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The fate of the poor senior sister was indeed rather tragic.
A lifetime burdened with guilt.
A lifetime of feeling indebted, shackled by remorse, unable to grant oneself forgiveness.
Who could have imagined that, in the end, all of this was merely a curse woven by the witch Morgan? How deeply must one grasp the workings of a human heart to craft such a cruel and intricate snare!
Wasn’t it said that Morgan only raised golden pawns for her enemies? The books in the library weren’t just idle gossip in the Daily Prophet or tales passed around the Three Broomsticks— could the biographies truly be misleading?
Ian spared the unfortunate senior sister a fleeting three seconds of sympathy before shifting his concern to the one who mattered most— himself. After all, the methods employed by a wicked witch to punish disobedient students were nothing short of ruthless.
If he wanted to avoid the same miserable fate as the beautiful, tormented senior sister, then he absolutely couldn’t afford to be caught by this capricious sorceress.
Seeing the witch still propping her chin in her hand as she gazed at him, Ian swiftly decided to pick a side.
“Your student has committed many wicked deeds in her lifetime, so it’s only fair that she faces retribution. Professor, your intentions are clearly just— I imagine she’ll have learned her lesson by the time she’s reborn.”
Ian thought his quick-witted response was rather clever.
However.
The witch arched a delicate brow before speaking. “You think I’m punishing her? Heh. I studied her soul-draining enchantment, so I have a certain… fondness for her.”
He had to admit, that was an unexpected angle. If it wasn’t a punishment, then… was it a reward? Ian had no idea how to respond to that.
“Isn’t that your soul-draining spell?” He asked, grasping at anything to shift the conversation. At that moment, Ian finally realized just how simple the girls at Hogwarts were to deal with by comparison.
“I have always studied the nature of souls— not the crude act of seizing another’s will. This is merely an offshoot of that craft. Still, for you, learning it might not be a bad idea.”
“She actually had some talent.” The witch’s expression softened with an almost wistful air, as if reminiscing about days long past, when she had still walked among the living.
At her words, Ian blinked, then leaned in ever so slightly.
“What about me? Do I have talent?”
It wasn’t a matter of pride— just curiosity. Were wizards of bygone eras truly superior to those of the present, or did magic, like all things, evolve over time?
“If you can stop using your Pigwidgeon-sized brain for nonsense, master the spells I teach you quickly, and repair those guardian wards that were wrecked by interlopers, I might just consider you my best student.” The witch did not outright discourage Ian.
In fact, she seemed almost amused— an attitude far more palatable than Snape’s ever had been.
All things considered, Ian was quite pleased.
“Keeping the enchantment in an ‘active’ state for long durations is tricky, but it’s nothing I can’t handle.” He glanced at his steadily improving alchemy proficiency and felt rather confident.
“The key lies in transfiguration. The bond between alchemy and transfiguration is intricate— after all, when alchemy first emerged, its practitioners sought to reach the domain of the divine.”
The witch yawned.
“Are you tired, Professor? Do souls even experience fatigue?” Ian was genuinely surprised as he asked this question.
The witch regarded him with a sidelong glance. “I am merely bored. Perhaps I’ve lingered in this place too long. Bring me something worth reading next time.”
That was unmistakably a request.
“How about ‘Secrets of the Darkest Art’?” Ian wondered if the book Aurora had sent him contained curses he had yet to master. Perhaps he could find time to visit Hogsmeade and pick up a copy.
“I want books with proper story arcs, something engaging to pass the time.” The witch squinted at Ian, her tone laced with mild displeasure.
“Do you take me for some dark sorceress obsessed with studying the Dark Arts?”
Faced with this obviously dangerous question, Ian immediately shook his head so fast it nearly blurred.
“I see now! You’re looking for books like Three Wild Wizards, The Imperious Witch Falls for Me, or The Hogwarts Headmaster and the Man Who Must Not Be Named!”
Ian had always been rather quick on the uptake.
The witch nodded in satisfaction. “That’s right, my apprentice. It’s been insufferably dull in this place— you mustn’t slander me like the others do.”
“I don’t enjoy studying Dark Magic,” She continued, as though this were a widely misunderstood fact. “I simply take pleasure in teaching it to others. It’s merely a hobby.”
This, of course, was far more disturbing than any fascination with the subject itself.
Ian wisely refrained from commenting.
