The stone beneath Lucien's bed was warm with magic — the old kind. Subtle. Woven into the bones of the castle long before portraits lined the halls or the House Cup existed.
He was awake before the others.
Not restless. Simply… present.
Lucien dressed in silence — green-trimmed robes pressed and perfect, silver pin aligned at the throat. His shoes barely made a sound against the stone. As he passed the other beds, he glanced toward the sleeping forms of Draco, Theo, Blaise, Crabbe, and Goyle. All breathing evenly. Still boys.
He smiled.
Not with cruelty. Not with condescension.
But with something softer. Almost fond.
In another life, I would've led you differently.
The common room was empty when he entered. The hearth was banked with coals, glowing green in the half-darkness. A soft hum vibrated in the walls, not quite noise. More like the memory of sound.
Lucien ran his fingers lightly along the cold stone railing that circled the room, his touch trailing like a scribe across a map.
He paused in the alcove from the night before — the one that had whispered back.
He didn't speak this time.
He just stood there, breathing it in.
Then he left the common room.
The door whispered shut behind him as he stepped into the corridors of the lower dungeons — still empty, still sleeping.
Torch sconces lined the passage, flickering weakly as though they, too, were reluctant to wake. Lucien walked them slowly, retracing a path he'd once taken as someone else.
The Slytherin dungeons bent in ways most students never saw, echoing with enchantments layered over centuries. Lucien turned left where others would turn right. Passed through a narrowing between two columns that wasn't marked on any map.
He moved like someone returning home through the ruins of a dream.
He passed portraits that blinked slowly as he walked by.
One, a pale wizard in a high ruff, startled awake and muttered, "Back already, are we?"
Lucien paused.
"Not quite," he said gently. "Still arriving."
The portrait blinked, confused, then returned to sleep.
Eventually, Lucien stepped into one of the side staircases near the main hall. The early morning light was spilling in now, silver and soft, painting the upper corridor in pale blue.
Footsteps sounded above him — quick and unsteady.
A Ravenclaw boy — first year — turned the corner, his tie crooked and his satchel half-unzipped.
Lucien offered a calm smile. "You're early."
The boy flinched, startled. "Oh! Sorry — I thought I was late, I was looking for—"
Lucien gestured calmly. "You're fine. Transfiguration's three corridors east, second right."
"Oh. Thanks. How did you—?"
"I asked directions early, too," Lucien lied smoothly. "Not every first day has to be a disaster."
The Ravenclaw boy grinned sheepishly and nodded, already less flustered. "Thanks. Uh… Valeor, right?"
"Lucien," he said warmly.
"Right. Lucien."
The boy ran off, and Lucien watched him go, his smile still on his face.
Be kind. Be helpful. Be nothing they expect.
He turned and continued on. He walked, and the castle creaked softly above him. The light grew stronger. The halls began to whisper with distant footsteps — the castle waking.
Lucien stepped into the shadow of a pillar and watched sunlight break across the floor.
"I used to walk these halls when I believed in things," he murmured to no one.
Then he turned, adjusted his cuffs, and walked back toward the common room.
By the time breakfast came, he would be the friendly Slytherin.
Polite. Well-spoken. Curious.
A boy of promise.
And no one would suspect a thing.
The Great Hall was alive with the murmur of morning—early risers speaking over porridge and toast, owls swooping in with the day's post, first-years blinking blearily into goblets of pumpkin juice.
Lucien Valeor walked in alone.
Not too early. Not too late. Precisely timed.
He was dressed in pristine robes, emerald trim clean and pressed, sleeves just slightly long over his wrists — a deliberate choice. His tie was loose but tidy, as if he'd tied it without ever needing to look in a mirror.
His face drew glances. Not for beauty, though he was undeniably handsome in that soft, unreadable sort of way.
Smooth features. Pale, almost porcelain skin. Dark brown hair, cleanly swept and a little longer at the sides, was tucked behind one ear. And now, square-rimmed glasses sat low on the bridge of his nose, as if he had only just remembered to put them on.
