Chapter Text

✒️ Quill-snaps from Rita Skeeter :

“My dear readers! ✨

Rejoice for here's the first chapter of the third book.
Concerning this book, the sixth chapter has already been posted. The most attentive among you will understand.

Those with a talent for observation may occasionally notice faint quill-snaps and murmurs drifting about on Tumblr. Purely coincidental, I assure you.

Now then… do continue. Some stories are best enjoyed when one pretends not to be paying too much attention.”

The Mage – Book 3: Inheritance and Consequences

Entrance to the Empress's Peach Blossom Gardens — Kunlun Mountains, China
April 6th, 1992

Albus Dumbledore gazed around, quietly admiring the beauty of the landscape before him. Trees and shrubs mingled with the wild bushes, while here and there small creatures scurried through the undergrowth.

It was hard to believe he stood atop a mountain: the soil beneath his feet was soft, levelled by centuries, almost welcoming, and rich with vegetation.

Before him rose a vast stone archway, painstakingly carved millennia ago. Every engraving, every stele, bore witness to the boundless wealth of China's magical heritage. Thanks to the enchantments woven into his spectacles, Dumbledore could read the inscriptions etched upon the gate:

"Let none cross these gates without offering rest to their heart.
Let those who seek healing find the Blessing of Xi Wangmu,
and may the troubled soul be cleansed of its sorrows."

He sighed softly. He would have preferred to visit this place under gentler circumstances, as a mere traveller. But alas, that was not why he was here. Today, he had come not as an admirer of beauty, but as Supreme Mugwump of the International Confederation of Wizards.

Around him stood several Chinese wizards, their expressions sombre. Unlike their Western counterparts, they wore traditional garments: long black robes, ample and edged with fine silver thread. The younger ones were dressed in dark green tunics — the colour of the scholars. None bore red or yellow, hues reserved for the Imperial court. Their ancient hanfu-style headpieces completed their attire with almost military precision.

They stood motionless, guardians at the threshold like silent sentinels. Dumbledore waited patiently for the envoy of the Middle Kingdom.

Unlike most magical nations, China had preserved its government since the reforms of the Qin dynasty, maintaining the aristocratic order established under the Zhou. The Dragon Empire — the Middle Kingdom — had been ruled by the same imperial line for over two thousand years. Its administration, however, followed a refined blend of Tang and Song traditions.

The current Emperor, Xi Xiandi, was a worthy descendant of the illustrious ancestor who had founded these sacred gardens. Yet, unlike her, the Imperial throne had long since moved from Kunlun to the magical capital of Xi'an.

"Albus!" called a deep voice, its accent unmistakably Chinese.

A faint smile curved Dumbledore's lips. Lifting his gaze, he saw an elderly man approaching. Unlike the others, he wore a robe of gleaming gold, embroidered with darker golden thread.

It was Liu Zhou, Gōngzǐ of Qin, son of Fu Zhou, Gōng of that same province. His sister, Ya Zhou, sat on the International Confederation as the Empire's representative.

"Liu, my old friend. That robe suits you splendidly," Dumbledore greeted him with warmth.

Liu let out a hearty laugh. They had known each other for over fifty years, and though age had marked his face, it had not wearied it. Time, Dumbledore mused, seemed far kinder to him — perhaps because Liu carried a lighter burden than his own.

"You incorrigible flatterer," Liu replied, waving a hand dismissively. "Had you accepted my offer years ago, you would be wearing the same robe yourself!"

Dumbledore merely smiled, saying nothing. Years ago, Liu had proposed that Albus wed his sister, Ya. After the war with Grindelwald, he had renewed the offer — this time on his own behalf. He had understood, by then, where Albus's heart truly lay, a truth revealed to the world in that fateful duel. But Dumbledore had declined once more.

He had chosen solitude. His feelings had never faded, yet the constant scrutiny of the magical world had left him no space for intimacy. Duty came first, always.

Thus it was: duty had slain love.

Without an heir — and with his brother showing no inclination to provide one — Dumbledore knew that the family line would end with him.

"But enough jesting," Liu said at last, his tone shifting. "You must realise, Albus, that if we summoned you here as Supreme Mugwump, it is not merely to share a cup of tea."

"Nor, I suppose, to play a round of mah-jong," Dumbledore replied with a faint nod. "I take it this concerns the recent prohibition on public access to the site?"

Liu's expression darkened immediately, and Dumbledore felt a ripple of unease. It took much to unsettle Liu Zhou — a man schooled in the implacable etiquette of the Imperial court. His father, Fu Zhou, held the rank of Duke and governed the largest province of the Empire.

