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The next day.
Outside the Headmaster’s office at Hogwarts.
Ian, who had just emerged from the office early that morning, looked utterly drained, as if someone had siphoned away most of his magic. It was a telltale sign of severe magical exhaustion.
This didn’t mean he was incapable of casting spells, but with his magic so depleted, controlling it felt like trudging through thick molasses. Sometimes, such exhaustion could even lead to wild misfires, turning an unfortunate wizard into an unintentional explosive expert, much like Seamus Finnigan.
Of course, Ian wasn’t at risk of losing control to that degree. Still, the worst part for him was simply having to muster the energy to attend classes after pulling an all-nighter.
—
In the Great Hall.
At the Ravenclaw table, he sat before a spread of breakfast dishes, though he barely seemed aware of them. The other students had begun to take notice. Some of the younger Ravenclaws and even a few older ones exchanged curious whispers.
“The little professor didn’t hold our session last night. Look at him— sunken cheeks, dead on his feet. What happened?”
“It’s obvious! He’s in love. My older brother looked exactly like that when he was smitten. Meanwhile, my sister practically glowed when she had a crush, it’s completely unfair.”
“I bet someone slipped him a love potion.”
“What? Why didn’t you tell me that was an option sooner? Wait a second, if you know about it, doesn’t that mean you’ve used it before? You’re the real little schemer here!”
“Stop prattling! Try this, it’s delicious!”
“Oi! That’s my cream cake!”
—
It was all playing out just as Ian remembered, aside from the ridiculous rumors swirling around him. Most events were unfolding with only the slightest deviations from what he had experienced before. Nothing dramatic, but still, it wasn’t a perfect repetition— certainly not a scripted replay, like some enchanted version of ‘Happy Death Day.’
“Even if the only change was a single missing gherkin, would that still count as a twist of fate at just the right moment?” Ian stared blankly at the food on his plate.
At eleven years old, he had never imagined he’d be setting aside thoughts of boosting his health with ginseng tea and dragonberry infusions, only to ponder such deeply philosophical questions instead.
As for how to break this strange cycle, he was still working that part out. He wasn’t the type to pin his hopes on someone else swooping in with the answers. After all, relying on fate, powerful allies, or even Hogwarts itself was never as dependable as relying on one’s own wits.
“If there can’t be any deviations at all, then what Dumbledore always says about letting time run its proper course is something not even a resurrected Merlin could guarantee.”
“After all, even just biting into an apple means breaking its skin, there’s no way that wouldn’t cause some variation.” Ian bit into an apple as if to test his own theory.
“Of course, Professor Morgan always said that time has a way of smoothing out minor inconsistencies under the weight of destiny. So maybe Dumbledore’s real lesson is simply to avoid making catastrophic errors?”
Despite nibbling on some fruit and pudding, Ian found he couldn’t eat much more. No wonder people wasted away under stress, worry could certainly kill an appetite.
“What’s with you? Why are you eating so little?”
William, taking advantage of Ian’s distraction, reached for the special spicy sauce and slathered it over his already peanut butter-covered toast, watching Ian with a mix of curiosity and concern.
With a sincere expression, he looked at Ian, even forgetting to pass the spicy sauce he had just used to his other roommate, Michael. If anyone was born for the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, it was him, his performance was so seamless that even the most seasoned wizarding dramatists would struggle to match it.
“Just something on my mind, and Dumbledore drained my magic,” Ian muttered weakly. He idly prodded at the fruit peels he had gnawed off and spat out onto his plate with his fork. It was a small, absentminded habit— one that many older wizards would have liked to master but never quite managed.
“Merlin’s beard! Dumbledore drained you? I— I heard nothing! I refuse to listen!” Michael exclaimed, covering his ears in exaggerated horror.
Sitting a few places down, he had clearly misheard Ian’s words. As he stuffed a leftover chicken leg into his mouth, his expression twisted into pure shock, like someone who had just walked into a Boggart-infested wardrobe.
And as if that weren’t enough, Barry, another Ravenclaw, had already begun muttering, “Ah, the venerable old warlock of Britain, as expected…” No doubt Hogwarts would soon be abuzz with yet another absurd rumor.
But Ian couldn’t be bothered.
