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Like the Chamber of Slytherin, this was a hidden legacy, but not one of serpents and secrecy, it was the gift of Helga Hufflepuff, concealed within the ancient castle’s walls.
Over centuries, it had borne many names, and the tale of its origins had faded into obscurity, until an unseen whisper of magic stirred the dust of time, allowing its past to resurface once more.
Ian had yet to uncover the true purpose behind the Room of Requirement’s creation, but that did not deter him from exploring the mysteries of this chamber with unreserved curiosity.
[Ancient Alchemy Proficiency +4]
[Ancient Alchemy Proficiency +3]
[Ancient Alchemy Proficiency +5]
…
Beneath the dim glow of enchanted lanterns, arcane runes pulsed with a quiet, rhythmic light.
Intricate alchemical sigils and enchanted glyphs drifted weightlessly in the air, each one brimming with the wisdom of ages, forming an ever-shifting network of knowledge that stretched toward the unseen halls of learning.
The inscriptions sprawled across every surface of the chamber, their luminous patterns converging into a mesmerizing tapestry that would leave even the most esteemed alchemists breathless with admiration.
Ian was no exception. As he gazed upon the flickering symbols, he could almost see Helga Hufflepuff herself with her quill in hand, inscribing her accumulated wisdom into a place that, outwardly, seemed unremarkable.
This was no ordinary storeroom, it was her hidden sanctum, a treasury of knowledge left behind for those willing to seek it.
Countless enchantments were etched into these walls, including those responsible for alchemical wonders such as the Room of Requirement itself, spells so potent that many had since been classified as highly regulated magic.
[Undetectable Extension Charm (Level 0) 32/50]
Silently, Ian’s personal panel shifted ever so slightly as he grasped the essence of the magic before him, knowledge absent from standard textbooks, protected by the traditions of the old wizarding families.
The Undetectable Extension Charm.
A marvel of spatial magic.
In any world, spells concerning space and time stood at the pinnacle of magical craft. It was no surprise that the ancient houses safeguarded such knowledge, not merely to control the lucrative trade of enchanted trunks and wizarding tents, but to preserve a deeper, more exclusive understanding, one that elevated them above the common spellcaster.
For them, such magic was not just a tool, but a mark of prestige, a birthright that defined their legacy.
“Thank you, founders. Thank you, ancestors. Thank you, Hogwarts~” Ian murmured in quiet reverence, sitting cross-legged amid the glowing texts and shimmering alchemical symbols, drinking in the knowledge that gleamed like constellations before him.
[Transfiguration Proficiency +3]
[Ancient Alchemy Proficiency +5]
[Undetectable Extension Charm Proficiency +3]
[Disillusionment Charm (Level 0) 4/50]
…
This was a method of learning unlike any traditional study, a process as intuitive as dismantling a finely crafted magical artifact to examine each of its enchanted components, granting those with the aptitude the ability to grasp its underlying principles.
Ian remained in the Room of Requirement the entire afternoon, wholly engrossed in its secrets.
If not for his promise to the younger students to hold a small lesson that evening on the Color-Changing Lumos Charm, he might have stayed all night, utterly lost in discovery, though, unlike Headmaster Dumbledore, he considered himself a responsible mentor.
“This will certainly help me get through Professor Morgan’s alchemy assignments more quickly.” With a lingering glance at the luminous formulas and magical engravings, Ian sighed before reluctantly departing, casting one final look over his shoulder at the wondrous chamber that had offered him a glimpse into the past.
The knowledge stored here was not something that could be mastered in a mere ten days or even a fortnight. Even with Ian’s remarkable aptitude for comprehension and learning, whether he could fully grasp it within a year remained uncertain, after all, it was only natural, considering this Golden House was Helga Hufflepuff’s magnum opus.
“Does that Professor Arthur King really believe someone can unravel all the mysteries of the Room of Requirement in just a year?” Ian muttered to himself.
He knew little about the obscure figures in wizarding history, let alone those who had never been mentioned in detail; he could only speculate that this particular professor might have once been a disciple of the legendary alchemist Nicolas Flamel.
