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The Black Sea and the isolated island slowly faded into the mist, dissolving layer by layer like the unraveling of an enchanted tapestry.
At first, Ian’s mind drifted into the remnants of his dream, but as his senses sharpened, a chill crept across his face, seeping through his skin like a ghostly touch.
Beneath the thin blanket, the night air seeped through the fabric, carrying the crisp bite of the season’s change from late autumn to early winter. Slowly opening his eyes, Ian became aware of the muffled sounds outside his window.
Rain lashed against the glass, driven by fierce winds, yet the storm did little to disturb those lost in slumber.
The rhythmic snoring of William and Michael, his two dormitory mates, filled the room. For Ian, such sounds had never been a nuisance; his years at the orphanage had made him more adaptable than most. He rubbed his eyes and glanced at the enchanted clock on the wall.
12:07.
The familiar numbers glowed softly, unchanged, even though Ian was certain he had spent much longer in the Twilight Realm than ever before.
Previously, his visits there had lasted mere moments, but today had been different— he had been drawn into its depths for nearly half a day. He recalled Professor Mara’s cryptic words: “Next time will be different.”
“Perhaps it has to do with my magical reserves.” The only tangible change Ian could identify was that he had eaten the fabled Golden Apple that Pandero had discovered in the Twilight Realm.
—
Name: Ian Prince
Occupation: Bloodline Sorcerer
Magic Reserves: Level 8 (Explosive Surge Imminent)
Skills: [Wisdom’s Insight (This ability cannot be upgraded)]
—
Unnoticed, his magical reserves had advanced overnight. He couldn’t precisely gauge his current level, but it was certainly beyond that of most seasoned wizards.
The Golden Apple’s effects were undeniably potent.
“The Dark Lord’s self-inflicted transformations are perilous, likely because they belong to a branch of magic developed after the Golden Apples had already vanished from existence.”
Ian’s speculation seemed sound. If consuming a Golden Apple could elevate one’s magic to unfathomable heights, who would willingly undertake a dangerous, irreversible transformation upon themselves?
Just look at He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named— his warped existence bore witness to the consequences of unnatural magical alteration. How could such a grotesque metamorphosis compare to the effortless, elegant enhancement granted by the Golden Apple, which neither disfigured the body nor clouded the mind?
If given the choice, no rational wizard would resort to Dark transformations when something far safer had once existed. Ian suspected that human body modification magic had only emerged in the aftermath of the Golden Apple’s extinction.
“Professor Mara is truly ruthless. Fortunately, I’m not much better, or my conscience would never allow me to learn from her.”
Ian had always been keenly self-aware. He didn’t consider himself evil, but he certainly didn’t see himself as noble either.
At times, he didn’t even recognize just how far removed from normal human behavior he had become.
“Level 8 still isn’t the Golden Apple’s limit.”
The words “Explosive Surge Imminent” remained next to his magic reserves, signifying that his power was still growing— rapidly.
And they would at least increase by one more level.
This was undeniably good news. While his current age didn’t demand overwhelming magical prowess, his awakening of the extraordinary trait [Shaping All Things] in the Twilight Realm changed everything.
Gamp’s Laws of Elemental Transfiguration no longer bound him. This extraordinary gift allowed him to defy the fundamental rules of magic— creating magical artifacts, multiplying Transfigured objects beyond standard limitations, and more.
Of course, while theoretically possible, conjuring edible food or animating lifeless objects remained constrained by his current proficiency. He could infuse conjured meals with temporary nourishment, but the magical cost was exorbitant.
However, unlike ordinary Transfiguration, once the influence was withdrawn, the food wouldn’t vanish or revert. Ian had possibly stumbled upon the edges of perpetual Transfiguration— a phenomenon akin to breaking another law: granting true life to inanimate objects.
Typically, Professor McGonagall could transform a desk into a pig, but once her magic ceased to act upon it, the pig would revert to its wooden state.
Ian, of course, couldn’t permanently bestow life. Perhaps not even Rowena Ravenclaw herself could. But he could ensure that Transfigured meat remained as meat, even after a magical attack had struck it. This nudged him closer to the domain of a true Creator, though he still had a long path ahead.
For now, he wasn’t about to attempt anything too extreme. Instead, he planned to test two transformations beyond the reach of most wizards.
“Vera Verto!”
Seated at his dormitory desk, Ian waved his wand over his water goblet. Instantly, the cup split into three identical copies before shifting into tiny, squeaking field mice.
