The trio burst into the classroom like a gust of wind, Hermione clutching an enormous stack of books. When she spotted the black-haired boy already seated by the window, Ron couldn't help muttering,
"Merlin's smelly socks—even Snape doesn't look at studying with that much tender affection."
Lucian ignored him completely. He was using his steel pen to sketch diagrams of the wand movements Professor Flitwick would cover today—not simple trajectories, but three-dimensional vector maps of magical flow.
"What are you drawing?" Hermione leaned over, staring at the dizzying array of lines and arrows. "This isn't in the textbook at all."
"The textbook teaches how to do it," Lucian replied evenly. "I'm drawing why it works. For example, that little flick at the end of the Levitation Charm's gesture isn't for show—it creates a miniature upward vortex in the airflow."
Hermione opened her mouth, clearly about to say "the book doesn't mention that," but something in his calm explanation made her hesitate. It… made sense.
…
The bell rang.
Tiny Professor Flitwick stood atop his stack of books, but his wild white hair trembled with passionate energy, making him seem taller than Hagrid—at least in the realm of knowledge.
"Right then, young witches and wizards! Today we step through the threshold of miracles: the Levitation Charm!"
Flitwick's wand traced the textbook-perfect arc. "Remember the delicate wrist movement! One smooth sweep, then a sharp flick! Emphasis on the second syllable: Wing-gar-dium Levi-o-sa!"
The room immediately filled with chaotic wand-waving and mangled incantations.
Seamus Finnigan's feather caught fire, filling the air with a burnt-hair stench.
Ron swung his battered wand like a windmill, nearly poking Harry's eye out.
"Wingardium Leviosaaa!" he bellowed.
"Stop, stop, stop!" Hermione couldn't stand it. "You're saying it wrong! It's Levi-o-sa, not Levio-saaa!"
"Fine, Miss Perfect," Ron snapped, tossing his wand down in frustration. "Since you're such an expert, why don't you make your feather fly and show us?"
Hermione lifted her chin, flicked her wand. "Wingardium Leviosa!"
The pristine white feather trembled, then rose shakily, hovering about four feet above the desk.
"Excellent! Simply splendid!" Flitwick's high-pitched voice cut through the noise. "Everyone, look—Miss Granger has done it! Five points to Gryffindor!"
Hermione basked in the praise, but her peripheral vision drifted toward Lucian.
He simply closed his notebook with quiet composure.
In his eyes, Hermione's casting was like using chopsticks to pinch an ant: she'd managed to lift it, yes—but the ant was screaming the whole time. Pure brute force holding it together.
"Too much power," he murmured.
"What?" Hermione frowned.
"Would you like to see what real levitation looks like?"
Lucian didn't reach for his wand.
He simply extended his right hand and drew a gentle arc through the air, as though plucking an invisible string.
No incantation.
Yet the feather before him suddenly came alive. It rolled over lightly, then began to dance in mid-air, following the subtle rhythm of his fingers.
It circled, traced elegant figure-eights, even mimicked the gentle rise-and-fall of a bird in glide.
The classroom noise gradually died away.
Everyone stared, mouths open, at the impossible sight.
Even more astonishing: as Lucian's gestures grew broader, the feathers on every other desk responded as though summoned. One by one they lifted, joining the performance.
Dozens of white feathers spiraled through the air like a flock of silent birds, orbiting the black-haired boy at the center.
Lucian sat like an elegant conductor on center stage—expression serene, directing invisible currents of magic.
"This… this…"
Flitwick nearly toppled off his books in excitement. As a former dueling champion, he understood exactly what level of talent and mastery this represented.
"Silent casting! Wandless guidance! And group-level control!" the professor squeaked. "Merlin's beard—this isn't just a Levitation Charm; this is perfect mastery of magical flow!"
Snap.
Lucian flicked his fingers.
Every feather instantly lost support and drifted down like snowflakes, settling gently back onto their owners' desks. Only his original feather slid neatly back between the pages of his notebook.
Dead silence filled the room.
Until Ron's wand clattered to the floor.
Lucian reopened his notebook and turned to the stunned Hermione.
"See? If you align with the structure of the airflow, the feather wants to fly. You don't have to force it."
Hermione stared at him—shock, reluctance, and a tiny spark that looked suspiciously like awe all warring in her eyes.
"Twenty points to Ravenclaw!" Flitwick wiped away emotional tears. "For that truly artistic display of magic!"
…
In the corridor after class,
"Hey, look—it's the feather maestro!"
"I heard he can lift people without even using a wand!"
Lucian paid no attention. He was heading for the library.
But he hadn't made it far when two figures blocked his path.
George and Fred Weasley, grinning like they'd just invented trouble.
"Hey, Maestro."
"That was bloody brilliant."
"We've got a business proposition for you."
"About making Filch's cat 'float' and do a little dance."
Lucian stopped and regarded the future kings of mischief.
Their souls flickered with bright golden sparks—pure, joyful creativity.
"I have no interest in that cat," he said calmly. "However… I've seen the auto-quill you two built. The rune circuitry is quite clever."
The twins exchanged a glance—surprise flashing in their eyes.
"The rune loop design is ingenious," Lucian continued, "but the 'magic reflux' handling is a disaster. You're using one-way conduction, so after prolonged use the logic collapses and it starts jumbling words. Correct?"
The twins' grins froze.
"How do you know?" they said in perfect unison.
Lucian pulled a sheet of parchment from his pocket. On it was a neatly drawn, improved rune array. He handed it over.
"Replace the core with this structure. No need to thank me."
He stepped around the stunned pair and continued toward the library.
Behind him came their incredulous shouts:
"Merlin's beard, George—this bloke's a genius!"
"No, Fred—this is our god! Our Galleon god!"
Lucian allowed himself the faintest smile. In a world full of mediocrity, occasionally nudging real intelligence in the right direction brought a small, private satisfaction.
At the far end of the corridor, in the shadows, Professor Quirrell stood wrapped in his garlic-reeking turban, staring at Lucian's retreating back.
From the back of his head, the parasitic soul let out a hoarse, rasping whisper:
"Watch him… that boy… his soul… is very… special…"