Death was not quiet.
For Lucian, death was a shriek sharp enough to tear cloth, followed by a suffocating sense of weightlessness that seemed to go on forever.
One moment, his fingertips had still been resting on the fragile paper fibers of a centuries-old manuscript, the air filled with the stale, dusty scent of old archives.
The next moment, the whole world shattered, then pieced itself back together again.
When his senses finally returned, Lucian Ashford slowly became aware of something strange.
It was not pain that came first, but an indescribable perception, a mental field of vision.
His senses had changed. He could see the structure and flow of magic itself, as if it were a living framework woven through reality.
Fragments of memory surged in: Ashford Manor, Obscurus, magic.
I have transmigrated. This is the world of Harry Potter?
Then, searing pain dragged his awareness violently back into his body.
This body was only eleven years old. Frail, pale, like a porcelain doll drained of all moisture.
Inside his chest, a vast, unnatural, violently raging black energy was crashing wildly in every direction. Like a beast trapped inside a glass bottle, it clawed and tore at everything, trying to burst free.
In the wizarding world, this was known as an Obscurial. Or perhaps the backlash of some failed dark magic.
The ending was usually the same.
Explosion. Death.
The boy lay on a dust-covered velvet bed and slowly opened his eyes. Those once clouded, unfocused grey pupils were now terrifyingly clear.
It was not some indescribable monster.
Within his inner vision, the conscious magical riot powerful enough to kill a grown wizard had been broken down into countless glowing, chaotic threads.
Their incorrect connections and twisted circuits were what caused the collapse.
What crude workmanship.
This was turbulence. A short circuit in magical pathways.
But to a master restorer, it was merely a shattered object waiting to be repaired.
'Calm down,' he ordered himself.
Lucian did not scream, nor did he tremble in fear like the original owner of this body.
With great difficulty, he raised his nearly numb right hand and traced slow patterns in the air, beginning to adjust and mend the body on the verge of collapse.
He shut out the overwhelming pain and focused every fragment of his will upon those violent strands.
In his eyes, the knot of black destruction was not unsolvable.
This strand is fear. Too much.
Sever it.
This one is the flow of magic, blocked. Redirect it.
This one… the Ashford bloodline curse. A flawed inheritance. Seal it for now.
If anyone had been present, they would have witnessed a scene both terrifying and strangely sacred.
The boy who should have died in agony now lay quietly upon the bed, his right hand moving through the air in slow, rhythmic arcs.
As his fingers moved, the black mist that had been raging through the room, shattering vases and lamps, suddenly stilled.
The violent magic was soothed. Broken channels were reconnected.
Just as he would mend a damaged relic, smoothing every crease, sealing every fracture with patient precision.
Time passed, though he could not tell how long.
At last, the final strand of black energy slipped along his fingertip and returned to his heart. Lucian released a faint breath of satisfaction.
The room fell silent.
Outside, the cold rain that had been falling for weeks across the London outskirts finally reached his ears with clarity.
Lucian inhaled deeply. The pain in his expanding lungs assured him he was still alive.
He pushed himself upright, sweat soaking through his nightclothes, yet his pale face carried a trace of sickly elegance.
Fixed, he murmured in halting English. Still cracked, but usable.
At that moment, the heavy oak door burst open.
A tall, gaunt man stood at the entrance, gripping a wand so tightly his knuckles whitened. The tip glowed green, ready to cast the Killing Curse at any instant.
This was the body's father, Cassius Ashford.
Cassius had come to deal with a corpse.
Or to execute the son who was about to become a monster.
The Ashford family could not allow a mindless Obscurial to destroy their last remaining estate.
Yet the sight before him froze the proud pure-blood wizard in place.
The room, though furniture lay overturned, was not drenched in blood.
The son who had always been timid and evasive now sat calmly on the edge of the bed, watching him in the flicker of lightning from outside.
There was no fear in those eyes. No longing. No emotion at all.
Only a sense of detached superiority. Of observation.
Lucian looked at the man in the doorway and gave a perfectly polite, utterly cold smile.
"Good evening, Father."
His voice was soft, hoarse, as if drifting from a distant place.
"The disturbance just now was somewhat loud. I was attempting to organize my thoughts. I hope I did not disturb your evening tea."
The wand in Cassius Ashford's hand trembled slightly.
As a dark wizard, he possessed an instinctive sense for danger.
The boy before him wore Lucian's face, yet from deep within his soul emanated an ancient, profound, terrifying calm that sent a shiver through his very instincts.
Those were not the eyes of an eleven-year-old child.
They were the eyes of something that had crawled out of a grave and was now studying the living world with quiet interest.
"You… who are you?" Cassius forced out hoarsely.
Lucian lowered his head and glanced at his pale, slender hand. The lines on his palm were complex, like the fate of this magical world itself.
"I am Lucian."
For a brief moment, the gears of fate faltered.
Then they began to turn again, toward a direction no one could predict.