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After a night of heavy rain, the next morning dawned with a sky so clear it seemed as if it had been scrubbed clean by house elves. The sun climbed slowly over the eastern horizon, its golden light slicing through the lingering wisps of mist, bathing the Hogwarts grounds in a warm, ethereal glow.
During the rather uneventful morning Flying lesson, Ian could still catch the crisp scent of damp earth and fresh blossoms in the air, a distinctive fragrance left behind by the rain. Though Madam Hooch had finally permitted them a little more altitude, Ian, who had already tasted true speed and exhilaration, found the lesson underwhelming.
He watched in silence as Aurora earned five points for Slytherin, while he himself performed Madam Hooch’s assigned flying techniques with precise but unremarkable execution.
House points mattered enough to the other Ravenclaws, but Ian paid them little mind. Compared to most Slytherins, Ravenclaws grasped new skills much more quickly, something he had observed time and again.
“Did you see Rebecca finally take off? I’m really pleased for her.” Michael, ever fixated on the petite Slytherin girl, grinned. Though his own progress wasn’t hampered by his distraction, his flying abilities were clearly no match for William’s. The latter came from a long line of skilled fliers, and it showed.
“My friend, you’re practically built for Quidditch.” Ian couldn’t help but give William a thumbs-up. The green-haired boy even demonstrated a daring aerial maneuver that left Madam Hooch somewhat alarmed, his ability to execute unpredictable, almost unnatural turns mid-air was uncanny.
Madam Hooch sternly warned him against such reckless flying, but William later confided to Ian that this technique was excellent for dodging jinxes, and was, in fact, the reason he and his father were even alive today.
“I still prefer enchanted cloaks for flying.” Ian had long mastered the craft of spellwoven flight cloaks, though he was frustrated that Hogwarts didn’t stock them for purchase.
“My family has a number of Invisibility Cloaks. If you need one, I can ask my mum to send one over.” William offered without hesitation. Too shy to strike up conversations with Aurora, he often sought to win Ian’s favor instead.
As he saw it, this was a far wiser investment of effort than trying to impress Aurora, a classic example of Ravenclaw logic at work.
“Invisibility Cloaks, plural? I thought you said your family was skint.”
Ian raised an eyebrow at his roommate. After all, crafting a single Invisibility Cloak required more than one Demiguise pelt, and those creatures, found in the Far East, were both rare and prohibitively expensive. When threatened, a Demiguise could turn invisible, and only those skilled in tracking them could even hope to capture one.
“We know how to make them, but my grandfather refuses to let us profit from the craft. Mum agrees, it’s safer for us to live modestly.” William muttered, half exasperated, half resigned. Truthfully, such a lifestyle was probably the wisest choice for his family.
Given their complicated past, both in the wizarding world and in Muggle society, avoiding scrutiny was paramount.
“If possible, I’d love to study one. Just one would do.” Ian’s curiosity about the legendary cloaks was insatiable. While it wouldn’t be ‘the’ Invisibility Cloak of the Potter lineage, it was still a tightly controlled trade, and understanding its enchantments was no small feat.
“Alright, alright, I’ll ask Mum to send one, along with our family’s alchemy texts.” William agreed without hesitation.
“It would be brilliant if you could be invisible ‘while’ flying,” Michael mused, offering an intriguing suggestion that set Ian deep in thought.
Such an enchantment would require complex spellcraft, and layered magic, not as simple as stitching two spells together. But if perfected, it could be a formidable tool for stealth and strategy.
“Yes, and I’d want it to work on command. I should be able to vanish at will, and when I ‘don’t’ want to be invisible, the cloak should glow.” Ian hadn’t lost sight of his original ambition, to craft the perfect flight cloak.
Soon enough, the Flying lesson drew to a close.
Since there was a Quidditch match scheduled for the morning, Madam Hooch took care to clear the pitch after class, and the younger students decided to remain outside rather than return to the castle for lunch.
After all, it was only a little past ten.
Starting this week, the students would have two classes each in the morning and afternoon, and on match days, the school thoughtfully left the schedule open so everyone could attend the games.
