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The words of the bronze eagle knocker left Ian somewhat taken aback.
The place he had visited was clearly suspected to be an underground chamber jointly built by the four founders, so why had he been marked by Slytherin’s symbol? Could it be because the entrance passage was located near the Chamber of Secrets?
“What do you mean by ‘being chosen’?” Ian raised his hand, examining the faintly glowing Ouroboros mark. He had a sinking feeling that the rune’s color and appearance didn’t bode well.
“I can only tell you that it is related to a certain discovery Slytherin made.” The bronze eagle knocker tilted slightly and spoke softly, choosing not to beat around the bush or give Ian a hard time.
“During a certain period in the past, Salazar Slytherin would often shut himself in his room— the very Chamber he left behind at Hogwarts before his departure.”
Hearing this, Ian nodded. “I’ve heard that rumor. It was mentioned in ‘Hogwarts: Ten Great Secrets’. He even stored some of his personal collections in that Chamber.”
Fully aware that the bronze eagle knocker’s love for gossip was no less than the Fat Lady’s, Ian had no intention of revealing that he had already found Slytherin’s Chamber.
He was certain that if he dared to tell the bronze eagle knocker about this, rumors of him being Slytherin’s descendant would spread throughout Hogwarts before nightfall.
Already burdened with the name “Ambrosius Dumbledore Grindelwald Prince” in the rumor mill, Ian had no desire to add another surname to his list— four surnames were bad enough, but five might make people suspect his ancestry included some magical creature lineage.
Fortunately, the bronze eagle knocker wasn’t particularly curious about this.
“This isn’t just a rumor or story. I know for a fact that the so-called Chamber exists, and what Salazar Slytherin researched inside it is related to the… ‘treasure’ you found?” The bronze eagle knocker’s voice carried a hint of pride, as if it had misunderstood what Ian meant by “treasure.”
Clearly, this door knocker wasn’t omniscient about Hogwarts’ secrets.
“What was he researching?” Ian tried rubbing the mark on his hand vigorously a few times, then used magic in an attempt to remove this curse-like mark.
“Very profound things,” The bronze eagle knocker replied, its tone vague.
“You don’t actually know, do you?” Ian used reverse psychology on the bronze eagle knocker, but to his surprise, the knocker nodded frankly.
“Indeed, I only know that before Salazar Slytherin left, he mentioned leaving a ‘little surprise’ for future reckless individuals. I believe what you obtained is that very ‘little surprise.'”
The bronze eagle knocker did eventually reveal some useful information.
“A ‘little surprise’? It’s not poisonous, is it?” Ian even poured some of Voldemort’s grand-uncle’s bones potion on his hand, but it neither removed nor suppressed the green rune.
He suspected that the Slytherin bloodline in the Gaunt family might not be as pure as they claimed.
“Who knows? After all, I’m just a bird,” The bronze eagle knocker’s tone was calm. After a pause, it added in a teasing voice, “But back then, Salazar Slytherin was reportedly in a foul mood.”
Ian wasn’t intimidated.
“Wake up, you’re just a metal door knocker carved into the shape of a bird,” He fired back without hesitation, his sharp words leaving the bronze eagle knocker somewhat melancholic.
“How do you know I wasn’t once a bird? Perhaps my brain was just transplanted into this door knocker. Give me a pair of wings, and I’ll surely fly for you.”
“Of course, I might also just be a door-knocker fantasizing about being a bird. Both are possible. Maybe you could crack open my skull to see if there’s a brain inside.”
The bronze eagle knocker’s mental state was growing increasingly bizarre, reminding Ian of a malfunctioning enchanted object. He wondered if this was related to his frequent conversations with it.
Logically, it shouldn’t be, since over a thousand years, the bronze eagle knocker must have interacted with many people. Perhaps it was this millennium-long accumulation that led to its wild thoughts.
“I’d like to study your craftsmanship, but not right now,” Ian said, noticing someone opening the door. The highly competitive Ravenclaw students always woke up early.
“Good morning, Ian,” A square-headed third-year greeted him.
“Have a pleasant day, cool-looking senior,” Ian replied.
Since this senior hadn’t attended his small class, Ian didn’t remember his name. Still, his compliment made the third-year beam with joy.
