In a quiet corner of the Restricted Section, Lucian closed the thin volume titled Heresies of the New World.
Compared to the brick-like tomes stacked around him, it looked almost fragile.
"I see."
He lifted his iced coffee and took a slow sip. The bitterness lingered on his tongue, sharp enough to keep his mind clear.
In 1620, the Mayflower had set sail. History remembered it as a pilgrimage of Puritans seeking religious freedom.
What history did not record was that among them were exiled radicals cast out by the orthodox magical community of the Old World.
One of them had been his ancestor.
Gideon Ashford.
"Gideon," Lucian murmured. "A warrior in scripture. A devil in practice."
His fingers brushed over a faded annotation on the page.
They rejected Merlin's legacy. They believed the human body was a prison for divinity.
Through brutal alchemical modification, they sought to transform flesh into a sacred vessel capable of bearing god-tier magic.
That was the theoretical origin of Cassius' madness.
The ritual that had turned his own son into an Obscurial was nothing more than a flawed reenactment of a three-hundred-year-old delusion of god-making.
Lucian closed the book and flicked his fingers. It floated back to its place on the shelf.
"A pack of fanatics guided by ignorant theology."
....
At half past three in the afternoon, the grass field on the western side of the castle was lined neatly with broomsticks from all four Houses.
Lucian stood beside his assigned broom and offered a quiet assessment.
"The center of gravity is poorly distributed. The tail branches lack aerodynamic trimming. Even the most basic shock-absorbing runes are worn down."
He glanced at the bare wooden handle.
"Relying on friction between bone and hardwood for stabilization? Is this a flight device or a medieval torture instrument?"
"Extend your right hand over the broom," Madam Hooch instructed, scanning the class. "Then say, 'Up!'"
"Up!"
Harry's broom leapt instantly into his hand.
Hermione's rolled lazily before settling.
When it was Lucian's turn, he did not shout. To him, shouting was merely a crude focus technique. He had no need for that.
Besides, this aging model was unstable. He had no particular interest in flying class. Completing the requirement would suffice.
He extended his palm and pressed downward slightly.
Gray magic flowed from within.
The broom jerked upward sharply, snapping into his hand.
"Interesting technique, Mr. Ashford," Madam Hooch remarked, eyeing him. "Lacking enthusiasm, perhaps, but excellent control. Now, mount."
Lucian sighed.
He had no desire to straddle a dirty wooden stick.
Instead, he turned sideways and grasped the front of the broom handle as if holding a broad sword.
"Mr. Ashford, mount the broom!" Madam Hooch barked. "Unless you plan to slide off midair and break your neck!"
"With respect, Madam," Lucian replied calmly, "the lateral stability difference between straddling and side grip during high-speed maneuvers is negligible. Also, the surface finishing is quite rough. I prefer not to ruin my robes."
Before she could respond, Neville Longbottom shot upward.
Lucian's eyes narrowed. Neville's broom emitted a sudden irregular magical fluctuation.
"Ahhh!"
Neville screamed as he rocketed twelve feet into the air. His broom jerked violently, and he slipped.
Harry shouted, but he was too far away.
Lucian remained where he stood and drew his wand.
°Arresto Momentum°
An invisible, dense field formed beneath Neville like a stretched net, attempting to counteract the force of gravity.
But something felt wrong.
Lucian's gray magic reduced Neville's fatal velocity almost to zero within short range.
However, the compression of air created intense turbulence.
The surrounding atmosphere exploded outward.
Seamus, closest to the disturbance, was struck first. His broom tail was shoved violently sideways by the sudden current.
"Move! Mine's gone mad!"
Seamus yelled in panic as his broom flipped and careened toward Lucian's deceleration field.
The trajectory defied clean aerodynamics. Yet somehow, it collided precisely with the edge of Lucian's spell.
Bang.
Magical backlash surged.
Lucian grunted softly, forcing more magic outward to stabilize the collapsing field.
Then, from the depths of the Forbidden Forest, a loud crack echoed.
A flock of birds burst into the sky, scattering wildly.
By chance, they flew directly toward the descending Neville and Seamus.
Neville shrieked again as his grip loosened. The Remembrall slipped from his hand.
Gasps erupted from the ground below.
The birds ignored Lucian's magic, crashing into the unstable airspace. The turbulence shattered his field entirely. Seamus's broom tail struck Neville as both fell.
"Of course."
This was not coincidence.
It was the world rejecting a variable.
Neville hit the ground hard.
Madam Hooch rushed forward, pale-faced, lifting the crying boy. Fortunately, the altered angle spared his neck. Only his wrist was broken.
The narrative corrected itself.
Lucian lowered his wand slowly. His body trembled faintly from the recoil of that invisible resistance.
He watched Neville being carried away.
"A system with no elasticity," he thought coldly.
But someone was enjoying himself.
Draco picked up Neville's fallen Remembrall.
"Look," Draco sneered. "That lump's grandmother's precious toy."
He mounted his broom and rose into the air. "I'll leave it on top of this tree."
