Traces of the Past
Hermione had just returned from a brisk walk around the school grounds. She had been savouring the fleeting rays of sunshine on this final day of October, just warm enough to gently caress her freckled cheeks but with a subtle, chilly undertone that urged her to quicken her pace. Not that she minded; it felt as if she were constantly in motion, as if she were attempting to outrun the relentless passage of time itself. It sped by even more swiftly than the points deducted from students caught out of bed past curfew.
Lately, a pervasive chill had settled within her, one that she suspected had more to do with her curse than the external temperature. She used to relish the extended autumn term, with its long study sessions and trips to Hogsmeade, even if Butterbeer didn't particularly suit her taste. The cosy evenings with her friends in the Gryffindor dormitory, bathed in the golden-red glow of the common room's fire, now seemed like distant memories, their warmth and camaraderie fading as her world grew colder.
"Professor…Professor Granger-" a breathless voice called out to her.
She turned in the direction of the voice. Filius Flitwick was hurrying towards her from under the grand stone columns, just as she entered the courtyard. It was a late afternoon and the usually bustling courtyard was relatively empty, with only a handful of students and teachers rushing to make it on time for the annual Halloween feast. Classes had been let out early, allowing everyone the luxury of rest and time to complete their homework before the festivities that would extend well into the evening.
Hermione had no desire for joining in the festive spirit. In truth, she was feeling rather lacklustre about everything at the moment. Throughout her years at Hogwarts, as both a student and now a faculty member, she had only missed one Halloween feast, back in her second year when an unfortunate mishap with Polyjuice Potion had transformed her into a grotesque, oversized version of Mrs Norris. She had spent the better part of the banquet hiding out in an abandoned bathroom and later, in the hospital wing where Madame Pomfrey skilfully aided her in reclaiming her human form.
On this particular day, although Hermione outwardly maintained an air of composure, inner turmoil brewed with a mixture of restlessness and helplessness, compelling her to channel that nervous energy into a solitary walk. Earlier in the day, she had nearly snapped at one of her fourth-year Gryffindor had attempted to add some levity to the study of numbers by declaring, "Number two is clearly the tally of Professor Trelawney's accurate predictions!" Ordinarily, Hermione would have answered with an arched eyebrow, a feigned reprimand, then shared a good-natured laugh with her students once the class had ended. Yet, on this occasion, the audacious remark, although technically true, managed to strike a nerve, prompting a feeling that perhaps merriment was a luxury best enjoyed by others when her own mood was far from jubilant.
Professor Flitwick had finally caught up with her, his dishevelled white hair tousled by the speed of his stride, billowing in all directions. Though they were now colleagues, the significant age difference, coupled with the look of misery on Hermione's face made him address her with a touch of near-parental concern.
"Professor Granger, I didn't know you were banned from the feast," he began, his characteristic humour punctuating his words, "Why aren't you inside, enjoying yourself?"
Hermione's hand reached up to her forehead, where a wayward curl had escaped the confines of her bun.
Presenting a better front to the world, she had seldom been an object of others' concern. Few suspected that behind a put-together, organised front of a dedicated professor lay a witch whose inner world was crumbling. Her well-maintained armour had a few cracks: her withdrawal from social activities, an occasional irascible response, and a deepening sense of overall detachedness. Nevertheless, she was convinced that her secret remained well-guarded.
Professor Flitwick's visible concern, however, touched something deep within her. It seemed she had been missing her parents more than she had consciously realised.
"I-I'm not feeling quite up to it," she admitted. His furrowed brow deepened, prompting her to quickly add, "Nothing serious, just the fatigue from the workload. As you know, this is my first year taking all the Arithmancy classes, and I've had a challenging time managing it all. But I'll get better at it soon." It wasn't exactly a lie; the workload this year was truly demanding, but the source of her inner turmoil lay entirely elsewhere.
"I have complete confidence in your abilities. If there's anyone who can handle it, it's you. My own early years of teaching presented quite a challenge, but If I could rise above those obstacles with my short stature, I'm sure you'll soar to even greater heights." He winked playfully. "That said, if you ever find yourself in need of assistance, do reach out. Most of our colleagues are more than willing to lend their support."
Flitwick's warm-hearted humour and faith in her abilities were reassuring, and the corners of Hermione's mouth curled up ever so slightly.