Sometimes, handling interpersonal relationships was just that simple— at least within the school.
“Not going to chat some more?” Seeing Ian slip through the door opened by the senior, the bronze eagle knocker’s tone was full of regret and resentment.
“Will chatting make you tell me how to figure out what this is?” Ian held the door open and raised his hand. He believed the Hogwarts founders wouldn’t curse future students— just like how the basilisk wasn’t meant to purge Muggle-born students but to protect the school.
In the founders’ era, establishing such a school was no small risk. Many of Hogwarts’ secret passages were designed to facilitate evacuation during invasions. The basilisk was also meant to be a guardian, only later misused by Voldemort.
“I’m just a bird,” The bronze eagle knocker reiterated, emphasizing that it wasn’t all-knowing.
Ian sighed regretfully.
“And I’m just a little wizard about to attend class,” He replied, finding a reasonable excuse to leave without further escalating tensions with the bronze eagle knocker.
With two classes scheduled for the morning, Ian tucked all the required textbooks under his arm and then woke his two roommates with a firm shake each.
“Oh no! Rebecca and I just had our baby!” Michael lamented as if mourning the loss of a lifetime of happiness from his dream.
“Did you not come back last night?” William, who seemed dreamless, glanced at Ian’s untouched bed and shuffled into the bathroom, rubbing his sleepy eyes.
“I was secretly studying while you were asleep,” Ian said, piling on some psychological pressure and leaving William looking utterly miserable.
William dreaded such things the most.
“Why are you more talented and work so much harder than us? Blimey! I’m pulling an all-nighter tonight!” William truly meant it.
On the way to the Great Hall for breakfast, he was already buried in his textbook— ‘History of Magic’, no less— determined to excel in the least popular subject.
A clever little scheme, indeed.
“Eat this! It’s delicious!”
“Don’t steal my cream cake!”
“Who puts chili in a cake?!”
Everyone feasted at the long table laden with food. Due to slight indigestion from the night before, Ian only ate half a pound of lamb pie and three cups of extra-sour, concentrated lemonade.
He kept an eye on the mail-delivering owls, noticing many students receiving Howlers, though none as loud as the Weasley matriarch’s.
Molly Weasley’s Howler was in a league of its own, drowning out the roars of other parents in their letters. Ian didn’t know if the twins were caught sneaking out or if one of them had broken their wand, but he heard Molly mention repairing the broken wand.
The mother of many clearly didn’t want to pay for a new wand, or couldn’t afford it— meaning one twin would get to experience the joys of a damaged wand before their younger brother Ron. Ian saw both twins looking ashen-faced, wishing they could vanish into the floor.
Though he’d heard it was Fred’s wand that had snapped, no one could tell the twins apart. Who knew if they’d used each other’s names while sneaking around?
Such was the glorious humanity of mischief-makers borrowing their friends’ identities.
“No update, really!”
Ian had a reason for watching the owls. By the time everyone finished eating and left the Great Hall, no owl had delivered the ‘Daily Prophet’.
The ‘Daily Prophet’ had ceased publication!
The dozen Acolytes were impressively efficient!
“Clearly, the ‘Daily Prophet’ didn’t foresee the trouble it invited… What a hellish joke,” Ian thought. The idea that “Authority figures often lack real authority” was gaining even more credibility.
During the somewhat dull Flying class that morning, he pondered whether the ‘Daily Prophet’ would ever return— or if the Acolytes would turn it into the ‘Acolyte Daily Terror’.
“Pay attention, Mr. Prince. Do you want me to ban you from Flying class again?” Madam Hooch interrupted Ian’s musings.
She was lecturing on handling dangerous flying situations— old advice, but emphasized because some students had tried attaching lightning rods to their brooms.
“Really? That’s allowed?” Ian’s initial joy faded when he saw Hooch’s unamused expression. “I mean, what a shame,” He quickly corrected.
With that, he “reluctantly” set his broom aside and made for the castle library. But Hooch had only been bluffing.
“Stop right there!” She caught up on her broom and dragged Ian back.
“Get back here and listen, you troublemaker!” She returned him to the group, foiling his escape plan.
For the rest of the class, Hooch kept a close eye on Ian, quizzing him repeatedly to ensure he memorized every word.
