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In the corridor.
Ian’s figure looked quite disheveled.
He had become the first student to be expelled from Snape’s class since the start of the term. Although Snape hadn’t issued a permanent ban, the old bat’s furious bellow had echoed through most of Hogwarts.
“I told you to demonstrate that my potions have a soul, not to kiss Snape in front of the entire class!” Ian cursed Peeves, placing full blame on the mischievous poltergeist.
“It wasn’t my fault! He kissed me first! He must have done it on purpose!” Peeves, clutching his head where Ian had smacked him, looked utterly aggrieved. He didn’t dare retaliate— after all, the Bloody Baron’s terrifying presence in his mind had now dropped to second place.
“You ruined my number one ranking!” Ian delivered a swift kick to Peeves’ rear, sending him tumbling nearly ten meters through the air.
“Waaah! My first kiss! That greasy Potions bat must take responsibility for this!” Peeves wailed dramatically before zipping off toward Snape’s office.
Ian wasn’t sure what Peeves planned to do, but he had a sneaking suspicion that Snape might find an extra, rather talkative, head on his pillow tonight.
“I fully support this marriage.”
In the silent corridor.
Ian cast an idle glance out the window toward the Quidditch pitch, where the senior teams were practicing. From the way Slytherin was dominating, it looked like Gryffindor was in for a humiliating defeat.
Perhaps only Harry Potter could save them. Before the Boy Who Lived had joined, Slytherin had held the Quidditch Cup for years without challenge.
Even Marcus, who had been trembling like a first-year just days ago, was performing exceptionally well. His aggressive style made him an “outstanding” Seeker. No wonder he had so many supporters backing him up whenever he decided to corner Ian in the corridors— being a Quidditch player always earned favor among students.
“I haven’t even received my compensation, and he’s already out there playing Quidditch!” Ian fought the urge to interfere with the match. Otherwise, Marcus might have found himself suddenly taking an unscheduled nosedive off his broom.
Thanks to his recent studies in Legilimency— greatly aided by books written by his beautiful stepmother-senior— Ian had already advanced to level two in the skill.
Coupled with his innate Thought Perception ability, which was often mistaken for natural Legilimency, he had also managed to grasp an ancient form of dark magic known as Soul Snatching.
Unlike the Imperius Curse, one of the Unforgivable Curses, Soul Snatching had similarities but functioned differently. Ian had, of course, been practicing the Imperius Curse as well, and it, too, had reached level two.
However, while the Imperius Curse directly suppressed a person’s will, turning them into an obedient puppet, Soul Snatching forcibly invaded a person’s consciousness, allowing for the implantation and manipulation of memories.
It could permanently alter cognition— turning joyous recollections into sorrowful ones, or vice versa.
The effects were terrifying. While the book mentioned counter-spells, only Morgana… or rather, Professor Morgana, might know them. Ian’s beautiful stepmother-senior had conveniently omitted any such details from her writings.
Perhaps she hadn’t mastered them herself?
In any case, Soul Snatching was far more insidious than Legilimency, and Occlumency’s defenses against it were significantly weaker.
According to ‘Mental Manipulation: From Legilimency to Soul Snatching’, this magic delved into the deepest realms of the soul.
“Miss Helena!”
While making his way toward the library, Ian encountered a ghost he hadn’t seen in several days. She was floating in front of her mother’s portrait, her expression sorrowful as she reminisced.
The founder’s daughter was an ethereal beauty, her noble upbringing evident even in her ghostly form. Tall and graceful, she exuded an air of refined melancholy.
It was no wonder the Bloody Baron had been so utterly bewitched by Helena Ravenclaw in life. As Rowena Ravenclaw’s daughter, she had inherited her mother’s striking features and scholarly elegance, making her the unattainable dream of many.
“Ian, I saw Peeves heading to the dungeons.”
Helena Ravenclaw had spoken with Ian a handful of times. When he first arrived at Hogwarts, he had worried about Peeves pulling pranks on him at inconvenient moments.
Fortunately, Helena had been kind enough to warn him about Peeves’ whereabouts.
