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Inside the Hog's Head.
"The Deathly Hallows were gifts from Death himself—that's the old story. I believe those three objects were probably created by the Peverell brothers. All three were powerful wizards, and the legend is just a dramatic version of something that really happened."
Dumbledore paused and glanced at Lucien, who was steadily working through the grayish mush on his plate. He continued, "Just like the Philosopher's Stone. In a few hundred or a thousand years, people might start claiming some god handed it to Nicolas Flamel. Even in our world, when something seems too extraordinary, folks love to wrap it in myth."
Lucien nodded, thoughtful. That tracked.
The Peverell brothers' real names had been swallowed by history. All that remained was the story of Death handing out presents.
"By the way," Dumbledore said, studying him with quiet interest, "when you looked at the Resurrection Stone… did you hear anything?"
Lucien shook his head.
He replayed the moment in his mind—the cold black gem, its smooth surface. No voices. No whispers. Nothing at all.
To him it had just been a ring.
Dumbledore was quiet for a beat. A rough idea was already forming. The Stone probably called louder to people carrying old regrets. Kids who hadn't yet lost anyone important might be able to ignore it.
"Voldemort may not have known what he was holding," Dumbledore said, uncertain. "That could be why he turned it into a Horcrux without a second thought."
He still couldn't wrap his head around it. If Voldemort had realized the gem was the Resurrection Stone, he would have kept it safe and hunted the other two Hallows instead. His hunger for immortality should have made him greedy for the full set.
Lucien nodded. "Maybe."
Voldemort did have a habit of turning the most precious things into Horcruxes. Three of the four founders' relics had ended up that way. Only the Sword of Gryffindor had escaped. The more valuable the object, the more it seemed to appeal to him as a vessel for a piece of his soul.
Lucien still thought Dumbledore was probably right—Voldemort hadn't known. That ring had been a Gaunt family heirloom, a pure-blood symbol. Turning it into a Horcrux had probably felt like binding his bloodline and his immortality together in one perfect package.
Behind the bar, Aberforth kept polishing the same glass, but his hand had gone still at the words "Deathly Hallows" and "Resurrection Stone." He couldn't stop himself from glancing over. His eyes moved between the two of them, brow tightening.
What the hell had Albus dragged this boy into?
Resurrection Stone. Deathly Hallows.
A kid this age should be at school—or on summer break, eating and causing normal trouble—not running around with an old man on dangerous errands.
And "saved Albus's life." Very few things in this world could actually threaten Albus Dumbledore.
Aberforth narrowed his eyes at Lucien's profile. He hadn't really looked before. The face was the kind girls noticed. Those dark green eyes were unusual, too.
The reports he'd read came flooding back:
Youngest recipient of the Order of Merlin, First Class. Explorer at the very edge of Transfiguration. Designer of the fastest broom in Britain. Creator of Instant Language. The one who had changed how wizards talked to each other overnight.
Tch. His little pub couldn't hold that many people.
A real prodigy. The genuine article.
Albus had always been good at getting talented young people to "voluntarily" help him. That smooth way of talking others into giving everything they had was disgusting.
"Aberforth," Dumbledore said suddenly, "would you mind if I went upstairs and—"
He never finished the sentence.
A filthy rag flew across the room and smacked him square in the face.
Aberforth stood frozen in his throwing stance, eyes blazing with years of bottled-up fire.
"Get out."
His voice was low, rough, dragged up from somewhere deep.
"How dare you even ask?"
The glass in his other hand followed right after. It exploded against the table where Dumbledore had been sitting, shards scattering everywhere.
Dumbledore was already on his feet, moving faster than any man his age had a right to. He snapped a quick "Run!" at Lucien and bolted for the door.
They burst out of the Hog's Head in an undignified rush. The heavy wooden door slammed behind them hard enough to make the battered pig's-head sign swing wildly on its rusted bracket.
Outside on the stone path, Dumbledore straightened his wind-tousled beard and turned to Lucien with an apologetic look.
"I'm sorry. I didn't even let you finish eating—"
He stopped when he saw Lucien still holding the plate, calmly scooping the last bites of mush into his mouth as they walked. The boy's expression was perfectly serious, like he was handling important business.
Lucien kept chewing, eyes flicking back to the closed door as if checking whether Aberforth was about to come charging out after them with another glass.
He had to admit—the stuff looked terrible, but it actually tasted good. Layered, interesting flavors. Not bad at all.
He finished the last mouthful, sent the plate and spoon floating neatly back through the pub window with a flick of his wand, brushed his hands clean, and looked at Dumbledore.
"Ready?"
Dumbledore watched him finish every bite and even tidy up after himself. A small, fond smile touched his mouth. He started walking toward the edge of the village.
He had planned to take the Resurrection Stone to Ariana's portrait. A foolish little hope that it might do something.
But Aberforth's old anger had flared too hot. There would be no quiet conversation tonight.
Lucien spoke up without warning.
"Headmaster, could I keep the Resurrection Stone?"
Dumbledore's steps slowed. He turned to look at him.
"I want to study it," Lucien said evenly. "See if there's a way to separate the soul fragment without destroying the object itself. It's still a Deathly Hallow. Seems a shame to just break it."
Dumbledore studied him. Something moved behind the blue eyes.
"All right."
Lucien had expected more resistance. The quick answer surprised him.
"This Stone tempts me too much," Dumbledore said, honest and quiet. "Even if you hadn't asked, I was going to give it to you to keep."