Roleplaying

"The nerve!"

"Who does he think he is?"

"He's in no position to make demands!"

The reaction to Milo's request for a larger cauldron was... varied.

"It's clearly a ploy," Snape sneered. "He hopes to dilute the potion so that it won't explode in his face when he fails. It won't work."

"If he fails, Severus," Dumbledore said.

"No," Milo said. "Scale up the other ingredients proportionally."

There was a meaningful silence.

"Tell me, boy," Snape said finally. "Do you have a death wish? Do you have any idea how large an explo—"

"Oh, come now," Fudge interrupted. "We're in the presence of six of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement's finest, not to mention the Supreme Mugwump himself. I think we have more than enough magical muscle between us to keep anyone from being harmed. Let's just get him a bigger cauldron and be done with it."

"But—"

"Do remember to whom it is that you are speaking, Severus."

"As you command," Snape said between clenched teeth. "Accio Cauldron Size Twelve." A large, heavy cauldron ponderously hovered from a store room, knocking over a variety of expensive-looking magical doodads in the process. It (slowly) came to a stop near the centre of the room. Milo gave it a quick look. Only two-and-a-half feet in diameter, he thought. Needs to be larger.

"No," Milo said. "Bigger."

"That is the largest potions cauldron I keep in the dungeon," Snape protested angrily. "Unless you plan on cooking a Troll—"

"Of course!" Dumbledore said. "We can use one of the cooking pots from the kitchens. The House Elves make enough oatmeal for hundreds of students on Tuesday mornings in just one pot, except for this one occasion in 1941 when there was a shortage of rolled oats and—"

McGonagall coughed pointedly.

"—and where was I? Oh yes."

Before Snape could say something biting and sarcastic, Dumbledore clapped his hands twice. A small... creature... appeared in front of him with a loud crack. It was, if you rounded up, entirely composed of large, floppy ear.

What the Hells? Milo wondered. Is that... some sort of goblinoid?

"Floppy, would you be so good as to fetch the kitchen's largest cooking pot?" Dumbledore asked kindly.

"Yes, master," Floppy responded in a high, squeaky voice. "Right away, master." With another crack, Floppy was gone.

There was only one explanation for the creature that Milo could think of, impossible as it seemed. He'd heard that the kitchens were staffed by Elves, which was insane, but this world seemed to turn everything he knew on its head. So... so that little goblin-like creature he saw...

Milo broke into a cold sweat.

...must be a slave of the elves. Of all of the hundreds of subspecies of elf, only one kept slaves.

Hogwarts has dark elves in the kitchen, he thought with growing horror. And they have teleporting goblins in their employ. No wonder there was poison in that tart, there's enough Chaotic and Evil in the kitchen for it to qualify as a suburb of the Abyss.

After a few seconds, there were six simultaneous pops. A half-dozen of the goblinoid slaves appeared carrying a mammoth pot over their heads.

The goblins are apparently super-strong, Milo noted with steadily rising panic. And can ignore Hogwarts' anti-teleportation Abjurations. Oh, gods.

"Yeah," Milo said, tearing his eyes away from the humanoids. "That'll do."

As Snape began gathering buckets of glycerol and Flobberworm mucous from his storeroom (Milo wondered briefly how he managed to fit everything in there, before realizing the closet was probably of Holding), Milo mentally ran over his plan. I can prevent the liquids from mixing using Tenser's Floating Disk, he thought. Tenser's Floating Disk was a moderately useful spell that created an invisible shallow bowl that hovers three feet off the ground. He could dump the mucous into the water, cast the spell above the liquid, then pour in the glycerol. The tricky thing is that it's three feet wide—but this cauldron is more than sufficient. Then it's a simple matter of using Prestidigitation to create bubbles. Milo had never actually tried it, but he was pretty sure that creating a few bubbles in a pot fell within Prestidigitation's ability to exert about a pound of force.

"There," Snape said in growing frustration. "You have, here, precisely the correct amount of mucous and glycerol." He gestured to a pair of buckets. "Can we get this over with, now?"

"You said the Headmaster was to check them," Milo reminded him.

Dumbledore thoroughly, and, to the Minister for Magic's irritation, slowly examined the contents of both buckets.

"Everything seems to be in order," Dumbledore said. "Would anyone else like to take a look?"

Hermione coughed awkwardly.

