Professor McGonagall pressed her lips together.
She surveyed the wrecked bathroom, the unconscious troll sprawled across shattered tiles, and finally Hermione—who had just lied to defend Lucian.
"Miss Granger," McGonagall said sharply, disappointment lacing her voice, "you foolish girl. What made you think you could handle a troll on your own?"
Hermione lowered her head in shame.
"Five points from Gryffindor," McGonagall continued with a sigh. "For reckless lack of judgment."
Then she turned to Lucian. Her gaze was complicated.
"As for you, Mr. Ashford. Your methods were... unconventional. Nevertheless, you prevented a tragedy with remarkable efficiency. Ten points to Ravenclaw."
She gestured with her wand for everyone to leave the foul-smelling room.
But before anyone could turn—
In Lucian's inner sight, Hogwarts' magical field surged violently.
Energy gathered overhead.
Golden threads descended from the void, thin as silk yet absolute as law. They pierced into the heads, spines, and limbs of those present like marionette strings.
As expected.
The world's correction had arrived.
Lucian's inner vortex did not shrink under the pressure. Instead, it pulsed greedily. He sensed that if he wished, he could tug at those threads.
Reality blurred.
For a moment, Hogwarts shifted again into that dead, silent fortress beneath a Dark Mark-stained sky.
Lucian did not interfere.
He observed.
According to the golden threads, Hermione was meant to be saved by Harry and Ron.
Shared danger would forge unbreakable friendship. The trio would be born in secrecy and gratitude.
But Lucian had intervened.
Harry and Ron had merely stood and watched. The causal chain had fractured.
So the world responded with force.
Hermione's body stiffened.
Moments ago, she had looked at Lucian with gratitude and awe. Now her eyes glazed over.
When they refocused, the brilliance in them had dulled.
The memory of Lucian saving her did not vanish.
It was rewritten.
Under the golden mist, his decisive actions were tinted with "coldness" and "arrogance."
Meanwhile, Harry and Ron's clumsy entrance—those frightened faces—were gilded with "friendship" and "courage."
He only acted out of convenience... He didn't truly care whether I lived or died... But Harry and Ron came for me... only they truly cared…
The thoughts replicated in her mind, suppressing reason.
"Miss Granger?" McGonagall prompted gently.
Hermione swallowed. "He used... very powerful magic," she said hesitantly. "But..."
She turned toward Harry and Ron.
The golden haze stripped away her admiration for Lucian and redirected it.
"If Harry and Ron hadn't burst in shouting and distracted the troll... I might have fainted from fear."
Her voice grew steadier.
"Even though Ashford knocked it out... it was Harry and Ron who gave me courage. They broke the rules to save me."
Snape let out a soft scoff but did not contradict her. It fit Gryffindor's mythology too neatly.
Lucian watched coldly.
He saw Hermione's soul struggling within the golden fog, trimmed into the shape the world required.
"Elegant," he murmured quietly.
He remembered the original owner of this body, forcibly turned into an Obscurial.
He remembered the fanatics who tried to mold him into a vessel.
He remembered that in this script, everyone's fate had already been written.
'Even sincere gratitude must be erased?'
His fingers tightened around the wand hidden in his sleeve. The ebony wood trembled faintly.
'Manipulating human nature to repair causality. Ugly. And crude.'
Ignorance disguised as inevitability.
Lucian stepped forward.
"Since the misunderstanding has been clarified," he said calmly, as though nothing had nearly derailed the narrative, "Miss Granger, your hand is still bleeding."
Hermione looked down blankly.
A shattered pocket watch had cut deep into her palm.
She vaguely remembered dropping it earlier that day when Ron had insulted her and she had fled in tears.
Lucian approached and reached for her hand.
The moment his fingers touched her skin, the vortex within him became a hungry singularity.
The golden energy weaving artificial emotions inside Hermione found an outlet.
A crack appeared in the fabricated gratitude.
Streams of golden light surged through Lucian's arm, devoured and compressed by his inner core.
He withdrew his hand.
"Only superficial," he said, placing a handkerchief over her palm.
"But some wounds, even after healing, leave scars. They remind you what pain is real, and what is illusion."
Only Hermione heard that last sentence clearly.
She froze.
The flawless script in her mind flickered. The sting in her palm felt tangible, undeniable.
The sudden warmth she felt toward Harry and Ron now seemed… hollow.
"Enough. Back to your dormitories," McGonagall ordered. "Five points to Gryffindor. For your… reckless luck."
Harry and Ron exhaled in relief and tugged Hermione toward the door.
