It had to be said: Despite Professor Snape’s sharp tongue, unpleasant demeanor, and less-than-charming appearance, the dear professor did have his redeeming qualities.
For example, he had left Ian with plenty of gold Galleons. Even though today’s shopping spree for all the essential school supplies had cost a considerable amount, the purse – clearly enchanted with the Undetectable Extension Charm – still held an astonishing fortune of 150 gold Galleons!
Don’t underestimate that number. A typical Ministry of Magic employee would need two full months of work to earn that much, assuming they saved every Knut without spending a single coin.
Consider this: Even the Weasleys couldn’t afford to buy a wand worth just seven Galleons. So, the sum of 150 gold Galleons was enough to make any wizard, young or old, envious.
“Seriously? Even if I’m starting as an orphan-for-plot-convenience, this feels excessive,” Ian muttered to himself, growing increasingly suspicious. Could his mother have been… Lily Potter’s clone? No way. It’s only the 1990s! Neither the Muggle nor wizarding worlds had developed such technology yet!
“But that alone is way too terrifying to think about! Let’s not go there!”
Though unsettled by the thought, Ian set aside his doubts to focus on learning magic. After moving all his belongings into the neat little wooden house Snape had provided, Ian eagerly took out his wand and picked up the quintessential Hogwarts textbook: The Standard Book of Spells: Grade 1.
As dusk fell, the last traces of sunlight disappeared over the horizon. When darkness settled in, Ian decided to attempt the simplest and most frequently used spell.
“Lumos!”
Following the instructions in the textbook, Ian focused his mind, synchronized his thoughts with his wand, and took a deep breath before softly uttering the incantation.
The tip of his wand flickered with a faint glow. It was fleeting, vanishing almost instantly. Clearly, this was an unsuccessful attempt at the charm.
But Ian felt no discouragement. Instead, his eyes gleamed with excitement. When it came to learning, most people struggled with progress, often finding it difficult to measure their improvement or stay motivated. But for Ian, this wasn’t a problem at all.
[Lumos (Level 0): 3/50]
With just one failed attempt, a new skill appeared on Ian’s personal status panel – a process he had experienced more than once before.
“Looks like my talent for magic isn’t too shabby!”
Staring at the information on his panel, Ian couldn’t contain his excitement. With a single attempt, Ian gained three points of proficiency. This meant that in fewer than twenty tries, he would master the charm, reaching the most basic, introductory level.
When skill learning could be quantified in numbers, it was like a god revealing their health bar.
“Lumos!”
“Lumos!”
“Lumos!”
In the quiet wooden house, white light flickered on and off repeatedly. Each attempt was a testament to Ian’s passion for magic and his anticipation for what kind of extraordinary abilities it might bring forth.
…
Hogwarts.
In the headmaster’s office, Albus Dumbledore, currently the most powerful wizard in the magical world, sat like an ordinary elderly man. Dressed in faded, floral-patterned pajamas, he was seated behind a solid wood desk.
The desk lamp atop his table wasn’t connected to any wires yet emitted a steady glow akin to that of an old-fashioned oil lamp. At the center of the desk lay an open book.
‘Aurora Grindelwald’
Dumbledore’s gaze was fixed on a particular name among the many illustrious entries. Beneath the silver lenses of his glasses, his eyes shone with a mix of wisdom and weariness.
“Tap. Tap. Tap.”
His fingers drummed rhythmically against the desk as though deep in thought. For someone his age to stay awake at this hour, he clearly had matters weighing on his mind.
Suddenly—
“Click! Clunk!”
The sound of gears shifting echoed through the room.
Dumbledore didn’t look up.
Through the doorway of the headmaster’s office strode a figure in haste.
“Albus, you didn’t tell me Ian is a natural-born Legilimens!” Snape’s face was stormy, his tone accusatory.
The walls of the office were lined with portraits of previous headmasters and headmistresses, most of whom covered their ears at the loud outburst. A few, however, leaned forward in their frames, eager to eavesdrop.
“I believe some things are best discovered on one’s own; it makes the surprise more delightful. Just as I haven’t told Mr. Prince about the unbreakable bond between the two of you,” Dumbledore replied at last, his voice calm yet warm.
With a gentle wave of his hand, the book on his desk closed on its own.
‘The Book of Admittance.’
That was its name.
