At Hogwarts, the story begins with deconstructing Avada Kedavra.

Chapter 90 Danger Approaches

Hogwarts, Headmaster's Office.

The summer sun shines through the huge stained glass windows, making the world incredibly bright.

However, this brightness failed to dispel the dullness and oppression in the room.

Albus Dumbledore sat behind his desk.

Fox perched on a branch. This phoenix, which was always full of life, now buried its head deep in its wings and occasionally let out a mournful cry, as if it had sensed something that made it extremely uneasy.

In the center of the desk lay the Daily Prophet, which had just been delivered that morning.

The front-page photo, which took up a huge portion of the page, showed Cornelius Fudge beaming as he pinned a medal around Harry Potter's neck.

Fudge's smile kept looping on the photograph paper, a mixture of political smugness and feigned concern that Dumbledore found utterly ridiculous.

Beside the newspaper was a draft of the Ministry of Magic Education Act—Dolores Umbridge's masterpiece.

"Senior Investigator————"

Dumbledore uttered the word softly, his voice carrying a deep weariness.

The portraits of past headmasters on the wall were not pretending to be asleep as usual; they were all gazing at this greatest white wizard of the century.

"They're spitting in your face, Albus!"

Phineas Nigellus Black paced angrily within the painting frame, brandishing a drawn wand. "Those brain-dead bureaucrats at the Ministry of Magic, how dare they meddle in Hogwarts' internal affairs! That security negligence report you signed is the noose they'll use to hang you!"

"Calm down, Phineas."

In another portrait, Delis de Winter solemnly states, "Albus had his reasons for doing this. Fudge was just a fool blinded by power; he was nothing to fear."

Dumbledore did not respond to the commotion among the portraits. He slowly reached out and brushed his hand across Harry's bewildered and helpless face in the Daily Prophet.

Fudge thought he had won the hearts of the people and gained control of Hogwarts.

Dumbledore murmured, as if speaking to thin air, "He doesn't know that he's just on a leaky ship, cheering for who will take the helm."

Before yesterday, the Ministry of Magic's power grab might have given him a headache. He would have spent several days weighing the options and maneuvering, using his impeccable political skills to defuse Fudge's ambitions.

But now, everything has become dull and even somewhat pathetic.

Dumbledore pulled open the bottom drawer of his desk.

There was a small, transparent crystal bottle. Inside the bottle was a small amount of grayish-purple powder that he had collected at the edge of the Forbidden Forest.

"The Ministry of Magic is on guard against an old man in his twilight years, on guard against a fleeing remnant soul—" Dumbledore closed his eyes, the image of the gray-cloaked man self-destructing and the surrounding magical rules shattering once again flashing through his mind.

"Yet they are completely unaware of the crumbling foundation beneath their feet."

Lucian Ashford.

The name lingered in Dumbledore's mind.

The twelve-year-old boy casually took the Philosopher's Stone in full view of everyone, right under the noses of the Ministry of Magic, the Death Eaters, and himself.

What's even more frightening is that he displayed a coldness and detachment that seemed completely out of place in this world.

Last night's eye contact in the Great Hall made Dumbledore realize one thing:

Lucian never regarded him as a mentor, nor as an enemy.

In the eyes of that boy, Albus Dumbledore was nothing more than an old gardener.

"I can't let him go back into the darkness with that stone."

Dumbledore stood up, his wizard robes billowing in the wind, making the parchment on the table rustle.

"Albus, where are you going?" Phineas stopped in surprise.

"Go see someone who is truly not on the chessboard."

Dumbledore didn't turn around. He walked to the door, and Fawkes took flight, carrying him away from the headmaster's office.

The flashbulbs on Platform Nine and Three-Quarters were still flashing on Connelly Fudge's smug face, but a few blocks away on the Muggle streets outside King's Cross Station in London, the weather seemed to have entered late autumn ahead of schedule.

The light rain pattered on the stone pavement, splashing up tiny droplets.