"Blimey, Hermione, you scared us," Ron muttered.
She did not answer.
She glanced back.
Lucian had already turned away, disappearing into the dark corridor.
In her palm, the blood-stained handkerchief burned with unnatural warmth.
....
Room of Requirement.
Lucian leaned back in a chair, rolling a small golden sphere between his fingers.
He had planted a seed in that handkerchief.
Each time the world attempted to reinforce the trio's bond and adjust Hermione's perception, the seed would siphon energy.
Endless correction would mean endless fuel.
Lucian studied the glowing sphere. "If this power can alter narrative and cross worlds... can it restore life?"
An interesting question.
But first, another test.
He crushed the sphere. Golden fragments burst between his fingers.
Space warped.
Reality melted.
When Lucian's feet touched solid ground again, icy wind and the smell of coal smoke greeted him.
Winter.
Thick with industrial pollution, blood, and oppressive magic.
He stood on a dark street.
The sky was sickly gray. Faint green glimmers pulsed behind the clouds—the lingering aura of a Dark Mark.
Shops on both sides were shuttered. Pamphlets filled the windows: Bloodline Doctrine, Survival Under the New Order, Identifying Mudbloods Among You.
This was Hogsmeade.
But not the cheerful village of butterbeer and laughter.
A massive black banner with green sigils hung above the Three Broomsticks, snapping in the wind.
Lucian concealed his aura and cast a high-level Confundus Charm upon himself, blending into the bleak streets.
Few pedestrians walked. All wore heavy black robes, heads down. No one spoke.
Fear had become instinct.
"Spare a Knut... sir..."
An old wizard crouched near the Hog's Head entrance. One eye missing, the other cloudy. A wooden sign hung from his neck: Pure-blood, injured.
Even purity did not guarantee dignity here.
Lucian flicked a silver Sickle onto the ground. The old man snatched it desperately, then looked up with startled gratitude.
"What year is it?" Lucian asked.
The old wizard hesitated, then whispered, "Tenth year of the Dark Lord's reign. Nineteen ninety-one."
"And the Chosen One? Harry Potter?"
The man recoiled in terror.
"Are you mad? Don't say that name!"
He lowered his voice, trembling. "There is no savior. That Halloween night ended it. The Potter brat was blasted to ash by the Master himself."
He spoke with warped awe.
"The Ministry surrendered within an hour. Dumbledore fled with remnants into the wilderness."
Lucian nodded slowly.
No sacrificial protection. No ancient magic. Voldemort had remained at full power and secured absolute rule.
"And Hogwarts?" Lucian asked. "What is taught now? Why are there new students?"
He had seen Thestral-drawn carriages escorted by Dementors heading toward the castle.
"New blood," the old wizard said bitterly. "Or new sacrifices."
He laughed weakly.
"They say Dumbledore produced another prophecy. That the Longbottom boy is the real hope."
"Neville Longbottom?"
"Yes. Poor lad. Today is his first year. Rebellion dies again and again. Now it's his turn to be fed into the grinder. The world always needs a hero, doesn't it?"
Lucian looked toward Hogwarts.
Under dark clouds, it resembled a fortress.
The world had activated a contingency. To balance Voldemort's overwhelming strength, it selected Neville.
Whether he was ready or not... Whether logic supported it or not.
The world did not care.
It needed a symbol.
Lucian felt his inner vortex stir eagerly. This distorted timeline was saturated with correction energy. Golden threads converged toward Hogwarts in vast quantities.
Yet at the castle's center, he sensed a hollow void reeking of corruption.
"If you insist on correcting the script," Lucian whispered to the unseen will, "then let me see how far you will push your spare hero in a world destined for ruin."
A crack echoed.
Five masked enforcers Apparated around him, green light sealing the street.
Without warning—
°Avada Kedavra°
The Killing Curse streaked toward him.
Lucian's pupils darkened.
His shadow erupted. Black, viscous energy surged upward, swallowing the green bolt midair.
"What—"
The shadow exploded outward into writhing tendrils, piercing through shields as if they were paper.
Bones snapped.
In a single breath, all five enforcers were pinned to the wall, limbs twisted grotesquely.
Dead.
Lucian snapped his fingers.
The black mass withdrew instantly, obedient once more, melting back beneath his robes.
More Apparition cracks sounded in the distance.
"Too slow."
Lucian stepped over the corpses.
Snow and ash swirled.
His figure blurred...Then vanished.
Leaving behind only silence and the faint smell of ozone.
__________
Upto 20 chapters ahead on patreon :-
patreon.com/ShadySmuggler