They framed his eyes — eyes the color of stormlit steel, deep and composed, far older than they should've been.
He gave off the air of someone calm in the middle of the noise. Like a clock ticking gently in a burning room.
He offered a soft smile to the group of Slytherins already gathered near the far end of the table.
"Good morning."
There was a moment's pause.
Then Blaise Zabini nodded once. "Morning."
Daphne Greengrass raised a curious eyebrow. "You're up early."
"I like walking the halls before they're full," Lucien said simply, sliding onto the bench beside her. "They speak more honestly when they think no one's listening."
Tracey Davis gave a quiet, surprised laugh. "That's a weird thing to say."
"But not untrue," Lucien replied, reaching for a cup of tea. "You learn more from silence than most realize."
Theo Nott narrowed his eyes slightly. "You're not like the rest of us."
Lucien tilted his head. "Aren't we all trying not to be like the rest?"
He said it with such even warmth that it landed more as philosophy than threat.
The first-years kept watching him — not suspiciously, but curiously. He didn't dominate the space. He didn't crave attention. He simply… fit, but stood apart.
Daphne, ever the careful reader of people, spoke again.
"Where did you say you were from?"
Lucien sipped his tea.
"I didn't."
A pause.
She smiled despite herself. "You're impossible."
"I'm precise," he said with a gentle shrug. "The past is a mist. I prefer not to reach too far into it. Things break."
They stared at him.
He looked entirely human. Entirely calm. But something about the way he said it felt like poetry written in blood.
The past is a mist. Things break.
A few seats down, Draco Malfoy leaned across Crabbe to glance at Lucien. The new boy was too smooth, too composed. Draco was used to being the center of attention.
Lucien didn't even look at him.
But when Blaise asked, "Do you plan on joining any clubs?" Lucien's smile turned thoughtful.
"Actually," he said softly, "I was thinking of starting one."
That got their attention.
"Already?" Daphne asked.
Lucien looked toward the enchanted ceiling, where clouds drifted slowly across the sky.
"I've always been fond of ideas. Questions that don't have answers. Places where you're allowed to think differently."
Theo frowned. "What's it called?"
He turned back, smiling faintly.
"I haven't named it yet. But I imagine it'll be… reasonable."
Blaise chuckled. "You're a strange one, Valeor."
"Lucien," he corrected gently. "Strange is just unfamiliar that hasn't been understood yet."
At the staff table, Dumbledore was buttering toast.
He didn't look toward the Slytherin table once.
But his wand was resting in his other hand, fingers lightly curled around it — just in case.
The first day moved quickly — breakfast spilled into class, and class into corridors that swerved and shifted like living things.
Hogwarts didn't always like to be predictable.
Lucien walked with Daphne, Tracey, Theo, and Blaise between lessons, his bag slung neatly over one shoulder, wand holstered but always close. The others talked idly about classes, wand cores, broom models, the bizarre rumor that Gryffindors once flew a car into the Whomping Willow last year (which, tragically, was true).
Lucien mostly listened.
He asked questions. Laughed quietly in all the right places. Always a little behind the group, but never excluded — just… balanced. Present without pushing.
At one point, he offered to carry Tracey's stack of books when they began to slip from her arms.
"You don't have to," she said, surprised.
"I know," Lucien replied gently. "That's why it matters."
It was such a simple answer, and she blinked at it for a moment too long before smiling.
Blaise, walking beside him, narrowed his eyes slightly. He wasn't fooled by niceness. But he also wasn't stupid — and he knew power when it walked beside him, quiet and self-contained.
They rounded a corner near a lesser-known stairwell that wrapped down toward the dungeons.
"You ever notice," Lucien said casually, "how Hogwarts teaches you what to think… but not how to question it?"
Theo snorted. "What are you on about now?"