The Ravenclaw ghost was quite helpful. While her past mistakes painted her as somewhat naïve, that was only because she was an idealist— a romantic at heart.
Of course.
Ian had likely won her favor for similar reasons.
Even though losing the Diadem had cost her much of her innocence, a young wizard with looks surpassing even Tom Riddle’s was bound to catch her attention.
“I know. Peeves and I have become rather familiar. He told me he’s off to ‘warm’ Snape’s bed.” Ian no longer had to worry about Peeves launching any sudden attacks on him.
Helena, however, having been absent for several days, was unaware of this development.
“You actually get along with Peeves? That’s remarkable.” Helena looked at him with mild surprise. It was rare to see a student who didn’t instinctively avoid the poltergeist.
“Peeves isn’t so bad. He just needs a bit of reasoning.” Ian glanced at his clenched fist. Clearly, his version of “reasoning” had been quite persuasive.
“I apologize for letting you see me like this.” Helena turned away, dabbing at the tears that threatened to spill over.
“Are you thinking about Lady Ravenclaw? Perhaps it’s time to be brave and move forward. Maybe she’s been waiting for you all along.” Ian could only hint at ways to help Rowena Ravenclaw— he couldn’t exactly reveal that he could travel between realms as a spirit walker.
“My mother would never forgive me, nor do I expect her to… It was all my fault. I only hope she has found peace on her new journey.”
Helena’s translucent eyes shimmered with sorrow.
She covered her face, silent tears slipping between her ghostly fingers.
Ian quickly spoke, hoping to ease her pain.
“You might be underestimating your mother’s love for you. If she’s been waiting for you all this time, how could she ever be at peace? We all know the legends about the departed.”
He softened his tone, offering words of comfort. “The afterlife is a new journey, much like an unknown path at night. I believe no one understands a daughter better than her mother. She will wait for you, and when the time comes, she will take your hand and guide you, dispelling your fears and uncertainties.”
Helena Ravenclaw lowered her hands. Her misty eyes studied Ian’s youthful face with quiet contemplation.
“Not only are you more handsome, but you’re also more eloquent than that person. You will surely have a brighter future than he did. I just hope you don’t grow up to be a bad person like him.”
Helena Ravenclaw was clearly referring to the young Tom Riddle. “Ian, I believe you mean well. You’ve even lessened some of my fears. Now I truly believe my mother loved me enough. But you don’t know me, or the unforgivable mistakes I’ve made.”
A thousand-year-old heartache couldn’t be resolved with just a few words.
“Lady Helena, avoiding the problem won’t solve anything. What child doesn’t make mistakes? There’s no treasure in this world more precious than one’s own child.”
Ian continued to speak softly.
Helena Ravenclaw seemed surprised. She looked the young wizard up and down. “It seems you know quite a bit about my story?”
Ian nodded noncommittally.
“Such a typical Ravenclaw wizard. Curiosity always drives you to explore. But no matter how many books you read, you’ll never truly understand my mother.” Helena Ravenclaw sighed softly. “She was so outstanding, yet I tore her pride to shreds.”
“Even if she could forgive me, I could never forgive myself.” Clearly, Helena Ravenclaw’s heartache hadn’t been resolved by Ian’s comforting words.
“You will meet again someday. Why prolong the wait?”
Ian looked at the unmoved ghost and sighed softly. He felt he might need to improve his persuasion skills. Why were these ancient witches always like this?
Each one was better at self-reflection than the last, yet none looked forward.
His evil stepmother-senior, who had written books for their teacher, was the same. The daughter of Lady Rowena Ravenclaw before him was no different. From what he saw in the Twilight Zone, his evil stepmother-senior hadn’t been taken to Professor Morgana by any spirit raven. Perhaps she, too, had become a self-imprisoned ghost somewhere, like Helena Ravenclaw.
“Ian, your eloquence is quite good. But you clearly haven’t studied much about ghosts. To this day, not a single ghost has departed from the mortal world.”
“Do you know why?”
“Because becoming a ghost is a one-time choice. Once you become a ghost, your soul can no longer change its state. You’ll learn about this in your fourth year.”
