Late that night in Gryffindor Tower, silence shattered by a sudden, frantic gasp.
Harry jolted awake, breathing hard—as though he'd just hiked the length of the Forbidden Forest through a raging thunderstorm.
His scar burned like fire. The pain was familiar, yet this time it carried a new edge: a needle-sharp agony that drilled straight through his skull.
He sat up, struggling to recall the dream.
At first nothing came. Then fragments surfaced: a forest of twisted trees. He had become a snake, hunting a passing wizard.
The pain intensified. His vision pulsed black with each heartbeat.
Then—a sudden coolness washed through the burning, easing the torment just enough to think.
Harry's hand moved instinctively to his pocket. His fingers closed around a metal disc.
The Galleon Lucian had given him.
When his thumb pressed the raised raven-and-ouroboros relief, a strange, solemn clarity flowed up his arm and straight into his mind. The searing in his forehead subsided—miraculously—into something bearable.
By the pale moonlight leaking through the window, Harry examined the coin.
Lucian's words drifted back to him, soft and precise:
"When you discover that even the 'greatness' you trust cannot give you answers… come find me."
Harry clenched the coin, debating who—if anyone—to tell.
Hermione? He could already hear her shrill voice: "Your scar hurts? Harry, that's not normal… write to Dumbledore at once! I'll check Common Magical Ailments… there might be something about curse scars…"
Yes—Hermione would insist: go to the Headmaster immediately, then bury herself in books. But Harry felt certain no book held the answer.
He was the only person to survive Voldemort's curse. Common Magical Ailments would not cover this.
As for Lucian's theory—treating death like an equation—Hermione would probably explode.
Dumbledore?
Harry glanced toward the window. He didn't know where the Headmaster had gone. Hedwig could find him, of course—but what would the letter even say?
Dear Professor Dumbledore,
Sorry to bother you, but my scar hurt this morning. Also a first-year Ravenclaw gave me a Galleon that stops the pain.
Ridiculous.
He'd sound like a panicky fool—or worse, a tattletale.
Ron? Ron would shrug: "Cursed scars hurt sometimes, mate," then run off to ask Mr. Weasley.
In the end Harry sank back against the pillow. The pain lingered but had dulled to something he could endure.
The coin in his pocket grew quiet again.
Meanwhile—inside the hidden space within Ravenclaw's statue—
Lucian floated silently above a vast stellar chessboard.
His fingers idly nudged a piece formed of pure magic. Beneath him, silver gridlines crisscrossed infinity; countless tiny stars flared and died with each movement.
He could feel the Galleon trembling in Harry's palm—but he could take no overt action now.
Lucian knew last night's encounter at the Mirror had almost certainly drawn Dumbledore's attention. The old wizard might seem kind, but he showed no mercy to those who walked a different path.
More worrying still: whenever he deeply interfered with key plot points or major players, that parasitic "calamity qi" coiled tighter around him.
For one reckless moment last night he had considered using the Philosopher's Stone to break several magical laws in front of Hermione—forcefully claiming that proud, brilliant girl for his side.
The impulse had died as quickly as it rose.
"Rushing invites calamity."
Lucian murmured to himself.
Confronting the world-will head-on without sufficient preparation—trying to forcibly twist cause and effect—would only turn him to ash scattered across the sky.
Since yesterday's small intervention he had confirmed: within Ravenclaw's aegis, he could safely perturb the original plot to a limited degree each day.
Here, the calamity qi him would be diluted, offset by the vast turning of the stars.
"Slowly."
Lucian watched the star representing Harry Potter on the board—its light flickering violently from pain.
"The bait is taken. Now we wait for time to do its work."
…
The Hogwarts holiday drew to a close amid one final, prolonged blizzard.
When most students returned through the Floo—bringing cold air and hometown treats—the Ravenclaw common room once again filled with the restless energy of youth.
Prefect Robert Hilliard entered carrying a stack of thick winter cloaks. The robes had just been treated by house-elves—infused with a faint scent of dried cedar—warm enough to defy January's bone-cracking Highland chill.
When Lucian received his, he offered a polite "Thank you."
The prefect opened his mouth—perhaps to make small talk—but meeting Lucian's lake-deep, unreadable gaze, the words died in his throat. Among Ravenclaws, knowledge was currency—but Lucian's particular brand of erudition carried an aloofness that kept others at arm's length.
Hillliard managed only an awkward chuckle:
"Stay warm, Lucian. The wind up in the tower is brutal—don't be like those Gryffindors who leave their collars open just to look cool."
Once the prefect moved on, Michael Corner immediately drifted to the bronze-framed full-length mirror near the common-room fire. He'd clearly spent the holiday experimenting; his dark hair was now slicked back with some industrial-strength potion, gleaming like polished obsidian.
"Gotta say—deep blue velvet really suits my complexion," Michael announced to his reflection. "Makes me look way more mature than those grinning Gryffindor idiots. Give it a few years and even Lockhart might lose his spot in Witch Weekly."
Lisa Turpin—curled in an armchair with One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi open on her lap—didn't even look up. Her voice carried the chill of a January Black Lake:
"Intelligence is Ravenclaw's finest accessory, Corner. If your cerebral cortex shone half as brightly as your hair, perhaps I wouldn't mistake you for a peacock that wandered into the book stacks."
Michael choked on his comeback. He glanced around for allies—only to realize Lucian's corner was already empty.
"Honestly, he's so weird," Michael muttered. "Didn't even go home for the holidays. Rumor is he spent the whole break holed up researching obscure magic and dead languages."
