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The tattered scrap of robe in his hand still shimmered faintly with a crystalline glow, but the words etched upon it carried an unmistakable air of mischief— dark and wry, steeped in the wicked humor of that wretched old witch.
“It’s true what they say— crossing an old witch is never wise…” Ian muttered, retracing his steps in his mind, trying to pinpoint when exactly he might have offended Witch Morgan.
Now, at last, he understood why she had altered the potion recipe. No doubt she had been hoping to watch him, completely unaware, brew up an entire cauldron of Amortentia.
What a cosmic jest, truly!
He was only eleven!
Just a child!
What use could he possibly have for something like that? No! Not even when he grew older would he need it! As the sharp-eyed young man had pointed out earlier, with his striking looks and talents that outshone his peers, Ian had no need of potions to find himself entangled in romance.
“I really do wonder how Professor Morgan’s apprentices survived,” He mused. “Walking on eggshells, one wrong step and they’d find themselves the unwitting victims of her petty tricks.”
Ian cast a wary glance toward the distant castle. He only dared to mutter such things in his own head, well aware that his teacher had an inconvenient fondness for eavesdropping.
The Queen’s enchanted mirror had once been hers, after all, and she had used it to spy on casual conversations between him and Ariana. Who knew if the old witch wasn’t hidden away in the castle right now, peering at him through some enchanted looking glass?
At the thought, Ian’s eyelid twitched.
“Oh, bless my ancestors, and bless my dear, esteemed teacher, Mistress Morgan. Always looking out for me. That ill-mannered passerby clearly failed to grasp the noble intent behind her potion recipe!”
“No wonder no one saw him off when he left, save for a single bird willing to keep him company…” Ian waited until the young man had disappeared from sight before dramatically addressing the empty air.
For a fleeting moment, he considered making a traditional prayer gesture but swiftly abandoned the idea— after all, wizards had not fared well under the hands of Muggle faiths. Instead, he settled for a vague, awkward wave of his fingers in front of his chest.
The air remained fragrant.
The birds and insects still chirped merrily.
No one answered him, but Ian didn’t dare lower his guard. He vividly recalled the unfortunate fate of a particularly lovely senior student. When it came to getting even, Morgan’s methods were as cunning as they were ruthless.
Even Voldemort himself, offering a cursed goblet, could hardly hope to match her in sheer underhandedness. Ian was certain Morgan had known exactly what she was doing. Any half-competent brewer could tell the difference between a simple Elixir of Euphoria and a love potion.
The happiness potion he had envisioned—
‘Sunlit Happiness Elixir.’
What he had actually received—
‘Bewitched Betrothal.’
The two couldn’t be more different; they had absolutely no connection. Ian didn’t even dare to imagine what would have happened if he had brewed a full cauldron and let Aurora take a sip.
Worse still, when he first received the recipe, he had seriously considered mass-producing it and selling it openly. The warning about Azkaban being his next destination had, in hindsight, been remarkably charitable.
“Ugh, the place would be littered with empty love potion bottles, every corridor overflowing with hopelessly infatuated victims… Not even Durmstrang would have witnessed such a catastrophe!”
A shudder ran through Ian.
Had he actually brewed the potion and sold it in batches, the resulting chaos would have been beyond imagination. Hogwarts’ history books might have been forced to record the debacle for generations to come.
Yes, he could already see it: the infamous tale of ‘The Sinister Sovereign of Love Potions’. A night of pandemonium, leaving the entire castle in utter disarray.
“…”
Ian sighed, suddenly feeling quite grateful for that nameless young man’s interference. He had, in a way, saved Hogwarts.
No less than Harry Potter himself, really.
“If I’m not mistaken, what was Summoned at the end was a phoenix. I didn’t know phoenixes could appear here… Was it during the fleeting moment of its rebirth?” Ian wasn’t blind nor lacking in perception, so he had every reason to suspect that the young man was somehow connected to the Dumbledore family.
There was indeed a certain resemblance in appearance. He might be Albus Dumbledore’s son or Aberforth Dumbledore’s heir. Ian’s instincts leaned toward the former.
If the old headmaster had lived for over a century without ever experiencing love, Ian found it difficult to believe he had remained entirely detached from worldly desires.
That so-called aunt was likely Ariana. By now, given the passage of time, Ariana would certainly be considered an old girl, if one could call a ghost that.
“I should have taken a photo of that fellow. What a shame.” Ian pulled out the old-fashioned camera he had borrowed. Even by the early 1990s’ standards, this camera was an antique.
It was heavy.
And unwieldy.
In the upper left corner of the camera, there was something that might have been an exposure “shutter.” Ian wasn’t particularly knowledgeable about cameras, only that this one had been enhanced through wizarding modifications.
It functioned somewhat like a magical Polaroid, automatically printing photographs once taken. However, to make the images move, one had to apply a special enchanted solution. The potion’s formula was a closely guarded secret, and it was ludicrously expensive— about as monopolized as Sleekeazy’s Hair Potion.
Of course.
Ian had no intention of paying for such a thing himself. After all, taking the photographs was as far as his chivalry extended. Dumbledore, having been Hogwarts’ headmaster for decades, surely wouldn’t be short on Galleons to purchase the “Living Image Elixir.”