"What has happened, my friend?" Dumbledore asked gently.

Liu drew a deep breath and gestured for him to follow. The sudden gravity in his demeanour unsettled Dumbledore further. Normally so jovial and sharp-witted, Liu now seemed closed, silent as a monk.

They began to climb together. Before them stretched a long staircase, flanked by wooden rails and carefully trimmed zen shrubs. As they ascended — eighty-one steps, if Dumbledore's memory served — the old wizard noticed something amiss.

A dark stain of blood marked the fourth step. Each was nearly two metres wide; a body must have lain there recently. Raising his eyes, he saw other stains higher up, scattered along the stone path. His breath caught.

"I see you've noticed," said Liu, halting beside him. "Now you understand why we called for you."

Dumbledore merely nodded, his expression hardening. A massacre — and not the work of an ordinary sorcerer.

The Gardens were guarded by the Order of the Peach Tree, an ancient brotherhood of monk-sorcerers descended from the Immortals. Their sacred duty was to protect the sanctuary — and above all, the Decennial Fruit.

"Let us continue," said Liu quietly.

They resumed their ascent, following the staircase still marked by dried blood. The only sound was the measured rhythm of their steps on stone. From time to time Dumbledore felt a faint echo of magic in the air — weak, yet oddly familiar. He could not quite place it. Perhaps a former student? The aura eluded him, fading like a half-remembered dream.

At last, they reached the summit. Both men paused to catch their breath, then fell silent.

The gardens unfolded before them.

Dumbledore had visited this place twice in his life, and its beauty had not faded. Before them stretched a wide meadow of flawless green, scattered with trees whose leaves shifted from golden yellow to deep crimson. The air held that crystalline clarity peculiar to high places, and the light lent every colour an almost ethereal intensity.

Further ahead, several wooden buildings stood neatly aligned. Their curved roofs, dark beams and red lanterns gave the place the appearance of a tranquil village — though Dumbledore knew it was far from ordinary. This was no dwelling: it was a sanctuary, sealed away from the world for centuries.

High above, overlooking the entire domain, stood the Western Palace — the very place where Xi Wangmu herself had once ruled the magical empire. For three centuries, the might of magical China had radiated from these mountains, before moving to the capital at Xi'an.

But despite the beauty of the place, Albus soon noticed the changes. Some of the trees were damaged, and the grass was scorched in places. The temple at the centre, once magnificent, was riddled with holes, fragments of stone scattered all around.

"What exactly happened?" Dumbledore asked, his voice dark and measured.

The Chinese wizard cast a glance around before replying.

"An attack was carried out by a Western sorcerer," he began gravely. "We received a distress call on the eighteenth of March, and it took us twenty minutes to arrive with the Imperial Guard. When we reached the site…"

His words faltered, choked by emotion. Dumbledore laid a hand on his shoulder, silently urging him to go on.

Liu drew a steadying breath and continued.

"When we arrived, the ground was littered with bodies. A hundred monks lay in pools of blood — some impaled, others torn apart."

He looked straight into Dumbledore's eyes.

"The last time I saw anything like it, Albus, was during the battles against Grindelwald's zealots."

Dumbledore swallowed hard at the memory. The zealots — that was what they had called the members of the Elder Order, founded by Grindelwald himself. They had been utterly devoted to Gellert, stripped of inhibition, some claiming the Cruciatus was a 'child's curse'.

"How can you be certain it was a Western wizard?" Dumbledore asked, curiosity edging through his grief. "Were there survivors?"

Liu nodded and motioned for him to follow toward a nearby building.

The hall they entered was spacious. As Albus stepped inside, he noticed faint traces of paint on the walls — clumsy shapes, bright-coloured animals, and words drawn in a child's uncertain hand. He understood at once: it had been a school.

They entered the great hall. The air was heavy, saturated with whispered sobs. The place now served as a refuge. Dozens of children were gathered together — some weeping silently, others rocking back and forth, murmuring senseless phrases. Around them, a few wizards moved quietly, doing their best to maintain order, their faces grim and pale.

"These are…" Dumbledore began softly.

"The monks' children — and the apprentices," Liu interrupted. "Most were spared, thanks to the Blessing of the Queen of the West. Praise be upon her."

Albus inclined his head solemnly. He had heard of that enchantment — a powerful charm woven across the entire Imperial domain of Kunlun, from palace to gardens. It was said that no one could kill a sorcerer under the age of fourteen within its bounds.

