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Hogwarts : Black family bloodline...
Hogwarts, my partner is Tom…
Hogwarts : He Starts by Deconstructing Avada Kedavra...
The next morning,
Hogwarts lay entombed beneath an unusually thick blanket of silver snow. The fragrance of roast turkey and cinnamon lingered sweetly in the air.
Yet Lucian stood at the very edge of the Astronomy Tower. The Highland wind carried ice crystals that scoured his cheeks.
He let the glittering flakes settle on his eyelashes—only for them to vanish silently the instant they touched the faint magical shimmer flowing across his skin.
Far below, a thin trail of steam crawled across the English countryside—an echo of 18th-century Muggle industrial ambition.
To his eyes it was merely a clumsy imitation: a toy built by nostalgic relics clinging to a bygone age.
He had no need for such sluggish iron shells.
Lucian raised his wand.
"Accio Broom."
Minutes later, with a sharp whistle of displaced air, the most ordinary school broom—an ancient Cleansweep Seven training model—wobbled through the blizzard and hovered obediently before him. Its twigs were ragged; the birch handle worn smooth by generations of reluctant first-years.
Lucian closed his fingers around the wood. The stellar vortex in his eyes turned once. The Philosopher's Stone responded, pumping a surge of searing magic.
A layer of dull mercury light immediately coated the battered broom.
Then came the excruciating sound of wood groaning and growing.
The tangled tail twigs wove themselves tight, hardened, and fanned into sleek black feathers. The front end swelled and reshaped—wood sprouting a beak, hollow eye sockets—until the entire thing had become an enormous raven with wings that spanned wider than a man was tall.
Lucian stepped onto its back. His black Ravenclaw robes snapped in the wind like a banner of night.
A streak of dark light tore through the blizzard and shot skyward.
He needed to measure the boundaries of this land for himself.
As he flew beyond the immediate range of Hogwarts Castle—skimming over the Black Lake toward the edges of the Highlands—the familiar oppression began to descend.
When he crossed the mountains of Inverness-shire and the first scattered lights of Muggle towns appeared below,
Lucian activated the Star Pupils.
In his sight the world beneath was gray, heavy, sludge-like.
That was the weight of reality.
He saw Muggles.
Even in these remote highlands their numbers were staggering. They gathered in the streets of Grantown-on-Spey—each individual as insignificant as dust, yet when thousands upon thousands merged, a qualitative change occurred.
They knew gravity could not be defied.
They knew fire required fuel.
They knew the dead did not return.
This shared, unbreakable collective subconscious—billions strong—had woven an airtight net of reality that rejected every anomaly.
This was the iron curtain.
Lucian felt the raven beneath him grow sluggish. The once-fluid magical circuits began to stutter. Air resistance was no longer merely physical wind—it was the inertia of reality correcting his unreasonable flight.
"Look how powerful the will is."
Lucian hovered above Grantown, gazing down at the Muggles clearing snow from the pavements.
"They have become jailers without ever realizing it. They themselves are the prison."
Maintaining the raven form here was draining his magic at an alarming rate. If he did not continuously resist this rule-correction, his exquisite alchemical construct would collapse—reverting to the broken, perfectly ordinary wooden broom it once was.
The farther south he flew—toward denser population—the more terrifying that inertia became.
Lucian banked sharply northward, wings slicing the airflow, returning toward Hogwarts.
The moment he crossed back into Inverness-shire, fluidity and freedom flooded his body once more.
This was the domain Rowena Ravenclaw had carved out a thousand years earlier. Here, the supreme witch had forced open a breach in the iron curtain, forcibly enclosing a patch of land where miracles were still permitted to grow.
"But the circle is too small."
Lucian landed atop the tallest spire of Hogwarts and dispelled the alchemy with a casual gesture.
The majestic raven twisted in mid-air and reverted—once more nothing but a lifeless piece of battered wood tumbling back toward the broom shed.
