If asked to name his favorite time of day, Lucian wouldn't hesitate: night. The reason was simple—it was the only stretch of hours where he could rest without strategizing, without maintaining alliances or control over Slytherin. A rare moment when his mind could unwind.
But tonight was different.
Lucian lay in bed, teetering on the edge of sleep, when the dormitory door burst open. No knock, no warning—just the sharp creak of hinges swinging wide.
He sat bolt upright, wand drawn so swiftly it would put Aurors to shame. His vision adjusted to the gloom, revealing Helena in the doorway, hair disheveled, her expression a tempest of panic and desperation.
He might've reprimanded her for barging in. Might've demanded why she was here so late. But the wild look in her eyes silenced him.
"Harry was right..." she whispered, voice fraying. "I didn't listen... They're after the Stone... Quirrell or Snape—it doesn't matter. They want it for Voldemort—"
The words tumbled out erratically, her thoughts outpacing her speech. Lucian frowned, piecing together the chaotic fragments.
"Firenze saved us..." she continued, not letting him interject. "This wasn't supposed to happen—that's why Bane was furious. They weren't to interfere with fate. But Voldemort's coming back. He needs the Stone—"
Lucian rose, closing the distance between them with measured steps. "Breathe," he ordered, gripping her shoulder. "You'll solve nothing panicking."
Helena met his gaze, anguish swimming in her eyes, but nodded. A shuddering inhale. The tremors in her hands lessened.
"Now. Start over," Lucian said, calm but unyielding. "What happened?"
Haltingly, Helena recounted the Forbidden Forest—the wounded unicorn, the hooded figure drinking its blood, Firenze's intervention, the centaurs' warnings. Lucian listened motionless, his stare fixed on her, mind visibly slotting each detail into place.
Helena didn't mind the silence. She hadn't come for answers—just to be heard.
"Voldemort needs the Stone to regain power," she said finally, steadier now. "If he gets it, he'll return. And it's only a matter of time before he finishes what he started."
Her trembling fingers brushed the chain around her neck—beneath it, the scar Voldemort had left when he tried to kill her.
Lucian tracked the movement, his expression softening imperceptibly.
"While you're at Hogwarts, Voldemort can't touch you," he said, the words calculated yet not unkind. "Not while Dumbledore lives. He's the only one Voldemort ever feared for a reason."
Helena inhaled sharply, seeking solace in the logic. But the weight of the revelation still pressed against her ribs.
Lucian turned toward the window, where moonlight spilled in silver threads.
"And if it helps," he added, "centaurs might be natural seers, but they're not infallible. Their predictions have been wrong before. They cling too tightly to destiny, as if everything is set in stone. But there's always room to change what's coming."
"So you think they could be wrong?" Hope, thin as spider silk, laced her voice.
Lucian took a moment before answering.
"It's possible," Lucian conceded, his gaze returning to her. Helena's exhaustion was palpable—the toll of the night etched in the shadows under her eyes. "But right now, you need rest. Worrying won't change anything. It'll only wear you down."
Helena nodded, though uncertainty lingered. Logic rarely quieted fear. As she turned to leave, she glanced back one last time. Lucian offered a faint smile—small, but unmistakable.
"Thank you," she murmured, slipping out.
The door clicked shut. Lucian's smile vanished.
He stood motionless, the room silent but for the castle's distant groans and the wind rattling the windowpanes. Crossing to the window, he studied the night sky. Stars glimmered faintly, distant observers to the chaos below.
…
In later years, Helena could never recall how she managed to focus on her exams while half-expecting Voldemort to appear at any moment. Yet the days passed without her worst fears materializing.
The heat was oppressive, especially in the cavernous exam hall where they sat for written tests. They'd been issued anti-cheating quills, and despite the heavy atmosphere, everyone strained to concentrate.
Beyond theory, there were practical exams. Flitwick called them one by one to make pineapples tap-dance across their desks. McGonagall watched critically as they transfigured mice into snuffboxes—awarding points for seamless hinges, deducting for crooked lids.
Snape, of course, reduced them all to nervous wrecks during their Forgetfulness Potion trials, looming like a specter and breathing down their necks.
