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After slipping away from that nighttime encounter with Snape, Ian returned to the Room of Requirement. He reflected on how careless he’d become during his recent late-night wanderings.
“My night time excursions will still require keeping a close eye on the Marauder’s Map,” He muttered.
He’d nearly been caught again, and while Filch, the cantankerous caretaker, wouldn’t dare lay a finger on him, it didn’t mean he wouldn’t stumble across one of the other professors lurking in the shadows.
Be it Professor McGonagall or any of the other Heads of House, none would turn a blind eye to mischief in the corridors after hours. And Snape, Snape was the worst of the lot, always ready to toss in a little personal spite along with the punishment.
“The golden rule of sneaking is still: Don’t get caught.”
Ian had no intention of handing his dear uncle a golden opportunity to punish him. If Filch were to catch wind of his movements, Ian would end up scrubbing trophies with a toothbrush again. He’d done his fair share of waste disposal duty at the start of every cycle.
To be honest, during one such cycle, Ian had even roped in a Dementor to do the dirty work for him, which unfortunately terrified a few nocturnal first-years into unconsciousness.
That cycle had ended in absolute chaos, and Ian had wound up enduring even harsher punishment from Snape. Truly, the professor he dreaded most at Hogwarts was his ‘beloved’ uncle.
Snape really did have a special talent for making one’s life miserable.
“Sort these ingredients for me, I’m on the brink of completing something extraordinary!” Ian declared, watching the cauldron bubble as he handed over the search for suitable substitute materials to the Dementor.
The well-trained Dementor immediately got to work, gliding silently around the room as it gathered and prepared ingredients.
“Chop Chop Chop Chop Chop Chop Chop~”
It was more skilled and efficient at handling potion ingredients than many of the younger students. Ian raised an eyebrow in surprise and looked on with a curious expression on his face.
“How did you suddenly get so good at this?” When Ian had left the Room of Requirement earlier, the Dementor had still been fumbling about like a flobberworm in Potions class.
Yet now, just a few hours later, the creature behaved like it had attended a Master-Level Magical Brewing Seminar. Their synergy had also improved drastically.
“You’ve been secretly training behind my back, haven’t you? Quietly becoming clever! Brilliant, brilliant, brilliant! You’ll be crowned King of Dementors at this rate!” Ian exclaimed, once again envisioning a sparkling future for his non-human assistant.
He was increasingly pleased with its improved efficiency and dedication.
[Through tireless refining, Potions Proficiency +3]
[Through tireless refining, Potions Proficiency +2]
[Through tireless refining, Potions Proficiency +3]
…
And so it went.
After half the night passed in a blur of brewing, Ian finally completed his first batch of a particularly tricky experimental potion, a hypothesis in liquid form. Of all the potions he’d worked on, only the Infinite Firepower Potion had been more complex.
Of course, if he had the luxury of throwing endless Galleons at the problem, things would’ve been far simpler. But managing to save several hundred Galleons in one night? That, to Ian, was time well spent.
Moreover, just as every wizard ought to enjoy the benefits of magical innovation, potion-making should be accessible to all. A potion too costly to brew couldn’t truly be called great.
“I’ll need a test subject,” Ian murmured, gently shaking the vial. As he did, the once-murky liquid turned radiant, glowing with vibrant brilliance.
The colour shimmered like bottled starlight, enchanting to behold.
This was the secret Ian had uncovered from the “Awakening” phase in Professor Morgan’s obscure love potion notes, a curious step that could awaken dormant or damaged magical reserves within a wizard.
It was designed to help those whose magical cores had been permanently weakened due to magical overexertion.
But more importantly,
Its greatest potential was in aiding Squibs. Unknown to many, Squibs did possess magical energy, but it simply remained inert from birth. Some even held latent reserves greater than certain fully-trained wizards.
However, without ever having activated that magic, they’d spent their lives as non-magical. In some rare cases, wizards who endured magical trauma could also become Squibs, stripped of active magic but not of their magical essence.
Ian’s potion addressed this dilemma directly. If it ever left the walls of Hogwarts, it was guaranteed to send shockwaves through the wizarding world. Squibs everywhere would go utterly mad for it.
“This is definitely worthy of a Merlin Medal. First Class, even. My name’ll spread far and wide while my Gringotts vault overflows,” Ian mused, grinning with satisfaction.
Like the Infinite Firepower Draught, this new creation had the power to cause a stir. Ian was far bolder than Snape ever was; he had both ambition and a vision for change. Why not chase glory and gold at once?
