The sensation of the Vanishing Act was not like Apparition. It wasn't the feeling of being squeezed through a tube, nor was it the hook-behind-the-navel pull of a Portkey. It was a sensation of unmaking.
For a terrifying, indeterminate moment, Lucien felt as though he had ceased to exist. The stone of the lighthouse, the smell of the sea, the warmth of Ira's hand—all of it dissolved into a grey, static hum. He was consciousness without form, a thought suspended in a void.
Then, reality reassembled itself with a violent crack of thunder.
Lucien hit the ground hard, his knees slamming into cold, jagged slate. The air that rushed into his lungs was thin, freezing, and biting. The smell of brine and industrial decay was gone, replaced by the scent of pine resin and snow.
He gasped, retching dryly, his body trembling from the aftershocks of the massive disillusionment spell he had fueled.
"Breathe, Lucien," Lysander's voice cut through the howling wind. It was calm, unaffected by the transition. "The first time one steps outside the boundaries of conventional space is always... disorienting."
Lucien forced his head up. They were no longer in Scotland.
They stood on a high, wind-swept stone terrace carved directly into the side of a sheer mountain peak. Below them, a sea of white clouds roiled, obscuring the world. Above, jagged peaks pierced a sky of crystalline, icy blue. A massive structure rose from the rock behind them—not a lighthouse, but a fortress of black stone and glass, perched precariously on the precipice like a bird of prey waiting to dive.
"Where..." Lucien choked out, shivering as the wind cut through his damp clothes.
"The Austrian Alps," Ira answered before Lysander could. She was standing near the edge of the terrace, looking out at the clouds, her arms wrapped tightly around herself. She turned to look at Lucien, her eyes wide. "This is Nurmengard. Isn't it?"
Lucien's blood ran cold. Nurmengard. The prison where Grindelwald had been held. The symbol of the Dark Wizard's reign.
"Not Nurmengard," Lysander corrected gently, walking past them toward the fortress's heavy timber doors. "Nurmengard was my father's prison, and before that, his monument to domination. This... this is The Aerie."
He waved a hand, and the heavy doors groaned open, revealing a warm, golden light spilling from within. "This was a retreat. A place my father built before the madness fully took him, and a place Albus Dumbledore later cleansed and repurposed. It exists within a localized time-distortion field. Here, an hour is a day. We have bought ourselves time, Lucien. Time to forge you."
Lucien struggled to his feet, swaying. Ira was at his side instantly, her shoulder supporting his weight.
"You used me," Lucien accused, his voice raspy. "Back at the lighthouse. You told me to cast the spell, but you directed it. You drained me."
Lysander stopped in the doorway, his silhouette framed by the warm light. "I guided a flood that would have otherwise drowned you. You have a reservoir of power, Lucien, that your father never possessed. Harry Potter was a duelist, a soldier. You... you are a living ley line. If I hadn't directed that energy into the transport, you would have leveled the Scottish coast."
He gestured for them to follow. "Come. The cold will kill you faster than the Ministry."
The interior of The Aerie was a stark contrast to the grim exterior. It was a place of high ceilings, warm fireplaces, and walls lined with thousands of books. It felt less like a fortress and more like a university for ghosts.
Lysander led them to a large common room where a fire roared in a hearth big enough to stand in. He gestured for them to sit on plush, velvet sofas that looked centuries old.
"Rest," Lysander commanded. "Eat." A table nearby was laden with food—hearty stews, dark breads, wine.
Lucien realized he was starving. The magic had burned through his reserves. He ate voraciously, his hands still shaking slightly. Ira ate with the slow, deliberate discipline of someone used to rationing, her eyes never leaving Lysander.
"Why us?" Ira asked suddenly, breaking the silence of the meal. "You talk about prophecies and legacies. But why did Dumbledore care? Why did he save you? Why did he plan for us?"
Lysander poured himself a glass of wine, staring into the flames. "Because Albus Dumbledore spent his life trying to fix his mistakes. He loved my father, once. And that love blinded him until it was almost too late. He saved me because he couldn't save Gellert. He saw in me a chance to redeem the bloodline."
He turned to Lucien. "And he saw in you, Lucien, a chance to redeem the narrative."
"My father is a hero," Lucien said, the words tasting bitter after the revelations of the letter he hadn't fully read, but understood the gist of. "He doesn't need redeeming."
"Doesn't he?" Lysander challenged softly. "Harry Potter is the 'Boy Who Lived.' The symbol of the Light. The Ministry's golden calf. But symbols are rigid, Lucien. They cannot bend. They cannot have secret sons born of paradoxes. They cannot love women who don't fit the narrative. To maintain the symbol of 'Harry Potter,' the man Harry Potter had to cut away the parts of himself that didn't fit. He had to cut away you."
Lucien flinched. The wound was too fresh. "He left me to protect me."
"He left you to protect the timeline," Lysander corrected. "To protect the world he saved. He prioritized the 'Greater Good' of the many over the life of his son. It is a noble sacrifice, in the eyes of history. But how does it feel to be the sacrifice, Lucien?"
Lucien stared at the fire. It felt like a hole in his chest. It felt like fifteen years of silence in a rainy cottage.
"He signed the letter 'H'," Lucien whispered. "Not Dad. Not Harry. Just 'H'."
"Because to him, you are a footnote," Lysander said, his voice laced with a seductive sympathy. "A dangerous variable. But to me... to the philosophy that seeks to break these cycles... you are the protagonist."
Lysander stood up, his shadow stretching long across the floor.
"Hermione Granger is coming," he announced. "She is brilliant, and she is furious. She believes you are a victim of kidnapping. She will try to 'save' you. She will try to put the locket back on. She will try to drug you again, to shove you back into the dark so her friend Harry doesn't have to face his shame."
He leaned in close to Lucien. "When she finds us—and she will, eventually—you have a choice. You can go with her, take the potion, and be Luke Granger, the Squib-pretender, forever. Or you can stand your ground. You can master the power that scares them. You can force your father to look you in the eye and acknowledge you not as a mistake, but as an equal."
Lucien looked at his hands. He felt the hum of the magic still there, waiting. It was terrifying. But the thought of going back to the fog, to the dullness of the potion... that was worse.
"Teach me," Lucien said. "Teach me how to stop them."
Lysander smiled. It wasn't a kind smile. It was the smile of an architect looking at a perfect foundation.
"Tomorrow, we begin Occlumency," Lysander said. "Because before you can fight Hermione Granger with a wand, you must be able to fight her with your mind. She will try to tear the truth from your head. You must learn to build a fortress that even the brightest witch of her age cannot breach."
He turned to leave the room. "Sleep well, children. In this place, time moves slowly. We have years of work to do in a matter of weeks."
As Lysander swept out of the room, Ira moved to sit beside Lucien on the sofa. She reached out and took his hand, her fingers tracing the lines of his palm.
"He's manipulating you," Ira whispered.
"I know," Lucien replied, staring at the door where Lysander had vanished. "But he's the only one telling me I'm powerful. Everyone else just tells me I'm dangerous."
"You are dangerous," Ira said, squeezing his hand. "That's why I'm staying."
Lucien looked at her, and in the firelight, the shadows of their joined hands stretched out across the floor, merging into one.