Snape’s expression remained unreadable but he did not intervene.
At that moment.
Flitwick, having finished examining the body parts, stood up. He first gave Ian a reassuring nod, then turned to the gathered professors and spoke softly.
“This was done using the original form of Severus’s Sectumsempra curse.”
His words left the house Prefects bewildered, while Snape let out a nearly imperceptible sigh of relief. McGonagall’s rigid posture eased slightly, and Dumbledore’s gaze lifted towards Ian, twinkling with a knowing glint.
“Mr. Prince, would you mind if we examined your wand? Of course, this is purely a formality.” Dumbledore’s request was gentle, but it carried an air of inevitability.
There was no alternative.
Ian could only retrieve his wand and hand it over. At Dumbledore’s silent signal, Flitwick stepped forward and carefully accepted it from Ian’s grasp.
“Don’t fret, child; we will not falsely accuse the innocent.” Flitwick’s voice was meant to be reassuring, but Ian knew the truth— he ‘had’ cast Sectumsempra the previous day.
However.
Flitwick’s earlier comment about the ‘original’ version of Sectumsempra was a significant revelation. It hinted at something deeper, something Ian needed to unravel.
Flitwick brought Ian’s wand back to Dumbledore.
Ian knew exactly what they were going to do next.
‘Prior Incantato.’
A spell that reveals the last spells cast by a wand.
He exhaled sharply.
He wasn’t particularly worried about exposing his altercation with Peeves; Hogwarts was full of students with unusual talents and obscure family traits. Some even whispered that Ian’s ancestors had mingled with spirits.
Being able to interact with ghosts wasn’t exactly a secret worth hiding.
But still.
Rumors were already swirling about him supposedly Jinxing Daphne Greengrass, and after today, his reputation would only grow more dubious.
Because.
He really ‘could’ cast Jinxes.
“Prior Incantato!”
The inevitable moment arrived.
As Flitwick cast the spell, Ian prepared himself to explain.
However.
“What’s this? Was my spell rejected? How is this possible?” Flitwick, a master of Charms, found himself utterly bewildered by the unprecedented reaction.
Elder wood. Unicorn tail hair.
This wand— an anomaly among wands— had just demonstrated its unwavering loyalty to its master.
…
The ‘Prior Incantato’ spell failed to take effect.
Every professor present, including Dumbledore, looked visibly surprised by this turn of events. It was no small thing— Filius Flitwick, a renowned duelist and expert in Charms, had a profound mastery of magic.
In terms of direct combat, the only wizard at Hogwarts who could reliably best him was none other than Albus Dumbledore. A Master’s command of Charms should not falter against a simple reversal spell.
“It rejected my spell. Forcing it could damage the bond between wizard and wand,” Flitwick murmured with a new realization dawning on him. He glanced at Dumbledore with an uncertain expression on his face.
“This is… most unexpected.”
Dumbledore stepped forward, taking Ian’s wand in his aged but steady hands. He examined it closely, tracing the wood with a thoughtful touch. The familiar texture and craftsmanship were there, but something was missing— an intoxicating hum of power he had anticipated.
‘”Prior Incantato.”‘
Dumbledore cast the spell himself, his own wand held firmly. The magic flared briefly— an indistinct shimmer of an image— before it collapsed in on itself, vanishing as if it had never existed.
The air stilled.
“A rather extraordinary wand,” Dumbledore remarked lightly, returning it to Ian. His piercing blue eyes twinkled, yet they held an unmistakable depth of scrutiny. “Do not take for granted the loyalty of such a companion. And never forget— Unicorn hair does not tolerate darkness.”
Ian swallowed under the weight of that gaze.
Dumbledore had long been recognized as an alchemical prodigy— how could someone who had worked alongside Nicolas Flamel not be a master of the craft? Some whispered that age had dulled his abilities, but those who truly understood knew otherwise.
Time does not weaken great wizards.
It refines them.
“It will not be forgotten,” Ian replied, gripping his wand with newfound reverence.
This was not an ordinary either. This was a true companion.
“Is there any other way to prove my innocence?” Ian asked at last, his gaze flickering between the professors before resting on Dumbledore.