Excitement buzzed through the air for today’s match between Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw. As long as Slytherin wasn’t playing, the outcome of inter-house Quidditch games at Hogwarts remained thrillingly unpredictable.
Ian had originally planned to spend the time in the library.
But a few familiar faces warmly intercepted him. Not only William and Michael, but even Cho Chang radiated enthusiasm for Quidditch.
After all, it was the wizarding world’s most beloved sport.
Cho Chang’s excitement easily surpassed that of her peers. She was an exceptional flyer, consistently earning points for Ravenclaw in Flying lessons.
“You’re bound to make the Ravenclaw Quidditch team one day.” Madam Hooch had praised Cho Chang on multiple occasions, and Ian had no doubt that her prediction would soon come true.
Cho beamed for the entire lesson, glowing with pride.
“I reckon you’d make an excellent Seeker. When that happens, don’t forget to treat us to a celebratory feast, perhaps roast hippogriff?” Ian teased, catching Cho in such high spirits that she cheerfully agreed before realizing what she’d promised.
It was a perfect demonstration of his talent for minor ‘prophecies.’
His classmates were completely unsuspecting.
Having successfully secured a future feast, Ian was in an excellent mood as he was swept along with the chattering crowd towards the stands. Nearby, Aurora stood in the midst of a group of Slytherins, looking just as unenthusiastic as Ian felt. Neither of them seemed particularly taken with Quidditch.
In the throng of students.
Ian felt somewhat out of place among the eager spectators. Nearly the entire school had flocked to the pitch, and those further back had even brought Omnioculars. Though Hogwarts had only a few hundred students, the stands were packed to the brim.
Ravenclaw, Hufflepuff, and Gryffindor students mingled freely, while the ever-independent Slytherins remained apart in their own section.
“Hufflepuff versus Ravenclaw! This is going to be a great match!”
“No, no, it’s Ravenclaw versus Hufflepuff!”
“I just want to know if the Weasley twins have set up a betting pool. I’ve lost a fortune already, and now I’m just hoping to win enough to recover!”
…
The stands buzzed with conversation. Ian spotted Penelope Clearwater among the older students, holding a banner emblazoned with ‘Ravenclaw Will Triumph!’ as she and the others cheered toward the locker room.
It was almost startling to see the usually reserved upper-year students so caught up in the excitement. Not to be outdone, Hufflepuff’s banners featured an animated badger baring its teeth in challenge.
Some younger students had even crafted their own flags.
“Hm? Why does your flag have Dumbledore’s face on it?”
Ian squinted at the banner William was waving, which looked suspiciously like it had been fashioned from underclothes.
Of course, that was still better than the unfortunate student who had sewn an eagle onto his sister’s actual undergarments and was now fleeing for his life as she chased him around the stands, because, unlike with Dumbledore, no one would hesitate to curse ‘him’ on sight.
“Here they come! They’re here!”
“You’ve got this, Cedric! You’re a legend!”
“Ravenclaw for the win!”
As the players from both teams emerged from the locker rooms, the stadium erupted in cheers. Even Ian couldn’t help but feel swept up in the excitement.
For a school of only a few hundred students, they managed to generate the energy of a World Cup final. The players held their heads high, basking in the enthusiastic support of their houses like true stars of the game.
The Hufflepuff player who caught Ian’s attention most was the young wizard leading his team onto the pitch, a boy with neatly groomed brown hair.
His features were striking yet soft, with a straight nose and a refined jawline. He was a talented, determined, and fiercely fair-minded student, a star both on and off the pitch, possessing charm and intelligence in equal measure.
Cedric Diggory.
Even students from other houses cheered for him. He was not only humble but carried a strong sense of justice and sportsmanship.
Of course, in this case, chivalry didn’t mean the reckless bravado of a knight errant. In the original tale, Cedric had all the makings of a hero, except for the one thing a true hero needs most, an unyielding fate.
It was truly a shame.
