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The night has not yet fallen which means that Ian still has plenty to do.
He remains blissfully unaware that the ever-calculating Dumbledore has managed to “tip two cauldrons with one wand.” With the library about to close, Ian dashes towards it so fast that it feels like his robes might catch fire.
“Is someone after him?”
“No idea… Looks like he’s either late for something or just realized he left a potion simmering unattended.”
“Or maybe he’s had one too many Pumpkin Pasties and can’t find a bathroom. Trust me, never assume it’s just a bit of wind. Hey, wait— weren’t you the one who said you weren’t heading back to the dorm tonight?”
…
A pair of seventh-year lovebirds lost their romantic mood thanks to Ian’s untimely sprint past them. Ian might not earn any house points for virtue, but he’s certainly put a stop to an encounter that could have led to another wizard being added to the family tree.
During the day, the library is rarely overcrowded— let alone in the evening after classes. Yet despite running as if chased by a Hungarian Horntail, Ian still fails to reach it in time.
He doesn’t even catch a glimpse of Madam Pince snuffing out the lamps. All he sees is a tightly shut door and what appears to be a rather formidable new lock.
“Madam Pince must be taking an early night!”
Ian checks his watch indignantly. It’s barely past closing time— perhaps a minute or two at most.
Typical.
No competition means no urgency!
“Ugh, I feel like hexing something.”
Ian doesn’t even get the chance to test his persuasion skills on Madam Pince. Since she’s already vanished, he can only glance around suspiciously before pulling out his wand.
“Alohomora!”
Ian just wants to partake in a classic Hogwarts tradition. But to his horror, his Unlocking Charm proves utterly ineffective against the library’s enchanted lock.
The oddly shaped mechanism trembles ever so slightly, as if merely indulging him, before falling still. Clearly, this is no ordinary lock— it’s been reinforced with advanced protective magic.
“This is completely unfair!”
Ian is scandalized.
Isn’t the Unlocking Charm supposed to work on any lock?!
Even in the original story, Hermione Granger— a first-year at the time— managed to unseal the entrance to the trapdoor guarding the Philosopher’s Stone!
“Am I really worse at this than Hermione?”
Ian tries several more times, but the library’s door remains as immovable as the gates of Azkaban. After a while, the lock doesn’t even twitch anymore, as though it has grown tired of humoring him.
Ian can’t shake the humiliating feeling that the lock is outright ignoring him now.
“Just wait until I awaken my hidden talents!”
He gives the lock a disgruntled prod with his wand before turning away, fuming. The corridor is eerily silent— except for a faint presence lurking just out of sight.
Something peeks out from behind the corner.
Upon realizing that the wandering figure is Ian, it immediately attempts to vanish into the stone wall— only to be unceremoniously yanked back by the ankles.
“Let me go! Let me go!”
Peeves shrieks.
“Aha! Caught you! You were trying to spook me, weren’t you?” Ian, already frustrated, isn’t about to let Peeves off the hook.
“How was I supposed to know it was you, you nasty little gremlin?! I thought you were one of those Ravenclaw bookworms!” Peeves flails, attempting to bite Ian’s hand but stopping just short.
“Oh-ho! Calling me a gremlin, are we? Do you even know who my ‘dear friend’ Dumbledore is? Not only have you insulted me, but you’ve also maligned the noble scholars of Ravenclaw!” Without a moment’s hesitation, Ian launches into a full-blown Peeves-thrashing session, instantly alleviating his prior frustrations.
Feeling immensely satisfied, he turns to leave.
“I’m telling Dumbledore! You dared to call the headmaster your pal!” Peeves, now freed, wails as he zooms away.
“Adventus Timoris!”
Ian flicks his wand, and a spectral, grayish-white light shoots forth, striking Peeves squarely on his incorporeal backside.
“No! Don’t set me on fire with Fiendfyre! Nick! Nick! Take your axe off my neck! Waaah! Why is everyone helping this little menace bully me?!”
Peeves tumbles to the floor, rolling about in exaggerated agony, howling like a banshee.
“I don’t want to leave Hogwarts! You can’t banish me! This is my home!”
