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Beside the dimly lit corridor, Ian first darted away to cast a Disillusionment Charm upon himself. Cloaked in near-invisibility, he hurriedly crept back, pressing against the ancient, mottled stone wall. Peering through the murky light spilling from the shed door, he observed the heated exchange inside.
Albus Dumbledore and his younger brother, Aberforth Dumbledore, were locked in a fierce argument.
“If you hand it over now, perhaps I can still forgive your carelessness.”
“I told you, I don’t have it! I don’t even know what exactly you’re hiding, aside from that letter. I haven’t seen anything else in that blasted box!”
“No one but you knows about that letter. Do you honestly think I wouldn’t use Legilimency on you? Or have you grown so foolish that after stealing something, you’d cast a Memory Charm on yourself?”
“Merlin’s beard, Albus! You’re impossible! I was only curious. You never tell me anything, so I went looking for answers in your office.”
“Aberforth, I did that for your own good. Some truths would shatter you. You’re not ready. Give it back, and I’ll tell you everything when the time is right.”
“I didn’t take anything, you insufferable old bat!”
…
Ian had stumbled upon quite the spectacle, one that few students, or even professors, would ever witness. As Aberforth’s patience snapped, he swung a furious punch, and Albus, for all his usual poise, returned the blow without hesitation.
There were no flashes of wandlight, no spells flying through the air. Just the dull, unmistakable thud of fists meeting flesh.
It was a proper brawl.
The echoes of their scuffle reverberated down the corridor.
It was absurd, really. The venerable headmaster of Hogwarts, the embodiment of wisdom, and his equally elderly brother, owner of the Hog’s Head Inn, rolling about like quarrelling schoolboys in the Owlery.
“Hoot! Hoot!”
The owls, rudely roused from their slumber, flapped their wings in protest. With startled screeches, they scattered toward the high windows, attempting to escape the absurd clash. But the Dumbledores were utterly oblivious, consumed by their furious struggle.
They might have been old, but they were still wizards, making them resilient, stubborn, and not above a bit of fisticuffs when provoked. Though their movements were less agile than in their youth, each blow was determined, aimed squarely for the other’s face.
There was no holding back.
And it was no mere mock fight.
Ian was certain he saw blood in the dim light.
“Merlin’s pants! Teeth! Whose teeth were those? Were they Albus’s, or Aberforth’s?” He barely contained a snort of disbelief. How he wished he had a wizarding camera, a self-writing quill enchanted to capture every ridiculous detail of this ridiculous fight. This was the sort of scene that would become legend if ever exposed.
Indeed, it seemed Hogwarts had a strange tendency to reveal its most astonishing moments when least expected. The Boy-Who-Lived and his friends had often stumbled upon secret plots this way. And now Ian had his own tale to tell.
Yet, the main and the most important question lingered.
“Should I step in?” He had assumed the brothers were quarrelling over the letter he had delivered. Maybe revealing himself would clear up the misunderstanding. After all, he could easily prove he was just the messenger. If anyone doubted him, he could fetch a hundred letters and photographs next time, so long as the fee was paid.
One person, a hundred letters each.
However, upon witnessing the two elderly wizards wrestling like schoolboys, Ian dared not reveal himself. He feared the two furious brothers might drag him into their brawl.
He wasn’t sure he could bring himself to punch an old man. And judging by the way they were fighting, Ian even suspected he might not stand a chance against the hundred-year-old headmaster.
“You’re mad!”
Albus Dumbledore’s silver hair was tousled, strands falling over his face, though his deep blue eyes retained a measure of restraint. In contrast, Aberforth was visibly consumed by rage, his fury driving every move.
“Without your cursed spells! Do you think you could best me?” Aberforth’s face twisted in anger, his fists slicing through the air with alarming force, each blow echoing with the frustration of years gone by.
“I know you still hold resentment towards me, but that does not justify stealing my—”
Albus Dumbledore’s words were abruptly cut off as Aberforth lunged again, his bloodied fists swinging with relentless aggression.
Finally, Albus Dumbledore’s restraint gave way. Whatever composure he had clung to snapped. Provoked beyond reason, he retaliated.
It was undeniable that Albus Dumbledore was not only a master of magic but also a formidable duelist. Though he rarely resorted to physical confrontations, even in his age, he moved with surprising strength and agility. Years of refined magical discipline had lent him an edge that Aberforth, despite his stubbornness, could not match.
Aberforth began to falter.
The air was filled with the harsh sounds of struggle.
But Albus Dumbledore, deaf to reason, drove his brother to the ground. Pinning him beneath his weight, the headmaster struck with uncharacteristic fury. From the shadows, Ian’s breath caught, and a chill ran down his spine.
He had never seen Albus Dumbledore like this.
The soft glow of the moon outside illuminated the older wizard’s expression. No longer merely frustrated, his face twisted with a terrible blend of anger and anguish. Whatever had set this fight into motion, Ian could now see it was about far more than a stolen letter or photograph.
The echoes of memory stirred in Ian’s mind. He recalled the painful truths Albus Dumbledore had once shown him. Understanding now seeped in. This childish brawl was a reflection of something far deeper, a manifestation of long-buried emotions, unresolved guilt, and fractured bonds.
It was not truly about the letter or the photo within.
It was about decades of resentment, the weight of blame, and wounds that had never truly healed. Albus Dumbledore had borne the crushing responsibility of the past, as an elder brother, as a man who had made choices that haunted him.
But had the revered headmaster, this symbol of wisdom and patience, really never resented Aberforth?
Of course not. He had merely suppressed it, burying every ounce of pain and fury beneath the facade of control.
