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In the underground chamber that spanned hundreds of square metres, the once-raging flames had finally died out, leaving charred scorch marks across nearly every surface. Even the twelve stone pillars encircling the hall had not escaped unscathed.
After all, Ian had cast Fiendfyre.
The ornate metalwork that once adorned the ceiling had been reduced to ashes. The fact that the scorched stone columns still retained their fractured forms was a testament to the superb enchantments worked into the original Hogwarts construction.
It was fortunate, too, that during his duel with Voldemort, Ian had managed to preserve just enough magical focus to shield the area where the Mirror of Erised stood. Had he not, that ancient alchemical relic might have met the same fate as the rest of the chamber, nothing but cinders.
And then how would he have explained it to Professor Morgan? He hadn’t forgotten his promise to her, which was why, even amidst a duel teetering on the edge of life and death, he had diverted a portion of his strength to protect the mirror.
One could only say Voldemort had been unlucky to have been weakened by the Forbidden Draught. Had they faced each other at full strength, two wizards so closely matched in magical power, Ian’s odds of prevailing wouldn’t have been particularly high.
Even with his unique magical attributes and his precise control, far beyond that of most wizards, Voldemort’s title as the Dark Lord still carried weight, and not undeservedly so.
“Reading is a fine habit,” Murmured Nicolas Flamel, nodding thoughtfully, “And it’s certainly in keeping with what I’d expect from a student of Ravenclaw.” He paused, puzzling over the book Ian had been reading. “The Journey to the West… Hm. I don’t believe I’ve ever come across it.”
He began to wonder if it might be one of those peculiar bestsellers from the Muggle world. Judging by the title, it sounded Eastern in origin. That would explain it; he had lived a long time, but his ventures into the wizarding cultures of the Far East had been brief at best.
And frankly, Eastern wizarding societies had always been… rather resistant to outside influence.
“Indeed,” Ian replied quickly, “Continually learning new knowledge brings me a certain happiness.” It wasn’t a lie, either.
The young wizard had not, however, revealed the full truth; he didn’t actually understand why the Mirror of Erised had shown him such a peculiar image. The book he’d been reading in the reflection was unusually prominent.
It was clear the Mirror had already activated its enchantments. Unlike Grindelwald’s Boggart, which Ian had managed to influence through subtle mental trickery, this was entirely unfiltered.
But this desire…
It wasn’t what Ian had expected to see at all.
‘Do I not even understand myself?’ He wondered, casting more than one puzzled glance at the vision in the mirror.
The Black Phoenix perched on his shoulder, and the reflected version of himself, deep in the pages of the book, looked up and pointed to a classic line in The Journey to the West:
“Why not take over Azkaban and establish a Galleon-minting workshop where you don’t need to pay wages, feed the workers, or even provide beds? Isn’t my true dream to have my face printed on the Galleons themselves?” Ian was still muttering under his breath.
And at that moment,
“Ian has always had a keen appetite for learning. If memory serves, he’s borrowed 254 books from the library in just one term.” Albus Dumbledore, with no reason to doubt Ian’s words, offered the explanation to Nicolas Flamel on his behalf, even if his statistics were a touch exaggerated.
Clearly.
The old headmaster paid a great deal of attention to Ian. The young wizard turned to Dumbledore in mild shock, even wondering whether the headmaster might also know how many slices of toast he had for breakfast, or Merlin forbid, how many pounds of waste he’d produced that term.
“As eager for knowledge as I was in my youth,” Flamel said warmly, “With an extraordinary talent, tireless diligence, sharp wit… and truly astonishing fortune. These are all signs that your name is destined to be etched in magical history, brighter and louder than most of ours.”
Nicolas Flamel spoke with sincere admiration.
“I am not that impressive,” Ian replied, scratching the back of his head with an air of embarrassment, though the grin threatening to split his face told a different story.