He had barely begun his journey before being forced into an unwinnable duel against Voldemort himself. That was about as fair as asking a first-year to outfly a seasoned Quidditch champion.
“Old Tom’s bones have long since been ground to dust,” Ian mused, shaking his head. As if sensing Ian’s gaze, Cedric glanced over, then broke into a bright grin and waved at him with unreserved enthusiasm.
It didn’t seem to occur to Cedric that such a public display of camaraderie might make Ian look like a traitor to Ravenclaw, earning him no small amount of teasing from his housemates. Ian sighed, wondering if he should dig up a few of Voldemort’s metaphorical bones just for good measure.
“Whoosh!”
Madam Hooch blew her silver whistle, and more than a dozen broomsticks shot into the air, soaring high above the pitch. As the cheers intensified, the student commentator began their work.
“The Quaffle is first taken by Hufflepuff! Ravenclaw was just a fraction too slow, putting them on the defensive straight away!”
“Ravenclaw counters, oh! A beautiful dodge from Hufflepuff! And they score! Hufflepuff takes an early lead, 10-0!”
“And look at that! Merlin’s beard! The Ravenclaw Seeker just pulled off a Wronski Feint! The Hufflepuff Seeker nearly took a one-way trip to the hospital wing!”
…
The match was exhilarating.
Ian was particularly enthralled by the moment both Seekers plunged towards the ground at breakneck speed before one abruptly veered off at the last second.
He reckoned the poor Hufflepuff Seeker who fell for the feint had stopped no more than twenty centimeters above the pitch, a stark reminder of how dangerously close Quidditch could tread to disaster.
The stadium had transformed into a battlefield.
Even Cedric Diggory, ever composed and graceful, was nearly taken out by his own teammates in the chaos.
“Oh, heavens!”
Ian glanced towards the staff stand, where several professors had already risen from their seats. Professor McGonagall’s wand was at the ready, her tense posture a stark contrast to the delighted cheers and frenzied screams of the younger students.
The match carried on.
However, after noticing the professors’ reactions, Ian found himself paying less attention to the game itself. Instead, he was rather entertained by McGonagall’s ever-changing expressions, wand ever poised, gaze flickering between stern disapproval and resigned exasperation.
Watching her internal battle between strict discipline and Quidditch fervor was proving just as enjoyable as the match itself.
Not only that.
Another scene unfolding in the stands was far more intriguing than the match itself, Professor Quirrell, clad in his usual modest robes, was present among the faculty.
However, unlike the other professors, who watched the match intently while remaining alert for any signs of danger, Quirrell’s gaze frequently flickered toward Gilderoy Grindelwald.
Gilderoy, seemingly oblivious, was cheerfully munching on a pastry, his attention fixed on the game. When he caught Ian’s glance, he even raised the half-eaten pastry in a friendly salute, as if they were old acquaintances.
Ian quickly shifted his gaze elsewhere. As the saying goes, while the mantis stalks the cicada, the oriole waits behind. Quirrell was so intent on observing Gilderoy that he had entirely failed to notice the looming presence behind him, a dark, bat-like figure shrouded in black robes.
Professor Snape, with his perpetually somber expression, stood out starkly in the crowd. His sharp gaze was fixed unwaveringly on Quirrell, his brows furrowed in suspicion. It was little wonder that the trio of young heroes so often mistook him for a villain.
“Poor uncle probably has no idea what sort of errand noseless Tom has set Quirrell on,” Ian mused, pulling out a scrap of parchment to document the curious scene before him.
His sketching had improved over time, practiced in idle moments, and he was approaching a rather respectable skill level. Interestingly, this artistic pursuit also enhanced his proficiency in alchemy, after all, inscribing magical circuits required precision, much like illustration.
That might have explained why Ian’s artistic skills were developing, yet his style had veered firmly into abstraction. He had long since abandoned realism, growing more fascinated with the expressive nature of lines and form.
Amid the lively cheers and chants echoing through the stands, Ian set about sketching the scene, a composition where he, Quirrell, and Snape all appeared to be locked in a cycle of observation, each staring at another in an endless loop.
