arked in his seat during Defense Against the Dark Arts.
Lucien looked like he was all ears for Quirrell's droning lesson, but inside? He was already scheming how to off the guy's boss for good.
Mainly 'cause in Harry's second and third years, Voldemort wasn't fully back—no peak-level chaos yet, just stirring up trouble around Hogwarts.
But post-Triwizard Cup? Boom—Voldemort pulls off his comeback, and the whole wizarding UK's a dumpster fire. Hogwarts turns into a no-go zone.
Lucien's top priority? Soak up knowledge. No distractions, thanks.
Sure, give it a few years, and he'd be stacked enough to blast Voldemort's goons with a couple spells, then square up one-on-one.
But why wait for the creep to hit full power?
That epic Battle of Hogwarts showdown? Sounds badass, but Lucien wasn't about that life. Better to lock down the peaceful campus vibes and just study.
As for icing Voldemort for real...
Horcruxes.
Gotta tackle those first.
Splitting off a soul chunk, sealing it in some object—that's a Horcrux.
Skip destroying them, and no matter how bad you wreck the maker, they won't croak.
One soul bit stays safe, so even if the body's toast, no ghost status—just a shot at rebuilding.
Bottom line: Don't hunt down and smash every Horcrux, and beating Voldemort to a pulp? Pointless.
He remembered seven Horcruxes total.
But timeline-wise? Six right now.
That big snake—Nagini the Blood Curse beast—probably not Horcrux'd yet.
Play it safe: Track down the snake anyway.
The rest...
Lucien rifled through his memories, nailing 'em quick: Tom Riddle's diary, the Gaunt family ring, Ravenclaw's diadem, Hufflepuff's cup, Slytherin's locket, and...
He shot a glance at Harry, slouched up front-left.
The one even Voldemort didn't clock—Harry Potter.
If he could, start collecting 'em over summer break.
Blow up all the respawn points before the big bad revives. Kick 'em while they're down.
Ways to trash a Horcrux? Basilisk venom, Fiendfyre, Avada Kedavra.
Oh, or that Gryffindor sword—supercharged with basilisk poison.
Fiendfyre and the Killing Curse probably need some serious chops from the caster. Venom? Easy mode—splash and done.
The other ones? Manageable. But Harry...
How do you nuke a soul shard without hurting him?
Let him flatline once, then revive?
Revival magic, though...
Time flew while he mulled it over.
Bell rang—Quirrell bolted from the room faster than ever.
Like a starving kid racing for cafeteria grub.
Back in his office, Quirrell flopped into his chair, wrecked.
After a beat, he peeled off his left glove—slow, grimacing through the pain.
His left hand? Freaky translucent skin, muscles and veins squirming underneath.
Voldemort's black magic rebuild job. Brutal, twisted process—but Quirrell had muscled through.
"Just a scratch. Once I reclaim my body, my power will fix you right up."
"Quirinus, serve me well. Scope out the protections on the Sorcerer's Stone."
"Devil's Snare, wizard's chess, flying keys—we're clued in."
"Figure out that dumb mutt, and we're one step closer..."
Quirrell's head throbbed from Voldemort's hissing whispers.
Irritating as hell.
But what could he do?
He'd chugged unicorn blood—cursed "sinner" now, half-dead and dangling by a thread.
Defy the Dark Lord? One thought, and poof—lights out.
After a heavy pause, Quirrell rasped back:
"Yes, my Lord."
...
In the library.
Hagrid—big, burly teddy bear of a guy—actually showed up here, weaving through the stacks.
He could eyeball the top shelves easy, but crouching for the low ones? Bit of a hassle.
He pinched From Dragon Eggs to Hellhounds between two fingers, grinning ear-to-ear—but bit it back.
'Cause over yonder, Madam Pince was gripping her feather duster like a wand, eyeing him hawk-sharp. Like he'd shred a book or topple a shelf any second.
Hagrid spun slow and careful, clutching his haul, and shuffled to the checkout desk.
"Hagrid! What're you doing in the library?"
That familiar voice—he jammed the books behind his moleskin coat, glancing all jittery at Harry and the crew.
"Just browsing."
"What about you lot?"
Ron puffed up, smug as could be.
"We cracked who Nicolas Flamel is—and the Sorcerer's Stone..."
"Shh!"
Hagrid cut him off sharp, scanning the room. Closest was Pince, heading to her desk—no one else eavesdropping.
After a quick "keep it zipped" lecture, Hagrid checked out with Pince and hustled outta there.
He missed the kids' hushed chatter:
"What'd Hagrid hide behind his back?"
"Didn't catch it—but I could poke around..."
Hagrid's massive strides ate up the path out of the castle, straight to his hut.
Stepping into the toasty, steamy room, he spotted that dark-gold-haired kid poking at the fire.
"Oh, cheers, Lucien—thanks for minding it."
"No biggie. Happy to help."
Hagrid shrugged off his coat, slapping the books on the little round table, then zeroed in on the pitch-black egg nestled in the hearth's flames.
"No clue when the little one's cracking out. Can't wait, though!"
He rubbed his paws together, eyes glued to the sooty dragon egg—totally missing that flicker of crimson-gold weaving through the orange logs.