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In the vast, boundless desert.
A thick haze hung like an ever-fading curtain, firmly veiling the sky. The clouds were heavy and low, sagging as though they might collapse at any moment and swallow the entire wasteland whole.
But unlike the usual deserts with golden dunes, this one was steeped in darkness. The ground was blanketed in pitch-black soil, looking deep and impenetrable, giving the land a dread-inducing weight.
It was a dark so absolute it felt alive, the sand grains shimmering faintly under the pale light of the moon, twinkling like stars in the night sky, yet each one whispered an omen of misfortune.
Above, a blood-red moon loomed ominously, its light offering no warmth, only an unnatural chill that cast the desert in a bleak, infernal glow.
Even the black sand bore a crimson tint, making it appear more cursed than natural.
“Where have I been taken this time?” Ian’s expression wasn’t one of surprise. He had experienced this before, several times, in fact, and recognised the signs of unintentionally unlocking a new region of the Twilight Zone.
“I’ve no real longing in my heart right now, and I haven’t picked up any peculiar artefacts this time… could it be because of that old Resurrection Stone ring?”
Ian drew out the Deathly Hallows ring he’d long ago put away. He pondered over it for a moment, but he doubted the Resurrection Stone alone had dragged him into this new section of the Twilight Zone.
After all, he’d carried the ring with him for weeks, traveling back and forth through the Twilight Zone many times without any unusual detours, certainly nothing akin to his accidental plunge into “Mount Doom.”
Ian still suspected that this strange journey might’ve had more to do with Helena Ravenclaw. Lady Rowena Ravenclaw, of course, couldn’t bring herself to blame her own daughter, so she’d insisted that Ian and Helena were drawn to ‘Mount Doom’ because of the Resurrection Stone’s origin.
“If I were her, I’d probably say the same thing to clear my own name.” Ian was living proof of the phrase ‘Judge not, lest ye be judged”. He hadn’t wholly bought Lady Rowena’s explanation.
Even Professor Morgan’s words weren’t always gospel. For example, Ian had once felt an overpowering pull to send a mirror to Professor Morgan, surely a sign his heart’s desire was connected to the professor’s shadowed castle.
So why had he wound up in this puzzling desert instead?
“Could this place have something to do with the Mirror of Erised?”
Ian was thoroughly baffled.
He was about to reach into his enchanted money pouch when, to his great surprise, he discovered a delightfully unexpected development: his elder wood wand, which had previously refused to pass into the Twilight Zone, remained intact.
It rested securely in the wand pouch stitched into his robes. The moment he touched it, its quiet presence flooded him with a reassuring calm.
“I can cast spells again! Then I’ve nothing to fear!” The lingering unease in Ian’s chest dissipated. Though the wand felt cool in his grip, it warmed his heart with comfort.
“Maybe it has something to do with my magical power ascending… or perhaps it’s linked to stepping onto the so-called ‘path of legend’?” Ian suspected that unlocking this new region might be tied to either, or even both, of those milestones.
Of course…
It was impossible to determine whether it was the magic power breakthrough or the path of legend that had done it, since the two events had happened in such quick succession.
The pace had been too quick.
The interval was far too short.
“Perhaps only someone cheating fate would understand this sort of headache.” Ian indulged in a touch of self-mockery before rummaging through his pouch and pulling out the Mirror of Erised he had carefully stored inside.
He compared the mirror’s design to the colours of the surrounding landscape, but stylistically, the Mirror of Erised was wildly out of place in the inky expanse of black sand.
“Could the mirror’s glass have been forged from sand like this?” Ian mused aloud, stroking his chin.
He knew that ordinary sand could be smelted into glass, but he wasn’t sure if the sand here held such properties. So, he crouched and filled his pouch with several tons of the dark grains.
Yes, several tons.
The more skilled the alchemist, the greater their terror of running out of materials.
And Ian was no exception.
“Even if this isn’t the raw component used in the Mirror of Erised, it must be an alchemical treasure of its own.” Ian let the black sand run between his fingers.
Its texture was distinct and unforgettable. It didn’t crumble or scatter like normal sand. Instead, it carried a dense, cohesive structure. Under the pale moonlight, it gleamed with a subdued and haunting beauty.
As he continued sifting it between his hands…
Ian felt something strange.
The black sand wasn’t loose or brittle, it had weight, substance, and a curious density. He could clearly sense a subtle gravitational pull between the grains.
“Could the entire desert be bound by this force?” Ian looked up, eyes tracing the expanse of the shadowed dunes.
It was as if each grain of sand were a fallen star, fragments of the cosmos condensed over aeons into this mysterious and ancient desert.
“Regardless, it’s definitely a treasure,” Ian mused, stuffing even more of the strange black sand into his pouch. He couldn’t help but feel a pang of regret, if only he’d managed to acquire some Occamy skin to further expand its capacity.
Occamies, those serpentine, feathered magical beasts with wings and two legs, could stretch up to fifteen feet long and were highly coveted in the magical world.
Their innate ability to shrink or expand to fit their surroundings made them invaluable, and more importantly, their shimmering, silver-blue skin was one of the finest materials for crafting objects enchanted with the Undetectable Extension Charm, hence their immense worth.
“Shame Occamies don’t seem to end up in the Twilight Zone after death,” Ian muttered, hoisting the now-heavy pouch. “Would’ve saved me a lot of trouble acquiring the skin.”
With no clear end to the desert in sight, and no direction better than the next, Ian resolved to keep moving. Perhaps, by wandering this lifeless land, he might unearth the reason he’d been drawn here in the first place.
“I probably won’t run into any ghastly phantoms. Even ghosts would find this place unbearably dull,” he said dryly, drawing his wand and giving it a flick.
And so,
The sand began to swirl and twist as if caught in a whirlpool, reshaping itself into the outline of an off-road carriage, sturdy and squat, with a charm-bound chassis and enchanted wheels made from compressed ashwood. The transformation neared completion,
“Crash~”
Just as the vehicle was about to fully materialise, it crumbled apart. The shifting hues dulled, and all the black sand fell away, as though nothing had ever formed at all.
“Must be the gravitational link between the grains…” Ian muttered, more intrigued than annoyed. “Knew there was something peculiar about this stuff!”
Though the attempt had failed, he wasn’t disappointed. If his pouch weren’t bursting, he’d have packed even more sand in by now.