After all, if he didn’t make it to Christmas, everything that happened now would simply reset. Even if some wild tale spread about him secretly raising a child with Snape, it wouldn’t matter in the end.
“Resisting the urge to mess around with fate proves that my self-restraint isn’t weaker than Dumbledore’s,” Ian thought, giving himself a silent nod of approval.
Then—
“Cough! Cough!”
William, sitting beside him, turned scarlet as he choked violently, spewing out bits of half-chewed sandwich.
“This— this sauce is cursed!”
Desperately, he gulped down three cups of water, but the fire on his tongue refused to die down.
“It’s not cursed,” Ian said without looking up, still absentmindedly toying with his fruit peels. “It’s just an infusion of Deathcap Chilies from the Carrow Greenhouses.” He slid a glass of milk towards William without a second thought.
The drink had been sitting in front of Ian untouched, clearly, he had never intended to drink it himself.
“Why would you even make something this devilishly spicy?!” William gasped after finally managing to take a sip. The milk, enhanced with a soothing potion, worked its magic almost instantly, and the red flush on his face began to fade.
“I don’t eat it. I made it for you.” Ian smirked slightly. He knew all too well that William would devour his spicy sauce, leading to an inevitable shortage by dinnertime.
After all, he had already lived through this moment before.
Hearing their conversation, Michael discreetly put down the suspiciously red bread roll he had been eyeing. Meanwhile, Little Black, one of the school’s mischievous resident Kneazles, scampered over to Ian and, with surprising precision, nudged the spicy sauce back towards him with both paws.
“You actually anticipated that I’d try to steal your precious sauce? That’s eerie,” William said, blinking in surprise, his expression perfectly reminiscent of a stunned Ron Weasley.
“I not only knew you’d take my sauce,” Ian replied, his voice carrying a knowing edge, “but I also know that in about ten seconds, that Gryffindor seventh-year over there will get slapped by his girlfriend. And then, her furious little admirer will march over and jinx him in the— well, you’ll see.”
Normally, Ian didn’t pay much attention to Hogwarts gossip. But some incidents were just too memorable to forget.
And besides, in this peculiar time loop, it didn’t matter what he revealed, when the cycle reset, no one would remember a word of it.
Everything seemed to be unfolding exactly as it should.
And yet, according to Dumbledore’s theory, nothing he did would leave any lasting trace.
“I don’t believe it!”
William stared intently at the Gryffindor table.
“I don’t believe it either!”
Michael joined in, his eyes just as wide with disbelief.
Of course, his mouth didn’t stop moving, he was still shoveling food absentmindedly, not even looking at what he was grabbing with his fork.
“Surely, this kind of scene doesn’t actually happen, right?”
The two of them continued watching in the direction Ian had indicated. As the minutes of breakfast trickled by, just as they were about to complain that Ian had tricked them—
‘Slap!’
A blonde-haired girl stormed up to a Gryffindor seventh-year and smacked him hard across the face before turning on her heel and stalking off. The poor seventh-year barely had time to process what had happened before—
‘Thwack!’
Another girl marched over and, just as Ian had predicted, raised her foot and kicked him square in the groin, leaving him doubled over like a crumpled Puking Pastille victim.
From across the hall, shouts of “Two-timing rat!” and “Cheating scoundrel!” echoed.
Honestly, Ian almost felt sorry for the bloke. From a certain perspective, the Gryffindor seventh-year was actually quite ‘consistent’ in his affections.
Blonde hair, long legs, and an oval face.
Over the next few days, every girl who would come forward to expose his misdeeds would, coincidentally, match those exact three traits. If anything, wasn’t that a ‘different’ kind of devotion?
“Unbelievable!”
Michael and William gawked.
“How did you know?”
William immediately turned to Ian.
“My dear friend, isn’t it obvious? The answer is simple— it’s a prophecy! You never expected it, did you? The boy sleeping in the bed next to you is actually a Seer, hidden among the crowd.” Ian smirked, deciding to take a page out of Dumbledore’s book and try doing things differently this time around.
None of the younger students knew exactly what the old Headmaster was trying to accomplish, but striking a dramatic pose, standing up, and walking away with an air of mystery, leaving behind two utterly dumbfounded roommates was undeniably satisfying.
