Lucas stopped.
He held the letter and looked up at Professor Sprout, then back down at the paper, then up at her again.
“Magic?
You’ve got to be kidding.”
Professor Sprout smiled and gave a small flick of her wand.
“No.
It’s real magic.”
Lucas’s eyes widened as the tools in his toolbox—the shovel, scissors, pliers, and the rest—suddenly trembled and floated up into the air, spinning around him.
He quickly waved his hands above and below them.
No wires.
This wasn’t a magic trick.
In that moment of shock, everything clicked.
Fragments of memory came together, and sudden understanding washed over him.
His voice trembled slightly.
“So… all those things I could do… they weren’t superpowers?”
Professor Sprout smiled.
“Such as?”
Lucas recalled the strange incidents.
“Like when I was six, I was picking wildflowers on the cliff edge and fell.
I thought I was done for, but I actually floated down and landed safely!”
“And last winter when the barn caught fire.
I was screaming in panic and the flames suddenly died down by half!”
“So all of that… was magic?”
“Uncontrolled magic, yes,” Professor Sprout nodded.
“You’re a wizard, Lucas.
In moments of intense emotion and danger, your magic burst out.”
Wizard… Magic?!
Holy shit.
I’ve really landed in this kind of world.
Lucas couldn’t help saying, “I thought I was going to become a chef, and now you’re telling me I’m a wizard?”
A chef?
Professor Sprout chuckled.
She had seen the little scene with the girls earlier.
It was cute how seriously the children were playing house.
But how could an eleven-year-old boy actually know real food tasting?
Why was he treating their game so earnestly?
“Lucas, do you actually know how to cook?
Knowing all those fancy terms and acting professional doesn’t mean you can really cook, you know.”
Lucas paused, about to reply, when—
“Who’s there?!”
A loud roar came from inside the house.
The door slammed open and an elderly man burst out.
He was at least eighty, with sparse white hair and a face full of wrinkles, but his posture was straight and his movements quick.
Most alarming of all, he was holding a double-barreled shotgun, pointed directly at Professor Sprout.
“Back off!
Stay away from my grandson!” the old man bellowed, finger on the trigger.
“I knew it!
Ever since Lucas started showing those strange powers, I knew this day would come!
You people want to take him away and cut him open for research!”
“Grandpa!” Lucas quickly stepped between them.
“Put the gun down!
This lady is—”
“Is what?
The one who sent those weird letters, right?” The old man’s eyes were bulging.
“I intercepted three of them!
One in the mailbox, one on the windowsill, and a damn owl tried to force its way down the chimney!
I knew something was off!”
Professor Sprout sighed.
“Mr.
McGregor, please calm down.
I’m a professor from Hogwarts.
I’m here to—”
“Liar!” The old man’s hands shook with agitation.
“Lucas, I’ve told you before—these people will treat you like a lab rat.
Get inside the house right now!”
“Professor, maybe you should—” Seeing the situation spiraling, Lucas tried to get her to leave, but she simply gave a small, resigned wave of her wand.
The metal shotgun barrel suddenly went soft like melted taffy and drooped downward.
The bullets slid out and dropped to the ground, where they immediately sprouted and grew into a small cluster of bright blue flowers.
Lucas’s eyes lit up with excitement.
The old man stared at the rubbery gun, then at the flowers that had just appeared out of nowhere, his mouth opening but no sound coming out.
“Mr.
McGregor,” Professor Sprout said gently, “Hogwarts is a school that teaches magic.
Lucas is a natural-born wizard.
What he has shown is magical power, not superpowers.
Someone needs to teach him how to control and use it properly, or it could become very dangerous.
That’s why Hogwarts exists.”
“Now, may I come inside for a cup of tea?”
Finlay McGregor stared at her for a full ten seconds before his shoulders finally sagged.
“…Come in.”
The farmhouse kitchen and dining area were combined into one bright, spacious room.
A kettle whistled on the stove, and a rich, milky aroma drifted from the oven.
Lucas broke into a bright smile and welcomed her warmly.
“Please take a seat, Professor.
I’ll make some tea.
Grandpa, you want a spoonful of whiskey in yours, right?”
“Make it two,” the old man grumbled as he sat at the table, arms crossed and face long.
Lucas didn’t mind at all.
He moved with smooth, practiced ease, pouring a steady stream of boiling water into the teapot as a rich tea aroma rose.
Just then, the oven dinged.
He took out the freshly baked goods with familiar confidence, arranged them beautifully on a plate alongside the tea, and set everything in front of Professor Sprout.
It was a plate of warm, plump, golden-brown scones, served with a dish of fragrant clotted cream and another of vibrant red raspberry jam.
The scent of baked grains mingled with the deep, buttery aroma of melted milk fat.
Professor Sprout let out an involuntary sound of delight before catching herself.
“You… made these?”
Lucas nodded naturally.
“Freshly baked scones, paired with homemade clotted cream and raspberry jam.
Oh, it’s missing just one little thing…”
He picked up a bright yellow lemon.
With a quick flip of his hand, a sharp paring knife appeared.
The blade moved across the lemon’s surface at a precise, shallow angle.
In one smooth motion, the almost translucent yellow peel came off in a single continuous strip.
Then, with a gentle press and a flick of his wrist, the knife became a blur.
In the blink of an eye, that peel had been transformed into fine, uniform, hair-thin strands of bright yellow lemon zest.
He placed the small dish of delicate lemon zest beside the cream and jam, then smiled.
“How could you serve scones without Clara’s lemon zest?”
Professor Sprout had watched the entire process with her mouth slightly open.
She unconsciously rubbed her eyes.
Merlin’s beard… Was that real?
Can a paring knife even do that?
Was that magic?
Does Lucas actually know how to cook?
No—with knife skills like that, “know how to cook” didn’t even begin to describe it.
So the scene she witnessed earlier with the girls wasn’t just children playing house?
Their eyes met.
Lucas made an inviting gesture, clearly eager for her to try.
“Please have a taste, Professor… my guest.”
When Professor Sprout came back to her senses, she was already holding a scone and gently breaking it open along its side.
With a soft tearing sound, a puff of warm steam carrying an incredible aroma escaped, revealing the soft, pale golden interior.
She took a deep breath, spread a thick layer of clotted cream and raspberry jam on the scone with her knife, then carefully sprinkled the fine, bright lemon zest over the snowy cream and ruby-red jam.
Suddenly she felt ravenous—perhaps the long Disillusionment Charm had drained her more than she realized.
Either way, the scone seemed to pull her hand straight to her mouth.
Mmm—
Professor Sprout’s eyes flew wide open.
The crisp outer shell cracked delightfully, and the soft, tender inside filled her mouth.
The warm wheaty aroma, the silky-cool clotted cream, the bright tangy raspberry jam, and the fresh citrus note all bloomed together, elevating the flavor of the scone to a whole new level.
This was Clara’s lemon zest…
Professor Sprout narrowed her eyes in pure satisfaction.
It was wonderful… absolutely perfect… incredibly delicious…
One entire scone disappeared in moments.
When she finally snapped out of it and hurriedly wiped the cream and jam from the corners of her mouth, her already rosy face had turned even redder.
Merlin’s beard!
What am I doing?
Pomona, remember why you’re here!