Even at Level 5 Transfiguration, they were incredibly lifelike— while not quite as flawless as Professor McGonagall’s infamous Animagus demonstration, they were a far cry from mere conjurations.
But the most remarkable feat wasn’t their realism. It was their number.
Tripling a Transfigured entity— creating three from one— was something no other wizard could achieve, no matter how advanced their skill.
Of course, for Ian, achieving multiple transformations would exponentially increase the consumption of Magic Power. The more numerous the transformations, the more terrifying the Magic Power consumption would be.
“Vera Verto!”
Little Jerrys kept appearing. When the number reached twenty-four, Ian felt he had reached his limit. His Magic Power’s Influence was almost completely released.
“Only twenty-four? Not even seventy-seven? That’s disappointing!” As Ian withdrew his [Influence], the group of little Jerrys on the table turned back into a single intact water cup.
The fatigue from Magic Power uses wasn’t too severe. It was worth noting that soul transformations were special. Once a soul was twisted, even if the [Influence] was withdrawn, it couldn’t return to its original state.
This was why out-of-control transformation products couldn’t be reversed. The transformation of Voldemort’s remnant soul in the Twilight Zone wouldn’t permanently occupy Ian’s Magic Power influence.
“Vera Verto!”
Different Transfiguration incantations would affect the utilization of [Magic Influence], determining the difficulty of certain directional transformations.
However, Ian currently only mastered the basic Transfiguration spell, so the conversion efficiency of Transfiguration’s [Magic Influence] wasn’t high. Still, he managed to transform the water cup once more.
The water cup twisted and turned into a Niffler with a magical pouch. Transforming magical items or even creatures was a form of transfigurative creation that Ian temporarily granted himself with Magic Power.
Normally, the stronger the Magic Power granted, the stronger the transformation creation would be. It was possible to conjure a paper griffin or a Welsh Green, but the large size of a Welsh Green would consume a significant amount of Magic Power.
“My knowledge reserves also influence the level of Magic Power consumption. The more familiar I am with the creature or object I want to transfigure, the less Magic Power I need to consume during the transformation process.”
Ian summarized his findings.
Due to his unfamiliarity with spatial magic like the [Undetectable Extension Charm], even a single Niffler placed a heavy burden on his Magic Power, with the gains far outweighing the costs.
Of course, this gap between cost and gain would inevitably decrease as Ian became more familiar with the Niffler and its magical abilities. The same applied to magical creations. The more familiar he was with the magical creation he wanted to transform, the lower the Magic Power cost would be.
“Being able to achieve this level is already quite extraordinary. I can’t imagine how the awakening of a legendary trait would transcend the common understanding of the wizarding world.” Ian completed his experimentation with his new abilities amidst the snores of his roommates. Outside, the rain continued to pour with thunder rumbling.
With the awakening of the extraordinary trait of magic, Ian felt a sense of joy. Although he hadn’t slept much that night, he was still full of energy and not the least bit sleepy.
“Let’s study some alchemy to relax.” Ian pulled out a few books he had borrowed from the library. Learning the knowledge from the fragments of Professor Mara’s enchanted robes required the help of other foundational books.
After all, the space on the robe fragments was limited, only recording the most crucial knowledge. The field of alchemy was definitely not something that could be summarized in a few words.
Even if Professor Mara were to unravel every thread of her robes, the space on them would still struggle to comprehensively document alchemy. In fact, the fragments only contained a few specialized areas within the field.
Moreover, compared to the current books, Ian could learn different things. Knowledge from different eras had its own advantages and disadvantages.
“Basics of Alchemy”
“Magical Flames Alchemy: From Ash to Arcana”
“The Enchanter’s Furnace: A Fantastical Journey of Alchemy”
Whether it was the powerful gift for Aurora or the regular assessments from Professor Mara, along with Ian’s own interests and expectations for magical transfigurative creation, all these factors motivated him to study alchemy.
He immersed himself in the sea of knowledge.
Diligent, focused, and with growing proficiency, his abilities were on the rise.
“Boom!”
Outside the window, the rain intensified and it felt as if the sky had sprung a leak.
The deafening roar made Ian instinctively look up outside.
He saw the world beyond the window shrouded in chaos. The rain fell like countless silver ribbons, furiously cascading from the sky, weaving into a massive curtain of water.