Whoever said poltergeists don’t feel fear? Peeves’s reaction is more dramatic than any student’s.
When the spell’s effect finally fades…
“If you ever try to spook me again, I’ll seal you inside a bottle and toss you into the Black Lake. I’m sure the giant squid would love a new toy.”
Ian delivers his final warning.
“Waaah!”
Peeves no longer dares to talk back. With a final whimper, he vanishes into the wall, quivering like the very students he so often torments.
Ian gives the wall a final, unimpressed glance before leaving, though he can’t help feeling slightly disappointed that he couldn’t drag Peeves out for round two.
Shrugging, he makes his way back to the Ravenclaw common room, collecting all his parchment before setting off again.
Now, he begins wandering the castle like an aimless ghost.
There’s no other choice.
The legendary Quill of Acceptance and the Book of Admittance are rumored to be hidden in one of Hogwarts’ highest towers. If he wants to reach them later tonight, he needs to familiarize himself with the castle’s layout now.
“Please don’t let there be another lock I can’t open…” he mutters to himself.
At least he finds some comfort in stopping by the Hogwarts kitchens for a late-night bite. The house-elves honey-glazed steak, he must admit, is nothing short of magical.
It’s actually quite good.
He leaves the kitchen with two sour lemons, evolving from drinking lemon juice to biting into lemons like apples. The sharp tang is a refreshingly unique sensation.
“I’m hooked!”
As the night grows quieter.
Avoiding the ever-watchful magical portraits and the suits of armor that might possess some “surveillance” enchantments, Ian sneaks into the broomstick storage room.
“Thank you, Madam Hooch, for teaching me how to fly. She only said we’re not allowed to take off during her class, which implies we can fly however we want after class.”
Fortunately, not every lock in the castle is warded with high-level protective magic. At least the one on the broomstick storage room yields easily to Ian’s Unlocking Charm.
Perhaps old broomsticks aren’t considered as valuable as the books? Ian isn’t entirely sure. He waits until the last light in Snape’s office flickers out before he takes off into the night sky.
The earlier Flying lesson finally proves useful. Ian realizes he’s quite adept at flying and can keenly sense which areas of the castle are more likely to be noticed by patrolling staff or prefects.
Twisting and turning.
Soaring and pausing.
Although Hogwarts Castle is vast, there are only so many towers with rooftops. Ian doesn’t even have to search the entire school before he finds what he’s looking for.
“This is it!”
Through a dusty window, Ian spots the objects he’s been searching for inside an unassuming room. A solitary desk sits in the middle, bearing an ancient tome bound in black dragonhide.
It lies undisturbed, untouched by dust. Beside it, a delicate bottle of shimmering silver ink and a slightly faded quill rest on the desk.
The Book of Admittance.
The Quill of Acceptance.
This is Hogwarts’ enchanted admissions office, untouched by students and requiring no human intervention to function.
“Such profound magical artifacts. I’ll figure them out eventually.” Using the Unlocking Charm to ease open the window, Ian first sets the broomstick aside and then waves his wand to clear away the accumulated dust. Only when the room is spotless does he step forward toward the Quill of Acceptance and the Book of Admittance.
Since he might visit this place often in the future, he refuses to leave it in such a state. Many who grow up in orphanages develop similar habits of meticulous cleanliness.
Some groups simply can’t afford to fall ill.
“Judging by the looks of it, no one’s been here for decades. Magic could’ve easily kept this place clean.” Ian eagerly begins studying the Quill of Acceptance and the Book of Admittance.
As expected.
The magical runes and enchantments woven into them are incredibly intricate, seemingly linked to the very core of Hogwarts’ magic. Ian’s current knowledge of enchantments and alchemy only allows him to grasp the basics of their workings.
“This doesn’t hinder my plan!” With a flick of his wand, Ian expertly channels the Book of Admittance’s properties onto several blank pieces of parchment.
The enchanted parchment, once attuned, begins slowly unveiling a map of Hogwarts, revealing secret passages and even the elusive Room of Requirement.
This is likely due to the deep connection between the Quill of Acceptance, the Book of Admittance, and Hogwarts itself.