Lost in thought about the wonders he had encountered in the Room of Requirement, Ian made his way back to the Ravenclaw common room, where he spotted a familiar young witch facing an all-too-common predicament: the scruffy bronze eagle knocker was being particularly uncooperative.
Cho Chang was undoubtedly one of the most outstanding students among the younger Ravenclaws, but when confronted with a subject she had never encountered before, she found herself stuck outside, the eagle head stubbornly knocking itself as if to emphasize its refusal.
Unfortunately, for complex magical riddles, simply knocking one’s head against the problem would never produce an answer. Ian’s arrival was a timely rescue for Cho, and with some reluctance, the bronze eagle finally swung open to admit them both.
“You can actually solve these riddles? Is there anything you can’t do?” Cho asked in astonishment, her admiration for Ian growing, just as it had among many of the first-year students.
“Honestly, I was forced to learn! If I ever find out who enchanted that door to be this insufferable, I’ll make sure they know that I am not to be trifled with!” Ian huffed, feigning indignation to avoid arousing the suspicions of his more perceptive peers.
A peculiar rumor had begun circulating through Ravenclaw about a “mysterious troublemaker,” and some of the older students had even devised so-called “punishment spells” in anticipation of catching the culprit who had supposedly corrupted the bronze eagle knocker.
Ian had seen their handiwork firsthand, which was precisely why he had no intention of turning himself in, even for a reward.
“You’re absolutely right! That person is truly despicable! He must be a dreadful menace, hiding away somewhere, relishing the thought of tormenting us!” Cho declared passionately, entirely convinced of Ian’s innocence and sharing in his frustration.
“…”
Ian opened his mouth, but in the end, he wisely chose not to argue.
At first, he had only intended to share a little knowledge with the knocker, but who could have predicted that the enchanted eagle would develop an insatiable thirst for learning? It had reached the point where even topics Ian himself had yet to study were now being demanded of him, forcing him to research before he could provide a suitable answer.
“Please submit your tuition fees voluntarily. William, you handle the collection.” With Ian’s small evening class growing more popular by the day, he had even acquired a rather diligent, self-appointed treasurer.
The lesson proceeded as smoothly as ever, and as usual, everyone made steady progress. The more talented young witches and wizards had even begun altering the color of their wandlight with minor variations.
Before retiring for the night, Ian happened to catch William attempting to flick his wand’s light on and off. The eerie green glow, paired with his vibrant green hair, created a rather unsettling effect.
Having witnessed Ian frighten someone once before, William muttered something under his breath, “Avada Crunching Big Melon”, while striking an exaggerated pose that nearly made Ian burst into laughter.
Michael, on the other hand, rarely attended the “evening study sessions,” so Ian was surprised to find him deep in concentration back in their dormitory, poring over a textbook by the dim glow of William’s enchanted lamp. This was an unprecedented sight; normally, Michael was the first to bolt from class the moment it ended.
Unlike Ron Weasley, Michael’s magical prowess even exceeded that of William. Not that William lacked talent, he was already comparable to Hermione among the first-years, but Michael belonged to that rare category of “study prodigies.”
He had an uncanny ability to absorb everything he needed straight from class, rarely requiring additional study outside of lessons.
In the dormitory, one study tyrant and one study genius created a rather overwhelming atmosphere. Only Ian remained unaffected, as he found himself caught somewhere between the two extremes.
“What are you reading?” Ian noticed that the moment he returned to the dormitory, Michael hastily hid his book, looking comically guilty.
“Nothing… nothing.” The young wizard’s evasive gaze was all too obvious. He waited until Ian had washed up and gone to bed before sneaking the book out again.
Ian, newly proficient in the Disillusionment Charm, cast it upon himself and quietly slipped behind Michael, finally uncovering the mysterious reading material that had his dormmate acting so suspiciously.
“108 Ways for Wizards to Pursue Love.”
As expected.
