When Helena opened her eyes, the sunlight momentarily blinded her. The high, white ceiling stretching above her was unfamiliar, but the distinctive smell of medicinal herbs and potions immediately told her where she was.
"The hospital wing…" she murmured in a hoarse voice, feeling every muscle in her body protest as she tried to sit up. She didn't exactly feel pain, but rather a deep fatigue that reached down to her bones, as if all her energy was drained.
"I recommend you don't move," Lucian's calm, calculating voice came from her right. "Although you have no serious injuries, your body practically collapsed from the exhaustion and stress you were under."
Helena slowly turned her head—the only part of her body she seemed able to move without difficulty—and found Lucian sitting in an uncomfortable wooden chair, completely absorbed in what appeared to be a huge book of ancient runes.
She watched him in silence, not knowing what to say. She felt a mixture of gratitude and embarrassment that seemed to be longed in her throat.
Three times.
Three times she had refused to ask her friends for help, preferring to bear alone the burdens that clearly overwhelmed her. Why?, she wondered, already knowing the answer. Her whole life had been her and Harry against the world. Asking for help had never been an option.
"You know, Potter…" Lucian began suddenly, closing his book with a sharp snap that made Helena blink. She immediately noticed his use of her last name. "I always thought reckless impulsiveness was your brother's exclusive domain." It seems I was wrong." He paused deliberately, letting his words sink in. "Although, at least, you had the proper basic survival instinct."
Helena felt the heat of a blush rise from her neck to her cheeks. But before she could respond, a thought struck her hard.
"Harry! Is he…?"
"Breathing perfectly well in the bed at the far end of the ward," Lucian interrupted. For a brief moment, his tone lost its usual coldness. "Madam Pomfrey has him under a restorative sleeping spell. His body needs to rest."
When Helena tried to sit up again, Lucian was on his feet with feline speed, placing a firm yet gentle hand on her shoulder.
"I need to see him," she insisted, her voice cracking with urgency.
"And you will," Lucian replied, maintaining an infuriating calm. "When you're both well enough to have a family reunion without collapsing. Your brother isn't going anywhere, Helena."
Helena opened her mouth to argue, but Lucian raised an eyebrow and added in his most neutral tone:
"If you keep insisting, I'll call Madam Pomfrey. And believe me, you'd much rather deal with me than face her medicinal wrath."
In the end, Helena had no choice but to give in, sinking back into the pillows.
"And Ron? Hermione?"
"Both perfectly intact, though equally exhausted," Lucian answered. "You have nothing to worry about. The only thing you need to do now is rest."
Once he saw that Helena had finally relaxed, Lucian picked up his book and returned to his reading. But not before adding, almost as an afterthought:
"And next time you decide to throw yourself into mortal danger, Potter, do us both a favour and let Cassandra and me know. Not for your sake, but for the sake of our mental health."
The corner of Helena's mouth lifted into the faintest smile before exhaustion claimed her once more, pulling her into a deep, restful sleep—this time, mercifully free of nightmares.
…
The following two days found Helena physically recovered, but emotionally at rock bottom. Seeing Harry lying helplessly in the hospital wing, pale and fragile, broke her heart. Even so, she refused to leave his side, spending hours talking to him in a soft voice.
"Fred and George tried to make the chairs and desks in the classrooms fly through the corridors today," she murmured as she adjusted his blanket. "McGonagall nearly tore their heads off… You would've loved to see it."
Her fingers toyed with the edge of the sheet, deliberately avoiding the bandages peeking out from beneath Harry's pyjamas.
"Pomfrey's potions taste awful, don't they? But don't worry. When you wake up, you can have a nice mug of hot chocolate."
The room soon became filled with gifts and letters. The entire Gryffindor house had come to visit, led by the Quidditch team, who had left behind a tiny wooden broomstick carved with the inscription:
The Bravest Seeker.
In a failed attempt to ease Helena's exhaustion, Hermione had organised a rota so that someone would always be with Harry. But Helena had simply dismissed the idea. As his sister, it was only natural that she stay by his side for as long as she could.
On the third day, as she shuffled into the hospital wing—Pomfrey having forcibly sent her away the previous night so she could sleep in her own bed—a sound made her stop dead.
Two voices were conversing at the far end of the ward: one deep and melodic, which she didn't immediately recognise, and the other…
"Harry!" she exclaimed, running towards his bed.