"Thank you. I'll keep that in mind."
Professor Flitwick shrugged, wrapping his coat tighter around him as a sudden gust of wind released a cascade of long, slender auburn leaves from the Whomping Willow. The gnarly branches twisted and turned as the three shed its leafy attire.
"Well, I'm off to the feast, I mustn't keep the Frog Choir waiting," he declared, his passion for music second only to his love for charms. With a warm smile, he added, "Happy Halloween, Professor Granger!"
Hermione watched as he turned toward the main entrance, his heels setting a brisk, rhythmic cadence on the stones of the paved courtyard path.
Lost in her thoughts, Hermione slowly made her way across the courtyard toward the castle's grand gates. The sun now dipping low over the majestic West Tower, casting elongated shadows along the castle's protective walls. Just then, a fleeting shadow passed over her, breaking her reverie. Hermione instinctively gazed skyward, and there, silhouetted against the waning light, a small tawny owl approached with effortless swiftness.
With an audible screech, the owl alighted on Hermione's outstretched arm, its talons firmly gripping her through the layers of clothing, a sensation that always caused her to wince. She retrieved the letter from its beak, caressing the owl's soft, reddish-brown feathers in silent gratitude. As the feathered messenger resumed its journey toward the Owlery, a little farther up, Hermione turned her focus to the envelope.
Its pale blue surface was adorned with whimsical symbols that Luna had undoubtedly drawn herself, a signature in their own right. Hermione unfolded the parchment within, revealing Luna's unmistakable message:
"Let's meet at Hogsmeade. I'd love to catch up! Luna."
A genuine, heartfelt smile played on Hermione's lips. Luna's uncanny and unconventional ways of arranging meetings never ceased to amuse her. The mundanity of details of place and time held no sway in Luna's world. Ginny and Harry often joked that Luna would make an excellent Unspeakable with her natural and spontaneous penchant for the enigmatic.
She hadn't seen Luna since summer. Perhaps the rest of the day would end on a higher note than it began.
Thankfully, Hogsmeade wasn't a sprawling metropolis but rather a cosy nook of a village. Finding Luna in the Three Broomsticks as easy as spotting a Weasley in the Great Hall during breakfast. Seated at a remote corner table, Luna's gaze wandered with that characteristic dreamy smile of hers, tapping her wand rhythmically against the glass of her half-empty beer, contributing to the lively hum that filled the space. Her silvery eyes lit up as spotted Hermione approaching, who was now performing her own rendition of a shimmy dance, trying to weave her way through the crowded tables.
It seemed that half of the village had unanimously made The Three Broomsticks their destination that evening, while the less selective half settled for the rustic charm of Hog's Head Inn just across the street. Madame Rosmerta herself was a whirlwind of activity, masterfully juggling trays from table to table, sprinkling the distributed food and drinks with a dash of her vivacious charm and hearty serving of animated interactions.
Sliding into the seat across from Luna, Hermione briefly enveloped her friend in a warm half-hug, exchanging a friendly greeting.
"Quite the happening place tonight, don't you think?" she observed.
"It's Samhain after all," said Luna matter-of-factly, tilting her head in such a way that made her luminous blonde hair borrow a shade of lavender from the purple orb floating above their table.
Hermione's eyes drifted across the interior, styled with modest touches in keeping with the occasion, a refreshing departure from the garish Muggle decorations. Grinning lanterns meticulously carved from pumpkins peeked out from shadowy corners, bewitched to radiate their own tangerine light. Lace-like spiderwebs adorned the windows, their silky threads glistening with condensation, the result of the bustling warmth and merriment inside colliding with the crisp chill of the outside air.
"Glad you could make it on such a short notice," Luna's voice flowed like a soothing melody as she nudged a mug of steaming butterbeer toward Hermione. The playful tilt of the mug sent the frothy crest swaying, releasing a few droplets onto the wooden surface.
Hermione accepted the mug with a grateful smile. "Thanks, I could use that. It's absolutely freezing out there," she admitted, taking a comforting sip.
"Tell me about it. Boston can be chilly, but the weather here is something else," Luna nodded in agreement, noting the contrast between Hermione's flushed cheeks and the pale, bluish tinge of her skin. Hermoine carefully unwrapped her Gryffindor scarf and let it drape over the back of her chair.
