Cultivator in Hogwarts

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They say that to court death is to cheat it—but at Hogwarts, death and calamity often arrived unbidden, ungallantly barging in when least expected.

On the banks of the Black Lake, beneath a sky streaked with late-afternoon gold, Luke TianLong Heaven-Smith and his mother, Elizabeth, sat engrossed in a quiet picnic. Beside them, the regal cat—now dubbed Shadow Lotus—was curled in philosophical torment over her new feline fate, emitting soft, forlorn meows that drifted across the water like tiny, plaintive echoes.

Unseen by the mother-and-son pair (but not by his prying senses), two familiar figures lurked in the shadow of a willow tree.

"Look," whispered Fred Weasley, ginger hair aflame in the dying sun, "there they are. The legendary 'Young Master' and his… what do you call her? 'Supreme Progenitress'?"

George Weasley, matching his twin's grin, cocked a wrist and brandished a slingshot. "Supreme Progenitress sounds about right, it has a good ring to it."

Fred narrowed his eyes, nodding. "Alright, then—shall we test his vaunted senses? After all, everyone says Slytherins can't stand Muggles having any advantage… or am I mixing things up?"

George slung an arm around Fred's shoulders. "Only one way to find out. Stink bombs?"

"Stink bombs."

From the depths of Fred's robes, he produced a small leather pouch from which he withdrew three spherical projectiles, each about the size of a cherry. George held up one for inspection. "Crafted from the finest—well, foulest—combination of bloated leechwort, rotten dragonfly wings, and a dash of bogweed root. Guaranteed to produce a stench so vile you'll see stars."

Fred gave a mock bow. "Our masterpiece. Nothing nasty, mind you—just a harmless prank to humble the Young Master."

George grinned. "And remind him that purebloods that his esteemed title can also stink."

Fred's brow furrowed in faux outrage. "How dare anyone prank the Progenitress of the Lavender Tea Clan!"

George responded. "We dare!"

With theatrical care, they loaded their slingshots, each twin taking aim. For a moment, they eyed each other like dueling cultivators, weighing honor and amusement in equal measure.

"Ready?" Fred whispered.

"Ready," George replied, his lips twitching.

They flung their arms back in perfect unison, and the stink bombs rocketed through the air, tracing wide, graceful arcs toward the unsuspecting pair.

To Luke, these moments with his mother were sacred. Every fiber of his being was attuned to the ebb and flow of spiritual energy around him—especially when that energy manifested as familial serenity.

Even before the bombs reached halfway, he sensed the disturbance. A ripple in the aether, like a stone thrown into a still pond—an abrupt surge of rancid qi.

In one fluid motion, Luke drew his wand: a sleek rod of holly wood and dragon heartstring that glimmered as if pleased to be of use. He raised it, eyes narrowing, and uttered the single word:

"Repello!"

A shimmering barrier sprung into existence between himself and his mother, intercepting the bombs mid-flight. They struck the invisible shield with soft pops, spinning harmlessly outward before falling to the ground in exhausted plops.

He was glad he followed one of the methods of training he still remembered from the other worlds.

He had, after all, taught himself by standing blindfolded in the backyard for six hours straight, dodging tennis balls launched at him by a jury-rigged leaf blower. His mom called it "dangerous," his neighbors called it "deeply concerning," but Luke called it "The Path of the Wind Gecko." No one really knew what that meant. Not even him. It just sounded cool.

Day after day, he trained in secret—hiding behind bushes, sneaking up on squirrels, and whispering, "I sensed you," every time they ran off. Sometimes they didn't run. Sometimes they stared at him for too long. Those were the advanced levels.

To sharpen his senses, he'd once spent an entire Saturday blindfolded in the supermarket. Of course, it was training, of course he was not lost and the blindfold was to cover his tears.

The point was—it worked.

He'd learned to feel intent. To hear the silence before a sneak attack. To smell evil in the air. Or maybe that was just Uncle Derek's cologne; he wasn't sure. "That damn fat man, I hope you died in the toilet from all the laxatives I gave you. That's what happens when yoou look at mother with those eyes!.

But Uncle Derek was just a little fat, he was not at fault that his eyes were like those of a certain Pink villain in an anime of the 90s.

Elizabeth, her tea halfway to her lips, turned in surprise, her curls bouncing. "Luke!" she exclaimed, just as the bombs scattered stink across the grass far beyond their blanket.