“Good thing I dabble in a bit of everything,” He said with a shrug, retrieving a nearly-finished magical cloak from his rucksack, a project that was 99% complete and quite possibly 99% temperamental.
“Whoosh~”
With a quick swing over his shoulders, Ian fastened the enchanted buttons, and in the blink of an eye, he shot into the air like a rogue Firebolt, piercing the low, oppressive clouds above.
“Slow down! Merlin’s beard, SLOW DOWN!”
“Lower, LOWER! Not that low! Forward, not backwards, are you daft?”
“Oi! Diagonally! You know, for dramatic flair, not some cheap broom-chase from a Knockturn Alley stage play!”
“Ugh! Oh, brilliant, just toss me into the sand mid-rant, why don’t you?!”
…
Ian flailed wildly in the sky, darting this way and that, as if a mad poltergeist had taken hold of him. He even plummeted headfirst into the dunes more than once. The scene was, to put it mildly, far from graceful.
Still,
He’d covered a surprising amount of distance, even quicker than an old-school Oakshaft 79 on a good tailwind. But of course, the cloak wasn’t quite finished.
“I knew I shouldn’t have enchanted you with rudimentary self-guidance!”
The last 1%, the missing piece, had been an attempt at rudimentary sentience, a kind of magical “guidance matrix” Ian now sorely regretted. But it was too late to go back, so he did what any stubborn young wizard would: he tried to coax the half-witted cloak into cooperating.
“Is this what it feels like to soothe a grumpy golem?” He muttered, finally managing to hover in a reasonably straight line. The satisfaction of simply staying aloft washed over him, and the frustration began to melt away.
From above, the desert stretched endlessly below him. A vast, black expanse of cold, unyielding silence. As far as his eyes could see, not a single ghost, beast, plant, or even the faintest ruin marred the landscape.
It was untouched. Undisturbed.
And oddly… perfect.
As every witch or wizard knows, Ghosts always alter the places they haunt. Their presence warps the air, imbues the stones, distorts the feel of the surroundings. Yet this desert remained pure. Pristine. As though no soul, living or dead, had ever claimed it.
It felt as if it had always been this way.
Since the beginning of time.
“Could some phantom actually prefer this eternal, bleak monotony?” Ian wondered aloud. “Even Death himself wouldn’t be this bored… would he?”
Was it possible that Death had made this barren land his home? And if so, had he already noticed Ian’s arrival, an uninvited guest in his dominion? If that were true, surely Death would have made an appearance by now, reaping what was his.
But Ian’s inner clock, the magic-linked timer of his current illusion’s “Experience Card”, ticked on undisturbed. He was able to remain here far longer than in past excursions.
Still,
The phenomenon Professor Morgan had described, about the mystical shift that would occur when one’s magical power reached its absolute limit, had yet to manifest for Ian.
“Could Lady Ravenclaw have been right all along?” He thought, frowning. “She claimed I’d need to break through the boundary of mortal magic before anything unknown would happen.”
Weighing the theories from both Professor Morgan and Lady Rowena Ravenclaw, Ian could only go with his instincts.
And for now, those instincts told him, he hadn’t reached the peak just yet.
He had indeed reached the upper threshold of a wizard’s magical power, but even though he had set foot upon the path of legend and his magical core continued to deepen, he knew he had yet to break through the bottleneck that truly restrained him.
“So… Professor Morgan doesn’t know everything. At least when it comes to what happens after a wizard reaches their magical limit, perhaps she’s miscalculated?”
Ian wasn’t entirely sure.
After all, the place he found himself in now was rather an oddity in itself. He couldn’t leave of his own volition.
All he could do was continue to drift through the unending black desert. Still, it wasn’t entirely a waste of time, it gave him the perfect excuse to polish his skills with the flying cloak.
“If I secretly keep practising for two and a half days straight, my dashing aerial maneuvers will knock everyone’s socks off back at school.” Ian consoled himself with that thought.
The occasional gust of wind sent waves of black sand swirling across the horizon. These dusty whorls danced in the air, forming eerie, half-formed silhouettes, like spectres caught mid-thought. The dim and hazy atmosphere seemed to tighten around his vision, making it difficult to see far, and yet impossible to look away.
Every breeze appeared to carry flickering, dreamlike images. They hovered at the edge of perception, close enough to glimpse, always out of reach, only to be swept away and replaced by the next gust.
The silence pressing in around him was stifling, swallowing even the loudest sound. As Ian continued gliding forward, the scenery around him became more and more alike, until it blurred into an exhausting sameness. Eventually, the weight of it all made him feel drained.
“Using my own magic to power my flight was always going to be a stopgap solution,” He muttered to his cloak. “I will find a hidden, enchanted core or some kind of autonomous flux crystal, then you’ll fly on your own, even when I’m spent.”
When it came to magical inventions for getting out of tight spots, Ian was unusually diligent. His motivation wasn’t entirely due to his desire for long-distance flight and the ability to sleep while his cloak stood sentinel. Mostly.
“This place is unbearable! This whole ‘Twilight Zone Limited-Time Experience Card’ is complete madness. If I don’t hurry up, I’ll be stuck here for an entire day and night!”
“Can’t at least a couple of ghosts show up to have a natter? I’d even take an Inferius or two! I’m starved for company, give me a banshee, a hinkypunk, even a friendly centaur! Anything! Honestly, I’d even settle for a niffler wearing glasses at this point…”
Ian rubbed at his eyes, feeling a creeping sense of aesthetic exhaustion.
The wind and sand couldn’t blind him.
But the monotony of the scenery certainly could.
Combined with the drifting black dust in the air, it left him feeling low, though he’d tell you that had nothing to do with the fact it was currently midnight, the hour when thoughts get heaviest.
“Merlin’s beard, I don’t understand any of this! Why in the name of Morgana was I brought to this bleak nowhere?”
With a quiet sigh, Ian drew his wand once again.
He decided to burn through some magical energy with a few powerful spells, speeding up the depletion of his “Twilight Zone Limited-Time Experience Card.” Anything to shorten his stay in this desolate place.
He had already flown for several hours.
And every stretch of desert he passed was identical, like someone had duplicated the terrain with a Copying Charm. The farther he flew, the more he was reminded of a traumatising experience he’d once had. It felt like being trapped in that cursed illusion game, universally agreed upon by wizardkind as the most abysmal entertainment experience in magical history.