"Speaking of Boston, how's your work been going in there?" Hermione leaned in with genuine curiosity, eager to hear about Luna's partnership program with the Magizoology Research Institute.
Luna's lips parted for a generous sip of butterbeer, leaving a frothy milk moustache, which she casually wiped away, "Oh, the fauna of New England is quite fascinating! Can't say the same for the food though, particularly the pudding…" Luna's face contorted comically, revealing a wistful longing as she fondly recalled, "Oh, those Hogwarts feasts were something, weren't they? By the way, how's the celebrations today?"
Hermione's fingers encircled her mug, soaking the warmth, her gaze wandering around the interior. "Well, I suppose they're carrying on just fine. Truth be told, I didn't feel like joining in," she replied, deftly shifting her focus to her drink, "I've been swamped with work, and it just seemed like the right time to catch a breath."
Merlin, she needed to brew up a new excuse, this one was getting stale, much like the books on the supplementary reading list, relegated to the abyss of her students' trunks.
One thing Hermione appreciated about Luna was her remarkable lack of nosiness. However, Luna's steady gaze hinted at her suspicion that there was more to Hermione's decision to skip the event.
"Tell me more about your findings in Boston, Luna," Hermione redirected the conversation to a different, safer topic, hoping to deflect any further questions.
Luna shifted closer, launching into a spirited narrative of her experiences. Hermione had seldom seen her as animated, even though she had to pause occasionally, with the clinking of dishes and the hum of nearby conversation punctuating the air. Despite her own somewhat subdued mood, Hermione made a deliberate effort to keep up with her friend's exuberance, interjecting well-placed comments and follow-up questions.
The door to the inn swung open every now and then, allowing more people to spill inside, in search of both companionship and escape from the brisk night air.
"It's awfully busy here tonight," Hermione noted, her voice rising to compete with the clamour. "How about we head over to the castle? I've got a feeling the kitchens might have some leftover pudding, and the house-elves are typically quite amiable if we ask politely."
Luna, her dreamy eyes fixed on the lively revelry surrounding them, offered a nod of agreement. As soon as they emptied their mugs, the two women headed off for Hogwarts, leaving the vibrant Three Broomsticks behind. While normally closed to outsiders, tonight was an exception, and even the usually grumpy Mr Filch begrudgingly allowed Luna to pass, taken by surprise by the genuine smile she sent in his direction.
Following a detour to the kitchens, they silently trod towards Hermione's chambers, nibbling on the sticky fudge the elves had insisted they take. The corridors were now deserted, veiled in inky darkness, yet Hermione proficiently guided the way with the glowing tip of her wand, mindful not to disturb the slumbering figures in the frames that densely lined the walls.
As Hermione gently pushed open the door to her chambers, Luna cast a curious glance around, catching glimpses of gold and red accents.
"How nice! Is this similar to the Gryffindor dormitories? I've never had the chance to visit, you know."
Hermione nodded. "It is, but as teachers, we do enjoy a few extra privileges."
The teachers' accommodations, while not lavish, were perfectly suited to her needs. The room, though unpretentious, held several features setting it apart from the standard student dormitories. A fireplace, adorned with a picture of her parents on the granite mantelpiece, provided a cheerful focal point. Additional space afforded a welcoming writing table positioned against the window wall, paired with a comfortable chair – a peaceful haven for her studies and moments of contemplation.
Yet, despite the tranquillity of her chambers, Hermione occasionally found herself gripped by the overwhelming sense of isolation, especially following the attack. The grand four-poster bed tucked away in the corner, though inviting, often felt excessively spacious as she lay there night by night, quietly yearning for the comforting warmth of another's presence beside her. It seemed like an eternity had passed since she felt the tender brush of lips against her own, or the intimate closeness of sharing her body with another soul.
While the faculty members were bound by strict regulations, prohibiting them from entertaining guests, those in search of more casual encounters would discreetly retreat to Hogsmeade's pubs on Saturday evenings. These establishments conveniently offered lodgings above their bustling bars. Hermione had spent one questionable night there, emboldened and temporarily blinded by the copious amounts of alcohol she consumed while celebrating a friend's birthday in the town.
The morning after, she awoke with a throbbing headache and a sense of confusion, struggling to stitch together the blurry fragments of her ill-considered fling. To her dismay, she found herself snuggled up with a snoring, spotty-faced wizard. As she hastily brushed her teeth, an unexpected and cheeky slap on her rear from her one-time lover led to a swift and resounding smack across his face.