Instead, he quickly launched into an enthusiastic string of flattery and well-placed compliments. However, thanks to his earlier so-called “slander,” the petty witch Morgan took it upon herself to casually test his progress in alchemy.
Fortunately, Ian had been diligent in his studies. His knowledge held up well under scrutiny, leaving Morgan without an excuse to subject him to any of her usual minor punishments.
“Are you not curious why I became so fixated on that mirror only after my death?” The witch asked suddenly, catching Ian off guard just as he had begun to relax, relieved to have passed her impromptu assessment.
She didn’t wait for him to answer. Instead, as if speaking more to herself than to him, she murmured softly, “That mirror holds a secret. I believe I only truly understood it not long ago.”
There was something wistful in her voice. And more than that— something barely perceptible, something that, in a witch like Morgan, was utterly astonishing.
Sadness.
“Was it a secret of life and death?” Ian’s curiosity was immediately piqued.
The witch exhaled lightly, her gaze settling on him for a fleeting moment before shifting to the dim, never-changing illusion beyond— a world that had never known true sunlight.
“It is the unpredictability of fate, my apprentice.”
Many spoke of fate, and the greater the wizard, the more reverent their tone became because of it. But in Morgan’s voice, there was something else— something he couldn’t quite define.
Was it connected to King Arthur? To Merlin?
Ian doubted she would answer even if he asked, but some things could only be learned by trying.
Just as he was about to speak, the witch raised a single, elegant finger, silencing him.
“Perhaps you should visit your friend’s town.”
It was a clear dismissal of the subject. Ian, being nothing if not perceptive, tactfully held his tongue.
Still, there were two questions he wanted to ask this legendary sorceress.
“Professor, there are two matters I’d like to consult you on,” Ian said, mentally calculating how much longer he could remain here. Ever since his magical abilities had strengthened, he could now linger in this realm for nearly half a day.
“Ask away.”
The witch leaned back against the bench, her hands resting lightly on either side of her.
Her posture was effortless, poised— an elegance as natural as breathing. Her long hair cascaded over her shoulders like a waterfall of ink, its wild beauty only accentuating her already striking, almost otherworldly appearance.
“Well, I’ve been working on a bit of magic, but I seem to have hit a rather frustrating dead end.”
Ian followed her gaze, noticing the faintest flicker of interest in her sharp eyes.
His wand— transfigured from a picture frame— still retained its form. Without hesitation, he raised it, swishing the length of wood in a well-practiced motion as he spoke the incantation.
“Expecto Patronum!”
Though it wasn’t his usual wand, the spell responded. A silver mist coiled from the tip like swirling moonlight, shimmering with an ephemeral glow. But that was all.
The silvery substance rippled outward, illuminating the castle in a dreamlike haze, shifting the gloom into something almost ethereal— like a fairy tale frozen mid-scene. Yet, the Patronus itself refused to fully manifest.
Despite Ian’s unwavering concentration, the magic plateaued, refusing to push past its limits. His own innate abilities—so carefully honed—stood still, as unyielding as a fortress.
[Patronus Charm (Level 0) 49/50]
There was no movement and no progress.
Ian frowned. He had studied this charm meticulously, refined every step, grasped every nuance. And yet, something was missing.
“You may have a natural affinity for a magic called Mirage Reappearance,” Morgan mused, her voice threaded with curiosity and something akin to amusement. “But that will have to wait until you fix my guards.”
Her eyes— dark as a starless night— lingered on the dissipating mist, observing it with a quiet, knowing intrigue.
“You lack joy,” She continued. “But more importantly, you lack the true catalyst for this spell to take shape.”
This was a precise assessment and one that resonated uncomfortably well with Ian.
“Yes, my professor said that the Patronus Charm summons a wizard’s Soul Form— that it shares origins with Dementors and serves as a guide for lost souls after death.”
Ian recounted Grindelwald’s theories, particularly his thoughts on Dementors and their connection to the spell. If anyone could offer deeper insight, it would be Morgan le Fay— the legendary sorceress who had long since crossed the threshold between life and death.
“Your professor is quite the scholar,” She remarked, raising an eyebrow. “It seems the later generations have managed to produce a few competent minds after all.”
There was no mockery in her voice— only the slightest trace of approval.
Her reaction alone was enough to validate Grindelwald’s research.
“Then, teacher, what about my Soul Form?” Ian blinked, finally voicing the question that had lingered in his mind since his last discussion with Grindelwald.
