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Ian felt more insulted than he ever had in his life. Not even when Voldemort had aimed his wand at his face and spat a curse had he felt this deeply wronged.
‘The Weakness of Human Nature: The Prince’s Secret’, was nothing more than a glorified children’s psychology guide?
“This is utter rubbish! Your grandfather’s talking absolute trash! He’s just a spell-slinger who’s clearly no idea how to write a proper book!” Ian growled with clenched jaws, looking for all the world as though he might tear Grindelwald’s latest publication to shreds right there at the Slytherin table.
“I completely understand how you feel. Honestly, if I were in your shoes, I’d be furious too,” Aurora agreed quickly, and the agreement managed to smooth a little of the scowl on Ian’s face.
“You see? You really are a proper friend. The only reason I haven’t stormed over to your grandfather and hexed him senseless is because I know I’d lose,” Ian muttered indignantly, sinking back into his seat with a huff.
“It’s alright. One day, you’ll be strong enough to best him. When that day comes, he won’t dare slander you again,” Aurora said soothingly, her calm understanding working like a charm.
And then,
Quite unexpectedly, the German girl pulled a small treat from the pocket of her robes.
“If you’re still feeling cross… would a crystal lollipop help?” She offered in a tone far too gentle, like a nursemaid trying to coax a fussy child.
Ian’s face flushed bright red on the spot.
It wasn’t just red like a radish. It was as red as a Cornish pixie’s backside.
“I’m not some daft toddler! Children’s mind games don’t work on me! Do you honestly think a childish brat would do something like this?” Ian snapped, swiping the lollipop out of her hand.
Then,
Without another word, he marched straight down the length of the Slytherin table, heading toward a group of older students in their third year.
“Want to buy a Christmas sweet?” He asked bluntly.
He stuffed the crystal lollipop into one of the seniors’ hands, and while the older boy stared in confused silence, Ian calmly extended his palm.
“You’ve touched it. I don’t deal in second-hand goods. Five silver Sickles, if you please.”
The comment brought the third-year out of his daze. He looked vaguely irritated, but surprisingly, he didn’t argue.
Instead, he reached for his coin pouch, plucked out a gold Galleon, and handed it over.
“No, I should be the one thanking you. This is bound to be the finest treat I’ll ever eat. Worth far more than five Sickles,” Said the older Slytherin with something like reverence.
Ian couldn’t tell what the boy was thinking, but he did seem genuinely sincere, and even flashed him a picture-perfect, charming smile.
“…”
Ian trudged back to Aurora’s side, Galleon in hand, but found himself unable to feel victorious.
Because he had suddenly realised something rather terrifying.
“You’ve just proven that this book actually works,” Aurora said quietly. She had been reading one of the chapters from ‘The Weakness of Human Nature: The Prince’s Secret’ while Ian had wandered off.
The title of the chapter she’d been skimming?
“Ian Doesn’t Hit Smiling Faces: On How to Provide Emotional Value to Him.”
One could only say, while Ian had suspected something was off about that grinning third-year, seeing the words printed so plainly by Grindelwald made his eye twitch violently.
“How many copies of that wretched book has your grandfather sold?” Ian’s voice turned raspy, as if the truth might make him ill.
Aurora didn’t say a word. She simply pushed the heavy pouch of gold Galleons across the table back toward Ian.
“It’s a bestseller.”
That one simple sentence made Ian feel like he’d been tossed into the icy fish holds of a Durmstrang trawler ship.
“He’s not planning to publish it publicly, is he?” Ian still clung to a desperate shred of hope.
“Gilderoy Lockhart is an incredibly successful writer, do you know what that means?” Aurora pointed to the small publisher’s seal on the corner of the book’s cover.
Before Ian could answer, the girl continued cheerfully, “It means by the time you see his name on the cover, copies are already sitting on every bookshelf in every wizarding bookshop from here to the Hebrides.”
Her finger tapped the embossed logo at the base of the spine.
“…”
Ian was speechless.
“This sort of shitty literature can be sold across Britain? How many people even know who I am?” He exploded, practically foaming with fury. For a brief second, he even considered outing Grindelwald’s secret identity to the world.
But then he paused.
Even the Daily Prophet was under Grindelwald’s thumb. The usual channels to make oneself heard had long been sealed shut. This… this was clearly part of Grindelwald’s grander design.