So much at attempts at casual intimacy. In reality, she longed for something steeped in permanence. Ever since she'd been cursed, her rapidly declining health crowded out every budding thought of romance.
Luna's voice pulled Hermione from her musings as her eyes flitted over the haphazard ensemble of books, ungraded papers and loose notes on Hermione's cluttered desk, on a quest for a sliver of space to place the two plates of the pumpkin tart, the courtesy of more than obliging house-elves.
"Emeric Sylvan Blackthorn?" Luna spoke in her usual calm, dreamy tone, but her eyes gleamed with surprise. "I heard my father mention him in his research. It's lovely to know you share an interest in such obscure magical history, Hermione." Luna's lips curled into a warm smile and her enthusiasm was palpable as she continued, "I'm sure Father will be delighted."
Hermione couldn't hide her surprise at Luna's unexpected mention. A tiny frown creased her forehead and her amber eyes fixed on Luna's with puzzlement.
"What do you know about him?"
"Well, I've heard my father mention him a couple of times. He believes Blackthorn was a wizard responsible for crafting a moonstone ring, rumoured to possess power to break any curse."
Hermione was left uncertain about Luna's words. She knew Mr Lovegood believed in all sorts of fantastical things and his sincerity didn't necessarily lend them any credibility. Hermione didn't put much stock in such tales, but if there was a slightest chance they held a kernel of truth, wasn't it worth investigating? After all, the Tale of the Deathly Hallows had proven to be more than just a bedtime story.
Hermione voiced her doubts with a touch of unintentional scepticism, "If he truly created a ring with such extraordinary powers, how come I've never come across his name in 'History of Magic', or any other history book for that matter?"
Luna pulled her brows in thought, "From what Father has said about him, I gathered he was a rather obscure figure. There isn't much written about the ring, and even less about its creator. What my father knows has been mostly passed down through word of mouth."
Hermione held back a quip about the reliability of Xenophilius Lovegood's sources, not wanting to hurt her friend. Instead, she sliced through a portion of the pie and brought a forkful to her mouth, relishing the sweetness that spread over her palate. Luna mirrored her actions, their expressions reflecting contentment as they indulged in the shared dessert.
After a time, Luna set her fork down and announced it was time for her to go. Hermione, feeling a pang of sadness at the thought of parting, decided to accompany Luna to the nearest Apparition point.
As they strolled along the corridor, Luna's soft-spoken words filled the space, "Thanks for making time to meet up. It was wonderful to step inside Hogwarts once more. I'll never forget the awe I experienced when I first set foot here."
Hermione shared the sentiment. That day marked a profound turning point in her life, a moment where her small Muggle world expanded to unreached possibilities. And now, less than two decades later, she was to be plucked from both worlds irrevocably.
Luna continued, her voice tinged with the excitement of new adventures, "Tomorrow I'm off to Boston with stops in Ireland, then Iceland and Newfoundland Island. Apparating long distances does get easier but it'll be a while before I pull it off in one go."
"Well, Luna, you're certainly taking the scenic route back! Will you be home for Christmas?"
Luna's response was tinged with a touch of regret as she sighed, "Oh, I'm afraid not. Probably only in late January or February."
A momentary pause hung in the air as Hermione wrestled with her emotions. She hadn't expected to still be around then. The realisation that today might be the last time she'd see her friend cast a sombre shadow over the moment.
Deep down, she knew that she should unburden herself to Luna, sharing the secret of her curse, but the words clung to her like a leaden weight, obstinately wedged in the depths of her throat. At last, she could only manage a strained, "Well, be sure to drop by. I'll be here."
In one form or another, regardless. A solemn thought of Luna laying flowers on her tombstone flashed through her mind.
Luna 's voice, laced with concern, sliced through the night, "Hermione, are you sure you're alright?"
Hermione's reply came too swiftly, too defensively, "Yeah, everything's fine. In a way, I've never felt better. Why do you ask?
The enveloping darkness served as a shroud, concealing her true emotions. She feared Luna might see right through her facade and uncover her blatant lies. Luna's features bore a genuine and heartfelt worry as she responded,
"It's just… you've seemed a bit off today, and your sudden interest in the wizard and the moonstone ring made me wonder if, perhaps–"
Hermione cut in, intent on preventing any uncomfortable words from slipping out of Luna's mouth.
