“The world we knew is slipping through our fingers, and no spell can restore it. Our empire - both magical and Muggle - is no longer the immovable pillar it once was. We must now navigate a world where new powers in East and West jostle for dominance. Britain’s strength has never been in brute force, but in quiet influence, in prosperity, in the subtle weaving of connections and alliances. Let MACUSA and MaChK brandish their wands and shout their slogans; we will ensure that when the dust settles, the magical community still has a world worth living in—stable, secure, and unseen. The Statute of Secrecy is our enduring and greatest empire, and we must defend it, not with bombast, but with steadfast resolve. Britain’s present role is not to lead through might, but to endure through wisdom.”

  Lord Cornelius Venge, Undersecretary of Defense, Final Address to the Ministry of Magic, 11 June 1946.

  The dungeon held a damp chill. The air was still heavy with the lingering scent of last Friday’s second-year assignment. Asafoetida, overlaid with the black-licorice tang of wormwood.

  It was not an appetizing combination.

  There was something new too - a metallic taste to the air that made his teeth set on edge.

  Jack descended the worn stone steps, his footfalls echoing in the corridor. He slowed as he heard faculty voices from the classroom doorway.

  “-a temporary state of affairs,” Professor Vale's voice carried clearly in the stone passage. "The Americans," he was saying to Professor Blackthorn, who was cradling a large box of fresh-cut herbs from the greenhouses, "treat magic like a tool. We treat it as an art."

  “The tools do not make the artisan," Blackthorn replied, handing over the box to Vale.

  They both enjoyed a sensible chuckle.

  Jack rolled his eyes, hitching his schoolbag higher on his shoulder. Another day, another snide witticism on British magical superiority. At least Vale generally kept his opinions to private conversations, unlike Winterborn. He strode into the classroom, politely greeting both professors as he passed and enjoying the surprised look on Vale’s face.

  The dungeon classroom was already half-full, students settling into their usual places amid the soft clink of brass scales and glass phials.

  Professor Vale had written "The Lesser Work" on the blackboard in his blocky handwriting. Beneath it were detailed instructions for heating and cooling cycles that looked more like advanced calculus than potion-making. Two crystalline vials sat on each workbench - one containing what looked like powdered darkness, the other like fine diamond dust. Jack recognized them from their homework over the weekend: nigredo and albedo.

  Jack slid onto his wooden stool in the back of the room. Exactly ten seconds before the bell rang Cyprian joined him, acknowledging his presence with a nod.

  "The Lesser Work," Vale announced to the class, "is one of the most fundamental achievements in magical alchemy. While it never achieved the legendary status of the Philosopher's Stone, it represents our closest understanding of the principles behind that great work. Today, we use it as a base for many of our most advanced potions." He paused, surveying the room. "It requires absolute precision. The slightest deviation in temperature or timing will render it worthless."

  Jack studied the instructions more carefully. The nigredo and albedo had to be combined in exact proportions, but the real challenge was in the heating cycles. The mixture needed to be heated and cooled in exacting patterns - too hot, and it would go inert; too cold, and it would crystallize permanently. Each temperature change had to be timed to the second.

  Jack grimaced. This was a textbook example of why he hated alchemy.

  His lab partner had already laid out his implements: stirrers arranged by size, ingredients in alphabetical order (albedo, then nigredo), scales positioned exactly parallel to the desk edge.

  "Hey," Jack said, unpacking his own supplies with purposeful sloppiness. "Never got to thank you for last week. With Montfort and his gang."

  "It wasn't personal," Cyprian replied. "I detest mobs. And the men who use them."

  Jack felt a flicker of annoyance. A normal person would have asked if he was alright after being cornered by Montfort's crew. But Cyprian just sat there, calmly measuring powdered nigredo and albedo into piles. He reminded Jack of a clockwork man.

  "Are you always like this?" he asked.

  Cyprian paused in his arrangement, turning to look at Jack with bewilderment. "Like what?"