The flowing water on the window obscured most of his view.
From time to time, lightning would slice through the night sky, followed by a thunderous roar that shook the entire castle, adding a thrilling momentum to the downpour.
“Why is there fire?”
Ian peered through the blurred glass of the window and noticed flames of gold and orange intertwining in the distance amidst the thunderstorm, radiant and glorious like a rising sun.
‘Could it be a magical creature appearing there?’
The intense magical fluctuations were both intoxicating and terrifying. The flames held power and authority, allowing Ian to feel the unique rhythm of magic even from a distance.
“I can see… its rhythm… so clearly. Is this a qualitative change brought by the increase in Magic Power level?” Ian wasn’t sure, but the next moment, he was drawn to the magical imprint on his personal panel.
[Observing and learning high-level Fire Spells, Transfiguration Proficiency +1, Fire Spell Proficiency +3. Dark Curses Proficiency +5]
‘What the hell!’
‘Forget about Transfiguration and Fire Spells!’
‘Why is there also a Dark Curse!?’
Is there a magical creature in the wizarding world with such characteristics?
…
“Knock, Knock, Knock!”
Just as Ian took out the’Magical Creatures and Where to Find them? book’ to fill the gaps in his knowledge, an urgent knocking sounded at the dormitory door.
“Wake up! Get up!”
It was the voice of the Ravenclaw male Prefect, Dietrich, loud enough to rouse Ian’s two roommates, who were still fast asleep.
“Knock, Knock, Knock!”
“Knock, Knock, Knock!”
The knocking continued incessantly. Frowning, Ian put away his book and strode to the door, opening it to find Prefect Dietrich standing outside with his wand in hand, his expression taut with urgency.
He was glancing around as if on high alert.
“What’s happened?” Ian asked, already suspecting another disturbance. It was only his third day at Hogwarts, yet it seemed like peace was a luxury he wouldn’t be afforded anytime soon.
“Some idiot released Ashwinders in the castle! They’re everywhere— slithering out of fireplaces and nesting in dark corners. If we don’t act fast, we’ll have an infestation on our hands!” Dietrich hissed through gritted teeth.
Ian’s mind flicked to what he had read in ‘Magical Creatures and Where to Find them?’ Ashwinders were thin, pale-gray serpents with glowing red eyes, born from magical flames.
They slithered away to lay eggs in dark, secluded places, leaving behind a trail of ash. Though their lifespan was barely an hour, their reproductive rate was astonishing, making them a classified threat at the XXX danger level.
The Ministry of Magic’s Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures categorized magical beings into five levels. The XXXXX classification was reserved for creatures that were virtually impossible to tame and had a record of wizard fatalities.
At the lower end were X and XX creatures, harmless or easily managed, like Flobberworms, Mooncalves, and the popular Bowtruckles.
But at XXX and above? Those creatures were dangerous enough to require skilled handling. Ashwinders, with their rapid spread and potential for destruction, were certainly no joke. Even a powerful wizard could find them troublesome if left unchecked.
Especially at a school teeming with young witches and wizards— one careless mistake could spell disaster. No wonder the Prefect was pounding on doors in the middle of the night. It was likely the same in the other Houses.
“Everyone’s being summoned to the Great Hall. Forget about getting any sleep tonight. Whoever’s responsible for this mess is either getting expelled or shipped straight to Azkaban,” Dietrich grumbled, moving on to wake the other Ravenclaws.
“I just want to study. Is that really too much to ask?” Ian muttered in exasperation. With a sigh, he turned back to the dormitory and gave each of his still-sleeping roommates a firm slap.
“Loyalty! Absolute loyalty!”
“Don’t eat me! I taste awful!”
Both boys jolted awake, blurting out sleep-muddled nonsense that left Ian utterly baffled. What on earth had they been dreaming about?
“What’s going on? It’s not even dawn, is it?” Michael groaned.
“Oh, Ian, my savior, thank you for waking me!” William gasped dramatically.
Ian rolled his eyes and tossed their robes at them. “The professors are gathering everyone in the Great Hall. Hogwarts is in trouble— again.”
“Why do you say ‘again’?” Michael asked, still groggy as he fumbled for his extension bag. William, on the other hand, snatched up his magic-powered lantern, gripping it like a lifeline.
They followed Ian into the common room, where the air was thick with nervous chatter. The two Ravenclaw Prefects were on guard, wands at the ready, as they counted students.
