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Ian never expected this.
He’d only meant to give a thoughtful two-in-one Christmas present, but Aurora had responded by handing over an entire wizarding vault, one that Grindelwald had hidden away in a secure magical repository somewhere in Northern Europe.
A clever niffler always knows more than one burrow; was this ancient fortune being saved for a grand return? Ian couldn’t quite make sense of it.
All he knew was that this gift was far too complicated and far too valuable. Even with his rather flexible interpretation of wizarding ethics, he found himself uneasy about keeping the enchanted key once he learned the truth.
“We have to follow the law; theft is still theft, Aurora,” Ian blurted out, hurriedly trying to return the key as though it were cursed or red-hot.
“With my grandfather’s silent approval, it hardly counts as stealing,” Aurora replied, not even glancing at the key as she continued picking at her plate with infuriating calm.
“You don’t honestly think I could take something like this from my grandfather without him noticing, do you?” Her tone was level, her manner composed; clearly, this German witch was far more pragmatic than most of the young wizards he knew.
“But…”
Ian was still wavering. He didn’t outright contradict Aurora; from what he understood of Grindelwald, that old warlock was every bit as sharp and enigmatic as Albus Dumbledore.
If Dumbledore could unravel secrets from the tiniest turn of phrase, then Grindelwald, who is just as experienced and just as dangerous, could certainly glean much from Aurora’s behaviour alone.
He wouldn’t need Seer blood to know what was going on. Wizards like him didn’t require crystal balls to perceive hidden motives, they had years of insight and layers of cunning that could peel a soul apart like parchment. There was no way Grindelwald didn’t know.
And besides—
There was no chance a vault key of this calibre wasn’t protected by some sort of magical wards. Just as Ian debated whether to press the matter, Aurora looked up and met his gaze with her mismatched eyes, one glinting like stormlight, the other deep and steady.
“My friend, would you have me press my warm face against your icy backside?” She said quietly, but her words sent a chill of familiarity down Ian’s spine.
Just ten minutes ago.
Ian had uttered that exact line to Daphne Greengrass near the Great Hall’s entrance. He reached instinctively for his robes, suddenly wondering if Aurora had planted some sort of enchanted listening charm on him.
“What are you fumbling for?” Aurora asked, tilting her head slightly, curious.
“Nothing, just wiping grease off my hands,” Ian lied smoothly, feigning a wand flourish as if casting a cleaning charm on his robes. He’d already checked them for magical bugs earlier, but now he was starting to suspect that whatever it was might be on Miss Greengrass instead.
Perhaps all of Hogwarts was under Aurora’s watchful eye… Thinking back to his ever-reliable roommate William from the Acolyte family, Ian had little doubt the Acolytes had more wizarding surveillance tools than anyone outside the Department of Mysteries.
“If you don’t want it, maybe you’d like to return it to my grandfather yourself,” Aurora said nonchalantly, pushing her plate aside and wiping her fingers on Ian’s robes as if they were a common napkin.
“…”
Ian had no choice but to cast another cleaning charm on himself and reluctantly tucked the key back into his money pouch. He had a gut feeling that if he went anywhere near Grindelwald, it would turn into a thing.
Perhaps the old man didn’t care much for treasure anymore, but Ian was certain he wouldn’t pass up a good opportunity to meddle in a young wizard’s affairs.
The experiences he’d lived through during the looped timelines—
Had given Ian a far deeper understanding of both Grindelwald and Albus Dumbledore. Just as he lowered his wand again, a flurry of owls swooped down into the Great Hall.
The number of owls might not have been as large as usual, but there were certainly dozens fluttering through the air. After all, even for those who didn’t return home for Christmas, exchanging seasonal greetings with family was still a common tradition.
Ian, however, receives nothing.
He had no relatives who sent letters via owl, and he assumed Aurora would be in the same boat— another solitary observer watching others unwrap their festive mail.
But then—
An owl flew directly to Aurora, dropping a letter into her lap with practiced precision. Yet, instead of opening it, Aurora tucked it silently into her robes without so much as a glance.
“Aren’t you going to read it?” Ian asked, his curiosity instantly alight.
He’d caught sight of a seal bearing an Austrian postmark, but it was clearly not from Grindelwald. The old warlock certainly wouldn’t resort to something as mundane as owl post to send a letter.
“It’s just rubbish.”
Aurora shook her head dismissively.
Above her, the owl gave a tired hoot and circled once, expectantly. The German witch blinked at it in confusion but made no move to reward it for its delivery.
Clearly, she wasn’t used to communicating by owl.
“When someone helps you out, even a creature, you should show a little appreciation,” Ian said, pulling a handful of dried meat from his pocket. The owl immediately swooped down with gusto, snatched the offering, and gave a satisfied chirp before soaring off without a backward glance.
“So that’s how creatures work,” Aurora murmured, thoughtfully nodding.
“I’ve completed the controlled transfiguration of Fiendfyre. Care to join me for a bit of duelling?” She asked casually, now clearly in better spirits after finishing her meal.
“Oi, it’s Christmas! Bit of a grim way to spend the holiday, don’t you think?” Ian protested, glancing around. Although many of the students had gone home for the break, a small number still lingered in the Great Hall. Some couldn’t or wouldn’t return, while others, like Ian, simply found the back-and-forth more trouble than it was worth.
Naturally—
Most of those who stayed behind were Muggle-born first-years. For them, a Christmas at Hogwarts was part of the wonder— something they weren’t about to give up so soon.
“I found a passage in the Restricted Section,” Aurora said mildly, “About a senior from long ago who was killed during the holidays. Some believe the current decline of the wizarding world started with him.”
Aurora, with her special access to the Restricted Section, often bypassed the dark, forbidden magic in favour of combing through old secrets buried in long-forgotten texts.
“You’re not talking about our Senior Tom, are you?” Ian asked, lowering his voice and casting a wary glance at the staff table— specifically at Professor Quirrell. The only holiday-homicide enthusiast he knew of was the noseless one.
“No, not him. From what I read, the one I mean killed far more people in a single day than that fellow ever managed. In my view, he was the real Dark Lord.”
“Compared to him, Voldemort…”
Aurora spoke in her usual calm manner, not even bothering to lower her voice, and she seemed on the verge of saying the name outright, which caused Ian to hurriedly slap his hand over her mouth.
“There are still loads of students in the Great Hall!” He hissed.