Helena Ravenclaw reached out and patted Ian’s head from a distance, then floated away. As her figure disappeared, Ian still hadn’t figured out how to phrase “Come to my dorm tomorrow night to sleep together” in a way that wouldn’t be easily misunderstood.
“Tell her there’s a miracle in my bed tomorrow night? Ugh, that sounds even creepier than saying there’s a treasure!” Ian scratched his head in frustration. The more he thought about it, the more he realized how easily it could be misinterpreted.
Perhaps the only way to avoid misunderstanding was to knock Helena Ravenclaw out with a blow and then quickly fall asleep with her before she could react.
Knocking her out would be easy.
But falling asleep instantly would be a bit tricky.
A sleeping potion?
Or maybe casting Stupefy on himself?
Ian had never tried entering that boundary at the right time using such methods.
“Ah, my dear professor, how am I supposed to help your family reunite as promised?” Ian turned to look at the portrait where Helena had been standing.
In the exquisite frame.
The dignified and elegant Rowena Ravenclaw smiled at him. Shaking his head slightly in frustration, Ian headed to the kitchen. He planned to grab a bite to eat before going to the library to study languages.
His recent studies in alchemy had been quite intense, and the gift he was preparing for Aurora was starting to take shape. He needed to relax his mind with something simpler.
“Rustle, rustle~”
As soon as Ian left.
The wind blew outside the window.
“As you said, we will meet again… little raven.” The portrait, silent for a thousand years, suddenly spoke. The voice, spanning across time, echoed softly in the quiet corridor, offering a belated response.
…
After eating his fill.
Ian happily received a special hotpot meal.
Satisfied, he made his way to the library.
“If I hadn’t delved into this field, who would have thought house elves once had their own language? Probably many house elves themselves don’t even know.”
For Ian, learning languages was a way to relax and take a break.
What could be easier than learning languages? With his innate Linguistic Comprehension ability, his proficiency in languages grew rapidly.
Studying ancient magical texts was the most efficient, as it simultaneously improved two types of proficiency. However, Ian had recently developed a fondness for learning the languages of other species.
Whether it was Goblin, Giant, or Centaur language, they all significantly boosted his Linguistic Comprehension, just as much as studying ancient magical texts.
Ian had always been interested in Parseltongue. After all, if he wanted to retrieve the well-behaved basilisk from the Chamber of Secrets, he needed to be able to communicate with it. However, perhaps because Parseltongue was closely tied to bloodline magic, he hadn’t been able to find any learning materials in the library.
He couldn’t find anything in the regular sections or even the Restricted Section. Perhaps he would have to wait until the Boy Who Lived arrived at Hogwarts and learn it syllable by syllable from him.
No matter how hard he searched, there were no materials on Parseltongue to be found. His efforts had led him to a rather peculiar book titled ‘The Dance of the Mooncalf’, written by a former student who had been expelled.
Mooncalves were smooth-skinned, pale-grey magical creatures with large, round eyes atop their heads and four slender legs with wide, flat feet. Shy by nature, they only emerged from their burrows on full moon nights.
Their silvery dung, if collected before dawn, was an invaluable fertilizer that could enhance the growth and vitality of magical plants.
Ian had always considered Mooncalves an ideal solution for large-scale potion ingredient cultivation. These gentle, bumbling creatures performed elaborate, rhythmic dances under the moonlight, rising onto their hind legs in an intricate display.
‘The Dance of the Mooncalf’ purported to teach the precise movements required to join in this ritual. According to the author, his dance was so mesmerizing that it could charm any Mooncalf into responding.
“That book must have been written by some overconfident fool, probably one of Dumbledore’s predecessors bragging about his so-called expertise. Otherwise, why would it be in the Restricted Section?” Ian muttered, shelving it in frustration before continuing his search.
The Hogwarts library was enormous.
The Restricted Section alone contained more books than he could hope to read in a lifetime. Even skimming the titles took an absurd amount of time, let alone studying them in depth.
A Hogwarts education lasted only seven years. Excluding holidays, that left 266 weeks. Even at his accelerated pace— devouring two or three books a week— he would barely make it through 800. The library, by contrast, housed hundreds of thousands of magical texts.
