The rest of the morning passed in fragments.
Transfiguration first.
McGonagall began exactly on time, sweeping into the classroom like a storm that had decided to behave itself for the moment. She didn't acknowledge Lookon's presence beyond a single, sharp glance as he took a seat near the back—close enough to observe, far enough to avoid drawing attention.
The lesson was on switching spells.
"Switching is not mere transposition," she said, voice cutting through the low murmur of settling students. "It is precision. Intent. Control. A single misplaced thought, and you will find your partner's nose affixed to their teacup."
A nervous ripple of laughter.
Lookon watched.
He had no wand yet—the System had not provided one, and he hadn't asked. Instead he mimicked the motions, wandless, letting the faint hum of magic in the air guide his fingers. When McGonagall demonstrated the switch—turning a matchstick into a needle and back again—he felt the pull.
Not like casting.
Like remembering something he had never learned.
The matchstick on his desk trembled once, silvered at the tip for half a second, then settled back into wood.
McGonagall's eyes flicked toward him.
She said nothing.
The class moved on.
He spent the hour observing more than participating: how Hermione Granger's hand shot up before the question finished, how Ron Weasley muttered under his breath every time his matchstick refused to cooperate, how Harry Potter stared at his own matchstick with quiet, stubborn focus until it finally changed—small, imperfect, but real.
Lookon noted the details the way the System prompted him to.
**Observation Log: Switching Spell Proficiency**
**Hermione Granger – Exceptional control, high precision**
**Ronald Weasley – Moderate intent, emotional interference**
**Harry James Potter – Latent power surge detected (untrained, unstable)**
**Luka Orion (self) – Adaptive mimicry successful (wandless variant, 67% efficacy)**
Lunch came after Charms—Professor Flitwick demonstrating levitation charms with enthusiastic squeaks—and Lookon ate alone at the end of the Ravenclaw table, picking at shepherd's pie while listening to snippets of conversation around him.
"…heard the new transfer's from Ilvermorny. They use different wand cores there, don't they?"
"…probably thinks he's too good for the Sorting…"
"…Dumbledore's pet project, I bet…"
He let the words wash over him without reacting.
The System flagged nothing urgent.
After lunch: History of Magic.
Binns droned on about the Goblin Rebellions of the 17th century. Lookon sat near the window, letting the professor's monotone voice become background noise while he watched dust motes dance in the sunlight.
He thought about Leekelo again.
About how he used to fall asleep during online lectures, head on his desk, earphones still playing lo-fi beats.
About how he'd wake up to notifications from the group chat: memes, chapter reactions, someone complaining about exams.
The ache was quieter now. Not gone—just settled, like sediment at the bottom of a glass.
When the bell rang, he stood slowly.
The rest of the afternoon blurred: Herbology in the greenhouses (Professor Sprout cheerful, dirt under everyone's nails), Astronomy theory in a stuffy tower room (Professor Sinistra's voice soft and distant, like she was speaking from the stars themselves).
By dinner, Lookon felt the castle's rhythm settling into his bones.
Not belonging.
Not yet.
But familiarity.
The Great Hall was fuller tonight—candles floating higher, enchanted ceiling showing a clear, star-strewn night. Whispers followed him as he entered.
He ignored them.
Ravenclaw table again. He sat near the middle this time, beside a quiet sixth-year girl who was reading *Hogwarts: A History* for the third time that week.
She glanced up.
"Luka, right?"
He nodded.
"Penelope Clearwater. Prefect. Welcome."
"Thanks."
She returned to her book.
Lookon ate mechanically—roast chicken, mashed potatoes, gravy that tasted too rich after days of nothing. He listened to the hall's pulse: laughter from Gryffindor, sharp debate from Slytherin, steady chatter from Hufflepuff.
Then Dumbledore stood.
The hall quieted almost instantly.
"Before dessert," the headmaster said, voice carrying without effort, "we have one small matter of ceremony."