He peered curiously at the wizened alchemist before him. “So… will you be our new Alchemy professor at Hogwarts?”
Of course, Ian already knew about the former professor, Arthur King, who had long since vanished. After the loop, Ian had searched every corner of the castle for him but hadn’t found the slightest trace.
“Indeed, I shall be taking up the post in the twilight of my years,” Flamel replied with a twinkle. “All thanks to your headmaster, who’s been pleading with me to return every single year.”
He tactfully left out the real reason: that he was, truth be told, looking for a bit of amusement. After all, he was about to become a Hogwarts professor, he had to maintain some dignity.
“Many aspiring alchemists have longed to learn from our newest professor,” Said Dumbledore, clearly delighted. “I suspect our students in the coming years will benefit greatly.”
“Ian, I daresay you should seize this opportunity as well.”
Albus Dumbledore was clearly offering more than just advice.
If it had been a Gryffindor, they might’ve laughed and clapped him on the back in agreement. But Ian was a Ravenclaw, his mind worked quickly and analytically. He instantly grasped the meaning behind Dumbledore’s subtle nudge, and with a flicker of anxiety, turned to Nicolas Flamel.
“Professor, I may only be a first-year student and technically not old enough to select Alchemy as an elective, but I believe I’m more than capable of studying it under your tutelage.” Ian’s tone brimmed with confidence as he spoke.
Nicolas Flamel’s interest was piqued.
He understood the implication in Dumbledore’s words, but he hadn’t been properly introduced to this young wizard who, it seemed, had taken on the mantle of some legendary quest usually reserved for the Boy-Who-Lived.
Strong magic and dazzling spells didn’t automatically equate to talent in alchemy. Magic was a demanding discipline, and even the most gifted wizards had their blind spots.
“Your name is Ian Prince, isn’t it?” Nicolas asked first.
The boy gave a small nod.
Flamel studied him with narrowed eyes. “I can tell you’ve a knack for Potions as well, not just through inheritance, but from the concoction you hurled earlier at that dark fellow.”
As someone who’d been refining the Elixir of Life for centuries, Flamel immediately recognised the intricacy of the potion Ian had used against Voldemort. Its principles were far from basic, and its sheer inventiveness had caught his eye.
For an alchemist, imagination was more vital than any wand or cauldron.
“Potions are more of a pastime for me. Alchemy’s where my heart lies,” Ian replied with a smile, offering the sort of praise that would endear him to any alchemist worth their wand.
And it worked, Nicolas Flamel chuckled, clearly pleased.
“You’ve taken quite a shine to alchemy, haven’t you? Good lad.”
And just like that, his tone softened.
“Of course, Professor. I’ve been teaching myself since before I arrived at Hogwarts.” Ian began rummaging in his enchanted money pouch to show one of his creations.
However, the only item he retrieved was an Enhanced Bone-Ash Box.
If he presented that, wouldn’t it give off the wrong impression?
Ian faltered.
Just then, Nicolas Flamel continued kindly, “Judging by what we’ve witnessed, your magical prowess is… well, not merely extraordinary. You’ve already accomplished feats most grown wizards can’t dream of. I dare say, not even Albus or any other wizard I’ve known began at such a terrifying level. Your brilliance may already rival that of Merlin himself.”
“Still, even with such power, alchemy will present you with fresh challenges. It is magic, yes, but of an entirely different breed.”
“Before diving into Alchemy, you’ll need to master the basics. The ‘Magical Syllable Table’ and ‘Beginner’s Guide to Ancient Magic Script’ are both foundational texts.” Nicolas Flamel spoke with the calm certainty of a man who’d guided hundreds of aspiring minds.
The two books he recommended corresponded perfectly with the twin roots of alchemy, modern techniques linked to charms and spellcraft, and ancient ones founded in forgotten magical languages and rune lore.
It had to be said that Nicolas’s advice was sound, especially for someone just starting out.