Lucian hadn't remained in the tower. Though the fire burned there, the atmosphere made him restless; the omnipresent calamity qi left him mentally and physically drained.
He passed through snow-choked cloisters to a shadowed dead-end beneath the Astronomy Tower—an architectural blind spot shielded by ancient stone. A withered old oak stretched its blackened, twisted branches against the wind.
Two identical girls—clearly beautiful twins—huddled there whispering. They wore matching heavy cloaks. When Lucian approached, their voices dropped to near-silent breath.
One was Ravenclaw's Padma Patil; the other her Gryffindor twin Parvati.
Lucian leaned against the wall and closed his eyes, entering a light meditative state. The wind-torn fragments of their whispers still reached him clearly.
"…Anthony Goldstein really is gorgeous, Padma. That quiet, scholarly vibe—absolutely lethal."
"Really? More than Lockhart?"
"Different kind of appeal. Some classes are staggered between Ravenclaw and Gryffindor—tomorrow let's swap schedules. You go observe him up close. No one can tell us apart anyway, right?"
"Hehe, sounds thrilling… but what if we get caught? McGonagall or Flitwick aren't easy to fool."
"Don't worry! Even Dad can't tell us apart. Look—see that snow owl over there?"
Parvati nodded toward Lucian a few feet away.
"That's your house's famous weirdo, Lucian Ashford.
Go say hello—practice on him. If even that bookworm can't spot the switch, we're golden!"
Parvati gave her sister a gentle shove. Padma took a steadying breath, schooled her features into a perfect Ravenclaw mask of poised intellect, and stepped forward with small, ladylike steps.
"Hello, fellow student. I'm Padma Patil. We met in the common room this morning—do you remember?"
Even with eyes closed, Lucian sensed the other girl's breathing quicken, the tiniest upward curl of breath betraying barely-suppressed glee at the prank's impending success.
Lucian spoke without opening his eyes:
"You are not Parvati Patil."
"Oh! I knew we'd get caught!" Parvati burst out laughing, leaping into view and pointing triumphantly at her hidden sister. "Padma! You lied!"
Padma emerged from the tree's shadow looking crestfallen, staring at Lucian in disbelief. "You really didn't overhear? We were whispering—ten feet away!"
"In Ravenclaw, attention to detail is instinct." Lucian lied smoothly, eyes still closed. In truth he identified them by something far more arcane: one felt like still water, the other like dancing flame.
Parvati was itching with curiosity. She and her sister were identical—same face, same voice, same everything. They'd swapped places countless times without ever being discovered.
Today they'd been caught by Lucian Ashford—of all people. It was baffling.
She had to know how he did it. Otherwise future swaps would be at risk.
Twelve-year-old witches have the heaviest curiosity. The twins huddled together, whispering furiously about how on earth he'd seen through them.
The sunlight was pleasant. Lucian—suddenly in a rare playful mood—quietly began circulating his inner-alchemy technique.
The thin ambient magic around him began to flow like water drawn by gravity, gathering gently toward his body.
To the twins, the air around Lucian seemed to shimmer faintly.
"Merlin—Padma, do you feel that?" Parvati suddenly squeaked. Her frozen nose twitched.
"Feel what? Don't change the subject—you're still covering for me tomorrow—"
"No! Warmth!" Parvati stepped closer as though discovering a new continent. "Wow! It's so warm—like spring! Better than the fireplace!"
Padma eyed her skeptically. "You're running a fever? In this weather—"
But the moment Padma approached, Lucian shifted his intent. Spring instantly became midwinter.
"Hss—freezing!" Padma shivered violently. "Parvati, are you pranking me? It's colder here than before!"
Parvati froze. She stepped closer again. "No—it really is warm… huh? Now it's cold again?"
For the next five minutes the twins performed an utterly bewildered comedy routine around Lucian.
When Parvati approached alone, Lucian allowed a gentle warmth—she practically melted in bliss. The moment Padma joined her, he withdrew it.
"I get it!" Parvati clapped her hands in excitement. "It's the location! This must be the legendary Avalon hot spring! Padma—stand back! You're ruining the springhead!"
"Nonsense! I clearly felt a cold gust just now!" Padma shoved forward defiantly.
The sensation was bizarre: Parvati basked in summery heat; Padma shivered in arctic wind. The sisters alternated between hugging each other in delight and shoving one another away to monopolize the nonexistent warmth.
"Padma—you must be possessed by a snow demon! Every time you come near, spring disappears!"
"Parvati—I think you're under a hallucination charm! This spot could freeze a fire-dragon solid!"
By the time the exhausted twins began questioning their own senses, Lucian slowly opened his eyes and withdrew the magical field. A rare, faint smile curved his lips.
"Time's up, ladies." He stood. "By the way—Anthony Goldstein will be in the library tomorrow. He's currently researching Veritaserum. If I were you, I'd practice Occlumency first."
With that he left them standing dumbfounded and strode back into the castle corridors.
"…Padma—was he just messing with us?"
"I think so." Ravenclaw Padma ground her teeth, staring after his retreating figure. "And he definitely knows some curse we don't. Except… he never cast anything."
"But he's still kind of mysteriously cool," Gryffindor Parvati sighed, rubbing her chilled hands. "Even if he's a bit mean."
Lucian walked the deep, echoing corridors of Hogwarts.
The girls' squabbling faded behind him. The tight string of tension inside him loosened—just a fraction.
He let out a soft, self-deprecating laugh.
After all—he was only twelve.
The corridor stretched ahead—cold, empty, waiting.
Outside, the blizzard continued to howl.
Inside, the first fragile sparks of something new flickered in the dark.