Her brother, sitting up and chatting animatedly, took a few seconds to react before his face lit up.
"Helena!" he replied with a tired but genuine smile.
"One of these days, you're going to scare me to death," Helena scolded him, but her words lost all their force when she threw herself at him, hugging him so tightly that Harry let out a small, breathless "oof."
"I was terrified, you know?" she whispered against his shoulder, feeling tears threatening to spill.
Harry awkwardly rubbed her back.
"I know. I was terrified too," he admitted quietly, saying something he never would have confessed in front of anyone else.
They remained that way, wrapped in their own little bubble of mutual comfort, until a warm voice brought them back to reality.
"Sibling love is undoubtedly one of the purest forms of magic there is."
Helena pulled away abruptly, blushing when she saw Professor Dumbledore sitting beside the bed, his blue eyes twinkling behind his spectacles.
"Professor Dumbledore! I'm sorry, I didn't mean to interrupt…"
"Nonsense, my dear," Dumbledore said with a smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes. "If anything, I am the one interrupting this touching reunion. Harry and I were merely discussing the fate of the Philosopher's Stone."
"What happened to it?" Helena asked quickly.
There had been no official account of what had happened in the dungeons… well, there had been one, but it was an exceedingly vague version, conspicuously lacking in details.
"What really happened down there?" she pressed, her voice dropping to an urgent whisper. "I'm certain the rumours that have been going around the corridors don't come anywhere close to what actually happened. After all, none of them mention Vold—"
She swallowed with difficulty.
"—You-Know-Who…"
Dumbledore adjusted his half-moon spectacles, causing the afternoon light to refract across the lenses.
"Voldemort, dear Helena," he corrected gently. "Names possess only the power we choose to give them. The fear of speaking his name merely feeds his legend."
His blue eyes gleamed with sudden intensity.
"Remember this: that which we refuse to name becomes larger in our imagination."
Harry, sensing his sister's barely perceptible tremble, slipped his hand beneath the sheets and intertwined his fingers with hers in a firm, reassuring gesture.
"Professor," he asked, his voice steadier than he felt, "did Voldemort get the Stone?"
Aquí tienes la continuación traducida con el mismo enfoque: inglés natural, tono de fanfic de Harry Potter, y diálogos adaptados para que suenen fluidos y fieles a las personalidades de los personajes.
The Headmaster picked up one of the packets of Bertie Bott's Every Flavour Beans that had been brought for Harry, idly turning it over in his fingers before answering.
"Fortunately, no. In three days, at dawn, the Stone will be reduced to dust."
A golden bean bounced between his wrinkled fingers.
"Some temptations are simply too dangerous for this world."
"But then Flamel…!" the twins exclaimed in unison, their voices intertwining in perfect synchrony, just as they had so many times since childhood.
Dumbledore smiled at their coordinated reaction, though there was sadness behind his eyes.
"Ah, I see your research was quite thorough. Yes, Nicolas has walked this earth far longer than most."
The golden bean disappeared between his lips.
"Although his departure will not be immediate. He has enough Elixir stored away to settle his remaining affairs and then, like all of us someday, he will depart."
Helena frowned, her thoughts plainly visible in the restless movement of her eyes.
"But… that means he'll die. For real."
"For many people," Dumbledore continued, grimacing as he discovered that the bean tasted of earwax, "death wears the mantle of the final enemy. But for those who have loved, created, and truly lived…"
His words softened with a melancholic warmth.
"It is simply the next blank page waiting to be written."
Harry tightened his grip on Helena's hand.
"Professor, Voldemort will try to come back, won't he? I mean… he hasn't really gone, has he?"
The air in the hospital wing seemed to grow heavier. Dumbledore set the packet of beans aside.
"No, Harry. He has not gone," he replied gravely. "He is out there somewhere, perhaps searching for another body he can use… Since he is not truly alive, he cannot be killed. He left Quirrell to die without hesitation. He shows as little mercy to his followers as he does to his enemies."
"Another body?" Helena asked, looking between them.
Harry grimaced.
"Quirrell's turban… it was covering Voldemort's face. It was like his face had grown out of the back of Quirrell's head, and he could talk and everything. It was horrible."