However,
“Er…”
Ian hesitated, unsure of how to tactfully explain that he had already designed self-operating alchemical guardians capable of thrashing most students in a duel.
“Take your time,” Nicolas Flamel said warmly, misreading the silence. “I’ll be around Hogwarts for a good few years yet.”
He hadn’t the faintest idea how far along Ian truly was.
“Professor…”
Seeing Flamel turn to study the Mirror of Erised, Ian decided it was best to be direct, at least a little.
“I’ve actually been trying to replicate the Room of Requirement,” He said casually, and with a snap of his fingers, began pulling out piles of notes. Thousands of parchment sheets, densely inked with diagrams, magical sequences, and annotated rune circles, spilled from his pouch like a cascade of ancient secrets.
Nicolas Flamel stared down at the mass of documents.
“?????”
He fell into stunned silence.
Suddenly, Flamel realised he’d vastly underestimated the boy Dumbledore had spoken so highly of.
At that moment,
“I did say he was extraordinary,” Albus Dumbledore said with a twinkle in his eye, glancing over from Voldemort’s remains with a soft chuckle.
“…”
Nicolas Flamel opened his mouth in some sort of retort, but nothing came out.
‘Extraordinary? This child looked like he’d started his magical education in the womb!’
Flamel realised he knew almost nothing about the boy standing before him.
“What year are you in?” He asked, his voice laced with disbelief.
“First year, Professor,” Ian replied, trying his best to maintain an innocent and respectful air.
“And when exactly did you begin studying alchemy?”
Nicolas’s eyelid twitched involuntarily. He’d clearly expected Ian to be several years older, perhaps even a NEWT-level student, given his knowledge.
“About a week before term started, I think?” Ian scratched his head thoughtfully, unable to recall the exact moment he’d begun.
“…”
Nicolas Flamel fell silent once more.
He couldn’t help but study the young wizard before him again, emotions stirring in a way they hadn’t in decades. In his own first year of magical and alchemical education, he had barely managed to master the basics of Ancient Runes! Yet here stood a boy of eleven, already delving into the secrets of the Come and Go Room left behind by one of the Founders!
‘Your magical power is already so extraordinary, where on earth do you find the time to study alchemy?’
Nicolas Flamel’s gaze finally settled on Ian’s remarkably composed face, handsome in a refined sort of way, and he pondered silently, unable to discern what area of magic this child might not excel in.
‘So much for the universe being fair!’
“Your classmates are definitely going to feel overshadowed when you grow up,” Nicolas Flamel blurted suddenly, unable to suppress his own feelings of envy. He firmly believed no wizard could be good at everything, there had to be a flaw somewhere.
“?????”
Now it was Ian’s turn to look bewildered.
He had the odd impression that Nicolas Flamel’s remark was more vicious than any hex Voldemort could have thrown at him.
“Don’t fret. If such issues ever arise, alchemy provides certain… remedial charms,” Nicolas Flamel added cryptically, crouching down to examine the thick sheaf of parchment Ian had spread on the ground.
“So, Professor…” Ian said, schooling his features into a reserved expression. “Do I have the qualifications, and the honour, to learn alchemy from you?”
Nicolas Flamel looked up with an even more complex expression than before.
‘You’re already researching one of the greatest enchanted rooms in Hogwarts, and you’re still humbly asking me about qualifications? If you don’t qualify, who in the wizarding world possibly could?’
“Of course, there’s no problem. In fact… it may be my honour instead.” Nicolas Flamel’s voice softened, his eyes glinting with renewed purpose.
The old alchemist had reached a moment of clarity.
Just as the greatest witches and wizards of the past sought apprentices to pass on their knowledge, so too had he yearned for someone to continue the path he could no longer tread, to see the magical frontiers he never reached.
And this boy, this remarkable young wizard, might very well be that person.
Perhaps fate truly had not abandoned him, perhaps it had sent him a successor before he left this world.
