firecracker ???

The summons came without explanation.

A folded note during breakfast. Snape's tight, familiar script.

No subject. No reason.

She did not ask. She stood without a word and left the Great Hall, her shoes making no sound against the stone. The walk to the Potions corridor was muscle memory. Cold halls. Unlit sconces. The scent of damp stone and dragonbile.

The door to Snape's office was already ajar.

She stepped through—and stopped.

Lucius was waiting.

He stood with his back to the wall, fingers resting lightly on the head of his cane, pale hair immaculate beneath the harsh yellow glow of torchlight. He did not look surprised to see her. His expression was unreadable.

"Father."

"Lyra."

She didn't move further. "You sent for me."

"I did."

"Why here?"

"Because what I have to tell you should not be overheard."

She watched him for a long moment, then stepped inside and closed the door behind her.

Lucius gestured toward the high-backed chair beside the desk.

She remained standing.

He inclined his head slightly, accepting the choice. "You spoke with Regulus."

She didn't answer. She didn't need to.

Lucius continued. "He told you a version of the truth. But not all of it."

Her hands curled at her sides.

"He never tells the full story," Lucius said. "Not even to me. Not even when it matters."

The fire cracked once.

Then he said, "I'm going to tell you what he never could. Because you deserve to know. Because everything you believe is built on a man who's been living a lie."

Her stomach turned.

Lucius's voice was quiet, but deliberate.

"You know the Dark Lord is powerful. You've heard it. But what you don't know—what few have ever dared to consider—is why he is powerful."

She said nothing. She stared.

Lucius's gaze met hers. "Because he is not entirely mortal."

The words landed like a punch to Lyra's gut.

"There is a kind of magic," Lucius said slowly, "so ancient and foul that it's nearly myth. It does not make you stronger. It does not make you smarter. It simply makes you last."

She froze.

"They're called Horcruxes."

Lucius let the silence stretch.

"To create one," he said, "a wizard must split their soul. Tear it. And seal a fragment inside an object—something protected, something permanent. The act of splitting the soul requires murder. And not just any death—deliberate. Cold. Intentional. Each Horcrux is born through slaughter."

"The Dark Lord," Lucius said, "did not make one."

He paused. Let that sink in.

"He made many."

The torchlight shimmered along the edges of the stone. Lucius's voice dropped further. "Regulus learned the truth when he was seventeen. The Dark Lord asked for an elf. A test. Regulus sent Kreacher, like any loyal servant would."