replied, confused, but barreled on, “Bloody thing scared me half to death—found him in Ron’s room. Been staying there since the twins tore the bars off my window and rescued me from the Dursleys.”

“Ruddy Muggles,” Hagrid growled darkly. “If I’d’ve known—”

“Lou!”

Lucien barely had time to brace before he was tackled into a hug by Hermione Granger. He laughed, hugging her back as she squeezed him like she hadn’t seen him in years.

“Oh, it’s so good to see you!” she said breathlessly, before releasing him to beam at the others. “Hi, Harry! Hello, Hagrid! Are you coming into Gringotts?”

“As soon as I’ve found the Weasleys,” said Harry.

“Yeh won’t have long ter wait,” Hagrid grinned.

Sure enough, sprinting up the crowded street came Ron, Fred, George, Percy, and Mr. Weasley. The sight of them—flushed, slightly disheveled, but grinning—sparked something warm in Lucien’s chest, a smile tugging across his lips before he could stop it.

“Harry!” Mr. Weasley panted. “We hoped you’d only gone one grate too far…” He mopped at his glistening bald patch. “Molly’s frantic—she’s coming now. Oh—hello, Lucien, Hermione, Hagrid—so good to see you all.”

“Where did you come out?” Ron asked breathlessly.

“Knockturn Alley,” said Hagrid grimly.

“Brilliant!” Fred and George chorused, eyes lighting up.

Lucien’s lips twitched despite himself.

“We’ve never been allowed in,” Ron added enviously.

“I should ruddy well think not,” Hagrid growled.

“It’s filled with monsters, didn’t you know?” Lucien said dryly, amusement flickering in his voice. “Trust me, you don’t want to be there, mate.”

Ron opened his mouth, and Lucien could see the thought flash across his face—that Lucien was hinting he was one of those monsters—but before Ron could voice it, Mrs. Weasley came barreling into view, her handbag swinging like a weapon, Ginny clutching her other hand.

“Oh, Harry—oh, my dear—you could have been anywhere—” She pulled him into a suffocating hug before yanking a clothes brush out of her bottomless bag and attacking the soot Hagrid had missed.

Lucien raised an eyebrow incredulously. Who just carried things like that around?

“Well, gotta be off,” said Hagrid, who was now having his enormous hand wrung within an inch of its life by Mrs. Weasley (“Knockturn Alley! If you hadn’t found him, Hagrid!”).

“See yeh at Hogwarts!” Hagrid boomed, before striding away, head and shoulders taller than anyone else in the packed street.

 

“Why were you and the Malfoys at Borgin and Burkes, Luce?” Harry asked curiously as they walked, and Ron and Hermione both looked over, interest sparking in their faces.

“Did Lucius Malfoy buy anything?” said Mr. Weasley sharply from behind them, his tone making Lucien’s stomach tighten.

“No, he was selling,” Harry supplied quickly, glancing at Lucien when he realized his friend had gone carefully silent. Lucien’s lips pressed together, and Harry winced, realizing maybe he shouldn’t have said anything.

“How is your summer going, Mr. Weasley?” Lucien cut in smoothly, steering the conversation away with practiced ease. “Have you managed to solve the Rubik’s Cube yet?”

It worked. Mr. Weasley’s eyes lit up. “I have not! You may have to show me again—such an amazing Muggle contraption—” But before he could get properly lost in his excitement, his attention snagged on Hermione’s parents, who were standing a little stiffly at the counter that stretched along the great marble hall. They looked overwhelmed by the glittering chandeliers and goblin clerks but brightened as Hermione pulled them closer.

“But you’re Muggles!” said Mr. Weasley delightedly, bounding toward them. “We must have a drink together! What’s that you’ve got there? Oh, you’re changing Muggle money—Molly, look!” He pointed eagerly at the ten-pound notes Mr. Granger was holding.

Lucien stepped forward politely. “It’s good to see you again, Mr. and Mrs. Granger.”

“Oh, it’s so nice to see you too, dear. How have you been?” Mrs. Granger asked warmly.

“Where is your father, son?” Mr. Granger added, glancing around as though expecting Remus to appear out of thin air. “Is he well?”

“He’s fine,” Lucien said quickly, a sharp edge slipping into his voice before he smoothed it over with practiced calm. “He’s at home right now.”

“Ah, what a shame,” said Mr. Granger cheerfully. “We’d love to have him over for tea sometime, since you’re our daughter’s best friend. We were hoping he’d tell us more about her world.”

Lucien’s throat tightened, but he forced a polite smile. “I’ll pass along the message.”

“Meet you back here,” Harry told them as the Grangers moved off, and soon Lucien found himself lingering in the hall, waiting for everyone to finish their errands.

When the group reassembled, they quickly split again—Percy muttering about needing a new quill, Fred and George darting off with cries of recognition at spotting Lee Jordan, Mrs. Weasley tugging Ginny toward the second-hand robe shop. Mr. Weasley, brimming with delight, was already ushering the Grangers toward the Leaky Cauldron for that promised drink.

“We’ll all meet at Flourish and Blotts in an hour to buy your schoolbooks,” Mrs. Weasley called over her shoulder. “And not one step down Knockturn Alley!” she shouted at the twins’ retreating backs.

The four of them—Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Lucien—set off down the sunlit street together, drifting from shop to shop. Lucien let his eyes flick now and then toward the crowds, half-expecting a flash of pale blond hair to betray the Malfoys, but mostly he let it go. For once, he was content—just another student with friends at his side, weaving through Diagon Alley with laughter, chatter, and the smell of sugar from the sweetshop curling through the air.

In a tiny junk shop full of broken wands, crooked brass scales, and old cloaks stiff with potion stains, they found Percy hunched in a corner, nose buried in a small, painfully dull-looking book titled Prefects Who Gained Power.

“A study of Hogwarts Prefects and their later careers,” Ron read off the back cover in a mock-serious voice. “That sounds fascinating…”

It took Lucien a second to realize Ron wasn’t being genuine. He frowned.

“Go away,” Percy snapped irritably, clutching the book closer.

“’Course,” Ron said airily as they retreated, “he’s very ambitious, Percy. Got it all mapped out… wants to be Minister of Magic one day…”

“And what’s wrong with that?” Lucien cut in sharply, raising a brow. “It’s a common dream.”

“Yeah, mate, but it’s Percy,” Ron muttered, shooting him a look that clearly said don’t you get it?

Lucien sniffed, unbothered. “Well, he’ll have some competition. Hermione’s going to be Minister of Magic, and I’ll be her Senior Undersecretary.”

Ron’s jaw dropped. “Bloody hell.” He turned to Harry, horrified.

“We’re doomed,” Harry said solemnly, playing along.

“I’ll pretend, for both of your sakes, that I didn’t hear that,” Lucien replied sweetly, refusing to look at them.

 

An hour later, they headed for Flourish and Blotts. They weren’t the only ones; the street seemed to funnel half of Diagon Alley in the same direction. As they drew closer, they saw a thick crowd gathered outside the shop doors, jostling and craning their necks.

The reason was impossible to miss: a massive banner hung across the windows in gleaming gold letters:

GILDEROY LOCKHART will be signing copies of his autobiography MAGICAL ME today, 12:30–4:30 pm

“Joy,” Lucien deadpanned.

“We can actually meet him!” Hermione squealed, eyes shining as she bounced on her toes. “I mean, he’s written almost the entire booklist!”

“I know,” Lucien said blandly. “Which means we’re learning absolutely nothing in Defence Against the Dark Arts this year. Tragic, really.”

The crowd seemed to be made up mostly of witches around Mrs Weasley’s age. A harassed-looking wizard stood at the door, saying, “Calmly, please ladies ... don’t push, there ... mind the books, now ...’”

Lucien thought they had all lost their minds.
They all squeezed in the crowd, A long queue wound right to the back of the shop, where Gilderoy Lockhart was signing his books. They each grabbed a copy of Break with a Banshee, and sneaked up the line to where the rest of the Weasleys were standing with Mr and Mrs Granger.

“Oh, there you are, good,” said Mrs. Weasley, sounding breathless as she pushed her way through the throng. She kept patting her hair, fussing nervously. “We’ll be able to see him in a minute…”

Gilderoy Lockhart came slowly into view. He sat at a grand table surrounded by enormous moving posters of his own face, each one winking or flashing a dazzling grin at the crowd. The real Lockhart wore robes of forget-me-not blue that matched his eyes far too perfectly, and his pointed wizard’s hat perched at a jaunty angle atop his golden curls.

A short, sour-faced man darted around with a bulky black camera, shoving people aside for the best angle. Each shot let out a loud crack of blinding light and a puff of purple smoke.

“Out of the way, there,” he barked, stepping squarely on Ron’s foot to get closer. “This is for the Daily Prophet.”

“Watch where you’re going,” Lucien hissed, his voice sharp enough to make the man flinch.

“Big deal,” Ron muttered, rubbing his toes.

The photographer did a double take when he actually looked at Lucien. His face paled, then broke into a sickly grin.

“Oh—I beg your pardon, Lord Black!” he stammered. “Would you—say, would you mind a few photographs after the signing? The Prophet would adore—”

“No,” Lucien cut him off flatly, his expression cold. “If that thing flashes in my direction, I’ll burn it to a crisp.”

The man swallowed hard and gave a jerky nod before retreating to focus on Lockhart again.

Unfortunately, Lockhart had noticed the exchange. His eyes flicked curiously toward Lucien for a beat—then landed on Ron, and finally on Harry.

He froze.

And then, with all the subtlety of a Bludger, he leapt to his feet and bellowed, “It can’t be—Harry Potter?”

The crowd gasped and shuffled, parting eagerly. Lockhart dove forward like an overeager Snitch-seeker, seizing Harry by the arm and hauling him to the front.

Lucien lunged after him on instinct, trying to yank Harry back, but only managed to graze his sleeve before the photographer blocked him.

The crowd erupted into applause. Harry’s ears went red as Lockhart pumped his hand up and down for the flashing camera. Thick purple smoke billowed over the Weasleys.

“Nice big smile, Harry,” Lockhart cooed, baring his teeth so wide it was a wonder his face didn’t split. “Together, you and I are worth the front page.”

“Ladies and gentlemen!” he boomed, waving his free arm for silence. “What an extraordinary moment this is! The perfect occasion for a little announcement I’ve been saving!”

He paused for dramatic effect, then yanked a copy of Magical Me off the table and brandished it aloft.

“When young Harry here came in today, he only wanted to buy my autobiography—which, of course, I shall be happy to present to him now, free of charge—” (the crowd broke into applause again) “—but what he did not realize, is that he will be getting far more than just my words in print. This September, he will be receiving the real, magical me! Yes, ladies and gentlemen, I have great pleasure and pride in announcing that I will be taking up the post of Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry!”

Lucien’s stomach dropped. He could practically hear his hopes for a competent professor sizzling into ash.

“I’m dropping out,” Lucien announced flatly.

A snort came from just behind him. He turned to find Theodore Nott leaning lazily against a shelf, arms crossed, a smirk tugging at his lips.

“No you won’t,” Theo said dryly. “If Harry’s there, you’ll be right behind him.”

Lucien blinked, caught off guard by his tone—neither mocking nor cruel, just matter-of-fact. For once, he had no snappy retort, only a reluctant twitch of his mouth before he turned back toward the spectacle of Lockhart still shaking Harry like a trophy.

The crowd cheered and clapped as Harry was loaded down with the entire works of Gilderoy Lockhart. Staggering slightly under the pile, he slipped gratefully out of the spotlight toward the edge of the shop, where Ginny stood beside her new cauldron.

Lucien and Theo were right on his heels, slipping through the dispersing crowd. They watched Harry dump the stack unceremoniously into Ginny’s cauldron with a groan.

“I’ll buy my own—” Harry muttered, and they caught just the tail end of it before another voice cut cleanly across the din.

“Cousin! There you are!”

Lucien bit back a wince before he turned, already bracing himself. Draco stood a few feet away, his smirk faltering slightly when he spotted Harry.

“Well, well. Famous Harry Potter,” Draco drawled, his voice carrying easily over the chatter. “Can’t even go into a bookshop without making the front page.”

“Draco.” Lucien’s voice cut like a blade. He gave him a flat glare. “What did we talk about?”

For a moment Draco looked like a child caught with his hand in the biscuit tin. His shoulders drew back, and he tried for a more even tone. “Right. Potter, I wanted to ap—”

“Leave him alone, he didn’t want all that!” Ginny snapped, stepping forward with her eyes blazing.

Lucien closed his own eyes briefly. There went every inch of progress.

“Potter’s got himself a girlfriend!” Draco shot back with a triumphant sneer.

“Draco. Enough,” Lucien interjected sharply, but it rolled off his cousin like rain.

Theo leaned against a shelf, watching the scene with obvious amusement, while Ron and Hermione finally elbowed their way through the last of the onlookers.

“Oh, it’s you,” Ron said coldly, glaring at Draco as if he were something unpleasant stuck to his shoe. “Bet you’re surprised to see Harry here, eh?”

“Not as surprised as I am to see you in a shop, Weasley,” Draco retorted. “I suppose your parents will go hungry for a month to pay for that lot.”

“Bloody hell, Draco, enough!” Lucien snapped, his patience fraying. He stepped closer, his voice sharp as a whip. “This—this is exactly why. You’re being a wanker.”

Draco blinked, genuinely startled, and for once didn’t have an immediate reply.

“Children!” came a strained voice. Mr. Weasley struggled through the crush with Fred and George at his side. Lucien caught Fred’s eye, and Fred gave him a quick, cheeky wink that made Lucien’s lips twitch despite himself.

“What are you doing? It’s mad in here, let’s go outside,” Arthur urged, ushering his children toward the door.

“Well, well, well—Arthur Weasley.”

Lucien closed his eyes again, this time in dismay. The smooth, drawling voice behind them belonged to none other than Lucius Malfoy. He glided forward, one elegant hand resting on Draco’s shoulder, his sneer a mirror image of his son’s.

“Lord Black,” Lucius said evenly, his cool grey eyes settling on Lucien. “Where have you been?”

“Got lost,” Lucien quipped without missing a beat, his tone flat, offering nothing more.

For a long moment, Lucius simply regarded him, weighing the answer with cold calculation, before apparently deciding it wasn’t worth pursuing.

“Busy time at the Ministry, I hear,” Lucius said, his voice turning smoothly toward Mr. Weasley. “All those raids… I do hope they’re paying you overtime?”

His gaze flicked disinterestedly to Ginny’s cauldron and the pile of Lockhart books inside.

“Obviously not,” Lucius said, his lip curling. “Dear me, what’s the use of being a disgrace to the name of wizard if they don’t even pay you well for it?”

Arthur Weasley flushed crimson, but his voice was steady when he answered. “We have a very different idea of what disgraces the name of wizard, Malfoy.”

Lucien’s mouth twitched again, but this time in genuine admiration. He decided then and there that Arthur Weasley might just be his new favorite wizard—well, after Remus, of course.

“Clearly,” said Mr. Malfoy, his pale eyes flicking with disdain toward Mr. and Mrs. Granger, who stood stiffly by the shelves, watching the scene with quiet apprehension. “The company you keep, Weasley… and I thought your family could sink no lower—”

“Lord Malfoy,” Lucien cut in before he could continue, his tone cold and clipped. “I need to get my school robes. We should be going—lest I get lost again.”

Lucius’s gaze snapped to him. The air between them chilled instantly, but Lucien didn’t flinch, holding his stare with calculated calm.

“Well,” Lucius drawled at last, his voice silken with menace, “we certainly can’t have that.” He gave Arthur one last sneer sharp enough to curdle milk before turning on his heel. “Draco. Lord Black. Let’s go.”

The two boys followed quickly, Draco casting Lucien a sideways glance, unsure whether to be irritated or impressed. The tension clung to them for the rest of their shopping trip, Lucius’s presence looming like a shadow with every step.

When Lucien finally returned to the manor, he wasted no time retreating to his room. He curled onto the bed, staring at the ceiling with heavy eyes. Tomorrow he would be returning to Remus.

He should have felt relieved. Instead, his mind snagged on the last words Moony had spoken to him.

Goodbye.

Remus never said goodbye. Not once. It was always I’ll see you soon. But this time—goodbye.

The word felt final. Like a door closing.

Lucien turned on his side, drawing his knees close to his chest. The thought whispered in his head no matter how he tried to bury it: What if he doesn’t want me around anymore? What if… what if I’m just a burden he’s finally tired of carrying?

His eyes stung, and he blinked hard, refusing to let the tears fall. He pressed his face into the pillow, clutching it as if it could keep the doubts away.

Sleep came eventually, but it was restless, tangled with uneasy dreams and shadows that whispered things he didn’t want to hear.

Chapter 3: We Brought Cards!

Notes:

ohhh do i have a suprise Pov for you!
as promised, Spotify playlist for Mr. Noir
https://open.spotify.com/playlist/1Bttdpmgm1jftzMZVnxteE?si=120756d1eed04ee0
enjoy~

Lucien had always had nightmares.

 

Every time the next bad thing happened—and there was always a next one—his brain would replay it until the edges dulled, until it could find a new scab to scratch.

Eight-year-old Lucien had just woken from one.

He was in the attic now. That was his room. He used to have a proper bedroom, until the first moon. After that, they locked him up here. Guess the noises had been too much, because they never unlocked the door again.

Well—almost never. Once a day, if they remembered, the hatch would open just long enough for someone to shove a plate of food inside. More often than not it spilled, bits of bread or potato tumbling onto the floor before the door slammed shut again.

Lucien was hurting. His skin was itchy, his nose wouldn’t stop running, and he was pretty sure he had a fever. One of the gashes on his arm had gone red and hot; he knew that it was infected.

He was so uncomfortable, so tired, that it felt like something inside him was restless too. A thrumming energy, pressing against his ribs, sliding under his skin. Unnervingly familiar.

The faint lightbulb overhead flickered, nearly dead. Lucien frowned at it. He hated the dark. The thought of living without even that weak glow made his chest hurt.

He lay down on his pallet—if you could call it that—dusty, musty blankets pulled into a nest. They scratched at his skin, but they were warm enough on the nights when he couldn’t make himself warm on his own.

Thunk. Thunk. Thunk.

A noise from the far wall. Lucien squeezed his eyes shut, tears slipping free. He flinched when glass shattered somewhere close, the sound sharp in the hollow attic. The floorboards began to vibrate under him.

There were shouts below. Alarmed voices.

Please, Lucien thought desperately, clutching the blanket up over his head. Please, I just want it to stop. Please make it stop—

The boards shuddered harder, boxes toppling to the floor around him. That energy under his skin surged, a madness he couldn’t shake off, couldn’t hold still.

Stop. Please stop. Just stop it!

The words weren’t spoken aloud, but the scream in his mind echoed.

And then—shockingly—it did.

Everything stilled. Instantly. The floor. The bulb. The thrum. Like a rubber band had snapped inside his chest.

Lucien sat there, trembling, his small hands clutching the blanket, his breath harsh and uneven.

And for the first time, he began to realize.

There were no monsters haunting him. No unseen thing breaking glass, rattling boxes, flickering lights.

It had been him all along.

 

“Hmm.”

The little blond girl in the park said it absently, staring dreamily at the open field. They were sitting in the grass together, a bit apart from the other children.

“I like sunflowers,” she announced after a long pause.

Lucien blinked at her, wide-eyed. Before he could answer, she gasped and pointed ahead of them.

There—sprouting tall and impossibly bright—was a row of sunflowers that hadn’t been there a moment ago. Golden heads stretched toward the sky, bobbing gently in the breeze.

Lucien’s heart gave a hard tug. He waited for the scream, the horror, the rejection he had learned to expect.

But the girl only laughed. A pure, delighted giggle as she scrambled up, darted forward, and plucked two of the flowers.

“Thank you!” she told the plant, patting its leafy stem as if it were a friend. Lucien tilted his head, startled. That was odd. All of this was odd. But then—so was he. He didn’t really have room to judge.

She came running back, beaming, and thrust one of the sunflowers into his hands before dropping back into the grass beside him.

“For you,” she said with a happy grin.

Lucien swallowed hard. His fingers tightened around the stem. He wanted to tell her it wasn’t him—that he was cursed, dangerous, wrong. But the words stuck in his throat. He couldn’t risk it. Not when he might finally have a friend.

 

“It’s no wonder nobody bloody well wants you!”

The woman’s voice cracked like a whip, sharp enough to make Lucien flinch. His mouth wouldn’t work, no matter how hard he tried. He could only scream the words inside his head. Please stop. Please, don’t say that.

“I don’t know what you are,” the tall woman spat, her face twisted with disgust. “But I know you’re a demon sent from Satan himself, and I’ve had enough of it!”

Crash.

A display shelf rattled violently behind her, dishes shattering across the floor. Lucien’s stomach dropped. Not now. Not again. Why would it happen now, when she was already furious?

“See?” she screeched, pointing as if the shards of glass were proof. “It’s a sign. But don’t you worry—we’ll fix this—”

 

“I said don’t touch me!”

The words ripped out of Lucien, sharp with terror and rage.
The air itself seemed to snap. A violent shockwave pulsed out from him, and the man was hurled backward as if struck by a giant’s hand. He slammed into the wall with a sickening crack. His head hit stone, his body crumpling unnaturally.

Lucien froze. Blood dripped from the man’s temple, running in a thin, dark line. His spine—spines weren’t supposed to twist like that.

Oh God. I killed him. I killed him. I killed him.

The thought repeated in his mind, spiraling into panic.

Then—faint but steady—a heartbeat.

Lucien sagged forward with a strangled gasp. Relief flooded him, heavy and dizzying. Not dead. Not yet. But the stain of what he had nearly done clung to him, searing deep into his bones.

 

Lucien had done those things.

 

Not a curse.

 

Not a ghost.

 

Him.

 

He pushed the heavy covers back with careful fingers, moving like he might wake the storm again if he shifted too suddenly. The attic was a wreck. Boxes tipped onto their sides, spilling forgotten belongings. Trinkets and mementos shattered across the floor. The old lamps that had once flickered weakly now lay in jagged shards.

And Lucien had done it.

The truth pressed down on him, heavy and suffocating. He could still feel it—the energy, restless and thrumming beneath his skin, like it was pacing inside him, waiting to be let out again.

If he could break things… could he fix them?

He clenched his fists, heart hammering, and tried to remember the desperate way he had thought before.

Fix it. Fix it. Fix it.

Nothing happened.

Fix it fix it fix it fix it!

His breath came faster. He could hear footsteps in the hallway now—slow, deliberate, drawing closer to the attic door. Panic rose like bile in his throat.

Fix it! Fix it! FIX IT!

The air around him trembled. A teacup rattled violently on the floorboards. Then, with a sound like a thousand strings snapping taut at once, chaos erupted. Boxes leapt upright, their lids slamming shut. Shards of glass whirled together, seams sealing with impossible precision. The lamps stood whole again, their weak bulbs flickering back to life.

Lucien could only stare, caught between horror and awe, as the attic stitched itself back into order before his eyes.

The latch scraped. Slowly, the door creaked open.

And for the first time in months, Lucien faced the shadowy outline of his foster parents.

The sight burned into him like a brand.

Then—like a film reel tearing—the scene twisted, blurred, and slipped away.

 

He was back at the cliff, facing Crystal Cove, the air crisp with salt and storm. His godmother sat exactly where she had been last time, her bare feet swinging gently over the edge, as if time itself had stilled for her.

There was no hesitation this time. He went and lowered himself onto the stone beside her, legs dangling into the void.

“Hello, little star,” she murmured, her voice soft but carrying like the tide. “You’ve gone through quite the ordeal since we last spoke, haven’t you?”

Lucien swallowed, keeping his eyes fixed on the horizon. “Did you know?” he asked quietly.

“Mmm.” She hummed, tilting her head. “It was one of many possibilities. It was always meant to happen. How it happened, though—that was entirely up to you.”

“Are you a seer?” he asked warily.

At that, she let out a delighted laugh, musical and strange, like glass chimes in the wind. “Yes… and no. I’ve never spouted prophecies like some half-mad oracle. But I can sense the shape of different futures, their threads tugging at me. It’s never clear, never certain.”

Lucien nodded, more in acceptance than understanding. Silence stretched between them, filled with the rush of waves below.

“Why am I here again?” he asked at last. “Is this real?”

“If you believe it’s real, then it is,” Pandora said, her words carrying an ominous weight. “And you’re here because you wanted answers.”

“So this is just something my brain’s created,” Lucien replied flatly. “Delightful. I’ve gone mad.”

“All the Blacks go mad eventually,” Pandora said lightly, as though it were a joke, though her eyes glimmered with sorrow. “The Blacks are necromancers, drawn to anything that ties into soul magic. Being so close to the veil for so long… it would drive anyone mad.”

Lucien turned sharply to look at her, but she wasn’t watching him. Her gaze had drifted toward the cave mouth in front of them, distant and sad.

“What does that mean?” Lucien asked desperately, his voice breaking with frustration. “I have so many questions, and you’ve only given me more.”

“I cannot give you answers,” she said softly. “I can only help you learn where to find them.”

“You haven’t given me anything,” Lucien snapped, desperation curling like a blade in his words.

“Haven’t I?” she asked, humming again, a secretive smile tugging faintly at her lips.

“Please,” Lucien begged, voice low, raw. “Just give me something. Anything. “

A raven cawed above them, black wings slicing across the sky.

“I can’t,” she whispered, her voice fading like the tide. “It’s time for you to wake up.”

The world tilted.

And she was gone.

 

Lucien woke in his bed at Malfoy Manor.

 

A quick glance at his watch told him it was just past midnight. With a quiet huff, he rolled onto his back and stared at the ornate ceiling, listening to the silence of the house.

The Blacks were necromancers.

The thought sat heavy on his chest, pressing against his ribs until it was impossible to ignore. If he wanted answers, he’d have to seek them out at last. For so long, he’d been hesitant—afraid, even—of what truths about his family might be waiting for him. And he had been right to be cautious. The little he’d already uncovered had left him shaken. But now… now he had a lead. And he couldn’t pretend anymore. He couldn’t hide.

Sleep was out of the question. His body buzzed with restless energy, his mind refusing to quiet. He might as well make use of the Malfoys’ library while he still had the chance—he wouldn’t see it again until Christmas.

Lucien slipped from his bed, pulling on a dressing gown, and padded silently down the long, candlelit corridors. He pushed the heavy library doors open just enough to slide through, holding his breath until the hinges stopped creaking.

The smell of dust and ink enveloped him. Rows of shelves towered overhead, their spines gleaming faintly in the dim light. His eyes roved carefully over the bindings until one title caught and held him like a snare.

The Veil Between: A Study of Soul and Shadow, by Belvina Black.

His hands trembled slightly as he pulled it free. The cover was worn, its once-rich embossing dulled with age. The pages were yellowed, edges curling. Inside the front cover was a faint scrawl: Published 1873.

He lowered himself into a plush armchair by the fire and opened the book with care.

“The Blacks are necromancers, drawn to anything that ties into soul magic. Being so close to the Veil for so long… it would drive anyone mad.”

Lucien’s throat tightened. His godmother’s words rang fresh in his ears—words he had brushed off as dream-born illusions. He had convinced himself she was nothing more than his own grieving subconscious, dressing itself in the familiar. But this? This book? This was real. Which meant she had been real too.

He turned the brittle pages until he reached the first chapter. The title was stark:

The Veil as Gateway, Not Wall.

The text began in heavy, slanting script:

We Blacks have always been close to the Veil, haunted by our ancestors and our enemies alike. For even in death, we cannot escape them. No Black has ever recorded what lies beyond, and so I shall be the first—for the sake of future generations.

It was never meant to be a curse. It was a gift of our bloodline, though it has weakened significantly through the centuries. In my study, I have gained access to countless journal entries from those who came before us. Their words are fragmented, often mad, but they share threads of truth. I have copied some of the most vital passages here, for those with eyes willing to see.

Lucien’s breath hitched as his gaze trailed down the list of names scrawled beneath—Blacks long-dead, their “voices” preserved in cryptic fragments. The hairs on his arms stood on end.

He tightened his grip on the book. Answers lay here. Answers he wasn’t sure he was ready for, but could no longer turn away from.

“Sir?” a small voice called warily, and Lucien jumped, slamming the book shut so hard the sound cracked through the library. His pulse thundered until he caught sight of the intruder.

It was only Dobby.

Lucien exhaled a shaky sigh of relief, sinking back into the armchair.

 

“Is sir well?” Dobby asked curiously, wide eyes blinking. “Sir should be sleeping.”

“Call me Lucien, Dobby,” he reminded him for what felt like the hundredth time, dragging a tired hand through his unruly hair. “And I couldn’t sleep.”

Dobby’s ears drooped, but then he brightened a little. “Would sir like tea then?” he offered hesitantly.

“Yes, thank you so much, Dobby.” Lucien’s lips twitched into a faint smile, polite despite the exhaustion tugging at his face.

The elf lit up instantly, snapping his fingers. He vanished with a crack and reappeared almost at once, clutching a steaming cup. “Here you go, sir! Black, just how sir likes it!”

Lucien accepted it with another small smile, cradling the warmth between his palms before taking a sip. It steadied him, even if only a little. He set the cup down carefully on the table beside him—and then a thought flickered through his mind like a spark catching kindling.

“Say, Dobby…” His voice was steady, but deliberate. “Won’t you take a seat?”

The elf froze, ears twitching, wringing his hands nervously. His gaze darted toward the empty chair opposite Lucien as if it might bite. “Are you sure, sir? Dobby isn’t usually asked to sit.”

“Of course I’m sure,” Lucien said patiently, tilting his head in quiet insistence. “Please, sit. We’re friends, aren’t we?”

Dobby hesitated, then gave a slow, almost shy nod. He clambered onto the chair, posture stiff, as though sitting in a place meant for wizards was some sort of crime.

Lucien’s expression softened. “I just have some questions, if that’s alright with you.” His tone was surprisingly gentle, lacking the sharp edges most wizards used when speaking to house-elves.

“More about house-elves, sir?” Dobby asked, his voice lighter now, his shoulders untensing a little.

“Not quite.” Lucien leaned forward, his tired eyes flickering with something far more intent. “I wanted to talk to you about someone very close to me.”

“Oh?” Dobby’s ears twitched again. “Who would that be, sir?”

And just like that, Lucien watched the nervousness return, folding over the elf like a shadow. Dobby’s fingers began to twist in his lap, and Lucien stifled a sigh.
“I have this friend,” Lucien began carefully, weighing each word as though it were fragile glass. “We’re very close—the goblins even call us brothers in arms. And we do consider each other brothers. His safety is… very important to me.”

“Sir cares very much for his friends,” Dobby said, a flicker of warmth softening his usually anxious tone.

Lucien smiled faintly. “I do. I’d do anything for you all—you mean the world to me.”

Dobby’s whole face lit up at being included, his ears twitching in delight. For a moment, the elf almost looked proud.

But Lucien’s tone shifted, quiet but steady. “Which is why I was incredibly worried,” he continued, “when I was told by Harry Potter that a house-elf named Dobby had been stealing his letters.”

The reaction was instant. Dobby let out a shrill screech, his small hands striking his own face. “Bad Dobby! Bad, bad Dobby!” He pummeled his head against the chair’s armrest, wailing.

“Stop—no, Dobby!” Lucien lurched forward, horrified. “Don’t hurt yourself, you’re not in trouble!”

The words cut through the self-punishment, and Dobby froze mid-swing, trembling, tears welling in his enormous eyes. He stared at Lucien as though he’d just been spoken to in a language he didn’t recognize.

“I just want you to explain,” Lucien said gently, voice softening into something that sounded almost like a plea. “Why were you doing that?”

Dobby sniffled, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Harry Potter is in danger.”

Lucien leaned forward, gripping the edge of his chair. “Tell me everything.”

The elf’s mouth opened, then snapped shut again. His hands twisted together in his lap.

“Dobby,” Lucien pressed on, his tone calm but unyielding. “Harry Potter is my brother. And I protect the people I care about. But I cannot protect him if you don’t tell me what’s going on.”

“Sir is not safe either,” Dobby whispered, and there was a note of horror in his voice that made Lucien’s stomach clench. “But Dobby cannot stop anything.”

“You can tell me things, though,” Lucien coaxed, leaning closer. His voice was soft, persuasive, patient. “Not everything. Just enough to keep Harry—and me—safe. Can’t you?”

For a long moment, Dobby only stared at him, trembling, as though waging some silent internal war. Then, at last, he gave a stiff nod. “Dobby… Dobby can’t say much. But Dobby can say that there is a plot. A deadly one. For Mr. Potter… and Lord Black.”

A chill ran through Lucien’s spine, though his face betrayed nothing but calm. “Can you tell me anything about the plot?” he asked quietly.

Dobby shook his head, ears drooping. “Dobby is sorry. So, so sorry.” His voice cracked into a sob.

“It’s not your fault, Dobby.” Lucien exhaled, sounding far older than his years. “Thank you. For being honest with me. For telling me what you could.”

Dobby sniffled again, his tears drying as he stood from the chair, bowing low. “Of course, sir.” He hesitated, fidgeting with his hands. “Dobby is required in the kitchens now, sir…”

“Of course,” Lucien replied with a small, tired smile. “Don’t let me keep you.”

The elf’s expression softened, just for a second, into something almost like a grateful smile. Then, with a sharp pop, he was gone.

Lucien’s eyes drifted back to the book, lingering warily on its cracked spine. He let his head fall back against the chair and closed his eyes, a humorless huff escaping his chest.

So much for this year being easier, he thought wryly.

At least he had time—some time—to prepare. He would go into this school year with the knowledge that Harry was in danger and would need protection. That much was certain. It wasn’t ideal, but it was something to work with. It would have to be enough.

His mind, however, refused to settle. The weight of unspoken responsibilities pressed down on him like stones in his pockets. There was so much to do, and so very little time to do it in. With a tired sigh, Lucien extended a hand. His magic stirred at his call, and from his bedroom upstairs came the familiar tug of something small and leather-bound.

The journal Remus had given him last Christmas slapped neatly into his palm, its cover still unmarked, the pages untouched. A blank slate, waiting. Lucien had been hesitant to write in it—almost reverent of it, in truth—but tonight he needed order. If nothing else, a place to corral the chaos in his head.

Pulling the ink and quill closer, he dipped the nib with care and began to write, his script sharp, deliberate:

 

To Do

-Figure out what the deadly plot at Hogwarts is.

 

-Keep Harry alive.

 

-Keep his friends alive.

 

-Try out for the Quidditch team?

 

-Research more on the Black legacy.

 

-Research necromancy and soul magic.

 

-Confront Severus about his father.

 

-Expose Lockhart as a fraud—get a competent DADA teacher?

 

-Figure out why his godmother is in his dreams.

 

-French lessons with Draco.

 

-Write to Narcissa once a week.

 

-Try to make Draco not a prat (may be impossible).

 

Lucien paused, the quill hovering over the page as though the next thought were heavier than ink could hold. With a faint frown, he finally lowered the nib.

-Figure out where I stand with Remus.

 

“Homework this late at night?” a soft voice spoke up behind him, smooth as silk.

Lucien didn’t jump this time. He only closed the journal with a muted snap and set it neatly atop the other book. “Just organizing my thoughts,” he said, offering a half-truth.

“What's troubling you Ma Cherie?” Narsissa inquires softly.

She takes a step forward, her pale features softened by the glow of the dying fire. She lowered herself gracefully into the chair opposite him, studying him with eyes that missed very little. Lucien instinctively leaned back in his seat, weighing what he could tell her that wasn’t an outright lie.

The best liars kept as close to the truth as possible.

“Remus and I… got into a bit of a spat,” Lucien began carefully. “I found out my father was a Death Eater in the paper, and he—well, he could have told me. I was angry.”

Narcissa’s lips twitched into a knowing smile. “And then you lashed out? Not with fists, of course. Words cut much deeper, don’t they?”

Lucien hesitated, wary of how easily she unraveled him, but finally nodded.

“And then,” she continued smoothly, tilting her head, “you found yourself reluctant to let go of that anger. Even when part of you wanted to, pride wrapped its claws around it, didn’t it?”

Lucien’s throat felt tight. He lowered his eyes to the table, voice dropping. “It won’t let go. Every time I try to just… talk with him, it twists into more sharp remarks. Then I end up hiding in my room like a coward.”

“Mmm.” Narcissa inclined her head, a slow, deliberate movement. “And it’s in those moments, alone with your pride, that you convince yourself you don’t care. That it doesn’t matter if you’ve wounded someone you love.”

Lucien’s gaze snapped to hers, startled at the accuracy. The words stung, because they were true.

“How do you know all this?” His voice carried a sharp edge of suspicion.

Her smile was kind, but tinged with sorrow, a sadness that seemed older than both of them put together. “Because, Ma Chérie, we Blacks share more than just a name. We share our brilliance, our cunning… and our anger. It is a legacy we wrestle with, one of our less charming gifts.”

“Delightful,” Lucien muttered bitterly. “How do I fix it?”

“You force yourself to let go,” Narcissa said gently, reaching across the table to take one of his hands in hers. He tensed at the touch, but she ignored it,her voice steady. “When you tell yourself you don’t care, you must remind yourself you do.”

“Right,” Lucien breathed, so faint it was nearly a whisper. Carefully, he slipped his hand free and rose from his chair. “I find myself… growing tired. I’ll head back to sleep now.”

“Of course,” she replied softly, the same knowing look lingering in her eyes.

Lucien snatched up his notebook as he turned to leave, catching the flicker of her gaze—sharp, curious—settled on the book that still lay beneath it. He tucked his journal close to his chest before swiftly departing, the echo of her words following him into the shadows.

 

 

Remus Pov

 

 

“Lucien, I’m sorry I didn’t tell you…”

 

No.

 

“Cub—”

 

No.

 

“I have never regretted anything more—”

 

Lie.

 

The words replayed in Remus’s mind like a curse. He exhaled wearily, leaning back on the couch before the fire, waiting for his ward to come home. His ward who, at present, wanted nothing to do with him.

He knew he’d ruined things. Badly. And he had no idea how to mend it. Not that he could—Lucien wouldn’t even speak to him. Ever since the boy had learned the truth, he had avoided Remus entirely, leaving him to replay that day in his head over and over again.

He should have told him. From the start.

But he hadn’t. And now, as Lucien loved to say, he had to live with that. The boy’s blunt, unflinching view of the world was far too real for someone his age, and Remus often forgot he was still just a child.

Accountability mattered to Lucien. Honesty mattered. He had a frightening clarity when it came to morality—Remus had no doubt the boy would walk dark paths if it meant protecting those he cared about. And what trust he had was reserved carefully. Lucien trusted almost no adults. Remus had earned it somehow. Even Severus had. Only because they treated him like a person. No lies, no pretenses—just truth and the commitment to stay. That, for Lucien, had always been enough.

Until Remus failed. He hadn’t lied—but keeping him ignorant of his father’s identity had been a betrayal. One Lucien could not forgive.

And yet… there was still hope. Every time Lucien defended him. Every time he instinctively leaned on Remus’s presence. His boy—his cub—still saw him as his, perhaps a little possessively. But Remus understood. They were werewolves. That bond was instinctive. It had to be enough.

If only the boy would speak to him.

As though summoned by the thought, the Floo flared. Green fire, then Lucien stepping through.

Remus’s eyes swept over him immediately, checking for harm. No blood. No injuries. Nothing visible. Relief loosened his chest—until he really looked.

Lucien stood frozen, shock written in every line of him. His hair had grown over the summer, soft dirty-blond curls brushing his ears and the back of his neck. He’d shot up a couple of inches, gained some healthy weight. But his dark-blue eyes were exhausted, hollow in a way that worried Remus deeply. His skin seemed paler than ever, making the scars across his face and neck stand out like cruel strokes of ink.

Remus opened his mouth—

But the boy was already gone, darting wordlessly down the hall and into his room.

The slam of the door echoed. Remus pressed his hands over his face, sighing into the silence.

Remus couldn’t sleep.

He sat hunched on the sagging old couch, staring at the flickering firelight. The only time he rose was to set a plate of food outside Lucien’s door. He already knew that by morning it would be empty, left neatly outside for him to collect. At least his boy was eating. That was something.

In the quiet, Remus listened. The sound of Lucien’s heartbeat—steady, faintly audible through the walls—was an anchor. Reassurance. He knew the boy had forgotten to set up his silencing charm tonight. Normally, Lucien was meticulous about it. The first time he had, Remus had nearly collapsed in panic, thinking the child had run away when he couldn’t hear him breathing. He’d flung open the door only to find Lucien asleep. After that, he understood. The boy wanted privacy. Control.

Remus had shut the door quietly that night and walked away, heart heavy.

But tonight, with no silencing charm, he sat awake in the living room, listening to that fragile heartbeat as though it were the only thing keeping him tethered.

He had never been so terrified in his life—not infiltrating werewolves’ ranks, not standing across from Voldemort himself, not even staring into Fenrir’s feral eyes. None of that compared to the moment he received a letter from Severus Snape of all people, telling him his ward had nearly died and lay in critical condition in the hospital wing.

That had been the single most horrifying moment of his life.

He remembered it with painful clarity. The corridor outside the hospital wing doors, Albus standing grim-faced as a storm of children argued and shouted accusations at him. Remus hadn’t cared for any of it. He had shouldered past them all, eyes locked on Dumbledore with such deadly intent that the twinkle in those blue eyes finally faltered. Without a word, the headmaster had opened the door.

Lucien was stable by then—but barely. The sight of him lying pale and still beside Harry, both boys resembling corpses more than children, had nearly undone him. He’d dropped into a chair at Lucien’s side, clutching his cold hand as if that alone could anchor him to the living.

“You’re Remus,” a voice had said.

Remus lifted his head, startled. A boy in green robes stood nearby, watching him with unnerving composure.

“Yes,” Remus admitted hoarsely, squeezing Lucien’s hand tighter.

“You’re like him?” the boy pressed.

Remus blinked, heart stuttering. How could he possibly know? His gaze snapped toward the boy, searching.

“How…?” he began faintly.

The boy only arched a brow, silent but certain.

Of course. Lucien’s friends would know.

Remus exhaled, weary. “…Yes. I am.”

The boy nodded, as if he’d expected the answer all along. “Then how do we help him?”

Remus faltered. He glanced around and saw two others hovering nearby—a red-haired boy and a bushy-haired girl—hovering at Harry and Lucien’s bedsides, both watching him with wide, desperate eyes.

“There is no helping him,” Remus said quietly, the words tasting like ash. “It’s what he is. There’s no stopping it.”

“We don’t want to stop it,” the girl—Hermione, it had to be—snapped, rolling her eyes with an edge of impatience. “Of course, if there were a cure, that would be different, but it would be Lucien’s decision if he’d even want it—”

“Mione, you’re rambling,” the red-haired boy muttered, tugging at her sleeve. She shot him a glare sharp enough to cut.

“He hurts himself,” the boy in green continued coolly—Theodore Nott, Remus realized belatedly. “How do we help him with that?”

“You don’t,” Remus whispered, voice low, brittle. “There’s no certain way to stop the wolf from wanting to escape.”

Hermione leaned forward, sharp-eyed, suspicion practically radiating off her. “That sounds like there is an answer—and you’re not telling us.”

Theodore narrowed his eyes, gaze like a blade as if ready to press the question further—

But before he could, the doors burst open and two identical redheaded boys stormed in, their red robes billowing dramatically behind them.

“We brought cards!” one of the twins announced cheerfully, plopping himself onto the end of Lucien’s bed as if it were perfectly normal.

His brother didn’t join him immediately. He stood frozen for a moment, staring at Lucien’s still, pale body with something that looked too raw for jokes. Only when the first twin tugged firmly at his sleeve did he break away, dropping down beside him.

And so the children played cards. Their chatter filled the room, too bright, too forced, a desperate kind of noise against the silence of two unmoving bodies. They laughed, bickered, groaned at bad hands—pretending with all the strength they had that their friends weren’t lying motionless inches away.

Remus said nothing. He just held Lucien’s cold hand between both of his own, clinging as if warmth might seep back into it if he willed hard enough.

As dusk settled and the light outside grew darker, Madam Pomfrey appeared, clapping her hands briskly.

“All right, that’s quite enough. Out with you lot. It’s nearly dinnertime.”

“We can eat in here,” Theodore said immediately, laying down another card with stubborn precision. He winced when a spark of wild magic bit at his fingers but didn’t move his hand away quickly enough.

“You cannot eat your meals in here,” Madam Pomfrey replied, her tone weary but firm.

“Sure we can,” one of the twins said without looking up, tossing a card onto the pile.

“Positive the house-elves wouldn’t mind bringing us a tray,” the other twin added smoothly, as though it were already settled.

“I must insist—” Madam Pomfrey began, her hands planting on her hips.

“You can insist all you like,” Ron cut in, his voice edged with a sharpness Remus had never heard from a child his age.

Remus blinked at him, startled.

“We’re staying until they wake up,” Hermione declared, chin lifting, eyes blazing as she stared the matron down. “If you want us gone, I’m afraid you’ll have to expel us all.”

The words hung heavy in the air. For a moment, Remus almost expected Pomfrey to explode.

But then—

“That won’t be necessary, Miss Granger.”

A familiar, drawling voice cut in from the doorway.

Remus turned, heart tightening. Severus stood there, pale and drawn, robes swishing softly as he entered.

“I’ll watch over them, Poppy,” he said, voice stripped of its usual bite, carrying instead a bone-deep exhaustion. His dark eyes flicked to Lucien, then Harry, then Remus. “In fact… I suspect all of us will be keeping guard tonight.”

For a long moment, the only sound was the shuffle of cards.

Madam Pomfrey huffed, lips pressing thin, and with a muttered, “Stubborn, every last one of you,” she turned on her heel and retreated to her office, the door shutting a little harder than necessary behind her.

The children exchanged quick, victorious glances, then quietly resumed their game, voices softer now—as though they knew the adults’ hearts were too frayed to withstand much more.

And Remus stayed, clutching Lucien’s hand, silently grateful for their refusal to leave.

Remus was wrenched out of memory by an ear-splitting scream. Instinct took over before thought could catch up—he bolted down the hall, shouldering open his child’s bedroom door with a slam.

Lucien was thrashing in tangled sheets, his body arching and jerking as if he were fighting invisible chains. His face was twisted in agony, a soundless cry tearing at his throat, and for one wild moment Remus thought he might fling himself right off the bed.

“Lucien—!” Remus was at his side in a heartbeat, grabbing hold before the boy could hurt himself. He tugged him upright against his chest, pinning his wrists with firm but gentle hands. “Cub, it’s okay! You’re here, at the cottage—your room, your bed—it’s just you and me. Nothing’s going to hurt you.”

Lucien strained against him for another long, harrowing minute, eyes shut tight as though walled off in some nightmare battlefield.

“Let go of me.”

The words came hoarse, but they were real. Present.

Relief washed through Remus so strongly his knees nearly buckled. He released Lucien’s wrists at once.

“Right,” he whispered faintly, chest still heaving. “Are you… are you all right?”

“M’fine,” Lucien mumbled, already curling away, burying his face into the pillow as if ashamed of having been seen so undone.

Remus sighed, closing his eyes against the helpless ache pressing behind them. “Right,” he echoed softly. He pushed himself to his feet, smoothing his robes with hands that trembled more than he wanted to admit. “I’ll… leave you, then.”

He had just reached the door when a voice, quiet and almost breaking, stopped him.

“Moony—wait.”

Remus turned despite himself, despite the warning not to hope too much. He raised a brow in question.

Lucien sat stiffly on the bed, gaze fixed not on him but on the quilt pooled at his knees. His hands twisted in the fabric, knuckles white. The boy looked as though he were locked in some silent battle with himself.

The sight dragged Remus back decades in an instant—to a much younger Sirius Black, sitting in the same hunched position after one of their rows, caught between pride and the desperate need to be forgiven.

“I’m sorry,” Lucien muttered at last, the words barely there. They bled into the memory of Sirius’s voice in Remus’s mind until the two were indistinguishable.

“I didn’t mean to say all of those things, or be so mean. I just…”

I just get so angry, Moony, and I can’t stop it, Sirius had once confessed, eyes bright with tears he would never allow to fall. It eats me alive, bites at everything good until there’s nothing left.

Lucien’s voice overlapped with the ghost of it, raw and haunting. “I was just so angry, Moony.”

The resemblance struck Remus like a blow. The same restless fire, the same destructive guilt—Sirius’s shadow carried forward into the boy before him.

Slowly, deliberately, Remus returned to the bed and sat. His voice was calm but steady, leaving no room for escape.

“Cub,” he said gently, “look at me.”

Lucien hesitated. For a heartbeat Remus thought he wouldn’t—but then the boy lifted his head. His eyes glimmered in the half-light, rimmed with unshed tears that Remus knew he would never allow to fall.

And Merlin help him, it broke Remus’s heart all over again.

“We will fight,” Remus began softly, his voice steady but warm. “I’ll mess up. You’ll mess up.”

