You can read ahead up to 110 chapters on my Patreon: https://www.patreon.com/darkshadow6395
The reaction of Professor Lockhart might have gone unnoticed by most, but Ian and Aurora instinctively turned to look at him. Even the professors seated beside him failed to sense anything amiss.
They likely assumed the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor’s reaction was simply another case of his inability to mask his emotions, something that aligned all too well with the frivolous, self-absorbed image Gilderoy Lockhart had cultivated.
In truth, several other professors were also momentarily stunned by the sudden revelation. They exchanged brief glances, their thoughts racing beneath composed and dignified expressions.
“Silence!”
Professor McGonagall’s voice rang through the hall in an attempt to restore order, but the din of excited chatter drowned her out. At the center of it all, the Weasley twins continued reading aloud, their voices carrying over the commotion.
“Brothers and sisters, the world remembers me, Gellert Grindelwald, as a man of great ambition. My so-called downfall has cast me as a villain, a monster, a butcher in your eyes.”
“But is that truly the case?”
“You brand me a criminal, clamoring for my destruction, reveling in your so-called victory, yet none of you stop to question whether I was fighting for you all along.”
“A wizard of my caliber sees what others do not. The path we have followed for centuries has grown stagnant, shackling us in outdated traditions and trapping our minds in the past. Everything I did, I did for the salvation of our kind.”
“Without discovery, without change, there can be no progress. Even Muggles grasp this simple truth, yet too many among us have been lulled into complacency by the illusion of peace.”
“Look at our world as it stands today. Is it greater than before? Or is it diminished? Those with the courage to think for themselves already know the answer.”
“I am not some mindless specter of evil, devoid of thought and feeling. You may demonize me, but that will not change the truth, nor will it conceal the slow decay of the wizarding world before your very eyes.”
“I have stood at the pinnacle of magic. Decades ago, I left all of you behind. With power comes responsibility, and so I took upon myself the burden of our future.”
“That was my triumph, my legacy. And even now, I do not believe I was ever truly in the wrong. For all I ever sought was to restore the greatness of wizardkind!”
“A tyrant? No, Dumbledore is the tyrant!”
“I lost only because I lacked his cunning, his duplicity!”
“Through the long years of my imprisonment, I have had time to reflect on my past, on our past. Dumbledore and I were not merely adversaries, nor was our bond a fleeting friendship.”
“Perhaps my defeat was inevitable from the very start.”
“Some of you will not understand, but I know now why I failed. My greatest weakness was my heart… Yes, there was love, true love. And that, above all else, is why I lost.”
“For love is the strongest magic of all. Even if I could relive it all, my fate would remain unchanged. Love always destroys the one who feels it most deeply.”
“No, no, not the love of kin, but a love that was twisted and turned against me. You, little reporter, he’s British, surely you understand what I mean?”
“My conclusion, no, my revelation, is beyond dispute. Would I, Grindelwald, ever lie about such a thing?”
“Dumbledore used it against me. I have revisited every moment, every memory, and the truth is clear: I did not merely lose a battle, I was ensnared in a scheme he had laid from the very beginning!”
“He is a vile, conniving, treacherous Incubus of a man! He seduced me!”
…
The Weasley twins had practically climbed onto the dining tables, their impassioned recital reaching a fever pitch. Gasps rippled through the Great Hall, students of all ages staring in disbelief as the words of Grindelwald’s letter echoed around them.
There was no stopping it; the Daily Prophet’s headline was simply too explosive. But the last line was the most shocking of all, laced with bitterness as it outright branded Dumbledore a dark and seductive Incubus. No wonder the professors at the High Table struggled to maintain a straight face. It even led to the rather spectacular sight of Professor Lockhart spraying pumpkin juice a full ten feet across the Great Hall.
Judging by the expression on the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor’s face, even he was utterly bewildered. He clearly hadn’t expected this. The so-called greatest seer of the age, laid low by a Daily Prophet exposé.
Fate, who could have foreseen this?
A tainted legacy!
Both Grindelwald and Dumbledore, once legends, had now found their names splashed across the front page, their reputations muddied beyond repair. The excited chatter of students filled the air, none of them questioning the credibility of the so-called “news source.”
“Did Dumbledore really have a relationship with Grindelwald?”
“Merlin’s beard! I have to write home- no, my parents might already know! Our family always gets the Prophet delivered at dawn!”
“An Incubus! So, Dumbledore’s family has demon blood! Miss Grindelwald, you must know the truth; tell us everything!”
“Hiss~ No wonder I always thought Ian Prince had an eerie sort of charm! This explains everything!”
