Returning
October 2025
The cold gnawed at the air as Lesmana made his way to the Headmaster’s Office, his presence no warmer than the weather. Every steps were calculated. The crisis has subsided. The hope has come back. The goal was set. The last thing was on how to communicate it.
The school was no different from the other days. This place was his second home, but ruined by the terrors he had gotten. Stepping back to the castle reminded him of the excitement he got after he was accepted to teach the students. The longing to teach the kids how to brew potions, or supervise their activity, it hadn't been long yet he already missed it.
Entering the castle building, his memory became stronger. He felt dumb to be affected by such terror. But what could he do? If only he could think more clearly and communicate the threat he got with the team, he wouldn't be this miserable.
The man entered the tower, walking up the stairs. There were gargoyles to protect the office. He waited for his turn. In his hands were all the documents he had, the same papers he brought when he was applying for the same position. But it was different this time. He also brought something else besides the documentation, which was prepared neatly in his mind.
Once it was his turn, he entered the office. The same Headmaster as the first was on the same spot as the first time they met.
"Professor Lear," he greeted, voice calm and deliberate.
@Solomon Lear
The cold gnawed at the air as Lesmana made his way to the Headmaster’s Office, his presence no warmer than the weather. Every steps were calculated. The crisis has subsided. The hope has come back. The goal was set. The last thing was on how to communicate it.
The school was no different from the other days. This place was his second home, but ruined by the terrors he had gotten. Stepping back to the castle reminded him of the excitement he got after he was accepted to teach the students. The longing to teach the kids how to brew potions, or supervise their activity, it hadn't been long yet he already missed it.
Entering the castle building, his memory became stronger. He felt dumb to be affected by such terror. But what could he do? If only he could think more clearly and communicate the threat he got with the team, he wouldn't be this miserable.
The man entered the tower, walking up the stairs. There were gargoyles to protect the office. He waited for his turn. In his hands were all the documents he had, the same papers he brought when he was applying for the same position. But it was different this time. He also brought something else besides the documentation, which was prepared neatly in his mind.
Once it was his turn, he entered the office. The same Headmaster as the first was on the same spot as the first time they met.
"Professor Lear," he greeted, voice calm and deliberate.
@Solomon Lear
Returning
Headmaster Solomon Lear had become accustomed to being alone. The burden of leadership was not meant to be shared, people would stand at his side for a season but then with the change of the leaves they would blow away. Recently every last one of his peers had decided to step down at once. It was not a shock to the tenured Professor, but it was a shock to the system. Like being thrust into an icy lake, it both hurt and he could feel his body seize from the chill as he started to drown alone.
It was odd to admit that he was ready to die. He had resigned himself to this role, his peers would shift and change and he would remain the outsider who was oddly enough at the center of it all.
He would not expect the familiar voice of Lesmana Asmaralaya, former head of house and former Professor of Potions. The only Professor who might have held more roles would have been former Professor Octavius Baird, although the man left less of an impression than his son. There was an odd sense of relief that washed over the Hgwarts community when they both moved on and abroad.
Headmaster Lear did not rise at once to greet the former Professor and ask the question that immediately burned within him: what was he doing there?. He would, however, look up from the scrolls on his desk slowly, as if measuring the weight Lesmana carried before allowing himself to fully recognize it. The fire behind the headmaster was low, banked rather than blazing, he did not care for blazing hearths and he never replaced his Gregs after he was taken those years ago. The walls were barren, he never replaced the portraits when they went missing. No witnesses, no victims he had concluded years ago. Thus the office felt intentionally still, a place where noise was not permitted to rush ahead of thought.
"Professor Lesmana," Lear said at last, his voice worn smooth by years of authority and regret. Not cold. Not warm. Steady, like his reign. He gestured to the chair opposite his desk, the invitation unspoken but unmistakable.
"Safety is in the other direction," he commented, his eyes flicking briefly to the documents in Lesmana's hands, then back to the man himself. "And you are not the only one who has returned carrying ghosts instead of luggage." There was no accusation in his tone, only recognition that came with the burden of admission. "This castle has a way of remembering things we would rather forget," the headmaster continued, folding his hands together. "It does not mean we are weak for feeling it. It means we survived long enough to feel it at all."
He did not know what Lesmana felt or if he felt anything at all. The former head of house and professor was insular, private and he could not recall any facet of personality or even a shared conversation. He just knew him as a man that had not found himself yet or lost him along the way. He paused just long enough for Lesmana to breathe.
