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Grindelwald might not have deceived Dumbledore too much, but he had certainly misled a few young witches and wizards, judging by their horrified expressions, as though they had just witnessed something utterly vile.
What a Grindelwald!
What secret method of communication could exist between him and Dumbledore? After all, this was Dumbledore’s school. He had merely been informed just now, this entire display was nothing more than a fabrication to pacify the students with well-placed falsehoods!
This first-generation Dark Lord was even less truthful than the current soul-divided Dark Lord!
“No wonder you ambushed me in the girls’ bathroom in the dead of night! Turns out you wanted to capture me and curry favor with Dumbledore!” Ian suddenly realized he had been thoroughly played by the current professor of the Defence Against the Dark Arts class.
He couldn’t fathom it.
How could someone be so insidiously cunning?
“No, this is simply an opportunity for our dear headmaster to seek redemption,” Grindelwald countered, though his carefully chosen words did little to disguise his true intentions.
As if this wasn’t about earning favor.
Ian would bet his last Galleon that if Grindelwald had a tail right now, it would be wagging furiously— like an overexcited Crup, eager to please. Even the most ambitious Ministry officials wouldn’t be this shameless!
Having glimpsed the memories of their past, Ian could make an educated guess at the reason. After all, everything between Dumbledore and Grindelwald had unraveled after Ariana’s death.
It wasn’t just Dumbledore’s burden to bear, it was a wound that Grindelwald himself had never quite managed to let go of.
“What Gellert said… is it true?”
Albus Dumbledore’s voice was quiet yet heavy with suspicion. His usually sharp blue eyes, somewhat red-rimmed now, held a rare moment of uncertainty.
“It’s the Patronus Charm, Professor. I found a special way to cast it.” As Ian spoke, he withdrew his wand. He had never seen the headmaster’s gaze waver quite so violently before.
“I thought you had already given me enough surprises… Mr. Prince.” Dumbledore’s raised hand trembled slightly, causing Fawkes to shift unsteadily upon his perch.
Naturally, Ian’s hair was soon transformed into something resembling a bird’s nest once more or, given the circumstances, a full-fledged Phoenix roost. He briefly considered whether now would be an appropriate time to retrieve his Phoenix egg and test if Fawkes would sit on it.
“Why do I get the feeling that there’s some secret between you two that I’m not privy to?”
Now it was Grindelwald’s turn to look perplexed, his sharp gaze flickering between Ian and Dumbledore.
His brow furrowed completely.
“It seems you truly have some grand secrets I wasn’t even aware of,” He mused, scrutinizing Ian with an expression of mild intrigue.
“Levicorpus!”
Ian wasn’t the type to bottle up his emotions. If he was annoyed, he dealt with it head-on. Having just been outmaneuvered by Grindelwald, the young wizard wasted no time in raising his wand and casting a spell at his Defence Against the Dark Arts professor.
“Tsk, tsk. Not only are there secrets, but it seems your courage has grown as well.”
Although Grindelwald hadn’t expected Ian’s sudden retaliation, he still managed to sidestep the spell at the last moment, his tone laced with amusement.
“If I were to say that the emotional toll of tonight has left me a bit… unstable, Professor, would you consider forgiving my little outburst?”
Ian immediately adopted an expression of regret, his head bowed in supposed remorse.
However, even as his wand was lowered and he feigned submission, his sharp gaze remained locked on the scene behind Grindelwald, where the dodged spell had not simply dissipated. Instead, it curved midair, circling back toward its target, poised to strike Grindelwald squarely in the back just before colliding with the wall.
To minimize sound and disturbance, the spell moved like a silent assassin in the shadows. The Killing Curse Lightning Chain might still be an unfinished piece of magic, but the techniques Ian had developed during his research were numerous, like the previously ricocheting Killing Curse and the current spell curving midair.
“Quite the clever little trick.”
Grindelwald was not a wizard easily fooled. Though he had been utterly silent, he somehow sensed the disturbance behind him. Without hesitation, he turned sharply, raising his wand to counter Ian’s spell.
However—
Just as the Defence Against the Dark Arts professor’s wand lit up, prepared to dispel the incoming magic, something occurred that neither he nor Ian had anticipated.
“I believe we shouldn’t be too harsh on a child,” Came a calm voice.
Grindelwald’s wand arm was suddenly pressed down by another hand, one that had lifted at precisely the right moment. With his movement unexpectedly disrupted, Grindelwald was struck squarely by the spell.
In the very next second—
Ian found himself achieving an absurd milestone: he has just taken down the legendary Dark Lord. Even he was stunned, blinking in disbelief at the scene before him.
Of course, no one was more shocked than Grindelwald himself. His body flipped as though yanked by an invisible force, and in a most undignified fashion, he was left dangling upside down, robes billowing downward in complete disarray.
“Albus, you… Well, I should have seen this coming,” Grindelwald muttered, kicking his legs slightly in the air as he locked eyes with the beaming old headmaster, who showed no intention of undoing the spell just yet.
“This should be enough to settle your frustration,” Dumbledore remarked, glancing toward the watching students. “You must forgive our Defence Against the Dark Arts professor, he does have a habit of being rather… infuriating at times.”
From the exchange between Ian and Grindelwald earlier, Dumbledore had already deduced the situation.
“I think so, too,” Ian muttered.
He had already pulled out his camera, intending to capture this moment for posterity. But as he was about to snap the picture, he hesitated. A photograph like this would prove only that he had bested Gilderoy Lockhart, not that he had outdueled the infamous Grindelwald.
That was hardly a tale worth boasting about; who would be impressed by a victory over a famous author? If anything, he might end up drawing the ire of Lockhart’s most devoted fans.
“What a terrible yet amazing luck,” Ian sighed, lowering the camera. He knew better than to push his luck and leave Grindelwald hanging for too long. Any fool could see that the only reason Grindelwald remained in that position was out of deference to Dumbledore.
After all, his wand was still firmly in hand.
“This doesn’t count,” Grindelwald declared as he landed smoothly, straightening his rumpled robes with a smirk. His eyes flickered toward Ian. “Next time, when you don’t have help, we’ll settle this properly.”