Unlike the old wizard’s bafflement, Morgan seemed entirely unfazed by Ian’s inability to summon a Patronus. In fact, she smiled.
“Every wizard has a Soul Form, my apprentice,” She said smoothly. “Why don’t you take a guess as to why you have none?”
Ian considered for a moment.
Then, with an utterly straight face, he replied, “Could it be that my Soul Form fell in love with a wild Patronus and ran off?”
Silence.
For the first time, Morgan’s expression froze. It was so brief— so fleeting— that Ian barely caught it before she sighed in exasperation.
“…What exactly do you think about all day?” She muttered, rubbing her temple as if he’d just given her a migraine. “How do you manage to come up with such nonsense?”
She let out a breath, shaking her head.
“A Soul Form cannot be ‘taken’ by a wild Patronus because there is no such thing as a wild Patronus,” She explained, her voice patient but laced with a hint of amusement. “A Patronus is not a creature— it is a choice. When a soul stands at the crossroads of death, it must make a decision. And it is in that moment that the Patronus is born… a guide, leading the soul to a life it has never lived before.”
She paused, her gaze steady on him.
“This life,” She said, “is called being a wizard.”
Morgan le Fay leaned back against the bench, her eyes never leaving Ian’s as she let those words settle between them.
“So, my apprentice, the reason you lack a Soul Form is not something I can answer for you…”
The witch’s voice remained as smooth as ever, yet the weight of her words struck like a well-aimed curse.
“You should be asking yourself: what sets you apart from other wizards?”
Her eyes, sharp as a blade honed by centuries of wisdom, seemed to pierce through the very fabric of existence.
Ian felt as though his mind had been turned inside out. A quiet, creeping sense of unease settled over him, and instinctively, he averted his gaze.
A flicker of guilt passed through him.
Some secrets were bound to be unearthed. Others… others must never see the light of day.
Yet, beneath the shock of realization, a deeper understanding surfaced. The answer had been staring him in the face all along.
Why couldn’t he summon a Patronus?
Because unlike the other wizards of this world… he had never truly belonged to it.
A soul that had never passed through the cycle of reincarnation— was that what set him apart?
“Can the dead return to the mortal world… as wizards?”
It was a deliberate change of topic. But more than that, Ian found the very notion impossible to accept.
“Precisely.”
The witch nodded, her expression unreadable.
“Reincarnation? It actually works like that?”
The words sounded absurd even as he spoke them aloud.
“Yes… it works exactly like that,” The witch replied, her voice tinged with amusement. Then, as if struck by some inexplicable thought, she tilted her head slightly, regarding Ian with a look both knowing and faintly incredulous.
“To be quite frank, you are the last person who should be asking that question.”
She left a cryptic remark and before Ian could press her for an explanation, the witch’s gaze flickered to his bag.
“You should move on to the next question. And once you’re done, you’ll leave behind half the food in your bag.”
She said it so casually that it took Ian a moment to process the command.
“Some people don’t deserve to eat,” She continued coolly. “You may only bring a portion to that little girl. If I so much as hear that you shared any of it with that executioner—”
She didn’t finish the sentence.
But the cold amusement that curled at the edge of her lips made her meaning unmistakable.
Ian felt something click into place. A missing piece of the puzzle falling exactly where it was meant to be.
He was beginning to understand the full weight of this witch’s identity.
Perhaps?
Probably?
“The second question is rather simple, teacher.” Ian adjusted his tone, shifting the conversation. “You have an unparalleled understanding of potions. In your time, was there ever a brew that could grant a person boundless happiness?”
It was something he needed to know— not for himself, but for a friend.
After all, his friend had struggled with the Patronus Charm just as he had.
And Ian was certain of one thing: if the Half-Blood Prince had ever discovered a potion capable of granting pure happiness, he would have used it on himself long ago.
There would have been no need for the gloom, no reason for the perpetual scowl, no justification for behaving like a wizard suffering through perpetual magical menopause.
“Happiness potions?”
The witch’s gaze swept over Ian, her expression unreadable— until sudden realization dawned.
And then, to his utter bewilderment, she reached for her own gown and began tearing at the fabric with an almost unnervingly bright smile.
“Uh… teacher,” Ian said hesitantly, watching as another piece of the aged material was ripped away. “Wouldn’t it be easier to just write it in the old books I brought? I may not be able to take anything out of this place, but I can bring back what I originally carried in.”
