Cultivator in Hogwarts

I have no idea how all this text came about...

Still, give me power stones to help Luke on his path of conquest.

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Dumbledore was thinking about life.

Not about life in the abstract, as he often did while staring out the tower windows with a lemon drop in hand, but about the kind of life that made you question everything you thought you knew.

In all his long years, Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore had held one unshakable belief: that Love was the most powerful magic of all. Love could protect, redeem, resurrect. Love was sacred.

But then he saw it—that spell.

Now, he sat in the infirmary, silent as two Weasley twins moaned in pitiful agony behind him. Their expressions shifted rapidly from nausea to euphoria to wrath to fear to something resembling maternal protectiveness.

He did not attempt to help them.

Not because he lacked compassion, but because he genuinely feared that interfering with that spell might unravel the very fabric of reality—or at the very least, set off a hormonal explosion of cosmic proportions.

Could love really be used in such a… brutal way?

When the two hours had finally passed and the twins collapsed like deflated balloons whispering "Thank you, Mummy," Dumbledore still hadn't moved.

He rose slowly. This had not been a good day.

With a sigh, he made his way to his office, but not directly. He took a detour—past the Astronomy Tower, through the hallway of Singing Suits of Armor, and even paused briefly at the room where he once taught Transfiguration with McGonagall. A room now eerily quiet without her stern voice or the faint sound of chalk tapping.

He missed her. She would have had something scathing and witty to say about all of this. Probably something about "flagrant abuse of ocular-based magic."

Meanwhile, Elizabeth and Luke had already arrived at the Headmaster's office.

They were perfectly calm.

Luke, for his part, felt not even the slightest bit of anxiety. In his mind, everything he had done was entirely within reason. He hadn't used dark magic, hadn't summoned forbidden forces, hadn't even harmed anyone physically. He had merely… enlightened two errant youths through experiential understanding. That was all.

He sat quietly, back straight, hands folded, legs crossed like a Daoist monk awaiting enlightenment.

Elizabeth, on the other hand, was… less serene.

She understood exactly what Luke had done, and more importantly, what it meant. After all, she had endured that same agony once before, the original kind, the one that burrowed into the bones rather than flashing from the eyes in theatrical way. And although she loved her son more than life itself, there were moments, particularly now, when she seriously considered that he had inherited far too much from the so-called heroic cultivator ancestors. The flair for melodrama, at the very least, was unmistakably genetic.

Still, she knew him better than anyone else alive, or possibly dead, given the reincarnation theory. Because of that, she had already foreseen this exact scenario and prepared the only remedy capable of soothing overdrawn meridians, emotional whiplash, and the kind of spiritual fatigue that only came from magical experimentation gone wrong: tea.

As always, she performed the ritual with flawless grace. The water was brought to a precise boil, no more, no less, respecting the sacred temperature known only to serious tea drinkers and patient alchemists. The leaves, carefully selected from her private stash, had been arranged in neatly labeled tins, some marked in flowing Elvish script. The cups were porcelain, delicate and refined, personally brought from her childhood home and fiercely protected from dishwashing charms.

With calm, deliberate movements, she brewed the tea, letting the subtle fragrance of jasmine and wild rose drift across the room. It floated like incense, gentle and soothing, weaving itself into the tension and nudging it aside with all the quiet authority of a mother who had already seen this nonsense coming.

Luke inhaled deeply and smiled. "Mother's tea… always the best in this realm."

Elizabeth nodded, pouring him a cup. "And you, my dear, are always the reason I need it."

They sipped in silence as if returning from a long cultivation journey. Their serenity was so complete that anyone walking in might have assumed they were diplomats from a distant kingdom, waiting to meet a warlord to negotiate peace terms.

And in a way… they were.

When Dumbledore finally entered the office, he paused.

There they were, seated like aristocrats from an ancient fairy tale, the kind where dragons were invited to tea and manners could determine the fate of empires. Luke sipped delicately, his pinky raised with an elegance that bordered on parody. Beside him, Elizabeth moved with the calm precision of a high priestess enacting a sacred rite, her hands arranging the cups with such reverence that even the sugar bowl seemed hesitant to interrupt. The room, bathed in golden light and the faint scent of wild rose, had become their temple, their battlefield, their absurd little kingdom of porcelain diplomacy.

"This is my office… right?" Thought Dumbledore.

They had just come from a picnic, and yet… here they were, having another tea time.

For a fleeting moment, Dumbledore considered turning around and leaving.

"Tea?" Elizabeth offered politely, already refilling his cup before he could answer.

Elizabeth, as always, rose with elegance and began to prepare the tea. Not because she was particularly anxious, but because this was her ritual whenever things threatened to spiral out of control.

As the water boiled and she measured the leaves with surgical precision, a quiet smile crept onto her lips. How ironic. Here she was, about to offer tea to the headmaster of Hogwarts after her son had just psychologically destroyed two students with a spell based on her own labor experience.