Helena did her best, pushing aside her worries, but unease clung to her like a second skin. It didn't help that Harry's scar had been burning relentlessly since their forest encounter. Every time she saw him, his hand was pressed to his forehead, face pinched with pain. Worse still, he'd confessed to recurring nightmares during their rare conversations.
Their final exam was History of Magic: an endless hour regurgitating facts about medieval warlocks and their odd inventions (self-stirring cauldrons featured prominently). When Professor Binns finally announced, "Quills down, roll your parchments," the room exhaled in collective relief.
Helena allowed herself a small smile as they exited with Cassandra and Lucian.
"Easier than expected," Cassandra remarked, brushing a strand of hair from her face. "Consulting upper-years was inspired." Her gaze flicked to Helena. "You might try looking pleased. No more exams. No more stress."
"That's not what's bothering me," Helena said quietly. With Lucian and Cassandra's tutelage, failing was nearly impossible anyway.
"Another nightmare?" Lucian asked, his tone neutral but his brow faintly furrowed.
"No," she said quickly. "Thanks to your potion, I've slept fine. Just... too much on my mind."
Lucian accepted this with a nod.
They drifted into the courtyard, where summer warmth pooled in the castle's shadowed alcoves. Settling in a cool corner, they traded idle chatter, savoring their first peaceful moment in weeks.
Then Helena noticed movement.
Harry, Ron, and Hermione were hurrying across the grounds.
"Heading to Hagrid's," Lucian observed, following her gaze.
"In quite the rush," Cassandra added, studying their tense expressions.
For a moment, Helena considered following—but the heat and exhaustion anchored her to the spot. She could always visit Hagrid later to ask what her brother had been up to.
Not even five minutes passed before the trio reappeared—running. Their faces were pale, their worry unmistakable. Helena sprang to her feet.
"Do we really have to?" Cassandra groaned, clearly reluctant to give up her cool spot.
"Come on, aren't you the least bit curious?" Lucian asked as he rose, brushing the dust from his robes.
"Every time Potter's involved, Gryffindor ends up losing points," Cassandra muttered, but she was already adjusting the sleeves of her uniform.
Helena shot her a look at the jab, but Cassandra just offered her usual indifferent smirk.
They tried to catch up with Harry and the others, trailing through corridors and the Great Hall to no avail. After waiting a while near the castle's main entrance, they finally spotted them again—Harry, Ron, and Hermione descending the grand staircase, looking even more anxious than before.
"Harry!" Helena called, stepping forward. "We saw you running around earlier. What's going on?"
"Dumbledore's gone," Harry said flatly, his voice tight. A cold dread settled over Helena. "The Ministry sent him a letter. He left. Snape must've planned the whole thing—he needed Dumbledore out of the way to go after the Stone. It's going to happen tonight."
Helena opened her mouth, unsure what to say, but Harry rushed on, his words tumbling out in a near panic.
"He knows we're onto him. He threatened to have us expelled if we interfere—he's trying to scare us off. But I'm not backing down. I'm not letting him take it."
There was a fierce determination in Harry's eyes—the same look Helena had seen when Dudley and his gang would pick on her, and Harry, despite being smaller, would step in without hesitation. It was a part of him she admired... and feared.
"Harry," she said softly, trying to reason with him, "you can't do this alone. We need to tell the professors. If Dumbledore's gone, they're in charge. They'll listen."
"They won't," Harry shot back, voice steely. "McGonagall didn't believe us before. There's no other choice. I have to stop him, Helena."
"It doesn't have to be you!" Her voice cracked with desperation. "I know how you feel, but if you're caught—if you fail—"
"It doesn't matter," Harry cut her off, his shout echoing through the empty corridor. No one seemed to hear. "You don't understand, Helena. If Snape gets the Stone, Voldemort comes back! Do you even know what it was like when he was in power? There won't be a Hogwarts to get expelled from! He'll destroy it or turn it into some Dark Arts school. You think he'll just leave us alone? No—if I'm caught, we'll be sent back to the Dursleys to wait until Voldemort finds us there. We'll die either way, just a little later! He killed our parents, Helena. Remember?"