Then, turning his attention to Dumbledore, he added in a tone of grievance, “You do realize I was the one who told you what this boy was hiding, don’t you?”
The current professor of Defence Against the Dark Arts spoke as though he had been deeply wronged.
“But you were never in control of this secret,” Ian countered, his voice calm. “I was already planning to go to Headmaster Dumbledore myself.”
Grindelwald was momentarily speechless.
And Dumbledore? He simply remained silent.
Sometimes, silence itself was an answer.
“Go on, show him!” Grindelwald urged, still looking rather put out and not because of Ian’s sneak attack but because he had been so thoroughly outmaneuvered.
Just as Ian raised his wand—
“I suspect this young man would rather not have you here, Gellert,” Dumbledore interjected gently. “It might stir memories best left undisturbed.”
His gaze rested on his old friend.
“Alright, alright, the great Dumbledore has spoken,” Grindelwald relented, exhaling in mild frustration.
There was something almost comical about seeing the once-feared Dark Lord in such a flustered state. It was unlikely that even his former followers, the Acolytes, had ever witnessed him like this.
“Truly, Albus, heartless and ruthless as ever. Merlin’s beard, I didn’t even cast that bloody charm,” He grumbled as he turned toward the door.
“Professor! The underground chamber!” Ian called out. “We haven’t dealt with the underground chamber yet!”
Grindelwald paused mid-step.
“The underground chamber?” He repeated, his tone shifting.
For all his grumbling, the departure was momentarily forgotten.
And just like that, the game was back on.
Albus Dumbledore’s eyes narrowed slightly. As expected, he had already received word from Grindelwald long before Ian had even mentioned the hidden depths of Hogwarts to him.
“Right below here, I found a…” Ian began to repeat what he had told Grindelwald earlier, and as he spoke, Dumbledore’s expression grew increasingly grave.
Just as Ian was about to mention the time loop, the old headmaster spoke first.
“So that’s it. This is the source of your peculiarity.” Dumbledore’s gaze settled on Ian with a flicker of surprise, as though something had just clicked into place.
“Be honest with me, child. How many times have you looped?”
Ian was stunned. He had always known that people spoke of Dumbledore as if he were all-knowing, but in this moment, he truly understood why.
“I… I think this is my first loop?”
In truth, Ian wasn’t even certain if he was truly looping at all— but the certainty in the headmaster’s expression was somehow greater than his own.
“Time is an elusive force, unseen and untouchable, yet it always leaves traces behind. The air around you carries the scent of another time.”
The voice belonged to Grindelwald, who had just returned, offering an explanation that clarified Ian’s confusion.
It also made Ian realize why this particular professor of Defence Against the Dark Arts had not reacted with shock upon hearing his earlier, seemingly outrageous claims. After all, the two men standing before him were the greatest wizards of the age, there was little that could escape their notice.
In hindsight, Grindelwald’s earlier insistence on proof, his feigned skepticism, it had all been a diversion. He had merely been waiting for the old headmaster to return.
And, of course, Ian could now see the amusement in his actions. Teasing him had become something of a pastime.
“…”
A realization struck Ian, sudden and unrelenting.
This was what it must feel like to be a second-rate performer attempting to pass as a leading actor on the wizarding stage.
“I had assumed you had merely gotten your hands on a Time-Turner, but it seems your experience is far more… intriguing.” Grindelwald’s words offered Ian no comfort.
“This is not merely a matter of time travel, Gellert.”
Dumbledore reached out, his fingers brushing against the back of Ian’s raised hand as though examining something unseen. His knowledge of time’s mysteries, it seemed, surpassed even Grindelwald’s.
“What do you mean?”
Grindelwald stepped closer, his voice edged with curiosity.
“I believe there is no second Ian Prince currently attending Hogwarts.”
Dumbledore raised the Elder Wand, the very wand that once belonged to Grindelwald himself and gave it a slow, deliberate wave. Before them, a map unfurled in the air, woven from threads of light and shadow. It was more intricate than even the Marauder’s Map, showing the names of every student within the castle’s walls.
Ian’s eyes were immediately drawn to Quirrell’s name.
Overlaying it, intertwined yet distinct, was another name: Tom Riddle.
The two names seemed to blur together, as though bound by something unseen, something ancient and sinister. To the uninformed, it might have appeared as if they were engaged in an eerie dance, tangled in a fate of their own making.
“I want to learn this magic, Professor!”
Ian’s voice carried an unmistakable awe as he took in the enchanted map.
Dumbledore turned to him, his eyes twinkling with something unreadable. “You will, in time,” He said softly. His voice was calm yet laden with meaning.
“Indeed, there isn’t another Ian Prince… but the mind of the future returning to its past self is not beyond the realm of possibility.”
Perhaps only Grindelwald was truly studying the map, considering the implications. But Ian? He was beginning to grasp just how deep the magic before him truly ran.
Albus Dumbledore gave a slow nod, his expression both contemplative and confirming as he continued speaking.
“But our Mr. Prince is clearly an exception; his thoughts and very being do not belong to this time or space.”
His voice carried a quiet certainty.
Grindelwald, upon hearing this, regarded Ian with a glint of surprise in his sharp eyes.
“I find it rather remarkable that, without delving into my memories, you’ve managed to perceive so much.” In truth, Ian had long suspected something was amiss.
When he had checked Marauder’s Map in the corridor earlier, he had confirmed that there was no duplicate of himself anywhere in the school. Aside from the ring he had entrusted to Ariana still existing, everything he had crafted and collected beyond this day in his own timeline remained tucked away safely in his pouch.
This was no ordinary instance of time travel— neither a traditional time loop nor a simple temporal displacement.
“You’re growing quickly, child. I must say, your height alone is rather telling.” Dumbledore smiled kindly, his tone light, but his eyes sharp with deduction.
Just as Ian was about to ask exactly what was happening to him—
“If that’s the case…” Grindelwald seemed to come to a realization. With an impatient flick of his wand, he aimed at the sink before them.
A resounding ‘boom’ echoed through the chamber.