“Petrificus Totalus!”
A flash of light shot across the room as a senior student struck an Ashwinder emerging from the fireplace, freezing it mid-slither just before it could lunge.
Hogwarts’ curriculum might be rigorous, but this was no ordinary classroom exercise. Though upper-year students had honed their combat skills, the sudden attack left younger students reeling in fear.
“How did this even happen?! Ashwinders— here, of all places?!”
“My dad lost an arm to those things! We’re doomed!”
“I thought Hogwarts was the safest place in the world! I want to go home!”
“Where’s my sister?! Is she already dead?! Waaaah! And she had all the Galleons Dad gave me! I still need them for Professor Ian’s classes!”
…
They were all like greenhouse flowers.
Faced with sudden chaos, the younger students were utterly terrified. A few had already been attacked in their dormitories and were now crying and clinging to the group in fear.
Fortunately, the older students remained composed.
“Something’s not right,” Ian muttered, frowning as he took in the sight of several lifeless Ashwinders strewn across the common room floor.
Ashwinders weren’t supposed to be this aggressive.
Their purpose was to lay eggs and perish shortly after.
By nature, Ashwinders avoided confrontation, seeking only dark, warm spaces to reproduce. Yet this group was acting unnaturally, slithering out of every possible crevice to attack students.
“Someone must have put some sirt of curse on them,” Came a quiet but firm voice beside him.
Ian turned to see Penelope Clearwater approaching cautiously with her wand in hand.
“Can you handle this?” She asked, eyeing him with an unreadable expression.
“Of course.” Ian drew his wand without hesitation. The Full Body-Bind Curse was somewhat effective against the creatures, but he doubted it would be enough to neutralize the threat entirely.
“Inflatus!”
With a flick of his wand, Ian targeted an Ashwinder slithering in through the window. In an instant, the creature swelled grotesquely before bursting in a mist of dark ichor.
“?????”
Penelope flinched, gripping her wand more tightly. She opened her mouth as if to say something— then wisely shut it. Had that been an Inflating Charm or a Severing Charm?
Several upper-year students cast wary glances his way.
The younger students, on the other hand, looked at Ian with awestruck admiration.
“Everyone’s accounted for! Stick together— older students, keep the younger ones safe!” Prefect Dietrich called out, ushering the group towards the exit.
Leading the charge, he appeared both tense and… was that excitement in his expression?
Many of the senior students wore similar looks of exhilaration.
“They’re eager to put their studies into practice,” Ian noted, not particularly keen on fading into the background when a golden opportunity presented itself.
‘Play the fool?’
‘Who wanted to play the fool?’
One didn’t need to act weak to hide one’s fangs.
“Inflatus!”
“Inflatus!”
…
As Ian cast spell after spell, his proficiency in the Inflating Charm naturally improved. The technique refined itself in his mind, and before long, he found himself executing it non-verbally. Another step forward in magical mastery.
Even the immobilized Ashwinders, frozen in place by other students’ spells, weren’t spared— Ian made sure to finish them off.
After all, who knew how long the stunning effects would last? A single lapse and the creatures could scatter, laying dozens of eggs in mere moments. Ian was simply helping the seniors clean up their unfinished work.
However…
“This… do you… have some rather unorthodox preferences?” Penelope eyed him warily as she asked.
“Huh?” Ian turned his head in confusion, just as another Ashwinder erupted in a shower of mist. He had just saved another student— his conscience had never felt clearer.
“…Never mind.” Penelope decided against pressing further, instead shifting the topic. “Dumbledore asked me to pass on a message. The twin you’re looking for— it’s him.”
Ian’s eyes widened in disbelief as he heard this.
In his moment of distraction, his fluctuating magic caused an Ashwinder to swell to monstrous proportions before bursting into an even larger explosion.
Splatters of dark ichor rained down on the upper-year students standing nearby.
“What do we do? I want to hex him… but what if he explodes me instead?”
The affected students quietly wiped their faces, swallowing their irritation.
“Indeed, such a talented student. And so handsome. It was obviously just an accident. I should let it go… I wouldn’t want to leave a bad impression.”
Their expressions grew conspicuously neutral, as though competing to appear the least fazed.
“Has Ian been secretly practicing?”
Cho Chang, watching from the crowd, whispered to her dormmate.
“Not really. He sleeps earlier than William. Ah, I wonder how Rebecca is… Is she hurt? How could something this dangerous happen at Hogwarts?”
