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Ian clutched his troublesome enchanted parchment, his eyes tracking Snape's movements. He watched as the Potions Master returned to his office, prowling about but never leaving Hogwarts' grounds.
"That was clearly my idea! Mine! Don't you agree?" Once Snape had departed, Ian pulled out his miniature Dementor once more, using it as a silent confidant, after all, it couldn't argue back. The creature merely hovered indifferently, emitting faint, unsettling sucking noises like a ghoul's whisper.
It sounded like the gurgling of a drowning man, or at least that's how it seemed to Ian, though he wasn't sure if it was actually trying to siphon off stray emotions or the souls of unsuspecting young wizards.
"That greasy git, Snape! He's probably plotting to steal my formula, claim the credit, and register it with the Wizarding Patent Office himself. I never should've mentioned that it would outsell the Potter family's hair tonic!" Ian fumed, feeling deeply wronged.
He was convinced Snape was envious of the prodigious talent he had inherited from Professor Morgan.
The Infinite Firepower Potion, undoubtedly ahead of its time and with a new and better name, was an alchemical marvel that could make a fortune for anyone who controlled it. But, of course, that meant its creator had to be clever enough to safeguard the formula.
In Ian's mind, Snape's earlier threats likely stemmed from fear, fear of the pure-blood families who monopolized the wizarding market. These old houses, which had hoarded their influence for centuries, had no doubt engaged in more than their fair share of dubious dealings behind closed doors.
Although their pampered offspring often seemed dim-witted at Hogwarts, when it came to ruthless ambition, they could be more cutthroat than Tom Riddle himself, even in his noseless form. Remembering Snape's slight flicker of unease earlier, Ian reckoned those families might be even more treacherous than he had imagined.
"Even a Potions Master like Snape dreads them. That just proves it, no matter how skilled one is in potioneering or alchemy, it's no match for the kind of power that can send a Killing Curse as a warning." Ian had no intention of letting go of the wealth that his potion would bring.
But it wasn't just about the Galleons; it was about cementing his name in history, immortalized on a Chocolate Frog Famous Wizards and Witches Card.
As an ambitious young wizard, Ian's ultimate dream was to see his own face on those collectible cards, ensuring he could spend his days lounging at home while collecting royalties until his fingers ached from counting them.
Between licensing deals, merchandise spin-offs, and the occasional autobiography… well, wealth certainly had a way of elevating a wizard. But keeping it? That required real power. Gilderoy Lockhart, wherever he had vanished to, had, in a twisted way, served as an instructive cautionary tale.
Lockhart had shown Ian that fame and fortune alone turned a wizard into an easy mark, ripe for replacement by some obscure, ancient figure stepping out of the shadows.
Glancing at the extravagant furnishings in Grindelwald's office, the rare enchanted black tea, the imported, tailor-made wizarding confections, Ian highly doubted the old dark wizard was funding such luxuries out of his own pocket.
Having once been drafted into one of Grindelwald's schemes himself, Ian had since made it a point to keep a wary eye on him.
He wasn't sure what peculiar magic the old man had used, but on the Marauder's Map, his name always appeared as 'Gilderoy Lockhart' rather than 'Gellert Grindelwald.'
Ian suspected that during a past book-signing in the library, Grindelwald, disguised as Lockhart, had tampered with his map using some sophisticated enchantment that eluded even Ian's best detection spells.
It was the only reasonable explanation. Surely, Grindelwald hadn't meddled with the actual 'server' of the Book of Admittance and the Quill of Acceptance… had he?
"In Grindelwald's office, he really has captured a herd of Centaurs…" Ian muttered, observing the Marauder's Map. Seven or eight small dots clustered inside the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom.
How he had managed to cram that many Centaurs into such a small space was beyond Ian's understanding. His gaze flickered back to Snape, ensuring that the Potions Master hadn't slipped away to register the Infinite Firepower Potion as his own. No, Snape was still rooted in the same spot, unmoving.
Judging by the location, he was likely slumped asleep in his chair.
"Perhaps I've misjudged the Half-Blood Prince," Ian murmured, scratching his chin. "I see it now, he wasn't trying to steal my work. He just wanted to push me to work harder, to study magic with more diligence."
With a thoughtful nod, he gave the miniature Dementor a light pat on the head, as though it had somehow contributed to his newfound revelation.
As a professor and Head of House at Hogwarts, Snape had little regard for the notion that the library's contents were communal property. In fact, he even encouraged Ian to locate the original formula and destroy it. How could this not be a calculated move to ensure a future monopoly over the industry?
The Infinite Firepower Potion had clear benefits for Aurors and battle-ready wizards, with a multitude of practical applications. Ian found it hard to believe that Snape would genuinely dismiss such a lucrative and influential creation.
It was evident that Snape's concerns weren't about the potion itself but about Ian's lack of power, he simply didn't think Ian, even with his help, would be able to withstand the pure-blood families who would inevitably attempt to seize it. Ian kept replaying Snape's warning in his mind, turning it over like a puzzle.
The more he thought about it, the more it rang true.
"Gold tempts even the strongest. Snape's words carried hidden meanings. He said he didn't want to die, and I didn't want to die, but what he really meant was that neither of us was strong enough to protect this formula." Realization flickered in Ian's eyes.
Without hesitation, he concealed the ever-twitching miniature Dementor and strode swiftly towards the Room of Requirement.
It was already late at night so the Seventh Floor corridor was deserted.
There was no sign of movement or light from the direction of the Headmaster's office. Ian hadn't seen Albus Dumbledore's name appear on his Marauder's Map in two days. That, perhaps, was one of the perks of being Headmaster, you could disappear whenever you pleased, and no one would dare question where you had gone.
In his efforts to deliver Ariana's letter, Ian had asked passing professors and ghosts about Dumbledore's whereabouts more than once. Perhaps Grindelwald knew, but Ian had no desire to be alone with him.
The man's lessons in magic were undeniably valuable, but who could predict when he might decide to enlist Ian's help for another scheme?
Moving boxes was one thing. But what if Grindelwald made him shovel Thestral dung?
"I need a room to practice Dark magic. I need a room to practice Dark magic. I need a room to practice Dark magic…" Ian whispered his intent as he paced the Seventh Floor corridor.
Snape's warnings were not without merit, but Ian was convinced that if he trained hard enough and proved himself capable of safeguarding the wealth and influence that the Infinite Firepower Potion would bring, Snape would no longer stand in his way.
(To Be Continued…)