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In the quiet office, Snape frowned deeply as he stared at the aged notebook in front of him. Inked words materialized on the yellowed parchment, only to fade moments later, yet their meaning seemed seared into his mind.
They were impossible to ignore.
[Such magic defies the laws of the natural world, demanding the sanction of ancient powers.]
If the potion’s effects were anything to go by, a brew capable of granting magical power to those without it, then indeed, it was a transgression of magic that ought never to exist.
Snape begrudgingly agreed with the notebook’s ominous assertion.
But what unsettled him most was the mention of “ancient powers.”
“Does one truly require the sanction of these so-called powers to create the fabled Apocalypse Potion? But the key to this Apocalypse Potion lies in Ian Prince’s Unlimited Power Draught.”
Snape was neither devout nor dismissive. Like most wizards, he believed in what could be seen, touched, and tested. It was perhaps this unwavering logic that sharpened his unease.
“This notebook, ancient beyond reckoning, not only knows of my potions but even names them. It identified the Unlimited Power Draught without hesitation.”
That was what unsettled him most. If the Apocalypse Potion’s formula had truly existed long before his time, it would shake the very foundations of magical understanding.
Few dared to question whether beings of immense power truly watched over the world.
But to confront truths that defied reason was to invite consequences, as severe as the wrath of ancient magic itself.
Had he not been the one to brew the potion with his own hands, Snape might have joined the ranks of those who would hunt down any wizard bold enough to unearth such a forbidden truth.
He knew too well the weight of dark knowledge, and that there were far worse people than himself lurking in both the Muggle and wizarding worlds.
This fear was why Snape, after learning of the Revival Draught from the notebook, sought safer ingredients, adjusted the formula, and completed his own version, yet never dared to unveil it.
The Squib Revival Draught.
A potion designed to stir dormant magical blood within Squibs. Its effects were temporary, lasting only three to five months. Even so, Snape, ever aware of the shadows that crept through the wizarding world, refrained from sharing his creation.
Not even a whisper escaped his lips.
It was only upon realizing Ian’s Unlimited Power Draught might have other applications that Snape’s lingering obsession resurfaced. But he never expected this forbidden creation to be inscribed within the pages of a tome older than memory, with the potion bearing the very name, “Unlimited Power Draught.”
“I always assumed the boy invented that name himself,” Snape muttered, his frown deepening. “But that explanation no longer holds… If the recipe he found could name the draught so precisely, why would its author bother concealing it within a love potion?”
“Historical accounts suggest that Morgan the Witch was no stranger to cunning, but concealing apocalyptic magic in a simple amorous brew? That’s hardly her style. Perhaps it was a matter of caution.”
Snape could only speculate.
Truthfully, if he set aside the question of how Ian knew the Apocalypse Potion’s precursor was the Unlimited Power Draught, Snape could almost understand Morgan’s rationale.
Innovators who tampered with the natural order would always find themselves marked as enemies of the world.
At least from the perspective of wizards, this was indeed the case… It would shake not only the delicate relationship between Muggles and wizards but also the unsettling truth that such a potion could unravel the very origins of wizardkind.
When the sacred lineage of wizards was no longer sacred, Snape could scarcely fathom the chaos that would follow. Not even a wizard of Dumbledore’s caliber might withstand the repercussions of such knowledge.
Even a legendary witch would face the same fate.
This was far more terrifying than anything Dumbledore’s enigmatic old friend, Gellert Grindelwald, still imprisoned within Nurmengard, had once attempted.
No wizard would permit the creation of such a potion. If Ian’s discovery truly stemmed from Morgan le Fay, Snape could see how it all aligned.
The ancient witch may have unearthed the truth of wizardkind’s origins or perhaps conjured an alternative history. Fearing the implications, she might have divided the forbidden knowledge into two parts: one recorded in her own notebook, the other concealed within Hogwarts’ library centuries later.
It was a plausible theory.
In Snape’s mind, the legendary witch who unearthed the potion’s secrets must have felt the same dread that plagued him now. That was why she chose to split and hide the recipe, a decision born of fear, but also of reluctant preservation.