His thoughts were entirely on his younger sister.
“Someone from Slytherin or Griffindore is probably behind this,” Cho Chang muttered darkly. She wanted to ask Ian’s other roommate, but William was too preoccupied to respond.
“Brilliant! Ruthless! Intimidating! He must be the future right-hand of a secret society! My ancestors must be watching over me to assign me such a legendary roommate!”
William, trailing behind Ian, practically vibrated with excitement.
At that moment, his roommate’s figure seemed impossibly tall, exuding an aura of prestige. His family’s pride and his own future prospects flashed before his eyes.
“Damn those house elves!” he thought bitterly. “If not for them, I could do so much more for Ian! I’d wash his shoes, his socks, his robes— anything to prove my loyalty!”
There was not even an ounce of concern for the Ashwinders in his mind.
“If I could hold Ian’s wand for him, polish it, carry it for him, I would!”
…
Poor child.
He is only eleven years old and he had already conditioned to idolize others.
“Boom!”
Lost in their own thoughts, no one was prepared for the sudden explosion up ahead.
As they neared the Great Hall, another violent blast rang out.
An Ashwinder attack.
A Gryffindor student had foolishly attempted to toy with a serpent and ended up losing half his arm in the process.
He was screaming in agony.
Madam Pomfrey rushed over to administer emergency treatment, while Professors McGonagall, Sprout, Flitwick, and others were fending off Ashwinders attacking from all directions.
For them, Ashwinders were not the most formidable of magical creatures.
However, the sheer number of them flooding the Great Hall was overwhelming. It felt as though they were being directed by some unseen force, all converging in a relentless effort to breach Hogwarts’ defenses.
Like a swarm.
An individual Ashwinder might be a fleeting nuisance, but en masse, they posed a grave threat even to the strongest of wizards. Ian’s eyes reflected the thousands of serpentine creatures slithering toward them from every direction, endlessly.
“Someone is controlling these Ashwinders!” Professor McGonagall declared, her expression steely as she commanded dozens of enchanted suits of armor to join the battle. The armors clanked into motion, wielding their swords with remarkable skill— a testament to McGonagall’s command over Transfiguration.
After all, she was a Gryffindor through and through.
“Students, inside! Now!” She ordered. “We’re sealing the doors! Older students, assist the professors— find the source of this infestation!”
Professor Flitwick flicked his wand, sending a flurry of icy spells down the Ravenclaw corridor. Several exhausted upper-year students, overwhelmed by Ashwinders, were frozen into protective ice statues on the spot.
“Move quickly!”
The two Prefects led the younger students into the Great Hall, comforting the frightened first-years before joining the older students at the entrance to assist the professors.
“Are we going to die here?”
Cho Chang’s voice trembled as she watched the Ashwinders pour into the castle, their glowing embers leaving scorched trails in the stone floor.
“Don’t worry, the professors aren’t even using their full strength yet.” Ian knew well that they were holding back, avoiding spells that could cause irreparable damage to the castle.
“McGonagall is searching for the source. I just hope she doesn’t run into something worse.” Cho Chang shuddered at the thought— whatever was commanding these creatures had to be incredibly powerful.
“You underestimate our Transfiguration teacher. Even our Head of House wouldn’t know more about magical combat than McGonagall. There’s a reason she’s the one going after the source.” Ian’s gaze swept over the gathered students from the other three Houses. He frowned— his closest Slytherin friend was nowhere to be seen.
“Don’t bother looking! Little Grindelwald isn’t here!”
A voice, sharp with irritation, rang in his ears— close yet distant. Ian turned quickly, his eyes landing on a stretcher hidden behind the staff’s high table in the Great Hall.
Snape lay there, wrapped in bandages.
His eyes were closed.
He looked… lifeless.
“Uncle Snape!” Ian’s stomach twisted in alarm. He had expected to see Snape in the thick of battle at the entrance— but he had already been brought inside, wounded.
That couldn’t be right.
Snape was one of the most formidable wizards at Hogwarts. How had this happened?
“Merlin’s beard! Uncle! What happened to you?!” Ian lunged forward, but the moment he neared Snape, something felt off.
Snape was far too aware.
As Ian approached, a pair of piercing black eyes snapped open, filled with cold disdain.
“Call me Professor Snape!” His voice was quiet but sharp, brimming with indignation— far too lively for someone supposedly incapacitated.