“Although I’d love to conduct lessons in the Room of Requirement, now isn’t the time.” Ian pauses and deliberately conceals the Room of Requirement’s details.
As well as any passageways leading beyond the castle grounds.
“No need to make it easy for students to wander into the Forbidden Forest in the dead of night.” As the creator of this magical map, Ian can determine what information appears and what remains hidden. In fact, all the maps he crafts can be adjusted or modified remotely by him at any time.
Ian would never be foolish enough to let others track his own movements. To him, this iteration of the Marauder’s Map is simply a perfected version.
Beyond the standard “password” activation,
Users of the map can even choose a pseudonym unknown to others, allowing them to remain anonymous while sharing their name only with trusted friends.
At the same time.
These maps can even designate custom colors for friends or partners. If it weren’t for his utter disdain for money-grabbing schemes in his past life, Ian might have even considered offering paid customization features, like themed nameplates or border designs.
Of course, the true reason he hasn’t done so is more likely due to his current limitations in alchemical expertise.
Who knows?
“The names of individuals require the Quill of Acceptance’s influence.”
Watching as dots begin appearing on the parchment, Ian carefully weaves his magic, linking the map’s mechanisms to the Quill of Acceptance itself.
Thus.
The dots on the map now display names— down to the ghosts of Hogwarts. Ian spots the label “Ian Prince” within the Ravenclaw common room and grins with satisfaction.
“One day, when I write my autobiography, every student who bought my map will serve as proof. I was nothing more than a good student who enjoyed eating, sleeping, and studying!”
Some plans had already been meticulously laid out from the moment Ian first set out to create the map.
This is somewhat similar to the way wizards craft enchanted artifacts. Ian holds the highest authority over his creation, making it effortless for him to modify his own location on the map.
He can even use the master map in his possession to alter the locations and labels of others on their copies. This is the greatest advantage and power of controlling magical cartography and the “enchantment framework.”
“I’m not the type to frame my classmates for mischief. Just because I don’t need to use this function doesn’t mean I shouldn’t have it.”
Ian carefully tucks all the maps into his robes. These maps only work within Hogwarts— outside its grounds, they turn blank. Even in Hogsmeade, they are useless. There’s no alternative; after all, Ian crafted the map through unconventional means.
Although the Quill of Acceptance and the Book of Admittance can detect magical children across Britain, Ian is ultimately a limited alchemist. Achieving this level of accuracy is already impressive.
“Time to retreat!”
Ian grabs the broomstick and soars out the window. He takes care to lock it behind him before diving down, racing towards the broomstick storage under the moonlit sky.
A few minutes after Ian’s departure…
A flustered Professor McGonagall rushes to the attic door, her wand at the ready. Moments later, Albus Dumbledore appears in his dressing gown, stifling a yawn as he arrives in no great hurry.
Shortly after, Snape materializes as well, his expression dark with irritation, clearly displeased at being roused from his slumber.
“Albus, someone has been in this room.” Professor McGonagall’s voice is firm.
“That’s highly unlikely, Minerva. We all know the conditions required to enter this chamber. Even if someone attempted it, there’s no way they could break this magic.”
Snape’s frown deepens.
“The alarm went off, Severus!”
Professor McGonagall’s tone sharpens as she exchanges a knowing glance with Dumbledore, silently urging him to open the door.
“The Founders’ magic is not easily breached. Severus has a point,” Dumbledore murmurs, rubbing his eyes beneath his slightly askew nightcap.
With a wave of his hand, the door senses his presence and swings open, revealing the spotless room within.
Clean. Immaculately clean.
The sight leaves all three professors momentarily stunned.
“There really was an intruder!” Snape’s voice is laced with disbelief.
“It seems the Founders’ protections are not as unbreakable as we assumed. Merlin’s beard— could it be that Imperius Curse user we’ve been unable to track down?” Professor McGonagall regains her composure, her face now lined with concern for the school’s safety.
“Alert the Ministry wizards stationed here. They specialize in this sort of thing.” Professor McGonagall purses her lips and turns to Dumbledore.
However…
Albus Dumbledore merely frowns as he steps into the room, inspecting the Quill of Acceptance and the Book of Admittance. Then, kneeling, he studies the floor and walls with careful scrutiny.