"You've brought more than parchment with you," Lear observed. "I can see that much. So before we speak of goals, or recovery, or how we dress hope in words fit for staff and students…" His pale gaze sharpened, just slightly but seemed to be looking past the former professor. "Tell me what you didn't write down."
It was odd to admit that he was ready to die. He had resigned himself to this role, his peers would shift and change and he would remain the outsider who was oddly enough at the center of it all.
He would not expect the familiar voice of Lesmana Asmaralaya, former head of house and former Professor of Potions. The only Professor who might have held more roles would have been former Professor Octavius Baird, although the man left less of an impression than his son. There was an odd sense of relief that washed over the Hgwarts community when they both moved on and abroad.
Headmaster Lear did not rise at once to greet the former Professor and ask the question that immediately burned within him: what was he doing there?. He would, however, look up from the scrolls on his desk slowly, as if measuring the weight Lesmana carried before allowing himself to fully recognize it. The fire behind the headmaster was low, banked rather than blazing, he did not care for blazing hearths and he never replaced his Gregs after he was taken those years ago. The walls were barren, he never replaced the portraits when they went missing. No witnesses, no victims he had concluded years ago. Thus the office felt intentionally still, a place where noise was not permitted to rush ahead of thought.
"Professor Lesmana," Lear said at last, his voice worn smooth by years of authority and regret. Not cold. Not warm. Steady, like his reign. He gestured to the chair opposite his desk, the invitation unspoken but unmistakable.
"Safety is in the other direction," he commented, his eyes flicking briefly to the documents in Lesmana's hands, then back to the man himself. "And you are not the only one who has returned carrying ghosts instead of luggage." There was no accusation in his tone, only recognition that came with the burden of admission. "This castle has a way of remembering things we would rather forget," the headmaster continued, folding his hands together. "It does not mean we are weak for feeling it. It means we survived long enough to feel it at all."
He did not know what Lesmana felt or if he felt anything at all. The former head of house and professor was insular, private and he could not recall any facet of personality or even a shared conversation. He just knew him as a man that had not found himself yet or lost him along the way. He paused just long enough for Lesmana to breathe.
"You've brought more than parchment with you," Lear observed. "I can see that much. So before we speak of goals, or recovery, or how we dress hope in words fit for staff and students…" His pale gaze sharpened, just slightly but seemed to be looking past the former professor. "Tell me what you didn't write down."
There is something about ambition, how it not only propels you but also defines you.
Returning
Lesmana took some steps forward, close enough so he could hear the Headmaster, but far enough to keep the distance between them. The documents in his hands lost their meaning. It wasn't needed. There was nothing new there after all. The Headmaster would fine nothing he had not already seen.
"I..." Lesmana lost his words. Where should he start? His eyes closed, his breathe slowed. "I should start from the reason I left the school."
His eyes wandered through the barren wall. Nothing fancy. "As you mentioned, safety seemed like an illusion here. It was never guaranteed. I should know that from the start." He smiled faintly. His gaze returned to the Headmaster. "I received terror letters," he carefully said, trying not put any weight on the words.
"At first, it didn't bother me at all. Words alone rarely do." His knuckle blanched as his grip tightened around the documents. "It changed when they talked about my family."
"I attempted to contact my parents many times," Lesmana continued, "What I received instead were sabotaged letters." He paused, trying to interpret any gesture from the Headmaster. "Until this time, I don't know whether the threats are real. I'm still looking for their condition with some assistance."
A long heavy breath followed with his next words, "It damaged my mind, blunting my judgement. Wrong calculation can kill any potioneer. I couldn't work with this condition." He stopped. The parchment shifted between his fingers.
"I have recovered."
His gaze carried more weight now. "Being a foreigner holding a heavy position made me a vulnerable target, I believe. And they were right." A sigh slipped from his lips. "I realised now that their terror might be a drivel. They cannot truly harm anyone within the castle's borders. But outside..." His fingers tightened once more, "I don’t know the extent of what they are capable of, especially when they know me and I don't know them."
He finished. Lesmana had never brought this up in detail before. Not because he did not wish to, but because he had not been capable of doing so. He waited, wondering how the Headmaster would respond what had been left unsaid before his return.
@Solomon Lear
"I..." Lesmana lost his words. Where should he start? His eyes closed, his breathe slowed. "I should start from the reason I left the school."
