In one quiet corner of a vast manor, hidden behind heavy ivy-covered stone and silent hallways, sat a grand study. It was a spacious, elegant room that smelled faintly of leather and parchment, and seemed to hum with centuries-old secrets.
The entrance was flanked by two carved oak doors, polished to a soft sheen. Intricate vines and ancient symbols were etched deep into the wood, and each time the doors were opened, it felt less like stepping into a room and more like uncovering a piece of forgotten history.
Upon entering, the first thing that caught the eye was the towering ceiling. Above, a mural spread across the dome, depicting Athena, the Greek goddess of wisdom, rendered in fine, meticulous brushstrokes. She held an olive branch in one hand, her gaze thoughtful and wise.
Truth be told, Ino had been quite startled when he first discovered this mural. A depiction of a Greek goddess in the ancestral home of the Lestrange family? It made no sense. And that was just the beginning of the oddities.
The first time he entered this study, the mural hadn't looked like this at all. Back then, Athena's face had been generic, almost bland. Yet, the very instant Ino had stepped inside, he had a fleeting thought - This isn't Athena.
And just like that, the image shifted. The goddess in the painting had transformed into the Athena he remembered from the ancient temple ruins he'd once explored - barefoot, fierce, beautiful, and undeniably divine. Her features had come alive, as though she were merely pretending to be a painting.
Of course, Ino had only chuckled at the incident.
Because, well… he had caused it.
The moment his mind questioned the image, reality had adjusted. The mural had simply followed his will.
A neat trick, if mildly unsettling.
But that bizarre episode was merely a passing moment in his life. Today, he had more pressing matters to attend to.
At the center of the study stood a massive oak desk, broad enough to serve as a battlefield for books, blueprints, and magical components. Its polished surface gleamed under the warm light of a peculiar object placed right in the middle - a miniature lighthouse, just two feet tall.
The tiny structure was charmingly old-fashioned, and the glass lens at the top emitted a soft, amber glow, like a distant star keeping watch.
"It's a magical lamp at its core," muttered Old Bance, peering at the lighthouse with narrowed eyes. "But something about it gives me the creeps."
"That's exactly why I wanted to improve it," Ino replied, grateful he'd roped the right man into the job. Say what you will about Bance's frayed robes and dusty spectacles, the man was second only to Flamel himself in alchemical skill.
"You knew it had issues?" Bance blinked at him, squinting like someone who had just spotted a pixie in their soup.
"I did." Ino nodded. "There's something about its structure that's… well, not unlike Dark Magic."
The unsettling truth was, whether you were a Muggle, a wizard, or somewhere in between, one thing remained the same - knowledge changes perception.
People didn't always notice it, but their thoughts and feelings could be subtly shaped by what they saw and learned. Sometimes the effect was minor, like picking up a habit. Other times, it went deep - so deep that it started reshaping your values without you realizing it.
Ino had spent the last two months in Loughton, studying magical engineering alongside Alice. And somewhere in the gears and circuits, he'd noticed it. The mechanical knowledge they were dealing with carried a trace of something else. Something invasive.
It wasn't exactly Dark Magic, but it behaved like it wanted to be.
Still, the effect seemed manageable, for now. And that was why he dared to bring it up with Bance in the first place. Compared to a cursed grandfather clock or a possessed chandelier, this was mild.
Fifteen minutes passed.
"So, what, you want to dampen these effects?" Bance finally asked, now sitting with both arms folded and one brow raised.
"Exactly. Otherwise, I'd rather seal this knowledge away," Ino said plainly.
Sure, fusing magic with machinery had potential. Tremendous potential, in fact. But if it came at the cost of twisting people's minds… then what was the point? They'd only be creating a new breed of dark wizards, ones with screwdrivers instead of wands.
It sounded a bit dramatic, but Ino knew better than to dismiss the possibility. Magic had a habit of proving pessimists right.
Bance went silent again, deep in thought. The kind of silence that meant he was seriously considering hexing the lighthouse just to see what happened.
Soon, the room was filled once more with the murmur of thoughtful discussion.
The Lestrange ancestral manor certainly lived up to its reputation.
Towering shelves lined the walls of the study, each one crammed with books bound in leather, dragonskin, or occasionally something that looked suspiciously like basilisk hide. Ornate brass handles gleamed under flickering torchlight. Between the shelves, carefully placed antiques lent a touch of grandeur, a porcelain vase here, an ancient star chart there, and a few statues that probably whispered to each other when no one was looking.
Time ticked by, slow but steady.
Eventually, the first rays of dawn crept through the tall windows, brushing the room in gold.
"Well," Bance sighed, stifling a yawn, "I suppose we'll have to start small. Maybe just introduce the basics."
He looked utterly drained. Not from lack of effort, but from the sheer weight of ideas they hadn't been able to solve.
"That's fine. No need to rush." Ino gave him a small smile, trying to lift the man's mood.
He had expected as much. You couldn't reinvent a whole field of knowledge overnight, not without a miracle or an army of caffeinated goblins.
Bance nodded wearily, then brightened a bit. "But the lighthouse itself works beautifully. My advice? We should use it to produce affordable magical lights."
Ino's eyes lit up. "Now that I like. I've had it with candles."
He wasn't exaggerating either. Candles were charming until they dripped wax on your notes or caught your sleeve on fire.
While magical lamps did exist, they were absurdly expensive, the sort of thing that only Ministry officials or eccentric millionaires could afford. Most places, including Hogwarts—still relied on flaming torches and hovering candle clusters. Not for tradition. Just for budget.
And so, a week drifted by in a blur.
It was now December 25th—Christmas Day.
Ino and Bance had stuck to a strict routine over the past week, brainstorming day and night. Their efforts paid off. The prototype for a new type of magical lamp was complete, and the cost was surprisingly low, just under three Sickles.
This time, Ino wasn't planning to outsource the work. He had a valley full of idle magical constructs that could use the exercise.
That morning, in the heart of Hogsmeade, something peculiar happened.
From the moment the sun rose, snow began to fall. Not chaotically, but gently, deliberately, like the snowfall itself had read the weather report and decided to behave. Each flake was the same size, and they all floated down like they were in no rush at all.
Soon, the village was blanketed in flawless white. It was the sort of snow you only saw in postcards or enchanted snow globes.
Hogsmeade was quiet, serene, and glowing with a strange kind of magic, one not found in any wand. Rooftops, trees, and cobbled streets wore thick snowy coats. Even the ancient stone walls looked festive. The very air carried the scent of roasted turkey and sugary confections, as though the holiday spirit had decided to put itself into perfume form.
Inside the manor's great hall, Ino stood dressed in a crisp new set of robes, eyeing the enchanted furniture like a general before an inspection.
"Alright, listen up. The guests arriving soon are non-magical. I expect everyone to behave. No floating teacups, no dancing chairs, and definitely no sass from the sofa. Or else it's back to the broom closet for the lot of you."
At once, a chorus of chirpy responses echoed through the room.
Tables, chairs, teapots, candelabras, and yes, even the armchair by the fireplace, all gave solemn magical oaths to behave themselves.
Ino exhaled, satisfied.
His furniture might be a bit eccentric, they had, after all, accidentally gained sentience during a rogue enchantment - but they were reliable. Mischievous at times, sure, but reliable.
And to Ino, any creature with life, no matter how odd, deserved respect.