Lucien’s eyes dropped for a moment, but then he forced them back up, holding his guardian’s gaze. Remus could see the shame flickering there, see how Lucien was making himself endure it—as if staring Remus down was some kind of self-inflicted punishment, a penance for all the anger he’d unleashed.

“But we’re family, aren’t we?” Remus continued gently, leaning just enough to catch his eye without demanding it. “And families fight. That’s what they do. But they also forgive. As long as you apologize, cub, I will always forgive you.”

Lucien gave the smallest of nods, hesitant, as though bracing himself for the punishment that never came.

Remus let out a long sigh, rubbing a hand down his own face before speaking again. “And when I’m in the wrong, I will apologize too.” He paused, letting the weight of it settle. “I am sorry, cub. I should have told you the truth. I didn’t want to be the one to break your heart, so I held back… but that was cowardice, and that’s on me.”

Something shifted in Lucien’s eyes then. They flicked upward, softer, more open—as though the words had unclenched something inside him. Remus felt the moment like a release of breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

“Forgiven,” Lucien whispered, and for the first time since the nightmare he looked away, his shoulders easing, no longer straining toward punishment. “Are we… are we okay, Moony?”

Remus’s throat tightened, but he managed a smile. “We will be,” he said carefully, and slipped an arm around the boy. Lucien leaned into him almost at once, his body weary, his eyes too heavy for someone so young. “Eventually, everything will be okay. This… this is the start.”

Lucien gave another tiny nod, the tension draining from him as he sagged into Remus’s side. Within moments his breathing evened, and he was asleep, curled trustingly against him.

Remus held him a little longer than necessary, listening to the steady heartbeat, committing the moment to memory. Only when Lucien was deep in sleep did he carefully ease him back onto his pillow, tucking the blankets up around his shoulders.

He stood there a moment longer, brushing a stray lock of hair from Lucien’s brow, before slipping silently back to his own room—heart heavy, but steadier than it had been in days.

 

Remus escorted Lucien to Platform Nine and Three-Quarters once more. The familiar bustle of families, the sharp hiss of steam, and the echoing calls of owls filled the air, but Lucien’s eyes weren’t on the spectacle this time. He was watching everything warily, his posture tense, as if at any moment something might leap out at him. It was such a stark contrast to the boy’s first year—when he’d stood in awe, drinking in the chaos with bright-eyed wonder—that it twisted something in Remus’s chest.

“Is everything alright?” Remus asked quietly as they wove through the crowd toward the scarlet train.

“Yep,” Lucien replied—too quick, too clipped, in a way that made it sound very much like a no. His sharp gaze flicked across the crowd again. “Gotta find Harry.”

“Of course you do.” Remus huffed a laugh, though he couldn’t help the pang of worry beneath it. His shoulders loosened as he hefted Lucien’s trunk up into the train, setting it aside. Lucien followed close, Mouse cradled protectively in his arms, the little creature meowing irritably at the steam and chatter. The boy’s eyes swept the corridor, sharp and searching.

“Hey.” Remus’s voice pulled him back. Lucien blinked, glancing up. “Write to me every day, will you?”

Lucien’s lips twitched with a flash of amusement. “I’ll do my best. At least four times a week.”

After a beat of hesitation, he leaned in and hugged him, Mouse squished indignantly between them, tail lashing against their arms.

“Sounds reasonable,” Remus chuckled, hugging him tightly despite the cat’s protests. “And you’ll be home for the holidays?”

He felt Lucien nod against his chest before pulling back, his hand absently smoothing the ruffled fur on Mouse’s head. “If you want me, I’ll be there.”

The words landed heavy in Remus’s heart, sweet and aching all at once. He wanted to say I always want you home, but he knew better than to press. Instead, he gave him a gentle smile and said softly, “I’ll see you soon, then.”

The way Lucien’s eyes lit up at that—just for a moment, bright and unguarded—was enough. He slipped onto the train with Mouse tucked against his chest, vanishing into the crowded corridor.

Remus stood there watching until the boy disappeared from sight, the noise of the platform muffled by the sudden, hollow quiet in his chest.

Chapter 4: Be a Better Friend

Notes:

Hellooooooo
Finally almost 40k words later, Lucien is at hogwarts.
good gods.
anyways as always
enjoy~

Lucien felt lighter than he had all summer.

He stepped aside as new first years ran shrieking down the corridor of the Hogwarts Express, laughter trailing behind them. Mouse hissed from the safety of his arms, ears flat. Lucien only gave her an amused look before shaking his head and moving on, ducking a firework—no doubt one of the twins’—with casual grace.

Magic would never stop amazing him, honestly.

The enthusiasm buzzing through the train was contagious, Lucien could admit, but he wasn’t in the mood to bask in it. The sooner Harry was in his line of sight, the better.

Sometimes he wondered if he cared so much about Harry that he didn’t care enough about anyone else. He’d mentioned it to Remus once, and Remus asked him to take a seat, which he did—nervously, because all the hardest talks seemed to happen sitting down.

Remus had looked at him seriously and asked, “Do your other friends often find themselves in life-or-death situations?”

Lucien had snorted. “Of course—well, except for Theo. But I think there’s something wrong there. He doesn’t want to be left behind, but he looks so bloody terrified every time… I cut him a safer job.”

“Right,” Remus had said dryly. “Because being terrified of life-or-death situations is completely abnormal.”

Lucien had frowned. “You don’t get it.”

“No,” Remus replied, gentler now, “I suppose I don’t. Regardless—last year, Mr. Weasley was hurt, wasn’t he?”

“Yeah. He got hit on the head. I healed him as best I could, though.”

“I know you did.” Remus had smiled, kind but a little sad. “That’s something a good friend would do, wouldn’t it?”

Lucien had mumbled, uncertain, “’Spose so, yeah.”

“And why was Mr. Weasley in that situation in the first place?”

“Because Harry said we had to save the stone from Snape, which is mad, honestly, Snape would never—”

“Cub.” Remus had cut him off gently. “My point is, Harry needed to go after the stone. And you needed to protect him. But when Ron was hurt, you still stopped to make sure he’d be okay. That sounds like a good friend to me. The truth is, Harry just finds himself in very dangerous situations—and that makes you worry more than usual, doesn’t it?”

Lucien had blinked, then laughed. “Yeah. Bloody hell, Moony, you’re brilliant.”

“Keep that in mind,” Remus had warned, “because I’ve no problem putting it in a Pensieve to remind you.”

The memory tugged a small smile out of him now, even as guilt gnawed faintly at the edges. He’d do better this year. He’d be a better friend.

He finally made it to the compartment they’d claimed as theirs last year. Without hesitation, he slid open the door.

Theo and Hermione were in the middle of yet another debate—hands flying, voices sharp but not biting, completely absorbed. Neither of them even glanced up.

Lucien leaned casually against the doorway, a smile tugging at his lips as he watched them spar.

“And how exactly do you suggest we do that, Granger? We can’t possibly—” Theo began, only for Mouse to decide she’d had enough neglect. With a decisive leap, she launched herself out of Lucien’s arms and straight into Hermione’s lap.

Hermione shrieked and nearly toppled off the seat, sending Mouse skidding to the floor. The little creature looked so offended that Lucien’s lips twitched with barely contained laughter.

“Mione, scared of a kitten? Who would’ve thought,” he drawled, finally making his presence known.

Both their heads snapped around.

“Lou!” Hermione cried, abandoning her spot to practically fling herself into his arms. Lucien didn’t even think—he just braced himself and caught her, grinning into the tumble of her hair.

“Hello, Mione,” he greeted through a mouthful of curls.

“How long have you been standing there, mate?” Theo asked, sounding a little too cautious for Lucien’s liking.

Lucien frowned faintly. “Not that long. Sorry—was it a private conversation?”

Hermione let him go but immediately reached for his hand, squeezing. “Of course not,” she said brightly. But the quick glance she and Theo shared made him doubt it.

“Right,” Lucien said lightly, not pushing. “Anyone seen Harry?”

“No. I’m assuming he’s probably off with the Weasleys,” Theo said, sliding back into his seat with studied calm.

“Fair enough.” Lucien nodded, letting it go.

Hermione had reclaimed her place, still holding onto his hand like she wasn’t quite ready to let go. Eventually he disentangled himself, remembering his ever-growing to do list. He crouched down by his trunk, flipping it open.

That’s when his breath caught.

Sitting neatly atop his belongings—where there should have been nothing—was the leatherbound book he’d left in the Malfoys’ library. The one about the Veil.

And beside it lay something else. A thinner, darker journal. Its spine gleamed with silver lettering: T. M. Riddle.

Lucien froze, pulse jumping.

What the fuck?

His first instinct screamed to slam the trunk shut, but instead he forced himself to move casually. He plucked out his own notebook, leaving the other two exactly where they sat. Not here. Not now. He’d deal with it later. He shoved the unease down deep and sat back on the seat.

With a quick flourish, he dipped his quill in ink and crossed off an old line: Find where I stand with Remus.

Then he scribbled in three new ones, tight and deliberate:

 

—Journal from Malfoys

 

—Someone named Riddle?

 

—Be a better friend

 

“What’s that?” Hermione asked, leaning curiously over his shoulder.

Lucien snapped the notebook shut so quickly the sound cracked. He slid it back into the trunk and heaved the whole thing into the overhead compartment with unnecessary force.

“To-do list,” he said shortly.

Theodore snorted behind his book.

Lucien shot him a glare sharp enough to cut. Theo, of course, only quirked his lips into that infuriatingly innocent half-smile.

“He doesn’t want to tell you yet.”

The voice was airy, lilting, so eerily like his godmother’s that Lucien’s heart lurched to a stop.

“He will eventually,” the voice continued serenely.

Hermione stiffened beside him. “And… who are you?” she asked slowly, cautiously.

“Luna Lovegood,” the girl said.

Lucien finally forced himself to turn, and the sight nearly unmoored him. A tiny girl stood there with hair like spun silver, flowing down her shoulders as though it carried light in its strands. She had a sunflower clasped delicately in one hand, another tucked behind her ear like a crown. Her wide, unblinking eyes—so like Pandora’s it made his throat tighten—met his, and he blinked rapidly, unsettled.

“And how do you know Lucien?” Theo asked, every bit as cautious as Hermione, his posture tense.

Luna laughed, the sound bright and strange, like chiming bells. “He’s my godbrother, of course.”

She skipped over before any of them could react, holding out the sunflower. “Here. This is for you.”

Lucien accepted the flower gingerly, fingers brushing the petals as if they might crumble. He didn’t move, didn’t breathe. Luna didn’t seem to notice; she simply plopped herself down on the seat and began humming softly, utterly content while three sets of eyes stared at her like she had cracked reality.

Lucien glanced helplessly at Theo, but Theo only shot him a look that screamed you’re on your own, mate.

Lucien swallowed hard. “…It’s nice to meet you?” His words came out uncertain, almost questioning. Still, he carefully sat down beside the little girl who bore such a resemblance to his godmother it made his chest ache.

“We’ve met before!” she said brightly. “Don’t you remember? You gave me a sunflower. I showed it to my mummy, but she was lost.”

Lucien froze. He didn’t know exactly when Pandora had died, but something about the way Luna said lost made it sound synonymous with dead.

“I’m… sorry to hear that,” Lucien managed quietly. Out of the corner of his eye, Hermione and Theo leaned forward, rapt, as though this was too surreal to look away from.

“It’s okay. She’s never too far.” Luna smiled dreamily, the words heavy with something ominous that made the air feel colder.

“…Yeah. S’pose she isn’t,” Lucien said awkwardly, his voice rough.

Luna turned her big, silvery eyes on him and smiled like she knew. She leaned forward and whispered, though it wasn’t soft enough to keep the other two from hearing:

“Mummy’s told me all about you. She says you’ll love me very much, and be a very good big brother. She said I should stick with you.”

Lucien gawked, breath caught in his throat.

He’d never been told I love you. Never told anyone that he loved them, let alone that he was capable of it. Yet here was this strange little girl—who should know nothing—telling him, with certainty, that a dead woman who haunted his dreams had promised they were family.

And Pandora hadn’t been wrong so far.

“S’pose that’s settled then, isn’t it?” Lucien said with a hesitant, playful smile.

Luna giggled, the sound light as chimes. “S’pose it is,” she echoed, mimicking his tone so perfectly that his lips twitched despite himself. Then she turned, fixing her luminous gaze on his friends.

“Hello, Hermione. Hello, Theodore. It’s nice to finally meet you.”

All three froze. Lucien’s stomach dipped. None of them had told Luna their names.

This year was going to be… exciting, wasn’t it?

“It’s nice to meet you too,” Theo managed at last, polite but wary. He cut a sharp look at Hermione that silenced whatever protest she’d been about to make.

“Call him Theo, Luna,” Lucien said gently, slipping into an odd mix of fondness and unease. He glanced at his watch, frowning at the time.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Luna replied, her expression briefly clouding with a small frown of her own. Then, without looking at him, she tilted her head as though listening to some voice only she could hear.

“Oh,” she said softly. “Lucien’s about to be terribly upset. Don’t panic. He’s just worried about Harry.”

Lucien’s head snapped up, his chest tightening. He stared at the little girl humming idly, her gaze on her hands, as though she hadn’t just dropped a curse of dread into the room.

“Luna—what do you mean—”

The question was swallowed by the sudden lurch of the train as it jerked into motion.

“What’s wrong with Harry?” Lucien demanded, desperate, but Luna only shook her head after a moment, her voice dreamlike.

“Nothing’s wrong with Harry.”

Her words gave no comfort.

Theo, Hermione, and Lucien exchanged a sharp, silent look—tension snapping into urgency. In the next breath, all three were on their feet.

“Theo, you check the last cars. Mione, the middle. Luna—you’re with me, we’ll take the front. Meet back here once every compartment’s been searched. Go.”

There was no hesitation. Theo and Hermione both nodded and darted off in opposite directions.

Luna slipped her hand into Lucien’s without asking. He almost pulled away, almost left her behind—then Pandora’s voice whispered in the back of his mind. Stick with her.

So he let her stay.

 

Together, they searched every single compartment in the front of the train. Every single one. Lucien’s nerves hummed with rising dread, but Luna’s grip on his hand stayed steady, her humming soft and unbothered—as though she already knew exactly what they would, or wouldn’t, find.

 

 

Two Ravenclaws and a Gryffindor with a Hufflepuff.

Nope.

Five Gryffindors squeezed into one.

 

No.

Two Slytherins, a Ravenclaw, and a Hufflepuff.

 

Two Gryffindors—nope—wait.

 

 

Lucien slid the door open.

 

 

“Fred, George—have you seen Harry and Ron?” he asked, voice taut with desperation.

Both twins startled, jerking upright and shoving something hastily behind their backs. Lucien ignored it completely—he couldn’t care less about whatever mischief they were plotting. He just needed proof Harry and Ron were here.

“No, we haven’t—” George began.

“—we assumed they’d be with you and your lot,” Fred finished, his tone careful.

“Well, they’re not,” Lucien snapped, the edge of desperation slipping into his voice despite himself. “Mione and Theo are checking the other cars, but we’ve gone through every compartment up here and this is the last one.”

The twins exchanged a quick glance, the kind they thought no one noticed. George shoved something into the trunk above their heads before standing.

“I’m sure one of them’s found them by now,” Fred said, aiming for calm. But Lucien caught the tension in his shoulders, the stiffness in his voice. He was worried too.

Lucien gave a sharp nod, already turning back down the corridor, Luna’s small hand still linked with his. He tried not to drag her in his rush.

The twins fell in behind without another word.

Theo and Hermione were pacing in the compartment when Lucien returned, the twins close on his heels.

The sight of them alone made his heart plummet straight to his stomach.

“They’re not here?” Lucien hissed, the sharpness in his voice betraying both fear and frustration.

“No!” Hermione wailed, wringing her hands. Theo shot her a wary glance, like he was afraid she might unravel completely. “We even double-checked! Ron and Harry aren’t on the train!”

“Fuck!” Lucien shouted, the word tearing out of him before he could choke it down. The twins flinched, Hermione froze mid-step, and even Theo stiffened at the outburst. Only Luna didn’t move—she simply squeezed his hand, grounding him, her pale eyes as calm as still water.

“He’ll be alright,” she whispered, so soft it felt like the words drifted straight past the chaos in his chest. “You’ll see him tomorrow morning.”

Her voice carried the same haunting certainty as Pandora’s had in the dreamscape, and for a moment Lucien couldn’t breathe. Everyone else was still wound tight, waiting for him to snap again, but Luna’s presence tethered him.

“Tomorrow?” Lucien confirms warily.

“That’s what the witch said!” Fred piped up with forced cheer. He looked tense beneath the grin, but not nearly as strung out as before. He and his twin flopped uninvited into the compartment, Fred tossing Lucien a wink that earned only a flat, bewildered stare in return. “Luna’s a bit odd, but she’s usually right.”

“Don’t call her odd, Frederick,” Lucien hissed, eyes narrowing.

Fred’s eyes went wide, panic flooding his expression. “I didn’t mean odd in a bad way! I mean—I’m odd, she’s odd—bloody hell, you’re the oddest of the lot, and I like you! Wait—no, that came out wrong—I mean odd’s good, I like odd, not that I don’t—”

“Freddie,” George cut in, leaning back with amusement tugging at his lips. Theo, meanwhile, had pressed himself into the corner, clearly seconds from laughing himself sick. “You ramble when you’re nervous.”

Lucien blinked at Fred’s frantic flailing, utterly unamused. “Right,” he said flatly. “Could’ve just said you didn’t mean it like that, Freddie.”

Fred frowned, thrown by the name. “What happened to Frederick?”

Lucien only stared at him, blank and unreadable, which somehow rattled Fred even more.

Hermione and Theo shared a look of quiet amusement. Lucien did not like it one bit.

“Exploding Snaps, anyone?” Fred offered a bit too brightly, his grin wobbling at the edges.

Theo snorted. Hermione promptly folded over laughing, and George only shook his head with long-suffering fondness. Even Luna let out a silvery little giggle.

Lucien sat there, huffing internally. It felt like they were all in on some joke, and he was the punchline.

“Lucien’s tired of Exploding Snaps,” Luna announced serenely, as if reading it straight out of his head. “Let’s play a different game.”

Lucien blinked at her, startled.

“Truth or dare?” George suggested with a sly grin.

“Absolutely not.” Theo cut him off immediately. “Lucien would pick dare every time. He’ll end up expelled before we even make it to Hogwarts.”

Lucien only shrugged, not denying it.

Hermione, still smoothing out her laughter, hesitantly offered, “What about… Two Truths and a Lie?”

“Brilliant, ’Mione!” Lucien said with a sudden grin that made her beam with pride.

Theo groaned theatrically, flopping back in his seat. “If we must…”

“Alright, rules are simple,” Lucien leaned forward, the spark of mischief in his eyes undeniable. “Everyone lists three facts about themselves—two true, one a lie.”

“And we all guess which is the lie,” Theo finished dryly, giving Lucien a pointed look. “Which will be nearly impossible when you’re involved.”

“The wilder the better,” Lucien quipped, and Luna giggled into her hands.

Fred leaned closer, eyes glinting with challenge. “Oh, I like this game already.”

George smirked. “Bet I can catch you out, Black.”

Lucien arched a brow, lips twitching. “We’ll see.”

“Alright ill go first!” Luna offers brightly and Lucien smiles down at her, already so fond of the witch.

“Go for it, Luna!” George said, leaning forward eagerly.

“Hmmm…” Luna tapped her chin thoughtfully. “My favorite flower is sunflowers, I’ve pet a Crumple-Horned Snorkack, and my favorite book is The Little Prince.”

They all blinked at her.

“What’s a Crumple-Horned Snor…snoracks?” Lucien asked, genuinely baffled.

“It doesn’t exist,” Hermione said flatly. “That’s the lie.”

Luna beamed as though she’d been praised. “You guessed it! You’re not supposed to pet them anyway. They don’t like it.”

Fred and George collapsed into laughter, wheezing, and Lucien’s lips twitched despite himself.

“Alright, my turn,” Lucien cut in quickly before Hermione could say what he was certain would be something sharp. He leaned back, voice almost casual. “I have a contagious disease, I’ve been dreaming of a dead woman, and I was born a boy.”

The compartment went dead silent.

“I thought you said this game was impossible with him,” George whispered to Theo, looking unsettled.

Theo just stared at Lucien like he could peel his skull open and sift through his thoughts by sheer willpower.

“I mean…” Fred began slowly, “the answer’s a bit obvious, isn’t it?”

“Is it, Freddie?” Luna asked sweetly, giggling into her sleeve.

Lucien only smiled—calm, pleasant, perfectly blank.

“With Lucien you have to consider everything,” Theo muttered insistently, his eyes locked on him like a puzzle that refused to be solved.

“He keeps it all balanced on the edge of absurdity,” Hermione said, frowning in concentration. “It makes it impossible to tell what’s true.”

“The lie is you’ve got a contagious disease, right?” George guessed at last, voice uncertain.

Hermione and Theo both groaned in unison.

Luna giggled—which, coming from her, was far more ominous than reassuring.

Lucien’s smile widened ever so slightly, and he shook his head. “Truth.”

“Bloody hell—what do you have?” Fred blurted, alarm sharpening his tone, though not enough to make him lean away. No, the reckless Gryffindor leaned closer.

Gryffindors.

“Well, he’s obviously a boy!” George said defensively, as though declaring it would make it so.

“I am,” Lucien said simply, with a smile that gave nothing away.

Hermione narrowed her eyes at him, studying every flicker of expression.

“You’ve been dreaming of a dead woman,” Theo said slowly, voice careful and probing. “Lie.”

Lucien shared a knowing look with Luna. He winked, and she giggled like they were sharing some private joke.

“My mum’s dead, isn’t she, Theo?” Lucien said lightly, almost teasing. “Truth.”

Theo’s jaw tightened.

“But… you’re a boy,” Fred echoed stubbornly, like clinging to something solid.

“I am,” Lucien replied with a wicked grin, sharp enough to unsettle.

“Then all of them are true?” George asked, frowning in confusion.

Lucien only shook his head.

“No, he said specifically, ‘I was born a boy,’” Hermione murmured, quoting him word for word. Her gaze sharpened further.

Lucien tilted his head with a smile, daring her to keep going.

“If he wasn’t born a boy, then why—” Theo began, baffled.

“S’called being transgender, mate,” Lucien cut in lightly, though there was an unmistakable edge beneath the words.

Theo blinked at him, clearly lost.

“You were born a girl,” Hermione clarified gently, and Lucien inclined his head in agreement.

“Took some potions with a Healer first chance I got. Been this way since I was eight.” His tone was matter-of-fact, practiced, but there was steel underneath.

Theo whipped his head toward Hermione, questions burning in his eyes, but before he could get a word out, she laid a hand on his sleeve and whispered firmly, “I’ll get you some books on it later.”

Fred leaned forward, worry plain on his freckled face. “Are you comfortable with us knowing? You can… y’know… Obliviate us. We don’t mind.”

“Speak for yourself,” George hissed under his breath, though his eyes never left Lucien’s face.

“Lucien doesn’t care if you know or not, or else he never would’ve said it,” Luna piped up dreamily, as though the answer had always been obvious. “He’s not ashamed of that part of himself.”

Lucien bit back a wince at her words. No. He had much bigger things to be ashamed of.

“Though I’ve never tried Obliviating someone before,” Lucien said brightly, too brightly, eager to shove the moment along. He flashed a sharp grin. “I’d love some willing test subjects.”

“If you don’t mind us knowing, then it’s unnecessary,” George cut in hastily, shooting Fred a look like he was worried his twin might actually volunteer.

The way Fred frowned at him—like he was genuinely considering it—told Lucien George probably wasn’t wrong.

Hermione and Luna both stifled giggles behind their hands.

“My turn, is it?” Theo drawled, his tone bored, like he was doing them all a favor. “I’m descended from Vikings, my favorite color is green, I’m a Gryffindor.”

What a spoilsport.

“Why is your favorite color green, Theo?” Hermione asked sweetly, batting her lashes in mock innocence.

Theo shot her a glare that promised retribution.

“You’re a Gryffindor. Lie,” Lucien cut in quickly before they could start bickering. “Your turn, George.”

Still, his mind snagged on it—why had Hermione sounded so smug? What did she know?

It wasn't his business, he supposed.

The game went on. Hermione slipped in facts so specific only Lucien would catch the lie. The twins made their lies about each other so half the fun was watching them bicker. Luna offered a collection of impossible-sounding creatures and whimsical truths that left everyone second-guessing. And Theo—predictable as ever—always tossed out the most obvious lie just to speed things along.

By the time the train began to slow and the outline of the castle loomed in the distance, the compartment was warm with laughter and sharp remarks, though Lucien was still thrumming with worry.

Finally, they reached Hogwarts.

The train jerked harshly to a stop, and Theo’s sharp intake of breath cut through the sudden silence. A second later, Lucien caught a scent he knew too well.

Lucien had already been up and at the door when he had caught it, he knew luna said he wouldn't see ron and harry until tomorrow morning, but lucien had hoped she was wrong.

Lucien froze, caught between two decisions: Rush to maybe see Harry and Ron, or be a better friend.

Slowly, deliberately, he forced his grip to loosen on the doorframe, schooling his posture until he looked casual, leaning just enough to hide the tension in his shoulders. Behind him, the others were already gathering their things, chatting as they slid bags from racks and tugged robes straight.

“You lot go ahead,” Lucien said smoothly, tone leaving no room for argument. “Theo and I will catch up.”

They hesitated only a beat, glancing between the two boys before shuffling out into the corridor. Their voices faded, leaving the compartment hushed.

Theo was staring at him warily, his robes wrapped too tight around his middle, as though the fabric alone could hold him together.

“Why are you bleeding, Theo?” Lucien asked, calm but firm.

Theo flinched. “I’m not.” The denial was steady, but the faint tremor in his voice betrayed him—so did the way his heartbeat spiked.

Lucien gave him a flat look, unimpressed.

“It’s nothing, really,” Theo insisted quickly, eyes darting anywhere but at him.

“Right,” Lucien said lightly, though his tone had teeth. “That’s why I can smell so much blood, then?”

Theo’s shoulders slumped, resignation bleeding through the stubbornness. “There’s no getting past you, is there?”

“Nope.” Lucien softened, just slightly. “Let me heal it for you?”

Theo hesitated, suspicion flickering in his eyes before he sank back down onto the bench with very little grace. “Don’t be weird about it.”

“Yeah, yeah. Just take your shirt off,” Lucien said, rolling his eyes.

“I’m telling Fred you said that,” Theo muttered darkly, but he obeyed, shrugging off his robes with stiff, jerky movements.

“Why would Frederick care?” Lucien asked, genuinely confused—before his words trailed off. His expression shuttered, carefully blank, as his gaze landed on Theo’s wound.

A blood-soaked cloth was tied haphazardly around his abdomen, crimson seeping through in ugly blotches. But it wasn’t just the fresh injury that held Lucien still. His eyes caught on the rest—an entire map of scars scattered across Theo’s torso.

Some were small, precise circles, the kind left by deliberate burns. Others were jagged gashes, thin silvery lines of knives or whips. Still others were blotchy, irregular, as though healed poorly—or not meant to heal at all.

Lucien couldn’t begin to guess at the story behind them. He only knew it was a story he didn’t like.

 

“You said you wouldn’t be weird,” Theo muttered.

“Mate.” Lucien tried for lightness, though his voice came out tight. He tugged his own shirt up, baring a stomach crisscrossed with scars—half-moon gouges and jagged marks, every one left behind by his own wolf. “Have you seen me?”

Theo rolled his eyes faintly, but some of the sharp tension bled from his shoulders.

Lucien crouched in front of him, careful, steady, and began untying the blood-soaked cloth. The moment the bandage peeled back, his breath caught.

A bite mark.

Fresh, ugly, deep.

Lucien’s gaze snapped up, sharp as a blade. Theo read the alarm in his expression instantly and rushed to fill the silence.

“It was a dog, Lucien—my father’s pack of bloodhounds,” Theo said quickly, words tumbling out in his haste.

Lucien’s jaw worked. “And why didn’t your father heal it?” he asked lightly, but the edge under the words was unmistakable.

Theo’s silence was louder than any answer.

Lucien exhaled slowly, forcing calm he didn’t feel. “…I won’t tell anyone.”

“Not even Harry or Granger?” Theo asked warily.

“No.” Lucien’s tone softened. He held Theo’s gaze, those storm-grey eyes shadowed with too many secrets. “It’s not my place.”

Theo hesitated, and Lucien let him. Instead he pressed his palm gently over the wound, closing his eyes.

 

Heal.

 

Magic hummed through him, warm and golden, almost like sunlight pouring into his veins. It spread from his hand into Theo’s torn skin, knitting it together piece by piece until only angry redness remained.

Theo’s breath hitched. “It was a punishment,” he whispered, voice barely audible.

Lucien’s chest went tight. The rage came instantly, white-hot, a beast rattling its cage, snarling for blood. His wolf wanted out—wanted to tear and rend, to destroy whoever dared hurt his friend.

But guilt twisted with it, heavy and cold. Theo was his friend. And he hadn’t known. He hadn’t noticed.

Lucien swallowed hard, teeth grinding against the fire in his throat.

He was supposed to protect the people he cared about.

He’d failed Theo already.

He wouldn’t fail him again.

Afterwards, Theo pulled his robes back on with stiff movements, and together they slipped out of the train, making the silent trek up toward Hogwarts. The platform was already deserted; everyone else had gone ahead into the castle.

The night air was cool, the only sounds their shoes crunching on the gravel path and the faint rustle of leaves in the distance. For a while, neither spoke.

“Hey,” Lucien broke the silence at last, voice casual but too careful. Halfway up the path, he shrugged his robes off his shoulders, slinging them over one arm. With the other, he tugged his collar wide enough to reveal the jagged, pale crescent of a werewolf bite stretching from his shoulder down to the top of his arm. The skin was old but angry-looking, puckered where teeth had sunk in.

“We kinda match now, don’t we?” he said with a crooked grin that didn’t reach his eyes.

Theo froze mid-step, horror flashing across his face. “Bloody hell, Lucien—! Is that…?”

“Yep.” Lucien popped the ‘p,’ trying for nonchalance and failing. “Where the bastard got me.”

He let his shirt fall back into place, deliberately not reaching for his robes. Somehow, he felt less raw with the scar bared than with it hidden.

Theo’s voice dropped low. “Will you tell me?”

Lucien sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. “It’s… a much longer story, Theo.”

Theo didn’t push. He simply walked beside him, quiet, waiting.

Lucien’s throat worked. Theo had been open with him tonight. He deserved something in return.

“My dad was Regulus Black—as everyone and their mum knows by now,” Lucien muttered, the words tasting bitter. “What people don’t know is that my mum was a Muggle. She died a few months after I was born. A werewolf named Greyback killed her. On Voldemort’s orders.”

Theo listened, silent, his sharp features unreadable. What Lucien appreciated most was that he didn’t look at him with pity. Not once.

“Greyback?” Theo asked warily after a beat. “I’ve heard my father and his friends mention him before. More than once.”

“I’m sure they did,” Lucien said lightly, though the words came out like glass.

Theo hesitated, then asked the one question Lucien had been bracing for. “Do you know who bit you?”

Lucien’s mouth twisted. He let out a humorless laugh. “He came back to finish the job.”

He didn’t need to say more. The way Theo’s face tightened told him he understood.

They kept walking, side by side, the castle looming larger with every step, shadows swallowing them both.

 

 

 

Theos POV

 

 

 

Lucien was mad.

That was Theo’s first impression of the boy with unruly blonde hair, tired eyes, and too many scars to ever fully cover. Mad—not just in the sense of dangerous or unhinged, though Merlin knew he looked it—but mad in the way someone burns too brightly, too recklessly, with no regard for the edges of themselves.

Theo had been minding his own business that day, ready to tell whatever unfortunate kid wandered too close that Malfoy would throw a fit if they sat there. And then he saw him. Hand already on the chair, ready to sit without asking, as though he belonged wherever he wanted to be.

Of course Theo knew who he was. Everyone did. He’d watched the boy fling spells around—no wand, no words—as if it were the simplest thing in the world. And, as Theo discovered later, for Lucien, it was.

Theo never liked people. He never knew how to talk to them beyond meaningless pleasantries, polite masks that kept everyone at arm’s length. But Lucien… Lucien never expected anything of him. Never demanded. Their conversations slipped into place like they’d been rehearsed, easy and unforced, and their silences felt just as natural.

Theo had never planned on being his friend. A boy with unknown parentage, with power that looked like breathing? His father would have tolerated that, maybe even approved. But this boy—this boy who was devoted friends with the Boy Who Lived, a Muggleborn, and a blood traitor?

Absolutely not.

And yet, Lucien kept coming back.

No matter how sharp Theo’s tone, no matter how many walls he put up, the Ravenclaw always returned. Like he didn’t see the walls at all—or maybe like he saw them and didn’t care.

And for Salazar’s sake, Theo didn’t hate his company.

Lucien was uncouth, sharp-tongued, snarky, fluent in sarcasm. But he was also brilliant—terrifyingly brilliant. A mind that ran ahead of itself, too quick for others to follow, a genius if admittedly a mad one. And underneath it all, Theo had noticed the pieces that mattered most: loyalty like iron, honesty that cut through everything, and a strange, unshakable warmth.

Theo wasn’t sure when it happened, but somewhere along the way, he’d stopped minding that Lucien sat beside him. In fact, he found himself counting on it—like a rhythm he didn’t know he needed until it was gone.

Of course, Lucien couldn’t leave it at that. He had to drag Theo into his orbit, insisting he meet the rest of his so-called friends. Theo had resisted for months, stubbornly refusing, until finally—out of sheer exhaustion, really—he’d caved. And that was how he found himself sitting across from Harry Potter, Hermione Granger, and Ronald Weasley.

And to his own surprise, he didn’t regret it. Not once.

Any punishment his father might dream up for him being seen in such company? Worth it. Worth every hex, curse, or shouted lecture. He’d take it willingly, even defiantly.

Granger was a swotty, infuriating know-it-all. They clashed constantly, sparring with words until one of them relented. But Theo couldn’t deny she was sharp—razor sharp—and dedicated in a way he begrudgingly admired. She didn’t back down, not from him, not from anyone. For the first time in his life, he could hold an honest intellectual argument with someone who wouldn’t fold or simper.

Weasley was different. Uneasy. Their interactions were… polite, if distant. Theo hadn’t thought the redhead cared for him much—he certainly hadn’t expected him to. Until that moment at the Quidditch match, when Weasley had stood up for him without hesitation. It had been so unexpected that Theo hadn’t known what to say. He still didn’t. Maybe he’d misjudged him.

And Harry…

Theo didn’t want to think about Harry Potter at all.

Not Harry, who was reckless, infuriatingly self-sacrificing, and somehow—despite Theo’s best efforts—had managed to wedge himself into the fragile foundation of people Theo cared about.

Harry, who was currently missing.

Theo clenched his fists at the thought, shoving the knot of dread down into the pit of his stomach where it couldn’t choke him.

Because if he let himself feel it, he wasn’t sure he could hold himself together.

 

“Have you lost your ever-loving mind—”

“Where’s Harry and Ron?” Lucien cuts Snape off, sharp as a blade.

Theo blinks, stunned. That tone—he’d never heard Lucien use it on Snape before.

Lucien adored Snape. Fiercely. He defended the man from every snide comment, every whispered insult, even from their friends. For Lucien to turn on him now… what in Merlin’s name had happened?

Snape freezes mid-step. His expression shuts down in an instant, like a door slamming closed. For the first time, Theo thinks Snape actually looks caught off guard.

“Are they not with you?” Snape asks carefully, almost too carefully.

Lucien stares back, flat, cold. Then without a word he turns on his heel and stalks into the Great Hall.

Theo looks up at Snape, unsettled by the silence that hangs between them. Snape’s face is unreadable, but his eyes—his eyes just look tired.

“Go,” Snape murmurs, waving him off. “Make sure he stays out of trouble.”

Theo nods quickly. He doesn’t bother to say what both of them already know—keeping Lucien out of trouble is like trying to leash a storm. Still, he hurries after him.

It’s not like it mattered anymore. His father already knew about their friendship, thanks to Lucius Malfoy’s loose tongue. If Theo was going to burn for it, he might as well keep pace with the fire.

He finds Lucien at the Slytherin table. Not Ravenclaw, not Gryffindor—Slytherin. Of course. Luna’s sitting beside him in crisp new Ravenclaw robes, while Lucien’s own Ravenclaw robes lie in a wrinkled heap on the bench at his side.

Theo slips silently into the spot next to him.

“Well,” Lucien mutters grimly, “suppose that answers it, doesn’t it?”

It takes Theo a moment to realize he’s talking about Snape.

“They’ll be here in the morning,” Luna says dreamily, her voice as airy as smoke. It sets Theo on edge, though Lucien seems oddly comforted.

“Hello, stellina,” a smooth, familiar voice interrupts, dripping with ease.

Lucien nearly chokes. Theo hides his amusement behind a bland expression.

“Zabini,” Lucien greets flatly, grabbing the nearest cup—Luna’s—and downing it. From the way he grimaces, Theo can’t tell if it’s because he hates Blaise or because he’s just discovered Luna drinks pumpkin juice.

“Is everything alright?” Blaise asks, voice smooth and faintly amused. He isn’t unkind, not exactly—but he always seems to take a quiet pleasure in unsettling people.

“Peachy,” Lucien replies shortly, before his posture softens a fraction, the sharp edge smoothing into something more measured. “My apologies. A lot’s been going on.”

“You said that last time,” Blaise notes mildly, his dark eyes glinting with quiet amusement.

“I did, didn’t I?” Lucien answers just as smoothly, leaning back as though the entire exchange is a game. He offers no elaboration.

Theo watches in silence, but not without interest. Lucien had been blunt and reckless when they first met, all claws and snarling honesty. Now, though—now he was careful, elusive, sidestepping questions with the same practiced ease Draco’s father wielded in the drawing room. Theo doesn’t know whether to be impressed or deeply concerned.

“You know Lucien, Blaise?” Theo cuts in smoothly, tone deceptively mild. If this really is a game of politics, then Lucien won’t be playing alone. Theo has been bred for this particular battlefield—he’s the sole heir to a man whose influence stretches long shadows, and he’s been trained to wield words as weapons since before he could write them.

“Of course, Theodore,” Blaise says with a practiced smile, perfectly at ease. “We’re friends, aren’t we, Lord Black?”

Theo suddenly notices the way the surrounding Slytherins have gone quiet, their ears tilting toward the exchange like hounds scenting blood. Even Luna, utterly unbothered, giggles softly into her goblet.

“If you call him ‘Theodore’ again,” Lucien says lightly, though the threat under the words is sharp as a blade, “I might reconsider that whole ‘friends’ thing.”

Blaise—Blaise Zabini, of all people—pauses. Just a flicker, but enough for Theo to see.

 

Oh, Blaise, he muses privately, you haven’t met the Lucien that bites.

 

“My apologies,” Blaise recovers quickly, voice velvet once more. His eyes glint with the smallest flicker of calculation. “What should I call you instead?”

“Theo, if you don’t mind,” Theo replies smoothly, matching Blaise’s tone without missing a beat. “Theodore is my father. It tends to get confusing.”

He doesn’t glance at Lucien, but he feels the boy tense beside him, sharp as a bowstring. Lucien always catches it—the hidden barb laced into Theo’s words, the truth buried just beneath. Theo doesn’t like being called ‘Theodore’ because he hates his father.

There really is no hiding anything from the boy in blue.

“Theo, then,” Blaise agrees with a shallow incline of his head, conceding the point with elegance. “How was your trip, Lord Black?”

“Same as yours, I’d imagine,” Lucien replies smoothly, his smile all teeth.

“I couldn’t help but notice you arrived late,” Blaise says conversationally, his words smooth as silk but edged with curiosity. “And that a few of your allies seem to be missing.”

“Friends,” Lucien cuts in immediately, sharp as a whipcrack. “They’re my friends, Blaise.”

“Mmm.” Blaise hums, feigning thoughtfulness, his dark eyes glinting. “Are they still… earning that title, then?”

Theo catches it instantly. Of course. Blaise had offered an alliance to Lucien. Neutral, useful, calculated. And Lucien must have turned him down. The boy with the scars and the too-old eyes doesn’t deal in half-measures; he requires trust, or nothing at all.

So Blaise is trying a new angle now. Friend. Testing the edges of Lucien’s armor.

 

Delightful.

 

“They already did,” Lucien says firmly, leaving no room for argument. Then, almost carelessly, “I just call them something else, don’t I?”

Blaise leans forward, curiosity sharpened. “And what do you call them?”

Theo doesn’t need to hear the answer. He already knows.

 

“Moony said we’re pack,” Lucien had confessed once, sprawled out on his back in the dust of their abandoned classroom hideout, staring up at the ceiling as though it could give him answers. “Think that means we’re family—but I’m not sure, honestly.”

 

Pack.

 

Lucien thinks of them as pack.

 

Dear Salazar, Theo thinks dryly, help me, I've done the unthinkable and consorted with werewolves.

 

Lucien must have an ungodly amount of luck, or perhaps Luna simply knew—because she chooses that exact moment to tip her goblet over, spilling pumpkin juice across the table. The golden-orange liquid spreads quickly, catching every watching eye and breaking the tension.

“Whoops,” she giggles, utterly unbothered.

Theo blinks at her. Mad witch.

Mad, and maybe the cleverest person at this table.

After Lucien, of course.

“S’alright, Luna,” Lucien mutters, flicking his fingers lazily. The mess vanishes in an instant, the table dry and spotless once more.

Theo keeps his face a perfect blank, practiced and polite. He’s used to it by now—this casual, impossible display of power. But inside, he’s still helplessly in awe.

Luckily, they’re spared from any conversation as the food vanishes and Dumbledore rises to speak.

Theo notices the tension in the room immediately, and he catches the way Lucien sits—taut, every muscle coiled, as if he’s physically restraining himself. Theo doesn’t need to guess twice; Lucien knows exactly what’s happening, and he knows that Theo knows too.

Dumbledore doesn’t know where Harry and Ron are.

His speech is far more restrained than last year, measured, almost as if he’s desperate to get it over with so he can attend to something urgent. Theo’s eyes flick to the headmaster, hoping silently that his intuition is correct: that urgent matter must be figuring out where the boys are.

Because if Harry and Ron aren’t at breakfast tomorrow…

Lucien will burn the castle down.

And Theodore will be right there beside him.

Chapter 5: Is The Tree Okay?

Notes:

Helloooo
I'm actually kinda unhappy with this chapter.
Also I've decided that make my chapters about 5-7k each rather then 10k+ because good gods that was alotttt
enjoy~

The next morning, Luna was already waiting in the Ravenclaw common room, perched on the couch with her legs swinging idly back and forth, too short to quite touch the floor.

 

Her feet were bare.

 

“Luna, where are your shoes, silly girl?” Lucien asked, his voice tinged with amused affection. The question felt oddly domestic.

 

She beamed at him, springing up in one fluid motion and skipping across the rug to his side. “The Nargles took them,” she informed him airily, reaching for his hand. The contact made him stiffen for the briefest second before he forced himself to squeeze back.

 

Lucien had no earthly idea what a Nargle was, but he made a silent promise to himself to figure it out—and then Lucien and said Nargles were going to have a serious conversation.

 

“Well, you can’t walk around the castle barefoot,” he said, smiling tiredly despite himself. He lifted his hand, summoning an old pair of trainers he kept as a backup, scuffed from summer days in Southampton.

 

“Put them on,” he instructed, handing them to her.

 

She giggled and slipped her feet into the shoes, her feet were much smaller than his. With a twitch of his finger, the fabric rippled and shrank, molding perfectly to fit.

 

“Thank you,” she said cheerfully. Hand in hand, they started toward the tower’s exit.

 

“It’s not ideal,” Lucien murmured, still groggy from a sleepless night, “but it’ll do until we track down your shoes.”

 

Luna only hummed dreamily, as if the shoes had already been forgotten.

 

Theo was already waiting by the door, dark circles bruising the skin under his eyes. He looked as though he’d slept just as poorly as Lucien had—which meant, not at all.

 

“Hello, Theo,” Luna greeted with a whimsical smile, spinning their joined hands.

 

Lucien said nothing. His focus was singular. All he wanted was to get to the Great Hall and see Harry and Ron, sitting at the Gryffindor table as they were supposed to be.

 

Like Luna had said they would be.

 

He was banking a lot on the little girl beside him, more than he cared to admit. But if they weren’t there—if Luna was wrong—

 

Lucien would go to Plan B.

 

He’d find them himself.

 

Simple.

 

A single glance at Theo was enough—they were of one mind—and together they headed for the Great Hall.

 

 

 

 

Harry and Ron weren’t there. To be fair, hardly anyone was this early, but the absence made Lucien’s stomach twist all the same.

 

Theo’s hand landed briefly on his shoulder, steadying, and Lucien nearly flinched. Theo hated touch as much as he did. The fact that he offered it anyway made Lucien turn his head. Theo gave him a solemn nod, no words needed.

 

The three of them—Lucien, Theo, and Luna—slipped onto the benches at the Slytherin table. The air was still heavy with morning quiet, punctuated only by the faint clatter of cutlery and the occasional cough from another early riser.

 

None of them really touched their food. They only pushed it around their plates, each glance darting to the massive oak doors at the end of the hall, waiting for the two missing Gryffindors to appear.

 

Only Luna ate, cheerfully piling toast and fruit onto her plate as though she weren’t sitting between two boys strung tight as bowstrings.

 

Students began piling into the hall, the low roar of chatter rising as the space filled. Lucien’s eyes never left the doors, his heart hammering against his ribs with each figure that passed through. Theo’s jaw was tight, his fork untouched.

 

And then—

 

There they were.

 

Hermione. Ron. Harry.

 

For one dizzying heartbeat Lucien couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. Relief slammed into him so sharply it almost hurt. They were alive. They were here.

 

The three of them scanned the tables as though searching, and beside him Luna suddenly rose, her arm lifting in an easy, whimsical wave. They spotted her instantly.

 

That broke the spell. Lucien shoved himself to his feet—but Harry was faster. The two collided in the middle of the aisle, Harry’s momentum nearly bowling them both over as they clutched each other in a hug that was more desperation than greeting.

 

“Never again,” Lucien muttered fiercely into Harry’s shoulder, his voice cracking. “You’re telling me everything. Every. Bloody. Thing.”

 

Harry let out a choked laugh, but the way his fingers dug into the back of Lucien’s robes told another story.

 

“Merlin, mate,” Ron cut in dryly as he caught up, “it’s like he forgot I was missing too.” His voice held no real sting, but guilt still punched through Lucien. He winced, pulling back enough to glance at Ron.

 

“Sorry, mate,” Lucien says firmly, the honesty raw and unpolished in his voice. “You both in one piece?”

 

“For the most part,” Ron answers with a lopsided quirk of his lips. Together they slide into the Slytherin table, their red and blue robes clashing vividly against the sea of green. The ripple it causes is immediate—eyes turning, conversations faltering, the entire table watching.

 

Ron pulls his wand out grimly, holding it up for them to see. It’s pitiful, cracked clean in half and held together with an obscene amount of Spellotape. Lucien winces at the sight of it, a gut-deep ache curling in his chest.

 

“But Harry and I are fine,” Ron adds quickly, like the wand is a minor casualty.

 

“What happened?” Lucien presses, his voice low but insistent, eyes flicking sharply between them.

 

Harry exchanges a wary glance with Ron before starting, “Well—”

 

“Oi!” A voice cuts across the table like a whip. “What’s the Mudblood and the blood traitors doing at our table?”

 

The word slams into the air, heavy and vile. Flint—Lucien thinks that’s his name—is sneering at them from further down the bench, his friends snickering darkly around him.

 

A frozen silence spreads down the table, everyone collectively holding their breath.

 

And Lucien, Lucien goes utterly still.

 

“What does that mean?” Lucien asks calmly, voice so even it cuts sharper than a blade as he turns his head toward Flint.

 

Flint freezes. To his credit, he seems to realize almost instantly that he’s overstepped. His smirk falters, his mouth shuts, and he goes very still.

 

“Go on,” Lucien presses, his tone laced with an edge of taunting amusement. “What’s it mean? Mudblood. Sounds like an insult.”

 

“It means dirty blood,” Theo supplies coldly, his eyes narrowing on Flint with a glare sharp enough to carve him into pieces.

 

“Oh?” Lucien tilts his head, eerily calm. “And who exactly has dirty blood?”

 

“He’s talking about Hermione,” Ron growls, fists curling on the table. Theo’s hand on his shoulder is the only thing keeping him seated, keeping his wand from flying into his hand.

 

Lucien nods once, very slowly, then fixes his gaze back on Flint. “You think Mione has dirty blood?”

 

Flint swallows hard. He can’t hold the stare, but Lucien doesn’t blink, doesn’t even breathe differently, until the boy squirms in his seat.