Were it not for the fact that a headmaster’s authority naturally outweighed that of a student’s, Ian might have even considered making Dumbledore pay him for the service.
“Imagine Dumbledore having to spin a magical wheel, collect fragments, and only after gathering them all could he exchange them for the photos…” Ian had the imagination of a Gryffindor but not quite the reckless daring of one.
He was merely passing time on the way to the village. As he emerged from the dense forest, the vibrant, thriving woodland was replaced by a quieter, slightly forlorn landscape.
The village lay nestled in a valley, its stone cottages neatly arranged. Though untouched by ruin, the lack of inhabitants lent it an air of quiet desolation. Fallen leaves and dust covered the streets, and occasionally, a stray gust of wind would send a few dried leaves skittering across the cobblestones in a whimsical dance.
Ian wandered through the town’s narrow, winding streets. From a distance, he spotted Pandero instructing Ariana in swordsmanship in the open square at the village center.
Perhaps because wielding a blade required intense concentration, or perhaps because he was still a fair distance away, neither of them noticed Ian jogging toward them.
“Are they actually serious?”
Ian recalled how, back at Morgan’s castle, Pandero had insisted that Ariana abandon magic in favor of swordsmanship. At the time, Ian had dismissed it as nothing more than Pandero’s usual bravado.
Yet, to his surprise, upon returning to the village, Pandero had genuinely begun teaching Ariana the ways of the blade. In fact, Ian had initially assumed he wouldn’t even cross paths with Pandero again in this place.
After all, Pandero was a wanderer at heart. Much like the young man Ian had just encountered, his first meeting with Pandero had also taken place during one of the swordsman’s many journeys.
The sun hung high.
In this timeless, near-abandoned village, golden sunlight spilled over every rooftop, casting a warm glow over the quiet streets.
The girl trained with unwavering focus beneath the sun’s embrace.
She wore a slightly oversized linen dress, her hair neatly braided into two plaits that fell over her shoulders. The delicate-looking girl now bore a striking air of quiet strength.
Each movement, each arc of her blade, was crisp and deliberate. Ariana’s swordplay followed a practiced rhythm, a telltale sign of long, dedicated training.
“Ariana, the way of the sword lies in belief and focus.”
“Swordsmanship is not merely a display of strength; it is the refinement of spirit and will. You must learn to listen to the sword’s voice, to feel its pulse and the cadence of every strike.”
“When you wield the blade as if it were an extension of yourself, then you will have grasped the essence of my swordsmanship. It requires no elaborate techniques or superfluous flourishes.”
“A clear mind will summon the sword to your hand. This is a state of being— shed weakness, abandon fear, and you will become truly unstoppable.”
Dressed in a simple brown robe with an ancient sword hanging loosely at his waist, Pandero continued to guide Ariana, all while boasting, “My swordsmanship is not something just anyone can learn. Consider yourself fortunate, Ariana; this path is far more rewarding than that of a mere wizard.”
“My swordsmanship severs fate itself, while wizards remain shackled by it. Do I even need to say which is the stronger art?” He added, taking an unsubtle jab at the magical world.
One had to wonder where such bitterness stemmed from.
“I don’t know much about fate, Pandero. But I do know that fishing is much more fun.”
Ariana sighed, wiping sweat from her brow during a brief pause. It was clear she hadn’t chosen this path— she was simply enduring it. Even so, she never slacked off in her training.
“Fate is a mischievous little imp,” Pandero murmured. Then, out of the corner of his eye, he spotted Ian, who had deliberately taken a longer route around the square and was now peeking out from behind the old post office.
“Your sword’s edge should rest against his throat…” Pandero whispered, making a shushing gesture before slipping off to sneak up on Ian.
His plan was simple— tap the flat of his sword playfully against Ian’s neck in greeting.
However.
“This is how wizards say hello!”
To his surprise, Ian had anticipated the move. In a split second, he crouched low and twisted, executing a swift counter-maneuver that completely caught Pandero off guard.
“Ah!”
Pandero let out a startled yelp, his face contorting as he inhaled sharply. The sword tumbled from his grip as he staggered backward and landed unceremoniously on the ground, his face flushing a deep shade of crimson.
“Looks like Ian’s just reeled in a big one,” Ariana quipped, stepping forward to observe Pandero, who was now sprawled on the cobblestones, his dignity in shambles.
“He cheated!” Pandero’s voice rang with indignant protest.
“Fishing really is fun,” Ian said with an impish grin.
Perhaps this was fate’s way of answering, Pandero. It clearly doesn’t wish to be severed by you.” Ariana’s serious remark struck a blow to Pandero’s pride.
“…”
Pandero wanted to retort.
Ian had already raised his camera to capture the moment of his humiliation.
“What is that?”
The sudden burst of light from the flash left Pandero momentarily stunned.
“Is it a camera? It’s so small now!” Ariana peered curiously at the device in Ian’s hands, clearly familiar with something invented centuries ago.
“Yes, Muggle technology has made them even smaller. I just wonder if wizards can keep up with the times.” As he spoke, Ian snapped a picture of Ariana.