It was no wonder so many knowledge-hungry witches and wizards dreamed of returning to Hogwarts as professors. Even the most brilliant minds could spend their entire lives studying here and still never reach the bottom of its well of wisdom.
“Oh, for Merlin’s sake! Madam Pince is skiving off!” Ian scowled as he arrived at the library, only to find the doors tightly locked.
It was barely noon!
Even if she were to take a break, she wouldn’t leave this early— especially not when term was in full swing.
“Alohomora!” Ian cast the unlocking charm confidently. He had refined the spell to an impressive level— strong enough to match many graduates.
But the door barely rattled. The lock held firm, utterly unaffected.
“A level four lock? Since when did Hogwarts security rely on numbered levels instead of pure magical ingenuity?” Ian sighed, a newfound respect for the library’s wards settling in.
He sat on the floor outside the entrance, waiting for half an hour— long enough to eat an entire roast beef dinner— but Madam Pince was nowhere to be seen.
A few older students wandered by, mostly Ravenclaws with a couple of Slytherin fourth- and fifth-years in the mix.
The Ravenclaws, determined as always, attempted to unlock the door themselves before leaving, clearly disappointed. The Slytherins, however, took one look at Ian and immediately turned on their heels.
Yes.
Ian had a reputation among Slytherins— especially after the widely circulated tale of ‘Marcus Wetting Himself in the Corridor, Wizards Trapped in Holy Fire.’
Courtesy of the Weasley twins, of course. If there was an opportunity to poke fun at Slytherins, the twins would seize it with both hands— and embellish the details for good measure.
The story had spread far and wide, and while Ian found it amusing, he was rather annoyed that the twins hadn’t paid him any royalties.
“Madam Pince, you’d better not be off having a scandalous rendezvous.” He grumbled, finally standing up and casting a cleaning charm on his robes.
Just as he turned to leave, a familiar face appeared.
Cho Chang.
His first ‘Partner’.
“Ah, my esteemed business partner! Any luck selling the map?” Ian greeted her warmly.
Cho Chang sighed, shaking her head. “Not yet. I’ll have to wait until tonight. I’d rather not get caught and end up in detention.”
She was no fool— she knew the true value of such a map extended far beyond helping first-years avoid getting lost in broad daylight.
“Fair enough,” Ian conceded with a nod.
“When I got back to the common room, I heard from the older students that you were still waiting here for the library to open. Did Madam Pince really take the day off?” Cho Chang asked, frowning.
Ravenclaws had a particular quirk— they were always worried that someone else was studying more than they were. Even when told the library was closed, they felt compelled to check for themselves.
“She’s skipping work!” Ian huffed indignantly.
“I heard the Defense Against the Dark Arts class has found its latest victim— I mean, its new professor.” Cho Chang smirked. “A Gryffindor upperclassman said Madam Pince and Hagrid went to escort them.”
Ian raised an eyebrow. “Since when does the librarian double as a bodyguard?”
“A shame, really. I was hoping to borrow ‘Standard Spells, Grade 2.'” Cho Chang sighed. Studying ahead was second nature to Ravenclaws, and she was among the most diligent.
Of course, Ian had a feeling his impromptu tutoring sessions might have had something to do with that.
“I’ll be covering that book soon in my lessons. Just make sure to turn up.”
Ian and Cho Chang walked back to the common room together, passing a few stubborn young Ravenclaws who still refused to believe the library was closed.
“You haven’t already finished all seven years’ worth of material, have you?” Cho Chang asked, looking down at the boy beside her. Ian was shorter than her and still had the look of someone just beginning to grow, yet his academic prowess was undeniably impressive.
“Of course not… Just gathering all the material for seven years would take at least a month or two to read through.” Ian shook his head, stating the fact as it was.
“So, I should be done in a month or two.”
He said it casually, without a hint of arrogance. But Cho Chang’s disbelieving stare made it clear she thought he was joking.
“You’re incredible. Some people are saying you might even be better than Dumbledore was at your age.” There was genuine admiration in her voice, not a trace of doubt.