After class, Michael truly wasn’t dedicating his time to academic pursuits.
“That book won’t help you win over anyone.” Satisfied with his curiosity, Ian revealed himself, whispering a warning that nearly startled Michael into leaping from his bed.
The boy’s dark skin almost turned as red as a cursed Howler.
“Impossible! The author guarantees that if I don’t succeed, I’ll get a full refund! The last page even has his so-called ultimate secret technique!” Michael, unwilling to accept Ian’s judgment, hastily flipped to the final page and scratched off the shimmering concealment charm hiding the final tip.
“Remember, for us true masters of romance, a love potion is the trump card that never fails.”
Upon reading this, Michael’s complexion turned a rather unfortunate shade of green.
The wonders of human physiology.
“You must have bought this rubbish from Knockturn Alley!” Ian exclaimed, glancing at the cover. Sure enough, the author had neglected to sign his name.
“Refund! I demand a refund!” Michael raged. Though he enjoyed the idea of charming romance, he clearly had no interest in anything underhanded.
“We’re all friends here. If you’re that desperate, I could brew one for you. If Rebecca drinks it forever, isn’t that technically love?” Ian teased, darting around the dormitory as Michael, now thoroughly incensed, cursed the book’s author.
Laughing to himself, Ian pulled out his suitcase from beneath his bed. He had always dreamed of carrying an entire house with him, and the Undetectable Extension Charm was his key to making that dream a reality.
“Let’s see how far I can push this…”
As the night deepened and his dormmates drifted into sleep, Ian remained awake, experimenting with expanding the suitcase’s internal space.
[Undetectable Extension Charm Proficiency +3]
[Undetectable Extension Charm Proficiency +4]
[Undetectable Extension Charm Proficiency +3]
…
The next morning, it seemed like any other peaceful day. However, Ian found it rather odd that his esteemed uncle had skipped two classes.
Yes.
The Professor Snape had skipped class.
Rumors swirled that Snape had fallen ill and was receiving treatment at St. Mungo’s Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries. Other professors had temporarily taken over his potions lessons. But when Ian discreetly checked his Marauder’s Map, Snape was clearly still in his Hogwarts office, having not left once.
Dumbledore was an eccentric headmaster at the best of times, and as for Snape… well, he wasn’t exactly known for his unwavering sense of duty either.
Ian had even tried to visit Snape, but he was stopped at the door by Hagrid, who looked utterly exhausted with dark circles under his eyes as if he hadn’t slept in days.
“Uncle! What happened to you?”
Ian wanted to express genuine concern for Snape, perhaps he really had caught some kind of magical affliction. He certainly didn’t look like his usual, formidable self.
“Mind your own business! Prince! Your Charms class starts in fifteen minutes!”
Snape, as ungrateful as ever, simply shooed Ian away without the slightest hint of appreciation for his concern.
He even shot Ian a particularly irritable look, as if on the verge of snapping at him but ultimately restraining himself. Just as Ian turned to leave for Charms, Snape suddenly reached out and yanked a few strands of his hair. The amount was less than before, but his technique was becoming noticeably more refined.
“Are you quite finished?!” Ian clutched his head, glaring at Snape with an expression of sheer indignation.
Snape merely sneered at him before slamming the office door shut.
This little episode left Ian in a sour mood, being tricked by Snape yet again was hardly something to celebrate. Aurora had tried to console him with, “Well, you’ve got more hair than me; he can’t possibly pull it all out.” It was some comfort, at least.
Of course, Ian wasn’t one to hold grudges.
No, he had already made up his mind, when Snape eventually kicked the cauldron, he would march straight into the afterlife, hunt him down, and enlist his friends to yank out every last strand of his hair. If, as Professor Morgan claimed, the soul could be reborn, Ian would make certain his dear uncle came back as a bald man in his next life.
The next two days leading up to Halloween were nothing short of productive. Ian attended classes as usual during the day, then spent hours immersed in the Room of Requirement, occasionally exchanging thoughts with the Dementor.