Lucien turned toward him, warm, half-smiling.
"Take History of Magic," he said. "We memorize goblin rebellions and founder bloodlines. But has anyone ever asked why the goblins rebelled? Or what the founders were really like before they were turned into statues and bedtime stories?"
Daphne raised an eyebrow. "You think we should be asking those questions?"
Lucien shrugged. "Don't you?"
There was a pause.
Tracey looked intrigued. "Sounds dangerous."
"Not dangerous," Lucien said. "Just inconvenient to the people who prefer the world to stay simple."
They turned down the stairs, and the corridor grew darker, lit only by flickering torches.
Lucien slowed his pace just slightly.
"I was thinking," he said softly, almost like a confession, "of starting something small. A conversation space. For people who want to ask the inconvenient questions."
Theo rolled his eyes. "You mean a club?"
Lucien chuckled. "If you like. But not the kind with snacks and poster-making. Something quieter. Private. Reasoned."
"Reasoned?" Daphne echoed.
Lucien nodded. "The Club of Reason."
There was silence as the words sank in.
"It sounds pretentious," Blaise muttered.
"Maybe," Lucien said, still smiling. "But only to those who aren't invited."
Tracey laughed.
They emerged from the stairwell into the dungeon corridor, and the bell rang high above.
Lucien paused, his voice just low enough to be sincere:
"I just think there should be a place where people don't have to pretend they believe everything they're told."
Theo's expression shifted. Not quite in agreement. But… curiosity.
Lucien's gaze moved across them — Daphne, analytical and sharp; Theo, skeptical but drawn; Tracey, reactive and emotive; Blaise, cold-eyed and calculating.
Not allies yet, Lucien thought. But sparks.
They entered Potions just as Snape swept into the room like a shadow given shape.
But for a moment before the lesson began, as they sat down and unpacked their things, Tracey leaned in and whispered:
"I'd come to your club."
Lucien just nodded.
As if he already knew.
The Potions dungeon was colder than the others — darker, too.
Stone walls pressed close on all sides, shelves lined with ancient jars where grotesque things floated in yellowed fluids. The faint scent of burnt rosemary and ash clung to the flagstones like smoke that had never left.
Lucien sat at the second-to-last table with Tracey to his right and Theo to his left. Blaise and Daphne were one row ahead. His hands were folded neatly, his quill placed exactly parallel to his parchment.
And his eyes were on everyone.
Snape swept into the room like a gust of disdain.
He didn't raise his voice. He didn't need to.
"There will be no foolish wand-waving here," he intoned, robes flaring faintly as he passed their row. "No silly incantations or charming smiles. You are here to learn the subtle science and exact art of potion-making."
His gaze cut through the class like a scalpel.
"Potion-making is precision. It is discipline. Control. Not unlike language, when wielded properly."
Lucien tilted his head faintly at that. He agreed.
Then Snape's eyes locked on one student near the front.
Potter.
Lucien watched.
Snape's questions came quickly — rehearsed, preloaded with contempt.
"What would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?"
Harry blinked. Hesitated.
"I don't know, sir."
Snape's lip curled. "Clearly. Let's try again. Where would you look if I told you to find me a bezoar?"
"The… the library?"
The class snickered. Snape didn't. His eyes flashed.
And Lucien noted it — not the question. Not the answer.
But the emotional fracture that formed every time the professor's voice cracked across Harry's calm.
Not hatred, Lucien thought. Regret disguised as cruelty.
Beside Harry sat a girl with frizzed brown hair and trembling hands — her notes already two scrolls long. Hermione Granger. Eager. Focused. Terrified of failure.
Lucien watched how her fingers clutched the quill too tightly, how she mouthed the answers even before the questions were finished.
Needs approval. From everyone. Easy to validate. Easier to break.
Two rows behind her, Ron Weasley whispered something that made Seamus Finnigan snort into his sleeve.
