The final Apparition wrenched Hermione from the chaotic magical currents of the coastline, depositing her onto a narrow, rocky ledge high above the churning, pewter-grey waters of the Firth of Clyde. Her magical core screamed with the strain, her hands trembling, but her focus was absolute. Below her, shrouded in the persistent drizzle, rose the desolate silhouette of the Black Lighthouse, its shattered lantern a gaping, empty eye socket staring out at the turbulent sea. Surrounding it were the skeletal remains of disused industrial docks—rusting gantries, collapsed warehouses, and the dark, slick surfaces of abandoned piers. It was a landscape of decay, perfectly chosen to hide the resurgence of potent magic.
Hermione immediately cast a battery of detection and concealment charms. This was no longer a covert investigation; it was a solo infiltration into a prepared, fortified magical stronghold. Her wand, gripped tight, felt like a meager defense against the weight of the legacy she was confronting. Lysander Grindelwald. The son of Gellert. Dumbledore's consequence. And he had Harry's son.
She began her descent, picking her way carefully down the treacherous, mist-slickened rocks, bypassing obvious paths for hidden fissures. As she drew closer, the ambient magic grew denser, a cold, precise energy, unlike the raw, organic magic of Hogwarts. This magic felt old, intelligent, and subtly woven into the very fabric of the landscape. She detected faint, pulsating wards—intricate, multi-layered passive defenses designed to allow subtle egress while repelling direct assault. They hummed with a low, almost subsonic frequency that made her teeth ache.
She reached the base of the lighthouse, her heart hammering. The structure appeared Muggle from the outside—rusting iron, peeling paint, cracked stone. But Hermione's magical sight pierced the illusion. She saw the true edifice: a fortress of ancient, dark stone, laced with intricate, barely visible runes that pulsed with an internal, greenish light, like veins beneath skin. This was magic rooted in a philosophy, not just a practical spell.
Hermione moved to the massive, iron-plated door Lysander had used. She scanned it. No visible locks, no conventional wards. She closed her eyes, focusing her immense intellect on Lysander's signature, tracing the exact sequence of the Portal Rune onto the rusted iron door with precise, silent movements. She didn't cast a spell; she merely imbued the traces with the purest form of her own intent, mimicking the subtle magical resonance she'd detected.
The runes on the door, invisible to the naked eye, flared with a faint, greenish light. A low, grinding sound emanated from within the ancient stone, and with a soft, clunking finality, the massive iron door swung inward, revealing a dark, spiraling stone stairwell, lit by an eerie, flickering violet light. Hermione stepped into the abyss, her wand now held high, radiating a quiet, focused Lumos. The air in the stairwell was cold and damp, smelling faintly of salt and something else… something ancient and sharp, like ozone and old parchment. The hum of magic vibrated through the stone, growing stronger with every step down. I'm coming for you, Lucien, she thought, her resolve hardening. And I'm coming for the man who dared to manipulate a Potter.
Meanwhile, in the vast, circular chamber at the base of the Black Lighthouse, the violet flame of the central brazier cast long, dancing shadows across shelves of forbidden tomes and arcane artifacts. Lucien sat on a cold stone bench, his magical core still thrumming with the raw power he'd unleashed, but also exhausted. Ira stood nearby, observing Lysander with a keen, unwavering intensity.
Lysander Grindelwald stood before them, his elegant figure silhouetted against the flickering violet fire. He held no wand, yet radiated an authority that was absolute. "Forget everything you think you know about magic, Lucien," Lysander began, his voice a low, resonant rumble. "Your mother bound you with a potion designed for suppression. The Ministry binds you with fear and dogma. True magic is about release, about will, about shaping reality to your intent, not reacting to it. It is pure, unadulterated power." He picked up a smooth, black Whisper Stone from a shelf, handing it to Lucien. "This forces you to access your magic directly from your core, bypassing the need for a wand or incantation."
Lucien gripped the stone, its cool surface vibrating subtly. "I... I don't know how to stop it," he confessed, remembering the crushed cauldron.
"Because you were trying to suppress it," Lysander countered sharply. "The dam is gone. You cannot stop the river, Lucien. You must dig a channel. Today, we begin with Transmutation without Contact. The art of changing an object's form or state without physically touching it. It requires intense focus, deep visualisation, and absolute control over your intent." He pointed to a collection of jagged, ordinary pebbles. "Choose one. Imagine its complete dissolution into sand. Not a bang. Not a burst of energy. Imagine it ceasing to be a pebble, and becoming simply... dust."
Lucien focused, but the pebble remained unyielding. "You are forcing it," Lysander observed. "You are still fighting your own power. Consider its essence, Lucien. Its desire to return to pure energy." Ira stepped closer. "It's… constrained. Bound by its own form. It wants to be free."