His evenings were dedicated to tutoring younger students, and any spare time was devoted to expanding the enchanted space inside his suitcase.
A mere flat’s worth of space clearly wasn’t enough to satisfy his ambitions, he dreamed of raising thousands of magical creatures within, ensuring he could eat whatever he fancied whenever he traveled.
“Of course, the cute ones won’t be eaten, the obedient ones won’t be eaten… but the nasty, unruly ones? They are fair game.”
For two days, Ian buried himself in his studies, skipping even the Quidditch tryouts.
The sport was undoubtedly a wizarding favorite, but Ian had little patience for it. Competition was fine, but not when an entire match’s outcome depended on a single player.
The Seeker’s role was simply too dominant, rendering the team’s efforts meaningless with one well-timed catch.
If the role of the Seeker were weakened, perhaps the game would be more balanced and, in turn, more appealing.
When his dormmates returned from the tryouts, chattering excitedly about the match, Ian had been deep in study, though he had absentmindedly yanked out a few strands of his own hair while pondering a particularly tricky problem.
“Oh, you have no idea what you missed!” William practically bounced into the dormitory. “Gryffindor was on the verge of losing when some Slytherin shouted, ‘Ian’s behind you!'”
“At the crucial moment, Marcus Flint, who had been dominating the match, suddenly freaked out and fell off his broom,” Michael added with a wicked grin. “The bloke was so scared of you that even after breaking his arm, he was still looking around in a panic!”
“Yeah, poor Marcus Flint was completely wrecked,” William chimed in. “He was sent straight to the hospital wing. You should’ve seen his face!”
Their enthusiastic retelling made Ian pause. He had no real interest in terrifying people, but the idea that his reputation alone had caused Flint to fall was intriguing.
According to his two dramatic roommates, Flint had twisted his head a full 180 degrees while falling.
Ian snorted. “Oh, come on. What are you saying, that Flint’s an owl now?”
“Quick, let’s go! We can’t be late! That professor is terrifying!”
Afternoon classes meant Defense Against the Dark Arts.
Though students were still wary of Gilderoy Grindelwald (as the more mischievous ones had nicknamed him), he had proven to be a competent professor, an astonishing feat, given Hogwarts’ usual track record with the position.
“At least he’s better than the professor who got gored to death by a wild boar before school even started!”
“Yeah, the one who was murdered before term began can’t exactly be considered a success!”
“Of course! He’s Gilderoy Lockhart! The perfect man! He’s definitely going to be old by the time I grow up, but that’s fine, I’ll just have a daughter and she’ll marry him!”
…
One must admit that Gilderoy Grindelwald’s disguise is truly remarkable.
Except when speaking with Ian, he never lets his façade slip. The Lockhart persona he presents is so meticulously crafted that even the professors remain entirely unsuspecting.
Although he is somewhat less arrogant and self-absorbed than the real Gilderoy Lockhart, most assume that the famous author is simply not as flamboyant as the rumors suggest. In fact, this restraint has even led Professor McGonagall and the other staff to develop a much more favorable impression of him.
“Today, we will be studying the Centaur, this so-called ‘noble’ creature,” Gilderoy Grindelwald announced at the start of his lesson, his tone making Ian feel the underlying cruelty of his true intentions.
Standing at the front of the class was a towering Centaur, but its eyes were vacant, its entire body unnaturally still. It had clearly fallen under the Imperius Curse, utterly at Grindelwald’s mercy.
And this was only the beginning.
As Grindelwald delved into the history of the Centaur race, analyzing their customs and behavior, he subtly guided the young witches and wizards into studying their vulnerabilities.
“Some claim that the internal structure of these creatures is no different from that of humans,” He mused, his voice carrying a calm authority, “But that is a dangerous misconception. Their skin and certain organs provide them with remarkable magical resistance.”
He lifted his hand in an elegant, almost conductor-like motion.
No incantation was heard.
And then, the Centaur’s powerful form began to distort in an eerie, unnatural fashion.