It was just an endless desert.
Only the sand’s colour differed.
“Expecto Patronum!”
After considering his options, Ian decided that rather than wasting time with transfigurations or enchantments, it was better to attempt a Patronus. Perhaps Ariana, the spirit he’d once bonded with, could find Professor Morgan, who might then Apparate across to retrieve him. Lady Rowena Ravenclaw herself had once done something similar when she went to retrieve her daughter, after all.
Ian had faith.
His Professor Morgan certainly could do it.
However, whether she would was anyone’s guess.
“The mood of a legendary witch is impossible to predict,” Ian muttered, raising his wand.
Silver threads of light began spilling from the tip, weaving across the night sky in gleaming arcs, each thread brilliant as stardust. They shimmered stark and radiant against the oppressive, lightless desert, softening the harsh crimson gleam of the blood moon.
Perhaps, for the first time in many centuries, white magic had graced this forsaken realm.
“What’s happening?”
The moment the spell activated, Ian realised something was amiss. The Patronus should have connected directly to his [Patronus Ring], but he felt nothing, no familiar tug, no guiding thread.
And more curiously, even the magic’s internal structure felt subtly different. The usual rhythm of the spellcasting nodes had shifted, just enough for him to notice.
Ian could sense it clearly: the magic wasn’t flowing normally.
“It’s the Twilight Zone beneath me…” He whispered, stunned.
His spellwork was somehow binding itself to the strange magical gravity of the black sands below.
He hesitated briefly, then chose not to cancel the spell.
Better to observe what came next.
Curiosity, after all, had never failed him before.
Even if it did occasionally try to kill him.
But it wouldn’t necessarily pose a real threat to a vigilant young wizard. Compared to playing it safe, Ian was more intrigued by the possibility that this, this place, this moment, was why he’d been drawn here in the first place.
As Ian’s magic power continued to flow forth, silvery strands of magical light unfurled from the tip of his wand, leaping like spirited wisps into the air before spreading outward in graceful arcs.
These silver threads of magic intertwined, spiraling upwards as if directed by an invisible hand, a silent weaver working in the shadows, crafting an elaborate tapestry from lines of light, a design etched into the darkened air.
“I didn’t direct them…” Ian murmured, startled to realise that the light of his Patronus Charm appeared to be fulfilling a purpose preordained, executing a task already laid out.
There was a structure at work.
Something was being assembled by the silvery glow of the charm.
No,
It was being reconstructed.
Clatter–
The black sand at his feet, oddly metallic in its sheen, began to ripple and stir, drawn upward by a mysterious force.
Like a serpent made of shadow. It surged upward in a fluid stream, coiling along the lines carved by Ian’s spellwork. Under the silver light’s influence, the black grains began to shift, to transfigure.
“Merlin’s saggy balls…”
Even though Ian had tried to brace himself, he was still floored by what he saw, eyes wide with disbelief.
And it wasn’t an overreaction.
Anyone in his place would wear the same expression, it was truly magnificent. In mere moments, the black sand and silver light had sculpted something awe-inspiring.
“Where… where is this?!”
Reflected in Ian’s astonished eyes was a city, gradually, unmistakably, taking shape.
Yes, a city.
The sand poured into the outlines of great walls, forming a sturdy rampart; it swept along avenues to form cobbled roads. At first glance, it resembled an enormous sand painting, but under the silver light’s enchantment, everything became startlingly vivid, as though animated by breath and time.
Spindly rooftops soared into the darkened sky, castle towers rose high with regal weight, and even the ominous blood moon seemed veiled by the shifting black dust, transformed into a blazing crimson sun.
“The magic of time…”
Ian sensed something oddly familiar pulsing in the air.
He turned his head, taking it all in.
Everything around him had become… alive.
As the city finished forming, the once-barren desert seemed to stir, altered by this curious enchantment. The desolation waned. At the city’s edges, shoots of vegetation began to push up through the black sand, lending colour, motion, life to the world.
Of course, Ian knew none of it was truly real. Not the city, not the leaves, it was all illusion, the past summoned into presence.
The river shimmered like starlight. The bustle of unseen folk rang faintly in his ears. It was all a vision wrought from silver light and midnight sand.
It was history.
A reflection, an echo of what once was, illuminating what the future had forgotten.
“The Land of the Dead?”
Ian had experienced visions this immersive only once before, while exploring Albus Dumbledore’s deepest memories, but this felt fundamentally different. This wasn’t a memory contained in a Pensieve.
Something, someone, had opened a fold in time for him.
And through that fold, he now glimpsed an age long past. The city that surrounded him might well have existed within the mysteries of the Twilight Zone all along.
“Ancient enchantments…”
Ian still didn’t understand why the Patronus Charm had triggered such a reaction in the desert’s depths. But something about this moment, this place, felt vital, meaningful.
He looked skyward.
The sky above were still thick with darkness, oppressive and weighty. But the blood moon had vanished, replaced by a crimson sun. Yet even this radiant sun failed to pierce the blackness entirely.
Shattered cracks marred the sky like wounds, ragged scars from something violent and ancient. The sun blazed as though straining, desperate to illuminate this broken world.
And still,
Though it burned with fierce urgency, throwing harsh light across the land, the shroud of shadow remained unbroken. It was like a last gasp in the final moments of a doomed age, an act of defiance writ in fire.
Below, on the city’s streets, the faces of spectral onlookers turned upward, wide-eyed, terrified.
The city was falling.
The sun’s searing light didn’t chase away the dark. It scorched the earth, boiled the rivers, and took uncounted lives with it.
At the city’s heart stood a tall tower, glowing with an arcane blue, a beacon of protective magic. It was this tower that held the disaster at bay, sheltering the people within.
But,
Like the crimson sun above, flickering on the edge of collapse, the tower too was nearing its limit.
Ian could feel it.
Time itself was accelerating.
“It’s dimming.”
Ian could clearly see the light cast by the tower waning, its magical pulses growing fainter, like the final breaths of a wizard whose strength had long since begun to wane.
Figures began to manifest atop the tower, blurred silhouettes moving with urgency, as if attempting to extend the tower’s final flicker of life. But the shimmering images could only rekindle their glow for fleeting moments before fading again into the gloom.