“Albus?”
Professor McGonagall and Snape hesitate at the threshold. McGonagall glances at Snape, both uncertain as to what Dumbledore is looking for.
“The magic here remains untouched. The Book of Admittance and the Quill of Acceptance have not been tampered with. It’s as if someone merely entered… had a look around…”
“And, incidentally, tidied up for us,” Dumbledore remarks with a touch of amusement, standing and striding toward the window. His expression has softened, and his tone is notably more relaxed.
“Not disturbed? How can that be? Aside from you and those you’ve authorized, who else could possibly pass the enchantments?” Professor McGonagall frowns.
“Albus, did you sleepwalk here and clean the place yourself?” Snape’s eyes narrow in suspicion, as if questioning Dumbledore’s mental state.
“Perhaps,” Dumbledore chuckles, his voice carrying a teasing lilt. Yet, his gaze remains fixed out the window, watching something— or someone.
“Of course, bypassing my permission isn’t strictly impossible.” Dumbledore watches a figure quietly slipping back inside the castle from the broomstick storage room.
“Sometimes, Hogwarts makes its own choices.” His voice is wistful, almost as if speaking to himself. The two professors exchange puzzled glances.
…
As if nothing happened, Ian returns to the Ravenclaw common room. The young witches and wizards are still eagerly awaiting his lesson.
With his newly completed Marauder’s Map hidden in his robes, Ian smiles and agrees.
It remains a pay-to-learn system.
One silver Sickle, two silver Sickles, three silver Sickles… and a box of Chocolate Frogs. Ian gives a knowing glance to the classmate whose family clearly has ties to the Chocolate Frog factory.
“Do you have any other flavors?”
Ian prefers treats with a balance of sweet and sour.
“I’ll ask my mum tomorrow.”
The student looks slightly nervous. Perhaps rumors of Ian’s activities have already spread. Ian notes that even a second-year student is interested in attending.
Faced with eager faces and a growing pile of silver Sickles, Ian sees no reason to refuse.
“You were brilliant this afternoon!”
“Merlin’s beard! What did I miss? I wasn’t there, but William said Marcus Flint was so terrified he nearly flooded the corridor like a Welsh Green marking its territory!”
“I want to learn the spell you used to best Marcus Flint at the end!”
…
Faced with the eager young witches and wizards, Ian calmly counts his earnings and begins the lesson.
Even those who had left last night when they realized it wasn’t a Potions class return, curiosity overcoming their previous hesitation. Ian welcomes them back without a word as if nothing had happened.
Time slips by in the midst of learning.
…
Soon.
After teaching everyone more refined control over the Lumos Charm, Ian, amidst murmurs of gratitude, heads back to his dormitory with a box of Chocolate Frogs and a pouch jingling with silver Sickles.
If it weren’t for the fact that the Marauder’s Map still needed a few final touches, he might have started selling it tonight, claiming he’d found it tucked away in a dusty old trunk once belonging to James Potter.
After all, maps like this were considered contraband at Hogwarts.
Certain risks needed to be accounted for. As Michael’s soft snoring fills the dormitory, Ian, unsurprisingly, loses to William once again, conceding the title of “All-Nighter Study Champion.”
When he wakes up the next morning, William is still at his desk. Whether he woke up early or never went to bed remains a mystery. Either way, his face shows no signs of exhaustion.
“What are you working on?” Ian asks, noting that William seems to be communicating in some coded way again. He’s not even bothering to hide beneath his blankets anymore, openly fiddling with a peculiar potion vial at his desk.
“Reporting my progress as a reserve Acolyte. Receiving instructions from the house.”
Of course.
Loyalty needs no explanation.
The morning lesson is the dullest but also the most informative for first-years: History of Magic. Ian and his dormmates, like most of their classmates, fall into a deep sleep.
Upon waking, Ian realizes just how meticulous William’s time management is. The all-nighter had been entirely compensated for by Professor Binns’ legendary ability to lull students into an almost enchanted slumber.
“You’re unbelievable.”