 

“She shouldn’t be sitting here,” Flint mutters, trying for defiance but failing.

 

“That’s not what I asked, is it?” Lucien murmurs, voice velvet over steel, his head cocked like a predator toying with its prey.

 

“It’s what she is, isn’t it?” Flint finally sneers, gathering what little courage he has.

 

And that’s when Lucien snaps

.

With barely a twitch of his pinky, Flint screams. His howl rips through the Slytherin table as he clutches his hand—blood pouring from his palm as if it’s been sliced open.

 

Lucien’s eyes don’t so much as flicker. “Mmm,” he hums, finally glancing away, bored. “Looks red like hers, doesn’t it?”

 

The entire table stares at him in horror, the silence deafening. No one breathes.

 

“Mr. Noir.”

 

The smooth, venomous drawl comes from just behind him. Lucien goes cold with anger, shoulders stiffening, but he doesn’t turn. 

 

“Yes, Professor Snape?” he replies coolly.

 

“Are you injuring my snakes?” Snape asks, the soft bite in his tone daring Lucien to lie.

 

“How could he, professor?” Theo cuts in smoothly, his eyes sharp and his hand steady on Ron’s shoulder. “He’s all the way down here.”

 

“I believe I asked Mr. Noir, Mr. Nott,” Snape says, faint sneer curling his words.

 

Lucien still doesn’t turn, doesn’t give him the satisfaction of his eyes. His own sneer edges into his voice as he answers, “It’s like Theo said, isn’t it, professor? I’m all the way down here… and I don’t even have my wand out.”

 

There’s a moment—just a flicker—where Lucien can feel Snape’s heartbeat spike. He hides his smirk in the curve of his lips, pleased. Good. Let him be mad. Lucien’s furious with him anyway.

 

“Detention, Mr. Noir,” Snape snaps swiftly, robes billowing faintly as though he’s bracing for control.

 

“It’s Black now, isn’t it, professor?” Lucien replies mildly, though the edge in his tone is unmistakable.

 

He doesn’t have to look over his shoulder to hear the swish of heavy robes as Snape turns on his heel and stalks back toward the teachers’ table.

 

Instead, Lucien turns his gaze to Hermione. She sits with her head bowed, shoulders drawn in tight, tears clinging to her lashes. She looks like she wants to disappear.

 

“If anyone has a problem with Hermione sitting here—or anywhere —” Lucien’s voice carries, sharp and cold, slicing through the deathly silence of the Slytherin table, “you’re free to duel me.”

 

The words hang there like a challenge thrown into the fire.

 

“You’re not meant to sit here either,” Goyle blurts out, sounding more confused than cruel.

 

“He’s my cousin. He can sit here if he wants,” Draco hisses suddenly, voice sharp as glass.

 

Lucien’s lips twitch in the ghost of a smile. “ Merci, cousin. And if anyone else has a problem with me sitting here as well… you can duel me over that, too.”

 

He lets the threat sink in, then adds, quieter but with venom dripping from every syllable, “And if anyone has a problem with Hermione’s parentage—allow me to inform you that my mother was a Muggle. Yet I am still Lord Black. Even with my so-called ‘tainted blood.’”

 

His eyes sweep the table, daring anyone to meet them.

 

“So if anyone has anything else to say on the matter,” Lucien hisses, voice low and dangerous, “you’ll find yourself in a position where you can’t say anything at all… because I will wordlessly, wandlessly vanish your tongue.”

 

The table goes utterly still. Not a fork moves.

 

Lucien had hit them where it hurt most—legacy, blood, fear of power. He knew it. They knew it. His name alone held too much weight for them to risk his ire, and every one of them sat silent, simmering with resentment they didn’t dare voice.

 

He hated it. And he loved it.

 

The goblin had been right: the Black legacy was whatever he made it now. And this—this moment—was where it started.

 

“Don’t cry, Mione.” His tone softens abruptly as he takes Hermione’s hand. She startles, looking up at him through watery lashes, uncertain. “It doesn’t matter who your parents are. They’re just a bunch of bigoted fucks—and you outscored the lot of them on every exam last year. So clearly, it doesn’t matter all that much, does it?”

 

That earns him a weak, watery smile. Hermione sniffles and wipes her eyes with the back of her sleeve, her cheeks pink.

 

“Bloody hell, mate,” Ron mutters, half in awe and half unnerved, “you’re terrifying.”

 

“They deserved it,” Harry says firmly, eyes flicking toward Flint and the others with a hardness that leaves no room for argument. Then, as if to punctuate his point, he spears a bit of food and takes a steady bite.

 

The others at the Slytherin table slowly returned to their chatter, though hushed whispers still lingered in the air. Lucien had made his point—and they all knew it. His friends clustered close around him, and for the first time since the train had left Ron and Harry behind, he felt as though everything was finally, blessedly, in one piece again.

 

“Aren’t you worried they’ll target you, Lou?” Hermione asked, her brow furrowed in that familiar crease of concern.

 

Theo snorted, loud enough to draw a few looks. “Please. I’d pay top Galleons to see it.”

 

“Theodore Nott!” Hermione gasped, scandalized. “Why would you say that?”

 

Lucien’s lip twitched, trying—and failing—to suppress a smile.

 

“Because,” Theo shot back, incredulous, “did you not just see what he did? I didn’t even see his hand move! One second Flint was sneering, the next he’s bleeding all over the table. It’s honestly a crime we haven’t seen him duel someone yet.”

 

“He could get hurt!” Hermione insisted, her voice rising in indignant disapproval.

 

“Not bloody likely,” Ron muttered under his breath, leaning toward Harry, who snorted in agreement.

 

“Okay, that’s enough,” Lucien cut in, raising a hand before Hermione and Theo could properly start sparring. His gaze snapped back to Harry and Ron, his tone shifting to sharp and insistent. “Why weren’t you on the train?”

 

“Couldn’t get through the barrier, mate,” Ron complained, throwing his hands up. “We went to run through it and just—bloody well crashed into it.”

 

Lucien blinked, recalling last year, when he’d almost backed out at the last moment because he was sure he’d smash his nose on the barrier and that Remus was just pulling his leg.

 

“So… how did you get to Hogwarts, then?” Lucien asked, confusion slipping into his tone.

 

“They flew,” Luna giggled dreamily, and Lucien blinked down at her. He had completely forgotten she was sitting there.

 

“We did,” Harry admitted, shooting Luna a quick, baffled glance. “We took the Weasleys’—”

 

But he was cut off by a sudden flutter overhead. The owl post swept into the hall, and a stack of letters fell neatly onto the table—one scarlet envelope landing directly in front of Ron.

 

“Oh no,” Ron whispered.

 

Lucien glanced up to see him go pale as parchment, staring at the letter like it might bite.

 

“What’s the matter?” Harry asked.

 

“She’s—she’s sent me a Howler,” Ron said faintly.

 

“Lucien, burn it!” Theo hissed across the table, eyes wide.

 

“Why am I burning it?” Lucien hissed back, utterly baffled.

 

He quickly found out why. Ron’s fingers had barely brushed the parchment when it split open and soared into the air. For a split second, Lucien thought it had exploded—then the roar of Mrs. Weasley’s voice filled the Great Hall.

 

“...STEALING THE CAR! I WOULDN’T HAVE BEEN SURPRISED IF THEY’D EXPELLED YOU! YOU WAIT TILL I GET HOLD OF YOU! DID YOU THINK OF WHAT YOUR FATHER AND I WENT THROUGH WHEN WE SAW IT WAS GONE—!”

 

The sound rattled the silverware on the table, dust shaking from the enchanted ceiling. Heads whipped around all across the hall, curious eyes locking on the Gryffindor boy who looked like he wanted to sink straight through the floor.

 

“...LETTER FROM DUMBLEDORE LAST NIGHT, I THOUGHT YOUR FATHER WOULD DIE OF SHAME! WE DIDN’T BRING YOU UP TO BEHAVE LIKE THIS! YOU AND HARRY COULD BOTH HAVE DIED—!”

 

Lucien’s eyes widened. He flicked a glance at Harry, who looked equally horrified, their wide-eyed stares meeting across the table.

 

“...ABSOLUTELY DISGUSTED! YOUR FATHER’S FACING AN INQUIRY AT WORK, IT’S ENTIRELY YOUR FAULT—AND IF YOU PUT ONE MORE TOE OUT OF LINE, WE’LL DRAG YOU STRAIGHT BACK HOME!”

 

With a sharp flick of his wrist, Lucien ignited the Howler mid-air, the voice cutting off as the parchment curled into blackened ash. The silence that followed was deafening, broken only by the soft hiss of cinders falling onto Ron’s plate.

 

“Well,” Lucien said mildly, as though nothing unusual had just happened. “Flying car?”

 

Ron groaned and buried his face in his arms.

 

“Yeah,” Harry admitted faintly. “Flew into the Whomping Willow.”

 

Lucien blinked. “You what ?”

 

“Is the tree okay?” Theo asked dryly, and Luna’s tinkling laugh floated across the table. Hermione hid a smile behind her hands, shoulders shaking.

 

A moment later, they all broke into laughter—loud, unrestrained, and entirely at odds with the stern silence of the Slytherin table around them. The glares from the other students only made them laugh harder.

 

“Ahem. Mr. Black. Miss Lovegood.”

 

Lucien jumped, laughter cutting off mid-breath. He twisted around to see the small figure of Professor Flitwick peering up at them, his expression polite but eyes sharp.

 

“Oh—hullo, Professor,” Lucien said quickly, flashing an easy grin that bordered on cheeky. “Having a good morning?”

 

For a fleeting second, Lucien swore he saw the corner of Flitwick’s mouth twitch as though he were fighting back a smile, but it smoothed away as fast as it came.

 

“Your schedules,” Flitwick said crisply, handing a stack of parchments up to them with a practiced flick. He nodded once, then marched back toward the staff table without another word.

 

“You’d think he’d put up more of a fight,” Ron muttered, looking amused.

 

“‘I’ll do better next year,’” Harry mimicked in a low, mock-serious voice, sending Ron into another fit of snickers.

 

Lucien rolled his eyes. “Hilarious. Anyway—” He shuffled through his stack and passed parchment across the table. “I’ve got your schedules too. McGonagall must’ve sent them with him.”

 

“Do you think Flitwick volunteered?” Theo asked slyly, clearly entertained by the idea.

 

“Not a chance,” Lucien grinned back.

 

“Rock, paper, scissors,” Luna said solemnly.

 

That earned another round of laughter from their table.

 

“What’s your name?” Harry asked curiously, turning to her.

 

“Luna Lovegood,” she said brightly, her eyes dreamy and unbothered.

 

“My god-sister,” Lucien added, sending Harry a look that carried both pride and warning not to tease.

 

“Ah, alright then,” Harry said easily, smiling. “Well, Luce is my brother, so I guess that makes you my godsister too.”

 

Luna clapped her hands once, delighted. “A bigger family is always a good omen.”

 

“Cheers, Luna,” Ron said jokingly, earning a soft giggle from her.

 

“Hello,”a smooth voice chimes, “quite the exciting morning, don’t you agree?”

 

Lucien sighed.

 

Blaise Zabini had risen from further down the Slytherin table and, with the smoothness of someone who thought himself far too clever, slid neatly into the empty space beside Harry—directly across from Lucien.

 

The baffled looks on the Gryffindors’ faces were almost worth it. Almost.

 

“Good morning, Zabini,” Lucien muttered, sounding tired already as he reached for his toast.

 

“You sound so delighted to see me,” Blaise replied, lips quirking. “Good morning. And please—call me Blaise. We’re friends now, after all.”

 

Lucien arched a brow. “Harry, Ron, Hermione—Blaise Zabini.” He gestured lazily with his toast.

 

“Hello,” Blaise greeted smoothly, clearly amused by the wariness in their murmured replies. 

 

Harry shot Lucien a bewildered look.

 

Lucien just shrugged back with a face that read, What can you do?

 

“So,” Blaise continued conversationally, “with a letter like that , there simply must be an interesting story. Do tell.”

 

“Er—” Harry faltered, looking caught.

 

“Mishap with the barrier,” Lucien cut in smoothly before Harry could dig himself deeper. “They had to improvise a way to school. Very creative solution, really.”

 

“No details?” Blaise pressed, his tone light but teasing.

 

“Not at the breakfast table,” Theo cut in firmly, casting Blaise a flat look.

 

Lucien tilted his head in agreement, lips twitching at the synchronized refusal.

 

“Ah, yes. I understand.” Blaise leaned back, looking perfectly at ease. “ Nessun testimone. ”

 

“That’s Italian,” Hermione blurted before she could stop herself, eyes flicking up in surprise.

 

“Yes,” Blaise said smoothly, his smile widening just a fraction. “My mother and I live in Italy, Hermione.” He put just enough weight on her name to make it clear he’d chosen familiarity deliberately.

 

Lucien’s lips twitched. Blaise really was laying it on thick.

 

“Do you speak Italian?” Blaise asked casually.

 

“Un po’. Io e la mia famiglia viaggiamo molto ,” Hermione answered cautiously. Her accent was stilted, but Blaise lit up all the same.

 

“ Hai fatto bene ,” Blaise praised warmly. “If you and your family ever find yourselves in Italy, do send me an owl. My villa has a library I think you would adorazione. ”

 

Hermione blinked at him, startled, then managed, “Oh! I—well, I’ll… keep that in mind.” There was curiosity in her tone, but also no small amount of suspicion.

 

“Of course,” Blaise said with a pleasant, knowing smile, as if he’d already won something by extending the offer.

 

Theo muttered under his breath, “Merlin help us.”

 

Lucien could help but silently agree.

 

 

 

 

They all drifted off toward their classes, and Lucien couldn’t help but miss the simplicity of first year—back when he’d only been Lucien Noir, not Lord Black.

 

Everything had changed the moment the title settled on his shoulders.

 

Now, every hallway felt heavier. Some students treated him with suffocating reverence. Others resented him outright, muttering about the father he’d never even met. The words junior Death Eater had been thrown at him so many times already that morning he was starting to get twitchy.

 

He was a spectacle. 

 

And he fucking hated it.

 

At least Charms came first—a subject he genuinely enjoyed. Flitwick’s enthusiasm made it difficult not to. And for once, luck was on his side; He was with the Slytherins this year. He slid into the seat beside Theo with relief.

 

Of course, Blaise claimed the seat on his other side without hesitation, lounging like it was a throne. Lucien didn’t dislike Blaise exactly—there was something sharp and clever he appreciated—but every interaction with him felt like a chess match. Calculated. Performative. Fake.

 

 

 

By the time Transfiguration rolled around, Lucien found himself almost grateful to see yellow-and-black robes filing in.

 

Minnie was as sharp and commanding as ever. He adored her lessons, the precision, the way she made even the most difficult magic seem attainable with enough practice.

 

But every time her eyes lingered on him, it made his chest tighten. She looked at him like she was staring at a ghost, and though she never said a word, Lucien could feel it.

 

 Lucien wished she’d stop.

 

Lucien wished everyone would stop.

 

 

 

Lucien made his way to the empty classroom where he and Draco had agreed to meet for their French lessons. Draco was already there, sprawled across a chair like he owned the place, a quill twirling lazily in his fingers.

 

“Why did you have to drag Granger and the Weasel to our table?” Draco demanded immediately, not even bothering with a greeting.

 

Lucien dropped into the chair beside him with a sigh.

 

“Don’t call Ron a weasel, Draco. He’s my friend, and it’s rude.”

 

“Why do you have to be friends with them?” Draco shot back, scowling.

 

Lucien arched a brow. “Why are you friends with Crabbe and Goyle?”

 

Draco smirked, smug as ever. “Well, their names aren’t Malfoy, now are they? They know where their loyalties lie. They want to ride off my success.”

 

“Yeah,” Lucien said flatly, “that’s not how friendship works, cousin.”

 

That seemed to throw Draco. His smirk slipped, his expression flickering with uncertainty.

 

“...How do friends work?” he asked finally, the question slow, reluctant—like pulling teeth.

 

Lucien blinked, then remembered what Lucius Malfoy was like, how cold and transactional everything about him seemed. Maybe Draco genuinely didn’t know. That thought softened the irritation gnawing at him.

 

“Friends have each other’s backs—”

 

“They have mine,” Draco cut in smugly again, a spark of his usual arrogance returning.

 

“Right,” Lucien deadpanned. “But friends also care about each other. That’s the main part. They don’t care about your last name, or how much gold you’ve got in your vault. They care about you. Just you. ”

 

Draco frowned, clearly baffled. “Then what’s the point?” he asked, incredulous.

 

Lucien rubbed his temples, letting out a long breath. “Merlin save me,” he muttered, then switched to French, his tone brisk.  “Concentrons-nous sur le français.”

 

Lucien would give him a crash course in friendship at a later date.

 

 

 

Lucien seriously considered skipping detention altogether.

 

What was Snape going to do—give him more detention he wouldn’t show up to? Dock house points? He could earn them back. Expel him? If they hadn’t already, they probably weren’t going to.

 

Still… he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t itching for a confrontation. 

 

So he went.

 

He took the familiar trek through the damp chill of the dungeons, shadows curling at the edge of his vision, until he reached the heavy door. He barely rapped his knuckles against the wood before it creaked open of its own accord.

 

“You’re late,” Snape drawled, his voice all venom and silk.

 

Lucien brushed past him without hesitation, letting his shoulder deliberately graze Snape’s robes. “Oh, I’m so sorry, professor,” he said with mock sweetness, rolling his eyes as he flopped into a chair. “You didn’t exactly give me a time.”

 

Snape shut the door with a decisive snap and turned slowly, dark eyes narrowed. “What is going on with you?” he asked at last, and for once there was no bite in his tone—just weariness, like Lucien was a problem he hadn’t yet decided how to solve.

 

“Oh, I’m sure you know, professor,” Lucien replied lightly, spinning his quill between his fingers. “Everyone else does.”

 

Snape’s gaze sharpened. “So it is about your father,” he said, leaning back in his chair, studying him like an open book.

 

“Wow,” Lucien said flatly. “First guess, too. Gold star.”

 

“Do not speak to me that way, you insolent child,” Snape hissed, the brief flicker of softness gone as quick as it appeared, his voice cutting like glass. 

 

“I’ll speak to you however I please!” Lucien snapped, his voice low and vicious, hands gripping the arms of the chair so tightly his knuckles blanched. “ You said nothing! ”

 

“Neither did your precious guardian,” Snape sneered, and Lucien was on his feet before he even realized he’d moved.

 

“You were different! ” Lucien shouted, his chest heaving. “You told me he did bad things, but you couldn’t—” his voice cracked, furious and desperate in equal measure—“you couldn’t fucking elaborate! ”

 

“I could have,” Snape said coldly, each syllable like a knife.

 

That single sentence snapped something in Lucien. The air pulsed with a sudden violent hum as his magic lashed out, shattering a case of empty potion bottles in a spray of glittering shards. The cabinet door splintered, papers tore loose from their stacks, and Snape’s desk rattled under the force.

 

“ Why?! ” Lucien roared, his eyes wild, every muscle trembling with the effort of holding himself together. “ WHY? Why didn’t you tell me?! ”

 

For the first time, Snape didn’t sneer, didn’t lash back—he simply stared at him in silence, black eyes unreadable, like he was weighing the danger of truth against the ruin it might cause.

 

And then Snape slowly lifted the sleeve of his robes.

 

Lucien’s breath caught in his throat. He wasn’t stupid. He knew exactly what the Dark Mark was—the jagged skull and serpent burned into flesh, a brand of allegiance that never faded. His stomach lurched violently.

 

“If I told you, you would have asked for stories,” Snape said at last, his voice stripped of its usual venom, almost hollow. “And then I’d have to admit my own sins. I thought…” he hesitated, jaw tightening, “…I thought you wouldn’t trust me.”

 

“I don’t trust you,” Lucien whispered, eyes wide, the words spilling out before he could stop them. His heart hammered painfully against his ribs, his vision blurring at the edges. “And it has nothing to do with the mark on your arm.”

For a fleeting moment, silence stretched between them, thick and suffocating. Snape’s face betrayed nothing, but the sleeve still hung bared, the brand stark against pale skin—a truth Lucien hadn’t asked for and could never unsee.

 

He turned sharply, panic and fury surging in equal measure, and fled the office before Snape could say another word.

 

 

 

 

Lucien lay in his Ravenclaw dorm, staring up at the canopy of his four-poster bed, curtains drawn tight.

 

The room was filled with the soft chorus of his roommates’ snores, but it wasn’t nearly loud enough to drown out the voices in his head.

 

He didn’t want to sleep.

 

Not tonight.

 

Too much had happened, and he knew the dreams would be viciously creative—twisting memories, dredging up things he wasn’t ready to face. 

 

Better to lie awake and think of every bad thing instead. 

 

Eventually, the stillness became unbearable. He threw his blankets back and went to his trunk, fumbling through books and parchment until his fingers brushed against a small, leather-bound object. He froze.

 

The black journal.

 

His eyes caught the faint letters pressed into the cover: T. M. Riddle.

 

Even without opening it, he could smell the dark magic rolling off it, like smoke lingering after fire. Like rot.

 

Sort out his to-do list first, he told himself firmly. Then figure it out.

 

He grabbed his notebook, the suspicious journal, and a pot of ink, balancing everything as he crawled back onto the bed. For a fleeting moment of curiosity, he flipped open the Riddle journal. The pages stared back at him—utterly blank.

 

Lucien frowned. Why would the Malfoys give him this ? A blank book carrying someone else’s name, steeped in magic that clung to his skin like oil. It made no sense.

 

With a scowl, he tossed it aside and reached for his own journal instead.

 

—Snape and his dad. Death Eaters. Why? he scribbled, the question clawing at his skull.

 

Distracted, he dipped his quill too hard, knocking the pot. Ink spread like spilled blood across the covers of both books.

 

“Shit,” Lucien muttered, jerking back. The black journal was coated, ink dripping across its blank surface—

 

Then, before he could snatch it away, the ink sank into the parchment and vanished.

 

Lucien froze, heart in his throat.

 

The other ink stains vanished with a careless wave of his hand, but his eyes were already fixed on the Riddle journal. Slowly, almost reverently, he dug through his trunk again, retrieving a fresh pot of ink.

 

Rushing back to his bed, Lucien snatched up the black journal, his pulse thrumming in his ears. He dipped his quill into the fresh pot of ink, hesitated for a long, taut moment, then pressed the nib to the page.

 

Hello.

 

He stared. The word lingered for a heartbeat, then sank into the parchment, as though the book itself swallowed it whole. The page went blank again.

 

Lucien’s skin prickled. He gripped the quill tighter.

 

Hello, might I ask who you are?

 

The words didn’t just appear —they slithered onto the page, curling in neat, deliberate strokes. Lucien nearly flung the book across the room, but forced himself to hold steady.

 

Instead, with quick, sharp letters, he scrawled back:

 

You first.

 

There was a pause, heavy and waiting. Then the reply bled through.

 

Very smart of you. My name is Tom Riddle. What is yours?

 

Lucien hesitated. Every instinct screamed don’t. But his curiosity burned hotter.

 

Lucien Black.

 

The answer came smoothly, almost warmly:

 

Pleased to make your acquaintance, Lucien Black. Tell me—are you related to Orion Black?

 

Lucien blinked, frowning.

 

He’s my grandfather.

 

I see. He is one of my dearest friends.

 

A chill spread through Lucien’s chest. He paused, then wrote slowly:

 

What year are you from?

 

It is 1943. Has much changed since then?

 

Lucien’s hand hovered. His breath caught.

 

Are you from the past?

 

The journal’s reply unfurled with eerie calm.

 

I am only a memory. I cannot change anything.

 

 A memory preserved in a journal… how could one even do that?

 

Lucien’s brows furrowed. His quill scratched faster now.

How?

 

The answer came back sharp, almost sly.

 

I’m afraid I don’t know you very well. Perhaps, in time, I will tell you.

 

Lucien stared at the words long after they stopped moving, his mind racing. His gut told him this book was dangerous. But another voice—low, hungry, reckless—murmured back:

 

He’d do whatever it took to find out.

 

Chapter 6: Best leave such things to the professionals

Notes:

Helloooo
i adore this chapter so much honestly
I wanna hear from you guys though, what are somethings you want to see in the story? what are some theories that you have?
please do tell me in the comments.
enjoy~

“In my time, they offered Alchemy classes. It really is a shame what Hogwarts has lost with time,” the neat, elegant script of the journal read.

 

Lucien grinned as he dipped his quill. “I agree! Last year we found the Philosopher’s Stone, and I’ve been fascinated by it ever since. But I can’t find many books on it. Do you think there might be some in the Restricted Section, Tom?”

 

“There were when I was in school,” came the crisp reply. “Though it is rather difficult to get a pass for it as a second-year.”

 

Lucien smirked. “I’m everyone’s favorite. I’ll just ask.”

 

“Tsk. Such a teacher’s pet.”

 

“Probably,” Lucien admitted, “but it’ll get me what I want.”

 

There was a pause before the next line appeared, almost lazy in its curiosity. “How did you convince the Hat not to put you in Slytherin, I wonder…”

 

Before Lucien could answer, a loud voice broke the quiet of the library.

 

“Lockhart is such a wanker,” Ron groaned, practically collapsing into the chair opposite them. Lucien snapped the journal shut and slid it aside.

 

“When is Gilderoy Lockhart’s birthday, and what would his ideal gift be?” Harry asked, deadpan, mimicking Lockhart’s earlier quiz.

 

“January twenty-sixth, nineteen sixty-four,” Lucien answered without hesitation, his tone dry, “and harmony between all magical and non-magical people… or firewhisky.”

 

Harry blinked. Ron just stared in horror. “Not you too,” Ron said, sounding betrayed.

 

“I thought you hated him?” Harry asked incredulously.

 

“I do,” Lucien said simply, turning back to his books. “But I’m also not failing.”

 

“Something you two could learn,” Hermione cut in sharply from the end of the table, not looking up from her notes.

 

Ron made a face. “At least he’s not giggling and blushing and twirling his hair every time Lockhart walks by.”

 

Hermione’s quill froze mid-stroke. “Oh, grow up,” she snapped, color rising to her cheeks.

 

“For Salazar’s sake,” Theo muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose. “One day. Just one day where the lot of you don’t bicker—that’s all I ask.”

 

Lucien snorted. “Now that’s far too much to ask for, Theo.”

 

Theo shot him a dry look. “You’re not helping.”

 

“Just you wait,” Ron grumbled, leaning back in his chair. “When Cornish pixies have you by the hair, then you’ll see.”

 

Lucien perked up at that, curiosity lighting his expression. “Cornish pixies?”

 

Harry groaned. “Don’t encourage him.”

 

“Hey—” Lucien started, sounding offended.

 

“Who’s T. M. Riddle?” Hermione interrupted, her tone curious but sharp as her eyes flicked to the journal in his hands.

 

Lucien’s grip on the book tightened, and he had to resist the urge to hide it. He forced a casual shrug. “Dunno,” he said vaguely. “It’s just a journal, ’Mione. Anyway, I’ve gotta get to class.”

 

Before anyone could press further, he swept his notes together in a messy pile, crammed quills into his bag, and stood up.

 

“Funny,” Theo’s dry voice floated from behind a stack of books, “since we share the next class, and it doesn’t start for another hour.”

 

Ron raised his brows, muttering under his breath, “Right, because that’s not suspicious at all.”

 

Lucien didn’t slow down. He didn’t look back. He just kept walking, his steps brisk and a little too sharp, the journal pressed tight against his chest as if someone might rip it away.

 

 

 

 

Lucien was deeply, almost comically, disappointed whenever there were no Cornish pixies in Lockhart’s class.

 

That morning, he once again ignored the unspoken rules of house segregation and dropped into a seat at the Slytherin side, right next to Theo.

 

“You cannot keep a Cornish pixie as a pet,” Theo hissed, voice low but sharp. Lockhart hadn’t arrived yet—likely planning some grand, fashionably late entrance—so the room was buzzing with quiet conversation.

 

“Why not?” Lucien whispered back, affronted. “It would be wicked!”

 

“You said the same thing about a bloody dragon, ” Theo retorted.

 

“Oh, a dragon?” Blaise Zabini leaned forward from the desk behind them, an eyebrow arched in interest. “Do tell.”

 

Lucien froze, then slowly turned to face Blaise, caught off guard. His expression shuttered quickly, and he switched languages without missing a beat, twisting back to Theo.

 

“ Regarde ce que tu as fait ! ” Lucien snapped under his breath.

 

“ Ne me reproche pas ça, imbécile ! ” Theo shot back, equally irritated.

 

“ Qui traites-tu imbécile, toi— ” Lucien’s eyes narrowed dangerously.

 

“ Je parle également français, ” Blaise interrupted dryly, tone flat but amused.

 

Lucien groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “ Putain… ”

 

Before Theo could get another jab in, the door swung open with a flourish.

 

“ Hello, Class! ”

 

Lucien never thought he’d be relieved to see Gilderoy Lockhart, but here they were.

 

Students reluctantly shuffled into silence, murmuring half-hearted greetings as they opened their textbooks.

 

“For those of you who somehow don’t know who I am—though really, imagine that,” Lockhart began, flashing a dazzling grin that failed to blind anyone. He paused as if expecting applause. None came. Pansy Parkinson giggled nervously, a few Ravenclaw girls tittered, and Lucien had to resist the urge to gouge out his own eyes.

 

“Gilderoy Lockhart,” the man announced grandly, pacing at the front of the class. “Order of Merlin, Third Class, Honorary Member of the Dark Force Defence League, and five-time winner of Witch Weekly’s Most-Charming-Smile Award—but I don’t like to talk about that. After all, I didn’t defeat the Wagga Wagga Werewolf or rout the Bandon Banshee by smiling at them!”

 

Lucien slumped further into his seat, already counting the minutes until the class ended.

 

“I see you’ve all bought a complete set of my books—well done!” Lockhart beamed at the class, teeth gleaming unnaturally white. “I thought we’d start today with a little quiz. Nothing to worry about—just to check how well you’ve read them, how much you’ve taken in…”

 

There was a faint ripple of groans around the room, but Lockhart ignored them, bustling down the aisles with an armful of parchment.

 

When he had handed out the test papers, he swept back to the front of the room and clapped his hands together. “You have thirty minutes. Start—now!”

 

Lucien glanced down at the paper and felt no surprise at all.

 

Fifty-four questions. Every single one of them about Lockhart himself. Favorite color. Secret ambition. Preferred shampoo. The exact number of times Witch Weekly had featured his smile.

 

Lucien stared at the page for a long moment, then sighed, shoulders sagging. He hated himself a little for it, but he knew every single answer.

 

Quill in hand, he dipped it in ink with a resigned flick and began to write, neat cursive gliding over the parchment.

 

Favorite color? Lilac. Secret ambition? Eradicate evil and market his own line of hair-care products.

 

By the time he reached question twenty, he was already wondering how many points Lockhart would give just for stroking his ego. By question forty, he was wondering if Hermione was secretly mad for ever fancying this git.

 

And by question fifty-four, he was simply ashamed.

 

Half an hour later, Lockhart finally swooped through the desks, collecting everyone's tests. He read through them theatrically, holding each sheet as though it were a delicate artifact.

 

“Tut, tut—hardly any of you remembered that my favourite colour is lilac!” he said with mock disappointment. “I mention it clearly in Year with the Yeti. And a few of you desperately need to reread Wanderings with Werewolves —chapter twelve, my ideal birthday gift? Harmony between all magical and non-magical peoples!” He gave a dazzling smile. “Though, of course, I wouldn’t say no to a large bottle of Ogden’s Old Firewhisky.”

 

There were a few snickers. Theo rolled his eyes so hard it was a wonder they didn’t get stuck.

 

Lockhart moved down the row, still commenting as he went, until he reached his desk.

 

Lucien stared very hard at his desk, willing himself to become invisible as Lockhart picked up his paper.

 

“Oh ho!” Lockhart’s voice boomed. “Someone has done the reading! Every single one of these—correct! Excellent work, Mr…?”

 

Lucien would rather die than answer.

 

“Lucien Black, sir,” Theo supplied cheerfully from beside him, far too amused for Lucien’s liking.

 

Lucien’s head snapped up, his glare sharp enough to cut glass. Theo only grinned wider.

 

“Good job, Mr. Black!” Lockhart said brightly. “Ten points to Slytherin—no, wait…”

 

Lucien wanted the floor to open up and swallow him whole.

 

“Aren’t you a Ravenclaw?” Lockhart added, frowning slightly.

 

“My robes are blue, sir,” Lucien said flatly, eyes still fixed on his desk.

 

“I see, I see! Ten points to Ravenclaw!” Lockhart declared, already losing interest as he shuffled to the next table. “Marvelous work, marvelous.”

 

Lucien didn’t look up, but he could feel Theo’s smirk burning into the side of his head.

 

“And now, onto our next order of business!” Lockhart said brightly, clapping his hands. “Some of you may have heard about a certain Cornish pixie mishap—tragic, truly tragic! But as I always say, students learn best by doing , and I would never stand in the way of your education!”

 

The entire class stared at him in flat silence.

 

Lockhart cleared his throat and pressed on. “Anyways, as it would seem, I’m fresh out of Cornish pixies.” He sighed dramatically, as if breaking terrible news. “I know, I know—it’s truly disappointing.”

 

Not a single student looked remotely disappointed.

 

“But!” Lockhart raised a finger, his grin brightening. “I have something even more exciting planned!”

 

“Merlin help us,” Lucien muttered under his breath, and Theo snorted beside him.

 

“I will be reenacting one of my famous duels for you all!” Lockhart announced, chest puffed with pride. “And I’ll need a partner—any volunteers?”

 

Dead silence.

 

“Ah, I understand. It can be intimidating, I promise not to harm any of you!” Lockhart chuckled, scanning the room. Uneasy faces stared back.

 

“How about you, Mr. Black?” he said suddenly, his gaze landing like a spotlight.

 

Lucien didn’t even blink. “I’d rather hug the giant squid,” he said flatly.

 

“Nonsense, nonsense, don’t be shy!” Lockhart laughed, waving a hand dismissively. “Come now—unless you’re afraid, which is perfectly reasonable…”

 

Theo made a strangled noise like he was trying not to laugh.

 

Lucien’s jaw tightened. Now he’s done it.

 

Without another word, Lucien stood, his movements sharp and deliberate. He walked to the front of the classroom and stopped a few feet away from Lockhart, his expression bored but eyes glinting with challenge.

 

“Now—where’s your wand?” Lockhart asked, pausing as if only just realizing something was off.

 

The room burst into quiet laughter.

 

Lucien tilted his head, lips twitching. “Probably on my nightstand,” he said with exaggerated thoughtfulness.

 

A few students snickered; even Blaise leaned forward, smirking.

 

Lockhart blinked, clearly flustered, then forced a laugh that was just a little too high-pitched. “Ah, well, we’ll just imagine you have it! Improvisation is a key skill, after all!”

 

“Sure,” Lucien agreed easily, leaning back on his heels as though this was going to be entertaining rather than educational.

 

“Right, hmm…” Lockhart tapped his chin dramatically, pacing a little. “So many great adventures, which one to choose…” He stopped suddenly, snapping his fingers. “Ah, yes! We’ll start with the time I escaped a whole group of trolls that captured me in Stockton-on-Tees! You can read all about it in my bestselling Travels with Trolls! ”

 

“Mm,” Lucien hummed, feigning interest. “That’s the one where you claim to have escaped using Fascinavit Somnum, the bewitched sleep spell, right? I found that really intriguing… considering troll hide is almost completely resistant to magic.”

 

For a split second, Lockhart’s smile faltered. Lucien didn’t miss the slight quickening of his breathing, the faint tightening around his eyes. But in the next moment, Lockhart’s grin was back, brighter than ever.

 

“Yes, yes, precisely!” he said with forced cheer. “Though almost completely is not entirely resistant, my boy. That’s the beauty of advanced spellwork! It’s clear you know your theory, but, well…” He chuckled, wagging a finger. “Best leave such things to the professionals, eh?”

 

“Of course,” Lucien replied smoothly, lips twitching. “Perhaps I should have called you when I fought a troll last year.”

 

Lockhart froze mid-step, gawking at him. “You—what?” But before Lucien could elaborate, Lockhart clapped his hands as if swatting the idea away. “Right! Moving on! I shall demonstrate exactly how I subdued those fearsome beasts! Watch closely!”

 

He strode to the center of the room and, without a shred of shame, flung himself onto the floor. “Oh, the misery!” he cried, clutching his chest like a tragic actor. “Captured! Surrounded by brutish trolls! My only hope—a single, daring spell!”

 

Lucien raised a brow, unimpressed. Behind him, Theo snorted.

 

Lockhart sprang to his feet, wand in hand. “ Fascinavit Somnum! ” he bellowed, dramatically flicking his wand.

 

Lucien didn’t even turn. He simply twitched his pinky, murmuring under his breath, “ Shield me.”

 

A faint shimmer snapped into place around him just as Lockhart’s spell went wide. With a lazy flick of his wrist, Lucien sent a pulse of magic back across the room.

 

There was a loud whoosh and Lockhart was suddenly airborne, legs flailing as if he’d been snatched by an invisible hand. He landed in a sprawl on the floor, dazed.

 

“Maybe you should take a nap, Professor,” Lucien said dryly, lowering his hand. “Right on ahead and sleep. ”

 

Lockhart’s eyes rolled back and he let out a dramatic snore, as if even unconscious he wanted to be theatrical.

 

For a heartbeat there was silence. Then the classroom erupted into laughter—Blaise doubled over, Terry Boot nearly falling off his chair, and even Theo pressing his lips together to hide a smile.

 

“Right, well,” Lucien said lightly, brushing imaginary dust off his sleeve. “Seems like class is over.”

 

The room was still full of laughter and chatter as students gathered their things, some replaying the sight of Lockhart snoring on the floor with gleeful mimicry. Lucien wove through the chaos, heading back to his desk to collect his own books.

 

“You know you’re probably going to get detention for that, right?” Blaise drawled, looking thoroughly entertained as he slung his bag over one shoulder.

 

Lucien just shrugged, fastening the clasp on his satchel. “Oh, probably,” he said brightly. “But there was no way in hell I was letting him cast anything on me.”

 

Theo sidled up beside him, his expression caught somewhere between admiration and disappointment. “I just wish it had been a real duel,” he said, almost solemnly.

 

Lucien chuckled, glancing at him as they moved toward the door. “Well, the day’s young, Theo,” he said, his tone amused. “Who knows what will happen?”

 

That earned the faintest smirk from Theo, his mood lifting as they pushed open the classroom doors. Behind them, Lockhart gave a faint snore from the floor, completely ignored.

 

 

 

 

Lucien was out by the Black Lake, sitting on a sloping patch of grass beneath the shade of a beech tree. It was the only place he could really get away from the noise and bustle of his friends—not that he was hiding, of course. He told himself that more than once.

 

The journal rested open on his knee, the ink on the page shifting smoothly into words.

 

I wish I could have witnessed that. This Lockhart fellow seems like a fraud from what you’ve told me, Tom wrote in his elegant hand.

 

He is, Lucien replied, quill scratching quickly. The man’s completely outrageous. I swear, a first year could’ve taken him down, honestly.

 

I bet it made you seem a great deal more powerful, Tom answered, the ink curling like a sly smile.

 

Lucien’s lips twitched. Maybe. But—

 

“Ah! There you are, stellina! I’ve been looking for you!”

 

The voice was warm, teasing, and unexpected. Lucien snapped the journal shut in an instant, twisting around to find Blaise striding toward him, hands in his pockets, a knowing grin tugging at his mouth.

 

“Blaise,” Lucien said a bit tightly, glancing up from the journal. “So good to see you.”

 

Blaise gave a soft laugh, dark eyes flicking to the patch of grass beside Lucien. He hesitated a moment, clearly not thrilled about sitting on the dirt, before lowering himself anyway, smoothing his robes with an almost unconscious precision.

 

“You don’t have to lie to me,” Blaise said lightly, though there was an edge of curiosity in his tone. “I can tell you’re not overly fond of me. I came to ask why.”

 

Lucien blinked, taken off guard by the bluntness.

 

“It’s not that I don’t like you,” Lucien said honestly after a moment. “I just don’t like that all of our interactions feel… staged. You say you want to be my friend, but every time you talk to me you’ve got this mask on.”

 

Blaise tilted his head, considering him. “You’re not exactly free of masks yourself,” he pointed out, though his tone was calm, not accusatory.

 

“I know,” Lucien agreed easily, turning the journal over in his hands. “But that’s because you’re playing politics instead of being genuine, so I’m just matching you. Playing my part.”

 

Blaise’s lips curved faintly. “Most people don’t mind that. They want you to be who they expect you to be.” His voice softened on the last part, almost thoughtful.

 

“Sure,” Lucien said, shrugging. “But I’ve got no interest in falsehoods. If you’re my friend, I want you —not a version of you that you think I’ll like.”

 

Blaise studied him for a long moment, and then a small, amused smile tugged at his mouth. “Clearly,” he murmured.

 

Lucien had no idea what to say to that, so he stayed silent, fingers absently worrying at the journal’s edge before setting it aside.

 

“You’re not quite who I expected you to be, Lord Black ,” Blaise said at last, his voice even but curious.

 

“Not Lord Black ,” Lucien murmured, eyes on the grass as he plucked a blade and twisted it between his fingers. “Not to my friends.”

 

“No,” Blaise agreed, a glint of humor in his dark eyes, “just when threatening us snakes, apparently.”

 

That earned a short, surprised laugh from Lucien.

 

Blaise grinned, clearly pleased he’d managed to coax it out of him. “What are you doing out here anyway?” he asked, leaning back on his hands, the picture of casual interest.

 

“Taking notes on the giant squid,” Lucien said solemnly.

 

“Ah, of course. Groundbreaking research.” Blaise arched an eyebrow. “Figure out anything of interest?”

 

“Yes,” Lucien replied, his tone suddenly grave as he turned to face Blaise. “I believe it may be allergic to bread.”

 

Blaise blinked, then gave a startled laugh.

 

Lucien continued, expression full of mock tragedy. “I might have killed the poor bastard. All those crusts I fed it last week—what if that was its last meal?”

 

Blaise was laughing outright now, shoulders shaking.

 

Lucien found himself smiling too, the tension between them fading like mist off the lake. Maybe, he thought, Blaise Zabini isn’t such a bad bloke to be friends with after all.

 

 

 

 

“You’re going to get on the team, mate; it’s practically impossible for you not to,” Ron said with easy confidence as he, Hermione, Harry, and Theo escorted Lucien down the sloping path toward the Quidditch pitch.

 

It was Ravenclaw tryout day, and Lucien felt like his breakfast was staging a rebellion.

 

“Besides, with a broom like yours, they’d be stupid not to take you,” Harry added, nodding toward the sleek broomstick in Lucien’s hand.

 

Lucien glanced down at it—a Nimbus Two Thousand, polished to a gleam. The Malfoys had bought it when they’d purchased Draco’s.

 

“What if I’m not good enough?” he said quietly, the looming shape of the pitch ahead somehow making the words feel heavier.

 

“Nonsense!” Hermione said briskly, cutting off any room for doubt. “You’re an absolutely brilliant flyer, and they’d be lucky to have you.”

 

Lucien blinked down at her in surprise. “Mione, you don’t even like Quidditch,” he teased, his voice light but edged with nerves.

 

“No,” Hermione admitted, lifting her chin primly, “but I’d have to be utterly stupid not to see your talent.”

 

That made him grin despite himself. He reached out and slung an arm around her shoulders, giving her a squeeze. “Mione and stupid? Now there’s two words that should never coexist in the same sentence.”

 

“Glad you can see some sense,” Hermione sniffed, though she was clearly pleased.

 

“If he had any sense, he’d stay on the ground,” Theo said dryly from the other side, hands in his pockets. “But no, he’d rather risk plummeting a hundred meters from the sky for the thrill of it.”

 

“Where’s the fun in that?” Lucien shot back, smirking, though his grip on his broom tightened.

 

Harry clapped him on the shoulder. “Don’t overthink it. Just fly like you always do. You’ll have half the pitch staring once you’re in the air.”

 

Lucien swallowed hard, the knot of nerves still there—but with his friends flanking him, the sight of the stadium ahead felt a little less intimidating.

 

“Right,” Lucien said faintly. “Because I don’t get enough stares while on my feet?”

 

“Pains of fame,” Ron quipped with a grin. “We’ll be in the stands. You’ve got this.”

 

With a few more encouraging nods, they peeled away toward the spectator stands, leaving Lucien to make the lonely walk toward the knot of Ravenclaws gathering at the edge of the pitch.

 

Roger Davies, the Ravenclaw captain, stood with a clipboard in one hand and a whistle hanging from his neck. His posture was brisk and businesslike, but there was a glint of excitement in his eyes—the kind of captain who lived for the rush of a new season. Lucien joined the lineup of hopefuls, adjusting his grip on his broom as Davies glanced at his watch and blew a sharp blast on the whistle.

 

“Right!” Davies called, voice carrying easily across the field. “Welcome to Ravenclaw Quidditch tryouts. As most of you know, last year saw the graduation of half our roster, so we’ve got openings—two Chasers, a Seeker, and two Beaters. If you think you can keep up, now’s the time to prove it.”

 

“Hey there, lucky!” a familiar voice said at his side.

 

Lucien turned and blinked. “Thad?”

 

Thad smiled, the same lopsided grin. And next to him—Nia, her dark braid swinging over one shoulder, eyes bright with amusement.

 

When was the last time he’d spoken to either of them? Guilt pricked at him. He really was a terrible friend.

 

“Hey,” he said, a little sheepish. “Sorry I’ve been scarce.”

 

Nia waved him off. “Don’t worry about it. Heard you had a busy year, yeah?”

 

“A bit,” Lucien replied with a wry smile, earning a quiet laugh from them both.

 

“We’re trying out as Beaters,” Thad said, practically vibrating with excitement. “What about you?”

 

“Seeker,” Lucien answered.

 

Nia winced playfully. “Ah, tough break. Cho Chang’s here for Seeker too.”

 

Lucien’s lips curved, but there was an unmistakable edge to his grin. “A shame, really.”

 

Before Thad could respond, Davies’s whistle shrieked again.

 

“Alright, listen up!” he barked. “We’ll start with a warm-up. I want ten laps around the pitch, full speed.”

 

Groans rippled down the line.

 

“Complain all you like,” Davies cut across them sharply. “At best, it gets you ready for practice. At worst, it proves you can’t even stay on a broom long enough to matter. So unless you’d prefer to watch from the stands, mount up. On three—move it!”

 

Lucien swung a leg over his broom, pulse quickening as the world narrowed to the pitch, the sky, and the promise of the wind in his face.

 

“Three, two, one—GO!”

 

Lucien kicked off hard, the Nimbus surging beneath him like a living thing. The ground dropped away in a rush, and the cold wind tore across his face as he climbed higher. Merlin, he would never get used to this. Flying was freedom—the kind of freedom that made the world below seem distant and unimportant.

 

He leaned forward, body low over the broom, and shot past the other Ravenclaws with effortless precision. Smooth turns, sharp dives, perfect control. He moved like he belonged in the sky. From below, he could see his friends in the stands—Harry and Ron on their feet, waving wildly, Hermione clapping with a reserved smile. Even Theo was visible, arms crossed, head shaking in disapproval.

 

Lucien grinned and pushed the broom harder, the wind whistling in his ears as he tested the limits of speed. The Nimbus responded like it had been made for him.

 

A sharp blast of the whistle cut through the rush. Lucien slowed, banking into a neat descent with the others. One by one, the flyers touched down, some graceful, others landing with an awkward wobble.

 

“Right,” Roger Davies called out, scanning the group with a captain’s practiced eye. “Grant, take Miss Patil to Madam Pomfrey, please.”

 

Lucien followed his gaze to where a girl was limping off to the side, clutching her ankle, pale but trying to look brave. She must’ve barely gotten off the ground before something went wrong.

 

“And Brocklehurst, Corner. You’re out,” Davies added sharply.

 

Two groans followed, one from a girl in his year, another from a stocky boy who kicked at the dirt before stalking toward the gates. Lucien watched them go, a flicker of sympathy tugging at him, but it was gone just as quickly. Tryouts weren’t kind.

 

“Alright,” Davies continued briskly, “we’ll start with the Chasers. I’ll cover as Keeper since Grant’s busy. And before anyone gets too comfortable—” He tapped the trunk with his wand, and a faint metallic rattle came from inside. “—I’ve enchanted the Bludgers to go semi-rogue. Nothing too mad, but enough to keep you on your toes. The two with the most goals make the team. Understood?”

 

A murmur of assent rippled through the group.

 

“Good. Mount up!” Davies barked.

 

As the Chaser hopefuls kicked off, Lucien stayed on the ground, leaning on his broom and watching. The first Bludger burst free with a violent crack, zipping past one boy’s shoulder and nearly clipping another’s head. The sound of startled yells and laughter echoed around the pitch.