“One after another… legendary wizards,” Ian murmured.
His gaze seemed to meet the indistinct shapes atop the tower, and from within that spectral gathering, he could sense a familiar power radiating outward.
It was a force he had not yet mastered, one that held the potential to bend fate and shake prophecy, but still proved insufficient to repel the calamity descending upon the realm.
In the end, the sun died.
And with it, the tower that once guarded the realm and the countless heroes who had given their all to protect it… They had faced a force too dreadful to name. Fiery meteors, cloaked in flame, rained down from the heavens.
The winds shrieked.
Golden sand rose in fierce whirlwinds.
Mountains crumbled and rivers reversed their flow.
All around him, the world was ablaze.
Ian watched as meteors streaked past, phasing harmlessly through his form before crashing into the earth below. These were only echoes of what had come before, they could not touch him.
But those who had lived through the catastrophe had no such protection. The land was breaking apart, the ground quaking as great towers collapsed in sequence.
Volcanoes stirred from ancient slumber, their wrath spilling forth in molten torrents. Magma exploded from beneath the city like the fury of a chained dragon finally unleashed, painting half the sky crimson and turning the once-great metropolis into a searing inferno.
Everything, life, legacy, civilisation, was consumed in the cataclysm.
Ian heard the clamour of thousands, pleas for help, screams of anguish, cries wrenched from souls on the brink of despair. A chorus of ruin dragged an entire realm into the abyss.
“Help me! Save my mother!” A little girl with a scruffy yellow Kneazle wailed at Ian’s side.
Overcome with instinct, Ian reached for her, but his hand passed straight through the vision, clutching only a handful of cold, crumbling black sand as the child and her familiar were devoured by flame.
“Bloody illusion! What in Merlin’s name is this?!” Ian barked, staring down at the fine grains slipping through his fingers, at the girl who couldn’t defy her fate.
Fury welled up in him without warning.
He watched as fire and falling stars ravaged the sunless realm. As great waves and choking floods washed over the land, erasing every mark this world had once carved into time.
The tides rose, monstrous and relentless. They came and went, erasing all. Where once streets bustled and life teemed, now only a desert remained. No soul endured. No trace lingered. A whole world swallowed by eternal dusk.
Ian saw it all.
Because he had taken the city’s point of view.
He descended, further and further, as the realm slipped past the veil and into the land of the dead. As if judged and cast down by a force too ancient and terrible to name, the realm was dragged from its rightful plane into endless shadow.
An entire civilisation, its people, its stories, forgotten. Oblivion claimed all. The wind was the only voice now, howling endlessly as it stirred the black sand and buried all hope.
The uproar was deafening.
Desolate. Unbearably tragic.
The screams of children, the desperate shouts of fathers, the choked sobs of mothers, it all blended into a storm of noise so painful that Ian instinctively covered his ears, grimacing.
“Surely… surely I’ve glimpsed some forbidden piece of history…” He muttered, just as he caught sight of the little girl and her yellow Kneazle once more, only now, they were phantoms, one with the forsaken city.
Some knew the fate they had suffered. Others never would. Either way, the anguish and collapse of the realm seemed to awaken something long dormant.
The blood moon returned in silence, as if opening a single crimson eye. It seemed almost sluggish, like it had been roused from a slumber lasting eons.
“Squawk!”
Without warning,
A harsh, warped cry rang out, jarring Ian from his reverie. A black shape tore through a fissure in the air, screeching.
“Bloody hell! You gave me a fright!” Ian cursed, catching the intruder by the neck.
It was a black Phoenix, his companion, squirming indignantly.
“You’ve got a habit of turning up when least expected,” Ian muttered, stuffing the irritable creature into his robes. “Crossing the boundary between life and death… Typical Phoenix behaviour.”
As he turned to examine the remnants of the vision, he wasn’t sure if it was the Phoenix’s presence or something else entirely, but the scene began to unravel.
The city, the toppled streets, the screaming people, the little girl with her yellow Kneazle, everything froze.
Then, like a mirage touched by wind, it all began to fade.
The dream was dissolving.
The outer edges of the vision shimmered, then blurred. The harrowing images vanished without a trace, swallowed once more by the black sand from which they had risen.
Even the gleaming lines shaped by Ian’s Patronus Charm began to fall apart, transfiguring into tiny motes of light that drifted silently on the breeze, carried into the vast nothingness beyond.
As if they had never existed.
Everything returned to silence.
Yet as Ian firmly clutched his robes, pressing them down to stop the black Phoenix from wriggling free and squawking again, he was startled to see a dilapidated tower materialising not far from where the black sand had just vanished.
“That’s odd, it wasn’t there before.” Ian narrowed his eyes, vaguely recognising the outline. It resembled the protective tower he’d seen in the spectral echoes of the past.
Many legendary witches and wizards had once ascended that tower, likely in a desperate effort to delay the onset of the calamity. Such a structure, in Ian’s mind, could only be the product of supreme magical craftsmanship, surely an Alchemical Artefact of extraordinary complexity.
After all, it had managed to hold back destruction on a scale beyond any ordinary spellwork. Not even Hogwarts’ most obscure tomes had mentioned something like it.
Just as Ian hesitated, wondering whether the structure was truly real or merely another lingering echo of the past,
“Squawk!” The black Phoenix, though trapped under Ian’s robes, found a gap and slipped through, diving to the ground at his feet before taking off again.
The creature was absurdly quick.
By the time Ian registered what had happened, the Phoenix had already taken wing and was darting toward the broken tower. Ian could only summon his enchanted cloak and soar after it.
“It really just… appeared out of nowhere!”
Ian soon landed before the strange tower, staring up at the cracked stone with a mix of awe and bewilderment. He couldn’t comprehend it; had it always been here, hidden from view? Or had it somehow lingered, a relic from the spectral past now forced into reality?
Under the pale light of the blood moon, the mottled shadows and swirling black sand painted everything in a grim half-glow. The crumbling tower seemed to have been eaten away by something corrosive, the kind of magical decay that even time dared not touch.
Its windows had long shattered, leaving behind hollow frames that gazed blankly over the barren landscape. The deep cracks running across the tower’s body resembled dried-up veins.
Even in the Twilight Zone, it seemed, time left its scars.