Sealing it away to prevent calamity. Preserving it to honor the burden of knowledge.
Snape’s thoughts mirrored hers in a disturbingly familiar way.
Of course,
There were also differences.
“This notion of requiring the approval of ancient powers could be an echo of the old magics,” Snape mused, as though glimpsing a sliver of the ancient wizards’ lost wisdom.
He pressed his hand to his temple, his brow furrowing deeply.
It wasn’t that he dismissed the possibility of higher powers.
After all, Hogwarts still harbored descendants of the ancient priestesses, and wizards had long whispered tales of the Deathly Hallows and the Peverell brothers. Yet Snape doubted that, even if these powers did exist, their favor would be so easily bestowed.
And yet, Ian had managed to brew the precursor potion. That alone raised troubling questions. What kind of force would favor that insufferable little brat, Ian?
“Perhaps the so-called divine approval is merely a euphemism for an ancient ritual,” Snape reasoned. He couldn’t accept the thought that an accomplished Potions Master like himself would be denied such recognition, while Ian’s roguish charm earned divine acknowledgment. Surely no mystical force concerned itself with appearances… or hair volume.
“It’s possible that Morgan, in her wisdom, crafted a protective enchantment around the recipe. The first to access it may have received her intended blessing, a touch of ceremonial magic, exaggerated into myth.”
The notion soothed Snape’s pride, though it brought a bitter pang of regret. If he hadn’t instructed Ian to destroy the original recipe, perhaps he too could have claimed the ancient blessing.
After all, who could say whether this so-called “approval” was limited to a single wizard?
“Perhaps I should retrieve a Time-Turner and intercept that meddling brat before he laid hands on it,” Snape thought fleetingly, before shaking his head.
His pride would never permit it.
To grovel for a second chance in front of his own nephew?
The notion was preposterous.
Besides, Ian’s absence in the library that day was proof enough that no meddling could alter what had already transpired. Any competent wizard understood the perils of manipulating time. Bending the past for personal gain was a recklessness few would dare entertain.
It, too, was a forbidden act.
Challenging one taboo for the sake of a potion that couldn’t be revealed in the light was clearly not a wise choice. Everyone knew that those who played with time would eventually be played by time.
People can only witness history.
They cannot change history.
For many years,
This has been an unchallengeable truth.
No one can shake it.
…
After leaving Snape’s office, Ian immediately rushed back to the Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom, fortunately, Ian managed to catch the end of the class, but the regret was that he only caught the tail end, watching as a group of young wizards walked out of the classroom, both fearful and excited.
“Oh! Professor Gilderoy Lockhart is simply amazing! His class is terrifying, but you really learn a lot! He actually showed us how to deal with the Imperius Curse!”
“Did you see the Boggart trying to escape and then being magically frozen in place? It turned into a monstrous centaur and tried to curse us, but Professor Lockhart made its mouth disappear!”
“Do you think that Boggart is gone for good? It didn’t even move when someone poked it with their wand!”
“It got what it deserved! I just wish my wand was longer!”
“Exactly, exactly! Didn’t you see the little professor’s roommate get flung into the wall by it? As Gilderoy Lockhart said, these magical creatures are unpredictable.”
…
Standing at the entrance of the classroom,
Listening to the chattering discussions of the young wizards walking out, Ian felt as if he had been struck by lightning. He had clearly missed a lot of the exciting scenes in the Defence Against the Dark Arts class.
Even when the young wizards greeted him, he found it hard to force a smile. This was obviously all the fault of the old bat who liked to lurk dramatically in his office.
“At least he promised to bring something back to the orphanage for me at Christmas…” Ian could only comfort himself this way. He didn’t find anything worth taking in the empty Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom, probably because of the previous Dementor incident, Gilderoy Lockhart hadn’t even left a stray cloak behind.
“Michael, I heard you got flung into the wall. William, did you take any photos of the scene?” During dinner, Ian saw Michael with his head wrapped in bandages.