"I imagine it was," Dumbledore said solemnly. "But, Harry, you have delayed his return to power. Nevertheless, Voldemort will eventually find someone willing to fight a losing battle. And perhaps, if he is stopped time and time again… he may never rule again."
The siblings exchanged a knowing look.
In that quiet moment, they found comfort in the certainty that, for now, they were safe.
Harry drew a deep breath and turned his attention back to Dumbledore.
"Professor," he began, choosing his words carefully, "there are things I need to understand… the whole truth."
"The truth…" Dumbledore sighed. "It is a terrible and beautiful thing, and therefore must be handled with great care. Nevertheless, I will answer your questions unless I have a very good reason not to. And, in that case, I ask that you forgive me. Of course, I will not lie to you."
"Voldemort said…" Harry swallowed. "He only killed my mother because she got in the way… but why would he want to kill us in the first place?"
Helena abruptly sat upright, the sheets bunching beneath her hands.
"Wait… we were specifically targeted?"
Her voice trembled slightly as the implication sank in.
Dumbledore closed his eyes for a long moment, as though searching for the strength to answer. When he opened them again, they reflected a profound sadness.
"That question, my dears, touches upon the heart of a far greater mystery. The day when I can give you that answer… has not yet come."
He raised a hand to silence their protests.
"Not because I do not trust you, but because some truths require the strength that only time can provide."
Harry, frustrated but understanding, nodded reluctantly.
"Then… why couldn't Quirrell touch me?"
A warm light appeared in Dumbledore's eyes.
"Ah. That, I can explain."
He leaned forward slightly.
"Your mother's love left you with a protection that Voldemort could never understand, nor ever will. It is not a form of magic that can be taught in books… it is the power of a sacrifice made with a pure heart."
He paused.
"For someone like Quirrell, consumed by hatred, greed, and ambition, sharing his soul with Voldemort, touching you was impossible for that very reason. It was agony for him."
The Headmaster suddenly appeared fascinated by a bird perched near the curtains, giving Harry and Helena enough time to discreetly wipe their eyes with the sheet.
The words had been painful, yet somehow comforting at the same time.
"Professor," Harry continued once he had regained his composure, "Quirrell mentioned something about Snape… that he hates me because of my father. Is it true?"
"Snape knew our father?!" Helena interrupted, bewildered.
Dumbledore offered them a wistful smile.
"Oh, their history is… complicated. Severus and James were contemporaries here at Hogwarts, and their animosity was difficult to explain."
He paused meaningfully.
"Until your father did something Snape could never forgive him for: saving his life."
Helena narrowed her eyes.
"That doesn't make any sense…"
"The human mind rarely does, my dear," Dumbledore replied with a flicker of humour. "To Severus, that debt was an unbearable burden. This year, by protecting Harry, perhaps he was merely trying to balance the scales…"
A faint smile tugged at his lips.
"…so that he could go on hating James with a clear conscience."
"I knew it!" Helena exclaimed, lightly smacking the mattress. "I told you Snape wasn't trying to kill you. I knew he couldn't be completely evil."
Harry, lost in thought and barely paying attention to his sister's words, had one final question.
"How exactly did the mirror work? How could I get the Stone?"
Dumbledore visibly brightened.
"Ah! One of my most ingenious creations!" he exclaimed, his usual good humour returning. "Only someone who wished to find the Stone but had no desire to use it could obtain it. A testament to the power of pure intentions."
His eyes gleamed with satisfaction.
"Even by my standards, it was rather brilliant."
Dumbledore remained with the twins for a while longer, keeping the conversation light. With his usual skill, he steered their attention toward more cheerful subjects, even sharing the latest gossip from the wizarding world.
However, when the hospital wing clock struck six, Madam Pomfrey swept into the room with fierce determination.
"That's enough!" she declared, waving her hands warningly. "The patient needs rest, not conversation until sunrise."
Her gaze shifted between Dumbledore and Helena.
"Headmaster, you know the rules. And you, Miss Potter, should be recovering as well."
Dumbledore rose gracefully, his silver robes billowing around him like morning mist.
"Of course, Poppy."
He gave a small, theatrical bow.
"Come along, my dear. We wouldn't want to incur the wrath of the fearsome guardian of this sanctuary of health."
Helena was far more reluctant to leave. She squeezed Harry's hand tightly.
"I'll come back tomorrow," she promised in a whisper.