Nicolas Flamel had trained many in alchemy, but never had he found a true heir to his life’s work.
“Perhaps it’s him…” Nicolas Flamel thought, his heart suddenly alight with hope.
But still, curiosity lingered.
“Tell me, Ian,” He asked, “Why did you choose to replicate the Room of Requirement? It’s not exactly the most desirable venture for an aspiring alchemist.”
Nicolas Flamel had asked not to criticise, but to understand the boy’s drive. He believed true mastery came from original thought, not merely rehashing the brilliance of others.
Ian answered without hesitation, “Because my previous Alchemy professor told me that if I wanted to study under him, I’d need to fully understand the secrets of the Room of Requirement first.”
For a moment, Nicolas Flamel was speechless.
‘What kind of Alchemy professor sets such an absurd requirement?’
That’s not a test, that’s a way of shooing students off!
“I daresay he was politely declining your request, yes… That must be it,” Nicolas Flamel said after a beat. “In truth, he likely didn’t possess the ability to replicate the Come and Go Room himself.”
“And yet clearly,” He added, glancing at the mountain of runes and parchment, “You took his polite refusal with perfect sincerity…” Nicolas Flamel looked at Ian’s bright, hopeful eyes with a complicated expression in his eyes.
He usually wouldn’t speak ill of others, but when it came to apprentices and legacy… he couldn’t help but be cautious. He had to ensure this young talent wasn’t misled.
Still, he wasn’t particularly worried, who, after all, could rival him in alchemy?
It was more a matter of teaching Ian how the world really worked.
Because to be an alchemist…
You couldn’t afford to be too trusting.
‘One moment you’re a bright-eyed apprentice, the next you’re trapped in a cursed workshop, bottling shrinking solutions for a dodgy potion peddler.’
That was a lesson he’d learned the hard way.
“Ah? Really?” Ian blinked, feigning surprise even though he privately doubted Nicolas Flamel’s analysis. But he wasn’t foolish enough to contradict his would-be mentor.
“Exactly! That must be it!” Nicolas Flamel seized the moment with renewed passion. “I’ve looked into your former professor, who always arrived on time, left the minute the hour struck. Clearly the sort who treats teaching like a clock-in job. Your request would have been seen as nothing more than extra paperwork.”
“He’s not like me,” Nicolas added with a dignified air, “I’m always available. You can pop in for help any time, even at night. I don’t require much sleep these days.”
A six-hundred-year-old alchemist.
A legend in the wizarding world.
And yet… There was something oddly endearing in the way he promoted himself with such humble insistence.
“Nicolas, about the previous Alchemy professor, actually…” Albus Dumbledore, who had just returned from examining Voldemort’s remains, opened his mouth to interject.
But seeing Nicolas Flamel’s indignant zeal, he hesitated.
In the end, Dumbledore said nothing. Whatever he had learned, or suspected, about Arthur King, he kept it to himself.
Some matters were best left for another time.
“There’s no actuality about it! I, the greatest alchemist of this century! Albus, are you seriously suggesting I’m not capable of teaching your student properly?” Nicolas Flamel, slightly misinterpreting the situation, gave Albus Dumbledore a sharp look.
“I’d never doubt your capabilities, not for a moment,” Albus said quickly, nodding with an affable smile. He knew full well how to soothe the feelings of an elderly wizard.
After all,
The older a wizard gets, the more they begin to resemble a child.
This was a truth well-known among those who’d spent time around the venerable members of the magical community.
“Did you hear that, young man? Your Headmaster knows just how talented I am. Any time you find yourself free, come and find me, I’ll be happy to offer you private instruction.”
Nicolas Flamel barely needed to glance at the parchment scattered on the floor to gauge Ian’s grasp of alchemy. Even so, he found himself silently thankful that he’d come to Hogwarts on a whim for a bit of amusement.
“Yes, I’ll definitely come to see you, Professor!” Ian replied, clearly delighted.
