The transport was not a clean, instantaneous Apparition, but a jarring, visceral shift. Lucien felt the Portal Rune's energy—a cold, dense, ancient magic—seize them and compress the world into a painful flicker of motion. He landed hard on what felt like rusted metal, gasping, the residual shock draining the last of his energy. The air was thick and metallic, smelling of brine, fuel, and long-abandoned machinery.
When his vision cleared, he found himself standing on a vast, echoing pier. Above them, the sky was still a bruised, pre-dawn purple, but the immediate environment was dominated by towering, derelict industrial buildings and the immense, flat expanse of the ocean. They were miles from the quiet Scottish woods, hidden amongst the clutter of a massive, disused shipping port.
Ira stood a few feet away, steadying herself against a rusting bollard. Her face was pale, but her eyes were alight with intense curiosity. She recognized the signs of a powerful, organized magical operation.
Lysander, however, looked entirely unruffled. He brushed a speck of dust from his dark robes and cast a quick, non-verbal charm that caused the surrounding darkness to deepen, shrouding them instantly.
"Welcome," Lysander announced, his voice carrying clearly over the gentle lapping of the sea, "to our new sanctuary. The Ministry hunts for ancient castles and remote mountain retreats. They never look for magic in the heart of Muggle industrial decay."
Lucien looked around, trying to absorb the sheer, overwhelming reality of his situation. He was standing with the son of Grindelwald and the daughter of Voldemort, having just traveled via ancient magic, after shattering a Ministry security ward. The realization of his power—and his betrayal of his mother—hit him with dizzying force.
"Where are we?" Lucien asked, his voice still weak and hoarse from exhaustion.
"The Firth of Clyde," Lysander replied simply. "A disused naval storage dock. Its Muggle history provides excellent cover, and the constant tidal magic and industrial interference render most standard Ministry tracking charms utterly useless. Our base lies within that structure." Lysander pointed to a building at the far end of the pier—an old, black, iron structure that looked like a fortified lighthouse, its glass lantern long since shattered.
As they began the walk, Ira spoke for the first time since the revelation, her eyes fixed on Lysander. "You knew who he was. When Dumbledore sent you to prepare for my escape, did he tell you to find Harry Potter's son?"
Lysander paused, turning to face them, his expression one of complex gravity. "Dumbledore was a master of foresight, not certainty. He only knew that the Savior's lineage would be drawn to the Dark Lord's blood at the precise moment of Ira's freedom. He knew the son existed, yes. He knew the suppression ward was failing. He knew the convergence was fated. He trusted the power itself—Lucien's power—to lead the way."
He met Lucien's gaze, those clear blue eyes holding the depth of an ancient loch. "You, Lucien, were the unpredictable variable. You shattered the ward through instinct and will, not training. That tells me everything I need to know about your potential."
They reached the base of the black lighthouse. Lysander ran a finger over the rusted iron door, and the entire structure shimmered, the illusion peeling back to reveal thick, dark stone and ancient, weathered runes carved into the lintel. It was no longer a naval structure, but a fortress of old magic.
"This place," Lysander explained as the door swung silently inward, revealing a descending stone stairwell lit by flickering, greenish torchlight, "was established by my father's followers decades ago, a contingency point known only to Dumbledore and me. Now, it is your school and your sanctuary."
He placed a hand on Lucien's shoulder, guiding him toward the steps. "You need two things immediately: rest to restore your core, and control. The magic you unleashed is a raw, inherited power—a force of the first generation. It is beautiful, but if you don't master it, it will kill you, or worse, lead the entire Ministry right back to your mother."
Lucien stumbled on the first step, the threat against Cho cutting through his exhaustion. He looked at Lysander, accepting the bitter truth. "What do I learn first?"
A faint, almost cruel smile touched Lysander's lips as they descended into the echoing stone depths. "Control, Lucien. You will learn to control the power your father never knew he possessed. You will learn the Dark Arts—the only strategic magic precise enough to protect what you love, and the only magic strong enough to counter what's coming."