Elizabeth opened her mouth to comment, but Luke's gaze swept the lakeside. The twins had already turned to flee, slingshots dangling uselessly at their sides. Fred's striped socks were a blur as he dashed.

Luke took a single step forward. In less time than it takes to recite a cultivation mantra, he covered the distance. When he reached them, he delivered a swift, precise hit to Fred's solar plexus that sent the elder Weasley twin sprawling in a gasp of air. Turning smoothly, he repeated the blow on George—another sharp crack, another twin collapsing.

Both boys lay flat on the grass, eyes wide, the stink bombs forgotten at their sides.

A Young Master's Condemnation

Luke stood over the fallen pranksters, cloak swirling with cultivated dignity. His voice, calm yet rimmed with steel, carried across the silent lakeside.

"Fred Weasley. George Weasley. You have erred gravely."

Fred sniffled, the stench wash of his makeshift bomb wafting around him. "Ow… Luke, we were only—"

"—Testing the defenses of this humble Young Master and his venerable progenitor," Luke corrected, every syllable crisp. "And in doing so, you dared to involve my mother—my root, my foundation in both mortal and spiritual realms."

George, trying to sit up, winced. "It was meant to be a joke—"

"A gross insult to filial piety!" Luke's hand lashed the air, and dry leaves skittered across the grass. "To court misfortune by targeting one's guardian is an act courting reincarnation in inferior realms!"

Elizabeth rose, her presence regal. She placed a gentle hand on Luke's shoulder. He inhaled deeply, composing himself.

Luke dropped his tone to a rhetorical whisper, as if addressing an assembly of ancient elders:

"Know this: by the laws of our clan—by the unbroken lineage of cultivators who stood against ten-thousand tribulations—there is only one punishment for those who threaten one's mother."

Fred and George exchanged terrified glances. Their usual bravado had drained away, replaced by dread.

Luke's gaze softened just a fraction. "Yet I am a merciful young master." He extended a hand to each, helping them to their feet in one swift motion. "Your lives are spared. But your souls must bear the shame of facing this Young Master unbowed."

Luke inclined his head. "As you wish."

Throughout the altercation, a small crowd had gathered—students from all houses, and even Shadow Lotus, who blinked sleepily from her cage as if mildly curious.

A handful of Gryffindor first-years peered shyly, clutching robes to hold in giggles. But when they saw who lay at Luke's feet, they stifled laughter. Fred and George's reputation as troublemakers was unrivaled; their comeuppance was neither surprising nor unwelcome.

Luke turned to Elizabeth, voice now tender. "Mother, should they be bound by clan ritual or merely admonished to reflect on their folly?"

Elizabeth, sitting gracefully on the picnic blanket, glanced at the two trembling boys before her. She recognized the Weasley twins from the few Hogwarts staff meetings she had attended—rambunctious pranksters with more energy than caution.

She did not feel particularly angry at them. In fact, she had been ready to let it go. But as she looked at Luke—who stood solemnly, his brows furrowed and arms crossed—she realized that the matter was far from over.

He was pouting.

Uh-oh.

Elizabeth gave a soft sigh, already knowing what was to come. "If you're going to punish them," she said gently, "make sure it's something… reasonable."

Luke's expression brightened. "Understood, Mother."

Everyone watching knew that was a bad sign.

The Invention of a Forbidden Art

Luke's mind spun with ideas. As a cultivator, no, as a filial son first and foremost, he could not allow such blatant disrespect toward maternal figures to go unpunished. This wasn't just about his mother; it was about the universal law of all multiverses: you do not insult someone's mom.

He had trained for this. Before arriving at Hogwarts, he had already wanted to draft a series of techniques that would uphold the pillars of cultivator justice. Sadly, while most were incomplete, one stood finished—his first original technique, born not from violence or aggression, but from sheer, overwhelming, transcendent reverence for motherhood.

Its inspiration?

An ancient figure from one of his fragmented past-life memories. A legendary cultivator known as Ancestor Song, feared across galaxies, whose ultimate technique struck horror in the hearts of even the mightiest of sect leaders.

The Ceremony Begins

Luke turned to face the Weasley twins. Fred and George, still aching from earlier, looked up with wary confusion.