Since this was purely for his own amusement, Ian took the liberty of adding an extra detail: a grotesque, barely visible face on the back of Quirrell’s head. The expressions were captured well, but he made no effort to adhere to realism.
In some ways, it had the eerie charm of a master’s work.
But rather than resembling a Renaissance portrait, it bore a striking similarity to a Picasso, particularly one of his more chaotic periods. This was entirely deliberate; if Ian had wanted to draw realistically, he could have done so effortlessly.
Instead, he found himself drawn to abstraction, wondering if reaching the highest levels of artistic skill, combined with magic, could produce something truly extraordinary, perhaps even enchanted artwork capable of stirring emotions or altering perception.
“This is the complete Quirrell,” Ian murmured in satisfaction, admiring his artistic rendition of the professor, complete with the hidden face. Meanwhile, the match had reached its climax.
“After an initial struggle, the Ravenclaw team has begun to assert dominance! Their impeccable coordination and tactical shifts have widened the lead to 120-40!”
“Hufflepuff started strong but has been completely entangled in Ravenclaw’s strategic play! They haven’t managed to break through, this overwhelming lead leaves them with little hope of a comeback!”
“If nothing unexpected happens, wait, heavens! An unexpected turn of events! The Snitch! The golden Snitch has appeared! Cedric Diggory is diving for it, could this be another miraculous moment?”
“He’s done it! Cedric Diggory has caught the Snitch! What a breathtaking finish! Hufflepuff wins! He’s the hero of Hufflepuff today!”
The match concluded in a dramatic reversal.
The stadium erupted into cheers, and a flood of Hufflepuff students surged onto the field, celebrating their stunning comeback. Meanwhile, the Ravenclaw players were left disheartened, their earlier excitement replaced by weary sighs of disappointment.
Ian mimicked their sighs for effect, but his quill never paused. He had just realized that his sketch lacked a certain artistic touch. With a few careful strokes, he erased the extra face on Quirrell’s head, refining his composition to better suit his evolving artistic vision.
“The essence of a true masterpiece lies in its artistic vision.”
After a moment of contemplation, Ian decided to reposition the face to the back of Quirrell’s head. Instantly, the composition took on a distinctly avant-garde quality, one might even call it visionary.
Meanwhile, across the stands…
Ian, still absentmindedly biting the end of his quill, admired his creation, wondering what peculiar enhancements his artistic skill might unlock once he reached the next level.
Oblivious to this, Quirrell’s focus remained locked on Gilderoy Grindelwald. However, a peculiar itch nagged at the back of his head. Without thinking, he reached around, scratching at the spot through his robes, his expression twitching slightly.
“Master was supposed to arrive at Hogwarts this morning, and then… nothing. No word, no sign. And yet, here I am, watching a man who seems more interested in pastries than the Dark Lord’s plans. Should I use the poison I prepared or not?”
Quirrell, new to the perilous world of espionage, found himself trapped in a spiral of indecision. His mind was so preoccupied that he barely noticed the shadow looming behind him.
“Professor Quirrell.”
A cold, silken voice sliced through his thoughts like a blade.
Snape’s hand clamped down on his shoulder, and Quirrell nearly jumped out of his skin. He spun around hastily, wide-eyed, to find the Potions Master watching him with a gaze sharp enough to pierce through steel.
“You seem… unwell,” Snape murmured, his voice dripping with suspicion.
Quirrell swallowed hard, his mouth suddenly dry. “I, perhaps I didn’t sleep well last night,” he stammered, though his excuse sounded as flimsy as a tattered invisibility cloak.
Snape’s lips curled in something that wasn’t quite a smile. “If you struggle with sleepless nights, might I suggest patrolling the corridors more? The castle has been attracting… unwanted pests lately.”
His dark eyes bore into Quirrell, unblinking, unreadable.
“Some of my personal stores seem to have gone missing overnight. A mystery, really. I do wonder which little rodent scurried off with them.”
Quirrell’s grip on the edge of his robes tightened.