The stolen photo was nothing more than the spark that ignited the wildfire. Aberforth’s unrelenting accusations had torn open the carefully concealed scars that Albus Dumbledore had tried to forget. And Aberforth, with his stubbornness and bitter memories, refused to let them fade.
It was also true that Aberforth’s own hatred had not diminished. In his eyes, Albus Dumbledore was the one responsible for Ariana’s death. That belief had festered over the years, driving him to lash out now.
Perhaps, despite the fragile peace they had maintained, neither brother had truly moved on.
“Interesting,” Ian muttered under his breath. “Aberforth still hasn’t mentioned the Resurrection Stone. He’s tight-lipped as ever. Maybe that photo really was taken by him.”
Ian observed the brawl between the two elderly wizards with morbid fascination. The raw display of emotion left him both uneasy and intrigued. Yet, amidst the chaotic struggle, he noticed Aberforth had never once mentioned the counterfeit letter Ian had delivered. Perhaps Aberforth suspected that Albus Dumbledore could use the Resurrection Stone to uncover its secrets?
Maybe he planned to study it in secret once he retrieved it.
From this perspective, it was clear Aberforth had never truly believed Albus would delve into his memories. His cunning far exceeded the clumsy, rough demeanor he usually displayed.
“I still can’t fathom how he found out I have the Resurrection Stone,” Ian thought, his eyes fixed on Albus Dumbledore, who now sat slumped against the wall. Across from him, Aberforth lay sprawled like a limp rag, breathing heavily.
The moment Albus Dumbledore’s weary gaze lifted toward the door, Ian’s heart jolted. His legs reacted faster than his mind, and he fled without a second thought.
Even with the Disillusionment Charm cloaking him, a lingering fear gnawed at him. Within moments, he had bolted down the corridor, sprinting towards the ever-shifting staircases.
Fortunately, Ian managed to leap onto the nearest staircase just in time. He glanced back, half-expecting to see the headmaster’s piercing blue eyes trailing him. But the corridor behind him remained empty. Relief washed over him, though his heart continued to race.
“The old headmaster is still the old headmaster…” Ian muttered under his breath. He didn’t fear Dumbledore would curse him into oblivion. No, it was the inevitable conversation and the tiresome explanations he wished to avoid. Claiming he was ‘just passing by’ would never be enough.
With his pulse slowly calming, Ian decided to visit the Hogwarts kitchens for a snack to steady his nerves.
—
Back in the Owlery, the tension had somewhat subsided.
“There was a noise outside just now.”
The speaker was Aberforth, still sprawled on the ground, his face bloodied and swollen. His voice emerged thick and slurred —a clear result of the battering he’d received. He winced, his bruised mouth struggling to form the words.
“I know,” Albus Dumbledore replied tersely.
The elder Dumbledore’s breathing remained labored. His silver hair was disheveled, and his crooked wand rested limply against his knee. Though the duel had been one of fists rather than spells, the toll on both men was undeniable.
With a begrudging sense of mercy, Albus Dumbledore reached into his robes and pulled out a small vial of potion. He tossed it toward his brother, who caught it clumsily with trembling hands.
“Hoot hoot hoot~”
The owls, disturbed by the recent commotion, still fluttered restlessly about the rafters.
Aberforth wasted no time. Despite the ever-present bitterness between the brothers, he trusted Albus enough to know the potion wouldn’t be poisoned. With a grimace, he gulped it down, feeling the sting of healing magic as it coursed through him.
“You always claimed Hogwarts had rats skittering about. Was that a rat just now?” Aberforth’s voice retained its rasp, though the potion had begun to soothe the swelling in his mouth.
“No,” Albus Dumbledore responded quietly.
His tired gaze remained on the ground, where he absently traced patterns in the dust with his wand. Slowly, a triangular symbol emerged— the mark of the Deathly Hallows.
“Just a student sneaking about at night, most likely,” Albus said with forced indifference. “Happens all the time.”
Aberforth narrowed his eyes, sensing the evasion. But Albus did not elaborate.
Even concealed beneath a Disillusionment Charm, Ian had not truly escaped the notice of the greatest wizard of the age. But for whatever reason, Albus chose not to pursue the matter.
After all, they were brothers.
A scuffle was one thing.
There was no need to burden Aberforth further— not when the ghosts of their past still lingered so heavily between them.
…
After removing the Disillusionment Charm. Ian filled himself up in the Hogwarts kitchen, and like a victorious champion, he was cheerfully sent off by the house-elves. As a self-proclaimed Hogwarts wanderer, he began to amble through the corridors, feeling like he belonged.
One must digest after a meal.
It was a sensible precaution to avoid growing into a plump little wizard, not to mention a proven method to prevent unpleasant bouts of nighttime acid reflux. Anyone who had indulged in a late-night snack and then flopped straight into bed could attest to the unfortunate sensation.
“Fat Lady, what brings you here to the hall?” Ian asked, startled, as he spotted the Fat Lady’s ghost drifting through the gallery.
She was supposed to guard the entrance to the Gryffindor common room, serving as the ever-reliable gatekeeper. Although she was praised for her dedication, it appeared that she sometimes indulged in a bit of leisure herself.
Ian had only greeted her out of surprise, but the Fat Lady’s guilty expression spoke volumes. She fidgeted, clearly caught in the act.
“I’ll return immediately!” She blurted, vanishing from a portrait of a witch enjoying tea by a riverside. The bewildered witch, teacup in hand, blinked in confusion at the now-empty grass.