And in response to his question, William raised his hands, showing the fractures on both of them, it turned out that the “little professor’s roommate” who got knocked into the wall wasn’t just one person.
“That Lockhart professor is too evil! He actually made Michael and me confront the Boggart, and that thing really wanted to scare us to death!”
“I think that professor should be locked up in Azkaban!” William complained to Ian with lingering fear, his expression filled with resentment towards Gilderoy Lockhart.
“It hit me right in the forehead, and it really hurt!” Michael was also deeply shaken.
Compared to Little Black, who kept devouring chicken legs despite his concussion, William kept complaining non-stop, almost cursing Gilderoy Lockhart’s entire family in every possible way.
He clearly didn’t know who he was cursing.
Sitting beside them and listening silently, Ian glanced at Gilderoy Lockhart at the professors’ table, he only hoped that his roommate, who aspired to become a new student acolyte, would never discover Lockhart’s true identity. Of course, more importantly, William’s fanatical family should never find out about today’s events.
Otherwise, if William’s family, out of familial affection, didn’t personally send him on a long journey, Ian felt he might have to prepare a bed for William at the Wool’s Orphanage.
“Say less, say less…” Ian stuffed a big turkey leg into William’s mouth. Although Thanksgiving wasn’t celebrated at Hogwarts, turkey was a common dish, and today was the eve of Halloween, so the feast was more lavish than usual.
Even the Great Hall had been decorated. A thousand bats flapped their wings on the walls and ceiling, and another thousand dark clouds clustered in the Great Hall.
Many enormous pumpkins had been carved into lanterns, glowing warmly. These pumpkins were so large that they could even be turned into small boats, much bigger than when Ian had seen them at Hagrid’s place.
The atmosphere was perfectly set.
There were even a few animated human skeletons, each holding different musical instruments, wandering around the hall, performing a macabre symphony for the young wizards.
It was truly a Halloween vibe, bassist, drummer, guitarist, accordion player, pianist, all of them were skeletons of varying heights, cackling eerily.
When they reached the Ravenclaw table, Ian curiously touched one… it was actually a bewitched skeleton, though it was unclear from which era.
“Hey, don’t touch my head!” William was tapped on the head by one of the skeletons, and his mouth, which even a turkey leg couldn’t shut, finally stopped complaining about the Defence Against the Dark Arts professor. All the students felt both amused and a bit unnerved, but there were quite a few who dared to touch them like Ian.
Perhaps thanks to Gilderoy Lockhart’s unpredictable lessons, the wizards from all grades had become much bolder. These friendly skeletons were far more amiable than the horrors faced in class.
Ian still found it unbelievable that Grindelwald was at Hogwarts. On his way to the feast, he had overheard a pair of sixth-year couples discussing the Defense Against the Dark Arts class. They mentioned that Gilderoy Grindelwald had even hinted in their lesson that wizards who desired powerful magic could visit his office after class.
What powerful magic?
The Cruciatus Curse?
The Killing Curse?
Or perhaps something worse?
Maybe Hogwarts students wouldn’t have to worry about seeking out Nurmengard for their dark arts ambitions, because it seemed like someone had already brought a piece of Nurmengard to Hogwarts!
“Will Voldemort really have to face a group of students who enjoy casting the Killing Curse next year?” Ian felt an unsettling chill. Something about the learning environment was undoubtedly shifting, and not for the better.
—
‘[Gringotts Invaded by Unknown! Goblins Deny Any Losses!]’
Beyond the festive frights of Halloween, the breaking news buzzing through the Great Hall captured everyone’s attention.
Owls, even those humorously dressed as bats, swooped in, scattering copies of the ‘Daily Prophet’. Wizards of all years gasped and chattered with disbelief. This was likely the most shocking Gringotts incident in recent memory.
Even the professors exchanged looks of astonishment.
“Who? Who would dare to do such a thing!” Gilderoy Grindelwald’s reaction was particularly theatrical. His dramatic expression suggested he would never dream of such audacity, though Ian had his doubts.