Muscle and bone separated in a ripple-like motion, yet not a single sound of agony escaped its lips, because Grindelwald’s magic had frozen it in a moment of sheer terror.
Gasps and cries of alarm filled the room as the students watched, horrified. The creature’s body was no longer whole; it had been taken apart by an invisible force. Limbs, torso, head, even each individual rib, blood vessel, and organ, had separated, now suspended in mid-air.
But they did not float in disarray.
Instead, they arranged themselves in a precise, almost methodical pattern, as if they could be seamlessly reassembled at any moment, restoring the Centaur to life.
Yes, life.
For even in its fragmented state, Ian could still sense the creature’s thoughts. It was still alive.
In fact, if one looked closely, it became apparent.
The dismembered organs, though no longer part of a singular being, retained traces of vitality. A faint magical sheen coated them, preserving their function in a grotesque parody of life. The heart pulsed weakly. The lungs expanded in silent respiration. Even the smallest nerves flickered with minute magical surges.
“Professor! What have you done?!”
“Merlin’s beard, it’s dead! It has to be dead!”
“Ugh, ugh, ugh, ”
…
Not everyone could remain as composed as Ian.
The grotesque sight of floating flesh and exposed veins, with blood visibly coursing through them, was enough to drive the more squeamish students into a state of shock.
Though not as soul-crushing as facing a Dementor, the scene was harrowing. Several young witches turned deathly pale, their stomachs heaving before they doubled over and vomited on the spot.
“What kind of magic is this?”
Ian raised his hand, unable to contain his curiosity. Unlike his terrified peers, his attention was entirely fixated on the spell itself, on the raw, surgical precision of Gilderoy Grindelwald’s magic.
“This is a form of the Torture Curse,” Grindelwald replied, glancing at Ian with something akin to approval. “To wield it effectively, one must possess an intricate knowledge of biological structure.”
Then, with a smooth correction, he added, “Of course, as your Defense Against the Dark Arts professor, I would never actually teach you such a cruel and forbidden spell.”
Ian, who had just felt his [Butcher’s Instinct] stir with anticipation, was left slightly disappointed, until Grindelwald suddenly spoke again, his expression turning deathly serious.
“Hogwarts has always prohibited the study of Dark Magic. If I find out who snuck into my office and opened the third drawer from the top of my sixth cabinet… heh, well, don’t blame me for issuing a severe warning. And trust me, you wouldn’t want to find out just how severe my warnings can be.”
Gilderoy Grindelwald delivered these words with a grave expression, only to immediately flash a dazzling Lockhart-like smile.
“I do hope everyone aspires to be an obedient child with a mind of their own.”
As he spoke, he turned toward the Centaur, still frozen in a state of magical dissection, as though time itself had halted around it.
“You’ll notice that, unlike humans, a Centaur’s skin possesses an additional layer of tissue. It is this layer that grants them magic resistance akin to that of high-tier magical creatures.”
“As for potion metabolism, it hinges on this particular organ…” He gestured lightly. “Disrupting its function is not especially difficult, but bypassing a Centaur’s natural resistance? Now, that is the real challenge.”
“However, as you can see, the Centaur’s ‘steel door’, its vital weak point, is conspicuously unprotected by this resistant tissue. Exploiting such a flaw, of course, requires rather particular methods.”
With a graceful wave of his wand, Gilderoy Grindelwald performed a counter-curse. The Centaur’s scattered limbs, organs, and tissues instantly realigned, reassembling itself into a whole once more. The creature remained utterly still, dazed and lifeless, as if the horrors it had endured had yet to fully register.
“I encourage you to ask questions during my demonstrations,” Grindelwald continued.
But before he could proceed,
The door to the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom burst open with a force that rattled the walls.
Severus Snape, clad in his usual flowing black robes and looking even more gaunt than usual, stormed inside. His expression was thunderous.
“Come with me.”
He didn’t so much as glance at Gilderoy Grindelwald. Without preamble, he seized Ian’s arm and began to drag him toward the door.