"How are they?" Albus asked, his voice low with concern.

Liu's gaze swept over the children before returning to his old friend.

"They are traumatised, especially the youngest," he said quietly. "The older ones… that is another matter. They had begun their training to join the Order of the Peach Tree — their mental conditioning had already started. Some bear wounds. Others have fallen into deep comas."

Dumbledore understood the unspoken truth. The apprentices had fought beside their masters — and likely beside their parents. The Blessing had saved only those still deemed children.

"How many?" he asked in a hushed voice.

The imperial counsellor hesitated, trembling slightly before answering.

"Twenty-two."

The number struck Dumbledore like a physical blow.

Twenty-two apprentices dead — too young to be masters, too old to be protected. In the Order of the Peach Tree, apprenticeship ended at seventeen. It spoke volumes about the ferocity of the attack.

At that moment, one of the wizards stepped forward — a man clad in a robe of deep blue-green. He held the hand of a young girl, perhaps twelve or thirteen years old. She seemed less shaken than the others, her black eyes shining with a strange, unwavering resolve.

"Counsellor Zhou. Supreme Mugwump Dumbledore," the man said with a respectful bow. "Inspector-Censor Tsao, at your service."

Dumbledore grimaced slightly at the title. He had never cared for it. It reminded him that he led the wizarding world not by choice, but by duty — all because of a creature that had chosen him and a tradition he did not entirely understand. Was it truly that simple? Or was it the weight of his power — of his victory over Gellert? At times, he was not sure.

Liu nodded approvingly at Tsao. As Imperial Counsellor, he valued courtesy and respect — though he discarded them readily in private company, proof that he still knew the line between office and friendship.

"And who is this charming young lady?" Dumbledore asked, turning to the girl.

She met his gaze squarely before bowing deeply.

"Mei-Fu Pao-Dong, daughter of Grand Master Lao Pao-Dong. My respects, your excellencies."

The two older wizards exchanged a brief look, surprised by the formality of her address.

"So you are the daughter of the leader of the Order of the Peach Tree?" Albus asked gently.

"I was, your excellency," she replied simply. "My father succumbed to his wounds defending the temple. May he be rewarded in the afterlife."

The girl's words disturbed Dumbledore slightly — they were cold, devoid of emotion.

"An interesting way to speak," Liu remarked, one brow arched. "Did your father teach you such courtesy and reverence toward your superiors?"

The young girl bowed once more.

"Yes, Your Excellency," she replied firmly. "The Pao-Dong have long been loyal servants of the Imperial family, and it is our sacred duty to uphold the ancestral traditions."

Albus frowned slightly, while Liu observed the girl with growing fascination.

"You don't seem particularly affected by recent events. How is that?"

The girl lifted her gaze to meet his. For a fleeting instant, the mask of composure she wore cracked, revealing beneath it a glimpse of infinite sorrow. Albus understood at once — she had already mastered, at her young age, the discipline of Occlumency.

"I have learned to control my emotions, Your Excellency," she replied, her voice trembling just enough to betray her effort. "A Pao-Dong must never show weakness, whatever the circumstances. Our family's honour—and my title—depend on it."

Noticing Dumbledore's thoughtful expression, Inspector Tsao decided to clarify.

"As the only daughter of the late Grand Master Pao-Dong, she is to become Head of the Order upon reaching the age of seventeen. Until then, she will train under Master Xu Tai-Tsu, who has come out of retirement to take her under his guidance."

Liu nodded approvingly, a faint hum escaping his lips.

"I assume there's a reason you brought this young lady to us?" he asked Tsao.

"Yes, Imperial Counsellor Zhou," the man replied with a respectful bow. "She personally witnessed the confrontation and was wounded in the battle. By great fortune, we managed to heal her injuries, and she now wishes to share what she knows."

The counsellor smiled faintly, visibly impressed by the girl's determination.

"In that case, Mei-Fu Pao-Dong, we are listening. Tell us what you can about this wizard—and his purpose."

Albus watched the young girl closely, already half-aware of what she was about to reveal. There was only one conceivable reason a wizard would attack this place—and they all knew it.

No, Liu simply wanted to hear it from her own lips. Why? For once, Albus had no idea.

Still, he remained on guard. With Liu, one could expect anything. And he had to remember that beyond their friendship, this man was the Emperor's Counsellor—and heir to the most powerful noble family in the Dragon Empire.