 

Lucien smirked. “This is going to be entertaining.”

 

“Wanna bet on who gets sent to the hospital wing next?” Nia asked with far too much excitement.

 

Lucien shot her an odd look, raising a brow. “And people say I’m the morbid one,” he muttered, shaking his head.

 

Chaser tryouts ended, mercifully, without any fatalities—much to Nia’s obvious disappointment. By the end, the two students who stood out the most were named to the team: a sharp-eyed fifth year named Elara Vance, whose precision passes were impossible to miss, and Callum Ashford, a wiry but deceptively quick fourth year whose daring dives made Davis call for him twice just to confirm he was okay.

 

“Next up, beaters!” Davis announced.

 

Lucien stayed well clear, watching with mild horror as Nia and Thad gripped their bats like they’d been waiting their whole lives for this. The first bludger rocketed past, and within minutes, the pitch became a war zone. The two of them knocked competitors out of the air with a terrifying mix of precision and force.

A sharp blow of the whistle finally cut through the chaos. “Thaddius Edgecomb, Nia Robbins—Beaters!” Davis called hastily, as though eager to get them out of the sky before someone filed an official complaint. The pair landed grinning like maniacs and smacked a victorious high-five.

 

Now it was time for the real challenge.

 

“Alright!” Davis raised his voice over the rising murmur of excitement from the stands. “Seeker tryouts! Here’s how this works: I’m releasing twelve practice snitches. Whoever catches the most wins the spot. Simple enough. Step forward, seekers!”

 

Only two brooms moved to the front—Lucien’s and Cho Chang’s.

 

“No hard feelings, right, Lucien?” Cho asked with a teasing smile, her tone light but competitive spark clear in her eyes.

 

Lucien’s own smile was sharper, almost wolfish. “No hard feelings,” he echoed smoothly, mounting his broom.

 

But in his mind, one thought rang clear: I’m going to wipe the pitch with her.

 

“Alright—IN THE AIR!” Davis bellowed.

 

Lucien kicked off, and the world dropped away. His Nimbus surged forward  and he shot past Cho in a streak of black and blue, the wind howling in his ears.

 

Lucien shot high into the sky, his broom slicing through the wind with effortless precision. Below him, Cho hovered closer to the middle of the pitch, scanning desperately for the snitches. Lucien rolled his eyes—an amateur move, if he’d ever seen one.

 

A blur of gold flickered beneath him as Davis released the snitches. Lucien’s eyes locked onto one, and he dove sharply, the wind tearing past his ears. From that moment on, it was as if the world had narrowed to a tunnel, every other thought erased.

 

Snitch after snitch fell into his hands—he dove, grasped, and rocketed back up, scanning the field for the next flash of gold. One by one, he idly disarmed them and tucked them into his pocket, moving with the kind of fluid grace that made the pitch feel like his own.

 

Finally, he rose again, eyes sweeping the field. Searching for another flicker of gold just as the whistle blew. With a controlled push of his legs, he shot downward, landing with perfect balance on the pitch.

 

“Okay, let’s count them out,” Davies called, his eyes bright with excitement. Lucien dug into his pocket, retrieving the small, wriggling snitches one by one.

 

Eight.

 

He had caught eight snitches.

 

“Lucien Black—Seeker!” Davies shouted, clapping him on the shoulder with enough force to make him tense for a moment. “Welcome to the team! Wicked flying, by the way!”

 

Lucien nodded, heart hammering in his chest, the rush of adrenaline still coursing through him. 

 

He was Ravenclaw’s Seeker.

 

Before he could even process it, Hermione leaped forward, wrapping him in a tight hug. “Oh, I knew you could do it!” she exclaimed, her excitement radiating like fireworks.

 

Lucien chuckled, caught between embarrassment and exhilaration, the thrill of victory still fresh in his veins.

 

“Thanks, ’Mione,” Lucien said, still slightly breathless. She pulled back with a proud smile just as Ron stepped in, grabbing him by the arms.

 

“That was bloody wicked, mate! I told you—”

 

“He only thought you were going to crash fifteen times,” Theo cut in dryly, hands in his pockets but a faint smirk playing on his face.

 

“You’re one to talk,” Ron huffed, turning on him with mock indignation.

 

Lucien could only laugh, the sound bubbling out of him as the tension finally eased from his shoulders. His friends bickered and teased, their voices a warm hum of support around him. Hermione rolled her eyes at the boys, Harry grinned knowingly, and even Theo looked faintly amused as he shook his head.

 

Lucien looked down at his hand, still curled around the last captured snitch. Its tiny wings fluttered uselessly against his fingers, the faint hum vibrating through his palm—a reminder that this moment was real. He was Ravenclaw’s Seeker now.

 

And as he stood there, caught in the middle of his friends’ laughter and cheers, he couldn’t help but think that maybe, just maybe, that this was what being happy felt like.

 

 

 

 

Unfortunately, it wasn’t meant to last.

 

It was getting close to the full moon again, and Lucien could feel the edge sharpening inside him, a restless tension crawling under his skin. With so many people packed into this bloody school, every single one seemed to grate on his nerves. He couldn’t shake the memory of last year’s Fred Weasley incident—the way he’d just lost control. He didn’t want a repeat.

 

He and his friends were tucked into a corner of the library. Maybe it was the cramped, echoing silence, or the smell of parchment and dust, but Lucien felt like he was crawling inside himself. Still, he needed to study, and this was where his friends wanted to be, so he’d endure it. Though if he kept snapping quills, he was going to need a small fortune in replacements.

 

“There’s a lot of Nargles around right now,” Luna murmured thoughtfully, her gaze drifting toward the window. “We should go outside.”

 

“Luna, there’s no such thing as Nargles,” Hermione huffed, pinching the bridge of her nose. Lucien narrowed his eyes at the girl beside him, the edges of his frustration pricking up.

 

“Outside sounds like a great idea, Luna,” Lucien said sharply, standing. His movements were precise, controlled, almost taut with impatience. “Let’s go. You lot can stay here if you want.”

 

Luna grabbed his hand gently, practically bouncing with delight, and they left the library. Lucien noticed, not entirely surprised, that his friends had followed.

 

They made their way toward Hagrid’s hut, the winter air crisp and biting against Lucien’s cheeks. Luna hummed softly, leading them to a large, gnarled tree near the edge of the grounds. With a careful tug, she guided them to sit beneath it, its low branches forming a small canopy above them.

 

Lucien exhaled, letting his shoulders loosen fractionally. 

 

His friends caught up with him, collapsing onto the grass without hesitation. Harry and Ron plopped down beside him, utterly unbothered. Hermione looked mildly irritated but sighed and joined them with a small huff. Theo lingered for a moment, uneasy about sitting in the dirt, and Lucien’s lips twitched.

 

“Too posh to sit on some grass?” he asked dryly.

 

“Very,” Theo replied with an eye-roll—but he eventually lowered himself to the ground.

 

“Well, you’ve got us out here now, Luna,” Harry said cheerfully, stretching his arms behind his head. “What now? Just sit in tense silence?”

 

Luna giggled, a melodic sound that seemed to brighten the afternoon. “No, of course not.” She tapped Lucien on the shoulder, then sprang to her feet. “Tag! You’re it!” she called back, spinning away with a laugh.

 

Lucien grinned, the tension in his shoulders easing, and shot after her.

 

Soon, the group was in full chaos—a wild, erratic game of chase across the grass. Ron shrieked, twisting awkwardly to avoid Harry’s grasp.  Hermione laughing so hard she nearly tripped over, Lucien pounced on her from behind, lifting her lightly around the waist to prevent her escape, and she squealed in mock indignation. Even Theo joined in, albeit reluctantly, and Lucien’s chest lifted in laughter as he heard him shout, “Don’t you dare, Weasley!”

 

Time lost meaning. Shouts, laughter, and the slap of feet against grass filled the air. For the first time in days, Lucien didn’t feel the wolf crawling beneath his skin, didn’t feel the tight coil of tension threatening to break free.

 

He paused for a moment, watching his friends tumble and dodge around him, and thought, Maybe Luna’s a genius.

 

Chapter 7: All The Blacks Go Mad Eventually

Notes:

hellooooo,
i hope y'all like angst.
if not, enjoy anyways :] ~

“There’s so many bloody flowers!” Lucien complained from his bed in the hospital wing, throwing a dramatic glance at the nearest bouquet as if it had personally offended him.

 

Honestly, at this point they might as well put up a plaque with his name on it. Harry could have the bed next to his—He was here nearly as often.

 

The whole group had gathered as usual, their little ritual whenever he ended up here. But this time there were two newer faces among them: Blaise and Luna.

 

Blaise had settled into their orbit surprisingly fast. That quiet conversation by the Black Lake seemed to have stuck with him, because the boy who usually wore his Slytherin mask like armor now sat comfortably in their chaos, genuine and unguarded. He’d been hesitant at first—Lucien could tell he wasn’t used to lowering his guard—but he adapted quickly.

 

When faced with this group, you either ran, braced for impact, or went with the current. Blaise had chosen to dive in, and he fit far better than Lucien had expected.

 

The others didn’t question it. Once Blaise dropped the act, they accepted him as easily as they had Theo and Luna. Ron had made a joke about Lucien “collecting strays,” which earned Theo’s immediate offense and a ten-minute argument over who was or wasn’t a stray.

 

Ron and Theo were still an enigma. They bickered constantly, trading jabs like it was a sport, but Lucien could see the friendship underneath it. Something had shifted recently, though he wasn’t sure what. Either way, it pleased him more than he cared to admit.

 

If only Hermione could stop being such a prat to Luna. But, well, Rome wasn’t built in a day.

 

Luna, for her part, seemed as cheerful as ever, but Lucien was starting to worry. Every time she claimed the “Nargles” had taken something from her, he couldn’t shake the suspicion that it wasn’t just a whimsical excuse. He made a silent note to keep an eye out.

 

“Well, you are the most eligible bachelor in pure-blood society,” Blaise drawled from his chair, casually flipping through the cards left behind as if he were reviewing business proposals. “I’m shocked you haven’t been hounded for courtship offers.”

 

“He has,” Theo said without looking up, perched at the foot of the bed with his rune book open.

 

“Not that Lucky would notice,” Ron added with a wicked grin, and Hermione bit back a smile, clearly amused despite herself.

 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Lucien whined, sending Harry a questioning glance. The boy just shrugged, looking as bewildered as he was.

 

Hermione sighed like a long-suffering parent. “Lou, Pansy Parkinson was practically draped over your telescope in Astronomy. She’s shown no interest in the stars before, and yet she giggled every single time you spoke.”

 

“The story of Ursa Major and Minor is hilarious, Mione. Don’t see how her laughing at it was her flirting,” Lucien said flatly, crossing his arms.

 

“Not that funny,” Theo muttered under his breath.

 

Lucien didn’t miss a beat; he kicked Theo’s book right out of his hands.

 

“Hey!” Theo yelped, sitting up with a scowl, but his friends only burst out laughing.

 

“Quit being a prat,” Lucien said with a lopsided grin, looking far too pleased with himself.

 

Theo narrowed his eyes and reached for his wand.

 

“Oi, oi, no cursing Lucky,” Ron interrupted quickly, plucking up Theo’s book and shoving it back at him. “Mans bloody injured, yeah?”

 

“Yes, but apparently still reckless enough to keep adding to that collection of scars,” Blaise drawled, amused, setting aside the letters he’d been skimming through.

 

Lucien froze for a fraction of a second—panic flickering behind his calm mask. Blaise didn’t know. 

 

He hadn’t told Luna either, though with her, it hardly mattered. Luna seemed to know things without being told, like she could read the threads of a person’s soul if she felt like it.

 

“I’m incredibly accident-prone,” Lucien said dryly, aiming for nonchalance, praying Blaise would let it drop.

 

Ron smirked. “He got the one on his neck from a Muggle bike accident.”

 

“And the left hand? That was when he tried to pet a grindylow,” Harry added with a wicked grin.

 

“He hugged the Whomping Willow once,” Hermione said primly, rolling her eyes. “Back’s a mess, don’t let him show you.”

 

“The one on his eye,” Luna murmured, curling up between Lucien and Harry like it was the most natural thing in the world, “was from when he borrowed Ron’s wand and it didn’t like him very much.”

 

“Right arm was the troll,” Theo said absently, flipping a page like this was the most boring conversation imaginable.

 

Lucien blinked, looking from one to the next.

 

They were all lying. Boldly. Smoothly. Like it was second nature.

 

It almost seemed rehearsed.

 

“So maybe I go looking for trouble instead,” Lucien said faintly, leaning back into the pillows.

 

Ron smirked. “Nah, mate, you don't say.”

 

“At least it seems like I won’t ever be bored in your company,” Blaise said, leaning back in his chair, an amused smile tugging at his lips.

 

“I’ve been begging for a normal day since I met the bastard,” Theo replied dryly, not looking up from his book. “Run while you still can.”

 

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Ron said with a wide grin. “Once Lucky’s got his hooks in, there’s no getting away.”

 

“You lot make me sound like a cult leader,” Lucien complained, throwing his hands up.

 

“Of course you’re not,” Luna reassured him serenely. “Harry’s the cult leader. You’re just the recruiter.”

 

Lucien blinked at her. The group erupted into laughter.

 

“Bloody hell, I think she’s serious,” Ron managed between wheezes, wiping his eyes.

 

“I’m always serious,” Luna said with a smile that somehow made the statement feel both true and not at all true.

 

“Oi, no—I’m Sirius. It’s my middle name, isn’t it?” Lucien grinned cheekily, leaning back against the pillows.

 

“Mmm.” Luna tilted her head, thoughtful. “I don’t think so. A Grim would be Sirius.”

 

“Luna, you’re not making any sense,” Hermione said, exasperated.

 

“Don’t start, Granger,” Theo said with a roll of his eyes. “You know Lucien hates when you do.”

 

“You lot just don’t understand Luna the way we do,” Harry said dramatically, throwing an arm around her shoulders. Luna giggled, leaning into him like this was the most normal thing in the world.

 

The warm chaos was broken by Madam Pomfrey’s brisk voice cutting through the air like a spell. “Alright, you lot.” She swept out of her office, hands already shooing them toward the door.

 

“Aw, come on, Pomfrey—” Ron started, but she glared.

 

“Don’t you start. It’s time for dinner, and this one—” she jabbed a finger at Lucien “—needs food and proper rest. Out! Out! All of you!”

 

The group groaned but obeyed, still laughing as they were ushered toward the doors, throwing good-natured waves and parting words over their shoulders.

 

When the door swung shut behind them, Madam Pomfrey stood there for a moment with her hands on her hips and a long-suffering sigh. “And I thought Remus and his Marauders were trouble,” she muttered, though there was something fond under the exasperation.

 

She flicked her wand and a tray floated over to Lucien’s bedside, plates rattling faintly as it landed on the table.

 

“Dunno what you mean, Poppy,” Lucien said with a lazy grin, tearing a piece of bread in half. “Feeling nostalgic?”

 

Her lips twitched, betraying the beginnings of a smile before she smoothed it away. “Eat, then bed, Mr. Black. Don’t make me get the sleeping draught.”

 

“Aye aye,” Lucien said with a mock salute, and he swore he heard her laugh—just once, soft and quick—before she disappeared back into her office.

 

 

 

Lucien was late to dinner. By the time he slipped through the doors of the Great Hall, everyone else was already seated at the Gryffindor table, the hum of chatter and clinking cutlery filling the space.

 

“Filch’ll have me there all night,” Ron was saying heavily, stabbing at his shepherd’s pie. “No magic! There must be about a hundred cups in that room. I’m no good at Muggle cleaning.”

 

“I’d swap any time,” Harry said hollowly, pushing food around his plate. “I’ve had loads of practice with the Dursleys. Answering Lockhart’s fan mail …”

 

“Oh, that sounds like an actual nightmare,” Lucien’s voice chimed in from behind them, casual and amused. He reached over Ron’s shoulder to swipe an apple and a roll of bread, moving like a shadow.

 

“Bloody hell, Lucky!” Ron yelped, nearly dropping his fork. Lucien only blinked at him, expression unreadable as he tucked the food neatly into his robes.

 

“We should put a bell on you,” Ron muttered, hand over his chest.

 

“Right,” Lucien said flatly. “Anything to keep you from screeching like a banshee again.”

 

“Are you not staying?” Hermione asked, glancing up from her notes, a faint crease of worry in her brow.

 

Lucien was already stepping back. “Nah. I’ve got an extra-credit essay I’ve gotta finish tonight. See you lot later.”

 

He slipped out before they could protest. There was no extra-credit assignment. He just didn’t want them getting nosy about the journal.

 

The library was quiet when he arrived, bathed in pools of soft candlelight and slivers of moonlight streaming through the high windows. Lucien settled into a corner desk tucked behind the stacks. Here, with the whisper of pages and the smell of old parchment, he could breathe.

 

Sometimes I feel like all the adults look at me and only see my father, he wrote. He hated admitting it, but he liked talking to Tom.

Tom was clever, sharper than most people Lucien had ever met, and—strangely enough—he listened. He didn’t treat Lucien like a spectacle, or a project, or a fragile glass thing waiting to break. He treated him like he was normal.

 

The ink shifted, curling into Tom’s neat script.

 

I didn’t know your father, but you don’t strike me as anything like your grandfather. Frankly, I find the idea that children must reflect their parents’ legacies to be ridiculous at best and insulting at worst.

 

Lucien smiled faintly.

 

I agree! Snape loves to tell me how much like my father I am—or my personal favorite, that I’m so much like my mother it makes him forget how much like my father I am.

 

And who is your mother?

 

She wasn’t a witch. You wouldn’t know her family.

 

There was a pause before the ink bled across the page again.

 

Ah. How the mighty Blacks have fallen.

 

Lucien frowned, quill pausing mid-stroke.

 

What do you mean?

 

Orion was always so proud of your family motto, wasn’t he? Toujours pur? And yet here you are.

 

Lucien rubbed at his eyes, suddenly aware of the faint ringing in his ears. The words seemed to shimmer strangely on the page.

 

I can’t tell if…

 

His hand stilled. His eyelids grew heavy, the journal’s ink blurring like watercolors. He only meant to rest his eyes for a moment—just a moment.

 

 

 

 

When they opened again, he wasn’t in the library. Cold tiles pressed against his palms. The smell of damp stone and old pipes filled his nose.

 

Lucien blinked into the gloom, disoriented. Cold tile pressed against his palms, and when his eyes adjusted, he realized he was sitting on the floor of Myrtle’s bathroom. The dim light from a single lantern reflected off damp walls, and his school bag rested neatly beside him, as though someone—or something—had placed it there.

His head felt heavy, like he’d surfaced from a dream too deep to shake. I was in the library... wasn’t I? The memory was foggy, blurred at the edges. He pushed himself upright, wincing at the stiffness in his shoulders.

“Brilliant,” he muttered under his breath, brushing himself off. “Falling asleep in the girls bathroom again, that’s a new low.” He tried to make light of it, but the unease lingered.

 

A quick glance at his watch made him groan—it was well past midnight. Fantastic. Curfew-breaking on top of whatever this was. He rubbed at his face, grabbed his bag, and slipped quietly out of the bathroom, padding down the silent corridors.

 

The walk back to Ravenclaw Tower felt longer than usual, the castle too still, every creak of the floorboards magnified. By the time he finally crawled through the bronze eagle’s door and into the quiet dormitory, his nerves had steadied, if only slightly.

 

Safe in bed with the curtains drawn, he reached for the journal. The familiar weight of it grounded him. He opened to a fresh page and dipped his quill.

 

Tom, I think I’ve gone mad.

 

The ink swirled and bled into tidy handwriting.

 

All the Blacks go mad eventually. I wouldn’t worry too much about it.

 

Lucien snorted softly, the tension easing from his chest. He couldn’t help the small laugh that escaped him.

 

Goodnight, Tom.

 

Goodnight, Lucien.

 

The words faded gently, leaving the page blank. Lucien closed the journal and slid it under his pillow, his mind still buzzing with the image of wet tile and dim lantern light. Sleep came slowly.

 

 

 

 

Lucien wrote to Tom almost constantly.

 

Whenever he could steal a quiet moment, his quill was moving—ink spilling across the page in quick, looping script. Tom felt safe. He wasn’t a teacher or a friend who could judge him, wasn’t family or enemy. He was just a memory, a voice on the page, someone Lucien could trust without fear of it being repeated.

 

He wrote to him everywhere—in class under the desk, in the library with books piled high to hide the journal, at the dinner table between bites of food, and especially late at night when the dormitory was quiet and sleep refused to come. It became a habit, almost a need. For the first time in his life, Lucien felt… free.

 

What he wasn’t good at, however, was time management.

 

By the time he tore himself away from the journal, he was already late for Quidditch practice.

 

The sight of his friends in the stands, clustered together and waving when they saw him jogging toward the pitch, made something in his chest loosen. He hesitated but lifted a hand in return. Their smiles were encouraging, but there was an edge to them, a thread of worry that sent a pang through him.

 

“Black, you’re late.”

 

Davis stood with arms folded, his broom resting against his shoulder like a warning.

 

“Sorry, Captain. Overslept,” Lucien said, keeping his tone light.

 

“That’s the third time this week. Don’t let it happen again.” Davis’s voice was clipped as he blew his whistle. “Alright, everyone, in the air!”

 

Lucien mounted his broom and kicked off, the cold wind cutting against his face. The drills were muscle memory by now, and he moved through them almost mechanically. His mind was elsewhere, words and ink still echoing in his head, but his body kept up—dives, passes, bludger dodges.

 

Two hours later, they landed, breathless and flushed, hair damp with sweat. Davis had pushed them hard.

 

“You alright, Lucky?” Thad called as his feet hit the grass. There was no teasing in his voice this time, just concern.

 

Lucien blinked, caught off guard. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

 

“No offense, mate, but you look like hell,” Nia added gently, pulling her gloves off.

 

Lucien forced a small shrug, avoiding their eyes. “Just haven’t been sleeping well. Nothing serious.”

 

“Maybe talk to Madam Pomfrey?” Thad offered, still watching him carefully.

 

“Nah, I’ll be fine,” Lucien said quickly, waving the thought away. “Catch you guys later.”

 

He left before they could push further, crossing the grass toward the stands where his friends were already climbing down to meet him.

 

“You okay, mate?” Ron asked the moment he was close enough.

 

Lucien’s eye twitched, patience thinning. “Next time someone asks me that, I’m going to curse them. Got it? I overslept, it happens.”

 

The sharpness in his tone earned him a few exchanged looks, but no one pressed further.

 

 

 

 

They were all eating at the Ravenclaw table, their now-familiar routine drawing glances from every direction. Somehow, without meaning to, the group had fallen into a rhythm—Gryffindor for breakfast, Ravenclaw for lunch, Slytherin for dinner. It was unusual, a scattering of mixed robes among the house colors, and it made for quite the spectacle.

 

Conversation buzzed lightly around them, punctuated by the clatter of cutlery and the occasional laugh.

 

Hagrid had a baby dragon last year—Norbert, Lucien wrote, quill scratching against the page, I think I really have a way with them. He actually seemed to like me. Most animals don’t.

 

Because you’re a werewolf? Tom wrote back smoothly

 

Probably, Lucien replied easily, a faint smirk tugging at his mouth. Do you know any werewolves?

 

There’s no student here that is one.

 

“Lou.”

 

The journal snapped shut. Lucien’s head jerked up to find Luna staring at him, her pale eyes unusually serious, brows drawn ever so slightly.

 

“I’m sorry, what’s up?” Lucien said with a tight smile, ignoring the sudden weight of his friends’ gazes.

 

“You seemed very lost,” Luna murmured, almost sadly.

 

“She called your name like five times, mate,” Ron added warily, leaning forward.

 

Lucien winced, tone clipped despite himself. “Sorry, I was distracted. What did you need?”

 

Theo’s eyes narrowed, studying him with that calculating Slytherin look, but it was Blaise who spoke first, tone deliberately light. “Luna was just inviting you to the Deathday Party tonight.”

 

“Yeah, sure,” Lucien muttered, already gathering his things. He shoved the journal deep into his bag, and pushed to his feet.

 

“Where are you going?” Hermione’s voice followed, pitched higher with concern.

 

“Homework,” Lucien replied without missing a beat, his words too sharp, too fast. He didn’t look back as he left the hall, weaving through students until he slipped into a quiet corridor.

 

His pace didn’t slow until he reached a narrow alcove behind a tapestry—a place he’d claimed for himself weeks ago. It was small, hidden, and blessedly quiet. He sank down against the stone, pulling the journal free with an almost restless urgency.

 

What’s Hogwarts like in your time? he wrote quickly, ink blotting at the end of the sentence.

 

Right now, came the answer after a pause, things aren’t going very well. I don’t feel much like talking about it. A student died. But I personally caught the killer.

 

Lucien stared at the words, a chill creeping down his spine.

 

A student died? he scrawled back, heart picking up speed.

 

Yes, it was very tragic.

 

Is Dumbledore still the headmaster?

 

No. Headmaster Dippet. Dumbledore is the Transfiguration teacher. Is he the current headmaster in your time?

 

Yeah. I don’t trust him all that much.

 

Neither do I. What has he done to deserve your ire?

 

Lucien rubbed at his tired eyes, the light from his wand catching the edges of the journal. He hesitated, then pressed his quill down.

 

Dumbledore’s very suspicious. He seems to intentionally let my brother be in constant danger.

 

I didn’t know you had a brother.

 

Not biologically.

 

I see. I have one of those. His name is Theodore Nott.

 

Lucien’s brow furrowed.

 

His son is one of my best friends, he wrote quickly. I don’t know what his dad’s like in your time, but he’s a shit dad now.

 

He’s a good ally here. Tell me about your brother.

 

Lucien hesitated, then smiled faintly at the page.

 

His name’s Harry Potter. He’s a Gryffindor, brilliant at Defense Against the Dark Arts. He’s like me in a way—his parents were killed by Voldemort too. But neither of them were followers. Voldemort tried to kill him when he was a baby, but the curse rebounded. Now he’s bloody famous. He hates it, and I don’t blame him. Imagine everyone loving you for what you lost.

 

I see.

 

Lucien’s quill hovered for a moment before he continued.

 

I’m hoping that Moony and I can figure—

 

The words slanted off the page as his eyes blurred. His quill slipped, blotting ink. His head dropped forward.

 

 

 

 

When Lucien opened his eyes again, it wasn’t the alcove ceiling above him. It was pitch-dark wood. He blinked hard and realized he was sitting on the floor of a broom cupboard, knees drawn up awkwardly, his journal half-crushed under him. His temples throbbed, and a hot spike of nausea rolled through his stomach.

 

“What the hell…” His voice was a rasp.

 

He flicked his fingers and a glowing orb of light floated up, filling the small space with soft radiance. His gaze dropped—and froze.

 

His hands. His robes.

 

Smeared red.

 

For a wild, sick heartbeat he thought it was blood. His breath caught, a sharp sound in the silence.

 

“No. No, it’s not—”

 

It wasn’t coppery. He would have smelled it by now. He pressed his fingertips together; it was thick, tacky, but not warm. Paint.

 

Lucien exhaled, shaky but still on edge, staring at his stained palms.

 

What is happening to me? he thought, panic threading through exhaustion.

 

Lucien squeezed his eyes shut, jaw tight. Make it disappear.

 

When he opened them, the red was gone. His hands were clean, his robes spotless, but the dread coiled in his stomach didn’t fade. It clung to him, cold and heavy.

 

He stumbled out of the cramped supply cupboard, forcing in a deep breath. The corridor stretched before him, silent and empty, shadows pooling at the corners. His footsteps echoed too loudly as he started walking.

 

“Where have you been, you foolish boy?”

 

The familiar voice sliced through the quiet, sharp and impatient, and Lucien froze.

 

“I have been looking for you everywhere!”

 

He turned stiffly, hands curling into fists to hide the faint tremor in them. Severus Snape was bearing down on him, black robes billowing like a storm front.

 

“You shouldn’t have,” Lucien muttered, trying for casual, though his voice was thin. “I was fine.”

 

“This is not the time for insolence, you brat,” Snape snapped, the words like a whip. “A cat has been petrified. A warning was painted on the walls. Your cousin came to me in a panic because you were nowhere to be found for your lessons, and your band of misfits were caught at the scene of the crime— because they were looking for you! ”

 

Lucien blinked, stumbling back a step as though struck.

 

“What?” he said faintly, wide-eyed.

 

“Where. Have. You. Been?” Snape’s voice was cold as a frozen lake, his dark gaze unrelenting.

 

“I—library,” Lucien lied, but even to his own ears it sounded unsure.

 

“The library is on the opposite side of the castle,” Snape said flatly, eyes narrowing. “As is Ravenclaw Tower. Now tell me the truth.”

 

“Bloody hell,” Lucien muttered, glancing around the corridor as though seeing it for the first time. His chest felt tight. “Where… where am I? ”

 

Something flickered across Snape’s expression—sharp concern, quickly masked.

 

“Is everything all right?”

 

“I’m fine,” Lucien snapped, a little too fast. “I’m just—tired. Must have gotten turned around.”

 

Snape’s frown deepened.

 

“I’ll walk you back to your tower.”

 

“Don’t,” Lucien said coldly, already turning away. “I can manage on my own.”

 

“It’s past curfew,” Snape countered, voice clipped. “I will be walking you back.”

 

Lucien huffed but didn’t argue further, his stride stiff as they moved down the corridor together. Snape followed in silence, his presence heavy at Lucien’s back.

 

By the time they reached Ravenclaw Tower, Lucien’s temper was simmering, and the riddle that greeted them was the last straw.

 

What speaks without a mouth and hears without ears, has no body, but comes alive with the wind?

 

“An echo,” Lucien snapped, almost snarling the word. The door swung open, and he strode inside without looking back.

 

Lucien blinked, surprised to see Luna awake in the common room at this hour—then his stomach twisted when he realized she wasn’t alone.

 

Cho Chang. He recognized her instantly, sitting with three other Ravenclaw girls. They were huddled together, laughter spilling between them—except it wasn’t the light kind. It was sharp, mocking.

 

And Luna—his Luna—sat on the couch, head bowed, silent tears sliding down her cheeks.

 

The sound that left Lucien’s throat was quiet, cold, and dangerous.

 

“What,” he said, his voice slicing through the laughter like a blade, “is going on?”

 

The girls went rigid. The laughter died instantly. Cho looked up first, eyes flickering uneasily.

 

“It’s okay,” Luna said softly as Lucien stepped closer, voice small, a peace offering as she reached for his hand.

 

He jerked it away, not unkindly, but with a focus so sharp it could cut. His eyes never left the four girls.

 

“No,” he said, quieter this time, but it carried. “No, it’s not.” He turned his head just enough to address Luna, his tone softer for her alone. “Why are you crying?”

 

Then his gaze snapped back to them, cold and unyielding. “Why is my godsister crying?”

 

Cho opened her mouth, faltered, then glanced nervously at her friends. They shifted under his stare, suddenly less certain.

 

“I know your mouth works, Chang,” Lucien said flatly, rolling his eyes as though even this was wasting his time. “Someone better start talking before I stop asking questions and start casting.”

 

Cho lifted her chin just enough to try and sound steady. “We were only teasing.”

 

Lucien’s smile was humorless. “Teasing,” he repeated, voice dropping. “That’s what you call it when a first year is in tears?”

 

One of the other girls blurted, “She’s just weird, okay? Loony’s always—”

 

She didn’t finish.

 

Lucien’s head turned sharply, his entire body tense. “What did you just call her?” His voice was a low snarl, his step forward deliberate, predatory.

 

The girl froze as though rooted to the spot.

 

Luna’s hand found his then, small fingers curling around his. “Don’t,” she whispered, calm in the middle of the storm.

 

And he stopped. Completely.

 

For a moment, the only sound was his ragged breathing, the hum of barely contained magic trembling under his skin. His knuckles were white where Luna’s fingers held them, anchoring him.

 

He swallowed hard, his throat tight. The fury inside him was a live wire, snapping and sparking under his skin, but beneath it was something worse—fear. Not fear of them, not fear of what they might do, but fear of himself. Fear of what would happen if he let go, if his magic broke free and hurt her.

 

His voice, when it came, was low and calm, but edged with steel sharp enough to cut.

 

“If I ever hear anyone call her that again,” he said, each word deliberate, “I promise you—whatever nightmare you can dream of, I can do worse.”

 

The girls froze, their faces draining of color, but Lucien’s gaze didn’t waver.

 

“I will not ever see her crying because of you,” he continued, his voice barely above a whisper now, the softness making it all the more dangerous. “And if I ever find out some sorry excuse for a Ravenclaw is stealing her shit again, then what my cousin Bellatrix was known for will look like child’s play. Do you understand me?”

 

Their silence was answer enough, but it wasn’t good enough for him.

 

“I said—” His voice cracked like a whip, sharp and cold. “Do. You. Understand?”

 

They flinched, nodding rapidly, stumbling over rushed murmurs of “yes,” “we’re sorry,” “we understand.”

 

Lucien’s jaw tightened, but he gave a short, sharp jerk of his head toward the stairs.

 

“Leave,” he said, voice like ice.

 

They didn’t hesitate. In seconds, they were gone, footsteps scattering up the staircase until the common room was silent again.

 

Lucien stood still, eyes closed, forcing himself to breathe. In, out. The heat in his chest cooled only when he felt Luna’s small hand still wrapped in his, steady and grounding.

 

“Come on, Luna,” he said finally, voice quieter, worn. He tugged gently on her hand, turning toward the boys’ staircase. “Sleepover with your favorite godbrother.”

 

She didn’t answer, but she followed him without a word.

 

In the dormitory, Lucien dug through his trunk, pulling out a spare worn t-shirt and a pair of soft pajama pants. He pressed them into her hands and nodded toward the bathroom.

 

“Go on,” he said softly.

 

While she changed, he stripped out of his uniform, pulling on his own pajamas with movements that felt heavier than usual. When she came back, they didn’t speak. Quietly, almost in sync, they slipped into his bed, drawing the curtains shut.

 

The dormitory was dim and hushed, the soft crackle of the fire far away. They curled on their sides, facing each other, the small space between them filled with unspoken words.

 

Lucien stared at her, at the shimmer of dried tears on her pale cheeks, and for once, he didn’t know what to say.

 

“Thank you,” she whispers, so soft it’s almost lost between them.

 

“Don’t thank me,” Lucien murmurs back, his voice low and steady, though there’s a tightness in it he can’t quite hide.

 

“I miss you,” she says suddenly, the words trembling out like something she’s been holding onto for far too long.

 

Lucien frowns, brows knitting in confusion. “I’m right here,” he says, leaning back a little to catch her eyes.

 

She shakes her head, and the small, broken movement makes his chest ache. “No,” she says quietly, and this time her voice trembles more. “Not really. And I’m afraid you’re going to be gone for good soon... just like Mummy.”

 

The words hit him harder than he expected. For a heartbeat, he can’t breathe. Then instinct takes over.

 

Lucien pulls her close, wrapping her in his arms, holding her as if he can shield her from everything—loss, fear, the world. His chin comes to rest against her pale blond hair, and his voice is rough but certain when he answers, “I’m not going anywhere.”

 

It’s a promise, and they both know it’s a lie the world is cruel enough to test.

 

She doesn’t call him out on it. She just stays there, curled into him, and he holds her tighter, because it’s all he can do.

Chapter 8: The Prettiest Snakes Are The Deadliest

Notes:

Hellooooo
i meant to have this chapter ready much sooner, but things have been getting a bit hectic in my life currently, I'm starting to actually believe i might be cursed.
but writing this was a nice escape i will admit
without further ado
enjoy~

 

Lucien stared blankly at the ceiling of his bedroom.

 

It was his room—but it wasn’t. He had opened his eyes and once again found himself in that impossible dream—the only place where his mother was alive.

 

Maybe it made him a bad son, but he couldn’t bear to see her otherwise. Not as she really was. Not as a silent, cold thing in the ground, or worse, the faded living corpse that haunted his memory.

 

But that wasn’t how these dreams worked. They had rules, cruel ones. He would stay here until he saw her, until he faced what he kept trying to outrun.

 

So he lay there a little longer, letting the minutes stretch, pretending the ceiling was infinitely more interesting than the truth. Maybe he was just working up the courage, and courage was never his strong suit—the Sorting Hat had never once considered him for Gryffindor.

 

Time to face the music, he thought finally, forcing himself upright.

 

Shame prickled at the edges of his resolve; he was dragging his feet all the way down the hallway. But at least he wasn’t running. She’d have to find a different greeting this time.

 

As he neared the kitchen, though, the expected hush was broken by the sound of voices. Laughter—two distinct notes, rich and warm.

 

Slowing, Lucien stepped into the doorway.

 

And there she was.

 

His mother stood facing him, vibrant and whole. No rot, no blood, no glassy stare. Just her, alive, her eyes bright as summer sunlight. His chest loosened painfully, his shoulders sagging as though some invisible weight had been lifted.

 

And then he noticed the other figure.

 

Leaning casually against the island, head thrown back mid-laugh, was James Potter. The very image of unshakable charm, alive and solid. When his gaze landed on Lucien, his grin widened, warm and unguarded.

 

“Morning, little star,” James greeted, voice easy, teasing. “Took you long enough to get up. Your brother’s still asleep—I’ll go wake him.”

 

“Don’t.”

 

The word slipped out sharper than Lucien meant, stopping James mid-step. Both James and his mother turned to him, eyebrows lifted in quiet confusion.

 

Lucien swallowed, scrambling for something—anything—to make it seem casual. He couldn’t tell them the truth. He didn’t want to see Harry like this, not among the dead, not in this fragile dreamscape.

 

“We were up studying late last night,” he said quickly, the lie sliding out smooth as glass. “Let the poor bloke sleep.”

 

James chuckled, apparently buying it, shaking his head as though amused by some brotherly mischief. His mother’s mouth curved into an indulgent smile.

 

“How’d you manage that?” James said with a laugh. “Lils has been on his tail about that homework for weeks, but he’s stubborn.”

 

“I’m more stubborn,” Lucien replied dryly, allowing the corner of his mouth to twitch upward.

 

“You sure are,” James said with a grin, laughing as he reached over to ruffle Lucien’s hair. Lucien scowled and swatted his hand away, but there was no real heat to it.

 

“He gets it from his father,” his mother remarked with an amused smile, and just like that, the scowl faded. Lucien melted under that look—so familiar, so impossible.

 

“Where is he?” Lucien asked, trying to keep his tone casual but unable to mask the flicker of curiosity.

 

The change was immediate. James and his mum shared a glance, something quiet and heavy passing between them. The brightness dimmed, just slightly.

 

“Still missing, kiddo,” James said finally, his voice gentler, softer. He forced a smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Don’t worry about it though. I’m sure they’ll find him soon.”

 

Lucien’s chest tightened. Pandora’s words drifted back to him, unbidden, from that day on the cliff:

 

“Can’t you feel him?” she’d asked, her voice thoughtful, eyes sharp as they turned toward him. “He’s trapped.”

 

Lucien had a feeling Regulus wasn’t coming home. 

 

These people were dead—even if they didn’t seem to know it—and his father was somewhere else, somewhere he couldn’t reach. Trapped.

 

He nodded slowly, forcing himself to move past it, but his thoughts twisted. How did these dreams work? Was this all a fabrication, some fragile construct of his subconscious trying to comfort him? Or was he truly standing among the dead, smiling ghosts unaware of their own absence?

 

The question clawed at him every time he woke. He still didn’t know why he kept coming back.

 

 Maybe it was just his Hereditary quirk—just another thing passed down through the bloodline, like the darkness in his veins. Or maybe he really was losing his mind. Madness, after all, was also a family trait.

 

“Oh, would you look at the time!” his mother said suddenly, breaking the quiet. Her gaze caught on the clock, a spark of excitement in her eyes. “Your godmother wanted to take you somewhere today. She said she’s been missing her godson.”

 

Lucien couldn’t help but smile, amused despite the weight in his chest. “It has been a while.”

 

“Best not keep her waiting then, lad,” James said, his grin returning, broad and easy. But when Lucien looked closer, as James began to fade, swirling away like smoke caught in sunlight, he caught something else there—something sad lingering behind the brightness.

Lucien breathed in the salt-stung air, the tang of the sea curling into his lungs as he sat on the edge of the cliff. Below them, the waves crashed and retreated, a steady rhythm that felt both comforting and ominous. Pandora sat beside him, her legs swinging lazily over the drop, her hair catching the wind like strands of pale light.

 

“I heard you missed me,” Lucien said finally, his tone dry but softened by the smallest twitch of a smile.

 

“I have,” Pandora replied, laughing, though there was a thread of wistfulness in the sound.

 

“I met Luna,” Lucien told her after a pause.

 

At that, her smile faltered—not gone, just gentler, sadder. “I know,” she murmured. “Thank you.”

 

Lucien frowned, turning his head to look at her. “Thanking me? For what?”

 

“For taking care of her,” Pandora said simply. The breeze tugged at her hair, carrying the scent of lavender and salt.

 

“She’s family,” Lucien answered without hesitation, the words quiet but solid.

 

Pandora’s smile deepened, pride and sorrow mingling in her expression.

 

They sat in a companionable silence for a while, the wind filling the spaces where words didn’t need to be. Then Pandora spoke again, voice softer but edged with something uneasy.

 

“I’ve been watching you,” she said.

 

Lucien arched a brow, smirking faintly. “Well, that’s not creepy at all.”

 

But she didn’t laugh. Her eyes stayed on the horizon, and when she spoke, her voice carried a warning.

 

“You’re going down a dangerous path.”

 

Something in her tone made him straighten. “What am I doing wrong?”

 

Pandora shook her head quickly, almost too quickly. “I can’t tell you,” she said, and there was something desperate there, something almost frightened.

 

“Can’t tell me?” he echoed flatly.

 

“There are rules to being dead,” she said finally, meeting his gaze. Her eyes were bright and sad, like someone carrying a weight they couldn’t put down.

 

Lucien tried to swallow the irrational flicker of irritation rising in him. “You’d think dying would free you from rules.”

 

Pandora’s lips curved into a bittersweet smile. “Most people, when they die, they don’t even know it. They keep walking, keep living, locked in a haze of peace. They never question it.”

 

“You’re not one of them,” Lucien said quietly.

 

“No. I know I’m dead,” she admitted, and for a moment her voice wavered. “Though, at first, I was like them. Just drifting. But then my Luna called me—and I woke up.”

 

The waves filled the silence between them. Lucien stared at the horizon, thinking.

 

“So if someone calls the dead, they wake?” he asked, searching her face for confirmation.

 

“In a sense,” Pandora said vaguely, her gaze turning toward the dark curve of the cave below. “It has to be someone with a touch of the Veil on them, someone who can feel the edge of that world. And it has to be deliberate. You have to tell them what they are. You have to tell them they’re dead.”

 

“So when I see my mother again,” Lucien began, the words slow, deliberate, because the dream had become something he could no longer avoid, “all I have to do is tell her she’s dead—and she’ll wake up?”

 

Pandora hesitated, the wind tugging strands of pale hair across her face. Then she nodded. “Yes. But waking is not… gentle. The moment you tell her, she will relive everything—her entire life condensed into a heartbeat, though to her it will feel like decades. Every joy, every pain, every choice, every regret. And then she will know the truth. No more soft illusions. No more false peace.”

 

Lucien stared at her, stunned. “That sounds…” His voice faltered, too small against the endless sound of the sea.

 

“Horrible?” Pandora supplied, her lips quirking in a sad, knowing smile. “It is. But I’m grateful my Luna called me. I would rather bear the weight of truth and see the ones I love than sleep through eternity, blind and dreaming. This way, I can watch over the two of you—like I should have.”

 

Lucien’s chest tightened. His mind flickered to the kitchen, to his mother’s face alive and unscarred, laughing with James as if nothing had ever gone wrong. “But you died,” he argued quietly, almost angry on her behalf. “You should have peace. You earned that.”

 

“I have peace,” Pandora said simply, and this time her smile was bright and real, warmed by something unshakable. “Someday, I will be surrounded by all of my loved ones, and the waiting won’t matter. For now, I get to watch over you and Luna, see you grow, see you fight, see you live. That’s what I want. I wouldn’t trade it for anything.”

 

Lucien nodded, though unease twisted in his gut. He couldn’t understand it—not fully. He’d had the briefest taste of that dreamlike quiet, and even now, part of him longed for it. Why would anyone want to shatter that peace?

 

He glanced toward the restless sea, then back at her. “I won’t do it,” he said finally, firm. “They deserve the dream. They’ve earned it. I won’t take that away.”

 

“Of course not,” Pandora said, her voice soft but laced with certainty. “Though someday, little star, you may not have a choice.”

 

Lucien’s jaw tightened. The words stuck in his throat, a denial forming on instinct— I’d never —but he never got to say it. A harsh caw cut through the sea breeze, and a dark shape swooped low. The raven circled them once, impatient, its wings catching the fading light.

 

“It’s time,” Pandora murmured, regret flickering in her eyes.

 

Lucien swallowed hard, a quiet desperation creeping into his tone. “When will I see you again?” he asked, his fingers curling into his palms. “I still… I still have so many questions.”

 

“I don’t know.” She shook her head, sadness etching fine lines into her expression. “It’s entirely up to you, though I know you haven’t learned how to control it yet. Not fully.”

 

The raven cawed again, sharper this time, and the sound seemed to tug at something in his chest. Pandora’s face tightened, urgency sparking in her gaze as she reached for his hands.

 

“Be wary, little star,” she said quickly, her fingers tightening around his. “The prettiest snakes are always the deadliest. They’ll smile as they bite.”

 

“What does that—” But the question dissolved on his tongue. The world was already peeling away, her face blurring like paint in the rain.

 

And then he was gone.

 

 

 

Theo’s POV

 

Something was wrong with Lucien.

 

Everyone had noticed, though no one dared say it aloud. At the start of the year, things had been fine—great, even—but slowly, almost imperceptibly, cracks had started to show. He’d begun pulling away, slipping through excuses like smoke. Extra credit projects, tutoring sessions, late-night studying—excuses that didn’t suit him at all. Lucien never needed tutoring, and they all knew it.

 

Worse than that, he looked… worn. The sharp edges of his usual wit were dulled, his posture slouched with quiet exhaustion. Theo noticed the shadows under his eyes one evening in the library, watching as Lucien rubbed at them absently while propping his head on one hand, the other flicking through the pages of his Charms textbook without really reading.

 

Theo glanced at Blaise across the table. Their gazes met, a silent question exchanged. Blaise shook his head almost imperceptibly, lips pressed thin. Theo dropped his eyes back to the parchment before him, forcing his expression into neutrality. None of them knew what was happening, and none of them knew how to reach him.

 

But there were whispers. Always whispers. In the Slytherin common room, hushed conversations halted when he walked in. Rumors too sharp to ignore, too cruel to believe. Theo hated them all, but the seed of doubt had been planted, and it sat heavy in his stomach.

 

The silence broke suddenly.

 

“We found out more about the Chamber of Secrets!” Harry’s voice carried as he skidded into the library, breathless, his Gryffindor tie askew. He dropped into a chair beside Lucien, making him flinch as though yanked out of a trance.

 

“Apparently, Slytherin had a monster—” Ron burst in, dropping his bag with a thud and collapsing into the seat opposite.

 

“—but no one ever confirmed what it was,” Hermione interrupted, sliding into the only free chair, her eyes bright with restless energy.

 

“It was meant to kill Muggle-borns,” Blaise said flatly, not looking up from his notes.

 

The words cut through the air like glass shattering.

 

Everyone turned to stare at him—Harry, Ron, Hermione, even Lucien, blinking slowly as if trying to process.

 

“If you wanted to know about it,” Theo said, tone deceptively mild, “you could’ve just asked us. It was Slytherin’s founder who built it, after all.”

 

“Bloody hell,” Ron whispered, eyes wide as he turned to Hermione, who looked more embarrassed than shocked.

 

“Oh, you’re right,” she admitted, cheeks flushing pink. “I can’t believe I didn’t think of that!”

 

“No, you just had to make a scene with Binns,” Harry said with a grin, earning himself a sharp glare.

 

Hermione sniffed and ignored him. “Do you know what the monster is? Or who the Heir is?” she asked, her tone brisk but laced with curiosity.

 

Theo didn’t answer immediately. He was too busy watching Lucien, who sat unnervingly still, his gaze fixed on his textbook but unfocused, like he was somewhere else entirely. The others hadn’t noticed, but Theo did. He always did. And something about that blank stare, the tension wound tight in his friend’s shoulders, pushed Theo to make what was probably a very poor decision.

 

“I don’t know what the monster is,” Theo said finally, voice steady but deliberate. “Although…” He let his eyes flick to Lucien. “There have been whispers. Some people think Lucien might be the Heir of Slytherin.”

 

The effect was immediate.