It wasn’t Voldemort’s wrath Ian feared— it was the chain reaction that wrath might unleash.
If the Dark Lord decided to cast aside his façade right here, in front of the pumpkin juice and Christmas crackers, Merlin only knew how many would get caught in the chaos.
“Do you have any idea how expensive funeral lilies are these days?” Ian muttered, dragging Aurora quickly out of the Great Hall. As they exited, he cast a quick glance back toward the high table.
Quirrell noticed.
Before the Defence professor could even form the question in his mind—
“He may already suspect you.” Voldemort’s quiet voice stirred.
He still possessed some basic discernment, at least. Ian’s ability to bluff didn’t exactly hold up under the scrutiny of ancient, manipulative minds.
(To Be Continued…)
Ian never expected this.
He’d only meant to give a thoughtful two-in-one Christmas present, but Aurora had responded by handing over an entire wizarding vault, one that Grindelwald had hidden away in a secure magical repository somewhere in Northern Europe.
A clever niffler always knows more than one burrow; was this ancient fortune being saved for a grand return? Ian couldn’t quite make sense of it.
All he knew was that this gift was far too complicated and far too valuable. Even with his rather flexible interpretation of wizarding ethics, he found himself uneasy about keeping the enchanted key once he learned the truth.
“We have to follow the law; theft is still theft, Aurora,” Ian blurted out, hurriedly trying to return the key as though it were cursed or red-hot.
“With my grandfather’s silent approval, it hardly counts as stealing,” Aurora replied, not even glancing at the key as she continued picking at her plate with infuriating calm.
“You don’t honestly think I could take something like this from my grandfather without him noticing, do you?” Her tone was level, her manner composed; clearly, this German witch was far more pragmatic than most of the young wizards he knew.
“But…”
Ian was still wavering. He didn’t outright contradict Aurora; from what he understood of Grindelwald, that old warlock was every bit as sharp and enigmatic as Albus Dumbledore.
If Dumbledore could unravel secrets from the tiniest turn of phrase, then Grindelwald, who is just as experienced and just as dangerous, could certainly glean much from Aurora’s behaviour alone.
He wouldn’t need Seer blood to know what was going on. Wizards like him didn’t require crystal balls to perceive hidden motives, they had years of insight and layers of cunning that could peel a soul apart like parchment. There was no way Grindelwald didn’t know.
And besides—
There was no chance a vault key of this calibre wasn’t protected by some sort of magical wards. Just as Ian debated whether to press the matter, Aurora looked up and met his gaze with her mismatched eyes, one glinting like stormlight, the other deep and steady.
“My friend, would you have me press my warm face against your icy backside?” She said quietly, but her words sent a chill of familiarity down Ian’s spine.
Just ten minutes ago.
Ian had uttered that exact line to Daphne Greengrass near the Great Hall’s entrance. He reached instinctively for his robes, suddenly wondering if Aurora had planted some sort of enchanted listening charm on him.
“What are you fumbling for?” Aurora asked, tilting her head slightly, curious.
“Nothing, just wiping grease off my hands,” Ian lied smoothly, feigning a wand flourish as if casting a cleaning charm on his robes. He’d already checked them for magical bugs earlier, but now he was starting to suspect that whatever it was might be on Miss Greengrass instead.
Perhaps all of Hogwarts was under Aurora’s watchful eye… Thinking back to his ever-reliable roommate William from the Acolyte family, Ian had little doubt the Acolytes had more wizarding surveillance tools than anyone outside the Department of Mysteries.
“If you don’t want it, maybe you’d like to return it to my grandfather yourself,” Aurora said nonchalantly, pushing her plate aside and wiping her fingers on Ian’s robes as if they were a common napkin.
“…”
Ian had no choice but to cast another cleaning charm on himself and reluctantly tucked the key back into his money pouch. He had a gut feeling that if he went anywhere near Grindelwald, it would turn into a thing.
Perhaps the old man didn’t care much for treasure anymore, but Ian was certain he wouldn’t pass up a good opportunity to meddle in a young wizard’s affairs.
The experiences he’d lived through during the looped timelines—
Had given Ian a far deeper understanding of both Grindelwald and Albus Dumbledore. Just as he lowered his wand again, a flurry of owls swooped down into the Great Hall.
The number of owls might not have been as large as usual, but there were certainly dozens fluttering through the air. After all, even for those who didn’t return home for Christmas, exchanging seasonal greetings with family was still a common tradition.
Ian, however, receives nothing.
He had no relatives who sent letters via owl, and he assumed Aurora would be in the same boat— another solitary observer watching others unwrap their festive mail.
But then—
An owl flew directly to Aurora, dropping a letter into her lap with practiced precision. Yet, instead of opening it, Aurora tucked it silently into her robes without so much as a glance.
“Aren’t you going to read it?” Ian asked, his curiosity instantly alight.
He’d caught sight of a seal bearing an Austrian postmark, but it was clearly not from Grindelwald. The old warlock certainly wouldn’t resort to something as mundane as owl post to send a letter.
“It’s just rubbish.”
Aurora shook her head dismissively.
Above her, the owl gave a tired hoot and circled once, expectantly. The German witch blinked at it in confusion but made no move to reward it for its delivery.
Clearly, she wasn’t used to communicating by owl.
“When someone helps you out, even a creature, you should show a little appreciation,” Ian said, pulling a handful of dried meat from his pocket. The owl immediately swooped down with gusto, snatched the offering, and gave a satisfied chirp before soaring off without a backward glance.
“So that’s how creatures work,” Aurora murmured, thoughtfully nodding.
“I’ve completed the controlled transfiguration of Fiendfyre. Care to join me for a bit of duelling?” She asked casually, now clearly in better spirits after finishing her meal.
“Oi, it’s Christmas! Bit of a grim way to spend the holiday, don’t you think?” Ian protested, glancing around. Although many of the students had gone home for the break, a small number still lingered in the Great Hall. Some couldn’t or wouldn’t return, while others, like Ian, simply found the back-and-forth more trouble than it was worth.
Naturally—
Most of those who stayed behind were Muggle-born first-years. For them, a Christmas at Hogwarts was part of the wonder— something they weren’t about to give up so soon.
“I found a passage in the Restricted Section,” Aurora said mildly, “About a senior from long ago who was killed during the holidays. Some believe the current decline of the wizarding world started with him.”
