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The youthful-looking Arthur King tossed out a teasing remark before vanishing around the corner ahead. Ian’s expression shifted immediately, and he sprinted after him, only to find the corridor ahead empty.
“Where is he?!”
Ian’s eyes scanned the long, dimly lit corridor stretching toward the library. Just moments ago, the alchemy professor had been right in front of him, yet he had disappeared without a trace. It was as if he had melted into the air upon turning the corner; not even a glimpse of his robes lingered in Ian’s vision.
“Apparition? That’s impossible— Hogwarts forbids it!” Ian stared at the silent passageway, unease creeping into his thoughts.
Yet it wasn’t just Arthur King’s sudden disappearance that unsettled him. What truly gnawed at Ian was the parting words the professor had left behind, just before vanishing:
“But you may not be pleased… Do you recall when I offered to help you? Haha, now that I think about it, do you regret turning me down?”
Arthur King had indeed made such an offer before, but it should have happened later, after Ian found himself caught in the loop. Specifically, it should have taken place hours from now, when Ian would be deep in his research on the Resurrection Stone within the library.
Two fateful paths would cross.
And then, fearing that the alchemy professor might covet the Deathly Hallows, Ian had refused his aid—a decision that, by all logic, had yet to be made in this timeline.
Yet somehow, Arthur King already knew.
Back then, Ian had assumed the professor’s cryptic reference to an alchemical dilemma was connected to the Resurrection Stone, the object he had been painstakingly researching. But now, the truth was clear— Arthur King hadn’t been speaking of the Resurrection Stone at all.
The Mark of Slytherin.
A powerful alchemical creation.
Perhaps this enigmatic professor had already foreseen Ian’s plight— understood that it would be the Mark of Slytherin’s Ouroboros that would ensnare him in this repeating cycle. Had Arthur King known all along what was to come?
The more Ian considered it, the more certain he became.
“This man is not what he seems.” His suspicions had been growing ever since discovering that extra note, but now, with the professor’s eerie knowledge of events that had yet to transpire, the truth was undeniable—it was as if a werewolf had exposed its fangs under the full moon.
Within the confines of this time loop…
How could Arthur King possibly know of conversations that had not yet taken place? And, more chillingly, why did he speak as if they were already in the past?
Arthur King.
He had already lived through the encounter that Ian was supposed to experience hours later.
“He’s like me… outside the loop.” Ian’s mind reeled at the implications. “Could he have sensed my predicament and followed me into this fragment of fate Dumbledore spoke of?”
It was the only explanation that made sense.
The idea that such a shadowy figure could lurk undetected within Hogwarts was nearly unfathomable. After all, not even Albus Dumbledore or Grindelwald— two of the greatest wizards to ever live had noticed Ian’s entrapment in this repeating cycle.
Yet this man, a professor so unremarkable that he scarcely seemed to exist within the pages of history, had recognized it in an instant?
Who would believe that, in this age, there existed a wizard whose perception surpassed even that of Albus Dumbledore and Grindelwald?
It was simply inconceivable.
It was completely absurd and so bizarre that it felt almost unreal.
“Things that shouldn’t happen have happened; there must be some special reason for it.” Ian’s mind was racing, and bold theories were forming rapidly.
So secretive, so enigmatic, and his motives unclear. It was as if he and Ian were in the same precarious state as You-Know-Who. He could not possibly be just an ordinary professor residing at Hogwarts.
Otherwise…
How else could Voldemort have evaded capture through seven books, nearly taking control of Hogwarts in the final battle? Ian certainly didn’t recall this alchemy professor making any notable contribution among the staff who had resisted.
“Perhaps… could it really be as I suspect?”
Ian wasted no time pursuing Quirrell, who had been blasted apart in the secret passage. Instead, he pulled out the Marauder’s Map, scanned it quickly, and immediately sprinted towards the headmaster’s office.
“To think he’d act so smug in front of me, leaving behind a cryptic warning, and still have the audacity to lounge about in the library.”
Ian saw that Arthur King’s name hadn’t disappeared from the map; on the contrary, the professor was still sauntering around the library as if nothing had happened. With that, Ian sought out Albus Dumbledore.
Perhaps sensing the gravity of the situation, Ian also roped in Gellert Grindelwald, who had been enjoying a leisurely lunch in the Great Hall. Of course, he provided both professors with a quick explanation of his suspicions.
“Tsk, tsk. This little scamp is playing games with us, isn’t he?”
Grindelwald and Dumbledore followed Ian, who strode into the library like a child dragging his formidable uncles to deal with a schoolyard troublemaker.
“There he is!”
Ian caught sight of the seemingly unbothered alchemy professor, absorbed in a biography at a bookshelf in the public reading area.
The two centenarian wizards held their wands at the ready, but neither seemed eager to act rashly, especially since the person Ian had accused was a current Hogwarts professor.
“Mr. Prince, are you certain that Professor King said these things to you?”
Dumbledore’s goal was to assess the situation and, if necessary, discreetly use Legilimency on the professor, who no longer had the protection of an “underage immunity charm.”
However, the old headmaster had clearly not anticipated that the young wizard would also draw his wand.
“I am absolutely certain, Headmaster Dumbledore! I’m only eleven— how could my hearing be faulty?” Ian stated decisively, his eyes sharp.
“Expelliarmus!”
Without hesitation, Ian cast the spell. A bolt of red light shot toward the seemingly oblivious alchemy professor, who had no time to react.
Arthur King’s wand soared into the air, and not only that— every object on him that could remotely be considered a weapon was disarmed, including his robes and even the ring on his finger.
“Who— who attacked me?!”
Arthur King stood there, momentarily stunned, before realizing his predicament. Now left in nothing but his undergarments, his face twisted in horror as he scrambled to cover himself, letting out a shrill, panicked cry.
