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The corridor twisted and turned.
Apart from the occasional Ashwinder slithering out, there were no other witches or wizards in sight. Foleyson Carrow seemed to possess something that kept the creatures at bay.
He moved swiftly toward the staircase.
"He's heading to the Seventh Floor."
Ian hid in the shadows, watching as Foleyson climbed. Judging by the route, he had a good idea of his target.
After a moment's thought, Ian took a different staircase. As he moved, the Ashwinders continued their attacks, and since no one was around to watch, Ian took the opportunity to practice other spells.
"Sectumsempra!"
This was a spell of endless potential. Ian believed it was, even more, worth mastering than Avada Kedavra. If he could learn to sever the very essence of a living soul, his 'good uncle' would surely go down in history.
"Damn it! Not here! It's not here!"
On the Seventh Floor.
Just as Ian reached the corner, Foleyson Carrow stormed out of the Room of Requirement.
"Who was it?! Who stole his things?! I need to find it! If I don't, he'll kill me… he might even make my father do it himself!"
Foleyson stood outside the door, looking frantic and distressed, pacing in agitation. His wand trembled violently in his grip as he muttered to himself in fear.
"Tell me! Who's been in here?! Who took that damned object?!" As his fear escalated, he clung to the possibility of an answer.
He pressed his wand against the portrait of the Barnabas, desperate for information— a clear sign of panic.
"You must have seen it! You're always here! Tell me, or I'll burn you with Fiendfyre!" It was unclear whether he was merely threatening or if he truly possessed such a dangerous skill.
"I'm just a painting," the Barnabas responded dismissively, still occupied by the troll that had been pestering him.
"Go on, burn me if you must; I've had enough of this cursed troll. My real soul is long gone to the beyond, where I've learned the most marvelous dances."
He remained as stubborn as ever.
"Do you think I wouldn't dare?! If I die, no one should live! Everyone must perish with me!" Foleyson Carrow's hysteria escalated.
"Yes! I will die! I released the Ashwinders— Dumbledore will never let me live! My future, which should have been glorious, is ruined!"
"If I die, those beneath me, those with lesser blood, will mock me! I will never allow that!"
His screams of rage and despair echoed through the corridor.
He was losing control.
"Either tell me where the damned Diadem is, or you and all of Hogwarts will perish with me! Do you think the Fiendfyre curse is beyond the skill of a Carrow? Noble blood ensures power!"
"I will burn everything!"
Foleyson Carrow's wand pulsed with ominous energy, the telltale glow of an incantation forming.
"You're after Ravenclaw's Diadem?"
A calm, almost amused voice cut through the tension.
Panicked, Foleyson spun around to see a first year wizard standing just beyond his reach. Though he barely came up to Carrow's chest, the boy held the ancient Diadem in his hands, its sapphire glinting under the dim torchlight.
"Prince… Snape's little pet. You actually followed me?" Foleyson growled, his anxiety intensifying.
The boy's presence alone was proof enough— Hogwarts' headmaster must have caught wind of his movements.
"Give it to me!" Foleyson snarled, stepping forward. His only chance at survival lay in retrieving what he was sent for. Escape was still possible— being hunted by the Ministry was preferable to death.
"What if I say no?" The young wizard tilted his head, fingers playing idly with the delicate artifact.
"Avada Kedavra!"
A flash of sickly green erupted from Carrow's wand. There was no hesitation, no mercy— only the ruthless instinct to eliminate an obstacle.
"How impatient."
The boy barely flicked his own wand. The Killing Curse ricocheted off an unseen ward, striking the stone wall instead. A web of green fractures spread across its surface, leaving behind thin, jagged scars as dust crumbled away.
"Impossible! That's not—! You— how could you block the Killing Curse?!" Foleyson staggered back, disbelief written across his pale face.
"Weak magic, feeble intent… The Dark Lord entrusted a fool like you with his will?" The boy took a slow step forward.
A creeping dread coiled around Foleyson. The sheer absurdity of the situation clawed at his mind. A mere first-year had just brushed aside the Killing Curse—without so much as blinking.
