Afternoon sunlight slanted lazily through the arched windows, pooling across the deep-blue carpet of Ravenclaw Tower.
Christmas had passed several days ago. The Ravenclaw vs. Gryffindor Quidditch match loomed close.
Inside the common room the air smelled of parchment and carried the sharp buzz of heated debate.
Near the arched window a Transfiguration-blackened chalkboard hovered, squeaking as a piece of chalk danced a frantic tango across its surface.
Ravenclaw Quidditch Captain Roger Davies stood on a table, waving his wand like a conductor gone mad and bellowing at the board:
"If both Weasley twins launch Bludgers at the same time, we can't just dodge! We need—Terry, get that bloody sign out of the way, it's blocking the dive path!"
At his feet a knot of third-years sat cross-legged around a shimmering length of fabric, trying to weave a permanent color-changing charm into an enormous blue banner.
"More gold—the shade's too dull!" one girl directed, flicking her wand so needles darted through the cloth like silver fish. "We want the eagle to look like it's hunting, not like a pigeon with the flu. And add a flicker charm—make Wood squint so hard he can't see the hoops."
"That's a foul, Martha."
"The rulebook doesn't say 'causing an error due to excessive banner dazzle' is illegal. It's called psychological warfare, and it's perfectly legitimate."
Ravenclaws weren't the bookish stereotypes outsiders imagined. When the proposition was "if we win we prove we're smarter than those reckless Gryffindor brutes," their competitive streak hardened into something tougher than a troll's skull.
Lucian sat in his usual window seat, rolling a single glass marble between his fingers and tilting it toward the light.
Sunlight passed through the sphere and danced across the back of his hand in shifting flecks.
A prototype the Weasley twins had slipped him two nights earlier—their newest prank invention: Mischief Marbles.
Fred and George had originally wanted it to explode on contact. Lucian suggested adding a delayed trigger and pressure sensor.
Now, as he turned the marble in the sun, he watched the once dangerously unstable gunpowder core—compressed by Transfiguration into a swirling nebula of color—wait patiently inside. A hard enough impact and it would detonate into a half-hour-undispersable cloud that would automatically spell out "I AM A GREAT BIG IDIOT" in the sky.
A commotion at the entrance.
The bronze eagle knocker delivered its riddle. The person outside clearly struggled.
A true Ravenclaw—even if stumped—would have eagerly argued with the knocker for fun. This one hemmed and hawed for thirty seconds before stumbling through the textbook-perfect answer like someone reciting lines.
The door opened.
A girl stepped inside.
She wore Ravenclaw's signature blue-trimmed robes and clutched three brick-thick volumes of A History of Magic to her chest.
Padma?
No.
Parvati.
The Patil twins had clearly become addicted to the identity-swap game. After being caught in the courtyard last time, they'd evidently planned a more meticulous performance.
Parvati tried to mimic her sister's measured gait. She kept her head down as though deep in thought, but her eyes kept flicking toward the window seat.
The books were far too heavy.
Likely props chosen to sell the disguise—but she had severely underestimated the literal weight of knowledge. Her arms were rigid with strain; her neck craned forward in the classic posture of someone unused to carrying anything heavier than gossip.
"Terrible acting."
Lucian mentally filed the assessment but said nothing.
Life needed a little seasoning now and then—like the occasional sugar cube in black tea.
"Padma, have you finished that essay on the elementary laws in Transfiguration Guidelines?"
A light-blond boy—Anthony Goldstein—sidled over, waving a parchment densely covered in notes.
"Professor McGonagall's question about the irreversibility of the Switching Spell—I've looked everywhere and it still feels like a paradox."
Parvati startled; the stack of History nearly slipped. She had no idea what irreversibility even meant. Back in the Gryffindor common room she'd spent three entire evenings just trying to turn a match into a needle.
But she recovered quickly, arranging her face into the "clever" expression she'd practiced endlessly in the mirror: slight frown, distant gaze, the faintest hint of disdain at the corners of her mouth.
"Oh, that."