"The Blackthorn fellow? Well, I've come across his name in the library, and I thought I'd look into it further. You know me, teaching is rewarding but I sometimes crave for a good mystery to unravel."
Just then an audible gasp rippled through the air nearby. Both women turned on their heels, their eyes scanning the length of the ancient passageway, searching for any hint of the source of the sound.
"Is there someone there?" Hermione's voice rang out, firm and unwavering, attempting to assert her authority over any midnight prowler.
With wands drawn, and heart pounding, she scrupulously checked the hallway but it yielded no sign of a visible presence.
"What on Helga's sweet tits was that?" Hermione panted, employing humour to mask her underlying disquiet. "Unless Harry generously decided to loan his invisibility cloak to a daring student…"
"Samhein, Hermione," Luna explained calmly, seldom unruffled in the face of the unknown.
"It's the time when the barrier between our world and the spirit world is at its thinnest. Strange occurrences are not uncommon on this day."
"I'd say the boundary between our world and the spirit world is already fairly thin, considering the presence of ghosts and all" Hermione pondered aloud, her brow furrowing. "Muggles can't see them."
Luna's eyes sparkled with wonder at Hermione's revelation. "Muggles can't see ghosts? How intriguing! It's a true pity they miss out on those captivating encounters." In her earnest amazement, she reminded Hermione of Arthur Weasley, the self-proclaimed Muggle enthusiast for whom the perceived perplexities of the Muggle world presented a never-ending source of fascination.
"Well, for the most part," Hermuone clarified, her voice trailing off as a new thought emerged. "Do you reckon that during Samhain, the veil we stumbled upon in the Department of Mysteries allows people to cross over, I mean, from the afterlife?" The notion left Hermione unsettled, prompting her to cast a wary glance around the darkened corridor. She hadn't always been so apprehensive, nor had she allowed such thoughts to wander freely; usually she kept her feet firmly on the ground. Nevertheless, as her own mortality loomed nearer, her perspective had undergone a significant shift.
Luna replied softly, "I'm not sure. If they could, I'd like to see Mum. I barely remember her, you know." Her voice held a poignant trace of longing.
Hermione stood on the threshold of a brilliant sapphire door, her patience tested as her polite, repeated knocks garnered no response. She consulted her watch, ensuring she hadn't somehow slipped into a time warp; it was precisely four o'clock, the appointed hour.
Hermione's fingers tapped a rhythmic beat on the polished wood of her wand, a nervous habit betraying her eagerness. Her thoughts raced while she mentally rehearsed the questions she intended to ask, and each passing second felt like an eternity. Hermione's restlessness grew with every heartbeat.
At last, the unmistakable sound of multiple locks being painstakingly unfastened reached Hermione's ears and an ancient-looking house-elf appeared to usher her inside.
"Mr Mallard awaits in the parlour," the elf announced in a muffled, spongy sort of voice.
Hermione wasted no time and rushed in the indicated direction. She couldn't wait to meet the man who held an esteemed reputation as a scholar in the intricate field of wizarding genealogy. The questions that had pressed on her mind since Luna mentioned the wizard and his cryptic ring were now a constant refrain.
The parlour turned out to be a moderately-sized room, where towering bookcases against every wall formed an imposing fortress of knowledge, their contents obscuring the patterned wallpaper beneath. A plush, plum-coloured carpet sprawled from wall to wall, muffling Hermione's footsteps until she cleared her throat with exaggerated politeness, prompting Mr Mallard, seated in an elegant armchair, to rise halfway in a welcoming gesture and indicate a nearby seat.
"Well, what can I do for you, Miss Granger?" he inquired with a commanding directness, his piercing gaze framed by gold-rimmed spectacles, making Hermione feel like a mere student facing a particularly stern professor. Only her purpose here went far beyond a History of Magic lesson.
She settled into her seat, positioned directly across from him, her neatly folded hands resting in her lap.
"As I mentioned in my letter, I was hoping to glean more insight about a particular wizard…" Hermione began.
"Emeric Sylvan Blackthorn, "Mr Mallard finished for her. "I must admit, I was intrigued by your letter. Very few have even heard of the man."