Given his injuries, shouldn’t he at least be unconscious?
“Alright, Professor Snape. What happened?” Ian took another step closer and caught the distinct scent of herbs—but not the kind used for healing wounds.
It smelled more like stale potion ingredients, long past their prime.
“I assumed your first question would be about Miss Grindelwald’s whereabouts.” Snape’s voice dripped with sarcasm as he regarded Ian with a critical eye.
Finding no visible injuries on the boy, Snape huffed and shut his eyes again.
“Did someone take her?” Ian guessed.
Snape didn’t answer directly. Instead, he gave a short, irritated grunt and lazily pointed a single bandaged finger toward the cluster of Slytherin students.
“I am… indisposed. Keep an eye on that one. Report his actions to me.”
Ian followed Snape’s gesture, spotting a tall, wiry seventh-year Slytherin lingering near the back of the crowd, his sharp gaze darting around suspiciously.
He looked like he was up to something.
“Who is that? And where’s Marcus? And why haven’t I seen Dumbledore?” Ian’s mind raced— there was still the matter of whoever had set him up, and he had yet to find out how Dumbledore factored into all this.
Whether Ian could improve his standing in this chaos depended entirely on how Dumbledore viewed his younger sister.
“Dumbledore took Marcus Flint away. No one knows where. I am currently following his orders and pretending to be incapacitated.”
Snape’s lips barely moved, yet his words were as clear as if they had been whispered directly into Ian’s ear.
Ian frowned. Snape was selling the act far too well— though they were hidden behind the staff’s high table, no one was even paying attention to the Potions Master. Everyone’s focus remained on the battle raging at the entrance.
“Why do I need to watch this person?” Ian hesitated, nearly locking eyes with the suspicious seventh-year before quickly throwing himself onto Snape, feigning distress.
“Ahhh, Uncle! You’re still breathing! I thought you were gone!”
Snape scoffed and shoved him off, clearly unimpressed. “That is Foleyson Carrow. Seventh-year. Top of his class. About to graduate. And if I’m not mistaken, he will likely be spending the rest of his life repenting in Azkaban.”
Ian’s breath caught.
Snape clearly knew something and judging by the cold look in his eyes, Carrow was almost certainly behind the Ashwinder attack.
It was hardly a surprise.
“The Sacred Twenty-Eight.” Ian pouted.
“Keep an eye on him and tell me what he’s up to,” Snape instructed, still maintaining his ‘lifeless’ position.
“Can’t you offer me some incentive?” Ian muttered.
“You’re protecting your own school!” Snape shot back irritably. Ian wanted to ask more questions, but Snape clearly had no interest in continuing the conversation.
“Hiss, you’ve put me in a difficult position. Well, I am good friends with Hogwarts, and I must protect it.” Ian crawled out from under the teacher’s desk.
He jogged back to the center of the Great Hall, where a large crowd had gathered.
“Ian, is Snape really dead? I heard his head fell off!”
Some younger students were whispering about the Potions Master’s supposed demise. Clearly, Gryffindors could persistently spread rumors about Snape no matter the circumstances.
“He should still be alive, right?”
Ian glanced toward Snape’s resting place and then, as per Snape’s instructions, kept a close watch on seventh-year student Foleyson Carrow.
The boy seemed restless, clenching his fists but making no effort to help the older students, merely pacing back and forth hesitantly within the Great Hall.
“Is he still alive even with his head gone?”
The younger students gasped in shock.
“…”
Ian was starting to lose patience.
“Professor Snape’s Potions class isn’t as good as yours; maybe you could be our new Potions professor.” A younger student, who had once attended Ian’s tutoring sessions, was daydreaming.
First-years.
They certainly had vivid imaginations.
“Stop that nonsense! Professor Snape holds grudges; if I call him ‘uncle’ a few more times, he’ll make my life miserable.” Ian, however, remained distracted, his gaze fixed on the Slytherin side.
At that moment, he noticed Foleyson Carrow make a decision— silently heading toward a sealed side door. He muttered an incantation, slipping through the enchanted barrier as though it wasn’t even there.
“Pure-blood families really do have deep roots! That magic isn’t in any textbook!” Ian quickly followed, using an Unlocking Charm to squeeze out through a nearby sealed window.
Outside, the Ashwinders were sparse.
It seemed most of them had gathered at the main entrance of the Great Hall.
“Where is he?”