“Lady Viola, have you seen that Young Gryffindor recently?” Ian asked, thoughts lingering on the elusive portrait of Godric Gryffindor. He had been in pursuit of the legendary founder’s likeness, having persuaded nearly all the Hogwarts portraits to aid him. Even the older Gryffindor portrait had solemnly sworn to help track down his younger self.
“No, we’re still keeping an eye out for him,” Viola replied, her elegant figure seated on the painted grass. “But not a single portrait has caught sight of him. Perhaps your dreadful hound has already chewed him to bits.”
Ian scoffed at the accusation. “My precious Grim-pup wouldn’t harm a portrait! Besides, it was Gryffindor who challenged him first!” He crossed his arms in indignation, defending both his dog and his dignity.
Viola’s expression twisted skeptically. “Grim-pup? A monstrous beast with teeth the size of broomsticks hardly seems like a ‘pup.'”
Most portraits had witnessed the terrifying sight of Ian’s spectral hound chasing Gryffindor through the castle’s painted landscapes. Despite their confusion, the consensus was that the creature had been conjured through some particularly chaotic enchantment.
Some portraits even whispered that Ian had an odd, unpredictable magic that breathed life into the strangest creations.
“Listen,” Ian proposed with a grin, “If you help me find Gryffindor, I’ll paint you a whole party of elegant witches from the finest wizarding courts. They’ll serve you all the enchanted tea leaves you could wish for.”
Viola raised a brow. “You know we can’t grow real tea in a portrait, dear.” She sighed wistfully, then leaned forward, adding in a conspiratorial tone, “But I wouldn’t say no to a few strapping gentlemen. Preferably those rugged types from the Highlands.”
Ian’s grin faltered. “Deal!” He quickly extended his hand toward the portrait, brushing the edge of the frame with his fingertips. Some desires were best left unquestioned.
Hogwarts portraits, after all, had their quirks.
Rumor had it that one particularly rowdy Ravenclaw portrait had transformed into a makeshift gambling den. At midnight, its inhabitants would gather around a mystical poker table, gambling away centuries-old family heirlooms.
More than once, wandering students had stumbled upon half-naked knights stripped of their painted armor, clutching their last gold coins in despair. Professors were occasionally forced to block certain corridors to prevent further scandal.
“Perhaps you should check the places we portraits can’t reach,” Viola suggested with a teasing smile. “A founder’s portrait likely has privileges that extend beyond the ordinary frames.”
“That’s exactly what I’m doing,” Ian replied with satisfaction. His nocturnal wanderings were hardly just about keeping an eye on the portraits.
After bidding farewell to Viola, Ian consulted the Marauder’s Map, plotting his next move. But before long, he stumbled upon a far more familiar sight.
The Weasley twins.
Fred and George Weasley, notorious Gryffindors and the school’s undisputed kings of mischief.
Their red hair and freckles were unmistakable trademarks of their family. Although the Weasley twins looked nearly identical, they had their own quirks and subtle differences in personality.
Of course.
They were both notorious pranksters, bold and mischievous. Their natural talent in potion-making and enchanting objects foreshadowed their future success.
Not only were they skilled in Quidditch, but they would one day become the founders of Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes, a joke shop brimming with magical mischief, from Ton-Tongue Toffees to Skiving Snackboxes and Canary Creams. Their products were wildly popular among Hogwarts students, bringing both joy and chaos.
“Poor brothers.”
Ian held little fondness for the Weasley twins. Their rampant success had left his own ventures in magical trinkets struggling, costing him a fair share of Galleons. On top of that, they were often the source of many absurd rumors about him.
Though Ian didn’t believe they acted maliciously, he couldn’t deny finding their current situation amusing— like cats toying with mice.
Or perhaps it was the other way around. Ian stood on the stairs, observing the spectacle below.
“This way! Quick! George!”
George darted behind a suit of armor, barely concealing his grin. Moments later, Fred followed suit, mimicking his brother’s choice of cover. Just as their mischief seemed complete, the ever-grumbling caretaker, Argus Filch, hobbled into view.
“Where are they! I saw someone, I swear it!”
Filch’s eyes narrowed, scanning the corridor. Without Mrs. Norris, his ever-watchful cat, his already limited abilities were further reduced. He seemed entirely unaware of the twins’ whereabouts.
Most students feared Filch not for his own merits, but because of Mrs. Norris. The cat was unnervingly clever, swift, and impossible to deceive. She could sniff out a rule-breaking student in seconds, and Filch’s knowledge of Hogwarts’ secret passages made escaping nearly impossible.
But tonight, Mrs. Norris was otherwise occupied. Earlier, Ian had taken the liberty of locking her in a magically reinforced cage within a room overflowing with fish treats. The tantalizing aroma was pure torture for the feline, who pawed fruitlessly at the bars. Revenge for all the times Mrs. Norris had ratted him out.
Unwittingly, Ian’s little act of sabotage had gifted the twins a golden opportunity. Filch stood bewildered in the middle of the hall, muttering under his breath.
“Clang!”
A distant noise echoed through the corridor. Filch’s ears perked, his expression hardening.
“Over there!”
With as much speed as his stiff legs could muster, he hobbled off toward the sound. The twins waited, peeking from behind the armor until the coast was clear.
“He’s such an idiot,” George snickered, wiping crumbs from his mouth. Clearly, he’d been sneaking a snack while in hiding.
“I bet he won’t sleep a wink tonight,” Fred added with a grin, snatching the remaining bits of food from George’s hands.
“We need to hurry and check out the Defence Against the Dark Arts professor’s office. The Marauder’s Map shows he’s not there,” George whispered conspiratorially. “I’d wager there’s loads of incriminating stuff tucked away.”
Curiosity was clearly driving the twins, but Ian suspected they might also be simply bored— and itching for trouble.