The sink exploded in a shower of debris, pipes bursting as water gushed out in all directions. Amidst the wreckage, the hidden entrance Ian had discovered earlier was revealed once more.
“Uh…”
Ian found himself at a loss for words. He glanced at Dumbledore with an expression that clearly said, ‘Are you seeing this?’
“Our esteemed Defence Against the Dark Arts professor has just encountered a reality he cannot abide, which makes this an understandable reaction.” Dumbledore chuckled as he watched Grindelwald disappear down the passageway without so much as a backward glance.
“Well then, let us go and meet our resurrected Professor Ronnie Ehrlich.” With that, Dumbledore gestured for Ian to follow, repairing the shattered sink and pipes with a flick of his wand as they stepped into the hidden corridor. Cleaning up after his old friend had become second nature by now.
“Would you care to lead the way?”
Dumbledore looked ahead at the winding path.
Grindelwald had already vanished into the darkness.
“Alright, alright.” Ian sighed, still somewhat disoriented by the idea that, in all his experiences with time’s anomalies, there could be something even Gellert Grindelwald found difficult to accept.
As Ian raised his wand to cast ‘Lumos’, Dumbledore retrieved a small, ornate box from his robes. He opened it, and from within, tiny spheres of light floated out one by one, drifting to affix themselves along the passage walls.
“Put-Outer lights?”
Ian blinked in surprise.
“No, no. These were actually my latest creations— meant to be your Christmas gift.” Dumbledore smiled, a twinkle in his eye as he gave Ian a knowing wink.
Clearly, he was well aware of Ian’s penchant for sneaking about at night.
“Well, that’s all well and good,” Ian muttered, “But who knows how long it’ll be before I even reach my Christmas?” He could tell from the craftsmanship that, while the devices seemed simple in function, their underlying magical principles were anything but, proof of Dumbledore’s formidable skill in alchemy.
“Don’t worry,” Dumbledore assured him gently. “We’ll see you through.”
Something in his voice was oddly reassuring.
As they descended the winding staircase, the floating orbs of light continued to appear, illuminating the walls just long enough to guide their way before gradually dimming and vanishing, a seamless enchantment that spared them the trouble of collecting them afterward.
Dumbledore had said he would follow Ian’s lead, and true to his word, he did, keeping pace as they ventured deeper into the ancient, hidden chambers beneath Hogwarts.
“Hogwarts certainly holds many secrets that I have yet to uncover,” Dumbledore mused, his gaze occasionally drifting to the various forks in the staircase.
Each path clearly led elsewhere, yet Ian had not ventured down them, and even as Hogwarts’ headmaster, Dumbledore could only speculate about the destinations of most of these hidden passages.
“I heard that when Hogwarts was first founded, it wasn’t solely intended to be a school,” Ian remarked, taking note of the diverging paths as they descended.
“Yes. In those days, the world was far less kind to wizards. This castle was built as both a sanctuary and a stronghold, not just a place of learning.”
Dumbledore nodded in agreement.
“Many of these secret passages have stories of their own. And in my view, the four founders always anticipated that Hogwarts might one day come under siege.”
He shared his thoughts on the castle’s defensive design.
“A fortress of war?”
Ian considered the possibility.
Dumbledore neither confirmed nor denied it. He simply continued walking, his expression unreadable. The air around them was growing stale as they descended further.
“Merlin, he moves fast.” Ian marveled. He had no need to slow down for Dumbledore; despite his age, the headmaster was surprisingly spry, his agility undiminished by time.
However—
Despite the steady ‘thud, thud, thud’ of their descent, they had yet to catch even a glimpse of Grindelwald. The man moved with such speed that he could have won a Hogwarts underground stair-racing competition.
“He’s eager to confirm something. He wouldn’t be taking a leisurely stroll like we are,” Dumbledore observed, well aware of his old friend’s impulsive nature.
“Can he turn into black smoke as well?”
Ian wondered aloud. As he contemplated how to mend his relationship with Grindelwald and perhaps persuade him to teach this particular skill, the two of them finally arrived at the entrance to the underground corridor.
At that moment—
Deep within Hogwarts’ hidden underground chambers, the blue candle flames suddenly shifted, flickering into a deep, ominous red as if an unseen force had swept through the space, brushing against the ancient stone walls.
For the briefest moment, a flicker of blue light attempted to return.
But it lasted only an instant.
Then, all at once, the eerie red glow reasserted itself.
“What in Merlin’s name is our Defence Against the Dark Arts professor up to in there?!” Ian exclaimed, sprinting toward the hidden chamber. Meanwhile, Dumbledore, who had been prepared for many things, was nonetheless momentarily taken aback by the sight that awaited them— a massive skeleton of a dragon.
“This is… beyond words,” Dumbledore murmured, his blue eyes reflecting the ancient bones. But within his awe, there was something else, a flicker of emotion that passed too quickly to decipher.
Perhaps… regret?
“Just leave it be. Its owner gave me permission to use it,” Ian assured him, not out of fear that Dumbledore would take the skeleton, but rather that he might entrust it to Snape for safekeeping.
Ian would wager that, despite its immense size, Snape would find a way to reduce the dragon’s remains into an unknown quantity of potion ingredients. In fact, it wouldn’t even be surprising if the next morning brought news that Snape had resigned overnight and fled with the entire skeleton.
“Of course. No problem,” Dumbledore replied, withdrawing his contemplative gaze.
Together, they turned their attention toward the great skeletal remains where, at that very moment, Professor Ronnie Ehrlich was crouched in front of Grindelwald.
“I told you I’d bring someone who could convince you,” Ian announced as he stepped forward, only to be met with an utterly astonished expression from Professor Ehrlich.
Of course.
His shock wasn’t directed at Ian.
He was staring at Dumbledore.
“Sir! He! How did he come here too?!” Professor Ronnie Ehrlich looked utterly shaken, scrambling to stand up, only to be firmly pressed back down by Grindelwald.
“Ronnie, don’t panic. You’ll understand soon enough… if there’s still time.” Grindelwald’s expression was unusually complex, and his cryptic words seemed to quiet the professor. Though still tense, Ronnie Ehrlich kept his eyes fixed on Albus Dumbledore, resisting the urge to question further.
