When Professor Sprout announced that the Mandrake juice Lucien had provided was usable, a visible wave of relief swept through the room.
Filch, who had been coiled tight as a spring for days, finally let his shoulders slump. He leaned heavily against the cold stone wall of the hospital wing, as though every ounce of strength had drained from his lanky frame in a single breath. His usually sallow face softened, the deep lines around his eyes easing for the first time since Mrs. Norris had been found petrified.
He turned his gaze toward Lucien with raw, unguarded gratitude.
Filch could not wield a wand, nor did he possess any real knowledge of Herbology or Potions, but he understood one simple truth: without Lucien's unexpected help, his beloved cat might not have survived until the school's own Mandrakes matured.
The thought of waiting weeks—perhaps months—had haunted him with a fear far deeper than most would ever guess. Mrs. Norris was more than a pet; she was his only constant companion in a castle that had never truly welcomed him.
Noticing the caretaker's intense stare, Lucien offered a small, genuine smile and gave a respectful nod.
He had acted on impulse. Since he already had mature Mandrakes on hand, why not use them to save a life? Well… to save a cat, at least.
Besides, resolving this quickly might disrupt certain people's carefully laid plans. His eyes flicked briefly toward the cluster of professors. Right, Lockhart? And you too, Tom?
Among the staff, Gilderoy Lockhart stood out even in stillness. His usual dazzling smile had faltered slightly, replaced by a flicker of surprise that someone had produced a solution so swiftly.
Beneath that polished exterior, Lucien caught a shadow of disappointment—the anticipated atmosphere of crisis and panic had failed to materialize. The man clearly thrived on drama, on being the center of attention in a story he could later recount with exaggerated flair.
Lucien's mind drifted back to what he had secretly observed in Lockhart's office days earlier. The conversations between the vain professor and the sentient diary had been revealing.
Tom had been careful, promising only petrifications, never death. After all, Lockhart lacked both the stomach and the nerve for actual murder. His goal was simpler: engineer a manageable crisis, generate sensational headlines, then depart Hogwarts in a blaze of glory, his reputation shinier than ever.
As for the fragment of Voldemort's soul trapped in the diary, its only desire was to siphon enough life force to regain a body. It would not risk terrifying its reluctant ally into abandoning the scheme altogether.
Still, accidents happened. Better to stay cautious and prepare for any deviation.
Seeing Lucien's calm smile, Filch's gratitude deepened further. If the corridor hadn't been crowded with professors, students, and curious onlookers, the caretaker might have fallen to his knees in thanks.
In that moment, he silently vowed that if Lucien ever bent a rule—even slightly—he would look the other way.
Over the past year, the boy had proven himself a model student: diligent, rule-abiding, and strangely mature for his age. Not once had Filch needed to reprimand him.
With the fresh Mandrake juice secured, the focus shifted to brewing the restorative potion. When Dumbledore turned to Snape and inquired how long the antidote would take, the Potions Master drawled, "The Mandrake juice is of sufficient quality. Two days at most."
Without further ceremony, Snape collected the heavy jar. As he passed Lucien on his way out, he paused just long enough to speak in a low, quiet voice that only the boy could hear.
"Come to my office. I have something to discuss."
The Potions Professor's office was as dimly lit and austerely organized as ever, the air thick with the mingled scents of dried herbs, simmering cauldrons, and something faintly metallic.
Lucien rolled up his sleeves and assisted with processing the remaining ingredients, the rhythmic sounds of chopping and grinding filling the space. While they worked, conversation flowed naturally.
"Professor, I have a question," Lucien began. "Since the school's Mandrakes aren't mature yet, why not simply purchase them from elsewhere? Is Hogwarts truly the only place that grows them?"
He was genuinely curious. From everything he remembered, the petrified victims had remained unconscious until nearly the end of the school year. Relying solely on the castle's slow-growing crop seemed like an unnecessary vulnerability.
Snape gave him a strange, almost pitying look, one dark eyebrow arching.
"You don't think Mandrakes are easy to grow, do you?"
Lucien considered the question. Thanks to the "Diligent Little Gardener" bonus he possessed, those notoriously temperamental and screaming plants behaved almost docilely around him. Their yield was higher, their growth cycle noticeably shorter, and combined with the specialized potions he brewed to nourish the soil, tending Mandrakes felt no more difficult than raising ordinary potatoes.
Snape's gaze drifted to the large jar of perfectly extracted juice Lucien had provided, and he seemed to realize the futility of his own skepticism.
"Anyway," he continued dryly, "Hogwarts is indeed the largest supplier of Mandrakes in all of Britain. The Ministry of Magic, St Mungo's, and every reputable shop in Diagon Alley source their stock from these greenhouses. Moreover, it isn't even the proper harvesting season. For you to have grown mature specimens already…"
Before Lucien could formulate a careful explanation, Snape raised a hand, cutting him off.
"Never mind. You have your own methods. Just don't waste too much effort on side projects. You possess a genuine talent for Potions. Focus on developing it properly."
As they continued working, Snape's sharp eyes suddenly caught certain nuances in the boy's technique—the precise angle of the knife, the measured pressure when slicing roots, the almost ritualistic way certain ingredients were layered. It was smooth, practiced, and oddly classical.
"The method you're using is rather… classical," Snape remarked, a hint of genuine intrigue in his tone.
Lucien's hands never faltered. "I learned it from my teacher during the summer holidays."
It was the truth. These refined techniques had come directly from Nicolas Flamel. Alchemy, after all, overlapped heavily with advanced potion-making, and the legendary alchemist possessed centuries of unparalleled expertise.
Snape's brow furrowed slightly. Even among the most experienced potioneers he respected, such archaic yet elegant methods were uncommon these days. Who exactly was this mysterious teacher of Lucien's? Another reclusive old wizard, perhaps? Such hermits had grown increasingly rare in the modern age.
The office settled into a comfortable silence once more, broken only by the soft scrape of blades against cutting boards and the occasional bubble of a preparatory simmer.
When most of the preparatory work was complete, Snape suddenly set down his tools and wiped his hands on a dark cloth. His voice dropped, carrying a new weight.
"Lucien, who do you think is behind this?"
The question made Lucien's heart skip a single, startled beat. Was there some larger scheme involving this old bat this year? Wasn't he supposed to remain mostly a background figure?
Keeping his expression neutral, Lucien continued processing the last few ingredients with steady hands.
"You seem to have a suspect already, Professor?"
Snape sneered, the familiar curl of his lip returning.
"At Hogwarts, new faces appear every year. Some are, of course, new students. And some…"
He let the pause linger meaningfully.
"New students?" Lucien prompted carefully.
Snape's thoughts appeared to track dangerously close to the truth. In the original events, everything had begun with Ginny Weasley unknowingly acquiring Tom Riddle's diary.
"The other group, naturally, consists of newly appointed professors," Snape continued, his tone sharpening like a well-honed blade. "This year, that particular change has been minimal. For example… there is only one."
He spoke the next words slowly, deliberately, each syllable laced with unmistakable resentment.
"The Defence Against the Dark Arts Professor."
Lucien felt a quiet thrill of surprise. So Snape genuinely suspected the flamboyant colleague who had claimed the position he had long coveted? The instincts of a former double agent were truly formidable.
But I'm just a student in his eyes, so why is he telling me all this?
Is he really planning to target Lockhart?
________
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