September 1st. King's Cross Station.
The thunder of the steam engine and the roar of the crowd churned the morning into one thick, boiling soup. For most first-years stepping onto Platform Nine and Three-Quarters for the first time, every breath of air crackled with magic and pure excitement.
To Lucian, it was simply too loud.
He stood alone at the edge of the platform, his old trunk—enlarged with an undetectable extension charm—resting quietly behind him. No overloaded trolley, no owl, no toad. The Ashford manor did have an ancient raven, but the bird was far too noisy, so he'd left it behind to guard the house.
He wore the same sleek black high-collared coat and silver-rimmed glasses, looking completely out of place.
He cast a mild confusion charm around himself. Within three meters, students and parents instinctively veered away; in their eyes, he was nothing more than an unremarkable pillar.
Through the lenses, he studied the gleaming scarlet Hogwarts Express.
"Still using the three-century-old 'Merlin Triangle' architecture for its magic circuits," he noted mentally. The thing was basically industrial junk held together by wizarding wishful thinking.
He wondered, not for the first time, what would happen if magic were allowed to fuse properly with Muggle technology. Productivity would skyrocket.
He was about to board when a commotion erupted near the entrance.
A swarm of redheads burst through like a streak of fire. Trailing behind them, pushing a trolley and trying hard to look calm, was a black-haired boy.
Harry Potter.
Lucian didn't linger. He shifted his gaze, turned, and stepped onto the train.
…
The nearest carriages were already packed with excited students.
Lucian had zero interest in trading Chocolate Frog cards or making small talk. He walked straight to the second-to-last carriage and settled into an empty compartment.
A thick black notebook rose from his trunk, flipped open to page 247. A finely crafted fountain pen leapt into motion, writing fluidly in elegant characters.
Peace didn't last long.
The compartment door slid open. A tall red-haired boy poked his head in, followed by the Boy Who Lived himself.
"Er… everywhere else is full," Ron Weasley said, embarrassed, staring at the bizarre scene: a strikingly handsome boy in a vintage coat focused on his notebook while a floating steel pen scribbled square characters across the page.
"Mind if we squeeze in?"
Lucian looked up, scanned both boys, and gave a small nod—his eyes lingering a fraction longer on Harry.
"Thanks," Harry sighed in relief and sat down across from him, a little stiff.
Ron, clearly incapable of silence, lasted less than two minutes.
"I'm Ron Weasley. This is Harry Potter."
He said the name with obvious expectation, waiting for the usual shock. None came.
Lucian didn't even lift his head. The pen kept sketching intricate diagrams.
"Lucian Ashford," he replied coolly.
Harry actually relaxed. He hated people staring at his scar.
Ron looked slightly put out and tried again. His eyes fell on the notebook covered in dense square writing, geometric patterns, and flowing curves.
"What language is that?" he asked, curious. "Looks like some ancient rune script."
Lucian paused. The notebook drifted back to the table.
"Chinese characters," he said. "I use them for… personal annotations on the underlying logic of this world. Think of it as another way of observing magic."
"Sounds deep," Ron muttered, clearly lost. To fill the awkward silence he pulled out a fat, one-toed rat from his pocket.
"This is Scabbers. He mostly just sleeps." Ron set the rat on his knee.
Lucian's gaze sharpened.
In heart-phase vision, it wasn't a simple rat. Beneath the fur crouched a grotesque, twisted human soul reeking of rot and decay—like a festering abscess on healthy flesh.
An Animagus. And a highly illegal one.
…
Inside the compartment, Harry and Ron were discussing botched spells. Lucian sat in the corner, lost in thought.
He was certain his confusion charm was still active. So why had the protagonists walked straight to him?
World will? Or something else?
Footsteps approached down the corridor, vibrating lightly through the floor.
The sound drew nearer, doors opening and closing in the next carriage.
Harry and Ron kept chatting, oblivious.
Lucian caught a clear female voice:
"Has anyone seen a toad? Neville's lost one."
In three seconds, she would stop at this exact door and slide it open.
Lucian didn't look up. His right hand slipped into his pocket, gripping the wand, drawing on the qi stored in his dantian.
A faint ripple spread through the air. A veil of "don't notice me" settled over the compartment door.
The footsteps paused for half a heartbeat outside. The girl's subconscious was fooled; her eyes slid past the door as if it were blank wall.
She continued down the corridor and opened the next door.
"Has anyone seen a toad? Neville's lost one."
Lucian's expression remained calm, but inside his mind churned.
Harry and Ron noticed nothing. Their conversation rolled on.
Some intent was missing? Or had his qi-powered confusion charm simply masked it?
His brow furrowed the tiniest fraction. He felt the dissonance—the backlash echo of the plot being forcibly rewritten.
"Anyway," Ron mumbled around a mouthful of sandwich, "Scabbers may sleep all day, but at least he doesn't run off. Mum always says people who keep toads are hopeless and always lose them."
