Down at the fog-covered edge of the Black Lake, Lucifer sat in absolute silence, a distant, unreadable look in his eyes. The sky above was shifting into a deep indigo as the first stars of the evening began to pierce through the heavy clouds.

"Johnny Grindelwald, you lucky bastard," Lucifer muttered quietly to the open water, his voice carrying a bitter echo.
He looked down sadly at the thick parchment envelope that had been slipped into his hands just before the dinner bell. For some unknown, primitive reason, a bad feeling prickled at the base of his neck; the scrawled handwriting on the outside bore an eerily identical style to his own script.
Deciding to cut the wax seal, he pulled the letter out, his intuition screaming a warning a microsecond too late.
The letter had been heavily hexed, or carrying a localized dark curse. The exact moment the folds parted, a nasty, boiling greenish-yellow liquid violently spewed outward like an untamed geyser, hitting him squarely across the face. Lucifer's hands flew up instantly, his fingers clawing at his skin.
He wasn't screaming in agony, his tolerance for pain was far too high but whatever dark fluid had targeted him was intensely acidic in nature, sizzling as it ate through the surface.
Professor McGonagall was walking briskly along the outer stone corridor on her way toward the Great Hall when she caught sight of the tall Gryffindor boy stumbling near the edge of the path, his hands pressed tightly over his face.
When she saw the smoke rising from his fingers and the physical state he was in, the 'Transfiguration' professor didn't waste a single second. She rushed forward with surprising, feline speed, her tartan cloak billowing as she grabbed his wrist and immediately steered him straight toward the Hospital Wing.
The heavy doors banged open, and Madam Pomfrey came marching out of her office. The Matron wasn't particularly surprised to see the unruly Lucifer Morningstar inside her ward again, but the exact second she took in the raw, sizzling reason for his arrival, her jaw tightened in shock.
She immediately took over the emergency treatment, waving her wand to summon a series of restorative cloths while dismissing the Head of House.
"Go back to the Great Hall, Minerva. I have the boy under control. What on earth happened to him?"
xxxxxx
Before, in Gryffindor Common Room
It was nearly midnight when Harry finally returned through the portrait hole, his shoulders slumping under his robes. Lucifer had yet to return to the tower at all. Harry slowly tramped over to where Ron and Hermione were waiting by the hearth, his right hand tightly wrapped in a thick wool scarf. The sight of his haggard face was completely pitiful.
"Here," Hermione said anxiously, her voice cracking as she pushed a small earthenware bowl filled with a shimmering yellow liquid straight toward him. "I believe I brewed it entirely correctly. Lucifer would know the exact chemical properties for sure, but... I can't exactly ask him for assistance without him becoming intensely suspicious and asking why we need a restorative... maybe he won't notice---" She stopped herself, her jaw tightening as she shook her head. "Never mind... just soak your hand directly into that bowl. It's a highly concentrated solution of strained and pickled Murtlap tentacles. It should help soothe the inflammation immediately."
Harry carefully unwrapped the scarf, exposing the raw words carved into his flesh, and placed his aching, bleeding hand into the yellow liquid. A long, ragged sigh of pure physical relief immediately escaped his lips.
From the corner of the rug, Crookshanks padded over, his bandy legs brushing against Harry's ankles for a brief second before the ginger cat hopped gracefully onto his lap, curling into a soft fluff ball.
"Thanks, Hermione..." Harry whispered, his eyes closing as the 'Murtlap' essence began to numb the sting.
"I still think you're being a total fool. You should complain about this to the staff," Ron said in a low, furious voice, his fists clenching within his pockets.
"No," Harry said flatly, his green eyes opening to stare into the fire.
"McGonagall would go absolutely nuts if she knew what that woman was forcing you to write---" Ron started.
"Yeah, she probably would," Harry cut him off, his voice dropping into a bitter register. "And how long do you honestly reckon it'd take Fudge to pass another Educational Decree saying anyone who complains about the High Inquisitor gets sacked from the castle immediately?"
"I doubt the Ministry would go that—" Hermione started, but she cut herself off mid-sentence the moment her mind drifted to the cold reality of Makima's warnings and the shifting landscape of the school. Her voice dropped into a small, fragile whisper. "She's an awful woman... absolutely awful. You know, I was just saying to Ron before you came back through the portrait... we've got to do something about her presence here."