After shaking off the last remnants of sleep, Ian gives William a thumbs-up. Then, unsurprisingly, he bids farewell to his roommates and heads straight for the library— the very one he failed to enter the previous evening.
Even Ravenclaws rarely frequent the library during meal times, and even fewer show up after evening lessons. The vast space is eerily empty, save for the occasional rustle of Madam Pince, the ever-diligent caretaker, sweeping between the towering bookshelves.
She cleans the library religiously— once before opening, again before closing, and sometimes, on a whim, at midday as well.
Even in areas untouched by student hands, Madam Pince maintains her fervent devotion to cleanliness. Perhaps it stems from a deep love for books, an unwavering commitment to keeping them free of dust. Or perhaps, her life outside of Hogwarts is even duller than cleaning.
“That area is off-limits!”
Noticing Ian striding toward the Restricted Section, Madam Pince suddenly appears, brandishing a feather duster as if it were a weapon.
“I always thought you were one of the well-behaved ones!” She scolds, blocking his path with a glare of disapproval.
“Madam Pince, I am a well-behaved student. A well-behaved student with permission, not some rule-breaking sneak,” Ian replies smoothly, already anticipating this encounter.
He retrieves the permission slip that Snape had handed him, its edges crisp with Dumbledore’s unmistakable signature.
“See for yourself.”
Ian waves the slip before Madam Pince, about to tuck it back into his pocket when she snatches his wrist, eyes narrowing in suspicion.
“Let me take a proper look. Don’t think you can fool me. I may like the sweets you bring me, but that doesn’t mean I’ll turn a blind eye to rule-breaking.”
With an expression of utmost skepticism, Madam Pince inspects the signature. Having safeguarded the library for years, she knows full well that Dumbledore rarely grants such privileges to students.
At Hogwarts, from the most esteemed professors to the lowliest caretaker, everyone knows the headmaster does not lightly permit young wizards access to restricted books.
“Here—”
Ian pulls the slip back slightly, intending to tease her by flashing it before quickly pocketing it again. But Madam Pince catches his hand.
“It really is Dumbledore’s permission!” She exclaims with a rare note of disbelief in her voice. “The Headmaster actually allowed a first-year into the Restricted Section? That doesn’t sound like something he’d do— not with how cautious he is.”
Her grip loosens as she speaks, allowing Ian to slip the parchment safely back into his robes.
“Madam, Dumbledore is a wise headmaster. He can recognize those who are virtuous, courageous, and just… young wizards who will never stray toward the dark and dangerous.”
Ian showers himself in a cascade of exaggerated compliments, his voice sweet as honey.
He even raises both hands before Madam Pince, palms up. “If you don’t believe me, have a sniff. Even the Sorting Hat agreed I possess the noble qualities of a true Gryffindor!”
Madam Pince, of course, has no intention of smelling Ian’s hands. Instead, she stares at him with an unreadable expression, clearly debating whether to let him pass into the Restricted Section.
Although Madam Pince still feels uneasy about allowing a first-year student access to the Restricted Section, she is merely the caretaker of the library and has no authority over school policies.
“Don’t go poking about in anything dealing with the Dark Arts. I’ll assume Dumbledore believes you’re responsible enough to handle knowledge far beyond your years.” Madam Pince, who has always had a good impression of Ian, issues this stern reminder.
“Don’t worry, I’ve no interest in the Dark Arts,” Ian assures her, though his reasoning is rather unconventional— he prefers a real challenge. Dark magic that is easily learned simply lacks the complexity he seeks.
“Well, if that’s the case…” Madam Pince nods, though it is clear she doesn’t entirely grasp Ian’s true meaning. What she does recognize, however, is his sincerity— one of the perks of telling the truth. Watching Ian dart into the Restricted Section, she resumes her cleaning.
“I must hurry and finish up. I’ve yet to unwrap Gilderoy Lockhart’s latest book…” Today’s workload is particularly heavy. Earlier, Dumbledore had her relocate a number of tomes, and a significant portion requires reorganization in the Restricted Section.
It is a daunting task.