And in many ways… this was probably her fault.

Because yes, Elizabeth had once been a child too, although not the quiet, well-behaved type who sat nicely and said "please" when asking for biscuits. She had been the kind of child who lived in a full-throttle, no-return princess phase so intense that it could have triggered a constitutional crisis in three separate fairy realms.

Long before she "became" a witch, a respected professor, or the dignified mother of a reincarnated cultivator with a Young Master complex and suspiciously good posture, she had declared herself heir to the Hidden Kingdom of Moonlight Grace. Not content with mere titles, she went further by proclaiming herself guardian of the Eternal Purity Scepter and direct descendant of the Throne of a Thousand Roses.

She spoke with an exaggerated British accent that made actual British people twitch. She named each of her porcelain teacups as if they were nobility, complete with honorifics and tragic backstories. Her cat was not a pet but a valiant knight who had sworn eternal loyalty, especially when bribed with tuna. At one point, she drafted and ratified a peace treaty with the garden gnomes, signed in glitter and sealed with a kiss from her Royal Ring of Friendship. She also demanded that Wednesday dinners be held as ceremonial banquets, complete with robes, flower crowns, a seating chart, and at least one dramatic toast delivered in rhyme.

She had lived it, without irony and without mercy, reaching the highest tier of chunibyo known to modern civilization. Frankly, it was astonishing that she had not grown up to found a nation inside a forest or build a shrine to herself behind the school library. And in hindsight, it made perfect sense that she could now glide through magical emergencies with the unshaken calm of someone who had once tamed a "dragon" made of papier-mâché while wearing a velvet cape and singing her own background music.

So when Luke began acting strangely, practicing martial stances blindfolded, whispering about qi currents as if they were moody weather patterns and invoking dramatic names like "Great Ancestor Song of the Starless Crying Heaven," Elizabeth did not panic. She simply sipped her tea and thought, with the patience of a mother who had once mediated a diplomatic incident between fairies and stuffed animals, that this would pass with age.

No, it did not.

Instead, things escalated quickly.

Her beloved child, once sweet and innocent enough to name flowers after emotions, had managed to transform human childbirth into a weapon of mystical and psychological devastation, delivering his story with the gravitas of someone unveiling the ancient secrets of the cosmos.

Elizabeth sighed, calm on the outside but screaming inwardly, as she delicately poured her tea, hoping that simple ritual might somehow restore balance to a universe that clearly had no intention of behaving.

Maybe this was karma, she thought, or perhaps it was just another ordinary Tuesday.

Dumbledore sat down with the weariness of a man twice his age.

"I…" he began, then stopped. "Young master Luke Heaven-Smith. I assume you know why I've called you here."

Luke inclined his head. "Naturally. You wish to discuss the cultivation technique I displayed earlier."

Dumbledore's eye twitched. "Yes. That… spell."

He took a long sip of tea. "Tell me… where exactly did you learn such a thing?"

Luke straightened proudly. "I developed it myself. Inspired by the fundamental misunderstanding many have of maternal love. I believe most cruelty in the world stems from those who never truly felt that love. So, I created this technique to help those poor souls."

There was a pause.

Elizabeth, still smiling, suddenly turned pink.

At that moment, something inside Dumbledore cracked. He had held on to hope until the very end, even if it was just an illusion, but now, faced with this reality, he wondered if people would remember him as the one who created that spell when they recalled his words about love being the most powerful force.

His little old heart simply could not bear the thought.

In that instant, Dumbledore found himself wishing Voldemort would return for one last showdown rather than having to confront this new, unsettling truth.

Dumbledore sighed and raised a brow. "You… created it yourself?"

"With help from Mother," Luke replied casually.

Elizabeth's blush deepened to crimson. "Luke—"

Luke looked utterly innocent. "You did provide valuable insight. I merely asked questions."

"Yes. Very detailed questions," she muttered, covering her face. "About labor. And childbirth. And… Merlin, save me..."

"I needed to understand the nuances," Luke said seriously. "To make it authentic."

Dumbledore stared, lips slightly parted.

Luke continued confidently, "I also read extensively, and one book explained that the average woman urinates more frequently during pregnancy because of pressure on the bladder. Fascinating, isn't it?"

Elizabeth let out a strangled sound.

Dumbledore set his tea down carefully and asked, "And the delivery through the eye?"

Luke smiled confidently. "Nothing conveys love more than a sincere look!"

The headmaster's hands trembled slightly as he replied, "Of course. I suppose there is no one in this world who would dare go against your look of love…"

"Exactly!"

Luke nodded with absolute sincerity.

"I found inspiration in a book on advanced Patronus charm theory. It explained that emotions and intent fuel powerful magic, with joy summoning light. From that, I theorized that maternal love could summon enlightenment."

Dumbledore leaned back, clutching his hat tightly.

"I've made a terrible mistake," he muttered.

Elizabeth patted his arm gently and offered, "Lemon drop?"