"I personally suggested a heavy dose of poison," Ron said grimly, his face dark.
"Lucifer would completely agree with you on that methodology," Harry muttered with a weak, tired smirk.
"No, I mean something legitimate about what a dreadful, useless teacher she is, and how we're not going to learn a single piece of actual Defense from her textbook recitation," Hermione said in a breathy, frantic tone, hesitating briefly as she checked the empty shadows of the room.
"Well, what can we realistically do about that?" Ron asked, stifling a massive yawn as he rubbed his eyes. "It's far too late, isn't it? She's officially got the High Inquisitor job, she's here to stay, and Fudge will ensure the entire Ministry backs her decisions."
"Well..." She started tentatively, her eyes widening with a sudden, brilliant spark of rebellion. She shot a nervous, rapid look over her shoulder at Harry and then at the dark opening of the portrait hole, as if she genuinely expected Lucifer to just appear through the stone wall right then. "I was thinking today... I was thinking, maybe the time has officially come where we should just... just do it ourselves."
"Do what ourselves, Hermione?" Harry asked suspiciously, shifting his numbed hand in the bowl.
"Well, learn proper, practical 'Defense Against the Dark Arts' ourselves," she said, her voice dropping into a tone that suggested the conclusion was incredibly, glaringly obvious to anyone with a brain.
"Come off it," Ron groaned, his head hitting the back of the armchair. "You want us to take on extra school work? Do you realize Harry and I are already miles behind on our assignments again, and it's only the second week of the term?"
"Harry wouldn't be behind on his essays if he didn't spend every single evening trapped inside her office," Hermione said, pulling absolutely no punches as she glared at the ginger boy. "Besides, this is a hell of a lot more important than common homework, Ron."
Her two friends goggled at her in total astonishment. "I didn't think there was a single thing in the universe more important to you than homework?" Ron asked, blinking.
"Oh, don't be silly, of course there is," Hermione said sharply. Her mind instantly drifted to the private image of Lucifer's powerful stance in the face of the Ministry. She would happily give up homework for the rest of her mortal life if that was the only viable way to stay safely by his side. "It's about preparing ourselves, exactly like Harry said during Umbridge's very first lesson, for what is actively waiting out there in the dark. Lucifer said it too—the classroom is supposed to prepare us for the real world, and it has so far failed dismally to do so. It's time for us students to take that responsibility into our own hands. If we lose a whole year of real Defense learning, and spend it on daydreaming and reading books..."
"Well, we can't exactly do much by ourselves..." Ron said in a defeated, low tone, staring at the embers. "I mean, alright, we can go and look up basic jinxes in the library and try and practice them in an empty corner, I suppose—"
"No, I agree with Ron on that part. With practical spells, we've gone far past the stage where we can learn things solely from text pages," Hermione said, feeling a sudden, scandalous thrill as she openly ridiculed her own private sense of pastime relief. "We need a real teacher. Or two. Proper ones, who can actually show us how to execute the spells and correct our wand movements if we're going about them entirely wrong."
"If you're talking about trying to bring Lupin and Moody into the castle..." Harry began, his brow furrowing.
"No, no, I'm absolutely not talking about them," She said quickly, waving her hand. "They are far too busy with the Order's movements, and even then, we'd only be able to see them on Hogsmeade weekends. That's not nearly... often enough for proper combat training. We would have to meet weekly."
"Who, then?" Harry asked her, a deep frown carving into his features.
"I thought it was completely obvious, Harry," Hermione said, a brilliant, proud smile playing on her lips as she leaned forward. "I'm talking about you and Lucifer."
The words hung in the air. A dense, heavy silence descended upon the hearth, the sharp, rhythmic rattling of the windowpane against the autumn wind the only sound left in the room.
"About me and Lucifer... what exactly?" Harry asked, blinking behind his spectacles.
"I'm talking about both of you teaching the rest of us Defense Against the Dark Arts," She said clearly, her eyes shining with excitement to see her boyfriend back going in his tutor mode, and give her extra credit.
Harry looked from her face over to Ron, expecting his best friend to laugh at the absurdity of the suggestion.
