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Helena Ravenclaw left after uttering a meaningful sentence.
Ian was left deep in thought, gazing after her. It wasn’t until his stomach gave a rather determined growl for the umpteenth time that he scratched his head and set off in the direction of the Hogwarts kitchens.
“Transfiguration is a discipline that delves into the essence of magic. Perhaps it can do more than simply alter what a wizard perceives. If applied to ghosts, it might yield unforeseen results.”
“After all, transfiguration can change anything within the magical world, and ghosts are undoubtedly part of that world.”
“No one has successfully cast spells on ghosts before, but because I can step into the Twilight Zone, I’m not bound by the same rules.”
“If this works… it could open up a whole new field of research.” Ian’s perspective on last night’s events might differ from Helena Ravenclaw’s, but no one could predict what groundbreaking discoveries might stem from that difference.
Of course, Ian loved to research, ponder, and explore, but right now, his top priority was addressing his empty stomach. From last night until this afternoon, he hadn’t eaten a thing.
His small legs carried him swiftly down the corridor, and Ian disappeared around a corner. Moments later, a portrait of Godric Gryffindor, who had been gleefully playing a game of “hide and seek” with a hellhound across the various paintings of Hogwarts, came tearing into view.
“Lend me your sword!” Godric bellowed. Of course, as a portrait, he couldn’t wield real magic, but he firmly believed his painted swordsmanship could rival his past self’s legendary skill.
The hellhound, though nothing more than a sketch Ian had mischievously enchanted with a hint of chaotic magic, had taken on a relentless pursuit. Yet Godric stood undeterred, ready to prove the might of Hogwarts’ sword Mage. After all, what was a mere painted beast to a hero of legend?
However, none of the portraits along the corridor responded to his cries. Portrait swords, after all, were merely extensions of the figures themselves.
Who would willingly part with a limb for a fellow portrait?
And even if they were inclined to assist, most of the sword-bearing figures fled faster than Godric himself upon seeing the hellhound snapping at his heels.
“Cowards! Where is your courage, your sense of justice, your loyalty?” Godric shouted, barely keeping ahead of the beast. The irony of the founder of Godric House having to issue such a scolding was not lost on him.
Even worse, his older self, the stoic and dignified Godric Gryffindor who resided in the grand stairwell, merely gave him a look of amused indifference. His pleas for assistance were met with nothing but chuckles.
In his desperation, Godric even turned to the students milling about the corridor.
“Help me, brave young lions!” He roared.
But instead of assistance, all he received was a flurry of chatter.
“What the hell! It’s Godric! And not just the usual one, but a whole different version!”
“Why’s he being chased by a dog?”
“Maybe it’s one of those portrait quirks, like that bloke on the seventh floor who’s always getting beaten up by a troll. Some kind of symbolic nonsense about perseverance, probably.”
“That’s deep. Your grasp of magical allegory is impressive.”
… Godric’s painted pride shattered.
“Perseverance? Allegory? What absolute rubbish!”
With a final yelp of exasperation, Godric bolted straight into the nearest sanctuary: Rowena Ravenclaw’s portrait.
Within the serene confines of the library-themed frame, the chaos followed without pause. The hellhound, stubbornly obsessed with Godric, sent bookshelves toppling like dominoes. Volumes fluttered through the air as the chase twisted between stacks of enchanted tomes.
Godric, ever the opportunist, seized the moment and attempted to topple the shelves onto the beast. But Ian’s mischievous magic had ensured that the hellhound, with its single-minded gaze, would pursue Godric and Godric alone.
“Rowena, save me! Save me! Save me! I’m about to get mauled!”
And so, amid the destruction of Rowena’s carefully curated collection, the legendary founder of Gryffindor House continued his undignified retreat, pursued endlessly by his painted tormentor.
No amount of books piled on it could stop its determination to reach Godric. To be fair, Godric’s portrait did inherit the original’s adventurous spirit. A two-legged man running for so long without being bitten by a four-legged dog showed remarkable agility, even surpassing the antics of the mischievous poltergeist Peeves in a chaotic chase.
However, even the most agile adventurer couldn’t endure a pursuit lasting dozens of minutes. The hellhound might miss countless times, but Godric, fearing the dreaded ‘portrait pox,’ couldn’t afford a single mistake.
He was also incredibly stubborn.
Even after being chased like this, he refused to retreat to his own portrait sanctuary and let Ian have his way.
“Save me! Save me! Rowena! You’ve dealt with enchanted creatures before! You must know how to stop this beast! I’ve been completely set up by that little rascal from your house!”
Godric’s portrait darted around Rowena Ravenclaw, who watched from her frame with a faintly amused smile. The two of them circled her portrait dozens of times.
Finally, as Godric prepared to clamber onto Rowena’s head to evade the hellhound, Rowena Ravenclaw’s portrait could no longer contain herself.
“Why are you so troublesome even as a portrait?” She said, exasperation in her voice.