“This was but a minor formality; it does not define our judgment of you.” Dumbledore gave a slight nod, and none of the other professors raised any objections.
Still, some of the Prefects looked deeply unsettled.
Among them, the two Ravenclaw Prefects had fixed their eyes on Ian’s wand, their expressions reflecting a shared disbelief.
‘A wand can reject ‘Prior Incantato’?’ ‘Why can’t mine do that?’
“If the Headmaster has already determined Ian didn’t do it, can we take him away now? Surely, this kind of scene would leave a psychological scar on a child.”
Penelope’s tone was filled with concern, as though she was shielding a fragile first-year.
She probably didn’t realize Ian’s expression was far calmer than hers.
“Mr. Prince will remain. The Prefects may go.” Dumbledore’s voice was gentle, yet it left no room for argument. “I trust you will exercise discretion regarding tonight’s events. There is no need for unnecessary speculation.”
Of course, Ian doubted that would stop them.
He’d bet twenty Galleons that by breakfast, the entire school would be buzzing with wild theories.
Just as the students began to leave—
“What are you playing at?! Aren’t you supposed to reveal his last spells? I ‘know’ there’s something in there— he ‘definitely’ used magic to kill Professor Ronnie Ehrlich!”
Marcus Flint’s voice roared through the Owlery. He shoved aside the Prefects attempting to hold him back, his heavy footfalls echoing against the stone floor.
“Are you, a fourth Year Student, questioning Dumbledore’s judgment?” Snape’s voice cut through the air with a cold and unforgiving tone. His dark eyes glinted as he flicked his wand.
Flint barely had time to react before he was slammed to the ground.
“It is well known that a wand core of Unicorn tail hair ‘cannot’ channel Dark magic. You are not only challenging the Headmaster’s decision— but disputing the very foundations of magical law itself.”
Snape delivered the statement with such conviction that, for a moment, one might have believed he ‘actually’ believed it.
Flint thrashed against the spell, his strength impressive for a fourth-year, but Snape had no intention of releasing him. The Slytherin Prefects averted their eyes, unwilling to intervene. They had no desire to be dragged into Flint’s spectacle.
“You’re covering for him!” Flint bellowed, his face red with fury. “He ‘did it’! I saw it with my own eyes! The Ministry won’t let you get away with this! My family has connections— connections, do you hear me?! You’ll all pay for this!”
The professors exchanged glances.
Something was ‘off’.
Dumbledore studied Flint’s expression, stroking his beard thoughtfully. “You seem… quite certain of what you saw,” he mused.
“Severus,” Dumbledore continued, “take young Mr. Flint back to the dungeons. Check for traces of the Imperius Curse— and examine his memories. I have reason to believe they may have been tampered with.”
That was all Snape needed to hear.
With an almost satisfied smirk, he stepped forward.
“‘Stupefy.'”
There was no unnecessary flourish— just a swift, precise movement and Flint collapsed, out cold.
Not with magic.
With an elbow.
Snape had knocked the boy out ‘manually’.
Ian blinked. He wasn’t sure if he was more impressed by the sheer audacity of it or the fact that no one looked remotely surprised by such actions.
Marcus Flint’s limp form was unceremoniously dragged toward the exit, his head lolling as Snape made his way out of the Owlery. Before disappearing, he cast Ian a final, warning glance— one that clearly said, ‘Behave.’
As the last of the Prefects shuffled out, Professor McGonagall turned back toward Dumbledore.
“We’ll assist Pomona in checking the castle. If the true culprit is still lurking within Hogwarts, we must ensure they do not remain hidden.”
Dumbledore nodded, his expression unreadable.
And Ian was left alone with him.
Filius Flitwick, the Head of the Ravenclaw House, felt much the same; after all, they had all worked together for many years.
“You must consider carefully whether you’ve drawn the ire of anyone— especially dark wizards.” Flitwick gave Ian a grave reminder before taking his leave.
“I’m an orphan; how could I possibly offend a dark wizard?”
Ian frowned, deep in thought. He truly felt innocent. “If I had to say, before term began, I did come across a rather suspicious-looking wizard near Charing Cross in London.”
‘Could that be relevant?’
Yet Dumbledore’s expression was somewhat unreadable.
