The next morning, the Great Hall's enchanted ceiling was blanketed in lead-gray clouds.
An army of owls blotted out the magical sky; parcels and letters rained down like hail.
At the Slytherin table, Draco Malfoy caught an envelope dropped by a majestic eagle owl. The Malfoy family crest gleamed in the wax seal.
Draco tore it open eagerly. He'd half-hoped for comfort from his father—some promise of revenge for the humiliation on the train—but the familiar elegant script carried an unprecedented gravity.
Draco,
The family is reassessing the risk posed by the Ashford boy. Until we have complete clarity on his background, rein in your arrogance. Observe. Do not act rashly.
Also, confirm the rumor: is his magical nature truly as… anomalous… as the reports claim?
Lucius
Draco instinctively turned his head. His gaze cut through the noisy crowd and settled on the far end of the Ravenclaw table.
Lucian Ashford sat sipping unsweetened black coffee while calmly turning the pages of a tome thick as a brick. He seemed utterly oblivious to the flying feathers and morning clamor—as though the entire Hogwarts dawn had nothing to do with him.
…
Hundreds of miles away, Wiltshire, Malfoy Manor.
In the opulent yet frigid drawing room, heavy velvet curtains blocked every trace of daylight. Firelight danced in the hearth, throwing restless shadows across Lucius Malfoy's pale, anxious face. Opposite him sat Theodore Nott Sr. and several other pure-blood patriarchs. The air smelled of aged brandy and old secrets.
"A confirmed Obscurial who not only survived the magical backlash but emerged with precision control rivaling an adult wizard." Lucius's fingers caressed the silver snake-head of his cane. "And in certain theoretical areas, he's managed to humiliate even the Ministry's crustiest scholars. This is not normal."
"Perhaps old Cassius left behind some sleight-of-hand?" Nott swirled his glass, speculating.
"Magical history contains no record of an Obscurial ever recovering—especially not after undergoing that kind of ritual. That's precisely what makes it so unsettling." Lucius felt an inexplicable chill. He narrowed his eyes at the dossier on the New World Ashford branch lying on the table. "Ashford… If something unknown has truly sprouted in this long-rotted swamp, we need to know whether its venom is lethal—or whether we can bottle it for ourselves."
"Keep digging," Lucius said, tossing the parchment into the fire. Flames devoured the words in an instant. "If it is a threat…"
The heavy oak door burst open before he could finish.
A black-robed figure swept in, hood low, trailing a body bound by invisible cords that floated behind him.
Augustus Travers.
Lucius focused. The levitating figure was half-conscious, eyes vacant and glassy, limbs twitching unnaturally—clearly fresh from Cruciatus. On one finger, a ring bearing the burning white ash tree sigil caught the firelight and gleamed accusingly.
Cassius Ashford.
Lucius shot to his feet. His cane struck the floor with a crack. "Travers, have you lost your mind? What the hell are you doing?!"
Travers threw back his hood, revealing a cold, predatory smile. "Still playing guessing games, Lucius? The real article is right here. If you want answers, just pry open his skull and ask."
He released the Levitation Charm. Cassius crashed onto the carpet, gasping like a dying fish, body convulsing from residual agony.
"Have you forgotten the people on the Mayflower?" Lucius's voice cracked with strain. "Do you really want to provoke that pack of Puritan lunatics across the ocean—the ones who gnaw on communion wafers and cabbage for immortality, who'll stop at nothing?"
Travers sneered. "How long has it been since any of them crossed the Atlantic? They're corpses."
"But now the boy is alive!" Lucius swallowed hard, face ashen. "The Ashford bloodline has continued. Those madmen will come back… They'll come back for that 'miracle'."
…
Hogwarts, the dungeons.
Potions class. The air was thick with sulfur and rotting vegetation.
When the black-robed man swept into the room like a giant vampire bat, the temperature plummeted.
"Potter! What is the difference between monkshood and wolfsbane?"
Harry stared blankly. Hermione's hand shot up desperately. Snape's gaze slid right past them and locked onto the back corner, where Lucian was bent over his notebook, quill flying.
"Ashford." Snape's voice was oily and dangerous. "It seems you find my questions too elementary to warrant wasting your precious time?"
Lucian's quill paused. He looked up, expression unruffled. "I was recording your question, Professor."
Snape glided silently behind him, robes billowing. He peered down at the notebook:
Botanical classification identical (both Ranunculaceae), but in potion properties: former emphasizes neural paralysis, latter emphasizes cell-wall rupture. Textbook definition on p. 32 is vague and requires correction.
Snape stared at the neat lines. Finally he said, very coldly, "Sit. Five points from Gryffindor for your cheek."
The day's task was brewing an anti-itch potion.
Soon the dungeon rang with chopping sounds. Lucian regarded the silver knife before him. Physical cutting? It would irreversibly damage the horned slug's glandular structure, causing massive loss of active compounds.
He levitated a horned slug with his wand and murmured silently:
"Separate."
His magic transformed into a high-frequency micro-vibration.
The next instant, perfectly pure, impurity-free mucus detached cleanly from the gland and dripped into the cauldron.
Heating phase. Lucian watched his pocket watch, left hand hovering beside the cauldron. A thin thread of magic locked the temperature at a precise 85°C constant water-bath state.
The book called for four stirs.
Lucian stirred two and a half times—then his wrist stopped dead.
In his mental model, the solute had already reached saturation critical point. Any further stirring would only introduce unnecessary oxygen, oxidizing the solution and ruining it.
"Idiot!"
A scream shattered the dungeon's hush. Neville's cauldron exploded; thick green smoke billowed upward.
Amid the chaos and wails, Lucian looked at the vial in his hand.
In the dim candlelight, the potion glowed with a color no textbook would dare describe: perfect, luminous azure—like liquid dawn sky.
After dealing with Neville's disaster, Snape took the vial. He stared at the immaculate liquid; his expression darkened, complicated. For a moment he remembered Lily's eyes…
"Your procedure deviates completely from Magical Drafts and Potions… Ashford." Snape met his gaze. "You stirred one and a half turns too few."
"Additional stirring would cause oxidation, Professor." Lucian's tone remained level. "Moreover, high-frequency vibrational separation increases active-compound purity by approximately thirty percent compared to physical cutting."
"Five points to Ravenclaw." Snape turned, robes snapping. "For once we have someone in this class who brought a brain. But for your arrogance and refusal to follow instructions—two points deducted."
Lucian sat down. In his notebook, under the "Potions" heading, he placed a neat checkmark and added a brief evaluation:
Crude chemical apparatus, primitive operational process. Instructor possesses exceptionally high discernment and acuity. Tremendous room for optimization in this discipline.