Hogwarts Library.
For most students, it was a place visited only when homework deadlines loomed or exams threatened to destroy their peace.
For Lucian, it might well have been the most valuable place in the entire castle.
That was, of course, assuming the ancient professors had not already shared everything worth knowing.
And then there was the Restricted Section.
A place of legend.
After all, Rowena Ravenclaw had once said that knowledge was a wizard's greatest treasure.
Madam Pince guarded that treasure like a dragon over its hoard. She chased away snack-eating students with a feather duster and treated every bent page corner as a personal insult.
Yet with Lucian, she was unexpectedly tolerant.
He handled books with near-religious reverence.
Before opening one, he cleaned his hands. He never folded page corners, instead using a thin, transparent magical bookmark.
If he noticed a cracked spine, he would quietly mend it with a subtle repair charm.
To a librarian surrounded daily by reckless children, Lucian was close to angelic.
At the moment, he sat in a corner by the tall stained-glass windows. Sunlight filtered down in colored fragments across his face.
A stack of heavy volumes covered his desk: The Origins of Medieval Alchemy, The Structure and Deconstruction of the Soul, and a massive tome titled Advanced Runic Analysis.
Most of Hogwarts' collection was precious, not merely because of age, but because many were handwritten manuscripts or limited editions imbued with the authors' lingering thoughts.
Through Lucian's inner perception, the words on the page flowed.
His mind could brush faintly against the residual intent of the author. His reading speed was astonishing, yet nothing was lost.
"This memory-transfer magic is inefficient," Lucian murmured after closing a book on memory charms. "Extracting silvery threads with a wand? Why not establish a direct mental link?"
He picked up his quill and jotted down a note in his personal bound journal.
[Project 32: Wireless refinement of Legilimency. Explore principles of direct cognitive resonance.]
"What are you writing? That doesn't look like English."
The voice came from above.
Lucian did not look up. His pen continued moving steadily.
"If I were you, I wouldn't float directly above my ink bottle."
There was a brief pause.
The speaker descended slowly.
It was the Bloody Baron, Slytherin's ghost. He was known for terrifying first-years with his hollow stare and bloodstained robes.
Few dared speak to him so casually.
The Baron drifted downward. His silver-streaked robes passed through the table. Frost spread thinly across the surface of the ink.
"You are not afraid of me?" the ghost asked, his voice low and cold.
Lucian finally looked up and removed his glasses, rubbing his temple.
"Why would I be? You are a residual projection of a fragmented soul. A weakened imprint of consciousness anchored to reality."
The Baron's empty gaze flickered.
"Anchored?"
"Yes. Your spiritual structure is unstable. The wound at your chest is constantly leaking energy." Lucian pointed at the bloodstain on the ghost's robes.
"That is why you frighten students. You absorb their fear to stabilize your form. A rather inefficient survival strategy."
The temperature in the library dropped sharply. Books on nearby shelves trembled.
But Lucian continued calmly.
"I can repair the leak."
The Baron froze.
"I cannot resurrect you. Nor can I release you from whatever binds you. That requires letting go of your own fixation.
But I can stop the constant dissipation. You won't need to feed on negative emotions anymore."
For centuries, no one had spoken to him like this.
They feared him. Or avoided him.
"How?" the Baron asked quietly.
Lucian traced a complex sigil in the air. It shimmered briefly before he pressed it lightly against the Baron's chest.
A faint hiss echoed.
The sigil sank into the ghost's form like a patch sealing a tear.
The Baron felt it immediately.
For the first time in centuries, the constant draining sensation vanished. His form grew subtly more solid.
"What magic is this?" he asked, and there was unmistakable respect in his voice.
"A minor technique," Lucian replied, putting his glasses back on. "In exchange, I require a favor."
"Speak."
"Observe Professor Quirrell for me," Lucian said quietly. "I do not require interference. Simply inform me where he goes at night. Especially if he carries a scent that is not garlic."
The Baron studied him for a long moment.
Then he nodded once and passed through the wall, disappearing.
In a castle filled with living portraits and wandering spirits, information was the true currency.
.....
"Mr. Ashford."
Lucian was packing his books when a tall wizard in velvet robes approached, peering over half-moon spectacles.
"Headmaster," Lucian greeted politely.
"I have heard about your performance in Charms," Dumbledore said lightly. "Allowing a feather to follow the will of the air. A poetic phrasing."
He gave a small flick of his wand. The surrounding air thickened subtly. A silent Muffliato charm sealed their conversation.
"But I wish to discuss something else," Dumbledore continued gently.
"The soul is a delicate matter. One does not need dark magic to sustain one's body, Lucian.
Especially not while attempting to dissect it. That path is dangerous."
"If we do not examine it," Lucian replied evenly, "how can we understand what it is?"
He tilted his head slightly.
"Like the Philosopher's Stone. If it were truly perfect, why would Nicolas Flamel feel the need to hide it?"
Dumbledore paused.
"Do not worry, Headmaster," Lucian added with a faint smile. "I have no urgent desire for immortality."
"Endless cellular division ultimately erodes the soul. Such a crude form of eternity is not appealing."
Dumbledore removed his spectacles and polished them slowly.
It was the first time he had heard someone describe the Philosopher's Stone as crude.
"Ravenclaw has indeed gained a remarkable student," he said quietly.
He lifted the charm.
"If you find yourself curious about deeper knowledge," Dumbledore continued, producing a small slip of parchment, "consider this a modest privilege. But I hope that even in darkness, you remember to turn on the light."
Lucian accepted the parchment.
Authorization for the Restricted Section.
"Thank you, Headmaster," he said. "I will remember. After all, only by understanding the structure of darkness can one properly create light."
Dumbledore watched the boy walk away, fingers stroking his beard thoughtfully.
"Not Tom," he murmured under his breath. "More like… another Grindelwald? No. Colder. Purer."
Lucian stepped out of the library, lightly pressing the permission slip in his pocket.
Only those who know how to build a bomb truly understand how to dismantle one.
That was the logic of a craftsman.
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