His eyes wandered through the barren wall. Nothing fancy. "As you mentioned, safety seemed like an illusion here. It was never guaranteed. I should know that from the start." He smiled faintly. His gaze returned to the Headmaster. "I received terror letters," he carefully said, trying not put any weight on the words.
"At first, it didn't bother me at all. Words alone rarely do." His knuckle blanched as his grip tightened around the documents. "It changed when they talked about my family."
"I attempted to contact my parents many times," Lesmana continued, "What I received instead were sabotaged letters." He paused, trying to interpret any gesture from the Headmaster. "Until this time, I don't know whether the threats are real. I'm still looking for their condition with some assistance."
A long heavy breath followed with his next words, "It damaged my mind, blunting my judgement. Wrong calculation can kill any potioneer. I couldn't work with this condition." He stopped. The parchment shifted between his fingers.
"I have recovered."
His gaze carried more weight now. "Being a foreigner holding a heavy position made me a vulnerable target, I believe. And they were right." A sigh slipped from his lips. "I realised now that their terror might be a drivel. They cannot truly harm anyone within the castle's borders. But outside..." His fingers tightened once more, "I don’t know the extent of what they are capable of, especially when they know me and I don't know them."
He finished. Lesmana had never brought this up in detail before. Not because he did not wish to, but because he had not been capable of doing so. He waited, wondering how the Headmaster would respond what had been left unsaid before his return.
@Solomon Lear
Returning
The problem with threats is not their volume, their source, or even the threats that have been made; but rather their ambiguity. Threats draw their power from what is unseen and unknown, those dark variables that one's imagination begins listing. From Solomon's experience: words were most commonly empty, but there was on occasion someone, somewhere, that possessed both the will and the means to make these threats real.
"I would fret more over those who have not made their intentions known" Solomon replied ominously. "Rarely does such power truly exist in the way the imagination insists it must," Lear's voice rumbled. But he knew that facets of Lesmana's fears were real. That there were forces beyond themselves and the school that wanted them gone.
"But that distinction becomes meaningless when fear succeeds where force often cannot." Solomon regarded the former head of house steadily, his pale gaze neither judgmental nor gentle.
"The danger is just as real here," he said at last. "We are simply better at making it feel… palatable." There was a brief warning for the new heads of house when they came to Hogwarts, a statement that there were forces beyond themselves that threatened the school. The true depths of those concerns would still need to be learned and in time they would come to know the truth of Hogwarts.
Wizarding politics, he knew, thrived on illusion. On civility layered over coercion. On the quiet panic of old families who had built their relevance on inheritance and now sensed its decay. Their fear was not violence, it was obsolescence.
"And," he added, a slight shrug pulling at his shoulders, "keeping their children within arm's reach weakens their hand." It was not said with cruelty. It was said with the certainty of a man who had watched this game played long enough to recognize its patterns. To understand the source of the more legitimate threats, they came from old powers and old money. The sort of wealth and authority that blood would be spilled to keep.
"Threats are louder at a distance, more frightening when faceless," he continued. "But I have come to learn that you do not need to understand the source, you simply need to shield yourself with the proper layers." Here, they were close enough to be measured by their enemies. Counted and catalogued. In their opinion, suppressed by fear and routine, when in truth they had amassed resources and soldiers.
He looked at the papers, not fully. It was more a glance where a few basic words caught his awareness. Professor Sauber had come to replace the former head of house when the role vacated. In truth, Solomon had little trust and faith in the man, he did not know him well but Solomon saw him as an absence masquerading as a colleague. When people possessed such a unique quality - the remarkable ability to occupy a space without contributing anything to it, Solomon had come to believe that was because they had something to hide.
He did not feel the same way about Lesmana. Fear had a way of undermining pretense, and behind the veil of duty there was nothing hidden. But Lear could not promise safety. The truth, as quiet and merciless as it was, was this: If there was danger everywhere, then one might as well choose the ground where it could be seen coming.
"I would fret more over those who have not made their intentions known" Solomon replied ominously. "Rarely does such power truly exist in the way the imagination insists it must," Lear's voice rumbled. But he knew that facets of Lesmana's fears were real. That there were forces beyond themselves and the school that wanted them gone.
"But that distinction becomes meaningless when fear succeeds where force often cannot." Solomon regarded the former head of house steadily, his pale gaze neither judgmental nor gentle.
