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It was not Voldemort or someone pretending to be Voldemort nor any of his soul parts!
And it was definitely not a Death Eater!
Silver light shimmered freggom the wand and the suffocating chill and creeping despair in the air eased considerably. A warm, potent magic surged forth— the kind that only those who can truly embrace beauty may master. The Patronus Charm.
“An Acolyte, is it…?”
Ian’s rigid hand remained suspended in mid-air, his gaze locked onto Gilderoy Lockhart’s wand where wisps of silver mist flowed continuously from its tip, looking delicate and ethereal.
A majestic silver creature began to take shape, though its true form remained veiled in shimmering mist. Ian caught only fleeting glimpses of a proud stance, a commanding presence, and an aura brimming with strength.
The Dementor in the cage let out a shrill, bone-chilling cry. Ian could sense its fear— raw and desperate. And yet, the selfish adult wizards made no move to dispel it with the Patronus.
The concealed Patronus circled Gilderoy Lockhart, gathering its power, shrouded in mystery.
Let’s continue to call him that.
After all, he had the same face.
“The Patronus Charm is not particularly complex magic. The incantation is as I recited earlier, but the key lies in concentration— summoning the happiest memory you can muster.”
“Some claim it is a reflection of one’s inner light, and you may well believe that. But personally, I see it as something else entirely. I believe we are merely evoking a response.” Lockhart’s wand continued to radiate silver luminescence, his expression composed once more.
And then—
“Expecto Patronum!”
Ian seized the moment their gazes met, activating a technique he had learned from his sharp-witted senior. A fleeting pulse of purple flickered in his eyes.
The magic worked.
But—
Ian could not breach Gilderoy Lockhart’s mind. Not only was he unable to alter or view his memories, but even the emotions Lockhart had displayed upon entering the classroom had become eerily imperceptible.
“That’s quite a piece of Ancient magic. You’ve learned quite a bit.” Lockhart arched an eyebrow, stepping aside to reveal the reason Ian’s assault had failed.
Right where Lockhart had stood, a translucent, glassy shell remained— a discarded layer of magical residue. As he moved, the brittle casing lingered momentarily before crumbling into dust.
It was clear.
This unknown magic had intercepted Ian’s intrusion.
“While we converse, you’re free to launch another attack if you wish. I’m rather curious about the extent of your abilities.” Lockhart’s voice carried no hint of irritation.
He merely smiled, tapping the fractured shell. The delicate structure shattered with a faint crackle, dissipating into the air like brittle wax exposed to flame.
“Hmm?”
Ian suddenly felt the restraints on his body vanish.
Lockhart was inviting him forward. After a moment of deliberation, Ian chose not to strike again— his suspicions were already solidifying.
“Professor, what do you mean by ‘response’?”
Ian flexed his arm nonchalantly, feigning casual curiosity.
Lockhart’s smile deepened.
“Every soul has its counterpart, a soul form child. The darkness you fear does not sever that bond— only the loss of self, the decay of one’s soul, can make that connection fade.”
Lockhart reached into the mist, his fingers grazing the barely visible Patronus as though he were petting a familiar companion. His words carried an unsettling ease, a philosophy that diverged from the established teachings of the wizarding world.
It was Heresy.
“Do you have any proof?” Ian asked, letting the glow of his wand spread to illuminate the younger students. Now that Lockhart’s Patronus was present, the room’s suffocating dread had receded.
Now, it merely felt like the onset of winter.
“An excellent question. Even Dumbledore would struggle to answer it. He is forever preoccupied with grander matters— lacking the time for such intricate study.”
The man who bore Gilderoy Lockhart’s face showed no irritation. If anything, he seemed amused, pleased to indulge Ian’s curiosity.
“You may have heard that Azkaban was originally the domain of a dark wizard named Ekrizdis. He constructed the fortress in the fifteenth century, luring Muggle sailors to the island to torture and experiment on them.”
“When the Ministry of Magic finally uncovered the island, it was already infested with Dementors. Some believe these creatures were the result of Ekrizdis’s twisted experiments— some form of grotesque alchemy performed upon the Muggles he captured.”
“This, in turn, led to an age of paranoia— an irrational fear of biological alchemy… Ha! Fools, the lot of them. Ever eager to be misled by equally foolish conjecture.”
“Anyone with a proper grasp of alchemy would see through such nonsense. The idea that one could conjure an entirely new species from nothing? That is a power reserved for the gods.”
“We cannot even conquer death. And yet, people truly believe that a mere wizard could create beings that defy both life and death…”
Lockhart’s gaze shifted toward the caged abomination.
The Dementor let out another piercing wail.
“According to records about Ekrizdis, he was not a particularly exceptional Dark wizard. In truth, he performed a sacrificial ritual on that island— the very place that would later become a prison.”
“He brought forth entities that do not belong to our world, and due to his lack of mastery, he lost his life in the process. That is the real reason behind his mysterious disappearance.”
Gilderoy Lockhart’s tone was filled with certainty, as if he were recounting events he had witnessed firsthand, making one wonder what gave him such confidence in these ancient occurrences.
“And how does this relate to the Patronus being able to combat Dementors?” Ian found the story intriguing, but it clearly did not answer his question.
Gilderoy Lockhart shook his head.
“It relates in every way. Dementors are tied to the world beyond— the world we all must eventually journey to. A Patronus, in turn, is not just a shield against them; it is a guide, paving the way for its counterpart in that distant realm.” His words, so at odds with conventional wizarding beliefs, would likely be deemed heretical by the magical community.
Ian frowned slightly.
“You haven’t died. How do you know?”
He recalled carefully.
While the Twilight Realm harbored many strange creatures, every wizard’s soul he had encountered there had been alone, their Patronus nowhere in sight.
“In time, I will die, won’t I? And when that moment comes, I will know for certain.” Gilderoy Lockhart did not refute the skepticism, merely shrugged, his expression unconcerned.
“…”
Ian felt unsettled by Gilderoy Lockhart’s calm certainty. Was it possible that the scenario described by this imposter— or acolyte— lay beyond the reach of the Twilight Realm?
After all—
If this man truly was ‘that’ person…
He wouldn’t be feeding them mere fantasy without some foundation, would he? Then again, long imprisonment had been known to unravel minds, breeding delusions and madness.
“Muggles cannot see Dementors, nor can they resist them. Are you suggesting they have no Patronus or Soul Form as you say of their own?” Ian pressed further.
Gilderoy Lockhart merely smiled, his amusement deepening.
“Child, only through death and rebirth can true miracles manifest.”
His words were spoken with crisp clarity, yet their meaning was shrouded in ambiguity. Ian felt a strange sense of familiarity— Aurora had mentioned something similar during their first encounter in the bookshop.
Did one have to die and return to obtain a Patronus? That couldn’t be— not when countless wizards across the world had summoned one. Surely they hadn’t all been pulled back from death itself!
Just as Ian wrestled with this notion—
“Questioning time is over, Mr. Prince. It is now your turn to try.” Gilderoy Lockhart suddenly shifted the conversation, his voice laced with anticipation.
The silver mist surrounding him was thick, almost dazzling. Ian had no way of seeing that one of his eyes had turned a stark, unnatural white.
“I’m quite curious to see what your Patronus will be.” Gilderoy Lockhart’s eagerness was palpable, his altered pupils reflecting something beyond the confines of the classroom.