“I’ll be watching your final grade closely!” Hooch’s concern for Ian’s flying skills was palpable, unaware of his alchemical plans to render brooms obsolete.
“I think I fly just fine…”
Ian suspected her worries stemmed from her absence during the Forbidden Forest incident. Otherwise, she’d have given him full marks outright.
Under Hooch’s watchful eye, the uneasy Flying class ended, with Ian held back for a stern lecture.
“Every year, I meet rebellious students like you. They all regret it after breaking their legs,” Hooch said, her well-intentioned advice falling flat when Ian pulled out a potion.
“They probably need this,” Ian said, holding up the vial.
He knew Hooch meant well, but low-altitude drills didn’t align with his efficiency-driven learning style.
“…”
Hooch’s expression was priceless.
After a long silence, Madam Hooch finally spoke. “Your potion looks high-quality, but it can’t save you from every accident— like falling from great heights.”
Before she could finish, Ian conjured a glider with his wand.
“?????”
Hooch was left speechless. She couldn’t fathom why such a brilliant student struggled so much in her class.
“Sorry, Professor. Was that too thorough?” Ian dispelled the glider, feigning innocence.
“…”
Hooch felt her teaching career had met its greatest challenge. She almost missed the daredevils, who at least showed genuine enthusiasm for flying.
For the next ten minutes, Hooch tried her best to spark Ian’s interest in the subject. Though touched by her efforts, Ian still wished she’d lose her temper like Snape and ban him outright.
“Maybe I should steal someone’s broom next time, like Malfoy’s,” Ian thought. He genuinely hoped to be banned from the Flying class. His defiance wasn’t personal, he just preferred studying magic in the library.
Admittedly, this mindset was overly skewed. Perhaps fate agreed, for Snape punished him in Potions class, forcing him to brew alone under scrutiny and rejecting three batches as “inferior.”
Snape had grown wary since the Peeves incident, avoiding comments about “soulless potions” and settling for mocking their Knockturn Alley-worthy quality.
With unfinished detention from the night before, Ian endured a fourth attempt before earning a begrudging nod. As he tried to leave, Snape blocked the door.
“I recall forbidding magic for cleaning toilets. Tonight, you’ll redo it.”
“But the toilets are spotless!” Ian regretted not exiting through the window.
Snape produced a large bucket. “Then wax them all!”
This was pure vindictiveness.
“Wax the toilets?”
Ian had never heard anything so absurd.
Snape smirked, twisting the knife. “To prevent your usual laziness, this wax is specially brewed— immune to magic. You’ll work manually.”
A potion-made wax!
Ian tested it, finding the wax indeed magic-resistant.
“You used this material for toilet wax?!”
Snape savored his shock.
“Only extreme measures curb your deceitful laziness,” He said with a swish of his cloak, leaving Ian with the bucket.
“…”
Ian wondered if this was karma for disobeying Hooch earlier.
His luck worsened when he ran into Quirrell, traitor, garlic enthusiast, and recent victim of student pranks.
“Afternoon, Professor Quirrell.”
Quirrell froze, his eyes darting nervously. Had Voldemort shared their history?
“H-hello, young wizard.”
“You seem tense?”
“N-no, just unwell,” Quirrell dodged. “Aren’t you heading to lunch?”
Ian smiled.
“I’ll study in the library. Overate last night.”
“Such dedication ensures you’ll surpass mediocrity,” Quirrell’s voice suddenly steadied.
“Your praise honors me.”
Ian remains composed, sensing Voldemort’s presence.
“Not praise— fact. But avoid dabbling in dark magic. The Restricted Section’s 62nd row corrupts the weak-minded.” Voldemort’s “advice” was a transparent trap.
“Understood, Professor.” Ian saw through the ploy. The 62nd row’s cursed books were infamous.
“Remember, such magic leads only to ruin. Don’t presume yourself special.” Voldemort reached to pat Ian’s shoulder, but Ian sidestepped.
“Sorry, Professor. I’m a germophobe,” He said, his hands staying in his pockets— one on his wand, the other on a forbidden potion brewed from Voldemort’s relatives.
“A commendable trait for a potioneer,” Quirrell’s gaze lingered before he departed.
Ian watched him leave.
