Everyone’s attention was directed toward the Forbidden Forest, and naturally, no one noticed Aurora and the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor; the little wizards were still chattering away in eager discussion.
One group belonged to a House that harbored a long-standing prejudice against the headmaster, while the other consisted of Gryffindors whose thinking had grown increasingly skewed due to distorted ideas.
Putting them together was undoubtedly a scheduling mishap of the highest order.
“If Hogwarts changes its name, will we need new uniforms? Does that mean we’ll have to pay again? I could ask my family for a few more Galleons!”
“Oh! Who’s going to tell Dumbledore? I want to see his reaction!”
“Dumbledore wasn’t at breakfast this morning. I bet he went into hiding the moment he heard the news. Even the strongest Veela heritage fades with age, you know!”
“How dare you insult Professor Dumbledore like that! He’s the pride of Gryffindor! His Veela bloodline won’t weaken just because he’s older!”
…
This group of students had clearly been led astray by the morning’s Daily Prophet. Some of the little wizards even attempted to prove Dumbledore’s enduring charm by citing the over seven hundred Dumbledore figurines sold by their grandmothers.
Apparently, one student’s family had been in the magical figurine business in Knockturn Alley for generations.
What constitutes authority?
According to this little wizard, their family’s statistics were indisputable evidence!
“Does your family sell Gellert Grindelwald figurines too?” Someone asked curiously, sparking interest among the onlookers.
“No, our family only does business within Britain.”
The well-informed young wizard seemed unaware of the slightly dubious reputation of their family’s trade, responding with a certain air of pride.
“Not just Dumbledore. We sell Miranda Goshawk figurines, too! They’re our best-sellers, fetching the price of three Dumbledore figurines.”
To be fair, the fact that this student still attended Hogwarts might be the most astonishing act of magic yet.
Since all the present students were young, they clearly didn’t grasp how remarkable such a feat was.
“My mum bought a Dumbledore figurine from you once. It looked just like him and even moved around! I’m not sure why she hid it in our barn, though.”
“Can you make custom orders? I want a figurine of my Crup!”
“That’s a brilliant idea! I want one of my sister’s! Whenever she bosses me around, I’ll give her figurine a good hexing!”
…
At their age, little wizards were naturally innocent. They genuinely believed a magical supplies shop was merely a place for crafting and displaying toys.
Some Slytherins, eager to curry favor with Aurora, voiced their dissatisfaction. They declared that even within Britain, the shop ought to sell Grindelwald figurines, given his historical significance. Their sentiment garnered enthusiastic support from many others.
“…”
The Defense Against the Dark Arts professor’s jaw visibly clenched, and his temple veins began to throb as he heard this.
It was painfully clear.
Among the new students from Slytherin and Gryffindor, not one displayed any true talent for Divination; the current situation had already been confirmed by the Divination professor in advance.
After all, if anyone possessed even the faintest trace of prophetic ability, they wouldn’t be entirely clueless in the face of the growing danger.
The Fiendfyre, conjured through twisted Transfiguration, may have been raging in the Forbidden Forest for now, but the students within the castle, watching the commotion like spectators, could very well invite a real demonstration of Fiendfyre closer to home with their reckless chatter.
And when it did, it would burn with terrifying thoroughness, leaving not a trace behind.
“Calm down! Professor… you must stay calm!” Aurora was nearly hanging from Gilderoy Grindelwald’s arm, desperately attempting to restrain the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor.
“They’re just children, only spouting childish nonsense.” Aurora pleaded in a hushed tone, her eyes filled with anxiety. Fortunately, Gilderoy Grindelwald seemed to regain some composure.
He shook off Aurora, though without drawing his wand. “Of course, I know that. However, I do believe it would be wise to carefully consider what sort of exercises would benefit the fine students of Gryffindor and Slytherin in the upcoming Defense Against the Dark Arts lessons.”
“Such spirited wizards should fare well against Dementors. First years are just the right age to learn how to adapt to the conditions of Azkaban.”
“I shall set up a simulated environment in the dungeons. Quite the learning opportunity, don’t you think?” Grindelwald’s expression showed no sign of jest as he spoke of this.
He swept his robes dramatically and strode out of the Transfiguration classroom, leaving it uncertain whether he truly intended to capture some Dementors for his so-called simulation training.
The other students, oblivious to the gravity of the situation, continued their chatter.
Voices buzzed excitedly.