—
The greatest enemy of humanity is time. Even though Ian was trapped in a seemingly endless cycle, he still found that statement painfully true. So he decided to skip his first lesson of the morning, Flying and disappear into the Room of Requirement instead.
Since everything would reset eventually, House points no longer held any real meaning. It was better to spend time on things that actually mattered.
“It’s not that I lack discipline,” Ian muttered to himself, examining the raw Resurrection Stones he had gathered for processing. “It’s just that Albus Dumbledore has no imagination. He told me to try things I normally wouldn’t do and yet, he rejected my ‘brilliant’ suggestion to blow up the Department of Mysteries.”
As he worked, Ian absentmindedly patted the quivering Dementor beside him. He had noticed it was becoming increasingly adept at understanding human speech.
“Relax, I’m not going to blow ‘you’ up. And I’m certainly not going to blow up my own Hogwarts.” He chuckled, sensing that not only had the Dementor settled down, but the very atmosphere of the Room of Requirement seemed to shift in response.
“Professor Morgan only said I ‘can’t’ handle her power yet, she never said I ‘wouldn’t’ be able to handle it in the future. And Pandero…” Ian murmured, turning the stone over in his palm. “Well, Pandero ought to have a ring of his own.”
“He might even crown me, proving my legitimacy… That greedy bugger has eaten enough of my chocolate bars and crisps, he owes me a sweet reward at the very least.” Ian muttered to himself as he meticulously engraved runes of death magic onto the raw Resurrection Stones. Merlin only knew what kind of secret society the students of Hogwarts were trying to form.
Time pressed on.
The little wizards were all hard at work.
After about an hour and a half, Ian stopped his rune-carving at exactly the right moment. He checked the time, gave the Dementor instructions to clean a few more cauldrons, and then left the Room of Requirement.
Flying class had ended, and next up was Snape’s Potions lesson. Even though Ian had long stopped caring about House points, he still had to attend. Otherwise, Snape would make his life unbearable.
This time, he wasn’t late.
And, most importantly, he successfully partnered with Aurora.
Many little details had changed.
But one thing remained constant, Professor Snape’s sharp tongue and relentless criticism.
“Your potion lacks the most essential ingredient: focus. The cockroach carapace is chopped far too coarsely, affecting both the colour and potency of your mixture.”
“Mr. Prince, is your arrogance so vast that you think you can get away with this level of carelessness? Ha, I daresay even—” Snape was about to sneer that even Knockturn Alley wouldn’t sell such rubbish, but—
“Here, this bottle is finely cut.”
Ian promptly handed over a second vial, making Snape falter slightly. His expression flickered with surprise before he attempted to shift into a fresh round of criticism.
One round of commentary later—
Before Snape could even reach his usual brand of sarcasm, Ian handed over yet another corrected sample. Snape’s face grew paler as he finally snapped, his voice laced with irritation.
“Are you ‘toying’ with me?”
A few flecks of spit flew, but Ian smoothly dodged them.
“Of course not, Professor. Upon completing my first potion, I immediately reflected on the shortcomings you pointed out. Shouldn’t that be cause for immense satisfaction on your part?”
Ian’s tone was earnest, his expression completely serious. But his voice was just loud enough to catch the attention of their fellow students from Ravenclaw and Slytherin.
Snape opened his mouth.
He could sense that Ian was being insufferably cheeky, but frustratingly, he couldn’t find a flaw in his reasoning.
“Redo it!”
In the end, rather than acknowledging Ian’s logic or attempting a proper counter, Severus Snape resorted to the simplest, most infuriating response.
It was, in many ways, a very ‘Snape’ thing to do.
“Sorry, Professor. I’m out of ingredients.” Ian shrugged, utterly unconcerned. His robes were unbuttoned, revealing pockets stuffed to the brim with neatly bottled potions which would be more than enough for the entire class.
“What—?! When did you even brew all this?” Snape’s expression shifted dramatically as he stormed toward the ingredient cupboard, only to find—
Empty shelves.
The cupboard had been raided, and he ‘hadn’t even noticed.’
“I didn’t break any rules, it was all done during class.” Ian smirked, watching as Snape’s sharp gaze landed on Aurora.
Aurora, reacting to the intensity of the moment, scuttled out from beneath the table and yanked a wooden box into view.