 

Lucien’s head snapped up, his pale eyes wide, shock and something sharper flashing across his face. “What? There’s no way!” he said quickly, but it wasn’t quite a denial. Not the kind they expected.

 

Theo only shrugged, keeping his tone casual. “They’re just rumors, of course. But… well, nobody really knows who your mother is.”

 

Lucien’s expression hardened instantly, heat flaring behind his gaze. “Because she’s a Muggle,” he hissed, the words tight, edged with anger. “I bloody well told them that!”

 

Theo met his stare without flinching, voice flat. “They don’t believe you.”

 

The snap of Lucien’s book shutting was loud in the quiet library. He shoved it into his bag with jerky movements, his jaw tight.

 

“Lou, where are you—” Hermione began, reaching out as if she could stop him, but he was already on his feet and moving, halfway to the doors before she could finish.

 

Theo watched him go, his stomach sinking. Across the table, Blaise followed Lucien’s retreating figure, his face unreadable. Then, slowly, he turned back to Theo, tilting his head ever so slightly in silent question.

 

He might be.

 

Theo forced his face into something bland and briefly flicked his eyes to Granger before meeting Blaise's gaze. 

 

His best friend was Muggle-born. He wouldn't.

 

But Blaise’s gaze shifted back to the empty chair where Lucien had sat, then returned to Theo. One eyebrow arched, subtle but sharp.

 

Are you certain?

 

Theo’s throat felt dry. He looked away.

 

No. He wasn’t.

 

Hermione looked close to tears, her lower lip caught between her teeth, and Ron’s frown was deep enough to crease his whole face. Harry, though, wasn’t looking at either of them. His eyes were fixed on the library doors, his hand already on his bag as if he could still catch Lucien if he ran.

 

“Don’t, Potter,” Theo said, his voice cutting through the quiet like a dull blade. It wasn’t harsh, but it carried enough weight to make Harry’s head snap toward him.

 

“I need to—” Harry started, his voice desperate, the tension in his shoulders clear.

 

“Later,” Theo interrupted calmly, flipping his book open though he wasn’t reading. “He’s clearly going through something. Maybe just… let him breathe.”

 

Harry’s jaw clenched, but he didn’t argue. Hermione let out a small, shaky exhale, while Ron leaned back in his chair, arms folded tight, as if holding himself back. None of them looked remotely satisfied, but they all knew Theo was right. They’d had this same conversation more times than they could count over the last few weeks—what to do about Lucien, how to help, how to pull him out of whatever storm he was caught in. Nothing had worked.

 

The best they could do was let him go, let him have space, even if every instinct told them to follow.

 

Theo’s gaze dropped to the page in front of him, the black letters swimming uselessly. His hands tightened on the edges of the textbook, knuckles whitening. It felt wrong to do nothing, but what else was there? His friend was becoming a shadow of himself—withdrawn, brittle, and haunted—and Theo didn’t know if anyone could reach him.

 

And that scared him more than he would ever admit.

 

 

Lucien's POV

 

Lucien hadn’t written in the diary since that night.

 

Something was going on—something bigger than he fully understood—and the realization had hit him hard: the diary was a distraction he couldn’t afford. Whatever thrill or comfort it had offered, it had also pulled him under, and he wasn’t ready to drown. Still, the temptation was always there, whispering at the back of his mind like a phantom itch he couldn’t scratch.

 

He kept busy. His schoolwork was improving—flourishing, even—and the Ravenclaw Quidditch team was finally pleased with him now that he was showing up to practice on time and fully present. But nights were the worst. Sleep never came easily anymore; he’d lie in bed staring at the ceiling, bone-deep tired but too wired to rest, his thoughts a jumble of ink and shadows.

 

So sometimes, when it became unbearable, he’d sneak away. The Astronomy Tower was his refuge. Tonight was no different.

 

He’d been surprised, though, when he crept through the common room and found Luna already awake, curled up on one of the blue velvet chairs, her eyes reflecting the pale light of the enchanted lanterns. She hadn’t asked questions, just tilted her head in quiet curiosity. When he sighed and held out a hand, she simply rose and slipped her fingers into his, as though she’d been expecting him. Together, silent and sure-footed, they’d ghosted through the corridors until they reached the tower.

 

Now they sat side by side, legs swinging over the edge, arms resting on the iron railing. The world below was asleep, but above them the stars scattered like silver dust across a canvas of midnight.

 

“Tell me a happy story,” Luna whispered, her voice soft as the breeze.

 

Lucien followed her gaze upward, searching the constellations like old friends. Finally, he raised his hand and pointed.

 

“You see that?” he asked.

 

Luna nodded, her pale eyes reflecting starlight.

 

“That’s Perseus,” Lucien said, his tone lighter now, warmed by the story. “There’s a tale about him. He fell in love with a girl, a princess named Andromeda. She’s up there too—both a constellation and a galaxy. Look, over there.”

 

He traced the line of the night sky with his finger, pointing out the second cluster of stars. “They’re always close, but never quite touching. I think that’s why they shine so bright—they’re always reaching for each other.”

 

“That sounds sad,” Luna whispered, her voice carrying easily in the still night air.

 

Lucien shook his head, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “Not really. Perseus was the only demigod who ever got a happy ending. He found the love of his life, saved her from a monster, and her father gave them his blessing to marry. They sailed away together, and for once, the story didn’t end in tragedy. They actually got their happily ever after.”

 

“That doesn’t sound so bad at all.” Luna’s smile was small but luminous, like she carried a little piece of starlight in her expression.

 

 “No,” he murmured, gazing at the constellations overhead, “it doesn’t.”

 

For a while, neither of them spoke. The night wrapped around them like a quiet spell, the hum of crickets below and the soft rush of wind around the tower the only sounds. Lucien found himself tracing the stars again, wondering if somewhere, in another life, Perseus and Andromeda were still reaching for each other—close enough to touch.

 

 

 

Lucien was struggling not to regret how late they’d stayed up in the astronomy tower the night before. His eyelids felt like lead as he trudged down the corridor, stifling a yawn and rubbing at his eyes. At this rate, exhaustion was becoming less of an inconvenience and more of a permanent state of being.

 

He didn’t even register the footsteps behind him until hands grabbed his arm and yanked him into an empty classroom. His back hit the doorframe, and instinct flared—

 

“Listen, it wasn’t funny the first couple of times and it isn’t funny—” Lucien’s voice died mid-sentence.

 

Fred Weasley stood there, smirking faintly, leaning casually against the closed door as if he had all the time in the world.

 

“Get dragged into empty classrooms often, Black?” Fred asked, amusement curling around every word.

 

Lucien opened his mouth, but nothing came out. For a moment, he just stared, heart thudding in his chest.

 

“Nothing to say?” Fred arched a brow. “That’s a first. Honestly, I was starting to think you’d talk even with a Silencing Charm on.”

 

“What do you want?” Lucien finally managed, but his tone was flat, guarded—and the instant the words left him, he regretted them.

 

Fred’s eyebrows shot up, the smirk faltering. “Wow. And here I thought we were friends.” He said it lightly, but there was a tightness to his voice that didn’t match the grin.

 

“I—” Lucien started, but the word caught in his throat.

 

Fred gave a short, knowing nod, his expression unreadable now, like he’d just confirmed something he hadn’t wanted to.

 

“Right,” Fred murmured, his voice quieter now, hand already twisting the door handle as if to leave.

 

Something in Lucien snapped back to life. “Wait—” he choked out, the word sounding more desperate than he intended.

 

Fred paused, turning slightly but not letting go of the handle.

 

“I didn’t mean it like that,” Lucien said quickly, almost stumbling over the words. “You just… caught me by surprise.” His voice was softer now, strained but sincere.

 

Fred’s expression shifted minutely, but he didn’t move away from the door. He stared at some point on the far wall, jaw tightening, as if weighing something. Then he turned back, eyes sharp and searching.

 

“Why won’t you wear the bracelet?” he asked.

 

Lucien’s stomach dropped. He’d known this would come up eventually. He forced a faint, practiced smile, one that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I had… an allergic reaction to it,” he said, the lie slipping out smooth but thin. It was close enough to the truth without dragging his curse into the open. “I really did love it, though. It was beautiful, Fred. Thank you.”

 

For a second Fred just stared, and then the tension broke. His whole face lit up, the hurt melting away so fast it made Lucien’s chest ache. “Oh! Well why didn’t you say something? I could’ve fixed it—or made you another one!”

 

“You don’t have to, really, it’s okay,” Lucien rushed to assure him, hands lifting slightly as if to push the words into place.

 

Fred just shook his head, still grinning. “Don’t be absurd. What kind of reaction? Do you know what caused it?”

 

“Er—” Lucien blinked, fumbling. “I think… it was the metal clasp.”

 

Fred’s brows pulled together thoughtfully. “Odd thing to be allergic to, but easy enough to fix. I’ll make a woven clasp instead. No metal this time.” His gaze softened, the concern back now, gentler. “Do you still have it?”

 

Lucien nodded slowly. “Yeah. It’s in my dorm. I’ll… bring it to you next time.”

 

“Good,” Fred said, sounding almost satisfied, but his eyes lingered on Lucien’s face a moment longer than necessary, as though he was still turning something over in his head.

 

“So, do you have any classes anytime soon?” Fred asked casually, though his eyes were scanning Lucien like he was looking for something.

 

“No,” Lucien replied slowly, brows pulling together in confusion.

 

“Brilliant,” Fred said, sounding far too delighted, and without warning he dragged a chair over, flipped it backward, and straddled it with easy confidence. “Then you’re free to keep me company.”

 

Lucien blinked at him, utterly bewildered. “I thought you hated me,” he said faintly. “Do you need another alibi or something?”

 

Fred’s grin turned wolfish. “Oh, how lowly you think of me,” he crowed, leaning back dramatically as though wounded. “As if you’d ever willingly be an alibi.”

 

Lucien’s lips twitched despite himself, the corner threatening to curl into a smile.

 

“And I don’t hate you,” Fred added more seriously after a beat, straightening a little. His tone softened, though the teasing didn’t quite leave his face. “I’ll admit, I was really hurt, yeah—but we’ve cleared that up now. So I just want to spend time with my friend.”

 

Something unknotted in Lucien’s chest. He hated how much lighter that simple sentence made him feel, but it was impossible to deny. He almost felt as if he was floating, which was ridiculous. He gave Fred a crooked, almost shy smile.

 

“Well, I’m certainly not spending my free time in those god-awful chairs,” Lucien said dryly, flicking a disdainful glance toward the stiff wooden seat.

 

Fred looked momentarily disappointed before Lucien, with a casual flick of his hand, transfigured the chair Fred was sitting in into a broad, plush cushion. Fred yelped as it sank beneath him, then landed with a bounce and a delighted grin.

 

“Wicked,” Fred breathed, awe replacing his mock injury.

 

Lucien’s lips quirked upward. With another flick, he conjured a second cushion for himself and sank down into it with a satisfied sigh.

 

“Glad you approve,” Lucien said, leaning back and letting his eyes drift shut for a moment.

 

“I’d say no sleeping, but honestly, you look like you need it,” Fred replied, amusement lacing his words. “Second year can’t be that rough—especially for you.”

 

Lucien gave a lazy shrug, his voice quiet. “Haven’t been sleeping well.”

 

“Clearly,” Fred said, but his tone was gentler now, concerned rather than teasing. “You doing all right?”

 

Lucien didn’t answer right away. He sat there in silence, feeling the question settle heavy in the air between them. His fingers curled slightly into the cushion, and for a second he debated brushing it off, making a joke.

 

But Fred was watching him, really watching, and something about that look made deflecting impossible.

 

“It’s…” Lucien started slowly, the words dragged out of him. “Things have been rough. With everything that’s been going on.”

 

“Have people been giving you a hard time?” Fred asked, concern softening his voice.

 

Lucien quirked a smile, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “People have always given me a hard time.”

 

“Yeah, but I mean about…” Fred trailed off, hesitant, as though the words themselves might bite him.

 

Lucien sighed, cracking his eyes open to look at him. “You can say it, you know.” His tone was flat, but steady. “My dad was a Death Eater. And yeah, some people are being wankers about it. Some people look at me like the second coming of Merlin.”

 

Fred huffed a laugh at that. “So nothing new then?”

 

That, at least, managed to pull a real smile out of Lucien. “Did you know in my first class with Flitwick I made him fall off his stool in shock?” Lucien asked, amusement dancing in his eyes.

 

Fred’s jaw dropped. “No. You didn’t.”

 

Lucien smirked. “I did.”

 

“I wish I could’ve seen that,” Fred said dramatically, clutching at his heart.

 

“Should’ve been born later,” Lucien said with a shrug.

 

“Or maybe you should’ve been born sooner,” Fred countered smoothly, his grin returning.

 

Lucien tilted his head, eyes sharp with humor. “My father was too busy sucking up to dark lords to do that.” The words slipped out with a dry edge, and the second they did, he winced.

 

But instead of the awkward silence he expected, laughter burst out of Fred, sharp and startled. He slapped a hand over his mouth, eyes wide with horror even as he kept snickering. “Oh, Merlin. I’m so sorry, that wasn’t funny—”

 

“No, it is,” Lucien interrupted quickly, and to his own surprise, he was grinning. “Please, laugh. It’s… nice. Someone finally gets my sense of humor.”

 

Fred let out another helpless chuckle, shaking his head. “You’re so morbid.” Then, more softly, almost fondly: “I love it, honestly.”

 

“You’d be the first,” Lucien said dryly, though his gaze lingered on Fred, warm and unguarded in a way that startled even him.

 

“And I’m honored,” Fred said with a goofy grin, though there was a softness in his eyes that made Lucien look away too quickly.

 

“Besides, my father had to be at Hogwarts whenever you were born. Adds to the unlikeliness,” Lucien added, closing his eyes again as if to shut the thought out.

 

“Yeah, because teen pregnancy is such an unlikely thing,” Fred teased, amusement lacing his tone.

 

Lucien wrinkled his nose. “Enough. I don’t want to think about my dad like that.”

 

Fred burst out laughing. “Alright, alright—point taken. No parental scandal theories.” He leaned back into the cushion Lucien had conjured, still grinning. “Hey, you want to hear about our next prank? I’ll tell you if you don’t tell anyone.”

 

One corner of Lucien’s mouth tugged upward at Fred’s excitement. He didn’t bother opening his eyes, but he shifted slightly, sinking further into the cushion. “Tell me,” he murmured, voice softer than he meant it to be.

 

Fred’s grin widened, his whole body practically vibrating as he launched into the details—the plan, the backup plan, the charms involved, and even the failures along the way that had made George nearly blow up their dorm. His voice rose and fell with dramatic flair, painting the picture so vividly Lucien could almost see it unfolding in front of him.

 

Lucien let the words wash over him, not so much listening for the content as for the sound—the warmth, the unshakable energy, the way Fred seemed to fill every corner of the room with life. And slowly, Lucien realized his shoulders weren’t tense anymore. His chest didn’t feel quite so heavy.

 

This was peace, he thought with something like awe. The kind of peace he hadn’t felt in… Merlin, he couldn’t even remember when. All he wanted was to bask in it forever, to keep this moment suspended outside of time, where nothing could intrude.

 

 

 

Today was the first Quidditch match of the season—Slytherin versus Gryffindor—and the pitch was already buzzing with excitement by the time Lucien, Theo, and Luna made their way toward the Gryffindor stands. The air was crisp, carrying the mingled shouts of rival houses, the occasional blare of a horn, and the crackling energy that always accompanied the first match.

 

“I feel like I should be supporting Blaise,” Theo remarked dryly, hands in his pockets. Still, he didn’t so much as glance toward the Slytherin side, just kept walking beside them.

 

“We’re supporting both of them, Theo,” Luna said matter-of-factly. She was dressed in what could only be described as peak Luna fashion —a Slytherin scarf draped over her shoulders and a massive roaring lion hat perched on her head, the enchanted mane puffing up dramatically every so often.

 

“Hold still one second,” Lucien said, stepping in front of her. Luna obediently paused, tilting her head curiously. With a flick of his hand, Lucien caught the end of her scarf and transfigured it into a fabric snake, the green and silver threads rippling until scales shimmered in its place. The little serpent gave an indignant hiss, coiling loosely around Luna’s shoulders.

 

“There you go!” Lucien said, grinning.

 

“Oh, thank you!” Luna beamed, immediately stroking the snake’s head as though it were a beloved pet. The snake leaned into the touch, hissing contentedly.

 

Theo sighed, though his lips twitched like he was fighting a smile.

 

“And yes,” Lucien said firmly, glancing between the two of them, “we’re supporting both of them. But when it’s Ravenclaw’s turn, every single one of you better be cheering me on. I don’t care who we’re playing against.”

 

“Oi, you hypocrite!” Ron’s voice carried across the row, and Lucien turned to see him grinning from where he and Hermione were seated. Ron leaned forward over the railing as Lucien, Theo, and Luna climbed into the row, shaking his head in mock outrage. “Supporting both sides only works when it’s not you on the pitch, does it?”

 

Hermione rolled her eyes but smiled faintly as she shifted over to make room.

 

“Exactly.” Lucien grinned, smug as ever. “So glad you understand, mate.”

 

Theo rolled his eyes, though the faint twitch at the corner of his mouth betrayed his amusement.

 

Lucien’s gaze flicked toward the pitch—and immediately froze. His grin slipped.

 

“Bloody hell,” he muttered faintly. “Who got them all Nimbus Two Thousands?”

 

“Draco,” Ron said darkly, his tone dripping with bitterness. “You’ve missed a lot, mate.”

 

A pang of guilt twisted in Lucien’s chest. He shoved it down, forcing his face blank.

 

“He wouldn’t shut up about it in the common room,” Theo added dryly, rolling his eyes. “Went on for hours .”

 

“You’d think he’d be embarrassed—buying his way onto the team like that,” Ron scowled, leaning forward with arms crossed.

 

Lucien’s eyes flicked to him, sharp. “Hey, Draco may be a ponce, but he’s good on a broom,” he said firmly, his voice carrying just enough bite to warn Ron off.

 

Ron whipped his head around, glaring at him as if Lucien had sprouted another head. “Mate, he called Hermione a mud— ”

 

“Boys,” Hermione’s voice cut cleanly through Ron’s words, sharp and commanding. “The game’s starting!”

 

Ron’s jaw snapped shut with an audible click, his face red with frustration. Lucien turned deliberately back to the pitch, jaw tight, eyes fixed on the players soaring out into the air. 

 

Lucien kept his eyes locked on Harry, though Draco flew close beside him, no doubt tossing out taunts that Harry barely acknowledged. Lucien was about to roll his eyes—until a bludger came screaming past, missing Harry’s head by inches.

 

“Holy shit,” Theo wheezed, eyes wide.

 

Lucien snapped his gaze to him, startled. “Holy shit,” he echoed, equally wide-eyed. “Theo, you hardly ever curse.”

 

“Well it was warranted,” Theo muttered distractedly, clutching the railing. “Oh—Lucien, look!”

 

Lucien whipped his head back toward the pitch—his stomach dropping. The bludger wasn’t just attacking Harry. It was following him, doggedly, no matter how he twisted or dove.

 

“That’s not normal,” Lucien said faintly, his voice almost lost under the roar of the crowd.

 

“No,” Hermione whispered, pale as parchment. Her hand slipped into his without hesitation, squeezing tight enough to hurt.

 

“He’ll live,” Luna said airily, though her tone was softer than usual. She lifted a finger, pointing calmly. “Fred’s going to help him.”

 

And sure enough, Fred swooped in—bat raised high. Harry ducked beneath him, and with a clean, vicious swing, Fred sent the bludger flying.

 

They all exhaled at once. Relief was short-lived.

 

“Bloody hell,” Ron muttered tightly as the bludger curved back like a hunting hound and arrowed for Harry again. “It’s bloody following him!”

 

Rain began spattering down, cold droplets slipping down Lucien’s face. He blinked up at the sky in dismay. Perfect. Just what Harry needed—storm clouds and a rogue bludger.

 

Fred and George were circling Harry now, bats flashing as they desperately tried to intercept. For a few moments it worked, the twins battering the bludger away again and again—but the whistle shrilled, signaling a time-out, and Lucien finally let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

 

“What do you think’s going on?” Theo asked, worry etching deep lines across his face.

 

“I have no idea,” Lucien admitted, his grip tightening on Hermione’s hand. His chest ached with the pressure of not knowing—of not being able to do anything.

 

When the players shot back into the sky after the time-out, Lucien’s stomach dropped again.

 

“Fred and George have stopped circling him,” Ron said faintly, looking like he might be sick.

 

“Harry probably asked them to,” Lucien said grimly. “He knows he can’t catch the Snitch with them hanging over his shoulder. And this game—” He dragged in a sharp breath, eyes darting to the storm-dark pitch. “—this game needs to end now .”

 

Lucien could do nothing but watch as Harry darted madly through the rain, twisting and diving to avoid the cursed bludger while still scanning desperately for the Snitch. Every muscle in Lucien’s body was strung taut, his chest tight with helpless worry. Draco was still pacing Harry in the sky, no doubt tossing more insults, when Lucien’s eyes suddenly caught the flicker of gold. A heartbeat later, Harry saw it too.

 

“Come on, Haz,” Lucien whispered under his breath. Hermione’s grip on his hand tightened like a vice.

 

But then—Harry froze mid-motion, face gone slack with shock. The bludger slammed straight into his elbow with a sickening crack.

 

They all lurched to their feet at once, craning over the railing.

 

“His arm’s not supposed to look like that,” Theo said weakly, his face turning green as Harry, impossibly, still clutched his broom and shot forward like a comet.

 

Lucien’s stomach dropped as Harry barreled headlong toward Draco, good arm outstretched. Against all odds, Harry’s fingers closed around the Snitch.

 

Before the roar of the crowd even registered, Lucien was already moving—vaulting over knees, shoving through bodies, bolting down the stands and onto the pitch. His friends thundered after him, but all he could see was Harry.

 

A swarm of students and players were already circling, and through the crush Lucien spotted Lockhart, wand raised far too close to Harry’s mangled arm.

 

That was not good.

 

“Don’t you fucking dare!” Lucien bellowed, sprinting harder, his voice breaking over the roar of the stands. But he was too late.

 

He skidded to a halt just in time to see Harry’s arm collapse in on itself, the bones vanishing like air from a punctured balloon.

 

Lucien froze in horror, bile rising in his throat.

 

“Ah,” Lockhart said far too cheerfully. “Yes. Well, that can sometimes happen. But the point is, the bones are no longer broken. That’s the thing to bear in mind. So, Harry, just toddle up to the Hospital Wing—ah, Mr Weasley, Miss Granger, would you escort him?—and Madam Pomfrey will be able to—er—tidy you up a bit.”

 

“What did you do ?” Lucien demanded, voice trembling with fury. He shouldered through the students and seized Lockhart by the robes, shaking him. “What did you DO?!”

 

Lockhart’s smarmy smile faltered, his face paling.

 

An arm wrapped around Lucien’s waist, strong and steady, hauling him back. He caught the scent before anything else—Fred.

 

“Oi, hey now,” Fred’s low voice rumbled in his ear, calm but firm, “let’s not do this in front of hundreds of witnesses, yeah?”

 

Lucien thrashed once more, eyes blazing, but Fred’s grip was unyielding. “WHAT DID YOU DO?!” he snarled, voice breaking with rage and fear.

 

At last, he sagged against Fred’s hold, chest heaving. He didn’t lunge again—but his glare never left Lockhart. The cowardly man swallowed hard under the weight of it, his polished smile cracking at the edges.

 

At that moment, Luna appeared, serene as ever, with Madam Pomfrey striding briskly at her side. Without a word, she slipped her small hand into Lucien’s, her touch grounding him in a way nothing else could.

 

Fred hesitated before loosening his grip, finally letting Lucien go, though he lingered close like he was ready to catch him again if needed.

 

“He’ll be okay,” Luna said softly, her voice like a steady breeze cutting through the storm inside his chest. Her wide, unblinking eyes held his, certain in a way only she could be.

 

Lucien swallowed hard, his throat tight, and squeezed her hand back—grateful, desperate, not trusting himself to speak without breaking.

 

 

 

 

Lucien was back in his dorm, curtains drawn tight around his bed, the flickering light of his wand illuminating the furious scribbles in his journal.

 

I’ve compiled enough evidence. Surely Dumbledore will have to fire him after this. The man is a fraud, Tom. I don’t know how anyone can’t see it.

 

Dumbledore won’t do it. You know this.

 

Lucien dragged a hand through his hair, blinking rapidly against the sting in his eyes, before pressing the quill down again.

 

What if I sent all of my research and references to the Prophet? Surely they’d love an article from me—if not, a huge scandal.

 

Ah, yes. What good is your name if not to overthrow poor Defense Against the Dark Arts teachers who… vanish bones?

 

Lucien scowled at the words. It’s not a joke, Tom. It could have been worse.

 

Yes, it could have been. I was meaning to demean you. Still… I think you should do it, in fact.

 

Lucien stared at the ink until it blurred. I probably will. It seems like…

 

His quill slipped, his head dropped forward, and the next thing he knew—blackness swallowed him whole.

When Lucien’s eyes opened again, it was with the weight of a head stuffed full of cotton. His breath caught, heartbeat hammering as he realized immediately that he was not in his bed. His curtains, his trunk, his desk—gone. Instead, he was sprawled against cold stone, still in his nightclothes, the air damp and heavy with the unmistakable chill of the dungeons.

 

Shakily, he pushed himself to his feet, vision swimming. Shadows stretched long across the corridor, torchlight sputtering in irregular intervals, making everything look twisted.

 

Lucien’s throat went dry. He couldn’t remember moving. Couldn’t remember walking here. He couldn’t even remember dreaming.

 

“What’s happening to me?” he whispered to the empty corridor, the sound of his own voice unnerving in the silence.

 

 

Lucien dragged his feet to breakfast the next morning, the world moving as though through a haze. His eyes burned from lack of sleep, and his stomach twisted at every sound of chatter and clinking cutlery.

 

He sat down heavily at the Gryffindor table with his friends, but the words echoing in his head drowned out everything else: Colin Creevey was petrified last night.

 

Lucien picked half-heartedly at the food on his plate, not eating a single bite. His appetite was gone.

 

Was he the reason?

 

The thought clamped onto him like a vice.

 

Was he?

 

It all lined up too neatly—the blackouts, always followed by another attack. He didn’t know how it was happening, but the conclusion made his insides churn. It had to be him. And if it was… how was he supposed to stop it?

 

“Hey there,” a voice cut through his spiral, warm and steady in a way that made him look up despite himself.

 

Fred Weasley slid into the seat beside him with a crooked smile, as if he’d been planning this.

 

“Hey there,” Lucien echoed back, voice low, eyes tracking Fred helplessly as though anchoring himself to him.

 

“Give me your wrist,” Fred said suddenly, lips twitching with amusement.

 

Lucien blinked. “What?”

 

Fred only looked more entertained by his confusion. Without waiting for permission, he reached over, gently but firmly clasping Lucien’s wrist. He fastened a leather bracelet around it—simple, worn, but with a sunflower charm encased in resin that glinted faintly in the morning light.

 

“There you go,” Fred said, his tone oddly soft, his eyes lingering on Lucien’s longer than they probably should have. “Let me know if this one gives you a reaction, yeah?”

 

Lucien stared down at it, the small weight of the bracelet grounding him. A rush of warmth flooded through him, pushing away some of the dread coiled tight in his chest. His lips twitched upward despite everything.

 

“Thanks, Frederick,” he murmured, voice a little rough but sincere.

 

Fred waved him off with exaggerated nonchalance, immediately dragging Theo and Blaise into some half-ridiculous conversation, as though he hadn’t just pulled Lucien out of a spiral.

 

Lucien let them chatter, his fingers tracing over the charm again and again. The sunflower pressed cool against his skin, and for the first time since waking, the dread didn’t feel quite so consuming.

Chapter 9: Disarm Only

Notes:

Helloooooooo
I've considered making a discord, but i wanted your guys feelings on it before i did, so do let me know!
Without further ado
enjoy~

Cub,

I must admit, I’m rather worried about you. You don’t have to write me every day, or even four days a week, but since the school year started I’ve only heard from you three times.

I understand if you’re still upset with me and feeling reluctant to speak, but at the very least, could you let me know if you’re alright? For my own peace of mind.

I also received a letter from your cousin Narcissa—she tells me that her letters have gone unanswered as well. She sounded very worried, Cub.

I hope to still see you at Christmas. I miss you dearly.

—Remus Lupin

 

 

 

Lucien couldn’t stop replaying the words in his mind, the script burned into the back of his eyelids no matter how hard he tried to focus on the bubbling cauldron in front of him. Only three letters. Narcissa’s worried. He’s worried. The guilt crawled up his throat until it felt like he could choke on it.

 

The truth was worse than neglect. He had written—stacks of folded parchment tucked into the drawer of his nightstand, unfinished, unanswered, all beginning with good intentions and all abandoned halfway through. He had promised himself he’d catch up when things calmed down. They never had.

 

Lucien swore— for real this time —that after lessons he would respond.

 

If Ernie Macmillan didn’t manage to blow them both to bits first.

 

“Do not, ” Lucien hissed, snapping out a hand to grab Ernie’s wrist midair before he could ruin them, “put that in yet, I swear to Merlin.”

 

Ernie gulped, wide-eyed. “But—but the book says—”

 

“I don’t care what the book says,” Lucien cut him off, plucking the dittany leaves from his hand like confiscating a weapon from a child. “The potion needs to be orange first, and the dittany needs to be minced. You don’t just bloody toss it in, for fuck’s sake.”

 

Ernie looked scandalized at both the scolding and the language, but Lucien ignored him, stirring three times clockwise with quick, precise motions. He minced the leaves into neat strips, then dropped them in one by one. The potion shimmered, then shifted into a healthy violet glow.

 

Lucien finally turned on Ernie with a sharp look.

 

“The book said to do it like that,” Ernie muttered mulishly, crossing his arms like a sulking child.

 

“For Merlin’s sake, outsource, ” Lucien muttered, eyes fixed on the cauldron so he wouldn’t roll them clean out of his skull. “There are countless books in the library on brewing technique—read one. But if you’re determined to blow up your cauldron, do it when I’m not sitting beside you.”

 

Ernie scowled. “You don’t have to be rude.”

 

Lucien let out a humorless laugh, still stirring. “Trust me, Ernie, if I were being rude, you’d know. ”

 

“Class is over,” Snape drawled, voice flat with disdain. “Bottle your potions, deliver them to my desk, and then do please get out of my sight.”

 

Lucien carefully poured his potion into a vial, steady hand and meticulous precision belying how tired he felt. The liquid shimmered a perfect shade of violet, and he couldn’t help a small flicker of pride. He corked it, scribbled his name on the label—and with a grimace, added Ernie Macmillan underneath. Not that Ernie had been much help.

 

Bag slung over his shoulder, Lucien carried the vial to the desk, set it down among the others, and turned quickly to leave.

 

“Mr. Black. Stay behind.”

 

Lucien froze mid-step, shoulders tightening. He shut his eyes briefly, cursing under his breath.

 

“I have a studying session,” he lied smoothly, not turning around.

 

“You do not,” Snape replied at once, his tone clipped, brooking no argument. “Stay behind.”

 

Lucien’s jaw worked. Every instinct screamed to keep walking, but instead he pivoted sharply and strode toward the office door. He didn’t bother waiting for permission; he pushed it open and walked inside as though it still belonged to him.

 

The office smelled the same—damp stone, parchment, and the faint tang of potion fumes. Without hesitation, Lucien dropped into the chair opposite the desk, the same one he’d claimed once before. He leaned back, feigning indifference, though his pulse thudded at his throat.

 

Snape would join him any moment now, once the classroom emptied.  Lucien had no idea what Snape wanted.

 

Not even five minutes had passed before Snape swept into the room, his robes billowing faintly in his wake. He paused only a heartbeat at the sight of Lucien sprawled in the chair, then moved past him with his usual, deliberate grace. The chair behind the desk creaked as he sat, long fingers steepling together.

 

Lucien’s resolve was firm: stay silent, endure whatever lecture Snape had prepared, sneer in his face, and leave without another word.

 

“I want to offer you a trade,” Snape said smoothly.

 

Lucien rolled his eyes and stood in one fluid motion. “I’m not one of your snakes,” he said flatly, stalking toward the door. “You’ve got nothing I want that I can’t dig up on my own.” His hand curled around the doorknob.

 

“I will tell you everything about your father.”

 

Lucien froze. The cold brass of the knob bit into his palm as his grip tightened. He didn’t turn immediately; he needed a moment to steady the sudden pounding in his chest.

 

When he did glance back, his voice was careful, clipped. “And what do you want in return?” He let his eyes narrow, weighing the man across from him. “Because there’s only so much I’m willing to give. You might be the most convenient source of information… but you’re not the only one.”

 

For the barest instant, something flickered across Snape’s face—almost a smile, though it never quite formed.

 

“It’s rather simple, actually,” Snape drawled, leaning back in his chair. “I only wish for you to listen.”

 

Lucien blinked at him, thrown. “That’s… a shit deal on your end. You’re not getting much.”

 

“Language,” Snape snapped automatically, though his tone lacked its usual bite. “And there is one more condition.”

 

Lucien arched a brow, already bristling.

 

“I would like it,” Snape continued, voice low and precise, “if after I tell you everything… you stop avoiding me.”

 

Lucien opened his mouth to retort, but Snape raised a hand, silencing him with the smallest gesture.

 

“You can continue to hate me, if that’s what you choose,” Snape went on, his black eyes fixed unblinkingly on him. “But it is… considerably harder to protect you when you behave as though I am the plague.”

 

Lucien stared at him blankly for a long, heavy beat before a sharp, brittle laugh escaped his lips. It was half-hysterical, half-defensive, and it echoed too loudly in the cramped office.

 

Snape’s eyes narrowed. “Cease this nonsense, you foolish child.”

 

“Don’t call me that,” Lucien snapped, the humor vanishing from his face as quickly as it had come. His jaw set hard, but instead of storming out again he turned, sinking back into the chair. He leaned into it with deliberate arrogance, sitting as though he owned the very air around them.

 

“You will tell me,” Lucien said firmly, his tone edged with command rather than request. “And I will listen. I will even stop avoiding you, though you may come to regret it. But I still don’t trust you.”

 

Snape’s gaze lingered on him, unreadable, before he inclined his head in the barest nod of agreement.

 

Lucien tapped his finger methodically against the worn arm of the chair, eyes fixed on Snape, watching the man gather his thoughts. It was clear he wasn’t here anymore—his gaze had gone distant, pulled somewhere into memory.

 

“When your father and I were at school,” Snape began at last, his voice slower, heavier than usual, “the Dark Lord had already begun his rise to power. The Black family idolized him and his ideology. Regulus… grew up worshipping him. It was all he had ever known.”

 

His eyes drifted toward a far wall, unfocused. “He did not like me at first. I was a half-blood, and therefore beneath him. We did not become… friends until after his fifth year. I always assumed it had something to do with his brother being disowned that summer. Regulus never told me, and I never asked. But he was different after that.”

 

“Sirius got disowned?” Lucien interrupted, his voice sharper than he intended.

 

Snape’s eyes flicked to him with mild irritation. “Listening,” he reminded, his tone clipped, “was one of the conditions. You may present your no-doubt never-ending list of questions at the end.”

 

Lucien bit down on his protest, forcing himself back into silence, though his fingers drummed more insistently against the chair.

 

“He was disowned,” Snape confirmed flatly. “Sirius was the epitome of the opposite of everything his family stood for. I do not know the entire story… but I did overhear—quite by accident—James Potter thanking your father for helping his brother escape. It is my understanding Sirius was barely conscious at the time, unfit to flee on his own.”

 

Lucien bit his tongue so hard he tasted copper, the tang of blood cutting through the stale dungeon air.

 

“Regulus had begun to lose interest in the Dark Lord,” Snape continued, voice low, deliberate. “But as the sole heir of the Black family, he knew he would never be allowed to walk away. Not without consequence. He kept this rebellion carefully hidden—admitting it only in private, only among his… trusted circle. Myself. Pandora. Your godmother. Evan Rosier. And Barty Crouch Jr.—your godfather.”

 

Lucien schooled his expression into practiced neutrality, though a storm churned just beneath the surface. Snape’s eyes flicked to him, sharp as a hawk’s, and narrowed.

 

“You already knew that Barty was your godfather,” Snape said, his tone more statement than question.

 

Lucien let the silence stretch just long enough to make his control clear. Then, evenly, “You are not the only source of information.” His voice was cool, clipped. “Continue.”

 

Something unreadable—approval, irritation, or both—flickered across Snape’s features before his expression reset into its usual mask.

 

“We all agreed to take the Dark Mark together—excluding Pandora,” Snape continued after a measured pause. His tone was steady, but something brittle edged the words. “As for reasons… I can only speculate. Regulus, because he had no choice. Barty, because of Regulus. Evan, out of a sense of duty.”

 

“And you?” Lucien asked coolly, his voice flat as steel.

 

Snape’s lips pressed thin, and when he finally spoke it was slow, tinged with something uncharacteristic—regret. “And I… I did it because I wanted to. I was a bitter, angry child, and in my eyes the Dark Lord was everything I longed to be. He paid for my mastery. He made me feel powerful—no longer the weak half-blood skulking in the shadows. For the first time in my life, I felt important. Valued.”

 

Lucien hated how easily he could see the appeal. He, too, had known weakness. He, too, had wanted to be seen, to be more than the invisible, fragile thing others dismissed. The thought made his stomach twist.

 

“Your father was marked in his sixth year,” Snape said quietly, eyes fixed somewhere far away. “He appeared at my door one night, arriving on the Knight Bus of all things. When I opened it, he looked deathly ill—ashen, drenched with sweat. He hadn’t even managed a word before collapsing on my floor.”

 

Lucien’s fingers curled tight against the arm of the chair, knuckles whitening.

 

“I joined that winter,” Snape admitted, voice heavy, as though the memory itself carried chains. “The others followed the next year, after graduation.”

 

“Your father did not handle the missions the Dark Lord sent him on,” Snape continued quietly, his voice stripped of its usual venom. “We could all see it was taking a toll, but there was nothing we could do. We had already sold our souls to the devil, and the devil always demands his due.”

 

He fell silent for a moment, as though gathering himself.

 

“I was there when he met your mother,” Snape admitted at last. “He came to my house after a mission—half mad, half drunk. He demanded that I take him to a Muggle pub of all places. He claimed it was penance… that he wanted to surround himself with the very people he was slaughtering, to force himself to see them as human.”

 

Snape’s face tightened, a flicker of old shadows in his eyes. “He said that the next time he was forced to kill them, he wanted to truly feel it. As if he wasn’t already drowning in guilt with every breath.”

 

Lucien’s stomach churned, bile rising. Part of him wanted to shut it all out, to demand silence. But he forced himself to keep listening. He had asked for this.

 

“I took him,” Snape said tiredly, as though the admission cost him something even now. “What else could I do? And that night… that was when he met your mother. They spoke, and he left with her. Afterward, he did not see her for months.”

 

“They weren’t together?” Lucien asked, brows furrowed in confusion.

 

“No,” Snape said firmly. “They were not. As far as I knew, your father had little interest in women at all. That is not to say he did not care for her—he did. They became friends… and, briefly, parents together. But it was not a love story.”

 

Lucien nodded slowly, the world tilting sideways, truths breaking down everything he thought he knew.

 

“Your father isolated himself after that,” Snape continued, his tone flattening into something heavier. “The Dark Lord had summoned him, and afterward we saw him less and less. Whenever we tried, he brushed us off—said he had something important, something urgent, something none of us could be part of.”

 

His gaze flickered, briefly far away. “Eight months later, we were sent out again. Another spectacle. The usual display—parading our power, sowing chaos, butchering Muggles as if they were little more than cattle. And that was when we saw her again—your mother. Regulus had taken her, hidden her away, right under our noses.”

 

Lucien’s breath caught, his throat suddenly dry.

 

“A few weeks later, your father came to me,” Snape said quietly. For the first time, he looked at Lucien directly, as though to anchor the words. “He said he needed my assistance. But first… he demanded a vow of secrecy. He had never looked more desperate. Not even when his life was in danger. I swore it willingly.”

 

Snape exhaled, slow and deliberate. “He took me to a safe house. And there she was. Your mother. In labor. With you.”

 

Lucien’s eyes widened, his voice catching. “You—”

 

“Delivered you?” Snape murmured, almost absently, though something unreadable flickered across his expression. “I did. It was…certainly an experience.” He let out a short, humorless breath before continuing.

 

“Afterward, Regulus brought Evan and Barty into the fold. Pandora already knew, of course—she was enchanted with you from the start. Evan held you once, just once. You promptly vomited on him, and he declared that he would love you from a safe distance for the rest of your life.”

 

Lucien startled out a quiet, unsteady laugh, though his chest felt heavy.

 

Snape’s mouth twitched almost imperceptibly, as though the memory pulled at something in him despite himself. “Barty, on the other hand, adored being your godfather. He insisted on holding you every chance he had. Reckless, as always—tossing you in the air, spinning you about. It terrified your mother, though you loved it. You—” Snape hesitated, his voice softening, “—you laughed for the first time with him. Loud, bright. He was absurdly proud of that.”

 

Something warm curled in Lucien’s chest, but it was laced with a sting of sorrow so sharp it nearly hollowed him.

 

“We would all take turns guarding and helping your mother as best we could,” Snape murmured, regret edging every syllable. “But in March… we were all sent on a mission. I realize now what the Dark Lord had suspected.” His voice tightened. “When Regulus and I returned to the safehouse, your mother was dead. She lay on the floor in front of your nursery door. It looked as though she had used herself as a barricade—her body, her very life, between you and the monster who had come for you.”

 

“Stop,” Lucien whispered, his stomach twisting, bile rising.

 

Snape inclined his head, slow, deliberate. “I won’t describe it.” His eyes were flat, unreadable. “But you should know… I see it still. As clearly as if it were yesterday.”

 

Lucien pressed his lips together, not admitting that he saw it too—almost every night, replayed in his dreams, in his terrors.

 

“You were safe in your crib,” Snape continued, quieter now. “Greyback had left you—crying, wailing, inconsolable. Your father held you with such a terrifyingly blank look, as though he had carved all emotion from his face. You screamed in his arms, and he did not flinch. Then… he handed you to me. Wrote something on a piece of parchment. And without a word, he Apparated away.”

 

Lucien’s chest felt hollow, cold. He already knew where this story was headed, but hearing it aloud scraped the wound raw.

 

“He returned not long after,” Snape said, voice rasping with the memory. “He carried a tiny velvet bag and a cord. He tied it around your neck like a talisman. Then he took you back into his arms.”

 

Lucien’s fingers instinctively brushed the silver hourglass necklace at his chest.

 

“He told me,” Snape pressed on, “that he was hiding you somewhere no one magical could ever find. I reminded him of my vow to protect you, but he refused. Insisted no one could know where you were. I offered to Obliviate the knowledge of your whereabouts from his own mind once you were safe. He only shook his head. Said it would not be necessary.”

 

Lucien stared hard at the desk, his eyes burning, jaw tight enough to ache.

 

“That,” Snape whispered, “was the last time I ever saw him. Two weeks later—March twenty-sixth nineteen- eighty—the Prophet announced that Lord Black was missing. We all knew what that meant.”

 

Lucien nodded slowly, the movement stiff, mechanical.

 

“After that,” Snape went on, “Barty and Evan both lost themselves to grief. Evan sought death like a lover—he found it in a duel with Auror Mad-Eye Moody. Evan took his eye before he fell, and now Moody parades around wearing one of my dearest friend’s eyes as compensation.” His lip curled briefly, though his tone never broke.

 

Lucien’s stomach lurched violently; he thought he might be sick right there.

 

“And then I overheard something I was never meant to hear,” Snape said, voice sinking to something haunted. “Voldemort targeted the Potters. Lily. And I… I switched sides. To protect her. To protect the only person who had ever…” He trailed off, throat working, then forced himself on. “I became a spy for the Order of the Phoenix. Albus swore he would hide them. Protect them. Not that it mattered. Black betrayed them. Voldemort killed them. And then Potter… rebounded the curse.”

 

Lucien didn’t react. He didn’t have to—everyone knew that story.

 

“Your godfather,” Snape said, quieter still, “committed something unforgivable. He went with the Lestranges—your cousin, her husband, his brother. Together they tortured the Longbottoms into insanity. And for it, they were imprisoned. Your godfather died in Azkaban.”

 

Lucien shut his eyes, the weight pressing down on him unbearable.

 

“That is everything,” Snape finished at last, lifting his gaze and pinning Lucien with it. “That is every dark part you begged me to unearth.”

 

Lucien regretted it. So terribly, deeply. He had asked for the truth, demanded it, and now it sat in him like a stone, heavy and immovable.

 

“I understand you felt betrayed,” Snape said softly, softer than Lucien had ever heard him. “But you are still just a boy. This—” he gestured faintly to the air, to the invisible ghosts between them “—is too much for full-grown men. I always intended to tell you, when the time was right.”

 

Lucien nodded slowly, sniffing, blinking furiously against the tears that wanted to fall. His throat felt scraped raw.

 

“I take it back,” Lucien murmured, voice breaking at the edges. He swallowed hard, forcing a breath past the tightness in his chest. “I… do forgive you. I’m sorry.”

 

“You needn’t forgive me,” Snape said solemnly. His eyes, dark and hollow, seemed to search Lucien’s face for something. “I do not deserve it.”

 

“I can’t absolve the things you did in the past,” Lucien said quietly, fingers curling against his knees. “You did those things, and now you have to live with them. But… I can forgive you for not telling me. For this.”

 

A broken, almost bitter laugh escaped him. He swiped at his eyes with the heel of his hand. “I understand why you didn’t now.”

 

Snape studied him, and for once there was no scorn, no sharp edge. Only something heavy, aching, almost paternal. “We did terrible things,” he murmured. “But you were—and still are—terribly loved. If there is an afterlife, I have no doubt they watch over you in awe, in pride, in a never-ending surplus of affection and devotion. Just as they did in life.”

 

Lucien only nodded. He knew what their afterlife looked like. He saw it often enough.

 

Silence stretched, broken only by the faint ticking of the enchanted clock on Snape’s desk.

 

“It has grown late,” Snape said at last, glancing at the time. “It seems we’ve missed dinner. Are you hungry?”

 

Lucien shook his head quickly. “M’not hungry.”

 

Snape inclined his head in acknowledgment. “Then allow me to walk you back to your common room.”

 

Lucien bit the inside of his cheek, holding back another wave of tears. His voice was small when he spoke. “Can I just—” He stopped, words catching.

 

Snape paused, waiting. “Yes?” he prompted.

 

Lucien’s chest heaved with a shaky breath. “I don’t want to go back there right now. Can I… can I just stay here tonight?”

 

Snape regarded him for a long moment, something unreadable flickering in his expression. Then, with a simple flick of his wand, a folded blanket and pillow appeared on the worn leather couch.

 

“For tonight,” he said quietly.

 

Lucien’s shoulders sagged with relief, the breath he hadn’t realized he was holding escaping in a shudder. He curled up on the couch, still in his school robes, and though the truth about his father burned behind his eyes, the warmth of the blanket and the low crackle of the fire wrapped around him.

 

 

 

 

“I don’t want to,” Lucien whined as Theo quite determinedly dragged him by the arm toward the Great Hall. Luna floated beside them, giggling softly at the spectacle.

 

“You’re going,” Theo hissed through his teeth, yanking harder when Lucien tried to dig in his heels. “I have bets , Black.”

 

Lucien’s head snapped toward him. “You what?”

 

“Bets.” Theo’s grin looked downright unhinged. “Do you have any idea how long I’ve been waiting for this?”

 

“But it’s taught by Lockhart,” Lucien groaned in genuine anguish, dragging his free hand down his face.

 

“And Professor Snape,” Theo countered smugly, “and you two are chummy again. So you’re coming. End of.”

 

“You wouldn’t dare force me,” Lucien said, affronted.

 

Theo’s eye twitched. “Do you really want to test that theory and find out?”

 

Lucien swallowed. No, he did not. He allowed himself to be herded with the crowd into the Great Hall, muttering under his breath.

 

“That’s what I thought,” Theo said smugly, and Lucien bristled. Before he could retort, however, the sharp crack of a wand amplified Lockhart’s annoyingly golden voice.

 

Gilderoy Lockhart was strutting onto the stage, resplendent in robes of deep plum that shimmered far too dramatically under the torchlight. Beside him glided Professor Snape, all in black as ever, his expression carved in stone and promising nothing short of murder.

 

“Gather round, gather round!” Lockhart cried, beaming with blinding teeth and expansive gestures. “Can everyone see me? Can you all hear me? Excellent! Now, Professor Dumbledore has granted me permission to start this little Duelling Club—to train you all up in case you ever need to defend yourselves, as I myself have done on countless occasions! For full details, of course, do consult my published works—available in Flourish and Blotts, all currently in their third reprint!”