Aurora, with her special access to the Restricted Section, often bypassed the dark, forbidden magic in favour of combing through old secrets buried in long-forgotten texts.
“You’re not talking about our Senior Tom, are you?” Ian asked, lowering his voice and casting a wary glance at the staff table— specifically at Professor Quirrell. The only holiday-homicide enthusiast he knew of was the noseless one.
“No, not him. From what I read, the one I mean killed far more people in a single day than that fellow ever managed. In my view, he was the real Dark Lord.”
“Compared to him, Voldemort…”
Aurora spoke in her usual calm manner, not even bothering to lower her voice, and she seemed on the verge of saying the name outright, which caused Ian to hurriedly slap his hand over her mouth.
“There are still loads of students in the Great Hall!” He hissed.
It wasn’t Voldemort’s wrath Ian feared— it was the chain reaction that wrath might unleash.
If the Dark Lord decided to cast aside his façade right here, in front of the pumpkin juice and Christmas crackers, Merlin only knew how many would get caught in the chaos.
“Do you have any idea how expensive funeral lilies are these days?” Ian muttered, dragging Aurora quickly out of the Great Hall. As they exited, he cast a quick glance back toward the high table.
Quirrell noticed.
Before the Defence professor could even form the question in his mind—
“He may already suspect you.” Voldemort’s quiet voice stirred.
He still possessed some basic discernment, at least. Ian’s ability to bluff didn’t exactly hold up under the scrutiny of ancient, manipulative minds.
“Shouldn’t we come up with a way to deal with him…”
Quirrell had only begun to speak in his mind when he was abruptly cut off by Voldemort.
“Our objective is the Philosopher’s Stone. Do not provoke him. I cannot assist you much at the moment,” Voldemort’s voice echoed feebly in Quirrell’s mind. “I don’t know why, but I suddenly felt significantly weaker last night.”
The voice of the infamous Dark Lord was barely more than a whisper— drained, strained, and faintly wheezing.
“But he might tell Dumbledore… I’ve heard the students say that boy’s got a habit of tattling,” Quirrell muttered anxiously to himself.
As a Ravenclaw, he was well-acquainted with the tendencies of his House. He himself had often enjoyed meddling in school affairs during his student years, secretly reporting classmates’ misdeeds and shifting opinions behind the scenes.
“So long as you betray no signs, Dumbledore won’t act on a student’s word. Our headmaster places trust in precious few, he believes only in his own judgment.”
Voldemort’s reply held the weary conviction of someone who had once known Dumbledore intimately.
Quirrell stared listlessly at the food on his plate, not a hint of appetite in him. “But this Prince fellow is different. I’ve heard whispers he’s descended from Dumbledore’s line.”
The way he spoke was roundabout, but it was clear he doubted Voldemort’s assessment. Still, with so many students around, the Dark Lord made no move to punish his servant’s insolence.
Then again—
It may also have been because Voldemort was too feeble to do anything meaningful.
“Fool! You’ve been at Hogwarts for years, and you still don’t understand how children chatter?” Voldemort snapped, though even his anger sounded thin. “The Dumbledore family line ended with Albus, he’s the last of them!”
“You really believe you know my old professor better than I do?” The bitterness in his voice forced Quirrell to abandon any lingering thoughts of acting against Ian.
Voldemort clearly wanted no confrontation with the boy. This unnaturally powerful young wizard stirred something Voldemort was loath to acknowledge— fear. He was cold and persistent.
“Could Dumbledore have discovered us already?” Quirrell veered away from Ian, his concern shifting. “Is he casting something on you in secret?”
The unease in his voice—
Was echoed in Voldemort’s own thoughts.
“You need to find unicorns! Their blood will sustain me until I regain enough strength! While that meddling fool is away from the castle, sneak into the depths— where he’s hidden the Philosopher’s Stone and take what is rightfully mine!”
Voldemort’s tone was sharp now, decisive.
But—
“The Forbidden Forest’s crawling with trouble,” Quirrell said quickly. “Professors patrol at all hours, and I’ve heard whispers that the Ministry’s sent people to poke around. Perhaps Dumbledore’s tipped them off— suspicions about us are growing.”
He didn’t dare admit he lacked the courage or ability to break into the Forest. Instead, he dressed it up as caution, carefully presenting the risks.
“Useless wretch!” Voldemort spat weakly, venting his frustration. Still, he didn’t push Quirrell to go blundering into certain capture.
He knew the man had some competence— perhaps enough to handle an Auror or two, but not a coordinated group of them plus half a dozen Hogwarts professors. That would be suicide.
It would be turning himself in.
“The Black Market, then! Look there! Find a substitute—there must be something on the market that can restore me!” Voldemort hissed at last, grasping at alternatives. He had to find something— anything- to ease the strange depletion gnawing away at him.
“…”
Quirrell said nothing.
In truth, he was deeply regretting ever going to Albania. But he didn’t dare entertain those thoughts for long, not even silently.
The mind of the Muggle Studies professor was a tangled web of dread, doubt, and despair.
At least other people’s masters would spin grand tales of glory; the one he served couldn’t be bothered with empty promises or even the slightest shred of encouragement. Not only did his master fail to offer a single word of praise, he even used Quirrell’s personal stash of Galleons without so much as a thank-you.
Items capable of restoring magical vitality, never mind from the Black Market, even in legitimate shops, they fetched outrageous prices. Quirrell could already sense himself hurtling towards a financial abyss.
To be perfectly honest, if it hadn’t been for the fact that he couldn’t figure out why a minor theft of potion ingredients had caused Snape to transform his office into a fortress worthy of Gringotts, Quirrell firmly believed he and Voldemort wouldn’t be in such a pitiful state now. He had even used his own dwindling funds to secretly refine rare potion materials intended to poison the Defence Against the Dark Arts professor.
“Snape never used to guard against petty thieves like this!”
The Muggle Studies professor sighed in frustration.
He felt like his future had turned a shade darker.
…
Snowflakes drifted gently onto the spires and courtyards of the castle, dressing the ancient school in a soft white mantle. Frost clung to the eaves and tree branches, glittering like tiny shards of starlight scattered across a hushed winter wonderland.
In the chill of the stone corridors, Ian and Aurora passed by many classmates reveling in the seasonal cheer.
The young witches and wizards were laughing and chasing each other through the halls, their arms full of festive sweets and prank items from Zonko’s. But as always, there were those determined to spoil the fun, those who seemed to detest joy itself.
