Snape was not insane.
He simply refused to watch Ian's "loot-distribution" fiasco. In a swirl of robes, he left the scene along a more distant hallway back to his refuge.
Along the way, many young wizards glimpsed the sullen Potions Master. No one dared approach or provoke him; after all, he was so vexed that even a passing toad received a swift kick.
Some claimed nobody saw Snape for the rest of that day.
Others insisted Snape had locked a few unruly students in his office, restoring the dreadful corporal punishment of old Hogwarts, running cruel experiments all afternoon.
No matter how dubious these stories, they spread like wildfire—Gryffindors in particular relished adding more bizarre details. Originally, a well-meaning first-year who attended the potions class tried explaining Snape wasn't as rumored. But the man's sinister reputation was too entrenched among Hogwarts students.
Ian might share a pinch of blame, but he wouldn't admit it. In any case, how were Gryffindor rumors connected to Ravenclaw?
****
"Just wait for my good news. I'll begin soon,"
Ian promised to Aurora, who quite appreciated his Alchemy ideas. With that, he started exploring Hogwarts Castle. The first week offered a light schedule for new students—just one morning and one afternoon lesson daily, leaving ample free time to discover the castle's secrets.
A thousand-year-old fortress—
Hogwarts held countless unknowns, some not even Dumbledore had encountered.
Now that Ian was here, how could he resist exploring every corner, especially the rumored hidden passages and the legendary Room of Requirement?
"Vera Verto!"
Whenever a suitable chance arose, he cast Transfiguration on decorative potted plants. He honestly wasn't sure if it broke any school rules.
"Probably fine,"
he told himself.
He wasn't pulling a Weasley-style prank, just turning potted plants more "artistic," boosting his Transfiguration experience while giving Hogwarts a dash of Picasso's style.
"Oh, thank goodness I once paid top dollar for the best painting instructor!"
Perhaps the only ones affected by Ian's "art" were the numerous paintings hanging on the walls. A witch in one painting gasped in horror at the warped pot.
"Ma'am, it's called art,"
Ian insisted.
Not every painting objected. One portrayed a troll in a ballet skirt who had been beating a ballet teacher for centuries. Intrigued by Ian's "art," it paused its ceaseless assault, stepping to the frame to peer out, drooling at the twisted pot.
"A troll with an eye for art?"
Ian felt amused. The troll didn't speak but pressed against the painting's edge, mouth agape with saliva dripping.
"Kindly move aside,"
he murmured, for he recognized the location as the entrance to the Room of Requirement. He still recalled how that ballet-skirted troll had once left an indelible impression.
But just as Ian prepared to enter,
a pale figure soundlessly slipped from behind a nearby suit of armor—small, comical, with a wide mouth and bug eyes:
Peeves.
He was the Hogwarts poltergeist, a mischievous spirit rumored to have roamed the castle since its founding, vexing students and staff alike. Even Dumbledore found him troublesome.
"Watch me scare you stiff!"
Peeves shot from beneath Ian's legs to hover before him.
"Ah—Se… Sectumsempra!"
Lost in thoughts about the Room of Requirement, Ian was genuinely startled by Peeves popping up inches from his face. In reflex, he swung his wand upward.
A faint emerald glow flickered.
Fortunately, Insight of Wisdom maintained his composure, switching it to the invisible slicing curse of Sectumsempra—rather than the deadlier spells almost on the tip of his tongue.
"H-haa! So, you're dabbling in black—"
Peeves started cackling, about to mock Ian. But in the next second, his body was carved into dozens of disjointed pieces.
It hurt, yet he didn't "die."
"Aaahhhh!"
Peeves screamed as his "remains" thudded to the floor, squirming. His severed head was knitting back together, but stark terror flooded his mind at that instant.
"Impossible—IMPOSSIBLE! I'm a poltergeist—I'm intangible!"
"This isn't Snape's Sectumsempra!"
"What is that spell you used?!"
In a thousand years, Peeves had never ended up on the receiving end of such torment. As soon as his limbs reconnected, he frantically tried to flee.
"So, it's you, the troublemaker,"
Ian muttered. He was equally surprised that his spell could affect Peeves but quickly realized what it implied—and it excited him.
"No escaping!"
He lunged, seizing Peeves' legs midair.
Yes—
he truly grabbed him.
"They said you're slippery—yet not so much, it seems,"
Ian sneered, pinning Peeves and pounding him with furious blows.
"I'm dying! Let go, you wicked brat!"
Peeves flailed desperately, but to no avail. He couldn't slip back into an ethereal form—unfathomable, and it petrified him.
"You tried scaring me, called me a 'bad seed'? Let's see who's bad now!"
Ian was one to hold grudges.
He'd nearly unleashed a fatal curse out of shock. If he didn't give Peeves a lasting fear, he'd be forever harassed—peace would be impossible. The simplest fix was to "subdue by reason."
"Fiendfyre—Incendio!"
He hoisted the "wand of truth."
"Argh! It burns—stop! Let me go!"
Peeves' hair caught fire, and he shrieked in agony. Since it was near lunchtime, the eighth-floor corridor was deserted, so none heard his screams.
"Somebody—get Dumbledore from the west wing!"
He turned for aid from the paintings, but the troll wearing a tutu had resumed thrashing the ballet teacher, ignoring anything beyond the frame.
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