…
That evening,
the Great Hall was filled with falling magical snowflakes drifting from the charmed ceiling. Hagrid had dragged in twelve enormous Christmas trees glittering with ice pillars.
Lucian sat at the Ravenclaw table, idly turning over a newly unwrapped silver snake-shaped brooch. Its emerald eyes were of exceptional quality.
"From Draco Malfoy? No—more likely Lucius's handiwork."
He tossed the brooch into his pocket without another glance.
His gaze settled on the parcel from Hermione Granger. The wrapping was plain—no ostentatious Slytherin ribbons. The tag bore her neat handwriting:
To Lucian – Happy Christmas.
Inside lay a simple silver pocket watch.
In the wizarding world time was often fluid and malleable—wizards could even briefly step backward through hours. Yet this Muggle artifact ticked stubbornly, insisting on rigid, unchangeable increments.
"Since you offer me order, I'll return the gift of chaotic miracle."
Lucian slipped the watch into his robes.
He rose, eyes drifting across most of the hall to the solitary figure at the Gryffindor table.
Harry Potter.
The Savior's plate was almost untouched—stark contrast to Ron Weasley's enthusiastic demolition beside him. Harry's gaze lacked focus, drifting aimlessly across the hall until it repeatedly, helplessly returned to the great doors leading outside.
"When the actor refuses to enter the scene, the director grows anxious."
…
After dinner,
Lucian walked unhurriedly through the noisy corridors, up the spiraling staircases, until he stopped before the door of an abandoned classroom on the fourth floor.
Moonlight poured through dust-filmed high windows, falling across an extraordinarily ornate mirror carved with strange inscriptions.
Harry knelt before it—oblivious to the icy stone floor.
In the reflection, James and Lily Potter smiled tenderly down at him. Lily's hand rested gently on his shoulder.
"What a heartbreaking sacrifice."
Lucian's voice echoed in the empty room.
Harry started violently, spun around, and nearly knocked the frame over in his haste. He instinctively reached for his Invisibility Cloak—then relaxed slightly upon seeing the familiar silver-rimmed glasses. Suspicion quickly returned.
"Lucian? How… how are you here?"
Lucian gave no answer. He walked slowly to the mirror and gazed into its surface.
In his sight, the Potters were real—mere wisps of lingering soul. At the same time, thick golden threads crawled over every inch of the frame, pulsing faintly.
He understood.
"No wonder Harry is so entranced. This mirror gives him genuine warmth from his parents' souls."
"This mirror is a dangling fishing line. The bait is the remnant souls of his parents. It offers comfort while coldly calculating what kind of Savior such comfort will forge. How merciful. How vile."
"Stay away from that mirror," Lucian said, standing beside Harry and glancing at the inscription across the top:
"I show not your face, but your heart's deepest desire."
"Is this the candy Dumbledore gave you, Harry? You think you see hope. What you actually see is a rotting past."
"Don't you dare say that!" Harry leapt up like a cat with its tail trodden on, voice cracking with broken sobs. "You don't understand… You only care about dusty library books and toad skins in potions! Those are my mum and dad! They're right there!"
"They aren't there, Potter. They turned to dust long ago—died on a meaningless midnight."
Lucian stepped closer. His shadow stretched long in the moonlight, almost swallowing the boy.
"If you keep drowning in this, you'll learn 'sacrifice' through this mirror. You'll learn 'selflessness.' You'll become an obedient martyr."
"Don't you want to change anything?"
"Change what?" Harry shouted, voice ringing off the empty walls. "They're dead! Hagrid said no magic can bring back the dead! That's common sense!"
"Common sense?"
Lucian laughed—a sound that mocked the entire history of magic.
"To ants, fire is an irresistible divine act. To primitive people, lightning is divine wrath. And to wizards today—death is the end."
He reached out. His fingertip nearly touched Harry's forehead.
"But what if we stand higher? Harry—what if magic isn't just waving sticks? What if even death is merely a slightly more complex equation? What if you could…"
The instant his finger brushed Harry's brow, a spark of silver light bloomed.