Within his gaze, Ian saw fractured visions—
An old man, kneeling in sorrow.
Young witches and wizards raising their hands to the sky.
An elder wood wand, its tip spilling silver threads, weaving a form too indistinct to recognize.
A prophecy.
They always looked like this.
Especially when the ripples they foretold were profound.
It had been this way back then.
And it was this way now.
“Please don’t let it be something as cliché as a dragon or a Thunderbird; that would be dreadfully dull.” Perhaps Gilderoy Lockhart— or rather, ‘Grindelwald’— had been waiting a long time for this lesson, seeking answers to a question left unresolved. Why had his vision of this moment remained unclear? How could a single spell hold the potential to shift the tides of fate?
All for a mere Patronus Charm.
“Expecto Patronum!”
Ian met his teacher’s gaze, choosing not to ask further questions. Instead, he raised his wand and focused, summoning forth the happiest memories he could grasp.
Was it the first time he had stumbled upon the island teacher in his past life?
The wand flickered, releasing only a few silver sparks.
That was not true happiness.
“Expecto Patronum!”
He tried again.
Perhaps it was the time he had spent at university, playing games with his friends, achieving an undefeated streak of 37 victories in a row.
The wand brightened, more silver threads unraveling from its tip, weaving into something more tangible.
This— this was a joy born of true triumph.
[You have learned the Patronus Charm, Proficiency +3]
“Expecto Patronum!”
Ian recalled the moment a girl had once confessed to him— only to be murdered by an infatuated admirer soon after. That hardly counted as happiness. He shifted his thoughts, searching through his experiences in this life instead.
Helena from the orphanage, Catherine, Daniel, Mia— his childhood companions. The family and friends he had made after arriving at Hogwarts.
Had he ever felt true joy in their company?
The increasingly dense silver mist swirling around him provided the answer.
[You have learned the Patronus Charm, Proficiency +5]
[You have learned the Patronus Charm, Proficiency +3]
[You have learned the Patronus Charm, Proficiency +4]
Under the expectant gaze of the counterfeit Lockhart, streams of brilliant silver began pouring from Ian’s wand, coalescing into a thick, swirling mass in front of him. Since the Dementors’ presence no longer filled him with fear or cold, he couldn’t sense their darkness being repelled.
However.
The warmth of the Patronus— the hope it carried— was undeniable.
“You can do even better… Focus on calling forth your Patronus,” Gilderoy Grindelwald urged, his voice laced with an uncharacteristic urgency, as though he wanted to witness Ian’s Patronus before anyone else.
However—
“Professor Grindelwald.”
Ian’s face was flushed from exertion, but his tone carried a hint of helplessness.
“I think I might just burst with happiness at this rate… Maybe you should bribe me with a vault full of Galleons for some added motivation?”
His wand continued to pour out silver brilliance.
There was no mistake— his magic was working.
Yet, instead of amusement at Ian’s remark, the man wearing another’s face frowned deeply. He stared at the rapidly thickening silver mist, his expression unreadable, as though he had stumbled upon a flaw in his own knowledge.
“This… shouldn’t be happening.”
Gilderoy Grindelwald made no effort to correct Ian’s pointed form of address.
He furrowed his brows, clearly troubled. The immense magical power of Ian’s Patronus Charm flooded the classroom, even encroaching upon the space where Grindelwald’s own Patronus swirled. This was something only achieved by wizards who had not only mastered the charm but possessed extraordinary magical reserves.
Hadn’t he noticed?
The Dementors in the cage had gone into a frenzy, clawing desperately at the stone floor as if it was trying to burrow underground. It wasn’t just afraid— this Dementer was attempting to flee.
Such power.
It had already surpassed that of most wizards who could conjure a corporeal Patronus. By all logic, Ian’s Patronus should have already taken shape.
And yet—
It did not.
Now, it was Gilderoy Grindelwald who found himself at a loss. He prided himself on his knowledge, convinced that his years of research had surpassed anything from his past… yet reality was proving otherwise. There was still something he did not understand.
Ian, too, was puzzled.
[Patronus Charm (Level 0) 49/50]
His mastery of the spell had progressed smoothly, yet now he found himself stuck at the very last step— as though something crucial was missing.
If he were to follow the theory put forth by the counterfeit professor standing before him—
Could it be that he lacked a Patronus entirely?
“Why does everyone else have one, but not me?!”
Silver light poured endlessly from Ian’s wand, filling every inch of the classroom. The Dementors wailed pitifully in their cage, their shrieks barely audible over the flood of magic. The brilliant glow even surged past the windowpanes, spilling out into the castle corridors.
And yet—
It refused to take shape.
No matter how Ian tried to direct it, he could only manage to condense it further.
“Professor… where is my Soul Form?”
He could only look up at Gilderoy Grindelwald in silent plea.
“…”
For once, Grindelwald had no response. His mouth opened slightly, as if to speak, but no words came. His usual confidence wavered, and for the first time, he seemed truly unsettled.
It wasn’t complete bewilderment— more like the expression of a prodigy who had aced his exams, only to find himself confronted with a problem beyond even his understanding.
“Yes… where is your soulmate?”
The man who had lived a life of freedom, one who could glimpse the threads of fate, ultimately found himself bound by the very destiny he sought to transcend. He watched as the silver radiance from Ian’s wand threatened to engulf the entire classroom in blinding brilliance.
“Lower your wand. I’ll help you find a solution to this.” Gilderoy Grindelwald still could not fathom the cause of the anomaly.
“Alright, Professor.” Ian dispelled the magic.
The dense silver mist began to fade, dissipating like morning fog under the rising sun.
With a flick of Grindelwald’s wand, the makeshift cage was obscured once more, seamlessly transfiguring back into the ordinary, unremarkable teacher’s desk. The classroom was restored to its usual state.
“You’re responsible for waking them up. Tell them I’m extremely disappointed in their performance today. And I expect that by our next lesson, at least two or three of them will manage to last until the end.”
With that, Gilderoy Grindelwald turned toward the door of the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom.
“Huh?”
Ian blinked in surprise.
He had assumed that Grindelwald’s erratic, reckless approach to teaching had been a one-time spectacle. Yet, from his words, it sounded as though he intended to continue masquerading as Lockhart— and remain in his post as Defense Against the Dark Arts professor?
Had this really been approved by Dumbledore?
Did this mean that Gilderoy Grindelwald would be teaching at Hogwarts for the foreseeable future?
The very thought was unnerving.
“Professor… perhaps we need lessons that are a little less… harrowing?” Ian glanced at his classmates sprawled across the floor. To an uninformed observer, the scene might have resembled the aftermath of a mass poisoning.
It was, frankly, a bit much.
“This is what proper Defense Against the Dark Arts training looks like. If you find it overwhelming, it’s only because the so-called professors who preceded me were utterly incompetent.”
Gilderoy Grindelwald— cloaked in the borrowed guise of a self-absorbed writer— paused in his stride. He turned back toward Ian, his tone no longer sharp or dismissive, but measured and deliberate.
“As I said before, real dangers won’t wait for you to grow up. Defense Against the Dark Arts should prepare you to face them— not lull you into a false sense of security.”
“At the very least, here at Hogwarts, no one will actually die. But when these children step into the cruel, unforgiving world beyond these walls, most of them will look back and thank me.”