That wasn’t Ian’s thought— it was Snape, who, after lying still for so long, had finally attempted to peek at the unfolding events. He just so happened to see Ian disappearing through the window.
Ian quickly sealed it behind him.
“Damn it, You Fool! I told you to keep an eye on him!”
Snape sat up in shock as if he had suddenly come back to life.
A chorus of gasps erupted in the Great Hall. “Merlin’s beard! It’s a medical miracle!”
“Snape’s turned into a ghost!”
Other voices joined the commotion.
…
The corridor twisted and turned.
Apart from the occasional Ashwinder slithering out, there were no other witches or wizards in sight. Foleyson Carrow seemed to possess something that kept the creatures at bay.
He moved swiftly toward the staircase.
“He’s heading to the Seventh Floor.”
Ian hid in the shadows, watching as Foleyson climbed. Judging by the route, he had a good idea of his target.
After a moment’s thought, Ian took a different staircase. As he moved, the Ashwinders continued their attacks, and since no one was around to watch, Ian took the opportunity to practice other spells.
“Sectumsempra!”
This was a spell of endless potential. Ian believed it was, even more, worth mastering than Avada Kedavra. If he could learn to sever the very essence of a living soul, his ‘good uncle’ would surely go down in history.
“Damn it! Not here! It’s not here!”
On the Seventh Floor.
Just as Ian reached the corner, Foleyson Carrow stormed out of the Room of Requirement.
“Who was it?! Who stole his things?! I need to find it! If I don’t, he’ll kill me… he might even make my father do it himself!”
Foleyson stood outside the door, looking frantic and distressed, pacing in agitation. His wand trembled violently in his grip as he muttered to himself in fear.
“Tell me! Who’s been in here?! Who took that damned object?!” As his fear escalated, he clung to the possibility of an answer.
He pressed his wand against the portrait of the Barnabas, desperate for information— a clear sign of panic.
“You must have seen it! You’re always here! Tell me, or I’ll burn you with Fiendfyre!” It was unclear whether he was merely threatening or if he truly possessed such a dangerous skill.
“I’m just a painting,” the Barnabas responded dismissively, still occupied by the troll that had been pestering him.
“Go on, burn me if you must; I’ve had enough of this cursed troll. My real soul is long gone to the beyond, where I’ve learned the most marvelous dances.”
He remained as stubborn as ever.
“Do you think I wouldn’t dare?! If I die, no one should live! Everyone must perish with me!” Foleyson Carrow’s hysteria escalated.
“Yes! I will die! I released the Ashwinders— Dumbledore will never let me live! My future, which should have been glorious, is ruined!”
“If I die, those beneath me, those with lesser blood, will mock me! I will never allow that!”
His screams of rage and despair echoed through the corridor.
He was losing control.
“Either tell me where the damned Diadem is, or you and all of Hogwarts will perish with me! Do you think the Fiendfyre curse is beyond the skill of a Carrow? Noble blood ensures power!”
“I will burn everything!”
Foleyson Carrow’s wand pulsed with ominous energy, the telltale glow of an incantation forming.
“You’re after Ravenclaw’s Diadem?”
A calm, almost amused voice cut through the tension.
Panicked, Foleyson spun around to see a first year wizard standing just beyond his reach. Though he barely came up to Carrow’s chest, the boy held the ancient Diadem in his hands, its sapphire glinting under the dim torchlight.
“Prince… Snape’s little pet. You actually followed me?” Foleyson growled, his anxiety intensifying.
The boy’s presence alone was proof enough— Hogwarts’ headmaster must have caught wind of his movements.
“Give it to me!” Foleyson snarled, stepping forward. His only chance at survival lay in retrieving what he was sent for. Escape was still possible— being hunted by the Ministry was preferable to death.
“What if I say no?” The young wizard tilted his head, fingers playing idly with the delicate artifact.
“Avada Kedavra!”
A flash of sickly green erupted from Carrow’s wand. There was no hesitation, no mercy— only the ruthless instinct to eliminate an obstacle.
“How impatient.”
The boy barely flicked his own wand. The Killing Curse ricocheted off an unseen ward, striking the stone wall instead. A web of green fractures spread across its surface, leaving behind thin, jagged scars as dust crumbled away.
“Impossible! That’s not—! You— how could you block the Killing Curse?!” Foleyson staggered back, disbelief written across his pale face.