Perhaps this tower, like the realm it once belonged to, had been exiled to this liminal world of the dead? Ian could only speculate. His knowledge, extensive though it was, fell short of explaining such a phenomenon.
“What’s inside, then? Why are you so worked up?” Ian called to the black Phoenix, now perched atop the highest ledge, as if urging him to follow.
“Squawk!”
The Phoenix let out another eerie shriek before diving through a shattered window.
Ian attempted to squeeze in after it, but the narrow opening was far too small.
“Well, I’m hardly a bird. Front door it is.” With an exaggerated sigh, he dropped to the ground and approached the tower’s entrance.
The original door had long since crumbled away, and the empty doorway allowed him to step right in. The cracked stone floor groaned underfoot, and the first thing that caught his eye was a towering clock embedded in the wall.
Astonishingly, it appeared largely intact.
Except,
All of the hands were missing.
“This is definitely an Alchemical Artefact…” Ian muttered, frowning at the strange timepiece. He noticed that the surface was covered in broken inscriptions, delicately etched lines that bore the unmistakable mark of wizard-made magic.
Unlike the grim death runes or eldritch sigils he’d encountered in older relics, these carvings seemed almost familiar, human in design. Still, they weren’t standard Runes, nor anything taught at Hogwarts. They belonged to a more ancient and esoteric branch of spellcraft. Perhaps Professor Morgan or even Nicolas Flamel might be able to identify them.
“My knowledge is still woefully inadequate. I really must study harder,” Ian said aloud, shaking his head with self-reproach.
Then, with the dedication of a determined magus-in-training, he pulled out an assortment of charmed tools and carefully pried the massive clock, easily taller than himself, off the wall. He tucked it neatly into his bewitched pouch.
Instantly, he felt the pouch grow heavier.
Though it was protected by an Undetectable Extension Charm, the weight wasn’t entirely negated. Ian had enchanted it further to redistribute the burden, but even so,
There were limits.
He could reduce the heaviness of some objects, but not eliminate it entirely. At least, not with his current magical prowess. Creating a truly weightless “pocket dimension” was still beyond him.
That said, Ian’s abilities were already exceptional. Not many witches or wizards could claim to carry half of Hogwarts in their bag.
“I just hope I can take it out of the Twilight Zone…” Ian mumbled to himself, frowning. He’d tried similar things before, conducting all sorts of magical experiments to see what could cross over into the real world.
Other than the piece of enchanted dress gifted by Professor Morgan, he’d only managed to extract things like stones, objects with no inherent vitality. Anything living, like plants, simply withered or vanished.
Artifacts like Professor Morgan’s golden platter, Pendero’s sword, and Ariana’s old straw hat had all come from the outside world and could be taken out, just not by him. Ian still hadn’t uncovered the logic behind it all.
“This clock’s from the human world originally, right? Surely the Twilight Zone has no claim over it…” Ian muttered, glancing around the tower once more with the hopeful eyes of a treasure-hunter, ready to pry loose anything else that might prove useful.
If it weren’t for the limited capacity of his enchanted pouch, Ian would have seriously considered collecting some of the black sand too, perhaps even finding a way to stuff the entire tower inside. The echoes from the past had already made it quite clear that this tower was no ordinary ruin.
“Real wizards ought to reside in proper wizarding towers,” Ian muttered to himself, eyes gleaming with fresh admiration. “That’s true grandeur, not some cramped little cottage or draughty manor.” He admitted it was just his latest fancy; his interests did tend to shift with the seasons.
He began rummaging through the relics scattered about the entrance hall, but other than the enormous clock he’d already claimed, most of the items had long since surrendered to time.
In the centre of the room stood a vast stone table, littered with withered scrolls and shattered vessels. Ian gingerly brushed a finger across one of the scrolls, only for it to crumble instantly into ash, drifting into the air with a bitter, musty scent.
“Ugh!”
Dust coated his face before he could shield himself.
“Squawk!”
Just as he began summoning a stream of Aguamenti to wash the grime away, the black Phoenix shrieked from the upper levels of the tower, sticking its head out from a broken archway and calling him with insistence.
“If there’s nothing but spiderwebs up there, I’m definitely roasting you for dinner!” Ian growled playfully, abandoning the desiccated relics and attempting to take off with his enchanted cloak.
However,
“Why aren’t you working?”
“Up! Now!”
He tugged at the fabric and whispered the activation charm again, but nothing happened. Confused, he tested a different spell, which cast perfectly. So, it wasn’t that magic was being restricted entirely.
“Is it only certain enchanted items, then?”
To confirm, Ian retrieved his [Housewitch’s Handy Box] and placed it squarely on the ancient stone table. At once, the little artefact stirred to life, extending its insect-like legs and snapping its jaw open to begin nibbling at the table’s edge.
That settled it. The tower wasn’t suppressing magic altogether, just particular kinds. His pouch still worked as well. The restriction seemed limited, perhaps selective.
“Maybe flight is forbidden out of respect. Could be a place of honour or ritual,” Ian reasoned, eyeing the arcane sigils and faded runes that curled across the walls.
Wasting no time, he began ascending the winding staircase toward the top of the tower, where his mischievous familiar awaited.
As he climbed, the murals lining the stairwell caught his attention.
Though faded and chipped with age, the walls were adorned with breathtaking depictions of a once-prosperous wizarding city. Ian stopped frequently to examine the painted scenes, heart racing as he realised the creatures they portrayed were ones he’d never seen recorded in Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them.
“Wild Swans…”
“Petal-Furred Cats…”
“Shape-shifting Sky-Fowl…”
“Oh! I knew there must have been truly stunning Merpeople at one point!”
…
Even in their damaged state, the murals captured a kind of ancient majesty. Each painting seemed a preserved memory, an echo of stories older than Hogwarts itself. Ian couldn’t read the forgotten script that accompanied them, but he understood their emotion, the magical pulse that lingered still in the stone.
One showed fairies with luminous wings dancing around an enormous tree, their faces alight with glee.
In another, industrious goblins dug deep beneath the earth, surrounded by glittering treasures, the fruits of long and arduous labour.
A unicorn, elegant and solemn, stood serenely amidst a sea of wildflowers, its silver horn aglow with a soft, healing light.
Sprites leapt playfully among clouds, while sirens reclined on jagged rocks, their haunting songs lingering even in silence.