"You have committed a grave sin," Luke said solemnly, his voice echoing unnaturally across the water. "By targeting my mother, you have dishonored not only this Young Master, but the sacred essence of motherhood itself."

George raised a hand weakly. "Look, we said we're sorry—"

"SILENCE."

Luke raised his wand and pointed it at his right eye.

Fred stared. "Wait… he's pointing it at his own—"

Luke's voice rose like a storm over the mountains.

"What is filial piety? What is love? Do you know the greatness of maternal love?"

He pressed the tip of the wand to his eye, and golden light erupted from it.

"Pregnancy Gaze."

The Technique Unleashed

The crowd gasped.

Dumbledore arrived just in time to see a beam of radiant, celestial light shoot from Luke's right eye—one ray each to Fred and George.

The moment the light touched them, the twins collapsed to their knees.

And then…

It began.

First: One Hour of Pregnancy

The receptor had to endure everything a woman feels during pregnancy: nausea and vomiting, breast tenderness, fatigue, increased urinary frequency, changes in appetite, mood swings, light bleeding or spotting, headaches or dizziness. All compressed in just 1 hour.

Second: One Hour of Labor

During that hour, the most extreme pain in the world was experienced, a level 12 pain in medicine. And all you could do was grit your teeth and wait patiently.

Within seconds, the twins clutched their stomachs.

"Ahh—my back! Why is my lower back screaming?!"

"My chest—why are my… why are they sore?!"

Fred doubled over. "I—I can't stop crying and I want pickles. This is madness."

George's eyes widened in horror. "I—I think I love and hate everyone at the same time! WHAT IS THIS!?"

Their faces flushed, then paled, then flushed again. Their breathing grew erratic. They began stumbling in circles, then hugging, then arguing about whether or not emotional support ducks should be allowed in the delivery room.

When the people around heard the explanation, everybody averted their eyes.

Nearby students screamed. Some fainted. Others began muttering protection charms. A Ravenclaw scribbled in a notebook: "Note: Never cross the young Slytherin prince with the creepy eyes."

Peeves began floating backward, whispering, "Too much… even for me."

Madam Hooch turned pale. "It's like… like someone weaponized maternal experience."

Dumbledore's eyes were wide, his mouth slightly agape. "That… that technique should not exist. That knowledge is… too advanced. Too horrifying. Too… visceral."

He reached for a lemon drop just to calm his nerves.

And yet, it wasn't over.

They both were taken to the infirmary, where they would be observed.

As the first hour passed, the second phase began.

"No… no, I can't do this…" Fred whispered, crawling on the grass. "I see… the edge of the universe… and it's a screaming void…"

George grabbed a stick and bit down on it. "THE CONTRACTIONS—THEY'RE AT THREE MINUTES INTERVALS!"

Students in the corridor screamed in horror. Some ran. Others simply knelt and prayed.

Several witches began trembling, eyes glazed with secondhand empathy.

But the worst?

The male students.

They stared, pale and shaking, as two of their own crumbled under the weight of mystical pseudo-labor.

"This is…" muttered Seamus, "This is worse than the Cruciatus Curse…"

One student even passed out.

Even Snape, watching from a higher floor with his customary sneer, flinched slightly and walked away.

"Whatever, I think even Voldemort needs to hide from him now…"

The Rise of a Legend

As Fred and George collapsed side by side, sobbing, murmuring things like "I'm sorry, Mum," and "We'll never prank again, please, no more…" the entire student body silently arrived at one unanimous conclusion.

This boy… is not normal.

They looked at Luke, who stood proud and serene, his robes fluttering lightly despite the absence of wind. His golden eye dimmed, returning to normal.

Dumbledore, clutching his hat, muttered under his breath: "He's the one… he's the one… He's the one I don't want to be in Hogwarts…"

In her little cage, Shadow Lotus—the feline McGonagall—pressed her paws over her face. The picnic sandwich she'd once admired now tasted of despair.

The whispers began.

"He's not just a Slytherin…"

"He's the future dark lord…"

"No. Worse. He's a mother-con demon…"

Luke, next to the twins, with a calm expression.

"Now you understand," he said gently. "To harm the dignity of a mother is to harm the very soul. I think now you understand love."

Luke smiled, but the twins had already pissed a while ago.

They could only sob.

Elizabeth gave a long sigh. "So that's it. Well… at least it was creative." She said and covered her face with her hands in shame.