“If only I knew Dumbledore’s plans, I’d purify Hogwarts’ air,” He thought. The garlic stench annoyed him.
Were it not for bystanders, he’d have exorcised the lingering soul already.
“Too bold. Hogwarts can’t tolerate such audacity.” Ian recognizes Voldemort’s malice.
The deranged Dark Lord’s reverse psychology was laughably transparent.
“The 62nd row’s curses would’ve ensnared a lesser mind.” Ian knew the Restricted Section better than his own dorm.
Voldemort’s scheming paled next to true power.
“Ravenclaw was right— what a pathetic Dark Lord, resorting to thug tactics.” Ian headed to the library, determined to research the Resurrection Stone.
Yet among the vast shelves, books on the Deathly Hallows were scarce.
Though familiar with the library, Ian rarely studied deity legends like the Death God’s lore.
Throughout the entire wizarding world, across all ages, even among the most exceptional wizards, very few have mentioned anything related to the Death God in their writings.
After spending an entire noon searching through books, Ian found nothing but sensational stories with dramatic plots— no clues about the Resurrection Stone or how it was made.
“I’m sick of reading about the Tale of the Three Brothers!” After going through over a dozen different versions of the story, Ian had no choice but to temporarily give up his research and head to class.
The afternoon class was uneventful, except for Professor McGonagall leaving in a hurry after the lesson. Everything else was as ordinary as any other day.
After dinner, Ian first went to the Room of Requirement to adjust the potions he was refining, then put on that cursed outfit again to complete the task Snape had assigned just to torment him.
Most of the students had already returned to their common rooms, so there was no risk of awkward encounters. Notably, in the abandoned girls’ bathroom on the second floor, Ian didn’t get a chance to explain himself to Myrtle, the ghost immediately fled into a toilet the moment she saw him enter.
“I’m not who you think I am!” Ian knew Myrtle had heard him speak Parseltongue and had formed some prejudiced misconceptions about him. But before he could even speak, Myrtle had already vanished into the plumbing.
“I guess I’m taking the blame for Tom? Round it off, and it counts as him framing me— so he should rightfully become fuel for my training.”
Ian finished his “detention” with over half a bucket of wax left. He had been frugal with it, intending to pocket the remaining materials for himself.
With a bit of extraction, the substances in this wax were quite valuable. Only someone as wealthy as Snape would waste them just to prevent Ian from slacking off.
“If only I could be that extravagant. Ah, if those bricks in the underground chamber were really gold, I could fulfill my dream of bathing in Felix Felicis,” Ian mused. For now, he had to settle for soaking in the free hot springs.
“Hmm?”
Ian tried to open the Room of Requirement as usual, only to find it didn’t appear. After a couple of attempts, he realized someone else was using it.
“Who could it be?”
Ian had only shared the room with Aurora. Was she secretly brewing Veritaserum inside? Just as he was about to ask the portrait of Barnabas the Barmy (who had been beaten by a troll),
“Whoosh—!”
The door appeared, followed by the sound of a flushing toilet. The next moment, just as Ian was baffled by the idea of someone using the Room of Requirement as a restroom, the door opened from inside.
“Ah?”
The person who stepped out wasn’t who Ian expected. He had assumed it would be Aurora— or even Dumbledore.
“Am I occupying your room? It seems this place can’t accommodate two people at once,” Grindelwald, who had just walked out, said as he applied something like hand cream.
“You used the Room of Requirement as a toilet?” Ian stared at the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor, surprised that someone who had only arrived this term knew about the room.
“You must understand, child— older people have their needs,” Grindelwald replied humorously, glancing back at the vanishing walls with admiration.
“This school truly holds more secrets than I imagined.” Clearly, Durmstrang, where Grindelwald had studied, didn’t have anything like the Room of Requirement.
“It’s impressive that you found it,” Ian said, genuinely amazed. Even most of Hogwarts’ Heads of Houses rarely knew about this hidden Hufflepuff sanctuary.
“Perhaps I just need frequent bathroom breaks, but I’m not so old that my eyes fail me. I’ve noticed you coming in and out often.”
Grindelwald’s reply left Ian puzzled. He rushed to the railing and looked down, but the Defense Against the Dark Arts office wasn’t positioned to see this spot.