“A Seamless Extension Charm…”
Snape’s face was priceless.
Inside the box sat more than twenty miniature cauldrons, neatly arranged, each one bubbling with an identical potion. Even more impressively, Ian had enchanted a small air-purification charm around the setup to prevent Snape from catching wind of it earlier.
“Not my doing! I had ‘nothing’ to do with this!” Aurora instantly raised her hands in surrender.
“…”
Snape’s mood was truly complicated. Brewing so many cauldrons of potions at once, while not particularly complex formulas was still an incredibly difficult feat. Many accomplished potioneers would struggle to maintain the quality of their potions while handling multiple brews simultaneously, yet a first-year student had managed to do just that.
He ought to feel proud. Even impressed.
However.
No matter how hard he tried to school his expression, the best Snape could manage was a grimace of barely restrained irritation.
“Even if your potions aren’t completely botched, Hogwarts does not need this many bottles of Skelegro!” Snape snapped, slamming his desk in frustration.
“But what if they’re needed, Professor? No one can predict the future, can they?” Aurora interjected, raising her hand with a calm, innocent expression. Snape shot her a withering look but, notably, did not retort.
There are some things that wizards might not dare to say.
But witches were a different matter entirely.
He was the head of Slytherin House, he knew his own students. With a sharp flick of his robes, the great bat of the dungeons stalked away, choosing to turn his ire on some other unfortunate students instead.
“Brilliant move! That was perfect!” Ian slid back into his seat beside Aurora, giving her a discreet thumbs-up.
“You could have easily brewed a flawless batch of Skelegro. Why did you make so many defective ones? Was it just to irritate your uncle?” Aurora asked, tilting her head in curiosity.
“Obviously, it was because… well, Dumbledore told me to,” Ian said smoothly. He certainly wasn’t about to admit he’d done it just for the fun of needling Snape, Dumbledore’s name made for a perfect excuse.
“Oh?” Aurora nodded thoughtfully, as if this made perfect sense. Truthfully, Ian had simply anticipated Snape’s inevitable retaliation and decided to make the first move.
Sure enough.
After class ended.
Just as Ian remembered, Snape held him back.
“I understand, Professor. You wanted to remind me not to use magic while cleaning the toilets, so I suppose I’ll need to do them again tonight,” Ian preemptively stated.
“???”
Snape, robbed of his chance to deliver the punishment himself, looked momentarily thrown. Fortunately, he had more than one plan in mind, and he swiftly adapted.
“Since you’ve grown so fond of meddling, you can polish all the lavatories. I’ve taken extra precautions to ensure—”
Snape’s words faltered when Ian, without waiting for further instruction, reached under the teacher’s desk and pulled out a large bucket of polish he had already prepared. That strange, nagging feeling Snape had been suppressing since the beginning of class flared up again.
“What is wrong with you?!” He finally burst out, suspicion clear in his voice.
Ian offered no answer, merely lifting the bucket and striding off, leaving Snape behind with only the sight of his retreating figure.
Of course.
Unlike Snape and the rest of Hogwarts, who were left reeling in confusion, Ian already knew what was coming next. Snape, rather than chasing after him, would instead head straight to the Great Hall to find Ian’s two unsuspecting roommates.
And sure enough, moments later—
“Tell me! What in Merlin’s name is going on with Prince?” Snape’s deep, silken voice carried an unmistakable edge of menace as he loomed over William and Michael. The sheer force of his presence alone had them trembling like a pair of frightened puffskeins.
“We— we can’t betray our friend, Professor,” William stammered, attempting to summon some Gryffindor-worthy courage.
“Yeah, that’d be downright dishonorable,” Michael added, though his voice wavered as he swallowed hard.
“Ah. How admirable, such steadfast loyalty,” Snape murmured. “However, I do hope your resolve is as strong as your friendship. After all, you do realize that, as a student of Ravenclaw House, you should be quite familiar with a certain branch of magic known as Legilimency.”
The color drained from William’s face.
Michael made a strangled squeaking noise.
“I am not particularly skilled at it,” Snape continued in a slow, deliberate drawl, “so I cannot guarantee there won’t be… errors. Amnesia, confusion, a regrettable lapse in intelligence— well, I suppose that would be the best-case scenario.”