Aurora, caught in the crossfire of unwanted attention, was suddenly besieged by eager questions. But she wasn’t the only one. Over at the Ravenclaw table, Ian found himself on the receiving end of frequent glances from Gersha Selwyn and Daphne Greengrass, who seemed to have come to a unanimous conclusion—
Ian must have Dumbledore’s bloodline.
Of course, Ian himself was blissfully unaware of this newfound theory. His attention was fixed instead on the real Grindelwald at the High Table. The extraordinary seer, currently masquerading as a blithering idiot, was still struggling to recover from his spectacular choking fit.
“Blimey… I never thought I’d see anyone but Headmaster Dumbledore leave Grindelwald this flustered!”
Once upon a time…
When Ian first learned that Grindelwald, of all people, had taken over Lockhart’s post as Hogwarts’ Defense Against the Dark Arts professor, the first thought that crossed his mind was whether Nurmengard was now an empty fortress.
Logically, the smartest move would have been for one of Grindelwald’s Acolytes to remain behind, assuming his identity to throw off any suspicion. That way, the world would have continued believing the dark wizard remained locked away in his own prison. No uproar. No attention. Just a seamless deception.
And now, the facts seemed to support Ian’s theory, except for one unexpected twist.
It wasn’t an Acolyte who had taken Grindelwald’s place at Nurmengard.
Ian was now seriously starting to suspect that Grindelwald had somehow swapped places with the real Gilderoy Lockhart.
“How in Merlin’s name did old Grindelwald pull this off? That’s Lockhart we’re talking about! A man who’d rather Obliviate himself into oblivion than let his fame be overshadowed!”
Ian was now eighty to ninety percent sure his theory was right.
Because otherwise, why would this article ever have made it into a British newspaper?
No true Acolyte of Grindelwald would dare publish such slander against their leader, let alone spout ridiculous nonsense about love and Incubi. No, this had the fingerprints of only one wizard, the sensationalist writer himself, Gilderoy Lockhart.
It was written all over the interview.
The exaggerated style. The dramatic embellishments. The unmistakable urge to grab attention.
“What an absolute load of dragon dung! Don’t these newspapers have anything else to report on?”
The Defense Against the Dark Arts professor took several deep breaths, finally regaining some composure. As he wiped down the table with a crisp, lavender-scented handkerchief, his voice rang with a mix of exasperation and righteous fury.
“Whoever wrote this ought to be tied to a broomstick and sent hurtling straight into the Whomping Willow! This is outright slander against our esteemed headmaster, no less! And that poor, innocent parent sitting in an Austrian prison!”
This, perhaps, was the first morning in a very long time that had left Grindelwald, legendary Dark Lord, master manipulator, visionary seer, completely blindsided.
“Grindelwald is not innocent, Professor Lockhart. That era is far removed from us, and you’ve spent your life in Britain— you may not fully grasp what kind of dark wizard he truly was.”
Quirrell, though clearly shaken by the explosive revelations in the article, still managed to respond in a low voice to the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor.
…
Grindelwald shot the man a long, piercing look— this traitor.
“I’ll wager my wand that this report contains not a single word Grindelwald himself would actually say,” The Defense Against the Dark Arts professor huffed, continuing to insist on his innocence to the professors around him.
“I know Dumbledore,” Professor McGonagall said firmly. “The Daily Prophet thrives on sensationalism.”
Seated beside her, the Heads of Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff weren’t offering their opinions on the news. Instead, they were deep in discussion, speculating about why Grindelwald would suddenly appear in Britain at all.
Whether the article itself was true or not, no one could say.
But the photograph of Grindelwald smirking from the front page? That was real.
“Apologies— I’m feeling rather unwell. I need to step out for a moment,” Gilderoy Grindelwald suddenly announced, gripping the crumpled newspaper tightly in one hand.
He hastily strode toward the doors of the Great Hall, moving as though he might Disapparate straight back to Austria at any moment. It was likely even he hadn’t expected Lockhart to embellish the story quite so dramatically.
“That blasted imbecile! What is wrong with that man’s brain?!” Ian could still hear the muttered complaints as the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor stormed past him.
“I… I don’t know anything,” Aurora murmured, watching her grandfather’s uncharacteristically ruffled retreat.
After hesitating for a moment, she set down her fork and hurried after him.
There was an odd spark of excitement on the young German witch’s face. Perhaps she was genuinely curious about the untold story between Dumbledore and Grindelwald…
Or maybe she had just discovered something she could hold over her grandfather.