“I have a crystal ball,” Grindelwald stepped forward to explain.
“…”
Ian gave the old man (currently wearing Lockhart’s face) a deadpan look. He had thought Grindelwald was some kind of Hogwarts spymaster, but the man had openly admitted to spying.
“I’ll call you the ‘Shadow Wizard,'” Ian said, recalling a character from ‘The Bloodline Chronicles’ who had a similar habit of peeping.
“Aurora said you often say incomprehensible things. Tsk tsk, so it’s true.” Grindelwald flicked his wrist and made to leave.
“Wait, Professor.” After a moment’s hesitation, Ian stopped him.
“Are you asking about the ‘Daily Prophet’? Don’t worry, it’ll resume publication soon. I just sent someone to… train them on proper professionalism.” Grindelwald raised an eyebrow, pausing.
“Can you get them to publish my work?” That wasn’t why Ian had stopped him, but Grindelwald’s response gave him an opening to pull out an article.
[‘On the Importance of Health Potions’]
This was a masterpiece Ian had written in his spare time, part of his future business plan for Diagon Alley.
But he hadn’t found the right opportunity to promote it yet.
“I wouldn’t call this nonsense a ‘work’…” Grindelwald skimmed through it, his expression growing increasingly odd.
Still, he didn’t refuse Ian’s request.
“Some wizards will believe it— that’s enough,” Ian said. He actually had another draft, [‘On Traditional Potions and Their Influence on Squib Rates’], but hadn’t finished it yet.
“I’ll help you. I do enjoy aiding young wizards.” Grindelwald pocketed the parchment without questioning Ian’s motives.
“If you could also teach me about the runes on the Resurrection Stone, I’d thank you in my dreams.” Ian quickly pulled out the runes he’d copied from the stone.
If there was anyone he could discuss the Resurrection Stone with, it was the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor who had led him to it.
“Who helped you decipher these?” Grindelwald examined the runes spread across multiple parchments, surprised.
“Me, of course!” Ian answered confidently. The Grey Lady had only pointed him in the right direction— the rest was his own hard work.
“Tsk tsk. I told you not to use it, yet you’re studying how it was made… You do have talent in alchemy, but this is dangerous research.” Grindelwald gave Ian a deep look.
“I just love learning. Any alchemist would be tempted by the Deathly Hallows,” Ian said, unable to reveal his true intentions.
Grindelwald didn’t seem suspicious.
“All great achievements stem from extraordinary curiosity and persistence,” Grindelwald said, approving of Ian’s boldness, though his expression turned regretful.
“I admire your thirst for knowledge, but I can’t assist you here— for now.” Grindelwald’s eyes grew distant. “I, too, once sought the secrets beyond the Deathly Hallows. Back then, I even possessed another Hallow.”
He was clearly referring to the Elder Wand.
Ian had seen it in Dumbledore’s memories.
“So… you never figured out these runes either?” Ian already guessed the answer but asked anyway.
“Correct.”
Grindelwald’s confirmation was expected. However, as he looked down at the parchments, his tone shifted slightly.
“But I can try to help. Honestly, this is my first time seeing alchemical runes like these.” That part surprised Ian.
“You said you studied another Hallow…?”
Ian was confused.
Did the Elder Wand follow a different system?
“Not everyone is as uniquely gifted as you,” Grindelwald said, carefully tucking the parchments into his robes— treating them far more preciously than Ian’s “masterpiece.”
“You’re worthy of uncovering these secrets. It proves I made the right choice.” Grindelwald seemed pleased, abandoning his earlier plan to sleep.
Before Ian could wonder why other wizards couldn’t see the runes on the Resurrection Stone,
“Care to improve your Fiendfyre?” Grindelwald suddenly asked, cheerful.
“It performed well before, but… there’s room for improvement.” The unexpected offer caught Ian off guard.
“Sure!” Ian immediately ditches his original plans.
A hot bath could wait, but personal Fiendfyre lessons from Grindelwald? That was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.
…
Meanwhile, on the other side of the Seventh Floor…
Inside the Headmaster’s office at Hogwarts, Dumbledore— having just bid farewell to Grindelwald and then to caretaker Filch (who had submitted a “punishment” request)— finally had a moment to sit down and enjoy a cup of tea.