Compared to the delightfully embarrassing shot of Pandero, Ariana’s turned out less impressive— mostly because Ian’s photography skills were lacking.
Unless you were a professional, it was difficult to develop decent photography skills without ever having a girlfriend.
“Let’s take one together.”
Seeing that Pandero had finally regained his breath, Ian reached out and pulled him up. Wrapping an arm around each friend, he called out, “Say ‘Cheese!'” before pressing the shutter.
The photograph developed slowly.
Ian’s bright grin shone through, while Ariana’s expression captured a rushed yet natural smile— far more composed than Pandero’s utterly bewildered face.
Having likely never encountered a camera before, Pandero looked so thoroughly confused that he resembled a startled Neville Longbottom— creating a warm yet amusing scene of the living and the departed together.
A rare moment indeed.
“Brilliant! Everyone’s expressions are perfect!” Ian habitually shook the printed photo, satisfied that it had captured precisely what it needed to.
“You call this perfect?” Pandero scowled at his disheveled self in the image, clearly displeased.
“Here, have an egg and don’t be mad.” Ian fished out three Winged Serpent eggs, handing one to Pandero, since Morgan had strictly forbidden him from giving Pandero any sweets.
“Winged Serpent?”
Pandero’s eyes gleamed with interest.
“I plan to hatch them here.” Ian took the opportunity to pass the remaining snacks to Ariana. Giving Pandero an egg wasn’t just a peace offering— he had a clever scheme in mind. Adventurers often made excellent magical creature handlers, and having a free hatching assistant sounded rather convenient.
“You can’t hatch eggs here; life does not belong in this place.” Pandero shook his head, his words hitting Ian like a rogue Bludger. His plan for an endless Winged Serpent dynasty had crumbled before it could even begin.
“But the Golden Apple tree grew here, didn’t it?” Ian clung to a sliver of hope, prompting a contemplative look from Pandero.
“Yes, the Golden Apple is indeed a bizarre anomaly.” He examined the Winged Serpent egg in his palm. “Perhaps we should plant these eggs in the ground?”
What a preposterous notion!
“Eggs are meant to be hatched!” Ian was utterly exasperated.
Yet Pandero remained unfazed, still eager to experiment. “How would you know if you don’t try?”
With that, he darted off, grabbing a nearby shovel.
No wonder he was a swordsman; his reflexes were alarmingly fast. Had Ian not lunged forward to snatch the tool from his hands, the three Winged Serpent eggs would have been buried like turnips in the soil.
“Perhaps we should focus on hatching them first…”
Ian had learned not to take Pandero’s words at face value. Once a legend, perhaps, but these days, the swordsman’s memory seemed to be as patchy as his common sense.
“Trust me, life can’t be born here.” As he spoke, Pandero strode toward a nearby tree, deftly climbing up to retrieve a bird’s egg from a nest.
“I’ve had this egg for years. Do you see any signs of it hatching?” He held up the egg, its shell traced with fiery red patterns— clearly something unusual, something rare.
“But you just took that from a nest.” Ariana, seated on a worn wooden bench and nibbling on a chocolate biscuit, eyed him with a mixture of suspicion and amusement.
“I leave it with the birds to hatch for me. What do you expect me to do— sit on it myself?” Pandero scoffed, handing the egg to Ian while, in one swift movement, swiping the two Winged Serpent eggs from his grasp. “You might have luck hatching them in your world, but for now, these are mine to experiment with.”
With that, he grabbed a shovel and marched determinedly toward the great oak at the town’s center.
“What kind of egg is this?” Ian weighed the warm shell in his hands, a strange sensation prickling against his palm. Then, he noticed something— on the back of his hand, the faint markings Ariana had drawn earlier glowed softly, just as they had when he’d touched Fawkes.
He knew the answer before he even spoke.
“Phoenix.”
Ariana leaned in, eyes widening with curiosity, still clutching her half-eaten biscuit. “Is that really a Phoenix egg?”
She sounded doubtful— but then again, few had ever seen a Phoenix egg, even among wizards.
“Yes, a Phoenix,” Pandero confirmed. “I’ve been trying to hatch it for ages, but it’s been stubborn. I just thought… well, imagine a creature you could eat, and it would come back to life— an endless food source.”
“But after all this time, it still won’t hatch.”
Pandero was already digging furiously at the base of the oak.
Ian rolled his eyes. “The dead don’t need to eat, you know.”
Pandero barely glanced up. “That doesn’t mean we can’t eat,” he replied matter-of-factly, scooping up another pile of soil at an alarming speed.
Ariana sighed, shaking her head. “Maybe it refuses to hatch because you want to eat it. Phoenixes are clever creatures, you know.”
Ian, meanwhile, was staring at the ridiculous sight before him. “Are you seriously going to plant the Winged Serpent eggs?”
Without hesitation, Pandero set the eggs in the freshly dug hole and began covering them with soil.
“Nobody’s ever tried this before,” he said, shoveling with conviction. “So we can’t assume common rules apply. Even if it fails, it’s just a bit of wasted time.”
“And time,” he added with a smirk, “is the one thing we’ve got plenty of.”
There was no arguing with him— not when he said things like that with such certainty.
“You win.”