"I would, Headmaster—if it's all right, of course," she said. Milo blinked. Was this Hermione doubting her professors? What was the world coming to?

Hermione, still wrapped in bandages, painfully limped over to the cooking pot in the centre of the room. She examined it until she saw, engraved near the bottom in tiny letters, "CAST IRON 112 GALLONS." Then she hobbled over to the side of the room and picked up a set of heavy brass scales. Then, with the Minister for Magic, two of her teachers, her headmaster, four senior Ministry officials, and six Aurors watching her intently, she limped over to Snape's desk. Carefully avoiding eye contact with the Potions Master, she placed the heavy measuring scale on the desk with a thud.

Hermione's right arm was in a splint, and Milo could tell that she quickly realized there was no way she'd be able to lift either of the two buckets. She drew her wand.

Six Aurors drew wands simultaneously and aimed steadily at her. Hermione looked like she would die in a panic.

"Peace," Dumbledore said. "She was just, I presume, about to perform a simple Hovering Charm?"

"Featherweight Charm, actually," Hermione said matter-of-factly, although she still looked nervous. "And then a Hovering Charm. You see, the two charms combined are over one-fifth more efficient than a single, more powerful—"

"Nobody asked for a lecture, Miss Granger," Snape snapped.

"Five points for Gryffindor," McGonagall said simultaneously. Upon hearing Snape's remark, she added, "That's really rather clever, Miss Granger."

The Aurors put away their wands, looking somewhat sheepish at having drawn on a twelve year-old girl. The two Heads of Houses glared at each other as. Hermione carefully weighed both buckets (dispelling the Featherweight Charm in the process, of course). Then she nodded at Milo.

"Thanks," he muttered as she walked past him to her earlier position.

"Any time," she said simply. She looked a bit stunned.

"Oh, before you begin," said Bode, "you should probably be informed that a number of anti-cheating enchantments have been placed in this classroom."

Milo paused.

"Explain," he asked.

"Obviously I can't go into too much detail, but suffice to say that we'll be well aware of any magical illusions that you create, or if you try to add anything to the potion without our knowledge."

Milo frowned. This shouldn't cause any problems, he thought. Invisibility is the only Illusion I'll be casting, and it isn't really an Illusion that I create, exactly. That sounds like more of a Figment or Glamer.

Hopefully.

Well, I'd best begin. No time like the present. Pushing his fear and nervousness to the side, Milo tried to emulate the tone of a performing Bard he once heard back in Myra (cityoflight!cityofmagic!).

"All right. Professors, Minister, Officials, Government Goons, just sit back; you're about to see magic done," Milo announced confidently, rolling up his sleeves.

"What does he think he is, a stage magician?" Fudge murmured quietly.

"This reminds me of a time I was in a tavern back in my world," Milo said as he unceremoniously dumped the bucket of thick, slimy Flobberworm mucous into the cauldron. "It was a nice little place, as far as roadside taverns go. Their soup was terrible. It went by the name of Tenser's Floating Disko," he said, casting the spell. Fortunately enough, the story was true. A retired Wizard built the entire establishment hovering two feet off the ground using a copious number of Immovable Rods; The Disko was famed far and wide for its resilience to earthquakes, its Dancing Lights, and its terrible soup.

"Isn't he only eleven?" Fudge asked in astonishment. "What tavern would—"

"But that, of course, was in another world," Milo said, pouring the glycerol into the cauldron. Snape looked as if he were about to duck beneath his desk for cover. Unbeknownst to the audience, the thick liquid hit, instead of the water in the cauldron, Milo's magical disk. "A world which now seems to exist only in the hazy reaches of my memory, and every day seems to be slipping deeper into the murky depths of Invisibility." In the blink of an eye, the glycerol (which, if anyone had looked, would have appeared to be floating in the air inside the darkness of the cauldron) vanished.

Milo grabbed his ladle and dipped it into the cauldron in the area between the force disk and the edge. The pot was so huge that, in order to stir it, he'd have to actually walk around the perimeter of the cast iron monstrosity. When he was about three-quarters of the way around, he began to speak again.

"And this, as you will soon see, was no mere sleight of hand, legerdemain, or," he completed the circuit, "Prestidigitation."

The pot bubbled.