“Professor Snape, I believe my student is currently in class. Are you in the habit of removing students from my lessons without so much as an explanation?” Grindelwald’s brows furrowed, his displeasure clear.
“I have urgent business with him,” Snape snapped. “And, frankly… what could he possibly learn from you?”
His voice dripped with disdain, offering not the slightest courtesy to the so-called Defense Against the Dark Arts professor. It was rare for a Head of House to display such blatant disrespect, but then, Snape had his reasons.
“Lockhart,” He sneered, his black eyes flashing, “Don’t assume I’m unaware of your… extracurricular activities. Dumbledore asked me to show restraint where you’re concerned, but clearly, he has no idea just how far you’re willing to go.”
Ian, still being dragged away, tugged at Snape’s sleeve in protest. But Snape was utterly focused on the man at the professor’s desk.
“Dementors. Centaurs. I do hope your considerable wealth can also buy you a pardon when the Ministry comes calling.”
Audacious.
Unbelievably audacious.
Ian stared, wide-eyed, at his so-called uncle, Snape had truly had enough. He wasn’t even pretending to maintain the illusion of professional courtesy anymore!
“This is hardly your concern, Professor Snape.” Grindelwald, rather than appearing offended, simply smiled with a somewhat pleasant, unbothered, and amused expression on his face.
“As I explained in my Sixth Year class, there has never been a Dementor present. I merely provided the students with an opportunity to experience the effects of mental magic.”
His gaze flickered toward Ian, the amusement in his voice laced with something deeper.
“And this Centaur? Another example of your so-called ‘mental magic’?” Snape scoffed, eyeing the creature still standing motionless on the desk. His sharp gaze narrowed. “How impressive. Your illusions must be extraordinarily convincing, seeing as they even affect me.”
Ian tugged at Snape’s sleeve again. The Potions Master turned his head slightly, shooting him a piercing glare, his exhausted, shadowed eyes only making him look more intimidating.
“This Centaur is a convicted offender,” Grindelwald replied smoothly. “I acquired special permission from the Ministry for its use in my lessons.”
With an infuriatingly casual motion, he reached into his robes and produced an official Ministry-issued permit.
Snape’s lip curled.
Under the watchful eyes of the gathered Ravenclaws, he had no choice but to acknowledge the document’s authenticity. He was hardly about to back down, but there was little else he could say in the moment.
“It seems,” Snape said icily, “that your gold is indeed well-spent. Even the Ministry bends at your leisure.”
His patience at its limit, he turned and swept out of the room, still dragging a somewhat reluctant Ian in his wake.
The students remained frozen for a moment, stunned by what they had just witnessed. Even Grindelwald took a beat to watch the door swing shut behind them.
Yet he made no move to stop Snape from taking Ian. Instead, he merely allowed his eyes to roll briefly into the back of his head, an odd, fleeting shift, concealed from the students’ view, before quickly resuming his usual composed demeanor.
“Professor Snape is rarely this erratic,” He remarked at last, with the perfect balance of mild concern and bemusement.
He offered the students an easygoing smile, smoothly steering their attention back to the lesson.
“It would seem,” He said lightly, “That something quite significant has happened within their family.”
“Let us set aside the matter of our subpar Potions professor and return to the noble pursuit of Defense Against the Dark Arts. I daresay Professor Snape is simply envious of my unparalleled talent.”
The lesson resumed, but Ian found himself unable to experience much of it. Snape had all but dragged him down to the dungeons, hauling him into his office without a word of explanation. He was utterly bewildered, having no idea what had prompted this abrupt summons.
“You were unwell? So that’s why! You wouldn’t let me brew, yet you’ve been secretly brewing all this time in your office…”
As soon as Ian stepped inside, the unmistakable scent of potion-making filled his nostrils. However, before he could exclaim in surprise, he caught sight of the potions sitting on the worktable. Each was a dull, grayish-white hue, nothing like the deep blue of the Unlimited Power Potion.
Had he misjudged his dear uncle?