Before leaving, Dumbledore paused in the doorway, his silhouette framed by the light spilling in from the corridor.
"Sleep well," he wished them.
For an instant, his blue eyes seemed to gleam with some secret knowledge.
"Tonight's dreams will be sweeter than yesterday's. I promise you."
…
The following days passed for Helena in a strange mixture of restlessness and monotony. Whenever she wasn't attending classes, she would settle beside Harry's bed in the hospital wing, reading his favourite books aloud or simply keeping him company in comfortable silence.
During the rare moments when she wasn't with her brother, she retreated to the Slytherin dormitory, avoiding the curious looks and whispers that followed her through the corridors.
She could only be grateful that Lucian and Cassandra were still speaking to her after her reckless stunt, although neither of them ever missed an opportunity to remind her—each with varying degrees of subtlety—just how lucky she had been.
On the final day of the school year, Harry was finally discharged.
Helena waited impatiently outside the hospital wing, and when he emerged, pale but smiling, she immediately took hold of his arm, as though afraid he might suddenly collapse.
Together, they made their way down to the Great Hall, where the end-of-year celebrations were already in full swing.
The hall had been decorated magnificently, but Helena immediately noticed something strange.
According to the older students, the walls should have been covered with banners bearing Slytherin's colours. They were supposed to have won the House Cup for the seventh year in a row.
Yet there were no such banners in sight.
A murmur of anticipation swept through the hall as the siblings entered, followed by an awkward silence that was quickly broken by dozens of whispered conversations.
Harry made his way toward the Gryffindor table beneath a barrage of curious stares, while Helena slipped into the seat Cassandra and Lucian had saved for her.
She noticed, with some discomfort, that several students from the other houses could barely conceal their interest in her brother.
Dumbledore's arrival silenced the room.
"Another year comes to an end!" he exclaimed with his characteristic cheerfulness. "And before you can enjoy the magnificent feast before us, I'm afraid I must trouble you with the words of an old man."
"What a year we've had! I trust your minds are considerably fuller than when you arrived…"
A mischievous smile crossed his face.
"Now you have the entire summer to empty them out again before the next school year."
A few laughs echoed through the hall, though Helena barely paid attention.
"Very well," Dumbledore continued. "It is time to award the House Cup. As things stand, the scores are as follows: in fourth place, Gryffindor, with three hundred and twelve points; in third place, Hufflepuff, with three hundred and fifty-two; in second place, Ravenclaw, with four hundred and twenty-six…"
He paused.
"And in first place, Slytherin, with four hundred and ninety-two."
When he announced the final scores, the Slytherins erupted into cheers at their victory.
Helena even saw Lucian applauding politely, though his expression remained impassive.
But then Dumbledore raised a hand, and silence once again descended upon the hall.
"However," the Headmaster continued, "recent events must also be taken into consideration."
One by one, he began awarding additional points.
Fifty points to Ron Weasley for his skill at wizard's chess.
Another fifty to Hermione Granger for her remarkable logic.
And sixty points to Harry for his exceptional bravery.
Helena quickly did the arithmetic.
Gryffindor now had four hundred and seventy-two points, only twenty behind Slytherin.
"Is he trying to make Gryffindor win?" Helena whispered, unable to keep the growing suspicion out of her voice.
"I hope not…" Cassandra replied quietly, though Helena caught an unusual flash of hostility in her eyes.
Lucian, meanwhile, said nothing.
He simply watched Dumbledore with an unreadable expression.
When Dumbledore awarded another twenty points to Neville Longbottom, bringing the scores level, the entire hall seemed to hold its breath.
Helena could feel the electric tension in the air, like the moment before a storm breaks.
"And finally," Dumbledore announced, pausing dramatically and keeping everyone on the edge of their seats, "for Miss Helena Potter, whose determination and quick judgement ensured the safety of her fellow students during a critical moment…"
He smiled.
"…I award fifteen points to Slytherin."
The Great Hall fell completely silent.
For a moment, no one reacted.
Then the Slytherin table exploded into cheers—a triumphant roar that reverberated throughout the hall.
By contrast, the other houses offered only restrained applause, lacking the overwhelming enthusiasm of the Slytherins.
It was obvious that many of them had expected—and perhaps even wanted—to see Slytherin lose.
Helena blinked, stunned.