Ian groaned, running a hand through his hair. Trading a few Winged Serpent eggs for a Phoenix egg wasn’t exactly a loss, but he wasn’t sure if he’d even be able to take it with him— if this egg, born in a place between life and death, could even exist in the real world.
Pandero seemed to sense his unease. “Phoenixes are different from other creatures,” he said. “They’re born of magic, not bound by the same rules as wizards or ghosts. They pass between life and death freely.”
“But,” he added, his gaze lingering on the egg, “this Phoenix was born here. It may not be like the ones you’re familiar with. You’d be a fool to expect it to hatch the way you expect.”
Ian arched an eyebrow.
“Fine,” He said at last. “I’ll find a wizard who actually knows about Phoenixes. They’re the most sought-after companions, after all.” He had a feeling Dumbledore would be a far better authority on the matter than Pandero.
That, apparently, was the wrong thing to say.
“Have you forgotten who taught you to control your magic?!” Pandero burst out, kicking the freshly packed soil as though punishing it for Ian’s remark. “I may not be a wizard— but I know more about them than any of you lot!”
Then, almost under his breath, he muttered,
“Wizards are all liars.”
His words weren’t meant for Ian.
“Ian, did you find my brother?”
Ariana, who had been fixated on the Phoenix egg, suddenly looked up and asked. Though she had the mind and manner of a teenager, her sharp intuition had clearly led her to guess the reason behind Ian’s earlier line of questioning.
“Of course— I promised you, didn’t I?” Ian nodded solemnly.
“How is he?”
There was a flicker of concern in Ariana’s eyes.
Ian studied the girl standing just a little taller than himself and thought of the man he had encountered earlier. Something didn’t quite add up.
“Someone I met on the road called you his aunt,” he said, frowning slightly. “Could he be your nephew? Didn’t he tell you anything about the Dumbledore family?”
Ariana’s expression shifted in surprise.
“Someone did pass through. Said he was a traveler and only asked for a drink of water… Pandero was suspicious, though. Said souls don’t get thirsty.”
That certainly made sense.
Ian’s revelation had clearly caught Ariana off guard.
“My nephew?” She looked utterly bewildered.
“I knew he wasn’t just some traveler!” Pandero declared triumphantly, pleased that his instincts had been correct. He refrained from mentioning that he had suspected the man of darker motives.
Ian, however, had his own theory.
“I think he’s Albus Dumbledore’s son— an illegitimate one. Probably the offspring of some terrifying dark witch or something.” His voice held a note of mischief, his certainty wavering. But since he was only familiar with Albus and had never met Aberforth, he naturally decided to stir up trouble regarding the brother he actually knew.
If Snape were here, he’d probably shake his head— spending too much time around Gryffindors had a way of rubbing off on people.
“You might not believe it, but your brother is doing quite well these days. I told him I’d let him know how you’re faring, and in return, he’d sign over the Dumbledore family vault to me.”
Ian, clearly lost in his own fantasy, sighed wistfully.
“Is that really true?” Ariana tilted her head skeptically. Having grown used to being around Ian, she knew better than to take him at face value.
“If you write it down, then it’ll be true!” Ian declared, yanking a small table from the nearby post office and dramatically slapping down a stack of parchment and envelopes from his satchel.
“Ian, I died young— I didn’t die stupid.”
Ariana wasn’t about to be tricked, and Ian let out a disappointed sigh.
“Alright, alright. I only met one of your brothers— Albus Dumbledore. He’s the headmaster of our school now. As for your other brother… well, apparently, he’s off somewhere herding goats.”
“The portraits at Hogwarts told me.”
Ian shared everything he knew.
“Brother Aberforth?” Ariana’s expression froze for a moment, her eyes flickering with emotion as long-buried memories surfaced.
“Maybe I should write two letters,” She murmured, glancing at Ian for guidance.
“Good thing I like to be prepared.”
Ian pulled out another sheet of parchment and an envelope. He also noticed Pandero sneaking biscuits from the stash he’d brought for Ariana. But since she had confiscated Pandero’s share earlier, Ian decided to turn a blind eye and simply handed Ariana the extra stationery.
“Actually… I don’t know what to write.”
Ariana stared at the parchment, deep in thought, quill poised but unmoving.
Seeing this, Ian— who had just settled himself comfortably at a distance— immediately got back up and returned to her side.
“You could write that Ian is a good friend and that, even if he breaks school rules, he shouldn’t be punished. And under no circumstances should Dumbledore try to manipulate him into fighting Voldemort.”
“If I must fight Voldemort, then I should be given a lot— a lot— of benefits,” Ian added, making his stance clear. He had no intention of becoming unpaid labor alongside Harry Potter next year.
Who in their right mind would volunteer for that kind of work for free?
“Are you a troublemaker at school?” Ariana tilted her head, eyeing him curiously. After a moment’s thought, she began writing, faithfully including everything Ian had dictated.
“That’s… impossible,” Ian chuckled awkwardly. “Oh, and you could also suggest that Dumbledore help me hatch the Phoenix egg. That way, I’ll have more time to focus on being a hardworking student.”
“It would be even better if he provided a few Galleons to support underprivileged Hogwarts students, like, say… an orphan with absolutely no financial resources.”
