Inside the infirmary,
The familiar scent of healing potions and fresh linen hung in the air.
Perhaps because Hermione and Ron had already visited and showered Harry with well-wishes and probably a few too many Chocolate Frog cards, Madam Pomfrey finally relented.
"Five minutes, no more," she said sternly, adjusting her white cap. "The patient still needs rest."
"No problem. Thank you, Madam Pomfrey."
Lucien stepped inside. The long room was quiet now; the minor casualties from the Quidditch final—broken arms, sprained ankles, the usual flying mishaps—had been mended and sent back to their dormitories.
Only Harry remained, propped up against pillows, looking pale but alert.
Seeing Lucien, Harry managed a small wave, careful not to speak too loudly under Madam Pomfrey's watchful eye.
"Ron said you wanted to talk to me?"
Lucien approached the bed and pulled a Chocolate Frog from his pocket, sliding it across the coverlet.
"Thanks," Harry said, accepting it but not opening it right away.
He hesitated, fingers tracing the foil wrapper, then spoke in a low rush. "Headmaster Dumbledore and I talked a lot earlier. The Philosopher's Stone has been destroyed, and Nicolas Flamel and his wife… they'll eventually pass away. He said death is just another great adventure…"
Lucien listened without interrupting, though inwardly he remained skeptical.
The Stone Dumbledore had shown the world was no longer complete; it could no longer brew the Elixir of Life. Announcing its destruction was clever—a clean way to deter anyone still hunting Flamel.
If one Stone could be made in the first place, why not a second? Perhaps the old alchemist was simply seizing the chance to fade quietly from history.
"The Headmaster said The Dark Lord isn't really dead," Harry continued, voice dropping further. "That he's still out there, hiding, waiting for his moment…"
He swallowed hard. "My father… my mother… they were both… because of Voldemort…"
"So it turns o... out I survived because of my m-mother's love…"
Harry's voice grew softer and softer, eventually choking with emotion. The truth Dumbledore had shared had hit him like a Bludger.
At first there had been too much to process, but now, lying here with time to think, the weight of it settled deeper. Harry had no memories of his parents—only the cold cupboard under the stairs at Privet Drive, the constant sense of being an unwanted burden.
Then he'd entered the magical world and suddenly everyone knew his name, admired him, cheered for him. It had felt strange, exhilarating even. But now he understood: this fame had been bought with his parents' lives.
"Lucien, I… I think Dumbledore wants me to be brave enough to face Voldemort, but… but…"
Harry lowered his head, fists clenching the bedsheet. He remembered that night in the underground chambers—how helpless he'd felt against Quirrell, against the Dark Lord himself.
Lucien, meanwhile, had stood calm and composed, weaving impossible Transfigurations, commanding dragonfire, turning the tide with effortless precision. Harry had been the only witness; he knew exactly who had truly stopped the plot and held Voldemort at bay.
"I want to become stronger," Harry said suddenly, looking up with fierce determination. "I want to learn more magic. I… I want to have the power to face Lord Voldemort!"
Lucien smiled—a rare, genuine one, deeply gratified. The words of comfort he'd mentally prepared were unnecessary now. Personal realization always cut deeper than any advice.
"Mm. There's plenty of knowledge out there, Harry. You already have courage. Next comes continuous learning and accumulation."
He leaned forward slightly, voice measured but enthusiastic. "Next term, we can officially begin tutoring in Defense Against the Dark Arts and practical combat. Although young wizards can't use magic outside school, the summer holiday shouldn't be wasted. When the time comes, we'll first go to Diagon Alley to buy some preview materials…...."
As Lucien's "grand" plan unfolded—complete with diagnostic tests, structured reading lists, and drills—Harry's expression stiffened.
He was thrilled about the combat training, but the detailed summer study schedule made his heart sink.
"I have some things to take care of during the holidays," Lucien added smoothly, "so I probably won't be able to check on your progress often. We'll just do a diagnostic test when school starts…"
Harry thought of the bold words he'd just spoken and could only grit his teeth. His summer holiday was clearly going to be very… full.
After a pause, Harry remembered something else.
"Lucien, um, about my family… my aunt and uncle really don't like me having anything to do with magic. So when the time comes, I…"
Lucien waved a hand dismissively. "It's no trouble. I'll go to your house first during the summer holiday and explain everything."
He paused, then added with casual curiosity, "Education should be a top priority for every family. By the way, what's the name of the company your uncle works for?"
…
A few days later, the Great Hall was packed, buzzing with the same electric energy as the start-of-term feast.
Students chattered about summer plans or speculated on the House Cup winner.
Green and silver decorations draped every surface, and behind the high table hung a massive banner emblazoned with a proud serpent.
Slytherin.
The Slytherin table had already erupted in triumphant cheers. This was their seventh consecutive House Cup victory—a historic streak—and the little snakes were reveling in it.
"Wow, this is exciting. Ever since I started school, Slytherin has won the House Cup every year."
"Yes, this honor definitely belongs to us!"
"The Lions really can't compete. Without Harry, they even had to give up their Quidditch championship."
"Speaking of that, thank goodness for Quidditch. It was the points from the Quidditch Cup that let us overtake Ravenclaw. The Eagles were really fierce this term."
"That's right. Even so, we're only slightly ahead of Ravenclaw. I heard they had a first-year who earned a lot of points because of…..."
Lucien sat at the Ravenclaw table, unruffled.
The House Cup was a collective honor, little more than a symbolic trophy for an individual. Most of his housemates seemed equally calm—no resentment, no bitterness at coming so close.
From what he'd observed over the year, Ravenclaw was perhaps the least "united" of the four Houses.
The little eagles prized knowledge and wisdom above all; most were content pursuing their own paths of discovery rather than rallying for group glory. The eagle emblem suited them perfectly—solitary hunters soaring alone, not huddled flocks seeking warmth.
Clink!
A clear chime rang out as Dumbledore set down his spoon and goblet. His voice, warm and resonant, carried effortlessly through the hall.
"Another year has passed!"
"Before you enjoy this feast, please indulge an old man's ramblings..…"
________
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