Ian still wasn’t sure he fully understood the complexities of family loyalty.
“Silence, all of you!”
This time, Professor McGonagall’s voice carried a trace of magic, booming through the Great Hall and silencing the chattering students instantly.
With a sharp flick of her wand, newspapers began vanishing from hands and tables alike.
Not just copies of the Daily Prophet— but also Ian’s own Wizards & Muggles Express was whisked away before his eyes.
Before Grindelwald’s sudden exit, Ian had been absorbed in reading an article on a mountain fire in Little Hangleton. Since most students had been scrambling to get their hands on the Daily Prophet, some papers had been discarded haphazardly on the tables, left behind by their subscribers.
But it wasn’t the fire itself that had caught Ian’s attention.
It was the photo.
The blaze had consumed nearly everything, but Ian recognized the place immediately—
Little Hangleton.
The very spot where Grindelwald had once taken him to retrieve the Resurrection Stone ring.
Voldemort’s birthplace.
Strangely, the article didn’t mention that detail. Instead, it focused on how the Muggle world had failed to control the wildfire, using it as an example of Britain’s supposed governmental collapse. The editor had taken it upon himself to analyze national security, military strength, bureaucracy, and even Muggle technology, ultimately declaring that the country was teetering on the brink of ruin.
“There are some sharp minds left in the wizarding world, after all,” Ian mused, quietly admiring the editor’s foresight— just before the paper was snatched away.
Around him, students continued whispering about Dumbledore and Grindelwald, despite McGonagall’s warning.
But Ian made no attempt to join in.
Because he had distinctly felt, just moments ago, that the overwhelmed Grindelwald had seriously contemplated burning Quirrell at the stake.
And this year’s Defense Against the Dark Arts professor might just be more vengeful than Voldemort himself.
Who knew if old Grindelwald had left behind some enchanted listening devices in the Great Hall? Recording the names of every single student and professor who had slandered him, waiting to settle the scores one by one.
“Ian, do you think our headmaster is really an Incubus? Because if he is…” William leaned in conspiratorially. “I finally understand why my grandmother is still obsessed with Dumbledore.”
Ian calmly speared a piece of meat with his fork and continued eating.
Several pairs of eyes were trained on him, waiting for his response.
Without blinking, without hesitation, he swallowed his food and answered:
“I believe Hogwarts has a long and storied history. Many great witches and wizards have walked these halls. And I sincerely hope that next year, our school will continue to produce outstanding magical talent that contributes meaningfully to wizarding society.”
“Hogwarts’ approach to training future wizards isn’t flawed, but in shaping the curriculum, we should place greater emphasis on improving students’ quality of life and their awareness of magical environments.”
Ian’s response was so thoroughly off-topic that the young wizards around him looked increasingly perplexed.
“Are you even awake? Or did you just completely ignore William’s question?” Michael waved a hand in front of Ian’s face as if testing whether he was sleepwalking.
William pressed a hand on Ian’s shoulder, looking uncharacteristically troubled.
“Wake up, Ian, this is big news, huge news! I mean… I only like girls… Can I still be an Acolyte?” He lowered his voice, sounding genuinely concerned.
“I’m awake,” Ian replied, finally turning to look at his green-haired roommate.
The same boy who had once enchanted his undergarments to feature Dumbledore and a host of random wizards was now earnestly declaring his exclusive preference for witches and worrying about whether that disqualified him from following Grindelwald’s path.
Before Ian could respond, a few more students gathered around, led by the Chocolate Frog-obsessed boy from their small study group.
“Little professor, you’ve had more contact with Headmaster Dumbledore than the rest of us. What do you think?”
Ian’s expression remained unreadable.
“What?! The Indoor Flying class is about to start! We can’t be late!”
Before anyone could react, Ian hastily bit off a final piece of beef, sprang to his feet, and dashed out of the Great Hall.
He disappeared almost instantly, like a boy who had turned into the wind.
The Room of Requirement
When the Indoor Flying class began, no one was late.
Yet Ian, despite having left the Great Hall five minutes early, was nowhere to be found.
Instead, he had locked himself inside the Room of Requirement.
The Daily Prophet article wasn’t his doing. The interviewee wasn’t him. He had no intention of becoming the punching bag for two aging warlocks venting their frustrations.
“Hogwarts is dangerous,” Ian thought grimly.
Lockhart, in particular, might be in serious trouble.
On his way upstairs, Ian had glimpsed the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor in his office, frantically scribbling letter after letter, his quill moving with near-deranged speed.