Yet, mingled with her exasperation was a sense of nostalgia, an echo of days long past. Ian Prince had once whimsically called the founders’ dynamic “Ravenclaw and Her Best Friend and Two Idiots.” Rowena couldn’t deny the aptness of the description.
“It’s that little mischief-maker from your house! Worse than you ever were! Just because he wanted to find the room I’ve hidden, he drew a crazed hellhound to torment me!”
Godric, failing to gain a proper foothold on Rowena’s frame, managed to scramble atop a tall bookshelf. From there, he hurled down volumes at the snarling hellhound below.
“Do you really think a magical affliction can affect a portrait?” Rowena remarked, her thousand-year-old smile tinged with amusement.
“If it bites me, it won’t be good! I can feel it, adventurer’s intuition!” Godric huffed, flinging the last book he could grab.
“Save me!”
He called out to Rowena again. The hellhound, undeterred, began clawing its way up the bookshelf. Godric, in turn, resorted to kicking it away in desperation.
“Sigh, why did you have to boast about your treasure room to that little one? You’ve brought this upon yourself.” Rowena Ravenclaw raised a hand and blew a gentle breath toward the hellhound.
In an instant, the abstract creature that Ian had mischievously created melted into a puddle of ink. The dark liquid seeped out of the frame and dripped onto the corridor floor, losing all its magical potency.
“Whew, thank you, Rowena. Even as a portrait, you’re as capable as ever.” Godric clambered down, panting heavily, and gave Rowena a grateful thumbs-up.
“You’re fortunate I was still here,” She replied, her gaze drifting toward the corridor’s end where Helena had disappeared.
“Left?” Godric asked, stepping closer.
But his expression swiftly changed, his eyes widening in disbelief. “You… you’re different from us!”
At his words, Rowena Ravenclaw’s portrait met his gaze, her expression unreadable.
“That little one won’t stop until he gets what he wants. Whatever you’ve hidden to pass on to future generations, it would be wise to give it up soon. Otherwise, next time, he might draw more than one hellhound.”
With that, Rowena’s portrait resumed her composed smile. Her previously vibrant presence dimmed as if she had become one of those stiff, lifeless portraits with little trace of a soul.
“This is outrageous! Cheating! Absolute cheating!” Godric’s portrait shouted.
“My original self never thought of such a trick! Eleven years ago, I bet Salazar pulled the same stunt. So out of the four of us, only Helga and I played fair!”
Realization dawned on Godric. He pressed his face dramatically against Rowena’s frame, as though peering through into her world.
Beyond the frame was one of the corridor’s few windows, overlooking the castle grounds. The sunlit lawn and the edge of the Forbidden Forest came into view. On clear nights, this would undoubtedly be a splendid vantage point for stargazing.
Many accomplished wizards enjoyed observing the night sky.
The movements of the sun, moon, and stars.
They spoke of many things.
Including the inexorable passage of time in the mortal world.
…
In the Hogwarts elf kitchen, the atmosphere was bustling with energy. Beside a large wooden table laden with various magical ingredients, from Rinky’s glowing enchanted fish to freshly picked vegetables and fruits, a group of small house-elves in neatly pressed aprons hurried about their tasks.
Their pointed ears twitched with focus, and their bright eyes gleamed with pride as they devoted themselves to their culinary craft.
Some elves flicked their fingers, effortlessly guiding enchanted knives and stirring spoons through the air. Pots and pans floated gracefully, chopping, stirring, and simmering with precise movements.
The kitchen thrummed with the comforting clatter of cooking, the mingled aromas of savory stews, spiced pies, and sweet pastries creating an intoxicating fragrance that filled every corner.
“Today is Halloween; it’s only proper to add a bit of flair to the feast,” Ian Prince declared with a mischievous grin. “Hogwarts should have its own special traditions. We can’t be as dreadfully predictable as Beauxbatons or Durmstrang.”
He nodded with satisfaction, eyeing the bubbling cauldrons. “A little surprise in the dishes will bring plenty of joy to the students. Fiery flavors will keep them awake through the feast. Trust me, I’ll even write a ‘Little Wizard’s Culinary Guide’ if you need further convincing.”
With Ian’s enthusiastic guidance, tonight’s feast was spiced with just a hint of Mexican fire peppers, a choice the house elves followed diligently. They, of course, had no idea that this well-meaning suggestion might lead to a sudden spike in requests for cooling charms and digestive potions.
Ian himself sat at a small table, gleefully sampling dishes as though savoring a personal hotpot. He paused only to dramatically sip on a tall glass of lemonade, puckering slightly from the extra tang of fresh-squeezed lemon juice.
“Ah, that’s the stuff!” Ian sighed with satisfaction, setting his empty glass aside. The stubborn headache from last night’s overindulgence had finally begun to fade.
It was a feeling any seasoned reveler would recognize, the lingering regret of a hangover, made worse by the suspicion that the ghostly drinks might have contained something even more questionable than magical spirits.
