Hogwarts Library.
To most students, this was a place they only visited when assignments piled up or finals loomed like a curse.
For Lucian, however, it ranked perhaps first among the castle's treasures—assuming those living fossils of professors didn't decide to empty their vaults of knowledge first.
And the Restricted Section? That was Hogwarts' most infamous landmark.
After all, Lady Ravenclaw herself had said it:
Knowledge is a wizard's greatest wealth.
Madam Pince was an exceedingly strict librarian. She guarded every book like a dragon hoarding eggs, chasing down students who dared eat snacks over open pages with her feather duster raised like a weapon.
Yet when it came to Lucian, her attitude was strangely lenient.
Because he treated books with near-religious reverence.
Before touching any volume, he washed his hands. He never dog-eared pages, instead using a transparent magical bookmark. If he spotted glue peeling from a spine, he quietly mended it with a flawless Reparo.
To a librarian who spent her days wrangling sugar-sticky children, Lucian was practically an angel.
At that moment he sat in a sunlit corner by the window, his table buried under Origins of Medieval Alchemy, The Structure and Deconstruction of the Soul, and a brick-thick Advanced Rune Analysis.
Sunlight poured through the tall stained-glass windows, casting dappled patterns across the side of his face.
Most of Hogwarts' collection wasn't just valuable for its historical weight; many volumes were manuscripts or fine editions, carrying fragments of their authors' ideas and faint threads of memory.
In his heart-phase vision, the words on the pages flowed like living currents. His mind linked directly to the authors', letting him read at blinding speed with near-perfect comprehension.
"This memory-transmission magic… the efficiency is abysmal," Lucian murmured, closing a book on memory charms with a soft sigh. "Still relying on wands to extract silver threads? Why not establish a direct mental link?"
He picked up his quill and jotted an inspiration into the thread-bound notebook he always carried:
Project 32: Wireless improvement to Legilimency—reference principle of telepathy.
"What are you writing? That doesn't look like English."
A voice drifted down from above.
Lucian didn't look up. His pen continued its steady progress across the page.
"If I were you," he said calmly, "I wouldn't hover directly over my ink bottle."
The voice's owner clearly froze.
It was the Bloody Baron, Slytherin's ghost. He usually spent his eternity glaring at first-years with dead-fish eyes or issuing bone-chilling moans. Few dared speak to him so directly.
The Baron slowly descended. His silver-stained robes passed through the tabletop; an icy chill settled over everything, frosting the ink in Lucian's bottle.
"You're not afraid of me?" the ghost asked, voice low and sinister.
Lucian finally lifted his head, removed his glasses, and rubbed the bridge of his nose.
"Why should I be? You're merely a residual image of a soul—a weak projection of consciousness onto the material plane. In Eastern terms, you're a 'bound spirit.'"
"Bound… spirit?"
"Precisely. Besides, your soul structure is extremely unstable right now. There's constant energy leakage from the wound on your chest." Lucian pointed at the bloodstains on the Baron's robes. "That's why you have to frighten people to absorb fear emotions just to keep your form from dissipating. A rather pitiable way to exist."
The Baron let out an enraged howl. The temperature plunged; books rattled on their shelves.
"But I can help you patch that leak," Lucian interrupted.
The howl died in the ghost's throat.
"Though I can't resurrect you, nor grant you release—that requires you to let go of your obsession—I can at least stop you from… leaking so badly. Then you wouldn't have to spend every day vacuuming up negative emotions like some spectral hoover."
For centuries, no one had ever spoken to the Baron this way. People either feared him or fled him.
"How?" The ghost's voice had dropped to something almost subdued.
Lucian traced a complex sigil in the air, then gently pressed it against the Baron's illusory chest.
Sssss—
The sigil melted into the spectral body like a patch sealing a tear. The energy drain was instantly plugged.
The Baron stared in shock. For the first time in centuries, the constant sensation of being scattered by wind vanished. His form even grew slightly more solid.
"What… what magic is this?" There was genuine awe in the ghost's tone.
"A little trick," Lucian said, slipping his glasses back on. "In exchange, I need a favor."
"Name it." Even Slytherin's ghost had principles.
"Keep an eye on Professor Quirrell." Lucian lowered his voice. "You don't need to do anything—just tell me where he goes every night. Especially when there's a scent on him other than garlic."
The Baron nodded once, gave the first-year a long, measuring look, then passed through the wall and vanished.
In a castle full of cameras (portraits) and bugs (ghosts), securing eyes like these meant securing the intelligence network.
…
"Mr. Ashford."
Just as Lucian gathered his things to leave, a tall wizard in velvet robes stood there, smiling through half-moon spectacles.
"Headmaster." Lucian gave a polite nod.
"I heard from Professor Flitwick about your splendid performance." Dumbledore's tone was light. "'Letting the feather follow the desire of the airflow'—a very poetic way of putting it. But I'd like to discuss something else."
Dumbledore flicked his wand. The air around them thickened.
A silent Muffliato.
"The soul is a mysterious thing," he said softly. "Your body doesn't need to be sustained by such dark magic, Lucian. Especially when you try to take it apart. That is dangerous."
"But if we don't take it apart," Lucian countered, "how will we ever know what it truly is? Take the Philosopher's Stone… If it were really so perfect, why does Nicolas Flamel keep it hidden?"
Dumbledore blinked.
"No need to be tense, Headmaster." Lucian offered a small smile. "I'm not that desperate for immortality yet. Infinite cellular division at that level eventually wears down the soul. That kind of low-grade eternity—I'll pass."
Dumbledore polished his glasses.
It was the first time anyone had called the Philosopher's Stone "low-grade."
"It seems Ravenclaw has gained a truly remarkable student."
He dispelled the Muffliato.
"If you're interested in certain… deeper knowledge…" Dumbledore drew a slip of parchment from his robes. "A small privilege. But I hope that even in darkness, you remember to keep a light on."
Lucian accepted the note.
Permission to access the Restricted Section.
"Thank you, Headmaster." He tucked it away. "I'll remember. After all, only by understanding the structure of darkness can one create true light."
Dumbledore watched the boy walk away, stroking his beard thoughtfully.
"Not Tom…" he murmured. "More like… another Grindelwald? No. Purer than Gellert—and colder."
Lucian stepped out of the library, fingers brushing the precious slip in his pocket.
Only by learning how to build a bomb can one learn how to dismantle it perfectly.
That was the craftsman's logic.