Mei-Fu stepped forward with measured grace, her eyes fixed on a vision only she could see. Albus realised she was reliving every instant of the tragedy.

"It began in the morning, during our prayer session," she started softly. "We honour the Queen Mother of the West every day for one hour before beginning our duties."

The adults nodded, recognising a sacred ritual of the Order.

"That was when my father suddenly tensed. He declared the session adjourned and made for the entrance. We followed him—his reaction was… unusual."

Her voice grew firmer, though it remained melodious.

"I had never seen a man like him before," she said. "Yes, there was a man waiting for us at the gates. Tall, broad-shouldered, with jet-black hair. He was no Chinese—no Asian at all. He was from the West. He looked like a traveller… perhaps even a tourist."

Dumbledore searched his memory, but no such man came to mind.

"What happened next?" he asked quietly.

The girl lifted her head, her gaze distant.

"My father asked the reason for his presence," she explained. "The gardens are a place of pilgrimage and study; I could not understand why he seemed so wary. The man replied that my father knew perfectly well why he had come."

Her voice faded, caught in the pull of remembrance.

"My father told him that the Fruit was already reserved—and that he would have to endure his fracture for ten more years."

Albus turned to Liu, whose face had hardened. Liu met his eyes gravely.

"The Fruit had been reserved for the Emperor, Albus."

He hesitated, glancing between them before locking eyes with his old friend. Dumbledore caught the silent message and brushed the surface of Liu's thoughts.

The Emperor is gravely ill. None of our healers can save him. The Fruit is his only hope of recovery.

Nodding slowly, Albus motioned for Mei-Fu to continue, though his mind was already racing.

The Emperor of the world's most powerful magical nation was dying — and his succession uncertain. That did not bode well.

"The stranger laughed," Mei-Fu went on, her voice trembling slightly. "He said he would take the Fruit—by persuasion or by force."

The three men exchanged a glance. That, clearly, was the turning point.

"Before my father could even raise his staff, the stranger moved his hand—and Father was thrown backwards, all the way up the staircase. After that, I… I…"

Her words faltered. The mask cracked. Tears traced silent paths down her cheeks, her dark eyes clouded with pain.

Not wishing to press her further, Dumbledore reached into his robes and withdrew a small golden bowl, which he enlarged with a flick of his wand.

A Pensieve. The goblins had gifted it to him after Grindelwald's defeat—a token, they said, so he might never forget the day of victory. Contrary to popular belief, Albus mused, goblins were remarkable beings—merely misunderstood.

"It would be best, if you are willing," he said gently, "for us to witness what happened. Do you agree?"

The girl wiped her tears with the back of her hand and nodded, her throat too tight to speak.

"Focus on the scene," Dumbledore murmured, pressing the tip of his wand to her temple.

With deliberate care, he drew a silver strand from her mind and let it fall into the Pensieve.

"I believe only Albus and I should enter the memory," Liu said, turning to Tsao.

The inspector bowed deeply, guiding Mei-Fu back toward her peers, a reassuring hand on her shoulder.

The two wizards exchanged a silent look—then leaned forward, submerging their faces in the Pensieve's surface.

Their surroundings vanished. A heartbeat later, they were plunged into chaos.

The first sight to greet them was a monk suspended mid-air, limbs wrenched in opposite directions, while another screamed until his voice broke. A nun lay sprawled across the steps, eyes vacant, her mouth frozen in a silent cry.

All around them, battle raged. Dumbledore could hardly believe what he saw, for the sanctum had seemed almost untouched in the present.

The monks fought with desperate courage—apprentices and masters alike. Their shouts blended with incantations in ancient Mandarin, words so old that even Albus, a master of languages, caught only fragments.

Glyphs of gold and jade erupted through the air, forming spectral beasts that hurled themselves at the intruder. Statues that Dumbledore hadn't noticed before came alive on either side of the staircase, jaws wide, lunging at the trespasser.

But the man advanced, slow and composed, a cruel smile etched on his lips.

Albus felt his breath catch. In the man's eyes burned a red light he knew all too well. Could it be…?

A monk's spell struck him squarely in the chest—and shattered like glass. With a lazy flick of his hand, the stranger impaled the unfortunate monk against the steps.

Dumbledore watched, transfixed and horrified.

That manner of duelling, that cold precision, that merciless amusement…

It was all too familiar.

Beside him, Liu watched the scene with a grim, professional eye. A veteran of war and a renowned duellist, he dissected every motion like a scholar of battle.