“Don’t tell me he’s got his claws in the bookshops too…” Ian muttered, remembering how, when he first met Aurora, the Hogsmeade bookshop had already been run by one of Grindelwald’s followers.
A slow chill crept down his spine.
Given Grindelwald’s far-reaching foresight, it wasn’t impossible, no, it was likely, that the moment he’d re-emerged into the world, he’d begun plotting to control every flow of knowledge wizards had access to.
Just like some of those old wizarding families who quietly hold sway over The Daily Prophet to steer public opinion… Was Grindelwald quietly orchestrating a similar scheme behind the scenes of the wizarding world?
“To the booksellers, it doesn’t matter what Lockhart writes anymore; his name alone is enough to guarantee a profit. And don’t forget, you hail from a once-prestigious lineage of potioneers.”
“Most witches and wizards find anything to do with mysterious, fallen potions families utterly captivating. So sales outside Hogwarts are hardly likely to be poor.”
“Of course, according to my grandfather’s ‘official’ statement, the book is meant as a survival manual for incoming first-years at Hogwarts, written after a full year of ‘instructive observation.'”
Aurora didn’t directly address Ian’s suspicion. Instead, she flipped open ‘The Weakness of Human Nature: The Prince’s Secret’, pointing to the introduction with her slender, pale finger.
Ian cast a glance at the page and immediately looked away. That grim little line, ‘We cannot stop schoolyard cruelty, but we can learn how to sidestep it’, was a punch to the gut.
“Old Dumbledore must be trying to smear me… I only ever bully the bullies,” Ian muttered, his voice growing faint. He had the sinking feeling his reputation was beyond salvaging at this point.
For the next seven years, he was likely doomed. And Merlin helps him, maybe even beyond graduation too.
“Perhaps he’s exaggerated a little to rattle the nerves of overprotective parents… But in truth, I think Grandfather’s goal is to stir things up, on your behalf.”
Aurora wore a smile that said she was thoroughly enjoying Ian’s misfortune.
“What sort of twisted help is that…” Ian grumbled, unsure where to even begin venting his frustration.
“No one knows how to stir up trouble quite like him. On that count, I daresay his views are remarkably aligned with Professor Dumbledore’s,” Aurora said, her heterochromatic eyes glinting with hidden meaning.
“Hmm?”
Ian recalled Aurora mentioning before that Dumbledore had shared details of his past encounters with Voldemort with a few influential pure-blood families. Could Grindelwald’s current schemes be part of that same broader plan?
Before Ian could ask aloud, Aurora stood up, dusted off her robes, and, almost as if she’d read his thoughts, offered an answer to the unspoken question.
“No one sings praises for the kindly old man, not even if he spends a lifetime doing good. But let a feared and infamous villain do one good deed, and the world falls over itself with admiration.”
“People praise you because they know you want to be praised.” The German girl looked him squarely in the eye, her tone both playful and sharp. “Grandfather didn’t title the book ‘The Weakness of Human Nature’ to offend you; he was mocking the masses while helping Dumbledore build your myth.”
With that, Aurora tucked the heavy pouch of galleons, retrieved from earlier, into Ian’s robes and plucked up the homework he’d sneakily pilfered from her.
She said nothing of his little theft. Instead, she wiped her mouth, very deliberately, with the hem of Ian’s robe and then turned to stroll toward the Great Hall’s grand doors.
Clang Clang!
Fawkes, Dumbledore’s phoenix, had been waiting just outside the hall. In a blink of flame and feathers, both phoenix and girl vanished together, leaving behind a small eruption of gasps and whispers among the young witches and wizards still lingering over their puddings.
“That was Professor Dumbledore’s phoenix!”
“And it can Apparate with Aurora!”
“Blimey! I heard she’s Dumbledore’s apprentice now, so it’s true? But she’s from that terrifying dark wizard’s family!”
“My dad’s a Muggle, but my mum swears I’ve got Seer’s blood. I swear I just foresaw how big this is going to get!”
“Oi, wake up. It’s Uncle John next door who’s got the Seer blood, not us. Mum says we got cursed with bad eyesight instead.”
…
A ruckus spread across the Great Hall.
Clearly, some of Ian’s secrets had slipped out, and so had a few of Aurora’s. How many invisible hands were behind these whispers was anyone’s guess.
“Creating momentum…” Ian murmured, glancing about with a sigh.
Just as he turned to leave, he noticed a younger Slytherin quietly creeping up behind him.
