Something was off about Professor Snape.

When Lucas came to his office to help, Snape had passed along the password to the headmaster's office.

Lucas used the office light to study Snape's expression as he gave his instructions.

Other than the usual irritability from grading papers, nothing was out of the ordinary.

So Lucas brought up the stone sculptures arranged for the common room, perhaps becoming the first person in nearly a century to enhance the school's decorations.

Snape looked over the designs as he always did. As long as there were no problems with the execution, he offered no comment. Snape never said anything like being proud of Lucas.

The teacher-student exchange that evening proceeded as normal.

Until the following week's Potions class.

Snape swept his gaze across the classroom as usual, confirming all students were in their seats.

The day's notes were already on the blackboard. Next came the familiar questioning session.

"Mr. Simon Fields." The Gryffindor whose name was called gave a start, glancing left and right, unable to believe of all people it had landed on them.

"Y-yes, Professor." The young wizard rose from the seat, trembling.

After more than a semester of Potions, Simon Fields could no longer claim that Lucas answered every question because Snape had tipped him off in advance.

Like the other Gryffindors, whenever Simon spotted Professor Snape passing in the corridor, the instinct was to greet him and then move out of Snape's line of sight as quickly as possible.

It had been working. More than half a semester without being scolded.

"What potion can Mandrake leaves be used to brew?"

Simon Fields stared blankly.

Nearly the whole class shifted their eyes to Lucas in the front row. Everyone was thinking the same thing: why had Professor Snape changed who he was calling on today?

His classmates' stares pressed into his back. Lucas listened attentively, focused entirely on waiting for Fields to answer.

The Gryffindor could not.

"Three points from Gryffindor." Snape told the student to sit down and announced directly that Mandrake leaves were an ingredient used to brew the Restorative Draught.

The professor then told students to retrieve their ingredients from the cabinet, and most of them stopped thinking about it.

Even the Slytherins saw nothing strange, the outcome was the same either way. Points from Gryffindor were points for Slytherin.

The professor had been calling on Lucas for over a year. By the end of last semester, Lucas had stopped pretending altogether. The head of house only needed to glance over — without even saying the name, and Lucas would stand up and volunteer the answer.

Only Lucas, standing in the queue for ingredients, sensed it.

The professor was a little off.

Lucas had already felt the temperature of the water shifting. A problem found was a problem to solve. Cutting the daisy roots into segments, a basic ingredient, common filler for cauldrons in lower-year Potions, Lucas ran back over which incident had gone wrong.

Watching Snape move through the dimly lit classroom, the disadvantage of sitting in the front row made itself felt: Lucas could only hear Snape's footsteps somewhere far behind, circling at a distance out of sight.

When class finally ended, Lucas stayed behind as usual. The leftover ingredients were cleared from the desks; the material usage from the cabinet was recorded.

Snape sat with his head down, grading the potions students had submitted.

When he reached Lucas's submission, he gave it the top mark. Same as always.

Something was genuinely wrong.

Lucas wanted to ask directly. But several students from the next class arrived a little early.

Noise drifted in from the corridor, by the sound of it, a child had fallen. Then came retching.

Snape walked back from the lectern and stepped past Lucas, yanking the classroom door open. A young wizard had fallen right at his feet and let out a cry as a slug came up.

Snape docked points from every Gryffindor who had been using wands in the corridor, then stopped the retching as the child climbed up from the floor.

Lucas leaned out to look. The one who had been targeted was someone Lucas happened to know, a child from a Potions supplier's family.

After dealing with the students, Snape turned and spotted Lucas. "Shouldn't your next class be starting soon?"

Lucas's next class was Flying.

The school bell confirmed there was no time to linger.

Lucas hurried to the grounds.

The broomstick hovered quietly a few metres above the grass.

Second year now. The higher-scoring students who played Quidditch had claimed the upper airspace, darting back and forth overhead with a whoosh.

Most of the lower-scoring students were keeping to roughly Lucas's altitude, soaking up the sun and practising a few Quidditch manoeuvres that would appear on their exams.

The Quidditch disasters were permitted to stay close to the ground. Madam Hooch assigned them the best brooms from the cupboard to prevent any suicide runs at their classmates.

