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And this was only the beginning.
As Grindelwald delved into the history of the Centaur race, analyzing their customs and behavior, he subtly guided the young witches and wizards into studying their vulnerabilities.
"Some claim that the internal structure of these creatures is no different from that of humans," He mused, his voice carrying a calm authority, "But that is a dangerous misconception. Their skin and certain organs provide them with remarkable magical resistance."
He lifted his hand in an elegant, almost conductor-like motion.
No incantation was heard.
And then, the Centaur's powerful form began to distort in an eerie, unnatural fashion.
Muscle and bone separated in a ripple-like motion, yet not a single sound of agony escaped its lips, because Grindelwald's magic had frozen it in a moment of sheer terror.
Gasps and cries of alarm filled the room as the students watched, horrified. The creature's body was no longer whole; it had been taken apart by an invisible force. Limbs, torso, head, even each individual rib, blood vessel, and organ, had separated, now suspended in mid-air.
But they did not float in disarray.
Instead, they arranged themselves in a precise, almost methodical pattern, as if they could be seamlessly reassembled at any moment, restoring the Centaur to life.
Yes, life.
For even in its fragmented state, Ian could still sense the creature's thoughts. It was still alive.
In fact, if one looked closely, it became apparent.
The dismembered organs, though no longer part of a singular being, retained traces of vitality. A faint magical sheen coated them, preserving their function in a grotesque parody of life. The heart pulsed weakly. The lungs expanded in silent respiration. Even the smallest nerves flickered with minute magical surges.
"Professor! What have you done?!"
"Merlin's beard, it's dead! It has to be dead!"
"Ugh, ugh, ugh, "
...
Not everyone could remain as composed as Ian.
The grotesque sight of floating flesh and exposed veins, with blood visibly coursing through them, was enough to drive the more squeamish students into a state of shock.
Though not as soul-crushing as facing a Dementor, the scene was harrowing. Several young witches turned deathly pale, their stomachs heaving before they doubled over and vomited on the spot.
"What kind of magic is this?"
Ian raised his hand, unable to contain his curiosity. Unlike his terrified peers, his attention was entirely fixated on the spell itself, on the raw, surgical precision of Gilderoy Grindelwald's magic.
"This is a form of the Torture Curse," Grindelwald replied, glancing at Ian with something akin to approval. "To wield it effectively, one must possess an intricate knowledge of biological structure."
Then, with a smooth correction, he added, "Of course, as your Defense Against the Dark Arts professor, I would never actually teach you such a cruel and forbidden spell."
Ian, who had just felt his [Butcher's Instinct] stir with anticipation, was left slightly disappointed, until Grindelwald suddenly spoke again, his expression turning deathly serious.
"Hogwarts has always prohibited the study of Dark Magic. If I find out who snuck into my office and opened the third drawer from the top of my sixth cabinet… heh, well, don't blame me for issuing a severe warning. And trust me, you wouldn't want to find out just how severe my warnings can be."
Gilderoy Grindelwald delivered these words with a grave expression, only to immediately flash a dazzling Lockhart-like smile.
"I do hope everyone aspires to be an obedient child with a mind of their own."
As he spoke, he turned toward the Centaur, still frozen in a state of magical dissection, as though time itself had halted around it.
"You'll notice that, unlike humans, a Centaur's skin possesses an additional layer of tissue. It is this layer that grants them magic resistance akin to that of high-tier magical creatures."
"As for potion metabolism, it hinges on this particular organ…" He gestured lightly. "Disrupting its function is not especially difficult, but bypassing a Centaur's natural resistance? Now, that is the real challenge."
"However, as you can see, the Centaur's 'steel door', its vital weak point, is conspicuously unprotected by this resistant tissue. Exploiting such a flaw, of course, requires rather particular methods."
With a graceful wave of his wand, Gilderoy Grindelwald performed a counter-curse. The Centaur's scattered limbs, organs, and tissues instantly realigned, reassembling itself into a whole once more. The creature remained utterly still, dazed and lifeless, as if the horrors it had endured had yet to fully register.
"I encourage you to ask questions during my demonstrations," Grindelwald continued.
But before he could proceed,
The door to the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom burst open with a force that rattled the walls.