Filch, muttering curses under his breath, was storming about as if the holiday spirit was a personal insult. Though no school rules had been broken, he was making a racket with his mop and tin bucket like a man possessed.
“CLANG CLANG CLANG!!”
He struck the bucket with his mop furiously, each clang a declaration of disdain, and loudly sneered at the students for being “ill-mannered and utterly disgraceful.” It was as if he intended to crush their merriment by sheer noise and sourness alone.
When Ian came into view, however, Filch noticeably pulled back. The caretaker’s infamous habit of bullying the weak and fearing the strong was on full display. Still, he cast a lingering, unpleasant glare at Aurora— one that suggested he wouldn’t hesitate to swing that tin bucket her way if given half the chance.
“I don’t like the caretaker much either,” Ian said quickly to Aurora. The German witch glanced after Filch thoughtfully before quietly drawing her wand and pointing it ever so slightly in the direction of the iron bucket.
She tugged on Ian’s sleeve and pulled him away a moment later.
“What did you just do?”
Ian hadn’t seen her wand movement— he’d been distracted by two older boys snogging beside a frosted window, a sight that flustered him just enough to miss the casting entirely as Aurora led him down the corridor.
Filch was certainly unpleasant.
But not so unpleasant that students typically hexed him for fun— at least not overtly.
“I gave him a Christmas present?” Aurora offered, her tone laced with mock innocence, though even she sounded unsure now. Ian, sensing something amiss, had a sinking feeling that would soon be proven correct.
CLANG!
Moments after they’d fled the scene, Filch wore a self-satisfied smirk as he resumed his noisy campaign of mop-and-bucket vengeance, banging away to ruin the students’ merrymaking.
And then—
BOOM!!
There was a thunderous explosion. The iron bucket knocked Filch clean off his feet and sent him sprawling across the corridor floor.
Ian caught a whiff of something strange in the air— something distinctly non-magical.
“Was that… essence of Salamander?!” He gasped, nose twitching at the acrid, smoky scent.
His eyes widened like enchanted brass knobs.
“Just a tiny bit,” Aurora replied, holding up her fingers with a gesture that would make even a banshee reconsider her plans. In that instant, Ian came to a terrifying realisation.
The most dangerous being in Hogwarts wasn’t him.
It wasn’t Voldemort.
It wasn’t even Grindelwald.
It was the German girl standing calmly beside him.
“In alchemy… they don’t really use this sort of thing much, do they…” Ian murmured, his voice shrinking on instinct. He wasn’t sure why, only that Filch now lay sprawled across the corridor, thoroughly unconscious.
“I also study Muggle science. It’s something my grandfather insisted on from a very young age,” Aurora replied, glancing back to make sure the cantankerous caretaker was still breathing before answering Ian in a tone laced with unusual gravity.
She clearly understood how to deliver a lesson without causing lasting harm.
“Magic and science! That’s got serious potential!” Ian gave her a genuine thumbs-up, feeling that Filch had actually been lucky this time. Aurora had already shown far more restraint than she had at the start of the term.
“You’re definitely stronger than I am now,” Aurora said, looking him square in the eye. There was certainty in her voice, likely drawn from what she’d seen of him during the incident in the Forbidden Forest.
“Just a tad,” Ian replied, gesturing modestly. He didn’t go so far as to claim galaxies danced at his fingertips, but he had, after all, taken proper measure of her magical strength.
From the beginning.
Ian’s ability to sense magical levels was far clearer than most who didn’t possess a magical framework to analyse them. If his assessment was correct, Aurora’s current level hovered around a strong Level Seven.
Upon reaching adulthood, she’d undoubtedly attain the status of a Head of House or Department-level witch at Level Eight. Whether she ascended beyond that would depend not only on her inherited magical lineage but also on sheer luck and timing.
After all, even Dumbledore and Grindelwald hadn’t reached Level Nine the moment they came of age; it required decades of accumulation and a second magical awakening to reach the fabled human threshold.
Ian’s own circumstances… well, those could hardly be replicated.
“I can’t see any future fragments of you anymore,” Aurora remarked, her heterochromatic eyes narrowing as she studied him, her method of gauging just how far apart they now stood.
“You’ve seen glimpses of my future before?” Ian’s eyes widened in surprise. This was news to him. But the German witch didn’t offer a straightforward reply.
“I believe those glimpses are now part of the past,” Aurora said cryptically, her gaze lingering on him. Her mismatched pupils flickered faintly as if reflecting visions that ought not be spoken aloud.
“You’re opening your cheat codes in front of me??”
Ian quickly reached out and covered Aurora’s eyes with his hand.
Just then—
A lively group of young witches and wizards strolled past, chatting animatedly. They shot curious looks toward Ian and Aurora but didn’t linger long. Their gossip quickly shifted to a much more shocking subject.
“Snape actually washed his hair! I saw it! It wasn’t greasy at all today!”
“I know, right? That shampoo smelled amazing!”
“Do you reckon the Potter family finally released a new batch after all these years?”
“I have to ask Professor Snape what he’s using once the holidays are over!”
…
A few Slytherins— clearly second or third years— scurried off in a hurry. Ian didn’t even have time to warn the last one before they vanished around the bend.
Well… he could have, but when it came to Slytherin students, they tended to bolt the moment they caught sight of him.
“May Merlin bless your Housemates,” Ian muttered under his breath, sounding sincerely resigned.
“That shampoo, was that your doing?” Aurora asked, her mind clearly putting the pieces together.
“Of course. Fancy a bottle? I’ve got hundreds.” Ian pulls out several small flasks. “I was planning to tweak the scent a bit, dilute the mixture, and then sneak it into some leftover Potter-brand shampoo bottles to flog in Knockturn Alley.”
He handed Aurora seven or eight of the undiluted versions with a wink.
It was only after brewing it himself that Ian finally understood how the Potter family’s vault could remain bottomless for generations.
Put it this way…
The nature of monopolies was always the same— on the surface, it looked like a high-end potion-infused shampoo, but the profit margin was definitely far greater than any enchanted product hawked by flashy shopfronts in Diagon Alley or knockoffs pushed by charm vloggers whispering “three-two-one” before casting sales spells. If the wizarding world had a population even half the size of the Muggle one, the Potter family’s vault at Gringotts would probably need an expansion charm of its own just to hold the yearly profits.