“Apologies, Arthur…”
Albus Dumbledore swiftly restrained Ian, who looked ready to fire another spell. Stepping forward from the shadows, the headmaster regarded Ian with an expression that was difficult to read.
Clearly.
The old headmaster found himself momentarily speechless at Ian’s rather unconventional use of the Disarming Charm.
“Someone attacked me! Headmaster! I was ambushed!” Arthur King looked thoroughly flustered, scrambling behind Albus Dumbledore as if seeking refuge. His eyes darted around wildly, uncertain whether he was using Dumbledore as a shield or simply trying to preserve what little dignity he had left.
“It’s just a bit of youthful mischief; I apologize on his behalf.”
Dumbledore’s expression was rather peculiar as his gaze met Arthur King’s frantic eyes.
“You certainly have some nerve, little one.”
Grindelwald remained in the shadows, but with a flick of his wrist, he summoned the alchemy professor’s wand, which had landed atop a bookshelf.
“Tsk tsk, Acacia wood… Thestral tail hair…” Grindelwald murmured, turning the wand between his fingers, examining its craftsmanship. Just as the younger wizards were about to ask if he had discovered anything—
“No magic in the library! For Merlin’s sake— why is it you, Headmaster, are you the one leading the charge in breaking the rules?!”
Madam Pince had stormed over at the commotion, her face like thunder. Dumbledore turned to offer an explanation, but her tirade was abruptly cut short.
“Thud~”
Whoever said age diminishes one’s ability to sleep clearly hadn’t met Madam Pince.
She had collapsed mid-sentence.
“…”
Not only was Dumbledore momentarily stunned, but even Ian felt that perhaps Grindelwald had been a bit too heavy-handed. When he turned to look, Grindelwald had already tucked his wand neatly back into his robes.
“I only used a Sleeping Charm, I know my limits,” Grindelwald said casually, still fiddling with Arthur King’s wand. He had attempted to cast a spell with it just now but had found himself unable to do so.
Otherwise…
Madam Pince might not have even finished the first syllable of her protest.
Dumbledore sighed and conjured a soft pillow beneath the librarian’s head.
The ease with which he performed this near-instantaneous transfiguration caught Ian’s attention. He suddenly remembered that before becoming Headmaster, Dumbledore had been Hogwarts’ Transfiguration professor.
“I want to learn that, Professor!” Ian’s eyes lit up as he gazed at Dumbledore eagerly.
“This is neither the time nor the place for such a discussion,” Dumbledore said with a weary sigh. Looking between the unconscious Madam Pince and the disheveled alchemy professor, he realized just how much trouble Ian and Grindelwald could cause when together.
“I was merely ensuring her safety,” Grindelwald added with an expression of feigned innocence.
“This is a school, Gellert! You just attacked a fellow professor!” Dumbledore’s voice hardened, his tone edged with rare irritation.
Ian instinctively shrank back. Thankfully, the old wizard’s anger wasn’t directed at him.
“This guy is Gellert Grindelwald!? Bloody hell! I thought he was Gilderoy Lockhart! What in Merlin’s name is going on?! Was he the one who attacked me?!”
Arthur King, now hastily pulling on the robes Dumbledore had handed him, turned deathly pale upon hearing the name.
After a moment of dramatic facial contortions, he let out a panicked exclamation, “He shouldn’t even be out of prison— he was meant to be locked away for life!”
At these words, Grindelwald’s expression darkened, his gaze turning cold.
“He’s putting on an act.”
Ian narrowed his eyes. Though the professor’s reaction had been theatrical, something about it felt hollow. No accomplished wizard would be so slow-witted or unnecessarily loud in such a situation.
“What act? What are you talking about? I was just reading a book…” Arthur King’s voice was filled with exaggerated grievance as he glanced from Ian’s wand to Dumbledore, appealing for support.
The young professor immediately raised both hands in a gesture of innocence, his demeanor now starkly contrasting with the cryptic and unsettling presence he had projected earlier.
“Enough pretending! Salazar Slytherin left behind something unnatural!”
Ian had brought the two most powerful wizards in Hogwarts for a reason, he believed he had finally connected all the missing pieces.
And, to be fair…
His reasoning was quite sound.
In this secret loop created by Slytherin, even Grindelwald and Dumbledore were not exempt. The only individuals who could escape the loop and become special entities like Ian were either Salazar Slytherin himself or something left behind by him before his death! Since the ancient dragon in the Twilight Realm had once told Ian about Slytherin’s fate, he was naturally more inclined to believe that Professor Arthur King was a remnant of Salazar Slytherin’s legacy.
If Godric Gryffindor could leave behind a portrait imbued with certain privileges, and Rowena Ravenclaw had the means to gaze into the human world, then surely Salazar Slytherin would have devised his own enduring legacy.
Life Alchemy.
This theory aligned with the principles Slytherin was known to uphold. If Professor Arthur King was not a person in the traditional sense but rather an alchemical creation of Salazar Slytherin, it would explain why he could exist within the loop without being bound by fate or time.
“As an Outstanding Alchemical Artifact, it makes perfect sense for him to be teaching alchemy at Hogwarts!” Ian reasoned aloud. His theory was speculative, but he wasn’t afraid of being wrong— after all, with each reset of the loop, the impact of his actions would return to zero.
“You think I’m a leftover alchemical construct from a Hogwarts founder?” Arthur King stared at Ian for a moment before his eyes widened in disbelief.
“For a first-year student, I thought your grasp of alchemy was rather impressive, but now I see you have completely misunderstood the taboos and limitations of biological alchemy!” Arthur King’s tone was sharp, laced with evident irritation.
