At Hogwarts, the story begins with deconstructing Avada Kedavra.

The following morning, in the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom.

The classroom reeked of an overwhelming, suffocating smell of garlic. To Lucien, this pungent odor masked a more decaying, chilling stench, like that of an old, rotten corpse.

That's the smell of a rotting soul.

Lucian sat in the back row of the classroom.

In his view, the man on the podium was a complete mess.

Professor Quirrell's body was wrapped in lines of gray and dark red, which were living parasitic vines that climbed along his flesh and blood and eventually converged on the back of his head, which was wrapped in a purple turban.

They are the tentacles of a parasite.

Around Quirrell, the radiance that once represented vitality and fortune had become a flickering candle in the wind, with only a few dim, thin lines sustaining his movements.

This doesn't even qualify as a final burst of energy; at best, it's a walking corpse being manipulated by a puppet.

A perfectly good piece of chalk would always inexplicably break within minutes, a look of bewilderment would flash in his eyes from time to time, his robe was covered with tiny scratches, and his headscarf was especially covered with some fresh bird droppings.

On the other side, Harry and Ron were basking in the glory. Harry was secretly showing off a newly opened chocolate frog picture card under the table; the golden fortune line above his head pulsated, each flash signifying:

I am the protagonist of this world.

Lucian's letter was quite obvious.

"Regarding...urgent...emergency treatment for injuries sustained after being bitten by a werewolf..."

Professor Quirrell stood behind the podium, pale and dazed. He kept glancing at the back door and windows of the classroom, as if some monster might burst in at any moment.

The Slytherin students below had begun to openly sneer. Malfoy was enjoying this, deliberately making a clicking sound with his quill.

"First...we need to...distinguish between a full moon bite and...a regular bite..." Quirrell's hands trembled, the chalk making a harsh scratch on the blackboard. "If it's...a full moon...then...the curse will...will..."

When Quirrell got to the most crucial point, he suddenly stopped talking.

Quirrell's jaw began to tremble unnaturally, and a strange "clucking" sound came from his throat, but he couldn't utter a complete syllable.

"What will happen, Professor?" Theodore Nott asked lazily. "Will I become a stuttering idiot?"

A burst of laughter erupted in the classroom. Harry felt a sudden stinging pain in his scar and rubbed his forehead uncomfortably.

This is the current state of Hogwarts: the Savior is grinning foolishly, the Dark Lord is in disguise, and a flock of ignorant lambs are laughing at a wolf in sheep's clothing.

"Due to the irreversible erosion of the magic circuit, the souls of the infected will be controlled by bestiality."

The sound broke through the restless atmosphere in the classroom.

The laughter stopped abruptly. Everyone turned their heads.

Lucien did not stand up; he simply leaned back in his chair, his gaze passing over the heads of the crowd and fixed on the trembling figure on the podium.

"A mixture of silver powder and white cinnamon can indeed stop bleeding, but that only works on the physical body. The key issue lies in the soul."

"Werewolf venom is essentially a form of compulsive magical parasitism. It forcibly suppresses the host's self-awareness, imposing another tyrannical will onto the body."

He paused slightly, looking at the purple scarf.

"This struggle between two wills within the same body often leads to the host's mental breakdown, manifesting as incoherent speech, loss of limb control, and... hypersensitivity to light. You agree, Professor Quirrell?"

The classroom was completely silent.

The students simply thought Ashford knew a lot and spoke profoundly. But to Quirrell, or rather, to the thing inside him, these words were like a thunderclap.

Quirrell's trembling disappeared, replaced by a deathly silence like that of a coiled viper.

He slowly raised his head.

Harry clutched his forehead and let out a suppressed groan of pain.

"Mr. Ashford..." Quirrell's voice was no longer so stuttering, even carrying a hint of hoarse gloom, "Very... insightful. Ravenclaw... five points."

He turned around to write on the blackboard, his back to the whole class.