“I gave Snape a Christmas gift too,” Aurora said as she tucked the shampoo into her enchanted robe pocket, which was clearly under a mild Extension Charm.
“I thought you didn’t get along with him?” Ian asked, raising an eyebrow.
He clearly remembered how furious Aurora had been over Snape’s recent behaviour.
“Well, he is our Head of House,” Aurora replied matter-of-factly. “And lately, he’s been going out of his way to target me. So I figured I ought to mend the relationship a bit— I gave him a pair of anti-exposure underpants. Enchanted so they’ll never ride up or show anything, no matter what.”
Ian blinked. There were so many questions.
“He’s a bloke, Aurora!”
It honestly sounded less like a gift and more like a long-range psychological strike.
“I gave it careful thought,” Aurora insisted, her tone now oddly serious. “Everyone says Snape is sharp-tongued, but I figured out why. He’s got lingering trauma from being bullied at school as a boy.”
She lowered her voice a little.
“It had something to do with a spell— Levicorpus, I believe. Humiliating. It’s said someone used it on him in public, often. So I thought… well, maybe this could help him heal from that. Even if just a little.”
Ian stared at her for a long beat, finally realising she wasn’t joking.
“You really do understand the essence of ‘healing magic,’ don’t you?” He said at last. As her friend, what else could he do? He gave her a silent thumbs-up and privately began praying for her safety during the remainder of her Hogwarts years.
Only Aurora would dare such a thing. If any other student tried that, Snape would probably gift them a custom-written essay titled “You Too Will Need Therapy in Your Thirties.”
Ian wouldn’t dare even think of pulling such a stunt.
“Where are we going?” Aurora asked, finally noticing they had reached the fourth floor of the castle.
“Obviously— to enjoy Christmas properly,” Ian replied.
The holiday atmosphere at Hogwarts was always cheerful and comforting.
At least, for most students, it was. Ian, however, wasn’t one to sit still. He opened a hidden panel behind an old mirror on the fourth floor and beckoned Aurora into the narrow tunnel that led all the way to Hogsmeade Village.
Holidays called for indulgence and nothing said indulgence like the limited-run drinks and magical confections that shops in Hogsmeade rolled out during the festive season.
The tunnel was cool and damp, its air thick with the scent of stone and long-forgotten cobwebs. Ian flicked his wand and cast a warming charm, the temperature immediately becoming pleasant.
“Composite magic?” Aurora asked, eyeing his wand with curiosity as if analysing the layered spellwork. She lifted her own wand and muttered, “Lumos,” but instead of just light, several sparks of flame leapt out from the tip.
The orange-red fire darted to the low ceiling, where it burst like tiny fireworks, fortunately not of the cursed Fiendfyre variety.
“It’s not an arson spell; it’s a greenhouse charm,” Ian said, dodging a falling spark. He quickly corrected her assumption about his warming technique.
“I haven’t learned that charm yet,” Aurora replied without much interest in the correction. Her modified spell, once adjusted, now sent out a stream of controlled sparks that not only lit up the tunnel but raised the temperature evenly throughout.
In fact, it worked so well that she pulled out two slices of bread and toasted them mid-air, releasing a warm, yeasty aroma that quickly filled the stone corridor.
“Did you nick that from the Great Hall?” Ian asked.
Aurora intercepted a slice and took a bite.
Despite the fragrant smell, she made a face— clearly unused to how coarse and chewy the bread was compared to the food in her home country.
“These are gifts made by my younger brother and sister,” Ian said with a small smile. He had indeed received presents from the Wootton Orphanage, but the little ones who didn’t have access to owls had enlisted Snape’s help to deliver their handmade offerings.
At Ian’s request, Snape had made a rare visit to the orphanage. Judging by the letter their Matron sent along afterward, Snape hadn’t shown any of his usual harshness there— at least, not outwardly.
“You actually grew up eating this?” Aurora asked in mild disbelief, holding the coarse, toasted bread in her hand and inspecting it like an artifact from a bygone age.
“Hardly all the time,” Ian replied, pushing open a mossy stone panel that led out of the secret tunnel. They emerged from beneath a concealed slab behind a row of shops. Outside, the cobbled streets of Hogsmeade were blanketed in thick snow.
“We only ever had proper meals during the holidays. On normal days, we had to stretch whatever was available. When someone donated, we’d get bread like this— dense, rough, barely good enough to stay fresh.”
As his wand dimmed, clusters of snowflakes drifted down, collecting gently on their shoulders and settling like stardust on their woollen robes.
“Those who have the courage to face their past are often the ones who can shape a better future,” Aurora said softly, in a rare moment of solemn clarity as she gazed out over the charming, medieval-style village.
The festive spirit in Hogsmeade rivalled that of Hogwarts itself. In fact, with the sheer bustle and glimmering decorations, it even surpassed the castle’s atmosphere in some ways.
Nearly every shop glistened with strings of twinkling lights, floating baubles, and spellbound tinsel that shimmered without wind. Snowmen enchanted with mobility waddled around merrily, waving to passersby and singing carols out of tune to draw customers in. Several wizards had donned Santa Claus outfits, but Ian privately thought the one he’d seen near the Shrieking Shack—dubbed the Haunted Zone by students— looked even more authentic.
“Young witches and wizards, fancy a snowflake tart?”
Just as they reached the main street, a cheerful wizard dressed in scarlet stopped them. He wore a fluffy white beard and jingling boots— classic Santa gear. As Aurora reached for a sweet, he gently touched her hand to stop her.
“Careful with those,” Ian said, eyeing the tray of cakes. “Mr John, lacing your confections with hallucinatory fumes is still illegal under Magical Trade Law.”
He didn’t need to unwrap a single tart; his nose alone was enough. Ever since a strange potion accident, Ian’s sense of smell had rivalled that of Hagrid’s boarhound, Fang.
“So that was a hallucinogen?” Aurora looked genuinely startled. She was halfway to pulling her wand when Ian deftly reached into her robes and retrieved it first, reading her intent like a book.
“It’s just a teensy pinch of Muggle botanical— old Eastern spice blends,” Said the wizard, John, clearly oblivious to the trouble he’d narrowly avoided. Grumbling, he packed up his tray of dubious sweets and shuffled off.
“He should really move his cake cart to Knockturn Alley. He’d make a fortune down there,” Ian muttered, steering Aurora toward The Three Broomsticks.
