At Hogwarts, the story begins with deconstructing Avada Kedavra.

In the afternoon, the library was so quiet that only the rustling of turning pages could be heard.

Sunlight streamed through the towering stained-glass windows, turning the dust motes golden. Lucien sat at the long table in the far corner, a copy of "The Paradox of Medieval Soulology" open before him.

A shadow was cast on the pages of his book.

Lucian didn't look up, his fingers still sliding over the obscure runes: "If you're here to ask about the citation format for transfiguration assignments, Mrs. Pince has a detailed guide."

"It's not homework."

Hermione Granger's voice was tense. She pulled out the chair opposite him and sat down, her movements stiff as if she were facing a snapping snail that might explode at any moment.

She pushed a neatly folded handkerchief in front of Lucien.

The handkerchief was washed very clean, and even had a faint scent of lavender soap, the bloody smell of that night was long gone.

"Thank you for the handkerchief. And..." Hermione took a deep breath, staring intently at Lucien, as if trying to glean something from beneath his calm facade, "and what you did to me in the women's restroom."

Lucian finally looked up and closed his book: "I don't recall casting any spells on you in the women's restroom, Miss Granger. Defamation is a crime in the wizarding world."

"It wasn't a curse!" Hermione whispered urgently, leaning forward. "It was that feeling... that feeling of clarity. When you gave me the handkerchief, that strange thought that I had to be grateful to Harry and Ron, that I had to fit in, suddenly..."

She bit her lip and voiced the suspicion that had terrified her all night:

"That voice kept telling me it was friendship, it was being moved. But looking back now, it felt more like... a forced psychological suggestion. You helped me break free of it, didn't you?"

This little witch is more perceptive than expected.

Lucien leaned back in his chair, his fingers interlaced.

"An interesting hypothesis. Seeking logical consistency by denying one's own emotions is very un-Gryffindor."

He neither admitted nor denied it, but instead threw the question back at him.

"But Miss Granger, have you ever considered that perhaps there is no magic at all? Perhaps your mind, which has always pursued logic and truth, has finally become unable to tolerate those hypocritical games of make-believe and has produced a reaction called reason?"

Hermione was stunned.

"If you think it's a suggestion, then it is a suggestion. If you think it's false, then it is false."

Lucien extended his finger and gently tapped the handkerchief.

"What the world shows you is not important; what matters is what you choose to see. Now that you've seen the cracks, why try to find answers from the person who created them? Don't you have your own conclusions?"

These words, though not directly pointing the way, illuminated the answer Hermione dared not confirm in her heart.

Yes, she didn't need Lucien's acknowledgment. The truth was, only in his presence could she feel that unscripted, cold, and authentic self.

"I understand." She grabbed the handkerchief, stuffed it back into her pocket without hesitation, and said, "I won't let myself be overwhelmed by that feeling again. Whatever it was that was behind it."

She stood up, holding her books.

"I will find out the truth. In my own way."

Watching her walk away,

well.

The seed has been planted; all we need to do is wait for it to sprout.

Compared to a know-it-all who only follows the savior around cleaning up his messes, Hermione Granger, who is full of doubt and even hostility towards the plot, can provide a much greater amount of variables.

"Struggle hard."

Lucian put away the books on the table.

……

On the eighth floor, opposite the tapestry of the giant stick beating up Banaba.

Lucian walked past that wall three times, silently thinking, "I need a place of absolute isolation, a place where I can analyze the essence of the soul."

Doors appeared.

A dissection table floated in the center of the room, with a dark red mist bound to it, wildly thrashing about.

That was something he had taken from Quirrell during class.

To be precise, it was a remnant of Voldemort's soul, mixed with Quirrell's own life force.

"Hiss—Kill...kill you..."

A distorted human face vaguely emerged from the red mist, emitting a shriek that could only be heard on a soul level.

That pure malice is enough to drive an ordinary wizard to a mental breakdown.

But to Lucien, this was nothing more than a fierce roar that was actually weak inside.

He raised his hand, and the gray magic directly pinched the ball of red mist.

A hissing sound of corrosion rang out.

The arrogant remnant soul of the Dark Lord emitted wisps of blue smoke.

Deconstruction.

As the layers of gray magic were peeled away, the deepest part of this remnant soul was exposed.

At the very core of that pitch-black soul, a golden thread was clearly wrapped around it.

The golden thread merged deeply with this fragment of soul, becoming one with Voldemort's very being. It exuded an aura of grandeur, majesty, and inviolability.

That's the taste of the world's will.

"I see……"

He always believed that Horcruxes were evil creations made by Voldemort to escape death, the ultimate form of dark magic that defied the heavens.

But now it seems like a complete joke.

This golden thread shows that the so-called "immortality" is a privilege bestowed upon Voldemort by the will of the world.

Because this huge stage play needs a villain who is terrifying enough and invincible, to hone the savior.

In order for this epic saga, which has lasted for seven years, to continue, the plot cannot allow Voldemort to die completely.

Even if Voldemort cuts his soul into pieces like breadcrumbs, as long as the plot requires him, the world's will will use these golden threads to keep his wretched life afloat.

"Is this the truth about Horcruxes?"

Lucien looked at the struggling ball of red mist in his hand, his eyes filled with pity.

"Tom Riddle, you think you've conquered death? No, you're just locked on stage by the script, you don't even have the right to leave."

So, conversely...

If he could control these Horcruxes, if he could corrupt these golden threads that connect to the core of the plot, could he turn the tables and hijack the entire world's direction by controlling the life and death of the villains?

The wisp of remnant soul in its hand seemed to sense Lucien's even more evil thoughts, and began to tremble violently, trying to escape from this madman.

"It's too late."

Lucian suddenly clenched his five fingers.

The gray thread transformed into countless tiny tentacles, following the golden thread, and plunged deep into the remnant soul.

"Since you are the 'immortal anchor' designated by this world,"

"Then I'll make you my anchor."

The walls of the Room of Requirement began to tremble, as if the entire Hogwarts Castle was shuddering at this blasphemous act that defied the established rules.

On that ethereal river of fate, the once clearly visible future is suddenly shrouded in an impenetrable fog due to the change in this anchor point.