Winter in the Scottish Highlands arrived far earlier than any calendar dared to admit.
Overnight, intricate frost flowers bloomed across every windowpane. The corridors howled with drafts that bit at young witches' and wizards' cheeks until they burned.
Inside the Great Hall, breakfast had lost its usual roar. Only the clink of cutlery and the constant, miserable slurping of hot drinks remained. Students huddled deep inside heavy cloaks; even the ever-energetic Weasley twins had their heads practically buried in steaming bowls of oatmeal.
"Bloody hell," Ron muttered through chattering teeth as he tried to spread butter that had hardened to the consistency of granite. "Can't the school just turn up the heat? I swear my toes have already run away from home."
Harry wasn't faring much better. He cradled his mug of hot pumpkin juice like a lifeline; fog clouded his glasses.
Lucian glanced upward at the floating candles overhead—each one now dripping icicles—and spoke quietly, more to himself than anyone else.
"The castle's thermal regulation system is the real disaster here."
Heart-phase vision activated.
The entire magical circuitry of the Great Hall unfolded before him like a vast, translucent schematic.
The heating loops—responsible for maintaining a comfortable baseline temperature—were mostly dormant. The cause was almost laughably simple: down in the foundations, one critical transfer valve had been blocked by a hibernating badger. Heat energy backed up uselessly, pooling in the kitchens far below.
"House-elves cooking in a sauna while wizards freeze in the dining hall."
With a single, gentle mental nudge, Lucian dislodged the unlucky creature. The valve eased open.
A low, almost subsonic rumble rolled through the flagstones—audible only to those sensitive to magic.
Warm air poured up through the cracks between stones. In the blink of an eye, the temperature in the Great Hall climbed ten degrees. Students lifted their heads in collective surprise, letting out long, relieved sighs.
"Merlin's beard, that breeze is timed perfectly!" Ron exclaimed, finally stretching out limbs that had gone stiff with cold.
Lucian ignored the sudden stir around him. He placed a neatly peeled boiled egg into his mouth.
…
Gryffindor table.
Harry, Ron, and Hermione sat together.
On the surface, it was picture-perfect: the iron triangle forged in shared danger. Ron waved his fork enthusiastically, explaining Quidditch formations; Harry chimed in with corrections; Hermione smiled and listened.
Warm. Touching.
But in Lucian's sight—
Countless golden threads descended from nowhere, puppeteering their facial muscles like marionettes.
Especially Hermione.
The golden lines around her were the thickest—frantically attempting to overwrite last night's "incorrect" memory. The world-will roared silently: Smile! You should feel happy! They are your saviors!
Yet Hermione's smile was brittle, mechanical.
Her left hand stayed hidden beneath the table, fingers locked tight around the folded handkerchief.
She was acting.
"Impressive," Lucian murmured into his coffee cup.
"When outright resistance to the script is impossible, feign compliance and search for scissors in the wings. Well done, Miss Granger. You haven't disappointed me."
At that moment, a storm of owls flooded the hall.
The Nimbus 2000 arrived right on schedule.
Neville received a pile of packages—including a box of Chocolate Frogs.
"I don't collect the cards," he said, sliding one toward Harry. "Want it?"
Harry took it, glanced down.
In Lucian's vision, every beam of light in the hall seemed to bend subtly toward that card, screaming: Look here! Clue!
"Nicolas Flamel," Harry read aloud, frowning. "I've heard that name somewhere before…"
"Who?" Ron asked around a mouthful of toast.
"I saw it on the train! Right here!" Harry pointed to the back of the card—Dumbledore's entry: …his alchemical achievements were made in partnership with Nicolas Flamel…
"Hey—he's gone!"
Hermione leaned in. Her eyes lingered on the name for a heartbeat.
If she had been fully overwritten, she would already be saying: We have to look this up!
But the current Hermione… lifted her gaze.
Looked across the hall toward the Ravenclaw table.
She wasn't asking for permission.
She was checking the authenticity of the clue.
Lucian did not respond. He simply turned a page in his book.
Hermione withdrew her attention and turned back to Harry.
"Since he collaborated with Dumbledore, he can't be ordinary. We could check A History of Modern Alchemy in the library."
She offered the suggestion—calm, measured, without enthusiasm.
…
Afternoon, castle courtyard.
The sky was leaden; wind tore dead leaves through the stone colonnades in howling spirals.
Harry carried his Nimbus 2000 toward the pitch for one last training session before the Gryffindor–Slytherin match. Wood had turned into a complete maniac.
"Snape's been acting really weird lately," Ron whispered, glancing around furtively. "You noticed? He's limping."
"Definitely Halloween," Harry said with conviction. "The troll was just a diversion. He was trying to get to that third-floor room. Fluffy must have bitten him."
"Who's Fluffy?"
"The three-headed dog! That's what Hagrid calls it."
As the three spoke, a black-robed figure rounded the corner—Snape, face thunderous.
He was limping.
Every step twisted his features in pain.
Harry and Ron shut up instantly.
Snape stopped in front of them, malice undisguised.
"Potter." His voice slid like oil. "Carrying a broom, head full of straw. If you showed half this much focus in Potions, perhaps your cauldron wouldn't explode every lesson."
"Belittling students to feed some psychological deficiency, Professor?" a cool voice interjected. "That doesn't suit Slytherin standards."
Snape whipped around.
Lucian leaned casually against the opposite pillar.
"Ashford." Snape's gaze darkened.
"Care to sample detention as well?"
"I was merely passing by. And assessing the injury."
Lucian straightened. His eyes settled on Snape's left calf—right through the heavy robes and trousers, straight to the tissue beneath.
A vicious tear wound, ringed with lingering dark-green magical residue.
"Three-headed-dog saliva contains anticoagulant enzymes and neurotoxins. Without proper neutralization, the wound will continue to necrotize." Lucian's tone remained clinical. "White dittany alone stops bleeding; it does nothing for the poison. I suggest adding one-third ounce of powdered mandrake root to your salve."
Snape's expression flickered—something almost like shock.
Only he and Filch knew about the bite.
How had this first-year seen through it?
Harry and Ron stared at Lucian in horror, convinced he had lost his mind by offering medical advice to the bat of the dungeons.
"Your arrogance is nauseating, Ashford." Snape spoke through clenched teeth—but he did not deduct points.
The suggested formula was not only correct; it was superior to what he currently used.
He gave Lucian one long, measuring look, then limped away.
"Bloody hell…" Ron exhaled only after Snape had disappeared. "How did you know it was… a three-headed dog bite?"
"Logic, Weasley."
Lucian offered no explanation of heart-phase vision. He stepped closer to the trio.
His gaze settled on Harry's face—already writing It's definitely him across every feature.
"Sometimes what the eyes see is not the truth—especially when someone has gone to great lengths to make sure you see it."
He glanced meaningfully toward a second-floor window.
Professor Quirrell stood there, wrapped in his oversized purple turban.
"Don't waste time on the wrong suspect."
With that, Lucian turned and walked toward the library.
Behind him, the trio stood frozen.
"He's defending Snape?" Harry frowned; the nauseous feeling had dulled, but distrust remained. "He's definitely on Slytherin's side."
Hermione watched Lucian's retreating back.
Her fingers tightened around the hidden handkerchief.
Wrong suspect?
In the past she would have argued.
Now the seed of doubt was sprouting.
"Maybe," she said softly, voice swallowed by the wind, "we really have missed something."