Marcus flew down from the high-scoring bracket. Though sharing a dormitory with Lucas, Marcus was always finding Lucas already out in the morning and barely keeping eyes open by evening, leaving less and less time to exchange more than a few words.

Marcus knew Lucas was busy designing a device to drive away the Merpeople. That was about the extent of it.

"Lucas, we want to do a speed drill — can you time us?" Marcus brought a gust of wind down on landing.

The faraway look on Lucas's face was hard to miss.

Whatever Lucas was puzzling over, asking about it would get nowhere.

Marcus held out a watch, wearing an ingratiating smile.

Lucas was not afraid of heights.

The watch was taken, and Lucas flew up with Marcus.

Actually, there was one very simple way to work out the problem.

Glancing at the ground while flying, Lucas considered: the frequency of accidents this semester had been far too low. Could it be that things had been too easy, too uneventful? Maybe a small accident could be arranged?

A sharp whistle cut the thought off. Looking at Marcus's carefree expression, something small stirred, better not drag classmates into it.

The rules were straightforward. Lucas hovered at the starting point. Each timed student had to fly out, loop around a rock suspended in midair by a Levitation Charm, and return.

Shortest time won.

The Quidditch wind tossed Lucas's hair as the watch was watched in silence.

Where there are teenagers, there is conflict.

Marcus and another Slytherin came in at exactly the same time. Marcus demanded a rematch with characteristic arrogance. The other student agreed immediately, given Marcus's family situation.

In the second round, Marcus won by nearly ten seconds.

There was no pleasure in it. Instead Marcus pulled the same Slytherin aside and delivered a lengthy lecture.

The young-master temperament had simply never acted up toward Lucas, it hadn't actually gone away. Once Marcus had finished throwing weight around, the flight back came.

Lucas handed the watch back with little enthusiasm and turned to go sunbathe.

Marcus was not done. "That guy really has no idea how to behave."

"He hasn't actually offended you, has he?" Lucas distinctly remembered the other student had already been going out of the way to avoid Marcus.

"Don't you remember at the start-of-term feast? He almost took my seat." Marcus went back half a semester in one sentence.

Lucas was about to say that the apology had been accepted at the time.

Then stopped. Looked Marcus up and down. Something clicked.

When a Slytherin said something was in the past, that didn't mean it had been let go.

Lucas patted Marcus on the shoulder. "Let the guy who took your seat off the hook — or at least tell him what he did wrong."

Every word of that came from the heart.

Because Lucas had just found the root of Professor Snape's displeasure.

The problem still came down to the letter sent to Nicolas Flamel.

➤ Next: A Thousand Layers of Scheming

Chapter 245 - A Thousand Layers of Scheming

Snape knew this was not Lucas's fault.

He watched the young wizard fawn over him as usual, while out of Snape's sight, Lucas was writing to Nicolas Flamel for guidance.

Had Lucas not always been like this?

From first year onward, Lucas had helped Madam Sprout. Every professor at the school was fond of him.

So where was the problem?

Snape watched Lucas complete assignments in his class. The young wizard grew more accomplished by the day, and the greatest talent had always lain in alchemy.

If Nicolas Flamel also recognized Lucas's gift, was Nicolas Flamel perhaps the true mentor the prophecy referred to?

The Ministry of Magic registration could be revoked. The magical ritual had not yet been completed. What if Nicolas Flamel also extended an olive branch to the young wizard?

Snape loathed being chosen or abandoned.

Snape also despised harboring hope.

A knock came at the office door. A moment later Lucas pushed it open and stepped inside.

Lucas was carrying some stored materials, and on his own initiative found a corner to set them down.

But today Lucas did not immediately begin brewing potions.

Snape marked assignments without looking up and took a moment to remind Lucas: "Polish the crucibles in the corner before you leave."

That was not really right, actually.

Using the young wizard's alchemical talent on something like polishing crucibles was a tremendous waste.

Snape had studied many contract rituals. Most of them swore emphatically that the bond between master and apprentice was unbreakable.

But open another book, and one could always find a method to dissolve the contract.

It all pointed to one thing: no matter how binding the magic, in the end, apprentices were always desperately searching for ways to escape their mentors.