Every student admitted to Hogwarts had their name inscribed in it by the ‘Quill of Acceptance’. For centuries, Hogwarts’ admissions system had relied on these two remarkable alchemical creations.
Of course, the book on Dumbledore’s desk wasn’t the original Book of Admittance. It was likely a replica linked to the original. The true book and quill were securely stored in a locked tower that no student had ever visited.
“His condition is highly unusual!” Snape declared, standing in the center of the office, his expression tinged with unease.
“Occlumency has proven entirely ineffective against him. I’ve attempted with all my strength, not just once but multiple times.”
“He claims he can only sense my emotions, but I believe he’s capable of far more than that. Albus, I’ve never encountered such an irrationally powerful Legilimency.”
Snape’s eyes locked onto Dumbledore, his gaze sharp and unyielding.
“Some people are exceptional beyond imagination, Severus. I believe that’s something you should understand quite well,” Dumbledore replied calmly, his expression unchanging.
It was clear that he had long been aware of the unusual nature of Ian.
“I’ve encountered natural-born Legilimens before, but their mental presence was never this overwhelmingly invasive. His talent is far too dangerous!”
Snape’s tone was grave, his words laced with unmistakable concern. His gaze never left Dumbledore, as though he intended to devour the older man with his glare. It even made Dumbledore shift slightly, sitting straighter in his chair.
“Exceptional talent is not inherently a bad thing,” Dumbledore said gently.
“We had an agreement!” Snape retorted, his voice tinged with frustration. “He was just supposed to attend school like a normal student, graduate, and then lead an ordinary life! For Merlin’s sake, you’re bringing him to the school this year!”
“In times like these, the last thing he needs is to be exceptional. What he needs is a quiet, mundane life, like those unremarkable students who never attract attention!”
Snape’s voice was tight, his frustration palpable.
“I believe, Severus, that Mr. Prince’s life is not for any of us to dictate,” Dumbledore countered, his tone firm but understanding.
He paused briefly before continuing, “Not even a parent has that right. I know what you’re thinking, and I strongly advise you to abandon such notions.”
Dumbledore’s steady gaze met Snape’s stormy one.
Snape remained silent.
After a moment, Dumbledore spoke softly, “He will hate you.”
Snape let out a mirthless laugh. “Do you think I care?”
“Severus,” Dumbledore said, his voice laden with the weight of wisdom, “if the long years have taught me anything, it’s that we should never presume absolute correctness. Trying to impose one’s will on another’s life is an act of profound folly.”
“No magic, no matter how powerful, can undo the harm such actions will inevitably sow.” The glow of the desk lamp reflected in Dumbledore’s silver glasses, along with Snape’s tense figure.
“We are all failures in one way or another. What gives us the right to decide what constitutes a proper life?” Dumbledore’s words landed heavily, causing Snape’s expression to shift like the rapid changes of a Sichuan opera mask.
“Don’t call yourself a failure. You are the greatest wizard in this world, the headmaster of Hogwarts. Even now, many in the wizarding world fear your power,” Snape shot back, his tone sharp. “Albus, excessive humility only makes you seem insincere.”
Dumbledore shook his head faintly, his demeanor unperturbed.
“In truth, Severus, I told you about him not so you could change his life, but because I wanted to see how he might change yours.”
“Severus, you need him. He does not need you.”
Dumbledore’s words clearly struck a nerve, leaving Snape visibly irate.
“You’re talking nonsense!” Snape’s voice rose several octaves, his frustration boiling over.
Dumbledore responded with nothing more than a serene smile.
“And I don’t need you dictating my life, either!” Snape snapped, glaring at Dumbledore with a fire that could scorch the room.
“Whatever schemes you’re cooking up, you need to swear to me— make an Unbreakable Vow— that he isn’t just another pawn in your plans,” Snape demanded, his distrust of Dumbledore evident.
“First, you, like many others, overestimate my cunning. Second, if it will ease your mind… of course,” Dumbledore replied with a resigned shrug. He pulled out his wand, which had been resting nearby.
In the magical world, the ”Unbreakable Vow” was a binding magical contract. It required two people to point their wands at one another in the presence of a witness and speak their vows aloud.
Once the vow was made and accepted, it formed an unbreakable bond between the participants. Any attempt to violate the vow would come at a steep and often fatal cost.
“Are you satisfied now?” Dumbledore asked as he put his wand away, showing no trace of irritation.
