At Hogwarts, the story begins with deconstructing Avada Kedavra.

Winter comes earlier in the Scottish Highlands than the calendar suggests.

Overnight, the windows were covered with intricate frost flowers, and the draft in the corridor stung the little wizards' cheeks.

Inside the Great Hall, the once bustling breakfast time was now only filled with the clatter of cutlery and the sounds of slurping. The students were wrapped tightly in their heavy cloaks, and even the usually most active Weasley twins were hunching over, wishing they could bury their heads in their hot oatmeal.

"Damn it," Ron said, shivering as he spread butter on his bread, which was as hard as a rock. "Can't the school turn up the temperature a bit? I feel like my toes have run away from home."

Harry wasn't much better off; he was holding a bowl of hot pumpkin juice, his glasses fogged up.

Lucian looked up at the candles floating above the auditorium, their surfaces shedding icy shards.

"The castle's temperature control system is the real disaster."

The vision of the heart opens.

The magical loop of the entire auditorium unfolded before his eyes.

The heating circuits that should be responsible for supplying heat are mostly dormant. The reason is ridiculously simple: a magical transfer valve beneath the foundation has been blocked by a hibernating badger, causing heat to flow back and accumulate in the kitchen area.

"House elves are cooking in saunas, while wizards are freezing in restaurants."

Lucian had a thought

The unfortunate badger was gently flicked open, and the valve loosened.

A dull rumble, audible only to those sensitive to magic, resounded.

A warm breeze wafted out from the cracks in the floor, and the temperature in the auditorium rose in the blink of an eye. The students looked up in surprise and let out a comfortable sigh.

"Merlin's Beard! This wind has come at just the right time!" Ron exclaimed with delight, finally stretching his frozen limbs.

Ignoring the commotion around him, Lucien put the peeled egg into his mouth.

……

The Gryffindor table.

Harry, Ron, and Hermione sat together.

On the surface, this appears to be an inseparable trio, forged through life-or-death trials. Ron is brandishing his fork, explaining Quidditch tactics, Harry is adding his own commentary, and Hermione is listening with a smile.

Warm and touching.

But in Lucian's eyes,

Countless golden threads descended from the void, manipulating their facial muscles like marionettes.

Especially Hermione.

The densest golden threads on her body were frantically trying to correct her subconscious, forcibly covering up the "false memory" of last night. The will of the world roared: Laugh! You should feel happy! They are your saviors!

But Hermione's smile didn't look natural.

Her left hand was hidden under the table, clutching the handkerchief tightly.

She's acting.

"Excellent." Lucien took a sip of his coffee.

"Since we can't defy the script, we'll pretend to comply and then look for the scissors behind the scenes. Miss Granger, you certainly haven't disappointed me."

Just then, a large flock of owls swarmed into the auditorium.

Nimbus 2000 arrived as promised.

Neville also received a bunch of packages, including a box of chocolate frogs.

"I don't collect cards." Neville handed the card to Harry. "Want one?"

Harry took it and glanced at it.

In Lucian's view, all the light seemed to be focused, intentionally or unintentionally, on that card, pointing at that name and shouting: Look here! This is a clue!

"Nico Flamel," Harry uttered the name, his expression puzzled. "This name... I feel like I've heard it somewhere before."

"Who?" Ron asked, his mouth full of bread.

"I saw him on the train! Right here!" Harry pointed to the back of the card, where Dumbledore's biography was displayed: "His achievements in alchemy are linked to his partner Nicolas Flamel..."

"Hey! He's gone!"

Hermione leaned closer, her gaze lingering on the name for a moment.

If it were Hermione who had been fully reformed, she would probably immediately say, "We need to investigate this!"

But Hermione now… she instinctively looked up at the Ravenclaw table.

She was inquiring, or rather, she was verifying the "authenticity" of this clue.

Lucian did not respond, but simply turned a page of his book calmly.

Hermione looked away and turned to Harry, saying, "Since he's an alchemist who works with Dumbledore, he's definitely not an ordinary person. We can go to the library and look up 'The History of Modern Alchemy'."

She offered advice, but her tone was not warm.

……

Afternoon, castle courtyard.

The sky was overcast, and a strong wind whistled through the stone corridor, carrying fallen leaves.

Harry was carrying Nimbus 2000, preparing to head to the pitch for his final training session. The Gryffindor vs. Slytherin match was fast approaching, and Wood was practically a madman.

"That Snape of mine has been acting really strange lately," Ron said in a low voice, glancing around furtively. "Have you noticed? He's been walking with a limp."

"It must have been Halloween!" Harry said confidently. "The troll was just a ruse; he wanted to use it as an excuse to get to that room on the third floor. Fluffy definitely bit him."

Who is Lou Williams?

"That three-headed dog! That's what Hagrid calls it."

As the three were talking, Snape, dressed in a black robe, walked over from around the corner ahead with a gloomy face.

He is indeed lame.

With each step he took, his expression was pained.

Harry and Ron immediately shut up.

Snape stopped in front of them, his malice undisguised.

"Potter," Snape's voice was as smooth as a snake, "with a broom in hand and a head full of straw. If you had half that kind of spirit in Potions class, maybe your cauldron wouldn't always be exploding."

"To gain some psychological compensation by belittling students, Professor, is not in the style of Slytherin."

A cool, clear voice interrupted.

Snape turned his head sharply.

Lucian was leaning against the stone pillar opposite him.

"Ashford." Snape's gaze darkened.

"You want to experience what it's like to be locked up?"

"I was just passing by and happened to check on the injuries."

Lucian straightened up, his gaze falling on Snape's left calf.

Even through the thick black robe and trousers, his gaze went straight to the texture of the skin.

There was a gruesome laceration there, surrounded by a ring of dark green magical residue.

"The saliva of a three-headed dog contains a certain antithrombin and psychotoxin. If it's not cleaned in time, the wound will continue to fester," Lucien said calmly. "Using dictamnus dasycarpus alone can only stop the bleeding, not remove the toxin. I suggest adding one-third of an ounce of mandrake root powder to the ointment."

Snape's expression was strange.

Only he and Filch knew this secret. How did this freshman see through it?

Harry and Ron looked at Lucian in horror, thinking he was crazy for daring to treat the old bat.

"Your arrogance is disgusting, Ashford." Snape gritted his teeth, but he didn't deduct points because that recipe... was not only correct, but even more refined than what he was using now.

He gave Lucien a deep look, then dragged his injured leg and strode away.

"Good heavens..." Ron didn't dare breathe until Snape was far away. "How did you know it was... Cerberus who bit him?"

"Logic, Weasley."

Lucian did not explain the vision of the mind; he walked up to the three men.

His gaze fell on Harry's face, which clearly said, "It really is him."

"Sometimes, what you see with your eyes isn't necessarily the truth, especially when someone deliberately shows it to you."

He glanced meaningfully at the second-floor window not far away, where Professor Quirrell was standing, wearing that large purple scarf.

"Don't waste your time on the wrong suspects."

Lucian said this and turned to walk towards the library.

The three were left looking at each other in bewilderment.

"Is he speaking up for Snape?" Harry frowned. The nausea had lessened, but he still didn't trust Lucian. "He's definitely one of Slytherin's men."

Hermione watched Lucien's retreating figure, her hands unconsciously clenching.

A wrong suspect?

In the past, she would have argued back. But now, the seed of doubt within her is sprouting.

"Perhaps," Hermione's voice was drowned out by the wind, "we really did misjudge something."