A gift to the wizarding world,
And a gift to himself.
A win-win situation, if ever there was one.
“Not just Galleons, but a legacy too, what wizard could say no to that?”
Ian gazed at the swirling starlight in the potion, his voice barely a whisper. Plans were already forming in his mind. Above all else, one thing was clear: Snape mustn’t find out. Not yet.
Otherwise, his dear uncle would certainly put a stop to his experimentation with this potion, just as he had with the Infinite Firepower. Of course, Ian understood his uncle’s thoughts and concerns.
The wizarding world was bound to face upheaval, and with change came danger. Ian wasn’t someone to shy away from chaos, he had his own sense of what was manageable and what wasn’t. Compared to the potential hidden in the Infinite Firepower Potion, this new potion, which could give Squibs genuine hope, was far less shocking.
The problem lay in how high the stakes were.
It might attract the greedy gaze of pure-blood families across the globe.
And that was a burden even Snape might struggle to bear.
But Ian believed he could handle it.
His strength had reached a rather respectable level.
And more importantly, he never intended to keep all the spoils for himself.
He planned to bring Aurora and Ariana into the fold, sharing the rewards with his living companions, and those in the Twilight Zone certainly wouldn’t turn down the chance to set up a few chocolate cauldrons there.
Once the names of Grindelwald and Dumbledore were woven into the project, the envy stirred by such immense gains would surely diminish, and Ian wouldn’t worry about stray threats from petty individuals.
“The Prince’s Magic Revival Draught will become famous among wizarding families the world over!”
Ian felt a rush of pride as he gave the potion its name. Though it had originated from an assignment by Professor Morgan, who could argue that he didn’t understand how to, well, round off the credit better than most?
Professor Morgan had long since passed on, and as her student, Ian certainly had the right to inherit her legacy. And if he nudged the logic a bit further, surely that extended to naming rights.
“Still, best to show some decency.” Ian pulled out a scrap of parchment and quickly sketched a likeness of Professor Morgan, affixing the drawing onto the vial like a label.
And just like that, a packaging design future generations might find inexplicable was hastily born in the Room of Requirement. Perhaps even Ian hadn’t yet realised how this small act would shape the future.
The groundwork for something legendary,
Had already begun to take form.
…
There was only one Squib at Hogwarts. So when Ian needed a test subject, the first name that popped into his mind was that cantankerous caretaker.
“Filch is still in the hospital wing, and Madam Pince has actually stepped out… looks like the old man’s lost his fire.” Ian double-checked Filch’s location on the Marauder’s Map.
Sneaking into the hospital wing was no great feat, his Disillusionment Charm had grown particularly sharp, easily fooling Madam Pomfrey’s sharp eyes.
Few in the castle could see through Ian’s concealment, and Madam Pomfrey, though certainly a capable witch, was simply that, capable.
“This is just the first batch. It’s not like I’m giving him a free miracle. The effects won’t last long anyway.” Ian slipped into Filch’s room with practiced ease.
The caretaker, who insisted on reporting even minor injuries to Madam Pince, was now sound asleep.
“Test subjects still have to pay their dues,” Ian muttered, eyeing the pitiful jangle of coins in Filch’s pocket. The caretaker’s monthly pay was modest at best.
Ian tipped a few drops of potion into Filch’s mouth, gave his already puffy cheek a light slap, and darted into the shadows, still invisible.
“Filthy little devils! Who dares play tricks on me?! I’ll have your heads mounted in my office!” Filch bolted upright with a furious shout, then blinked in confusion, realizing he was still in the hospital wing.
“Was that a dream…? Blasted nightmares… Still, even if it was, I’ll make the lot of them pay when I’m back on my feet!”
“Once I’m healed, I’ll nab a few of the usual troublemakers and string ’em up by their toes!” he muttered darkly, rubbing his face to locate the source of the pain.
“Hiss!”
The sting made him suck in a breath, then, without warning, a jug of water beside his bed shattered with a loud bang.
“What in Merlin’s name, ?! Wait… this feeling… Is this… magic?!” Filch’s face froze, slack-jawed with disbelief.
He had no time to waste on rest. Something inside him had changed, something powerful and utterly unfamiliar. He leapt from the bed as though he’d been hit with a stunning spell.
“Dadadada!”
Ian, still cloaked in his Disillusionment Charm, followed as Filch dashed back to his shabby room in the castle.
“Sweet Circe, the heavens have finally heard my pleas!” Filch gasped, crawling under his bed with a look of sheer desperation and wonder.