Of course she remembered. How could she not? Even now, just two nights ago, those dreams had returned, haunting her sleep. Her throat tightened, and the sting of tears welled behind her eyes.
At that moment, Lucian, who had been a silent observer until now, stepped forward with his usual measured calm.
"Tell us, Harry," he began, voice smooth as ice, "how exactly do you plan to stop Snape?" A deliberate pause. "If he is the culprit, do you really think a group of first-years—who can barely cast basic defensive spells—stand a chance against a Hogwarts professor?"
"And even if, by some miracle, you faced him," he continued, leaning slightly forward, his cold gaze flicking to Ron and Hermione, "are you prepared for the consequences? If you're right, we're not talking lost House points or detention. We're talking of Dark magic. Wounds that don't heal cleanly." Another pause. "Or worse."
"Then what am I supposed to do?!" Harry exploded, fists shaking at his sides. "Just sit around waiting for Voldemort to finish me off? Doing something is better than nothing!"
Lucian looked at him with an expression Helena knew all too well—the same one he'd used on Malfoy that night. Patience laced with condescension. Cold logic. The gaze of someone who saw three moves ahead while everyone else barely understood the game.
"Stupidity isn't bravery, Potter," he said, each word a hammer strike. "Especially when your so-called heroics—" a gesture at Ron and Hermione, now pale, "—endanger the people you call friends. Or do you think Snape would hesitate with them?"
The corridor fell into tense silence. Harry's breaths came ragged, as if Lucian's words were physical blows. For the first time, Helena saw that blind determination in her brother's eyes waver.
"Come on, Harry," Hermione whispered, tugging gently at his sleeve.
Harry let himself be led away—but not before throwing Lucian a look that promised this wasn't over. His stiff posture, his clenched fists—everything about him screamed rebellion, even in retreat.
When the trio vanished around the corner, Lucian exhaled softly, the only sign the confrontation had affected him. With near-theatrical grace, he turned to Helena and offered his arm, the gesture grotesquely at odds with the tension still crackling in the air.
"You know," he mused, voice carefully light, "I'm fairly certain chocolate has magical calming properties." His eyes, though, remained fixed on the spot where Harry had disappeared. "I believe a visit to the school kitchens is in order."
Helena nodded mechanically, but her mind was miles away. The image of Harry—that mix of fury, fear, and stubbornness—was seared into her memory. She knew, despite Lucian's flawless logic, her brother wasn't giving up.
…
The hours crawled by with agonizing slowness, each minute feeding the restless dread coiled in Helena's chest. Lucian and Cassandra had tried to distract her—with chess games she barely followed, academic debates that couldn't hold her attention—but nothing could dislodge the image of Harry's determined face from her mind.
"He killed our parents. Remember?"
She bit the inside of her cheek. She didn't want to remember. But she did, over and over.
"You should rest."
Cassandra's voice sliced through her thoughts. It wasn't a suggestion or a request. It was a statement.
"I'm fine," Helena lied weakly.
Cassandra arched a brow, clearly unconvinced.
"It's just..." Helena sucked in a breath. "I can't stop thinking about all this." Her fingers twisted the hem of her robe into wrinkled knots. "You don't have to stay. Really."
Cassandra didn't answer immediately. Instead, she studied Helena with that piercing gaze that always made her feel like an open book. Finally, she exhaled through her nose, as if weighing whether to push further.
"If you need anything..." She left the sentence deliberately unfinished.
"I know. I know where to find you," Helena replied too quickly.
Cassandra didn't seem entirely satisfied but didn't press. She rose with her usual grace and shook her head slightly.
"Don't do anything reckless, Potter," she murmured before disappearing down the corridor to the girls' dormitories.
Helena waited.
She counted silently to a hundred, ensuring Cassandra wouldn't return. Lucian wouldn't be an issue—he'd retired hours ago, taking her invisibility ring under the pretense of studying it. At the time, she hadn't thought much of it. Now... now she suspected Lucian had anticipated exactly what she'd try to do.
The corridor stood deserted when she slipped out, lit only by the ghostly flicker of torches. Every footstep echoed like thunder in her ears. Third floor. She had to get there first.