And now… he was being mocked.
"You… you know the Dark Lord! You dared to steal from him!" Foleyson's horror deepened as he stared into the boy's youthful face, his own breath hitching with raw terror.
"Why not? I am just testing my own brilliance." The boy's voice was light, almost playful as he spoke, but his words sent a shudder through Carrow's spine.
"Madman! You're a madman— a monster!"
"Crucio!"
The red light of the Cruciatus Curse streaked forward. A spell meant to drive even the strongest wizards to the brink of madness. And yet—
The boy didn't even flinch.
He didn't lift his wand.
He simply stood there, bathed in crimson light looking utterly unaffected. His expression was unchanged. No cry of pain, no tensing of muscles.
Nothing.
"Impossible! No! This is an illusion! It must be an illusion!" Foleyson screamed, his mind rejecting what his eyes refused to deny. He stumbled backward, wand trembling in his grip.
"Impossible? You can't even recognize a genuine Diadem. So tell me, what exactly do you think is possible?" The boy cast a brief glance at the Barnabas's portrait, still struggling with the troll's relentless assault.
Even he wasn't this dense.
"Kill him! Kill this monster!" Foleyson fumbled into his robes, pulling free a large ruby. He shouted at the swirling red mist trapped within, his voice thick with desperation.
The gem pulsed.
From the shadows, Ashwinders slithered forth— dozens of them, their burning bodies leaving trails of embers in their wake. They coiled up the boy's legs, their molten scales pressing into his robes before detonating in bursts of searing heat.
The young wizard staggered, his body wreathed in fire, his face momentarily obscured by smoke.
"Die! Die! Die!"
Carrow barely noticed the Diadem slip from the boy's grasp as he lunged to snatch it. He clutched the ancient artifact to his chest, panting heavily, his mind already fixated on his next course of action.
"I'll burn this school to the ground! Then leave! I won't let those lesser wretches mock me for becoming a fugitive!"
He raised his wand, lips already curling around an incantation—
"You enjoy playing with Fiendfyre, don't you?"
The voice came from another direction entirely. Before Foleyson could process the shift—
"Then… as you wish."
A ghostly blue inferno erupted from the ground. Waves of unnatural fire surged through the corridor, swallowing the summoned Ashwinders whole. Born of flames, they shrieked as they were consumed by something even more fearsome than themselves—
Fiendfyre.
"You—"
Foleyson's blood ran cold. He turned, wide-eyed, to see Ian stepping out from the smoke, untouched by the flames.
He whirled back toward the figure he had supposedly defeated—
A suit of armor lay in a crumpled heap.
Illusion.
Trickery.
"Snape said your fate was Azkaban…" Ian's voice was quiet, almost indifferent.
Foleyson barely heard him. His wand still flickered with the green of another Killing Curse, his instincts screaming at him to fight, to run—
And then the flames took him.
Fiendfyre twisted and coiled around his form, its enchanted tendrils hungrily devouring his robes, his flesh, his very essence.
Ian turned away, his gaze falling instead on the Barnabas's portrait.
"I did not see anything." The Barnabas, shaken but eerily calm, merely nodded as he spoke. His demeanor had shifted entirely. The defiance he had shown Carrow was nowhere to be found.
"Thank you, but this can't be hidden for long." Ian's attention drifted to the far end of the corridor, where hurried footsteps echoed closer.
"Damn brat—!"
A billow of black robes, and then Snape was there, wand drawn, his face a mask of barely contained fury. But the words died in his throat as he took in the sight before him.
Flames— living, breathing, deadly— coiled in the air, illuminating Ian's silhouette.
Ashes fluttered like snowfall.
Ashwinders twisted into nothingness, vanishing with the last wisps of their cursed existence.
And Ian stood among it all, utterly still.
Snape, normally so unshakable, trembled where he stood. His voice, when he finally spoke, was hoarse.
"What have you done?"
A long silence followed. Then, with a quiet certainty, Ian answered.
"As you can see… I am protecting our school."
The Fiendfyre illuminated his face and ashes fell like snowflakes.
(End Of This Chapter)