“Professor, have you discovered what’s wrong with him?” Ian asked eagerly, his curiosity burning. He was desperate to understand why Ronnie Ehrlich could only exist within the glow of the candlelight.
“I have some ideas.”
Grindelwald cast a lingering look at the Acolyte before shifting his gaze to Dumbledore. “Albus, it seems you were right after all.”
With that, he reached forward and pulled aside the fabric of Ronnie Ehrlich’s robes, revealing an intricate and bizarre pattern carved into his back. The markings twisted and intertwined, forming a single coherent image that sprawled across most of his skin.
Dumbledore stepped closer, running his fingers lightly over the design.
“What is this?”
Ian, unable to resist, leaned in as well.
“Little wizard,” Ronnie Ehrlich sighed, his voice tinged with both melancholy and resignation, “You were right. I should have died.”
“I told you, but you wouldn’t believe me. Of course, it had to be Grindelwald— ‘Professor’ Grindelwald to convince you.” Ian hastily corrected himself, fearing that Ronnie Ehrlich might take offense at any perceived slight against the Dark wizard.
“I have a feeling, little one, that my downfall is somehow tied to you.” Though his tone was calm, there was a flicker of resentment in his gaze.
“Professor, that’s a bit unfair,” Ian muttered awkwardly, averting his eyes.
“Perhaps,” Ronnie Ehrlich admitted, “But in the end, it doesn’t matter. Compared to dying in ignorance, learning the truth is a better fate.” He didn’t seem afraid of the prospect.
Making an effort to glance back, Ronnie Ehrlich observed Grindelwald and Dumbledore as they scrutinized his back. Seeing the two of them working together so peacefully still struck him as utterly surreal.
“Here. This is the Eye of Horus,” Grindelwald said at last, pointing to a corner of the elaborate pattern, where an eye-like symbol lay hidden within the design.
“The Eye of Horus?” Ian’s curiosity deepened. “Isn’t that an element of ancient alchemy? It holds significant symbolic meaning in history.”
His knowledge of the subject was limited. What little he knew came from the teachings of Morgan le Fay, yet the Eye of Horus belonged to an era even older than hers.
The Eye of Horus, also called the Eye of Udjat, was said to belong to the falcon-headed god Horus, a symbol of divine protection, supreme authority, and restoration. It was associated with healing, rebirth, and safeguarding, its magic distinct from the wizarding traditions of Europe.
“This is an exceptionally ancient form of magic,” Grindelwald murmured. “Traditionally, it may serve as the foundation of Professor Ronnie Ehrlich’s resurrection.”
Indeed.
The ancient Egyptians believed the Eye of Horus played a role in resurrection and rebirth. In the wizarding world, it had long been used in rituals by those who sought immortality or a return from the dead.
“Does this actually work?” Ian asked skeptically. He had dabbled in this aspect of alchemical theory, but he had never considered that the Eye of Horus might ‘actually’ function as intended.
He had always assumed it was just another legend among the many failed attempts at resurrection. After all, wizards and Muggles alike had long dreamt of conquering death.
And yet—
For all their efforts—
No one had ever truly succeeded.
“The evidence is right in front of us,” Dumbledore said quietly, turning his gaze to Ronnie Ehrlich himself. He had already examined the professor’s body and the process of his death.
“Why didn’t Voldemort consider this method?” Ian mused aloud, curiosity piqued. If such a ritual truly worked, Tom Riddle would never have overlooked the opportunity to study and exploit it.
“This kind of magic has not been fully preserved,” Albus Dumbledore replied, his voice measured. “Moreover, even I believe it has never truly succeeded. The rare instances in history where people were ‘revived’ amounted to nothing more than reanimated corpses, devoid of true life.” He paused, his blue eyes glinting behind his half-moon spectacles. “Riddle never sought to become a mere walking husk.”
Ian considered this. Perhaps Voldemort, with his serpentine visage and lack of a nose, never placed much faith in foreign magical practices. More likely, the absence of proven successes had discouraged him; otherwise, Riddle would have torn the world apart in search of it.
“You’re also overlooking the most crucial point, Albus.” Grindelwald shifted his gaze toward Ian, a faint, knowing smirk playing at his lips. “Some magic requires a certain… qualification to wield. Even if you handed Riddle this ritual on a silver platter, he would never have possessed the ability to make it succeed.”
His tone was laced with both amusement and disdain for the Dark Lord.
As he spoke, he gestured toward a section of the intricate markings on Ronnie Ehrlich’s back. “Here, Albus. This is the key. And… one of the very pieces of evidence that validates your previous theory.”
“It signifies the interception of fate…”
Grindelwald trailed off as Dumbledore lifted a hand, silencing him.
Then, the old headmaster turned to Ian, his expression unreadable.
“Mr. Prince,” Dumbledore said, his voice firm yet kind, “I must ask you to wait for me in my office.”
Ian blinked.
“What? Why?”
He had a growing sense that whatever was happening here was directly linked to his own predicament. Leaving now felt like being dismissed from his own mystery. His gaze flickered between Dumbledore and Grindelwald, searching for an answer.
“I will explain everything to you shortly,” Dumbledore assured him. “But trust me, what happens next is not something a young wizard should witness.” A pause. “It could be… unsettling.”
“Unsettling?” Ian echoed incredulously.
From his position on the floor, Ronnie Ehrlich let out a snort.
“He can cast the Killing Curse in his first year— nonverbally, no less and you’re worried about his mental state?” The professor scoffed, shaking his head. His voice dripped with exasperation.
Ian grimaced.
It wasn’t as if he went around throwing the Killing Curse at people like a common duelist, well, not all the time.
“That’s besides this matter,” Dumbledore continued smoothly, as though he hadn’t heard Ronnie Ehrlich, “I believe you and I have another conversation to hold. My office would be the most suitable place for it. And if you wouldn’t mind, perhaps you could assist in tidying up the room while you wait?”