"They were clearly unprepared," he said in an icy voice. "Isolation and centuries of peace have dulled their edge."

Dumbledore said nothing — he could not deny it. The monks fought with courage, but not with strategy.

"I find their behaviour strange," he murmured. "They are masters of Occlumency, and yet…"

Liu finished his thought.

"And yet they fight like beasts, without discipline. Even Mei-Fu."

The Imperial Counsellor pointed towards the young girl, who moved as though possessed. Her wild gestures bore no resemblance to the composed child they had seen in the school.

Then Dumbledore saw it. He placed a hand on Liu's arm and motioned for him to look.

Further down the staircase, something shifted — a shadow peeled itself away from the stone.

"What is that?" Albus asked quietly.

They tore their eyes from the battle for a moment, though the cries of the children behind them clawed at their hearts. Dumbledore forced himself not to turn. The screams, the pleas, the sobs — they tore through his composure. He saw the same torment mirrored in Liu's eyes.

Seeing men and women die in combat was one thing.

But children?

No war, no cause, could ever justify that.

Still, they had to focus.

That shadow — that presence — was not natural. And Dumbledore knew, with an instinct sharpened by decades of darkness, that it was tied to the foreign wizard.

They advanced slowly, eyes fixed upon the undulating darkness. The shadow turned its head toward them. Both men froze.

A short, rasping laugh echoed through the air — not quite human.

Before their stunned eyes, the shadow twisted, reshaping itself.

It was neither man nor beast.

A birdlike head crowned with a crest of scaled ridges like those of a lizard; a mouth lined with sharp teeth; a human torso, but legs replaced by writhing serpents, each with snapping fangs glistening with venom. Its clawed hands grasped a whip and a shield of some unearthly metal.

"Well now… what charming hosts you are," the creature said in a guttural tone before bursting into coarse laughter.

Dumbledore and Liu drew their wands, but the creature only laughed harder.

"Don't bother," it crooned. "Your spells will do nothing. This is merely an illusion. But—how rude of me. I haven't even introduced myself."

A swirl of black smoke engulfed it. When it cleared, an elegant man stood in its place — tall, imposing, dressed in garments reminiscent of a nineteenth-century English nobleman.

His eyes, glowing crimson, gleamed with a cold amusement; a pointed beard framed a smile that was anything but kind.

"Who are you?" demanded Liu, his voice steady. "And how are you speaking to us within this memory?"

The man raised an eyebrow, his grin widening.

"Nothing particularly difficult," he said lightly. "I am the Demon Lord of forbidden knowledge and proscribed magic. I am Abraxas, Demon Lord of Diovengia… at your service."

He bowed with a flourish, hand to heart, a parody of courtly grace.

Both wizards stepped back instinctively. Never before had they heard such a title — Demon Lord. The words themselves seemed to poison the air.

"You come from the Hells?" Albus asked, his voice tighter than he intended.

Abraxas laughed — a bright, crystalline laugh that no human throat could produce.

"The Hells? Oh, no. I am a demon, not a devil. Though I'm sure Asmodeus and Mephistopheles would adore to see me grovel before them, obey, and share my secrets."

His smile sharpened.

"No, I am one of the Demon Lords of the Abyss."

He studied them a moment before shaking his head with mock disappointment.

"I could spend days explaining the difference between devils and demons, but this little memory won't last that long. And besides… you're missing quite the spectacle."

He gestured toward the top of the staircase.

They turned — and their breath caught. Corpses were piled in heaps, flames guttered into embers, and smoke coiled lazily toward the heavens.

Clearly, the creature's idea of spectacle differed from their own.

"Are you behind all this?" Liu demanded.

The Demon Lord sighed, sounding almost bored.

"Alas, no," he replied with feigned melancholy. "The wizard acted of his own accord. Yet the darkness of his soul, his hunger for knowledge — they drew me to him… as a moth to a candle flame."

He smiled again, revealing teeth far too perfect to be mortal.

"I may, however, have chosen to… enhance the entertainment. Discipline bores me. And those monks?" He gave a shudder of disdain. "They remind me of Iomedae's tiresome little agents. I merely decided to end the charade. Nothing remarkable, really — not for one of my standing."

Albus opened his mouth to speak, but Abraxas cut him off with a raised hand.

"I truly am sorry — sincerely — but duty calls. Even I have limits. Dividing my attention is… exhausting. But rest assured, gentlemen… we will meet again."

With that, he vanished — leaving behind a chill wind and an oppressive silence.