Ariana, unimpressed by Ian’s blatant attempt at extortion, only wrote down the first half of his request.
Naturally.
When it came to Galleons, even children knew to tread carefully. As Ariana shifted to writing something more sincere, Ian wandered over to where Pandero was loitering.
“That’s Ariana’s snack!”
Ian snatched a box of Every Flavour Beans from Pandero’s hands.
“I just gave you a Phoenix egg!” Pandero protested indignantly, reaching for another treat— only for Ian to swipe the entire bag away.
“That was a trade!” Ian shot back, standing his ground.
“You should be off tracking that Welsh Green you promised to bring back for my teacher, Madam Morgan,” He added casually, watching for Pandero’s reaction. It was a carefully planted remark— both to remind him of his unfinished task and to gauge his response to the witch’s name.
Pandero hesitated for a fraction of a second, his brow furrowing in mild discomfort. But beyond that momentary flicker of unease, he gave no real indication of recognition.
“I knew it was that witch!” He muttered, sulking.
Meanwhile, Ariana took her time composing her letters, lost in thought as she carefully chose her words. It felt as though the entire afternoon had passed by the time she finished.
The golden sunlight streamed through the scattered clouds.
Ian, growing restless, attempted to pick up some swordsmanship from Pandero— only to find himself swiftly disarmed in under five seconds. Every single time.
“Let’s try something else! Wizard’s chess! Wizard’s chess is loads of fun!”
Ian, convinced that Pandero was exacting revenge for the stolen snacks, sought redemption through wizard’s chess. Unfortunately, Pandero turned out to be even better at chess than the old warlock who ran the chess club in Hogsmeade.
And he had only just learned how to play.
“Right. That’s it. I’m done!”
After losing three consecutive matches, Ian gave up, just as Ariana finished sealing her letters.
Sensing that his time was running short, Ian swiftly packed his things, preparing to leave. He could feel it— the strange pull that signaled his departure was imminent.
“See you next week.”
As his figure gradually faded into the Twilight Zone, Pandero bent down, retrieving his fallen sword. He turned to Ariana, who had grown noticeably quiet, her gaze distant.
“Continue,” he said simply, offering the sword to her.
But Ariana, her thoughts weighed down by old memories, wiped her eyes and shook her head.
“I don’t think there’s any point in learning swordsmanship anymore…”
Her voice was soft but certain.
Facing Ariana, who was clearly feeling down and spoke frankly, Pandero didn’t get angry.
Pandero simply gazed at the girl before him, his jewel-like eyes clear. Though he still had the appearance of a boy, his voice suddenly deepened, steady and commanding.
“Of course it’s meaningful, Ariana. There will come a time when swordsmanship will serve you well. Only by mastering it— only by becoming a true Valkyrie— will you have the chance to embrace reunion.”
“Magic alone cannot shape your fate. I am giving you the means to claim it.”
Beneath the golden sunlight.
Pandero’s voice was gentle yet resolute, carrying a warmth that seemed to banish the lingering shadows in one’s heart.
“Does your… er, that rather important part still hurt?”
Ariana rubbed her eyes and looked up at him, her question abruptly shattering the solemn moment.
Pandero’s bright smile faltered.
“It still hurts a bit. Ian was far too rough.”
His expression stiffened as he recalled the ordeal.
The memory continued to haunt him.
…
A faint chill lingered in the air, carried by the night wind as it rustled through the trees.
The moment Ian awoke, he reached instinctively into his pocket. The warmth beneath his fingertips sent a surge of joy through him. He had done it. He had brought the Phoenix egg back from the Twilight Zone!
“My treasure~”
Ian could already picture it— the sheer spectacle of soaring through the wizarding world with a fully grown Phoenix at his side. He cradled the egg in his hands, its crimson glow casting flickering patterns across his dormitory walls. At that moment, his affection for it far surpassed any enthusiasm he’d once had for Secrets of Dark Magic Revealed.
“I’ll study it myself first… then go find Dumbledore tomorrow!”
Fully awake now, Ian rummaged through his school trunk and pulled out the works of the esteemed retired Magizoologist, Newt Scamander, eager to uncover any knowledge related to Phoenixes.
At his desk.
He read late into the night, the rhythmic snores of his dormmates filling the air. Outside the castle, stars glittered like scattered gemstones on velvet, with the occasional shooting star streaking across the sky in a brief, dazzling arc.
The next morning.
Despite an entire night of research, Ian hadn’t found the answers he sought. There was nothing on bloodline origins— no clues as to where Phoenixes truly came from. Hogwarts’ library likely held no such records either. After all, according to Scamander himself, the birth of a Phoenix was one of the great unsolved mysteries of the magical world.
Even Dumbledore, the most renowned Phoenix companion in recent history, had never provided a definitive answer.
The retired Magizoologist had once remarked that he suspected even Dumbledore didn’t know. But Ian wasn’t convinced.
“Old Scamander simply didn’t make the right connections.”
Ian muttered to himself as he watched the first rays of sunlight creep over the horizon. He turned his attention to the two letters beside him, ready to be sent. Each contained a photograph— though, naturally, he had reserved the more flattering group photo for Albus Dumbledore’s letter.
