The Muggle kitchen of the Scottish cottage smelled of cold tea and betrayal. Cho Chang was no longer Claire Wong, the calm, unassuming artist. She was simply a mother, kneeling amidst the shards of a shattered ceramic mug, surrounded by the remnants of fifteen years of agonizing, necessary lies.
The raw chaos had subsided, leaving behind a silence far more terrifying than the Ministry raid. The radio bulletin—Ira Riddle. Escaped Azkaban.—had been brutal. But the complete absence of the familiar magical hum from the now-destroyed locket, and the sight of the scorched earth behind her cottage—that was devastating. Cho knew her son was gone, and he had gone with a power she had failed to contain.
Her greatest terror wasn't the Ministry or even Voldemort's daughter. Her greatest terror was the chilling clarity that the Potter Family Potion, the artifact her love had entrusted to her, had failed. The magic was too strong, or the intervention had been too precise.
She rose slowly, her movements stiff, her face pale and drawn. She walked to the old, sturdy wooden box where she kept her supplies and retrieved the small, stoppered vial of the thick, amber liquid—the final, useless dose.
Cho ran her thumb over the vial's cool glass, her mind flashing back fifteen years to the moment of parting. She remembered the time with her love for H. Potter, standing on the edge of the past and the future, moments before Dumbledore erased him entirely. He had given her this complex, ancient object, insisting she use the accompanying formula, telling her it was the only way to protect "their secret" from the very foundations of the wizarding world.
It was the only way to save Lucien from becoming a paradox.
Cho had carried the burden of the temporal paradox—the knowledge that her son was an impossibility—in complete, agonizing isolation. She had lied to everyone, accepting the pain of separation, believing she was saving the timeline.
Now, her secret was running free.
She knew the Ministry would be at her door soon. Hermione, relentless and brilliant, would have found the anomalies. Hermione, her friend, would be the one to break her.
Cho moved to the small, antique writing desk. She pulled out her private journal—not the one for sketches, but the one containing the real secrets: the complex, dense notes on the properties of the Potter artifact, and the final, frantic instructions Potter had left for their son.
She tore out a single sheet and wrote a short, frantic note, sealing it with a simple wax seal, praying it would never be found. Then, she retrieved the few items she knew she would need: a small pouch of ancient Galleons, a simple, non-magical photograph of H.Potter (taken secretly during their five years together, labeled simply 'H' on the back), and her own wand.
She realized, with chilling clarity, that the intervention had not been an accident. Someone had known the potion was failing. Someone had known the exact timing. Someone had been watching her—watching Lucien.
Dumbledore. The name, though spoken in a whisper, was heavy with the inevitability of the past. The old man, even from beyond the grave, was pulling the strings, ensuring that the temporal paradox—her son—fulfilled some grand, terrifying purpose.
A faint but distinct crackle of Apparition sounded near the front gate.
Cho didn't flinch. She knew that sound. It wasn't the clumsy, group apparition of a ministry squad. It was the tight, precise sound of a single, highly skilled witch landing with absolute intention.
Hermione.
Cho looked at the muggle clock. It was just past sunrise. She looked at the small pile of secrets. She looked at the door.
She couldn't let Hermione find her here. She couldn't allow the auror to connect the cottage, the shattered ward, and the final, damning evidence of Lucien's paradox parentage. She had to lead the hunt away.
With a final, agonizing glance toward the sealed note—a message for her son, should he ever return—Cho cast a complex Thermal Image Displacement Charm over the interior of the cottage, making it appear empty and cold. She tucked the photograph of 'H' and the pouch of Galleons into the deep pocket of her robes.
She did not wait. Taking the small pouch and the precious photograph, Cho Chang vanished into the thin morning air, leaving behind only the cold silence of a broken home and the bitter taste of shattered hope. She was no longer just running from the ministry; she was running for her son, and she knew the only way to protect him now was to draw the attention of the lead auror—her oldest, cleverest friend—away from his true, dangerous path.