Snape's thoughts drifted again to Dumbledore's famous theory, that testing a relationship shatters the bottle.

Was that bottle not destined to be shattered?

The office was quiet. Snape looked up and found Lucas sitting in the chair across from him, chin propped in one hand. Seeing Snape look up, Lucas smiled at him.

"Have you nothing else to do? Just sitting there grinning at me like an idiot?" Snape gave Lucas a disdainful look. The young wizard was well within arm's reach of a smack to the head.

But Lucas Graham was not a gopher.

Snape marked the essay he was grading with a "D."

Lucas, reading upside down, recognized it as Marcus's paper.

Marcus had boasted in the common room about the clever trick of writing essays in a larger font.

Lucas then watched Snape turn to the next page.

Lucas ignored the obvious dismissal in Snape's manner and ventured carefully: "Professor, when I consulted the Headmaster about the statue problem, the Headmaster mentioned that the ritual needs to take place at sea, and asked whether I can swim."

Snape's hand paused. He marked the essay with an "A."

"The Headmaster only offers suggestions. I am the one who makes the decisions." Snape turned to the next page. He had only been reading the body of the essay and had not noticed that this page was the one Lucas had submitted.

Lucas's smile stiffened for a fraction of a second.

"But—"

Snape pointed at the crucibles in the corner, making it plain through action that the pointless small talk was over.

"You just gave my essay an 'A'!" Snape had never given his work an "A" before. It had clearly been written without a single flaw.

Lucas almost sighed.

Other mentors who saw his worth could barely wait to bind him to them on the spot. Professor Snape took three steps forward and four steps back. If Lucas did everything he was told, he would only end up bowing before Snape's coffin.

"If I give you only an 'A,' it means your essay is not yet good enough." Snape did not turn back to look. His tone was blunt.

Oh.

Lucas did not retreat. With the certainty of someone who had been paying close attention, Lucas announced: "You are angry. I wrote to Nicolas Flamel, and you became unhappy."

It was too direct, entirely out of keeping with Lucas's usual style of seeing through things without naming them.

Snape wondered whether he had heard wrong. A moment later a cold laugh escaped him.

Before Snape could collect his thoughts, Lucas pressed on: "But what does Nicolas Flamel have to do with me? Someone who has walked so far down the road of immortality — would it not be terrifying to become that person's apprentice?"

"You speak as though every master in all of Europe has already been catalogued and bound into a register, waiting for the great heir of devillote to browse through and choose." Snape was genuinely a little irritated now. Ever since Lucas had inherited the estate, Snape felt Lucas had become rather insufferable.

On second thought, never mind. There were never many decent people among that pack of old men in Europe to begin with.

"I only wish to become more accomplished, so that you can be proud of me." Lucas was respectful and deferential. When it came to the art of coaxing and soothing the Professor, the pattern Lucas had worked out was simple: read the moment and act accordingly.

Snape gave a cold snort. "Proud of you for constantly hitting a wall with Felix Felicis, and wasting my materials to drive up consumption?"

Lucas stared at Snape wide-eyed. Was there truly no getting through to him today?

Lucas ignored the sarcasm entirely: "But it was you who brought me into the wizarding world, and gave me work I could live on. Would I ever choose another wizard as my mentor?"

Snape saw a faint mist gathering in the young wizard's eyes.

Feigned.

Lucas Graham was a very cunning half-blood wizard. From first year onward, Lucas had carved out a place in Slytherin and won the affection of every teacher.

Feigned.

Slytherin's true nature was never one of loyalty.

The young wizard cried, quietly, without a sound.

Snape set down the pen. No words, no comfort. Just watching Lucas perform.

Lucas suddenly stood up: "I only felt that you were unhappy!"

But Snape maintained that he had experienced no emotional disturbance whatsoever.

Snape refused to accept Lucas's interpretation, and the two of them hit a standoff.

"Tears make one weak." Snape was unmoved. "I have not refused the ritual, nor have I prevented you from consulting other wizards. Put away this victim mentality and go do something meaningful."

"If you believe I am the sort of mentor who, given enough time together, will give in to your tears — then leave my office right now."

Lucas looked up, tears brimming at the corners of his eyes.