  "You know - all..." Jack waved his hand irritably, searching for the right words. "Kinda… just weird, man! Someone helps you out, you check if they're okay. That's what normal people do."

  "I see." Cyprian's brow furrowed slightly as he processed this. "You are saying that I have committed a faux pas. Is that an American custom?"

  "A faux... Franklin's kite, it's not about customs, Venge, it's about being a normal person!"

  "I assure you, I am quite normal." Cyprian resumed his measuring. "I arrive at precisely the same time each day, maintain consistent study habits, and follow all established standards."

  “That just makes you weirder!” Jack ran a hand through his hair, exasperated.

  He was starting to understand why Henry had described Venge as 'queer.' It was like trying to have a conversation with a cash register.

  "I... you know what? Just forget it."

  "Very well." Cyprian nodded, satisfied that the interaction was concluded.

  The Lesser Work lived up to its reputation for difficulty. Around them, other teams were struggling. Mossflower and his partner ruined their first attempt in only five minutes, their mixture turning an ominous gray and spilling rapidly replicating crystals out of the top of their cauldron. Even Cassandra - partnered with a Slytherin girl - was being tested. Jack heard her make a murmur of frustration from her table.

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  "Has your father assumed his duties yet?" Cyprian asked as he lowered the heat for the fifth time.

  Jack struggled with a particularly stubborn cork stopper. "Yeah," he replied, using his teeth to loosen it. "Barely any time to settle in, went straight into the office the day they moved in."

  "My father was always at work too," Cyprian nodded.

  “You said he was in the Ministry too?” Jack yanked the stopper free and nearly fell off his stool. “What did he do?”

  "Undersecretary for Magical Defense, during the war."

  Jack whistled quietly, shaking a bit of catalyst from the bottle into their cauldron. "Must've been rough, with everything going on." He paused, testing the temperature of their solution with a thermometer. "Ok, I think we put the heat back up now. Why would my dad be working directly with an undersecretary?"

  Cyprian turned the burner back up, "Your father was part of the liberation force in 1944. With mine."

  “An undersecretary fighting at the front?” Jack blinked in surprise.

  A flicker of pride crossed Cyprian's pale face. "Venges always lead from the front. The legions withdrew in 410. We stayed." He adjusted the flame down a bit, eyes glued to their solution.

  They spent the rest of class in silence, speaking only when necessary about measurements and heating. The minimal interaction suited them both just fine.

  Vale patrolled past their table, peering into their cauldrons critically. The mixture was shifting hypnotically between darkness and light, following the rhythm of Jack’s heartbeat.

  "Exceeds Expectations, Mr. Venge, Mr. Semmes. Your temperature control was very good." he commented, taking a sample with a pipette and examining it. "You used too much nigredo in Step Three, there must be perfect balance or the Lesser Work will not take. And it’s not the gross measurements,” as Jack opened his mouth to protest. “The balance is not in the amount that you put in, it is purely intuitive. Nigredo and albedo are not a molar consistent substance. They are mysterious. Mr. Venge, perhaps you could demonstrate?"

  "Certainly, Professor." Cyprian combined exact amounts of the two ingredients in a vial. The pale dust glimmered, then devoured its shadowy counterpart in a violently exothermic reaction.

  "You see?" Vale nodded approval. "Potion brewing is not merely about following the recipe and achieving the desired effect. It's about a natural grasp of the process itself. Don’t you have an idea of that in America?"

  “Yes sir,” Jack said grudgingly, knowing that he was being set up. “We’d call that ‘the jazz’.”

  “How base,” Vale said acidly. “A crude word for the artistry needed for crafting a magnum opus.”

  Jack bit back a retort about how alchemy was about as artistic as a steamroller rolling down Washington Street. He'd learned that lesson the hard way during his first week - his professors had no appreciation for Americanisms.

  It was whatever. He’d still got an ‘E’ on the assignment thanks to Venge. So instead he contented himself with grumbling, “If this is art you can call me a pukwudgie,” after Vale had gone a safe distance away.