He pried up a loose floorboard.
From the hollow beneath, he pulled out an old wand, its wood worn, the handle etched with countless thumbprints. Every Squib might lack the spark to cast spells, but nearly every one of them held onto the dream.
Filch had held onto his for decades. Many Squibs did.
They had lived around magic.
But never truly felt it.
That kind of torment was something only those who’d lived it could understand,
It was cruel. Soul-crushing.
Like harbouring a secret love, only to find the object of your affection demanded a dowry you could never afford.
“Incendio!”
Filch’s voice rang with years of secret practice. He had spoken the incantation countless times, to no avail. But this time,
He believed.
As the incantation left his lips, a jet of flame indeed burst from the tip of Filch’s wand, brief, but real, causing the caretaker to tremble with uncontrollable excitement.
“It’s magic! I can perform magic now!”
Filch’s voice trembled with joy, on the verge of tears; he had dreamt of this very moment countless times over the years, though the miracle that every Squib desperately wished for had never occurred, not until tonight.
And yet,
For some unknown reason,
Tonight, that long-impossible dream had flickered to life.
“Truly, Merlin’s beard, he must be watching over me!” Filch’s eyes shone with unshed tears as he lifted his wand again, eager to cast another spell. But the moment he spoke another incantation, there was no spark, no glow, no reaction.
Not even the magic that had so briefly answered him moments before responded now; Filch’s heart pounded in panic as he recited incantation after incantation. But the surge of magic within him was already fading, retreating into stillness like waves drawn back into the sea.
“No!!”
His scream tore through the infirmary, laced with fear. He clung desperately to the magic he had only just begun to feel, but it slipped through his fingers like mist, impossible to catch, impossible to hold.
The hope he had touched, tangible, shining, vanished into the air, leaving behind only silence and despair. The heartbreak was more crushing than death itself.
“Don’t do this! Don’t give me magic just to snatch it away again!”
He howled in anguish.
It was true, Squibs had always been pitiable, and Filch was no exception. But Ian did not feel sympathy. After all, everyone at Hogwarts knew Filch had long harboured resentment and envy towards young witches and wizards.
Unlike those who yearned for the light while trapped in shadow, Filch was the sort who would rather drag others down with him than reach for the sun himself.
He never showed gratitude to Hogwarts for giving him a home.
He had even tried to aid Voldemort when the school came under attack.
The students’ dislike of him was never about his lack of magic, it was his nature that repelled them, his bitterness, his cruelty, and the spite he cloaked himself in like robes.
“My potion appears to work, at least.”
Ian, invisible in the corner, watched Filch rise to heaven, then crash back down, only to fall further still. He shook his head, turned silently, and slipped away without making a sound.
He did not bother with unlocking the door; instead, he passed cleanly through the wall, a trick only a handful of Hogwarts students, or even professors, could manage. His command of advanced spells had long surpassed the level of many fully grown wizards.
Of course,
There were others more skilled than him in the world. Hogwarts itself had more than one. Just as he emerged from Filch’s quarters, Ian, who hadn’t even reapplied his Disillusionment Charm, was suddenly seized.
“Tsk tsk. Wandering about so late? You’ll do.”
Grindelwald had returned at some point and now had a firm grip on the back of Ian’s neck, having somehow found him even in his invisible state.
The Defense Against the Dark Arts professor’s eyes shimmered with a curious gleam, like someone who could not only foresee outcomes but also pierce through all magical illusions.
“What are you doing?” Ian asked, his expression resigned as he shimmered into view once more.
“Moving things.”
Grindelwald said simply, dragging Ian off toward his office. Ian let out a weary sigh, already trying to link his mind with the Marauder’s Map in case he needed an escape.
“Do you little brats ever sleep at night?”
Ian felt exasperated.
Snape was always assigning him obscure errands, and Grindelwald had recently taken to using him as a personal delivery elf. These tasks were clearly better suited to house-elves, yet here he was.
“The Christmas break has ended,” Grindelwald said, an almost impish smile tugging at his lips. “And I’ve cooked up a few new surprises for the lot of you.”
“Dementors? Or something else horrifying?” Ian asked warily, trying to glean what sort of trials his classmates might soon endure.
“Ha. Both. And then some.”
Grindelwald opened the door to his office, which was lit brightly despite the late hour, and to Ian’s surprise, Aurora, whom he had only recently parted from, was already seated inside.