Of course, the tea was the same old blend, and even with extra sugar (enough to qualify as a diabetic’s worst nightmare), Dumbledore found no joy in it today.
“It has to be him who took it!”
Clearly, Albus Dumbledore was still fixated on his missing belongings. On his desk lay a plain envelope— opened, but now empty save for a single letter.
There should have been a photograph inside as well.
“Are you certain none of you saw him take anything?” Dumbledore looked up at the portraits of past headmasters, all of whom shook their heads helplessly.
“You’ve asked us this dozens of times now. We only saw the boy hand him a small trinket— nothing was taken from your precious envelope.”
Some of the portraits sounded downright exasperated.
“If he didn’t take the photograph, and you insist no one else approached where I kept my letters… then perhaps you’ve been placed under a spell without realizing it.”
Dumbledore’s frown deepened, his expression grave.
“No one can cast a Memory Charm on a portrait, Dumbledore. That’s impossible—we’re not truly alive,” one former headmaster stated firmly.
“Indeed. Unless someone can rewrite reality itself and alter the fundamental laws of magic,” Phineas Black’s portrait added with a mocking chuckle, as if calling Dumbledore senile.
“You’re right, of course.”
Just as Dumbledore, unable to sit still, began rummaging through his office again, a measured knock sounded at the door.
“Come in, Minerva.”
Dumbledore hastily straightened the books he’d scattered and composed himself, assuming a dignified expression as Professor McGonagall entered.
“I’ve inspected every statue in the castle. None show signs of recent activation.” McGonagall’s weary face was lined with concern.
Now it made sense why she had rushed off after class earlier.
“Perhaps it was a false alarm from Hogwarts itself.” Dumbledore settled back into his chair, smiling serenely— as if completely unbothered.
His calm only made McGonagall’s frown tighten further.
“We both know Hogwarts doesn’t make mistakes. Someone did use that magic last night.” Her gaze was sharp, unwavering.
“Even if Voldemort returned, he couldn’t command the castle’s guardians. That requires authorization— and as of now, only you and I possess it.”
Dumbledore’s smile didn’t falter. His eyes, behind half-moon spectacles, remained as tranquil as a still lake— so much so that McGonagall instinctively averted her gaze.
“Indeed. Only the two of us have that privilege. And I certainly don’t sleepwalk… so, who does that leave?” McGonagall exhaled heavily.
“According to the founders’ decree, the guardians may only be summoned in times of crisis. I’ve followed that rule strictly— to this day, I’ve never used that magic!”
Her tone was almost indignant.
“It wasn’t me. I’m not so old that I’d forget my own actions.” Though Dumbledore had his suspicions, McGonagall’s glare made him shake his head.
Perhaps the current Head of Gryffindor wasn’t his equal in magical prowess, but Dumbledore did fear the possibility of an hours-long lecture from the formidable witch.
Even from meters away, he could feel the weight of McGonagall’s disapproval.
“So, shouldn’t we investigate together to figure out what went wrong last night? I’m truly worried that someone has cracked the magic left behind by the founders.”
Professor McGonagall wasn’t sure whether she should believe Dumbledore’s words, but she had already noticed how strangely he had been acting lately.
Faced with Professor McGonagall’s suggestion, Dumbledore simply maintained his smile.
“We must trust the magic left by the founders, and we must believe in their strength. Perhaps last night, the statues simply grew tired of staying in one place and decided to move around on their own,” Dumbledore said, attempting to deflect with what he thought was a humorous remark.
“I’m not joking, Albus. If there really is a dangerous individual lurking in Hogwarts, we have a responsibility to ensure the safety of our students,” Professor McGonagall replied, her tone unwavering.
The elder cat-lady was insistent on thoroughness.
“Of course, I understand that. So, please trust me as well, Minerva, Hogwarts is safer now than it has ever been,” Dumbledore responded with equal seriousness, finally easing some of McGonagall’s concerns.
“Quirrell is acting suspiciously,” She revealed, explaining the reason for her heightened vigilance. Between the failure to find You-Know-Who in the Forbidden Forest the previous day and the odd behavior of the professor, McGonagall had naturally picked up on some clues.