After all, Ian neither knew Aberforth personally nor had any particular fondness for goat meat.
As was his habit, he took it upon himself to wake his dormmates.
By the time Ian stepped into the Great Hall, he had barely begun contemplating his breakfast options— oatmeal, bread rolls, cornflakes, pickled fish, eggs, bacon, or toast slathered in butter and jam— when the latest wizarding news had already reached his ears.
The buzzing chatter of students carried the headlines straight to him.
“SHOCKING! Ministry of Magic loses track of a Dementor—wandering loose in Britain?! Officials DENY all responsibility!”
Nearly every newspaper had run the story.
Concern rippled through the student body, from the wide-eyed first-years to the older, more skeptical seventh-years.
A Dementor.
Somewhere out there.
And the Ministry had no idea where.
“I swear on my wand! This isn’t the first time! I saw a Dementor outside my house when I was a kid! My Muggle mum said I was being unscientific— claimed it was probably an alien!”
“The Ministry’s always been like this— too bureaucratic for its own good. When they make a mistake, they don’t fix it, they just cover it up. Sooner or later, they’ll run the entire wizarding world into the ground!”
“Too right! My dad’s just a minor official, but our cellar’s stuffed with Galleons. He says if he didn’t take them, Dolores Umbridge herself would see to it he got the sack.”
“What?! Is that something you should really be telling us?! Forget the Ministry for a second—shouldn’t we be asking whether that Dementor in our Defense Against the Dark Arts class was real or not?”
…
Noticing that William was actually trying to rally students to dig deeper into the matter, Ian quickly stepped in.
Frowning, he spoke in a tone of calm authority, as if making a logical deduction:
“If a Dementor had really gone rogue, people would have started dying by now. Have you seen any news of that happening?”
Without waiting for a response—
Ian clapped his hands decisively.
“No! Not a single death! Which proves that this whole thing is nothing more than baseless slander against the Ministry of Magic. Right now, what the Ministry needs is our support!”
“Let me guess— it’s those Death Eaters stirring up trouble again, trying to sow chaos in our peaceful wizarding society. And let’s not forget, plenty of them are still lurking in places like The Daily Prophet!”
“So tell me, who do you trust— the Ministry of Magic, or the Death Eaters?”
“Could the Ministry possibly be lying? I don’t think so! It’s an official governing body. We ought to place our faith in its decisions and trust in our justice system!”
His confident, well-reasoned speech— paired with his usual reputation among the students— successfully redirected the conversation away from the missing Dementor and onto the so-called corruption of the press.
Ian discreetly let out a sigh of relief and joined in the growing wave of complaints about unethical journalism.
No one dared mention the Death Eaters again.
The shadow of Tom Riddle still loomed too large.
After finishing breakfast with his two roommates, Ian gathered up One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi and Potions and Elixirs. He planned to seek out Professor Snape today— an attempt to smooth over any lingering tension from their last lesson.
But before they even reached the second floor, they spotted Defense Against the Dark Arts professor Gilderoy Grindelwald standing guard beside a towering stack of crates.
“It’s Professor Lockhart!”
Due to the Dementor incident, Ian’s two roommates were thoroughly unsettled by Grindelwald, who had taken on Gilderoy Lockhart’s familiar face. Like many others who had been present during that class, they couldn’t help but link the missing Dementor to Gilderoy Grindelwald.
However—
Since Ian had so publicly defended the Ministry, the students who regularly attended his study sessions naturally didn’t challenge him on it.
Besides, deep down, none of them particularly wanted to report their own professor.
They still had seven years at Hogwarts ahead of them.
And everyone knew that students who turned on a professor never had an easy time afterward.
“Oi, you— come give me a hand.”
Gilderoy Grindelwald had spotted Ian and beckoned him over. Ian barely had time to turn before his two roommates had vanished into thin air.
“Traitors!”
With no other choice, Ian squared his shoulders, took a steadying breath, and strode forward alone to greet the professor.
Since there were plenty of students coming and going, he made sure to keep up appearances.
“Professor Lockhart,” he said smoothly.
And not a soul questioned it.
“Have you mastered the Levitation Charm yet? Move these to the entrance of the Forbidden Forest. I’ll be along shortly.” Gilderoy Grindelwald issued the command without the slightest hesitation.
Ian regretted not taking the time to learn Professor Morgan’s techniques last night— he’d been too fixated on studying the egg. If he had, he might have at least had the confidence to stand his ground in front of this professor.
“My Potions lesson is about to start, Professor. You wouldn’t want one of your students to be late, would you?” Ian attempted a bit of moral persuasion.
Unexpectedly—
Gilderoy Grindelwald merely raised an eyebrow. “I need to catch something for class. And whose fault do you think that is? So tell me, would you rather be late for Potions… or go to Azkaban? I imagine you’d prefer not to have the Ministry discover the whereabouts of their misplaced Dementor, yes?”
It was obvious.
While Gilderoy might have cared about appearances, Grindelwald had no such scruples. He didn’t even hesitate to use his position as a professor to threaten Ian. The missing Dementor meant nothing to Gilderoy Grindelwald, but he clearly enjoyed using it to keep Ian on edge.
