As Dumbledore took in the sight of it, his pupils contracted several times.
"There are no coincidences in this world, Albus. Someone used the Imperius Curse to halt Ronnie Ehrlich's plans before they could take shape. And they even managed to interfere with my ability to complete a prophecy."
Grindelwald's expression did not betray fear or disquiet; if anything, there was a glint of intrigue, even excitement.
Hearing this, Dumbledore's expression grew more grave. Since his youth, he had been entangled with prophecies, and over the years, he had come to grasp their nuances intimately.
"Someone foresaw the future you sought to shape— and moved to thwart it?" Dumbledore's knowledge of prophecies made him keenly aware of how dangerous this was.
"Someone disrupted my vision and redirected fate toward their own design. This was not merely a murder, Albus. This was a battle between two seers."
"And I was the one who lost. But at least now, I understand why."
Grindelwald leaned back in his chair, his voice smooth, self-assured—deep and magnetic. Even in defeat, he remained composed, and refined.
"If a prophecy comes to pass, it is never a coincidence. If it does not— then that itself is the answer to the riddle."
His words sent a ripple of unease through Dumbledore.
"Whose coincidence are you speaking of?"
Dumbledore suddenly looked up, his gaze sharp, piercing.
"That, I cannot see. As you have already deduced, this adversary is formidable. Whoever they are... you may find that you need my help."
Grindelwald did not answer Dumbledore's question outright— perhaps he did not know the answer himself. Instead, he spoke softly, extending his shackled hands across the table.
"Albus, this time, it is still for the future you long to see."
In the cold stone walls and the dimly lit chamber.
Once more, Gellert Grindelwald extended an invitation to his oldest friend.
...
The next morning.
The chaos of the previous night seemed to have left no mark upon the dawn of a new day.
After all, even in the darkest days of Voldemort's reign, Hogwarts had carried on, its lessons proceeding as if nothing had happened. How could a single Ashwinder's misstep disrupt the rhythm of the school?
As breakfast concluded, the young witches and wizards gathered on the school's vast lawn. Ravenclaw's students would be sharing their lesson with the Slytherins— who were generally regarded with suspicion by the other three Houses.
Of course, compared to Gryffindors, Slytherins were slightly more amicable toward Ravenclaws— but only slightly. This often depended on the number of Muggle-borns in Ravenclaw that year.
This being their first Flying lesson, excitement rippled through the students as they clustered together, whispering in anticipation. Some Slytherin students boasted loudly that their families had pre-ordered the yet-to-be-released Nimbus 2000, courtesy of certain connections in the Broom Regulatory Control Office.
"They say it flies faster than a Snidget!"
The Slytherins' boasts rang across the lawn.
A few Ravenclaws shot them envious looks. Ian, deep in thought, considered that alongside tutoring the House's bronze eagle on advanced arithmancy, he ought to introduce some fundamental magical physics as well. A well-rounded wizard should be versed in both the arcane and the logical!
"I'm not jealous," William, Ian's roommate, declared. "My family's broom can turn invisible— both itself and the rider. Ian, if you're interested, I'll bring it next year and let you see and touch it."
Coming from an old wizarding family, William possessed no shortage of rare and peculiar artifacts. Who knew what else he had tucked away?
"You are not giving it to me outright?" Ian wasn't truly interested in the invisible broom. His mind merely wandered back to a similar conversation with Lady Ravenclaw in the Twilight Realm. Perhaps if he had asked not just to see but to keep something, she might have entrusted him with her diadem.
"It's not that I wouldn't, Ian. You must believe me! If I gave you my family's broom, how would I use it to carry out all the menial tasks you and young Grindelwald keep throwing at me?"
It was a remarkably reasonable answer.
Watching William's earnest, almost righteous expression, Ian realized that flattery was not his strong suit. Some people, it seemed, were simply born to curry favor.
"I always said he's destined for the Ministry of Magic," Michael remarked beside them.
"Minister for Magic, more like!"
Ian cast a glance across the field but failed to spot Aurora among the Slytherins. Instead, his eyes caught sight of a bat-like figure striding purposefully toward them.
The Slytherins greeted their Head of House, but Severus Snape barely acknowledged them with a curt nod, striding straight past until he reached Ian and, without preamble, seized him by the collar.
"Professor Snape! Put me down! I can walk on my own!" Ian protested as he was dragged toward the castle, acutely aware of the loss of dignity he was suffering before his classmates.
"What exactly did you give Dumbledore?" Snape demanded once they reached a secluded corridor. His voice, usually smooth and measured, held an uncharacteristic edge of unease.
Ian blinked. "What's wrong?"
"He instructed me to deliver this to you," Snape said, tone filled with obvious reluctance. "He hasn't returned today, yet he sent Fawkes to keep an eye on me all night."
His already thinning hair appeared even more disheveled than usual— an easy conclusion to draw as to why.
With a resigned sigh, Snape pulled a piece of parchment from his robes and practically flung it at Ian's chest. The parchment had a faint, smoky scent.
"If I catch you studying the Unforgivable Curses in the library," Snape warned, his voice low, "Even Dumbledore won't be able to save you. You'll drink the vilest potion I can concoct, and I assure you— you will remember its taste for the rest of your life."
"Ah?"
Ian glanced down at the parchment. Upon reading it, he immediately understood Snape's concern.
It was an unrestricted permission slip for the Restricted Section of the library.
No conditions. No limitations.
"I knew Dumbledore was a visionary! A true master of wisdom! Indeed, only the truly great understand that magic itself is neither good nor evil— only the hands that wield it!" Ian practically beamed.
"??????"
Snape was left reeling, filled with questions he didn't even know how to articulate.
'Did he have to accept that he was the narrow-minded one?'
"Remember my warning," Snape muttered darkly. There was something about Ian and Dumbledore's exchanges that made Snape feel distinctly like an outsider— even as one who shared blood ties with the Headmaster.
Blood ties?
At that moment, something in Snape's mind clicked.
"Oi! What are you doing?!"
Before Ian could react, Snape abruptly turned back and yanked several strands of hair from Ian's head.
Clutching his prize, Snape spun on his heel and strode away, making a beeline for the castle. The urgency in his movements was unmistakable.
Ian's eyes widened as realization dawned.
"That greasy bat! He's trying to make Polyjuice Potion! He's going to impersonate me and sneak into the girls' bathroom to do something unspeakable!"
Ian started to give chase.
But Madam Hooch's sharp whistle blew across the field, signaling the start of their Flying lesson.
William and Michael, already waiting near their brooms, called out to him.
With one last glare at Snape's retreating figure, Ian let out a frustrated sigh and turned back toward the lesson.
(End of this chapter)
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