“Including you.”
His voice carried a quiet force, something that seemed to settle deep in the bones, as if compelling the soul to listen.
“Snape will likely be the first to express his gratitude,” Ian muttered with a sigh, already moving toward his unconscious roommates. “You’re bound to terrify the students far more than he ever has.”
“Mr. Prince, one day, you’ll understand the need for this.” Grindelwald resumed his departure.
“To see flowers bloom, one must first wade through the blood of those who pluck them. Reality is cruel — it does not care for your opinions. All that matters is the brilliance of the bloom.”
His rich, resonant voice lingered in the empty classroom.
“Class dismissed.”
As the last syllable faded into the air, the man had already disappeared around the corridor.
…
Setting up a cauldron, Ian melted several bars of chocolate into a thick, velvety liquid. He then filled a large bucket with the warm confection and carried it back to the classroom— the battlefield— where his fallen classmates lay in disarray.
Though it wasn’t the most elegant approach, he had little choice but to resort to the most rudimentary method: force-feeding them chocolate while rousing them from unconsciousness. Even Cho Chang, delicate as she was, received a sharp slap on the cheek to stir her awake.
“What… what happened?”
“Weren’t we eaten by the Dementor?”
“Merlin’s beard! I had a nightmare… No, wait— bloody hell, it wasn’t a nightmare! It was this classroom!”
…
As the students gradually regained consciousness, their instincts took over. They reached for the chocolate, gulping it down as if it were the only thing tethering them to sanity.
Watching this unfold, Ian realized something: for all of Grindelwald’s ruthlessness, the man had exercised some restraint.
The Dementors’ presence had left no permanent damage.
The students would recover. Their happiness, though momentarily drained, would return in time.
Still, for the next few days…
The entire class was bound to be in very low spirits.
“So scary.”
Michael, a young black wizard who had developed quickly and was one of the larger first-years, now resembled a quail, shivering in fear.
Ian considered going over to comfort him but overheard Michael muttering, “I… I feel like Rebecca might not like me… Oh! This illusion is too terrifying!”
A simpering fool wasn’t worth comforting.
Ian halted in his tracks.
Instead, he decided to offer solace to his own personal support— William. In contrast, William seemed far more grounded. Upon waking, he had been muttering about some brat taking over his room at home and how he wanted to make soup for Ian… Well, perhaps loyal William wasn’t that normal after all.
Ian never imagined that, just one night later, he would genuinely wish that the “brat” in William’s life was some non-human creature in his family, though that idea would still be quite unsettling.
“What kind of friends are these!” Ian began to question his social circle. He glanced around, relieved to see that most of the little wizards’ nightmares were bizarre, even morally questionable.
It was the lingering effect of the Dementors.
After an encounter with a Dementor, even if the victim narrowly escaped, they often felt physically drained, weak, and plagued by nightmares for several nights.
There were potions that could bring happiness and speed up recovery, but such potions were costly. Even with Snape absent from the school, Ian wouldn’t dare rummage through Snape’s office in search of them.
Several students were still lying in the classroom.
None of them were named Lily Potter or Harry Snape… The classmates would have to endure. Ian quickly roused each student who had been Stupefied.
Everyone felt a bit cold.
They eagerly clutched the chocolate concoction Ian had given them and drank it down.
“Lockhart is mad! I’ll tell my dad! My dad will expel him!” To Ian’s surprise, there was a child of a prominent school leader in the Ravenclaw group, much like Malfoy.
“That was a Dementor! Waaah! I never want to take Defense Against the Dark Arts again!” Some young wizards, tearfully, developed a fear of the subject.
Everyone was clearly shaken.
Even when Ian dangled the hope of “the professor promised he’d bring in a Veela for us to practice Defense Against the Dark Arts,” it only led to a hesitant question from one young wizard, who looked up with teary eyes and asked,
“One for each of us?”
Even this question was filled with hesitation, a clear sign of how deeply the students had been affected. Fortunately, Ian had already thoughtfully and warmly considered their concerns.
“Where’s the Dementor? Did that Lockhart take it away?” William asked, still shaken.
“Who knows…” Ian’s feigned confusion was tinged with guilt.
His gaze flickered nervously.
But neither of his roommates noticed— the teacher’s desk had disappeared, and after catching their breath, everyone began to leave the classroom on unsteady legs.
Many of them made their way toward the hospital wing, where Madam Pomfrey would undoubtedly have a busy afternoon. How the counterfeit professor would handle the situation with a colleague so devoted to the students remained uncertain.
“That’s not something I need to worry about!”
After lunch, as Ian returned to the dormitory with his two tired roommates, he found himself wondering where the real Gilderoy Lockhart had gone and whether he might encounter him in the Twilight Zone. Probably not; the Polyjuice Potion required a living person, and Gilderoy Lockhart might well be imprisoned somewhere by the false professor.
Of course.
Ian had no sympathy for the real Gilderoy Lockhart.
For someone like him, being locked away and used for hair extraction by a pig might be a fitting fate. Those who had been harmed by Lockhart would surely take a certain satisfaction in such an outcome.
If they even remembered… The only thing that left Ian somewhat incredulous was that Dumbledore had allowed Aurora’s grandfather to impersonate Gilderoy Lockhart.
From the memories Dumbledore had shared, it seemed that the two had already fallen out, and Aurora’s grandfather was imprisoned in Nurmengard Castle in Austria.
Did they let him go?
The Ministry of Magic certainly lacked the ability to properly oversee things, and a private prison didn’t seem to be an issue. After all, from Dumbledore’s memories, it appeared Grindelwald was serving his sentence of his own accord.
If he didn’t wish to remain there… Who could stop him, aside from Dumbledore himself?
“Perhaps it’s because the previous Defense Against the Dark Arts professor was killed. It seems this curse isn’t just a simple one; there must be something far darker behind it than I’d thought.”
“Voldemort, or something else?” Ian wondered. He had a feeling the Dark Lord might have been drawn to protect Aurora, and couldn’t help but regret that such an opportunity hadn’t arisen next year.
The noseless Tom would surely regret missing this chance.
“Maybe the curse won’t take effect?”
As Ian considered the seven years of suffering that he and his classmates might face, he truly wished for the option of self-sacrifice to be the answer.
Of course, this was not a decision he could make.
“I’m heading to the library; what about you?” Ian had just returned from the bathroom in the dormitory and found his two sleepy roommates already collapsed into their beds.
In these days of nightmares, clearly, too much sleep wasn’t ideal. However, for the first time, Ian’s slap technique seemed to have lost its effectiveness on them.
“Maybe I used it too much today; the power’s not enough.” Ian quickly tidied his bed, took a detour to the Room of Requirement to check on his treasures, and then made his way to the library, which had always been his go-to sanctuary during lunchtime. Today, however, the library felt even emptier than usual.
As expected, the events of the Defense Against the Dark Arts class had spread like wildfire. Yet for those young wizards who hadn’t experienced it firsthand, some even thought the new professor was rather impressive, though Ian wasn’t sure if this admiration was genuine or simply a byproduct of Lockhart’s fame.
Amid the hushed whispers in the library, Madam Pince predictably asserted her authority. Under the threat of her ever-present feather duster, the library quickly returned to silence.
“A nameless good Samaritan saved this group of little wizards who failed to keep count in their hearts.”