“Maybe we’ll get a Special Services to the School award! Dumbledore will heap house points on us! Gryffindor’ll have the House Cup in the bag!” Fred declared, the gleam of ambition in his eyes.
“And he might even let us roam the school at night— officially! We’ll be honorary protectors of Hogwarts!” George beamed, fully embracing the fantasy.
Their camaraderie was undeniable. The twins practically finished each other’s thoughts, already anticipating their next mischievous adventure.
Just as they were about to dash off, Ian lingered, curious to see how far their reckless plan would go.
“Crash~”
Suddenly, a figure burst out from the wall behind them, knocking over the suit of armor George had previously used for hiding, instantly pinning him beneath it.
“Sure enough, Hogwarts at night is far more exciting than during the day,” Ian remarked, watching as Peeves completed his ambush before vanishing gleefully through the wall. His mischievous tactics were disturbingly effective.
“My back! Fred! I think my kidney’s been crushed!” George groaned, flailing helplessly beneath the heavy armor.
Seeing this, Fred cursed under his breath. “Blasted Peeves!”
He quickly reached for his wand.
“Don’t curse me!” Peeves cackled, popping back out from a nearby wall. To Ian’s astonishment, the poltergeist gleefully “possessed” another suit of armor, causing it to clank and creak to life.
“Peeves can’t do that, can he?” Ian’s eyes widened.
But George and Fred’s eyes were even wider. The animated armor charged at Fred like a rampant troll.
“Oi!”
With an earsplitting clang, Fred was flattened under its weight, landing in a heap next to George. Peeves, still giggling uncontrollably, began piling even more suits of armor and other discarded objects on top of the twins.
“That’s what you get for offending Peevesy! Hee hee! Didn’t think I could do this, did you?” Peeves crowed, twisting mid-air and blowing a wet raspberry at the struggling brothers.
“Peeves, what are you playing at?”
“Get off us, you rotten little menace!”
The twins’ protests only seemed to delight Peeves further.
“Beg me for mercy!” He shrieked. “Not that it’ll do you any good! But with that attitude— oh no, no, no! You deserve to be punished!”
Without another word, Peeves zoomed off through the castle, heading straight in the direction Filch had taken.
“Oi! Mr. Filch! Over here! I’ve got the nasty little rule-breakers all trussed up! No gratitude for poor Peevesy, just insults and curses! They deserve double the punishment!”
Ian watched as Peeves disappeared around the corner, his laughter echoing down the corridor.
“Fred! My wand! I think it’s snapped!”
“Stop moaning, George! Just— just shift your weight! We need to get out from under this lot!”
Still half-buried beneath the armor, the twins wriggled and grunted, their attempts at freedom looking rather pitiful. Then, as they managed to poke their heads free, they spotted Ian watching from the stairs.
“Prins…!”
They tried to call for help, but before another word could escape their lips, the ominous figure of Argus Filch hobbled into view, led triumphantly by Peeves. Their expressions immediately twisted into ones of pure horror.
“That’s them, right?” Filch rasped, his squinty eyes gleaming with triumph.
“Where are the little night-walkers?” He scoured the shadows, visibly struggling without Mrs. Norris to guide him.
“You’re supposed to say, ‘Oh, great Peeves, reveal the wicked troublemakers to me!'” Peeves demanded, bouncing gleefully above Filch. “But since you lack manners, I’ll show you anyway.”
“Game over!” The twins groaned in unison.
“I caught them first!” Filch barked, his chest puffing with self-satisfaction.
“Caught them? Ha! You’ve got no talent for it! It was all Peevesy’s brilliance!” Peeves jeered, cartwheeling mid-air.
And, to be fair, he wasn’t wrong. Filch, without Mrs. Norris, had little success in capturing rule-breakers. More often than not, he was the one being outwitted.
“Peeves! You hate Filch!” George protested desperately. “Why are you helping him now?”
“You’re betraying your own chaotic code!” Fred added, wriggling furiously beneath the armor.
“Oh-ho! Isn’t that the tragedy of it all?” Peeves twirled through the air, clearly savoring every second of their despair. “But you insulted Peevesy, and Peevesy never forgets!”
“And I hate you two even more, hehe.” Peeves pulled a grotesque face at the twins, clearly unsatisfied with their plight. With a gleeful cackle, he swooped away to gather a heap of discarded odds and ends, intent on burying them further.
“Little wizards! Not sleeping! Sneaking around! Naughty, naughty! Must be punished!” Peeves sang gleefully as the twins’ heads disappeared beneath the mound of debris.
“You’ll regret this, Peeves!” George Weasley’s muffled voice came from beneath the clutter.
“Too right! You’ll be tossed out for good!” Fred shouted, his tone dripping with defiance. He knew Peeves’ greatest fear — the threat of expulsion. Even a chaotic poltergeist didn’t like being reminded that he wasn’t entirely untouchable.
“Shut up, you vile Gryffindor pests!” Filch snarled, his yellowed teeth bared in a grimace. His resentment practically oozed from every word, but the twins remained utterly unfazed.
Their indifference only stoked Filch’s fury further.
“I’ve caught you red-handed this time! Running amok, breaking every rule you fancy, mocking the very foundations of this school with your shameless antics!” He jabbed a gnarled finger at them, triumphant glee gleaming in his eyes.
“Today, I’ll see to it you get what you deserve! Mark my words, you won’t escape a proper punishment!”
“You don’t have that kind of power,” George quipped, emerging from the pile with a half-smirk.
“Exactly!” Fred chimed in. “The old punishments are gone. You can’t string us up by our thumbs or whip us with chains. Best you can do is stick us in detention!”