"The danger is just as real here," he said at last. "We are simply better at making it feel… palatable." There was a brief warning for the new heads of house when they came to Hogwarts, a statement that there were forces beyond themselves that threatened the school. The true depths of those concerns would still need to be learned and in time they would come to know the truth of Hogwarts.
Wizarding politics, he knew, thrived on illusion. On civility layered over coercion. On the quiet panic of old families who had built their relevance on inheritance and now sensed its decay. Their fear was not violence, it was obsolescence.
"And," he added, a slight shrug pulling at his shoulders, "keeping their children within arm's reach weakens their hand." It was not said with cruelty. It was said with the certainty of a man who had watched this game played long enough to recognize its patterns. To understand the source of the more legitimate threats, they came from old powers and old money. The sort of wealth and authority that blood would be spilled to keep.
"Threats are louder at a distance, more frightening when faceless," he continued. "But I have come to learn that you do not need to understand the source, you simply need to shield yourself with the proper layers." Here, they were close enough to be measured by their enemies. Counted and catalogued. In their opinion, suppressed by fear and routine, when in truth they had amassed resources and soldiers.
He looked at the papers, not fully. It was more a glance where a few basic words caught his awareness. Professor Sauber had come to replace the former head of house when the role vacated. In truth, Solomon had little trust and faith in the man, he did not know him well but Solomon saw him as an absence masquerading as a colleague. When people possessed such a unique quality - the remarkable ability to occupy a space without contributing anything to it, Solomon had come to believe that was because they had something to hide.
He did not feel the same way about Lesmana. Fear had a way of undermining pretense, and behind the veil of duty there was nothing hidden. But Lear could not promise safety. The truth, as quiet and merciless as it was, was this: If there was danger everywhere, then one might as well choose the ground where it could be seen coming.
There is something about ambition, how it not only propels you but also defines you.
Returning
The headmaster's words resonated in his head. The experience made him agree with everything that had been said by him. Its content didn't truly scare him. It was the blindness and the deafness of not knowing anything that made him fumble in desperation, trying to grasp the intent behind the threats that were being hurled at him. The nods signed his agreement to this wisdom.
Except for one thing that refused to be ignored.
His mind worked twice as hard as usual, digesting the other thing. "Children? What do you mean by that?" Of all things, that was the one he couldn't afford to be twisted. Thoughts swirled in his mind. He cared for the students. What would he do if that were the truth?
That shouldn't stop him from getting the truth. "I do need to understand the source," Lesmana said. His eyes fell on the Headmaster, straight and certain. "I'm already involved. So I would want to know the hand behind it," he paused, weighing his next words as he came to the realisation of his next obstacle, "Of course, if the school accepted me back."
“If I may be honest, there’s nothing new in these parchments.” His hands felt weightless and heavy all at once. Honesty was one of his principles. Hiding the truth was another matter.
"This is what I bring, if the school will have it. Potions, that are both restricted and benign. Runes, my second discipline, including the divinatory branch I studied under Tenūsa. And healing magic, from my experience working in my hometown." His gaze was steady, but not demanding. "I am still able to teach Potions, and to protect the students in any matters." He stopped, weighing whether he truly wanted to protect them before getting the answer. But teaching, he still wanted to do it. Perhaps he could get any information from it.
He waited, aware that he had just exposed everything he still had. Would this help him, or otherwise, cost him the chance? He had not come only to protect himself, but to seek the truth and to protect what he was meant to protect.
@Solomon Lear
Except for one thing that refused to be ignored.
His mind worked twice as hard as usual, digesting the other thing. "Children? What do you mean by that?" Of all things, that was the one he couldn't afford to be twisted. Thoughts swirled in his mind. He cared for the students. What would he do if that were the truth?
That shouldn't stop him from getting the truth. "I do need to understand the source," Lesmana said. His eyes fell on the Headmaster, straight and certain. "I'm already involved. So I would want to know the hand behind it," he paused, weighing his next words as he came to the realisation of his next obstacle, "Of course, if the school accepted me back."
“If I may be honest, there’s nothing new in these parchments.” His hands felt weightless and heavy all at once. Honesty was one of his principles. Hiding the truth was another matter.
"This is what I bring, if the school will have it. Potions, that are both restricted and benign. Runes, my second discipline, including the divinatory branch I studied under Tenūsa. And healing magic, from my experience working in my hometown." His gaze was steady, but not demanding. "I am still able to teach Potions, and to protect the students in any matters." He stopped, weighing whether he truly wanted to protect them before getting the answer. But teaching, he still wanted to do it. Perhaps he could get any information from it.