Snape, methodically rinsing out a cauldron, barely acknowledged Ian’s entrance. Ian, puzzled, stepped forward and picked up one of the grayish potions. He uncorked the bottle and sniffed, frowning slightly.
The ingredients were correct… but something was off. The scent was slightly different, and the color was entirely wrong, it bore no resemblance to the Unlimited Power Potion.
“Is this your own variation?” Ian asked curiously, but Snape’s expression only darkened as he began preparing fresh cauldrons.
There were six in total.
Their number and arrangement were an exact replica of Ian’s setup when he had been caught brewing potions in the Room of Requirement. The resemblance was uncanny, sending a strange déjà vu through Ian’s mind.
“What exactly is going on here?” Ian’s gaze flickered across the room, landing on a single potion bottle glowing with a dazzling golden hue.
“Don’t touch that!” Snape moved with uncharacteristic urgency, stepping forward to seize the potion. But Ian, quicker, had already snatched it up, pulling out the stopper.
The scent hit him at once.
It was something he had never brewed before.
But it was unmistakable.
“You used my hair for this, didn’t you?!” Ian’s temper flared, he had never been so furious. The distinct scent of Polyjuice Potion left no room for doubt. He had suspected it, but now he had caught Snape red-handed!
Polyjuice Potion required twenty-one days to brew, Merlin’s beard, this uncle of his was truly insidious. Did he have a habit of impersonating people for dubious purposes?
“I have no idea what you’re rambling about.” Snape’s eyes flickered momentarily before he yanked the bottle from Ian’s grasp. “Think, you foolish boy, what possible reason would I have to take on your appearance?”
Ian’s mind churned for a moment before the answer clicked into place.
“To brew potions!”
Snape exhaled sharply, as though frustrated that Ian had taken so long to arrive at the obvious conclusion.
“Yes. Now, get to it.” Ian remained rooted to the spot.
Snape’s jaw clenched. “What do you want?”
Ian crossed his arms. “I want to know why you needed to impersonate me.”
Truly, Snape was beyond eccentric. Even Cho Chang would call this behavior suspicious.
“I’ve only used it within this office,” Snape admitted begrudgingly, sinking into a chair as though the conversation had drained him. He clearly had no intention of elaborating further.
“Uh?”
Ian was struggling to comprehend this logic.
“Just brew the potion.”
Snape’s expression soured under Ian’s scrutiny, looking as though he had swallowed something unpleasant.
Perhaps he was waiting for the potion to succeed just once, some kind of personal challenge? That wouldn’t be the worst thing. It would save him the effort of eliminating ingredients through trial and error.
“Fine, Professor,” Ian relented. “Forget the gold. Instead, I want you to exchange my Galleons for Muggle pounds and send them to my family for Christmas.”
Snape eyed him for a moment, but whatever he saw in Ian’s expression made him concede with a curt nod.
Satisfied, Ian finally stopped standing there like a stubborn gargoyle and got to work. He fell into the familiar rhythm of potion-making, his movements fluid and precise.
At first, he expected Snape to critique his technique, to offer corrections as he often did. But surprisingly, the professor remained silent, watching each step with hawk-like intensity.
Only when the deep blue potion shimmered in the cauldron, bubbling softly as it was decanted into vials, did Snape finally break his silence.
“You want six cauldrons?”
Ian handed the freshly brewed potions to Snape, eyeing the five remaining cauldrons. Just as he was about to continue, Snape, whose expression wavered between irritation and unease, abruptly shooed him out of the office.
“Get your Galleons ready!”
He had no intention of reneging on his word.
However, the way he slammed the door shut was anything but subtle.
Ian hesitated for a moment before pressing his ear against the door, attempting to listen in. Yet, all that reached him was the sound of cauldrons being cleaned.
After five minutes of this, Ian grew bored.
“Maybe I can still make it back to Defense Against the Dark Arts,” he mused, still dwelling on the invaluable lesson from Grindelwald. Whatever was going on with Snape, Ian couldn’t bring himself to care much.