Their nonchalant attitude sent Filch into a sputtering rage.
“Oh, we’ll see about that! I’ll march straight to Dumbledore!” Filch roared. “For troublemakers like you, the old punishments ought to be reinstated! Shackles and irons, yes! A proper thrashing with the old cat o’ nine tails would sort you out!”
“Who do you think you’re scaring?” George shot back.
“Peeves still owes me a wand!” Fred’s voice came from beneath the rubble, sounding both irritated and resigned.
“Ha! You won’t be needing a wand where you’re going,” Filch sneered. “Once you’re expelled, your parents will drag you back to whatever rat-infested hole you crawled from!”
“That sarcastic tone… You’ve been taking lessons from someone, haven’t you?”
Ian’s voice echoed calmly from the stairs. He’d been watching the scene unfold with mild amusement. George twisted his head to see Ian lingering above, his face practically begging him to slip away unnoticed.
A spark of mischief lit George’s expression.
“You can’t frighten me! Dumbledore won’t expel us!” He declared, his voice suddenly louder than necessary.
Filch narrowed his eyes. Even in his anger, he wasn’t entirely witless. Realizing the ruse, he spun around, just in time to see Ian nonchalantly waving goodbye to the twins. Without the slightest trace of guilt, Ian descended the staircase, clearly heading for the dungeons.
Unlike the twins, Ian wasn’t particularly worried about being caught. The risk only applied if a professor were involved. Filch, for all his bluster, had always shown him a strange leniency— perhaps thanks to Ian’s occasional flattery or the carefully maintained image of an obedient student.
Sure enough, Ian knew Filch wouldn’t dare chase him.
Besides, with Peeves still cackling and the twins bickering beneath the wreckage, the caretaker had his hands full. Ian vanished into the shadows of the castle, the echoes of Peeves’ triumphant laughter fading behind him.
Even though he saw Ian, Filch only paused for a moment.
Then, as if he hadn’t seen anything, he turned his head back.
“I have to lock you up first.” Filch continued to threaten the Weasley brothers ominously.
“Ah?” George, who had poked his head out from the clutter, was confused; he couldn’t understand why a student, so obviously within sight, was being ignored by Filch, who was usually so eager to enforce the rules.
“Didn’t you see? Over there! There’s someone!” George no longer cared about keeping the night-walking team’s secrets. At this point, he suspected something foul, like a Boggart disguised as a student.
“What person? Stop talking nonsense! You’re still unrepentant!” Filch barked, showing no intention of turning back, Snape’s warning still ringing in his ears.
“You should count yourself lucky you didn’t catch him. If he’d decided to turn you into a grotesque creature and dump you into the Black Lake, Dumbledore wouldn’t shed a tear.”
Filch, notorious for bullying the weak and fearing the strong, had noticed Ian’s frequent nighttime wanderings. He even reported them to Snape, but the Potions Master’s response had left him shaken.
After probing rumors and learning from Madam Pince about the peculiar books Ian borrowed, Filch, for once, made a rare decision — selective blindness.
There was no other choice.
After all, for a seemingly harmless student who had unrestricted access to the Restricted Section and casually perused books on dark magic, how could a mere caretaker dare to intervene?
On the surface, Ian was just another student.
But in reality, the most powerful figure in Hogwarts was personally watching over him.
“Fred! Fred! You saw it too! That bloke by the stairs!” George’s voice cracked, watching Filch’s strange behavior with growing alarm.
Fred finally wriggled free from the pile of junk. “What are you on about? I didn’t see anything. All I saw was my broken wand. Mum’s going to have kittens when she finds out!”
Without his brother’s confirmation, George’s face paled further.
“Peeves! You must’ve seen it!” George clutched at his last hope, turning desperately to the poltergeist. Peeves, who had been gleefully silent, now scowled in rage.
“I didn’t see anything! You rotten little ginger! Don’t think you can trick the great Peeves!”
With a wicked cackle, Peeves suddenly dove at George, flattening him like a poorly stacked pile of cauldrons.
“You’re far too nasty! Time to shut you up!” Peeves pressed down on George’s head. Despite the crushing discomfort, George didn’t cry out. He was too distracted by the unsettling realization that even Peeves — Hogwarts’ most chaotic spirit — was afraid.
What on earth had they just witnessed?
…
After enjoying two brilliant spectacles, Ian arrived at the basement, intent on searching for any secret hiding places the Gryffindor portrait might occupy.
But Hogwarts, it seemed, had more nightly drama to offer.
Previously, Ian had stumbled upon Professor Quirrell in an abandoned classroom, furtively conversing with Voldemort. He hadn’t interfered — just passed by. Yet tonight, Quirrell wasn’t performing any dark rituals.
Instead, he was pinned to the wall, his robes crumpled in the grip of a dark and imposing figure.
Ian quickly cast a Disillusionment Charm upon himself.
It appeared the third act of the night’s grand performance was about to begin.
“Don’t think of me as your enemy. I rather doubt you’d want me as one.”
The chilling voice belonged to none other than Ian’s ‘kind uncle,’ Severus Snape. His tone was cutting, and his eyes gleamed with dangerous intent.
“I… I don’t know what you mean, Professor Snape! Honestly, I haven’t the faintest idea!” Quirrell’s stammering voice wavered as he trembled beneath Snape’s glare.
“No, on the contrary,” Snape sneered, tightening his grip, “You know exactly what I mean.”
Such a familiar exchange. Ian watched intently. The night at Hogwarts was proving far more entertaining than he had ever imagined.