Especially for Madam Pince, who, despite being a witch, prefers handling books manually rather than relying on magic. To her, the act of organizing is a joy— unless, of course, she must find shelf space for yet another copy of ‘A Year with the Yeti’ from Filch’s collection.
“There truly is a student who can suppress their curiosity about the Dark Arts!” While rearranging the shelves, Madam Pince observes Ian, noting with some relief that he does not linger before the tomes dedicated to the Cruciatus Curse, the Ear-Biting Hex, or the infamous Flaying Curse.
Meanwhile, Ian browses the shelves, muttering under his breath. “Rubbish, rubbish, all rubbish…” He can hear the books whispering to him, their insidious voices slithering into his ears like serpents.
“Study my pages, and you will wield unparalleled power!”
“Unlock the deepest secrets of the human body!”
“Curse your enemies! Inflict torment beyond imagination! Choose me, and I shall teach you suffering!”
Their attempts at temptation do nothing for Ian. Most of the magic they contain pales in comparison to the knowledge hidden within ‘Secrets of Dark Magic’— a tome he already possesses.
Indeed, when it comes to cruelty, potency, and the depth of magical theory, that particular book surpasses any of the volumes before him. These others rely on grotesque imagery to unsettle their readers.
One especially unsightly book features a bloodied, distorted face on its cover, its mouth and nose leaking crimson, its disfigured features resembling those of a pig.
“Do I really need you to tell me about the human body?” Ian scoffs, unimpressed. Thanks to his unique understanding of magical anatomy— an innate ability akin to a butcher’s instinct—he already comprehends far more than these pages could ever teach.
Some of the books even try to intimidate him. Wisps of black mist rise from between their covers, forming eerie, wailing faces. The spectral cries shriek through the air, their high-pitched howls sending shivers down the spine.
Ian, however, is unfazed.
“A few old books think they can rattle me?” He glances over his shoulder to ensure Madam Pince is distracted before allowing a flicker of Fiendfyre to dance at the tip of his wand.
Instantly, the haunting wails cease. The mist recoils in terror, retreating deep into the pages from whence it came. The Restricted Section falls into a much-needed silence.
“Pathetic,” Ian murmurs, shaking his head as he extinguishes the cursed flame. He selects several books dedicated to the study of the soul.
Given his unusual ability to glimpse into the Twilight Realm—and with the events of the coming years at Hogwarts in mind—Ian has developed a keen interest in the mysteries of the soul.
‘The Secrets of the Deceased’
‘The Laws of Life and Death’
‘The Book of the Dead’
Even so, he quickly realizes that books on this subject are frustratingly scarce at Hogwarts.
After all, the study of the soul is one of the deepest and most enigmatic branches of magic. Very few wizards have ever ventured into such research, and even fewer have successfully published their findings. Even in a thousand-year-old institution like Hogwarts, these books remain rare gems.
But just as Ian turns to leave, another tome catches his eye.
Its cover is unlike any other, crafted from a material as unyielding as stone. Its surface is adorned with intricate reliefs of magical creatures, their forms expertly carved in exquisite detail.
The sheer craftsmanship alone piques Ian’s interest, but it is the title that compels him to pull it from the shelf. It is heavier than the other three books combined, its weight reassuringly solid in his hands.
‘The Origins of Bloodlines’
Flipping through its thick, ancient pages, Ian discovers that it chronicles a time long before the wizarding wars— before witches and wizards claimed dominion over the magical world.
Whether it be naturally powerful magical creatures or other beings like dwarves, giants, goblins, and hags, all possess strength far beyond that of wizards.
At one point in history, human wizards stood at the bottom of the magical hierarchy. In such a precarious existence, a group of scholars emerged among them, determined to bridge the gap.
Some sought ancient tomes filled with forgotten enchantments. Others attempted to interweave wizarding blood with that of other magical beings in hopes of passing on enhanced abilities to future generations. Some even experimented with self-transfiguration, trying to take on the traits of magical creatures themselves.
Success was rare. Most attempts ended in failure— often catastrophic failure. Yet there were those who pursued an even darker path.
Bloodline fusion.
This was the reckless course some wizards dared to take.
