Morning light filtered through the arched windows of Ravenclaw Tower in thin, pale shafts, turning the blue drapes silver at the edges. Lookon woke—or rather, became aware again—exactly when the first bell tolled from the distant clock tower. No groggy stretch, no lingering dreams. Just the smooth transition from stillness to motion.
He sat up.
The dormitory was already half-empty. One boy (Terry Boot, he thought) was still tying his shoelaces with fierce concentration. Another (a quiet seventh-year whose name Lookon hadn't learned yet) was packing books into a satchel while humming something tuneless. The air smelled of fresh parchment, ink, and the faint citrus of cleaning charms.
Lookon dressed without hurry: the same dark robes, the crisp white shirt underneath, boots polished by whatever small enchantment the trunk had applied overnight. He ran a hand through his hair—still black, still slightly unruly—and felt the faint tug of the illusion that kept him looking seventeen instead of eternally twenty-three.
The common room was busier. Students clustered around tables, reviewing notes for morning classes. Penelope Clearwater stood near the door, clipboard in hand, checking off names for the prefect rounds schedule.
She glanced up as he passed.
"Morning, Luka. Double Potions first today—Snape's in a mood. Try not to breathe too loudly."
Lookon gave a small, wry smile.
"Noted."
He descended the spiral stairs alone.
The castle felt different in daylight—brighter, louder, alive with the shuffle of hundreds of feet and the overlapping chatter of voices. He walked corridors he had only seen at night, noting how shadows retreated and portraits woke with sleepy greetings.
"Good morning, young scholar!" called a painting of a plump witch in a ruffled bonnet.
He nodded politely.
Breakfast in the Great Hall was quieter than dinner—students eating quickly, heads bent over timetables or last-minute revision. Lookon took his usual spot at the Ravenclaw table, near the end where fewer people sat. Toast again. Marmalade. A cup of tea, no milk.
He ate slowly, watching the Gryffindor table from across the hall.
Harry, Ron, and Hermione were already there. Ron was complaining about Snape again—loud enough that half the nearby tables could hear. Hermione was correcting him on potion ingredients. Harry just listened, fork paused halfway to his mouth, a small frown between his brows.
Lookon looked away before the stare could linger.
The System updated softly.
**Daily Baseline Scan: Complete**
**Emotional State – Harry Potter: Mild apprehension (Potions class anticipation)**
**Horcrux Fragment #1: Dormant**
**Quirrell Signature: Elevated (nervous tension detected in staff quarters)**
**Bleed Increment: +0.001% overnight (within acceptable variance)**
Acceptable variance.
The phrase sat heavy in his mind.
He finished his tea.
Double Potions was in the dungeons—cold stone walls, low ceiling, flickering green torches that cast long, wavering shadows. The air smelled of damp earth, boiled herbs, and something faintly metallic.
Lookon arrived early and took a seat near the back, beside an empty cauldron. Ravenclaws and Slytherins shared this class; the room filled with a mix of blue and green robes, quiet murmurs, and the occasional clink of glass vials.
Snape swept in exactly on time.
Black robes billowing like smoke. Hair lank. Eyes dark and unreadable.
The door slammed shut behind him with a sound like a coffin lid closing.
Silence fell instantly.
Snape's gaze swept the room—lingering for a fraction longer on Harry Potter, then moving on to scan the rest.
It paused on Lookon.
A beat.
Two.
Then Snape moved to the front.
"Today," he said, voice low and deliberate, "we will brew the Wiggenweld Potion. A healing draught of moderate complexity. Instructions are on the board. Begin."
Chalk appeared on the blackboard behind him, scratching out the recipe in neat, angular letters.
Lookon read it once, committing it to memory.
He had no ingredients yet—the class shared from the supply cupboard—but he watched as students moved to collect them.
When his turn came, he took only what he needed: powdered asphodel root, dried scarab beetles, a sprig of dittany, a vial of salamander blood.
Back at his station, he worked methodically.
No wand. Just hands.
He crushed the beetles with the flat of a silver knife—precise, even pressure. Measured the asphodel with a steady scoop. Added the dittany last, watching the potion shift from murky brown to a soft, glowing green.
Snape prowled between tables.
He paused beside Neville Longbottom's cauldron—already smoking ominously—and deducted five points from Gryffindor with a single, cutting sentence.
He moved on.
When he reached Lookon's bench, he stopped.
Lookon didn't look up immediately. He stirred counterclockwise—seven times, as instructed—then clockwise once.
Snape leaned closer.
"Your technique is… unorthodox," he said softly. "No wand. Yet the consistency is flawless."
Lookon met his eyes.
"Practice," he said simply.
Snape's lip curled faintly—not quite a sneer, not quite a smile.
"Practice without a wand is rare outside certain Eastern traditions. Ilvermorny does not teach it."
Lookon held his gaze.
"I learned elsewhere."
A long silence.
Snape's eyes narrowed—searching, calculating.
Then he straightened.
"Five points to Ravenclaw," he said, almost reluctantly. "For precision."
He moved on.
Lookon exhaled through his nose.
The potion bubbled gently, perfect emerald, ready for the final salamander blood drop.
He added it.
The liquid cleared to a luminous, healing green.
Around him, cauldrons hissed and smoked. A Slytherin boy's potion exploded in a shower of sparks—Snape deducted ten points without breaking stride.
Class ended.
Students filed out, some relieved, some muttering about lost points.
Lookon stayed behind to clean his station—rinsing the knife, wiping the board, returning unused ingredients.
Snape watched from the front, arms folded.
When the last student left, he spoke.
"Mr. Orion."
Lookon turned.
"You are not what you seem."
Lookon didn't flinch.
"Most people aren't."
Snape stepped closer—slow, deliberate.
"I have seen many transfers. None arrive with such perfect documentation, such flawless potion work, and such… detachment."
Lookon waited.
Snape studied him for another long moment.
"If you are here to cause trouble," he said quietly, "know that I will find you. And I will end it."
Lookon met his eyes.
"I'm not here for trouble, Professor."
Snape's expression didn't soften.
"Then what are you here for?"
Lookon considered the question.
For balance, he thought.
For cracks that might one day split the world.
For a boy with a scar who doesn't yet know how heavy it will become.
Out loud, he said:
"To learn."
Snape held his gaze a second longer.
Then he turned away.
"See that you do."
Lookon left the dungeon.
The corridors were warmer now—midday sun filtering through high windows.
He walked slowly back toward the tower.
The first crack had shown—not in the castle, not in the magic.
In Snape.
A flicker of suspicion.
A quiet warning.
Lookon didn't fear it.
Suspicion was better than blindness.
He climbed the stairs.
The eagle knocker waited at the top.
"What walks on four legs in the morning, two at noon, and three in the evening?"
Lookon answered without hesitation.
"Man."
The door swung open.
Inside, the common room was bright with afternoon light.
Students studied, talked, laughed.
Lookon found his armchair by the window again.
He sat.
Opened the rune book he'd borrowed last night.
Turned a page.
And waited.
For the next small shift.
For the next quiet sign.
For the story to move forward—one careful, unhurried breath at a time.