Only Aurora’s face paled. If Grindelwald did come up with Dementors, it would be a catastrophe; she knew all too well how abysmal her Patronus Charm attempts had been.
“The Patronus Charm…”
Aurora’s fear of Dementors stemmed from this precise shortcoming. She’d attempted the spell countless times in recent days, yet never managed to summon even a wisp of silver mist.
The sting of her failure weighed heavily on her confidence.
“If I burn all these classmates for my grandfather, will that change his mind?” Aurora’s concern for her peers’ safety did exist, but it hardly reached any profound depths.
“Miss Grindelwald, are you worried Dumbledore will clash with your Grandfather again?” A first-year wizard, oblivious to the tension, decided this was an excellent time to voice their curiosity.
Aurora chose not to respond.
“Can you all just be quiet?”
With an exasperated sigh, Aurora rubbed her temples, her patience wearing thin. She tucked her wand back into her robes, clearly deciding that engaging further was futile.
After a moment of deliberation, the German girl concluded it would be best to remove herself from the impending chaos. She cast a fleeting glance at the professors hurriedly advancing towards the Forbidden Forest, her thoughts drifting toward safer places to hide from the looming Defense Against the Dark Arts class.
The Forbidden Forest, while hazardous, seemed a viable option.
But then there was the small chamber Ian frequently used for brewing potions. Hidden away on the Seventh floor, it was a considerably more appealing refuge. At the very least, it would keep her far from any Dementors.
…
More than a dozen Fiendfyre dragons twisted and coiled through the forest like Ian’s monstrous minions, ferociously scouring for Voldemort. He had no intention of letting the Dark Lord escape.
It wasn’t merely for the sake of fueling his so-called “Soul Furnace” with Voldemort’s magic; Ian knew all too well how deeply Voldemort clung to vengeance. Allowing him to escape now would almost certainly ensure the Dark Lord plotted retribution in the future.
The hidden dangers were not insignificant.
Ian would not overestimate himself.
He knew he could overpower Voldemort in a weakened state, but in terms of sheer magical strength, a fully restored Voldemort was comparable to Dumbledore.
Never underestimate the dangerous magical rituals and dark transformations Voldemort had undergone. While they had certainly affected his mind and judgment, they had also granted him a significant boost in power, accelerating the magical growth that would have otherwise taken him decades.
“It’s like mortgaging his future strength for immediate power, reckless, but undeniably effective in the short term.”
“Even Grindelwald couldn’t confidently claim a guaranteed victory against such a foe.”
Ian recalled the knowledge he had gleaned from accounts of legendary wizards: magical strength did have an upper limit, and for those who reached it, progress slowed drastically.
Perhaps Voldemort in his prime was still slightly inferior to Dumbledore, but the gap wasn’t wide enough to dismiss him. They were both considered formidable figures at the pinnacle of wizarding power.
They stood at the top level of wizardkind.
“My magical power barely reaches the level of a Hogwarts Head of House,” Ian thought, “But in terms of magical theory, experience, and combat expertise, I still lag far behind.”
Power alone wasn’t enough; Ian lacked the vast reserves of knowledge and practical experience that defined true masters of magic.
For this reason.
If he were to face a fully restored Voldemort, Ian’s chances would not be better than those of Hogwarts’ most seasoned professors. He currently relied heavily on a handful of powerful spells.
When he unleashed his strongest magic, few wizards could withstand it. But those who did would quickly discover that Ian’s magical repertoire was not nearly as expansive.
A Voldemort free from the limitations of his fractured state could endure and retaliate. Ian had no illusions about that. It was one of the reasons he was determined to destroy Voldemort’s remnants before the Dark Lord could regain his full strength.
Whether Harry Potter remained the Boy Who Lived or if the so-called saviors used Voldemort as a test of their resolve was not Ian’s concern.
His priority was simple, prevent the return of the noseless Tom. Only then could Ian earn the precious time he needed to build his knowledge and magical foundation.
Yes, all Ian wanted was to study in peace, undisturbed. And if it meant confronting Voldemort now to ensure that peace, he was more than willing to act.
Oh, and of course, he could conveniently use Voldemort’s destruction as a boost to his own magical growth.
“Where are you hiding?” Ian muttered, scanning the landscape as he sped across the sky on his broomstick. His conjured Fiendfyre dragons twisted through the air, relentlessly searching for the Dark Lord.
Though Ian had become proficient at transfiguration and controlling Fiendfyre, his skill was far from the mastery Grindelwald had displayed in ‘Advanced Dark Magic Revealed’.
