The days began to settle into a rhythm that felt almost ordinary.
Morning light through the tower windows.
Breakfast toast and tea.
Classes where Lookon sat near the back, observed more than he spoke, answered only when called upon—and even then, with careful brevity.
Afternoon library hours spent in the same alcove, watching dust dance while the System quietly catalogued the slow seep of darkness from the third floor.
Evening meals where he listened to the hall's pulse without joining it.
Night returns to Ravenclaw Tower, where he sat by the window until the stars sharpened and the common room emptied.
He spoke to no one beyond necessity.
A polite "excuse me" when passing in corridors.
A nod to Penelope when she checked the dormitory roll.
A quiet "thank you" to Madam Pince when returning books.
No friendships offered. None sought.
It was easier that way.
The less he connected, the less it would hurt when he inevitably left.
But the castle had other ideas.
It was Thursday—Transfiguration again, late afternoon, the light slanting low and golden through the classroom windows.
McGonagall had them practicing vanishing spells on snails today. "Focus on intent," she instructed. "Not force. The spell does not erase; it relocates. Know where you are sending it, or it will simply refuse to go."
Lookon had no snail. McGonagall had quietly excused him from practical work until he received a wand from Ollivander's (the official story: delayed owl post due to international shipping). He sat at his desk, arms folded, watching the room.
Hermione Granger's snail vanished with a soft *pop* and reappeared perfectly on the demonstration tray.
Ron Weasley's attempted to hide under his own shell instead.
Harry Potter's snail flickered—half-gone, half-there—before snapping back into existence with a faint crackle of uncontrolled magic.
McGonagall's eyebrow rose, but she said nothing. Just moved on.
Lookon noticed the small tremor in Harry's hand afterward. The way he flexed his fingers as if they stung.
After class, students filed out in the usual rush—bags slung over shoulders, voices rising in relief.
Lookon lingered.
He packed his few notes slowly, deliberately.
When the room was nearly empty, he walked to the front.
McGonagall was erasing the board with a flick of her wand. She didn't turn.
"Yes, Mr. Orion?"
He stopped a respectful distance away.
"I was wondering if I might borrow a book from your private collection," he said. "Something on advanced vanishing theory. For… personal study."
She finished the board, turned.
Her gaze was steady, assessing.
"You have access to the library. And the Restricted Section, should your research warrant it."
"This is more theoretical," he said. "The intersection of vanishing spells and soul magic. How relocation interacts with anchored essences."
McGonagall's expression tightened—just a fraction.
"That is advanced. And dangerous territory."
"I'm aware."
She studied him for a long moment.
"You are not a typical transfer student, are you?"
Lookon didn't flinch.
"No, Professor. I'm not."
Another silence.
Then she walked to a locked cabinet behind her desk, tapped it with her wand. It clicked open.
She withdrew a slim, leather-bound volume—no title on the spine, only a faint silver sigil that shimmered and vanished when looked at directly.
She placed it on the desk between them.
"*Vanishing and the Anchored Soul*," she said quietly. "Out of print for nearly a century. Borrowed once by Albus many years ago. Returned unmarked."
She slid it toward him.
"Handle it with care. Return it by the end of the week. And Luka—"
He met her eyes.
"If this research is connected to anything happening in this castle," she said, voice low, "you will tell me. Immediately."
Lookon took the book.
"I will," he said.
And he meant it.
As much as the truth allowed.
He left the classroom.
The corridor outside was empty now—late afternoon classes over, most students heading to dinner or Quidditch practice.
He walked slowly toward the library, book tucked under his arm.
Halfway down a quiet hallway, he passed a tall window overlooking the inner courtyard.
He paused.
Below, in the fading light, Harry Potter stood alone near the fountain.
No Ron. No Hermione.
Just Harry—hands in pockets, head tilted back, staring up at the sky as if searching for answers among the gathering clouds.
Lookon watched.
The boy looked small against the stone walls. Glasses catching the last of the sun. Scar hidden under fringe. Shoulders slightly hunched—the posture of someone carrying more than he understood.
For a moment, Lookon felt the urge to go down.
To say something simple.
*It gets heavier before it gets lighter.*
*You're not alone, even when it feels like it.*
*Hold on.*
But he didn't move.
Because words from a stranger—especially one who knew too much—would only confuse things.
Harry sighed once—small, almost lost in the wind—then turned and walked toward the Gryffindor tower entrance.
Lookon waited until he was gone.
Then continued to the library.
He found his alcove again.
Sat on the stool.
Opened the book McGonagall had lent him.
The pages were brittle, ink faded but legible.
Chapter One: *The Principle of Anchoring – How the soul resists relocation.*
He read slowly.
Line by line.
Letting the words sink in.
Not because he needed the theory—he already understood the mechanics of horcruxes better than most living wizards—but because reading gave shape to the quiet horror of what Voldemort had done.
Splitting a soul.
Binding fragments to objects.
Creating anchors that death could not touch.
And one of those anchors now lived in a boy who stood alone by fountains and stared at skies he didn't yet know how to reach.
Lookon closed the book after an hour.
The light had turned deep gold, then amber, then gone.
The library lamps had kindled themselves—soft, steady glows.
He sat in the quiet.
Felt the faint bleed still threading through the castle walls.
Felt the weight of the book in his lap.
Felt the distance between himself and the boy downstairs.
And accepted it.
This was his place now.
Observer.
Auditor.
Not savior.
Not friend.
Just the one who watched the crack.
And waited to see if it would widen.
When Madam Pince's bell rang for closing, he stood.
Returned to Ravenclaw Tower.
Climbed into bed.
Lay staring at the canopy.
Listened to the soft breathing of the dormitory.
And let the night carry on.
One slow, unhurried breath at a time.