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The headmaster's office.
Lucien sat across from Dumbledore and noticed the blue eyes behind the half-moon spectacles were still sharp, but the exhaustion on the old man's face was impossible to hide. The desk held no fancy tea service or sweets this time, only scattered rolls of parchment and a few open, well-worn books.
Dumbledore had clearly been traveling hard.
"Long time no see, Headmaster," Lucien said. He reached into his pocket and set out a teapot, cups, and several small boxes. The items looked ordinary, but they were alchemical creations of his own making—excellent at keeping food fresh and warm.
Inside the boxes were green bean cakes and dragon beard pastries, all made by Dobby following Lucien's recipes.
He poured a cup of green tea and slid it across.
"These are Chinese-style sweets. I wasn't sure if you'd like them."
Dumbledore picked up a piece of green bean cake, tasted it, and nodded.
"Quite pleasant. Not very sweet."
Lucien smiled. "Coming from you, that's actually high praise for Chinese sweets."
Dumbledore tried a dragon beard pastry next. His eyes lit up. He immediately took another piece, then let out a satisfied sigh.
"Sometimes you really do need proper sugar to fight off fatigue."
Lucien's mouth twitched. Dragon beard pastry was easily the sweetest thing in the boxes.
Dumbledore took a sip of green tea and leaned back. Some of the tiredness eased from his face. Most of his time away had been spent chasing leads on Voldemort's family history. After piecing together several clues, everything pointed toward the Gaunt family.
The Gaunt name traced straight back to Salazar Slytherin. Combined with Voldemort's early talents—Parseltongue, exceptional skill in the Dark Arts, and becoming Slytherin's heir while still a student—the connection felt impossible to ignore.
The Gaunt family had fallen far. Few members remained, and those who did tended to be eccentric and isolated. The only living Gaunt Dumbledore knew of was currently in Azkaban. He would need to make time for a visit.
If he could confirm that Voldemort was truly a Gaunt, even a direct descendant, then searching old Gaunt properties might finally turn up useful clues. Voldemort had always been obsessed with bloodlines. Once he learned his own heritage, he would almost certainly have acted on it.
Dumbledore set his cup down and looked at Lucien.
"You didn't come here just to bring me these excellent sweets, did you?"
Lucien shook his head. He pulled a small crystal vial from his pocket and placed it on the desk. Inside, a silvery-white liquid swirled gently in the candlelight, occasionally catching faint threads of gold.
"This is the improved Wolfsbane Potion," he said. "The original version left werewolves extremely weak for a full week after transforming. This one cuts the recovery time down to two or three days."
Dumbledore's eyes brightened. He picked up the vial and held it to the light, studying the faint golden threads moving through the liquid. He hadn't brewed Wolfsbane himself, but he knew the potion well.
"This is a tremendous help," he said, the exhaustion vanishing from his face. Genuine delight replaced it. "An improvement of this quality deserves… a Cauldron Medal."
The Cauldron Medal was one of the highest honors in Potions work. Dumbledore had almost said Order of Merlin—Third Class at minimum. The refinement was excellent, and simplifying the ingredients and process made the potion far more accessible. That carried real weight.
But then he remembered Lucien already held an Order of Merlin, First Class. A Cauldron Medal felt more appropriate.