In the Headmaster's office, Lucien wasn't surprised by Dumbledore's words. The old man's network of eyes and ears was too efficient. From the moment Lucien's duel with Malfoy began to the time he finished setting up the new Halloween decorations, it was only a short window. Yet Dumbledore already knew everything.
It could be because of Malfoy's dramatic declaration last night—plenty of people had been there, and a few professors had shown up too. Lucien pretended to ponder for a few seconds before responding, "First time dueling someone my age… honestly, it was over a bit too quick."
Dumbledore chuckled softly, adjusting his half-moon glasses. "Haha, not many young witches or wizards your age could match your skill, Lucien. It's only natural he surrendered quickly."
He paused, his eyes twinkling with amusement. "Those snack bats you conjured afterward were quite clever. They've given me some ideas. Maybe next Halloween—or no, this Christmas—I'll try something similar. What sweets do kids your age like these days? Lemon drops, Cockroach Clusters, Sugar Quills, Licorice Wands, Chocolate Frogs…?"
As Dumbledore rattled off a list of candies like a kid in a sweet shop, Lucien's lips twitched. Old bee's just craving sweets himself, isn't he? Magic and potions made things too easy—no need to worry about diabetes. Whether you were a kid or an old wizard, as long as you could stomach it, you could indulge. And with Madam Pomfrey and Snape on hand to patch everyone up, why not?
Lucien noted Dumbledore's choice of words: surrendered, snack bats. The headmaster really had the full scoop on what went down in the Great Hall. Wait—had Dumbledore been watching the whole thing with some fancy magic? Who knew what kind of spells the greatest wizard of the age had up his sleeve?
Before Lucien could say anything, Professor McGonagall cut in, frowning at Dumbledore. "Albus, don't let the children eat too much candy. They need proper meals…"
But Dumbledore muttered under his breath, "Eating sweets makes people happier."
Lucien couldn't help but smirk. Between the headmaster and deputy headmistress, McGonagall was clearly the one keeping things in order, fretting over the students' studies and well-being. Dumbledore? He was the school's figurehead, its protective shield. If it weren't for his towering reputation keeping trouble at bay, he'd probably be the kind of professor who'd hang out with the kids like one of their mates.
"Lucien," Dumbledore said, his tone shifting, "this… conflict with Malfoy. It stemmed from the divide between pure-bloods and…"
He hesitated, but Lucien finished the thought for him. "Yeah, the pure-blood prejudice against Muggle-born wizards."
Lucien's bluntness caught Dumbledore off guard. He'd expected some resentment or frustration from the boy, but Lucien was calm, almost matter-of-fact.
"Pure-blood families, with their inherited knowledge, accumulated resources, and magical talent passed down through generations, often achieve more than most Muggle-born wizards," Lucien continued. "So it's not surprising they look down on us, even despise us."
His straightforward take left both Dumbledore and McGonagall stunned. This was no childish rant—it was a clear-eyed assessment.
Dumbledore had been ready to offer comforting words, to assure Lucien not to let such prejudice weigh him down. He'd seen too many gifted young wizards fall into darkness because of others' malice. But Lucien's response was different.
With a soft sigh, Lucien went on, "In the Muggle world, even though everyone's human, subject to the same cycle of life and death, wealth and power create divides. Some rich or influential people genuinely look down on ordinary folks just trying to get by. Especially those born into privilege—they can't relate, can't empathize, even though their own ancestors often came from humble beginnings."
"And in the wizarding world, it's not just wealth or status. Magic itself—the very foundation of who we are—creates even sharper divides. It only amplifies the inequality and prejudice between wizards."
Dumbledore and McGonagall exchanged a glance. These weren't the words of an eleven- or twelve-year-old. They were sharp, insightful, almost philosophical.
"Of course," Lucien added, "at Hogwarts, a place meant for learning, the prejudice feels a bit more… restrained. This is a school, after all. No matter who we become after we leave, here we're just students, right?"
Lucien's point was simple but deliberate: he wanted Dumbledore and McGonagall to pay closer attention to the attitudes of pure-blood students. Sure, Dumbledore's presence kept overt discrimination in check, but subtle defiance and lip service were still rampant. Lucien came to Hogwarts to learn, and he wanted a stable environment to do it in. Changing the deep-seated arrogance of pure-bloods? That was beyond his reach for now—and not his goal. But when he grew stronger, he was confident their prejudice wouldn't dare touch him.
And if he ever became Headmaster of Hogwarts or Minister for Magic? Then he'd tackle those biases head-on with policy and reform.
Dumbledore and McGonagall understood Lucien's underlying plea. They agreed with his sentiment, but putting it into practice was no small feat.
"You're right, Lucien," Dumbledore said solemnly. "At Hogwarts, everyone is a student. There should be no high or low, noble or common."
He was genuinely surprised by Lucien's maturity. Despite being the one provoked and belittled, Lucien handled it with calm rationality, asking only for what was reasonable. The more composed Lucien appeared, the more at ease Dumbledore felt.
After a bit more casual chat, Lucien excused himself and left the office. But instead of heading to the dorms or the library, he took a winding path to the Potions classroom, stopping at Professor Snape's office door.
Inside the dimly lit room, Snape was wincing, carefully applying a healing potion to a deep, bloody wound. The gash, raw and bone-deep, was slowly mending, but tendrils of dark energy seemed to corrode the healing process.
A bite from a three-headed dog.
The physical wound was no issue—Snape could heal that easily. The problem was the dark curse lingering in the dog's teeth, slowing the recovery.
"Pity the last of Lucius's Qilin saliva was used up," Snape muttered. "The potion I brewed with it could only neutralize part of the dog's curse…"
Knock, knock, knock.
Snape frowned. Who would visit him on a holiday? He lowered his robes to cover the wound, grimacing as the movement sent a sharp pang through him.
"Come in!" he called, his voice sharp.