He accepted it without question.

Dumbledore didn't reprimand them. He couldn't. The spell, horrifying as it was, wasn't dark magic. It didn't cause lasting harm. And technically, it was an emotional construct rooted in deep magical theory.

Which made it worse.

He dismissed them quietly, staring into the fireplace as Luke bowed and Elizabeth gave him another cup for the road.

As they left, Dumbledore muttered, "Love… love was supposed to save us…"

Behind him, Fawkes let out a sympathetic squawk.

Somewhere, two twins groaned from the infirmary.

And above the castle, the clouds formed the vague shape of a screaming fetus before quietly dissipating.

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After their conversation with Dumbledore, Luke and Elizabeth returned to their private quarters.

The sun still hadn't dipped behind the Forbidden Forest, but deep shadows through the arched windows of Hogwarts were already visible. Candles flickered with a gentle warmth as they stepped inside. Despite everything that had happened, the room was peaceful. Too peaceful, Elizabeth thought, considering the fact that her son had just mentally and physically ruined two students.

Luke, however, didn't seem disturbed at all.

He moved with a calm, almost radiant sense of anticipation. The kind only a boy on the cusp of a major life milestone could wear. It was the kind of glow a young cultivator might have before taking his first sword flight… or in this case, before going on his first date with a future concubine.

"Mother," Luke said, gently placing his wand on a cloth like it were a sacred blade. "I believe tonight shall mark the beginning of my romantic cultivation path."

Elizabeth gave him a long, unreadable look from the other end of the room. She was sipping tea by the window, legs elegantly crossed, a shawl draped over her shoulders. "Oh?" she said mildly, though her voice wavered ever so slightly.

Luke nodded with the air of someone proclaiming his divine fate. "Yes, tonight I shall meet Hermione Granger in the library. We will discuss scrolls, runes, and perhaps exchange life philosophies. It will be a meeting of minds but also the first step in winning her heart."

Elizabeth did not reply immediately. Instead, she took a slow sip of her tea while a memory stirred in her mind: Luke at nine years old, swearing off romance forever because, as he said, "mortal women do not understand cultivation schedules."

Now that very same boy was preparing to form a romantic harem through library dates and magical monologues.

She sighed inwardly. "As long as he's happy…" she thought. Still, she didn't say anything aloud. After all, she'd long assumed that Luke's whole "multiple wives for the good of the clan" mindset was just part of his elaborate young master act. A harmless fantasy. Surely, he wouldn't actually pursue it.

This… would prove to be her greatest miscalculation.

Luke walked over to a mirror and examined himself. "Mother," he asked seriously, "should I wear the emerald robes or the black-and-silver ones that make me look more like a scholarly tyrant?"

Elizabeth blinked. "The… emerald ones?" she offered weakly.

"Hmm… good," he murmured, turning dramatically as his robes fluttered with unnatural elegance, despite there being no wind. "They represent rebirth, serenity, and ruthless pragmatism."

He then spent five minutes adjusting his collar with surgical precision, reciting several self-written poetic phrases that he might say during the date. Each one was more absurd than the last.

"I want her to feel like I'm offering her an immortal peach, not just a pumpkin pasty."

"I must project aloof vulnerability."

"I will gift her a spiritual token—perhaps a duck feather inscribed with runes."

Elizabeth smiled weakly and drank more tea.

Meanwhile, in her enchanted cage, Shadow Lotus, who was formerly Professor McGonagall, watched everything from her corner with wide, haunted eyes as if she had just witnessed an apocalyptic event and now had front-row seats to the sequel.

"This is my life now," she thought. "This boy, this young demon, plans to court women using 'spiritual tokens' and tales of his training with imaginary sects. I will never see a normal Tuesday again."

Still shaken from witnessing the devastating effects of the Pregnancy Gaze, she curled into a ball, seeking solace in the simple and primal comfort of cooked chicken. The plate beside her gleamed with aromatic seasoning. Elizabeth never skimped on flavor.

Chewing slowly, McGonagall tried to push the day's memories from her mind.

Her old life, filled with lectures, discipline, and quiet dignity, felt far away now. She was a cat, a cat trapped in the home of a boy who believed cultivation techniques surpassed the entire Hogwarts curriculum and who had already half-declared himself patriarch of the school before his first year even ended.

She licked her paw and wiped her face slowly.

"I will survive," she thought, determined. "That's all. I just need to keep quiet, avoid drawing attention, and not antagonize him. Perhaps, if I am lucky, I can grow fat and warm. I will nap in sunbeams, purr when petted, and reject all stress. I will become a good cat."

She sighed and let her body go limp against the warmth of the cage's enchanted cushions. As her golden eyes drooped closed, she whispered to herself.

"Mmm… They positioned my cage near the fireplace… Nya…" She purred.

Outside the window, Hogwarts twinkled under the stars.

Inside, a young master prepared for love, a mother feigned ignorance, and a cat plotted her emotional retirement.