"So he is a genuine historical figure?" Hermione inquired, her eyes brightening.
"He is indeed. To dispute that would be most unwise," Mr Mallard replied with a knowing small on his weathered lips, "He makes appearances in certain documents, suggesting his presence in the annals of history."
Hermione's curiosity surged, and she couldn't contain her eagerness. ""Is there any information regarding the moonstone ring? He's said to have created a ring that–"
But Mr Mallard's disapproving gaze halted her in her tracks. It was evident he was not accustomed to interruptions, and his voice took on a more authoritative tone, akin to the one that Hermione adopted when dealing with her own unruly students. "I am aware of the tale that resurfaces every few decades, luring adventurous but naive witches and wizards. However, I am a historian and both my interest and expertise lie in facts not legends and fairytales."
Hermione let out an impatient huff, her fingers starting the next stanza of their restless performance on her chair's armrest. "Please," she implored, "could you share everything you know about him?"
"Blackthorn was a dark wizard, a powerful one, although his notoriety has been eclipsed by Voldemort's. He lived in the Scottish Highlands in the late 16th century, and some of his malevolent acts have woven their way into the fabric of local bard tales and ballads. However, the historical records become scarce after a certain point. It's said that he lost the love of his life and married another, which is when the legends surrounding the moonstone ring began. Yet, there are no written accounts to substantiate that part of the story. I would venture a guess that he, having exhausted his malevolent exploits, conjured up another tale about the ring to embellish his legacy, passing it down to gullible common folk," Mr Mallard explained.
Meanwhile, the house-elf reappeared, his steps slow and unsteady, bearing a tray of tea in his quivering hands. With great care, he placed two cups, sugar cubes and milk on the side table nearby.
"Please forgive the leisurely pace of my house-elf, he's getting on in his years,"
Hermione, completely engrossed in her pursuit of information that she desperately needed, hardly registered the audacious use of "my" in reference to the elf - a term that would typically incite her temper. Instead, she pressed the matter further.
"Is anything known about Blackthorn's descendants?"
The wizard, looking somewhat offended, as if her question challenged his genealogical expertise, replied, "Naturally." He cleared his throat and popped a mint into his mouth, offering one to Hermione from a gleaming dish. She politely declined. She hated mints, perhaps because when she was little, her parents always insisted she have them instead of candies like other kids.
Mr. Mallard's long, forefinger traced the lines of the book he held in his hands, continuing, "Indeed, the Blackthorn family grew weary of people who pestered them about an elusive stone. The official records confirm that they changed the name in the 19th century. The switch was made from Blackthorn to Bristlecone. It doesn't exactly evoke warm feelings, does it? Nonetheless, it shows their eagerness to distance themselves from his infamy and lead a quieter, more ordinary life."
Hermione shifted in her chair, her eyes following his finger on the leather-bound cover. "So, there's no clear reference of the moonstone ring or where it might be? She couldn't quite let go of her budding hope yet.
Mr. Mallard keenly observed her and shook his head. This time he spoke in a gentler tone, "None that I can find. It appears the stories of the moonstone ring are myths, Miss Granger. Blackthorn's legacy, real or imagined, ended with the change of the family name.
Hermione's shoulders slumped slightly, but she was not one to be easily discouraged. She rose from her seat and took a step toward the door, "One more question, Mr Mallard, if I may."
The older wizard viewed her intently.
"Have you any knowledge of the whereabouts of his descendants?"
A playful smile crept across his face, revealing his anticipation of the question.
"Why, indeed, it's my specialty. Miss Seraphina Bristlecone resides in Chudleigh. I can write down her address, if you'd like to pay her a visit and delve deeper into her ancestor's dark legacy," he added jestingly. Noting Hermione's enthusiastic nod, he summoned a piece of paper and a quill from the other end of the room and swiftly penned the address.
"But I must caution you," he spoke again, removing his spectacles,"as a squib, she holds little fondness for wizards and witches. My own attempts to acquire rare artefacts and diaries from her ancestors were met with the most brusque refusal." With that, he stood up abruptly, handing her a note, and his golden chain of glasses jingled against his neck.
Hermione expressed her gratitude with a few words and departed, her mind already formulating the next phase of her quest.
A/N: Don't be disheartened by the absence of our favourite Slytherin in this chapter; rest assured, we'll meet Lucius in the next one *wink-wink*