Ian sighed, recognizing the finality in Dumbledore’s tone. There was no arguing with him when he got like this. With obvious reluctance, he turned and made his way toward the staircase.
By the time he reached the corridor outside the underground chamber, he was fairly certain he had burned off at least a pound from all this running around Hogwarts.
As Ian disappeared into the shadows of the passage, Grindelwald finally spoke again, addressing Dumbledore with a tone that was unusually sincere.
“You needn’t worry, Albus,” He said softly. “I won’t harm them.”
Dumbledore, watching Ian’s retreating form, exhaled lightly.
“Perhaps not,” He conceded, “But given your rather… strong reaction earlier, I prefer to be cautious.”
A small, almost imperceptible smile curled at the corner of Grindelwald’s lips.
“You see him as a future worth cherishing, Albus. I see him as something far greater.” His voice was solemn. “He is a promise. And unlike you, I am more than willing to sacrifice everything for that promise.”
Dumbledore did not answer immediately.
“So, I was right, sir.” Lying on the cold stone floor, Ronnie Ehrlich finally saw his suspicions confirmed through the conversation unfolding before him.
“That young wizard was the reason you brought me here.” A look of clarity settled on his face, his voice carrying a strange sense of relief.
“Ronnie,” Grindelwald spoke softly, his words laced with something akin to sorrow. “Albus and I will not truly die. But you will. Or rather, you already have.”
“It doesn’t matter, sir. Now that I know the truth, it was worth it.” Ronnie Ehrlich let out a quiet chuckle, casting another glance between Grindelwald and Dumbledore.
“For the greater good.”
His words were steady, unwavering.
Not a trace of fear.
“You’ve already tried to kill him once, haven’t you?” Dumbledore’s piercing blue gaze fell upon Grindelwald, picking up on what had gone unspoken.
Somewhere between his and Ian’s arrival, blood had already been spilled in this place.
“Just as Ronnie said, Albus, this was necessary,” Grindelwald sighed, rising to his feet. “If that young wizard is to return to where he belongs, to fulfill the role that fate has carved out for him, then we must ensure it.”
Dumbledore regarded him with a deep frown.
“This is the game your founders set in motion. You can hardly blame me,” Grindelwald continued, gesturing toward the towering stone effigy behind them. “You, me, Ronnie, and Ian, all of us were drawn into this by that man.”
His gaze lingered on the statue, its imposing features bathed in a spectral glow.
“That is an apt way to put it,” Dumbledore admitted.
The two wizards studied the ancient figure, its expression eerily contemplative as if the very stone harbored secrets of its own. Whatever purpose the founders had intended for this labyrinth, its true nature remained elusive.
But one thing was certain, whoever had orchestrated such a test, Salazar Slytherin had been no ordinary wizard.
“It calls to mind the questions I had surrounding Ronnie’s death,” Murmured the Dark Arts professor, his robes shifting slightly in the underground draft.
He turned away from the statue, something sharp and knowing in his expression.
“Was it truly the work of Salazar Slytherin from a thousand years ago?” Dumbledore asked, his prophetic intuition stirring at the edges of his mind.
Grindelwald, however, merely chuckled.
“No, no, no, Albus,” He said, his tone light, almost amused. “Not Salazar Slytherin from a thousand years ago.”
Dumbledore stiffened, and a terrible suspicion took root in his mind.
“What are you implying?”
Grindelwald met his gaze, eyes gleaming with a mixture of anticipation and nostalgia.
“I mean,” He murmured, “That you ought to brace yourself. Because, my dear friend, the one we are about to face is a true impossibility. A legend that should not exist.”
He took a breath as if savoring the weight of his next words.
“A legend still alive after a thousand years.”
His voice drifted through the underground chamber, carrying an eerie finality.
—
Time wavered on its pendulum.
As Ian ascended from the depths of the underground palace, thoughts swirled in his mind.
“So, it’s all tied to me after all,” He muttered, glancing down at the faint rune on the back of his hand.
With a dramatic flourish, he raised it. “Unseal your hidden power, ancient mark of time! Reveal yourself!”
Nothing happened.
With a sigh, Ian trudged onward.
Since Dumbledore hadn’t summoned him directly, he had no choice but to entertain himself for the time being. He kicked the statue near the entrance of the eighth floor a few times for good measure.
Fortunately, the stone guardian responded promptly, shifting aside to grant him entry to the headmaster’s office.
Stepping inside, Ian cast a critical eye over the room.
“It’s even messier than last time.”
Above, a flash of scarlet and gold streaked across the rafters. Fawkes, the magnificent phoenix, caught sight of the golden branch in Ian’s hand and immediately took flight as if offended.
Ian sighed dramatically. “You don’t love me anymore.”
Reaching up, he plucked a few stray phoenix feathers, rolling them between his fingers. Fawkes, rather than displaying any signs of irritation, merely shook his tail feathers and fixed Ian with a knowing gaze, a look that carried both amusement and patience.
Ian plucked a few more feathers.
“Clang! Clang! Clang!”
Realizing something was off, Fawkes let out a disgruntled squawk and flapped his wings, soaring up to perch on the chandelier, well out of reach. Even when Ian brandished a small vial of specially brewed potion as bait, the phoenix remained stubbornly aloft, fixing him with an unimpressed stare.
“You’ve got quite the resolve,” Ian muttered, sighing as he examined the handful of shimmering feathers he’d already collected. Though he couldn’t understand Phoenix’s speech, the sharp, repeated clangs echoing from above hardly sounded like words of praise.
Perhaps his antics had disturbed the other enchanted inhabitants of the office.
“Oh, not you again, you blasted little cat-bird!” The Sorting Hat grumbled as it was roused from its slumber.
“Lalalala~”
Ian, grinning mischievously, proudly demonstrated his latest magical achievement: a perfectly controlled stream of water swirling around the hat. Gone were the days when he needed a sink to scrub it clean.
“You wicked little menace! Dumbledore! Where is Dumbledore?” The Sorting Hat shrieked as the water spiraled around it, threatening to drench its tattered fabric.
“He’s off having a grand old time in the underground chamber,” Ian replied airily.
“Can’t you appreciate my progress?”