He waited, aware that he had just exposed everything he still had. Would this help him, or otherwise, cost him the chance? He had not come only to protect himself, but to seek the truth and to protect what he was meant to protect.
@Solomon Lear
Returning
OC: Been sick, my apologies.
@Lesmana Asmaralaya
Silence, in Solomon's presence, was never an absence, it was something else entirely. The headmaster listened to the man's words in his mind, allowing them to reverberate. He was not regurgitating the words for their content, but rather for the places where Lesmana's voice tightened. Where fear tried to disguise itself as reason. Where the man's conviction frayed.
When he finally spoke, it was not unkind. But it was unyielding. "I know what you bring better than you," Solomon's voice rumbled. "You have endeavored within these same walls as I for years, and I believe that you have erred in believing that your tenure was unnoticed." He slid the other applications that had gathered off his desk. His desk was not like a plate of glass, shiny from veneer. The wood was dull, worn about the center with small scratched and dents that testified to the age and continual use of this particular workspace. This was not for show.
The papers would fall into a wastebin, the other applicants. All written in neat, professional script. Key words such as potions master, experienced herbologist, even a few industry icons were named. The role of Potions Professor was a role that had attracted world-wide talent. Yet it seemed only one application remained: that of Lesmana Asmaralaya. "And besides," he added almost confessionally the obvious lie, "it seems like only one application is on my desk."
He lifted a candle from the edge of his desk and allowed the hot wax to drip onto the parchment. A buttery wax fell onto the application, it would soon cool, but before it had he took a black metal seal stamp and pressed the wax into his paper. It was the headmaster's mark, a simple S overlaying the Hogwarts crest. With that Solomon stood to his full height, a few inches taller than six foot. A fact that was easy to forget when one equates an aged face with stature and erroneously thinks the man once larger than life was in fact small. "Congratulations Professor Asmaralaya," he extended a gloved hand for the wizard to shake, but he would not leave the hand to linger untouched for long.
He studied Lesmana with a gaze sharpened by years of grief and pattern-recognition. "But understand this: knowing the source is not the same as naming it. The hand you seek does not sign its work. It nudges. It arranges. It ensures that someone else pulls the trigger." Calling his enemies the Ministry or SCAR or simply some errand wizarding faction hardly encompasses the truth of the matter, a conspiracy that crosses factions and bloodlines.
Solomon turned away briefly, toward the darkened shelves, toward the wooden box that had already damned too many nights to wakefulness. "For now you will stay. You will teach. You will protect them anyway." He reached absentmindedly for a drink that was not there. He hated it when his cup ran dry. "And that will be why you are dangerous to the people who threatened you."
The admission was blunt but there was no comfort in it. The Headmaster regarded Lesmana with something like grim approval. "At least this time your eyes are open," he commented. During Lesmana's first tour as a Professor and eventually head of house, he would have been termed professionally successful but he remained blissfully ignorant of the politics surrounding his role. "This will be no different, less your vantage," his former position had already been filled. "Patterns do not announce themselves as revelations. They repeat until someone stops pretending repetition is coincidence." All of those disasters, incidents. All those tragic acts of god and happenstance. Not just the ones that were far too obvious to be anything less than an attack "But you will not be alone," not that he ever was. He was more alone out there than he was in here, he just never truly fortified any relationships with his peers.
"Perhaps consider becoming close with..." his mind went to some of his more 'questionable' hires such as Samuel and Orion. "Some of our more tenured Professors," sometimes Lesmana needed to read between the lines. He had at the very least an inkling of who was strange. He had as a head of house access to more information than most, perhaps not everything, but enough to know who did not fit the conventional mold. "Relationships can serve as more than a diversion."
@Lesmana Asmaralaya
Silence, in Solomon's presence, was never an absence, it was something else entirely. The headmaster listened to the man's words in his mind, allowing them to reverberate. He was not regurgitating the words for their content, but rather for the places where Lesmana's voice tightened. Where fear tried to disguise itself as reason. Where the man's conviction frayed.
When he finally spoke, it was not unkind. But it was unyielding. "I know what you bring better than you," Solomon's voice rumbled. "You have endeavored within these same walls as I for years, and I believe that you have erred in believing that your tenure was unnoticed." He slid the other applications that had gathered off his desk. His desk was not like a plate of glass, shiny from veneer. The wood was dull, worn about the center with small scratched and dents that testified to the age and continual use of this particular workspace. This was not for show.