So many magical creatures Ian had only read about in half-forgotten footnotes, or never heard of at all, adorned the ancient plaster. Then came the dragons.
Not just any dragons, each was utterly unique in form and breath, depicted soaring through sky or sea with elemental might and inscrutable wisdom.
“These… these are the Dragon I’ve formed pact with!” Ian whispered, recognising patterns and colours that only those bonded with such beings would notice. The tower’s origins, he now realised, predated even the days of Professor Morgan’s prime.
And that wasn’t the half of it.
If he hadn’t seen firsthand the tower’s ancient existence and its place in the world’s forgotten history, Ian might have dismissed the uppermost murals as mere fairy tales.
Yet there they were.
A tiny tailor defeating a monstrous giant through trickery, an echo of a familiar Muggle tale.
A radiant young witch wronged by her stepmother, finding solace and love through the kindness of seven goblins and a travelling prince, is undeniably reminiscent of Snow White.
Another mural revealed a red-cloaked girl outwitting a wolf in the woods, a tale Ian knew as well as his own name.
And yet another, featuring a mistreated girl who, through courage, charm, and the aid of enchanted creatures, overcame her cruel guardians and found joy, if that wasn’t Cinderella, Ian would toss his Phoenix into a cauldron.
…
Gazing at the murals before him,
Ian felt as though he were watching a sequence of fairy tales unfold rather than reviewing actual events from history. The sheer wonder and dreamlike quality of it all were difficult to describe with mere words.
Even though he had long accepted that many tales dismissed as fantasy by Muggles were grounded in truth, the impact these murals had on him was profound.
Did this mean that the lands and legends of those so-called fairy tales once genuinely existed?
“If this all truly happened… Merlin’s beard, that would shake wizarding history to its roots.”
Ian pressed his hand against the mural. Though he couldn’t channel magic into it, he could still sense lingering traces of arcane energy.
“Most Ancient Magic,” He murmured.
It became clear to Ian that the purpose of these murals was not simply to relay history to future generations; rather, they served as vessels for some of the most archaic and potent magic known to wizardkind.
Much like the sacrificial protection Lily Potter cast over Harry.
“It’s hope,” Ian whispered.
The tower’s function was beginning to make sense.
Whatever catastrophe had once ravaged this realm, it was apparent that the magic of love and hope had played a vital role in opposing it.
The tales etched into the stone walls weren’t merely stories, they were enchantments, repositories of a deep and ancient magic. Still, it was sobering to realise that this force, which had once turned the tide against Lord Voldemort, was not all-powerful.
At least, not powerful enough to stave off the final collapse of this forgotten world. Whether that failure had come from a weakening of belief or the hearts of its people losing strength, Ian could not say.
“Even with all that love and hope… they still couldn’t stop it. That’s a chilling thought.” He remembered the vision of a fallen sun and a city crumbling beneath its glow.
The scale and sorrow of that moment would likely haunt him for the rest of his days. He couldn’t help but speculate, perhaps this cataclysm was the work of a god beyond comprehension.
Just as the wizarding world had confirmed the existence of the Grim Reaper, Death himself, it wasn’t beyond reason to think that other divine beings might also exist across the vastness of the cosmos.
Perhaps Professor Morgan would know. Ian had glimpsed his senior in the murals earlier, after all.
“Was it Death who brought ruin? Or some other power we’ve never understood?” Ian mused as he continued climbing toward the top of the tower. The murals changed as he ascended, revealing different wizards.
They were clad in shadowed robes or sweeping cloaks, wielding wands or ancient tomes.
Often accompanied by motifs of thunder, storms, or swirling darkness, these figures symbolised their elemental command and magical prowess.
Perhaps these wizards had inspired the fairy tales of old, but now they were nothing more than shimmering echoes captured in pigment and stone.
“If the figures of legend were real… then might their echoes still exist in the Veil or the liminal edges of magic?” Ian thought, approaching the summit, a mix of awe and uncertainty swirling in his heart.
The topmost chamber was cloaked in shadow.
The crimson moon outside could not pierce the gloom.
“Lumos.”
Ian raised his wand. A soft, steady white light burst forth, hovering in the air like a miniature sun, illuminating the room around him.
“Merlin’s beard, magic stones!”
His black Phoenix sat serenely atop a stone dais. Before Ian could question the bird’s find, his gaze locked on the glittering pile of gems embedded within the slab.
Dozens of luminous magical stones rested there. They varied in size and cut, but each bore the unmistakable characteristics of Philosopher’s Stones, legendary artefacts capable of turning any metal into gold or brewing the Elixir of Life, granting immortality. In modern history, only Nicolas Flamel had ever succeeded in crafting one.
“It’s a shame… their magic has all but faded.” Ian rushed forward, attempting to pry one free, but even luck couldn’t override centuries of decay.
Though they still gleamed faintly, they were little better off than the stone Voldemort had once drained; nearly all their power had been spent.
Few truly understood this:
Philosopher’s Stone could offer eternal life, but it’s magic wasn’t infinite. It’s potency depended on the alchemist’s craft and the rituals used during refinement.
“These stones probably kept the tower running until they were completely spent,” Ian muttered, sighing with the disappointment of hopes dashed too soon.
“One shouldn’t be too greedy.”
He comforted himself with the age-old wizarding wisdom.
“Squawk!”
The black Phoenix responded with a sharp cry, then took flight once more, vanishing into the depths of the tower. Ian followed close behind, soon finding himself before a peculiar platform.
It appeared to have formed naturally from the stone wall itself, like two massive hands gently cradling a box, now open, within which rested a single green seed.
“What on earth is this?”
Ian stepped closer. The seed looked unremarkable at first glance, yet in the hush of the dim room, it pulsed with a vibrant, almost luminous life.
Whatever it was, Ian could feel it thrumming with potential, an ancient magic waiting to bloom.
The black box that cradled the seed was etched with ancient runes, remarkably similar to those Ian had seen inscribed upon the tower walls, but these glowed faintly, as though still infused with flickers of magic.
“This must be something powerful.”
Ian gingerly lifted the seed, feeling warmth and vitality pulse from its smooth shell. Though it appeared no more than a common seed, he sensed, deep in his bones, that given proper earth, sunlight, and perhaps a splash of unicorn-dung compost, it might sprout into something beyond extraordinary.