The Fiendfyre western dragons Ian summoned moved with his will, driven by the singular purpose of locating Voldemort’s shadow. For ordinary wizards, it would be an astonishing feat. But compared to Grindelwald’s Fiendfyre, which acted as an extension of his own vision, Ian’s control was rudimentary.
Grindelwald’s flames were like enchanted mirrors that could reveal secrets, while Ian’s were more akin to magically automated beasts, fearsome but blind.
If Ian possessed Grindelwald’s level of mastery, he wouldn’t have needed to circle back so many times.
Unbeknownst to him, his Fiendfyre dragons had already flown over Quirrell’s hiding place three times. Each time, Quirrell had cowered in fear, trembling uncontrollably as the fiery serpents roared past.
Ian’s determination to eliminate Voldemort’s remnants remained unwavering. The question was not if, but when he would finally corner the Dark Lord once and for all.
“Master… Master… who is searching for us?” Quirrell, trembling like a cornered mouse, curled up in the damp shadows of the cave; his stutter was no longer an act but the genuine result of fear.
“How could I have ended up with such a pathetic servant? Use your brain! Who else could wield Fiendfyre with such skill besides that sanctimonious headmaster?” Voldemort’s voice hissed through Quirrell’s mind, seething with both disdain for his host and bitter loathing for Dumbledore.
“That… that makes sense.” Quirrell’s eyes widened as realization dawned. If Dumbledore was truly pursuing Voldemort, everything fit. After all, Dumbledore had long been considered the greatest wizard of the age.
“You dare think I am inferior to Dumbledore!” Voldemort’s furious roar echoed in Quirrell’s skull, sending a fresh wave of dread through the trembling man. Already consumed by fear of discovery, Quirrell’s nerves were frayed further under his master’s wrath.
“No! No, Master! I would never think such a thing! I only meant… we must find a way to escape! If this search continues, it’s only a matter of time before we’re found.”
“What a rare moment of clarity from you.” Voldemort’s voice was laced with venom. Even in his diminished state, he could sense far more than Quirrell’s cowardly mind could comprehend. Every shift of magic around them only heightened his frustration.
“What should we do?” Quirrell clutched his wand as though it might offer him protection, though he knew all too well how little good it would do against the likes of Dumbledore.
“Several professors are closing in. Confronting them now would be foolish. Your position as a Hogwarts professor is still useful. We must reach what Dumbledore has hidden. The Philosopher’s Stone may already be beyond our grasp.”
Quirrell nodded stiffly, but the trembling in his limbs betrayed his lingering panic.
“Master, I am unworthy of your confidence. I cannot stand against the professors. They would overpower me in moments!”
“Useless Weakling! How unfortunate that I must rely on a servant such as you!” Voldemort’s rage pulsed through Quirrell’s mind, a reminder of the Dark Lord’s frustration. He had returned for the Philosopher’s Stone, yet before he could even approach it, Dumbledore’s interference had left him cornered.
“I… I…”
Quirrell’s voice cracked as tears welled in his eyes. The weight of his pitiful existence pressed down upon him. He had once sought power and knowledge. Now he cowered in the shadows, a puppet to a master who offered only threats.
“Fool! Apparate away! Now! That cursed meddler is drawing closer!” Voldemort’s voice lashed out in alarm, the surge of approaching magic unmistakable.
“I… I can’t.” Quirrell’s frail voice barely rose above a whisper as he instinctively huddled further into the recess of the cave. The thought of facing Dumbledore, or worse, enduring Voldemort’s inevitable wrath, paralyzed him.
This pathetic retreat caused his back to scrape against the rough stone floor, dragging Voldemort’s spectral face along with it. The Dark Lord’s twisted visage contorted in furious indignation.
“Imbecile! Do you find delight in humiliating me?” Voldemort snarled, his seething rage echoing in Quirrell’s mind as the terrified man whimpered softly, reduced to a trembling heap on the cave floor.
He did not notice and continued to explain, “Although this is just the Forbidden Forest, we are already beyond the castle’s protective wards… but Apparating from here is still particularly difficult.”
“My magic… my magic is very unstable right now,” Quirrell stammered, not daring to blame Voldemort directly. However, the truth was undeniable: Voldemort’s invasive presence had undoubtedly worsened his condition.