After all, Ian had already proven his ability through the impromptu study sessions he held in the common room at night. Anyone who had attended them knew firsthand just how gifted he was.
“Who said that? They have such an eye for talent! Tell me, I need to thank them properly.” Ian’s mood lifted, the frustration of the locked library fading.
“Lots of people,” Cho Chang replied thoughtfully. Then, after a pause, she added, “What are you teaching tonight? I haven’t sold the map yet, and my pocket money’s running low, so I want to pick my classes wisely.”
She looked a little embarrassed, clearly mindful of her finances.
“We’re business partners. I trust you. Just put it on tab, and I’ll deduct it from your share later.” Ian wasn’t stingy with friends, but he believed in principles. Give someone an exception once, and soon they’d expect another. Just look at the Muggle world—how many businesses had crumbled under the weight of favoritism?
“Thanks, but I’m not hopeless in every subject,” Cho Chang said, her pride showing through. Ian respected that. He wasn’t about to push his lessons on anyone who didn’t want them.
He wasn’t a personal trainer, after all.
“Tonight’s class is Defense Against the Dark Arts— helping everyone strengthen their weak points,” Ian explained. Of course, he’d been careful to phrase it that way, just in case anyone got the wrong idea.
“Great, we haven’t had that class since term started. I’ll be sure to attend tonight’s SCP meeting.”
Cho Chang’s words made Ian stop in his tracks. He turned to her, frowning in confusion.
“…What meeting?”
“The SCP meeting,” She repeated, tilting her head slightly.
Ian inhaled sharply.
“Who came up with that name? That’s downright ominous!” He hadn’t expected to be leading a gathering of so-called ‘Class C wizards.’ The name SCP brought back memories from his past life, and none of them were good.
Compared to the horrors of that world, even Hogwarts’ cursed Defense Against the Dark Arts position seemed relatively harmless.
“Secret Circle of Practitioners. What’s wrong with it?” Cho Chang asked, clearly puzzled.
Ian sighed.
“The Secret Circle of Practitioners…” He muttered the words to himself, finally understanding how the name had come about. Whoever came up with it had an interesting way of thinking.
“Let’s change it to SCOP. I’ll convince the others,” he decided. Even though he didn’t believe in omens, he didn’t fancy tempting fate either.
The name SCP just felt like an invitation to disaster.
One disaster after another, without end.
“Huh? That sounds a bit odd,” Cho Chang mused. “Does the ‘O’ stand for you?”
Organizer?
Overseer?
She couldn’t figure it out. But Ian just gave her a knowing look and said nothing.
Before long, they arrived at the entrance to the Ravenclaw common room.
“You go ahead,” Ian said, stopping outside.
“Aren’t you coming in?” Cho Chang asked curiously.
Ian shook his head, his eyes fixed on the bronze eagle knocker that guarded the entrance.
“I want to study our common room door.”
Of course, he wasn’t about to tell Cho Chang that he and the bronze eagle had been getting along rather well lately.
Who knew if she’d start spreading rumors that he was in some kind of relationship with the talking door? This girl, who had once shared a boat with him on their first night at Hogwarts, had a streak of Gryffindor mischief in her.
As Cho Chang entered, the door shut behind her, leaving Ian alone. He sat down once more, ready to begin his next lesson.
But this time, his student wasn’t a young witch or wizard.
It was the bronze eagle itself.
“Where shall we begin today?” Ian mused.
Back in his past life, he had studied endlessly, only for most of that knowledge to go unused after arriving in this world. But this time, he intended to put it to good use.
Knowledge was meant to be shared.
And besides magic, why not discuss number theory, algebraic geometry, or even partial differential equations? If those topics grew tiresome, he could always turn to philosophy—Socrates, Descartes, Spinoza, Leibniz, Locke, and even Marx.
The bronze eagle was an excellent conversational partner.
…
Charms with Gryffindor was hardly the most thrilling class.
The two houses had no real rivalry, and with the “new student charm” still in effect at the start of the term, the first-year Gryffindors weren’t nearly as rowdy as their older counterparts.