“I, I wouldn’t know anything about that, Professor,” he managed weakly, the sweat on his brow defying the chill of winter. “But I, I’d be happy to, ah, keep an eye out.”
Snape held his gaze for a moment longer before finally turning away. With a slow, deliberate stride, he disappeared into the departing crowd.
Quirrell watched him go, a nervous tremor running through his hands.
“How? How does he always know?”
He had been so careful, taking only what was necessary, yet somehow, Snape had noticed. It was unnerving. There was something unnatural about the man’s ability to track the slightest disturbances in his domain.
…
The Great Hall – Lunchtime
By the time lunch was served, the excitement from the Quidditch match had not yet faded. Players and spectators alike buzzed with animated discussions, analyzing plays, speculating on tactics, and, curiously, not one person seemed to question the absurd nature of the Snitch’s role in the game. Ian found the collective obliviousness rather fascinating.
“Quidditch is brilliant! One day, I’ll be a Seeker! If I’d been out there just now, we’d have won for sure. Our Seeker was just too slow!”
“It’s not just that,” William interjected. “Broom quality matters too. Ours only just got broken in, probably didn’t sync up properly with the rider yet.”
Michael nodded in agreement, though he still looked slightly disgruntled.
Seizing the moment, Ian casually pulled the platter of steak closer, finishing it off with a contented sigh. With a practiced flick of his fingers, he raised his hand, and moments later, a goblet of fresh lemonade, laden with at least five lemon slices, appeared before him.
This was, of course, the result of a carefully negotiated arrangement with the house-elves the night before. Ever since he had sampled a particularly abysmal drink, he had managed to convince them to grant him a silent, unlimited refills policy.
He lifted the goblet in silent appreciation. “I do love house elves.”
With that, he leaned back, thoroughly satisfied.
After lunch, Ian returned to the Room of Requirement to fine-tune the intricate potions he was brewing. He disposed of leftover ingredients and daily waste into the enchanted Maw of Dementor.
The Maw of Dementor, an eerie, gaping void that seemed to lead to an unknown dimension, was astonishingly effective for waste disposal, almost like an endlessly hungry chasm that devoured everything without a trace.
“Go on, eat up,” Ian muttered, pressing down on the writhing, shadowy entity that formed the Dementor and prising its jagged mouth open. He dumped the rubbish inside. Though it squirmed in protest, Ian was unbothered. The old tome had been quite clear, Dementor had no sense of taste. This one was simply a skittish specimen.
“No spitting it out, mind you.”
Ian watched as the entity hesitated, its wispy, clawed fingers hovering near its mouth as if contemplating a rebellion.
“Don’t do that,” Ian reminded it gently. Immediately, it withdrew its hands, obedient as ever. That was what Ian liked about this enchanted construct, it was more biddable than a Kneazle and never repeated a mistake once corrected.
“I… I want… to leave…” The Dementor’s fragmented voice rasped from the void, its words fractured and halting.
“Now, now, none of that,” Ian said, stirring his cauldron. “You stay here and mind the flames.”
Satisfied that the Dementor would obey, he turned his attention back to the alchemical wonders the Room of Requirement had conjured for him.
“Gurgle… gurgle… gurgle…”
Several great cauldrons bubbled in harmony.
The Dementor tended to the fire without question.
It had no eyes.
And yet, if it did, Ian could have sworn they might have glistened.
“Such remarkable alchemy… It makes time vanish.” Ian barely noticed the hours slipping by, only dashing out of the Room of Requirement when he realized his next class, Charms, was about to begin.
The first-year syllabus was practically second nature to him by now. He wasn’t the only one aware of this; Ravenclaw’s esteemed Head of House, Professor Filius Flitwick, certainly knew it too.
Throughout the lesson, Flitwick seized every opportunity to call on Ian, having him demonstrate charms to the class. It served a dual purpose, both to challenge Ian and to grant the professor a well-earned breather. It also, conveniently, earned Ravenclaw a steady stream of House points.
Whoever said Heads of House didn’t have their own little tricks?
