Ashford Manor was a relic of the Victorian age, slowly rotting away within the mist of Kent.
Most of the portraits on the walls kept their eyes shut, pretending to sleep.
A house-elf named Cliff, shriveled like a strip of bark, spent his days banging his head against the walls, muttering madly about the glory of pure blood.
And the father of this body, Cassius Ashford—
Avoided Lucian like the plague.
He did not dare meet Lucian's eyes.
Instead, he sent meals three times a day through the house-elf, along with a few introductory magic books meant to help his son return to normal.
To Lucian, such indifference was exactly what he wanted.
As his body gradually adapted, he finally came to fully understand the gift that had arrived with his rebirth, his inner vision.
It was a mutation and elevation of perception.
The world shed its surface colors and textures, revealing a semi-transparent structure of lines.
What he sensed was no longer light and sound, but the channels of magical flow and the nodes of material existence.
The drifting energy in the air became colored currents, and the weaknesses, fractures, and blockages within all things were highlighted clearly before his eyes.
This vision was torture. The magical world appeared like a badly damaged piece of cheap porcelain.
Everywhere he looked were flaws, broken magical circuits, and incomplete logic. Worst of all, he could not turn it off.
To understand just how flawed the foundation of this world truly was, he practically moved into the long-neglected Ashford family library.
Weeks later, when the final book was closed—
Lucian stared at the alarming red annotations in his notebook and sighed.
"Arrogance bordering on stupidity," he said quietly, closing a widely praised volume titled Advanced Potion-Making.
The entire book is filled with unnecessary redundancy. As for the crucial steps? Left blank and filled in by luck.
In his previous life, he had abandoned admission to a prestigious computer science program and instead devoted himself to archaeology and artifact restoration.
To him, unraveling truth from the ruins of history had always held irresistible fascination.
'If I had possessed magic like this in my former life, those broken relics might have regained their former glory.
Wizards here waste priceless gifts.'
He shut the book.
As for the course of this world, he did not fully know it.
Only scattered impressions remained in his mind: the savior Harry Potter, the noseless Dark Lord Voldemort, the greatest white wizard Albus Dumbledore, and the brilliant Hermione Granger.
The gears had already begun to turn.
In several books—A History of Modern Magic, The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts, and Great Magical Events of the Twentieth Century—he had repeatedly seen the same famous name: Harry Potter.
Since he was already here, he might as well witness the spectacle.
....
One quiet afternoon, he attempted a breathing and meditation technique he had practiced in his previous life.
Back then, it had been little more than a method of self-discipline and calm reflection, at best sharpening the senses and prolonging life.
But in this world—
When he tried to guide the violent magical force within him, the Obscurus, along carefully structured pathways, the very first contact sent searing pain flooding through him, as if his will itself might burn away.
Lucian grew even calmer. His will remained dominant.
Through his inner vision, he followed the texture of magic, just as he once handled fragile, shattered porcelain.
Enduring the agony of burning, tearing channels, he carefully separated the faintest thread of energy, using every fragment of focus to soothe, refine, and guide it.
Sweat soaked into the carpet. Time passed unnoticed.
At last, when the first strand of magic completed a full circulation, fading from black into deep gray, and settled into the core of his being, Lucian nearly collapsed from exhaustion.
With a mere thought, the tamed magic moved like an extension of his hand.
On the table, a shattered porcelain teacup slowly reassembled under the guidance of magic.
Cracks sealed, fragments aligned, until it stood whole once more, its structure complete.
Lucian understood.
This was not the simple spell described in Standard Book of Spells, Beginner Level:
The Repairing Charm, Reparo… restores broken objects. Note: cannot repair damage caused by powerful dark magic.
When he had first read that passage, he had scribbled beside it with disdain:
This is not restoration. This is glue.
Now, beneath his earlier note, he carefully added a new annotation:
This is material reconstruction.
He had found his path.
In a world where people waved wooden sticks and shouted Latin incantations, he would be something different. A seeker of deeper truth.
Or, in terms more fitting to this world, an alchemist who had glimpsed the gate of truth.
Yet even so, his manipulation caused heavy energy loss.
It seems I need a wand.
.....
On the final morning of July, a long-eared owl crashed clumsily into the dining room window, delivering a thick parchment letter.
His Hogwarts acceptance letter.
The wax seal bore four animals: lion, serpent, eagle, and badger. Lucian traced the rough parchment surface with his fingers.
Thinking of the founders' legacy and the books of the Restricted Section, he felt a faint anticipation.
'How interesting.'
.....
Before the brick wall behind the Leaky Cauldron.
Even in the heat of summer, Cassius Ashford wore a heavy black cloak, his expression dark.
Mechanically, he tapped bricks above a rubbish bin with his wand, though his eyes kept flicking sideways.
Beside him stood Lucian, dressed in a sharply tailored dark high-collared coat. He had refused the cumbersome wizarding robes.
In his hand was a simple cane, carved from a branch taken casually from the manor garden.
He looked less like a new student and more like a young Victorian noble traveling incognito.
As the bricks shifted and rearranged, a winding cobblestone street stretched into view.
Diagon Alley.
The air smelled of baked bread, rotting potion ingredients, and something called excitement.
Colorful robes, self-stirring cauldrons, screaming books in shop windows.
This was the busiest commercial street in the wizarding world. But in Lucian's eyes, it was visual pollution.
Countless chaotic magical fluctuations tangled in the air.
Failed spells leaving black smoke, the primal aura of magical creatures, enchanted objects radiating constant waves of energy.
Lucian took a pair of silver-rimmed glasses from his coat pocket and put them on.
This was his creation, forged after a month of failures.
After exhausting nearly every crystal lens in the manor and causing several minor magical disturbances, he had finally etched crude runes onto a single lens.
It was imperfect and continuously drained his precious magic, but it filtered the overwhelming sensory noise.
The world became quieter. Harsh magical lines faded into a soft gray background.
"We will split up," Cassius said suddenly, voice tense.
"I have… matters to attend to in Knockturn Alley. Buy what you need from the list. The money is in Gringotts. Take the key."
Without waiting for a reply, he shoved a black key into Lucian's hand and disappeared into a side alley, as though escaping a great burden.
Lucian watched his father's hurried retreat, then shrugged.
His fingers traced the key engraved with the Ashford crest, a burning white ash tree.
'Just as I wished.'