While Professor Morgan was another source he could turn to for alchemical insight, that path would only be open after a specific period. Having the greatest alchemist of the age available for consultation at any time was an unexpected and welcome advantage.
“I’ve got more than just the Philosopher’s Stone, you know. I’ve stashed away a number of treasures over the centuries. If your progress impresses me, I just might leave them all to you when I finally kick the cauldron!” Nicolas Flamel beamed, casting a glance at the already shattered Philosopher’s Stone, clearly trying to spur Ian’s ambition.
This was a far cry from the kind of vague promises Ian had offered to the Dementors in moments of desperation.
“That machine is not to be given to him.” Albus Dumbledore’s tone was suddenly more serious, directed at Nicolas Flamel.
“What machine?” Ian tilted his head, clearly intrigued by the Headmaster’s words.
“Some… relic of Nicolas’s more questionable adventures.” Albus clearly had no desire to elaborate.
However, Nicolas Flamel frowned at the vague accusation, first shooting Dumbledore an irritated look before turning to Ian.
“It’s just a metalworking contraption. Harmless, really. Makes little trinkets that occasionally raise eyebrows at the Ministry,” He said, trying to brush the matter aside.
But even he seemed unable to come up with a better description.
“Is it a counterfeit Galleon press?” Ian blinked innocently, showing a touch of cunning.
“An illegal currency-forging device,” Albus sighed heavily, correcting him with no small amount of exasperation.
“The goblins and the Ministry can’t tell the difference! And besides, I haven’t used it in years…” Nicolas’s tone grew defensive, but unconvincing.
Ian could practically sense the guilt wafting off him.
His mind wandered back to the earlier mention of a five-million-Galleon bet Nicolas had made.
Some things suddenly began to make more sense.
“Professor, you must be starving after being cooped up in that wall compartment for so long. Why don’t we visit the kitchens? The house-elves always whip up the most marvellous dishes,” Ian suggested with a smile.
“And perhaps, while we’re at it… I could ask you a few more questions about alchemy?”
“There’s still a bit of a mess to deal with here,” Nicolas replied, not tempted by the offer of food. He gestured to Voldemort’s lifeless body. “If we don’t properly dispose of this, the residual dark magic could endanger many. He may not have been a magical creature per se, but that body, well, it’s the product of biological alchemy.”
Nicolas Flamel’s mastery was unmistakable. Without so much as approaching the corpse, he’d discerned the nature of Voldemort’s rebirth.
“He used alchemy to fashion himself a new body?”
Ian was clearly intrigued.
However, just as he was about to step closer for a better look, Albus Dumbledore raised a hand to stop him.
“What’s even more frightening is how and why Voldemort was able to return. I’ll explain everything to you in my office shortly,” Dumbledore said gently but firmly, clearly intent on removing Ian from the scene for now.
“I’m honestly more concerned about these glowing magical markings on me,” Ian said, glancing down at his bare upper chest. The golden runes still shimmered faintly, like a heartbeat of light.
“To my knowledge, they’ll settle in time. You needn’t worry about glowing perpetually,” Dumbledore said, his voice reassuring and warm.
Ian visibly relaxed.
“Alright, Professor… then, may I take the Mirror of Erised with me? After all, I have once again protected the school, and I did break a fair sweat ensuring the safety of my fellow students…”
He had half a mind to claim he’d bled for Hogwarts, but try as he might, he couldn’t find a single drop of blood on his person, and he wasn’t sure a sore throat or a mouth ulcer qualified as a noble sacrifice.
“Ian,” Dumbledore said with a soft sigh, “Fixating too much on the illusions offered by the Mirror of Erised won’t do you any good.”
“I only want to study it. You know I’m an aspiring alchemist, it’s natural that I’d want to examine such a legendary alchemical artefact,” Ian said sincerely.
Dumbledore hesitated, clearly torn.