With a flick of his wand, he intensified the water’s flow, sending the Sorting Hat into a dizzying whirlpool. Bubbles foamed around its brim as if it had been tossed into an invisible washing cauldron.
“Yes! Yes, I can feel it! You’ve improved immensely! Oh, merciful Lord Prince, I surrender!” The Sorting Hat wailed.
Satisfied, Ian released it, letting the hat flop back into place, thoroughly drenched.
“Honestly, first-years shouldn’t be praising Merlin, they should be praising me. I’m single-handedly upholding the cleanliness and well-being of this castle.”
While his words carried a trace of self-congratulation, they weren’t entirely untrue. The Sorting Hat was undeniably cleaner than it had been before.
“See? The headmaster’s office maintenance is practically my responsibility now,” Ian remarked as he continued tidying up with a few flicks of his wand, sending books and parchment floating back to their proper places.
He had to admit, Dumbledore’s collection was truly something to behold. Beyond rare tomes on the most obscure branches of magic, there were countless academic journals and periodicals, many of which bore Dumbledore’s own articles.
In fact, the sheer volume of his published work was staggering. Even in recent years, his output had only increased, not declined. Ian could flip through almost any issue and find yet another groundbreaking magical theory penned by the headmaster.
If the wizarding world had an equivalent to the prestigious scholarly journals of Muggle academia, Dumbledore wasn’t just featured in them, he was practically keeping them in business.
“Old Dumbles is holding up half the magical academic world on his own,” Ian mused, beginning to grasp that Dumbledore’s influence extended far beyond his legendary dueling skills. His contributions to magical scholarship were just as vital to his legacy.
It was also, Ian suspected, why the headmaster was so absurdly wealthy.
Glancing at the rare, enchanted artifacts scattered throughout the office, Ian couldn’t help but admire the sheer value of the collection. If he were the thieving type, he might have been sorely tempted to pocket something.
He continued working, his gaze briefly landing on a solid gold ornament.
“Wrong shade,” He murmured to himself. “Michael’s got the right color, but he clearly doesn’t appreciate the significance of having the right kind of gold.”
He moved on, tidying up a bit more before discovering a small bundle of leftover food near Dumbledore’s bedside. Apparently, the headmaster had a habit of keeping snacks close at hand.
Never one to waste good food, Ian carefully packed it up into a small bag, a personal creation of his, designed specifically for storing leftover meals.
With an admirable sense of thrift, he decided to set it aside for Ron next year. If nothing else, it would save the Weasley boy from worrying about feeding Scabbers ever again.
“Having a senior like me is sheer good fortune for the younger students.” Ian’s cleaning efforts were anything but quiet; he scrubbed with such enthusiasm that even the enchanted portraits lining the walls gleamed under a fresh coat of polish and wax.
This, of course, did not go unnoticed by the former headmasters and headmistresses, who had been dozing or at least pretending to.
“What in Merlin’s name is he doing?”
“Looks like he’s cleaning Dumbledore’s office.”
“Is the little wizard planning to move in already? Bit ambitious, isn’t it?”
“I knew it! Dumbledore’s finally been carted off to Azkaban! That’s the only way this boy could have taken over the Headmaster’s office!”
“Nonsense, McGonagall would never allow it—”
“Then she must be in Azkaban too! Honestly, Gryffindors belong there! Except for us Slytherins, of course. Any new Headmaster ought to be locked up on principle!”
…
The last voice, the loudest and most persistent, undoubtedly belonged to a Slytherin headmaster from the past, and Ian had long since grown wary of Slytherin rhetoric.
“Headmaster,” He called sweetly, “Would you like a little gift for your portrait this Christmas? Perhaps a house-elf assistant— no, no, I know! A particularly lifelike Inferius maid to keep you company!”
Ian pulled out the rough sketch he had doodled in class. The artistic merit was questionable at best.
The reaction, however, was immediate. The portraits scattered in a frenzy, fleeing their frames as though the very sketch might hex them. The Slytherin headmaster in question paled, disappearing from sight faster than any of the others.
No one wanted to be the last to flee. The latecomer might just find themselves immortalized in oil paint with Ian’s cursed creation.
“A shame,” Ian muttered, tucking away his masterpiece. Just as he turned to buff the wooden bench for Dumbledore, the office door creaked open.
Albus Dumbledore stepped inside, looking exhausted. Ian barely had time to register his expression before the Sorting Hat, which had been slumped lifelessly on a chair, sprang to life.
“Dumbledore! Finally! It’s this one!” The hat practically vibrated with outrage. “This little menace has been running amok in your office, committing all manner of mischief! The portraits and I have suffered dreadfully!”
It was positively breathless with indignation.
“He hasn’t done anything of the sort,” One portrait huffed.
“Yes, perhaps the Sorting Hat is mistaken,” Another added with amusement.
“Will it even survive another year?” Someone muttered.
Despite the Sorting Hat’s best efforts to rally support, the former headmasters seemed disinclined to join its cause. Unlike the Hat, they had once been human, after all, with a modicum of sense.
The Sorting Hat, on the other hand, lacked such wisdom. It also, apparently, lacked the foresight to fear an enraged Ian returning to settle a grudge.
“That’s enough of that,” Dumbledore sighed, looking distracted as he seized the sopping-wet Sorting Hat and unceremoniously stuffed it into a cabinet.
Ian, however, had noticed something else, the back of Dumbledore’s robes were stained with blood.
“Merlin’s beard, Headmaster,” Ian blurted, “Just what were you and our dear Defence Against the Dark Arts professor doing in the underground chamber?” His mind raced. He had a strong suspicion that Professor Ronnie Ehrlich had not fared well.
Dumbledore closed the cabinet and turned, his expression unreadable.
“Ronnie Ehrlich is still alive.” His voice was calm, but Ian felt a shiver crawl down his spine.
“That,” Dumbledore continued gravely, “Is precisely the problem. No matter how many times he dies, he returns. It appears he has achieved a state of unnatural immortality.”
Ian suddenly felt very cold.