Snape met the gaze with a heart of iron. "Stop this unreasonable behavior!"

Right then.

Lucas was not entirely satisfied, but understood when to quit while ahead.

When Lucas had first come in and mentioned the sea ritual, Snape had clearly been on the verge of not wanting to hold even an ordinary ceremony. Now, at least, things had returned to where they had started.

"You really are not unhappy?" Lucas wiped the tears away, watching Snape carefully.

With this offered step, Snape shed the image of someone privately displeased that the apprentice had gone to consult someone else.

Snape gave a cold snort, indicating that all of it had been nothing but Lucas's overactive imagination.

The young wizard's face went red all at once. "Then I—" Lucas was so mortified it seemed like finding a crack in the floor to disappear into would not be enough.

Snape's mood improved, something close to miraculous.

Lucas was still too young, capable of sensing something was off, but unable to hold the line.

"Crucibles." Snape magnanimously offered the unreasonably behaved young wizard a way out.

Lucas tumbled down that step and hurried off to sort out the crucibles in the corner.

.

The Room of Requirement, deep in the night.

Lucas set up the experimental apparatus, lit the spirit lamp, and suspended the ruby above the pale blue flame.

The ruby absorbed the heat. A moment later a spectral shadow rose from it.

"Good evening, Mr. Riddle." Lucas propped up one chin and greeted Riddle.

Spread out on the table was a paper titled "Improving the Brewing Success Rate of Felix Felicis."

The ghost's luminous arc flickered like the flame itself, now bright, now dim.

The soul fragment imprisoned in another's keeping had buried its hatred deep. But the wizard who held it captive was cautious, and knew the Dark Lord well; using a special magic, the wizard had sealed off any outward influence the Horcrux might exert.

The two of them met in conversation for nearly an hour every night, always in the Room of Requirement.

Lord Voldemort stared, transfixed, at Lucas's body. Voldemort absolutely refused to believe this was a genuine second-year wizard.

But how had it been done, so seamless, so perfect.

"Ding, " Lucas tapped the spirit lamp with a quill. The dancing flame drew Lord Voldemort's reason back. His fate was still in this young wizard's hands.

"Good evening." Lord Voldemort composed himself and offered a greeting, neither servile nor haughty, then glanced at the paper spread across the table.

"You have finally remembered the wisdom of Ravenclaw that I inherited. My value is hardly limited to being a 'Dark Lord's memoir.'" Lord Voldemort said this half in jest.

For the better part of the past month, the young wizard had brought various assignments or reference materials along, yet had shown no intention of actually consulting Lord Voldemort.

"Ravenclaw's wisdom belongs to me." Lucas waved a dismissive hand toward the ruby. The soul fragment had been separated from the Horcrux, and the Horcrux carried with it the wisdom of Ravenclaw.

Within alchemy, one area of study was "separation." To then split the knowledge away from the Dark Lord's soul fragment would in fact be quite simple.

At most it would be a matter of choosing which to preserve and which to sacrifice.

"You could obtain more. When are you planning to explore the Chamber of Secrets?" Lord Voldemort asked this question once every few days.

In this stagnant, motionless imprisonment, the only thing that kept happening was the steady expenditure of whatever value remained to offer.

Only by changing the environment, somewhere like the Chamber of Secrets, might a chance to turn the tables present itself.

"Not today, and not this year." Lucas was in no hurry. A treasure that had lain undisturbed for over a thousand years was worth no rush. "Tonight's topic has already been chosen. I want to hear you tell the story of your interview for the Defence Against the Dark Arts position."

The young wizard settled obligingly into the posture of someone listening to a bedtime story.

Lord Voldemort's heart clenched. Just as Lord Voldemort was about to steer the conversation away from matters unfavorable, a stunning pain shot through the soul.

Looking down, Lord Voldemort saw that Lucas was adjusting the temperature of the spirit lamp. The flame had shifted from blue to deep green, like the murky weeds at the bottom of the Black Lake.

The intensified flame seared the ruby and brought excruciating pain.

The soul fragment was compelled to revisit the autumn of 1955.

Fawkes had just completed a cycle of rebirth. From the ashes, a head emerged and looked cautiously around.