As she rounded a corner toward a staircase, a creak froze her in place. Footsteps? Breathing? Her heart hammered against her ribs. Nothing. Just the phantoms of her own anxiety.
She was imagining things—but if Harry was right about Snape... No. She couldn't think about that. She just had to move. The castle had never felt so vast. Every staircase was an obstacle, every corridor an eternity.
When she finally reached the third-floor corridor, panting from the sprint, the door already stood ajar. A thought struck her like a blow: She was too late. Harry had gotten here first.
Her breath turned ragged as she crept forward. She peered through the gap, straining to glimpse what lay beyond—but before she could see anything, a voice behind her made her jump.
"Helena."
Harry.
"What are you doing here?" The confusion in his voice was palpable.
Helena whirled around. Her brother stood there, pulling off the Invisibility Cloak to reveal Ron and Hermione at his side.
"The door..." Hermione was the first to point it out.
"It was already open when I got here," Helena said quickly, as if that could dispel the tension thickening the air.
A heavy silence fell over the group.
"Well, there you have it," Harry said calmly. "Snape's already gotten past Fluffy."
Now, with the open door before them, the weight of what they were about to do became terrifyingly real.
Harry took a deep breath and turned to Ron and Hermione.
"If you want to go back, I won't blame you," he said, offering them the cloak. "Take it. I won't need it."
"Don't be stupid," Ron said without hesitation.
"We're coming with you," Hermione insisted firmly.
Harry smiled gratefully before turning to Helena. She'd remained silent, watching with an unreadable expression.
"I've always had your back, even when I don't agree with what you're doing," she said finally, sighing.
Harry nodded, as if he'd expected nothing less.
"But... how do you plan to get past the three-headed dog?" Helena asked, swiftly changing the subject.
With an almost sheepish gesture, Harry pulled out a crude wooden flute. "Hagrid told us music puts him to sleep. Guess that's how Snape did it." His smile faded abruptly, and after a moment's hesitation, he held the flute out to Helena. "Since you're here... maybe you should play. You've got more experience than me."
Helena hesitated.
Did a school concert at age seven really count as experience? But there was no time to dwell. As Harry bundled them all under the Invisibility Cloak—squeezed together like sardines—they pushed the door open.
The guttural growls of Fluffy vibrated through the room. Three sets of nostrils sniffed in their direction, though the beast couldn't see them.
"What's that on the floor?" Hermione whispered.
"Looks like a harp," Ron said.
"Must be Snape's," Harry deduced. "It must've stopped playing and woken Fluffy up. Go on, Helena... Helena?"
But she didn't respond.
Her eyes were locked on the creature, paralyzed. She knew Fluffy existed—Harry had told her—but seeing him in person was another matter entirely. His massive body, the three heads swaying in different directions, the fangs glinting in the dim light...
She didn't snap out of it until Harry shook her arm.
Helena blinked, took a sharp breath, and raised the flute to her lips.
Miraculously, from the first note, the beast's eyes began to droop. Helena barely breathed as the growls gradually faded, until Fluffy collapsed into a deep slumber.
"Keep playing," Harry instructed as they shed the cloak and approached the trapdoor. The dog's hot, rancid breath washed over them in waves.
"Let's open it," Harry said, holding his breath as he carefully pulled the ring. "Help me, Ron!" Together, they lifted the heavy trapdoor, revealing a yawning black void.
"What do you see?" Hermione asked nervously.
"Nothing... just darkness... we'll have to jump," Ron replied.
"I'll go first," Harry declared, causing Helena to falter on the flute for a split second. Fluffy twitched in his sleep. "I'll be fine," Harry added quickly at the worry on Helena's face.
She pressed her lips together, silent.
Harry lowered himself over the edge, dangling for a moment. He looked at the others.
"If something happens to me, don't follow. Go to the owlery—send Hedwig to Dumbledore."
And with that, he let go.
A muffled thump. A beat of silence.
Then Harry's voice echoed from below: "All good! Soft landing!"
Ron went next. Hermione hesitated, brow furrowed with concern, but managed only a shaky smile at Helena before dropping through.