“Weak magic, feeble intent… The Dark Lord entrusted a fool like you with his will?” The boy took a slow step forward.
A creeping dread coiled around Foleyson. The sheer absurdity of the situation clawed at his mind. A mere first-year had just brushed aside the Killing Curse—without so much as blinking.
And now… he was being mocked.
“You… you know the Dark Lord! You dared to steal from him!” Foleyson’s horror deepened as he stared into the boy’s youthful face, his own breath hitching with raw terror.
“Why not? I am just testing my own brilliance.” The boy’s voice was light, almost playful as he spoke, but his words sent a shudder through Carrow’s spine.
“Madman! You’re a madman— a monster!”
“Crucio!”
The red light of the Cruciatus Curse streaked forward. A spell meant to drive even the strongest wizards to the brink of madness. And yet—
The boy didn’t even flinch.
He didn’t lift his wand.
He simply stood there, bathed in crimson light looking utterly unaffected. His expression was unchanged. No cry of pain, no tensing of muscles.
Nothing.
“Impossible! No! This is an illusion! It must be an illusion!” Foleyson screamed, his mind rejecting what his eyes refused to deny. He stumbled backward, wand trembling in his grip.
“Impossible? You can’t even recognize a genuine Diadem. So tell me, what exactly do you think is possible?” The boy cast a brief glance at the Barnabas’s portrait, still struggling with the troll’s relentless assault.
Even he wasn’t this dense.
“Kill him! Kill this monster!” Foleyson fumbled into his robes, pulling free a large ruby. He shouted at the swirling red mist trapped within, his voice thick with desperation.
The gem pulsed.
From the shadows, Ashwinders slithered forth— dozens of them, their burning bodies leaving trails of embers in their wake. They coiled up the boy’s legs, their molten scales pressing into his robes before detonating in bursts of searing heat.
The young wizard staggered, his body wreathed in fire, his face momentarily obscured by smoke.
“Die! Die! Die!”
Carrow barely noticed the Diadem slip from the boy’s grasp as he lunged to snatch it. He clutched the ancient artifact to his chest, panting heavily, his mind already fixated on his next course of action.
“I’ll burn this school to the ground! Then leave! I won’t let those lesser wretches mock me for becoming a fugitive!”
He raised his wand, lips already curling around an incantation—
“You enjoy playing with Fiendfyre, don’t you?”
The voice came from another direction entirely. Before Foleyson could process the shift—
“Then… as you wish.”
A ghostly blue inferno erupted from the ground. Waves of unnatural fire surged through the corridor, swallowing the summoned Ashwinders whole. Born of flames, they shrieked as they were consumed by something even more fearsome than themselves—
Fiendfyre.
“You—”
Foleyson’s blood ran cold. He turned, wide-eyed, to see Ian stepping out from the smoke, untouched by the flames.
He whirled back toward the figure he had supposedly defeated—
A suit of armor lay in a crumpled heap.
Illusion.
Trickery.
“Snape said your fate was Azkaban…” Ian’s voice was quiet, almost indifferent.
Foleyson barely heard him. His wand still flickered with the green of another Killing Curse, his instincts screaming at him to fight, to run—
And then the flames took him.
Fiendfyre twisted and coiled around his form, its enchanted tendrils hungrily devouring his robes, his flesh, his very essence.
Ian turned away, his gaze falling instead on the Barnabas’s portrait.
“I did not see anything.” The Barnabas, shaken but eerily calm, merely nodded as he spoke. His demeanor had shifted entirely. The defiance he had shown Carrow was nowhere to be found.
“Thank you, but this can’t be hidden for long.” Ian’s attention drifted to the far end of the corridor, where hurried footsteps echoed closer.
“Damn brat—!”
A billow of black robes, and then Snape was there, wand drawn, his face a mask of barely contained fury. But the words died in his throat as he took in the sight before him.
Flames— living, breathing, deadly— coiled in the air, illuminating Ian’s silhouette.
Ashes fluttered like snowfall.
Ashwinders twisted into nothingness, vanishing with the last wisps of their cursed existence.
And Ian stood among it all, utterly still.
Snape, normally so unshakable, trembled where he stood. His voice, when he finally spoke, was hoarse.
“What have you done?”
A long silence followed. Then, with a quiet certainty, Ian answered.
“As you can see… I am protecting our school.”
The Fiendfyre illuminated his face and ashes fell like snowflakes.
(End Of This Chapter)
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