“Hmm, I’m aware. And I hope you’ll pretend not to notice anything, just as I am,” Dumbledore nodded, causing McGonagall’s eyes to widen.
“So it is him after all!” McGonagall had only been speculating earlier.
“It’s already quite obvious, isn’t it? I still need to extract some information from him, so we mustn’t startle the snake.” Dumbledore’s tone was steady as he reminded her.
“Aren’t you afraid your negligence will put the students in danger? That’s… that’s You-Know-Who! Have you forgotten the slaughters he committed? His madness?” McGonagall’s frown deepened, her gaze at Dumbledore now filled with deep disapproval.
Dumbledore did not avert his eyes.
“Many eyes are watching him. And until the hope he seeks is either fulfilled or shattered, he won’t— and dare not— do anything that would truly provoke me.” The tone of the strongest white wizard of the century was resolute.
“He’s a madman… Expecting a madman to act rationally— have you lost your mind as well?” McGonagall’s understanding of Voldemort clearly paled in comparison to Dumbledore’s.
Dumbledore stood and walked to the window.
“He is mad but not completely mad. So he knows what he can and cannot do. With his options dwindling, I believe he will still act as the shrewd, self-serving student he once was… the clever one who understood what Hogwarts means to me.”
There was an indescribable weight in Dumbledore’s voice.
“You’re gambling,” McGonagall said, her tone sharp.
She didn’t know what Dumbledore was scheming, but she still couldn’t accept his recklessness— it felt like he was risking the students’ lives.
“Perhaps… but it’s the best plan I have,” Dumbledore’s voice carried a hint of resignation. If he wanted to locate the other Horcruxes, this was the only way to lure them out.
Truthfully, it wasn’t that much of a risk.
“No child should be caught in the crossfire, Dumbledore,” McGonagall sighed in warning, knowing she couldn’t change the decision he had already made.
“I may not be a perfect headmaster, but I will ensure every student’s safety,” Dumbledore nodded in assurance. After opening and closing her mouth a few times, McGonagall shook her head and left the office.
Silence returned to the room.
Dumbledore remained standing alone by the window.
“Is it worth it?” He murmured softly, as if asking the portraits of past headmasters— or perhaps questioning himself.
No headmaster answered him.
Soon, Dumbledore lifted his head again, his eyes now firm with resolve.
“This isn’t just about finding the hidden Horcruxes. It’s also about finding a way to ensure that child survives.”
Dumbledore’s gaze drifted out the window.
By the Black Lake, there was another child.
She was practicing a charm she kept failing at. Aurora often trained by the Black Lake, something Dumbledore had long been aware of.
This time, however, the exceptionally talented young witch seemed to have hit a wall.
“It seems you could use some help… my apprentice.” With a flash of phoenix fire, Dumbledore appeared behind Aurora.
Meanwhile…
Grindelwald’s guidance was indeed invaluable.
Ian’s [Fiendfyre Curse] proficiency skyrocketed as if riding a rocket. The teachings in ‘Secrets of the Darkest Arts’ paled in comparison to Grindelwald’s hands-on instruction in the Room of Requirement.
After several hours of practice, Ian was already nearing the threshold of awakening an Extraordinary Trait for [Fiendfyre Curse]. If not for having gone two nights without sleep, he would’ve pulled an all-nighter to keep training.
“Another day of getting stronger.”
Ian fell asleep contentedly in the Room of Requirement, waking up the next morning refreshed. His status screen, showing the leveled-up [Fiendfyre Curse], filled him with overwhelming confidence.
[Fiendfyre Curse (Lv.4) 728/800]
As Ian ate breakfast, feeling invincible, an enraged Snape stormed into the Great Hall and smacked him on the back of the head in front of everyone.
“What in Merlin’s name did you do to Hogwarts’ bathrooms?!” The Slytherin Head of House’s voice was barely restrained fury.
“Waxed them. Wasn’t that your order?” Rubbing his head, Ian quickly stood and put distance between himself and the seething Snape.
His defiant expression only further incensed the Potions master.
“I told you to wax the floors! Not the toilets!” Snape roared, chasing Ian around the hall, his robes— and backside— shining as greasily as his hair.
“I put my heart into it! Go wash your face in one— I even waxed the faucets!”