“Merlin’s beard, Professor, I think you must be mistaken— I have no idea what you’re talking about. I’m simply delighted to assist a professor in need.” Ian decided to chalk this up as the price of acquiring the Dementor.
Under Gilderoy Grindelwald’s amused gaze, Ian muttered a quick Reducio, shrinking the crates before hoisting them up and hurrying toward the basement.
According to his homemade Marauder’s Map, there was a hidden passage leading straight to the Forbidden Forest. Unlike the original map, his version contained details about secret routes he’d personally discovered.
It wasn’t selfishness.
Ian just didn’t fancy the idea of some overexcited student sneaking out in the next seven years, meeting an unfortunate end, and then haunting him every day as a lingering, resentful ghost.
“He clearly doesn’t need help from anyone,” Ian muttered under his breath as he dumped the boxes at the entrance to the Forbidden Forest. Without wasting another second, he slipped back into the hidden passage within the tree.
He refused to believe Gilderoy Grindelwald actually needed him to carry the crates ahead of time.
No, the man had probably just wanted to ensure Ian was late. The schemes of a bad man were often more difficult to decipher than those of a bad woman. In any case, Ian ended up exactly where he’d expected to—
Late for Potions.
Fortunately, for once, the Potions classroom door hadn’t been shut. As Ian approached, he could hear Snape inside, his voice smooth and precise as he detailed the ingredients for today’s potion.
Bracing himself, Ian pushed open the door and strode in, flashing his most sincere expression.
“I deeply apologize for my tardiness, my most esteemed Professor Snape.” He launched into a flurry of polite apologies— excessively formal, but delivered with impeccable charm.
“Mr. Prince,” Snape drawled, his dark eyes locking onto Ian with a mixture of irritation and scrutiny. “Among this year’s first-years, you are the first to dare be late to my class.”
Though he looked somewhat bruised— no doubt from an earlier mishap— it didn’t stop him from directing a glare sharp enough to curdle milk.
“Tell me,” Snape continued, voice as silky and venomous as ever, “do you believe yourself so above my lessons that you needn’t attend them? Or have you, as you so often boast, once again saved Hogwarts without bothering to inform the rest of us?”
His signature sarcasm rang through the room.
Yet, curiously, it lacked its usual venom.
Even the Slytherins— who normally would have delighted in such a spectacle—seemed hesitant to laugh along.
“It’s entirely my fault! I’m deeply ashamed!”
Ian didn’t attempt to argue; instead, he bowed at a precise ninety-degree angle in front of the class. As expected, Snape, now having made his point, chose not to extend his rebuke any further.
“Return to your seat. Ravenclaw will lose five points because of you.” His voice was cold as ever, and with a flick of his wand, the classroom door swung shut behind Ian.
Ian quickly made his way over to Aurora.
“This is entirely your grandfather’s fault!”
He could only vent his frustration to Aurora— after all, if Snape decided to confront Grindelwald about his tardiness, who knew how that particular conversation would go? The idea of Grindelwald responding to Snape’s razor-sharp sarcasm was more terrifying than missing class.
“He told me he was off to capture a few Centaurs. Did he drag you along for that?” Aurora asked, evidently having had a word with her grandfather before class.
“Ugh~”
Ian groaned, realizing he had clearly underestimated Grindelwald’s audacity.
Before he could continue whispering with Aurora, Snape shot him a pointed glare, forcing him to shut his mouth and focus on the lesson.
Whether it was because of Ian’s lateness or the unsettling potion containing a soul from the previous class, Snape seemed particularly intent on scrutinizing him today. Before Ian had arrived, Snape had already covered a considerable amount of material—and now, he was using that very material to test him.
Fortunately, Ian wasn’t easily caught off guard.
However—
The old bat wasn’t finished with him yet.
“Mr. Prince!”
As soon as the lecture ended, Snape didn’t immediately allow the students to start brewing their potions. Instead, he turned to Ian with a cold, unreadable expression.
“What is Salamander blood used for?” His tone was casual, but the question itself was well beyond first-year level.
“To increase the spiciness of a potion.”
Ian blinked as he answered.
Aurora turned to look at him in surprise, and several other students did the same. Of course, a few seemed to perk up as if they’d just learned a valuable culinary tip.
“Prince, do you think this is funny?” Snape’s gaze swept across the room, silencing everyone instantly. “I asked about its use in potion-making.”
“It’s a vital ingredient for enhancing potions, increasing the potency of other effects… which, ultimately, isn’t much different from what I said.”
Ian’s reply left Snape momentarily silent.
“Next question.” Without missing a beat, Snape shifted to a new interrogation. “Tell me what potions can be brewed using Daisy roots, Shrivelfigs, caterpillars, a drop of leech juice, and rat spleen.”
This, too, was beyond their current syllabus— Snape was undoubtedly testing whether Ian had been thoroughly reviewing the extra notes he’d provided.
“Shrinking Solution, also known as the Youth Potion. It causes a person or creature to revert to a younger state. Just a few drops are enough to take effect— a frog, for example, would turn back into a tadpole.”
Ian answered without hesitation.
Snape gave a curt nod of approval.
“Correct. Next— if someone has been petrified, which potion would you use to restore them?”