Hermione turned her gaze to the red-head as well. Ron was frowning deeply, his fingers tracing his jawline as he fell into deep thought. After a long beat, he raised his head, his eyes widening. "That's an idea. And a brilliant one."
"What on earth is a brilliant idea?!" Harry asked, looking between them in disbelief.
"You and Lucifer, teaching the rest of us how to fight!" Ron said, his mood instantly lifting.
"But..." Harry stammered, a sudden, self-deprecating grin breaking through his exhaustion, though he still couldn't accept the weight of their words. "But I'm not a qualified teacher, Ron. I can't—"
"Harry, you are literally second in our year for 'Defense Against the Dark Arts,' only behind Lucifer," Hermione pointed out efficiently. "Even if it is by a wide, margin, you are still the second-best in the class. You and him together can easily teach us what we need to know."
"No, Hermione, you've beaten me on every single theoretical exam for Defense since our first year..." Harry protested, his defiance flaring up.
"Actually, no... I got third best during our Third Year, which was the only year we both actually sat through the class while having a good, competent teacher who was worth a damn," Hermione corrected with absolute, precision. "But I'm not talking about dry test results on parchment, Harry. Look at what you've physically accomplished over the years!"
"What do you mean?" He asked her, his brow furrowing.
"You know what? I'm honestly not sure I want someone this dense to teach me," Ron said, grinning broadly as he nudged Harry's shoulder. "Maybe we should just have Lucifer run the whole thing?" He then turned back to face Harry, counting on his fingers. "Let's think, uh... First Year, you saved the Philosopher's Stone from You-Know-Who himself."
"But that was pure luck, Ron! That wasn't skill!" Harry defended himself, his voice rising. "And Lucifer literally took down an entire adult Manticore with wandless, non-verbal magic at the age of twelve! If he wasn't there in the chambers, Hermione and I would have been dead on the floor boards in that room."
"Second Year, you saved my sister in the Chamber," Ron countered.
"Lucifer killed the Basilisk, though!" Harry insisted, his hands shaking. "I destroyed the diary with the fang, but if Fawkes hadn't shown up to destroy the—"
"Third Year," Hermione interrupted smoothly, her voice a calm anchor. "Well, it was Lucifer who fended off the hundred Dementors by the shore, or rather, his Patronus literally ate them off the sky entirely. But last year, Harry, you survived the entire Triwizard Tournament and fought off 'You-Know-Who' again in a graveya---"
"Listen to me!" Harry said angrily, his voice sharp as he saw both Ron and Hermione smirking at his modesty. "Just listen to me for a second, alright?! It sounds absolutely great when you put all the stories that way... but anything that involved just me was all luck! I didn't know what I was doing half the time, I didn't plan a single shred of it, I just did whatever I could think of in a panic, and I had help nearly in all of those instances—"
Harry abruptly stopped talking, the words dying in his throat as the heavy stone portrait hole violently swung open with a sharp rattle.
Hermione's eyes went wide with panic. She quickly reached out, shoving the earthenware bowl of Murtlap liquid beneath the edge of her armchair, while Harry yanked his scarf back over his right hand to hide the scar from sight. But they were completely unprepared for the stern, tartan-clad figure of Professor McGonagall to step straight into the Common Room.
"Miss Granger, come with me immediately. It is urgent!" Professor McGonagall said, her hurried voice cracking with a rare, visible anxiety.
Hermione swallowed hard, a cold knot of terror tightening in her stomach as she stood up. "Professor... is everything okay?"
But instead of offering an answer to the bushy-haired girl, she simply turned on her heel and began marching rapidly away from the Gryffindor Tower, her leather boots snapping against the flagstones.
Hermione hurried after her, her heart rate increasing exponentially with every single flight of stairs they descended. As they cleared the third floor, she realized with a sickening dread that they were heading straight toward the Hospital Wing. 'Please let it not be him,' she prayed frantically inside her mind, her fingers digging into her palms. 'Please, God, not him.'
They burst through the heavy double doors of the medical ward. The moment Madam Pomfrey caught sight of her, the Matron turned her face toward the bed. "Someone cursed a delivery letter with an acidic hex... who on earth did you manage to anger so thoroughly, Lucifer?"