Ian merely glanced at Madam Pince’s “enforcement,” then lowered his head to immerse himself in the study of alchemy, which was his second favorite subject after Charms and Transfiguration.
Alchemy was actually one of Hogwarts’ elective courses, but sadly for Ian, he needed to achieve excellent grades in Charms, Ancient Magic, and Transfiguration during his Fifth Year O.W.L.s to qualify for the elective class.
There was a somewhat transparent professor who had seemingly worked at Hogwarts for many years, much like the mysterious Ancient Magic professor, Bathsheda Babbling, whom Ian hadn’t seen since the start of the year. This had made his plans to showcase his alchemical talents and gain Professor’s guidance increasingly difficult.
The O.W.L.s exam results were certainly no trouble for Ian; his only obstacle was his age. Perhaps he might only get a chance to sneak into the alchemy class using a Polyjuice Potion brewed from a senior’s hair.
“I might be able to skip Potions and sneak into Alchemy.” Ian had developed quite an interest in biological alchemy after his conversation with the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor that morning.
He spent the entire afternoon in the Restricted Section, poring over relevant literature and materials— up until now, he had only had a superficial understanding, most of which came from fragmented pieces of information in books like Origins of Bloodlines.
“Surprisingly, it also has a certain connection to biological Transfiguration.” Ian spent the entire afternoon in the library, and during his Flying class that afternoon, he discovered that his two roommates had chosen to skip the class. Since there was no need for textbooks, Ian didn’t bother returning to the dormitory.
He saved over ten minutes to continue reading, only to find that his two roommates were still asleep in the dormitory. This was likely a result of their encounter with the Dementor in Defense Against the Dark Arts.
Skipping class was quite a rare achievement for Ravenclaw’s little wizards.
After all, in Ian’s view, there was little difference between attending or skipping Flying class, which never went beyond basic low-altitude hovering.
It was like how earning a broomstick license wouldn’t affect one’s ability to mount up and take off with ease.
It wasn’t until the evening feast that Ian noticed his two roommates looking even paler than before.
Neither had much of an appetite.
Though they had the rare luxury of not competing with their dormmates for food, Ian himself barely touched the roast chicken on his plate.
Because he had noticed something peculiar— over at the Slytherin table, the Germanic girl kept casting furtive glances his way.
The way she absently toyed with her utensils, never taking a bite, made it clear she was preoccupied with the delicacies he had mentioned earlier.
Ian wasn’t one to make empty promises.
After sneaking a glance at the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor, who was leisurely enjoying his meal at the staff table, Ian waited until the feast had ended and the professors had departed before approaching Aurora.
He had originally intended to bring William and Michael along, but after their dismal showing at dinner, they clearly lacked the energy for a long trek to the Hogwarts kitchens.
“Let’s just go back to bed… Maybe we’ll find everything we need in our dreams.”
Ian couldn’t fathom why William and Michael spoke with such haunted expressions.
Everyone knew they would be plagued by nightmares.
Yet they still wanted to sleep?
Sometimes Ian truly felt out of place in his slightly unhinged dormitory.
Luckily, at least one of his friends was relatively normal.
“Your grandfather is at Hogwarts.”
In the corridor outside the Great Hall, the moment Ian met Aurora, he revealed the true identity of the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor.
He had anticipated a look of shock or surprise on Aurora’s face.
Instead—
“I figured that out ages ago. Grandfather said you’d probably come to ‘complain’ about him and told me to remember whatever you said.” Aurora’s expression was oddly unreadable.
Perhaps she had hesitated before choosing the word ‘complain’?
“…”
Ian silently erased the carefully prepared speech from his mind.
“How could I possibly badmouth my own professor? He’s truly remarkable at misjudging people, that’s all. I’d only ever be grateful that he taught me the Patronus Charm.”
His voice rose slightly as he unfolded a map to confirm their location.
“Right.”
Aurora nodded in response.
“You said his heart is as murky as a cauldron bottom.”
She even paraphrased.
“!!!!”
Ian’s eyes widened in horror.
“Don’t snitch on me!”
The moment the words left his mouth, he realized he had walked straight into the Germanic girl’s trap.
“Alright.”
Aurora nodded once more, as if carefully studying his mannerisms.
Then, mimicking his exact tone, she added, “But you have to teach me the Patronus Charm.”
Her clipped phrasing.
This was an uncanny resemblance to his own tactics.
It all gave Ian an unsettling sense of déjà vu.
“You’re devious! A wicked schemer!”
Muttering under his breath, Ian— of course— did not refuse.
He glanced towards the eighth-floor corridor.
“I haven’t completely mastered it yet, but teaching you shouldn’t be too difficult.”
“Since we just finished eating, a bit of magic practice will help with digestion. Though I don’t entirely agree with your grandfather’s teaching style, if you can manage the Patronus Charm tonight, I’ll show you the magical creature I discovered earlier.”
With that, Ian set off at a brisk pace.
Noticing Aurora following close behind, he threw her a warning over his shoulder.
“It’s a rogue Dementor. You can’t tell our Defense Against the Dark Arts professor… Dementors are especially dangerous for you. Just look at my two roommates if you need proof. That’s why you must learn the Patronus Charm first.”
Aurora nodded as she kept pace with him.
“Isn’t it dangerous for you too?”
Her voice was laced with curiosity.
“I feel like it’s like a little Kneazle— clever and obedient… Perhaps because I used to ride the wind with a wand in hand!”
Ian led Aurora to the Room of Requirement.
After ensuring no one was around, he silently envisioned the room for hiding things and led Aurora inside.
The door slowly closed behind them and then vanished from sight.
From the Owlery in the distant West Tower, the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor, Gilderoy Grindelwald, appeared to have taken a deliberate detour.
He smirked at the now-invisible door before heading back to his office on the third floor via the staircases.
“Huu~”
The moment he stepped inside, the candles flared to life of their own accord, illuminating the dim room.
Dumbledore, who had returned to the castle after being away, was waiting for him.
Leaning against the desk, head bowed, the Headmaster appeared to be fiddling with a small object in his hands.
Grindelwald, still masquerading as Gilderoy Lockhart, showed no surprise.
“The Ministry has lost a Dementor, Gellert. We agreed not to break the law.” Dumbledore finally looked up at the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor, his brows knitting together slightly.
Grindelwald, who had been maintaining Lockhart’s appearance, merely tilted his head.
His body remained unchanged, but his face began to shift and twist, accompanied by a series of quiet cracking sounds.
Within moments, his true visage reemerged— old, yet still strikingly sharp.
This was a rare form of human transfiguration, far more complex than even the highly advanced Animagus transformation.
Unlike Metamorphmagi or the effects of Polyjuice Potion, this kind of transfiguration did not require innate talent or brewed draughts— only immense magical skill and knowledge.
Hogwarts’ library contained no books on the subject, for obvious reasons.
It seemed Ian had misjudged the source of Grindelwald’s transformation earlier that day.
“The Ministry would never admit they’ve lost anything. As far as the law is concerned, nothing has happened.” Grindelwald strode over to the desk.
Though his hands and body retained Lockhart’s youthful form, his true identity was no longer concealed.
In his youth, Gellert Grindelwald had mastered human transfiguration, frequently using it to evade capture and conduct covert activities.