“We shall look into it.”
He nodded, though it seemed more out of formality, hesitating briefly before speaking again.
“Just to satisfy my personal curiosity… Mr. Prince, might I see your Fiendfyre?” Dumbledore’s sudden request left Ian momentarily stunned.
Could this turn of events be any more abrupt?
“Erm— pardon?”
Feigning ignorance would be pointless. If Dumbledore was asking, then he already knew Ian had mastered the Fiendfyre spell.
But how?
Aurora?
No— she shouldn’t know either!
Though the book on dark magic ‘Secrets of the Darkest Art’ had come from Aurora, and she had suggested he learn Fiendfyre, Ian had never actually cast it since perfecting the incantation.
Legilimency?
Surely not…
Occlumency was hardly a weak point of his.
With his ‘Mind Perception’, he hadn’t needed instruction in the art— he had practically installed this crucial safeguard the moment he stepped into Hogwarts!
Under Dumbledore’s steady, smiling gaze, Ian hesitated only a moment before raising his wand and uttering the incantation.
Brilliant blue flames erupted into the shed, yet not a single flicker touched the highly flammable straw littered about.
“Impressive control.” Dumbledore, still smiling, offered quiet praise. The reflection of the eerie fire flickered in his half-moon spectacles, while a subtle, unreadable ripple passed through his deep-set eyes.
“Headmaster, I—”
Ian wanted to explain that he wasn’t some wayward dark wizard, but Dumbledore simply patted his shoulder before extinguishing the flames with a casual flick of his wand.
“This afternoon’s History of Magic lesson promises to be an ordeal; you’d best get some rest.”
Before Ian could reply, Dumbledore had already stepped out, leaving him alone at the scene of the crime, without so much as a shield.
“Huh?” Ian was left with an avalanche of questions.
The deceased professor.
Was it really his responsibility to deal with the body?
Would it be improper to use Fiendfyre for such a task?
“But dismembered remains don’t exactly reassemble themselves either…” Just as Ian wondered whether Dumbledore was subtly implying that he ‘should’ incinerate the late Defense Against the Dark Arts professor,
‘Pop! Pop!’
Two house elves materialized before him.
—
In the headmaster’s office, the round chamber was filled with an assortment of peculiar trinkets, each one whirring, clicking, or emitting delicate curls of silver smoke.
Portraits of former headmasters lined the walls, many of them snoring away, as though their schedules operated on an entirely different plane of time.
Others, however, were engaged in conversation.
“Imagine— a Ravenclaw student sent to stand in the corner here!”
“Hah! Do you truly believe Ravenclaws never misstep? Look at her fidgeting— she may well avoid Azkaban, but I wager she won’t escape expulsion.”
“Back in my day, misbehaving students were dealt with the old-fashioned way— firm discipline, no exceptions!”
“Oh, hush! You’ll frighten the poor girl. How long have you all been deceased, and you still insist on reliving your glory days? The current headmaster, Dumbledore, does not employ such punishments.”
“But Severus does.”
—
Penelope sat stiffly on a wooden bench, her nerves wound tight.
Time seemed to stretch unbearably long.
She wasn’t sure what was more torturous— the wait, or the ceaseless murmuring from the surrounding portraits.
Only when she heard movement from the spiral staircase did she stir from her anxious trance?
“Headmaster Dumbledore.”
She turned toward the elderly wizard who had entered. She had mentally reviewed every action of hers from the day and found no reason why she might be summoned alone.
“No need to worry, Miss Clearwater. You’ve done nothing wrong, nor are you in any trouble. I merely asked Fawkes to bring you here to clarify a few matters.”
Dumbledore settled into his chair with an air of practiced ease.
“Is this about the professor’s death today?”
It was the only logical conclusion Penelope could reach.
“That incident no longer concerns you students; best not to dwell on it. The professors will handle everything accordingly.” Dumbledore’s voice was gentle, his expression warm.
Yet, behind those twinkling blue eyes, something elusive shifted.
“However, the castle’s ghosts have been chattering… They tell me that since yesterday afternoon, you’ve been rather diligently prying into matters that may not be entirely appropriate.”
(End of this chapter)