"Give it back!" Harry shouted, grabbing his broom.
"Don't, Harry!" Hermione cried. "Madam Hooch said—"
Harry was already airborne.
The inertia of events was overwhelming. He moved like a red hawk, executing a sharp midair turn to intercept Draco.
Lucian remained on the ground, watching.
"Excellent dynamic vision. Strong balance," he assessed quietly. "Zero wind compensation. Reckless."
Draco hesitated under Harry's aggressive approach.
"Want it, Potter?" Draco taunted, raising the ball.
Lucian did not use magic this time.
"If I were you, Malfoy," he called calmly, his voice amplified just enough to cut through the wind, "I wouldn't throw it that way."
Draco looked down. Lucian stood beneath the tree, notebook in hand.
"Given the current southwest wind speed and your release angle," Lucian continued, "there's a significant probability your trajectory will shatter Professor McGonagall's office window on the third floor. If you wish to be expelled this afternoon, proceed."
Draco froze.
He glanced instinctively toward the castle tower.
Fear replaced arrogance.
"You're lying!" Draco snapped, though his arm trembled. Instead of a confident throw, he panicked and released the Remembrall straight upward.
It soared briefly, then fell.
"Now."
Harry dove like a comet and caught the glass sphere just inches above the ground.
Perfect landing.
Gryffindor erupted in cheers.
"Harry Potter!"
Professor McGonagall's voice rang out, sharp and shocked.
The outcome did not change. Harry was taken away.
Draco landed nearby, jealousy twisting his expression.
"Looks like that idiot's expelled," he sneered. "And you, Ashford, don't think your little tricks scare me."
Lucian regarded him as one might observe a badly written play.
"Your grasp of physics is poor. Your reading of expressions worse," he said evenly. "From Professor McGonagall's face, excitement outweighed anger. Potter will not be expelled."
He walked away, leaving Draco standing in stunned silence.
.....
At dinner in the Great Hall, Lucian cut his lamb neatly.
Harry becoming the youngest Seeker in a century surprised him not at all.
"This isn't fair!" Draco complained loudly at the Slytherin table. "I'll have my father throw Potter out!"
At that moment, wings beat heavily overhead.
A massive owl, feathers ragged and soaked, staggered into the hall. It looked as if it had flown through a storm.
It dropped a letter beside Lucian's plate, nearly tipping his pumpkin juice, then fled into the night with a hoarse cry.
Nearby Ravenclaws recoiled from the dark red stains on the envelope.
Lucian set down his knife and picked it up.
No sender was marked. But through his inner perception, the stains carried the scent of blood and faint dark magic residue.
He unfolded the parchment.
The handwriting was frantic.
[They know.
The experiment succeeded. You survived. The ghosts of the Mayflower are coming to reclaim the perfect vessel.
Hide your secret. Do not let them see your soul. Hogwarts is not safe.
~C]
Lucian read the words without expression.
Then he pressed lightly.
The letter disintegrated into dust.
He looked up, past the noise of the Great Hall, past Snape speaking quietly to Quirrell, toward the dark sky beyond the windows.
Fate existed.
If there were no variable.
Now, in addition to resisting the world's inertia, he faced a group of savages eager to dissect him for study.
"Repairing the castle will not be enough."
He drained his pumpkin juice in one swallow. It tasted faintly metallic.
.....
Later, in Ravenclaw Tower, Lucian stood by the window overlooking the Black Lake.
Moonlight shimmered across dark waters.
He opened his black notebook.
Today's events, including the earlier incident on the Hogwarts Express, were inevitable.
Conflict between Harry and Draco. Inevitable.
Neville's fall. Inevitable.
Harry's recruitment. Inevitable.
When Lucian attempted to forcibly interrupt these nodes, the world responded violently.
The turbulence. The birds. The cascading accidents.
"Fate is not a script," he wrote quietly. "It is a river with self-correcting current."
He began a new entry.
[Observation Report: World Will
1. Direct interference at critical narrative nodes triggers compensatory accidents designed to enforce convergence.
2. The system does not care about the process. Only the outcome.]
He paused, gazing at the pale moon.
Cassius's warning echoed in his mind.
The Old World fanatics wanted his body as a vessel.
This world wanted his compliance as a variable. Both would erase the real Lucian Ashford.
He wrote the final section.
[3. Strategy:
In a world governed by inertia, direct collision is foolish.
If you cannot stop the flood, carve the riverbed. If you cannot tear up the script, rewrite the dialogue.
If the result is inevitable, control the path that leads to it.
Before each critical node arrives, shift the current through countless minor deviations. Subtle, uncorrected butterfly effects. Build momentum gradually.
Until even the will of the world cannot force a correction.]
He wrote the final line with deliberate precision.
On this grand stage, I will be neither actor nor audience.
Only myself.
The notebook closed with a crisp snap.
Lucian adjusted his collar and turned away from the window.
If the ghouls of the Mayflower wanted to play, and if the rigid laws of this world wished to play—
Then so be it.
But this time, the rules would be written by him.
__________
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