He had wanted to ask this question for quite some time.
“Are you dissatisfied with my offerings?” Her tone dipped into something dangerously close to irritation.
Ian hesitated. The witch’s smile had faded, and he had the distinct impression he was treading on thin ice.
Quickly, he explained, “It’s just… I imagine that this takes something from you. Your robes have never repaired themselves. If there’s a cost to this, I’d rather not see you harmed on my behalf.”
For a moment, there was silence.
Then, ever so slightly, her expression softened.
“You’ll understand the significance of this one day,” She murmured. “But that day is not today.”
A pause.
“Perhaps you ought to trust your teacher a little more,” She added, pressing the fabric into his hands. “One day, you’ll be grateful for it.”
Her voice carried an unmistakable weight, layered with meaning Ian had yet to grasp.
But that was a mystery for another time.
“I trust you completely— just as I trust my mother.”
Ian had already collected two pieces of the witch’s gown today. At this rate, he suspected he would eventually witness the unsettling sight of her shivering from the cold.
“Strange, I seem to recall you once saying you were an orphan.”
The witch shot him a sidelong glance.
It wasn’t an insult.
It was worse than an insult.
“…”
Ian didn’t even dare to curse in his mind. Instead, he lowered his gaze to the strip of fabric in his hands, upon which was inscribed an incredibly intricate potion formula.
“After looking through your textbooks, I now have a fair understanding of which ingredients have survived from my time to yours.”
Her voice remained composed as she gestured toward the notes.
“You should be able to find everything listed there in your era. I’ve adjusted the formula— substituted some materials that may have become rare and refined the effects. This will be a particularly… long-lasting happiness potion.”
Ian glanced at her, noting the ever-growing absence of fabric from her robes. Yet she appeared utterly unconcerned.
“How long-lasting?”
He tucked the fabric carefully into his robes, his tone casual.
“Don’t keep your friend waiting.”
The witch didn’t answer his question. Instead, she turned and began walking toward the castle.
Ian watched her retreating figure, a lonely silhouette against the gloom.
The Twilight Zone was a desolate place.
Perhaps, he thought, while repairing the castle’s guardians, he could create a few magical pets for her as well. The days here must be unbearably dull— perhaps a bit of companionship would help.
An alchemized cat that could weave stories on its own… Yes, she might enjoy that.
“My alchemy is the most meaningful of all,” Ian murmured under his breath, repeating a mantra of sorts. “It benefits the living… and aids the dead.”
He didn’t dare defy her warning. He left a generous pile of food on the long table, taking only Ariana’s portion. His bag felt significantly lighter as he dashed out of the castle’s empty, shadowed halls.
“Pandero will likely curse my name for this,” Ian muttered. “But if Morgan finds out, she might actually turn me into a Pigwidgeon just to teach me a lesson.”
Faced with a choice between betraying his friend and ensuring his own survival, Ian chose the latter.
He pressed on.
The ancient path stretched before him, winding through the eerie landscape.
Up ahead, the twilight gloom parted. The still, sky-lit forest was not far now.
Each patch of land in the Twilight Zone was interconnected, yet divided, like territories marked by magical creatures. The souls who resided here had long claimed their own domains.
Each spirit shaped the world around them, their presence altering the very atmosphere. Even the temperature fluctuated between one step and the next.
Though the scenery remained unchanged.
Ian crossed from barren, lifeless grassland into softer, richer terrain. The stark contrast was almost disorienting.
Professor Morgan’s domain had been steeped in shadow— shrouded in mist, withering under darkened skies. But here…
A fresh breeze stirred.
Leaves whispered in the wind.
The transition felt as though he had stepped from the pages of a grim cautionary tale into a storybook illustration.
“Such a place would do wonders for one’s mood.”
Somewhere ahead, he heard the gentle murmur of running water.
Towering trees loomed over him, their lush green canopies stretching high above, filtering the sunlight into fractured beams. Patches of golden light scattered across the forest floor like a celestial mosaic.
Wildflowers in shades of crimson, amber, and sapphire swayed in harmony, painting the landscape in vibrant hues.
“This is what a proper fairy tale setting looks like,” Ian mused.
And then, his gaze landed on a particularly tall fruit tree.
“Professor Morgan’s domain doesn’t have wild fruit growing all over the place!”
Ever since he had tasted the Golden Apple that Pandero brought back, Ian had nurtured a lingering hope of discovering more magical fruits in the Twilight Zone.