If it weren’t for the fear that his unstable magic would splinch him, scattering his body across the forest, Quirrell would have surely attempted to Apparate the moment he sensed the dragon’s presence.
“Roar!”
A deafening dragon’s cry echoed from outside the cave.
Sensing the immediate threat, Voldemort’s voice snarled with frustration. “You are the most useless of all my servants!”
Desperation gave him strength. Even in his weakened state, Voldemort forces his parasitic soul to take control of Quirrell’s body.
Before long, Quirrell’s contorted face twisted further, as though molten wax were bubbling beneath his skin. Voldemort’s grotesque visage, pale and noseless, seemed to emerge from the back of Quirrell’s skull, fusing unnaturally. The result was a monstrous duality, their faces merged in a horrifying spectacle.
“I’ve merely suffered a setback!”
Through Quirrell’s eyes, Voldemort glared at the fiery blue form of the western dragon circling outside the cave. Controlling Quirrell’s trembling hands, he raised the wand. The air cracked with unstable magic as the Dark Lord forced a surge of power through their shared vessel. With a loud whoosh, the surroundings twisted unnaturally, dragging them through a haphazard Apparition.
“Swish!”
They didn’t travel far. Voldemort’s depleted state left him with only a fraction of his former prowess. Instead of a distant sanctuary, Quirrell reappeared in the shadowed alleys of Hogsmeade.
“Avada Kedavra!”
A voice thick with malice erupted from Voldemort as a flash of green light illuminated the dim alleyway. A startled wizard, who had unwittingly witnessed the scene, collapsed lifelessly to the cobblestones.
“Bang!”
Voldemort’s twisted satisfaction pulsed through Quirrell. Yes, this was the Dark Lord’s true power, to command death with a single curse. The terror of his name, the unwavering dominance, it all thrilled him once more.
“Return to the castle. Act as though nothing has happened,” Voldemort’s voice hissed with authority.
Quirrell nodded, trembling, but Voldemort’s presence suddenly weakened. As the face on the back faded, Voldemort’s essence was meant to retreat. However, something went horribly wrong.
Instead of slipping to the back of Quirrell’s skull as usual, Voldemort’s spirit seemed to sink downward, dragged like a lead weight. A strange force tugged at him, anchoring him somewhere unexpected.
“What is happening?!” Voldemort roared, though his voice was weaker now, trembling with disbelief.
“Master?” Quirrell whispered nervously. He felt a strange discomfort as Voldemort’s presence shifted. Panic welled within him. Voldemort’s spirit had not returned to the back of his head.
No. It had gone lower.
“Damn it! What is wrong with your body?!” Voldemort’s voice howled in fury, though the sheer indignity of his predicament was unmistakable.
“M-My body?” Quirrell stammered, flustered. His face burned with humiliation. It was as though Voldemort’s essence had taken up residence somewhere… unmentionable.
He felt Voldemort struggling, but there was no reprieve. The weakened Dark Lord could not overpower the strange force keeping him trapped in this mortifying position.
“Leave, you imbecile! Get back to the castle!” Voldemort spat, though his voice was muffled and distant.
Quirrell gulped. The thought of Voldemort lurking in such an undignified place was unbearable. And what if he needed to use the bathroom?
“Okay, okay.” Quirrell endured the discomfort and hurriedly left the alley; he glanced back at the fallen witness, his eyes flashing with pity and helplessness.
“Don’t blame me.”
Quirrell silently prayed and immediately left the secluded alley, running towards the bustling street, where many people were still wandering in Hogsmeade village.
“Care for a game of wizard chess, sir?”
A voice rang out as someone stepped forward, blocking his path. The sudden inquiry startled Quirrell.
“Out of the way!”
He shoved aside the chess player without a second thought, sending them stumbling to the ground. Not only that, but he even glared at the unfortunate wizard with Voldemort’s malevolent gaze.
“This is your own doing!”
Seeing the chess player’s panicked expression, Quirrell felt a twisted sense of satisfaction, the knot in his chest easing slightly as he hurried towards the castle.
“Master, do you think Dumbledore… might have already guessed that you would return?” Quirrell, a former Ravenclaw, calmed down after escaping the immediate danger, his mind gradually regaining its clarity.
“Of course, you fool. Did it only just occur to you that the ever-scheming Dumbledore would anticipate my return? This is nothing more than a game of wits between me and that old meddler.”