He gestured toward the staff table.
The Sorting Hat was carried forward on its stool by Professor McGonagall—looking faintly amused at the formality.
Dumbledore's eyes twinkled as they found Lookon.
"Mr. Luka Orion, our provisional transfer student, will be sorted tonight. A rare mid-year occasion, but Hogwarts has always welcomed those who seek knowledge, no matter when they arrive."
A murmur rippled through the tables.
Lookon stood.
He felt every eye on him.
He walked to the front—slow steps, shoulders relaxed, expression calm.
The Hat was placed on his head.
Darkness.
Not the void of the rift.
Something warmer. Older. Threadbare fabric smelling faintly of dust and centuries of young minds.
A voice—dry, thoughtful, slightly amused—spoke directly into his mind.
*Well, well. Not quite what I expected.*
Lookon didn't answer aloud.
The Hat chuckled—a low, rasping sound.
*You don't need to speak, boy. I see you clearly enough.*
Images flickered—not memories exactly, but impressions.
Rain on a Chennai street.
A truck's headlights.
A glowing blue panel in endless black.
Universes layered like pages in an infinite book.
Harry Potter's uncertain smile at breakfast.
The quiet rot of seven hidden soul fragments.
The Hat paused.
*You are no ordinary child. Not even an ordinary man.*
Another pause.
*Brave enough to step into stories not your own. Loyal to a duty no one asked of you. Clever enough to hide in plain sight. Ambitious? Perhaps. But not for power—for balance.*
Lookon felt the Hat tilting, considering.
*Difficult. Very difficult.*
The hall was silent.
The Hat's brim twitched.
*You carry eternity in your bones, yet you walk softly. You could belong anywhere… and nowhere.*
A long silence.
Then, quietly, almost gently:
*Ravenclaw.*
The last word rang out clear.
The Ravenclaw table erupted in polite applause—curious, welcoming, not overwhelming.
Lookon lifted the Hat from his head, handed it back to McGonagall with a small nod.
She met his eyes for a second—searching, but not unkind.
He returned to the Ravenclaw table.
Penelope Clearwater smiled faintly.
"Welcome properly, then."
Lookon sat.
Dessert appeared: treacle tart, custard, chocolate gateau.
He took a small slice of tart.
The sweetness cut through the lingering taste of chicken.
Around him, conversation resumed.
He ate slowly.
The Hat's words lingered in his mind.
*You could belong anywhere… and nowhere.*
He looked across the hall.
Harry Potter was watching him—briefly, curiously—before turning back to Ron's excited retelling of some Quidditch story.
Lookon looked away.
The stars wheeled overhead on the enchanted ceiling.
He finished his tart.
The meal ended.
Students began to rise, heading to common rooms.
Lookon stood last.
He followed the Ravenclaws out—past the eagle knocker, up the spiraling stairs, through the door that asked its riddle ("Which came first: the phoenix or the flame?" He answered quietly, correctly).
The common room was airy, blue drapes, bookshelves that seemed to stretch forever, starlight pouring through arched windows.
He was shown a bed in the boys' dormitory—simple, curtained, a small trunk already waiting with the Hogwarts crest on it.
He sat on the edge of the mattress.
The room quieted as others settled.
Lookon stared at the canopy above.
The System appeared, soft blue glow.
**Sorting Complete: Ravenclaw**
**Integration Progress: 41%**
**Anomaly Status: Stable**
**Next Recommended Action: Rest. Observe. Prepare for deeper audit phase.**
He lay back.
The mattress was softer than his bed in Leekelo had ever been.
He closed his eyes—not to sleep, but to listen.
To the soft breathing of five other boys.
To the distant hoot of an owl outside.
To the castle settling for the night.
And somewhere, deep inside, the smallest whisper of a question:
*What now?*
The answer came slowly, in the dark.
One day.
One class.
One quiet observation.
At a time.