“I think I finally understand why Hogsmeade has an age limit,” Aurora mused aloud, casting a lingering glance back toward her favourite bookshop. “It’s not just to keep first-years out… they sell dodgy goods here.”
She trailed off in thought, clearly pondering what sort of curious merchandise her Acolytes could get away with peddling.
“Here. Drink this.”
Ian pulled her into a quiet alley between two closed shops and produced a potion bottle from beneath his cloak. He had prepared it especially for this day.
Aurora sniffed the rim of the bottle and narrowed her eyes. “Chaga mushroom… powdered turtle shell… sliced caterpillar… bat tongue. This is an Aging Potion, isn’t it?”
“Hoot hoot, gurgle~” She added, mimicking the bubbling noise of the potion in amusement, her eyes sparkling as she guessed Ian’s plan.
With a smile, she took the first sip, the warmth of the brew coursing through her veins.
Ian downed his own flask right after. As the potion made its way down his throat, it felt as though time folded in on itself— rushing forward like a fast-forward charm gone wild.
In mere seconds, their bodies underwent a remarkable transformation. The two of them, once small and youthful, now stood at full adult height, faces matured and features reshaped with the illusion of age. Eleven-year-olds no more— at least, for the next few hours.
Like the Polyjuice Potion, the Aging Potion altered only the outward appearance of the drinker, making them look older without any true transformation. Its effects lasted far longer than Polyjuice’s and didn’t require hourly sips. Brewing it was also far simpler, though it lacked any deeper magical transfiguration.
“Well, at least I don’t look like Malfoy,” Ian muttered, pulling out a small, brass-framed mirror enchanted to stay smudge-free. He admired his reflection— his features, once soft and boyishly charming, had sharpened slightly with a mature edge. His emerald-green eyes now glowed with a richer hue, filled with something strange and difficult to name.
Alluring. Almost magnetic.
“Who’s Malfoy?” Aurora asked, far less concerned with vanity. She simply borrowed Ian’s mirror to examine herself. Under the moonlight, her skin looked impossibly smooth, and her silvery-blonde hair flowed like a spellbound waterfall, curling slightly at the ends as they framed her now striking, cool-toned face.
She frowned at the sight and, with a touch of irritation, began to twist her hair up into a practical bun. Her newly aged figure had taken on the elegance and curves of a young witch in her prime, radiating a certain composed grace.
“Just a nuisance who shows up now and then,” Ian replied vaguely, clearly not eager to elaborate. He couldn’t wait to strut into The Three Broomsticks and prove something—to whom, he wasn’t entirely sure.
Perhaps it was the Christmas cheer, but the tavern was far busier than when Ian had last visited. Though not shoulder-to-shoulder packed, the buzz was infectious—boisterous chatter and warm laughter rising above the music of clinking glasses.
Floating lanterns that usually stayed tucked away for ordinary evenings now hovered above the bar, casting soft golden light. Wizards from all walks of life were raising their goblets and flagons in merry toasts, using the holiday as an excuse to test who could drink whom under the table.
And, of course, being wizards, there were more than a few… enhancements to the contest.
Not all of them are legal.
“New faces, are you?” Came a familiar, lilting voice.
Madam Rosmerta, the long-standing proprietor, greeted them with a knowing smile. Though her beauty was no longer in its bloom, she had the kind of full figure that drew many an appreciative glance. The fine lines at the corners of her eyes told of years filled with laughter, and the warm gleam in her gaze spoke of experience, not age.
The number of heads that turned her way proved she still had her share of admirers.
“Is there anything fun to do here?” Aurora asked, feeling the weight of some stares and shifting uncomfortably. Thankfully, most of the curious glances weren’t aimed at her.
Ian gave a half-smirk. “Give it a minute. The real fun’s just warming up.”
He stepped up to the polished bar and slid a few silver Sickles across the counter. “One non-alcoholic Butterbeer for her, and I’ll take the tiniest glass of Firewhisky you’ve got.” Ever since the ghost’s Deathday party, Ian had become very aware of his… limitations.
He just wanted a sip.
“Why do you get to drink alcohol, but I don’t?” Aurora’s eyes narrowed. She addressed Madam Rosmerta directly, folding her arms. “I want the same whisky he’s having.”
“And make mine a large one.”
Her tone brooked no argument, a quality common to determined German witches.
“Whisky’s for the regulars, dear. For you, best to start the festivities with a Butterbeer,” Rosmerta replied kindly but firmly, her voice gentle with practiced authority.
She slid two steaming mugs of Butterbeer across the counter and, surprisingly, pushed Ian’s coins back toward him.
“My treat. After all, no charge means no consequences,” She added, her eyes twinkling with layered meaning.
Ian, who had just pulled a tiny enchanted bottle of chilled Muggle cola from his satchel, blushed faintly at the implication. He discreetly slid the bottle back into his money pouch, pretending it had never made an appearance.
“Hoot hoot, gurgle~”
Aurora had already taken a sip. The warm, spiced brew fizzed pleasantly on the tongue. This particular drink was a third-year privilege at Hogwarts, and the alcohol content was almost nonexistent—what little there had been having long evaporated in the brewing.
“What are you up to now?” She asked, narrowing her eyes as Ian discreetly took out a small vial and tipped a few golden drops into his Butterbeer. The viscous, shimmering liquid clung to the inside of the bottle like liquid luck.
She recognised it immediately—Felix Felicis. A gift from Snape, if she remembered correctly.
“I need a bit of luck before I open the box.”
Ian glanced at the cup Aurora had drained and turned to Madam Rosmerta. “Could she have another? She’s already polished off her Butterbeer— quietly.”
Madam Rosmerta didn’t budge, continuing to wipe down the counter with deliberate focus.
“Don’t push your luck, dear,” She said, her tone light but edged with dry humour. Then she turned away and wandered off toward another table, leaving the two of them alone at the bar.
“I drank it right in front of you,” Aurora muttered, setting down her empty cup with a soft clink.
“Open your mouth,” Ian sighed, exasperated.
“What for?”
Aurora didn’t move, suspicious.
Without another word, Ian reached forward and gently pressed both sides of her face, prising her mouth open. He tipped in a few glimmering drops from the tiny crystal vial of Felix Felicis.
“Mmm… tastes a bit like honey cake,” Aurora said, blinking as if savouring it.