“He wants to be rid of me once and for all, so he dangled what I most desire as bait. Both he and I are well aware of the stakes. I stepped willingly into the game, yet it seems he is more cunning than I gave him credit for,” Voldemort’s voice hissed in his mind, brimming with bitter resentment.
“But we are not yet defeated. No, we still have our chance. The last laugh will be mine!”
“Once I obtain the Philosopher’s Stone, once I possess it… Ha, Dumbledore will rue the day he thought he could challenge me.” Voldemort’s sinister voice echoed through Quirrell’s thoughts.
Voldemort had heard the rumors — whispers that Dumbledore intended to use the Stone to extend his own life. Allegedly, the headmaster had borrowed it from the legendary alchemist, Nicolas Flamel, to brew the Elixir of Life at Hogwarts.
But such claims were laughable. Any witch or wizard of sound mind knew better. After all, powerful wizards often lived well beyond a century without the aid of alchemical meddling. Dumbledore, in particular, showed no signs of frailty. The very notion of him desperately clutching at immortality was absurd.
Voldemort knew that.
And Dumbledore knew that Voldemort knew. Yet, as long as the Philosopher’s Stone was indeed at Hogwarts, the Dark Lord could not resist the temptation.
And so he had come.
The recent destruction of several Horcruxes had filled Voldemort with an ever-mounting sense of dread. But upon hearing of the Stone’s presence, the lure became irresistible. This was the key to his resurrection — a chance he could not ignore.
“Victory will be mine!”
Voldemort’s determination surged within him as he steered Quirrell forward.
But he did not notice.
Behind him, the middle-aged wizard Quirrell, who had been shoved aside, was slowly getting to his feet. With a resigned sigh, he brushed the dust from his robes, grimacing.
“Truly a dreadful day,” He muttered.
He dusted off his robes with clumsy swipes, wincing as he straightened his back. “I’m going to be childless at this rate. Tsk, tsk. Rushing towards disaster like a niffler chasing gold. Even that careless German fellow wasn’t this foolish.”
Despite Quirrell’s vanishing form, the man’s eyes remained fixed on the lingering memory of the professor’s retreating figure.
Or rather, the face concealed beneath Quirrell’s turban.
“A bit premature,” The man murmured, “But nothing too disastrous.” He shuffled back to his upturned wizard chessboard, his hands methodically setting the scattered pieces upright once more.
He didn’t glance up, yet he felt the presence of someone taking the seat across from him.
“Care for a game of chess?”
The chess player’s voice was calm, unsurprised.
“Aren’t we already playing?” The young wizard across from him smiled gently, his long, fluffy brown hair twisted into simple braids that draped over his shoulders.
Arthur King.
Professor of Alchemy at Hogwarts.
“Hehe, how about a simpler game of wizard chess to relax a bit?” The chess player shrugged and looked up at the young professor across from him.
“Of course, no problem, but you mustn’t cheat secretly, oh.” Arthur King replied with a light laugh.
His chrome-green eyes fell on the chess player’s hands as he continued to set up the pieces, reflecting the pure silver ring with a raven pattern on the chess player’s hand.
“If we’re talking about cheating… altering reality is cheating.” The chess player did not hide his thoughts about the ring on his hand, and his gaze also fell on Professor King’s hand.
There was also a ring there.
Shining with a bronze hue.
…
On the bustling street, a seemingly uneventful and ordinary confrontation was taking place. Meanwhile, Ian had not successfully found Voldemort’s trace as he had hoped.
He had searched all nearby areas thoroughly but had not found even a single hair of Voldemort, and he could not help but marvel that this guy’s escape skills must have been maxed out long ago.
“It’s the professors…”
Not only did he not find Voldemort, but Ian also spotted several professors.
His keen eyes caught sight of a few small figures in the distance, which was clearly not a good sign; he hurriedly retracted his magic broom, allowing himself to be caught by a Fiendfyre western dragon.
“Help! Is there anyone to save me? Help me!” Ian shouted in terror, pretending to be flustered as he waved his hands in a panic. After a moment, he felt that his position of being grabbed by the head didn’t look sufficiently desperate, so he adjusted himself to hang upside down in the dragon’s claws.
“Where is this place!? I was clearly on the school lawn, legally and legitimately taking a nap! Ah! Why have I been taken to this horrible place?”
His frantic cries immediately attracted the attention of several professors who were using Finite to dispel other Fiendfyre western dragons.
“It’s a kid’s call for help!”