“Krah krah krah~”
Just as Ian wondered if this might be a seed of Yggdrasil or something equally mythical, his action seemed to trigger a dormant enchantment within the tower itself.
“Take one, take them all!”
The floor trembled. A deep groaning sound reverberated up the stones. Ian didn’t hesitate, he snatched up the small box and bolted for the nearest arched window.
His wand was already in hand, ready to blast the enchanted glass wide open, but before he could utter a single spell, the rumbling… abruptly stopped.
“Squawk!”
The black Phoenix, still perched near the vanished platform, let out what sounded suspiciously like a scoff.
“When I learn to Apparate, I’ll be bolder than you,” Ian muttered, defensive, but when he turned back, the seed’s pedestal had disappeared entirely.
In its place stretched a long corridor, lined with torches of magical blue fire that flared to life one by one. After a moment’s hesitation, Ian lit his wand-tip and pressed forward into the dark.
As he walked.
The air grew steadily heavier, the light dimmer.
Fortunately, his Lumos spell held steady, casting long shadows across the ancient walls. After what felt like several winding turns and a good deal of time, he reached the end, a room lavishly adorned, like something plucked from a royal wizard’s palace.
At the centre stood a towering four-poster bed, carved from oak and etched with golden vines that shimmered in his wandlight. Jeweled finials glimmered atop the posts, like stars captured in crystal.
The walls bore tapestries embroidered with golden thread, each depicting scenes of triumph and sorrow. The room breathed ancient opulence, a long-lost grandeur of the highest magical order.
“The king’s chamber?”
Ian ran a hand across a cabinet of darkwood, its handles inlaid with ruby and topaz, now dulled by time. Decay clung to everything, and regret stirred in his heart. His gaze soon drifted to the raised dais where the black Phoenix now perched.
A throne stood there.
Above it, a chandelier of clear-cut crystal hung like a frozen constellation. The throne itself was forged of solid gold, festooned with sapphires and fire-opals, every inch a symbol of long-vanished rule.
“These things don’t mean anything anymore,” Ian said, stepping up to the throne. “They’re as brittle as a sugar quill left out in the sun. If you’re really into treasure hunting, I’ll take you to the human world, let’s go dragon-hunting in Gringotts.”
He gave the throne a casual kick, and just as he predicted, the once-imposing seat crumbled into dust, like a sandcastle before the tide.
And yet,
Behind the crumbled ruin was a concealed alcove. Inside: bare stone walls… and a single object.
A black robe, hanging from a hook in the corner.
But the robe was not empty. Chains and shackles were coiled within it like silver serpents. Bones jutted from the fabric, bleached white and still, save for one eerie detail…
“A cursed prisoner?” Ian murmured.
He edged into the small room, hand extended toward a pale, exposed wrist, when the air turned cold.
That robe, untouched for who knew how many centuries, twitched.
“There’s no wind in here…”
Ian froze. He reached again, hesitantly.
Then,
The black robe began to shift, almost lazily, like something stirring from sleep. Ian leapt back, wand raised in one hand, and fumbled in his robes for a universal healing draught with the other.
The robe lifted its head.
From beneath the deep cowl, a skull emerged, immaculate and gleaming like moonstone. These bones didn’t seem fragile; they were eerily translucent, like crystal kissed by starlight, as if neither rot nor age had dared touch them.
The presence they exuded was still and deep as a Pensieve’s surface… but no less dangerous for it.
Ian felt it immediately. Power. True, old-world power. No wizard he’d encountered had ever radiated this sort of still-born majesty.
“The dead? A remnant from before the age of wands?”
He couldn’t say for certain. The spirits he’d met in the Twilight Zone typically retained their living appearance, echoes rather than corpses. But this… this skeletal being looked as though it had clawed its way out from a tomb and lingered past the laws of life and death.
“Can you speak?” Ian asked softly.
The figure didn’t answer, but the magic in the room hummed louder.
Ian’s eyes stayed fixed on the black-robed figure, heart hammering as unease curled around his chest. Still, as he observed the strange composition of the bones, faintly shimmering, clearly magical, his alchemical instincts sparked.
Naturally.
He was wondering if such bones could be ground into a potion base.
“Did someone misplace this skeleton?” Ian called out, half-jesting, voice echoing into the room. “If it’s been abandoned, I suppose I’ll keep it!”
“Squawk!”
The Phoenix cackled from its perch, clearly unimpressed by his performance.
“Fwoosh~”
And then,
The skeleton, which had previously appeared hollow and inert, suddenly flared to life as a flickering crimson soul-fire lit within its eye sockets. It fixed its gaze squarely on Ian.
In that moment.
Ian felt a sudden wave of dizziness, as though some ancient magic laced within the creature’s stare was pressing against his mind, making his breath catch ever so slightly.
Thankfully, the black-robed skeleton did not continue staring at him.
“Squawk!”
The black Phoenix’s peculiar cry drew the skeleton’s attention.
Its stiff head creaked around, turning to scrutinise Ian’s companion. The wary tension in its posture was unmistakable.
“Squawk?”
The black Phoenix tilted its head quizzically.
To Ian’s astonishment, he felt an echo of the skeleton’s emotions, first uncertainty, then cautious calm.
“It has no soul… merely a vessel left behind,”
croaked a hoarse voice from the skeleton’s throat, impossibly speaking without any vocal cords. It relaxed slightly, shifting its stance.
Perhaps reacting to its previous state of alarm,
Crimson markings began to seep outward from its eyes.
The black-robed skeleton’s form pulsed with dozens of runes etched in glowing red, as if inscribed with burning ink. These runes danced over its bones like flames through parchment, giving it an almost lifelike shimmer.
A faint aura, woven of raw magical energy, veiled its skeleton, catching the crimson light and glowing ominously.
Ian could feel it, the kind of ancient power that made his skin prickle.
However,
It didn’t feel hostile.
Rather, it felt… frail. Like the remnants of a once-great enchantment that now sputtered, on the verge of vanishing into nothingness.
Truth be told, the very fact that this skeleton could still stand, let alone speak, was a marvel in and of itself. The weariness embedded in its magic was impossible to ignore.
“It’s alive, no, wait, it’s been reanimated!”
Ian’s voice betrayed a flicker of disappointment, yet his wand hand remained steady, curiosity sharpening his vigilance.