At that moment, Nicolas Flamel interjected smoothly, “An alchemist should be curious by nature. I don’t see Ian becoming obsessed with the mirror’s images.”
His words carried a deeper implication that didn’t sit entirely well with Dumbledore.
“Alright, I shall permit it, for now. But if I so much as suspect it’s beginning to influence you… I will take it back.”
Dumbledore sighed deeply, yet in the end, relented to Ian’s request.
This clearly surprised Nicolas Flamel, who glanced between Ian and his old friend with a suddenly thoughtful expression.
He had realised something, from Dumbledore’s unexpected willingness to hand over the Mirror of Erised, and his previous behaviour concerning the time-turner, Nicolas had begun to piece together a few secrets.
“Thank you, Professor!” Ian beamed with delight as he promptly stuffed the Mirror of Erised into his enchanted money bag, which still had ample room left inside.
“I’ll wait for you in the Headmaster’s office!”
Ian gave a quick bow before swiftly pulling on his robes and heading towards the entrance of the underground chamber, where the black flames had now faded into nothing. The thought of seeing Professor Morgan’s pleased expression filled the young wizard with anticipation.
Behind him, Nicolas Flamel’s gaze remained fixed upon the Phoenix resting on his shoulder.
Once Ian’s silhouette had completely vanished from sight,
“I have a strong suspicion that Phoenix is the reason he’s able to embark on the path of legend. If the proof of legend could be acquired so easily, we wouldn’t have seen generations of wizards wasting away in pursuit of it.”
Nicolas Flamel’s words were certain; defeating a Dark Lord who had yet to earn a place among the legends of history would not, by traditional understanding, qualify someone to ascend to legendary status.
It defied common sense. It contradicted the collective knowledge of what it meant to become a legend in the magical world.
Nicolas believed that Dumbledore, who, despite all his achievements, had not obtained such status himself, was undoubtedly aware of this paradox.
“On that point… I admit I’m surprised,” Dumbledore said quietly, his eyes glinting with an unusual light. “But regardless, it has unfolded before our very eyes.”
“I half expected you to say he was born with it, that he possessed the proof of legend since the cradle.” Nicolas gave his old friend a pointed, meaningful glance.
“And yet, even I can’t get you to explain what you’re thinking. Tsk, tsk… There’s clearly a tremendous secret between you and that boy, and I daresay it must be tied to how he came by the proof of legend in the first place.”
Nicolas Flamel let the matter rest.
For now, he was far more intrigued by the Black Phoenix that had accompanied Ian, an enigmatic creature that had unsettled even him.
“I must have seen it before… at the very least, I’ve come across an illustration!”
The aged alchemist tapped his forehead in frustration.
But no memory surfaced.
He had lived through centuries, endless memories piled atop each other like dust-laden tomes in a forgotten archive.
Dumbledore watched his friend’s furrowed brow with a faint flicker of doubt of his own.
Truthfully, he too felt that the creature Ian had summoned lacked the grace and purity of a traditional Phoenix. There was something darker, something ancient, in its form.
…
While the two old wizards remained in the underground chamber, lost in their contemplations and quiet conjecture, Ian had already packed away all the shattered chess pieces from the previous battle into his ever-accommodating money bag.
“Hey! Take me to the Headmaster’s office! Right above, this exact spot!”
Ian reached up and seized the Black Phoenix by the neck, dragging it down from his shoulder, still brooding over the fact that it had intercepted Voldemort’s soul before he could deal with it personally.
“Squawk, Squawk, Squawk~!”
The Phoenix let out two eerie, echoing cries and, with its innate magic, enveloped Ian in a swirl of vanishing light.
A moment later, Ian found himself standing in a bright, warmly lit room.
“?”
Ian blinked.
Confusion washed over him. Because sitting comfortably behind the large desk, was another Albus Dumbledore.
Wearing that same serene smile, as though he’d been waiting quite some time.
(End of this chapter)
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