Even though Ian watched the scene unfold, he couldn’t shake the odd feeling that he’d become the protagonist of some grand tale— though, unlike Harry Potter, Ian had no intention of reporting Snape or assuming he was up to anything nefarious.
“I really… really don’t know what happened in the Forbidden Forest, please, Professor Snape… let me go,” Quirrell pleaded, his voice trembling like a beaten house-elf.
Snape remained unmoved.
“I know you left the castle. Hah, I have my ways of knowing precisely where someone has been,” Snape said coldly, his lips curling into a cruel sneer.
“I contracted… contracted some illness while traveling, and it only flared up after I returned. I went to Hogsmeade to buy potions, that’s all! I didn’t want to trouble you,” Quirrell stammered, his flimsy excuse clearly rehearsed.
Snape’s sneer only deepened.
“You are tight-lipped. Good. When you’ve had time to reflect and decide where your true loyalties lie, we will talk again.”
Releasing the trembling Defense Against the Dark Arts professor with a final glare, Snape swept out of the room, his cloak billowing ominously.
Ian remained concealed, lingering at the door.
He watched as Quirrell, collapsed in a pitiful heap, finally managed to stagger to his feet. The man crept toward the window, nervously peering outside before mumbling to himself.
“Master… Master… Snape seems to suspect us. We must get rid of him. You… you have the power. Kill him!”
Quirrell’s voice dripped with resentment, the humiliation still fresh. Ian couldn’t tell if this surge of hatred stemmed from the man himself or if it was Voldemort’s influence whispering into his ear.
“Severus Snape… he was once my most loyal servant.”
A sinister, high-pitched voice echoed through the empty room, though Quirrell had not moved his lips.
The voice was low but brimming with malice, sending shivers down Ian’s spine. Standing just outside, he strained to pinpoint its source. The classroom, cloaked in shadows, offered no answers.
“He must have betrayed you long ago! He is Dumbledore’s favoured pet! Perhaps… perhaps all your setbacks were his doing!” Quirrell seethed, his hatred fueling his reckless accusations.
Ian expected some form of rebuke. Voldemort did not disappoint.
“Aghhh!”
Quirrell clutched his head, collapsing once more, writhing like a cursed marionette. Ian could only guess what torment Voldemort inflicted, though the effect was painfully clear.
“I was wrong! Master! Forgive me!” Quirrell’s agonized screams echoed through the stone walls.
The punishment dragged on for an excruciating ten minutes before Voldemort relented. Quirrell lay gasping on the cold floor, trembling as the echo of Voldemort’s anger lingered.
“What made you so bold?” The dark voice hissed, contempt dripping from every syllable.
“I’m sorry, Master,” Quirrell whimpered, curling up like a cowering cat. “It was my hatred… Snape has always scorned me, humiliated me. I only wished for you to exact justice.”
Voldemort’s laughter was cold and mirthless.
“I will decide how to deal with Severus.”
His voice lowered into a dark whisper.
“I am still weak… the power I have gathered must be reserved for killing that pathetic fool of a writer. The one who mocked me. Obtaining the Defense Against the Dark Arts position is our priority. Only then will we gain access to the Philosopher’s Stone.”
Ian’s eyes narrowed. So that was their plan.
“I will serve you, Master,” Quirrell said meekly, his voice trembling with subservience.
“First, befriend him,” Voldemort commanded. “Lure the fool to Hogsmeade. Ensure there are no witnesses. Then… we strike.”
“Yes, Master,” Quirrell answered quickly, but his hesitation was clear.
“Should we wait until your strength has fully returned?”
The question hung in the air, but Ian doubted Voldemort would appreciate his servant’s sudden display of caution.
Voldemort punished him once more, twisting Quirrell into a grotesque figure “dancing” on the floor, and the pained groans that escaped him made Ian feel a twinge of discomfort as he watched.
“Dealing with a third-rate wizard, I won’t have you doubting me again.”
This time, Voldemort didn’t prolong Quirrell’s torment for long.
“I understand! I won’t do it again! I will obey! I will follow all your commands!” Quirrell stammered in sheer terror, and as he rose from the ground, he left a puddle behind him.
“Blast it! Go back and change your trousers!” Voldemort bellowed, his fury palpable; he truly relished tormenting his servant.
“Hiss~ So that’s how it is!” Ian observed as Quirrell leaned against the wall, shuffling out of the classroom before vanishing around the corner. He ultimately refrained from drawing his wand to eliminate the threat while it was still in its infancy.
“After all, Voldemort really knows how to invite disaster.” Ian was acutely aware that Quirrell, along with the fragment of Voldemort’s soul, wouldn’t stand a chance against Grindelwald, even in a dream.
He had no desire to involve himself in yet another escapade.
“It’s time to settle down; otherwise, my dear uncle will surely fly into a rage and deduct points from Ravenclaw House.” Ian glanced at the “burning” evidence Quirrell had left behind in the classroom.
Just as he was about to continue his exploration of the secret passage in the basement to locate the Gryffindor portrait, he caught sight of a shadow flitting past— a black bat.
Right by the office door.
Snape appeared to have been lurking there, waiting for something. Ian was relieved he hadn’t dispelled the Disillusionment Charm and quickly prepared to sneak past Snape and carry on.
He resolved that in the future, he must keep the Marauder’s Map handy during his nocturnal wanderings; otherwise, he might find himself in a spot of bother again.
Just as Ian was setting this rule for himself in his mind.
“Reveal yourself.” Snape suddenly raised his wand and cast a spell in Ian’s direction. In an instant, Ian, cloaked by the Disillusionment Charm, was revealed, his Little Black feet now fully visible.
In the blink of an eye, he was completely exposed to Snape’s gaze.