His expression suggested he was determined to catch Ian off guard.
“The Mandrake Restorative Draught can counteract petrification.”
Ian exhaled, already sensing that Snape wasn’t about to let this go.
And sure enough—
“If I asked you to locate some Sneezewort, where would you look?”
This question wasn’t overly difficult, but it did expose one of Ian’s knowledge gaps.
He hadn’t studied that section of One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi in much depth. As far as he was concerned, it was far more practical to know where to purchase certain ingredients rather than where they grew in the wild.
“The Forbidden Forest?” Ian guessed uncertainly. Then, without missing a beat, he added, “Or your office, Professor. If it’s urgent, I’m fairly certain I could find some in there.”
It was such a straightforward and honest answer that students from both Ravenclaw and Slytherin couldn’t help but laugh aloud. But the moment they caught sight of Snape’s murderous glare, they hastily ducked their heads, stifling their amusement behind hurried quills.
“Why haven’t you written any of this down yet? Is your brain too small to hold it?”
Snape’s sharp rebuke sent a flurry of parchment shuffling through the room as students scrambled to jot down notes.
“Because of your insufferable cheek and incessant nonsense, Ravenclaw gains only three points,” Snape added with a sneer. “If you don’t adjust your attitude, Prince, your House will suffer for it.”
With that thinly veiled threat, he turned away, and the lesson resumed. When the time came for practical brewing, Ian’s potion turned out, as expected, to be the best in the class.
Even Aurora’s attempt paled in comparison.
Despite his earlier irritation, Snape awarded Ravenclaw five additional points for Ian’s results— though he made sure to correct a few minor imperfections, if only to remind Ian who was actually the Potions Master. He refrained, however, from mentioning the soul-infused potion from their last lesson.
“We’re going to watch your grandfather catch Centaurs!”
After class, Ian had briefly entertained the idea of dragging Aurora into the Forbidden Forest, but to his surprise, she wasn’t the least bit interested in Centaurs. Instead, she made her way toward the hospital wing— perhaps nursing an injury from last night’s questionable festivities.
Left alone, Ian wasn’t particularly keen on marching into the forest by himself to track down Grindelwald.
Instead, he opted for a more productive route— lunch first, then straight to the Room of Requirement.
“A Potions classroom, just for me!”
With a faint ripple of magic, an ancient, ornately carved door appeared in the stone wall. As it creaked open, Ian stepped into a chamber that felt utterly untouched by time.
Unlike Snape’s dungeon classroom, this space was vast, aged, and eerily quiet. Portraits of long-deceased Potions Masters lined the walls—some wearing stern expressions, others watching him with faint amusement, all of them silently observing. At the center of the room stood a massive stone workbench, though the shelves bore no prepared potions.
“Ah, just as I thought.”
Ian glanced at his map— Snape had left Hogwarts after class. Perfect. Now was the time to put his plan into motion.
Returning to the now-empty second-floor classroom, he gathered a pile of ingredients and materials before making his way back to the Room of Requirement. From his robes, he retrieved the fragment of enchanted fabric that contained the potion recipe.
“If I’m not mistaken, knowing Professor Morgan’s teaching methods, this prank of a recipe is hiding something far more advanced.”
Ian quickly realized that while the listed ingredients weren’t particularly difficult to handle, their preparation was absurdly time-consuming. He tapped his fingers against the workbench, considering. Then, with a smirk, he turned back to the Room of Requirement.
“Show me what else you’re hiding.”
A ripple of magic surged through the space, revealing something previously concealed—
A massive iron cage.
Inside, a hunched figure stirred. A Dementor, its form shrouded in ragged black, curled in on itself. It remained motionless at first, but the moment its prison unlocked, it shifted. The creature felt the change. It sensed freedom.
And more importantly—
It sensed him.
Dementors were blind, but they knew when a living soul stood before them. Hunger took hold. It drifted forward, drawn to Ian’s presence, its instinct urging it to feed.
Joy. Emotion. Life.
The very essence of a human soul—
And young wizards had the richest emotions of all.
The Dementor lunged.
However.
“You’re going to help me grind these ingredients. Just press this down and roll it back and forth.”
Ian barely flinched as he dragged the hooded wraith toward the stone workstation.
“And don’t mess it up,” he added, his voice as casual as if he were instructing a house-elf. “Or I’ll have you stuffed into Ravenclaw’s dung pit.”
His tone was lighthearted— yet perfectly, unmistakably serious.
Dementors weren’t known for understanding speech.
Threats meant nothing to them.
At least—
Until today.
The moment Ian finished speaking, the previously ravenous Dementor froze in midair.
And then, without a single wail of protest, it moved.
Gliding toward the workstation, the creature lowered itself over the table and, with eerie obedience, began grinding the potion ingredients.
“Ka-chaka-chaka-cha~”
The steady, rhythmic motion filled the silent chamber.
It didn’t understand why it was obeying. It didn’t know what force had compelled it.
All it knew was that the young wizard’s voice echoed within its very being.
A binding.
A command.
Irresistible.
Undeniable.
It was as though the words themselves carried an authority too great to defy—
Like the decree of a king.
(End of chapter.)
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