Parvati shifted the books to one arm with exaggerated nonchalance and spoke in a deliberately vague yet supremely confident tone.
"You just need to check the footnote in Chapter Twelve about Gamp's Laws… the rest is intuition."
"Intuition?" Anthony blinked, then lit up with epiphany. "Merlin's beard! How did I miss that? Of course—classic Padma, always thinking outside the frame!"
"…You're welcome."
Parvati exhaled inwardly while keeping her face in perfect Ravenclaw valedictorian mode.
For the next few minutes she was in her element.
Lisa Turpin asked about advanced pest-repelling charms for Herbology; Sue Li complained that Flitwick's latest Charms assignment was impossible. Parvati answered each with the same lofty, "this is obvious, figure it out yourself" vagueness—and they all nodded as though she'd handed them the key to the universe.
The feeling was intoxicating.
She was a Gryffindor lion who preferred gossip and loud corridor laughter, yet here she was—draped in her sister's blue, gliding effortlessly among the cleverest minds in Hogwarts.
Even Padma's usual inseparable friends hadn't noticed that the girl pretending to read couldn't even decipher the title on the spine.
But once the initial thrill faded, a strange emptiness crept in.
Everyone smiled at her. Everyone praised "Padma's" brilliant insights.
No one saw Parvati.
It was boring.
It was too easy.
In a twelve-year-old mind that kind of loneliness quickly magnified into the burning itch to punch a hole through the ceiling—an urge for real adventure.
She wanted something more exciting.
She wanted… to do something properly Gryffindor in this ink-scented, parchment-rustling nursery of good children.
Parvati scanned the room and her gaze landed on the boy who had teased them last time.
Lucian.
The one who always watched the world as though he'd already read the ending.
If it was him…
Her fingers drifted unconsciously across the heavy spine of the book in her arms.
She walked to a table not far from him and dropped the stack with a deliberate thud.
She exhaled—then realized the sigh was too dramatic for Padma and quickly covered her mouth, glancing at Lucian.
He turned at the sound. His gaze settled on her—calm, unreadable.
Parvati's heart gave a quick thud.
She'd borrowed her sister's spare robes today and spent a full hour braiding her thick black hair into the elaborate style Padma favored. She'd practiced expressions in the mirror until her face ached.
"Lucian."
She pitched her voice to match her sister's—steady, thoughtful.
"The sunlight is nice today."
The opening line was terrible.
Lucian lifted the glass marble.
"Indeed it is."
His fingertip touched the surface.
Inside the sphere a swirl of iridescent mist bloomed.
Transfiguration—targeting the play of light within the object.
"For you."
With a flick of his wrist the marble arced toward her.
Parvati fumbled and caught it.
The glass was cool against her palm. She looked down.
The mist inside had coalesced into dozens of miniature red-and-gold lions. They prowled and roared silently inside their crystal cage, tiny manes rippling with fury.
Parvati froze.
She stared at the fierce little lions; delight threatened to spill out of her eyes.
"It's… it's beautiful."
She closed her fingers tightly around the marble, cheeks warming. "Thank you, Lucian."
She had no idea the gift itself was a wordless unmasking.
"Glad you like it."
Lucian turned back to the window, tone light. "Hold it carefully. It's… lively."
Encouraged, Parvati decided his reputation for being unapproachable was exaggerated. He'd even given her a present!
She cleared her throat and pressed forward with her real objective.
Still clutching the marble that could ruin her life if it shattered, she took two steps closer.
"This weekend is Ravenclaw versus Gryffindor."
"I know."
Lucian didn't turn. "If everyone could lower the tactical shouting by a few decibels, I'd know it even better."
She tried to sound casual. "I saved a good seat in the stands. Front row. Excellent view."
She finished and looked at his profile—hopeful.
This was her first invitation issued while wearing Ravenclaw colors. Surely a housemate wouldn't refuse?
Silence.
The quiet made her fidget. She rubbed the marble nervously; inside it the little lions began racing in circles.