The Muggles hurried along, using their colorful umbrellas to create a barrier between themselves and the gloomy city.

Lucian Ashford strolled leisurely down the bustling street, pushing a light luggage cart. He looked like an ordinary, well-mannered English teenager.

He had just passed through the magical wall, leaving the absurd coronation ceremony at the Ministry of Magic behind.

Inside the inside pocket of his trench coat, the Philosopher's Stone, which had caused a year of turmoil at Hogwarts, was quietly radiating a faint warmth.

"Muggle cities always have a rough but real vitality."

A gentle, deep, yet profound voice rang out in the rain in front of Lucien.

Lucian stopped in his tracks.

Under the awning of a closed café on the street corner stood a tall, thin old man.

Instead of his signature purple robe embroidered with stars and moons, he wore a well-tailored dark vintage suit and held a long-handled black umbrella in his hand.

His long silver hair was neatly tied back, and even on the dark street, his azure eyes remained as bright as a lighthouse, seemingly able to see through layers of rain and mist, reaching the depths of one's soul.

The Muggle pedestrians around them seemed not to see the out-of-place old man, nor did they notice Lucian suddenly stopping in the middle of the road. They naturally walked around the two of them as if water had encountered a reef.

This is an extremely sophisticated confusion spell and Muggle banishment spell.

Albus Dumbledore.

Good afternoon, Principal.

Lucian bowed slightly, his tone neither panicked nor embarrassed by being caught, as calm as if he had bumped into a professor in the corridor. "I thought you would be in the ministry right now, accompanying Minister Fudge to complete that wonderful public relations performance."

"Honor and slander are nothing but worldly dust."

I've lived too long; I've learned to ignore those false bubbles.

Dumbledore took a step forward, and the rain slid off automatically an inch from the umbrella, not a single drop wetting the hem of his clothes.

His gaze fell on Lucien's chest, where the six-hundred-year miracle of Nicolas Flamel was hidden.

"You left in such a hurry, Lucian. You didn't even stay to celebrate your and your friends' victory in the basement."

"That kind of script, which belongs to knights and saviors, is not suitable for me," Lucien replied calmly. "I just took away the forgotten props from the stage."

Dumbledore gazed intently at the boy before him. Before coming here, he had repeatedly examined the clump of purplish-gray soil in the headmaster's office and pondered Lucian's motives for taking the Philosopher's Stone.

If it were Tom Riddle, Dumbledore would not hesitate to draw the Elder Wand, because Tom's desire is destruction and domination; but when facing Lucian, Dumbledore's heart is filled with complex doubts.

This boy was too calm, as calm as a mirror without reflection.

"Nico created it to prolong his life, but was thus trapped by it; Tom craved it to reshape his body, but became even more twisted as a result."

Dumbledore's voice sounded particularly distant in the rain, carrying a worry unique to elders: "The Philosopher's Stone is a touchstone, Lucian. It can not only turn metal into gold, but it can also amplify the greed in people's hearts infinitely. It will corrupt the soul of its holder until they become slaves to their desires."

Dumbledore paused, his deep blue eyes meeting Lucian's. "I'm not here today to hand you over to the Ministry of Magic, nor to punish a student who has erred as headmaster. I simply want to confirm one thing: is it safe to leave it in your hands?"

This is a very Dumbledore-esque question.

He didn't ask "Why did you steal it?" nor did he order "Hand it over".

He was assessing the situation, trying to see clearly whether this unpredictable variable would become the next black hole to devour the magical world.

Lucien understood Dumbledore's subtext. He even felt a touch of admiration for the old man's wisdom.

While the Ministry of Magic was busy fighting for power, only Dumbledore remained focused on the risk of "power going out of control."

"Safe?" Lucian chuckled, reaching into his trench coat pocket and casually pulling out the red stone that countless wizards dreamed of.

The stone glowed with a captivating reddish hue in the gloomy, rainy weather, and Dumbledore could even sense the surging, breathtaking life force within it.

"Principal, what do you consider to be safe?"