The papers would fall into a wastebin, the other applicants. All written in neat, professional script. Key words such as potions master, experienced herbologist, even a few industry icons were named. The role of Potions Professor was a role that had attracted world-wide talent. Yet it seemed only one application remained: that of Lesmana Asmaralaya. "And besides," he added almost confessionally the obvious lie, "it seems like only one application is on my desk."
He lifted a candle from the edge of his desk and allowed the hot wax to drip onto the parchment. A buttery wax fell onto the application, it would soon cool, but before it had he took a black metal seal stamp and pressed the wax into his paper. It was the headmaster's mark, a simple S overlaying the Hogwarts crest. With that Solomon stood to his full height, a few inches taller than six foot. A fact that was easy to forget when one equates an aged face with stature and erroneously thinks the man once larger than life was in fact small. "Congratulations Professor Asmaralaya," he extended a gloved hand for the wizard to shake, but he would not leave the hand to linger untouched for long.
He studied Lesmana with a gaze sharpened by years of grief and pattern-recognition. "But understand this: knowing the source is not the same as naming it. The hand you seek does not sign its work. It nudges. It arranges. It ensures that someone else pulls the trigger." Calling his enemies the Ministry or SCAR or simply some errand wizarding faction hardly encompasses the truth of the matter, a conspiracy that crosses factions and bloodlines.
Solomon turned away briefly, toward the darkened shelves, toward the wooden box that had already damned too many nights to wakefulness. "For now you will stay. You will teach. You will protect them anyway." He reached absentmindedly for a drink that was not there. He hated it when his cup ran dry. "And that will be why you are dangerous to the people who threatened you."
The admission was blunt but there was no comfort in it. The Headmaster regarded Lesmana with something like grim approval. "At least this time your eyes are open," he commented. During Lesmana's first tour as a Professor and eventually head of house, he would have been termed professionally successful but he remained blissfully ignorant of the politics surrounding his role. "This will be no different, less your vantage," his former position had already been filled. "Patterns do not announce themselves as revelations. They repeat until someone stops pretending repetition is coincidence." All of those disasters, incidents. All those tragic acts of god and happenstance. Not just the ones that were far too obvious to be anything less than an attack "But you will not be alone," not that he ever was. He was more alone out there than he was in here, he just never truly fortified any relationships with his peers.
"Perhaps consider becoming close with..." his mind went to some of his more 'questionable' hires such as Samuel and Orion. "Some of our more tenured Professors," sometimes Lesmana needed to read between the lines. He had at the very least an inkling of who was strange. He had as a head of house access to more information than most, perhaps not everything, but enough to know who did not fit the conventional mold. "Relationships can serve as more than a diversion."
There is something about ambition, how it not only propels you but also defines you.
Returning
Lesmana was taken aback by the Headmaster's statement. Was it the truth? Did the Headmaster really know what he wanted to bring? Was his effort in his tenure noticeable? His lips pressed together, restraining back the slight emotion he slipped accidentally into his offering. It wasn't until the older man slid the papers on his desk into a wastebin.
His eyes widened in shock; he couldn't believe what he heard. It was surely his hope to be back at this school, but he never thought it would be this quick. He didn't have to wait in uncertainty for days to receive the answer. He got it, even without waiting for hours. The parchment he had prepared in his hand seemed to disappear. The burden on his shoulder slowly lifted.
He saw every gesture made by the Headmaster on the paper: the candle he lifted and poured onto a parchment, the seal stamp he took, and how he pressed it. And the way he stood and offered his hand. Lesmana stepped toward him and took his hand in a firm handshake, even as disbelief lingered within him. He nodded, taking the message delivered from the older man. He had suffered enough. He wouldn't fall again for the second time. He learnt his lesson.
The last part made him ponder. He was indeed alone. No one was close to him. He was too busy to adapt to the new culture and was buried in clerical things. He needed to supervise the students and make sure everything worked well, without him realising that the sun seldom hit his skin. His body had almost melded with the Dungeon, swallowed by the void of his thoughts, weakened by solitude. By the time the attack came, he had already lost. He fell apart in a battle of the mind, sinking into despair.