Helena stared at Fluffy's sleeping form, then at the dark opening. The urge to follow was overwhelming—she couldn't stand the thought of staying behind while Harry was in danger. But if something went wrong, someone had to alert the teachers. If she went too and they were all trapped... who would sound the alarm?
Her fingers, stiff from playing, continued mechanically moving over the flute. The melody had become repetitive, hypnotic. She had no idea how much time had passed since her friends disappeared below, but each silent minute tightened the knot of dread in her chest.
The flute's drone almost lulled her into numbness, but she didn't dare stop. Fluffy remained motionless, his deep breaths filling the room.
But the uncertainty became too much. If only she could hear something—any sign they were okay—but there was nothing. Just silence.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, she stopped playing. A shiver ran down her spine as Fluffy gave a faint growl in his sleep, but he didn't wake. Carefully, she backed toward the door, moving soundlessly.
She couldn't wait any longer. Her only choice was to raise the alarm.
With determined steps, she slipped into the corridor and broke into a run. Her breath came in gasps, her heart hammered wildly. She needed help—but who could she trust? Dumbledore was gone. McGonagall? Flitwick?
Her thoughts raced as she rounded a corner—and skidded to a halt.
There, his black robes billowing like a shadow, stood Professor Snape. His dark eyes regarded her with icy detachment.
"Miss Potter."
The voice—cold as honed steel—made her flinch.
Helena froze, still panting from her sprint. Snape stood at the end of the corridor, his expression a mix of disapproval and something else... disappointment?
"The portraits insisted a Slytherin was prowling the halls at this hour. I assumed they were exaggerating," he drawled, "but it seems they were correct."
His lip curled.
"How pitiful."
Her pulse roared in her ears. If Snape is here... who went down the trapdoor? The thought that someone else knew about the Stone's hiding place made her desperation spike.
Helena swallowed hard. Of all the scenarios she'd imagined, confronting Snape wasn't one.
"Come with me," he ordered, calm but edged with threat. "You won't escape punishment."
She took a step back, mind racing. If Snape was here, he wasn't the one below. So who was with Harry, Ron, and Hermione?
She couldn't be caught. Not now.
"I... I can't," she whispered, more to herself.
Then she acted. "Professor, you have to listen! Something's happening!" She drew her wand in a flash—but Snape was faster.
"Expelliarmus!"
A streak of light. Her wand clattered to the floor.
"Aiming your wand at a professor?" His voice was a razor's edge. "That alone warrants expulsion, never mind every rule you've broken tonight. Not even your name will save you now."
Helena barely heard him. She lunged for her wand—but Snape seized her wrist in an iron grip.
"Let me go!" She twisted violently, but his hold was unshakable.
"Don't make this harder, Potter."
Her breath came in ragged gasps, panic clouding her thoughts. Snape wouldn't listen—she had to make him understand.
"It's the Philosopher's Stone!" she blurted, gambling everything.
The effect was instant. Snape went rigid. His grip slackened slightly.
"What are you talking about?" His voice held something new—concern? Shock?
Helena swallowed. "Someone's trying to steal it. Harry, Ron, and Hermione went down the trapdoor to stop them... and if you're here, then..."
Snape didn't respond. With a sharp flick of his wand, silvery mist erupted from its tip, coalescing into a spectral stag that galloped down the corridor before vanishing.
"If you're telling the truth," he murmured, voice deeper than usual, "we've no time to waste. The other professors must be alerted."
Helena stared at the spell in awe. She'd never seen anything like it—some form of magical communication, she guessed. For the first time that night, a sliver of relief cut through her fear. Maybe, just maybe, things would be alright.
The adrenaline that had kept her going began to ebb. Her muscles, wound tight as bowstrings, suddenly felt loose. Her mind, a whirlwind of urgency, went blank. Her eyelids grew leaden, a warm fog enveloping her senses.
It was just like during Harry's Quidditch match—as if someone had yanked the energy from her all at once.
"Potter!" Snape's voice sounded distant, like it came through a long tunnel.
She tried to respond, but the words died in her throat. "I'm... fine..." she managed, though she didn't believe it herself. Before she could say more, darkness swallowed her whole.