“Little professor, the way you cleaned your plate, brilliant, that was,” The boy mumbled awkwardly, but still gave Ian a thumbs-up.
“…”
Without a word, Ian reached into the boy’s robes and pulled out a copy of ‘The Weakness of Human Nature: The Prince’s Secret’. The sight of it made his teeth ache.
“You believe this rubbish? Are you completely daft?” Ian barked, glaring at the younger boy, who flinched under the weight of the scolding.
As the lad’s face fell, Ian sighed and added in a softer tone, “Look, that book’s just Lockhart’s latest gimmick to lighten your coin purse. But I’ve got something real. Give me a few days, and I’ll have a proper book, one that’s actually useful.”
“Now, be a good lad and return that one, quick as you can.” Ian shoved the book back into the stunned boy’s hands before he could reply.
“Mine’ll be titled ‘The True Secrets of the Prince’. Don’t forget to support the original. We don’t stand for cheap knock-offs here,” Ian called over his shoulder, leaving the boy blinking in disbelief.
Could it really be done like that? Publishing a book about yourself?
Even for a Ravenclaw, this young wizard found his worldview rather thoroughly shaken by Ian’s conduct. He was left feeling as though his mind had short-circuited, like his brain had been confounded. But when Ian’s way of thinking was carefully considered, it was actually rather reasonable.
After all, the die had been cast. If Grindelwald could profit from such ventures, why shouldn’t Ian?
…
The peaceful stretch of the holidays was slowly drawing to a close.
Ian’s academic life continued unabated.
Naturally,
Refining potions and brewing a handful of trump cards had become an indispensable part of his daily routine.
[Potions Mastery (Level 5) 82/1600]
Thanks to the steady advancement of his magical skill from relentless potion-making, Ian had successfully pushed his Potions Mastery to Level 5.
With this leap came the awakening of a rare magical trait, something Ian had half-suspected might occur. This trait was unique to potioneers, much like the peculiar talents seen in advanced practitioners of magical alchemy.
It was called “Extreme Fusion”.
This ability allowed Ian to harmonize conflicting ingredients to a degree unmatched by any other potion brewer, no matter their natural talent or learned technique.
It wouldn’t be fair to say it could make the impossible possible, but Extreme Fusion did grant Ian the power to stabilise what would otherwise be a one-in-a-million chance during a difficult brew.
Even Professor Snape had never reached such consistency. Nor, likely, had any famed potioneer of the past. Traits like this, miraculous, extraordinary, couldn’t be gained through sheer effort or brilliance alone.
“This might be some kind of… magical authority.” Ian often thought back to the shadowy figure he had glimpsed in a moment of profound clarity. He had an inkling that this mysterious presence was tied to such legendary traits.
Or, at the very least, something akin to them.
It remained speculation. He had no proof, nothing in the Hogwarts Library hinted at anything useful, and neither Grindelwald nor Dumbledore had ever spoken of such matters in helpful terms.
After all,
Though Ian’s overall magical power was still far from rivaling theirs, on the path toward legend, he was now walking further than either of his two mentors had dared.
“Perhaps my more powerful mentor will have the answers.” Ian’s gaze turned skyward, eagerly anticipating nightfall. He knew that Professor Morgan, mysterious, elusive, and indisputably legendary, would surely be able to shed light on these matters.
Professor Morgan had walked the path of legends herself; her understanding would far surpass that of even Grindelwald or Dumbledore.
“It’s tonight.”
Ian could hardly contain his anticipation.
He was also curious to see Professor Morgan’s reaction to the Mirror of Erised, newly obtained. But as there were still several hours until nightfall, the young wizards resumed their studies and potions work as usual.
Level 5 was by no means the pinnacle of potioneering, and Ian had no intention of stopping. He still had a sizeable stock of ingredients to push his progress further.
And beyond mere progression, Ian’s brewing was about preparation. The boons gained from the time loops had left him with enough foresight and magical tools to steadily expand his collection of hidden aces.
“When I crossed paths with Voldemort, it was only because I’d prepared thoroughly that I made it out intact. If I hadn’t, I might’ve ended up at the mercy of that deranged old ghost of a student.”
Ian was well aware that Professor Dumbledore had likely planned to step in had the duel gone awry, but this didn’t stop Ian from using that encounter to forge more tools and craft more contingencies.
