The Great Hall smelled of toast, bacon, and the faint metallic tang of polished silverware.
Lookon—Luka now, he reminded himself—stood just inside the entrance for a long moment, letting the warmth and noise wash over him.
Hundreds of voices rose and fell in overlapping waves. Chairs scraped against flagstones. Cutlery clinked. A first-year somewhere let out a startled yelp as their goblet refilled itself too enthusiastically and spilled pumpkin juice across the table.
He felt oddly small in the doorway.
Not because of the castle's grandeur—he had walked its grounds all night—but because this was the first place since Leekelo where other people existed in the same space as him. Real people. Breathing, laughing, arguing, living people who had no idea a dead man from another universe was watching them eat breakfast.
The System hovered at the corner of his vision, discreet as ever.
**Social Integration Phase: Initiated**
**Suggested Entry Protocol: Ravenclaw or Gryffindor table (neutral visibility)**
**Current Identity Credibility: 94.2% (Ministry owl en route with sealed transfer papers)**
**Anomaly Monitoring: Active (horcrux signatures stable, no acute bleed detected)**
**Recommendation: Minimal verbal engagement. Observe speech patterns, hierarchy, emotional baselines.**
He stepped forward.
No one turned to stare. The cloaking field had softened into something subtler—an illusion that made him look like he belonged. A seventh-year who had simply arrived late, perhaps from a delayed Portkey or an overnight journey. Robes the right length, posture the right amount of casual confidence. Nothing flashy.
He walked along the outer edge of the hall, past Slytherin's green banners, Hufflepuff's yellow, Ravenclaw's blue, until he reached Gryffindor's long table near the far end.
A spot had opened up between two older students—a boy with untidy brown hair reading the *Daily Prophet* upside-down and a girl braiding another girl's hair while arguing about Quidditch fouls.
Lookon slid onto the bench.
No dramatic hush. No sudden silence.
The boy glanced up, nodded vaguely—"Morning"—and went back to his paper.
The girl with the braid gave him a quick once-over, then returned to her debate.
Lookon exhaled through his nose.
Step one: not immediately expelled or questioned. Success.
He reached for the nearest platter. Toast. Golden, still warm, butter already melting in little yellow pools. He took two slices, placed them on his plate with deliberate care, as if the act required concentration.
The small motions felt grounding.
He spread butter slowly, watching it sink into the bread. Took a bite.
It tasted exactly like toast should.
Slightly salty, slightly sweet, the crunch giving way to softness.
For a second the ache in his chest eased.
He chewed, swallowed, took another bite.
Around him the conversations flowed.
"…heard Flint's planning to bribe the house-elves again this year…"
"…McGonagall's already given three detentions and it's only breakfast…"
"…that new kid—Potter—did you see him at the sorting? The Hat took ages…"
Lookon kept his eyes on his plate, but his ears were tuned to every word.
Harry Potter.
The name landed like a pebble in still water.
He risked a glance down the table.
There—near the middle, sandwiched between a red-haired boy who was demolishing a stack of sausages and a bushy-haired girl who was reading while eating—sat Harry.
Smaller than the movies had made him seem. Glasses slightly crooked. Scar hidden under messy black fringe. He was listening to the redhead talk animatedly, nodding every few seconds, a small, uncertain smile on his face.
Lookon looked away before the stare could linger.
He knew the story.
Orphan. Cupboard under the stairs. First friend on a train. First taste of belonging.
He also knew what came after.
The troll. The diary. The basilisk. The graveyard.
The quiet rot of seven pieces of soul scattered like poison seeds.
He took another bite of toast.
The butter had cooled; it tasted less like comfort now.
**Observation Log Update:**
**Subject: Harry James Potter**
**Emotional Baseline: Cautious optimism / residual wariness**
**Social Integration Rate: Moderate (primary attachments forming: Ronald Weasley, Hermione Granger)**
**Horcrux Proximity: Fragment #1 (scar tissue link) – stable, no active corruption detected**
**Risk Assessment: Low immediate. Long-term monitoring required.**
Lookon read the entry in silence.
He wanted to walk over. To say something—anything. "Hey, you're going to be okay." Or "Watch out for snakes." Or even just "Nice scar."
But he didn't.
Because the System was right.
Minimal interference.
He was here to audit, not to rewrite.
If he changed even one small thing—warned Harry about Quirrell, for example—the ripple could spread. A different choice at Halloween. A different outcome in the third-floor corridor. A different Voldemort rising, or not rising at all.
And then what?
A universe out of balance in a new way.
He finished the first piece of toast. Reached for marmalade.
A shadow fell across his plate.
He looked up.
A tall boy—seventh-year, Ravenclaw badge gleaming—stood beside him, holding a rolled parchment sealed with red wax.
"Luka Orion?" the boy asked, voice polite but curious.
Lookon nodded once.
"Ministry owl just arrived. Professor McGonagall asked me to deliver it." He handed over the parchment. "Said to report to her office after breakfast if you're enrolling properly."
Lookon took it. The seal felt warm under his thumb.
"Thanks."
The Ravenclaw boy hesitated. "You're from Ilvermorny, right? Heard the transfer was last-minute."
"Family stuff," Lookon said, keeping his tone light, neutral. "MACUSA paperwork nightmare."
The boy gave a sympathetic grimace. "Sounds like our Ministry. Good luck with McGonagall—she's strict, but fair."
He walked away.
Lookon broke the seal.
Inside: official-looking letterhead, signatures, a short paragraph confirming "temporary enrollment privileges pending full review," and a handwritten note at the bottom in sharp, precise script.
*Mr. Orion,
Report to my office at 10 a.m. Bring any relevant documentation.
We do not tolerate unexplained absences or unregistered magic at Hogwarts.
— Minerva McGonagall*
Lookon folded the letter carefully.
10 a.m.
He had time.
He ate the second piece of toast more slowly, listening to the hall slowly empty as students drifted toward first classes.
Harry and his friends stood up near the middle of the table. The redhead—Ron—was complaining loudly about double Potions first thing. Hermione was already reciting the ingredients for a Draught of Peace from memory. Harry just listened, smiling faintly.
They passed within ten feet of Lookon.
He kept his eyes on his plate.
But he felt the moment stretch—the brush of their presence, the faint warmth of their voices, the ordinary miracle of three eleven-year-olds walking to class together.
When they were gone, he stood.
The hall was quieter now. Only stragglers remained, finishing cereal or sneaking extra bacon.
Lookon walked toward the doors.
The stone corridor outside was cool after the hall's warmth. Torches burned steadily. Portraits murmured good mornings as he passed.
He didn't rush.
He had forty minutes until McGonagall's office.
Plenty of time to find a quiet corner, read the letter again, let the reality of this place settle deeper into his bones.
Plenty of time to remind himself why he was here.
Not to befriend Harry Potter.
Not to fight Voldemort early.
Not to play hero.
To watch.
To measure.
To wait for the moment when the balance tipped—and then, only then, to act.
He found an alcove near a suit of armor that looked like it had seen better centuries.
He leaned against the wall.
Closed his eyes for a second—not to rest, but to listen.
The castle hummed around him.
Somewhere far off, a class bell rang.
First period beginning.
Lookon opened his eyes.
He pushed off the wall.
McGonagall was waiting.
And after that—whatever came next.
One careful step at a time.