“Is everyone present? I’m taking attendance,” Professor Flitwick announced, his squeaky voice carrying easily across the room.
It was a habit of his— every lesson began with roll call, making it nearly impossible to skip class unnoticed. Not that first-years had developed such habits yet.
During their first Charms lesson a few days prior, the diminutive head of Ravenclaw had sparked an immediate fascination with the subject. Much like Professor McGonagall, Flitwick knew how to make an entrance.
His grand display— making every chair, desk, and book in the classroom dance in perfect harmony— had been met with thunderous applause. It had even outshone Professor McGonagall’s impressive transfiguration of a cheetah.
By contrast, not a single student had clapped after Professor Snape’s Potions lecture.
Perhaps Snape thought his ominous speech about brewing fame and bottling glory was captivating, but all the students seemed to recall was the word “fool” echoing in his monologue.
“In our last lesson, we covered the basics of Charms theory. I trust you all practiced the proper pronunciation as I instructed?”
Unlike most professors, Professor Flitwick had to stand on a precarious stack of books just to reach his lectern.
“The Lumos Charm is one of the most significant magical innovations of the last century. It’s simple, practical, and even effective against certain magical creatures.”
“Lumos!”
His high-pitched voice rang out as his wand tip flared to life. After briefly explaining the history of the charm, he demonstrated it for the class.
Each syllable was crisp, his enunciation precise—he might as well have been teaching toddlers their first words.
“Remember, proper pronunciation and wand movement are crucial. During your Sorting, I noticed some of you already had a strong grasp of Lumos.”
At this, Professor Flitwick’s gaze flicked to his own house, his expression brimming with pride.
“Especially you, Mr. Prince. Your Lumos that night lit up half the Black Lake. And in the recent inter-house duels, your spellwork demonstrated exceptional control.”
For all his impartiality, Flitwick was still fiercely loyal to Ravenclaw. The way he said “duels” was a masterpiece of linguistic finesse— elegantly sidestepping the chaos that had unfolded.
“You flatter me. I’m only decent,” Ian replied, a little embarrassed. Thanks to the Weasley twins’ exaggerated storytelling, half the school had already heard about Marcus Flint Wetting Himself in the Corridor and Wizards Trapped in Holy Fire.
“That’s excessive modesty.”
Professor Flitwick, eager to showcase Ravenclaw’s talent, gestured toward Ian. “Perhaps you’d assist me in demonstrating a standard application of the Lumos Charm?”
A reasonable request.
Ian smelled extra house points.
“Lumos!”
Raising his elder wood wand, he cast the spell he used most frequently. The light bursting from his wand was brighter than the midday sun outside.
It was deliberate showmanship. Students squinted, shielding their eyes from the glow, which shimmered and shifted as Ian wove subtle patterns through the air. If anyone had known about Ultraman, they might have sworn he had just transformed.
“Amazing!”
“My eyes! I can’t see anything!”
Excited voices erupted around the room.
Satisfied, Ian finally extinguished the light.
“Wasn’t Marcus Flint scared by the green light? Rumor has it you invented the Wetting Charm— they say the Hogwarts plumbing backed up thanks to Flint’s ‘accident,'” a Gryffindor student called out, grinning. The legend of Marcus had taken on a life of its own.
“That was still Lumos,” Ian corrected smoothly. “Confusing your opponent is a perfectly valid dueling strategy, though that’s not quite today’s lesson.”
“You’ll eventually learn how to master silent casting,” Flitwick added, “so that spoken spells don’t interfere with your intent. It’s an advanced skill, but one you’ll need in proper spellwork.”
He likely expected the first-years to be overwhelmed, but he had underestimated their enthusiasm.
“I want to learn it!”
“I have a Slytherin enemy… I want to make him wet himself!”
“Can we just watch?”
…
Faced with eager, wide-eyed students, Flitwick hesitated. He didn’t want to stifle their curiosity. So, instead, he glanced at Ian— his star pupil.
Ian, perceptive as ever, understood the look immediately.
Without hesitation, he lifted his wand.
Silent casting.
A flash of green light burst forth.
