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In the hidden chamber of Ravenclaw Tower.
The domed ceiling directly mirrored the night sky; a starry chessboard floated mid-air, radiating the eternal, ghostly blue that belonged to Rowena Ravenclaw herself.
Lucian sat in a high-backed chair, left shoulder of his robe half-pulled down.
The air carried the sharp bite of white dittany essence. The ugly gash—caused by the freak collision of a Reducto and a Bombarda stray bolt—was slowly knitting itself closed.
Outside this tower, even Snape's potions couldn't staunch the bleeding. Here, dittany handled it effortlessly.
He flicked his wand lightly. The starry board rearranged itself. Stardust gathered, sketching out several figures.
On one side: the red lion representing Harry, Ron, and Gryffindor.
On the other: the green serpent for Malfoy and Slytherin.
At the edge of both clusters, a golden star that should have sat at the core connection point—Hermione Granger—now burned dim, drifting alone on the galaxy's fringe.
Lucian reached out, passing through illusory star-dust, and nudged the Hermione piece.
The proud, too-clever-to-fit-in little witch was currently living through the darkest moment of her young life. She'd tried to stop the fight—only to be despised by both sides. She'd wanted to prove her way was right—only to watch the Chosen One choose blind loyalty over rules.
"Quite the interesting experiment."
Lucian studied the board; the stellar vortex in his eyes turned slowly.
He reviewed the past few days' results. Orchestrating full-scale war between two houses. Forcing Snape and McGonagall to intervene. Ultimately shattering the Muggle-born witch's faith.
To outsiders, it looked like petty, sadistic campus chaos he'd stirred up for fun.
In truth, behind the apparent mess lay purpose: measuring shifts in the world-will's behavioral logic.
He raised his hand. The Halloween troll incident projected itself onto the left side of the board.
That night, when he'd tried to sever the bond between the Chosen One and the little witch, the world-will had reacted with raw, direct violence. Golden threads dropped from nowhere, invading minds, forcibly rewriting memories and emotions—like a clumsy playwright slamming actors back into position.
Because it was foundational. The troll was the absolute prerequisite for the golden trio's formation.
This time was different.
Lucian's gaze shifted to the right side—the corridor brawl that had just concluded.
Far worse in nature. House antagonism escalated dramatically. Hermione Granger hadn't integrated into the group—she'd been completely ostracized by her own side for her out-of-place sense of superiority and the isolation that followed.
The plot had deviated—noticeably.
Yet no golden threads rained from the sky. No forced brainwashing. No mass IQ-drop compulsion.
The world-will had merely allowed two idiots' miscast spells to clip him with a physical wound.
The response was… mild.
Almost conciliatory.
"Why the change?"
Lucian stood. His robe traced an arc through starlight. He walked to the center of the chamber, feeling the magical pulse beneath his feet—the heartbeat of Hogwarts' ley-line system.
The ancient star map overhead turned silently. Centuries-old magical residue perfumed the air.
He had a preliminary conclusion.
First: this brawl didn't touch the main line of defeating the Dark Lord. It was a campus-life side-branch—house rivalry. Malfoy and Harry still ended up enemies. The great calamity trigger hadn't fully activated.
Second—and most crucial.
During the troll incident he had been merely a gifted, anomalous first-year.
Since then he had cracked the statue trial, inherited this hidden space, and received Rowena's legacy.
He was no longer an erasable outsider.
He carried the mark of a Hogwarts Founder. In this world—or at least in this magical sanctuary—he now possessed higher weight, a degree of immunity.
The world-will still rejected him.
But it could no longer crush him like an ant or casually rewrite his surroundings.
"Higher weight changes the form of rejection."
Lucian smiled with satisfaction and unwound the bandage completely.
This was precious intelligence. It meant he could now risk deeper interference without constant fear of illogical, causality-weapon brainwashing.
As long as he didn't kill Harry Potter outright, didn't destroy Voldemort's main soul fragment, most plot deviations would have to be tolerated—because of his elevated status.
But this was only a hypothesis.
To test the upper limit of tolerance, he needed a better control group. An event tied to Harry's growth arc—yet with room to maneuver.
His mind settled on a large, rough figure.
Rubeus Hagrid.
Lucian's gaze drifted toward the Forbidden Forest's edge—the direction of the gamekeeper's hut.
By now, that famously gullible half-giant should have taken possession of the dragon egg from a certain stuttering, turbaned man.
In the original script, the dragon's birth was a pivotal turning point. It taught Harry that shouting love and justice excused rule-breaking with no real consequences. It bound the trio tighter through midnight adventures. It led directly to their punishment in the Forbidden Forest—and the face-to-face confrontation with Voldemort.
More fatally: after this incident the trio became permanently addicted to Gryffindor courage. Forever reckless.
All of it chained together to create the Savior vs. Dark Lord saga.
What if he struck one link in that chain?
What if Hermione—heartbroken and disillusioned—refused to participate in this blatantly rule-breaking stupidity?
Without the little witch's planning and organization, could the Chosen One and his redheaded friend really smuggle a dragon up to the Astronomy Tower?
What if the dragon wasn't sent away on schedule… and caused far bigger trouble?
How would the great calamity repair this broken plot thread?
Another round of golden-thread brainwashing?
Or would it unleash a far less controllable butterfly storm?
Lucian waved his wand. The starry board dissolved into light.
He summoned a book. Its cover read in stark lettering:
Statutes and Penalties Concerning the Smuggling of Prohibited Magical Creatures in Great Britain.
The stage was set. The actors were in position.
Time to drip one indelible ink stain onto the Savior's adventure diary.
"Hagrid," Lucian murmured, closing the book with a soft snap, "you'll thank me."
"After all… who doesn't love a bigger, stronger… deadlier dragon?"
He left the statue chamber and walked to the tower window.
Below, the Forbidden Forest heaved in the night wind.
As days passed, talk of the corridor clash gradually faded inside the castle.
In its place rose something sharper—direct, simmering hostility.
Everything was building.
Waiting.
For the coming Quidditch weekend.