Without a second thought, he set off toward the towering tree, climbing without hesitation.
“The color of this fruit looks like it enhances one’s skill with the Killing Curse… should I call it the Avada Kedavra fruit.”
Ian, still in the stage where he couldn’t cast spells without a wand, clung precariously to the high branches of the tree. Balancing himself with difficulty, he stretched out and managed to pluck the fruit.
However.
The moment he took a bite—
He spat it out immediately, gagging, and hurled the fruit away in disgust.
“This should be called the Bitter Fruit!”
Just as he was about to climb down, Ian noticed something unexpected— his discarded fruit had struck someone on the head.
“Huh?”
It was a young man.
The half-eaten fruit had landed squarely on him just as he was crouching down, picking up something small and gleaming— a scrap of fabric that had fallen from Ian’s robes.
“Is this yours?”
The young man glanced up as Ian slid down from the tree. Instead of looking annoyed, he simply smiled and held out the fabric.
“Sorry,” Ian apologized quickly, taking the scrap back. “I didn’t realize someone was down there.”
He tucked the “text” given to him by Professor Morgan securely into the inner pocket of his robes, making sure it wouldn’t slip out again, and turned his full attention to the ghostly figure before him.
The young man was much taller than Ian, with sharp features, a straight nose, and a healthy, sun-kissed complexion— an unusual sight among wandering souls. There was something oddly familiar about him.
Yet Ian was certain they had never met before.
“Do you live around here?” Ian asked, cautious.
Though wary that this soul might be hiding something, Ian couldn’t help but be curious.
“You’re quite different from the others,” The young man mused, studying Ian with keen interest. “Such a unique and terrifying talent.”
He didn’t answer Ian’s question immediately. Instead, his expression shifted into something like recognition— though Ian wasn’t sure what the ghost had recognized.
Just as Ian was wondering how to explain, or perhaps avoid explaining, the fact that he was a living, breathing wizard—
“I don’t live here,” The young man finally replied. “In fact, I’m preparing to move on to the next part of my journey.”
His voice carried no particular surprise at Ian’s presence. For a spirit who had already released his earthly attachments, encountering a living boy in the Twilight Zone was hardly cause for alarm.
“Before I leave,” The young man continued, his gaze shifting, “I wanted to see my mysterious aunt one last time.”
Ian followed his line of sight. The young man’s eyes lingered on Ian’s hand for a moment before turning toward the distant horizon.
“She was once more wretched than I,” He murmured. “But now, it seems… fortune is finally on her side.”
Another ghost speaking in riddles. Ian idly wondered what this one had done for a living while alive— Was he a Seer, Unspeakable, mad poet?
“Does your aunt live nearby?”
A thought struck him.
Could this be a relative of Professor Morgan?
After all, he was looking for his aunt…
“I’ve already seen her,” The young man said simply. “Now, it’s time I found the courage to move forward.”
He turned to leave but hesitated, glancing back over his shoulder.
“By the way, little friend… you’re still in school, aren’t you?”
Ian blinked. The young man had long since let go of his past and was far stronger than Professor Morgan— so why did he care about Ian’s age?
“I am a First year at Hogwarts.”
‘Would the name mean anything to him? Hogwarts had been around for over a thousand years, but in a place like this, that wasn’t particularly impressive.’
“Indeed. You are quite young.” The young man nodded with a knowing smile tugging at the corners of his lips.
“I can understand the stirrings in your heart. But if you happen to fancy a girl… love potions are never the answer.”
His voice was mild, but the warning in his tone was unmistakable.
“That’s a crime,” He added lightly, “And Azkaban would be the first to beckon you. If I were you, I’d have a bit more confidence in my striking good looks.”
And with that—
He turned and continued walking without looking back while lifting a hand in farewell.
And then, in the fading twilight—
The air twisted, space folding in on itself as a brilliant flash of fiery red burst into existence.
A Phoenix.
It appeared from nowhere, wings beating with quiet grace as it followed after the young man, as if escorting him just a little farther on his journey.
Under the green fruit tree—
Ian stood rooted to the spot. His mouth opened. Then closed. His mind scrambled for an appropriate reaction.
And settled on—
“Holy Merlin!”
His face twisted in horror as he yanked out the scrap of Professor Morgan’s fabric.
“Happy potions!?”
(End of this chapter)
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