The Hogwarts library smelled of old leather, wax, and the faint, sweet decay of parchment that had outlived its writers.
Lookon arrived shortly after lunch, when most students were either in class or napping in their common rooms. The vast room was quiet—only the soft scratch of Madam Pince's quill at the circulation desk, the occasional rustle of turning pages, and the distant creak of the castle settling.
He had come here not for a specific book, but for silence.
And for proximity.
The Restricted Section lay behind iron bars at the far end, chained and warded. He could feel the pull of it—the same faint, oily thread of dark magic that had leaked from the third-floor corridor last night. Not strong enough to set alarms ringing, but persistent. A low hum in his teeth.
He chose a table near the back, half-hidden by towering shelves labeled *Ancient Runes* and *Magical Theory*. Sunlight slanted through high windows in dusty beams, catching motes that drifted like slow snow.
He pulled a thick volume from the nearest shelf at random: *Moste Potente Potions*. The cover was cracked black leather, title embossed in faded gold. He opened it carefully.
Not to read the recipes—though the Polyjuice Potion instructions were fascinating in their precision—but to let the book serve as cover while he observed.
The System annotated in quiet blue text at the edge of his vision.
**Location: Hogwarts Library, Restricted Section Perimeter**
**Dark Magic Residue Density: 0.047 milligauss (elevated baseline)**
**Source Tracing: Consistent with possession vector (Quirrell) + latent horcrux echo**
**Recommended Action: Passive spectral scan (non-invasive)**
Lookon let his eyes unfocus slightly.
The scan was subtle—no glowing lights, no dramatic gestures. Just a gentle expansion of awareness, like letting his senses stretch beyond his skin.
The library's ambient magic was clean—layers of protective wards, preservation charms, silencing spells woven into the very stone. But threading through it was that thin, black vein of wrongness. Cold. Patient. Hungry.
It originated somewhere deeper in the castle—third floor, north wing—but faint tendrils had drifted here, clinging to books that had once been handled by someone carrying the same darkness.
Quirrell, perhaps.
Or someone else, long before.
He closed the potion book.
Stood.
Moved deeper into the stacks.
The aisles narrowed here, shelves pressing close, air cooler and stiller. Dust lay thicker on the floor. Few students ventured this far unless required.
He paused beside a shelf marked *Curses & Counter-Curses (Dangerous)*.
A single volume caught his eye—not chained, but placed oddly, spine facing inward as if someone had tried to hide it.
*Secrets of the Darkest Art*.
He didn't touch it.
He simply stood.
The book radiated the same cold thread—fainter than the third-floor door, but unmistakable.
Horcrux knowledge.
Not the act itself, but the theory. The forbidden edges of soul magic.
Lookon felt a quiet revulsion settle in his chest—not horror, exactly, but the same dull nausea he'd felt reading about real-world atrocities back in Leekelo.
He stepped back.
The System updated.
**Artifact Scan: Book – Secrets of the Darkest Art**
**Residual Signature: Tom Marvolo Riddle (pre-Voldemort alias), circa 1940s**
**Current Threat: Negligible (sealed knowledge, no active trigger)**
**Note: Proximity to current horcrux fragments increases bleed potential by 0.003% if disturbed**
He left the book untouched.
Continued walking.
At the end of the aisle, a small alcove opened—barely a nook, with a single narrow window overlooking the grounds. A wooden stool stood beneath it. Dust motes danced in the slanted light.
Lookon sat.
He drew his knees up, rested his chin on them.
From here he could see the black lake glittering under the afternoon sun, the distant Forbidden Forest a dark smudge on the horizon.
He thought about the boy in Gryffindor Tower.
Harry, who carried a piece of that same darkness in his scar without knowing why.
Harry, who would one day stand in a graveyard and watch a monster rise from a cauldron.
Harry, who would fight that monster again and again until one of them ended.
Lookon pressed his forehead against his knees.
He didn't want to change the story.
Not yet.
Maybe not ever.
The story had worked, in its way. Voldemort fell. The world healed. Scars remained, but balance returned.
But the System's mandate wasn't to preserve canon.
It was to preserve equilibrium.
If the horcruxes bled too far—if the soul fragments tore open rifts that pulled in chakra, quirks, ki—then the story would end not with victory, but with oblivion.
All stories would.
He lifted his head.
The light had shifted; now it fell across his hands, warm on his skin.
He flexed his fingers.
No scars. No calluses. Immortal flesh that forgot pain as soon as it felt it.
He wondered what it would be like to carry a scar that never healed.
To carry a piece of someone else's evil inside your skin.
He stood.
Left the alcove.
Walked back through the stacks.
Madam Pince glanced up as he passed the desk—sharp eyes narrowing slightly—but said nothing.
He returned *Moste Potente Potions* to its shelf.
Climbed the stairs to Ravenclaw Tower.
The eagle knocker greeted him with a new riddle.
"What has roots as nobody sees, is taller than trees, up, up it goes, and yet never grows?"
Lookon answered quietly.
"A mountain."
The door opened.
Inside, afternoon light poured through the domed ceiling. Students lounged on sofas, debated homework, played Exploding Snap in low voices.
Lookon found his armchair by the window again.
Sat.
Opened a different book this time—*A History of Magic*, the standard first-year text.
He read slowly.
Not for information—he already knew most of it—but for the rhythm of the words. The quiet certainty of history laid out in neat chapters.
The afternoon wore on.
Classes ended.
Students returned in waves—laughing, complaining, tired.
Lookon stayed in the chair.
When dinner approached, he closed the book.
Stood.
Joined the stream of blue robes heading down to the Great Hall.
He ate little.
Listened more.
Watched Harry from across the tables—laughing at something Ron said, frowning when Hermione corrected him, looking up once to scan the hall as if searching for something he couldn't name.
Their eyes met for half a second.
Harry blinked—curious, not alarmed—then looked away.
Lookon looked down at his plate.
The crack was still small.
The bleed still slow.
But he had felt it today—touched its edges in the library's shadows.
He finished his meal.
Returned to the tower.
Sat by the window again as night fell.
Stars appeared one by one on the enchanted ceiling.
He watched them.
And waited.
For the next small shift.
For the next quiet sign.
For the story to breathe a little closer to breaking.
One unhurried day at a time.