“Ah?” Ian was momentarily taken aback.
“It seems you’ve come to remind me that I should assign you a detention.” Snape ground his teeth and strode over, seizing Ian by the back of his collar.
“How could you know I was here? I used the Disillusionment Charm!” Ian was at a loss for words; if Dumbledore could sense him, that was one thing, but how could even Snape see through it?
Was this still a Disillusionment Charm?
It ought to be renamed the “leaky spell”!
“At least you weren’t discovered by Quirrell and the soul tethered to him.” Snape clearly knew Quirrell’s secret; he simply hadn’t chosen to reveal it until now.
“So, you can see through the Disillusionment Charm?” Ian was solely focused on this revelation.
“No.” Snape replied curtly.
“I knew this afternoon that you wouldn’t behave, so I sprinkled a potion on you beforehand. Heh, as expected, you’re meddling in affairs that don’t concern you.” Snape watched as Ian sniffed around, even lifting his arm to check his own scent.
His eyelids twitched, “Stop that; if I could use something to make you smell something foul, I wouldn’t waste it on you, you little schemer. Do you think I’m one of those incompetent potion masters at St. Mungo’s?”
God knows why he had to disparage the innocent magical hospital.
“How long will it last?” Ian received no answer from Snape; he realized he was being dragged toward the supply room, and an ominous premonition settled in his gut.
“You’re not really going to make me clean the toilets, are you?” Ian attempted to appeal to Snape’s sympathy with a pitiful expression, but the Head of Slytherin remained unmoved, demonstrating what true ruthlessness looked like.
“This is the punishment you’ve been dodging all along.” Snape promptly found a set of dung collector’s clothing in the supply room and dressed Ian as if he were a doll, then thrust a mop and a plunger into his hands.
“It’s bedtime! If you don’t sleep, you won’t grow tall!” Ian still stubbornly tried to evade the toilet cleaning, only to find that Snape immediately cast a spell on his wand.
“You sealed my wand-casting ability?” Ian’s eyes widened. “I’ll be caught and killed by Quirrell! You know how much he hates me! He and the one lurking behind his head will turn me into wizard jerky!”
His words made Snape pause, his expression flickering.
“Lurking behind his head…” That particular detail might have escaped Snape’s attention.
“Casting spells is a fundamental right of every wizard! You can’t just strip me of it! I’m going to tell Dumbledore!” Ian’s indignant shouting made Snape’s eyelids twitch furiously.
“You dunderhead, can’t you focus on anything other than Dark Arts? I merely placed a minor detection charm on your wand to monitor any spellwork!” Snape sneered, truly believing Ian’s magical priorities were terribly misplaced. Fiendfyre was notoriously destructive, yet Ian had neglected even the most basic knowledge expected of a Fourth Year.
“Fine…” Ian’s voice faltered, though frustration still lingered. He’d spent his afternoon dodging Voldemort in the Forbidden Forest, only to be reduced to the rank of a Hogwarts janitor by evening.
“I’ve done great things for Hogwarts; I’ve practically bled for it.” His protest earned no sympathy from Snape.
“By morning, I want every toilet spotless. Fail, and your friends will suffer the consequences.” Snape’s black eyes gleamed, convinced he’d found Ian’s weakness.
However…
“Not punishing me? Brilliant!” Ian’s mood brightened, and without hesitation, he dropped the scrubbing brush.
“??????” Now it was Snape’s turn to be utterly bewildered. He had studied Ian’s habits meticulously, yet the boy’s reaction defied all expectations.
Just as Ian turned to leave, Snape’s voice cut through the air.
“Do you not recall the funds I arranged to send back to your old orphanage this Christmas?”
Ian froze.
“Clever git!” Cursing under his breath, Ian begrudgingly retrieved the cleaning tools, accepting his fate under Snape’s watchful eye. While Hogwarts had house-elves for major cleaning, minor tasks like this often fell to students facing detention.
The bathrooms weren’t especially filthy; many students used scouring spells before exiting. However, the taps and sinks bore stubborn lime deposits thanks to Britain’s notoriously hard water. The sight of it made Ian yearn for a quick Reparo or Scourgify, but with his magic restricted, he had no choice but to scrub by hand.
After cleaning two bathrooms, Ian glanced over his shoulder. Snape, perhaps satisfied Ian had submitted, returned to his chambers for the night.
“Pick up the pace.” Snape’s parting words echoed, but Ian merely muttered under his breath. The professor underestimated just how stubborn he could be.
The commonly used toilets were manageable, but the broken girls’ bathroom on the second floor was a different matter.
“It’s a boy! This is the girls’ bathroom!”
The familiar shriek rang through the air as a transparent figure drifted out from one of the stalls. Moaning Myrtle, her ghostly form shimmering, fixed Ian with an indignant glare.
“Although you’re rather handsome, that doesn’t give you the right to barge in here!”
Her attempt at outrage barely concealed a lingering shyness. She hovered awkwardly, half-hidden within the stall.
“Blame Snape,” Ian grumbled, vigorously scrubbing at a tarnished tap. “Maybe you should haunt his bedroom instead.”
Myrtle narrowed her eyes.
“I’ll report you to the professors!” Then, lowering her voice with a hopeful smile, she added, “Unless, of course, you promise to visit me more often. It does get dreadfully lonely…”
Ian groaned. Cleaning toilets was bad enough. Negotiating with a lovestruck ghost? That was worse.
However.
“Open!” Ian placed his hand on a tarnished faucet, its brass surface marked with an ancient Ouroboros engraving. After months of studying the “Book of Parseltongue,” he couldn’t resist softly hissing the command.