The German witch was perched quietly on a stool, and Ian had the strong impression she was being disciplined. He immediately noticed the remnants of a late-night snack on the desk, and a teacup tossed into the bin, which still held the faint, bitter scent of Veritaserum.
“Did you fry a dragon egg?!” Ian asked in disbelief, staring at the enormous plate of fried eggs in astonishment.
“You said dragon eggs were top-tier ingredients, didn’t you?” Aurora tilted her head slightly, looking confused but calm. It seemed she hadn’t been surprised to see Ian arrive, possibly because Grindelwald had intended to fetch him all along.
“I only said that in passing on our way back…” Ian looked at the eggs with sympathy, then flicked his gaze to Grindelwald, who had just released him.
The young wizard was already wondering whether their little outing had been discovered. Grindelwald had intercepted him outside Filch’s room with suspicious precision.
“I’m not hungry, eat if you’d like.”
Grindelwald sank into his office chair and slid the dragon egg dish toward Ian. He looked unbothered, far from furious about whatever mischief Ian and Aurora had been up to.
Then again, Grindelwald had pulled more heists in his day than most Dark wizards combined.
“There’s nothing odd in it, is there?” Ian asked cautiously, though the smell was tempting. He eyed Grindelwald and then glanced toward Aurora.
The girl lowered her head slightly, making Ian even more hesitant to take a bite.
“The eggs are fine, it’s the tea you need to worry about.” Grindelwald plucked off a piece of egg and ate it with visible satisfaction, nodding toward the discarded teacup.
“You overdid the Veritaserum…”
Ian wrinkled his nose as he picked up the scent and gave Aurora a pointed look.
Grindelwald wasn’t the least bit angry; instead, he gave Aurora a sly smile and said, “Go on, brew another cup of tea for your friend here, let him learn a thing or two.”
Ian blinked, puzzled by what sort of ‘lesson’ this was meant to be. His confusion deepened when Aurora hesitated for a brief moment, then pulled out a hefty phial of Veritaserum. It was the very same batch she’d used on that dodgy Knockturn Alley trader, so potent Ian doubted the poor fellow would ever fully recover.
“Whoot whoot gu~”
Under Ian’s wary gaze, Aurora poured a generous measure of Veritaserum straight into the teacup, casually tossing in a few dried tea leaves from Merlin-knows-where.
“All done.”
Her voice was tinged with regret.
“?????”
Ian gawked.
What in Merlin’s name was that brewing method?
Most would at least dilute the Veritaserum with water, not steep it like actual tea! And why did Aurora look so disappointed, like she’d hoped to hoodwink Grindelwald and missed her chance?
“Are you feeling alright?” Ian reached out, touching her forehead with concern.
“????”
Aurora rolled her eyes and batted his hand away.
“You ought to teach her properly,” Grindelwald chimed in mildly, apparently unbothered by having nearly been dosed with truth serum. “She missed out on a lot growing up, poor thing. At this rate, she’s not even performing at the level of our Muggle Studies professor.”
“…”
Ian silently suspected this entire family line might be a bit mad.
“Let’s just move on to the task at hand,” He said, changing the subject.
“Those three crates over there, carry them down to the dungeon classroom for me,” Grindelwald replied, gesturing toward a corner of the office. He seemed entirely uninterested in pressing Ian about Aurora’s failed plot.
“Alright, sure!”
Ian whipped out his wand and cast a smooth Levitation Charm, guiding the crates effortlessly. At least Grindelwald didn’t make him lug them by hand, unlike Snape, who always insisted on the traditional back-breaking method.
As he floated the crates toward the staircase, Ian noticed that both Grindelwald and Aurora were following him out.
“What’s in them?” He asked, curiosity getting the better of him.
“I told you, class preparation. Each crate represents a different kind of danger you lot might face. If you’d like to give one a go now, be my guest.”
Grindelwald’s smirk was far too encouraging.
“Do you want to try one?” Ian asked Aurora.
The German girl shook her head with exaggerated vigour.
“Then I won’t either.”
Ian was no fool. He knew Grindelwald well enough by now to be suspicious of anything he presented with a smile.
“No matter. You’ll get your turn soon enough, once term resumes,” Grindelwald said with a wistful tone. “But do brace yourself, this time, you might not fare so well. Might even make a fool of yourself in front of your classmates.”
It was an obvious provocation.
But also a direct challenge.
Ian found himself piqued.
“Three boxes, huh? Unless a Bowtruckle in a tutu pops out, I doubt anything could surprise me.” He boldly selected the centre crate.
“You certainly know how to pick.”