Severus Snape, clad in his usual flowing black robes and looking even more gaunt than usual, stormed inside. His expression was thunderous.
"Come with me."
He didn't so much as glance at Gilderoy Grindelwald. Without preamble, he seized Ian's arm and began to drag him toward the door.
"Professor Snape, I believe my student is currently in class. Are you in the habit of removing students from my lessons without so much as an explanation?" Grindelwald's brows furrowed, his displeasure clear.
"I have urgent business with him," Snape snapped. "And, frankly… what could he possibly learn from you?"
His voice dripped with disdain, offering not the slightest courtesy to the so-called Defense Against the Dark Arts professor. It was rare for a Head of House to display such blatant disrespect, but then, Snape had his reasons.
"Lockhart," He sneered, his black eyes flashing, "Don't assume I'm unaware of your… extracurricular activities. Dumbledore asked me to show restraint where you're concerned, but clearly, he has no idea just how far you're willing to go."
Ian, still being dragged away, tugged at Snape's sleeve in protest. But Snape was utterly focused on the man at the professor's desk.
"Dementors. Centaurs. I do hope your considerable wealth can also buy you a pardon when the Ministry comes calling."
Audacious.
Unbelievably audacious.
Ian stared, wide-eyed, at his so-called uncle, Snape had truly had enough. He wasn't even pretending to maintain the illusion of professional courtesy anymore!
"This is hardly your concern, Professor Snape." Grindelwald, rather than appearing offended, simply smiled with a somewhat pleasant, unbothered, and amused expression on his face.
"As I explained in my Sixth Year class, there has never been a Dementor present. I merely provided the students with an opportunity to experience the effects of mental magic."
His gaze flickered toward Ian, the amusement in his voice laced with something deeper.
"And this Centaur? Another example of your so-called 'mental magic'?" Snape scoffed, eyeing the creature still standing motionless on the desk. His sharp gaze narrowed. "How impressive. Your illusions must be extraordinarily convincing, seeing as they even affect me."
Ian tugged at Snape's sleeve again. The Potions Master turned his head slightly, shooting him a piercing glare, his exhausted, shadowed eyes only making him look more intimidating.
"This Centaur is a convicted offender," Grindelwald replied smoothly. "I acquired special permission from the Ministry for its use in my lessons."
With an infuriatingly casual motion, he reached into his robes and produced an official Ministry-issued permit.
Snape's lip curled.
Under the watchful eyes of the gathered Ravenclaws, he had no choice but to acknowledge the document's authenticity. He was hardly about to back down, but there was little else he could say in the moment.
"It seems," Snape said icily, "that your gold is indeed well-spent. Even the Ministry bends at your leisure."
His patience at its limit, he turned and swept out of the room, still dragging a somewhat reluctant Ian in his wake.
The students remained frozen for a moment, stunned by what they had just witnessed. Even Grindelwald took a beat to watch the door swing shut behind them.
Yet he made no move to stop Snape from taking Ian. Instead, he merely allowed his eyes to roll briefly into the back of his head, an odd, fleeting shift, concealed from the students' view, before quickly resuming his usual composed demeanor.
"Professor Snape is rarely this erratic," He remarked at last, with the perfect balance of mild concern and bemusement.
He offered the students an easygoing smile, smoothly steering their attention back to the lesson.
"It would seem," He said lightly, "That something quite significant has happened within their family."
"Let us set aside the matter of our subpar Potions professor and return to the noble pursuit of Defense Against the Dark Arts. I daresay Professor Snape is simply envious of my unparalleled talent."
The lesson resumed, but Ian found himself unable to experience much of it. Snape had all but dragged him down to the dungeons, hauling him into his office without a word of explanation. He was utterly bewildered, having no idea what had prompted this abrupt summons.
"You were unwell? So that's why! You wouldn't let me brew, yet you've been secretly brewing all this time in your office…"
As soon as Ian stepped inside, the unmistakable scent of potion-making filled his nostrils. However, before he could exclaim in surprise, he caught sight of the potions sitting on the worktable. Each was a dull, grayish-white hue, nothing like the deep blue of the Unlimited Power Potion.
Had he misjudged his dear uncle?
(To Be Continued…)