He refused to believe Snape was incapable of brewing what he had, perhaps the professor had simply misremembered a key aspect of the ritual?
Though Snape was a Potions Master, even the best could suffer lapses in memory after too many late nights… it was possible, at least. Or perhaps, just perhaps, this potion was something only he could brew?
Hmm… Not entirely impossible. He’d ask Professor Morgan about it next time. Ian had always relied on mentors when facing particularly tricky magical problems.
Not long after Ian left the dungeons,
“What in Merlin’s name?!”
Snape stared at the failed potion before him, his expression thunderous with disbelief. He had replicated Ian’s method down to the smallest detail, matched the timing, followed the sequence with absolute precision,
And yet, the potion remained a dull, grayish-white. While it contained some invigorating magic, it was a far cry from the deep blue brilliance of Ian’s brew.
“My steps were flawless. I even transformed into him… and it still didn’t work?” Snape paced furiously across his office, scowling as he dissected every aspect of the process in his mind.
Dumbledore wouldn’t be back until evening, and consulting him was out of the question.
Perhaps the Restricted Section might hold the answers. After all, that insufferable brat had claimed his recipe came from there.
With that thought, Snape swept out of his office, striding swiftly down the corridor. The sudden movement startled several of the castle’s resident cats, who scattered in alarm.
Before he could reach the library,
“Ah, Severus, a troubled aura surrounds you.”
Snape came to an abrupt halt.
Professor Sybill Trelawney stood before him, her wild curls even more disheveled than usual. She clutched a crystal ball in one hand, her oversized glasses magnifying her unfocused gaze.
“You seem distressed… yes, yes, I can sense it…” She extended a spindly hand, as if reaching for his very essence.
Snape’s lip curled.
“I am not one of your students, Trelawney. Spare me the theatrics.”
He briskly shook off her grasp and turned away, continuing toward the library.
But then, Trelawney suddenly stiffened. Her head jerked back, eyes rolling into her skull as she shuddered violently. And when she spoke, her voice was eerily different, deeper, as though someone, or something, else was speaking through her.
“Why not seek out the book you acquired in your youth? The one containing the formula for the Squib Revival Potion…”
Snape froze.
A sharp breath caught in his throat as he turned back, staring at Trelawney in pure shock.
She couldn’t possibly know that.
His fingers twitched at his sides, but before he could respond, Trelawney convulsed again, her body jerking as if breaking free from invisible chains.
“What’s the matter with you, Severus?” She asked, her voice light and airy once more, as if nothing had happened.
Snape’s gaze remained locked on her, searching for any sign that she remembered what she had just said.
There was nothing.
He let out a slow, heavy sigh.
“Nothing. I have… matters to attend to.”
His tone had softened, his usual edge dulled by the unsettling encounter. Without another word, he turned on his heel and strode away, his pace quickening as he made his way back to his office.
The moment he stepped inside, he moved toward a hidden compartment in the stone wall, pressing a specific brick.
At his touch, the brick shimmered and transformed, revealing a book, no, not just any book. It resembled an old diary, its crimson cover practically glowing with an aura of importance.
Morgan le Fay.
Ian would have undoubtedly recognized the name if he was here.
Aside from its striking cover, the diary’s pages were blank. Snape hesitated for a long moment before finally taking up a quill, pressing its tip to the parchment.
“Is the recipe for the Revival Potion incomplete?”
Ink bled onto the page, and then,
[Search results, keyword: Revival Potion. The recipe for the Revival Potion has been fully recorded. The answer you seek is not within this tome. Consider verifying from additional sources.]
Snape scowled.
“Bloody madwoman,” He muttered, rubbing his temple.
If Trelawney’s prophecy was nonsense, then what in Merlin’s beard was wrong with Ian’s so-called Unlimited Power Potion?
Just as he prepared to close the book,
The ink on the diary shifted.
New words emerged.
[Search results, keyword: Unlimited Power Potion. Precursor to the Apocalypse Potion. Non-replicable. Recipe unknown. My master once recorded its existence.]
(End of Chapter)
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