Milo almost couldn't believe that he might actually be getting away with it. He'd made the damned pot bubble, nothing had exploded, and Lucius's plot was foiled. He felt lightheaded. He wanted to go back to the Gryffindor Common Room and celebr—

"Curious," Dumbledore said, raising his half-moon spectacles.

Snape smiled triumphantly.

"In this manner I will, of course, defer to the Potions Master," Dumbledore said, "but... tell me, Severus, does this potion usually bubble?"

Milo froze.

"No doubt, it's bubbling because of how vigorously young Milo wanted his potion to succeed," Snape suggested with amusement. Milo looked around the room in a panic as Snape moved excitedly towards the cauldron to investigate.

It's not supposed to bubble? He'd miscalculated Snape. The devious Potions Master had anticipated Milo's ability to fake the effects of the potion and hadn't told him truthfully what they should, in fact, be.

Milo looked pleadingly at Dumbledore, and then at McGonagall, but neither offered him any help. He was sure to be ousted as a fake wizard and expelled from Hogwarts, falling right into Lucius's (presumably) evil plot (whatever it happened to be). Tap. Tap. Tap. Snape's polished leather loafers made loud, echoing sounds as the greasy Potions Master approached. In blind desperation, Milo looked into the faces of the Minister, his cronies, and even the mooks. I need help, he thought frantically. I need someone who knows what—oh, right.

Catching Hermione's eye, she mouthed it turns purple. Milo had heard that, in the distant past, only Rogues were able to read lips. He was blissfully happy that this was no longer the case.

Fortunately, Prestidigitation (which, in Milo's firm opinion, was the best spell ever invented) could last up to an hour—and it could recolour liquids. The spell wasn't an Illusion (it actually changed the object's colour), so it (hopefully) wouldn't trigger their wards. By the time Snape got to the cauldron, the liquid inside was a pale shade of violet. Milo could feel his heart pounding against his chest as he waited for the anti-cheating alarms to sound. He nearly fainted with relief when nothing happened, although the "potion" still had to pass one more step... Milo just hoped he'd got the shade of purple right.

Snape peered inside suspiciously, and then did something Milo hadn't anticipated.

To Milo's horror, Snape picked up the ladle. As he moved to dip it into the pot (presumably to investigate the potion), Milo ran through his options. Tenser's Floating Disk was not a dismissible spell; at Milo's level, it would be blocking the majority of the cauldron's opening for another five hours. Snape was sure to discover the invisible force disk, and Milo would be expelled. Then (presumably) killed horribly by Death Eaters.

"Sorry, what was that Hermione?" Milo asked loudly, improvising wildly. "You require help tying your shoes because your arm was grievously injured while Snape was supposed to be protecting you from a Troll? Why, of course I can help you!" Technically, no lies. Milo bolted towards Hermione as fast as he could run.

Milo collapsed at Hermione's feet and started fumbling with her laces.

"What on Earth are you—" she asked, surprised.

"Tenser's Floating Disk disappears if you move out of the spell's range," Milo explained quietly. "I need to get another ten feet away from the cauldron before Snape realizes what's going on." Hermione's back was to the door; ten feet would put Milo well into the hallway.

"Your rat," Hermione whispered. "Ask him to run out, and chase him."

"Good plan. Mordy?"

"Don't need to tell me twice, boss," Milo's familiar squeaked. Mordy leapt out of Milo's belt and made a mad dash for the exit.

Snape dipped the ladle into the cauldron, and Milo heard a quiet thud as the steel instrument hit his force bowl.

Snape blinked.

"What—" he began.

"Mordenkainen!" Milo shouted, and pursued. Shortly after he reached the exit, he heard a muffled splash from the cauldron as the Tenser's Floating Disk winked out of existence.

"Here, now!" Fudge said. "We can't just have him leave."

There was a brief pause.

"Everyone duck for cover!" someone shouted. Evidentially, they had taken Milo's flight to mean that the potion was about to explode.

"Accio Milo," one of the Aurors muttered, and Milo felt a strange tug in the region of his stomach. The next thing he knew, he was being pulled to the centre of the room by invisible hands. It was a weird feeling.

"You'll have to look for your rat later, Milo," Bode said in his dry monotone. "We can't allow you to leave until the inquiries are closed."

"Right, of course," Milo said. Careful not to lie, he reminded himself. "I'm only eleven; eleven year olds are notoriously flighty."

"Don't need to tell me twice," McGonagall muttered.