"Precisely," Lysander nodded. "Imagine the pebble's freedom. Not its destruction. Its release." Lucien focused again, letting the energy flow, not rush. He imagined the pebble not as a solid, but as a temporary arrangement of atoms, yearning for a simpler state. Be free. A faint, almost imperceptible shimmer passed over the pebble. With a soft, barely audible sigh, the pebble simply... collapsed. Not shattered. It fell into a small, perfectly formed pile of fine, crystalline sand. Lucien stared, feeling a clean, contained energy.
"Excellent," Lysander said, approval in his voice. "That, Lucien, was intent. That was understanding. That was the magic of pure will, untainted by incantation. Now, without the Whisper Stone. And not sand. Imagine it as water. Its form changing, not breaking." Lucien, buoyed by confidence and Ira's subtle nod, focused on a second pebble. He imagined its molecules shifting, reorganizing into a fluid state. Flow. A soft plink. The pebble vibrated, then seemed to shudder. Its surface softened, then slowly began to weep. Tiny droplets of clear, cold water beaded on its surface, running down the stone to form a small puddle.
"A touch crude, but remarkable for a first attempt," Lysander praised. "You are beginning to understand. You are beginning to wield the power your mother, Cho Chang, feared. You are beginning to command the very fabric of existence." He walked to an ancient map hanging on the wall. "Your abilities, Lucien, will define the next age. And soon, others will realize that. Hermione Granger is already on her way, following the echoes of your raw power. She is logical. She is relentless. She will be here by morning."
Just then, Hermione reached the bottom of the spiral staircase, stepping into the vast, circular chamber. She froze.
The scene before her was not what she expected. Lysander stood, his back to her, radiating calm power. Ira Riddle watched with intense, unblinking gaze. And Lucien—Harry's son, the boy she had chased—stood before them, his face pale with exertion, his hands clenched. But it was what lay on the floor that truly stopped Hermione cold. Scattered across the ancient stone were dozens of shimmering, emerald-green motes of light—each one a perfect, miniature, magical duplicate of Lucien. They pulsed with his raw, distinct Potter energy, each radiating a faint, confused consciousness. Lysander was teaching him advanced magical misdirection.
"You need to give them a reason to chase," Lysander was saying, his voice resonating. "The Ministry will follow the largest magical signature. You, Lucien, are about to create a hundred of them."
Hermione realized the trap. These weren't meant to fight. They were meant to lead. To scatter. To confuse.
Lysander turned slowly, his piercing blue eyes locking onto Hermione's hidden form. He had known she was coming. He had been expecting her.
A thin, almost imperceptible smile touched his lips. "Ah, Head Auror Granger. Punctual as ever. We were just discussing the efficacy of advanced detection charms. It seems yours are quite... persistent."
The spell of unremarkability shattered instantly under the direct force of his gaze. Hermione felt her magical signature flare into full, undeniable presence. She raised her wand, pointing it directly at Lysander. "Lysander Grindelwald," she declared, her voice firm, unwavering. "You are under arrest for the illegal extraction of a prisoner from Azkaban and the abduction of a minor. Release Lucien Potter and Ira Riddle immediately."
Lysander merely inclined his head. "Lucien Potter is hardly 'abducted,' Head Auror. He is merely receiving an education, one his father's side of the family actively denied him for fifteen years. And Miss Riddle... she is merely collateral for a much larger, and far more necessary, paradigm shift."
Lucien whirled around, his eyes wide with shock and fear. "Hermione?" He looked from her to Lysander, then back to the scattered green projections. The reality of the deception crashed over him. Ira, however, remained calm. "She followed the magic. Yours, Lucien."
"No need for wands, Head Auror," Lysander said, raising a hand. "We merely wish to clarify the situation, for Lucien's sake." He turned to Lucien. "This, Lucien, is Hermione Granger. The Ministry's finest. The 'Light's Golden Girl.' She represents everything that seeks to contain you, to categorize you, to force your vast, inherent power into the narrow confines of their acceptable doctrine."
Lucien looked at Hermione, his eyes filled with confusion. This was his mother's friend. Not an enemy. Yet, Lysander's words, and the sheer power emanating from the older wizard, swayed him.
"You speak of doctrine, Grindelwald?" Hermione retorted, her wand unwavering. "You speak of the 'Greater Good,' no doubt. The very philosophy that nearly tore the world apart once before. What insidious vision do you peddle to this boy, the son of Harry Potter?"
Lysander chuckled. "Insidious? Or simply honest, Head Auror? You see a boy who broke a ward. I see a boy whose innate magic overwhelmed a ward designed by the very Ministry that sought to keep him ignorant. He shattered it, Head Auror, not with Dark Magic, but with pure, raw, Potter power. The power you deemed too dangerous to teach."
He stepped closer to Lucien. "Your mother, Cho Chang, loved you, Lucien. She truly did. But she also feared you. Feared your power. Feared the legacy you carried. And so, for fifteen years, she drugged you. Bound your true self. Robbed you of the right to understand who and what you are."
Lucien flinched. "She didn't drug me! It was a health tonic! For my... my illness!"