Unlike transfiguration, which could be reversed, bloodline fusion was permanent. And unlike mere magical transformation, the power gained could be passed down through generations. It was an extraordinarily dangerous practice— few survived the process, and even fewer retained their sanity.
However.
There were exceptions.
Some wizards not only endured but thrived, emerging with powers unheard of in human bloodlines. Unlike botched transfiguration, which often warped the mind, bloodline fusion preserved the wizard’s intellect while imbuing them with inhuman abilities.
The book Ian was reading, ‘The Origins of Bloodlines’, mentioned that many creatures now classified as semi-human had origins in these ancient experiments. Even the centaurs of the Forbidden Forest were cited as possible examples of such magical tampering.
There were others.
Some were deemed failures, their unnatural forms and instincts betraying the instability of their lineage. But the most successful cases remained fully human in appearance, their extraordinary traits hidden beneath a mortal guise.
“For instance, Dumbledore’s family might be one of them.” Ian mused, running his fingers absently over the mysterious mark on his hand.
Fawkes had reacted to him earlier in the headmaster’s office. The phoenix’s sudden closeness had triggered a faint glow from the mark, visible only to Ian himself. A curious phenomenon indeed.
“It’s said that whenever a member of Dumbledore’s bloodline is in dire need, a phoenix will come to their aid…”
A well-known belief among wizards, but Ian suspected there was more to it. He recalled other examples— like the Parseltongue ability passed down from Salazar Slytherin.
Voldemort’s transformation was an obvious case of magical alteration, his snake-like visage the result of years of self-inflicted experiments. Yet… could it all be attributed to transfiguration alone? Was there not also an element of bloodline regression at play?
After all, he was hardly the first wizard to tamper with his body. And yet, Voldemort had unlocked power that others could only dream of.
Was it purely his genius?
That explanation felt too convenient.
“The origins of magical transformation might actually stem from early bloodline fusion research,” Ian pondered, flipping through the fragile pages. “And the loss of the Golden Apple has only driven wizards to explore this field further.”
Compared to the near-impossible success rate of bloodline fusion, the transfiguration was significantly safer… but would it ever yield the same results?
Ian wasn’t particularly eager to disfigure himself in pursuit of power. But he couldn’t ignore Ariana Dumbledore’s final gift to him. If he could unlock its secrets, perhaps he, too, could call a phoenix his own.
“I’m borrowing this book as well.” Ian decided. If there was knowledge here that could help him understand the mark on his hand— and perhaps even summon a phoenix— then he had no choice but to study it.
Most people would feel the same, he figured. Phoenixes might not be the most formidable magical creatures, but there was an undeniable prestige in owning one. And their tears, capable of curing nearly any poison or injury, were a priceless boon.
As Ian prepared to check out his chosen books, he noticed Madam Pince sorting through a stack of newly arrived restricted texts. Large crates sat nearby, their lids pried open to reveal a fresh collection of forbidden knowledge.
‘The Chronicles of Forbidden Spells: The Forgotten Dark Powers’
‘The Time Vortex: Spells Against the Current’
‘The Fountain of Immortality’
None of them particularly interested Ian.
His gaze drifted past them… and landed on something entirely different.
It was an unassuming book, lacking the gaudy embellishments of most dark tomes. No sinister runes, no ominous warnings carved into its cover. Just a battered old volume, its title almost illegible from age.
And yet, the moment Ian’s eyes locked onto it, his pulse quickened.
“Madam Pince, I’d like to borrow this one too!” He announced, snatching up the book before she could tuck it away.
His fingers trembled slightly as he took in the cover. The faded title read:
‘Mind’s Dominion: From Legilimency to Soul Enchantment’
Beneath the cracked lettering, the cover bore the image of a woman.
A strikingly beautiful witch, her eyes cold as winter frost.
There was something deeply unsettling about her gaze. It felt as though she could see straight through him— as if she had already peeled back his every thought, and laid his mind bare before her scrutiny. Even though it was just a picture, Ian found himself instinctively averting his eyes.
And then recognition slammed into him like a Bludger to the chest.
That face.
That terrifying, unreadable expression.
“Professor Mara! You said you weren’t reading minds! Bloody hell!”
(End of Chapter)
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