“What do you mean, Professor?” Ian did not answer immediately but instead turned his gaze toward Albus Dumbledore. The old headmaster, after a brief pause, shook his head slightly, his eyes flickering with thought.
“Hmmm?” Ian caught the message. The master of Legilimency had not found a single trace of information in Arthur King’s mind to support his suspicions.
“That doesn’t make sense!” Ian frowned, glancing at the tattered remains of Arthur King’s robes on the ground. “He still prefers dark green clothing— Slytherin colours.”
Arthur King let out an exasperated sigh and rolled his eyes. “That’s because I graduated from Slytherin!” His gaze shifted to Ian’s wand, as if only now realising that the person who had disarmed him was the young wizard before him.
“Professor Arthur King is indeed a distinguished graduate of Slytherin House. This is well-documented in his employment records and… my own memory provides ample evidence of it as well,” Dumbledore stated calmly in the professor’s defence. Grindelwald exchanged a glance with Dumbledore before turning his attention back to Arthur King.
“I’m not afraid of a dark wizard like you,” Arthur King declared, though his voice carried an unmistakable trace of unease.
“Of course. That’s quite admirable,” Grindelwald replied with a charming smile.
“I never imagined our esteemed headmaster would mobilise such forces against me based on a first-year’s baseless speculation. It truly wounds me.” Arthur King turned to Dumbledore, his voice laden with frustration. “I’ve worked at Hogwarts for eleven years— diligently, without error and have never done anything to harm the school or its students. Does my dedication count for nothing?”
He let out a sharp breath. “I wager that if this little wizard had accused Professor McGonagall of the same nonsense, you wouldn’t have allowed him to act against her.” He cast a resentful glare at Ian.
“Arthur, I deeply regret today’s… unfortunate turn of events. If there’s anything I can do to make amends, please do not hesitate to ask,” Dumbledore said, his voice filled with genuine remorse.
Arthur King’s expression softened slightly.
“I expect a proper explanation as to why I was dragged into this on the basis of a student’s baseless accusations,” Arthur King sighed, his hostility diminishing somewhat.
“Mr. Prince informed us that, not long ago, you made some… rather unsettling remarks to him in the corridor,” Dumbledore said, his tone carefully measured.
Arthur King immediately frowned.
“What was the specific time?”
He looked at Ian, who was inspecting the shattered fragments of the ring.
“Fifteen minutes ago?”
The young wizard provided the answer with certainty.
“Then the person you encountered couldn’t have been me, as I’ve been here for several hours. I believe Madam Pince, who was attacked, can attest to that.”
Arthur King’s tone remained unnervingly calm as he glanced toward the still-unconscious Madam Pince. At that moment, Grindelwald approached her, pointing his wand at a particular spot on her forehead.
“He’s right! The librarian’s memory confirms that she was speaking with him for quite some time,” Grindelwald noted as he retracted his wand and turned to Dumbledore.
“Does Madam Pince truly have that memory…?”
Dumbledore lowered his gaze, the reflection of his spectacles briefly catching the light. His expression remained unreadable, though something in his demeanor suggested unease. Arthur King, however, took this opportunity to sound even more indignant.
“I told you, I never left! Nor did I say anything untoward to this boy! Merlin’s beard, do you think I have some sort of compulsion to hoard copper?”
“My ancestors aren’t even from Britain!”
Arthur King’s frustration made it seem as though he was insulting the entire country rather than just refuting the accusation.
“…”
Ian felt momentarily at a loss for words. This professor certainly had a flair for the dramatic.
“I sincerely apologize once again; I will ensure the young wizard learns a valuable lesson about making false claims,” Albus Dumbledore suddenly said, bowing slightly in Arthur King’s direction.
“You’d better! This has been a great ordeal for me, you know!” Arthur King remained firm, his gaze sharp as he glared at Ian with a mixture of irritation and self-righteous triumph.
“Perhaps this might serve as some compensation for your distress.” Grindelwald stepped forward, pulling a heavy bag from his robes and pressing it into Arthur King’s hands.
“Ha! Do you think I need gold Galleons?”
Arthur King scoffed, but as he peered inside, the glow of rare enchanted metals reflected upon his face, illuminating his expression with something very different from outrage. The sheer quantity defied the bag’s apparent size, revealing it to be far larger inside than out. In an instant, his mood underwent an astonishing transformation.
“Actually… the psychological damage I’ve suffered isn’t that severe.” He quickly tucked the bag into the robes Dumbledore had handed him, before adding with a forced air of sincerity, “Don’t worry, I won’t breathe a word about you being Grindelwald. In fact, I think history has been quite unfair to you— clearly, you’re not as terrible as they say. The world has misunderstood you.”
He then extended his hand toward Grindelwald, palm open.
The gesture was unmistakable, a request for the return of his wand.
“A fine piece of craftsmanship— very loyal, with rather rare components,” Grindelwald remarked as he handed the wand back, his tone layered with hidden meaning.
“Thank you for the compliment. Though, of course, I believe its quality is a reflection of my own excellence,” Arthur King said, examining his wand thoroughly before exhaling in relief upon confirming it was unharmed.
“Let’s go, little one.”
With that, Grindelwald gestured for Ian to follow him. As they moved toward the library’s entrance, Dumbledore turned back to ensure Madam Pince was comfortably seated once more.
“Professor, I didn’t lie, nor was I hallucinating,” Ian murmured as they walked, unable to shake the gnawing certainty in his gut. Yet, he could sense something shifting in the atmosphere between the two older wizards.
“I believe you, Ian, but the facts before us suggest otherwise. For now, we must accept that there is no evidence implicating Professor King in any wrongdoing,” Dumbledore admitted with a weary sigh, the weight of the situation pressing heavily on his shoulders.