Had she heard that correctly?
Had Dumbledore just secured Slytherin's victory?
Until that moment, she had been convinced the Headmaster intended to tip the scales in Gryffindor's favour with his sudden distribution of points.
But if that had been his goal, why stop just before they could claim victory? It was… strange.
As green and silver streamers rained down from the ceiling, Helena felt a mixture of relief and confusion.
She had no idea what to make of any of it.
But one thing was certain.
Slytherin had won.
...
Claro. Mantengo el tono de los capítulos anteriores, con una traducción literaria natural y cuidando especialmente que los diálogos suenen propios de un fanfic en inglés.
With the final results announced, the school year officially came to an end.
Lucian was recognised as the top student of the year, though he received the news with his usual indifference. Cassandra wasn't far behind, although Herbology and Astronomy had kept her from overtaking him.
Helena, meanwhile, had surprised everyone with her grades, especially considering that only a few months ago she had been completely unaware that the wizarding world even existed.
The castle soon emptied.
Wardrobes were stripped of their belongings, trunks were packed away, and every student was reminded that the use of magic outside school was strictly forbidden.
At the edge of the lake, Hagrid waited for them with the same boats they had used to cross on that first night.
Yet the excitement of their arrival was long gone.
Now, the journey was merely the beginning of a long goodbye.
Aboard the Hogwarts Express, Helena shared a compartment with Lucian and Cassandra, while Harry travelled with Ron and Hermione. They spent the journey talking, laughing, and sharing Bertie Bott's Every Flavour Beans.
As the train rolled onward, the landscape grew greener and less rugged until, eventually, they arrived at King's Cross Station.
The platform was crowded with students and their families. An elderly guard kept watch over the barrier, making sure that the young witches and wizards didn't suddenly spill out into the Muggle station all at once.
Amid the crowd, Cassandra turned to Helena with an expectant smile.
"You should come and spend the summer with us," she suggested suddenly. "My mother wants to meet you. And, if you'd like, your brother is welcome too."
Helena blinked in surprise before smiling.
"I'd love to. I'm going to need some pleasant company after all this."
She cast a fleeting glance towards the entrance of the platform before looking at Lucian.
"Don't worry about Lucian," Cassandra added with feigned exasperation. "He's at my house half the time anyway."
"Well, your mother has always been very kind to me," Lucian remarked with a faint smile.
Amid the farewells of the other students, Harry, Ron, and Hermione went ahead to cross through the barrier. Helena, Lucian, and Cassandra followed close behind.
The moment they stepped into the station, the shrill voice of a little red-haired girl—whom Helena suspected was one of Ron's relatives—rose above the surrounding noise.
"Mum, look! It's Harry Potter!"
"Ginny, dear, pointing is rude," Mrs Weasley gently scolded her before turning a warm smile towards the Potter twins. "Been an eventful year?"
"Very," Harry replied with a tired smile.
"Thank you so much for the jumper and the cake, Mrs Weasley," Helena said sincerely.
"Oh, it was nothing, dear."
It was then that a stern voice interrupted the conversation.
"Ready yet?"
Uncle Vernon approached with his characteristic purple face and enormous moustache, glaring at Harry and Helena with undisguised displeasure as they stood in the middle of the Muggle station holding cages containing their pets.
Aunt Petunia and Dudley followed close behind, both looking distinctly uncomfortable at being anywhere near magic.
"You must be Harry's family!" Mrs Weasley exclaimed.
"Something like that," Vernon grunted. "Come along, you two. We haven't got all day."
With absolutely no sense of urgency, Helena took her time saying goodbye to Cassandra and Lucian, hugging them both.
"You have to write to us," Cassandra insisted.
"I will," Helena promised before frowning slightly. "By the way, where's your mother?"
"She won't be coming herself. She's sending a driver," Cassandra replied casually. "It's probably for the best. She can be a little eccentric in situations like this."
Helena said nothing, merely nodding.
She turned towards Lucian, who was watching her with his usual neutral expression.
"I hope you have a good holiday," he said, casting a meaningful glance towards Uncle Vernon.
Helena gave him a mischievous smile.
"Oh, I will."
Her eyes flicked towards Vernon.
"After all, they don't know that we're not allowed to use magic outside school."
Her smile widened.
"I'm going to have a lot of fun this summer."