Pomona Sprout, the Head of Hufflepuff, was the first to rush towards Ian’s direction, followed closely by several other professors. Filius Flitwick raised his wand to eliminate the Fiendfyre western dragon that was holding Ian.
“Whoosh~”
Ian began to fall rapidly, brushing against many branches and leaves. Just as he was wondering if he should stop acting or he would end up face-first in the charred ground of the forest, Pomona Sprout quickly cast a Levitation Charm, suspending Ian in mid-air. Ian immediately resumed his frantic flailing.
“It’s one of our House’s kid!”
Filius Flitwick recognized Ian and exclaimed.
“Professors! I’ve been captured!” Ian tried to widen his eyes to appear terrified and innocent, but the three Heads of House exchanged strange glances.
“Mr. Prince, your transfiguration skills have indeed improved rapidly; you can even apply this kind of transformation to Fiendfyre. I believe many graduated adult wizards would not compare to you,” Professor McGonagall bluntly exposed Ian’s act, never once raising her wand to attempt to rescue him.
Clearly, she had seen through everything.
“Was it a dark wizard that captured me?” Ian’s confidence began to waver as he felt the three Heads of House seemed to have eagle-like eyes, surrounding him in mid-air.
Professor McGonagall’s gaze was the sharpest and most serious.
“Transfiguration is extremely difficult to conceal personal style and traces; don’t forget, your transfiguration was taught by Professor McGonagall.” Filius Flitwick’s expression was quite peculiar.
He proactively reminded his own House student.
This Head of House had been feeling very complicated since realizing Ian had staged that scene; this kid had just asked him about the Patronus charm a few days ago and was now playing with Fiendfyre?
It seemed that Ravenclaw was not going to produce Dumbledore but rather Grindelwald!
Just look at that berserk Fiendfyre combined with Transfiguration… If it weren’t for the location and the choice of magic being completely wrong, Filius Flitwick might have genuinely considered awarding his House a considerable number of points.
“How could you use such dangerous magic? And dare to use it so boldly?” Pomona Sprout covered her mouth, staring at Ian with a mixture of disbelief and concern.
In all her years of teaching, she had never encountered anything like this. The sheer magical force emanating from the Fiendfyre had convinced her that Hogwarts was under siege by a formidable dark wizard.
But who would have guessed… it was just a student? Pomona was the last to come to this realization, and she couldn’t help but wonder what on earth Ian had been feeding on since childhood.
Dragon liver? Do Banshee howls for breakfast?
“I believe we all need a reasonable explanation, Mr. Prince. What precisely were you doing?” Professor McGonagall surveyed the surrounding devastation.
The Fiendfyre dragons had mostly been extinguished, but the scorched earth and lingering embers bore the marks of the catastrophic blaze. It looked as if a great magical battle had taken place.
The Forbidden Forest, usually brimming with life, now appeared lifeless and charred. Even with restoration spells and growth enchantments, it would take years to undo the damage.
“And remember, think very carefully before you answer,” Filius Flitwick advised sternly, though the genuine concern in his voice was evident.
Setting fire to the Forbidden Forest is a grave offense.
Using Fiendfyre, no less. The repercussions could be catastrophic. Expulsion would be the least of Ian’s worries; Azkaban’s looming shadow seemed far too close.
Flitwick, however, could not bear the thought of one of his brightest students losing his future over a reckless act. The Dementors would not be impressed by Ian’s magical prowess.
“I hope you don’t intend to tell me this was all some elaborate prank,” Professor McGonagall said sharply, her lips pressed into a thin line, concern flickering behind her stern expression.
A first-year student unleashing Fiendfyre in the Forbidden Forest. The very thought of what this child might do when grown sent a chill down her spine.
London?
Paris?
Would the world someday witness a magical blaze stretching from one city to the other?
“I certainly didn’t mean for it to be a joke. I was forced into it…” Ian sighed, but before he could elaborate, Filius Flitwick interjected.
“You accidentally released the spell, didn’t you?” Flitwick grasped at the slim possibility of redemption. Perhaps Ian had stumbled upon the magic and triggered it by mistake. Yes, that had to be it!
Ian shook his head, dashing Flitwick’s fleeting hopes. “I deliberately cast the Fiendfyre spell, but there was a reason.”
Flitwick’s chest tightened, his hand half-raised in disbelief. But Ian’s next words froze him entirely.
“There really was a dark wizard. I encountered him within the school ground s.” Ian chose his words carefully, recalling the underground chambers. It was still technically part of Hogwarts.