 

Lucien could swear he heard actual crickets chirping in the background, or perhaps that was just his soul dying slowly.

 

“You owe me,” he muttered out of the corner of his mouth.

 

“Wrong,” Theo shot back without missing a beat.

 

Lockhart flourished his arm toward Snape, who loomed beside him like a thundercloud about to break. “Let me introduce my assistant, Professor Snape! He tells me he knows a tiny little bit about duelling himself and has most sportingly agreed to help me with a short demonstration before we begin. Now, I don’t want any of you youngsters to worry—you’ll still have your Potions master when I’m through with him, never fear!”

 

A ripple of laughter skittered nervously through the crowd. Snape’s lip curled.

 

“Ten Galleons on Snape wiping the floor with him?” Lucien whispered, leaning toward Theo.

 

Theo gave him an incredulous look. “I’m not taking that bet. I’ll be surprised if there’s anything left of Lockhart once Snape’s through with him.”

 

Lucien inclined his head in solemn agreement. Luna, who had been humming dreamily to herself, piped up suddenly:

 

“I do hope Lockhart survives long enough to write a new book,” she said serenely. “Perhaps Magical Mishaps: How to Fall Gracefully While Your Hair Still Shines. ”

 

Lucien snorted, and Theo nearly doubled over trying not to laugh.

 

“One – two – three—”

 

Both of them swung their wands up and over their shoulders.

 

“ Expelliarmus! ” Snape barked.

 

There was a blinding flash of scarlet light. Lockhart was blasted clean off his feet; he flew backwards in a whirl of plum robes, crashed spectacularly against the far wall, and slid down to the floor like a discarded tapestry.

 

“This is the best day of my life,” Lucien whispered in awe, eyes shining.

 

Theo cracked a feral grin. “I’ve never believed in fate until now.”

 

Luna giggled dreamily. “He looked a bit like a startled Puffskein.”

 

On the floor, Lockhart was groaning and struggling upright. His hat had rolled under a bench and his golden curls now stood in chaotic spikes, as though mocking him.

 

“Well, there you have it!” he wheezed, staggering back onto the platform with as much dignity as a man who’d just eaten stone could manage. “That was a Disarming Charm—as you see, I’ve lost my wand—ah, thank you, Miss Brown. Yes, an excellent idea to show them that, Professor Snape, but if you don’t mind my saying so, it was rather obvious what you were about to do. If I had wanted to stop you, it would have been only too easy. However, I felt it would be instructive to let them see …”

 

“What a bloody ponce,” Lucien muttered darkly, folding his arms.

 

Theo’s lip curled. “It’s offensive how much he believes himself.”

 

Snape’s expression had soured into something bordering on homicidal. His eyes glittered with murderous intent, and Lockhart—oblivious, or perhaps suicidally arrogant—hurried on with false cheer:

 

“Enough demonstrating! Now, I’ll come among you all and put you into pairs! Professor Snape, if you’d like to assist me—splendid, splendid…”

 

The professors moved down the aisles, snapping out names and pointing with wands like conductors selecting instruments.

 

Lucien rocked back on his heels, arms crossed, waiting for fate to deliver him his punishment.

 

“Oh, I do hope they pair you with an upper year,” Theo murmured, his eyes alight with malicious glee. “They might actually stand a chance.”

 

“I’m rather hoping they pair me with you,” Lucien drawled, the corners of his mouth twitching. “Since you dragged me here against my will, it’s only fair you face the consequences.”

 

“That would defeat the purpose,” Theo said flatly, looking genuinely perplexed—as though Lucien had suggested rewriting the laws of magic.

 

Lucien sighed, exasperated. “You couldn’t watch me duel anyway. You’d be too busy trying not to get flattened yourself.”

 

Theo waved a dismissive hand. “I’ll have my opponent down before you’re even finished blinking. Then I’ll turn and watch you humiliate whoever they throw at you.”

 

Lucien arched a brow, smirking. “Oh? And what are the statistics on that, you reckon?”

 

Theo pursed his lips, considering, then sighed with dramatic disappointment. “Unlikely. Very unlikely. Tragic, really.”

 

“Mr. Nott, with Miss Bones,” Snape drawled as he passed, his voice carrying over the murmurs of students. “Miss Lovegood, with Miss Weasley, if you please.”

 

“Pairing us by year?” Lucien quipped with a lopsided grin, rocking back on his heels, hands shoved in his pockets.

 

“Not you,” Snape replied dryly, rolling his eyes with a hint of long-suffering.

 

Lucien laughed under his breath. “Oh? Am I paired with you, then?” he asked cheekily, his tone almost daring.

 

Snape’s lips curled at the edges, just short of a smirk. “I considered it,” he said idly, “but Mr. Flint cost Slytherin fifty house points this morning for terrorizing a first year.”

 

“Mmm,” Lucien hummed, catching on immediately. “So you want me to put him in his place?”

 

“If you don’t mind,” Snape said, and there was the faintest glimmer of amusement in his eyes. “Based on your performance at the welcoming feast, I assumed you would leap at the chance.”

 

“Oh, I am,” Lucien answered with a sharp grin and a mock salute before striding toward Marcus Flint.

 

“Snape sending me a second year?” Flint scoffed as Lucien stopped in front of him. His grin was ugly and shark-like. “What’d you do to deserve that kind of punishment?”

 

Lucien tilted his head, assessing Flint with the vague, detached interest of someone studying an oddly shaped fish in a tank. Then, with deliberate slowness, he hummed disinterestedly. “You’re asking the wrong questions.” His grin sharpened, cocking his head to the side. “For instance… how’s your hand? Scar healing up nicely?”

 

“Diffindo!” Flint snarled, his wand slashing through the air.

 

He lifted his hand lazily, a shimmering shield flashing into existence. The spell bounced harmlessly off, sizzling into the rafters.

 

“Woah,” Lucien drawled, eyes widening in exaggerated surprise. “And here I thought Lockhart said disarm only .”

 

Flint’s face twisted. “Confringo!” he bellowed, voice cracking with anger.

 

Lucien arched a brow—then did the stupidest, most reckless thing he could think of. He reached out and caught the fireball. Heat seared across his palm, magic burning against his skin—
but it held.

 

“Huh,” Lucien hummed, examining it as though Flint had just tossed him an interesting trinket. Then, with a flick of his wrist, he hurled it back. The explosion caught Flint’s robes, the hem bursting into flames.

 

“Aguamenti!” Flint yelped, dousing himself in a spray of water, steam hissing up around him.

 

Lucien barked a laugh, The duel truly began.

 

It took only seconds for Lucien to see the pattern. Flint had no defense—none. He simply hurled every nasty spell he knew in furious succession, hoping one would land. Half of them went wide, crashing into shields or missing entirely. His form was brute force, no finesse.

 

Lucien sidestepped one curse, let another glance off a shield, looking as though he were already bored.

 

Less than a minute in, he was.

 

“Pathetic,” Lucien muttered under his breath. Then, with one sharp flick: “Stupefy.”

 

The jet of scarlet light slammed into Flint’s chest, and he dropped like a sack of bricks.

 

“Enough, enough!” Lockhart cried, his voice cracking in panic.

 

Lucien blinked, looking around with mild interest. Judging from the scorch marks, the smoke, and at least one Ravenclaw clutching a singed sleeve, his duel hadn’t been the only one that got a little out of hand.

 

Theo looked absolutely disheveled—hair mussed, collar askew, wand arm trembling—but his wide eyes were fixed on Lucien with unabashed awe. Lucien grinned cheekily at him.

 

Lockhart, meanwhile, was floundering in the middle of the hall, red-faced and sweating. He cast a desperate glance toward Snape—who stood tall and smug, his black eyes glinting with dangerous amusement—and then quickly looked away.

 

“Let’s have a volunteer pair—Longbottom and Finch-Fletchley, how about you?” Lockhart announced with forced cheer.

 

“A bad idea, Professor Lockhart,” Snape drawled, gliding forward like a great, malevolent bat. “Longbottom causes devastation with the simplest spells. We’d be sending what’s left of Finch-Fletchley up to the hospital wing in a matchbox.”

 

Neville’s round face went crimson. A few people snickered.

 

“How about Malfoy and Potter?” Snape added silkily, a twisted smile curving his mouth.

 

“Excellent idea!” Lockhart boomed, seizing on it instantly, and he gestured Harry and Malfoy into the cleared space. The crowd backed away in eager anticipation.

 

Lucien sighed and strolled over to Snape’s side, hands shoved into his pockets.

 

“Is he breathing?” Snape murmured without looking at him.

 

“Yep.” Lucien popped the p deliberately. “Still stunned in the corner. Probably drooling on himself.”

 

Snape’s lips twitched into a faint smile, one that was gone as quickly as it came.

 

“Now, Harry,” Lockhart was saying loudly, brandishing his wand with dramatic flair. “When Draco points his wand at you, you must respond like this —” He wiggled his wand in a complicated motion… and promptly dropped it.

 

The hall erupted in muffled laughter. Snape smirked openly as Lockhart scrambled to pick it up, muttering, “Whoops—my wand is a little over-excited today!”

 

Lucien leaned closer to Snape, muttering under his breath, “You should’ve had me duel him. Would’ve been a better show.”

 

Snape’s dark eyes flicked toward him, dry amusement glinting. “By my knowledge, you already have.”

 

Lucien grinned, sharp and mischievous. “You professors are terrible gossips.”

 

Snape gave the faintest shrug, the ghost of satisfaction still curling his lips.

 

Snape leaned down beside Malfoy, his cloak whispering against the floor, and murmured something in the boy’s ear. Draco’s lips curled into a triumphant smirk.

 

Harry glanced nervously up at Lockhart. “Professor, could you show me that blocking thing again?”

 

Lucien squeezed his eyes shut like he’d just witnessed a crime. “Harry did not just ask him for help,” he whispered in horror as Snape returned to his side.

 

Snape’s mouth twitched, sending him a sidelong, amused glance.

 

“What did you tell Draco to do?” Lucien muttered suspiciously.

 

Snape only smirked, refusing to answer.

 

Lucien huffed. “That’s not ominous at all.”

 

Meanwhile, Lockhart beamed, cuffing Harry merrily on the shoulder. “Just do what I did, Harry.”

 

“What—drop my wand?” Harry shot back flatly.

 

Lucien choked on his laughter, coughing into his fist while Snape’s eyes gleamed with silent amusement.

 

“Three—two—one—go!” Lockhart shouted.

 

Malfoy whipped his wand up and bellowed, “ Serpensortia! ”

 

The tip of his wand exploded, and a long, black snake shot out, hitting the stone floor with a heavy thud. It uncoiled and reared up, eyes flashing, ready to strike. Screams echoed through the hall as students stumbled backward in terror, leaving the floor clear.

 

Lucien raised his brows. “Could you get any more stereotypical?” he muttered flatly.

 

Snape actually looked offended, his nostrils flaring before he swept forward onto the platform with deliberate grace.

 

“Don’t move, Potter,” he drawled lazily, clearly savoring Harry’s frozen expression as the snake swayed menacingly. “I’ll get rid of it…”

 

“Allow me!” Lockhart interrupted loudly.

 

He brandished his wand with a flourish, there was a deafening bang, and the snake catapulted ten feet into the air before slamming back onto the floor with a sickening crack .

 

Lucien winced in sympathy, his face screwing up. Merlin’s beard—that looked like it hurt the snake.

 

The creature writhed in fury, hissing louder, and then whipped toward Justin Finch-Fletchley. With startling speed, it lunged forward, rearing up again, fangs bared and dripping, ready to strike.

 

And then Lucien froze.

 

For a moment, he thought he’d misheard. But no—Harry was hissing at the snake. Actual, slithering, inhuman hissing. The sound slid coldly over the hall, raising the hairs on the back of Lucien’s neck.

 

What was worse—the snake was listening.

 

It lowered itself at Harry’s command, muscles loosening as its head tilted toward him in eerie obedience.

 

“What do you think you’re playing at?” Justin shouted suddenly, his voice cracking. His face was white with fury and fear as he stormed out of the room.

 

A ripple of gasps and horrified mutters chased him.

 

Snape stepped forward at last, his expression unreadable, and with a flick of his wand the snake vanished in a sharp puff of black smoke. His dark eyes, however, lingered on Harry—not with disgust or shock, but with a shrewd, calculating intensity that made Lucien’s stomach twist.

 

The muttering spread like wildfire. Everywhere Lucien looked, faces were pale, eyes wide, people backing away as though Harry himself might sprout fangs next.

 

Lucien felt the shift in the room like a physical thing—fear, suspicion, judgment. By the time Ron and Hermione grabbed Harry’s arms and tugged him toward the exit, the crowd was parting for them in horrified silence, the way one would for a curse victim.

 

Lucien was still staring when a firm hand closed around his elbow. He spun, startled, only to find Theo dragging him toward the doors with a sharp, urgent expression.

 

“Come on,” Theo hissed under his breath, tugging him along.

 

Blaise slipped out of the crowd to join them, his usual mask of composure cracked with genuine curiosity, while Luna drifted serenely to Lucien’s other side, as though she’d simply been waiting for this moment. Together, the four of them slipped after Harry, Ron, and Hermione, trailing the whispers that followed like smoke.

They caught up just in time to hear Ron’s voice, pitched high with nerves.

 

“I heard you speaking Parseltongue,” Ron blurted. “Snake language. You could’ve been saying anything—no wonder Justin panicked. You sounded like you were egging it on or something. It was… it was creepy, you know.”

 

“What the hell was that?” Lucien demanded as they reached the group, still looking bewildered.

 

“Potter’s a Parselmouth,” Theo said faintly, the words tasting foreign in his mouth. “That’s what that was.”

 

Harry looked between them, lost. “I spoke a different language? But—I didn’t realise—I mean, how can I speak a language without knowing I can? It just sounded like English to me.”

 

Ron shook his head slowly, looking spooked. Hermione was pale, her expression grim as if she were already calculating the consequences. Theo and Blaise exchanged one of their silent looks that spoke volumes, and beside Lucien, Luna tilted her head back to hum at the ceiling as if none of this was remotely alarming.

 

Harry threw his arms wide, frustrated. “D’you want to tell me what’s wrong with stopping a dirty great snake biting Justin’s head off? What does it matter how I did it, as long as Justin doesn’t have to join the Headless Hunt?”

 

“We all watched the snake back off,” Lucien said firmly, stepping into the silence to defend him. 

 

“It matters,” Hermione whispered, her voice hushed as though she hated even saying the words. “Because being able to talk to snakes was what Salazar Slytherin was famous for. That’s why the symbol of Slytherin house is a serpent.”

 

Theo nodded once, eyes narrowing. “And now… people are going to think you’re the Heir of Slytherin.”

 

Lucien froze, his face shuttering into a blank mask. “It’s not him,” he said flatly, leaving no room for doubt.

 

“He isn’t,” Luna confirmed dreamily, as if they’d all been stating the obvious.

 

Blaise let out a quiet chuckle, dry and amused. “Looks like you’re off the hook, Black.”

 

Lucien’s gaze cut to him, sharp and unimpressed. “Not funny,” he muttered.

 

Blaise inclined his head in mock apology, though the glint in his eyes said he wasn’t sorry at all.

 

“Exactly,” said Ron. “And now the whole school’s going to think you’re his great-great-great-great-grandson or something …”

 

“But I’m not,” Harry said, panic edging his voice.

 

“You’ll find that hard to prove,” Hermione admitted quietly. “He lived a thousand years ago—for all we know, you could be.”

 

“We can try, though,” Lucien murmured, already thinking three steps ahead. “There are records. Genealogy books. Theo—”

 

“Tonight,” Theo agreed instantly, his tone leaving no room for debate. Blaise gave a small, confirming nod. Theo glanced at Harry, and for once his sharp expression softened. “We’ll figure it out. But for now… maybe just keep your head down, yeah?”

 

“Right,” Harry said flatly, though his jaw was tight. He spun on his heel and stalked off. Hermione and Ron exchanged apologetic looks before hurrying after him.

 

“Well,” Blaise drawled into the silence, “I’ll just go cancel my evening plans then. Thrilling research night it is.”

 

Lucien let out a long breath, pinching the bridge of his nose as if trying to stave off the headache pressing in behind his eyes. “Merlin help us,” he muttered.

 

 

 

 

Lucien was utterly exhausted that night. They had spent hours poring over genealogies, cross-referencing family trees, chasing every lead they could find—only to hit dead ends at every turn. Blaise had written to his mother, hoping she might know something, but Lucien had a different idea.

 

He dipped his quill and wrote to Tom, the words coming out in a rush:

 

My brother’s a Parselmouth, and now people think he’s the heir of Slytherin. My friends and I spent all night searching through books on family lineages, but we haven’t found anything yet. Do you know anything about the Potters being related to the Slytherin line?

 

The response came quickly, as if Tom had been waiting:

 

The Slytherin line is now the Gaunts. The Potters descend from the Peverell line. Though they are related, they have no Slytherin blood, so he shouldn’t have that ability.

 

Lucien’s tired eyes widened.

 

So… Harry is related to them?

 

He is. That doesn’t make him the heir, though.

 

Lucien blinked, the weight of the night pressing on him.

 

Right… but that’s just going to make the situation worse.

 

Oh, it will. Are you sure he wasn’t just pretending?

 

Yeah, I’m sure. He was pretty…

 

And just like that, Lucien’s quill slipped from his fingers. His eyes fluttered shut, and the world went black once more.

 

 

 

Lucien regained consciousness on dewy grass, blinking against the dim light of the evening. He was once again not in his bed, but outside near the greenhouse, still in his nightclothes. His mind swam in groggy confusion as he struggled to make sense of his surroundings.

 

Then he noticed the smell. Copper.

 

Lucien choked. He looked down and froze. Blood. Feathers. His hands were smeared, and his heart raced as panic clawed its way up his throat. He frantically tried to brush them off, but they clung stubbornly to his skin.

 

Get rid of it! Get rid of it! GET RID OF IT! he screamed silently in his mind, rocking back and forth.

 

In his anguish, the feathers caught briefly alight, singeing his skin. He whimpered, gripping his hair so tightly it hurt, tears stinging his eyes.

 

He was lost in the chaos of his own mind. He’s gone mad. He’s the one hurting everyone. He’s the one doing it. He’s a monster.

 

The world around him blurred, the damp grass beneath him pressing cold and unyielding. Every heartbeat echoed in his skull, each one a relentless accusation.

 

 

 

Harry’s POV

 

Harry was fed up with everything.

 

Besides Lucien, who had practically glued himself to Harry all day, he couldn’t stop worrying about his brother. Lucien looked haunted—nails bitten down to the quick, eyes bloodshot, shoulders slumped as though the weight of the world pressed down on him. Harry had thought Lucien was doing better, but the evidence in front of him said otherwise.

 

Lucien had been by his side since breakfast, ever since he had lashed out at a student who dared hiss at him. Harry didn’t know how Lucien had endured it all without snapping entirely.

 

The castle itself felt darker than usual, the grey snow outside thick and swirling, muting the light through every window. Shivering, Harry moved past classrooms where lessons were in full swing, catching fragments of overheard voices. Professor McGonagall’s sharp commands carried through the stone walls, scolding someone who had apparently turned their friend into a badger. Resisting the urge to peek, Harry pressed on, telling himself Justin might be using this free period to catch up on work—and he decided to check the library first.

 

At the back of the library, a group of Hufflepuffs who should have been in Herbology sat huddled together. They weren’t studying. Between the tall, orderly rows of shelves, Harry could see their heads bent close, voices low, but animated, as if they were sharing secrets. He couldn’t tell at a glance whether Justin was among them.

 

They crept closer, careful to stay in the shadows of the Invisibility section, when snippets of conversation reached his ears. He froze, hidden, listening intently, curiosity prying at his exhaustion. Something about what they were saying made his pulse quicken.

“I don’t know why you’re so insistent on this,” Lucien murmured, his voice rough, low with exhaustion. “You saved his life. He should be grateful.”

 

“He just doesn’t understand,” Harry muttered back. “That’s why I’m explaining it.”

 

Lucien rolled his eyes but didn’t argue further, letting Harry’s words pass.

 

“So anyway,” a stout Hufflepuff was saying, leaning closer to the group, “I told Justin to hide up in our dormitory. I mean, if Potter’s marked him as his next target, it’s best he keeps a low profile for a while. Justin’s been expecting something like this ever since he let it slip that he was Muggle-born. He even told Potter he’d been down for Eton. That’s not the sort of thing you share with the Slytherin heir on the loose, is it?”

 

“You definitely think it’s Potter, then, Ernie?” asked a girl with blonde pigtails, her voice tinged with anxiety.

 

“Hannah,” Ernie said solemnly, “he’s a Parselmouth. Everyone knows that’s a mark of a dark wizard. Have you ever heard of a decent one who could talk to snakes? Slytherin himself was called Serpent-tongue.”

 

There was a ripple of murmuring among the group, nervous and apprehensive. Ernie continued, his voice tightening with concern. “Remember what was written on the wall? ‘Enemies of the Heir, Beware.’ Potter had a run-in with Filch—next thing we know, Filch’s cat is attacked. And that first-year, Creevey, taking pictures at the Quidditch match? Potter was lying in the mud, and the next thing we know, Creevey’s been attacked. It all lines up.”

 

Harry saw Lucien’s jaw tightened. Though he kept silent.

 

Harry, meanwhile, felt ill but determined, ignoring the whispers as he clenched his fists. Lucien stayed by his side, a silent anchor in the storm of suspicion and hysteria.

 

“He always seems so nice, though,” Hannah said uncertainly, fidgeting with the edge of her sleeve. “And… well, he’s the one who made You-Know-Who disappear. He can’t be all bad, can he?”

 

Ernie lowered his voice, leaning closer, and the other Hufflepuffs followed suit. Harry edged forward, straining to catch the words.

 

“No one knows how he survived that attack by You-Know-Who,” Ernie said, his tone dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “I mean, he was only a baby when it happened. He should have been blasted into smithereens. Only a really powerful Dark Wizard could survive a curse like that.” He paused, glancing around nervously before leaning in even closer. “That’s probably why You-Know-Who wanted to kill him in the first place. Didn’t want another Dark Lord competing with him. I wonder… what other powers Potter’s been hiding?”

 

Lucien groaned loudly, stepping out from behind the bookshelf, breaking their whispered circle. He leveled them with a flat, unimpressed stare. Harry flinched slightly and came up beside him.

 

“Can you lot be any more daft?” Lucien snapped, his voice carrying easily through the quiet stacks.

 

“Says you, Black!” Ernie hissed, a grin tugging at his lips. “I bet you’ve been helping him all along!”

 

“Caught me,” Lucien deadpanned, raising an eyebrow.

 

Harry quickly interjected, stepping forward and placing a calming hand on Lucien’s shoulder. “He’s joking,” he said firmly, giving Lucien a look that made him raise his hands in surrender. “We’re just looking for Justin Finch-Fletchley.”

 

The Hufflepuffs’ worst fears were written all over their faces. They clustered together nervously, glancing at Ernie with wide, anxious eyes.

 

“What… what do you want with him?” Ernie asked, his voice quivering.

 

“For fuck’s sake,” Lucien groaned beside him, and Harry shot him a sharp look.

 

“I just wanted to tell him what really happened with that snake at the Duelling Club,” Harry said, his voice tight with frustration.

 

Ernie bit his pale lips, swallowed hard, and tried to steady his voice. “We were all there. We saw what happened.”

 

“Great,” Lucien said, his tone dripping boredom. “So you saw the snake back down? Delightful. Haz our job is done.”

 

“All I saw,” Ernie insisted, his hands trembling as he gestured, “was you speaking Parseltongue and—” He swallowed. “—chasing the snake toward Justin.”

 

Lucien squinted at him, incredulous. “There’s not a single brain cell in that head, is there?”

 

 Harry closed his eyes for a moment, taking a deep breath.

 

“I didn’t chase it at him!” Harry’s voice shook with anger. “It didn’t even touch him!”

 

“It was a very near miss,” Ernie muttered, his eyes flicking nervously to the others. “And in case you’re getting ideas,” he added hastily, “I might point out that you can trace my family back through nine generations of witches and warlocks, and my blood’s as pure as anyone’s, so—”

 

Lucien laughed, sharp and borderline hysterical,Harry looked at him mildly concerned. “Haz, you hear this tosh? He actually thinks you care!”

 

Ernie’s face fell, offended, but Harry cut him off before he could respond.

 

“Luce, cut it out!” Harry hissed, his patience snapping. Lucien rolled his eyes but said nothing.

 

“I don’t care what sort of blood you’ve got!” Harry said fiercely, stepping forward. “Why would I want to attack Muggle-borns?”

 

Ernie paled slightly. “I… I heard you hate those Muggles you live with,” he said quickly, as though testing the waters.

 

Harry froze, his stomach dropping. Cold dread snaked through him, his blood running icy in his veins.

“You shut your mouth,” Lucien said coldly, his voice low and dangerous. “Right now, or I swear I’ll shut it for you.”

 

“Let’s just go,” Harry cut in after a moment, feeling Lucien’s hand clasp his shoulder as they left the library.

 

Harry blundered down the corridor, Lucien steady by his side, Harry barely noticed where he was going. Fury clouded his senses so completely that he walked straight into something massive and solid, knocking him backwards. He felt Lucien’s hands steady him.

 

“Oh, hullo, Hagrid,” Harry said, looking up.

 

Hagrid’s face was mostly hidden beneath a woolly, snow-covered balaclava, but there was no mistaking him. He filled nearly the entire corridor in his moleskin overcoat, and a dead rooster dangled from one of his enormous, gloved hands.

 

“All right, boys?” Hagrid rumbled, pulling up the balaclava. “Why aren’t yeh in class?”

 

“Cancelled,” Harry replied, only half paying attention—and then he heard a thud behind him. Lucien’s face had gone pale as death. His book bag had slipped from his shoulder, spilling books across the corridor, yet he barely seemed to notice. His eyes were fixed on something else entirely, and without a word, he turned and bolted.

 

Harry stared after him, confused.

 

“Poor fella… looks like he’s gonna be sick,” Hagrid said sympathetically, glancing down at the dead rooster. “Musta bin this.”

 

He held the bird up. “Second one killed this term. Either foxes or a blood-suckin’ bugbear. I need the Headmaster’s permission ter put a charm round the hen-coop.”

 

“That sounds… terrible,” Harry muttered, distractedly gathering Lucien’s scattered books. His hand brushed against the black journal Lucien always carried. “Hey, Hagrid, I’d love to chat, but I’ve got to get to class.”

 

Hagrid waved him off with a grunt and murmured goodbye. Harry continued down the corridor, the journal weighing in his hand. Lucien always wrote in it, and though it felt like an invasion of privacy, maybe it held a clue—something that could explain what was wrong, something he could use to help his brother.

 

He opened the journal, heart racing.

 

Every page was blank.

 

Harry shut it gently, a thousand conflicting thoughts flooding his mind. He shoved it into his bag, slung Lucien’s over his shoulder, and pressed on.

 

The corridor ahead was unusually dark; torches had been extinguished by a strong, icy draught that swept in through a loose windowpane. Halfway down, Harry tripped over something on the floor, tumbling headlong.

 

He turned, squinting into the gloom, and felt his stomach drop into his boots.

 

Justin Finch-Fletchley lay on the floor, rigid, pale, eyes staring blankly at the ceiling, frozen in a mask of shock.

 

Next to him hovered another figure, the strangest sight Harry had ever seen. Nearly Headless Nick—no longer pearly-white and translucent—floated motionless in black, smoky form, six inches above the floor. His head hung halfway off, and his face mirrored Justin’s expression of frozen terror exactly.

 

Harry’s breath caught. He couldn’t move, couldn’t speak, only stare as the corridor seemed to close in around him, filled with an impossible stillness that pressed down on his chest.

 

Chapter 10: How Do You Feel About Dragons?

Notes:

Helloooo
so i made an oopsie.
i published the last chapter, and i was doing a read through and realized i had completely forgot to post this one.
so enjoy the winter hols~

“Are you sure, Lou?” Hermione asked, her brows drawn together as Lucien leaned heavily against Theo, limping toward the train station.

 

The full moon had fallen cruelly the night before everyone was meant to head home, leaving Lucien worn down to the bone. He was eager—desperate even—to get back to Remus, though it had already been a monumental argument. None of his Gryffindor friends were leaving for the holidays, and he hated the thought of being absent if something happened.

 

Nothing will happen , a voice whispered slyly in the back of his mind. You’re taking all the danger with you.

 

“You could wait a few days,” Harry offered, watching him with open concern. “I’m sure the teachers would understand.”

 

“M’fine,” Lucien grunted, bracing himself harder against Theo as they reached the scarlet steam engine. His pride pushed through the exhaustion. “I can handle it.”

 

“I’ve got him,” Theo murmured quietly, his voice steady, almost protective. He glanced at Harry, who studied him for a moment before giving a short, reluctant nod.

 

“Oh—alright.” Hermione wrung her hands together, still unconvinced. “Please, write to us. Let us know you’re safe.”

 

“Course, ’Mione.” Lucien managed a tired smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

 

“We’ve got to go,” Blaise interrupted, checking his pocket watch. Mouse wriggled happily in his hands, utterly content to be doted on. “Train’s about to leave any second.”

 

Murmured goodbyes were exchanged quickly as Theo guided Lucien up the steps. They slipped into the nearest empty compartment, Theo easing him down carefully onto the bench.

 

Lucien winced as he was lowered into the seat, then let his head fall heavily into Theo’s lap, too spent to care about appearances.

 

“Tired?” Theo murmured, amusement threading through his voice.

 

Lucien only nodded, eyes closed, lashes brushing his pale cheeks.

 

“What’s the story this time?” Blaise asked, his tone carrying a teasing lilt—but Lucien could hear the edge of worry beneath it.

 

“He fell down the stairs,” Theo replied smoothly, though the sharpness in his voice was clear: stop asking questions.

 

“Of course,” Blaise conceded with a small huff, not pushing it further.

 

Luna, quiet until now, shifted delicately, lifting Lucien’s feet into her lap. She smoothed her hand over his ankle with absent care, her expression faraway and serene.

 

“Sleep now,” she said softly, as if it were an enchantment. And Lucien obeyed, already halfway gone—lulled by the rhythmic chug of the train, the murmur of his friends’ voices, and the safety of their presence around him.

 

His friends woke him as the train gave its final shuddering lurch to a stop. Lucien blinked blearily, realizing with a start that he’d slept the entire way. Theo and Blaise hauled him gently upright, Luna slipping Mouse into his arms with care. Blaise, ever efficient, grabbed both their trunks without complaint, and together they began to weave through the bustle of students pouring off the train.

 

Theo kept a steady grip on him, guiding him through the throng.

 

“Theo—your dad—” Lucien slurred, his words stumbling over themselves.

 

“Let me worry about him,” Theo said firmly, tightening his hold as if to anchor Lucien in place. His tone allowed no argument.

 

“There’s Moony,” Luna murmured, her dreamy voice cutting through the noise.

 

Lucien forced his eyes open wider and spotted him instantly. Remus—pale, drawn, and looking every bit as ragged as Lucien felt. Still, he was upright, though with a limp of his own. The moment Remus’s gaze landed on his boy, he broke into an urgent stride, pain forgotten.

 

“I’ve got him, thank you, Theodore,” Remus murmured the second he reached them, slipping Lucien easily into his arms. Lucien sagged into the familiar warmth, breathing in the comfort of worn wool and faint tea.

 

“Call him Theo,” Lucien mumbled faintly, head tucked against Remus’s chest.

 

“No offense, sir,” Theo said quietly, “but at least allow us to help you both to the Floo.” His jaw was set, protective even now.

 

“I’m delighted to meet you, by the way,” Blaise chimed in cheerfully, though his eyes flicked with concern between Lucien and Remus. “And we’re having words, stellina , when I see you next—about keeping secrets from your friends.”

 

Lucien winced, clutching at Remus’s jumper as they shuffled forward, his voice muffled. “M’a terrible secret-keeper, Moony.”

 

“There are worse ones,” Remus murmured back, though there was a tightness to his voice—an edge of defeat Lucien was too tired to pick apart.

 

“You’ve got him?” Theo asked, lingering at Remus’s side as Blaise handed over Lucien’s trunk.

 

“I’ve got him,” Remus assured softly, one hand braced firmly at Lucien’s back, the other gripping the trunk. His tired smile flickered with gratitude. “Thank you, Theo. You’re a good friend.”

 

And with that, Remus pulled Lucien close and together they stepped into the emerald flames. The crowded station dissolved, replaced in an instant by the familiar hearth of Ashwick Cottage.

 

“Love you, Moony,” Lucien slurred, watching Mouse leap from his arms to skitter across the sitting room floor. “Reckon I’m gonna pass out now.”

 

It was a mercy that Remus had already wrapped him tight against his side, because Lucien didn’t make it another breath before his body went limp, giving in at last.

 

 

 

 

 

Lucien blinked blearily, disoriented at first by the soft golden sunlight spilling across his blankets. It took him a moment to realize he was home—in his own bed at Ashwick Cottage. The familiar creak of the floorboards, the faint scent of tea and woodsmoke, the distant pattering in the kitchen—it all wrapped around him like a balm.

 

Remus was awake.

 

With a slow stretch and a wince at the soreness in his muscles, Lucien dragged himself upright. He felt better than before, though his limp lingered when he padded barefoot across the cool floorboards.

 

He followed the comforting sound of pans and the smell of toast until he reached the kitchen doorway. There was Remus, sleeves rolled to his elbows, hair sticking up in tired tufts, moving with quiet precision as he coaxed breakfast into existence.

 

Something in Lucien’s chest cracked. The tight knot of guilt, fear, and exhaustion he’d been shoving down since term began surged up all at once. His lip trembled before he could stop it, and in two stumbling steps he threw himself into Remus’s arms, knocking him back a pace.

 

“Whoa there, cub,” Remus said, startled but quick to steady him, arms wrapping around his boy with instinctive care. His voice dropped, concerned. “What’s going on?”

 

Lucien pressed his face into Remus’s jumper, his words coming out broken and wet. “I’m so sorry—I didn’t mean to not write to you. So much has been happening, and I kept getting distracted, and I kept forgetting and—” His breath hitched, tears spilling hot down his cheeks. “I’m so, so, so sorry.”

 

“Hey, hey.” Remus tipped his chin down, speaking softly against Lucien’s hair, his hands rubbing soothing circles across his back. “It’s alright. I’m not upset, cub. I was only worried.” He drew him closer, his own voice thick with the relief of finally having him safe at home. “I’m just glad you’re here now.”

 

Lucien clung tighter, the warmth of Remus’s heartbeat steady under his ear, and for the first time in months, he let himself feel safe.

 

He felt Remus shift uneasily, one hand sliding down Lucien’s arm as if weighing the bones beneath his sleeve.

“Cub… have you been eating?” Remus asked quietly, concern etched into every word. “You feel lighter.”

 

Lucien’s body went rigid, shame prickling through him, before he let out a shaky breath. “Been… forgetting to do that too,” he admitted, voice small.

 

“Oh, love.” Remus sighed, and the sound was heavy with both worry and gentleness. His fingers threaded through Lucien’s curls, smoothing them back from his damp face.

 

Lucien sniffed, trying to swallow the lump in his throat.

 

“Breakfast is almost done,” Remus murmured, pressing a kiss to the top of his head as if it would anchor him. “Sit with me. Just eat breakfast with me, yeah?”

 

Lucien nodded, blinking away the tears clinging stubbornly to his lashes, and let Remus steer him toward the little table tucked in the corner of the kitchen. The chair creaked as he lowered himself into it, Mouse hopping up to curl at his feet as if standing guard. The warm smell of eggs and toast filled the air, and for the first time in weeks, Lucien felt the faint flicker of hunger stirring again.

 

Remus plated the food and slid a dish in front of him before sitting down across the table. For a moment, the kitchen was filled only with the quiet clink of cutlery as Lucien hesitantly took a bite. To his own surprise, he was actually hungry—and even more surprising, he was managing to keep eating.

 

“What’s been going on, cub?” Remus asked at last, his voice calm but edged with concern. His eyes studied Lucien carefully, as though trying to piece together everything the boy wasn’t saying.

 

Lucien stared down at his plate, poking absently at the eggs with his fork. Where did he even begin?

 

“Do you… not know what’s been happening at school?” he said finally, lifting his eyes to Remus.

 

Remus frowned, confusion shadowing his face, and shook his head slowly.

 

Lucien drew a shaky breath. “Students have been petrified,” he admitted, the words tasting heavy on his tongue. “They say someone’s opened the Chamber of Secrets. Slytherin’s monster has been roaming the school.”

 

 Remus stares at him blankly, “That’s not funny, Lucien,” he said sternly.

 

Lucien met his eyes without flinching, his expression deadly serious. “I’m not joking, Moony.”

 

For a long, suspended moment, neither of them spoke. The air between them felt thick, suffocating.

 

“Dear gods,” Remus whispered at last, pressing the heel of his hand against his mouth as if to hold back the flood of worry.

 

“Everyone thought it was me at first,” Lucien admitted, stabbing at his food before taking a small bite. His tone was casual, but the words were heavy. “But then Harry went and exposed himself as a Parselmouth. Now everyone thinks it’s him.”

 

“He isn’t,” Remus said instantly, the words sharp and certain, like he’d been waiting to defend Harry all along.

 

Lucien quirked a tired eyebrow at him, lips twitching faintly. “I know,” he murmured, voice low with exhaustion. “The Potters descend from the Peverells. They’re distantly tied to the Slytherin line, sure—but they don’t actually share any blood with Slytherin himself. The gift wouldn’t pass that way.”

 

Remus blinked, startled by the precision in his explanation. “And how exactly did you find that out?” he asked.

 

Lucien gave a humorless little shrug and shoveled another bite of food into his mouth. “Research,” he said blandly.

 

Remus nodded slowly, eyes never leaving Lucien. “And what else has been going on?”

 

Lucien picked at his food, dragging the tines of his fork across the plate before forcing down another bite. His voice was flat when he finally answered. “Snape told me everything about my dad.”

 

Remus’s shoulders stiffened, his face paling. “Did he?” he asked faintly.

 

So Lucien told him—everything. Piece by piece, his voice low but steady, recounting Snape’s words, his chest aching with every truth that had been withheld from him until now.

 

When he finished, Remus sat back, looking as though the floor had tilted beneath him. “Merlin,” he whispered weakly. “So many things make… so much more sense now.”

 

Lucien’s head snapped up, his tone sharp. “Like what?”

 

Remus hesitated, gaze flicking away before returning with visible reluctance. He let out a sigh that seemed to carry years of weight. “I was very surprised to find out that Regulus had any children,” he admitted quietly. “Because to my knowledge… he was in an incredibly secret relationship with James Potter.”

 

The words hit like a physical blow. Lucien’s fork slipped from his fingers, clattering against the plate.

 

“Not even Sirius knew,” Remus continued, voice low, almost reverent with the memory. “I only knew because—well, it’s hard to hide scents from a werewolf. When James would come back to the dorm…”

 

“I get the picture, Moony,” Lucien cut in quickly, his voice unsteady.

 

“Right.” Remus’s lips twitched faintly, but his expression remained haunted. “Oh, if Sirius had known all of this—he never would have let Regulus stay where he was. He’d have dragged him out, kidnapped him if he had to, anything to keep him safe.”

 

Lucien swallowed hard, his gaze fixed on the table. “Maybe he should have.” His voice was quiet, laced with something sharp and aching.

 

Remus’s throat bobbed. He nodded after a long, pained moment, his eyes distant. “Maybe,” he echoed, and the word hung heavy between them like a curse.

Lucien was outside in the biting cold, slicing through the frosted air on his broom. His cheeks burned from the wind, his fingers stiff around the handle, but he didn’t care. The sky was wide and empty, and for a little while, that was enough. He was avoiding tasks he knew he had to do, responsibilities that sat like lead in his chest, but just for now he wanted peace—just the sound of his broom and the rush of air in his ears.

 

It was a strange kind of relief, knowing he wouldn’t be going to the Malfoys this Christmas. Even Draco had stayed at Hogwarts, which meant Lucien got something to stay the entire holiday with Remus.

 

“Cub!” Remus’s voice carried across the yard, sharp in the cold air. “Come down! A letter just arrived!”

 

Lucien grinned despite himself. On impulse, he angled his broom sharply downward, diving like a hawk. Remus shouted in alarm as Lucien pulled up at the very last second, his boots skidding across the frozen grass.

 

“You needed something?” Lucien asked innocently, grinning wide as Remus stood there with one hand over his chest, looking scandalized.

 

“You just took ten years off my life,” Remus informed him sternly, though his lips twitched with reluctant amusement. He held out an envelope. “Here—it’s from Gringotts.”

 

Lucien huffed but grabbed it, tearing it open and scanning the contents. His brow furrowed. “It says I need to find a proxy for my Wizengamot seat?” he said, bewildered, shoving the parchment back at Remus. “You do it.”

 

“I can’t decide for you,” Remus said with an eye roll as they headed back toward the house.

 

“No, I mean you be my proxy,” Lucien clarified, brushing snow off his boots as they stepped inside.

 

Remus stopped mid-step, looking almost baffled. He hesitated, then winced. “I… can’t. I’m sorry, cub.”

 

Lucien collapsed onto the sofa, Mouse immediately leaping up into his lap. He absently stroked her fur, confusion flickering across his face. “What do you mean you can’t?”

 

Remus sat heavily in the recliner, his expression grave. “I’m an unregistered werewolf. And I’d rather keep it that way.”

 

The words sank in, and Lucien nodded slowly, understanding but no less frustrated. “Well, I’ve got no bloody idea then,” he muttered. “Can’t I just go myself?”

 

“On top of your classes?” Remus arched a brow, voice dry. “I think not.”

 

Lucien tilted his head back against the cushions, staring at the ceiling like it might hold the answer. “Well, I don’t got anyone else.”

 

Remus hummed thoughtfully, fingers steepled. “You could ask Narcissa.”

 

Lucien’s brows furrowed immediately, and he shook his head. “No. I don’t want to risk her voting for something I don’t want.”

 

“You could see if she’d agree to a contract,” Remus suggested gently. “Or even make a Vow not to vote against your wishes.”

 

Lucien blinked at that, considering. It wasn’t a bad idea. 

 

“Alright,” he said at last, sounding tired but resolute. “I’ll owl her.”

 

Mouse purred in his lap, and Lucien scratched her ears absently, the letter crumpled on the table beside him. He couldn’t quite decide if he felt older than his years… or just very, very tired of them.

 

 

 

 

The holidays passed in a haze of quiet comfort. The cottage seemed softer in the winter light, warmed not just by the fire but by the easy rhythm they fell into together. They decorated the house with bits of tinsel and holly, and when they went up the mountain to cut a new tree, Lucien—after last year’s monstrosity —chose one of a far more reasonable size. Remus had laughed until his eyes crinkled, clapping him on the shoulder and muttering, “Finally, something that actually fits in the living room.”

The days slipped by with quiet chatter and small routines: Remus humming under his breath while he cooked, Lucien curled in a chair with a book, the scent of pine and cinnamon lingering in the air. For the first time in a long while, Lucien felt something that might have been safe .

One evening, Remus had surprised him by insisting they go into town, slipping two tickets into his hand with a mischievous glint in his eye. Lucien hadn’t known what to expect from a Muggle “movie theatre,” but the moment the lights dimmed and the opening notes of Aladdin filled the screen, he was utterly enchanted.

He leaned forward in his seat, eyes wide, grinning like a child as the story unfolded—magic carpets, genies, and daring escapes. When the credits rolled, he was still buzzing with delight. Remus teased him the whole way home for humming the songs under his breath, but Lucien caught the way his guardian’s eyes had softened during the film. For all his ribbing, he knew Remus had enjoyed it just as much.

 

 

 

“I thought we had rules,” Remus said tiredly, though his lips twitched as he leaned against the doorway. His eyes followed the enchanted gingerbread man as it twirled and leapt across the countertop, keeping perfect time with the Christmas record crackling in the background. “No magic in the kitchen.”

 

“I’ve gotten better since then,” Lucien said innocently, lounging in his chair as though butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth. He gestured toward the little biscuit proudly. “And look at him—he’s got more rhythm than either of us.”

 

The gingerbread man executed a surprisingly graceful spin before collapsing into a dramatic bow. Lucien grinned, smug, while Remus sighed heavily, rubbing a hand down his face.

 

“Cub, one of these days that ‘harmless’ magic of yours is going to set the curtains on fire again,” he muttered, but the fondness in his voice betrayed him.

 

Lucien only shrugged, eyes sparkling. “Theres no evidence that it was me.”

 

This time, Remus couldn’t stop the chuckle that slipped out. He shook his head, resigned, and went to rescue the sugar tin before Lucien’s enchanted performer decided to juggle it.

 

 

 

 

Though the holidays had been warm and comforting, not everything was peace. On Christmas Eve, Remus and Lucien found themselves in another spat, voices sharp enough to rattle the garland hanging on the mantle.

 

“I’m just saying, I think you should hold off on going back to Hogwarts until next year,” Remus said, frustrated. His hands raked through his hair as he paced the sitting room.

 

“And I’m telling you, I can’t!” Lucien shot back, standing his ground, fists clenched at his sides. “Harry’s there and I have—”

 

“It’s not your job to keep him safe!” Remus snapped, louder than he meant to. His voice cracked with desperation. “You’re a child, and it’s my job to protect you!”

 

Lucien’s chest heaved, his eyes glassy with unshed tears. “And who protects Harry? ” he demanded, voice breaking. “He’s got no family who cares, Remus! He’s got no one to protect him!”

 

“And you think you can?” The words left Remus like a whip crack, sharper than he intended. Lucien flinched as though struck, his expression folding into hurt before he bolted, footsteps pounding with his retreat. His bedroom door slammed shut, the echo leaving Remus standing in the silence, horror and regret twisting in his gut.

 

 

 

 

Hours later, when the house was quiet save for the faint ticking of the clock, Remus knocked softly at Lucien’s door before letting himself in. He found the boy curled on his side, awake and staring at the shadows on the wall.

 

“I’m sorry, cub,” Remus said gently, his voice low and raw. He sat on the edge of the bed, hesitating before reaching out to brush a curl from Lucien’s forehead. “I didn’t mean to snap at you. I just… I’m scared. I don’t want to lose you.”

 

Lucien swallowed, throat tight. “I don’t want to lose Harry,” he whispered.

 

They sat in silence for a long moment, the tension slowly easing. Eventually, after more talking—quiet and careful this time—Remus reluctantly agreed that Lucien would return to Hogwarts. But there were conditions: one letter a week without fail, and an immediate owl if anything happened.

 

Lucien nodded without hesitation, relief softening his features. “Deal,” he murmured.

 

Remus pulled him into a hug, holding him a little tighter than usual, as though trying to anchor him to safety.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Christmas morning was soft. That was the only word Lucien could think of to describe it. The house seemed wrapped in a hush of warmth, with faint snow still drifting outside the frosted windows and the fire in the hearth crackling merrily. 

 

He’d owl-ordered all of his gifts this year— bought with actual gold that wasn’t nicked from Draco’s coin pouch—and that alone gave him a strange sort of pride.

 

Remus was first. Lucien watched with quiet anticipation as his guardian pulled tissue paper from a box and drew out a stack of new sweaters. Lucien had noticed the threadbare state of most of Remus’s clothes and decided it was time. Remus chuckled, running his fingers over the soft wool, then unwrapped a newly published book by a well-known DADA author. His eyes lit up at once, the corners crinkling in genuine delight, and Lucien couldn’t help the twitch of a smile tugging at his lips. He’d done well.

 

Remus’s gifts for him were equally thoughtful: a copy of Grimm’s Fairy Tales with gilt-edged pages, along with a couple of Muggle books— The Hobbit and The Alchemist . The latter made Lucien snort. “A Muggle book about alchemy?” he teased. Remus only looked amused.

 

Then came the flood of packages from friends. Blaise had somehow procured a signed Falmouth Falcons jersey, and Lucien’s jaw dropped. It was his favorite Quidditch team, and he clutched the jersey like it was made of spun gold.

 

Theo’s gift was an obscure tome on alchemy, and the way Remus eyed it made Lucien suspect it wasn’t entirely legal. That only made it better.

 

Ron’s parcel held a box of Starlight Pips. Lucien popped one in his mouth immediately, his eyes widening as the candy crackled against his teeth. He set the box down beside him before he ate the lot in one go.

 

Harry’s gift was practical: a broom-cleaning kit and a book on famous Seeker moves. The note tucked inside read, Don’t even think about using any of these against me. Lucien barked out a laugh.

 

Hermione’s present was a dense but useful-looking book on healing magic.

 

Luna’s gift was unlike any of the others: a handmade ring fashioned from a butterbeer bottlecap, painted delicately on the inside with the galaxy Andromeda. Lucien’s chest warmed as he slid it onto his finger at once.