“I didn’t realise you and Dumbledore had similar tastes,” Ian remarked, eyes flicking across the room, sharpening his senses to zero in on two wizards engaged in hushed conversation.
“I’d still like to know why we’re taking Felix Felicis in the first place,” Aurora said, shaking her Butterbeer mug upside down to catch the last few drops.
The gesture clashed with her usual cool and composed image.
Maybe Ian was rubbing off on her.
“I noticed a few odd goings-on when I was here before,” Ian explained. “Overheard some chatter. Black market traders, dodgy wizards— secret deals and shady items.”
“The goods are quality, no doubt about that, but everything has its risks. I figured a dose of luck might lead us to the best Christmas gift we could find.”
Ian clearly viewed the Black Market vendors as if they were some sort of magical blind box. His gaze swept across a number of them before circling back to the one he’d first clocked.
“Bit of ‘black eats black,’ is it?” Aurora asked, a flicker of excitement in her voice.
“It’s more like punishing the wicked, defending the innocent!” Ian declared, almost righteously. “Redistributing wealth! Protecting wizarding society!”
“But you’re not exactly poor anymore, are you?” Aurora pointed out, tilting her head. “Wouldn’t it be simpler to admit we just don’t like them?”
Her expression suggested she knew full well the moral high ground Ian was attempting to claim.
“I’m poor again now.” Ian nonchalantly slipped his coin pouch into the inner pocket of Aurora’s robes as if this settled the matter entirely.
“…”
Aurora wasn’t sure she’d ever understand how Ian’s mind worked.
She was about to respond when—
“That’s the one!”
Ian spotted his mark rise from a shadowy booth and quickly tugged Aurora after him. The wizard, cloaked head to toe in black, radiated bad intentions. Ian had seen him earlier selling something illegal; he was sure of it. Some sort of contraband laced with the blood of rare magical creatures.
Ian had read Cho Chang’s “Annotated Map of Magical Creature Trade Routes and Associated Offences” and knew full well that if the Ministry caught a black-market dealer peddling blood-based artifacts, the punishment was a guaranteed lifetime in Azkaban.
“Master… that young wizard has walked right into our web. Shouldn’t we just strike him down now?” Muttered the wrinkled-faced wizard left behind in the booth, speaking in a voice only heard inside his own skull—Quirrell’s thoughts were meant for one person alone.
“Have you still not grasped the reality of your own uselessness?” Came Voldemort’s furious whisper from within his host’s mind. The Dark Lord had recognised Ian the moment he laid eyes on him—even with the altered appearance granted by the Aging Potion.
Perhaps it hadn’t been such a useful disguise after all.
“Return at once! We have only one shot at this! Dumbledore’s whereabouts are unknown—we must act now!” Voldemort growled, urging Quirrell back toward Hogwarts with increasing impatience.
Tonight, the temporary vitality gifted by the restorative potion would let him retrieve the Philosopher’s Stone. And with it, all that he had lost would be his again.
Soon, through this pitiful vessel, he would rise once more, fully reborn.
At that time—
Everything would return to normal, and Voldemort’s name would once again echo through the wizarding world. Voldemort, who was now trembling with rising anticipation, could no longer suppress the storm of excitement welling within him.
“Fancy a game of chess?”
A wizard seated on the roadside beside a floating chessboard tried to lure in passing challengers.
“Clear off!”
Voldemort snarled through Quirrell’s mouth, only to realise, with a jolt of frustration, that he was merely borrowing Quirrell’s voice for the moment. His fragile soul felt eerily light, as though it were floating, unanchored.
As though he might unravel at any second.
“Get back, quickly! Something’s wrong with me!”
He didn’t know precisely what was happening to his form, but he was certain of one thing, if he could just obtain the Philosopher’s Stone, his fading and fragmented soul would be renewed, restored with true vitality.
“Looks like the old goat who left passed along some unfinished trouble to this sorry heir of his… taking over jobs that once belonged to my nanny.”
The chess-playing wizard snorted, watching Quirrell’s retreating form vanish into the mist. He glanced down at his enchanted chessboard— one of the pieces was translucent, shaped like a crystal orb. Inside it, the image of Ian and Aurora appeared, tracking a black market dealer.
The two had shadowed the black-cloaked wizard to the outskirts of town before making their move. Just to be cautious, they’d cast facial disguise charms but Ian wasn’t particularly adept with that branch of magic.
Unable to refine the spell properly, he’d simply altered his face to resemble a younger version of Tom Riddle Sr.
“It’s illegal to hawk contraband this close to Hogwarts grounds!” Ian declared, rifling through the black marketeer’s belongings. The man was a low-level operator, hardly worth the effort.
“I was only selling a few harmless trinkets!”
The cloaked wizard, whose wand had already been blasted out of reach, raised his hands in immediate surrender. He didn’t dare put up a fight. Not when, just a few feet away, a dazzlingly beautiful young witch had her wand fixed on him. The pulsing blue glow and the unmistakable hum of Dark Magic, possibly even the Killing Curse, made it clear this was not a bluff.
“We’re from the Ministry’s Black-Robed Patrol Division. We specialise in rooting out troublemakers who disturb the peace near Hogwarts,” Ian said confidently, spinning the lie on the spot with the ease of someone used to improvisation.
The black-cloaked wizard went visibly paler.
He’d never heard of any such division, but that was exactly what made it believable. It could easily be a covert branch of the Ministry, kept hidden from public knowledge.
Like the old Inquisition from the church days.
It wasn’t at all implausible that the Ministry had a secret team operating in shadow.
Faced with this realisation—
The black marketeer became utterly convinced: these two were undercover agents, collecting dark money and sweeping up the filth that festered beneath the wizarding world’s surface.
“I swear, I was only dealing in non-lethal items!”
The man had just started to protest when Ian pulled a twisted, runic puppet from his robes—a cursed object used for dark enchantments.
“Non-lethal, was it?”
The wizard immediately changed his tone, suddenly sheepish and evasive.
“Surely there’s more than just this rubbish?” Ian wasn’t actually worried about whether the goods were legal or not—he was more annoyed by how unimpressive the haul was. Dozens of emptied pockets, and still nothing worth writing home about.
“That’s all I’ve got, mate! If I had real gold, I’d be running a shop in Knockturn Alley, wouldn’t I? I wouldn’t be flogging goods behind a pub!”
The cloaked man pulled the most pitiful expression he could muster.