He could well imagine the two old wizards, locked in battle deep below the castle, testing every conceivable means of undoing Ronnie Ehrlich’s twisted existence.
This truly was a most sinister affair.
“So, what does this mean?” Ian resisted the urge to let his imagination spiral out of control; what mattered most was whether the two extraordinary wizards had discovered anything useful.
“It means that he is not truly alive; his current ‘existence’ is an illusion.” Albus Dumbledore stood before the cabinet, speaking plainly.
Without preamble, he explained to the young wizard, “Ronnie Ehrlich’s memory ceased at the moment he received a letter from our Defence Against the Dark Arts professor. Of course, the letter itself was a forgery— but that detail is secondary. What matters is the exact moment his memory last stopped.”
“At that point, Ronnie Ehrlich had neither been attacked nor being killed, yet it was then that he was drawn into Hogwarts’ underground chamber.”
Despite Dumbledore’s explanation, Ian still felt as though he were grasping at smoke.
“But we saw his body.”
Ian frowned. More than that, when he had first entered that strange underground chamber, there had been no sign of Ronnie Ehrlich lurking within.
Dumbledore nodded. “That’s correct; the body we found was the real Ronnie Ehrlich.”
His increasingly cryptic responses made Ian feel as if he were morphing into a Confunded Puffskein.
“Then what was the one in the underground chamber? A duplicate? A homunculus?” Ian stretched his imagination to its limits, struggling to connect the mystery of Ronnie Ehrlich with some form of arcane wizarding alchemy.
“It is a fragment of fate that has been severed,” Dumbledore murmured. “It has neither past nor future; it neither lives nor truly dies. At the moment Ronnie Ehrlich read that letter, what was taken from him was not his body, but a portion of his fate itself.” He let out a quiet sigh.
Dumbledore returned to his desk, setting out three cups and beginning to brew tea.
“So this is why he cannot leave the underground chamber?” Ian’s eyes widened in dawning horror. “Because he isn’t a real person? He only continues to exist under specific conditions?”
A cold shiver crept down Ian’s spine. Dumbledore’s words reminded him of the darkest wizarding tales, the kind where souls were siphoned away without anyone ever realizing it.
“I believe you must have examined his memories,” Dumbledore continued. “What they reveal is the infinite branching of fate— of countless possibilities woven together and then collapsed into the Ronnie Ehrlich we now see.”
It was clear that the old headmaster had scrutinized the unfortunate professor’s mind and had noticed Ian’s own magical signature within.
“Why did Salazar Slytherin do this? What was his aim?” Ian ruffled his hair in frustration, struggling to make sense of the ancient founder’s motives.
“Perhaps it was to showcase his mastery over magic,” Dumbledore mused. “After all, he walked closer to the divine than most dare. Or perhaps this was merely another experiment, one in which we are all unwitting participants.”
“At least, that is the theory of our Defence Against the Dark Arts professor.”
He smiled faintly. “But I hold enough reverence for our founder to believe there may be another reason. Perhaps this was his way of imparting knowledge to you.”
There was a note of uncertainty in his voice.
Even the greatest wizard of the age was not omniscient.
“But what does Ronnie Ehrlich’s situation have to do with me?” Ian murmured, raising his hand to examine the rune upon his skin.
The mark of the Ouroboros shimmered faintly, pulsing as though it were breathing.
“No, your experience is inextricably linked to his; or rather, it is precisely because of Ronnie Ehrlich’s existence that you and I are able to converse here at this very moment.”
Albus Dumbledore strode toward the washbasin, turned on the tap, and rinsed his face, then used a quiet incantation to cleanse the bloodstains from the back of his robes.
“Ian, can you tell me what you did after witnessing my argument with Aberforth?” Dumbledore’s sudden question made Ian shift uncomfortably.
It was an awkward sort of feeling, like being caught sneaking a pumpkin pasty from the Hogwarts Express trolley without paying.
“I saw the Weasley twins and Peeves causing a ruckus, and then Professor Snape found me and put me to work as a cleaner.”
“Because of Professor Snape’s sheer pettiness, I inadvertently stumbled into that underground chamber, and when I finally left, I found this mark on my hand.”
“At the time, I didn’t think much of it and went back to cleaning the bathrooms. It wasn’t until morning that our Ravenclaw common room door knocker told me that this was something connected to Slytherin.”
“It said I had been ‘chosen’ by Slytherin and also mentioned that Slytherin had been researching some rather deep and obscure magic.” Ian recounted his experience in full detail.
Of course, he took certain liberties in his telling, but none that altered the core of what had happened.
“An accidental discovery?”
Dumbledore wiped his face with a towel and turned to Ian with a knowing look, but he did not press the matter further.
“I shall speak to your door-knocker to understand the situation more clearly. However, it was not mistaken; this is indeed a profound form of magic, one that we wizards ought not to meddle with lightly.”
There was a wistful note in Dumbledore’s voice.
“I assume you aren’t just referring to time loops?” Ian noted how the old headmaster was smoothing his hair, an unusual gesture, as though he wanted to compose himself.
“Indeed, Mr. Prince, a very astute observation.” Dumbledore returned to his desk, settled himself in his chair, and placed his half-moon spectacles back onto his nose.
“As I mentioned earlier, our meeting at this moment is something that should not have happened. This, too, is but a possibility of fate.”
Dumbledore’s voice was measured, yet it carried undeniable weight.
He did not speak loudly. But his words sent ripples through Ian’s mind, each one deepening his sense of unease.
“You mean…”
Ian could already guess what Dumbledore was implying, but the thought was so staggering that he hesitated to say it aloud. It was even more bewildering than a time loop.
“Yes, child, it is precisely what you are thinking.” Dumbledore’s voice remained steady. “Professor Ronnie Ehrlich’s condition is not unique to him. It is the condition of all of us at this very moment— except for you.”
Ian felt the chill settle into his bones.
“Not only has he been reduced to a fragment of fate that has been severed, but everything you are experiencing now is merely another piece of fate that has been cut away.”
“Of course, our circumstances differ from his,” Dumbledore continued. “We exist as possibilities yet unrealized, while Ronnie Ehrlich embodies all the possibilities that have already been exhausted.”