Professor Flitwick’s methods were far subtler than McGonagall’s measured fairness or Snape’s notorious favoritism toward Slytherin. Unlike his colleagues, he made no effort to conceal his preference for a promising Ravenclaw student.
After all, compared to some of his pupils who could turn the classroom into a foggy disaster with a single flick of their wands, Ian was a breath of fresh air.
He even endorsed Ian’s impromptu after-class tutoring sessions, as they spurred Ravenclaw’s collective improvement and, consequently, lightened his own teaching workload.
“You have all the makings of a Master of Magic, Mr. Prince,” Flitwick declared before dismissing the class. “For your diligence and talent, 5 Points to Ravenclaw!”
It was no wonder Ravenclaw held a commanding lead in the House Cup this term.
Most Heads of House were known to show a degree of partiality, of course, provided they had students worthy of their favor. It was an unspoken rule among the four Heads.
“I expect you all to continue practicing the Summoning Charm,” Flitwick reminded them as students began gathering their books. “Charms like Accio require persistence. If you neglect it, you may find it unreliable when you need it most.”
As the class emptied, Ian deliberately lingered behind.
He had a question for his Head of House, one concerning the Patronus Charm, a spell he had been struggling to master.
Perhaps Grindelwald had been unable to offer an answer, but that didn’t mean all his professors were at a loss. If anyone could shed light on the matter, aside from the elusive Dumbledore, it was the diminutive dueling master standing before him.
When it came to the fundamental principles of magic, Ian suspected that even Dumbledore and Grindelwald might not match Flitwick’s expertise.
Professor Flitwick was the embodiment of dedication.
Unlike Grindelwald, Dumbledore, and perhaps even Ian, who seemed to follow an effortless pattern of “See it, learn it, master it”, Professor Flitwick’s journey to magical prowess had been one of relentless dedication rather than sheer talent.
“Is there anything else, Mr. Prince?” Professor Flitwick had just finished gathering his notes and carefully climbed down from the raised teacher’s desk when he noticed Ian still lingering by the door.
He offered Ian a wry smile, his voice filled with genuine admiration. “Your mastery of the Summoning Charm is truly impressive, but I must advise against further attempts like ‘Accio Dumbledore’ in the future.”
Professor Flitwick referenced the rather unorthodox experiment Ian had attempted while the rest of the class diligently practiced. Naturally, Ian had completed the standard exercises far ahead of schedule.
“Is it impossible to use Accio on a living being?” Ian asked, more out of curiosity than expectation.
“Most often, we only use the Summoning Charm on inanimate objects. That isn’t because it cannot work on living creatures, but because the magical strain is exponentially greater.” Professor Flitwick’s tone was patient as he elaborated beyond what the standard textbooks covered.
“As you know, the farther the distance, the more magic is required. But if you were to summon the Headmaster himself, you’d not only bear the immense magical burden of the Summoning Charm but would also need to possess magic far surpassing Headmaster Dumbledore’s own.”
“Which… is rather difficult to achieve,” he finished with deliberate understatement.
Ian, however, understood the gravity of it better than most. In his view, both Dumbledore and Grindelwald had likely reached the pinnacle of magical ability, a level beyond what was realistically attainable.
“Thank you for the explanation, Professor Flitwick,” Ian said, setting the topic aside. What truly preoccupied his mind was something else entirely. “Actually, the reason I stayed behind isn’t about Accio. I wanted to ask for your help with a spell I’ve been struggling with for quite some time.”
He hesitated before adding, “I don’t suppose failing to cast a proper Patronus would get me labeled as a natural Dark wizard?”
“Hmm? What spell?” Professor Flitwick’s curiosity was piqued.
“The Patronus Charm.”
Ian’s words brought an abrupt silence.
“You’re learning which charm?” Professor Flitwick blinked in astonishment, momentarily unsure if he had misheard.
“The Patronus Charm,” Ian repeated matter-of-factly.
Professor Flitwick remained speechless.
After a beat, he cleared his throat. “Is this about the rumors regarding a Dementor being kept within the castle? Are you feeling unsafe?” He clearly thought he had deduced Ian’s motivation.