…
Claro. Mantengo el estilo de las traducciones anteriores: narración fluida y natural, con un tono de fanfic de Harry Potter, procurando que las descripciones y diálogos suenen como prosa originalmente escrita en inglés.
The heavy London air greeted them with a damp, oppressive embrace the moment they stepped out of King's Cross Station. Between the morning mist and the constant hum of traffic, the city seemed to pulse with an energy that stood in stark contrast to the solemn tranquillity of Hogwarts. The bustle of footsteps, suitcases rolling across the pavement, and taxi whistles blended with the murmur of conversations that faded as people passed.
Amid that ordered chaos, a man slipped through the crowd as though it barely existed around him.
Dressed in an immaculate dark-grey wool suit, his tie knotted with painstaking precision, he stopped before them with the effortless elegance of someone who had spent years moving among distinguished circles.
"Miss Cassandra," he said with an exact inclination of his head. "Young Master Lucian. It is a genuine pleasure to see you both. Time has certainly been kind to you."
A spark of humour softened his measured voice.
"Though, regrettably, I cannot say the same for this old servant."
Cassandra allowed herself a brief but genuine smile, the faintest flicker of affection touching her lips. Her usually restrained demeanour relaxed for an instant in the presence of the familiar figure.
"It's good to see you too, Anton. And if you ask me, you look exactly the same as the last time I saw you."
Lucian, more reserved, merely gave him a neat, discreet nod. His sharp, composed gaze swept calmly over their surroundings, taking in every detail.
Anton returned the courtesy with a polite smile before continuing without losing an ounce of his composure. With efficient movements, he collected the luggage belonging to both young wizards and gestured for them to follow.
"As you already know, the master and mistress regret that they were unable to come in person," he explained as he walked confidently towards the waiting car. "A last-minute matter has kept them occupied, though I was assured they were most displeased by the inconvenience."
He paused briefly.
"Nevertheless, they have asked me to inform you that they have cleared their schedules completely for tonight. Dinner will be with you, without exception. They made it quite clear that this reunion was not something they wished to postpone."
"That sounds… wonderful," Cassandra said, a rare warmth entering her voice.
"It will undoubtedly be a pleasant evening," Anton replied in his usual neutral, if courteous, tone as he stepped ahead to open the door of the black car waiting a few metres away.
"Thank you," Cassandra murmured as she gracefully climbed inside.
Lucian followed close behind, and Anton shut the door with a soft click.
Without wasting a moment, the butler took his place behind the wheel. With the effortless fluidity of years of practice, the car glided smoothly into traffic, disappearing into the heart of the city like a silent shadow weaving between the avenues.
For the first few minutes of the journey, the quiet hum of the engine was the only sound inside the car.
Eventually, Anton spoke, his voice discreetly modulated through the rear-view mirror.
"Young Master Lucian," he said, a barely perceptible inflection entering his voice. "In one of the rear compartments, beside the right-hand seat, you will find an object covered with a grey velvet cloth."
Lucian listened attentively.
"It is a Portkey that will take you to your destination. The mistress's direct orders. You may use the same Portkey to return once you have concluded your business."
Lucian nodded naturally. Ever since leaving Hogwarts, he had known that something like this would eventually happen.
"Understood. Thank you, Anton."
"At your service," the driver replied without even turning around, his hands steady on the wheel as he navigated a sharp bend with practiced precision.
Lucian quickly located the Portkey.
Opening the indicated compartment, he carefully removed the grey velvet cloth covering it, revealing a small eagle figurine carved from dark wood, its wings spread wide.
The details of its feathers had been sculpted with such remarkable precision that the bird looked as though it might take flight at any moment.
Lucian reached out, but before his fingers could brush against the object, Cassandra's voice stopped him.
"Remember that you have to come back in time for dinner," she said seriously, the warmth from earlier replaced by her usual firm tone.
Lucian turned his head slightly towards her, his expression as impassive as ever.
"I know," he replied without emotion. "I'll be back soon. You know I don't like staying there any longer than necessary."
Cassandra said nothing.
She simply looked away, as though silently accepting that truth.
With nothing more to add, Lucian pressed his fingertips against the eagle.
A sudden sensation seized him, as though an invisible hook had caught him behind the navel and yanked him out of the car.
His vision blurred for an instant.
The world shattered like glass under pressure.