“My own memories remain intact as well,” Ian pointed out, raising his wand to his temple and drawing out a thread of silvery light that shimmered with a faint, star-like glow.
“Yes… your memories are intact… and that is precisely the problem,” Dumbledore said, his voice carrying an unusual gravity. The simplicity of his words masked a deeper, unsettling truth.
“What do you mean?”
Ian hesitated before returning the extracted memory strand to his temple.
Dumbledore did not respond immediately but instead turned toward Grindelwald, his expression expectant.
“I can’t use his wand,” Grindelwald admitted after a pause. “Even when I tried to force it, nothing happened.”
He shrugged, his ever-present smirk in place, but his eyes held an unmistakable glint of intrigue as he pieced together the fragments of an unsettling puzzle.
“Does this mean his magical power surpasses yours?” Ian, grasping some of the fundamental rules of the wizarding world, immediately considered a more peculiar possibility.
“Acacia wood only chooses the most gifted of wizards… Of course, ‘gifted’ is a broad term, and it has little to do with my inability to wield this wand.”
Grindelwald cast a backward glance, as if retracing his thoughts.
“I prefer a more straightforward explanation, Professor,” Ian muttered, feeling that Grindelwald was even more prone to cryptic remarks than Dumbledore.
“He bewitched his wand without us noticing, child. When your magic blasted it from his robes, he performed a wandless spell, it was so subtle that even we missed it.”
“I suspect our esteemed Alchemy professor has a touch of a possessive streak and doesn’t like others handling his belongings.” Grindelwald’s tone remained lighthearted, yet Ian felt a chill creep down his spine.
“Could he be Salazar Slytherin himself?” The thought struck Ian like a lightning bolt. He recalled Voldemort’s obsession with Horcruxes. Was it so far-fetched to think that the great Salazar Slytherin had also feared death?
After all, like begets like. With a descendant like Voldemort, it was entirely possible that Horcruxes were not an isolated obsession but rather a long-standing tradition of the old Slytherin lineage.
“You should head to class, Ian. Professor McGonagall does not take kindly to tardiness,” Albus Dumbledore said unexpectedly, leading him right to the door of the Transfiguration classroom.
“Hiss… I thought we had formed a trio,” Ian muttered, reluctant to part ways. He had already attended this lesson once before, and the mystery surrounding Professor Arthur King intrigued him far more than a repeated lecture.
“You would do well to ask Professor McGonagall about the Transfiguration techniques you wish to learn. She has always had a fondness for students with exceptional talent in the subject,” Dumbledore said with a slight smile before gently nudging Ian through the door.
The moment Ian stepped inside, several students turned to look at him. He hesitated, casting a final glance over his shoulder, but seeing no way out, he begrudgingly found a seat.
Beyond the classroom window.
The figures of Albus Dumbledore and Grindelwald faded into the distance. However, Ian, having discreetly employed a small trick of magic, managed to catch the faint remnants of their conversation as it drifted away.
“It seems the second seer you spoke of has finally been found,” Dumbledore said.
Grindelwald shook his head.
“I think he is not the one we seek, but rather an unforeseen third party… In fact, while reviewing the school’s historical records, I’ve already noticed peculiar anomalies in his past.”
Ian frowned, still puzzling over the meaning of the second person and the third party when Professor McGonagall swept into the room, halting his train of thought.
Meanwhile.
Back in the library, after the others had left.
“Well, that was quite unexpected.” Professor Arthur King, who had been watching the door long after they had departed, finally let out a slow breath.
“Those two old foxes— both are far better at deception than I am.”
Suddenly, another figure stepped out from behind a towering bookshelf.
The air shimmered.
Another Arthur King emerged in the dimly lit library, identical in every way to the first. His robes, previously torn, were now pristine, and on his hand, the bronze-glimmering ring remained perfectly intact.
“Ah, what a mess I made of things. It’s been ages since I’ve had to rely on this.”
Arthur King twisted the ring on his finger, his expression unreadable.
In the next moment.
The version of him that had been in the library— now clad in new robes— dispersed like dust on the wind, vanishing entirely as if he had never existed.
“I shouldn’t have provoked that little fellow. I should have known that anyone capable of keeping up with you wouldn’t be a fool…”
“I was careless!” Arthur King muttered, retrieving a photograph from his robes. It depicted Ian and his two deceased friends.
“This path I’ve chosen… it’s truly arduous. Perhaps I should find a beautiful spot to die— somewhere with a grand waterfall above my grave, washing it clean each day.”
In the library.
A soft breeze drifted through the window.
The seemingly youthful professor stood still, seriously contemplating his own words.
Inside the Transfiguration classroom.
Professor McGonagall, visibly preoccupied, concluded the lesson for the students. Ian had wanted to ask her a few questions, but just as he remembered, she dashed out of the room in a hurry.
“What’s she so busy with?”
Since he had the luxury of the time loop, Ian decided to follow her, curious about things he usually wouldn’t pay much attention to.
Of course.
The Gryffindor Head of House wasn’t simply admiring the statues as she roamed the castle; at each one, she carefully examined it, checking for signs of interference.
“This one hasn’t been tampered with.”
“Nor this one.”
“Merlin’s beard, who’s been using the statues?”
Ian, lingering in the shadows, listened closely as Professor McGonagall’s mutterings grew increasingly frantic. By the time she finished inspecting every statue in Hogwarts, she looked as though she had aged ten years.
His extraordinary perception of thought allowed him to sense her rising distress.
“Using the statues…? Hiss! Could I be the culprit?” Ian’s mind raced. He hadn’t given much thought to the peculiarities of his actions until now, but McGonagall’s anxiety made the connection all too clear.