Michael went stark white.
William’s terrified expression suggested he was rapidly reconsidering his earlier bravado.
“You can’t do that, Professor! You’ll end up in Azkaban!” William blurted out, but his voice was swallowed by the steady hum of chatter in the Great Hall.
“Oh? Shall we make a wager, then?” Snape drawled, lifting his wand ever so slightly. That was all it took. The two boys broke.
“It’s prophecy! Professor! Ian’s got the Sight! He said he’s a hidden Seer among the students!” William, weighing his options, chose to betray his friend— survival first, loyalty second.
It wasn’t like this was a secret. Ian had been going on about it for months—three hundred and sixty times, to be precise. They had counted. It was only recently that he’d stopped bringing it up.
“Prophecy? A Seer?”
Snape’s wand froze mid-air. His expression tightened as something unspoken flickered behind his dark eyes. Then, without another word, he whirled around and strode out of the Great Hall, black robes billowing behind him.
William and Michael exchanged glances before, inevitably, curiosity got the better of them.
“Should we follow him?” Michael asked.
“Do you even have to ask?” William grabbed him by the sleeve and dragged him towards the dungeons.
They peered around a corner, watching Snape’s every move.
Inside his office, Snape swiftly retrieved two locks of hair, one golden, one black and disappeared into his private laboratory. The telltale scent of potion-brewing soon filled the air.
“That has to be Miss Grindelwald’s and Ian’s hair,” Michael muttered.
William gasped as realization struck. “It all makes sense! It all makes sense!”
…
Their covert operation remained unnoticed. Meanwhile, Ian was tucked away in a dimly lit corridor, glancing around with deliberate care. He knew exactly who he was waiting for.
A few moments later, accompanied by the unmistakable stench of garlic, a nervous figure approached.
Quirrell.
Ian tightened his grip on the device in his hand. Timing was everything.
The instant Quirrell stepped onto the marked section of the floor—
“Boom!”
A controlled explosion sent the professor flying, his turbaned head slamming into the ceiling before he came crashing down again. Ian had to admit, he might have enjoyed that a little too much.
Dumbledore had only forbidden him from blowing up the Department of Mysteries. He hadn’t said anything about certain Defense professors.
“Professor Quirrell is on the ceiling,” An awed voice remarked from behind.
Ian didn’t flinch.
“Yeah, I wonder who could’ve done that,” he mused, eyes never leaving the crumpled professor. His wand was already raised, waiting for any sign that Voldemort’s soul would reveal itself.
After all, his real plan wasn’t just to ambush Quirrell. It was to force Voldemort’s presence out and then immediately incinerate him with a well-placed Incendio. A simple plan, really.
But nothing happened.
Even after being thrown against the ceiling and landing hard enough to bruise his tailbone, Quirrell showed no reaction beyond pain and embarrassment.
Voldemort could really endure.
No wonder he had almost conquered the wizarding world.
“Pity. Looks like you didn’t get what you wanted,” The voice behind him said again, except this time, it was different. Deeper. More knowing.
A chill ran down Ian’s spine.
“You tricked me with a voice charm! Professor! You’re the real shady one here!” Ian turned sharply, suspicion etched across his face.
There, clad in deep green robes, stood Professor Arthur King, the alchemy master.
“That’s called human transfiguration, my boy,” Kin said smoothly, his throat visibly shifting as he reverted to his usual voice.
Ian narrowed his eyes. “Weren’t you in the library?”
“I was just about to go.”
Ian frowned. That was unexpected. He had specifically remembered meeting Professor Kin in the library. The professor was supposed to be there. What had changed?
Professor King smiled, as if reading his thoughts. “Have a pleasant day, Ian.”
Ian, still watching him warily, gave a slow nod. “You too.”
Quirrell, meanwhile, had begun scrambling towards a hidden passage, clearly eager to escape.
Professor King didn’t stop him.
He took a few steps away, but then, as if an afterthought, he turned back to Ian.
“However, I fear you might not have such a pleasant day…” Professor King’s voice was almost playful, but there was something unsettling beneath it. “Remember, I once offered you help? I wonder— do you regret refusing me now?”
His words hung heavy in the corridor.
A statement.
A warning.
Perhaps even a promise.
(End of Chapter)
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