“Lucky I don’t keep any gold at Gringotts,” Ian muttered to himself, unconcerned. He even suspected the goblins might have staged the whole thing as a twisted ploy.
—
“Finally, I’ve found you!”
After the feast, Ian watched as Gilderoy Grindelwald whisked Aurora away. Without wasting a second, Ian pulled out the Marauder’s Map. There it was, the name he had been searching for. Dumbledore, absent for what seemed like forever, had returned to Hogwarts. Yet, strangely, he had missed the Halloween feast.
This was unusual. Highly unusual.
“Could it be that he’s getting senile and wants to pass the headmaster position to Aurora’s grandfather? Grindelwald’s practically been treating the office like his personal bedchamber lately.”
The absurd thought made Ian grimace, but curiosity pushed him forward. He was half tempted to storm the headmaster’s office and demand answers, but just as he left the Great Hall, he found himself face-to-face with a brooding Snape.
—
“Did you destroy what I told you to destroy?” Snape’s voice was low and firm, his black eyes boring into Ian’s.
“I’m always obedient. It’s no longer in the library,” Ian answered with a disarming blink. The last thing he wanted was to give Snape a reason to berate him.
“Destroyed… good,” Snape murmured, though his response lacked satisfaction. Relief flickered in his expression, mingled with something else, perhaps even regret.
Ian observed him closely. Was it possible that Snape was not entirely pleased with the destruction of the potion recipe? There was something unsettling about his demeanor. But without another word, Snape swished his robes and disappeared down the corridor.
“Get some rest! You look like you’re about to join the Inferi!” Ian called after him, only half joking.
When Snape gave no reply, Ian took it as his cue to resume his mission. He reached into his robes to ensure Ariana’s letter was still safely tucked away. With a determined step, he dashed up toward the top floor, hoping Dumbledore wouldn’t vanish again.
—
Outside the headmaster’s office, the towering stone gargoyle stood watch as usual. Its twisted, grotesque features were illuminated by the dim torchlight. The statue appeared almost amused at Ian’s arrival.
“Password!” it barked.
“Jelly Slugs.”
Nothing.
“Drooble’s Best Blowing Gum.”
Still nothing.
Ian scowled. The headmaster had clearly changed the password, again. Perhaps this time, Dumbledore had chosen something even more eccentric. Ian braced himself, considering his next guess.
“Sherbet Lemon.”
He continued to guess.
Still no response.
“Roach Roulade!”
Ian thought for a moment and tried another potential password, the gargoyle twitched, but instead of moving aside, it merely shook its head in denial.
“Open up!”
Ian was running out of guesses for Dumbledore’s favorite treats. Frustrated, he kicked the stone guardian, though he certainly didn’t expect what happened next.
The gargoyle leaped aside with a grumbling scrape, revealing the wall behind it. It was like an old cat finally deciding to budge after hours of stubborn lounging.
“Whoa!”
Ian staggered forward, startled by the sudden success of his futile kick.
“You’re rather amusing,” the gargoyle rasped, a trace of amusement in its gravelly voice.
Ian shot it a wary glance before dashing up the winding staircase to the headmaster’s office. The polished oak door at the top stood slightly ajar, the warm glow of candlelight spilling into the corridor.
It hadn’t closed itself. Instead, it lingered open, as though inviting someone in.
“Is he expecting me?”
Ian hesitated, then peered through the narrow crack.
Inside, Albus Dumbledore sat behind his cluttered desk, the silver strands of his beard reflecting the golden glow from a row of enchanted candles. His blue eyes, half-moon spectacles perched on his nose, were fixed on a gleaming object in his hands.
The old headmaster’s focus was unwavering. Ian narrowed his eyes, straining to see more clearly.
The object Dumbledore held shimmered like molten gold, intricate carvings swirling along its polished surface.
It was a cup, a goblet with an ornate golden handle.
The sight sent a prickle of curiosity through Ian. But before he could step inside, he lingered for just a moment longer, watching the flickering candlelight dance across the headmaster’s worn features.
(End of Chapter)
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