Unwilling to risk a confrontation, Ian decided the best course of action was strategic retreat. Without hesitation, he slipped away and ducked into the Room of Requirement, embracing the magical equivalent of an ostrich burying its head in the sand.
He debated confessing to McGonagall, if only to grant her a peaceful night’s sleep, but the mere thought of the lecture she would surely deliver made his head ache. Even in a time loop, the prospect of a stern scolding felt far more dreadful than Snape’s biting sarcasm.
“Strict, responsible, middle-aged professors with a fondness for lecturing are the real nightmare.”
Ian turned his attention to brewing potions in the Room of Requirement, assisted by his ever-loyal Dementor.
The sight of hundreds of cauldrons bubbling at once was undeniably impressive. Truth be told, Ian had to admit that Dementors weren’t as mindless as people believed. At least, the one beside him was growing noticeably more adept.
At first, it had only been capable of handling simple ingredients and maintaining a steady fire. But now? Now it could remember entire potion refinement procedures.
“You’re really quite the remarkable assistant!” Ian praised, climbing up a ladder to pat the Dementor’s shoulder.
“If I ever get the chance to bring back a few more Dementors from Azkaban, I’ll have them all help me with potion brewing. When that time comes, I’ll make you their commander.”
He paused, then smirked.
“No— I’ll make you the King of the Dementors!”
Perhaps it was Ian’s frequent words of encouragement, but the Dementor practically trembled with pride at the title. It seemed as if he had successfully brainwashed the creature.
“Keep the heat steady on these cauldrons; I’m off to restock supplies.”
As midnight approached, Ian set his plan into motion, determined to take full advantage of the time loop.
His money bag, now carrying two barrels of wax oil, had sparked an idea. Whether his good uncle realized it or not, he seemed to be leading Ian in a very particular direction.
“Potion ingredients here are practically free!”
Ian reached the door of Snape’s office but quickly discovered that the protective charms on it far exceeded what his unlocking spells could handle.
However.
Not being able to open a lock doesn’t mean there aren’t other ways inside.
With a resounding boom, the door blasted open. Ian was already long gone before Snape came storming into the wreckage.
“Who? Which infernal brat is it?!”
Snape’s furious roar went unheard by Ian, who had already returned to the Room of Requirement, making full use of his unique position within the time loop to continue refining potions.
With the assistance of an enchanted ventilation charm— one of the more advanced versions, Ian had no concerns about Snape detecting his activities. Besides, the meticulous brewing techniques Snape had drilled into him ensured he left no evidence behind.
Learning, after all, was a process of growth.
Snape rampaged through Hogwarts for an entire night, ultimately seizing the unfortunate Quirrell, who had been secretly brewing healing potions. Seeing an opportunity, Snape promptly extorted him as the primary suspect.
Quirrell had little choice. The moment Snape threatened to involve the Ministry of Magic, his guilty conscience kicked in. Left with no alternative, he grit his teeth and handed over his entire savings— money originally meant to support the Dark Lord’s concealment.
Despite his daily frugality, Quirrell had amassed a considerable sum. Snape, quite pleased with his unexpected windfall, promptly replenished his stores with fresh potion ingredients.
Days passed, and aside from Quirrell’s private misfortune, everything else remained largely unchanged from Ian’s recollections.
Meanwhile, Gryffindor’s resident Casanova had unwittingly triggered a wave of relationship suspicions across the school, while Ian’s demonstration of Fiendfyre in Charms left Ravenclaw’s Head of House in awe— until he realized his Finite Incantatem wasn’t quite as effective as anticipated. In the ensuing chaos, he hastily evacuated the classroom along with the students.
No harm came to anyone, of course.
Ian’s control was impeccable. Still, the sight of an entirely scorched classroom certainly put an unexpected strain on Hogwarts’ financial reserves.
In the grand scheme of things, though, it hardly mattered.
After all, everything would reset.
“Something has to burn to showcase the beauty of this magic, doesn’t it?” Ian mused, thoroughly enjoying himself. Seizing an opportunity, he privately approached Professor McGonagall with questions about Transfiguration.
Or rather, the opportunity found him.
After trailing Professor McGonagall and uncovering yet another of Hogwarts’ hidden secrets, Ian had taken to selecting a particularly grandiose statue as his mobile cover during his nighttime escapades.
“Time to move out!”
But the night he cast his usual concealment charm and the statue failed to respond was the night fate caught up with him. The statue he had chosen suddenly crumbled apart, revealing none other than an unimpressed Professor McGonagall.
“Finally caught you…”
The older witch, seemingly unbothered by the late hour, had executed the perfect ambush, lying in wait for the mysterious mischief-maker she had been tracking. But upon seeing Ian, she found herself facing quite a different culprit than she had imagined.
“Professor McGonagall! Why are you so… unscrupulous?” Ian muttered, a touch nervous. But to his surprise, the scolding he braced for never came.
“I knew someone had been meddling with these statues,” McGonagall said, her expression complex. “I just didn’t expect it to be you, Mr. Prince. I must say, this is rather unexpected.”
Her sharp gaze swept over him, though the tension she had been carrying for days seemed to ease. “There are no explicit rules against what you’ve been doing, but given your repeated nocturnal excursions, I believe a suitable punishment is in order. You’ll be serving detention— one that should ensure you think twice next time.”
Ian followed her gaze to the nearby enchanted hourglass, which was behaving rather erratically, its sand shifting in odd, unnatural patterns. Her expression grew even more unreadable as she looked back at him.
“What kind of detention?” He asked, tilting his head in an attempt to look like the picture of innocence.
“You’ll be devoting a portion of your free time each day to studying additional material with me,” She informed him crisply. “This will form part of your final exams, separate from those of your peers.”