Like a magical Gatling gun, beams of eerie light zipped across the room, striking each student’s forehead in rapid succession. Most barely had time to register what had happened.
“So cool!”
“That was incredible!”
“I could do this all day!”
…
The emerald glow that filled the classroom earned Ian a round of applause.
But amid the excited students, no one seemed to notice that the moment Ian’s wand had flared to life, Professor Flitwick had nearly toppled off his stack of books in fright.
“Five points to Ravenclaw. That was an… impressive magical demonstration?”
It took a moment for Flitwick to compose himself, but upon closer inspection, he confirmed that it was, indeed, just the Lumos Charm—albeit a rather unnerving variation.
His heart still hammering, he discreetly wiped his forehead. The shade of green had been disturbingly realistic.
For the rest of the lesson, Professor Flitwick’s gaze flickered toward Ian more often than usual, his expression unreadable.
Strange.
Even after class ended, as Ian exited the room surrounded by a chorus of chattering students, Flitwick hesitated, as though about to call him back. But in the end, he remained silent.
“Severus… Yes, Severus must have seen it too…” He muttered to himself, heading back to his office.
The thought seemed to put him at ease.
“I need to study! Tonight is for alchemy!”
Ian had no idea he had spooked his Charms professor.
Earlier, he hadn’t managed to squeeze in his usual language studies, but he had spent a pleasant break conversing with the bronze eagle of Ravenclaw Tower. A fair trade.
After all, he didn’t need to make up the lost time— languages were just a means of relaxation.
Compared to a language he might not even use anytime soon, there were far greater obstacles awaiting him— such as perfecting his latest alchemical artifact.
He needed more advanced knowledge to refine his techniques, broaden his understanding, and push his skills to the next level. So, the moment class was over, Ian made a beeline for the library.
“Finally open.”
He let out a sigh of relief upon seeing the doors ajar. Madam Pince, despite abandoning her post at noon, at least hadn’t taken the entire day off.
The library was well-lit but eerily empty, quieter than usual. It seemed that after the midday incident, most students assumed it would remain closed.
No matter. That just meant fewer distractions.
“I need a way to reduce the residue left behind by the alchemical process,” Ian muttered to himself as he began pulling books from the shelves, searching both the standard collection and the Restricted Section.
The issue he faced was, in essence, a problem any aspiring alchemist might encounter: how to discreetly dispose of an inconveniently large quantity of remains?
Ian’s personal solution was his latest creation—an artifact he called the Ashes-to-Ashes Box.
In his mind, it was a brilliant gift idea for Aurora. A compact, enchanted box that could consume meat, crush bones, and fold neatly into a pocket when not in use.
Who wouldn’t love that?
“The residual ash has to be even finer than what Fiendfyre leaves behind,” Ian mused, flipping through tome after tome. “Otherwise, the Ashes-to-Ashes Box will be useless.”
His fingers traced the spines of various books, scanning for anything relevant.
The Fifth Element
The Divine Realm: Creation from Nothing
Exploring Alchemy with the Master
…
Nothing.
Perhaps his idea was simply ahead of its time. None of the existing research addressed such a method. Just as he was about to resign himself to asking Professor Morgan for guidance during their next lesson—
“I’ve been watching you for a while,” A deep voice suddenly interrupted. “You’ve flipped through dozens of books, all circling around the same question. If I’m not mistaken, you’re looking for a way to turn matter into nothing?”
Ian froze, fingers still resting on the worn edge of a book.
“Honestly,” the voice continued, “that’s even harder than the so-called ‘creation from nothing’ that certain charlatans like to claim. You might have better luck converting matter into something else— something common, like air or soil…”
A hand extended a book toward him.
Ian turned.
The Secrets of Alchemy: The Connection Between All Things.
An ancient text.
A book authored by none other than Rowena Ravenclaw herself—the very witch whose writings had taught him so much already.
“Thank you,” Ian murmured, taking the book and finally looking up.
The man in front of him had golden, wavy hair and a grin so wide it seemed to stretch his entire face.
It was…
Gilderoy Lockhart.
(End of Chapter)
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