Aurora, meanwhile, had been forced to stand in the corner like a scolded schoolgirl, looking utterly disheveled. She resembled a ruffled quail, clearly regretting whatever had just transpired.
Ian had considered stepping in to help his friend.
But, upon reflection, he decided it was best that Aurora learn not to volunteer as a human shield every time chaos unfolded.
“You’re the safest company,” Ian murmured, shifting his focus back to the shadowy figure in front of him.
In his arms, he held the Dementor he had carefully removed from its enchanted cage.
Reaching out absently, he plucked a few wisps of its tattered black cloak, the spectral fabric almost disintegrating at his touch.
The Dementor remained unnervingly still.
It had long since learned not to attempt feeding on Ian’s soul, likely realizing it was futile. Instead, it simply stared, motionless, as Ian absentmindedly wove its torn wisps into a crude handkerchief.
“Could this actually be the raw material for an Invisibility Cloak?”
Ian had never touched one of the true Deathly Hallows.
He hadn’t even handled an ordinary Invisibility Cloak woven from Demiguise fur.
Still, he couldn’t ignore the strange properties of the Dementor’s fabric, it was unlike any recorded alchemical material he had ever encountered.
That meant he had to start from scratch.
There were no books detailing the magical properties of a Dementor’s cloak, no spells describing how it interacted with different enchantments. The only way forward was experimentation.
“Only by understanding a material completely can it be used properly,” Ian reasoned.
An invisibility handkerchief wasn’t much. But if it worked, it could serve as proof that Ravenclaw’s theories about the three Hallows had some merit.
Ian respected Hogwarts’ founders. But he only believed what he could verify.
“It is a magical material…”
As he studied the spectral fabric, Ian noted that it radiated an unnatural, bone-chilling cold.
He glanced up at the Dementor hovering nearby.
His look was casual— absentminded, even.
But the Dementor flinched.
Then, to Ian’s surprise, it scuttled back into its cage, squeezing its form inside before slamming the door shut behind itself.
Ian raised an eyebrow.
“What are you afraid of? It’s winter, I’m not going to pluck off all your fur and turn you into a cooling mat.”
It seemed not only the Slytherin students misunderstood him.
Even his Dementor was developing trust issues.
A faint, rasping whisper echoed from inside the cage.
“Evil… evil… wizards…” Ian blinked.
Then, after a moment, he let out a quiet chuckle.
“Your vocabulary has improved,” he observed dryly. “Far better than the last time we spoke.”
The Dementor shuddered.
“Have you ever met an evil wizard who treats you this well?” Ian asked, his tone laced with amusement.
Raising his wand, he flicked it lightly, casting a modified version of Metus Advenit, a spell of his own design.
It was a twisted fusion of Legilimency and the Patronus Charm, a calculated enchantment that played upon the deepest desires of its target.
Even if the happiness it created was false…
It was still happiness.
Ian forced the Dementor to relive a vision of consuming the souls of hundreds of witches and wizards. After a few moments of eerie, jittering movements within the cage, the creature finally collapsed onto its back, looking almost… content.
“Now, this is what I call kindness!” Ian grinned as he darted forward to pluck a few more ragged strands of the Dementor’s tattered cloak. The creature, still lost in its false euphoria, made no move to stop him, seemingly resigned to Ian’s peculiar experiments.
The entire morning passed in quiet study.
Ian remained completely engrossed in his research, scrutinizing the spectral material for any hints of its true properties. Only when his stomach growled loudly did he finally acknowledge the passage of time.
Stretching, he exited the Room of Requirement and glanced out the nearest window.
The storm had cleared. Sunlight now streamed over the castle grounds, where students took advantage of the break in the weather. A group of eager Quidditch players had already gathered on the pitch, shivering but determined, their passion outweighing the biting cold.
“Perfect. I still need some Phantom Thread and Ghost Ash.”
Ian had devised a plan to incorporate standard wizarding alchemy into his work. If the Dementor’s cloak could truly mimic the properties of Demiguise fur, then it should be capable of producing an alchemical invisibility effect.
Of course, the exact method for crafting an Invisibility Cloak was an ancient secret, closely guarded by the enchanters who specialized in their production. Ian lacked the full knowledge of this monopolized craft, but that wouldn’t stop him from experimenting.
After all, alchemical artifacts weren’t born from secrets, they were created by people. If others had devised a method, then surely he could do the same.
All he needed was a working prototype.
Even if the invisibility effect was minor, it would serve as proof of concept. And if he could successfully recreate such a cloak, even in a crude form, then the next logical step would be testing theories about the Resurrection Stone.
