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"You sneak about at night too?"
Aurora's eyes widened in surprise.
"Huh? Are you questioning my character?" Ian huffed, suddenly feeling as if he might be even more devious than Aurora. With a smirk, he pulled out a parchment he had prepared in advance and handed it to her.
"What's this?"
Aurora peered at the map, her name appearing alongside Ian's. Other dots were scattered about, though only those in the immediate vicinity bore names. Further away, mere dots flickered, but the professors were distinct— each name accompanied by a small moving illustration.
Snape, predictably, was depicted as a bat. Professor McGonagall, a tabby cat. And Dumbledore... a bee in a nightcap.
The artwork was... abstract.
But not unrecognizable.
"I did my best," Ian muttered, noticing the odd look Aurora was giving him.
She raised an eyebrow.
"Maybe I should update the icons later." He sighed, knowing his artistic prowess left much to be desired. He had, after all, just unlocked a Level 0 [Drawing] skill— he needed time to hone it properly.
Breaking free from the artistic clutches of a troll and surpassing even the medieval tapestry weavers wasn't impossible. Just improbable.
"Is this a gift in return?"
Aurora blinked, as though she'd been waiting for something.
"Not at all. It's a promotional item." Ian's grin turned sly. "You can keep it, but your job is to spread the word in Slytherin— say it's a relic left behind by You-Know-Who, from his student days."
Aurora's eyes widened.
"Really? How did Voldemort's belongings end up with you?"
She had taken the bait— hook, line, and sinker. Perhaps because she trusted Ian too much.
"..."
Ian stared at her for a long moment.
"You're too gullible," he finally said, shaking his head. "Of course, it's a lie. A well-crafted story makes for a better sale, don't you think? You should know by now that I don't have the best reputation in Slytherin."
Aurora folded her arms, listening intently.
"But Voldemort? Even if we don't like him, plenty of Slytherins are still obsessed with his legacy. If they believe this was once his, they'll pay a fortune for it." Ian smirked. "The more expensive, the better. I'll give you two— no, ten percent commission. Any more, and you'll struggle to handle that much gold at your age."
Aurora scoffed, amused.
"I've got Cho Chang handling sales in other houses. She gets a flat rate of two Sickles per map. These take time and effort to make, you know, and the materials aren't cheap. They should go for at least five Galleons each."
Yes.
Aurora wasn't Ian's first "business partner."
Cho Chang had been roped in before her. The house Prefect would have been the obvious choice, but that was too risky. A clever, rule-abiding senior might see right through the scheme. No, better to stick with peers who have a taste for bending the rules.
Aurora leaned forward, a mischievous gleam in her eyes.
"So that's your grand plan? Time-consuming, labor-intensive, and— what was it? Precious materials?" She grinned. "Ian, you've been a scoundrel since you were small, haven't you?"
"Nonsense!"
Ian scoffed. "I'm still small."
Aurora chuckled but suddenly hesitated, as though remembering something important.
"Dumbledore spoke to me yesterday."
She lowered her voice, her expression turning thoughtful. "He wants me to be his Apprentice. And if necessary—" she paused, watching Ian's reaction, "—to eliminate you if you ever go down the wrong path."
A textbook-level misinterpretation of Dumbledore's words.
"...What?"
Ian froze.
"What in Merlin's name?"
His brain screeched to a halt. Hadn't he just had a perfectly pleasant conversation with Dumbledore last night? Wasn't he supposed to be the headmaster's favorite student?
"Dumbledore's worried that your talents might attract a following— like my grandfather did," Aurora continued, tilting her head. "He wants me to act as a balancing force. A 'white wizard,' as he put it, to keep you in check."
Ian's eye twitched.
"Blasted old codger is playing both sides!"
It suddenly all made sense.
And yet, Ian still felt vaguely betrayed.
"If he's that worried, why not just lock me in the Hogwarts kitchens and throw away the key? Why go through all this?" Ian grumbled, arms crossed.
Aurora's expression turned serious.
"So... you don't want to be eliminated?"
Ian gave her an incredulous look.
"I shouldn't have stopped Dumbledore from hanging himself!" he declared dramatically.
Aurora blinked.
A beat of silence passed.