"I have no interest in watching people chase an inflated ball through the sky."
Lucian's voice carried no inflection, no glance back.
"I also dislike noisy environments… and…" He nodded toward the window and the howling winter wind outside. "…freezing my face off for the sake of meaningless points."
Parvati was stunned.
"But… it's Quidditch!" The Gryffindor passion burst through the disguise. "It's glory!"
"Glory belongs to the winners. Colds belong to the spectators."
Lucian picked up a quill from the table—a clear dismissal. "Also, you're holding A History of Magic upside down."
"…"
Parvati looked down. The gilt title on the spine was indeed inverted.
Mortifying.
Suffocating embarrassment.
"Weirdo!"
She finally dropped the act, muttering under her breath in her normal voice. Furious, she scooped up the heavy books—still clutching the dangerous marble—and stormed toward the exit.
"Wait."
Lucian's voice stopped her.
Parvati paused, a tiny spark of hope flaring. Had he changed his mind?
He pointed at the marble in her hand, offering a courteous warning:
"Whatever you do, don't drop it. That's one of the Weasley brothers'… special editions. Unless you want to become corridor-famous."
Parvati blinked—didn't quite understand—but nodded automatically. Then she fled the Ravenclaw common room like the place was on fire.
Only after the door closed did Lucian shake his head and reopen his notebook.
"Full of energy."
Still—if that marble happened to shatter somewhere along the corridor…
Lucian thought with quiet amusement: that would be considerably more entertaining than any Quidditch match.
…
Later that night.
A rhythmic, muffled thumping echoed down the corridor.
The sound of something heavy being forced to hop—and crashing back to stone.
Lucian paused.
A round silhouette rounded the corner in an absurd, bouncing gait. The boy's legs were bound tightly together by invisible ropes; every movement required a desperate heave of hips and stomach, followed by a heavy, teetering landing.
Neville Longbottom.
The Gryffindor boy's face was scarlet, tears brimming, but he bit his lip hard to keep from sobbing aloud.
When he lost balance again and pitched face-first toward the unforgiving flagstones, a gentle thread of magic caught his knees and steadied him.
Neville looked up through blurry eyes.
"Lucian?" He sniffled.
"Help me! Malfoy… he used Leg-Locker on me, or something…"
"Locomotor Mortis."
"Definitely Malfoy's work."
"Please—help me undo it." Neville pleaded. "I need to get back to the common room… everyone's laughing at me."
Lucian raised his wand.
Hope flared in Neville's eyes.
But the next second Lucian only touched the tip to Neville's robes, straightening the crooked collar, then lowered his arm.
"I refuse."
Neville froze. Tears finally spilled. "Wh—why? I thought we were…"
"Because it would be meaningless, Longbottom."
Lucian met his gaze directly. "I free you today, Malfoy uses a different curse tomorrow. The hardest spell on you isn't in your legs—it's cowardice. And that one… I can't break for you."
"I… I can't beat him…" Neville shrank.
Lucian stepped aside, opening the path, and pointed up the staircase.
"Go find Harry Potter."
"Harry?" Neville echoed blankly.
"He's the Chosen One. Gryffindor's golden boy."
"Heroes need a stage to perform on. Show him your wounds. Show him your humiliation. Tell him Slytherins did this to you."
"But Harry gets targeted by Malfoy too…"
"He's different."
Lucian's smile deepened.
"But Gryffindor lions never hesitate to stand up for their own, do they? Your pain should become their anger—not my casual flick of a wand. Go. Let your hero fight for you."
Neville didn't fully understand, but the quiet certainty in Lucian's voice overpowered him. In the cold corridor the Ravenclaw's suggestion sounded… reasonable.
"Find… find Harry."
Neville sniffed, nodded, and resumed his painful hopping.
"Thanks, Lucian."
Lucian watched the awkward, retreating figure until it disappeared around the corner.
The stellar vortex in his eyes turned once, slowly.
He knew what came next.
Midnight duel. House points lost. Reckless heroism.
A play already scripted—about to begin its next act.