“Failure is just failure. My skill is improving, there’s nothing to lose.” Ian’s gaze shifted toward the darkened treeline beyond the castle.
The Forbidden Forest.
The last place anyone would willingly go searching for rare materials.
“Hagrid will never let me in there. I need to find a hidden passage.”
Pulling out the Marauder’s Map, Ian scanned the intricate web of tunnels and corridors beneath Hogwarts. There were countless secret paths, many so obscure that even Dumbledore might not know them all.
His eyes landed on an old passage deep beneath the castle.
It was a relic from the Middle Ages, rarely used and nearly forgotten. In times of war, it had once served as an emergency escape route for students and professors, allowing them to slip away undetected.
“Perfect.”
Ian wasted no time, making his way toward the castle’s lower levels.
But despite his urgency, it took him over ten minutes to reach his destination, not due to distance, nor his own pace, but sheer bad luck.
The shifting staircases had other plans.
With a series of groaning, clanking sounds, they rearranged themselves with agonizing slowness, stranding Ian mid-air in one of Hogwarts’ countless stairwell traps.
“Brilliant. Just brilliant.”
He leaned against the banister, arms crossed, waiting for the enchanted steps to finish their nonsense.
That was when he heard the telltale sound of trouble.
“Meow~” Ian froze.
Rounding the corner, Mrs. Norris emerged from the shadows— her beady, knowing eyes locking onto him.
Ever since Ian had once tested Metus Advenit on the wretched cat, she had never forgiven him. Now, whenever she spotted him, she tried to ambush his ankles in retaliation, though she had yet to succeed.
Ian barely twitched a finger toward his wand before the cat bolted, streaking away at lightning speed.
“That bloody thing is definitely going to snitch to Filch.”
There was no time for a game of cat-and-mouse. Ian doubled his pace, slipping into the passage before Hogwarts’ caretaker could turn up with his usual threats of detention.
The tunnel was narrow but not cramped, sloping downward at a steep incline.
Total darkness swallowed the path ahead.
“Lumos!”
His wand flared to life, casting pale light over the damp, uneven ground. The sudden illumination sent a few rats scurrying for cover.
Ian wrinkled his nose.
The air was thick with a putrid stench. Overhead, droplets of water dripped from cracked stone pipes, leaving dark stains on the walls.
Ian barely managed to dodge one drop that nearly hit his face.
“Ugh. Knowing this place, that could be anything.”
Hogwarts’ basement levels weren’t exactly well-maintained.
Summoning a small umbrella with a flick of his wand, Ian held it above his head as he proceeded carefully. He had no intention of letting whatever was seeping through the ceiling touch him.
The floor was littered with debris— loose stones, splintered wood, and the decayed remains of long-forgotten creatures.
He stepped cautiously.
Slipping or tripping here would be disgusting.
After casting a Bubble-Head Charm to filter out the rancid air, Ian muttered under his breath:
“Hogwarts’ board of governors must be embezzling maintenance funds.”
Time passed in silence.
The passage twisted and turned, stretching far longer than expected. Ian had already been walking for an hour when he noticed the incline gradually rising, he was nearing the Forbidden Forest.
His Marauder’s Map, however, had stopped responding. The ancient magic that powered it seemed to weaken underground, leaving it eerily blank.
“I’ll have to call the house-elves to clean this place later…”
But before he could complete the thought, a sound, low and unnatural, sent an icy shiver down his spine.
“Sssssss~”
Ian froze.
Something was ahead.
As he rounded the next bend, his Lumos light spilled over a grotesque sight.
A monstrous creature lay coiled in the darkness, its form twisted and misshapen, its body covered in unnatural, bulging growths.
But the worst part— the worst part— was the face.
A human face is grotesquely embedded into the creature’s side.
Sickly pale, gaunt, and sunken-eyed, it appeared stitched into the beast as if forced into existence through some horrific magical experiment.
The second Ian’s light touched it, the face opened its eyes.
Cold.
Malicious.
And far too human.
A thin, curling smile spread across its lips.
“Ah… Hogwarts sends me another student,” IT rasped, voice hoarse yet disturbingly delighted.
A foul black mist coiled around its twisted form as the creature stirred, its misshapen limbs tensing.
Ian’s grip tightened on his wand.
“Oh, nope,” He muttered.
Without hesitation, he flicked his wrist.
“AVADA KEDAVRA!”
The jet of green light burst forth, illuminating the tunnel with a sickly glow.
For a single, frozen moment, everything was drowned in emerald death.
(End of Chapter)