She asked in a tight, professional growl as she proceeded to carefully lift his hands away from his face to assess the total scope of the damage.
Hermione let out a sharp, choked gasp, her vision blurring. The sight before her was absolutely horrific. The skin across the lower half of his face had been violently burned away, the acid corroding right through his flesh until it started into his red-colored, demonic facial muscles beneath.... a terrifying anatomy that Madam Pomfrey was unknowingly assuming was simply 'deeply charred,' third-degree tissue.
An intense wave of physical revulsion and panic hit Hermione's stomach. She turned on her heel, ran straight over to a metal trash can in the corner, and violently emptied her stomach contents into it, her throat burning as nothing but pure stomach acid came up.
Afterward, wiping her mouth with a trembling hand, she forced herself to walk slowly back to his bedside, keeping her eyes cast downward, completely unable to look at the wound until Pomfrey fixed him up.
She felt a deep, sickening wave of shame for not being able to control her own physical reaction, but her teenage mind simply wasn't built to handle seeing the boy she loved suffer such a graphic mutation. Lucifer was her angel, her boyfriend, and seeing his perfect features reduced to smoking, raw flesh made her entire world tilt on its axis.
"I can't seem to manually heal this specific facial tissue with standard spells; the dark hex is blocking the counter-magic," Madam Pomfrey said, her brow furrowing as she checked diagnostic lines. "But... your own internal baseline powers are already working to reconstruct the cells. You'll look completely good as new by tomorrow morning, Lucifer. But I'm afraid you will have to stay here overnight for monitoring." With a crisp nod, she walked back into her private office to fetch a clean sedative.
Left completely alone in the dim ward, Hermione cautiously lifted her head, her amber eyes swimming with a fresh wave of tears as she looked at his silhouette. The skin was already knitting together with an impossible, bubbling speed, beginning to hide the red muscle beneath. "Lucifer... I am so, so incredibly sorry this happened to you," She whispered, her voice breaking.
He didn't offer a single answer. His head was hung low over his chest, his broad shoulders beginning to violently shake in the dim light.
"Lucifer?" Hermione rose from her wooden seat, her heart shattering at the sudden display of vulnerability. She walked over to the edge of the mattress, sitting down directly beside him on the sheets. She caught a sudden movement out of the corner of her eye, hearing a soft 'thud' as something hit the stone floorboards. It was a heavy, dark teardrop. 'He's crying...' she realized, a profound, aching pain ripping through her chest at the sight. Lucifer, the strongest entity to ever walk the earth after God, was sitting in a hospital bed, weeping in total silence.
She desperately wanted to understand his pain, her mind racing to comprehend why exactly a single cursed letter had driven him into such an agonizing, vulnerable state of despair. She wanted to ask him about the writing style, about his hidden past, but she knew with absolute, strict finality that she couldn't press him without the possibility of triggering a dangerous repercussion.
Hermione carefully placed her small palm flat against his upper shoulder, keeping her touch light to ensure he would allow the physical contact. When his heavy frame didn't flinch away from her hand, she shifted closer, wrapping her arm securely around his broad shoulders.
Lucifer's long fingers gripped the white edges of the mattress like a vice, and a series of barely audible, choked sounds of pure agony escaped his lips as he leaned into her weight.
She sat there in total silence with him for a long, heavy hour, simply holding him against her chest while his breathing slowly leveled out. Then, remembering that he had skipped the evening meal entirely to go down to the lake, she whispered softly, asking if he was hungry.
Lucifer merely shook his head 'no,' his jaw set. When she asked if he was completely sure, he gave a single, tight nod against her shoulder.
When he was finally too exhausted to stay up any longer, his energy depleted by the healing process, he laid back against the pillows, his dark eyes staring blankly up at the stone ceiling. Hermione shifted her position, sliding off the chair to climb straight into the hospital bed alongside him.
She pulled the white sheets over them, wrapping her arm across his chest because she wanted him to know, with absolute certainty, that she was still right there beside him without him having to crane his neck to see her face. Holding him tightly in the quiet dark of the medical ward, she let her eyes close, falling into a deep, protective sleep not long after.
xxxxxx
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