As the old wizarding saying goes: ‘The road is long and filled with thorns, but only the wise tread it carefully.’ Or ‘A clever wizard keeps his wand holstered until the time is right.’ And most crucially, ‘The tallest tree is always the first struck by lightning.’ These were the guiding principles for any wizard wishing to walk the righteous path, a path meant to be carved anew by will and wisdom alike.
On that point, Ian agreed wholeheartedly.
Unfortunately, he was not someone inclined toward humility or playing the fool to catch the lion.
And after defeating Voldemort, and having that very fact widely circulated, there was no hiding anymore. The concept of staying low-key had become completely impractical. Ian understood that he would have to prepare for whatever ripple effects would follow, with a full array of magical measures and contingency plans.
“Who knows if Voldemort left behind secret instructions for his other soul fragments? Or if his fanatics are holding a grudge and plotting revenge? I’d be a fool not to prepare.”
“This isn’t paranoia, it’s caution, ingrained in my very blood as a wizard from a line known for vigilance and subtlety. I won’t rest easy until I can face down every pure-blood faction with nothing but my wand and my wits.”
And now that he had the stealthy mobility offered by the black phoenix, it was finally time to put into motion a few ideas that had long been simmering in the back of his mind.
In the past few days, Ian had been covertly using the stealth abilities of his black Phoenix to collect strands of hair from young wizards across the various common rooms.
This covert operation served two purposes: one, to further investigate the theories outlined in Origins of Bloodlines, and two, to develop a new batch of Forbidden Potions designed to affect the broader wizarding population.
Having experienced the potent effects of the Forbidden Potions, Ian had grown rather enamoured with their capabilities. However, even he knew he couldn’t go around disturbing his classmates’ ancestral tombs just to gather the rare materials needed for refinement.
That sort of behaviour would certainly provoke public outrage.
Even if he used an advanced Polyjuice brew to disguise himself as Tom Riddle Sr. and perform the grave-robbing, Ian had to admit it would slightly tarnish his moral reputation.
Hence, his current objective was to devise a universal variant of the Forbidden Potions, one that could interact with most wizards regardless of bloodline, and fortunately, the unique trait of Extreme Fusion had allowed him a glimpse at the possibility of making such a potion real.
“Although wizarding bloodlines differ, I’ve discerned consistent magical threads, what one might call magical genes, present in all of them. The core essence that reacts to magic is universal,” Ian mused.
His research required an extensive collection of samples, and the fact that he could conduct such complex magical studies using only hair was already testament to his remarkable aptitude.
He liked to think many deceased wizards might now be resting easier because of that.
“Note this: sixty-fourth attempt at universal Forbidden Potion refinement has failed. Suspected cause, lack of effective filtration enchantment, resulting in indiscriminate magical suppression across all test subjects,” Ian announced aloud.
The command was directed at the enchanted Homework Quill hovering beside him.
The Dementor he had once toyed with clearly wasn’t cut out for clerical duties.
Thus, the Homework Quill, initially designed for aiding in essay-writing, had now found its true calling. Ian had enhanced the alchemical quill with spellwork so it could dutifully log experimental data while still maintaining its core purpose.
Indeed, the Homework Quill remained indispensable in finishing and transcribing The True Secrets of the Prince, the book that had begun as a profit-seeking endeavour and blossomed into an intellectual success.
He had made a tidy pile of Galleons from the invention, far more than he would’ve earned writing term papers for others.
“Intellectual property is truly gold,” Ian said smugly, stroking his black Phoenix while reviewing his financial gains. With vaults now comfortably lined, he could finally consider himself wealthy by any standard.
A neatly stacked mound of gleaming Galleons really was a feast for the eyes.
“Oi! Stop trying to eat them!”
He smacked the beak of the black Phoenix, which was attempting to swallow one of the coins. During the day, Ian kept the magical creature safely hidden within the Room of Requirement, letting it stretch its wings at nightfall.
There wasn’t much choice in the matter.
Rumours still ran rampant about his alleged secret residence in Dumbledore’s quarters, and Ian wasn’t keen on fuelling any more gossip. Spotting the rare black Phoenix might give certain overly imaginative students new material to stir the shit with.
Even though the black Phoenix looked nothing like Fawkes, you never knew. Some were already whispering about it being the “lovechild” of Albus Dumbledore and Gellert Grindelwald, which was utterly preposterous, of course.
