Harry Potter: outlier

Not even a few hours after the incident a special newspaper edition was dropped in the Great Hall during lunch.

The Daily Prophet — Front Page Exclusive

HOGWARTS HORROR: DARK PRODIGY RETURNS, ATTACKS INNOCENT GIRL IN BROAD DAYLIGHT!

By Rita Skeeter, Special Correspondent

In a shocking turn of events that has left students and parents reeling, Lucas Foster — the infamous boy who broke into the Ministry of Magic and fled the country with his criminal mother last year — has made an unannounced and highly suspicious return to Hogwarts.

And not even a week into his reappearance, the so-called "magical craftsman" has already assaulted a fellow student, leaving a young Gryffindor girl hospitalized with a broken nose, a fractured skull, and extensive magical trauma, sources say.

Eyewitnesses report that the attack was unprovoked, brutal, and executed with such calculated coldness that it left students screaming and staff scrambling.

"She barely looked at him," one shaken Ravenclaw fourth-year told this reporter. "Then suddenly she was on the floor, blood everywhere. He didn't even flinch."

FROM PRODIGY TO PARIAH

Readers may recall that Lucas Foster fell from grace last year after it was discovered that many of his items had no Ministry registration and contained "experimental, possibly sentient magic."

Ministry officials confirm that the young man illegally tampered with dangerous enchantments, created items that bypass standard wards, and may have even crafted artifacts with mind-affecting properties.

The situation escalated when Ministry agents moved to detain his mother — a known associate in his work — only for Lucas to stage a break-in at the Ministry itself, bypassing at least three layers of magical security and vanishing with her into the night.

"We don't know how he pulled it off," one anonymous Auror confessed. "Frankly, we're still not sure what he is."

DUMBLEDORE STRANGELY SILENT

And yet, despite this violent attack and Foster's criminal past, Albus Dumbledore has refused to expel the student, citing only "complicated circumstances" and "unforeseen truths."

What exactly does that mean?

"I wouldn't be surprised if You-Know-Who himself came back as a Hogwarts 'guest' under Dumbledore's watch," scoffed one former Ministry official.

Is Lucas Foster more than just a rogue student? Could Hogwarts be harboring a ticking magical time bomb, and Dumbledore just watching it count down?

Rumors are already swirling about covert meetings between staff behind locked doors.

One thing is clear: students are not safe — and the Ministry's refusal to intervene raises more than eyebrows.

A DARK LEGACY?

Some whisper that Foster's artifacts were not merely illegal, but unnatural — an echo of the twisted ambitions of Grindelwald himself.

"Power like his doesn't just come from books," said a retired Unspeakable. "It comes from bargains."

Is Lucas Foster a misunderstood genius? A lost soul? Or the next great magical threat Britain will regret ignoring?

The Prophet will continue to investigate — because if Hogwarts won't protect our children, the public has a right to know who walks their halls in shadow.

----

The room was warm, almost stifling with incense and firelight. Ornate tapestries lined the walls, soft gold and faded crimson, stitched with ancient Beauxbatons heraldry. Lucas sat across from Monsieur Delacour at a polished blackwood table. They were alone.

Monsieur Delacour, for all his poise and impeccable tailoring, had the eyes of a man used to bending others or breaking them, if need be. He smiled with practiced charm, his fingers steepled lightly in front of him.

"I must say, your reputation reaches beyond your borders, Monsieur Lucas," he said, voice smooth as aged wine. "And your creations..., I have rarely seen such peculiarity. Such depth. Truly, they rival masters."

Lucas did not respond right away. His gaze was level, distant, his posture relaxed in a way that made others uneasy. "Then I assume you didn't bring me here just to flatter me."

Delacour chuckled, as if he were amused by a child's stubbornness. "Of course not. I respect your time. And your... talents. I simply believe that your gifts deserve a larger stage. Britain is cramped. Distracted. But France. We understand the value of your craftsmanship. We invest. We preserve."

Lucas's expression didn't change. "And you'd like to preserve me?"

"I'd like to make you an offer." He leaned forward. "You'd have a personal atelier. Funding. Access to our private libraries and artifacts. No restrictions, no constant surveillance from paranoid headmasters or suspicious Aurors. Just freedom and support."

Lucas's eyes narrowed slightly. "You want my hands. But not the mess I bring."

Delacour's smile thinned. "Let's not pretend we don't all carry mess, Monsieur. Yours just happens to be... louder."

There was a pause. The fire cracked softly in the hearth.

Lucas reached into his coat and slowly placed a small silver object on the table. It was an ornate locket, old, scuffed, and missing the normal trackable signs of enchantment. Delacour's eyes flicked to it but he made no move.

"I want something in return," Lucas said quietly.

Delacour raised an eyebrow, the flicker of interest unmistakable. "Naturally."

Lucas tapped the locket once. Its surface shimmered faintly, but gave off no pulse of magic. Pure silence, magically speaking. Monsieur Delacour marvelled everytime he saw one of Lucas' artifacts.

"There was a man," Lucas continued, his voice quiet but firm, "or perhaps a woman. I'm not sure. Someone who poisoned someone dear to me. I need to know who they are and how to stop them. The poison they used was... different. Not something I've encountered before."

Monsieur Delacour's eyes narrowed, a flicker of something crossing his face Concern, maybe, or perhaps curiosity. He leaned forward slightly, the gold embroidery of his robes catching the light as he did. "Poison, you say?" His voice was low, measured. "And you believe this individual to be involved in your... craft, your work?"