Grindelwald arched a brow. “I’ll have you know what’s inside is truly horrifying. Even Albus wouldn’t fancy facing it in front of a classroom.”
He said it gravely.
With a straight face and a meaningful tone.
“I don’t suppose you’ve stuffed one of my mates in there?” Ian muttered, before unlocking the crate and lifting the sealed lid without hesitation.
In that instant, Aurora had already backed well away from him.
And Grindelwald took a few deliberate steps backward.
His sharp eyes stayed fixed on the box’s dark interior, his demeanour more serious than Ian had expected. Ian tightened his grip on his wand, already preparing to cast Lumos if needed.
“A Boggart…”
Ian narrowed his eyes.
He caught a flicker of movement inside the gloom. A Boggart, it sees into your heart and becomes whatever it finds lurking in your fears. The counter-spell, Riddikulus, forces the creature to take a humorous shape, laughter being the key to its defeat.
Of course, with a crowd watching, a Boggart becomes muddled, unsure of whose fear to reflect. Laughter, real and full, sends it fleeing in a puff of smoke.
“Yes, it’s a Boggart,” Grindelwald confirmed, his eyes never leaving the crate Ian had opened.
Aurora, still standing a safe distance away, looked genuinely intrigued.
Both seemed keen to discover Ian’s most dreaded fear… Ian swallowed hard, staring as the figure began to emerge from the shadows.
It was a man, tall, lean, with piercing blue eyes behind half-moon spectacles, and a long, silvery beard flowing from a crooked nose.
“You’re afraid of Headmaster Albus Dumbledore?” Aurora sounded almost let down, perhaps she’d expected something a bit more dramatic or exotic.
“Hardly surprising. Anyone who’s properly acquainted with him would be,” Grindelwald interjected with a knowing gleam in his eye, throwing Ian a mischievous glance.
However,
Before he could finish his thought,
As Albus Dumbledore’s full form emerged from the crate, the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor’s voice faltered mid-sentence, and the smirk that had been playing on his lips froze solid.
Aurora’s eyes flew wide with disbelief.
For there, on the back of Dumbledore’s head, was a second face, clear as crystal and disturbingly lifelike. It was the very face of Grindelwald himself, unmasked and undistorted.
Worse still, the mouth of that second face gaped monstrously wide, unleashing a steady stream of raging Fiendfyre.
“My professor! My friend! Terrifying enough for you?” Ian cried out dramatically, staggering backward as though overwhelmed by fright, inching closer to the door all the while.
“You rotten little rascal!” Grindelwald’s expression turned positively thunderous.
Now within reach of the exit, Ian wasted no time; he spun on his heel and bolted, vanishing from the room in a flash, leaving only Grindelwald and Aurora behind in the now eerily quiet classroom.
“Get back here!”
With a sharp flick of his wand, Grindelwald forced the Boggart to return to its original, formless state. It was yanked unceremoniously back into the crate, which sealed itself with a heavy click as the lock snapped shut.
“I’ve clearly underestimated that little scamp…”
Grindelwald strode toward the trio of boxes with purpose.
“He’s afraid of you, and Headmaster Dumbledore?” Aurora asked, genuinely surprised. She still seemed inclined to believe in her friend, though part of her suspected this might all be a clever ruse on Ian’s part. Grindelwald, however, gave no answer.
The Defense Against the Dark Arts professor simply opened the remaining two crates. Then, without a word, and under Aurora’s astonished gaze, he raised his wand and destroyed both Boggarts with a final, decisive spell.
“Was that deliberate?” Aurora furrowed her brow, regaining her composure.
“Just a coincidence,” Grindelwald replied quietly.
His gaze lingered on the door Ian had dashed through only moments before.
“A shame, really, we didn’t get to see the real truth.”
He sighed, soft and distant.
In Grindelwald’s pale eyes shimmered a vision only he could see, Ian Prince standing atop the spine of a colossal, skeletal dragon, while walls of Fiendfyre roared and spiralled up around him, darkening the very sky overhead.
A single vision.
No further details.
Grindelwald couldn’t make full sense of what he had seen.
But he knew.
He knew it was connected to the ‘awakening’ dream that had come to him the night before, one that held something deeply sinister, buried in its core.
For in that dream, the slightly older Ian Prince loomed high above the world, powerful and commanding… yet the wand in his hand was slipping, slowly, helplessly, from his grip, and unmistakable fear clouded his eyes.
(End of Chapter)
You can read ahead up to 110 chapters on my Patreon: https://www.patreon.com/darkshadow6395