Harry laughed. "Hagrid said toads are outdated anyway—owls are way more useful."
Lucian's eyes narrowed.
No one had come looking for the toad, yet the keyword "toad" had stubbornly forced its way into the dialogue. Plot inertia was like a rushing river: block one gap and the water finds every crack.
"Ribbit."
As if to prove his theory, the train jolted. The slightly ajar compartment door rattled open.
A brownish-gray toad that had clearly been waiting outside leapt in with perfect timing, landing and hopping straight toward Harry and Ron with loud croaks.
At the far end of the corridor, the footsteps stopped abruptly, then hurried back. His confusion charm had failed again.
Lucian's frown deepened.
Harry reached out in surprise. "Hey! Whose toad is this?"
The girl was still five meters away.
Harry's fingers were ten centimeters from the toad.
Lucian stayed lounging in his seat, hand tightening on the wand once more.
Silent casting.
In the toad's perception, the world flipped. Harry's friendly outstretched hand became the gaping maw of a giant serpent.
Pure animal terror exploded.
The instant before Harry's fingers touched its slimy skin, the toad let out a blood-curdling shriek and launched itself backward with impossible force.
It rocketed out the half-open door and down the opposite end of the corridor—away from the girl's voice.
A second later, a figure rushed past the compartment in a blur of bushy hair.
Her attention was locked entirely on the fleeing toad.
"Stop right there!"
She didn't even glance inside. She sprinted past Harry's compartment and vanished after the toad.
But in that split second, Lucian saw her clearly.
Hermione Granger.
Inside the compartment, Harry grasped at empty air and stared at the floor in confusion.
"Wow," Ron blinked. "That toad's gone mental."
"Maybe it didn't like the smell in here," Harry shrugged, turning back to Scabbers. "Forget it, Ron. Try the spell again?"
A commotion of shouts and crashes erupted from the far end of the corridor.
Lucian tilted his head slightly. Even through the wall, his perception painted the scene perfectly:
Hermione had collided with someone.
In her frantic chase, she had slammed straight into a group of boys swaggering down the aisle.
A tall, thin boy and his two burly cronies.
The plot had forced its way forward again.
"Watch where you're going, you filthy little—" The boy's drawling voice carried clearly through the door. "Look at that disgusting toad… and that ratty robe. Where did you crawl out of, mudblood?"
Mudblood. The word was pure venom.
Lucian's relaxed hand clenched again. He quickly assessed: four people in the corridor, emotions spiking.
If he tried to calm the situation with wandless magic like before, he'd need to hit four minds at once plus anyone poking their heads out of compartments. His current body and magic reserves couldn't handle that level of control.
Was this the world will?
He had kept Hermione out of the compartment, yet some invisible hand had simply compressed the entire conflict into this tiny stretch of corridor.
Lucian flicked his fingers, layering a subtle amplification charm so the voices reached Harry and Ron crystal clear. Then he let the compartment door slide open on its own.
"…My father says Hogwarts shouldn't even let your kind in!" Malfoy's sneer boomed like he was shouting in their ears. "Take your filthy toad and get lost!"
Harry's head snapped up. He hated that bullying tone—it reminded him of Dudley. Ron's reaction was even stronger.
"Mudblood?!" Ron's face flushed scarlet. "He said that word!"
"What does it mean?" Harry asked instantly.
"It's the worst kind of insult!" Ron hurled Scabbers aside and grabbed his wand, jumping to his feet. "Whoever he is, that's way out of line!"
Harry stood too, hand on the door. "We should go see—"
A calm voice cut in.
"If you're going to fight, at least straighten your clothes first."
Harry and Ron spun around in surprise.
The quiet boy in the corner had risen. He adjusted his glasses, the usual distant coldness softening into something steady and quietly commanding.
Lucian stepped between them, reached out, and pulled the compartment door fully open.
The corridor argument flooded in.
He turned slightly, chin lifting toward the stunned pair, voice level.
"Come on. Since someone's making a scene right outside our door, a gentleman should at least step out and… mediate."
If some greater will insisted on the collision, fine. He would step into the game.
And while he was at it—deconstruct it.
Harry and Ron exchanged a glance, then fell in behind Lucian as he walked into the corridor.
The air outside seemed to freeze.
Draco Malfoy was basking in his superiority, pale pointed face twisted in a mocking smirk. Across from him, Hermione stood with arms crossed, hair wild from running, the troublesome toad clutched tightly in her hands.
"Looks like you can't even find decent company—just this…" Malfoy's insult died mid-sentence as his eyes slid past Hermione's shoulder to the black-haired boy emerging from the compartment.
"Harry Potter?" he asked. "The whole train's buzzing that Harry Potter is in this carriage. So it's you, right?"
Ron's red head shoved into view next, face thunderous.
"Malfoy," Ron growled through gritted teeth. "You're not welcome here."