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The eerie blue flames of Fiendfyre bathed the corridor in an otherworldly glow, their flickering tendrils casting restless shadows against the stone walls. For a moment, time itself seemed to hold its breath.
Aside from the sinister crackle of the cursed fire and the measured breathing of the young wizard standing amidst the devastation, all was silent.
Snape's wand hand trembled, though whether from exertion or something deeper, even he wasn't certain.
As he had rushed here, his mind had conjured all manner of grim possibilities, bracing himself for the worst— and he even thought that he might be retrieving Ian's lifeless body.
And yet, though bodies indeed littered the scene, they were reduced to nothing more than drifting embers in the air. The young wizard, who should have paid dearly for his recklessness, stood untouched— his robes unmarked, his expression disturbingly composed.
"Who taught you Fiendfyre?" Snape demanded at last, his voice low and tight. His wand lowered an inch, but his suspicion remained razor-sharp. The power radiating from Ian did not belong to a mere student.
It was a power that, disturbingly, eclipsed even the Dark Lord's, once upon a time.
"Headmaster Dumbledore once praised my skill with Fiendfyre." Ian did not betray his friend, instead offering a vague yet plausible justification for his 'permissible' use of such a perilous magic.
"Do you expect a commendation from him?" Snape sneered, his gaze flickering to the single object that had survived the inferno unscathed: a blood-red ruby lying upon the scorched flagstones.
Such control over Fiendfyre sent a chill down his spine.
"I wouldn't be against getting a Special Services Award." Ian smirked while throwing a glance at Barnabas's portrait. "The fellow you had me keeping an eye on nearly burned down the entire school. If I hadn't intervened, he might have managed it."
The Barnabas, still slightly singed and recovering from the earlier assault, gave Ian a thumbs-up. "I can vouch for him."
He coughed, then muttered, "When Dumbledore finally kicks the cauldron, you ought to take over as headmaster, dear boy. I've never had much faith in this House-divided nonsense. You might just bring back the old ways— like the wandering scholars of yore."
Typical of a portrait with over a thousand years of history, his perspective was unorthodox at best. Then again, nostalgia had always been a hallmark of the enchanted paintings of Hogwarts.
"Silence, you fool who was bested by a troll," Snape snapped, his glare sharp enough to cut glass as he stepped forward and plucked the ruby from the floor.
Ian instinctively released the Fiendfyre encircling the gemstone, its blazing barrier the only thing keeping the advancing Ashwinders at bay. Freed from its dark enchantment, the ruby shattered against the stone as Snape crushed it in his fist.
A thin wisp of red mist curled into the air before dissipating.
Immediately, the Ashwinders— once rabid in their assault— scattered, their instincts restored as they slithered away in search of nesting grounds.
"What magic was woven into this?" Snape murmured, his keen mind already dissecting the artifact's nature.
Ian dismissed the last vestiges of Fiendfyre. "Was he after that cursed trinket?"
Snape's gaze drifted to the blank stretch of wall where the door to the Room of Requirement had vanished. His expression darkened. "No. He was looking for something else. When he didn't find it, he decided to burn the castle down."
Ian deliberately withheld any mention of the lost Diadem.
There was little choice in the matter. The artifact had already been returned to its rightful owner, and there was no simple way to explain its sudden disappearance. He certainly couldn't claim he'd sold it off in Knockturn Alley, could he?
Damn it.
'This was all Voldemort's fault.'
'Why did he always have to interfere with people's studies?'
"Perhaps whatever he sought is still nearby?" Ian ventured, casting a fleeting glance at Barnabas's portrait. The Barnabas, bound by the enchantments placed upon him, remained silent— he could not openly speak of the Diadem.
"What was he searching for?" Snape pressed.
Ian shook his head. "He never said. Just kept muttering that Dumbledore wouldn't let him go… that the Dark Lord would kill him. It seemed like he was answering to someone."
He spoke a half-truth. A strategic omission.
"The Carrow family have long been followers of that name." Snape's eyes darkened, as though recalling something unpleasant. "Perhaps he hoped to reclaim some artifact to restore his family's power."
His voice was carefully measured. Was he explaining for Ian's sake? Or trying to steer him away from deeper questions?
"Remember, that man is dead," Snape said sharply. "He perished the night he fell at the hands of the Potters. That is the truth recognized by the wizarding world. Anything else you've heard—" his lip curled slightly, "—are the delusions of a desperate fool. Ah, Foleyson Carrow."
"He was influenced by a cursed relic." Snape's voice was firm, though a flicker of something— perhaps pain —crossed his features.
Ian arched a brow. "And if the professors ask where this artifact is now?"
Of course, Ian knew the truth— Voldemort was not dead, merely lurking in the shadows. He also knew that Snape had lost his 'white moonlight' on that very night.
He chose not to expose the lie. Some wounds were best left unopened.
"That is not your concern." Snape's reply was swift and absolute. "The professors won't ask questions they don't know to ask."
He turned, his robes billowing as he leveled his wand at the Barnabas's portrait.
"I'll ensure this wretched painting remains silent."
The Barnabas gasped in indignation. "Now see here—"
But Snape was already muttering an incantation, sealing the portrait's lips despite his furious protests.
The Barnabas lay sprawled on the floor, looking utterly defeated.
After so many years, she hadn't expected to be cursed again. She was just a portrait! What had she done to deserve this? It wasn't as if she had chosen to be stationed at the entrance of this troublesome place.
"So, it's all settled now?" Ian exhaled, relieved, while also committing Snape's spell to memory for later study.
"Why weren't you this naive when you were using Fiendfyre to kill someone?" Snape sneered, his gaze dark and piercing.
"I told you to keep an eye on him, not to kill him! No— you shouldn't have followed him at all!" A rare flicker of something close to fear lingered in Snape's voice.
Ian sighed. "You said you were pretending to be injured on Dumbledore's orders, and the other professors were preoccupied. He was clearly sneaking off to do something suspicious."
"I did as you instructed— I kept watch. But when he tried to burn down the entire school, I couldn't just stand by."
Ian gestured toward the enchanted suit of armor, which stood eerily still. "Can you believe it? The moment he saw me, he hurled two Unforgivable Curses! Not a word exchanged— just straight to dark magic. A seventh-year acting like that? What would he do after leaving Hogwarts?"
His voice was filled with incredulity and exasperation.
Snape pinched the bridge of his nose.
"Carrow is nothing like you. Tsk. Fiendfyre— learning such magic in your first year. What are you trying to do? Make the wizarding world bow before you?"
Snape's gaze bore into Ian, sharp as a curse.
"This is the romance of the Middle Ages. I remember two friends of mine dueling for sport… both ended up dead."
Barnabas's voice chimed in from his portrait. Before he could continue, Snape flicked his wand, sealing the frame with a thick layer of silence.
That poor ballet instructor.
"I was using Fiendfyre to protect everyone! Magic isn't evil— only wizards are! Surely you understand that, Professor." Ian's eyes widened with conviction.
"You killed someone! And you used dark magic to do it!" Snape's voice rose, frustration bubbling over.
"Do you think Dumbledore is some indulgent headmaster who'll hand you a Special Services Award? No matter how justified you think you were, Dumbledore will not tolerate this!"
His expression was a rare mix of anger and… concern.
(To Be Continued…)