Ian dreaded the possibility of such whispers evolving into something even more ludicrous. Consequently, his Phoenix had started venting its frustrations by chasing after Fawkes at night, frequently pecking at him in a jealous fury.
The eerie cries of “caw caw caw” circling above Hogwarts had now become the stuff of legend, an ominous tale whispered by boys to scare their sweethearts.
Ian had even gone so far as to concoct a ghost story around the noise, frightening several young Ravenclaws who’d chosen to stay behind over the holidays. No one ever suspected he was behind the nightly racket.
Well, almost no one. The Ravenclaw bronze eagle knocker had once remarked that he smelled suspiciously of another bird, but the enchanted sentry was easy to appease. Ian had learned that appealing to the knocker’s childlike nature worked wonders in keeping its gossipy mouth shut.
Ever since discovering that, he hadn’t been locked out of the common room once. However, it did give rise to yet another rumour: that he was secretly courting the bronze eagle.
Ian couldn’t care less at this point.
He had endured far too many outlandish rumours to be bothered anymore. They didn’t slow him down in the slightest; if anything, he found he studied more efficiently now. Thanks to his extra hours in the library, he had even mastered the Silent Explosion Charm.
Not to be confused with a nonverbal casting, the Silent Explosion Charm allowed an explosion to occur with no accompanying sound whatsoever. It was, without doubt, a brilliant invention. If not for the cautioning of his Head of House, Ian would have published a paper on it immediately.
Professor Filius Flitwick had warned him that the original explosion charm was already dangerously close to being considered dark magic, and if this silent variant were widely circulated, the Ministry might see fit to strike it from the academic curriculum entirely.
Ian remained unconvinced.
He’d already debated this with Flitwick multiple times and wasn’t likely to stop anytime soon.
Now,
As a fresh batch of universal Forbidden Potions began to bubble in the cauldron, Ian seized a quiet moment to make his way toward Professor Flitwick’s office. The Charms Master’s study, as always, was in a state of creative disarray.
Walking into this office felt like stepping into a labyrinth of arcane knowledge and well-worn wisdom. The walls were entirely concealed behind towering shelves, stretching from floor to ceiling, each one overflowing with volumes of all kinds.
Tomes on charms and spellwork were particularly abundant, their bindings softly aglow beneath enchanted lamplight, promising insight to any witch or wizard keen enough to seek it.
It was very much like a miniature library, reminiscent of the little library tucked inside the Ravenclaw common room. Perhaps every Ravenclaw graduate gradually built such a space over the years. The books gave off that same warm gleam, the subtle shimmer of stored knowledge, beckoning to those with curious minds.
Naturally.
Despite the formidable shelves stuffed to bursting, what caught the eye even more were the books that refused to stay put. They wandered and lounged freely around the office, like enchanted pets with minds of their own.
Some leaned lazily against the edge of a wide oak desk, others lay sprawled beside an inviting armchair, altogether forming a chaotic but strangely comforting mess, clearly left behind after a deep dive into their contents.
It wasn’t that Professor Flitwick was careless.
Ian strongly suspected it had more to do with his Head of House’s aversion to ladders. It was something of an open secret among Ravenclaws that Professor Flitwick harboured a slight fear of heights.
“What brings you here again?”
Upon seeing Ian, Professor Flitwick pinched the bridge of his nose, already bracing for a headache.
“I’ve improved the Silent Explosion Charm again; this time, there’s truly no sound at all. I’ve separated the medium through which noise travels. It could serve as a brilliant example of how Muggle principles might enrich magical theory,” Ian said enthusiastically, attempting to elevate the significance of his spellcraft.
Unfortunately, he had clearly misunderstood Professor Flitwick’s true concern.
“Hmmm~”
The Charms Master inhaled sharply as Ian performed the charm once more. The spell’s refinement left him momentarily speechless, his face caught between astonishment and dread.
He had watched Ian progress from producing a feeble pop to now conjuring a completely silent detonation that had just splintered one of his sturdy wooden chairs. At this rate, Professor Flitwick realised he could no longer avoid the issue.
Heaven knew what new calamity this prodigious student would unleash the next time he showed up unannounced. It was no wonder Dumbledore had once grown cautious of Tom Riddle. Flitwick understood that unease now, but he had no intention of playing the same role the old Headmaster once had.
After all, this Ravenclaw wasn’t quite like Riddle. Well… at least Ian seemed content lighting fires rather than taking lives. So far, anyway.