“A dark wizard?” Professor McGonagall’s brows furrowed deeply.
“Impossible. Hogwarts has always been secure. Not a single dark wizard has breached it for years,” Pomona Sprout said, her voice filled with doubt.
“You mean to say a dark wizard pursued you into the Forbidden Forest, and you had no choice but to use Fiendfyre in self-defense?” Flitwick’s tone wavered as he desperately sought any justification that might shield Ian from severe consequences.
“Erm…” Ian hesitated. He hoped the professors might assist him in tracking down the noseless Tom, so he decided to offer a partial truth.
“To protect the school, I pursued the dark wizard into the Forbidden Forest. He tried to kill me, so I used Fiendfyre to counter his spells.”
“Unfortunately… he still managed to escape.” Ian’s frustration was not feigned. The fact that Voldemort had slipped through his fingers genuinely irritated him.
“Ah, I see. I knew you wouldn’t do something like this without a reason. Wait, hold on— did you say you chased the dark wizard into the Forbidden Forest and forced him to flee?” Filius Flitwick’s voice cracked slightly as realization dawned.
His eyes widened with astonishment.
“Aren’t dark wizards usually the ones doing the chasing?”
Ian’s calm response left the Charms professor utterly speechless.
“…”
“…”
The two female Heads of House, who were already bewildered by Ian’s words, exchanged glances, momentarily stunned by the conversation between the Ravenclaw pair.
After a moment of silence, McGonagall’s voice broke the tension.
“Even if there really was a dark wizard, you should have notified a professor instead of taking matters into your own hands. That was an extremely risky gamble. One misstep, and you could have been killed.”
She wanted to scold Ian for being more reckless than even the most daring Gryffindors, but as her stern eyes took in the boy’s pristine appearance, her words faltered.
“Regardless, you should have informed us.”
McGonagall coughed lightly, her expression still firmly disapproving.
“The situation happened too suddenly, Professor,” Ian replied earnestly. “If I hadn’t pursued him, he would have killed me. You have no idea how dangerous that dark wizard is.”
Without further delay, Ian drew his wand. Under the professors’ bewildered gazes, he pointed it to his temple and extracted a thin, silvery strand of memory.
“I need you to see it for yourselves.”
He lifted the memory into the air, the shimmering wisp floating ominously.
“Revisiting the Past.”
It was a spell not found in standard textbooks, but one Ian had discovered in Hogwarts’ extensive library— a memory-projection charm. Though not nearly as refined as the Pensieve used by Dumbledore, it was sufficient to conjure a vivid three-dimensional reproduction of his recent experience.
The air warped as the projection took form. A twisted, deformed creature emerged— its grotesque figure unnerving even in spectral form. But it was the face on the creature that stole the professors’ breaths.
A wraith-like Voldemort.
McGonagall’s composure cracked as she gasped, while Pomona Sprout clutched her chest in shock. Filius Flitwick’s face paled, his hands trembling slightly.
“No… It can’t be!” Pomona’s voice trembled, barely above a whisper.
“Merlin’s beard!” Filius exclaimed, the sheer impossibility of the scene leaving him aghast.
The true weight of the situation crashed down upon them. A first-year wizard had not only faced Voldemort— he had pursued him. And somehow, impossibly, he had survived.
“We must inform Dumbledore at once! This is beyond anything we can handle,” McGonagall declared, her voice wavering. “Mr. Prince, can you swear to us that this memory is unaltered?”
Before Ian could respond, prepared to swear on the lives of his two dormmates, a calm yet commanding voice echoed from the edge of the Forbidden Forest.
“I believe I am here, Minerva.”
Dumbledore emerged, his presence alone bringing an immediate sense of reassurance. He wore his signature purple robes embroidered with silver stars, though their hem was slightly dirtied from the forest. Even so, the twinkle in his blue eyes was subdued— a clear sign of the seriousness of the situation.
“You’ve returned at last,” McGonagall sighed, visibly relieved.
Behind Dumbledore, Hagrid’s hulking figure appeared, his wild mane of hair brushing the branches above. But it was the third figure that made Ian’s heart drop.
Professor Snape.
With his robes billowing and an expression as sharp as the Potions classroom’s cauldrons, Snape’s dark eyes burned with unreadable intensity.
Ian’s stomach twisted uncomfortably. Facing Dumbledore was one thing, but enduring Snape’s glare was an entirely different challenge.
(End of Chapter)
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