But in Lucian's view, the black and red line that had been lodged on the back of Quirrell's head suddenly surged and stared intently at Lucian.

Capture the spirit and seize thoughts.

This is a test from the Dark Lord.

Lucien simply smiled wryly.

The vortex within his body slowly rotated, and the gray magic power that originated from Momo Ran but was tamed by the internal alchemy technique built an unbreakable dam on the spiritual level.

The wave of malice crashed against the dam, but was silently swallowed up by the vortex within his body.

At the same time, Lucian had a sudden thought and his gaze locked onto Harry, who was rubbing his scar in the front row.

He made a gentle flick in the void.

Several golden threads, symbolizing good fortune, attached to Harry were quietly severed and then, guided by Lucian, forcibly grafted onto the head of Quirrell, the unlucky fellow on the podium.

Quirrell's chalk broke again, but this time, the chalk dust didn't get into his eyes or soil his robe. Instead, it traced a strange arc and landed precisely in the wastebasket beside him.

He sensed something was wrong. His earlier probing had been completely ineffective, as if sinking into thin air; in fact… he felt as if a wisp of his power had been “eaten” by the other party?

That's impossible. He's just a first-grader.

The bell rang at just the right moment, breaking the suffocating deadlock.

"get out of class dismissed." Quirrell threw down the chalk and rushed into the office as if fleeing.

But strangely enough, none of the mischievous students managed to trip it up today; they always missed by a hair's breadth.

The students packed their bags and poured out of the classroom.

Hermione walked at the back of the crowd, carrying her book. She paused as she passed Lucien.

In the past, she would have rushed up to Lucien and asked him where he had read such unorthodox theories, or accused him of using black magic.

But today, she only glanced at Lucien with complicated emotions, subconsciously tightened her grip on the already washed handkerchief in her pocket, then bit her lip, silently lowered her head, and quickly left.

Since the logic in books doesn't explain reality, let's shut up and observe for now.

Lucian watched her retreating figure, quite satisfied with the performance of this variable seed.

His gaze drifted almost imperceptibly in the direction Harry had left.

There, the golden aura that was originally as dazzling as the blazing sun showed a slight gap, and the thick line of fate was dragging the savior toward the next plot point, but this time, the road seemed to be less smooth.

"So, next?"

Lucian walked out of the classroom.

Now that the Dark Lord has taken notice of him, the stage for this play needs to be expanded.

He opened his palm, and in his palm, a wisp of dark red aura that had just been "extracted" from Quirrell was surging and thrashing within the gray magic.

"Energy is conserved, and so is fortune," Lucien murmured to himself, taking unhurried steps up the marble main staircase.

Just then, a gasp and a muffled thud of a heavy object rolling down came from above.

Lucian slightly raised his eyes.

At the corner of the stairs above him, Harry Potter, the savior who always managed to escape danger, was now sprawled awkwardly on a trapdoor staircase that had suddenly disappeared. His right foot was deeply embedded in it, and not only that, the rare Chocolate Frog card he had been showing off was now drifting precariously down the bottomless stairwell with a gust of wind.

"Oh no! That's a misprinted card of Dumbledore!" Ron wailed, leaning on the armrest, trying to grab the piece of paper, but almost fell down with it.

"Damn it, how did this staircase suddenly..." Harry winced in pain, his instincts that usually allowed him to avoid traps suddenly failing him.

Normally, this card would have been blown back by a passing ghost, or landed on the next step by chance.

But now, right before everyone's eyes, it has vanished into the darkness.

Malfoy's signature mocking laugh came from above: "Looks like Potter's luck all went to that scar on his forehead. He couldn't even keep a picture. What a pathetic wretch."

Lucien stood in the shadows, coldly observing everything.

In his spiritual vision, the aura of fortune above Harry's head, which had been as dazzling as the red sun, dimmed for a moment due to the loss of a few key golden threads. And that moment of dimming corresponded perfectly to this minor misfortune.