You can read ahead up to 100 chapters on my Patreon: https://www.patreon.com/darkshadow6395
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.
(To Be Continued…)