After all,
One could never be sure if the appearance of fatigue was merely a clever illusion. Quietly, the young wizard drew out several vials of Potiones Interdictae, wondering if they might benefit the aged creature.
“I will not fall…”
The black-robed skeleton rose, its voice rhythmic, resonant with the cadence of time-worn prophecy. It stood solemnly, more like a relic carved in reverence than a living being.
The robe, draping its bony fram,e fluttered despite the still air. Though moth-eaten and faded, the garment retained a hint of former majesty, adorned in runes Ian couldn’t decipher.
“Did you once guard that lost city?” Ian asked quietly, eyes tracing the winding runes engraved on the bones beneath the robe.
To be honest,
They reminded him of the very sigils that had once shimmered across his own skin, though these were denser, more intricate, covering nearly every inch of the skeleton’s frame.
The crimson lines, glowing like threads of molten magic, twisted through the bones in a mesmerising pattern.
They lent the creature a power that felt at once sacred and dangerous, as if, at any moment, it might surge forward and destroy everything in its path.
There was something hauntingly familiar about that red glow, like the false sun that had once hovered above the sand-forged echoes of the Shadow Vale.
“I cannot remember…”
The skeleton’s jaw, bleached and bare, clacked faintly as it moved in ways no living creature’s ever could, the words rough and barely audible.
“What do you remember, then?”
Ian asked, voice taut with anticipation.
“I cannot remember.”
The skeleton repeated, tapping lightly on its hollow skull, as though trying to signal that its thoughts had long since fled.
“…”
Ian stared blankly for a moment.
Something about this whole exchange felt off, though he couldn’t say why.
“You can speak without vocal cords, but you’re fussed about needing a brain to think?!” he finally burst out, baffled by the contradiction.
“I require… a brain,” The black-robed skeleton intoned again, with deliberate, rasping clarity.
“And where am I meant to get a brain for you, exactly? Would a cow’s do? Just use it as a placeholder?” Ian quipped, rummaging through his enchanted bag and pulling out a preserved cow brain from his stash in the Room of Requirement.
“I’ve also got pig brains. I hear they’re good for mental clarity. Might even make you cleverer,” Ian added, gesturing to the black Phoenix to deliver the options to the skeleton.
The Phoenix, ever attuned to Ian’s whims, fluttered over obligingly.
“…”
The skeleton stood frozen in silence, clearly dumbfounded.
Clearly,
The newly awakened relic of the past had not expected to be greeted with livestock brains.
“Those who are loved will give rise to flesh.”
The black-robed skeleton did not reach out to select the brain Ian offered; it merely continued speaking to him in a low, rasping voice.
“Ugh, who fed you this nonsense?” Ian initially thought the skeleton was jesting, but the black-robed skeleton’s eye sockets burned with an intense, deep-red soul fire as it stared at him.
It remained silent.
Yet, there was an undeniable seriousness in its gaze.
“You don’t expect me to kiss you, do you?” Ian’s eyes widened in shock, and a bizarre thought flashed through his mind: fairy tales about princes kissing princesses, or a princess kissing a frog. Those were the exact images he had just seen in the murals at the top of the tower.
“Those who are loved will give rise to flesh.”
The black-robed skeleton repeated itself, like a cursed parrot.
“??????”
Ian’s expression shifted dramatically, and amidst the mocking laughter of the black Phoenix, he swallowed hard, glancing at the skeleton, which stood about six feet tall.
“Those who are loved will give rise to flesh.”
The skeleton repeated once more, this time raising a skeletal hand toward Ian.
“Alright, alright! I get it, you creepy skeleton!”
Without thinking twice, Ian spun on his heels and bolted.
What a joke!
He wasn’t about to kiss this ghastly creature!
He was still a proper young wizard!
Not to mention, he wouldn’t even consider kissing a skeleton, especially a male one!
“England’s traditions are starting way too early!” Ian dashed out of the hidden chamber, racing down the stone steps, glancing back now and then. Thankfully, his black Phoenix was right behind him.
The black-robed skeleton didn’t seem to follow… With a brief thought about the shackles and chains restraining it, Ian allowed himself to slow his pace, feeling somewhat relieved.
“That thing probably can’t leave that room.” Ian caught sight of the black Phoenix soaring toward him and gave its head a gentle pat, whispering quietly.
“Squawk!”
The black Phoenix’s cry was likely incomprehensible, but Ian could tell from its tone that it disagreed with his statement.
“If it could leave, it wouldn’t have been chained there for so long,” Ian muttered, stepping outside the tower and pausing to look back. To his surprise, the tower slowly began to fade, much like the mysterious echoes he had experienced in the past.
A gust of wind swept through.
And then, nothing remained.
Only the scattering black sand, as though it had been but a fleeting vision.
“It only took a moment to enter that tower, yet it cost me so much of my limited time!” Ian’s thoughts shifted as he noticed something peculiar.
According to Lady Ravenclaw, the deeper he ventured into the Twilight Zone, the shorter his time would be. But while wandering the desert, he hadn’t felt a significant loss of time.
Why was it, then, that after entering the tower, he had somehow lost a whole day and night? The time had passed far faster than when he had been near Mount Doom.
“Could it be that this tower is farther from Mount Doom than I realised, and it briefly revealed itself to me for some reason?”
With confusion clouding his thoughts, Ian felt himself begin to fade from the Twilight Zone, his form gradually returning to the familiar grounds of the Forbidden Forest at Hogwarts.
The soft moonlight filtered through the thick canopy, casting dappled silver light onto the ground, its shapes swaying gently with the night breeze and rustling leaves.
Quiet.
Peaceful.
The breeze, which usually felt a little too chilly for his taste, now seemed fresh and welcoming to Ian. The sounds of magical creatures emerging from the underbrush felt more comforting than ever.
“I’ve been stuck in that desert for too long; I was about to suffocate,” Ian muttered, catching a Bowtruckle that had heard the commotion and was now eyeing him cautiously.
He was idly playing with the small creature.
However,
The Bowtruckle’s face twisted with sheer terror.
“I thought we were already quite familiar!”
Ian had intended to tease the Bowtruckle, but before he could say more, he noticed something that sent an icy shiver down his spine: a figure looming just behind him.
“Those who are loved will give rise to flesh.”
The same hoarse voice echoed chillingly behind the young wizard.
(End of this chapter)
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