"Dumbledore wants to hang himself?" she asked, confused.
She had a feeling she was missing something important.
Before she can ask any more questions, a visibly flustered Snape storms into the classroom. As usual, he flicks his wand to slam the door shut behind him, leaving several students stranded outside.
All of them are Slytherins.
Who would've thought Snape had a selfless streak?
"Today, we will be brewing the Invigoration Draught."
Snape looks worse for wear, as though he spent the entire night brewing potions. His teaching style remains as incomprehensible as ever to those less gifted in the subject.
As he strides past Ian, explaining the potion's finer details, he suddenly reaches out and yanks a fistful of hair from Ian's head.
"Oi! Enough already!"
Ian swallows his retort. Confronting Snape in class is a surefire way to lose House points, and he has no intention of making Ravenclaw suffer for his troubles. He glares instead, his hand subtly brushing against his robe, where something hidden shifts slightly.
Just a precaution.
If Snape was going to play dirty, Ian wasn't above a little retaliation.
"Now, gather your ingredients. This is a simple potion, so I expect no catastrophes. If anyone repeats the last class's disaster, I will personally ensure they regret it."
As he speaks, Snape turns his glare toward the Slytherin table, eyes narrowing at Sinjid and Giggs— the duo responsible for last week's cauldron explosion. Their continued partnership clearly unsettles him.
Everyone rushes to gather their ingredients. Ian had planned to let Aurora handle the potion-making while he merely stirred, hoping to gain some brewing practice without too much effort.
Unfortunately, Snape's eyes are practically glued to him.
With a sigh, Ian resigns himself to setting up his cauldron.
"Dittany leaves need to be finely chopped."
"Mr. Parker, are you certain that's Horklump juice? Or are you trying to have a chat with your dearly departed great-grandmother?"
"You're brewing a potion, not brewing snot! Toss that disgusting mess out and start again— my Dittany leaves have been contaminated by your wretched sneezing!"
…
For this particular restorative potion, Horklump juice and Dittany leaves are the key ingredients. The brewing process is relatively straightforward, yet the Slytherin table is quickly descending into chaos.
"Fools! You disgrace my house!"
Snape's frustration grows as he glances between the Slytherin and Ravenclaw tables. The difference is stark— while Slytherin students flounder, the Ravenclaws, particularly those who had private tutoring, work with methodical precision.
His eyes narrow.
"Who taught you to extract essence like that?"
Something feels off.
Snape's suspicion deepens as he watches a Ravenclaw student handle the ingredients with a level of skill uncommon for fourth-years.
He seizes the student by the shoulder.
"Ah?"
The startled student glances nervously at Ian, who shakes his head frantically. But under Snape's intense scrutiny, the student caves and blurts out the explanation Ian often gives during their study sessions.
"It's the Half-Blood Prince, Professor."
The words tumble out before the student can stop them. He isn't entirely sure where the title comes from— only that after every one of Ian's lessons, they're expected to express gratitude to their ancestors, Hogwarts, and the so-called 'Half-Blood Prince.'
"IAN PRINCE!"
The roar reverberates through the classroom.
Snape stiffens, his face darkening as his gaze snaps to Ian with more fury than ever before.
He had heard rumors of Ian running secret tutoring sessions for a tidy profit. But to teach potioneering under that name— his name— was outright blasphemy!
You insolent brat.
Do you not have a name of your own?!
"Professor! My potion's finished!"
Ian, completely unbothered, hands over a freshly bottled sample of his brew.
Meanwhile, his robes feel noticeably lighter.
Snape eyes the bottle with open suspicion.
"Hmph. No visible mistakes, but your technique is mechanical. There's no heart in this work— just empty precision."
Despite himself, he notes the potion is far superior to last class's disaster. His expression softens ever so slightly, though he refuses to let Ian off without criticism.
"If you ever grasp that potion-making is an art that demands heart and instinct, you may finally rise above those bumbling imbeciles you call classmates."
His tone is slow, deliberate, laced with his usual withering sarcasm. He swirls the potion in its vial, then uncorks it to inspect the scent.
And then—
"Surprise!"
A translucent figure bursts from the bottle.
Peeves the Poltergeist slams his face right up against Snape's.
(End of chapter)