Ian shook his head. “Professor, I’m not actually worried about the Dementor. I’m just frustrated that I can’t manifest a corporeal Patronus.”
“????”
Professor Flitwick had initially assumed Ian was merely dabbling in theory. But… could someone please explain what he meant by “frustrated that I can’t manifest a corporeal Patronus”?
You’re a first-year!
Unlike Severus Snape, Flitwick lacked the composure to mask his astonishment. He gawked at Ian, quickly setting his books aside as he pressed for clarification.
“Are you telling me you can already cast the Patronus Charm?”
His mind reeled at the sheer improbability of it.
In response, Ian merely raised his wand and, without hesitation, incanted, “Expecto Patronum!”
His pronunciation was flawless, his wand movement textbook-perfect. Before the silver light had even fully materialized, Professor Flitwick had already drawn in a sharp breath.
In the well-lit classroom, a burst of dazzling silver erupted from Ian’s wand, sending radiant tendrils sweeping outward. Instantly, the entire space was suffused with shimmering brilliance.
The air rippled as though touched by an unseen force, mirroring the first light of dawn reflecting across a still lake. Ancient stone walls gleamed under the glow, as the sheer power of the spell transformed the room into an ethereal sanctuary of silvery light.
This radiance was like the mist at dawn, both ethereal and enigmatic. It drifted gently, brushing over every inch of space, casting a soft silver glow in every corner of the classroom. Desks, chairs, bookshelves, the blackboard, and even the floating dust motes, were bathed in this shimmering light.
“Professor, as you can see, my spellcasting is successful, but I can’t seem to produce a corporeal Patronus. An… elder once told me that I’m missing a soul form.”
Ian hoped that gathering different perspectives might help him uncover the truth.
“Given my limited knowledge, I can’t speak to your elder’s theory. However, I can say this: your Patronus charm does seem to lack something crucial.”
Professor Flitwick regarded Ian carefully, his voice tinged with both wonder and thoughtfulness.
“Your technique is flawless, truly remarkable for a wizard of your age. But the spell isn’t behaving as it should… I can sense some irregularities in your magic.”
He hesitated, taking in the strange, radiant mist that was rapidly filling the room. A flicker of astonishment crossed his usually composed features.
By Merlin, such magical powers!
Could Ravenclaw be on the verge of producing another Dumbledore?
“Irregularities?”
Ian was about to end the spell when Professor Flitwick raised a hand to stop him. The tiny professor swiftly drew his wand and cast a series of intricate spells, reinforcing and sealing the classroom before continuing.
“Your difficulty with conjuring a corporeal Patronus seems connected to this anomaly. Every spell draws upon structured magical nodes, each corresponding to an underlying mystery. Even a minute variation, a misaligned syllable, or an unstable magical flow, can send a spell veering into unknown territory. Your incantation is perfect, yet your magic responds… unpredictably.”
“Some witches and wizards with unique bloodlines, or those with inherent magical irregularities, experience similar disruptions. When they cast spells, the results are often unstable.”
“Unexpected explosions, freezing effects, bizarre magical phenomena… Even now, we don’t fully understand why this happens.” Professor Flitwick’s keen eyes remained fixed on the shifting silver mist, his expression a mixture of curiosity and intrigue. “Still, the anomaly in your Patronus charm is the most peculiar I’ve ever encountered.”
“Within the erratic response of your magic, I detect traces of a summoning charm’s structure, yet it does not align with any known summoning spell, nor does it fully match the nature of the Patronus charm.”
He turned his gaze back to Ian, his concern evident. “Are you managing, child?”
Ian’s magic had rapidly saturated the entire classroom. The silver glow, unable to expand any further, simply condensed, thickening, swirling like liquid moonlight. The room darkened under its luminous weight, as though night had fallen within its walls.
Professor Flitwick stepped closer, studying the young wizard intently.
“Such extraordinary magical power.”