“I still don’t understand why you’d let ‘that man’ into the school,” Snape said, his voice sharp and filled with disapproval. “But regardless of your reasons, I expect you to fulfill your duty as the headmaster of Hogwarts.”
“I will protect every student.”
With the Unbreakable Vow in place, Snape’s expression softened slightly, though his dissatisfaction and skepticism regarding Dumbledore’s decisions remained apparent.
“That is my responsibility,” Dumbledore replied, his voice steady and authoritative, carrying an undeniable air of reliability.
“When that man enters the school, I will keep a close watch on him,” Snape declared, sweeping his robes dramatically as he turned and strode out of the office. His retreating figure quickly disappeared, leaving the room silent once more.
Dumbledore turned his attention back to the replica of the ”Book of Admittance” on his desk.
“Dumbledore! That Snape has changed!”
“He has become spineless! He’s a disgrace to Slytherin! Honestly, I think he should’ve been in Hufflepuff from the start!”
“I, for one, am curious about this child. Severus’s Occlumency is formidable, yet a natural Legilimens has managed to unsettle even him. Intriguing!”
“Talented or not, no one surpasses my brilliance! Hogwarts has never lacked gifted students!”
The lively chatter erupted from the portraits of Hogwarts’ previous headmasters hanging on the walls. Their animated discussion filled the room but did little to distract Dumbledore from his thoughts.
Raising his hand gently, he flipped open the ”Book of Admittance” once more.
The name appeared again.
And Dumbledore fell into the same deep contemplation.
”Aurora Grindelwald.”
The first time Dumbledore saw this name in the Book of Admittance, he visited an old friend at Nurmengard. The surname unmistakably belonged to the first Dark Lord: ”Gellert Grindelwald.”
While the individual in the book was not a direct descendant of Gellert Grindelwald, they were a blood relative who had somehow inherited his rare and extraordinary talents.
In truth, the very philosophy Dumbledore had lectured Snape about earlier had been influenced by his visit to Grindelwald. That conversation had subtly but profoundly reshaped his outlook.
“Albus,” Grindelwald had said during their meeting, “Our failures stem from trying to change too much— too many people, too many destinies— without realizing that we are merely wizards, albeit powerful ones.”
“Wizards can nudge fate, but they should never try to dictate it. Now, all I wish is for this child to walk her own path as a wizard, guided by the lessons I’ve learned in reflection.”
These were Gellert Grindelwald’s exact words to Dumbledore.
There was even a hint of pleading in his tone, making it truly difficult for Dumbledore to refuse him.
And yet.
The reason for Dumbledore’s lingering hesitation and doubt was simple: he could not be sure whether Grindelwald’s words carried a hidden agenda.
Granted, Grindelwald might not lie outright, but he was certainly capable of misleading Dumbledore. No one in the world understood the art of language better than Gellert Grindelwald.
Earlier, when Dumbledore claimed he was not as clever as others believed, it wasn’t false modesty or a façade of humility. He had, throughout his life, left a trail of regrets due to his overconfidence in his own intelligence.
For this reason, Dumbledore resonated deeply with Grindelwald’s words.
But it was also for this reason that Dumbledore worried Grindelwald might be plotting something again.
It wasn’t paranoia— it was caution born from experience.
After all, Grindelwald had changed significantly during his years in Nurmengard, more so than Dumbledore had ever imagined. The most notable change occurred in a particular year that Dumbledore could never forget.
“1979…”
It was during that year, on a certain day, that the once-downtrodden Grindelwald seemed to regain his old vitality and ambition. That was the first time in years that Dumbledore, stunned by the transformation, had rushed to Nurmengard to see his old friend.
“Dumbledore, I hope you will bear witness to the changes in this world alongside me, rather than trying to stop them.”
“You can stop me, stop many things, and even stop that clown named Tom. But, Albus, neither you nor I can prevent the rise of legends.”
That was the year Grindelwald, seemingly reinvigorated, rearranged his living quarters, dined on steak, and spoke with the confidence of a man who had shed twenty or thirty years from his soul.
And this year.
This was the year the children born in 1979 would begin their journey at Hogwarts.
“The legend you spoke of… is it your descendant?” Dumbledore murmured softly, his hand gently tracing the name in the ”Book of Admittance”. His words were barely audible, meant only for himself.
(End of Chapter)