The nimble young wizard quickly outran the bat-like professor.
Youthful speed triumphed over middle-aged sluggishness.
While Ian won the race, he did forfeit any chance of attending Potions class that morning.
Forced to skip, he dove straight into the library, still seeking answers in alchemical texts.
At this hour, the library was nearly empty.
Madam Pince didn’t guard against Ian as she did other students. She had been reading one of Lockhart’s books and merely glanced up when he entered before returning to her reading— neither scolding him nor questioning his absence from class.
To her, this was simply Ian’s normal behavior.
Ian headed straight for the Restricted Section, an area off-limits to most students, and resumed his research. His efforts had already led to a breakthrough.
[Ancient Alchemy (Lv.5) 1/1600]
Reaching Level 5 meant awakening an Extraordinary Trait— though [Transcendent Alchemy], as it was called, didn’t help him crack the Resurrection Stone’s secrets.
That didn’t mean the trait was useless.
On the contrary, it was revolutionary— allowing Ian to craft alchemical artifacts that defied material limitations.
Not only would his creations become impossible to replicate, but he could now use incompatible materials to forge entirely new techniques.
“I’ve grown stronger again… but all I want is to extract what I need.”
Piles of books surrounded Ian, though they only served to deepen his alchemical knowledge.
Perhaps Grindelwald had been right, even alchemists who once possessed Deathly Hallows seemingly couldn’t “see” the runic structures he could.
Ian had found records of one such alchemist, but the man had merely marveled at the Hallows being “beyond mortal creation,” spending the rest of his writings speculating on the existence of gods.
“Useless book! What good are you?!” Ian shoved the talking, boastful tome back onto the shelf, returning all the books he’d skimmed to their proper places.
Though he grumbled about wasting time, he still handled the library’s contents with care, likely why Madam Pince trusted him so much.
By now, weeks into the term, she knew exactly which students needed monitoring… and which didn’t.
“Searching for something unattainable again?” A voice suddenly teased from behind.
Turning, Ian saw Professor Arthur King, the enigmatic Alchemy instructor, standing by the shelves.
“Good morning, Professor.” Ian clutched a potentially useful book, though he had no intention of seeking this man’s advice.
Unlike Grindelwald, who knew what this professor might covet if he learned of the Deathly Hallows?
“If you have alchemy-related questions, I might have time to offer guidance.” Professor King’s eyes fell on the book in Ian’s hands.
[‘The Laws of Life and Death: Forbidden Paths of Alchemy’]
Faced with the professor’s offer, Ian hesitated only briefly before shaking his head.
“I’m just browsing.” He hugged the book tightly— it didn’t talk, but it did try to escape, forcing him to grip it firmly.
“Such an unlikable boy. Don’t come crying to me when you regret this.” Clearly prideful himself, Professor King didn’t press further. With a shrug, he turned and left the Restricted Section.
“Finally!” Back at his desk, Ian devoured the new book, though it yielded no breakthroughs.
However, it did contain extensive notes on bio-alchemy.
The book’s origin traced to an ancient alchemist who, grieving his lost love, sought to resurrect her through alchemy.
He failed, instead creating a series of artificial cat-girls with her face and personality.
He spent his later years… distracted, dying without ever reuniting with his true beloved.
“Tsk tsk, terrifying. No wonder bio-alchemy is forbidden— it turns brilliant alchemists into furries.”
Despite his complaints, Ian still gained valuable insights, furthering his proficiency.
Yet after scouring so many texts, he realized one thing: Whether in ancient or modern times, almost no alchemist had dared study the Deathly Hallows’ creation.
Maybe they couldn’t see the runes.
Or maybe they simply lacked the nerve.
“Do I really have to replicate them perfectly? Or test them section by section?”
Returning the books, Ian retreated to the Room of Requirement.
He pulled out his wand, ready to meticulously copy all the runes and refine his Resurrection Stone prototype.
But as he reached into his pouch for the stone’s base…
“Hmm?”
A slip of paper fluttered out with it, landing on the floor.
When Ian bent to pick it up, he froze.
His scalp prickled.
On the paper was a fragment of the very runes he’d been obsessively studying— pulsing faintly, impossibly clear.
(End of Chapter)
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