Now, though his physical abilities were no longer what they once had been, his mastery of magic had only deepened.
A wizard’s limitations were never defined by mere physical strength.
“Teaching children doesn’t require a Dementor. I brought you here to ensure the students’ safety in my absence, not to send them to the hospital wing.” Dumbledore’s piercing gaze met Grindelwald’s, his tone edged with disapproval.
“The best way to protect them is to teach them how to survive.” Grindelwald’s philosophy still clashed with Dumbledore’s, though not irreconcilably.
Dumbledore merely frowned, choosing not to argue further.
“Poppy has some complaints about you. She was rather overwhelmed at noon today, though she chose not to report you to the Ministry.” Dumbledore’s voice carried a note of quiet reproach.
He was referring, of course, to Madam Pomfrey.
“I shall personally extend my gratitude to our dear matron. After all, who could resist a charming author who sincerely acknowledges his mistakes— yet never quite changes his ways— but arrives bearing gifts?”
Grindelwald’s face shifted back into Lockhart’s, though it only remained for a few seconds before reverting to his true self.
“I must say, Lockhart is quite popular here. The adoration is almost nostalgic. A pity, though— I can only boast about ‘his’ exploits rather than my own.”
He altered his appearance a few more times, demonstrating a skill that in his hands felt as effortless as a magical creature’s natural abilities.
“First-years… it’s too soon.” Dumbledore sighed, choosing to focus on Hogwarts’ education rather than his old friend’s theatrics.
Yet he hesitated.
“Then again, perhaps you’re right.”
Although Dumbledore knew that Grindelwald’s unorthodox teaching methods were, in part, influenced by two particular first-years, he couldn’t entirely dismiss the possibility that his approach had some merit.
After all, in recent days, they had already brushed the edges of true danger more than once.
Storms were brewing.
Perhaps self-preservation was indeed a lesson the young witches and wizards needed to learn.
Dumbledore turned the small object over in his hand, his expression unreadable.
Ultimately, he chose to compromise, adjusting his stance while ensuring certain boundaries remained uncrossed.
“You know what I will not permit.”
“Of course.”
It was a necessary reminder.
“I will exercise restraint.” Grindelwald, too, had found room to compromise.
After all, at this stage, the students were merely unsettled— far from the limits he believed they could be pushed.
“Have you found any leads regarding the letter that led to Ronnie Ehrlich’s death?” Dumbledore shifted the conversation, his demeanor growing more serious.
Grindelwald, too, straightened up.
From a desk drawer, he withdrew two nearly identical letters, the only discrepancies lying in minor details.
“Before I could send my letter, Ronnie received a forged one. The mastermind behind this is no amateur. He not only anticipated my words but also altered them so subtly that no suspicion was raised… Even I struggle to detect anything unnatural.”
He spread both letters on the desk.
As he had said, their contents were nearly identical, down to the smallest phrasing.
The only true difference lay in the instructions given to Ronnie Ehrlich.
Using the idea of ‘the greater good’ as justification, the forger had altered Grindelwald’s original intent— subtly but decisively.
Ronnie Ehrlich, unaware of any deception, followed the instructions and met his end at the hands of another student.
“He told Ronnie Ehrlich to drink, which was a careless oversight. If he had told Ronnie to drink poison, I suspect Ronnie would have obeyed just as blindly, believing the orders came from you.”
Dumbledore’s eyes darkened as he studied the two letters, a cold dread settling in his chest.
He could scarcely imagine what kind of seer possessed such terrifyingly precise foresight.
“Haha, don’t treat me like one of your other professors, Albus. You must see it too.” Grindelwald’s gaze remained fixed on the letters spread out before them.
“The fact that this forged letter was left untouched, lying in my office drawer when I arrived, is a deliberate taunt— an open display of arrogance and scorn.”
Grindelwald’s voice carried an eager edge.
“I’ll find this person. They’ve issued me a rather intriguing challenge.”
His expression shifted through a range of emotions.
But there was no trace of fear.
“Do you believe this mysterious figure is inside the school?”
Dumbledore posed the question weighing heaviest on his mind.
“I suspect they’ve never set foot here. If they could infiltrate Hogwarts, why bother luring the students to Hogsmeade? A diversion like that wouldn’t fool us.”
Grindelwald’s reasoning aligned with Dumbledore’s own conclusions.
The elder wizard nodded and tossed a small object onto the desk.
“Now, to our other problem. How many more of these are there?”
A sharp clink rang out.
It was a locket— small and exquisitely crafted.
The metal, likely precious, bore intricate carvings and an impeccable polish. A gemstone, embedded at its center, emitted a faint, eerie glow. Though dim, it betrayed a certain unmistakable power.
Ancient symbols adorned its surface, masterfully etched with unparalleled precision.
“I play the role of an author, Albus, but in truth, I am merely a seer. You ask too much. How could I possibly know everything in the world?”
Grindelwald didn’t bother inspecting the locket.
With a look of distaste, he even shifted his chair away from it.
“I can only tell you that there is more than one.”
His words confirmed Dumbledore’s worst fears.
Though Dumbledore had long suspected that a certain madman might have used this method to stave off death, he had never imagined he would be reckless enough to fracture his soul multiple times.
Such an act only led to one fate— one far worse than death.
And it presented a dire challenge to those still living.
“The risk is too great.”
Dumbledore’s gaze lingered on the locket, his thoughts clouded with unease.
“You’ve never been in such a hurry to handle something yourself. I’ve never seen you this restless, Albus.” Grindelwald arched an eyebrow, his tone laced with amusement.
“Why must you take this on alone? Evading death once only means it will return tenfold. Those who cheat Death never escape for long.” His voice, unusually gentle, carried a note of reassurance.
But Dumbledore’s frown remained.
“I know what troubles you, Albus. With you and me here, the students will be safe. The only real concern is—”
Grindelwald stopped mid-sentence.
“Can you see anything else?”
Dumbledore’s searching gaze carried an uncharacteristic hint of plea.
Grindelwald hesitated for a brief moment.
Then, with a heavy sigh, he shook his head. “In truth, the only reason I can perceive this foul thing at all is because it is tied to a future grief you will endure.”
“It was only when I shook your hand again that I saw it… Even though my understanding of fate surpasses yours, Albus, prophecy is most precise when a seer shares a close connection with its subject.”
Forcing aside his revulsion, Grindelwald placed a hand upon the locket.
One of his eyes flickered, its color shifting momentarily.
“Why not consult our Dark Lord directly? He’s lurking in the forests of Albania, after all… Tsk, tsk. The infamous Dark Lord, hunting a rat.”
“A literal rat, mind you,” Grindelwald added, his voice dripping with mockery, before withdrawing his hand and heading to the sink, scrubbing his fingers as though he had touched something foul.
For someone like Voldemort, he felt only contempt. Horcruxes— if they were truly so effective— why were there so few who had dared to create them?
History had never lacked for ambitious wizards.
“Remember what I endure for you, Albus. Handling this sort of thing makes me feel as though I’m inviting misfortune upon myself.”
Grindelwald shook off the water from his hands and returned to the desk.
“I already know he’s there.” Dumbledore finally spoke, his voice quiet.
“…”
Grindelwald’s expression stiffened slightly.
“Bad luck!”
In the end, he could only vent his frustration on the locket resting on the table.