...
Harry felt desperation clawing at his throat—he couldn't move a single muscle. He'd expected Snape when he crossed the purple flames, but Quirrell stood there instead. It made no sense.
Now he stood petrified, watching as Quirrell began unwinding the turban always wrapped around his head. He didn't know what would happen—didn't want to know—but the cloth fell away regardless. Quirrell's head looked strangely small without it. Then, slowly, he turned around.
Harry wanted to scream, but no sound came. Where Quirrell's nape should have been, there was a face—the most terrible face Harry had ever seen. Chalk-white, with gleaming red eyes and slits for nostrils, like a serpent's.
"Harry Potter..." it whispered.
Harry tried to stumble back, but his legs refused to obey.
"Do you see what I've become?" the face said. "A shadow. A wraith. I exist only by sharing another's body... but there are always those willing to let me into their hearts and minds." A lipless smile. "The unicorn blood has sustained me these weeks. You saw faithful Quirrell drinking it for me in the forest. And once I have the Elixir of Life... I will make myself a body again."
The red eyes burned.
"Now... why don't you give me the Stone in your pocket?"
So it knew. The realization made Harry's knees buckle.
"Don't be a fool," the face jeered. "Save yourself. Join me... or meet your parents' fate. They died begging me for mercy—"
"LIAR!" Harry shouted.
Quirrell stepped aside so Voldemort could face Harry fully. The monstrous face smiled.
"How touching," it hissed. "Bravery... yes, I've always valued it. Your father fought courageously before I killed him. But your mother? She needn't have died. She was trying to protect you." The voice turned silken. "Give me the Stone, Harry. Unless you want her death to have been for nothing."
"NEVER!"
Harry moved toward the wall of fire, but Voldemort shrieked, "SEIZE HIM!" And the next second, Harry felt Quirrell's hand close around his wrist. Instantly, pain exploded in his scar—so sharp it felt like his skull would split open. He screamed, thrashing with all his strength, and to his shock, Quirrell let go.
The pain dulled just enough for him to see Quirrell hunched over in agony, staring at his fingers, which were blistering before his eyes.
"KILL HIM! KILL HIM NOW!" Voldemort roared. and Quirrell lunged at Harry, knocking him to the ground and clutching at his throat with both hands. The pain in Harry's head was unbearable, but even through the haze, he could hear Quirrell screaming.
"Master, I can't hold him—my hands… my hands!"
Though he pinned Harry down with his knees, Quirrell loosened his grip and stared in horror at his own burning, raw hands.
"THEN USE MAGIC, YOU FOOL!!" Voldemort bellowed.
Quirrell raised a hand to cast a fatal curse—but Harry, acting on pure instinct, reached up and grabbed his face.
"AAAAAARGH!"
Quirrell reeled back, his face blistering where Harry had touched it. And in that moment, Harry realized: Quirrell couldn't touch him without suffering terrible pain.
His only chance was to hold on—to cause enough agony to stop him from casting the curse.
Harry leapt to his feet and seized Quirrell's arm with all the strength he had.
Quirrell shrieked in pain, trying to shake him off. The pain in Harry's scar intensified, blinding him. He could hear Quirrell's screams, Voldemort's furious howls—"KILL HIM! KILL HIM!"—and other voices, echoing through his mind: "Harry! Harry!"
He felt Quirrell's arm slipping from his grasp. He was losing his grip. Everything was going dark.
Voldemort's screams filled the chamber: "KILL HIM! BEFORE YOU FALL!" Voldemort's voice thundered in the chamber, filled with desperation and rage.
But Quirinus Quirrell could no longer obey.
His entire body burned as if submerged in molten lava, every muscle, every nerve consumed by unbearable agony. The hands that had tried to strangle Harry Potter now clawed at the stone floor, fingers twisted like talons.
"I don't understand... why does it hurt so much?" Quirrell thought through the torment, his master's voice now a distant echo. With superhuman effort, he managed to grip his wand, trembling fingers attempting an awkward motion through the air. But before the spell could take form—
CRASH!