Lucien didn't react outwardly. But he marked Ron's quick temper, the protective glance he shot Harry afterward, and the brief flash of guilt when Hermione looked back at him.
Loyal. But reactive. Follows heart over mind.
Lucien turned back to Snape as the lesson progressed. His hands stayed still. He never took a note. Never looked down.
But his mind was mapping every weakness, every pressure point, every thread of potential mythology waiting to unravel.
He watched Snape's face shift — almost imperceptibly — when Harry glanced away. The faint pinch of his brow. The memory in his jaw.
Lucien saw it for what it was.
Not James.
Not quite, Lily.
But enough of both to hurt.
The cauldron between Lucien and Tracey began to bubble with a controlled simmer.
"You're not stirring," she whispered, concerned.
Lucien gently took the ladle.
"Three counter-clockwise, pause, then one reverse," he murmured.
She blinked. "That's not what the book says."
He gave her a small smile.
"It's what Snape prefers."
Seconds later, Snape passed their table — and said nothing.
But his eyes hovered on the brew. Just a moment. A fraction longer than needed.
Then he moved on.
Later, as the lesson ended and students scraped their chairs back, Lucien remained seated for a moment. Watching the trio — Harry, Hermione, Ron — leave together, not yet close, but drawn together by gravity they couldn't explain.
They weren't friends yet. Not truly.
But they would be.
And when they were, the myth would grow.
And when the myth grew… it could be used.
He stood, shoulders relaxed.
A smile touched his lips as he joined the crowd of students filing out.
Polite. Helpful. Attentive.
No one noticed he hadn't written a single word all class.
The lake pressed in overhead, dark and shifting, turning the walls of the Slytherin common room into a slow green kaleidoscope. The hearth crackled lazily in the center, casting soft shadows across stone and velvet.
Most of the first-years had drifted into small groups — playing wizard chess, flipping through textbooks, muttering about homework with the forced urgency of students who still thought they'd do it early.
Lucien waited.
He didn't rush. He never did.
He sat by the fire, a book open on his lap — Myths of Magical Britain — but his eyes weren't on the page. They were watching reflections.
When Daphne and Blaise passed near, he offered a pleasant nod. "You two look like you've escaped the day without injury."
Daphne smirked. "Barely. Theo nearly blew up our cauldron in Potions."
"The mixture was flawed," Theo muttered behind her.
"Or your technique," Lucien offered—not unkindly. "But you looked confident doing it, so points for showmanship."
Theo raised an eyebrow. "Are you always like this?"
Lucien smiled. "Only when I'm awake."
They laughed softly. Blaise sat down first. Then Daphne. Then Tracey. Theo followed last, skeptical as ever.
Lucien closed the book.
"There's a story I've been thinking about," he said casually. "I wanted your thoughts."
"You're not going to read us a bedtime tale, are you?" Blaise muttered.
"Not unless you're tired," Lucien said, deadpan.
Tracey chuckled. "Go on, then."
Lucien leaned forward, elbows on his knees, eyes catching the firelight behind the glass of his lenses.
"Have you ever heard of the Mirror Student?"
The room stilled a little.
Theo frowned. "Is that one of those old portraits? The ones that move on their own?"
"No," Lucien said gently. "This one never made it to a frame."
He lowered his voice just slightly — just enough to make them lean in.
"The story says there was a student once. Brilliant. Quiet. Always top of his year. But strange. He asked questions no one else would ask. Dangerous ones. He started noticing things — about how magic worked, about what Hogwarts was hiding."
"And one day, he disappeared. Just vanished. Nobody. No curse residue. Not even a wand left behind. The professors buried it, and they transferred. But… the castle didn't forget."
Tracey's eyes widened. "You're making this up."
"Am I?" Lucien said softly.
They looked at him — at the steady calm of his voice, the precise rhythm of his words. The glint in his eye was like someone remembering a dream half-buried in fog.