Despite the tremor of astonishment in his voice, there was unmistakable excitement as well. “If we can decipher the nature of these mysterious magical nodes, you may well be on the cusp of creating an entirely new spell, one that no wizard has ever cast before.”
The diminutive professor practically vibrated with enthusiasm.
“I just want my Patronus,” Ian muttered, frustration creeping into his voice. Though he wasn’t magically drained, the whole ordeal left him feeling deeply vexed.
The wand in his grasp shuddered, its silver glow flickering erratically as if reaching some invisible threshold. Then, suddenly, something shifted.
Threads of silver magic, impossibly fine, began weaving together.
Ian didn’t guide them.
He didn’t need to.
The luminous threads moved of their own accord, intertwining with an almost sentient grace, like a master weaver spinning an unseen tapestry of the cosmos.
Slowly,
A vision unfolded before Ian’s widening eyes.
An ancient forest emerged from the silver mist. Towering trees stretched skyward, their boughs casting dappled light. Sunbeams filtered through the canopy, dancing on the ground.
A brook murmured softly in the distance, its crystalline waters winding through a meadow strewn with unseen blossoms. The air was filled with the scent of phantom flowers.
Everything remained in the silver hues of the Patronus charm, yet the details were vivid, as though this place truly existed in some unknown realm.
“Just a projection of a forest? That shouldn’t be…”
Professor Flitwick observed the changes in the silver radiance, his brow furrowed tightly as he tugged at his beard, his face, covered more in hair than skin, filled with confusion.
“You…”
Professor Flitwick was about to turn and ask something.
However.
He noticed that Ian, standing beside him, looked rather pale.
“Can’t hold on anymore? Then stop immediately!”
Professor Flitwick quickly interrupted Ian’s spellcasting, which was exactly what Ian had intended to do. The silver threads that had woven the vivid scene began to dissolve and disappear.
The silver radiance faded.
All that remained was the lingering warmth in the air.
“It shouldn’t be like this; you should be summoning something, not just projecting an image…” Professor Flitwick seemed to have hit a knowledge blind spot, much like Grindelwald.
“How could it be like this!”
With a look of uncertainty, Ian collapsed to the ground, gasping for breath, just as the scene was about to fully form, the burden of his magical power had suddenly peaked.
In the scene woven from silver threads, every detail was vividly depicted, from the gently swaying leaves to the shimmering light on the surface of the stream. These were all things Ian was very familiar with, especially near the lake, where he could vaguely see a boy teaching a girl to practice swordsmanship.
This scene belonged to a place Ian visited periodically, Twilight Hollow. However, its appearance wasn’t the reason for Ian’s sudden overwhelming burden.
“Summoning charm… summoning charm…” Ian lay on the ground, sweat dripping from his forehead, not just from magical exhaustion, but because he knew Professor Flitwick wasn’t wrong.
“Are you alright?”
Professor Flitwick noticed Ian hadn’t recovered for a long time and hurried over to check on him. “It’s my fault for being too curious!”
He felt a bit regretful and guilty, tapping his head.
“It’s my own desire to try that caused this; it’s not your fault…” Ian was helped to his feet, and after taking a couple of sips from the potion Professor Flitwick handed him, he gradually regained some strength. The magical exhaustion would still last for a while, making it easy to lose control when casting magic during this period.
“I will help you solve this problem; don’t worry, it just needs some time.” Professor Flitwick felt he should give this diligent student some proper compensation. He had just taken a handcrafted wand pouch from his waist when Ian shook his head and didn’t take it.
“Professor, I might be the kind of person you mentioned, with a bloodline defect!” Ian suddenly sighed, his attitude completely opposite to his earlier eagerness to learn the Patronus charm.
“Ah?”
Professor Flitwick was stunned.
“Sorry for interrupting your rest.”
Ian bowed deeply.
He truly didn’t want Professor Flitwick to delve deeper.
After all, as the spellcaster, he was well aware that what had pushed him to the limit of magical power during that dreamlike moment wasn’t the projection of Twilight Hollow.
But rather, the classroom around him seemed to be on the verge of being replaced by that scene…
(End of Chapter)
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