The password to the Headmaster's office was spoken aloud, and Horace Slughorn led a young wizard inside, the two of them talking and laughing as they entered.

"I'll leave you here, best of luck." Horace Slughorn shook hands with the young wizard at the door.

Then Slughorn turned to Albus Dumbledore: "Albus, look who's come, you haven't seen each other in quite some time. I'll leave you to it."

Slughorn smiled and left the office. The heavy stone door swung shut.

Albus Dumbledore picked up the new half-moon spectacles purchased recently. On the plate before Dumbledore sat a new variety of sweets from Honeydukes.

The young man walked to the chair opposite the Headmaster. The chair reserved for visitors pulled itself out.

Lord Voldemort did not sit down immediately.

A moment passed before Albus Dumbledore said: "Please, sit."

Two powerful wizards exchanged their first greeting since parting ways as master and student.

"I still remember what you looked like when you left school. You did not attend the graduation photograph for your year. I recall many students were looking for you, they were all very disappointed."

Lord Voldemort's lips curved into a faint arc. The dark eyes betrayed no joy whatsoever. "I too feel deep regret. I came to realize that in those days, there were gaps in my understanding. That is why I have returned."

Albus Dumbledore raised an eyebrow.

"A towering structure requires a solid foundation. For the wizarding world to continually produce talented people, it needs knowledgeable teachers to guide them. I saw in the papers that the school is seeking a Defence professor, so here I am."

"Ah, yes. Horace mentioned as much. Horace is very much looking forward to becoming your colleague."

Dumbledore held a hand suspended over the dish of sweets. The contents were varied and mixed, and there was some difficulty deciding.

"Tell me — what have you been doing in the years since leaving school?"

Dumbledore's fingers settled on a small black beetle, the kind that was in essence still a sweet, only at the moment of contact it crawled up along Dumbledore's fingers.

The Headmaster, not yet so elderly as in later years, moved with quick reflexes and closed a hand over the sweet.

Riddle's eyelid twitched. It was almost impossible to endure this atmosphere, an interview that appeared relaxed but was in truth dismissive.

"I pursued magical research, and traveled." The answer came out flat and dry.

"Then you must have many travel anecdotes — why not share one?"

"I was drawn to the ancient magic preserved by wizarding families in certain European villages. It is exceedingly powerful, extremely difficult to master, and for that reason deeply compelling."

"That implies danger." Albus Dumbledore said.

"Life itself is dangerous. Is not the very position now vacant at the school meant to teach students to recognize danger and face it?"

"I believe the subject is called 'Defence.'" Dumbledore offered a gentle reminder. "I worry you might show students too much of the 'appeal' of the Dark Arts. The power to harm others ultimately harms oneself."

The fervor that had built in Riddle while speaking of power cooled.

The smile remained on the face, but had gone rigid.

"You always think the worst of me." The volume dropped. The words came quietly.

"You have great potential. I am simply more concerned that a gifted young person might misdirect that talent. Tom, you have changed a great deal in the years since leaving school."

"You always have your reasons, but the fact is you are afraid of allowing me into this school. Dumbledore, you are afraid of my becoming a popular professor here, afraid of going head-to-head with me." Riddle's volume did not rise further. The words came out cold, each one laden with threat, like a snake's tongue flicking.

"I am indeed afraid of those things." The Headmaster gave a candid nod.

The hand still gripped the Cockroach Cluster and had not loosened, but as the conversation continued, Dumbledore did not put the sweet in his mouth.

Two powerful wizards looked at each other.

Fawkes used still-featherless wings to stir the ashes, and pushed a little too hard by accident. The mound of ash, which had looked like a volcano's crater, collapsed at one corner.

Ash fell onto the carpet.

"I should have known." Lord Voldemort displayed a composure that surpassed anything seen from Riddle in school days. The expensive robes were smoothed down, though the draping fabric had not a single crease to begin with.

"No matter, Professor. What I want, I will always obtain." Moving to the door.

Dumbledore looked away and rose from the seat. "I will see you out."

The door to the Headmaster's office opened once more.

Riddle's expression flickered with a moment's surprise. A beat later, a cold laugh. Riddle walked out of the Headmaster's office first.

➤ Next: Someone Died