"Some say his spirit got trapped in a mirror. Not like the ones in the halls. A different one — old, hidden, deep in the castle. A mirror that shows not what you want… but what you truly are."
Theo folded his arms. "What's that supposed to mean?"
Lucien turned to him with that same gentle warmth.
"It means maybe he didn't die. Maybe he was… changed. Maybe he's still here. Watching. Waiting. Teaching those who are willing to think for themselves."
The room was quiet now.
Even a few second-years had stopped talking nearby.
Daphne tilted her head slightly. "Why are you telling us this?"
Lucien met her eyes.
"Because stories are how the world remembers what the powerful try to erase."
Then, softly:
"And maybe it's time we started asking what else has been erased."
Blaise broke the silence. "You said you were starting something. A club."
Lucien nodded once. "The Club of Reason."
Tracey whispered, "Is that what it's for? Finding truth?"
He smiled.
"No. It's for choosing it."
They didn't decide to follow him at that moment. Not officially. Not out loud.
But when they left the hearth — one by one — none of them laughed about the story. None of them called it ridiculous.
And all of them, in their quiet way, began retelling it to others by morning.
Just as he'd intended.
The torches burned low by the time Lucien slipped from the Slytherin common room.
He moved like he belonged in the dark — not skulking, not hiding, but walking with quiet intent, like someone answering a summons only he could hear.
The halls were mostly empty.
Hogwarts slept in pieces — portraits snoring faintly, the staircases holding still in rare unity. Even the ghosts had retreated to whatever spectral alcoves they called home.
Lucien's footsteps echoed faintly as he ascended a narrow side passage — one that hadn't existed last year. Or perhaps it had. The castle liked to change for those who paid attention.
He whispered a word, and a candle lit itself at the top of the stairs.
It hovered before him, drifting just out of reach.
Lucien followed.
They passed under broken arches and beside sealed doors, murals long faded and statues that hadn't moved in centuries. The deeper into the castle he went, the quieter everything became — until it felt like the castle wasn't merely sleeping…
It was listening.
The candle stopped near a long stretch of wall with no window, no portrait, no mark.
Lucien did not speak.
He simply touched the stone.
And the castle… remembered him.
A faint shimmer ran along the wall. Not an opening. Not yet. Just a ripple. A heartbeat.
He breathed in through his nose.
"It's not the same," he murmured. "But it's still mine."
Behind him, something moved.
A shape — vague, incorporeal — flickered at the edge of torchlight.
Lucien turned slightly.
"Do you think I forgot what you looked like?" he said aloud, voice calm. "You used to hide better."
Nothing answered.
But the air thickened. The shadows stretched.
He stepped into the center of the corridor, candle hovering behind him now — a weak little halo trying to soften the truth.
Lucien removed his glasses.
His eyes no longer looked like stormlit steel.
They looked like glass shattered just before impact.
Cold. Focused. Inhuman.
He reached into his robes and withdrew the parchment again — the one from his first night. The manifesto. The design. The Paragon Protocol.
He ran his thumb over a line freshly inked just this morning:
Phase I: Seed belief through myth. Anchor the false in the minds of the young.
Phase II: Let them protect the lie.
His voice dropped to a whisper:
"And when the lie becomes holy… they will fight to keep it alive, even as it consumes them."
The candle flickered behind him.
His reflection caught on the marble floor — not matching, not aligned. The Lucien in the reflection wasn't smiling.
He looked up.
And whispered, not to the castle, but to the void behind it:
"You thought you could burn me."
"You thought erasing my name would erase the idea."
"But names don't rule legacies."
"Belief does."
A wind passed through the corridor that should not have existed.
The candle blew out.
Lucien remained still.
Then he turned, calmly put his glasses back on, and walked away.
By morning, several second-year students would whisper about strange footsteps in the walls. A few would report seeing a candlelight floating past a mirror with no one holding it.
And the Slytherin first-years?
They would remember the story Lucien told.
And find it just a little harder to laugh.