“No sensible wizard would ever develop such a spell… What I mean is, try not to give the Aurors any more work than they already have,” Flitwick said delicately, with a touch of exasperated wisdom.
Ian caught on at once.
“This charm wouldn’t be useful for breaking into Gringotts,” He said, puzzled but trying to reassure.
“Precisely, it wouldn’t. But how many witches or wizards even consider that these days? Far more likely is someone using it to discreetly blow up a rival without waking the neighbours. That, my dear boy, is a far bigger headache for the Aurors than even the Killing Curse,” Professor Flitwick sighed.
At last, he persuaded Ian to shelve his plan to publish a paper on the spell.
“Alright, fair enough. That is possible,” Ian admitted after a beat of thought. Not every wizard was as well-meaning as himself, who only used the charm to sneak in a bit of late-night reading in the library after hours.
Naturally.
Now that he had finally tracked down Professor Flitwick, Ian had no intention of leaving so quickly. He wasn’t the sort to be discouraged by rejection. Instead, he simply pivoted and continued working in the office with all the persistence of a kneazle on the scent of something shiny.
“Sir, since the Silent Explosion Charm is apparently troublesome, allow me to present the Multi-Disarming Charm. I believe it will be the greatest boon to Aurors this century.”
Ian was still determined to produce a paper worthy of notice. He had no desire to follow in the footsteps of Grindelwald or the like. He wanted his own brilliance to shine, and a groundbreaking academic piece was the beacon he aimed to light.
“What’s this? Multi-Disarming?”
Just as he had resumed organising his lesson plans, Flitwick glanced up again, mildly intrigued.
“Like this! Expelliarmus!”
Ian raised his wand, which flared with the trademark scarlet of a Disarming Charm. But this was no ordinary cast; his spell split into multiple radiant arcs, like sparks off a firecracker, each one whipping through the air.
“Crackle~”
A collection of objects surrounding them clattered violently as they were struck, disarmed from whatever invisible grip they had. Ian turned, grinning expectantly at his professor amidst the fading red gleams.
“…”
Professor Flitwick swallowed audibly.
“I have a rather unsettling suspicion your charm wasn’t originally based on Expelliarmus,” He said dryly with a slight edge of alarm creeping into his usually cheerful voice.
Then again, it was hardly surprising, he was Hogwarts’ Charms Master and a renowned duelist. His instincts for spellwork ran deep, and what he was witnessing now was clearly something new… and unnervingly powerful.
“Yes, Professor, this is an innovative approach I’ve taken with another spell, but I think it’s most fitting for a paper on the Disarming Charm.”
Ian cast a nervous glance at the towering shelves of books. He certainly couldn’t admit that this technique was originally meant for the Avada Lightning Chain; who would believe that he simply thought such a spell looked rather spectacular?
“Gulp~”
The sound of Professor Flitwick swallowing grew more noticeable. He swore that if Minerva hadn’t told him a few things, he might have been compelled to inform the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, who had already taken care of Quirrell’s remains.
“What’s the matter, Professor?”
Ian tried to maintain an innocent expression. He noticed the increasingly odd look on Professor Flitwick’s face, and he hadn’t expected the Ravenclaw Head of House to possess such sharp insight.
He had, after all, already made some subtle modifications to this technique.
“Have you read that book in the Restricted Section?” Professor Flitwick didn’t launch into a full inquiry; he merely asked, as if something had occurred to him.
“Uh… I’ve read many books in the Restricted Section; all of them with the Headmaster’s approval,” Ian said, somewhat puzzled. He hadn’t referenced any specific book for this technique.
“It’s that book, Questionable Legends: The Mystery of the Transfer Student,” Professor Flitwick said, staring intently at Ian, as if trying to gauge whether Ian was hiding something.
“Ah? Is there such a book? I haven’t come across it,” Ian replied, still confused. He had never heard of such a book.
“Is it a novel or a biography?”
Ian speculated based on the title. Could it be that the author of this book shared his views on the power of overwhelming force?
“Some say it’s a sealed school history, while others claim it’s a complete fabrication. I used to lean toward the latter, but now I’m not so sure…” Professor Flitwick’s gaze remained piercing.
“A ‘fifth-year legend’!” Ian’s mind started to whirl. “Wait, what?”