Lucas shook his head, his eyes locking with Delacour's. "I don't know, but I am inclined to believe differently."

Delacour's lips thinned, his fingers tapping lightly on the table. "Control," he assumed.

Lucas met his gaze without flinching. "I think they used something beyond what's usual. Whatever it is, I need to know more about it. I need to understand it. If I'm to stop it, I need information."

He tapped the locked again and this time the small vial with one drop of cold to the touch liquid jumped out of it. Lucas caught it mid air. "This is what was used, at least I was told so. Have you seen anything like this?"

Delacour's tapping stopped. His eyes dropped to the vial in Lucas' hand, the only movement in the room the slow swirling of that single drop.

He didn't answer immediately. Instead, he leaned forward just enough to see it better. "No signature. No magical pulse and just looks like water" he said under his breath. "And cold, you said?"

Lucas nodded.

Delacour didn't reach for it. He seemed to understand instinctively that touching it was unwise. "Not poison in the conventional sense. Not potion-borne. This was built, layered, like a ritual sealed into form."

Lucas's fingers curled slightly tighter around the vial.

"I've heard of something similar in concept," Delacour continued, slower now. "Decades ago. During the Grindelwald fallout, certain circles toyed with parasitic enchantments, curses that bind to the body. Dormant until something is added. Or... taken away."

Lucas said nothing.

Delacour looked at him again, sharper now. "If this is what I think it is, the antidote is only a leash. A temporary thread keeping the host above water. Remove it..."

"They drown," Lucas finished.

Delacour sighed. "And there's almost never a clean counter-curse to that kind of magic." He paused, musing for a moment before continuing, "There are a few that come to mind, who would be capable and knowledgable enough to create this."

Lucas slipped the vial back into the locket with a flick of his wrist. "I am unsure about moving to France. I don't do well with governments, however, if you can find out who made it I will work with you."

Delacour didn't answer right away. His eyes lingered on the locket, then on Lucas, as if weighing something. Then the feeling of concentration and seriousness Lucas had gottten throughout the conversation from him vanished, replaced by joy and relieve. It was kind of dissonant how quick he switched.

"Well, I am glad we could come to an agreement. If you don't mind Monsieur Lucas, I would love to spend some time with my lovely daughter." His bubbly friendlyness stunned Lucas, "And let's keep the fact that we are finished here between us, I don't want to go back to those old geezers so soon."

It was strange for Lucas seeing someone so carefree around him, who wasn't family. It made him wonder what could have been and more importantly what he had to do to also reclaim this freedom.

----

Lucas walked back from Monsieur Delacour's tent, the scent of pine and damp earth filled his lungs.

The path ahead lay quiet, the castle looming in the distance, but his eyes didn't move from the gnarled roots at the edge of the trees before him. He didn't turn around. He didn't have to. His magic had already reached out, invisible, inevitable, and brushed against a mind far too curious for its own good.

Unshielded. Amateurish. And terribly smug.

He smiled, just barely.

The beetle in question, oblivious to the extend of the boy's powers, observed his every move. Her article should be arriving around now and she was certain that it would have just as much of an impact as any she had written about the boy who lived. She knew she had found a gold mine and she wasn't going to stop before she had milked him for everything he was worth.

She watched from her perch, unaware that her fate had already been written.

He neither raised a hand, nor whispered a word, but the air around the small little beetle split. A half-second later, she was free falling, while her seperate wings slowly glided down.

The woman hit the soft forest ground screaming, already reverted in mid-air. Robes askew and on her back two gnarly deep lacerations.

The scream tapered into a breathless wheeze as she writhed, clutching at her shredded back. Blood seeped through the fine fabric of her robes, pooling beneath her in the moss.

Lucas didn't move immediately. He watched her with a dispassionate curiosity. The spectacle stretched on, until he finally waved his hand and the silence of the forest returned.

A muffled scream tried to tear through her sealed lips as the panic of being unable to breath overwhelmed her.

Lucas crouched beside her and the pain vanished, however, the cold feeling of her blood trenched robes clinging to her skin and the wetness underneath her remained. Without the agony she finally breathed through her nose.

"Do you know what I find most interesting, Rita?" he asked, his voice soft, detached. He reached down and adjusted her head, so that she looked at him. "It's the way you think you're in control. The way you believe you have any power."

He was close enough now for her to see the cold calculation in his eyes. She was a tool. A broken tool. Something to be used, something to be disposed of when it no longer served its purpose.

"You're not the first to try and paint me as a monster, you know," Lucas continued. "And you definitely won't be the last. But unlike them, you made a fatal mistake."

Her breathing was erratic now, but she couldn't move. Every attempt to speak was stifled by some unseen force, some pressure in her throat that constricted with cruel precision

"You came here," he said, leaning closer, his breath cool against her clammy skin. "But don't despair. In fact it's actually a good thing for you." He gave a faint smile, a smile that didn't reach his eyes and a warmth filled her heart.

"Do you know why you are still alive, even though no one would be any wiser," he asked, watching her struggling to focus, to comprehend, the smile on her hace forming involuntarily. Her eyes, in contrast, flickered between fear and confusion.

She couldn't answer. Couldn't even form words.

"Because," Lucas whispered, "I want you to write a story for me."