When his feet touched solid ground again, he was no longer inside the car.
He found himself in what appeared to be the sitting room of a house.
The transition had been instantaneous, yet the surroundings were strikingly different.
The air felt heavier.
The room was warmly lit by lamps mounted along the ceiling and by the crackling fire of a well-stocked hearth. The walls were lined with shelves overflowing with ancient books, jars containing arcane ingredients, and enchanted objects.
Despite the fire blazing nearby, Lucian felt no warmth.
Quite the opposite.
A harsh chill crawled across his skin.
He knew it had nothing to do with the weather.
It came from the place itself.
A house that looked welcoming enough at first glance, yet lacked something far more important.
Without wasting time, Lucian began moving through the house with quiet, assured steps.
Even without clear instructions, he knew exactly where he needed to go.
Every corner of the residence was etched into his memory, though his mind would have preferred otherwise.
The house, despite being silent and apparently empty, did not feel abandoned.
Quite the contrary.
Everything had been meticulously arranged.
Not a speck of dust marred the furniture. Not a single wrinkle disturbed the carpets. Every painting hung with painstaking precision, every curtain perfectly aligned with its window frame.
Everything spoke of an almost obsessive attention to detail.
Lucian continued down the ground-floor corridor.
As he passed, several portraits hanging along the walls seemed to come alive. Some depicted still landscapes beneath moving skies; others contained human figures who turned to look at him with a mixture of recognition and expectation.
A silver-haired woman leaned towards him from within her frame, her expression inquisitive.
Lucian did not stop.
He had no intention of making conversation.
He climbed the stairs calmly, as though prolonging the ascent would grant him a few more seconds of freedom.
At the end of the second-floor corridor stood a massive oak door, fitted with an iron knocker shaped like an elephant.
Lucian stopped before it.
He sighed.
It was a long, resigned sigh, almost a ritual he needed to perform before proceeding.
Then he raised his hand and knocked three times, each knock separated by a precise interval.
"Come in," a voice answered after a few seconds.
Claro. Aquí tienes la traducción manteniendo el tono de fanfic, especialmente la relación fría y distante entre Lucian y su madre. También corregí la repetición del párrafo sobre Albania, integrándola de forma natural en la escena.
Lucian opened the door and stepped inside.
She was there, just as he remembered her.
Seated behind an ornate desk, with a stack of documents spread before her and a quill that seemed to move almost of its own accord. Her posture was elegant, her presence imposing. Her hair was jet black, straight and falling past her shoulders like a veil of shadow. There was a quiet authority about her—calm, yet unyielding.
"I'm back, Mother."
It was all Lucian managed to say when the woman's eyes settled upon him.
She slowly raised her gaze, as though pulling her attention away from her documents required deliberate effort. Her steel-grey eyes travelled over him carefully.
She gave the slightest nod.
"You've grown."
The words might have been interpreted as a sign of affection, but they carried no warmth whatsoever. Her tone was so cold and neutral that it was difficult to believe they had been spoken by a mother to her son.
It was more like an observation. An undeniable fact.
A moment of silence passed before she spoke again, not bothering to maintain eye contact.
"Tell me. Was the information accurate? Did you find it?"
Her attention returned to the papers before her.
"I'm afraid I've disappointed you," Lucian replied, a trace of regret in his voice. "According to the information I managed to gather, it is true that the Philosopher's Stone was at Hogwarts. However… I doubt it was the real one."
She did not react immediately.
"Explain."
Her eyes remained fixed on the desk.
"I believe it was a setup by Dumbledore," Lucian said cautiously. "The Stone was used as bait. An irresistible lure… for Voldemort."
The name fell like lead into the room.
The air seemed to grow heavier, as though an icy mist had descended upon the chamber. Even the fire in the hearth flickered for a brief moment, its light trembling across the wooden walls.
Her quill stopped moving.
This time, she raised her eyes fully and looked at him.
Her face remained impassive, but for the briefest instant, a flash of pure anger burned in her eyes.
"What did you just say?" she asked quietly.
Lucian swallowed, but did not retreat.
"The Stone wasn't really hidden," he explained firmly, though a faint trace of uncertainty lingered in his gaze. "Everything was arranged so that someone could find it. In hindsight, it even seems as though Dumbledore was afraid it might be too difficult to reach."