Ian, no stranger to faking sympathy, wasn’t buying it for a second.
“I used Felix Felicis to track you, remember?”
He grinned, then turned to Aurora. “Did you finish brewing that Veritaserum? Think we could spare a touch for our friend here?”
Aurora nodded briskly.
“Of course. Just a little, right?”
With that, she pulled out a very large flask.
“??????”
The black market wizard’s eyes went wide.
What in Merlin’s name…?
You’ve got Felix Felicis and a stash of Veritaserum, and this is what you use it for—shaking down a black market peddler? Did the Ministry of Magic tip you off that I was hoarding something priceless?
“I’ll tell you! I’ll tell you everything!”
The black-cloaked wizard, watching Aurora approach with the enormous flask, panicked and instantly changed his mind. He tried to confess on the spot, but Aurora wasn’t about to let this golden opportunity to test her potion go to waste.
“Glug glug, hoot hoot~”
The wizard was force-fed several mouthfuls of the potion without ceremony.
Moments later, his eyes glazed over, and his mind spiraled; he couldn’t stop himself from blurting out every thought, from criminal dealings to the rather revolting confession that he’d once lusted after his elder brother’s wife and had even commissioned a cursed puppet to charm her affection.
The effect of Veritaserum was nothing short of terrifying.
Just three drops could force someone to spill their most deeply buried truths, but for best results, it was often administered subtly, before the target even realised. Otherwise, some clever witches or wizards might fake a choking fit or transfigure their vocal cords to resist its effects, but with Aurora’s preparation, none of that mattered.
She used a large enchanted feeding tube, slipping it down the wizard’s throat and directly into his stomach— a method more common when slaughtering magical livestock, which made Ian wince and mutter that she looked more like an executioner than a student.
“What about your real stash?”
Ian was far more interested in treasure than in tales of twisted romance.
“It’s in my teeth! Enchanted! My brother modified them for me— he’s a dark wizard too, but he’s already got three full shops in Knockturn Alley!”
“My sister-in-law only loves his Galleons, I swear I’ll poison the bloke and marry her myself once I’m rid of him!”
The black-cloaked wizard was in full confession mode now, incapable of holding anything back.
“Right then. No doubt we caught the right man,” Ian muttered grimly. He couldn’t stand this kind of person. He pried open the man’s jaw and shattered every enchanted tooth with a well-aimed curse.
As the man slumped down, blood dribbling from his gums, Ian and Aurora turned on their heels and vanished into the night without another word.
“Nooo!”
Not long after, the dazed black marketeer stirred and caught a glimpse of himself reflected in the frozen lake, his mouth bloodied and toothless. The scream he let out echoed for miles, raw and agonised.
“I’ll report this! I’ll go straight to the Aurors and turn myself in! I’ll tell the Ministry! Report that whole black-robed patrol squad!”
Now that he had nothing left, his contraband gone, his enchanted teeth destroyed, the man was ready to blow the whistle, even if it meant dragging himself down in the process.
It seemed he truly had been scared straight.
By that time, Ian and Aurora had already made it back through the hidden passage into Hogwarts. Not only had they confiscated crates of banned magical artefacts, but each of them had also managed to secure a dragon egg.
That had been the real prize hidden inside the man’s enchanted molars.
Even though Ian already owned a massive skeletal bone dragon and had little regard for the modern crossbred dragons, he still knew the market value of a dragon egg. In the wizarding black market, they were rare, they were coveted and often fought over.
And if he handed it over to Hagrid—
Merlin knew how much the gamekeeper would adore it, and how many rare ingredients from the Forbidden Forest he’d offer in return as thanks!
“Felix Felicis was worth every drop,” Ian grinned, more pleased than ever.
By now, both he and Aurora had returned to their younger, student forms— the aging potion they had used had finally worn off.
“When are we going out next to fight evil and defend the innocent?” Aurora beamed. The whole evening had left her flushed with excitement, she’d taken a real liking to this vigilante act.
Far better than following the path of some dark, brooding witch.
This, this had promise.
“Not every outing will yield such a haul,” Ian admitted with a sly grin, “but I daresay it could be rather fun to hunt down a few Death Eaters over the holidays.” He was painting an ambitious picture for Aurora, one filled with danger and daring but clearly, he found it thrilling.
As the dinner hour crept closer, they tucked away their spoils and prepared to return to their respective common rooms to rest.
“What about my Christmas present?”
The Ravenclaw door knocker, shaped like a grand bronze eagle, appeared to rouse itself with theatrical flair.
“Here you are!”
Ian had already anticipated this and came prepared. He gently placed a specially crafted little crown atop the knocker’s head. The crown shimmered with enchanted colours and intricate detailing, and the bronze eagle looked positively chuffed. This time, the door knocker didn’t try to stump Ian with any riddles. After a single, rather simple question, it permitted him entrance to the common room without a fuss.
“Do you know what I’m wearing on my head?”
As more Ravenclaws approached behind him, the enchanted knocker couldn’t resist preening a bit, boasting proudly and turning its head this way and that to show off its festive adornment.
Ian ignored its showmanship.
He made his way quietly to his dormitory, washed up, and took out the day’s most valuable acquisitions. He placed a large dragon egg, which is still warm to the touch, on his desk, followed by a much smaller, gleaming phoenix egg.
“I’ve got two eggs I can’t eat, twelve I can, and three Demiguise pelts…” Ian muttered, speaking to no one in particular as he began sorting through his loot. He had meant only to take stock of what he’d acquired.
However—
Halfway through his organizing, something caught his eye. The phoenix egg was glowing, softly at first, then steadily brighter. Fine threads of crimson silk began to seep from within, stretching outward like delicate tendrils. The glowing strands extended toward the dragon egg, wrapping around it like an enchanted net.
The dragon egg’s brilliant hue started to fade, its shimmer dulling slowly, while the phoenix egg’s colour deepened, transforming from its natural fiery red into a rich, mystical purple.
“My phoenix egg… is about to hatch!?”
Ian quickly gathered the rest of the eggs he’d been cataloguing and positioned them in front of the phoenix egg.
And then—
The phoenix egg welcomed them all.
Thread by thread, silk wrapped around the entire collection, weaving through them with astonishing precision.
There was life— warm, pulsing, undeniable life—
—flowing from egg to egg, radiating outward in waves, as if answering a silent magical call from the heart of the phoenix.
(End of this chapter)
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