Suddenly, a light bulb went off in Ian’s head, recalling what Aurora had once mentioned. He blurted out without thinking, “You’re not talking about some old senior who kills when pleased and kills even more when displeased, are you?” Ian had heard about this from Aurora but thought she was joking. He never imagined there would be a biography of such a character in the Restricted Section, one more terrifying than Voldemort.
“You’re telling me you haven’t read that book!”
Professor Flitwick shot up from his chair.
“Uh, my friend has read it; I only heard about it…” Ian still found it hard to believe and tried to reason, “It must be a made-up story.”
“After all, if such a student existed, he’d have been locked away in Azkaban long before graduating. And who would there be left to kill?”
“If such a person truly existed, Grindelwald wouldn’t have been the Dark Lord of his generation, and Voldemort wouldn’t have been the second.” Ian’s analysis was reasonable, grounded in logic.
“Shh~”
Professor Flitwick hastily placed a finger over Ian’s mouth.
“Don’t speak the name of You-Know-Who; he cursed his name himself… I trust Dumbledore must have informed you that he didn’t truly die.”
He whispered the last part with a sense of caution.
“…”
Ian felt a little perplexed by Professor Flitwick’s outdated information.
“Didn’t you hear?” Ian tilted his head, confused.
“What did you hear?”
Professor Flitwick looked at Ian, clearly bewildered.
“Alright… let’s go back to this ‘killer’ you mentioned.” Ian felt that Dumbledore’s reach hadn’t extended as far as he had assumed.
Upon hearing this, Professor Flitwick gave him a strange look before seeming to drift into some distant memory, and began to speak again.
“Biographies often have their embellishments. But over a century ago, the wizarding world was far more populated than it is today.”
“Killing a few hundred people a day may be an exaggeration, but a dozen or twenty… that would probably suffice. If you haven’t read the book, then you probably don’t know what the protagonist did,” Professor Flitwick continued. He would not usually entertain such matters with young students, but Ian was clearly an exception.
Gifted.
Talented.
A future Headmaster in the making.
“Uh, Sir, I was just wondering how this protagonist in the biography relates to my Disarming Charm technique? Did he invent it before me?”
Ian tilted his head, finally voicing the question that had been lingering in his mind for a while.
Professor Flitwick nodded, then hesitated and shook his head.
“I wouldn’t say he invented it. According to the records in that book, and the research I conducted out of curiosity, that student from a century ago learned the technique from a mysterious wizard.”
This revelation left Ian stunned.
“Someone really got ahead of me.”
He felt the pang of regret that he had been born too late.
“It’s difficult to say. Many have poured over the contents of that book, but no one has ever been able to identify the person who truly created the technique,” Professor Flitwick added with a sigh.
“So, that means I’m still the first person to use this technique, right?” Ian’s eyes brightened again as he looked at Professor Flitwick with eager anticipation.
Professor Flitwick, however, couldn’t understand why the young wizard was so fixated. “That’s hard to say. In reality, your method isn’t particularly complex as far as the technique itself goes.”
“The difficulty in casting it lies in the strength of the wizard’s magical core and control over their magic. I believe that even including the protagonist we discussed, in the last few hundred years, there have been very few who could successfully cast your spell,” the Ravenclaw Head of House explained, dousing Ian’s hopes for a paper on the subject.
“Techniques that no one can use won’t be published in reputable journals. After all, if they can’t verify it, they’ll naturally be cautious about what they choose to print.”
The academic rigor in the wizarding world was high, unlike certain Muggle academic journals that seemed to publish anything for a bit of gold. This left Ian feeling somewhat helpless.
“Can I go demonstrate it to them?”
Ian still seemed unwilling to let go of the idea.
“Many pure-blood families have read that book we just discussed. I’m sure you wouldn’t want your technique to lead them to believe it could be used for the Killing Curse,” Professor Flitwick spoke with an air of suggestion, his tone thoughtful.
The young wizard felt guilty again.
He had to momentarily abandon the idea of publishing a paper.
“Are you saying that the transfer student from over a hundred years ago had already figured out the Avada Lightning Chain…? No, I mean, he understood the multi-cast version of the Killing Curse?” Ian wasn’t trying to let it slip; he had simply been thinking about the original creator and spoke absentmindedly.
“…”
Professor Flitwick fell silent.
He realized that the young wizard’s Lumos Charm, demonstrated in class, was undoubtedly a reworking of the light from the Unforgivable Curse. Just look at the name… Avada Lightning Chain… Was it possible that this Ravenclaw House already had its own Dark Lord?