  "Victory is the artist's stroke, and war the canvas." Cyprian said absently as they bottled their finished potion. He began meticulously cleaning their workspace with a hand towel and his wand.

  "Would you..." Cyprian hesitated, which was unusual enough to make Jack look up. "Would you let me know how your father is doing as the year goes along? Mine is concerned about his welfare, though they do not correspond these days."

  Jack frowned, "Why not just have your dad ask him at the Ministry? It’s not a big office."

  “A valid question,” Cyprian conceded, “My father doesn't work at the Ministry anymore, although he still has friends there."

  “What happened?” Jack asked curiously.

  “The war is over,” Cyprian’s wand paused in its cleaning charms. "The Ministry wants politicians, not soldiers.”

  Jack snorted, "Like your Muggles kicking out Churchill after the war?"

  Cyprian’s eyes flickered behind his glasses, "An apt comparison. My father’s a man who stands firm. They wanted less of that." He grunted. "Not needed anymore."

  “So much for gratitude,” Jack said in disgust.

  He reconsidered what Venge had said about keeping him updated. The request seemed genuine enough, despite Grymes' earlier warnings about the Slytherin. Actually, the more Jack thought about it, the more that admonition felt off. Cyprian might be a bit strange but there was something trustworthy about his awkwardness.

  "I’ll keep you posted with how we’re doing," Jack added, surprising himself with how much he meant it. "Though you’d hear more first hand if you joined us in the library sometime. Henry and the others have been helping me with British magical theory, and honestly, I could use all the help I can get."

  Cyprian started, caught off guard by the invitation. After a moment's consideration, he gave a slight nod. "That is gracious of you. Send me a note when you’re in the library and I’ll come if able. Tuesday evenings are preferred."

  Jack couldn't help but grin at his formality. "Sure. Sounds good, Venge."

  Cyprian gave their now-immaculate table one last look - it was clean enough to eat off of, if not for the fact the last class of fourth-years had synthesized arsenic in this exact spot - and gathered his things. "Your presence here represents significant change. But not all change is detrimental, even from my perspective."

  Jack shrugged and buttoned his schoolbag. “Montfort talks like he already has it all figured out. Like he knows exactly how the world should work. Ravenclaw seems to eat it up.”

  Cyprian adjusted his glasses. “Intelligent people are particularly prone to following someone who says that they have all the answers. It saves them from the discomfort of uncertainty.”

  Jack exhaled. “You ever met someone like that before?”

  “Yes,” Cyprian replied without hesitation.

  Jack sat up. “Who?”

  Cyprian paused for a few seconds. “You wouldn’t have known him,” the Slytherin put his schoolbag on the table. “He graduated two years ago.”

  Jack waited, but Cyprian didn’t offer more.

  “What was he like?” Jack pressed.

  Cyprian’s lips quirked in amusement. “He was polite. Good looking. Very clever.”

  “Smarter than you?” Jack asked.

  “Made me look like an idiot child,” Venge actually smiled at the memory. “Top of every subject, won every prize, made all the right connections.”

  Jack narrowed his eyes. “And?”

  Cyprian’s amusement faded. “He asked Headmaster Hollowbrook if he could teach Defense Against the Dark Arts after he graduated, since Professor MacLeod was still fighting in Europe. The headmaster told him that he was too young - he was only 18 - and to come back and reapply in a few years after he had gained some more experience.”

  A strange chill crawled down Jack’s spine. “What did he do after that?”

  “No idea.” Cyprian’s expression went neutral again. “He left.” He reached for his bag again. “But he’s not the sort of man to disappear.”

  He shouldered his schoolbag. "Do be careful. Especially around witches.”

  "Hang on now, Venge-"

  Cyprian continued before Jack could finish his retort, "Merely an observation. Good day, Semmes."

  As Jack watched him leave. Cyprian was an odd duck alright, but he seemed to be exactly what he appeared to be.

  That wasn't such a bad thing to have in a friend, especially in Britain, where reserve and politeness constantly cloaked intentions and interactions.

  He gathered his things, mind turning to Transfiguration class next.