Snape, who had evidently been distracted by Milo's unexpected flight, began to test the potion again. As soon as his ladle entered the cauldron, Milo had a burst of mad inspiration.

"I think I've more than proved that I'm a legitimate Mage, Hand me that quill, Headmaster, would you?"

"Sorry, what was that?" Fudge asked. Milo concentrated on the Mage Hand spell (a handy (sorry), weak telekinesis), and, targeting the water in the cauldron (Mage Hand can't target held objects, such as Snape's ladle) Milo created a small current which forced the ladle to move in a very tiny counterclockwise circle.

Snape frowned. He wasn't sure if it was a trick of his eye, but he could have sworn that the purple potion became slightly darker as he stared at it.

"I was just asking the Headmaster to hand me the quill on his desk," Milo said. "But on second thought, I realize, I don't need it. How's the potion check out, Professor Snape?"

"I think your student might be a bit funny," Fudge said not quite quietly enough to Dumbledore. "A tad... off in the head, if you catch my meaning."

"I am quite sorry," Dumbledore said apologetically. "I didn't bring my fishing rod! I had no idea we were going out to catch meanings on this fine evening. Why, once, when I was a boy, my brother and I caught a meaning that weighed—"

McGonagall coughed again.

"—but perhaps that story is best told later," Dumbledore said.

Fudge sighed and muttered something under his breath. Milo wasn't sure, but he thought he caught the words 'surrounded by nutters' somewhere in there.

Snape carefully extracted a small amount of the potion with his ladle and stared at it in astonishment.

"Well?" the Minister pressed. "What's the verdict, Severus?"

Snape stared at the contents of the cauldron, his face livid with barely contained rage.

"You." He said, turning to Milo. His voice was like a Polar Ray with a confirmed critical. "If I ever find out how you did this, boy, you'll rue the day your mother first laid eyes on your fath—"

"Severus," Dumbledore said reproachfully. Snape reined himself in with obvious effort.

"I have the... unequaled pleasure—" Snape said through clenched teeth, but Milo was pretty sure he meant the other thing, "—to say that this potion is, against all odds and reason... adequate."

McGonagall looked relieved, Bode appeared somewhat disappointed (Milo was willing to bet Bode hoped he'd discovered some form of new and exotic humanoid monster in Milo), while Dumbledore (and only Dumbledore) started clapping. Hermione stood in the corner beaming at him. Best of all, he earned 800 XP. That alone will cover months of item crafting, Milo thought.

"Ruddy waste of time, this was," Fudge complained to Umbridge as the Ministry officials filed out. "Wonder why he insisted it be done so late at night—and on a weekend, too?"

"Minerva," Dumbledore asked politely, "would you please take Miss Granger back to the hospital wing?"

"Of course, Albus," McGonagall said politely, and moved to the injured girl. Snape was pacing back and forth by the cauldron, fuming.

"Milo," Dumbledore said, "I understand that it's late, and you have class tomorrow, but—would you mind coming to my office for a brief chat?"

"Of course, Headmaster," Milo said politely. There were no rules anywhere for sleep deprivation, ergo, Milo could stay up as late as he wanted.

The eccentric Headmaster led Milo through the labyrinthine castle, up the stairs (skipping, unconsciously, the trick step in the second-floor staircase) and, at last, to a random dead end.

"Uh," Milo said. "Your office isn't just out here in the hall, is it?"

"Sherbet Lemon," Dumbledore said.

"That's... not really an answer, you know."

"Ah, young Milo, in that, you are wrong."

A nearby gargoyle statue slowly began to move.

"Holycrapgargoyle!" Milo shrieked. "Glitterdust!" He held out his hand, but nothing happened. Right, he thought, embarrassed. I'm completely out of spells. Until he had a chance to prepare new spells, Milo was basically a Commoner with a high Will save and a pet rat.

The gargoyle, however, proved to be merely a statue, which rose as it turned, revealing a spiral staircase.

"Sweet entrance," Milo said appreciatively.

"No pun intended?" Dumbledore asked wryly.

"What?"

"Well, you said sweet entrance, and the password, of course, is my favourite form of sweet..."

Milo stared at him blankly.

The Headmaster just sighed and began climbing the formidable staircase.