“Mr. Prince is so knowledgeable! Rabby admires Mr. Prince so much!” chirped a nearby elf.
“Habby admires him too!” echoed another.
“Xibi will show his admiration through action! Xibi has prepared a plate of roast meat for Mr. Prince!” the third one piped up enthusiastically.
The house-elves were certainly experts at flattery. Ian may not have risen to prominence at Hogwarts in the conventional sense, but within the cozy warmth of the kitchen, he already basked in the joyful authority of a small emperor.
“I think I’ve had my fill of roast meat,” Ian mused, pushing aside the latest platter. “How about you wrap it in a burrito? Add a touch of that spicy sauce from earlier. I’ll need the energy for my studies.”
The elves eagerly complied, praising Ian’s dedication to his academic pursuits even as they folded the meat into a perfectly wrapped burrito. With his meal in hand, Ian strode out of the kitchen, his thoughts already shifting toward his next task.
Christmas was approaching, and gifts would soon need to be arranged for friends and family. Even Grindelwald, for purely diplomatic reasons, would receive a token, on par with what he’d give to Dumbledore and Snape.
Ian had no intention of earning the ire of his Defense Against the Dark Arts professor. After all, the golden container Grindelwald had gifted him was not only steeped in history but also quite literally made of solid gold.
Gift-giving was, at its heart, a matter of balance. A carefully chosen present could weave the most delicate of connections, and Ian Prince was determined to stay on the right side of every one of them.
“I’m truly a social butterfly.”
As Ian passed the four towering hourglasses that recorded House points, he noticed Ravenclaw’s score was far ahead of the others. The first-year students hadn’t made much of a contribution yet; it seemed the upper years were working particularly hard.
“If it weren’t for the Quidditch House Cup points, we’d have it in the bag,” Ian thought, suppressing a sigh. He had significant opinions about Quidditch, perhaps because Ravenclaw rarely performed well in the sport, and winning the championship felt almost impossible. At Hogwarts, Quidditch glory practically belonged to Slytherin.
Crossing the entrance hall, Ian made his way toward the castle’s great oak doors, but his plan for a cost-free trip to the Forbidden Forest was abruptly foiled by the sudden downpour outside. He hadn’t realized the weather had turned while enjoying his time in the kitchen.
Now, rain lashed down in torrents.
Lightning streaked across the sky, momentarily illuminating the gloomy surroundings before vanishing into the mist. Ian wasn’t sure if heading into the Forbidden Forest during a storm would lead to an enlightening adventure or a brush with a stray bolt of lightning.
Little wizards who had been enjoying the outdoors were now scrambling back inside, a haphazard crowd clutching broomsticks and shielding their heads. Mud splattered their robes, and damp hair clung to their faces.
Some had clearly slipped during Quidditch practice, while others looked like they had enthusiastically discovered the appeal of stomping through the mud. At Hogwarts, even the strangest antics seemed perfectly ordinary.
Ian lingered at the doorway, watching the chaos unfold.
As the drenched students hurried past him, his gaze shifted to a looming figure moving through the rain like a shadow. A figure clad in black, his robes billowing behind him, much like a large bat.
“Professor Snape.”
The students visibly shrank at the sight of him, quickening their steps. The rain seemed reluctant to touch him, sliding off his robes as if the weather itself understood the futility of the attempt.
“Get to the Great Hall for dinner.”
Snape’s voice was low and harsh as he passed Ian. His mood was as heavy as the storm clouds. But Ian quickly realized the venom wasn’t directed at him.
Trailing behind Snape was a man who appeared far less composed. He was hunched, as though burdened by an invisible weight. His nervous glances darted about, avoiding the curious stares of the returning students. His robes were simple and unadorned, and a faded purple scarf was wrapped around his neck.
“You weren’t like this before you left,” Snape said coldly, his expression twisting further into displeasure.
“I… I encountered many dangers, Professor Snape. I’m still a bit shaken… I’ll need time to recover,” the man stammered, forcing a trembling smile as he greeted Ian.
“What are you still standing there for? Go to the Great Hall for dinner!”
Snape gave Ian a firm shove toward the castle’s interior.
“Alright, alright,” Ian muttered, though his curiosity was piqued.
Glancing back, Ian observed the man who had arrived with Snape. Thin and pale, he looked as though he hadn’t seen proper nourishment in weeks. His wide eyes flitted nervously beneath his slightly disheveled hair. Yet, what stood out most was the absence of a certain accessory.
He wasn’t wearing a turban.
“Professor Quirrell! Don’t wander off! We’re going to the headmaster’s office first. You’ve returned earlier than expected and need to report to Dumbledore.”
Snape’s bat-like tone was even sharper now. Ian’s ears perked at the name.
Quirrell.
He turned, the scene firmly imprinted in his mind.
(End of Chapter)
You can read ahead up to 110 chapters on my Patreon: https://www.patreon.com/darkshadow6395