Perhaps what he said was true. He should be closer to his colleagues. But the answer was, who? Most of the tenured Professors were already gone, and only a few, fewer than the number of fingers on his hand, still stayed in the school. He didn't know if the reasons for their departure were the same as his or anything else. The rest were newer than him, but didn't unqualify them for being tenured. The new Potions Master could only nod by the end of his words. "I will try," he smiled.
He took some steps back. "Thank you for giving me a second chance to be here," he said softly. He smiled. Relief was evident. A part of him was already eager to share the good news with the friend who had helped him recover from the darkness of his thoughts. "I will get prepared to move my belongings."
With those final words, the Professor inclined his head slightly in acknowledgement to the headmaster before leaving the room.
His eyes widened in shock; he couldn't believe what he heard. It was surely his hope to be back at this school, but he never thought it would be this quick. He didn't have to wait in uncertainty for days to receive the answer. He got it, even without waiting for hours. The parchment he had prepared in his hand seemed to disappear. The burden on his shoulder slowly lifted.
He saw every gesture made by the Headmaster on the paper: the candle he lifted and poured onto a parchment, the seal stamp he took, and how he pressed it. And the way he stood and offered his hand. Lesmana stepped toward him and took his hand in a firm handshake, even as disbelief lingered within him. He nodded, taking the message delivered from the older man. He had suffered enough. He wouldn't fall again for the second time. He learnt his lesson.
The last part made him ponder. He was indeed alone. No one was close to him. He was too busy to adapt to the new culture and was buried in clerical things. He needed to supervise the students and make sure everything worked well, without him realising that the sun seldom hit his skin. His body had almost melded with the Dungeon, swallowed by the void of his thoughts, weakened by solitude. By the time the attack came, he had already lost. He fell apart in a battle of the mind, sinking into despair.
Perhaps what he said was true. He should be closer to his colleagues. But the answer was, who? Most of the tenured Professors were already gone, and only a few, fewer than the number of fingers on his hand, still stayed in the school. He didn't know if the reasons for their departure were the same as his or anything else. The rest were newer than him, but didn't unqualify them for being tenured. The new Potions Master could only nod by the end of his words. "I will try," he smiled.
He took some steps back. "Thank you for giving me a second chance to be here," he said softly. He smiled. Relief was evident. A part of him was already eager to share the good news with the friend who had helped him recover from the darkness of his thoughts. "I will get prepared to move my belongings."
With those final words, the Professor inclined his head slightly in acknowledgement to the headmaster before leaving the room.
Reducio
@Solomon Lear
Lesmana attempt to leave the thread. Thank you for the thread. I'm having so much fun writing this
Lesmana attempt to leave the thread. Thank you for the thread. I'm having so much fun writing this
Returning
Lesmana's meeting with the Headmaster ended without ceremony. There was no question that Lesmana would be welcomed back, he was one of the few that truly understood the threat as well as the necessity of balancing knowledge with theatre. It was for that reason there was no raised voices, no dramatic declarations, just the closing of one door and the opening of another. They had already ensnared Marcus, although even Solomon was unsure how Iwasaki had gotten tangled in such a dire circumstance to find himself incarcerated. Innocence was not a question, but proof appeared out of reach.
This meeting had come to its natural conclusion. Professor Lesmana would return to Hogwarts, while his previous position as a Head of House was already filled, as if cosmic coincidence begged for his return, his first held position as a Professor of Potions was still available. Lesmana would leave the office with the same measured, but likely feigned, calm he had carried into Solomon's office.
This was a moment in time where everything would seem normal. The sort of normal that let a man wonder if he had imagined the threat entirely. He did not. This was the prelude to worse days.
Soon enough, this earned quiet between events would break. And when it did, Hogwarts would learn something it always learned eventually: the most dangerous visitors were rarely the ones who arrived uninvited. They were the ones who arrived already knowing your name.
This meeting had come to its natural conclusion. Professor Lesmana would return to Hogwarts, while his previous position as a Head of House was already filled, as if cosmic coincidence begged for his return, his first held position as a Professor of Potions was still available. Lesmana would leave the office with the same measured, but likely feigned, calm he had carried into Solomon's office.
This was a moment in time where everything would seem normal. The sort of normal that let a man wonder if he had imagined the threat entirely. He did not. This was the prelude to worse days.
Soon enough, this earned quiet between events would break. And when it did, Hogwarts would learn something it always learned eventually: the most dangerous visitors were rarely the ones who arrived uninvited. They were the ones who arrived already knowing your name.
There is something about ambition, how it not only propels you but also defines you.