“We can’t catch him there. He’s faster than anyone, and if he realizes we’ve uncovered his secret, he’ll become even more craven and cautious than before.” Dumbledore studied the locket, its cursed aura thick with Dark magic, the fractured soul within still untouched.
“I’ll follow the course of his actions and search carefully. If you discover anything new, you must tell me.” Dumbledore said as he moved toward the door.
“Of course.”
As he watched Dumbledore’s retreating figure, Grindelwald’s thoughts drifted back to the morning a few days prior, the visions he had glimpsed replaying in his mind.
“Albus, I’m choosing to help you, as always.” Grindelwald’s words seemed like an answer to Dumbledore’s request, yet his eyes— now turned an eerie, sightless white— were reviewing the events of days past.
A peculiar ring, hidden away in a crumbling, forsaken house.
“Thank you, Gellert. I’ve only ever asked you to watch over the school. That will be enough. Please— don’t do too much, alright?” Dumbledore suddenly turned back, his voice carrying a quiet plea.
Grindelwald’s eyes had already returned to their normal hue a heartbeat before.
“Not a single student will die.”
Grindelwald smiled.
“…”
Dumbledore let out a weary sigh. He stood at the door, hand resting on the handle, hesitated for a long moment, and then finally asked,
“Is Gilderoy Lockhart still alive? He was meant to take the Defense Against the Dark Arts post. I hadn’t expected you to find a replacement quite so quickly, the moment I stepped away.”
“I was planning on arranging a more… leisurely position for you.”
Although Dumbledore’s selection of Gilderoy Lockhart as a professor made it clear that the man was expendable, his approach to such matters remained different from Grindelwald’s.
“I only accept the positions I choose for myself.”
Then, after a brief pause, Grindelwald added,
“In fact, I’d be more than happy to share my memories of Gilderoy Lockhart with you. If you saw what lurked inside his mind, you would certainly approve of my decision regarding him.”
“Don’t worry— he’s not dead. I gave you my word, Albus. I only kill Dark wizards.”
Grindelwald’s words were enough. Dumbledore nodded, refraining from any further questions, and quietly opened the door. Without another glance, he stepped out.
As the door slowly swung shut, Grindelwald exhaled a quiet breath, closing his eyes as if suddenly exhausted.
Dealing with Dumbledore was never easy.
“The Resurrection Stone… This cursed relic is the last thing Albus needs to see,” he muttered to himself. Then, after a pause, he added with a wry smile,
“Well, I do hope Mr. Gilderoy Lockhart is satisfied with the arrangements I’ve made for him.”
Austria.
Night had fallen.
Nurmengard Castle lay beneath a thick veil of darkness, the moonlight filtering through sparse clouds and casting an eerie glow upon its weathered stone walls. The ancient fortress, with its soaring towers, loomed over the land, silent and forsaken.
Few dared approach this location.
Even the Ministry of Magic officials assigned to watch over the castle preferred to keep their distance.
For the most part, the only sounds at night were the whispering wind and the occasional call of an owl, the dense forests surrounding the stronghold unnervingly still.
But tonight was different.
The odd tension in the air unsettled the Ministry personnel stationed far away, who observed only through enchanted telescopes, careful never to step too close.
“What’s all that shouting about?” One of them muttered, adjusting the focus of his scope.
The man behind the iron-barred window— usually a figure of quiet detachment, content to sip tea and play endless games of wizard’s chess— was behaving… differently.
“Perhaps it’s something to do with Dumbledore’s recent visit for the registry?” One of the officials mused.
The others exchanged glances. A silent understanding passed between them.
And with that, they promptly returned to their game of chess, abandoning their watch over the distant, towering fortress.
It wasn’t as though they were neglecting their duty.
Their superiors had given them very clear instructions: remain stationed here, play a game or two, check on the castle every few hours, and report back. Whether their charge was still inside the fortress or not was no concern of theirs.
After all—
Everyone knew the kind of man the Austrian Minister of Magic was before he took office. The Ministry had its priorities. They were only here to collect their pay.
Even if the prison cell lay empty, they would merely assume its occupant was dozing under the bed.
And should they be asked to step inside and investigate?
Well.
Only a fool would take that risk.
No salary was worth inviting that kind of trouble.
“Let me out! This is a plot! A vile conspiracy! You can’t do this! I demand to see Dumbledore! I want to see Dumbledore!”
The towering gates of Nurmengard Castle stood sealed, their iron bars slick with age, glistening under the moonlight with an eerie, almost unnatural sheen. The pathway leading up to them had long been overtaken by creeping ivy and tangled brambles.
From behind a thick-barred window—
A man who now called himself “Grindelwald” clung desperately to the rusted frame, his hoarse cries echoing into the lonely night. But Nurmengard had no guards, no watchful sentries. Only the cold, unyielding iron and the distant crash of waves breaking against the cliffs.
A simple Alohomora would have sufficed, but even if he hadn’t lost his wand, it was doubtful he could have performed such basic magic in his current state.
Perhaps it was truly the Memory Charm that had unraveled Gilderoy Lockhart’s past, stripping him of all he once was. After all, his life had been spent leeching off the triumphs of others—rewriting their feats into his own fabricated legend.
And now—
Fate, in its peculiar way, had not been unkind to Gilderoy Lockhart. Once again, it had granted him exactly what he desired: a glorious past in which to lose himself completely.
How ironic.
…
Aurora’s talent was undeniable.
At least, more so than most of the young witches and wizards Ian had encountered. She had taken to Sectumsempra with surprising ease when he taught her, yet for some reason, she remained unable to conjure a Patronus.
Ian had chosen an empty classroom for their lesson, but despite hours of practice and his careful guidance, Aurora’s wand could only produce faint silver wisps—threads of light that dissipated as quickly as they formed.
After several hours—
There was still little progress.
“Expecto Patronum!”
Aurora’s final attempt ended like all the others. She tightened her grip on her wand, drawing a steady breath, willing herself to summon warmth, to cling to the happiest memories she could recall.
A weak glimmer sparked at the tip of her wand, a fleeting silver glow—no more than a wisp, vanishing almost as soon as it appeared.
Like a shooting star swallowed by the night.
“It’s alright, there’s no need to rush,” Ian reassured her. “Maybe I’m just not teaching it well enough. Or maybe you’re just not happy enough— easily solved! Hold on, I’ll ask my dear uncle Snape to brew a batch of Felix Felicis for you.”
Ian grinned as they left the Room of Requirement.
“There’s a potion for improving the Patronus Charm?” Aurora asked, though her expression showed more curiosity than genuine concern. Her brows furrowed as she sifted through the various potion recipes she had learned.
“Well, perhaps not exactly, but if we can’t summon joy, we can certainly create it!” Ian declared. “Maybe a proper feast will do the trick. Hotpot might just become a new happy memory for you!”
Without waiting for her answer, Ian led Aurora toward the Hogwarts kitchens, where the house-elves were always ready to accommodate.
“What’s hotpot?” Aurora asked as she trailed after him, glancing curiously at the paintings lining the corridor. Unlike the others in Hogwarts, these portraits all depicted elaborate banquet scenes—meals frozen mid-celebration, the painted dishes steaming temptingly on their platters.
“It’s a happy memory of mine.”