"Look."
Harry felt the Mirror of Erised change!
Lily Potter's hand—where it rested on his shoulder—was briefly stained with that silver glow. For one heartbeat it became real—as though his mother's touch had truly crossed the veil of death to pat his shoulder.
"This… this is…" Harry's voice broke. He stared at Lucian in disbelief.
"Just a small demonstration," Lucian said, withdrawing his hand. "Proof that so-called 'common sense' is merely shallow mortal understanding! And magic is precisely that which transcends common sense—miracle."
Suddenly Harry screamed, clutching his forehead in agony. The pain was so violent it severed every thread of conversation between them.
Lucian's expression darkened. He felt the air in the room thicken like mercury.
This was not entirely Voldemort's remnant soul at work—or rather, not only that.
"It's warning me: do not pollute Its chess piece."
Far from tense, Lucian felt a flicker of dark amusement.
Creak—
The door hinges turned with deliberate, measured slowness.
A figure in starry robes stepped inside. Long white beard catching moonlight. Blue eyes behind half-moon spectacles held an unprecedented sharpness—though the voice remained as gentle as ever.
"Good evening, children."
Dumbledore entered. With every step he took, Lucian felt the invisible repelling force in the room intensify.
"Professor!" Harry cried weakly. His gaze toward Dumbledore was filled with childish hope.
"Come here, Harry." Dumbledore patted the boy's shoulder reassuringly, then turned. His eyes settled on Lucian—deep, grave.
"Ashford. I have always believed Ravenclaws understand restraint—and respect secrets too ancient and dangerous for their age."
Lucian quietly reined in his aura. He could feel the immense, will-reinforced magic surrounding the old wizard. For now, he could not confront the entire era's mandate head-on.
"My apologies, Headmaster." Lucian's voice returned to its usual elegance. "I merely lost my way and attempted to guide a fellow student lost in illusion."
"Sleepwalking can be dangerous indeed, Mr. Ashford." Dumbledore watched him closely. "But please remember—some words are more toxic than dreams. One cannot live forever in excessive fantasy, my boy… yet neither should one attempt to dissect the world before learning how to love it."
Lucian inclined his head in acknowledgment. He knew the great fish had taken the bait—and today's clash ended here.
As he passed Harry, his fingers brushed the boy's robe in what appeared a casual gesture.
A cold alchemical Galleon—stamped with a raven entwined by an ouroboros—slipped silently into Harry's pocket.
His voice sounded directly inside Harry's mind:
"When you discover that even the 'greatness' you trust cannot give you answers… come find me."
Lucian did not look back. He walked out of the classroom.
Behind him he heard Dumbledore's gentle, wise explanations and Harry's gradually steadying breaths.
But he knew that cold coin was now resting in the boy's pocket—its touch utterly different from the old man's warm words.
This had been a necessary risk.
Lucian moved through Hogwarts' deep corridors. His footsteps echoed on empty stone—clear, solitary.
He knew his performance at the Mirror tonight had been too overt.
To tempt the Savior right under the nose of the century's greatest wizard was akin to dancing on the tip of a sleeping dragon's snout.
But it had to be done.
The Savior's timeline was the anchor of this world. Without planting a single stone capable of shattering fate in that young, carefully groomed heart, he would forever remain nothing but a manipulated spectator.
Besides—it had not been without cost.
Lucian glanced down at his right index finger, where the pallor was slowly fading.
With the fading cry of Ravenclaw's eagle, he understood: any further safe disruption of the plot today was impossible.
"Too flashy… but without it, those two extremely clever prey would never be hooked."
He gave a self-deprecating smile, retracting every sharp edge until his gaze returned to its usual serene, bottomless calm.
The corridor stretched on ahead—cold, empty, waiting.
Outside, the blizzard continued to howl.
Inside, the first cracks had appeared in the script's perfect surface.