A small glass vial shattered against his face, exploding into a thousand glittering shards. The colorless liquid within spread across his skin like boiling oil.
"AAAAAGH!"
The pain multiplied instantly.
It wasn't just contact with Harry burning him now—the vial's contents seemed to feed invisible flames, spreading down his neck, his chest, his arms.
"Who... who dares?!" Voldemort roared through him, but the chamber answered only with silence.
Then came the others.
Six more vials flew from the shadows, striking from different directions. Each impact brought new waves of fire, each glass explosion a death sentence.
"NO! STOP!" Quirrell howled, writhing on the ground like a wounded animal. But the fire didn't extinguish—it grew, devouring his robes, his flesh, his very existence.
Voldemort realized before he did.
"Hear me, whoever you are," the dark voice hissed, now distorted by hatred and pain. "I will find you. And I will make you suffer a thousandfold for this."
Quirrell could no longer scream. His lungs refused to function, his vision darkened. With one final gasp, his body collapsed, glassy eyes fixed on Harry—still shining with terror and incomprehension.
Then—something was released.
A thick, black mist poured from Quirrell's gaping mouth, his nostrils, the cracks in his charred skin. For an instant, it took shape: a ghostly face with red eyes and a soundless scream.
The entity hovered, as if assessing the scene. It turned toward where Harry lay unconscious, then toward the shadows where the vials had originated. And then... it dissolved.
No sound. No flash. Just the final whisper of air closing around nothingness.
Time passed before the chamber's air stirred faintly—as if an invisible presence had disturbed its balance. Then, from what seemed the very shadows themselves, a figure materialized.
His calculating gaze swept the scene with surgical precision. He had envisioned countless possible outcomes, but reality surpassed expectations in its macabre simplicity. Everything had ended too quickly, too easily.
His eyes moved between three key elements:
First—Harry Potter, unconscious but breathing steadily.
Second—Quirrell, or what remained of him, his charred body still emitting an acrid, penetrating stench.
Finally—the Mirror of Erised, its enchanted surface endlessly shifting.
Lucian approached Quirrell's corpse with an inscrutable expression. The stench of burnt flesh hit him fully, yet he didn't look away. With a curiosity some might call morbid, he studied the remains.
"Fascinating..." he murmured, sharp eyes glinting with pure analysis. "Not traditional magic... not even Dark Arts."
A gloved hand extended over the wounds, tracing a subtle circle in the air as if deciphering residual energy.
"Something older. Purer."
A slight frown revealed his bewilderment. What kind of magic could destroy a body through mere contact? Certainly no conventional curse or spell. Even with his vast knowledge, this phenomenon perplexed him.
Turning to Harry, his expression became unreadable. The Boy Who Lied lay vulnerable, broken glasses dangling precariously, a thin line of dried blood tracing his cheek.
Lucian performed a series of precise gestures, conducting a full magical diagnostic. "Minor contusions, some scratches... and this." His eyes showed rare surprise upon detecting the energy still emanating from Harry—an invisible mark reacting to the encounter with Quirrell.
With methodical movements, he searched Harry's pocket until his fingers found their prize. The Philosopher's Stone emerged, casting ruby glimmers that danced across Lucian's features.
He held it carefully, allowing himself a moment of genuine admiration. Flamel's masterpiece, the alchemist's ultimate dream—perfect transmutation made manifest. Centuries of effort, countless failed attempts, and only Nicolas had succeeded where so many had faltered.
For a prolonged moment, he contemplated the possibilities. Immortality within reach. The power to create pure gold. Yet soon he shook his head—eternal life had never been his ambition. It was a power that few should have. The Stone would be safer with Flamel than with him.
Resolutely, he returned it to its origin, ensuring everything remained exactly as found.
His gaze then rose to the Mirror of Erised, his reflection distorted in its enchanted surface.
"I wonder... did you foresee this variable?" His voice echoed softly in the chamber. "Or are even you capable of errors?"
He expected no answer. With a calm motion, he took the ring hanging from his neck and slid it onto his finger.
The air rippled momentarily before his figure vanished completely. When Harry awoke, he would be alone—with no trace that Lucian had ever been there.