Dumbledore's office was awesome. There was simply no other word to describe it. Wondrous Items of all sorts decorated every flat surface that Milo could see; many of which were ticking at inconsistent, conflicting speeds—no doubt, Milo assumed, to confuse his enemies. Up on the walls were more animated portraits looking down at them, and, in the corner, lay the sorting hat.

"Please, sit down," Dumbledore said. "Can I get you anything? Cocoa? Tea?"

"That first one," Milo requested. "I have no idea what it is."

Dumbledore waved his wand lazily, and a large mug of hot cocoa appeared in front of Milo. They have a spell for that? Milo wondered. Just for conjuring steaming hot mugs of cocoa?

"You're probably wondering why I've invited you here," Dumbledore said. Unless, of course, it's a spell that summons arbitrary hot drinks.

"Actually, I was wondering what spell you used to conjure the drinks," Milo said, then frowned. Wait, why on the Prime Material did I just say that?

"A nonverbal variant of the Summoning Charm," Dumbledore shrugged. "Created by Helga Hufflepuff herself to summon food from the kitchens of Hogwarts. It only works within the grounds."

I must still be under the effects of the Veritaserum, Milo realized. Was that why Dumbledore had summoned him up here now?

"Now you're probably wondering why I've invited you here?" Dumbledore asked, somewhat hopefully.

"No, I was wondering if you'd invited me here now because I'm still compelled to speak only the truth," Milo said. Aarrrgh!

Dumbledore chuckled.

"As much as I feel the world could do with a little more honesty, no, that's not the reason. I was travelling the past few days—Wizengamot business, you understand—and my sleep schedule is quite turned upside-down. This was the first in quite some time that I've had a spare moment, in fact."

"I see," Milo said. "Okay, I'll bite. Now I'm wondering why you've invited me here."

"I wanted to know how you did it," Dumbledore said.

"Did what?" Milo asked.

"Faked the potion well enough to fool Snape. That's no easy task, you know."

Milo froze. He nearly dropped his cocoa (which, by the way, was delicious).

"Oh, don't worry," Dumbledore said. "I'm not the Ministry. You're not in trouble."

Milo only then realized how vulnerable he was. No spells. No familiar. No-one who knew where he was. No escape plan. No ability to lie.

"I used magic to keep the mucous from mixing with the glycerol," Milo confessed, "then ended the spell right as Snape tested the potion. I then used some very weak telekinesis to cause Snape to accidentally stir the liquid, thus completing the final step in creating the potion."

"You mean to say that Snape created that potion?" Dumbledore asked, amazed. Then he burst out laughing, and continued to do so until there were tears in his eyes. "I haven't laughed so hard in days," he admitted. "And don't worry, your secret's safe with me."

"Yeah, I guess it is pretty funny," Milo conceded. "And thanks."

"Don't mention it. Not since the days of Emeric the Evil were Headmasters involved in the business of having their students executed. But that wasn't the only reason I asked you here."

"Oh?"

"You fought a Troll on Hallowe'en," Dumbledore said, "instead of doing the sensible thing and letting trained, fully-qualified adult witches and wizards handle it. Why?"

"It came at me," Milo said.

"You could have run for it," Dumbledore countered.

"It had me cornered."

"You could have jumped out the window," Dumbledore pressed. "You have, after all, a spell for that exact purpose."

Milo frowned. He could have easily escaped the Troll with Feather Fall, now that he thought about it.

"The thought never occurred to me," Milo answered honestly.

"Why not?" Dumbledore asked. "For nearly anyone else in the world, it would be the only thought that occurred to them."

"It's not what I do," Milo said. "Running away from monsters, that is."

Dumbledore's eyes twinkled.

"But, have you ever asked yourself, why not?"

"I... no. No, I haven't," Milo paused. "But only because I haven't had to. I'm an adventurer. Fighting monsters is what I do."

"Because you're an adventurer? So you do it... for the sense of adventure?"

"No, that's not it at all. It's... it's hard to explain." How do you explain to someone something that's so obvious? Adventurers fight monsters. That's just how it is. You'd have as much luck trying to explain to someone why two and two made four.

"You're a smart boy. Try."

"I'm a PC. An adventurer. A hero. When there's a monster, or an evil necromancer, or a murderer, or whatever, it's my job to take him out."

"But in this case, in Hogwarts, there are others who could fight that Troll, do that job, at least as well as you could."

"It... it doesn't matter. I was there. The Troll was there. It happened for a reason; I was supposed to fight that Troll."