 

Draco’s parcel made him snort outright. A silk pajama set—far too fancy for him—and a French dictionary. 

 

And then… there was Fred’s gift.

 

Lucien’s fingers slowed as he reached for the package, heart thudding with a strange anticipation. He opened the letter first.

 

Hey there, Starshine,

 

Lucien’s lips twitched at the new nickname.

 

I’ll admit, my gift from last year was hard to top, so I had to get creative. Had to do a bit of snooping, actually—which, by the way, your little band of misfits is starting to like me. My brother excluded, of course. But oh, the stories I heard.

 

From Harry and Ron, I learned that you’re apparently planning to be Senior Undersecretary to Minister Hermione Granger. Which is daft. Don’t do that.

 

From Miss Brightest Witch of Her Age herself—once she rolled her eyes at me for even repeating such nonsense—she said you’d more likely have a future in alchemy. She added it with her usual dry tone, of course. Personally, I find that much more interesting.

 

Then came Zabini—charming fellow, though perhaps not quite as charming as his mother. (Seven husbands? Honestly, I’d love to see her How-To Guide.) He claimed you’d be a trophy husband sitting on mountains of wealth and silks. Which… not a bad plan, really. Are you accepting applications?

 

Lucien blinked at the words, bemused, before reading on.

 

But it was the snake prince himself who gave me the real answer. Theo said none of your friends actually knew what you wanted, very guarded, very mysterious you are. He admitted you do like alchemy and could see yourself in that career, but what would truly make you happy? Working with dragons.

 

Now that caught my attention.

 

You see, lucky for you, my brother Charlie is in the dragon business. You’ve met him already, I heard. Which means you know he’s brilliant at it—and completely mad. So I wrote to him, and guess what? He sent me some of the same books he used when he started out—his favorites, well-worn and dragon-scorched around the edges.

 

And more than that—he offered to invite both you and Remus to the reservation next summer. To see the dragons for yourselves. Consider it a proper Christmas present.

 

Lucien nearly dropped the letter, heart hammering.

 

I hope you enjoy the gifts. And don’t think you can avoid telling me everything about your meeting with Charlie when you’re back—I won’t take no for an answer.

 

Happy Christmas,
Fredrick Weasley

 

 

“What is it?” Remus asked, both amused and faintly concerned at Lucien’s stunned expression.

 

Lucien blinked at him, still processing, and finally blurted, “Moony… how do you feel about dragons?”

 

 

 

 

Narcissa’s gift had been left for him as well. Remus told him it was shrunk on his desk, but warned him to place it on the floor before unshrinking it. The mystery gnawed at his curiosity until he finally slipped away to his room to investigate.

 

Sitting neatly on his desk was a tiny piano, no bigger than a toy. Lucien carefully placed it on the floor, flicked his hand, and watched as it expanded with a ripple of magic into a full-sized piano. It settled perfectly against the wall as though it had always belonged there.

 

His cousin had gotten him a bloody piano.

 

Lucien hesitated, almost reverent, before sliding onto the bench. He lifted the guard back and let his fingers drift tentatively over the keys. At first, only a few uncertain notes filled the quiet room, but soon the melody took shape— O Come, All Ye Faithful , soft and steady.

 

Remus lingered in the doorway, leaning against the frame, his expression caught somewhere between pride and heartbreak. The house seemed to hush around them, the warmth of Christmas morning folding itself into the gentle hymn. And for a moment, it felt like the world outside—dangers, quarrels, and worries—didn’t exist at all.

 

Christmas, indeed, had come softly.

 

 

 

 

On New Year’s Eve they sat together on the wide window sill, legs tucked up, watching fireworks bloom in bursts of color across the distant village sky. The glass rattled faintly with each echoing crack, and the steam from their mugs curled into the cold night air.

 

Lucien almost didn’t want to leave.

 

The closer it drew to the time of returning to school, the heavier the dread became—a stone in his chest he couldn’t shake. And beneath it all, a question had been gnawing at him for weeks, one he wasn’t sure he wanted the answer to.

 

“Moony,” Lucien said quietly, his voice barely carrying over the muffled pop of fireworks. “Can I ask you something?”

 

Remus immediately turned to him, brow lifting, his tone gentle but firm. “Of course. Anything.”

 

Lucien nodded, worrying his lower lip between his teeth as if the words might bite him back. He inhaled softly through his nose, then let it out.

 

“I know you don’t like talking about him,” he murmured, eyes fixed on his faint reflection in the dark pane of glass, “but… it’s a question about Sirius.”

 

Remus’s hand tensed on his mug, just briefly, before he made himself loosen his grip. A weary sigh slipped past his lips. “You can ask.” His voice was steady, but quieter now.

 

Lucien’s reflection looked pale in the glass. “I keep getting told that the Blacks go mad,” he said in a low voice. “And lately… at school… I’ve been worried that maybe I am. Going mad, that is.”

 

Remus didn’t interrupt, though Lucien could feel his gaze weighing on him. He just waited. Patient. Safe.

 

“Did Sirius—” Lucien began, then faltered, the words dragging like stone in his throat. Finally, he forced them out. “Did he ever… black out sometimes? Whole bits of time just gone? Waking up in places he didn’t remember going?”

 

For a long moment, Remus only studied him, searching his face in the dim light. Then, very softly, he shook his head. “No. He didn’t.” He hesitated, then added with a quiet concern, “Have you been?”

 

Disappointment flared in Lucien’s chest like a spark—he hadn’t even realized he was hoping for a yes—but he buried it quickly. “Yeah,” he admitted, brushing it off with a shrug that felt too heavy. “It’s probably just the stress.”

 

Remus’s frown deepened, lines etching into his face. “Maybe you should talk to Madam Pomfrey about it,” he suggested gently, concern threading his words. “It could be something she can help with.”

 

“Yeah. I’ll do that.” Lucien lied smoothly, his eyes drifting back to the sky. Fireworks flared brilliant gold before fading into the dark, each burst reminding him of how quickly bright things could vanish.

 

And he wondered, quietly, if that was what was happening to him.

Chapter 11: My Dark Little Star

Notes:

Helloooooooo
i just finished writing book two, and now im working on outline for book three!
we've got two more chapters to go!
enjoy~

“I can’t believe you did this, honestly,” Lucien said, amused as he flicked through The Alchemist while lounging in the chair by Hermione’s bedside. He lifted his eyes to look at her—Hermione, who was now very much covered in fur. “And you didn’t even tell me you were planning this.”

 

“We didn’t want to add to your stress,” Hermione insisted primly, though it was hard to take her seriously when her whiskers twitched every time she spoke.

 

“Right,” Lucien drawled, a smile tugging at his lips. “Though perhaps next time you’ll include the friend of yours who can, I don’t know, actually smell the difference between cat hair and human hair?”

 

Hermione’s tail flicked irritably and she opened her mouth—clearly ready to retort—when yet another gawking student poked their head in for a look.

 

Lucien snapped his book shut with a sharp crack and hissed like a furious snake. The poor second-year shrieked and bolted down the corridor, footsteps echoing.

 

“You can’t keep doing that to everyone,” Hermione scolded, though her voice was laced with reluctant amusement. Her little cat ears twitched indignantly.

 

“Sure I can,” Lucien replied smoothly, flipping his book open again as if nothing had happened. “It’s working, isn’t it?”

 

Hermione sighed, long-suffering, though the corners of her mouth twitched like she was fighting a smile.

 

 

 

Lucien was having far too much fun at Quidditch practice now that he’d picked up a few new tricks. The wind tore at his hair as he pulled into a sharp dive, the world blurring around him.

 

Nia and Thad whooped and hollered from the pitch below as he performed a dramatic Wronski Feint, pulling up only seconds before hitting the ground. His feet skimmed the grass before he rocketed skyward again, laughter bubbling in his chest at the near miss.

 

Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted his friends watching from the stands. Theo looked like he was about to have a heart attack, gripping the railing so hard his knuckles were white. Harry and Ron were leaning forward in awe, mouths hanging open, while Blaise lounged back, smirking like he’d known Lucien could pull it off all along. Hermione, however, was very clearly not impressed—her arms were crossed, lips pursed, and her expression screamed, you’re going to get yourself killed, and I’ll have to say I told you so. Luna, in contrast, simply beamed, waving serenely as though Lucien hadn’t just nearly flattened himself against the pitch.

 

Lucien shot them a quick wink before leaning forward and diving after the glint of gold, the Snitch darting just ahead of him. A Bludger whistled past his ear, but he rolled out of the way with an easy twist, grinning wider as the chase picked up.

 

 

 

Dearest Cousin,

 

After much thought and consideration, I would be delighted to act as your proxy. Enclosed with this letter, you will find all the contracts signed and properly in order.

 

It is so very good to hear from you again—I have missed you dearly. I am truly sorry we were unable to host you this holiday, though I must admit, it gives me something to look forward to. I am positively thrilled at the thought of having you attend the ball next year; it will be such a joy to see you there.

 

Tell me, did you enjoy your gift? I trust you will continue to perfect your skill—you play with such natural grace, and I very much hope to hear you perform again come summer.

 

Most importantly, I do hope you are keeping yourself safe. My Draco has been keeping me well-informed of the goings-on at Hogwarts, but I do not wish for you to trouble yourself with too much worry. Rest assured, you are safe from harm, but one can never be too careful.

 

Until your next letter,
Your loving cousin,
Cissa

 

 

 

 

Lucien found himself enjoying his classes again, no longer feeling as though he was dragging himself from one lesson to the next. For the first time in weeks, he felt lighter—sharper—and it showed.

 

In Charms, they were currently working on the Shrinking Charm, and Lucien was having far too much fun with it. He had already mastered the basics, so now he was experimenting, showing off just a little as he demonstrated on his teacup.

 

First, he shrunk it neatly to the size of a walnut. Then, with a flick of his wrist, down to the size of a pea. His classmates leaned in closer, whispering in amusement. A moment later he expanded it back up—not just to its original size but nearly twice as large, earning a chorus of startled laughs when it wobbled precariously on the desk.

 

“Careful, Black!” someone snickered.

 

Lucien only smirked. With an elegant wave of his hand, the cup shrunk smoothly back to its normal size—except now, he’d enchanted it with a tiny painted mouth that puffed out little curls of steam like a miniature train engine. The soft chug-chug sound it produced had the entire class dissolving into laughter.

 

Professor Flitwick himself clapped his hands together with delight. “Marvelously creative! Ten points to Ravenclaw!” he declared, his high-pitched voice brimming with approval.

 

Lucien leaned back in his chair with a pleased grin, hiding the flicker of pride that warmed in his chest. For once, he wasn’t just keeping up—he was thriving.

 

 

 

 

In Potions, Lucien carefully added the sliced rat tails to the Hair-Raising Potion, his hands steady but his chest tight with nervous energy. He was too anxious to breathe properly, aware that every movement could mean success—or disaster. Ernie sat at his side, as usual, doing nothing more than huffing and leaning back in his chair, clearly riding off Lucien’s good marks while contributing nothing himself.

 

Professor Snape prowled the aisles, his dark eyes sweeping over each cauldron as the students approached the end of the brewing process. Lucien’s pulse quickened, fingers curling around his wand as Snape’s gaze lingered on his cauldron. For a moment, Lucien thought he might be imagining it—but then he caught the faintest twitch of the corner of Snape’s lips, an almost imperceptible look of approval.

 

“Five points to Slytherin,” Snape murmured, his voice low and clipped. Lucien’s eyes widened in disbelief.

 

“My robes are blue, Sev!” he protested, a little indignantly.

 

“Only by a true show of cunning, I'm sure,” Snape said, equally dry but with a hint of amusement, before gliding back to his desk.

 

Lucien huffed, trying to mask his satisfaction, but the warm thrill of accomplishment spread through him anyway. The potion was perfect—smooth, bubbling correctly, and ready for the next stage. All the careful focus and effort had paid off.

 

 

 

 

“I almost miss the Mandrakes,” Lucien mumbled, narrowly dodging another chomp from the aggressive cabbages. Susan gave a small, horrified nod in agreement.

 

“When are we ever going to use this practically?” she whispered, ducking as one of the vegetables snapped at her sleeve.

 

Lucien tilted his head, frowning as he tended carefully to his own plant. “I mean… I suppose if you were a potioneer? Or in the medical field, maybe?” he suggested warily, wincing as a cabbage latched onto his glove and he yanked his hand back.

 

Susan snorted dryly. “Seems more like something that would land you in the hospital than heal anyone.”

 

“It’s in Skelagrow,” he said, still eyeing his plant nervously, “though I’m still questioning the properties—and, frankly, the why .”

 

They both paused as another cabbage lunged toward Lucien, narrowly missing his ankle. He muttered something under his breath and straightened, muttering, “Practicality aside, I think self-preservation is the real lesson here.”

 

Susan laughed softly, brushing leaves from her robes. “I’ll raise a toast to that, then.”

 

 

 

Lucien still hated DADA—at least while Lockhart was here.

 

He hadn’t been asked to help perform a reenactment again after that incident, which was a small mercy, though it seemed that was all Lockhart did. So instead, Lucien spent his time quietly writing rebuttals to every false narrative Lockhart had published, citing references and cross-checking historical events. He was almost done, honestly.

 

“And then—no, Miss Parkenson, you need to howl —like this, you see? AWOOOOOO!” Lockhart’s droning voice carried across the classroom, making Lucien wince and giving him a fresh migraine.

 

“Say, do you howl?” Blaise asked suddenly, leaning forward with casual curiosity. Lucien exhaled sharply. Blaise had figured it out quickly—though he’d never said it outright, he treated it like an open secret amongst friends, and Lucien had to admit, it sort of was.

 

“I don’t know,” Lucien muttered, quill scratching furiously across parchment. “The most I remember is… crying out in agony. After that, nothing. Satisfy your curiosity?”

 

“Not remotely,” Blaise said dryly, but there was a faint hint of apology beneath his words, as if acknowledging he knew it was an unfair question.

 

Lucien gave him a flat look, then returned to his work, mentally willing the clock to move faster. In front of him, Lockhart continued demonstrating “proper” werewolf etiquette to a horrified class, completely oblivious to the fact that the real expert in the room was scribbling a devastating critique of every word he said.

 

“Three feet on the Medieval Assembly of European Wizards and the International Warlock Convention of 1289,” Lucien whispered to Theo as Binns floated about the classroom, “is far too much.”

 

Theo nodded in agreement, scanning the textbook. “Honestly, I’d consider plagiarizing—if it weren’t for the fact that Binns would despise any deviation from the textbook recall.”

 

Lucien’s lips twitched. “It’s not ‘wizard good, goblin bad’ enough for him,” he murmured. Theo glanced at him, amusement flickering in his eyes.

 

“Maybe I’ll write that,” Theo quipped under his breath. “Do you think Binns would even notice?”

 

The two boys watched idly as Binns floated around the room like a ghost lost in a memory, eyes staring at nothing in particular.

 

“You know,” Lucien said thoughtfully, “I don’t think he will. We could give it a try.”

 

Theo stifled a laugh into his sleeve.

 

 

 

 

In Transfiguration, each of them had a lit candle flickering on their desks, the lesson’s goal being to extinguish the flame with precise wandwork. Around him, students waved their wands with varying degrees of frustration—some candles stubbornly flared brighter, others guttered out in thin trails of smoke.

 

Lucien, however, was decidedly not following directions. Minnie sat perched on his desk in her Animagus form, tail curled primly around her paws, golden eyes watching every movement. The sight amused him more than it should have. Instead of putting his candle out, he flicked his fingers, and the flame shifted colors—blue, then green, then a vivid violet.

 

A wicked thought crossed his mind. His lips twitched. With another flick, the candle warped and twisted until a neat ball of yarn sat where the candle had been, glowing faintly with leftover heat.

 

Professor McGonagall’s feline ears immediately flattened. Even as a cat, the indignation in her gaze was unmistakable. The quiet, simmering glare was almost funnier than words could ever be.

 

Lucien had to bite his cheek to stop from laughing outright. Oh, it was worth it. Every second of it.

 

The detention that followed was worth it too—and even more so when he later told Remus in a letter. 

 

 

 

Lucien elbowed Harry sharply in the ribs when he noticed his head drooping dangerously close to the telescope.

 

“M’awake!” Harry hissed, jerking upright and fumbling to fix his glasses. His hair stuck up at even odder angles than usual.

 

“Of course you were,” Lucien said lightly, peering back into his own telescope. “That’s why you’ve got drool on the corner of your mouth.”

 

Harry’s eyes went wide as he immediately scrubbed at his mouth with the back of his hand. Lucien couldn’t help it—he laughed, the sound quickly muffled against his sleeve when a Ravenclaw at the next desk hissed for silence.

 

 

It was Lucien’s birthday—he was officially a teenager.

 

Luna was waiting for him in the common room, immediately wrapping him in a hug that made him stumble back with a laugh.

 

“Morning, Luna,” he said brightly, grinning.

 

“Happy birthday,” she replied softly, linking arms with him as they headed down to breakfast.

 

At the Gryffindor table, all of his friends were waiting, a mix of red and green scattered across their robes. Lucien’s smile widened as he plopped into the empty seat next to Harry.

 

“Morning,” he chirped, and his friends greeted him with delighted smiles, followed by rounds of “Happy Birthday!”

 

“Sporting any pimples yet?” Ron asked, grinning.

 

Blaise shared an amused look with Theo. “I’d doubt it.”

Theo's lips twitched. “Inbreeding tends to cause webbed toes, but with the Blacks, it seems to result in a total lack of imperfections.”

 

Hermione shot the two boys a sharp, scolding look, while Ron nearly choked on his toast.

 

“Bloody hell!” Ron gasped as George pounded him on the back, and Luna simply beamed.

 

“‘Inbreeding’?” Harry whispered faintly to Lucien, who couldn’t help smirking.

 

“Don’t you know, Haz?” he teased. “My grandparents were cousins.”

 

“As are most of the married couples in your family tree,” Theo interjected smoothly.

 

“There’s not really a Black anyone isn’t related to,” Blaise added, laughing.

 

“I’m actually related to both you and Ron, by marriage,” Lucien said with mock pride.

 

“Distantly!” Fred cut in. “Very distantly—barely counts, honestly.”

 

George doubled over, laughing so hard that he nearly toppled from the bench.

 

“Not so distantly for you, Harry,” Hermione informed him, her tone clipped but amused. Lucien blinked at her, shocked.

 

“Your grandparents are Fleamont and Euphemia Potter,” she continued, “though Fleamont’s brother Charlus went on to marry Dorea Potter.” She smirked. “Nee Black.”

 

“See?” Lucien grinned. “That’s practically brothers, right?”

 

“Not even close,” Theo interjected, clearly amused.

 

“Hey!” Lucien complained, grabbing a piece of toast and flicking it at him. “It’s my birthday—don’t crush all of my hopes and dreams like that.”

 

Theo huffed, dodging the flying bread. “I don’t know why I sit with you lot—so uncivilized.”

 

“Because you loooove us,” Ron cooed, laughing, only to yelp as Theo flung the offending toast at him.

 

“I imagine setting your hair on fire at least ten times a day,” Theo remarked flatly, then froze as another piece of toast smacked him square in the face.

 

Lucien would have loved to claim that the slice remained a tense game of hot potato, but as he watched—mildly detached—eggs splattered across the table, bread stuck in robes, and teachers shouting in the background, he had to admit the truth: it was an all-out food fight.

 

Laughter echoed over the chaos as plates toppled and toast flew through the air. Lucien ducked behind his chair to avoid a particularly ambitious pancake launched by George, while Blaise merely leaned back, shaking his head and smiling.

 

“Happy birthday, Lou!” Luna called cheerfully from across the table, ducking a stray piece of bread herself.

 

Lucien grinned, ducking another flying scone. “Best. Birthday. Ever.”

 

Though the night was far from over.

 

Like last year, they all gathered in the abandoned dungeon classroom that had become their hideout, nibbling on dark chocolate cake with a rich strawberry filling that made Lucien’s eyes roll back in delight. The twins, of course, had brought a surprising twist to the evening.

 

“Alright, so—” Fred began, excitement dancing in his eyes as he hid something behind his back, making Lucien both wary and amused.

 

“—consider this a coming-of-age tradition—” George added with a grin.

 

“We did it when we turned thirteen with our brother Charlie—” Fred said,

 

“—and Bill—” George continued.

 

“And now we’re sharing it with you—” Fred said, practically beaming.

 

“—don’t tell Mum, Ron,” George added hastily, eyes darting around as though expecting a scolding apparition to appear.

 

“They’ve got a bottle of Firewhisky behind their backs…” Blaise commented idly, sounding vaguely interested. The twins turned to him with mock outrage.

 

“Hey—” George started, only for Blaise to pop a strawberry in his mouth and grin, unbothered.

 

“Planning on getting him plastered?” Theo asked dryly, amusement tugging at his lips. “Because that’s exactly what we need.”

 

“Based off what you lot have been saying, and simple observation,” Fred cut in sharply, forcing a smile, “it sounds like he needs it.”

 

“Oi!” Lucien snapped, making Fred blink in startled surprise. “I’m right here, you know.”

 

“Right,” Fred said, cheeks reddening for reasons he couldn’t quite explain.

 

“It’s a tradition in some families to have your first drink at thirteen,” George explained with a mischievous grin. “So… that’s the plan.”

 

Lucien paused, considering the proposal, before shrugging. “Not my first drink, but I’m down. Luna doesn’t get any, nobody has to drink if they don’t want to. Deal?”

 

“Deal,” the twins echoed in unison, grins spreading across their faces as they finally revealed the bottle of Firewhisky.

 

After that, chaos ensued. They conjured cup after cup, and Hermione looked utterly scandalized—but when she saw Lucien grinning from ear to ear, she sighed, shook her head, and said nothing. She declined to drink, and no one pressed her.

 

Theo and Blaise both accepted drinks, sharing that they usually only had them at family events or formal functions. Blaise added with a mischievous grin that in Italy, they were far more relaxed about it, much to everyone’s amusement.

 

Ron and Harry stared at their glasses as if the liquid inside might bite, while Luna drank her pumpkin juice serenely, entirely unbothered.

 

Lucien was handed the leftover bottle, about a quarter full, and he couldn’t help but smirk.

 

“Cheers,” he said, raising the bottle in mock solemnity, before taking a large, surprisingly elegant drink. Blaise and the twins cheered, laughter spilling from Ron, Harry, and Luna as Lucien took a dramatic bow.

 

Things quickly devolved into further chaos. Lucien made the mistake of finishing the bottle far too quickly. His cheeks flushed a deep red as he laughed uncontrollably, leaning into Hermione for support—much to her amused exasperation. He wobbled slightly on his feet, trying to maintain some semblance of dignity, only to laugh harder at his own clumsiness.

 

The dungeon classroom was alive with mirth, the faint scent of chocolate cake and firewhisky mingling in the air. For a night, the stress and worries of school seemed a distant concern, and Lucien let himself fully enjoy the raucous, chaotic birthday celebration with his friends.

 

“Lou, Lou!” Blaise slurred slightly, grinning as he waved a hand at Lucien. “You’ve got to tell me—who gave the best gift? It was me, right?”

 

Lucien chuckled into his sleeve, and the others watched, amused. Music from the enchanted record player filled the dungeon classroom as they lounged on cushions. The chaos of earlier had mellowed; everyone had finished their drinks. Ron was already passed out, snoring softly, much to everyone’s amusement. Harry stared off into space, blinking slowly, occasionally breaking into a quiet laugh at something only he could see.

 

“Sure, Blaise,” Lucien said easily, stretching and grinning, “it was you.”

 

“You're lying!” Theo accused, eyes narrowing playfully. Lucien caught Hermione’s glance; she was clearly holding in laughter.

 

“I am,” Lucien admitted easily, then felt a hand playing with his hair. He turned, blinking owlishly at Fred, who was sitting on the cushion right next to him, a mischievous grin on his face.

 

“Well?” George piped up, amused. “Who was it?”

 

“Peeves,” Lucien said offhandedly, waving a hand. “Tossed a dungbomb at me after charms—really made my day.”

 

Fred was looking down at him with amusement, but Lucien’s eyes were fixed on the faint, shimmering constellations on Fred’s nose. He could have sworn they moved ever so slightly in time with the flickering candlelight.

 

“How much do you want to bet it takes him until fifth year to figure it out?” George whispered conspiratorially.

 

“He’ll figure it out before then,” Blaise replied with a grin. “Though he probably won’t act on it until fifth year at the earliest.”

 

“Hey!” Lucien complained, turning toward them, but Fred just huffed a laugh, still twining fingers through his hair. Lucien blinked, already losing his train of thought.

 

“Speaking of bets,” he said, trying to focus, “Theo, did you win anything off of me?”

 

“Only a hundred galleons,” Theo replied, smirking. “But that’s because you were playing with him. If you’d stunned him fifteen seconds sooner, it would’ve been double.”

 

Lucien pumped a victorious fist into the air, laughing.

 

The chatter gradually died down as the room grew quiet. One by one, they fell asleep on the cushions, the soft music still playing. Fred’s hand remained tangled in Lucien’s hair, and Lucien didn’t mind at all, drifting into a contented, starry-eyed sleep with a smile tugging at his lips.

 

 

 

 

Lucien decidedly hated Valentine’s Day.

 

Lockhart had mentioned something about a “morale booster,” but Lucien never imagined it would involve… singing dwarfs.

 

He had been dreading the event, rolling his eyes as the first group of tiny, tuneful musicians appeared in the corridor. That is, until he saw Harry take a tumble.

 

One particularly ambitious dwarf had grabbed Harry by the ankles as he tried to make a run for it, dragging him across the floor. Ron and Lucien were so desperately trying not to laugh, they were practically vibrating with suppressed snickers.

 

“Right,” the dwarf said, straddling Harry’s legs triumphantly, “here is your singing Valentine:

 

‘His eyes are as green as a freshly pickled toad,
His hair is as dark as a blackboard.
I wish he was mine, he’s really divine,
The hero who conquered the Dark Lord.’”

 

Ron and Lucien immediately lost control, howling with laughter as Harry’s face turned every shade of red imaginable, wishing fervently that the earth would swallow him whole.

 

Lucien barely had time to catch his breath before another, slightly taller dwarf appeared, brandishing a tiny scroll.

 

“I’ve got a musical message to deliver to Lucien Black!” it trilled.

 

Lucien froze, eyes wide. He didn’t stick around to hear the lyrics. “I’m good,” he muttered, bolting down the corridor. The dwarf gave chase, its little legs surprisingly fast, while faint echoes of student laughter followed him like a chorus.

 

 

 

“Oh Lucien, my dark little star,
Your morbid jokes are the best by far.
Your sarcasm hits like a cursed dart,
And honestly, it stole my sneaky heart.
Your grin is dry, your wit is bleak,
But when you roll your eyes, my knees go weak.
If laughter is love, then I am thine,
Forever chuckling at your grim punchline.”

 

Ron quoted the poem aloud, still laughing as they walked to class, Lucien looking like he had just survived a battle.

 

“We never speak of this,” Lucien said, his voice flat, almost shellshocked. He turned to Ron in horror. “Never.”

 

It wasn’t the last one, much to his dismay.

 

The doors to the Potions classroom opened, and Lucien froze in horror, sending a panicked glance at Snape—who merely raised an amused eyebrow.

 

“I’ve got a musical message to deliver to Lucien Black!”

 

Lucien closed his eyes in defeat.

 

“Oh Lucien, my destined knight,
Our pureblood fates align so right.
Stars twinkle just for me and you,
The prophecy says we must be true.
Your family tree is elegant and grand,
And I will follow wherever you land.
So take my hand, it’s written above,
We are entwined, as stars approve.”

 

There was more.

 

“Stop following me!” Lucien shrieked in horror as he practically leapt down the moving staircase, students scattering out of his way as a dwarf chased him relentlessly.

 

“I’ve got—” the dwarf panted, finally grabbing the end of his robes, “a musical message to deliver to Lucien Black!”

 

“Lucien, oh swift shadow in the sky,
On your broom you make the clouds cry.
Graceful you soar, like a hawk on the wing,
And yet my family says I must cling.
Arranged marriages are tradition, they say,
But my heart wants you anyway.
So ride on, my dear, through the wind and the rain,
I’ll wait for you, despite social constraint.”

 

“Was that… a marriage proposal?” someone whispered, and Lucien sank against the staircase, eyes closed, seriously debating whether he could just disappear into the floor.

 

Lucien would go to sleep that night haunted by the words, 

 

“I’ve got a musical message to deliver to Lucien Black!”

 

 

 

The Easter holidays had arrived, and for the second years that meant choosing their classes for the next three years.

 

The full moon had been just a couple of days ago, and Lucien was still in the hospital wing, though he’d been allowed up for the day. Theo, Blaise, Hermione, Harry, and Ron were all gathered around him, poring over their options.

 

“It could affect our whole future,” Hermione reminded the Gryffindor boys, her voice sharp with urgency, though the others couldn’t help smiling at her intensity as they ticked boxes and made notes.

 

“I just want to give up Potions,” Harry groaned.

 

“We can’t,” Ron said gloomily. “We have to keep all our old subjects, or I’d have ditched Defence Against the Dark Arts ages ago.”

 

“But that’s very important!” Hermione exclaimed, horrified.

 

“I wish I could self-study that one,” Lucien muttered stubbornly, and Theo snorted.

 

“What classes are you taking, Lou?” Hermione prompted, curiosity lighting her eyes.

 

“All of the core ones, obviously,” Lucien murmured, distracted, scanning the lists. “Divination, Study of Ancient Runes, Arithmancy, Care of Magical Creatures… and then I’ll probably self-study Muggle Studies.”

 

“Bloody hell,” Ron and Harry said in unison, looking slightly green at the thought of so many classes.

 

“I’ve heard Muggle Studies is incredibly inaccurate,” Blaise commented, arching an eyebrow.

 

“I just want to know everything,” Lucien admitted, shrugging nonchalantly.

 

“Well, I’m taking Divination and Arithmancy,” Blaise said, setting his list aside with a satisfied grin.

 

“I’m planning on doing Care of Magical Creatures and Study of Ancient Runes… and Arithmancy,” Theo added, scratching at his list thoughtfully.

 

“Oh!” Hermione wailed, pulling at her hair in frustration, “I just want to take them all!”

 

Lucien placed a steadying hand on her shoulder, meeting her eyes. “I understand. Really, I do,” he said solemnly, and Hermione couldn’t help the small smile that crept across her face.

 

“You two are mental,” Ron muttered faintly, and Harry nodded in agreement, giving a small, exasperated sigh.

 

Lucien glanced at the others, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “Mental? Perhaps. But at least we’ll know more than everyone else when the exams come.”

 

“And get even more headaches than usual,” Blaise added dryly, though he looked secretly pleased with their ambitious choices.

 

Hermione rolled her eyes, but she made a small note next to Divination anyway. “Fine,” she muttered, “we’ll suffer together.”

 

Lucien leaned back, satisfied. “Exactly. Together.”

 

 

 

 

The diary was gone.

 

Lucien had torn his room apart in a haze, tossing books, parchments, and odd trinkets across the floor as he frantically searched. He hadn’t touched the journal since before the holidays, and now it was nowhere to be found. Panic gnawed at him, sharp and insistent.

 

He spun around, eyes wild, before they landed on his wand resting on the nightstand—a place he often forgot it. A slow realization settled over him. He was a wizard.

 

With a sigh, he sank onto the bed, some of his belongings clattering to the floor as he held out a hand.

 

“Bring me the diary.”

 

A few tense moments later, the black journal zipped in through the dormitory window, narrowly missing a lamp. Lucien winced, caught it expertly, and waved his hand to mend the broken glass. Maybe he should have thought that through better—but at least he had it now.

 

With an idle flick, he sorted the scattered mess of his belongings back into his trunk and examined the diary for damage. Satisfied, he checked the time: breakfast was just finishing. He had a small window before the Quidditch match.

 

Grabbing a quill, he opened the journal.

 

Hello, Tom.

 

Hello. Who is this?

 

Lucien.

 

Ah, I see the diary has made it back into your hands, little Lord Black.

 

Lucien rolled his eyes. I told you ages ago to stop calling me that. Who had you? The diary was missing.

 

They never gave me a name.

 

Did they say anything of note?

 

No. They prattled on about schoolyard crushes, as if I had any interest in that.

 

Lucien’s lips twitched in amused exasperation. He rubbed his eyes; they already felt heavy.

 

Gossip? Do tell.

 

I shan’t, not even under torture.

 

A shame, really.

 

Lucien blinked slowly, the corners of his mouth twitching.

 

I know. So sorry to disappoint. What have you gotten yourself into in my absence?

 

Tom, I swear to Merlin, if I ever see a swinging dwarf again… Lucien started, trailing off as his vision began to blur.

 

The room tipped and swayed, darkness creeping in at the edges of his sight. He realized too late that he was falling toward the floor, and everything went black.

 

 

Lucien blinked heavily, his head stuffed with cotton, every thought sluggish and fragmented. He found himself slumped in a hidden alcove and dragged himself to his feet, realizing he was deep in the dungeons, not far from Snape’s office.

 

With heavy, unsteady steps, he decided he needed answers. Something was horribly wrong, and maybe Snape held them. Maybe Lucien was behind it all. Maybe he’d be sent to Azkaban. Maybe he deserved it.

 

He pressed a hand against the cold stone wall as he walked, leaning into it for support. When he finally reached the office, he raised a trembling hand and knocked.

 

The door opened almost immediately. Snape looked disheveled, hair and robes askew, but the instant relief in his eyes told Lucien something had been worrying him deeply. Without a word, Snape grabbed Lucien’s arm and guided him inside, pushing him down into the armchair with a firm but not unkind force. Lucien realized he must have looked terrible.

 

“I’m assuming you’ve heard the news,” Snape said after a pause, his voice softer than usual, almost… sympathetic.

 

“No?” Lucien blinked, confused, and Snape’s eyes sharpened.

 

“Then where have you been?” Snape demanded, voice taut.

 

“No…” Lucien shook his head, voice trembling. “You sounded like… someone died. What happened?”

 

Snape ran a hand down his face, his expression unreadable for a moment.

 

“Your friend—Miss Granger—has been petrified,” he said solemnly.

 

The world shifted. Static seemed to fill the air, pressing against Lucien’s ears, his chest, his mind. It was as if he were watching from outside himself, his body no longer fully real. The words echoed, endless and cruel.

 

His best friend. Petrified.

 

And it was probably his fault.

 

Somewhere, a scream split the silence. A vague figure appeared before him, speaking, but the words didn’t reach his ears. Something tugged at his arms, pulling him through a thick, viscous fog, as if he were moving underwater.

 

Mione… petrified.

 

Everything felt muffled, distant, as if he were encased in cotton. Something cool brushed against his lips. Were they his own? Had he been screaming? He tasted something sweet, indistinct, and for the second time that day, darkness consumed him completely, swallowing every sensation, every thought, until nothing remained but the void.

Chapter 12: Stop Acting Like The World Has Ended

Notes:

Hellooooooo
TW!!!!
suicidal thoughts
I know some of you might think he's being dramatic, and id like to remind you that Luciens a mentally ill child whos been blacking out all year, and he thinsk the petrifications are his fault. boys going through a lot, and now his best friend is petrified.
enjoy~

Moony, something terrible has happened.

 

 

 

Lucien gripped his quill so tightly it squeaked against the parchment. He stared at the words, unseeing, his mind blank. A dark blot spread on the page. For a moment, he thought he’d spilled ink—until another drop fell, smudging the letters.

 

He frowned up at the ceiling, searching for a leak. Nothing. When the next drop splashed against his hand, he realized with a dull sort of surprise that he was crying. Silently.

 

He didn’t bother to wipe them away. His fingers slackened, the quill slipping sideways until it nearly rolled off the desk. He sat there for what felt like hours, staring at nothing, the paper blurring beneath him. The world dimmed by degrees as the sun sank low, shadows stretching long across the Ravenclaw dormitory.

 

Finally, with a trembling hand that didn’t feel like his own, he scrawled the rest.

 

 

 

Hermione’s been petrified. Along with another student—Penelope Clearwater. You told me to write you when something happened, so here it is, I guess.

 

L.S.B.

 

 

 

“Can I borrow your owl?” Lucien asked hoarsely, voice cracked and raw as if he hadn’t spoken in days.

 

Michael looked up from his bed, startled, exchanging a glance with the other boys. For a moment he looked like he might ask if Lucien was all right—but thought better of it. “Yeah, mate. Of course.” He held out a hand for the letter, and Lucien passed it over without meeting his eyes.

 

“Where’s it going?” Michael asked, carefully.

 

Lucien didn’t answer. He didn’t even seem to hear. Goldstein muttered something about asking Harry, but the words washed over him like distant static. He turned instead, walking to his bed on leaden feet, and pulled the curtains closed with a final, quiet swish.

 

Inside the cocoon of dark blue fabric, he curled onto his side and clutched the garnet stone painted with the Capricorn constellation so tightly it bit into his palm.

 

He didn’t sleep. He only stared into the shadows until the sky outside paled again. The sun rose, pale and cold, and the world was dimmer without Hermione Granger.

 

 

 

 

Luna dragged him to breakfast. Lucien barely noticed. He’d lain in bed long after the sun had risen, numb and heavy, until the curtains were pulled open and Luna’s pale face appeared. She didn’t speak, just reached out, her fingers cool and steady as she wrapped them around his hand and gently guided him to the Great Hall.

 

His friends tried speaking to him. Words swirled somewhere above his head, muffled and meaningless, like voices through water. Lucien only stared at the empty plate before him, not moving, not reaching for food. In his mind he was elsewhere—eight years old again, curled in the dark corner of the attic, listening to the silence press in, waiting for the hours to pass.

 

Something red slid into his vision and landed on the plate with a soft clink . Lucien flinched, shoulders jerking. His eyes snapped down, only to find an apple resting there.

 

“Take a bite,” Luna murmured, her voice so calm it barely stirred the air.

 

Lucien’s hand lifted as if it didn’t belong to him, sluggish and hazy. His fingers closed around the apple, fog-thick and trembling, and he bit into it. The sweetness filled his mouth, but he hardly tasted it.

 

“Another one,” Luna coaxed gently.

 

He obeyed. Bite after bite, until half the apple was gone and his jaw ached. He set it down carefully, as though it might break, and lowered his hands into his lap.

 

Luna said nothing more. She only gave him a soft, unshakable smile, then rose and took his hand again. Wordlessly, she led him back through the corridors, guiding him as though he were a ghost in need of tethering. In his dorm, she helped him out of his shoes with quiet efficiency and eased him onto the bed. Like a mother, she pulled the blanket over him, brushed his greasy hair back from his forehead, and let her fingers linger for a moment in silent reassurance.

 

Then she slipped away for class, leaving Lucien staring blankly into the shadows, still and silent, his chest rising and falling as if he wasn’t sure why it should.

 

 

 

 

“It’s a shame we didn’t get to have a Quidditch match this year,” Thad said idly. He and Nia sat cross-legged on the floor just outside Lucien’s bed, leaning against the heavy curtains that shut him away. They’d tried coaxing him out earlier, but he hadn’t moved, hadn’t even blinked at them. So they’d settled for talking to him, or maybe around him, as if pretending he was part of the conversation might trick him into joining.

 

“I would’ve loved to see pretty-boy Diggory’s face when he planted it straight into the ground after falling for Lucky’s wicked feint.”

 

Lucien shut his eyes. He wished they would stop talking. Or at the very least, stop talking about Quidditch. He couldn’t care less about any of it—brooms, cheers, victory. It all felt like it belonged to someone else’s life.

 

A pause. The rustle of clothing. Then Thad’s voice, lower this time, as though Lucien wasn’t meant to hear. “The potion’s almost ready, right?”

 

“Yeah,” Nia whispered back, her tone quick and careful. “They’ll be waking the students up soon.”

 

Lucien rolled onto his side, turning his face toward the cold stone wall. 

 

Thad sighed behind the curtain, the sound tired but threaded with relief.

 

Lucien pressed his forehead against the wall and wished he could disappear into it.

 

 

 

 

 

Lucien had been staring at the mirror in the bathroom for what felt like hours.

 

The reflection staring back at him didn’t look human—it looked like a ghost wearing his skin. His hair was greasy, matted flat against his forehead, his face hollow and sallow, the bruised half-circles under his eyes almost purple. His lips were cracked. His eyes, bloodshot and dull, made him look like something that had been left in the dark too long.

 

Luna had coaxed him here, the same way she had coaxed him to eat, with that soft, unrelenting patience that made refusing impossible. Take a shower, she had said, as if it were as simple as breathing.

 

He hadn’t. Not yet.

 

Finally, dragging himself away from the mirror, he moved like his body was no longer his own. His numb fingers fumbled with the knobs, the pipes groaned, and water began to fall. Stripping off his clothes, he stepped under the spray and let it hit him.

 

For a moment, he thought he might be crying. That was what it felt like—the warm water running down his face, dripping from his jaw. It almost felt like relief, except he had run out of tears days ago. He’d spent them all in the first endless nights, until his body refused to give him that release anymore.

 

He slid down the slick tiles slowly, until he was crouched at the bottom of the shower, arms locked tight around his knees. The water cooled, then turned cold, but still he stayed, pretending—pretending the water was tears he couldn’t shed, pretending he was still capable of feeling anything more than this bone-deep emptiness.

 

Eventually, some mechanical part of him stirred. He scrubbed at his skin until it was raw, dried himself with a towel, and pulled on clean clothes for the first time in days. The fabric felt strange on him, like it belonged to someone else.

 

When he pushed open the bathroom door, he was almost startled to see Luna still there. She was perched cross-legged on his bed as if she had never moved, her gaze calm and unwavering, waiting.

 

Without a word, she stood and guided him back beneath his blankets, her hands gentle as she tucked them around his shoulders, brushing damp strands of hair back from his forehead like it was routine, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

 

Lucien lay staring at the ceiling, blank and hollow, until exhaustion dragged him under. A few hours later, he woke gasping from another nightmare—only to find himself returned to the waking one he couldn’t escape.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Lucien hadn’t been to any of his classes. He couldn’t bring himself to care.

 

What was the point to any of it?

 

His friends had given Luna his homework to pass along, neat stacks of parchment with careful notes scrawled across the top in their different handwritings. They sat untouched on his nightstand, edges curling slightly, gathering dust. He hadn’t even glanced at them.

 

Sometimes he wondered how long it would take before a professor demanded an explanation, before detentions or warnings began to pile up. The thought barely stirred anything inside him. Even punishment required the energy to care, and Lucien had none left.

 

What’s the point, Tom?

 

His quill scratched across the diary’s open page, the ink blotching where his hand shook.

 

He wrote to Tom more often now. Sometimes whole pages of empty, desperate words. Sometimes single sentences. Sometimes nothing but scribbled lines of ink pressed so hard the nib nearly tore the paper. Tom wasn’t real—but then, Lucien felt as though he wasn’t either. He was so tired of being alone, and yet he barely existed, a ghost among the living.

 

The ink bled back into words, crisp and deliberate.

 

You’ll have to be more specific.

 

Lucien blinked, then dipped his quill again.

 

Any of it. I don’t understand wizarding school at all.

 

There was a pause. Then:

 

It is quite the change. I grew up going to Muggle school as well. Perhaps I can offer some insight.

 

In Muggle school, Lucien wrote, his hand tightening , if something happens—something terrible—they try to protect the students. They do something. But at Hogwarts… His throat clenched, the quill digging hard into the paper . At Hogwarts, there’s just a hospital wing full of frozen bodies.

 

A beat of silence followed, as if even the diary didn’t know how to answer. Then the ink slithered across the page.

 

Ah. I understand now.

 

Lucien dropped his forehead into his palm, his chest rising and falling in a shaky breath.

 

I’m so tired of feeling like I’m in a warzone, Tom.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Luna dragged him to a few classes. Well—dragged wasn’t quite right. She would take his hand and lead him, and then pass him off to one of their friends, who would quietly guide him the rest of the way to whichever class they shared. He went because they made him, not because he cared.

 

Lucien sat through lessons in a haze, staring blankly at blackboards and spellwork demonstrations as if none of it belonged to him. 

 

At one point, Professor Flitwick called on him, voice kind but expectant.

“Mr. Black, perhaps you’d demonstrate for us?”

 

Lucien lifted his eyes slowly. It was like trying to see through fog, or listen through cotton. His hand didn’t move. He just stared at the professor—expression vacant, gaze glassy, as though Flitwick wasn’t really there at all.

 

A pause stretched. Then Flitwick cleared his throat softly and turned away, his small shoulders sinking with something like sorrow.

 

“Very well. Let’s move on.”

 

Lucien dropped his eyes back to the desk, the weight in his chest growing heavier.

 

 

 

 

 

Lucien slipped out of Ravenclaw Tower before Luna could come looking for him the next morning, the black diary pressed tightly to his chest like a lifeline. He had decided there was one place in the castle grounds where no one would ever think to search for him.

 

He stopped before the Whomping Willow, watching its violent thrashing with a strange, passive detachment. The branches lashed and cracked against the air, but he only tilted his head, studying it as though the danger wasn’t real. His eyes dropped to the roots, searching. After a moment he found a fallen stick. With a flick of his fingers, wandless and careless, he floated it through the air and struck the knot in the bark. The tree stilled at once, shuddering into silence.

 

Lucien stepped into the tunnel with a morbid curiosity, feet echoing against the stone as he walked down the narrow stair and the long, dark passage. Dust clung to the air, stale and suffocating, until he came to the heavy door at the end.

 

He opened it and stepped inside.

 

The room felt hollow without the sound of claws and snarls behind the walls, without the sharp tang of blood and fear that used to hang in the air when the werewolf fought to escape. Now there was only silence. The claw marks scored deep into the wood and stone seemed even harsher in the stillness, the dried stains on the floor darker than he remembered. Dust blanketed everything, softening what had once been brutal.

 

Lucien lowered himself to the floor in the middle of the room. He set the diary in his lap and stared at the walls, as if the scars there understood him better than anyone alive.

 

They think I’m mad, Tom.

 

From their perspective, the neat, slanting handwriting appeared across the page, you most likely seem as though you are.

 

Lucien’s lips twitched, though it wasn’t quite a smile. Hours bled away as he sat in that ruin of a room—a place that knew him not as a student or a boy but as something broken, something monstrous. He wrote to the memory of a person who no longer existed, his words filling the silence where his own voice could not.

 

 

 

 

 

He couldn’t see her, but he knew she was there—he could hear the echo of her footsteps pounding down the endless corridors, just ahead of him, just out of reach. His chest burned as he sprinted after her, lungs straining, but no matter how fast he ran, the distance never closed.

 

“It’s your fault.”

 

Hermione’s voice was a whisper at his ear, cold and sharp as a knife. He jerked, stumbling mid-stride, eyes darting wildly to find her—but the corridor was empty, only shadows stretching on and on.

 

“I know it is!” Lucien cried, his voice cracking with desperation. “Just—just let me help you before it’s too late!”

 

“It already is.”

 

The accusation wrapped around him like chains, and then, like an echo torn straight from that terrible night with the troll, he heard her scream—raw, shattering, dying .

 

“No—HERMIONE!”

 

“Black! Black—wake up!”

 

 

 

 

Hands clamped hard onto his shoulders. He thrashed violently, panic bursting through him like fire, but the stone walls blurred, and Hermione’s screams warped until they became his own.

 

With a ragged gasp he wrenched his eyes open. His throat ached from shouting. His heart thundered. The dormitory came into focus—his three roommates crouched over him, faces pale in the moonlight, their hands withdrawing the instant he stopped fighting.

 

They released him as if burned.

 

Lucien sagged back against the mattress, but his body was rigid, trembling. His eyes locked on the far corner of the room, staring so hard it was as though he could burn a hole into it. He didn’t blink. He didn’t breathe properly. He didn’t even seem to see them at all.

 

Just shadows. Just the scream that still echoed in his ears.

 

 

 

 

 

It seemed the wolf hated him just as much as he did.

 

Lucien thought that with a strange, welcoming haze as he bled out across the dusty floor of the Shrieking Shack. The pain was everywhere, so vast and consuming that he almost couldn’t feel it at all. His mind floated somewhere above his ruined body, detached, distant—shock settling into his bones like ice.

 

His vision flickered in and out, the ceiling groaning and tilting above him. He tried to keep his eyes open, but each blink dragged him deeper into the dark. He wasn’t able to stay conscious long enough for Pomfrey’s hands to reach him, wasn’t able to register the frantic spells crackling against his skin. He welcomed the darkness that swallowed him, like falling into a still, endless sea.

 

“…I’ve got him stable, but Albus—he almost died.”

 

The words echoed faintly from the abyss, distorted, as though spoken down a long tunnel.

 

“He hasn’t been doing well. The teachers have been concerned.”

 

Another voice. Concerned. Stern. Afraid. He couldn’t tell.

 

“I’m concerned, Albus. This wasn’t—no. No. I don’t think that’s a good idea. Move him on the opposite side of the room.”

 

A pause. Footsteps.