The two wizards exchanged a look, heavy with more questions than answers.

"Well," said Dumbledore at last, "at least we know why the monks behaved as they did."

"A fine consolation!" Liu snapped, his tone edged with irritation. "He spewed nonsense — the Abyss, the Hells, Iomedae, Diovengia… What is all that but meaningless drivel?"

Dumbledore understood his friend's frustration. Even he struggled to make sense of it. Yet one word still echoed in his mind — Diovengia.

He was sure he had read it somewhere before… perhaps in the Black family library. And that recollection, faintly tied to Harry, unsettled him deeply.

He chose to remain silent. He would verify later. But he was certain of one thing: the name was not unfamiliar.

Nor was Mephistopheles. That name belonged to the old Germanic lore — a subject Dumbledore had, regrettably, studied far too closely during his time with Gellert Grindelwald.

"Since the demon is gone, let us witness the end of the battle," Liu said irritably.

The two men climbed the staircase once more, passing through the motionless echoes of fallen monks. Higher up, they saw the foreign wizard strike down Grand Master Pao-Dong with a single, swift motion — clean, precise, almost surgical.

They followed him, and — unsurprisingly — the man entered the temple.

Inside, the devastation was clear. Pillars split in two, broken incense burners scattered across the floor, scorch marks licking the walls like dark veins.

At the centre stood a great peach tree, its emerald leaves gleaming against the paler tones of the surrounding grove.

From one of its branches hung a single fruit — golden, radiant, glowing faintly like the fabled apples of the Hesperides.

"At last," the stranger murmured. "At long last, I shall reclaim my full power."

Before Dumbledore and Liu's helpless eyes, he plucked the fruit and sank his teeth into it. Golden juice trickled down his lips, dripping onto the stone floor in glistening drops.

The moment he swallowed the first bite, the leaves of the tree turned a violent crimson. The entire trunk trembled, and the air grew thick with crackling energy.

The stranger doubled over, screaming — a sound not meant for human throats. A blinding light engulfed him, his convulsing shadow sprawling across the temple walls like a monstrous silhouette.

His cries echoed long after the light began to fade. Slowly, the glow dimmed and vanished. The man straightened, breathing hard. His body seemed unchanged — yet something in his gaze had altered. Something missing… or newly born.

"Before returning to England, I must—"

He never finished the sentence.

Behind him, a familiar outline began to form: Abraxas.

But this time, it was no true apparition — merely an imprint, a ghostly residue left in the temple's magic.

The exchange had barely begun when the Pensieve around them darkened.

The memory dissolved, dragging them abruptly back into the present.

.

Once back in the present, the two wizards remained silent for a long moment, their gazes locked.

"He said England, didn't he, Albus?" Liu asked, his voice unsteady.

Dumbledore nodded, confirming their worst fears.

A dark wizard—cruel, sadistic, immeasurably powerful—and English?

There was only one. And his name was known to all.

"I'm afraid Tom has returned," Albus murmured, "and that he has regained his full strength."

Liu stood motionless for a while, deep in thought.

"And yet," he said at last, "nothing has happened in England, though days have passed. What is he planning?"

Dumbledore frowned, recalling the exchange between Voldemort and Abraxas—or rather, the part they had not heard.

"I have the unpleasant feeling that Tom never made it back," he said darkly. "That 'Demon Lord' interfered—but for what purpose, I cannot say."

"This bodes ill, Albus," Liu replied wearily. "If this Demon Lord truly possesses the power and knowledge he claims, then we must prepare for the worst."

The Supreme Mugwump gave a silent nod.

He glanced at his friend, ensuring that the other sorcerers were still occupied with the surviving children before speaking again.

"Have you considered asking Nicolas for help with the Emperor's condition?" he asked. "He has crafted elixirs capable of curing many ailments—some inspired by peaches, as a matter of fact."

Liu looked at him in surprise, then shook his head slowly.

"We hadn't," he admitted. "We wished to avoid any risk of leaks. You know well, Albus, I would never have told you if the fruit hadn't been stolen. And to be frank, I've no idea how to reach him."

Albus allowed himself a faint smile.

"Leave that to me, old friend. Expect a visit from Nicolas, his wife… and perhaps one or two others. It will depend on the goodwill of a certain rather irritable Black."

A soft chuckle escaped Liu, briefly dispelling the tension that lingered between them.

"If we're speaking of the same man, then I shall expect the worst."

The two old wizards shared a knowing smile.

Yes—Arcturus Black had always been a stubborn mule.