"A powerful Blood-Dampening Potion, Lucien," Lysander corrected, his voice gentle. "An ancient recipe, passed down through your father's side of the family, designed to suppress the most volatile aspects of Potter magic. Your mother gave you a potion to make you less than you were born to be. All to hide the truth."
"What truth?" Lucien demanded, his hands beginning to tremble, a faint emerald glow flickering around them.
"The truth of your destiny, Lucien," Lysander said, his voice dropping to a hypnotic cadence. "Dumbledore knew it. He knew that the 'Savior's lineage' would rise. He knew that 'the Dark Lord's blood' would be freed. He knew that the 'unseen hand of Dumbledore's consequence'—my hand—would guide it all. You, Lucien, are the key to the next age. The one who will redefine magic, who will tear down the old walls of prejudice and bring about a new order. An order where magic is wielded, not hidden. Where power is understood, not feared."
Hermione scoffed. "He's twisting you, Lucien! Don't listen to his lies! Your father, Harry, fought against this exact rhetoric! He fought for peace, for equality, not for power and domination!"
Lysander turned his piercing gaze to Hermione. "Peace? Head Auror, your Ministry, your 'peace,' is a façade. It is built on secrets, on suppressed histories, on a rigid adherence to a status quo that breeds resentment and fear. You chase a non-magical girl from Azkaban, while ignoring the real threats simmering beneath your carefully constructed order. You will imprison this boy, Harry Potter's son, because he is too powerful for your comfort, not because he is inherently evil."
He looked at Lucien, his eyes conveying deep understanding. "She believes in the Ministry's version of truth, Lucien. A truth that would destroy you. She believes you are a danger because of the raw power you hold. I believe you are a savior because of it. I believe you can wield it, transform it, and use it to build something better."
Lucien looked from Lysander's calm, persuasive face to Hermione's desperate, unwavering stance. The conflicting narratives tore at him. His mother had lied. His magic was a suppressed force. Hermione was here to take him away, to put him back in a cage. Lysander was offering him freedom, understanding, power.
"Ira," Lysander said, his voice sharper now. "The hour is upon us. The Ministry forces, drawn by Head Auror Granger's reckless pursuit, will be descending upon the decoy trail soon. It is time for our grand reveal." He flicked his wrist. The dozens of shimmering, emerald-green Lucien-duplicates around the room suddenly coalesced, then expanded, morphing into ghostly, semi-solid figures, each radiating a potent, unique magical signature.
"These, Head Auror," Lysander announced, a triumphant glint in his eye, "are our distraction. Each one a beacon of powerful, raw Potter magic. They will scatter across the Scottish coastline, each taking a different escape vector. The Ministry's trackers will be overwhelmed, chasing phantoms, each one convincing them that Harry Potter's son is just out of reach." He looked at Lucien, then at Ira. "And while they chase ghosts, we will disappear. We will go to a place where only the truly lost can find us, to continue your instruction, Lucien. A place where the threads of time are thin, and the echoes of Dumbledore's past are loudest."
"No!" Hermione shouted, realizing the full scope of his misdirection. "You can't! You're creating chaos! You're misleading hundreds of Aurors!"
Lysander merely smiled. "Chaos, Head Auror, is merely an opportunity for re-ordering. And as for misleading... isn't that what your Ministry does best? Hides the truth for the 'Greater Good?'" He snapped his fingers. The dozens of Lucien-duplicates pulsed violently, then, with a deafening series of cracks, Disapparated. The entire chamber vibrated with the sudden, mass magical exodus.
"Now, Lucien," Lysander commanded, turning to the real boy. "Your final lesson before we depart. The Vanishing Act. Cast the most powerful disillusionment charm you can. Not on yourself. On this entire stronghold. Make us invisible to every magical eye, every detection charm, every satellite spell the Ministry possesses. Leave only a whisper of ourselves behind."
Lucien looked at Hermione, his emerald eyes blazing with a mixture of confusion, fear, and a burgeoning sense of defiant power. This was it. The choice. Hermione wanted to contain him. Lysander wanted to unleash him.
He raised his hands, not reaching for a wand, but accessing the raw, untamed magic within. A wave of emerald green energy pulsed from his core, washing over Ira, over Lysander, over the walls of the Black Lighthouse itself. The very air rippled, distorting, shimmering.
"Lucien, no!" Hermione screamed, launching a stunning spell.
But it was too late. The green wave hit the ancient stones, soaking into the intricate runes, and the entire structure of the Black Lighthouse, along with Lysander, Ira, and Lucien, seemed to melt into the ambient mist and the churning sea. Not vanished. Not destroyed. Simply... gone. Dissolved into the unreality of the mist.
Hermione's stunning spell flew through empty air, impacting harmlessly against the stone wall where the lighthouse had stood moments before.
She stood alone in the swirling mist, on the desolate pier, surrounded by the echoes of immense magic and the cold, empty space where the lighthouse had been. She had been outmaneuvered, outsmarted, and mocked. And Harry Potter's son, now a weapon, was truly lost.