 

“It might be good for him to see his friend.”

 

“I’m not so sure, Albus.”

 

The voices faded, swallowed whole by the dark tide that surged up and over him. Lucien sank without resistance, without fight, letting the abyss take him where it would.

 

 

 

 

 

Lucien wrote to Tom so much that angry red blisters had formed across his fingers, the skin raw from clutching the quill too tightly. He pressed on anyway, because the scratching of ink against paper was the only thing that made the silence in his head feel less suffocating.

 

Sometimes, I wish the wolf would finish the job.

 

The words bled into the page before he even realized he’d written them. His hand trembled, but he didn’t blot them out. He left them there, staring at the confession as if it were written by someone else.

 

It’ll be over soon.

 

That was Tom’s reply. Simple. Certain.

 

Lucien stared at the neat script until the letters blurred. He didn’t know what Tom meant—maybe that the school year would end soon, maybe that the students would be woken from their cursed slumber. But there was something colder in the words, something he couldn’t name.

 

Whatever the meaning, no relief stirred in his chest. Just the same aching weight. Just the same silence.

 

I hope you’re right, Tom.

 

Lucien scrawled the words with a trembling hand. The quill slipped as he wrote, the edge of the parchment biting into his skin. He hissed softly, watching a bead of blood well up and fall onto the diary’s page. The crimson stain spread, then sank into the parchment as if the book itself were thirsty for it.

 

For a moment, nothing.

 

Then the ink stirred on its own, curling into neat, deliberate letters.

 

I’m not known to be wrong, came the reply, the strokes almost sharp with certainty. I assure you.

 

The words seemed to glow faintly, as though they pulsed in rhythm with the cut on his hand.

 

 

 

 

Lucien leaned over the Astronomy Tower railing, his fingers curling tight around the cold stone as he stared at the Leo constellation above. Pandora said his father was lost, and tonight, Lucien wondered if maybe he was drifting among those stars too. Maybe he was closer to him up here than he’d ever be down below.

 

“Luce?”

 

The voice was quiet, careful. Lucien turned his head sluggishly to see Harry standing a few feet away, hands raised slightly as though approaching a wounded animal. His green eyes flicked from Lucien’s face to the edge of the tower, then back again.

 

Lucien blinked, dazed. “Haz?” His voice was rough, his brain thick with fog.

 

“Luna came and got me,” Harry said, each word deliberate, steady. “Let’s get you to bed, yeah?”

 

Lucien shook his head. The weight pressing against his skull made him feel like he could collapse at any moment, but sleep was the last thing he wanted. “Don’t wanna sleep,” he murmured. The nightmares were waiting there, always waiting.

 

Harry hesitated, then nodded, his hand outstretched. “Alright. Then we won’t. Let’s just sit, yeah? We can talk.”

 

Lucien stared at him for a long moment before reaching out. His fingers brushed Harry’s, and he felt the boy’s shoulders drop, a quiet exhale slipping past his lips as if in relief. That reaction confused Lucien more than anything—why should his choice to take a hand matter so much?

 

“I don’t wanna talk either,” Lucien muttered as Harry guided him to the far wall, away from the railing. They sank down shoulder to shoulder, the night air cool against their faces.

 

“That’s okay too,” Harry said softly, almost a whisper.

 

And so they stayed there in silence. Neither spoke, neither moved. Just two boys sitting side by side, far from the edge, far from the stars—close enough that the silence felt like its own kind of lifeline.

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Maybe we should get Luna,” Lucien heard Ron whisper, the words sliding vaguely through the fog clouding his head. He wasn’t really processing them, not as Harry’s warm hand stayed firm around his own, guiding him step by step down the corridor.

 

“I’ll go get her,” Theo murmured somewhere behind them, and then Harry was tugging him gently to the side of the hall, pressing Lucien against the cool stone wall as if to anchor him.

 

“Has he ever done this before?” Blaise’s voice was low, but Lucien caught the sharp edge of worry threading through it.

 

“I don’t know,” Harry admitted, his voice distant, like it was coming through water. “Maybe… maybe we should write to Remus?”

 

Remus. Moony. Lucien blinked slowly, but he didn’t tell them that Remus wouldn’t have the answers. How could he, when Lucien barely had them himself?

 

His gaze was caught instead by the painting across from him—a still life of a bowl of fruit. The colors swam before his eyes, blurred and strange. He watched, transfixed, as a water pitcher tilted, pouring endlessly into a glass that never overflowed. Again and again. The soft trickle of painted water filled his ears louder than the voices of his friends, drowning them out.

 

Harry’s grip tightened slightly, grounding him, but Lucien barely noticed. His world had shrunk to that single, ceaseless motion in the painting—water filling, emptying, filling again. Just like him. Never overflowing, never breaking. Just repeating.

 

 

 

 

 

He was in the hospital wing again, drifting in the suffocating haze between consciousness and nothingness. The wolf had failed to kill him—again. His body felt heavy, pinned by invisible weights, his eyelids refusing to lift. But he could hear them. His friends.

 

“This can’t keep going on,” Ron’s voice cut through the quiet, raw with concern.

 

“We’ve done everything we can,” Blaise said, sounding weary in a way Lucien had never heard before, the exhaustion pressing down on every word.

 

“We might have something,” Theo murmured, his tone low, frayed at the edges. “Hermione and I… we’ve been researching.”

 

Lucien felt it then—a thumb tracing lightly across his knuckles, grounding him. Harry.

 

“She’ll be awake by his next full moon, right?” Harry’s voice was fragile, almost breaking, as though he couldn’t bear the weight of his own question.

 

“If the professors were truthful about the potion,” Theo answered quietly.

 

There was a pause, then Harry exhaled, voice dropping into something painfully soft. “Good. Because I don’t think he’ll survive another one.”

 

Lucien let the words sink into him like lead, dragging him deeper. His friends’ voices blurred, faded, and finally dissolved into silence. He drifted further into the dark, and with a small, weary ache in his chest, he found himself silently hoping Harry was wrong—that he wouldn’t survive another one.

 

 

 

Lucien jolted upright in his bed as the Ravenclaw dorm door slammed open so hard it rattled the hinges. To his shock, Theo stood there in full Slytherin robes, green tie loose around his neck, storm in his eyes.

 

Before Lucien could say a word, Theo was across the room, grabbing his arm roughly. Lucien yanked back in surprise, but Theo only tightened his grip and hauled him to his feet with an iron determination.

 

“What—Theo—stop!” Lucien protested weakly, stumbling as Theo all but shoved him toward the door.

 

“No,” Theo snapped, voice sharp enough to cut stone. “You’re getting up. You’re going to your exams.”

 

Lucien blinked at him, caught off guard. For the first time in months, something other than numbness stirred in his chest—anger, hot and sparking.

 

“Oh, am I?” Lucien drawled, voice mocking as he turned back toward the bed. “Because I don’t want to, Theo. So just stop.”

 

Theo shoved him again, harder this time. Lucien stumbled back, heart thundering in his chest.

 

“No.” Theo’s shout cracked through the dorm, and Lucien flinched—but Theo didn’t relent. “You’ve had your mourning period—though why, I don’t bloody understand, because Granger isn’t dead. She isn’t dead . Get that through your thick skull, if you’re even capable of processing it!”

 

“You don’t understand—” Lucien started, voice trembling with fury and something else.

 

“No, I don’t !” Theo cut him off savagely. “None of us do! Because you’ve been walking around like some ghost on a leash, and we’ve all been coddling you, whispering around you, terrified you’ll shatter if we breathe too hard—and I’m done .”

 

“Then don’t!” Lucien snapped, his voice breaking on the shout.

 

“Oh, I won’t.” Theo’s laugh was sharp, humorless, cruel. “You’re going to drag yourself to those exams, and you’re going to stop acting like the world ended, because it hasn’t!”

 

“Joke’s on you,” Lucien hissed, venom coating every syllable. “Because I’m not. I won’t.” His chest heaved, and for the first time in so long, he could feel his pulse hammering against his ribs, violent and alive.

 

Theo’s lip curled. “Hermione would be ashamed if she could see you right now.”

 

The words hit harder than any hex. Lucien froze, the world tilting sideways.

 

“You…” he whispered, blinking as his eyes burned. He staggered back until his shoulders hit the wall. “She wouldn’t…”

 

Theo stepped forward, jabbing a finger into Lucien’s chest like a blade. “She would be disappointed that you’d throw it all away. That you’d skip your exams because you’re sad? ” He barked a laugh, cruel and mocking. “Yeah, sure. That’s the Hermione Granger we all know.”

 

The tears came silently, sliding hot down Lucien’s cheeks before he even realized. His throat closed up, and for once, he had no retort, no venom.

 

Theo stared at him for a moment, eyes hard, before straightening and stepping back. “You’re going to get over yourself and show up for those exams.” His nose wrinkled in disgust as he glanced at Lucien’s crumpled state. “And take a bloody shower. You stink.”

 

With that, Theo turned and stormed out, the door slamming shut behind him like a final verdict.

 

Lucien flinched at the sound, and when the silence rushed in after, it felt deafening. He pressed a hand to his chest, as if to hold together the pieces Theo had just shattered.

 

 

 

 

Lucien did pull himself together—though it felt less like strength and more like dragging his broken body out of the ashes.

 

He took a shower, scalding hot, until his skin turned red and raw. For the first time in weeks he felt it—the sting, the heat, the reminder that he was still here whether he wanted to be or not. He scrubbed himself until his hands trembled, until the steam made his head dizzy, and when he stepped out, he almost didn’t recognize the reflection staring back at him in the foggy mirror.

 

And then, somehow, he made it to his exams.

 

He slipped into his seat silently, every eye in the room tracking him as though he were a ghost that wasn’t supposed to appear. He sat down beside Theo, who didn’t look at him with the sharp anger or disgust from before. Instead, Theo’s expression was cool, composed, but with a faint flicker of accomplishment in his eyes, as if he’d wrestled something impossible into existence.

 

Lucien glanced sideways, sending him the barest of nods. Theo returned it without hesitation. No words, just acknowledgment. A silent truce.

 

When the parchment was set before him, Lucien stared at it for a long moment, quill hovering uselessly in his hand. The effort it took to lower the nib to paper felt monumental. But then he began to write. Slowly at first, then with more steadiness than he thought he could muster. He didn’t give the exams everything—he didn’t have it in him—but he gave what he could.

 

And when he caught his teachers watching him, he realized they weren’t waiting for brilliant answers or perfect scores. They were simply relieved to see him trying. Relieved that he was present . Their expressions weren’t judgmental, but hopeful. Pleased.

 

It dawned on Lucien, slowly and heavily, that they’d all been worried. All of them—his friends, his professors, even Theo in his own sharp-edged way. He hadn’t been walking through this in silence. The weight of it sat strange in his chest, uncomfortable but warm, like something he wasn’t sure he deserved.

After the exams, his friends walked him back to the dorm, their faces bright with relief and quiet triumph at seeing him present. Lucien said very little, but the small thread of participation felt like a bridge stretching from him to them. To his friends, it was everything. To him, it was almost unbearable in its simplicity—this connection to the world he’d been drifting away from.

 

 

 

 

 

Once alone in his dorm, he opened the diary and began to write to Tom, the words spilling out in a haze of exhaustion and lingering fear.

 

I needed it, I think. And Theo knew that. I was practically decomposing while still breathing.

 

He let out a shaky laugh, blinking heavily as though the effort of moving his eyelids had taken every last ounce of energy. The day had been longer than he’d realized, heavier than he’d allowed himself to feel.

 

Now that’s something to imagine.

 

It is, isn’t it? Tom’s words glinted on the page. 

 

The students will be waking up soon. I’m thinking about finally visiting Hermione.

 

That won’t be happening, unfortunately.

 

Lucien paused, a strange chill settling in his chest. 

 

…What do you mean, Tom? Why not?

 

You won’t be alive much longer.

 

The words hit him like a fist to the chest. The horror of them barely registered before the floor seemed to tilt beneath him, the room stretching into a long, suffocating tunnel of darkness. Panic clawed at him, sharp and futile, but it was too late—he was swallowed again, sinking into the endless void that had become both familiar and terrifying.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Remus POV

 

Remus had been sitting idly at the kitchen table, quill in hand, writing to Narcissa. It was strange how much correspondence they had shared this year, but they had a mutual understanding and interest in the same child. His thoughts, however, kept drifting elsewhere.

 

Lucien had been on his mind more than usual. He wrote to Remus once a week, as asked, but the letters were sparse—sometimes barely coherent, often fragmented, like echoes of someone half-present. And then came the letter from Harry.

 

Remus had unfolded the parchment slowly, his chest tightening with worry and relief at once. Harry’s words tumbled onto the page:

 

Remus,

 

I’m worried about Luce.

 

He hasn’t been well since Hermione got petrified. Honestly, he seems like he’s not even there. He’s skipping all of his classes, though Luna has been coaxing him to show up more recently—but he doesn’t do anything. He just stares off into space.

 

We have to hold his hand and physically guide him if we want him to go anywhere. Last time we didn’t, we realized too late that he wasn’t following us. When we got back after class, the portrait told us he had just stood there blankly for an hour before seeming to realize where he was and leaving. Luna found him in his dorm.

 

He barely eats. He won’t visit Hermione; the most he does is stare blankly and write in this black journal. Remus… I had it once. I was trying to see if there was any way to help him, but it was blank. I wrote in it, though, and there was a response—a man, but it’s been writing to a memory from a student at Hogwarts fifty or so years ago.

 

Has he ever done anything like this before? Is there any way to help him?

 

The moons have been awful. Madam Pomfrey doesn’t say much, but we know the wolf almost killed him. I found him on the Astronomy Tower the other week; he didn’t seem to notice he was about to fall off the railing. Remus, I’m terrified.

 

Please write as soon as you can.

 

-Harry Potter

 

Remus brought himself back to the present just as a sharp pecking sounded at the window. An owl he didn’t recognize perched there, ruffling its feathers nervously.

 

He moved quickly, unlocking the window and snatching the letter from its talons. Hands trembling, he tore it open—and froze, nearly dropping the parchment as his eyes scanned the words.

 

Your ward has been taken to the Chamber of Secrets. It is unclear if he is alive. Come immediately.

 

The handwriting… it was unmistakably Snape’s. But there was no time to dwell on that.

 

Remus felt the world tilt beneath him as adrenaline and fear surged through his veins. He bolted from the kitchen to the floo,  shouting his destinations aloud, the sound of his own voice blending with the roar of panic in his head. There was only one thought, burning hotter than any fear: Lucien. Alive or not, he had to get to him.

Chapter 13: You Ready?

Notes:

END OF BOOK TWO
Book three is where the true deviation from cannon comes in, you guys have no idea what I have in store, but ill be posting chapter one tomorrow.
Hope you didn't forget about Fred's Christmas gift xD dragons baby, dragons.
Thank you for coming along as second year comes to a close, and i cant wait for you to join in the next one.
without further ado ~ enjoy

{Hello, if you've already finished the book on 09/01/25 im here to inform you, i forgot to post chapter 10. its now up!}

Lucien came to with a gasp, as if an invisible hand had yanked the air from his lungs and then shoved it back in.

 

His eyes snapped open, taking in his surroundings with stunned horror. Before him lay a giant basilisk, its lifeless body sprawled across the stone floor. Its eyes had been clawed out, blood trickling from its mouth, and a gruesome mound sat atop its head. The scent of damp stone and iron filled the air. Carvings of snakes covered the walls, twisting and writhing in the flickering torchlight. He swallowed, realizing with a cold certainty that he was in the Chamber of Secrets.

 

A colossal statue of a man loomed behind the serpent, its mouth gaping in what must have been an entrance—but the stone near its eye was broken into jagged chunks. Lucien’s gaze darted around, disoriented, until a heartbeat that wasn’t his own thumped through the chamber.

 

He turned, and relief and horror collided in equal measure. Harry was there, crouched nearby, a sword clutched tightly in his hand. He was bleeding—several shallow cuts streaked across his body, but the most alarming was the wound along his arm. Lucien froze, staring in disbelief.

 

Beside Harry lay the diary he had been writing in all year: Tom Riddle’s . Ink smeared around it like a warning, and next to the book…Lucien’s stomach turned. A fang. 

 

“You're alive,” Harry breathed, stumbling toward him. His lip trembled as he reached out.

 

“Haz?” Lucien croaked, still trying to piece together reality. “What…what’s going on?”

 

Harry’s sobs broke through as he wrapped his arms around Lucien’s otherwise limp frame. He felt impossibly weak, as though the weight of the basilisk and the chamber itself had pressed the life from him.

 

“Hey,” Lucien murmured raspily, forcing his voice to carry over Harry’s panic. “What happened? Where are we?”

 

“The Chamber of Secrets,” Harry said finally, voice cracking. “Tom Riddle’s…Voldemort, Luce—he’s been possessing you. He—he…” His words choked off in a sob.

 

Lucien’s chest tightened. He hadn’t fully realized how deeply this had gone—not just blacking out, but being taken over , month after month, by the dark mind of Voldemort. He shoved the sickening thought aside, focusing on Harry’s trembling form.

 

“Hey, breathe,” Lucien urged, panic pricking at the edges of his own fear. Seeing Harry like this—so raw, so human—made it harder to think clearly.

 

Harry laughed, a jagged, hysterical sound, before another sob wracked him. “He was taking your life,” he said, voice breaking, and a cold shiver ran down Lucien’s spine.

 

“Well,” Lucien blinked rapidly, forcing his mind to steady, “he didn’t. Are you okay?”

 

“Killed the basilisk,” Harry murmured, finally letting himself slump slightly against Lucien. “Thought…we were both going to die.”

 

A sharp trill broke through the tension, and Lucien finally noticed the brilliant flash of red and gold. Fawkes, the phoenix, hovered nearby, tail feathers glinting in the flickering torchlight, the comforting heat of his presence brushing against them.

 

Fawkes was waiting for them, hovering near the archway of the Chamber entrance, his golden-red feathers shimmering in the torchlight. His presence felt both reassuring and otherworldly, as though the chamber itself bent to make room for him.

 

Harry drew in a steadying breath, gathering himself before hauling Lucien gently to his feet. They leaned heavily against each other, half-stumbling, half-dragging their way forward. Every step echoed against the carved stone, the sound bouncing back to them like whispers.

 

The chamber door slid closed behind them with a hiss, so like a snake that Lucien flinched instinctively.

 

For a long stretch, only their shuffling footsteps filled the silence—until a faint rumble, the sound of shifting rocks, carried down the passageway.

 

“Ron!” Harry’s voice rang out, urgent and relieved, and he quickened his pace.

 

“Ron’s here too?” Lucien asked weakly, blinking as though he were trying to make sense of a dream.

 

“And Theo,” Harry answered, breathless but certain.

 

Lucien stopped in his tracks, dizzy. “Theo’s here?” His mind flickered back to the pale, trembling boy in first year, who had looked like he might faint just thinking about fighting for the Stone. The idea of him braving the Chamber felt impossible.

 

“Harry?!” Ron’s voice came muffled from behind a mound of rock, urgent but alive.

 

“Is Lucien—” Theo’s sharper voice began, but Harry cut across quickly.

 

“He’s fine, I got him!”

 

The sighs of relief that drifted back through the rockfall were so audible it made Lucien’s chest ache.

 

An arm suddenly thrust through a narrow gap between the stones. “You’re alive! I don’t believe it! What happened?” Ron’s voice was filled with stunned relief.

 

“Dunno, really,” Lucien admitted hoarsely, dragging himself through the tight opening with Ron’s help. On the other side, he blinked into the flickering light and found Ron, and Theo.  Lucien raised his brows faintly. “Was asleep through most of it.”

 

“You weren’t sleeping,” Harry said sharply as he crawled through after him. Ron and Theo turned toward him with confused frowns, but Harry shook his head, eyes hard. He looped an arm around Lucien’s shoulders again, steadying him as if daring the others to question it.

 

“I’ll explain later,” Harry said, his voice low and exhausted, but with a thread of determination that silenced further questions. The boys exchanged looks, then nodded.

 

“Where did that bird come from?” Ron blurted suddenly, jumping slightly as Fawkes squeezed gracefully through the gap after them, wings flaring.

 

“He’s Dumbledore’s,” Harry explained simply, pausing just long enough to keep a hand firm on Lucien’s arm.

 

“Of course,” Theo said dryly, though his voice was steadier than Lucien expected. “A better substitute than the man himself.”

 

Lucien glanced at Fawkes warily, uncertain if the phoenix would take offense at the jab, but the bird only tilted his head serenely, dark eyes gleaming with something Lucien couldn’t quite name.

 

“And how come you’ve got a sword?” Ron demanded, eyes wide as he gaped at the glittering blade still clutched in Harry’s hand.

 

“I’ll tell you everything later,” Harry said firmly, his tone brooking no argument. His gaze flicked down the tunnel. “Where’s Lockhart?”

 

“Back there,” Ron said, jerking his thumb toward the pipe with a grin. “He’s in a bad way. Come and see.”

 

Lucien groaned softly. “What’s he doing here?”

 

“Well,” Ron began, clearly relishing the absurdity of the story, “when we heard Professor McGonagall say your body would be in the Chamber of Secrets, they sent Lockhart after you.”

 

“He was packing his bag when we got to his office,” Theo cut in smoothly, shooting Lucien a knowing look. The corner of Lucien’s mouth twitched, and a small laugh escaped before he could stop it.

 

“Harry insisted he come,” Theo went on dryly. “Held him at wand point and everything.”

 

“I didn’t think I’d be enough,” Harry admitted quietly, his voice low, frayed with exhaustion. Lucien felt the words dig deep and instinctively tightened his grip on Harry’s arm, steady and sure.

 

Led by Fawkes, whose wide scarlet wings cast a gentle golden glow through the dark tunnel, they made their way back toward the mouth of the pipe. The warmth of the phoenix felt like it was holding them together, step by weary step.

 

At last, they found Gilderoy Lockhart sitting on the damp floor, humming a cheerful, tuneless melody to himself.

 

“His memory’s gone,” Ron explained, half-smirking, half-exasperated. “The Memory Charm backfired. Hit him instead of us. Doesn’t know who he is, or where he is, or who we are. I told him to wait here—safer than letting him wander. He’s a danger to himself.”

 

Lockhart looked up at them all with vacant cheer. “Hello! Odd sort of place, this, isn’t it? Do you live here?”

 

Lucien bit his lip hard, trying not to laugh, but his shoulders shook anyway.

 

“No,” Ron deadpanned, raising his brows at Harry, who bent to peer up the long, dark pipe stretching above them.

 

“Have you thought how we’re going to get back up this?” Harry asked.

 

“Could use a house-elf,” Lucien muttered tiredly, rubbing at his temple.

 

“Have one of those?” Theo asked, amused and skeptical all at once.

 

“Kind of,” Lucien replied, wrinkling his nose. He hesitated a moment, then said with quiet conviction, “Dobby!”

 

With a sharp crack, the house-elf appeared before them, eyes round and bright in the dim chamber.

 

“Hello, sir!” Dobby squeaked, appearing with a sharp crack. His ears wiggled with joy before his wide green eyes grew alarmed. “Oh no—sir is hurt! And—oh! Harry Potter! You is bleeding!”

 

“Hello, Dobby,” Lucien said, his voice thin but tinged with tired amusement.

 

“ Dobby is your house-elf? ” Harry hissed under his breath, tightening his arm protectively around Lucien.

 

“He’s the Malfoys’,” Lucien murmured, leaning into Harry’s support. “When I’m at their manor…he takes care of me.”

 

“Dobby is happy to serve the young Lord Black!” Dobby said, puffing up proudly.

 

“I told you not to call me that,” Lucien chided softly, though his lips twitched with affection. “I’m your friend, remember? But—I do need to ask for your help.”

 

“Anything, sir!” Dobby said at once, practically vibrating with eagerness.

 

“Can you get us out of here?” Lucien asked.

 

Dobby didn’t even bother answering. In the blink of an eye he seized Theo and Lockhart, and with a loud pop, they vanished.

 

“Bloody hell, mate,” Ron muttered, eyes wide.

 

A moment later, another pop echoed off the stone walls. Dobby was back, ears flapping with urgency. “I delivered them to Professor Dumbledore’s office! Everyone is there, very worried. Who is next?”

 

“Harry and Ron, please, Dobby,” Lucien said quickly.

 

“Wait—” Ron began, but before either boy could finish protesting, Dobby had already grabbed them and they were gone.

 

The chamber was suddenly very quiet, just Lucien swaying on his feet, the golden glow of Fawkes keeping the shadows at bay.

 

With one more sharp crack, Dobby returned, his expression warm.

 

“Thank you, Dobby,” Lucien whispered, his voice breaking.

 

“Of course, sir,” Dobby said earnestly, reaching for his hand with surprising gentleness. “You is a good friend. Dobby is happy to help.”

 

Lucien’s throat tightened, and before he could find words, the world spun—

 

—and then he was standing in Dumbledore’s office, the familiar scent of parchment and lemon drops in the air. Before he had even steadied himself, a pair of familiar, warm arms enveloped him.

 

Lucien sagged into the embrace, tears stinging his eyes as his lungs seized with relief. The scent, the strength, the warmth—his heart cried out the word his voice couldn’t quite form.

 

Moony. Moony. Moony.

 

Remus pulled back just far enough to study Lucien’s face, his hands firm on his shoulders as though afraid he might vanish again. Lucien was startled to see how hollow and haunted Remus looked, his eyes shadowed with sleepless nights.

 

“You’re alive,” Remus said at last, the words more like a prayer than a statement—as if he needed to convince himself of it.

 

“Almost wasn’t,” Lucien murmured. The words slipped out before he could stop them, an almost perfect echo of the year before. He felt Remus’s breath stutter against him at the reminder.

 

“The most important thing,” Dumbledore’s calm voice chimed in, drawing every gaze, “is that everyone is safe.”

 

Safe. Lucien wasn’t so sure. He became faintly aware of the way the room bristled—McGonagall’s sharp glare, Snape’s piercing scrutiny, everyone's accusing looks weighing down on Dumbledore. If it unsettled him, he didn’t show it.

“What happened?” McGonagall demanded from the corner, her tone sharp as steel. To Lucien’s surprise, Snape was standing right beside her, his face unreadable.

 

“I am sure Harry will tell us,” Dumbledore said softly. His gaze shifted. “If you don’t mind, Harry.”

 

“I do mind,” Remus bit out before Harry could answer. His arms tightened instinctively around Lucien. “They all need medical attention.”

 

“I am afraid this cannot wait,” Dumbledore said firmly, his piercing eyes settling on Harry. “Harry, if you would.”

 

Harry’s jaw clenched, his whole body coiled as though he wanted to argue—but he didn’t. Instead, with a shaky breath, he began.

 

For nearly a quarter of an hour, Harry spoke into the rapt silence. He told them about hearing the disembodied voice in the walls, how Hermione had realized it was the Basilisk, how he and Ron had followed the spiders into the Forbidden Forest and spoken to Aragog. He explained that they had pieced together Myrtle’s death, and how it led them to the entrance of the Chamber in her bathroom.

 

Lucien sat listening, realization creeping coldly through him. He had missed so much—so many moments, whole pieces of the year simply…gone.

 

“Very well,” Professor McGonagall said briskly once Harry paused for breath. “So you discovered the entrance—breaking a hundred school rules into pieces along the way, I might add—but how on earth did you all survive, Potter?”

 

Harry’s voice had grown hoarse from speaking, but he pressed on. He told them about Fawkes’s arrival, the Sorting Hat, the sword. He described the fight with the Basilisk. And then—he faltered.

 

His eyes slid sideways toward Lucien.

 

Lucien felt the weight of that look, his stomach clenching. He knew what part came next.

 

Harry turned instead to Dumbledore.

 

Dumbledore’s expression softened, the faintest of smiles curling at the edge of his mouth, his eyes glimmering like a man who knew far more than he ever said.

 

“What interests me most,” Dumbledore said gently, “is how Lord Voldemort managed to enchant Mr. Black, when my sources tell me he is currently skulking in the forests of Albania.”

 

The words hit like ice water. Lucien’s blood ran cold, and every muscle in his body went taut. He knows. He’s known. The thought coiled like a serpent in his chest.

 

Remus’s arm tightened around him instinctively, protective, bracing, as if he could shield him from the truth.

 

“What do you mean, Albus?” Snape asked sharply, genuine concern cutting through his usual silk-smooth drawl.

 

“It was this diary,” Harry said quickly, snatching it up from the desk and thrusting it toward Dumbledore. “Riddle wrote it when he was sixteen.”

 

Dumbledore accepted it with careful hands, his sharp gaze narrowing as he peered down his long, crooked nose at the charred, sodden pages. He turned it over as though weighing more than parchment in his palms.

 

“Brilliant,” he murmured softly. “Of course…he was probably the most brilliant student Hogwarts has ever seen.”

 

Lifting his gaze, Dumbledore regarded them with unsettling calm. “Very few people know that Lord Voldemort was once called Tom Riddle. I taught him myself, fifty years ago, at Hogwarts. He vanished after leaving school—traveled far and wide, sank deeper and deeper into the Dark Arts, consorted with the very worst of our kind. He underwent so many dangerous, unnatural transformations that, when he returned as Lord Voldemort, he was barely recognizable. Hardly anyone ever connected the Dark Lord with the clever, handsome boy who once wore the badge of Head Boy.”

 

“What,” came Remus’s clipped reply, his voice sharp enough to cut stone, “does that have to do with Lucien?”

 

“Lucien’s been writing in the diary all year,” Theo said quietly before Lucien could speak, his voice carrying into the tense silence. He glanced at Remus, but Lucien only shut his eyes, shame washing over him like ice water.

 

“What I want to know,” Dumbledore said, his tone gentler now but no less piercing, “is how you acquired it in the first place.”

 

“I don’t know,” Lucien said at once—half-truth, half-lie, his throat tightening. “It was just…in my trunk when I got to school.”

 

Dumbledore opened his mouth as though to press the matter further, but Remus’s voice sliced through the air.

 

“That’s enough, Albus.” Moony’s tone was low but unyielding, his arm tightening protectively around Lucien. “I’m taking the children to the hospital wing. Now. ”

 

A pause stretched before Dumbledore inclined his head. “Of course,” he said finally. “This has been a terrible ordeal. There will be no punishment. Older and wiser wizards than he, have been deceived by Lord Voldemort.”

 

He crossed the office to open the door, his robes whispering against the stone. “Bed rest,” he added, as though the matter were now closed, “and perhaps a large, steaming mug of hot chocolate. I always find that cheers me up.” His blue eyes twinkled down at Lucien, though Lucien only stared back flatly, unable to muster a smile.

 

“You will find Madam Pomfrey still awake. She is administering Mandrake juice—the Basilisk’s victims should be waking any moment now.”

 

“Mione,” Lucien breathed, the word slipping from him in relief. He turned to share a look with his friends, and the weight in their eyes mirrored his own.

 

“There has been no lasting harm done,” Dumbledore said firmly.

 

And with that, Remus gathered them all and led the weary group out of the office, down toward the waiting hospital wing.

 

The hospital wing was quiet when they arrived, the rows of beds empty. Relief loosened something tight in Lucien’s chest—if it was empty, it meant Hermione was healed.

 

Madam Pomfrey let out a horrified gasp at the sight of them. “Merlin’s beard—what have you children done to yourselves this time?” she exclaimed, bustling forward. Without another word she had Harry on the nearest bed, fussing over his wounds with sharp precision.

 

Lucien was next. Pomfrey practically yanked him down onto the mattress, tutting under her breath as she worked. He let her fuss, too drained to protest, but out of the corner of his eye he caught Remus leaning close to Harry. Their words were too soft to catch, but the look on Remus’s face—creased with concern, heavy with worry—was unmistakable.

 

When Pomfrey had finished with Theo and Ron, she gave them all a brisk once-over, declared they would live, and shooed them toward the feast. Grumbling but obedient, Theo, Ron, and Harry shuffled out together, voices low as they disappeared down the corridor.

 

Lucien made to follow, but Remus’s hand closed gently on his shoulder.

 

“Let me take you home?” Remus asked, his voice already carrying the quiet certainty that Lucien would say no.

 

Lucien shook his head, exhaustion heavy in his bones but determination stronger. “Can’t. Gotta see Mione,” he said simply. Then, softer, “You’ll see me tomorrow.”

 

Remus sighed, pulling him into a tight embrace. His voice was low and rough against Lucien’s hair. “Please, Lucien. Let me stop meeting you like this. I want the next time I come to Hogwarts to be for one of your Quidditch matches—not the hospital wing.”

 

A sad huff of laughter escaped Lucien. “Me too, Moony.”

 

For a long moment, Remus held on, reluctant to let go. At last, with a quiet exhale, he released him. “Go on then. See your friends.”

 

Lucien turned, a faint smile tugging at his lips, but something tugged him back. He hesitated, glancing over his shoulder.

 

“Hey, Moony?” he began, voice uncertain.

 

“Yes, cub?” Remus answered immediately.

 

Lucien swallowed, then said with quiet firmness, “I think Harry should stay with us this summer.”

 

Remus closed his eyes briefly, sighing as though he had expected it. After a pause, he nodded. “I’ll think about it.”

 

Lucien accepted the promise with a small nod, his chest lighter. Then, squaring his shoulders, he headed down the corridor toward the Great Hall.

 

Lucien blinked in surprise when he stepped into the Great Hall. The entire student body was gathered at the feast, and—much to his amusement—everyone was still in their pajamas. The long tables glittered with food, but laughter and chatter filled the air more than clinking cutlery.

 

He made his way to the Slytherin table, heart skipping when he spotted Harry and Ron already seated. And there—there was Hermione. She was leaning across the bench, animatedly chatting with the boys. Her head turned at the sound of his footsteps. The moment her eyes landed on him, she screeched loud enough to make heads swivel.

 

Before he could react, Hermione vaulted from the bench and sprinted at him. She flung herself into his arms with such force that he staggered a step before catching her. For the first time, he realized they weren’t the same height anymore—he had shot up, and she barely reached his chin.

 

“Lou! I’m so glad you’re okay!” she wailed, her voice muffled against his shoulder.

 

His arms tightened around her instinctively, almost crushing, as if she might vanish if he let go. 

 

“Missed you so much, Mione,” he whispered, voice rough and wet with unshed tears.

 

She pulled back only enough to cup his hand, squeezing fiercely. “Theo, Blaise, and Luna told me everything,” she said, her eyes shining with both relief and sadness. Without waiting for him to reply, she dragged him toward the bench where everyone quickly made space.

 

“I’m so glad you’re not dead, Lord Black,” Blaise teased lightly as Lucien sat down. But beneath the dry humor, Lucien caught the genuine relief laced in his tone.

 

“I told you he wasn’t going to die,” Luna said cheerfully, lifting her goblet in a little toast. She waved at him with her usual dreamlike smile, and Lucien couldn’t help but return it warmly.

 

“Cousin!” a voice called, and Lucien’s head turned to see Draco Malfoy sit himself stiffly beside a startled Theo.

 

“Hello, cousin,” Lucien greeted with amusement tugging at his lips.

 

Draco leaned forward, eyes wide with something close to panic. “Are you okay? I’ve heard so many rumors—everyone thought you were dead !”

 

“Breathing just fine, Draco,” Lucien reassured calmly. But as the words left his mouth, he noticed how the rest of the group’s eyes—Harry’s sharp, Hermione’s curious, Ron’s outright suspicious—had all turned toward Draco.

 

Draco shifted uncomfortably under the scrutiny before flicking a glance at Lucien, silently asking what to do.

 

Lucien tilted his head, the barest encouragement.

 

Draco drew a deep breath, squaring his shoulders. “I realized I’ve been a bit of a…” He faltered, then leaned closer to Lucien, whispering, “What did you call me again?”

 

“A prat,” Lucien supplied smoothly, biting back a grin.

 

“Right. A prat,” Draco echoed, cheeks flushing. “I’ve been a prat. I haven’t been a decent classmate, and I’ve treated you all poorly. So I would like to officially apologize.”

 

For a beat, silence reigned at the table. Hermione, Ron, and Harry all looked at him as though he’d grown a second head. Blaise was smothering laughter behind his hand. Theo shot Lucien an incredulous look, to which Lucien only winked.

 

Luna, entirely unfazed, continued eating pudding as though nothing unusual had occurred.

“Right,” Draco continued when the silence stretched too long. His voice was taut, but steady. “Weasley, I’m sorry for teasing you about your family. Potter, I’m sorry for picking on you—bullying you.” He swallowed, clearly uncomfortable, and finally turned toward Hermione. “And Granger, I’m sorry for calling you a m—”

 

Lucien’s eyes sharpened dangerously, a silent warning, and Draco stumbled over the word before quickly correcting himself.

 

“—a nasty slur,” he finished in a rush. “You’re… you’re incredibly smart, and good at magic. And I don’t think your blood is dirty. Not at all.”

 

The words hung awkwardly over the table, met with a silence thick enough to cut. Draco’s hands curled on the edge of the bench, knuckles white, but he kept his chin up.

 

When no one spoke, Lucien sighed and leaned back, voice lilting with false sweetness. “If you lot ruin all my delicate progress, I’ll charm every single strand of your hair pink. Don’t test me.”

 

That broke the tension like a needle to a bubble.

 

“Right,” Ron muttered faintly. “Er… thanks, I guess?”

 

“Don’t do it again,” Harry said firmly, his tone flat but not unkind.

 

Hermione, however, studied Draco intently, her sharp gaze flicking between him and Lucien before she spoke. “I’ll forgive you,” she said, each word deliberate, “for Lucien. Because you’re his cousin, and he wants you in his life. But I don’t trust you, and I don’t need your validation.”

 

Blaise’s eyebrows shot up, Theo smirked openly, and Draco—

 

Draco looked… undone. His expression was caught between disbelief and awe, as if Hermione’s blunt honesty had struck deeper than the forgiveness itself.

 

Well, that was interesting.

 

“Understood,” Draco managed at last, straightening with a small breath. “Thank you.”

 

“Yeah, yeah,” Ron said quickly, waving a hand as if to brush it all aside. “Theo, can you pass the gravy?”

 

“Say please,” Theo replied dryly, smirking.

 

Lucien huffed a laugh and rolled his eyes, flicking his wrist so that the gravy boat floated neatly into Ron’s waiting hands.

 

“Thanks, mate,” Ron said through a mouthful of turkey.

 

Just like that, the table relaxed. Conversation resumed, flowing as easily as before, though now Draco’s voice joined the mix, tentative but present. Lucien let his gaze travel around the circle of friends—their laughter, their bickering, the small kindnesses disguised as banter—and warmth swelled in his chest, nearly overwhelming.

 

Dumbledore had risen to his feet, his eyes twinkling as he spread his arms wide.
“Slytherin and Ravenclaw both earned two hundred points this year,” he announced, “and Gryffindor has won four hundred—making Gryffindor the winners of the House Cup!”

 

The Great Hall erupted in cheers. Red and gold banners unfurled from the ceiling, lions roaring proudly as the Gryffindor table shook with excitement.

 

Lucien leaned toward Theo with a sly grin. “Next time, we should bring Blaise instead of Ron.”

 

“I think not,” Blaise said brightly, his voice smooth as silk—but the subtle threat in his eyes was enough to make both Lucien and Theo burst into laughter.

 

The noise hadn’t even settled before Dumbledore lifted his hands again. “And finally, I regret to inform you that Professor Lockhart will not be returning next year. He requires… some time away to recover his memory.”

 

A ripple of relieved laughter passed through the hall, and more than a few teachers were openly clapping.

 

“Well,” Lucien said cheerfully, raising his goblet in a mock toast, “couldn’t have happened to a better man.”

 

His friends snorted, Theo nearly choking on his pumpkin juice while Blaise chuckled into his sleeve.

 

“Shame,” Ron said around a mouthful of jam doughnut, “he was just starting to grow on me.”

 

“Oh, don’t even joke about that,” Lucien groaned, clutching his chest as though in mortal pain. He laughed along with the others, the sound of it mingling with the cheers and chatter until it felt like the whole hall was alive with relief, and celebration.

 

 

 

 

That night, they all gathered in their abandoned classroom hideout in the dungeons, sprawled out on old cushions and blankets they’d dragged in over the year. Candles burned low in bottles and jars, casting flickering light across the stone walls. The room felt almost like a cocoon—safe, warm, theirs.

 

They talked late into the night about the year, reliving every twist and turn, laughing in places and falling quiet in others. Eventually, the subject wound its way back to the diary.

 

“I’m sorry we didn’t notice, mate,” Harry said, his voice low.

 

Lucien shrugged, absently picking at his nails.

 

“We did notice,” Theo corrected with a roll of his eyes. Lucien raised a brow at him. “Well—obviously not that you were possessed. But we knew something was wrong.”

 

“We should have done more,” Hermione whispered, wringing her hands, guilt heavy in her voice.

 

Lucien gave a sharp eye-roll. “Done what? Tell me.”

 

When no one answered, he spread his hands. “Exactly. I didn’t want help, and I wouldn’t have allowed you to.”

 

“That doesn’t mean we shouldn’t have tried harder,” Harry said quietly, his guilt mirroring Hermione’s.

 

Lucien sighed, shoulders drooping with weariness. “You guys did so much. And I’m grateful for that—more than I can say. Don’t think you didn’t do enough, because I promise you did. I’m just… sorry I wasn’t a better friend.”

 

“None of us are blaming you,” Theo said firmly, his eyes searching Lucien’s face as though daring him to argue.

 

“No,” Luna chimed in dreamily, her head pillowed in Lucien’s lap. She turned her face into the fabric of his robes. “But you do need to stop blaming yourself.”

 

The weight in the room eased after that, the conversation drifting to lighter things. One by one, they began to nod off—Theo slouched back against the wall, Blaise using a rolled-up jumper as a pillow, Hermione curled beneath her cloak, Ron snoring softly with a half-eaten biscuit in his hand. Even Luna drifted to sleep on Lucien’s lap, her soft breaths rising and falling.

 

All except Harry. And Lucien.

 

“Thank you,” Lucien said after a while, his fingers idly combing through Luna’s pale hair. His voice was quiet, almost shy. “For saving my life.”

 

Harry shook his head stubbornly. “Don’t thank me for that. You’re my brother.”

 

Lucien smirked faintly, tilting his head. “And that suddenly makes me incapable of being thankful?”

 

“No,” Harry muttered, rolling his eyes. “Just… don’t thank me. You don’t have to.”

 

Lucien studied him for a moment, then nodded slowly, leaning his head back against the cold stone wall.

 

“Oh,” he added after a beat, lips twitching into a crooked grin. “I’m kidnapping you this summer.”

 

Harry gave a short laugh, shaking his head. “Does Remus know?” he teased.

 

“I told him,” Lucien said vaguely, which only made Harry laugh harder.

 

The sound lingered in the quiet of the dungeons, soft and real, until at last, both of them drifted off to sleep. Their friends snuggled close around them, the classroom that had become their refuge holding them one more time.

 

 

 

 

“ We’re not going to fit in here, ” Theo says in absolute horror as they all attempt to cram into the compartment.

 

Luna only laughs, unbothered. “Of course we will. We’ll just stack like books on a shelf.”

 

“Speak for yourself,” Blaise says, affronted, as George wedges himself down beside him and effectively traps him against the wall.

 

“This is cruelty,” Blaise continues dramatically, shoulders hunched. “I’m too elegant to die crushed in a train compartment.”

 

“Oh stop fussing,” George grins, sprawling an arm behind him.

 

“Theo, your elbows are bony,” Ron complains, squashed flat against the window with Theo jammed tightly beside him.

 

“It’s not like I can help it!” Theo snaps back, trying to tuck his arms in but only succeeding in elbowing Ron harder.

 

Luna, serene as always, simply plops onto the floor with her legs crossed. “See? Plenty of room down here.”

 

Harry eyes her, then nods and follows suit, stretching out on the opposite side. Hermione, Draco, Lucien, and Fred all take the other bench—though Lucien ends up half in Fred’s lap.

 

Fred, of course, doesn’t let the opportunity pass. He grins wickedly. “Well, if we’re going to be stuck together, I suppose there are worse views to have.”

 

Lucien glances out the window, entirely missing the point. “Huh. Yeah, it is actually quite nice outside.”

 

The compartment explodes with laughter.

 

Lucien blinks in confusion. “What?” he demands, eyes darting around.

 

“Nothing,” Hermione says firmly, wiping tears from her eyes, though her grin betrays her. “Absolutely nothing. Anyway—what’s everyone’s study plan for next year?”

 

“Bloody hell, ’Mione,” Ron groans, attempting to sink lower into his corner.

 

“We just left the castle, Granger,” Blaise adds, tone dry as ever. “At least give us one train ride before you pull out color-coded study charts.”

 

Hermione lifts her chin primly. “Being prepared never hurt anyone.”

 

Theo mutters, “Except my sanity.”

 

The chatter drifts into light arguments about exams, Hermione insisting preparation is essential, Ron insisting a summer of Quidditch is preparation enough, Blaise insisting he’ll do just fine without trying at all.

 

Lucien leans back—or rather, into Fred’s chest, since there’s nowhere else to go—and watches them all, the noise and laughter spilling over each other until it feels like warmth pressing against his ribs.

 

“The trolley’s taking forever,” Ron complains, stomach audibly growling.

 

“You’re such a bottomless pit, Ron,” Harry laughs—right as the sliding door rattles open.

 

“Anything off the trolley, dears?” the witch singsongs.

 

Instant chaos erupts. Limbs tangle, voices overlap, and coins clatter as everyone tries to reach over and around each other. Theo nearly elbows Blaise in the jaw, Ron nearly trips over Luna’s legs, and George ends up half sprawled across Hermione in his scramble for Pumpkin Pasties.

 

Lucien doesn’t even bother moving, tucked firmly into his corner—but apparently he doesn’t need to.

 

“Here,” Fred says cheerfully as they all resettle, offering him a neatly wrapped packet. Lucien raises a brow, then grins as he sees the starlight pips.

 

“For my favorite Black.”

 

Lucien snorts. “I’m the only Black you know.”

 

“Exactly,” Fred quips back, still grinning.

 

Lucien pops the candy into his mouth with a teasing smile, while the others start ripping open wrappers and comparing hauls.

 

Once bellies are a little fuller, someone suggests a game of Exploding Snap. It goes about as well as expected: the cards keep blowing up in their faces, there’s no room to actually spread them out, George keeps blatantly cheating, and Blaise smugly casts a Shield Charm in front of himself so the debris bounces onto everyone else.

 

“This is barbaric,” Theo coughs, brushing soot off his sleeve.

 

“Speak for yourself,” George says, tucking extra cards into his pocket.

 

“We saw that,” Hermione huffs.

 

“Prove it.”

 

The game collapses into laughter and arguments until Draco, sounding mildly desperate for sanity, asks, “What’s everyone’s summer plans?”

 

“Luce is kidnapping me,” Harry says at once, grinning as Lucien tips an invisible hat with mock gallantry.

 

“Dunno quite yet,” George shrugs.

 

“Probably work on some new prank items,” Fred adds casually.

 

Ron looks horrified. “Merlin’s beard, I’m going to spend the whole summer avoiding you two.”

 

“That’s hurtful,” George gasps, clutching his chest.

 

“That’s true,” Fred corrects, and everyone snickers.

 

“My family usually goes on holiday, but I haven’t heard anything this year,” Hermione admits, fiddling with her hands.

 

“My summer’s not going to be exciting until Lucien gets there,” Draco groans.

 

Lucien grins wickedly. “Exciting’s one word for it.”

 

“Chaos is another,” Blaise adds smoothly, smirking.

 

“Slander,” Lucien quips, tossing another pip into his mouth.

 

Everyone rolls their eyes—but the laughter bubbles up again, filling the cramped little space with warmth that has nothing to do with the summer heat outside the window.

Getting off the train was an event in itself.

 

“I swear to—Ron, if you don’t move your hand!” Hermione snapped, her voice muffled as she tried to wrestle her bag down.

 

“Oops—sorry, ’Mione—”

 

“Hey, that was my foot!”

 

Thud.

 

Someone (possibly Theo, possibly Ron) hit the floor with a groan.

 

Lucien leaned back against the seat, arms folded, watching the chaos with the serene patience of a Ravenclaw who knew better than to throw himself into the fray.

 

Fred was the last Weasley twin out. He paused in the doorway, one hand braced on the frame, eyes sparkling with mischief. “Don’t miss me too much,” he said with a wink before disappearing into the crowd.

 

Lucien blinked after him, brow furrowed, then turned to Harry with a baffled look.

 

Harry just shrugged. “Dunno, mate.”

 

Lucien rolled his eyes, but his lips twitched. He stood, stretching, then grabbed the handle of his trunk. “You ready?” he asked, grin tugging wider at the corners.

 

Harry’s face brightened. “’Course I am.”

 

And together, side by side, they hefted their trunks down the narrow corridor and stepped off the train into the crush of steam, noise, and summer air.

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 2 of Moonbound