He paused.
"At first, I couldn't understand why."
He watched his mother carefully, waiting for some reaction.
But she showed neither surprise nor anger.
Her expression remained unchanged.
"I must admit that, at first, I failed to realise there was someone else searching for it," he continued, his voice lowering. "A presence. Faint… a shadow that was difficult to perceive."
"Are you suggesting it was him?"
Lucian nodded slowly.
"I know it for certain. My friendship with Helena Potter allowed me to uncover part of what really happened. Voldemort was there, yes… but he was weak. Hidden within the body of the Defence Against the Dark Arts professor."
He paused briefly.
"He was using him as a host, moving through the castle almost imperceptibly. I don't know exactly when Dumbledore discovered him, but he didn't confront him. He let him draw closer."
Lucian's eyes narrowed slightly.
"He laid a trap."
"Then the Stone…" she whispered, as though piecing the thought together aloud.
"I assume it was a decoy," Lucian nodded. "I doubt Dumbledore was genuinely interested in protecting it. Much less using it. If the real Philosopher's Stone was ever at Hogwarts, it was only there for a limited time… long enough to make the deception believable."
He paused.
"I'm convinced Dumbledore only wanted to confirm his suspicion—that Voldemort was still alive."
A heavy silence followed, descending over the room like a veil.
The woman slowly leaned back in her chair, interlacing her fingers beneath her chin. Her face was an impenetrable mask.
"So…" she murmured. "Dumbledore continues his old habits."
Her gaze drifted into the distance.
"Even now, burdened by the weight of the years, he has not stopped moving the pieces across the board. Always playing chess with the darkness… hoping to catch his opponent off guard."
Lucian remained silent.
It was unwise to interrupt when she was thinking aloud.
Suddenly, without turning towards him, she asked:
"The replica? Did you ever manage to get your hands on it?"
Lucian calmly shook his head.
"No. I never dared get too close. Whenever I entered its hiding place… I felt as though something—or someone—was watching me."
He hesitated.
"It wasn't hostile, but it wasn't friendly either. More like a warning hanging in the air. I didn't trust my abilities enough to get in and out without being noticed."
She did not answer immediately.
Eventually, she rose.
She moved with her usual feline grace, crossing the room in silence until she stopped before the window. The heavy curtains allowed only a thin sliver of grey light to filter through, tinted by the setting sun.
"Voldemort must be desperate," she murmured, more to herself than to her son. "Risking entry into Hogwarts… he would never have done so if he had any other choice."
Her expression hardened.
"It is a clear sign that his condition is fragile. Perhaps he is only a shadow of what he once was…"
She fell silent.
"But if he cheated death once…"
The sentence lingered in the air like an unfinished spell.
The room itself seemed to hold its breath.
Lucian watched as she moved towards the fireplace mantel. An ancient locket rested there among weathered tomes, their covers coated with a fine layer of dust.
Her fingers brushed against it delicately, almost tenderly.
Yet when she spoke again, her voice had regained its usual firmness.
"I'm afraid, my son, that your stay at Hogwarts will have to be extended."
She did not even look at him, seemingly lost in her thoughts.
"As you command," Lucian replied firmly.
She offered no response.
With unshakable composure, she returned to her desk and resumed her work as though the conversation had never taken place. She unrolled the next parchment and held it up to the light, feigning concentration.
Then, barely above a murmur, she said without looking up:
"You may leave."
Lucian nodded silently.
He turned and walked towards the door.
His steps were deliberately slow, as though something invisible were holding him back.
Perhaps it was doubt.
Or perhaps it was the lingering remnant of something else.
When his hand brushed the iron knocker, he stopped.
"Is there anything else you want to tell me?"
The question hung in the air, spoken with a neutrality that concealed almost as much as it revealed.
Lucian remained with his back to her.
A part of him quietly chastised himself for harbouring even the faintest trace of hope.
And yet, he spoke.
"Before Professor Quirrell returned to Hogwarts, he travelled to a forest in Albania."
His fingers tightened slightly.
"It's a weak lead. Perhaps it can hardly even be called a lead at all. But it's the only information I have regarding Voldemort's possible whereabouts."
He did not wait for an answer.
He opened the door and crossed the threshold without looking back.
At the same time, he quickly seized the Portkey, utterly unwilling to spend even one more second within those walls.