Ian rapped his knuckles against the oversized painting of a pear. The fruit gave a high-pitched giggle and wriggled away, shifting into a polished brass door handle.
Seeing Aurora’s surprise, Ian chuckled.
“Go on, you try.”
She hesitated for only a moment before reaching out. The pear giggled again, dodging her touch before relenting, and with a soft click, the door swung open.
Inside—
The Hogwarts kitchens bustled with movement, a sea of small figures darting between enchanted pots and floating trays.
“So many house-elves!” Aurora gasped. She had seen house-elves before, of course, but never in such numbers. Most wizarding families— even the wealthiest— considered themselves fortunate to own a single elf. The Malfoys, for all their influence, had only ever kept one.
And yet—
Hogwarts was home to over a hundred, each one far more powerful than the average adult wizard might assume. Strong magic coursed through them, magic that even the Ministry dared not underestimate. The thought of any household keeping such an “army” of elves was laughable; it simply wasn’t allowed.
“Little wizards! Little wizards!”
The elves turned at once, their large, eager eyes shining with delight. They bowed deeply, their movements perfectly synchronized as though they had rehearsed the gesture countless times.
“Mr. Prince has brought his friend who does not follow school rules!”
One of the elves— Rabby— squeaked out the observation, clearly recognizing Aurora. House-elves, it seemed, had excellent memories.
“Hotpot! The usual! Thinly sliced meat, extra spice!” Ian called out, striding confidently toward a familiar corner of the kitchen, where a large copper cauldron was already being set up.
Snape would have been livid if he ever saw this scene—
A bubbling cauldron, but instead of a potion, it was filled with rich bone broth, floating with fiery red chilies and fragrant ginger slices. The house-elves worked deftly, adding ingredients with practiced precision, and soon—
The warm, enticing aroma filled the air.
The broth in the cauldron bubbled vigorously, red flames flickering beneath the surface. The house-elves moved in practiced synchrony, taking turns to bring forth an array of ingredients on gleaming silver trays.
Among them were rare mushrooms harvested from the shadowed depths of the Forbidden Forest, crisp vegetables freshly supplied by the school’s greenhouses, and cuts of meat prepared with meticulous care.
Each ingredient was handled to perfection. Some things, after all, were best left to experts. Ian might have been handy with a knife, but when it came to seasoning, he knew better than to meddle.
As the ingredients simmered, their aromas thickening the air, Aurora inhaled deeply, her gaze drifting to the bustling house-elves, who never seemed to be idle.
Clad in tea towels emblazoned with the Hogwarts crest, they wore them like miniature robes, darting about with purpose—preparing food, tending the fire, and acting as the most diligent of waiters.
“Mr. Prince’s favorite beef slices! Hobby cut them extra thin!”
A familiar elf approached with a tray. Alongside the delicate beef, there was also a selection of seafood—
Though likely not from the Black Lake.
“Perhaps the Hufflepuffs live happier lives than us,” Aurora mused, watching the elves work. She had a fair idea where much of this feast would eventually end up.
“Hufflepuff never goes hungry— that’s practically their house motto,” Ian replied, dipping a slice of beef into the bubbling broth. Every house had its own advantages.
“Try this!”
With a flick of his chopsticks, Ian transferred the perfectly cooked beef into Aurora’s bowl.
Having barely eaten at dinner, Aurora wasted no time spearing the meat with her fork and popping it into her mouth.
“Not bad.”
Her eyes brightened.
“Right? Right? Here, have some more.”
Ian, while eating his own meal, made sure to pile Aurora’s bowl with extra portions— especially the ones steeped in the rich, spicy broth.
For a while, Aurora was too focused on her food to notice anything amiss. But as she continued eating, something suddenly felt off.
Her mouth was on fire.
“I need water!”
At some point, an intense heat had crept up on her, spreading from her tongue to her stomach. The realization came too late—she had already taken several bites. Desperate, she turned to Rabby, the nearest house-elf.
The elf, blissfully unaware that he had narrowly avoided disaster the previous night, eagerly fetched her a fresh glass of lemonade. Aurora downed it in grateful gulps, and after a breathless “thank you,” Rabby scurried off to resume his duties.
However—
To Rabby, Aurora still didn’t have a proper name. In his mind, she was simply “Mr. Prince’s friend who breaks school rules but also likes lemonade, just like Mr. Prince.”
“It’s so spicy! How can you call this happiness?” Aurora fanned her face, her cheeks flushed from the heat. She stuck out her tongue, alternately gulping lemonade and glaring at Ian in bewilderment.
“Happiness takes time to settle,” Ian remarked, looking far too pleased with himself. Seeing that Aurora had reached her limit, he finally set down the serving chopsticks with a satisfied nod and returned to his own meal, sparing her from further torment.
“By the way, you should try a bit of this.” He gestured toward a side dish. “It’s called ‘See You Tomorrow’… might help with digestion.”
The moonlight was serene.
Silver beams draped over the castle towers, their glow reflecting against the high-arched windows. As the hour grew late, one by one, the illuminated panes darkened, surrendering to the quiet hush of the night.
This was Hogwarts’ time for ghosts.
While most students drifted into slumber, embarking on their own adventures in the realm of dreams, Ian remained an exception.
Unlike those who chose to spend their nights wandering the castle, he had taken a different approach. After escorting Aurora back to the Slytherin common room—pausing just long enough to flash her a cryptic smile— he made his way back to Ravenclaw Tower at a leisurely pace.
Yet, upon returning to his dormitory, he did not linger. He washed up quickly and climbed into bed, settling in for the night.
His destination, however, lay beyond mere dreams.
Before closing his eyes, Ian reached beneath his blankets and carefully tucked three boxes of Chocolate Frogs into place. After a moment’s thought, he added a few bags of Bertie Bott’s Every Flavor Beans and a handful of Jelly Slugs, stuffing them all into a well-worn satchel.
Everything had to be packed just right.
Snacks, second-hand textbooks, a Murtlap egg, and an old-fashioned wizarding camera borrowed from a seventh-year… Ian looked as if he were preparing for a camping trip— under his blanket.
Had it not been for the fact that most library books couldn’t be duplicated with a Doubling Charm, Michael— who had gotten up in the middle of the night for a trip to the loo— might have assumed Ian was secretly cramming under the covers.
After all, Ian had promised to bring Professor Morgana as much contemporary magical knowledge as possible.
Of course, gifts couldn’t be forgotten either. To ensure he didn’t lose anything he brought into that strange realm, Ian had spent a small fortune acquiring old books discarded by upper-year students. This same concern led him, after much deliberation, to abandon the idea of bringing Mind Control: From Legilimency to the Imperius Curse.
As useful as it might have been in unmasking Professor Morgana’s disguise, Ian had no particular desire to feel Madam Pince’s feather duster— or worse, find himself permanently blacklisted from the Hogwarts library.
“I just hope I don’t end up somewhere else again…” Ian muttered to himself. “Maybe Professor Mara knows what trick Aurora’s grandfather used this morning to slip past my magic…”
His eyelids grew heavy. Drowsiness tugged at him, and soon, that all-too-familiar sensation returned— the slow, weightless drift from wakefulness into something deeper, something beyond the bounds of life and death.
“My dear professor! Have you had dinner yet?” Ian opened his eyes.