Myrtle’s words halted mid-air. Her face twisted with fear, the sound of Ian’s voice sending a shiver down her translucent form.
“It’s you!!!”
Her terrified wail echoed through the bathroom. Reminded of some terrible memory, she plunged into the toilet with a splash, vanishing beneath the swirling water.
“…”
Ian blinked at the now-empty stall. Before he could fully register Myrtle’s reaction, a series of grinding noises filled the air. The Ouroboros faucet twisted sharply, its metallic form contorting as unseen mechanisms roared to life.
Then.
The entire sink began to sink, the tiles trembling as it revealed a dark, yawning passageway beneath. Ian’s eyes narrowed at the gaping hole that now lay before him.
“This… is a bit different from what I imagined.”
Ever since term began, Ian had been contemplating the basilisk. He’d painstakingly prepared for this moment, though he had only one goal in mind: retrieve the precious snake skin. But the opening before him wasn’t the narrow, twisting chute from memory.
Instead, a vast stone staircase spiraled downward.
No wild slide. No echoing screams. No sense of reckless fun.
“My precious basilisk better not be gone.”
Grumbling, Ian slipped into the opening. The mechanical groaning resumed behind him as the entrance sealed shut. With a resigned sigh, he drew his wand, the lingering trace of Snape’s monitoring charm making him grimace.
“Good thing I came prepared.”
From his enchanted money pouch, Ian retrieved a small lantern. Its silvery glow, produced by alchemical runes, cast a soft, steady light. He held his wand tightly, still wary of any surprises.
“Well, my good uncle practically sent me to the entrance. This definitely isn’t my fault.”
Muttering excuses to no one in particular, Ian cautiously descended the stone steps. Unlike the well-known secret passages of Hogwarts, this one was absent from the Marauder’s Map. Droplets of water dripped from the low ceiling, echoing faintly, though the air remained surprisingly free of any foul odor.
With the lantern lighting his way, Ian walked for what felt like twenty minutes, the narrow path winding ever deeper.
“I’m not walking straight to the center of the earth, am I?”
Despite his sardonic remark, a flicker of unease crept into his mind. The darkness seemed endless. The lantern’s glow barely reached the steps below, while shadows twisted ominously along the walls.
But it wasn’t just the depth that troubled him.
The passageway branched. Dozens of narrow archways lined the walls, leading into winding corridors. Like a sprawling labyrinth, the stone corridors veered off in countless directions, leaving Ian to second-guess his choices.
He hesitated.
But stubborn determination won out. He chose the widest staircase, reasoning it must lead to the heart of the Chamber.
Time passed. Nearly half an hour, and the air grew heavy. Stale. Even Ian’s breathing felt labored, the weight of ancient stone pressing down from all sides.
“What is this place?” Ian finally reached the bottom, where the jagged rock walls around him began to shimmer with the glow of deep blue candles. The rough stone steps beneath his feet gave way to pristine marble tiles.
Smooth and polished.
As if not a single speck of dust had ever dared to settle.
Ahead stretched a corridor resembling the grand passages of Hogwarts, leading into the shadows of the underground. Yet Ian wasn’t so reckless as to charge ahead without caution.
“Better safe than sorry.”
With practiced care, he examined the entrance, scanning for magical traps. Reaching into his enchanted pouch, Ian pulled out a small animated training dummy— similar to those used in the Room of Requirement— and sent it toddling ahead. The puppet ambled through the corridor multiple times, its movements twitchy but purposeful.
Only after confirming no sign of danger did Ian cautiously proceed.
Step by step, he moved through the passageway. The candles flanking the walls ignited one by one as he advanced, bathing the surroundings in a steady, ethereal light. These flames were far from ordinary. Likely conjured through ancient magic, they emitted no smoke, their glow resembling the soft embrace of sunlight filtered through stained glass.
“I suppose I underestimated the Founders. Why would they set deadly traps in their own school?”
Ian’s wary tension eased slightly as he stepped forward.
Then.
“Whoosh, Whoosh, Whoosh!”
A sudden, deafening noise echoed through the vast space. Instinctively, Ian’s wand shot up, the incantation for a powerful ”Shadow Storm” poised on his tongue. But he quickly halted when he realized the source of the disturbance.
Thousands of candles had ignited at once.
The magnificent sight overwhelmed him, a brilliant, golden-blue glow enveloped the chamber. Mist-like wisps of enchanted flame floated lazily in the air, illuminating the space in a surreal haze. The delicate firelight danced along the walls and floor, creating a vision of ethereal grandeur.
“Hiss…”
The soft crackling of the flames revealed the sheer scale of the hall.
Despite having braced himself, Ian stood dumbstruck.
Before him.
The chamber was immeasurably vast, its floor gleaming like polished gold. Every step sent a soft shimmer cascading across the surface, as though the ground itself had been enchanted to reflect light in a dazzling display.
But even the radiant floor was not the most astonishing sight.
Ian’s breath caught as his gaze lifted.
“Draco Dormiens Nunquam Titillandus (Never tickle a sleeping dragon)…”
There, sprawled across the far side of the chamber, was an enormous dragon skeleton.
Its titanic frame cast immense shadows, the long arch of its spine rising like a mountain range. The twisted horns atop its skull seemed to scrape the very edges of the ceiling, while the ancient bones, bleached pale by time, retained an aura of overwhelming presence.
A mere glimpse of its massive ribs and gaping maw was enough to send a shiver down Ian’s spine.
The weight of the centuries hung heavy in the air, mingling with the silent echoes of the once-living creature.
The overwhelming sense of awe threatened to consume him.
(End Of This Chapter)
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