“He is the linchpin holding this entire… realm together. We do not yet fully understand the mechanisms of this magic, but one thing is clear: he is the key to your escape and your return to the proper course of time.”
Dumbledore spoke with such calm certainty that it made the statement all the more unsettling.
“This is madness!”
Ian could hardly fathom magic that defied even the fundamental principles of existence itself. He raised his hand, staring at the rune on his skin.
“So I’m not actually caught in a time loop?”
Ian’s confusion was met with a slow shake of Dumbledore’s head.
“It is fate, and it is time.”
“You will indeed experience time loops, but what you are experiencing is not the true past for you; it is merely those various possibilities that have not been anchored at the correct moment.”
“There is a limit. From the Christmas you keep mentioning, today marks exactly forty-nine days. Our founder has gathered the unanchored fates that have not occurred within this span.”
“So, to break the cycle, in my view, you need to allow time to flow correctly once more. Our Defence Against the Dark Arts professor believes we must still uncover the true way to destroy Professor Ronnie Ehrlich. Once we eliminate the core of this enchanted realm, it will naturally collapse.”
Every word Albus Dumbledore spoke sent tremors through Ian’s heart, yet he remained strangely composed, unlike what one might expect.
Grindelwald was the same.
It was unsettling to imagine how the two of them had stood in the underground chamber, calmly deliberating how to end everyone, including themselves. For if Ian shattered the cycle, everything here would cease to exist, and all the loops they had endured would fade as though they had never happened at all.
In the living world, they would continue to exist.
But here, they would all revert to what they truly were: fragments unanchored by fate, mere possibilities discarded by history.
“This is far more terrifying than simply tampering with time,” Ian murmured. “Headmaster Dumbledore, I don’t mean to doubt your judgment, but is there any chance that Salazar Slytherin has deceived you?”
Ian swallowed hard. In this life and the last, he had never encountered such an impossible predicament, nor had he ever faced such formidable figures as Grindelwald and Dumbledore.
“There is no mistake, child. The confirmation came precisely from what our Defence Against the Dark Arts professor saw in the corridor,” Dumbledore said as he poured tea into three cups, steam curling in a delicate mist.
“I borrowed the principles of the Resurrection Stone and then harnessed the aid of the Patronus Charm,” Ian admitted. At this point, there was no longer any reason to keep Grindelwald’s secret.
Besides, the moment his Patronus Charm had reached maturity, concealment had become meaningless.
“Ian, I believe you possess talents and powers beyond our comprehension. However, even though I do not understand all of your secrets, I do understand the world I have lived in for over a century.”
“The boundary between life and death is vast. Even if you used the Patronus Charm to summon a soul from beyond, to let it wander the corridor for so long, it should have been an immense strain.”
“Your magical reserves are not yet strong enough to sustain it for that length of time,” Dumbledore explained patiently, one of the few wizards who could so openly critique Ian’s magical abilities.
“Is that what you call evidence?” Ian asked, realization dawning.
Sure enough.
“Precisely. Unless the place we are in is not truly the mortal realm, but rather something perilously close to the edge of death itself, only then would you be able to achieve this so effortlessly.”
Dumbledore’s tone was light, as though he had already come to terms with the revelation. His gaze rested briefly on the elder wood wand faintly visible within Ian’s robes.
Ian understood instantly.
“Expecto Patronum!”
A warm, ethereal mist unfurled from the tip of his wand, silver threads coalescing in the air. At first, the shape was indistinct, no more than a shifting, spectral blur, its outline vaguely resembling a scarecrow.
But then—
As Ian poured more of his magic into it, the figure became clearer, its form and features sharpening with startling definition.
The air in the office grew still. Not a sound broke the silence.
Albus Dumbledore even held his breath, his usual composure slipping away; the light in his eyes burned with an intensity never seen before.
“How I wish this dream would never end.”
His lips trembled, his voice carrying an unfamiliar fragility.
When he saw the figure before him— unchanged, untouched by time, exactly as he remembered, tears spilled freely down the old professor’s face.
“Ian? Has it been two days over there? Is your Christmas still not over?” The girl opened her eyes, immediately recognizing Ian, who was still reeling from the revelations moments before.
“So, no present for me to unwrap?” She glanced around before her gaze fell upon Albus Dumbledore, who had risen to his feet, his lips parting in silence, unable to form words.
At first, her expression held only mild confusion. But then, she seemed to recognize the familiar features in the weary yet distinguished face before her.
“Albus? Is that you, brother?”
She drifted toward him.
Unexpectedly, the professor who had faced death itself without flinching instinctively stepped back, nearly stumbling over the wooden leg of a chair.
Fortunately, Ariana caught his arm before he could fall.
“Ari… Anna…”
His voice cracked as if disbelief had dried his throat. A trembling hand reached out, uncertain, toward Ariana’s youthful face.
“It’s me, Albus.” Ariana lifted a hand to wipe away the tears streaking down his lined face, her fingers ghosting over the deep creases left by time.
“Albus, life must have been cruel to you.” She embraced him, and the reproach he had long dreaded never came.
His body shuddered.
He hesitated, his hands hovering in the air, torn between the weight of guilt, regret, and the desperate yearning to hold his sister once more.
“You have spent a lifetime redeeming yourself, Professor,” Ian spoke not as a judge, but as one who understood what Albus Dumbledore needed to hear in that moment.
“I must say,” Dumbledore murmured, looking at Ian, “Compared to Slytherin, your magic is the true… miracle.”
He could not begin to fathom the depths of the magic Ian had woven.
But in that instant— seeing Ariana again, knowing he could reach out and touch her, Dumbledore felt something stir within him. A fire, long buried beneath the weight of past mistakes, roared to life.
He understood now. Understood exactly what he must do.
“You must leave this place! Ian Prince, even if Salazar Slytherin himself seeks to ensnare you, I will see to it that you return to where you belong!”
“No one will stop this! Not even a legend a thousand years in the making!”
The old professor’s voice, though still hoarse with emotion, rang with unshakable resolve.
(End Of This Chapter)
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