The boats finally reached the shore. The first-years climbed out onto the gravel in a jumble of nervous chatter.
Hagrid raised his massive lantern, counted heads, and then knocked heavily on the great oak doors of the castle.
The doors swung open at once.
A tall witch in emerald robes stood at the entrance. Her expression was stern, her hair pulled back into a tight bun without a single strand out of place.
In Lucian's eyes, she was different from the scattered, unstable magic he had seen elsewhere.
If Hagrid's magic was a wildfire burning without restraint, Professor McGonagall's was a finely woven net, precise and controlled.
So far, she was the most disciplined wizard he had encountered in this world.
Her gaze swept across the students. When it reached Lucian, it paused briefly.
It was difficult not to notice him.
Among first-years soaked from the lake or adjusting crooked robes, he stood immaculate, not even the edge of his shoes touched by mud.
He looked as though he had stepped out of a private study, not crossed a dark lake.
"Welcome to Hogwarts," McGonagall began, delivering her brief introduction.
As the students whispered nervously about the Sorting, the wall behind them suddenly blurred.
More than twenty pearly-white figures drifted through it.
Several students screamed. Ron shrank behind Harry.
Lucian did not move.
He adjusted his glasses and focused on the ghost drifting past him, the one with silver bloodstains on his robes: the Bloody Baron.
In his inner sight, there were no terrifying spirits.
Ghosts were merely imprints of residual consciousness, weakened projections of souls that had failed to depart.
They could think and speak, but they could not wield magic. Magic required vitality, and theirs had long since faded. They were observers, stranded between states.
As the Bloody Baron passed, he suddenly halted.
He was used to inspiring fear. Even Peeves avoided him. Yet now he felt something unsettling.
The boy was not afraid.
He was analyzing.
The Baron's already grim face tightened. Without a word, he drifted away, avoiding Lucian entirely.
"Now, form a single line," McGonagall instructed, returning to lead them inside.
The Great Hall opened before them.
Thousands of floating candles illuminated four long tables, their golden plates gleaming. Above, the enchanted ceiling reflected the night sky.
"It's bewitched to look like the sky outside," Hermione whispered to Harry. "I read about it in Hogwarts: A History."
Lucian glanced upward.
The weather simulation charm was impressively executed, wide in scope and dynamically linked.
However, in the northwest corner of the ceiling, several stars flickered with mechanical irregularity.
A failing node in the enchantment matrix. A stalled refresh cycle. A dead pixel.
Another repair item.
Professor McGonagall placed a four-legged stool before the staff table. Upon it rested the Sorting Hat.
The hat twitched and began its song.
Lucian waited patiently.
Names were called. Houses announced.
"Lucian Ashford."
A ripple of murmurs passed through the hall.
The Ashford name had vanished from public attention for three decades, and its reappearance stirred interest among certain pure-blood lines.
At the Slytherin table, Draco stared, pale and tense.
Lucian ascended the platform.
He examined the hat closely... Frayed brim, Stained fabric and Layers of accumulated dust. As a restoration craftsman with obsessive standards, he frowned slightly.
No anti-mold treatment. No preservation care
He lifted the hat delicately by its tip as though handling an object salvaged from neglect. Before placing it on his head, he transfigured a clean white handkerchief and laid it over his hair.
The hall fell silent.
Darkness descended as the hat settled.
A faint voice sounded in his mind.
"Hmm. Interesting. Difficult to access."
The voice probed carefully. "I seek your desires. Your fears. But before me stands… a wall?"
"That is a firewall," Lucian replied mentally. "Do not poke around carelessly."
"I am the Sorting Hat. I have the right to examine—"
"You have severe cognitive redundancy," Lucian interrupted.
"You have accumulated centuries of emotional residue from students. Your memory cache is saturated with debris.
Without deep restructuring, your consciousness will degrade within fifty years."
The hat went silent.
"You… what are you proposing?"
"I can trim unnecessary memory clusters. Approximately thirty percent. It will improve processing efficiency."
"No! Do not touch me!"
The hat recoiled in panic. It had never encountered a first-year who attempted to dismantle its structure.
"Slytherin? You have ambition!"
"Contaminated," Lucian replied. "Modern Slytherin is a servant of power, not a seeker of truth."
"Gryffindor? You have courage!"
"Too loud."
"Fine! Then you belong in—RAVENCLAW!"
The final word burst out in something close to relief.
Lucian removed the hat and casually brushed a patch of old grease from its brim.
The hat trembled.
Applause rose from the Ravenclaw table.
Lucian joined them.
A few upper-year students attempted to greet him but withdrew under the quiet intensity of his presence.
He preferred it that way.
Before he could settle into silence, a girl with curly hair and a Prefect badge extended her hand.
"Welcome to Ravenclaw. I'm Penelope Clearwater. The Hat took quite a while with you."
"Perhaps my thought patterns are unconventional," Lucian replied, shaking her hand briefly.
The feast began. Plates filled instantly with food.
Students ate eagerly and exchanged excited conversations.
Lucian felt satisfied.
Only from the Tower of Truth could one properly examine the cracks in a structure.
He lifted his fork, but his gaze shifted toward the head table.
Dumbledore was a brilliant cocoon of light in his vision.
Immense magical aggregation, yet tinged with decay at the edges. A curse lingered, or perhaps the residue of past backlash.
Nearby, Professor Quirrell radiated instability. Two souls forced into one vessel, the second face beneath the turban feeding upon the host's vitality.
Harry winced, clutching his scar.
Severus Snape's dark eyes fixed on Lucian.
"Ashford," Snape murmured quietly. "Let us hope you are not as foolish as your father."
Lucian sensed the stare.
Across the hall, he met Snape's gaze and raised his goblet in silent acknowledgment.
The headmaster aging. A professor possessed. Foundations patched with unstable code. Ceiling glitches.
He took a bite of steak.
How fascinating.
The feast ended. The school song was sung in chaotic variations.
Soon, Ravenclaw first-years followed their prefect to their tower.
Unlike other Houses, Ravenclaw had no password. A bronze eagle knocker guarded the entrance.
"Where do vanished things go?" it asked.
The first-years hesitated.
"They go into non-being," Penelope began to explain, but Lucian answered calmly.
"They return to nothingness. Or more precisely, they transform into the dust that composes new forms. Matter is conserved; only its state changes."
The knocker paused.
"Acceptable."
The door opened.
"That was quite philosophical," Penelope said in surprise.
"That is the language of poets," Lucian replied as he entered. "I am a craftsman."
The dormitory was circular, cool-toned, and orderly. Blue silk curtains hung from four-poster beds.
Midnight carpets embroidered with constellations stretched across the floor. Shelves carved into the walls held books and intricate alchemical models.
Lucian approached his bed and touched the cold window frame.
This was one of the highest points in Hogwarts.
Through the arched window, the castle spread below like the skeleton of a vast creature.
The lake shimmered faintly under moonlight. The Quidditch pitch stood in distant silhouette. Beyond lay the Forbidden Forest, dark and breathing.
Wind moaned against the tower like distant whispers. A poet might have spoken of loneliness.
Lucian stood at the window and studied the castle.
The first night had ended.
His journey as a wizard had only just begun.