"You're a bit young to have set so much stock in fate."

"Not fate. Planning by a higher power."

"By God?" Dumbledore asked.

"Hah, no. In my experience, gods spend too much time fighting amongst themselves and making powerful, yet shockingly unoptimized, magical artifacts and holy relics to plan people's lives out."

"Then... who?"

"The same entity that makes sure that, eventually, a villain will always be defeated by a hero. That arranges for Draco and Harry to be the same age, at the same school. That arranges for the Philosopher's Stone to be hidden at that same school in their first year. That keeps the background world running when we're not looking at it."

"That sounds like fate to me," Dumbledore said. "Except maybe for that last one."

Milo simply shrugged.

"So, you believe it is your fate to fight monsters?" Dumbledore pressed.

"I... I don't think I'm being clear," Milo said. "I fight monsters. I'm an adventurer. A hero. It's a fact of life. There's no why to it, it's just... how my life goes."

"Is it to protect innocent lives?" Dumbledore asked.

"Not... really. But when it happens, that's a perk, I suppose."

"To right great imbalances in the universe?"

"No. Are there great imbalances I wasn't aware of?"

"Not to my knowledge. Is it for revenge?"

"No. I don't have anything I feel all that... bitter about."

"For the thrill, then?"

"I don't do anything for the thrill of it."

"For glory and respect?"

"No, without Leadership, glory's about as useful as Skill Focus (Craft (Basketweaving))."

"And you don't see yourself as a leader, then?"

"A planner, maybe, but... a leader? One who stands on a crate and gives inspiring speeches to a bunch of low-level Commoners and Warriors? No, I'll leave that to someone else. What's with all the questions, Headmaster?"

Dumbledore sighed heavily.

"I've known witches and wizards—and more than a few Muggles, for that matter—who set forth to battle evil without any clear motivation for doing so. They... tend to fit into one of two categories. Either they discover the reason within themselves later, and go on to do great things, or, more often... they fall."

"They die? Because I'd have to disagree, Professor; Neutral adventurers tend to be much more pragmatic and level-headed and overall far less likely to die some a stupid sacrifice or last stand than Good ones."

"Sometimes they do," Dumbledore admitted soberly. "But more often, they find themselves becoming what they once fought."

"What, they go Evil? I don't think I'm in any danger of that. It's just not... in character." Milo sighed. "I'm not... I'm not really equipped to discuss philosophy, Headmaster."

"And why is that?"

"I... I fight monsters," he said firmly. "I kick down doors. I find treasure. I gain Experience. I spend an inordinate amount of time in taverns. I operate best in groups of four. I solve mysteries. I use magic. I don't... the discussion of why very rarely comes up. And even then... if it did, the reason for it would suddenly appear in my head. Poof. Like it had always been there, the same as if you asked me what my parents' names were. It's like a part of me, the part that makes those decisions and created the history and the hopes and dreams... it's gone. I'm just the collection of stats and spells with a race and alignment. I don't know how to explain it; to my knowledge this has never happened to anyone before. It's like... like I'm a character in a play, and the player was left behind when I was brought here."

"Maybe," said Dumbledore, "it's time you started to think for yourself? To be more than a simple mask?"

"Are you suggesting..."

"If you're a character," Dumbledore shrugged, "I don't see any reason why you can't be your own player."

Milo stared at the Headmaster, completely dumbstruck.

"And now, I believe, it is time for us both to go to bed. You seem to be quite recovered, but would you do me one more favour and spend the night in the hospital wing? You'll see why tomorrow," Dumbledore said.

"Sure," Milo shrugged. He was used to sleeping in the wilderness and in ancient crypts, anyways. While a step-and-a-half down from the four-poster beds in Gryffindor tower, the hospital cots were a great deal more comfortable than a bedroll—not, when it came to it, that Milo much cared.

"Goodnight, Milo."

"'Night, Professor."

Milo was already halfway back to the hospital wing when he realized that, when Dumbledore asked him how he faked the potion, it meant he actually believed that Milo was a different sort of Wizard.

What does he know that I don't? Or rather... what does he know that I know that I don't know he knows?

And why does Lucius want me expelled?

And who really killed the acromantula? And why was it missing a fang?

The lack of injuries on the nonetheless dead spider implied one thing...

Death Effect.

The Killing Curse.