The gilded, resplendent hall was as familiar as ever— the great castle belonging to her. Instinctively, Ian turned his gaze toward the long bench, and sure enough, the witch was there, idly flipping through a book. She glanced up at him, her expression unreadable.
“It seems you’ve traveled to a new place.”
Whether her observation was based on the passage of time was unclear. After all, Ian’s seven days could have been seven days in the Twilight Realm— or three months. The concept of time here was fractured, disconnected from the real world.
“Teacher, I brought some snacks for you. And a few new books.”
Ian emptied a small pile of wizarding treats onto the table. The witch, however, only spared them a fleeting glance. Instead, her sharp eyes settled on the textbooks.
There was no interest.
If anything, there was a flicker of disdain in her eyes.
“If this is the level of knowledge wizards have reached in your era, then I’d say you’ve regressed to the state of primitive Muggles.”
Her tone was direct— blunt, even. Not the sneering sarcasm of Snape, but something sharper, something cutting in its sheer honesty.
“Well, these are just introductory materials,” Ian admitted. “There are far rarer books I didn’t dare bring. If I couldn’t take them back, the consequences would be… unpleasant.”
The witch’s gaze lingered on him for a moment longer. Then—
“Your magic.”
She studied him carefully, frowning. “You still haven’t reached your limit?”
Ian hesitated.
Something in her words gave him pause. Instinctively, he checked his magical status.
Name: Ian Prince
Occupation: Bloodline Sorcerer
Magical Power: Level 8 (in a state of explosive growth)
Skill: [Wisdom’s Insight (This skill cannot be upgraded)]
…
“What exactly is the limit?” Ian asked, sensing a hidden meaning in her words.
“You’ll know when you reach it. It won’t be long now. When that happens, the lingering effects of the Golden Apple will fade as well.”
She spoke as though she could see the magic within him, peering straight through his body.
“What happens when I reach it?” Ian pressed. That was the real question.
The witch rested her chin on one hand, regarding him with an amused smile.
“Maybe you’ll just boom— explode into a thousand little pieces. Then you can stay here forever and keep me company.”
Her tone was teasing, but Ian still swallowed.
“I’d rather live a few more decades, thanks…” he muttered.
The witch smirked, then propped her cheek against her palm.
“When a wizard’s magic reaches its limit, they gain a clearer perception of the Twilight Realm. Some even develop the ability to sense whether the people they seek have arrived. I suspect you might be a bit more… unusual than the rest of us.”
A speculation. Nothing more. But from her, that meant something.
“The last time I traveled here, I found myself with Lady Ravenclaw,” Ian admitted. But as soon as the words left his mouth, he realized something— this witch predated Hogwarts itself. Hastily, he added, “She’s one of the four founders of Hogwarts.”
The witch gave a knowing nod.
She raised the book she had been reading, tilting it just enough for him to see the author’s name. Rowena Ravenclaw.
“She left quite a few books behind for future generations,” The witch remarked idly.
Ian hesitated, then asked something that had been on his mind since his encounter with Ravenclaw.
“She said my Animagus form is a raven. Do you know why?”
The witch gave him a long, thoughtful look.
Then, in a tone dripping with amusement, she replied—
“Because you’re as flighty as a bird?”
The witch didn’t give Ian the answer he was hoping for.
“An impressive witch. What did she teach you?”
She arched an eyebrow, steering the conversation in another direction.
“Transfiguration.”
Ian cast a glance at the wall. In response, the witch flicked her wrist, and a picture frame morphed seamlessly into a wand, which flew neatly into his hand. He then began recounting his progress, detailing his studies and newfound skills.
After a brief demonstration, he stood there, pleased with himself, fully expecting a word of praise.
However—
“Not bad. You’ve reached an acceptable level. Perhaps it’s time you put your skills to use and started repairing my sentries… if you’ve been keeping up with your alchemy studies.”
The witch’s sharp gaze appraised him with renewed scrutiny.
Ian hadn’t anticipated that displaying his progress would immediately land him with a hefty workload.
Was this the curse of competence?!
“Of course, I’ve been studying,” Ian said, quickly composing himself. “I’ve even managed to craft a few decent pieces. But… I haven’t had the time to make a second one yet.” He hesitated before tentatively suggesting, “Maybe I could help you repair the sentries next time? Today, I’d like to visit the town— see Ariana and Pandero.”
He added, almost as an afterthought, “I have a message to deliver to Ariana from her family.”
Ian half-expected her to be displeased. But to his surprise, she simply shrugged and nodded in agreement.
“That is your task.”
She didn’t press for details, nor did she appear particularly curious. Instead, she simply regarded Ian with an odd expression, something bordering on amusement.
“I must say, I didn’t expect you to be this patient,” she mused. “You’ve managed to hold back your true intentions for this long. I thought you’d crack five minutes ago.”
It was such an abrupt remark that Ian blinked in confusion.
Then—
Ah.
“This must be Legilimency!” Ian declared, feigning a gasp of realization. Then, deciding to add more drama, he amended, “No— wait! It’s the Imperius Curse!”
The witch rolled her eyes.
“Do you really think I need mind-reading for that little scheme of yours?” She scoffed.
Since the moment Ian had arrived, he had been calling her ‘teacher’ rather than ‘Professor Mara.’
“I was only teasing you,” She admitted. “But I didn’t expect you to actually stumble upon something.”
She looked entirely too pleased with herself, as if Ian had just provided her with months’ worth of amusement.
“You picked that up while retrieving the mirror, didn’t you? The Imperius Curse… hmm. That child truly understands it.” She nodded approvingly. “It seems you’ve been diligent in your efforts to find it for me.”
Ian had no intention of explaining further.
Instead, he shifted the topic.
“I ran into a bit of trouble using that magic,” He admitted. “One of my professors— An Old Guy—used some kind of shedding technique to resist my mental intrusion.”
His mind was already working ahead, analyzing ways to counter it in the next Defence Against the Dark Arts lesson.
“Tsk, tsk. Even a professor wants to keep you under control,” The witch said, clicking her tongue. There was an amused glint in her eyes as she casually tore a small strip from her sleeve and flicked it toward Ian.
“I suspect your professor is well-versed in Legilimency, though his methods aren’t particularly refined,” She continued. “All he did was create a layered transformation to throw off your mental focus.”
She paused, considering. “Yes… I’d wager he’s skilled in Human Transfiguration as well.”
Ian caught the fabric between his fingers, immediately sensing its significance.
“Thank you, my teacher… or should I say, Professor Morgana?” He mused, rolling the scrap of cloth between his fingers. He was already looking forward to the next round of magical exchanges in class.
“My apprentice, aside from that, haven’t you discovered anything else?”
The witch’s gaze flickered toward the untouched Chocolate Frogs and other wizarding treats he had brought.
Ian hesitated, then slowly said, “I also learned that my senior sister actually regrets betraying you… She carried guilt for her entire life.”
He wasn’t entirely sure of his own words, but the witch simply smiled, resting her chin in her palm as she lazily turned another page in her book.
“Oh, I knew that already,” she said airily. “In fact, I did it on purpose.”
Ian stiffened.
Wait.
She what?
“I wasn’t dead when she died.”
…
Merlin’s beard.
The case was solved.
No wonder he hadn’t seen that particular ‘senior sister’ here.
His mind reeled.
Poor woman.
She probably really couldn’t rest in peace.
(End of Chapter)
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