She met his gaze, her tone firm yet not unkind. “I expect you to take this seriously. After all, Mr. Prince, you must strive to be exceptional— far beyond the rest of the students.”
And thus, Ian found himself with an unexpected opportunity for extra tutoring.
To be honest, Professor McGonagall was not particularly inclined to teach young witches and wizards more than necessary. She firmly believed that mastering Transfiguration required a steady, methodical approach, rushing ahead too quickly often led to disaster.
However, after discovering some rather astonishing things about Ian, coupled with his evident natural talent, she had become noticeably stricter in her instruction over the past few days.
For Ian, this was both a blessing and a curse.
He lost precious time he could have spent refining potions, but his proficiency in Transfiguration advanced by leaps and bounds. While Professor McGonagall might not have possessed the sheer power of Albus Dumbledore, she was without a doubt a true master of her craft. Her teaching experience was extensive, even surpassing Snape’s ability to identify and correct a student’s weaknesses.
With such a meticulous and patient mentor guiding him, Ian— who was already gifted improved at an astonishing rate. Even the other students in his vicinity seemed to benefit from the heightened level of instruction.
“I’ve made progress!”
After several weeks of detention-based learning, Ian’s grasp of Transfiguration had expanded significantly, pushing his already impressive skill level even further.
[Transfiguration (Level 7) 13/6400]
The surge of magical understanding that came with his newfound proficiency startled even Professor McGonagall. It was then that she became increasingly aware of Ian’s immense potential.
“Hogwarts never chooses its students incorrectly,” She murmured, watching Ian with a mixture of pride and contemplation. Nostalgia flickered in her eyes as she made a solemn promise— to personally help Ian complete his Animagus transformation studies. She had already recognized the talent necessary for such an advanced skill in him.
“Thank you, Professor!”
Ian expressed his sincere gratitude. It did not go unnoticed that Professor McGonagall had not withheld any knowledge simply because he wasn’t a Gryffindor. These past few weeks of learning had been invaluable.
Of course, when it came to Animagus transformation, Ian doubted he would be able to seek her guidance for long— especially since he was about to enter another time loop.
That night.
Christmas Eve.
The threshold between the present and an uncertain future.
As time moved forward, Ian found himself in the headmaster’s office, conversing with Dumbledore, when Snape finally arrived. After weeks of deliberate procrastination, the Potions Master had come to report the losses incurred from the explosion in his office.
Snape glanced at Ian.
Perhaps assuming that he was simply there to study under Dumbledore, he refrained from making any snide remarks. Instead, he merely offered a curt warning— advising Ian to be wary of unseen dangers lurking within Hogwarts before taking his leave.
“What about our Alchemy professor?” Ian asked, voicing his most pressing concern. He had noticed that Arthur King’s name had not appeared on his Marauder’s Map for quite some time.
“He is here, fulfilling his duties as expected,” Dumbledore replied, his tone light but unreadable.
Ian frowned and quickly unfurled the Marauder’s Map once more.
Still nothing.
Arthur King’s name remained conspicuously absent.
“He is likely avoiding you,” Dumbledore said with a chuckle. “A skilled wizard can, with effort, conceal themselves from that map. It is not infallible.”
“Fair enough.”
Ian understood that, whoever this person was, their expertise in alchemy surely exceeded his own. Even Grindelwald had once managed to deceive the map so there was no reason a similarly talented wizard couldn’t do the same.
Setting the map aside, Ian shifted his focus to the parchment in Dumbledore’s hands, the report Snape had submitted.
“Hasn’t Snape already made Quirrell pay once?” Ian murmured, leaning in to take a closer look at the absurdly high figures detailed in Snape’s report.
“And yet, I doubt he has even turned over one-tenth of this amount to Hogwarts,” Ian realized with growing amusement. His dear uncle had taught him an important lesson today, it seemed that Snape was not only extorting Quirrell but also quietly siphoning off a share for himself.
No wonder he had delayed submitting the report for so long.
It was clear he had been cooking the books.
It seems our Professor Snape is looking to make a tidy profit from this.” Albus Dumbledore appeared unfazed, knowing that the school board would ultimately bear the costs for the students’ education.
To ensure their children learned the true craft, the board members had no choice but to grit their teeth and provide the necessary funds. Otherwise, with all the materials missing, the little wizards would learn nothing, and Snape would enjoy a paid vacation— Dumbledore would turn a blind eye even if Ian didn’t reset the loop.
Snape was getting rich.
The other professors at Hogwarts wouldn’t lack for potions either.
Wasn’t this a win-win situation for everyone?
“Too bad my good uncle no longer keeps his materials in the office; I’ve searched all over Hogwarts and can’t find where he hides his stash!”
Ian glanced at the hundreds of potions in his enchanted pouch, feeling a bit regretful.
“You’ve been getting into too much trouble.” Albus Dumbledore stood in front of a Pensieve, extracting his memories and placing them inside.
“Isn’t this what you asked for?” Ian blinked, watching Dumbledore store his memories before he lifted the entire Pensieve and handed it to him.
“It doesn’t have to be this… chaotic.” Albus Dumbledore’s expression twitched as he recalled the events of the past few days, not just as a demolition expert.
Ian had even found excuses to give the Slytherin House troublemakers a good thrashing, seemingly venting all his frustrations regarding Salazar Slytherin on the students of that house.
Even during class, if those spoiled Slytherin students entered the classroom with their left foot first, this little wizard would seize the opportunity to deliver a hex, claiming it was disrespectful to the professor and classmates.
No matter the age or year, Slytherin students were too afraid to retaliate or draw their wands, as they knew that if they did, Ian would certainly draw his wand too.
At that point, it wouldn’t just be a matter of taking a hex; they understood the stakes involved.