Lucian held the Philosopher's Stone in his palm as if it were an ordinary pebble. "Is it safe to lock it in Gringotts' underground vault? Is it safe to hide it in the self-deceptive space of the Mirror of Erised?"

Or is it safer to destroy it with your own hands, to make it disappear completely from the world?

"Uncontrolled power is danger," Dumbledore said in a deep voice.

"No, Principal." Lucien's eyes deepened. "Power itself is neither good nor evil; what is truly dangerous is the understanding that cannot bear it."

""

"Are you worried that I will be corrupted by it like Voldemort?"

You're overthinking it. Greed stems from scarcity, and the desire for immortality arises from the fear of death.

And I—”

Lucian looked at the stone in his hand, his tone rational, "I don't crave immortality, because immortality is just something that happens along the way. I also don't need wealth, because it's an inheritance from my ancestors."

"This stone is not a wish-granting machine to satisfy my desires, but the starting point of a miracle."

It's in my hands; it's no different from any other tool.

Hearing these words, Dumbledore felt a chill in his heart that was more biting than the London rain.

This isn't a debate about good versus evil. This boy is looking down on magic with an attitude of condescension.

He is not greedy because he doesn't care about human desires at all; but isn't this absolute rationality and indifference another kind of deeper terror?

"Your thoughts are dangerous, Lucian."

Dumbledore slowly raised the black umbrella in his hand, and the surrounding rain began to freeze unnaturally. "It will rob you of the emotions of being human."

Dumbledore had to make a decision.

Although Lucien proved he wouldn't be consumed by the greed for the Philosopher's Stone, if he were allowed to use it to study "arcane," a monster even more incomprehensible than Voldemort might be born in the future.

"Give it to me, child. Hogwarts can protect you, and I can teach you how—"

Before Dumbledore could finish speaking, something unexpected happened.

"Tick-tock".

A raindrop that had been suspended in mid-air by Dumbledore's magic suddenly flew horizontally to the left in a trajectory that defied the laws of physics, shattering a fallen leaf.

Immediately afterwards, the red brick buildings on both sides of the street began to fade.

The hustle and bustle of the London streets, the honking of cars, and even the rustling of leaves in the wind were all forcibly silenced by an extremely brutal force in that instant.

The world fell into a suffocating silence. All color was drained away, leaving only high-contrast black and white, as if the two had suddenly been pulled into an old black and white photograph.

Dumbledore's pupils contracted sharply.

This is not apparition; it is a direct cutting into real space!

"He's right, Albus Dumbledore. He doesn't need your protection, much less your clichés about love."

A voice came from the void behind Dumbledore.

Dumbledore turned around abruptly, and the Elder Wand had silently slid into his hand.

In the middle of the once deserted street, the air seemed to shatter like broken glass, and two figures dressed in lead-gray robes stepped out.

The man leading the group was a man who looked to be around thirty years old.

He was handsome, but his skin had a pale complexion, as if he had never seen the sun.

He wasn't carrying a wand, and what was most chilling were his eyes, where two constantly rotating arrays of runes emitted a ghostly blue light.

Embroidered on the chest of his robe was a burning ash tree.

Elias Ashford.

Behind him, a tall attendant carried a briefcase covered with sealing runes, just big enough to fit a human.

Upon seeing the newcomer, Lucien's usually calm face finally showed a slight ripple.

He put the magic stone back in his pocket, his eyes becoming extremely sharp.

"The initial observation data is perfect, subject number 7."

Elias didn't even address Lucian by name; his gaze swept over Lucian's entire body as if scanning a sophisticated instrument. "Your indicators have exceeded the family's expectations. You have successfully crystallized a high concentration of traditional magic energy (magic stone)."

Integrate with basic arcane logic.

This is the most important data our family has ever recorded in hundreds of years.

Elias took a step forward, his leather shoes making a crisp sound as they stepped into the puddle.

"The game is over. The elders have given their orders."

You must return to the New World immediately, along with your "sample."