Professor Flitwick constantly corrected his thoughts, reminding himself that Hogwarts would never choose a dark wizard as Headmaster. He tried his best to maintain a calm demeanor as he looked at Ian.
“Let’s assume you’ve read some legendary stories about transfer students that I haven’t. This technique is indeed something that transfer students could have mastered, at least according to the descriptions in his biography,” Professor Flitwick said, walking over to his bookshelf and retrieving several sheets of paper from the bottom shelf.
“It’s just a biography. It can’t be taken too seriously.” Ian didn’t want to claim the title of inventor; he just found the history too absurd and far-fetched.
“I thought the same as you at first. But when I, like you, pestered Albus, he inadvertently let slip some things during a conversation.”
“That’s why I feel that what seems forgotten may not be as simple as it appears.” Professor Flitwick glanced at Ian, his hesitation obvious, as though he weren’t sure whether discussing such matters with a first-year was wise.
“Does this have anything to do with Dumbledore?”
Ian was somewhat taken aback.
Professor Flitwick nodded. “The year Albus entered school was the same year that the transfer student graduated. I think he would know best whether that transfer student truly existed.”
One had to admit, Professor Flitwick seemed to have thoroughly researched the stories in Questionable Legends: The Mystery of the Transfer Student.
“What did Dumbledore let slip?” Ian’s curiosity was piqued even further.
“He received a notebook from the transfer student, a Hufflepuff’s notebook, but I couldn’t see its contents. Our Headmaster has many secrets,” The Ravenclaw Head of House sighed lightly, momentarily letting his guard down in front of his student.
“Uh…” Ian hesitated, realizing he might already be familiar with the contents of that notebook. It was likely about the transaction between the four founders and the Master of Death, which made sense as to why Dumbledore hadn’t shown it to anyone.
After all, the contents were quite shocking.
“Of course, I feel that Albus’s slip was intentional; I ultimately found this under his guidance.” Professor Flitwick raised a piece of parchment in his hand.
“Can I know what’s recorded on it?” Ian’s face was filled with curiosity.
“It’s about the mystery of the transfer student’s powers.” Professor Flitwick returned to the front of his desk, his voice low.
“And who taught him that ability?” Ian remembered that Professor Flitwick had previously mentioned that this transfer student’s skills came from a mysterious wizard.
“Yes, he referred to him as the ‘system teacher,’ and the reason it intrigued me enough to investigate further is that some information suggests this teacher had some connection to Lady Ravenclaw.” Professor Flitwick’s voice grew softer, as if speaking an ancient secret.
Ian’s eyes widened.
“Lady Ravenclaw? Was his teacher Lady Ravenclaw?”
Professor Flitwick remained silent for a moment, raising his hand to place the paper in front of Ian. The paper appeared to record the remnants of a memoir.
[Do you remember the year before the transfer?]
[I found it in the wild; it was a talking bird that seemed to have suffered a serious injury. I fed it some potions I carried with me.]
[It praised the quality of my potions, saying there wasn’t much water diluted in it, and then told me it could teach me magic, making me a wizard on par with Merlin.]
[Of course, I wouldn’t believe the nonsense of a bird. While taking it back for healing, I checked some information and found that this bird looked more like a wizard in Animagus form.]
[I asked it, and it said it wouldn’t admit to killing me, and again mentioned it could teach me skills as long as I was willing to call it ‘System Daddy.’]
[It also told me that it never owes anyone a favor, only makes others owe it favors, so that when it kills others, it can feel justified.]
[What philosophical words! Looking back now, it’s quite chilling.]
[Perhaps because during that time, I was troubled by my studies in magic, or maybe because my sixth sense was strong, I inexplicably believed it. After all, wizards who can learn Animagus are very powerful.]
[And the facts proved that my intuition was not wrong.]
[This quirky teacher was indeed very powerful; it taught me a lot of terrifying knowledge, steering my fate toward directions I had never dared to imagine.]
[However, its injuries didn’t seem simple; I needed to help it…]
…
The notes in the memoir were hasty and fragmented.
On the paper that resembled the remnants of a memoir, besides the hastily written notes, there was also a clear imprint of a pattern, as if it had been photographed and then stamped onto the page.
It was vivid and even seemed to be moving its head.
That was,
a raven.
(End of Chapter)
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