“I didn’t go after the well-behaved students; I only targeted the troublemakers. You must admit, they are much kinder to other houses’ students and their classmates now.” Ian defended his righteous actions, portraying himself as Hogwarts’ Batman rather than a menace.
“I cannot deny that.” Albus Dumbledore nodded, watching Ian put the Pensieve into his enchanted pouch. After a moment of hesitation, he spoke up.
“At this time, may I have the honor of… guiding you on the Patronus Charm?” It was surprising to see Dumbledore in such a sentimental mood.
Ian understood immediately.
“Expecto Patronum!”
Silver threads began to weave.
A figure began to emerge.
…
As time began to reset.
Ian found everything around him blurring.
When all things regained their clear colors, he found himself back in the Room of Requirement, as if he had once again returned from the passage of time.
Outside.
Silence reigned, the corridor dark, and the eccentric house-elf began asking about cleaning toilets again— Ian ignored him and dashed straight to the office of the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor.
How to seek help from the two people, they had already instructed Ian, and they had also found a way to leverage Ian’s loop anomaly to buy them research time.
The Pensieve that Dumbledore had given Ian contained many pieces of information that should not belong to this time, and indeed, under Ian’s influence, it had not reset like those potions.
Because of this.
Reconnecting with the two professors, who knew nothing, and returning to the starting point was not difficult. After all, both were seasoned individuals who had once been prominent figures.
Ian’s aura, which did not belong to this timeline, was also easily detectable by them, and without any setbacks, they once again discovered the enigmatic Professor Ronnie Ehrlich in the underground chambers.
However.
The two professors advised Ian against remaining in the underground chambers for research, and in the loops that followed, this remained unchanged.
Ian had briefly considered sneaking a look at Dumbledore’s Pensieve, but it was undoubtedly enchanted. Even if he were inclined to take the unethical route, he lacked the means to do so.
“We will solve your problem— have patience,” Albus Dumbledore would always say, insisting Ian cast the Patronus Charm each time. His expression remained resolute, unwavering.
Moreover, Ian was convinced that Dumbledore had deduced far more than what was recorded in his Pensieve— such as the progress Ian made in each iteration of the loop.
What seemed like mere casual conversation often hinted at a profound understanding of events, as though he saw through everything. It made Ian increasingly aware of the depth of Dumbledore’s intellect.
He had always known the headmaster was remarkably wise, but only now did he grasp just how terrifyingly sharp that wisdom was. He even began to suspect that, in some way, Dumbledore was following him through the loops.
The thought alone was staggering.
Otherwise, how could he so effortlessly determine which potions Ian had brewed without ever peeking inside his money bag? With just a few fragmented details, Dumbledore could reconstruct the full picture.
If not for this loop, Ian would never have realized the true extent of Dumbledore’s brilliance. He understood now that the most formidable aspect of the headmaster wasn’t simply his legendary magical prowess.
No— what made Albus Dumbledore truly terrifying was the coexistence of both power and wisdom.
Unfortunately, Ian was unable to participate in the research conducted by the two old wizards. Otherwise, he suspected his understanding of magic and the world itself would deepen even further. Instead, his time was spent either studying or launching yet another raid on Snape’s office.
“Boom!”
A familiar explosion shook the air as Ian burst through the door of Snape’s office.
Snatching up potion ingredients.
This time, however, the little wizard— now highly adept at such exploits left behind subtle evidence: a few strands of Quirrell’s hair. Each loop, he made slight adjustments to his methods.
Only two things remained consistent— raiding the potions stores and dealing with Quirrell.
“Damn it! Quirrell!”
There it was.
Hidden in a corner, Ian watched as Snape arrived at the scene, immediately noticing the stray hairs on the floor. With a furious roar, he stormed off toward the staffroom.
“Pity the loop still has its limitations…” Ian mused, once again retreating to the Room of Requirement. While safely hidden away, he resumed brewing potions and inscribing runes, expecting this loop to pass as slowly as the others.
However—
The door to the Room of Requirement swung open.
Albus Dumbledore entered, stepping into Ian’s carefully concealed refuge. Knowing exactly where Ian was, the castle had granted the headmaster access, proving once again that the Room of Requirement could indeed accommodate a second visitor, if that visitor knew what to ask for.
“It’s time to go.”
Dumbledore seemed unusually rushed. With a flick of his wand, he sent a Dementor lurking nearby hurtling backward before turning to Ian, his piercing blue eyes betraying a sense of urgency.
Pulling the little wizard along, he swiftly led him out of the Room of Requirement.
“Am I leaving the loop?” Ian asked, startled. He had barely done anything this time, yet it felt as though the two professors had already completed their research without him. Hastily, he shoved the remaining potions into his bag.
“Yes. The time has come.”
Dumbledore strode ahead.
“Will you continue your research after I’m gone?” Ian hesitated, suddenly reluctant. Not long ago, he had been desperate to escape.
But now…
Each loop had become a chance for limitless study, a time of growth and occasional indulgence. The idea of leaving that behind stirred a strange feeling in his chest.
Gradually, the thought had crept in: ‘This isn’t so bad, actually.’
After all, the path of mastery— the slow, methodical refinement of skill was undeniably satisfying. Even if many events repeated, the personalized guidance from Hogwarts’ finest professors had been nothing short of invaluable.
And that… was undeniably real.
“Once you leave, I will ensure you have the means to continue.” Albus Dumbledore led Ian through the dimly lit corridors of Hogwarts, finally arriving at the headmaster’s office, where he retrieved the ancient Sorting Hat.
“What will happen to all of you after I go?” Ian asked, a twinge of reluctance in his voice. The thought of leaving behind the venerable headmaster and the steadfast Defense Against the Dark Arts professor, both of whom had aided him in every iteration of this endless cycle, weighed on him.
“That,” Dumbledore replied with a knowing smile, “is a question you must answer for yourself. Even if I were to tell you now, you might not yet grasp the full truth, for it requires a profound understanding of time and destiny.”
As they walked, Ian couldn’t shake the feeling that Dumbledore was deliberately avoiding a direct answer. A deep unease settled over him— the sense that, once he departed, everything here would cease to exist.
The old headmaster had once explained that this place was but a shadow of a discarded possibility, a fragment abandoned by the whims of fate.
“Are you trying to spare me the pain of knowing?” Ian murmured as he stepped closer to Dumbledore, who handed him the silent Sorting Hat.
“Sacrifice is only worth mourning if it serves a purpose. When the old pass, the new must take their place.” Dumbledore halted before a familiar lounge, his solemn tone suddenly giving way to something lighter.
“Are you ready?” He asked, turning to Ian.
“Ready for what?” Ian frowned, his gaze flickering to the door ahead. If he wasn’t mistaken, this was the teachers’ lounge. “Is this where I finally break the loop?”
Dumbledore’s eyes twinkled behind his half-moon spectacles. “Your discoveries align with our conclusions. No matter how intricate this loop may be, it remains within the bounds of magic.”
He gestured towards the door. “And as long as something is bound by magic, it can be unraveled.”
Ian listened intently as Dumbledore continued, “Our research has led us to a singular solution: to sever this enchantment, we require three individuals at the peak of their magical prowess to cast a combined spell.” He paused, then, in a completely uncharacteristic move, raised his foot and kicked the door open.
No magic required.
It seemed that Gryffindors always had a flair for the theatrical.
“Come,” Dumbledore said, stepping inside. “Welcome the moment when your magic reaches its earthly limits.”
Ian followed, his gaze immediately landing on a flustered Professor Quirrell.
The unfortunate man, recently subjected to yet another magical explosion courtesy of Ian, was gingerly applying a restorative salve to his wounds. Upon noticing the headmaster’s arrival, he fumbled with his robes, hastily trying to cover himself.
“Headmaster… what— what is the meaning of this?”
Quirrell’s feigned confusion was almost convincing— perhaps slightly better than that of Arthur King. But it wasn’t enough.
Dumbledore wasn’t in the mood for theatrics today.
“Tom,” He said, his voice firm as he raised his wand and gave it a gentle flick.
Quirrell’s hastily wrapped robes flew off, revealing the grotesque, half-formed visage of Voldemort, twisted and melded into the back of his host’s skull. The room fell into an eerie silence.
Dumbledore’s expression remained composed, but his voice carried a biting finality. “You should never have returned.”
The words were neither threat nor plea. They were a simple truth, laced with both regret and condemnation.
“Damn you, Dumbledore!” Voldemort snarled. “You must have uncovered everything! All those ‘accidents’ I suffered these past days—they were your doing, weren’t they?!”
As he spoke, Voldemort forced his face further into Quirrell’s, twisting the man’s body into something even more monstrous. His gaze snapped to Ian, his crimson eyes burning with hatred.
He knew.
He knew exactly who had been orchestrating his misfortunes.
And if he weren’t so pitifully weakened, he would have struck Ian down without a second thought.
“You seem eager to duel me now!”
Voldemort attempted to seize his wand, but Dumbledore merely pressed a single finger against his shoulder, and the Dark Lord was driven to his knees.
The overwhelming magical force pinned him down, making it impossible to even lift his head.
“There will be no duel here, Tom. I once frightened you with a burning wardrobe, hoping it would teach you a lesson. Perhaps your current predicament is, in part, my responsibility.”
Albus Dumbledore’s voice carried a note of sorrow. “Yet your descent into darkness has surpassed even my worst fears. There was a time when I truly did not know how to counter your relentless pursuit of power.”
“Perhaps this is a form of penance for me… though, of course, it is even more so for you.” Dumbledore stepped closer to the prostrate Voldemort.
“Impossible! Your magic— how can it still be so powerful? You are old!” Voldemort’s voice quivered with fear as he realized his soul was trapped, unable to escape Quirrell’s failing body.
This was not an outcome he had foreseen.
“Yes, Tom, I am old and can no longer frighten you with burning wardrobes,” Dumbledore said, his expression grave. “But that does not mean I cannot make you answer for your crimes.”
He stood effortlessly over the fallen Dark Lord, his power unshaken. “Voldemort— yes, perhaps it is best to call you that now.”
“There is something you never truly understood: the distance between you and me has never changed. No matter how much dark magic you employ to close the gap, it remains the same.”
Dumbledore’s words cut deep.
“Even if you were at full strength, even if you possessed all the power you once wielded, your fate would be no different. Because, at this moment, I am just like you… without restraint.”
He cast a glance at Ian, his blue eyes sharp with meaning. “I trust you will feel no hesitation. You have long awaited this moment.”
Ian swallowed hard.
“Incendium Purgatus!”
Steeling himself, Ian unleashed his magic. In an instant, Voldemort and his hapless host were consumed by roaring flames, their agonized screams swallowed by the inferno as they were reduced to mere embers in the fabric of fate.
Ian had never imagined he would achieve his goal in such a way.
”Name: Ian Prince”
”Occupation: Bloodline Sorcerer”
”Magical Power: Level 9”
His magic, already teetering on the edge of evolution, surged as Voldemort’s lingering essence was absorbed, feeding his strength.
It ascended in silence.
“Come, we must go!”
Without waiting for Ian to process the moment, Albus Dumbledore grasped his arm and hurried him toward the school’s exit— where, beneath the silver moon and starlit sky, a lone figure stood waiting by the towering castle gates.
Grindelwald watched them in silence.
(End of Chapter)
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